Back To The Wild Thing and A Little Bird

 

Although my last blog looked to be a departure from the things I have been writing about (Wild Thing), it really wasn’t. Go back and reread the words to that old folk song that introduces the previous article. The little bird that is its subject is just such a Wild Thing. In my mind, the little bird is a hummingbird. The hummingbird is forever in movement, and it is the symbol of joy. Joy dies, fails to flourish in captivity. Restraints render it less than free, exuberant, and radiant with its genuine color and flow. Joseph Campbell, the leading mythologist of this past century, has written that in order to know true fulfillment and happiness, we must follow our bliss. And again, one must see that in the humble little hummingbird and its movement. It is constantly propelling itself toward what it needs and that which will sustain its very life.

Should we be any different? There are connective links in each of our stories, we simply have to find them. Find and acknowledge them, then possess and celebrate them. That is following our bliss. That is propelling ourselves toward what we need and what will sustain the lives we choose to live. I can remember the startled shock I felt the first time I realized that happiness wasn’t something that just happened randomly, or occasionally, in my existence. It was something I could and did choose at any given moment. What an extraordinary revelation that was. As well as extremely difficult to hold onto, given some of my circumstances. But, I remember thinking, if that revealing thought held any truth at all, then it was one well worth pursuing.

That was the beginning of my hummingbird flight. I am a Seeker, curious to a fault. And the trail I have left can be found inside of my journal pages and the poems I have written, as I flitted from one topic of interest to another. There was Mythology, especially personal mythology, Symbolism, Dreams, the human psyche, the Soul and Soul Work, inner dialogue and Imaging. Because of circumstances within my own story, I wanted to know how the brain functions, and was fascinated by Psychology. And through all of that flitted my love of language and curiosity about words, meanings and definitions. History and how it pertained to the individual as well as the whole of Society, and many other tangents and paths along the way. To be honest, the list continues right up to today and my present fascination with color and its meaning and flow.

I have followed my bliss and yes, have found happiness within that flight. Far more happiness than I could have imagined when I was sitting there waiting for some magic miracle to fall into my hands or lap. And yet, there still resides within me the awe of the child that I was, the believer in magic that I have become. We make our own magic. We do have that ability and that choice.

In my last writing about the Wild Thing, I created a young boy as an example. Through no fault of his own, he chose to lock away a piece of himself, to silence it, to suppress it, to dismiss it and cut it out of his existence. I have no desire to leave him there, struggling to contain what needs to be set free. That is his hummingbird, his Wild Thing. Instead, I would encourage him to sit down and attempt to learn the language that Wild Thing speaks. To make friends with it. And most importantly, to learn how to listen to what it is trying to tell him. It is a genuine and natural part of his person. And it is trying to tell him something about himself. He may have formed a habit of not hearing it, but habits are learned, and as such, most definitely may be unlearned.

I would tell him that wild creatures are often shy, so it will take a lot of patience. That he must not go to the place that Wild Thing inhabits with a cage or weapon. He must not try to capture it, but with sincerity, must truly just go with only his senses and wait. That Wild Thing is also curious, it will come to sniff and to learn what has entered its space in order to discover if this new presence is friend or foe. The boy, now man, might want to take a pen and notebook along to keep track of his progress and to note the environment he has entered into. It all helps. Who knows, he might find himself writing a poem about the tree where he sits, leaning back and waiting.

I can only promise him one thing. If he is steadfast, eventually that Wild Thing will make itself known. Will begin to speak, perhaps as no more than a whisper in the boy/man’s mind. It must, for it is self calling to self. It may speak of anger and hurt, the pain of being locked away and how that has resulted in a depth of mistrust. Mistrust that only the boy/man can change through his steadfastness. For it is the boy/man who locked the creature away and must, therefore, seek its forgiveness and prove his worthiness. And within that process earn and reap the rewards of connective links rejoined as they were always meant to be.

Then, and only then, will he be free to follow his bliss, perhaps truly happy for the first time in his existence. Free to find and follow his own dreams, express his own story, make his own defintions and free to walk upright, or even launch himself into his own hummingbird flight.

Making Little Bird Memories

This Little Bird

By John D Loudermilk

There’s a little bird that somebody sends
Down to the earth to live on the wind
Born on the wind and she sleeps on the wind
This little bird that somebody sends

She’s light and fragile, and feathered sky blue
So thin and graceful, the sun shines through
This little bird that lives on the wind
This little bird that somebody sends

She flies so high up in the sky out of reach of human eye
And the only time that she touches the ground is when that little bird
Is when that little bird is when that little bird dies

Yesterday, was my normal day for posting a blog on this site. I didn’t have time for my usual, so instead, left a brief note to all readers about it being Thanksgiving, and left a few suggestions for how to make it a good day. Didn’t realize that I was really writing a note to my own person. Just wrote and then went off to spend the day with family. Actually it was a diverse group, including my Mother, sister and her husband, her two children, myself, my oldest daughter, and friends of my nephew’s at whose home the get together was taking place.

There was only one child present. She is my niece’s daughter Kimberly, a very bright, big-eyed, tow-headed, two year old, only grandchild on both sides, much favored, yet intelligent enough to accept her position as small and only princess, while ruling with a gentle and accommodating hand. When everyone was gathered around a table that had been extended to seat all 20 of the guests who were present, Kimberly broke out into the Happy Birthday song. She had just celebrated her second, and knew that was what was supposed to happen next. All of us joined in, but went silent when we got to the part of the song that names the Happy Birthday individual. All eyes turned to Kimberly, expecting her to say her own name. She looked around the table, grinned, and sang, “Tom,”, meaning the turkey, her dad explained, that she had recently learned was so strongly associated with this particular day.

Afterward, sitting quietly on the couch in a small adjacent room, I watched Kimberly playing with the Playschool house filled with Weebles and their accessories. I was leaning forward with my arms resting on my thighs, when she got up from the floor, walked directly to me and into my arms, placing her head against my shoulder and stretching her own arms up and out to embrace me. Unbidden, the song about the Little Bird came into my head, and I began to sing it. Kimberly moved back one step, looked directly into my eyes with a warm smile of recognition, stepped back into my arms, and once again rested her small face against me, as I finished the first verse of the old folk song. Then, as gently as she had come, she disengaged herself and left the room.

That song packs a lot of memories. I learned it when I was a teenager and have probably sung it hundreds of times. To myself as a soothing lullaby, as well as to my children. But it is a secret that Kimberly and I share. When she was a newborn, fussing toward sleep but not quite able to reach it, I sang it to her for the first time. With a contented sigh, and soft smile, she settled into my arms and drifted off. That happened several times. When she was about one, fighting the restraints of the car seat, she was strapped into, I sang it and she quieted down immediately.

Yesterday, before leaving for the day, I wrote: While the kids are running around, yelling or screaming, remember that, at one point, that was you. Did you need a hug back then? Then be the one to give it now. Somehow, Kimberly knew that I was the one who needed that hug and she gave it gently and graciously, making a memory that stands out from all the others.

Turkey

 

It’s Thanksgiving today. And across the nation, people will be gathering in small and large groups to feast on whatever has been prepared. I hope you have a nice day, filled with laughter, warm hugs, and great food. For those of you who might be alone, I wish you a bit of the same. Find something that will make you smile, even laugh out loud. There are tons of videos on the Internet to fuel such an experience. If you have no one to talk with, write a letter to someone who gave you something important in the past. Thank them for that and explain what it really meant to you. Turn on some music and dance. Make yourself a special feast. You are worth it.

For many of us, this day means getting outside our normal comfort zone. It often entails people we don’t normally see, and lots of memories, both good and bad. Let yourself drift through that, and be grateful for the good ones, while finding something to laugh about in the bad ones. There is usually some bit of oddity to turn into humor, even in those bad moments. While the kids are running around, yelling or screaming, remember that, at one point, that was you. Did you need a hug back then? Then be the one to give it now. Tell a story from the past, children listen. Sing an old song. Enjoy.

If you go expecting bad things and discomfort, that’s exactly what you’ll find. If you go with a light heart, hope and expectations, you may be that for another. Whatever you do, wherever you are, this day will be a good one, if that is what you truly desire it to be. There will be mistakes, accidents, maybe even chaotic disorganization. It’s one day. Only one, and it will be much better if you smile. So smile and be grateful for whatever you have, and are, in this moment.

Have a wonderful day, and may you be blessed,

Elizabeth

Wild Thing III

 

A Definition and an Example:

First things first. What exactly do I mean by the term Wild Thing?  I do not mean some sort of slavering monster bent on total annihilation of you, me, or anyone else. I am speaking specifically of those things, within each of us, that get shut away because they do not meet whatever standards of the Socialization Process, each of us finds ourselves under, at any given moment in our existence. I am not speaking of the Psycho Within. That doesn’t fit under my umbrella of expertise by anyone’s definition. I am however, speaking directly to those pieces and parts of our individual psyche that can, and often do, get lost during our formative years, as well as all other years we remain alive and breathing.

As an example, perhaps a young boy, while still in grade school, finds he has an affinity for poetry. He likes it, and even begins to write it. He is proud of what he has accomplished and brings it home to share with his family. His mother pats him on the back and tells him what a wonderful thing he has done. At the supper table, barely able to restrain his eagerness, he tells his father of his accomplishment. And Dad goes very still and silent. Dad doesn’t explain his stillness or his silence. Instead, he takes a deep breath, and says carefully, “That’s nice, but I hope you realize that poets usually have an extremely difficult time making any kind of living, and the ones who get recognized at all, don’t get that until they are dead and gone. It makes for a very hard and painful life, actually.”

This is met by even more silence as the child tries to assimilate what his father is trying to actually tell him. Then Uncle Harry pipes in (he’s just there for an overnight visit), and says with a grin and a chuckle, “You also have to know that any man who writes poetry is probably gay, and that’s something you don’t ever want to be.” Now the room erupts into a flurry of action and noise as Mom gets up and says she’ll get dessert, Harry’s wife gets up to help clear the table, removing the boy’s only half consumed plate but patting him softly on the shoulder as she does so, as though he has broken a bone and needs specific comforting. His older sister looks at Uncle Harry, and being a rather outspoken teenager, says, “That was really nasty,” and his younger brother turns to Dad and asks, “What’s gay?”

In the midst of this chaos, the boy wonders what he did to bring it all about. All he wanted, after all, was to share his accomplishment and perhaps, receive some approval in the process. What he sees is a great deal of discomfort, even anger, and a flurry of activity, none of which tells him anything except that maybe he has done something wrong. He doesn’t exactly know what that might be, but it obviously has something to do with the poem he wrote and was so proud of just a moment ago. It isn’t hard to imagine the same young boy, a few weeks later, when his teacher asks him happily if he’s written any more poems, answering her question with, “Oh, I don’t do that anymore. It was just something silly, anyway.”  

As the boy grows into adulthood, and even middle age, he may, periodically feel the urge rise up to express something in poetic form. However, having forgotten that disastrous dinner from years ago, he simply tells himself, that the urge is a silly one, and everyone knows he is a plumber and plumbers don’t write poetry because they just don’t do that sort of thing, not and make money to keep a family in a home with all the things they need.

That periodic urge is the Wild Thing of which I speak. It can be that one to write a poem, draw or paint a picture, dance, sing, travel to a place one has never been and immerse oneself in a totally foreign culture. It may be an urge to learn more about any given subject, or a need to explore woodworking, carving, cooking, or dream language and what dreams really mean. It can be anything. But it is something we ignore, suppress, hold at bay, dismiss, or even make fun of. We consider it a whimsy, foolishness, even forbidden. We might even define it personally as the Psycho Within.

It is the urge to create and express. We all have it, each and everyone one of us. It’s built in and is not easily silenced, if ever. It is that restlessness we encounter at times which we can’t quite put a finger on, (like an inner itch), and that distant howl we might hear coming from inside of ourselves (and possibly define as the Psycho Within). It is that nipping at the heels of which I have already spoken. It is self, calling to self. And what is it saying? Maybe we can ignore it because it sounds so much like an echo, a bit distorted and coming from a long way off. As it might well be, depending on ones age at the time of sending and the other time of receiving it.  But, whatever it sounds like, however we interpret it, it does speak.

And because it has been kept in captivity, or beyond our present reach, thus hidden, but still beneath the blanket of the Socialization Process, I refer to it as the Wild Thing. If we care enough about ourselves and our future, we must begin to listen to those urges, that seemingly senseless howling, feel that nipping at the heels, stretch an ear to interpret that distant echo. To not do so, is to alter our own outcome to one that is far less than it could be. But how does one do that, you might ask? The answer here, on this blog, is always the same. Learn to listen to that voice inside of you. Take the time to hear it, then interpret what it is saying to you, about you.

I didn’t give the boy in my example a name. It could easily have been Walt Whitman, Carl Sandberg, William Carlos Williams, Robert Frost, Alan Ginsberg, Theodore Roethke, William Safford, Robert Bly, or any of a hundred more. I didn’t give his father a name either. Nor, do I want anyone to think that his advice was untruth, it wasn’t. But, if you doubt the validity of what I have said, go read anything that any one of these gentlemen have written, maybe starting with Walt Whitman’s Song of Myself. He got that title from somewhere, didn’t he? I can guarantee, it didn’t come from me.

Wild Thing II

 

The Socialization Process Blanket.

The day before yesterday, as I was finishing my blog, I realized that I would have to come back and add more in the way of explanation. Thus the title and subtitle of this present writing. Fair warning: there will probably be a few more same titled articles, so follow the numbers or risk some confusion.

A blanket, on a cold winter’s night is a good, even precious commodity. It can be a life-saving cocoon of warmth, a coziness that actually allows one to sleep with contentment and utter relaxation that might not be possible otherwise. However, a heavy woolen blanket is an absurdity on a hot and humid summer evening, causing a great deal of discomfort and maybe even a nightmare or two. Have you ever awakened, tangled inside of a blanket, struggling to untangle yourself to the point of actually breaking out in a sweat that you might never get loose, your breath coming in short pants of exertion? The solution seems very simple, get rid of the blanket, or, in the first example, if its that cold out, get one and wrap it around you.

The Socialization Process that we all experience as we grow and develop into full fledged adults, and continue to live inside of, is just such a blanket. One that is woven from diverse materials, with different naps, textures and colors. Depending on ones personal perspective and circumstances, it can be thick and densely knit, or as wafer thin as a sheet of paper, and anything in between those two. But whatever its makeup, it is there and necessary. The Socialization Process is often a silent entity that exists without actually being spoken of, or directly addressed. One doesn’t speak to ones blanket, one uses it or not as one sees fit. But it does exist, and one owns it, because it does have a distinct purpose and reason for said existence.

It exists because we need rules, boundaries which allow us to feel and be safe and secure, especially as children born into a world that is both dangerous and harmful to anyone lacking knowledge of those dangers. Our parents are the primary teachers of those boundaries, set to keep us safe, and they learned those boundaries from their parents, who learned them from their parents, and so on and so on. If we lack, through circumstances, parents to do that teaching, Society must take on that role through organizations and departments created to serve just that purpose. That sounds simple enough, but all things have an underbelly fraught with different and individual realities. Each parent, of the two we are in need of to come into existence, has been taught by and learned from separate entities which might or might not agree on the importance of any single boundary within the entire spectrum of boundaries our Society, as a whole, chooses to embrace at any given moment of time.

For example: one set of parents might agree that what is most important to becoming a full-fledged adult, therefore a good citizen of Society, is education, while another might firmly be entrenched in the idea that family, and only family, is of the utmost importance in maintaining a sense of security and safety and anyone or anything outside of family is dangerous to that ideal. It can be even more complicated if each parent holds one of those two examples to be the most important of boundaries to instill in their offspring. That offspring might end up in Northern Wisconsin with only a thin sheet of paper for warmth, while another could find himself in Florida dressed in fur mitts and cap, trudging around in an overcoat and galoshes. I did say this was complicated and complex.

The point, here, being that each of us is born and develops under the weight of that blanket in whatever form it takes in our individual circumstances. And all that means is that no two of us gets an equal share of the blanket. We may own similar parts and pieces of it, even quite parallel aspects, but they are not the same because each of us is in an individual container called our own skin. Yet, conversely, each time one of us makes a move, a choice or decision to move, everyone under that blanket is affected on some level. Some in major ways, others who don’t even feel it and whose sleep isn’t even disturbed. Now there is another major reason for that blanket to be in existence. It makes us aware of our responsibility and obligation to, our actual connection with, all those other containers. At least, it should.

This is where a habit of journal keeping might find its own unique value. Do you know which of those boundaries your parents, or teachers, felt obligated to pass on to you? What was stressed as particularly important to your own development? And how was that done? Silently, by example, and if so, how much or little did you absorb? Was it done with repeated key words and phrases? If so, how do you actually feel about those words and phrases now that you are grown or almost grown? Do you agree with them, or not. If you do or don’t, why or why not? Is any of this important for the individual you are, to even begin to sort out? Do you see any value or importance in doing so?

But there is also the flip side. What other teachers have you come in contact with? What was the importance or value of what they gave you in the arena of life? How did you personally interpret any or all of that? How has it shaped and formed the individual you have become? Where, exactly are you under that blanket? Are you cold or cozy? Do you find yourself wearing galoshes even when it isn’t raining, let alone snowing outside? Or have you always been barefoot and why? Do you shrug at the very idea of that blanket as sheer unadulterated nonsense? What are the boundaries you have created to keep yourself safe and secure in this dangerous world in which we live? Are they still working for you? Or have you become tangled, fighting for a freedom that makes you pant in exertion? Do you take your safety and security as one individual for granted, and feel no need to seek out answers to any one, or all of these questions? If not from yourself and your own experience, who would you go to, to get those answers?

Next time, we might discuss what happens when someone under that blanket decides to roll over.

Wild Thing

Writer’s Island Journals Prompt #7 Describe the future 

In the course of growing up, each of us goes through what is called the Socialization process. We learn, are taught to be good useful members of the group. Our teachers are many and varied, ranging through our parents and siblings, to school teachers, as well as our immediate peer group. In other words, we learn how to belong, how to conform our individual self so that we can be members of the group. We are taught, sometimes silently, sometimes through direct communication, what is appropriate behavior inside of the group. If we conform, we are rewarded with membership, belonging. And remember that the desire to belong is hardwired into our very system. We learn how to become social entities, taking on the norms of the society in which we find ourselves. We become civilized.

Each group, in turn, creates and adheres to its own set of rules, actually building its own individual personality. That is true across the board. And they, the group, must in turn, learn the appropriate behavior which allows it to belong to, and interact with, the larger groups of society as a whole. Sounds really complicated and complex, doesn’t it? It is. Especially to a five year old child trying to figure out his/her world and how she/he fits into that world, how it all fits together. Our ability to understand develops in increments throughout this process of socialization, and certainly beyond the age of five. Yet research tells us that each of us, by about the age of five, has created a worldview, a structure that informs us of how the world works and our particular place in it. What behaviors we must display in order to belong, both now and in the future.

Needless to say, we don’t get the whole picture, and we might never get that if we remain locked into that five year old’s incomplete concepts. Many of us do just that. We actually refuse to give up what we learned about how to cope in the world we find around us. Thus, I would venture to say, each of us, at some point in our existence, feels like we don’t quite fit in, don’t quite measure up to those rules that pertain to the world at large and a sense of belonging to it, or in it. That is when we come to know that we might possess a Wild Thing, a creature that remains outside of the boundaries and rules of the society to which we desire deeply to belong. That is also the point when we make a choice.

That choice is whether or not to allow that Wild Thing inside of us to go on existing. We may deny it altogether, simply cut it out of our realm of understanding or acknowledgement. If we can’t, or don’t allow ourselves to see it, it doesn’t exist, isn’t real, right? Hope you are smiling here, as much as I am. We may shut it away from our view, but that doesn’t mean it dies, gets lost, or goes away to live and play in someone else’s backyard. If only it were that simple, that easy. Clarissa Pinkola Estes writes that nothing is ever completely lost from the individual human psyche. So what happens to that piece, or part of us, we might choose to deny? It lives and breathes and continues to grow, albeit in the darkness to which we have assigned it, but it does continue. And, as often happens, when it grows to the point that it needs more room, space, light and air to breathe, it might very silently creep up behind us and bite us in the butt for keeping it in the darkness all of that time, for refusing it, thus ourselves, a foreseeable future.

Personally, I can’t think of a more persuasive reason for doing and keeping a journal that privately allows me to explore the possible inner wilderness that exists right here inside of me. Get to know what Wild Things might be growing in my own little garden. I know they exist, have felt them nipping at my heels on occasion. Does that mean I am suggesting that there might be more than one Wild Thing inside of that inner landscape? It certainly does. A Wild Thing is alive, and because it is, it will seek out other life, reproducing and recreating itself, building a group that then conforms to its own established rules, again, in the present, and for the future. Oh my.

Imagination. What is it, and how does it work? I have not completely changed the topic. Each of us has an imagination, the ability to see what might not exist in our reality, what might only be possibilities, the maybes and the what ifs that help us build, to even begin to describe, define a future for ourselves and our world. Our imagination, constitutes a large part, possibly all of that inner wilderness of which I am speaking. It is there that creativity lives and exists. And it is from there that we ourselves and our very souls are fed, nurtured, and learn what we must do to start building a future in which we can survive. If that is true, can you possibly argue against the necessity of exploring that wilderness and making, if not friends, at least some sort of acquaintance with its inhabitants?

This is an integral, as well as large portion, of who and what we are. Can we afford to ignore or deny it? Have you felt that Wild Thing inside of you? Felt its restlessness, its need to grow, its hunger for more of life with all of its possibilities, present and future? Does it push itself up against the fence built to keep it contained, restrained, captive? Do you hear, or have you ever heard, even an echo of its howling for more freedom? If you have, have you simply dismissed it, ignored how it makes you feel, think, imagine? That is the voice of self calling to self. Will you go on denying it and perhaps, you own future? Or will you learn, teach yourself, how to listen now and into whatever comes?

Metaphorically Speaking

By attempting to write poetry, I have learned that the use of metaphors is an excellent way to explore and find better and deeper understanding, to enhance and enlarge ones awareness and perceptions. When we attempt to compare apples to oranges, we open new doors, find unusual views that might not have occurred to us in the past. I have used several metaphors here, to better express the wealth of advantages open to anyone who would attempt to keep a daily record of his, or her, experience.

The word record is itself a metaphor for a journal, if you consider what the word suggests: keeping a tally, a running list, or simply a written report. But what about how the word pertains to music and the music industry. Then a journal might become the songs one sings on a regular basis, be they blues, rap, folk, country, jazz, classical, alternative, or rock and roll, and so many others. And each one of those could be a specifically different view, and a rich mine to explore the manner in which one moves through life, and actually becomes aware of self and the world which surrounds that self.

A metaphor is a figure of speech, meant to open creative avenues of thought, even inspiration. They are difficult only when not attempted. Trying to think them through is hard work, but when committing them to paper, thus giving them form and shape while writing them out, we slow down the thought process and often find golden nuggets along the path we are traveling. It is always amazing to me how just trying to compare one thing to another seems to open channels and avenues that have never been explored, even less considered, or thought about.

Today, I’m going to challenge you with a list of metaphors. Some, I have already used in different articles of this blog. Others will be new and different. Go through the list, find one or two that appeal to you, and are somewhat familiar to your own experience. Then make your own metaphor for how you feel, see, and think about keeping a journal.

1. Unraveling thread from a skein.

2. Tying and untying knots in fishing line.

3. Walking along a beach.

4. Making or viewing a movie.

5. A soundtrack, the songs that would best underscore the theme.

6. Speech writing.

7. Driving your car.

8. Learning a new language

9. Gardening

10. Writing fiction

11. Baking a cake, or writing out a recipe

12. Sewing from a pattern

13. Fly-fishing

14. Bird-watching with Binoculars

15. Picking pickles, then canning same.

16. Cleaning one room in your house

17. Looking for a new home

18. Letter writing

19. Bill paying

20. Exploring a yet unexplored island

21. Creating a cure for cancer

22. Dancing alone, or with a partner

23. Singing in the Sunday choir

24. Falling in love

25. Waxing the car, or the kitchen floor

This is a pretty rich list and perhaps, for you, as it has for me, suggests others that might better serve your purpose. Choose one and compare it to your own experience of keeping a journal. It is best to compare using something you already have a good knowledge about. So, if I haven’t given you something that you do have more than a passing comprehension of, by all means, choose one that suits your expeirince . And in the process of making your own metaphor, keep track of those new perspectives that open before you.

Metaphorically speaking, I hope you find that secret gold mine and begin to dig and work the rich veins that have accumulated over time, waiting only for that shovel you alone may carry. If you do, I further hope that you come back and share your new found wealth with the rest of us. We’ll be digging our own tunnels, but will stop long enough to celebrate with you. Remember to always carry a lantern, and if you run low on the fuel that keeps it burning, I have an extra large supply I am willing to share with you. Good luck and prosper at your prospecting.

As for me, I’m going to go listen and watch David Cook, who has become a living, breathing metaphor for the Hero’s Journey and renewing the American Dream.

Masks

An old friend of mine, wrote a blog yesterday,    http://blog.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=blog.view&friendID=421091304&blogID=449405861    about the grief she felt concerning the suicide of a new friend. In it, she spoke quite eloquently about the masks we wear in public, sometimes in private. Use them to cover up, and deny our real state/s of being. And because I agree with much of what she said, I want to write about something of that issue today.

I like masks. Have spent many pleasant hours creating them. Used them in my classes to explore the different voices we all use in our daily existence. Have done the same in defining archetypal energies, bringing them more alive to those who might be unfamiliar with them, and the role they play in the choices we make and the lives we are creating. My nephew has an entire room in his home, where he displays all the masks he has collected and ones that have been given to him by friends and family. One of my very favorite movies is Mask, starring Cher. Each individual in the film wore at least one or two, character-wise, in the story. Because she is so facially expressive, one can watch Cher go from rebellious daughter, to lonely needy woman, to eager lover, from addict and then to protective Mom, and back and forth again, throughout the film. I thought her performance was fantastic and really underscored the title of the movie.

But what does all of that have to do with you and I? A great deal. We all wear masks at one point or another. They are, or can be of extreme importance to the art of self-protection. The only place we really never need one is inside of our journals. But, even there they might be present if we are into denying some aspect of our reality. A while back, I mentioned my old boss and the role he was playing in my everyday life. So much so, that when I went back to read my morning pages, I found his name on almost every one for days on end. But, it wasn’t just his name. It was his face as well, and I actually felt my own face alter in accordance. Until that moment, I wasn’t aware that I had been wearing a mask in his presence, and to do my job. That was one of the main reasons I knew I had to get out and find another place of employment.

And that place of employment called for another mask of sorts. The masks we wear are the roles we feel we must play in order to survive in the environment around us. The face of the eager wife, waiting for her hubby to come home, is not the one that hubby sees if he inadvertently left her hanging on the phone and is now coming home three hours late from a meeting. What’s even more important is the mask we wear most often. The one we use to project a certain image of what we think most people will find acceptable and meant to hide our genuine state of being, our genuine humanity. That one who is always smiling, is he really that happy, or is he hiding something beneath that mask of easy grins? Does he go home, sit and pour buckets of pain and sorrow into a journal? We can’t and don’t know. And if he is, maybe we should be grateful for that.

If I am honest, there have been times when I’ve wanted very much to reach out and pull off the mask someone was wearing. But, I much prefer to wait and let them do the honors so we can be genuinely human together. That isn’t to say that they will keep the mask off, afterward. Masks are habits, and its extremely difficult to do without them. As I told my friend, yesterday, I believe it is one of the hardest things we can do, to remove those masks, even for a few moments. That is real exposure, and it doesn’t feel safe at all.

Do you know the masks that you wear? What do they accomplish for you? Could they possibly be a hindrance to some aspect of your life? Keep you at a disadvantage in others? Do you have places in your life where you can be free of the masks? Do you go there often, or not? We have talked a great deal about having a best friend, one that accepts us. Is there someone in your life that you feel is safe enough to leave your mask at home when you are with him, or her?

I have a suggestion. Start watching for images of faces that you yourself might be wearing at different times. Put a face to the different roles you play, cut them out, and paste or glue them into your journal. Then write about them, the value they have in your life, and when you most need to put them on. If you are even more adventurous, give them names. Naming a thing lessens the fear it might hold us in. I read that in Harry Potter. Dumbledore said it, so you don’t need to take my word alone.

Embarrassing Predicament

Whoa! You are not in the wrong place. If you are seeking 1sojournal, you are right where you wanted to be. New face, but still the same old voice. Sit down and let me tell you about how I put myself into an embarrassing predicament.

When I started this blog, three months ago, I was filled with idealistic concepts of how it would and should be, but especially how it should look. When I finally got on the work page, I realized I knew little or nothing about how to set up the page itself. The first thing I did was explore the many themes offered, and the different formats that went with them. I looked at each and every one of them, and then slowly made my way back, just to make sure the one I had in mind, really suited those ideals I mentioned. I wanted something a bit out of the ordinary, yet simple. A bit sophisticated, but not too much so that it might simply hit the reader as stand offish. It had to reflect me, my personality, and the things I care deeply about.

I was pretty sure I had found that in the theme that kept running through my mind as I viewed all the rest. It was simple enough that I could handle it and learn while I was actually writing the blog. It was black with white print and that spoke to me of a bit of sophistication and satisfied me on several levels. Black is the color that absorbs all others. It is the sponge of colors, and I wanted this space to invite and make room for any and all who might be interested. I can’t wear black because it makes me look tired and drawn, but I have always admired those who can and do so with ease. That, in turn, speaks to me of a certain level of confidence and ease with ones self. And I certainly wanted to project just such an aura.

It was, at that point, that I discovered the actual name of the theme I was in the process of choosing. Chaotic Soul. Now that was 100% perfect for what I had in mind. It was my intention to create a blog that would lend support and encouragement to anyone who might want to keep a journal and learn all the advantages of doing such a thing. I believe that writing daily is the key to getting to know ones own soul and learning how to carry on a life long conversation with that still small voice from within. For me, maintaining a journal is the very essence of Soul Work, and it is how I approach it and reap the rewards inherent in that process. It never occurred to me that the name of the theme might be a reflection of my own person, striving to create an appearance that doesn’t quite fit, or suit, my reality. Ooops.

So, I created my blog. I was inordinately pleased with its look and the manner in which it was progressing from a wishful thought, into its own reality. A dream fulfilled is nothing to sneeze at. The best part was that it was actually attracting a modest number of readers. More satisfaction. Things were running very smoothly indeed. My labor of love was bearing fruit.

There was only one minor glitch. It began as a small inconvenience and I was more than willing to adjust myself to continue. My nose was getting closer and closer to my monitor screen, as the days and weeks went by. I found myself, more and more often, wiping off the screen in hopes of seeing it better. I was attending, with care, this new garden I was growing. But, it finally became quite clear that I still can’t wear black, virtually or otherwise. I was straining to see the words I was publishing every other day. And if that was true for me, might it not also be true for those readers I so wanted to encourage? I, with my idealistic concepts was actually, perhaps, impeding the progress I had worked so hard to obtain. How very embarrassing.

I suppose, I could have martyred my eyesight for this just cause I had created, but what purpose would that have served? Certainly not the one I was so staunchly putting out all that energy to fulfill. Nothing for it, but to admit my error and create a space that is actually conducive to said cause, and allow my pride to be taken in a few notches. Especially that pride about doing this new and daring thing at my age. My age that means a slow incremental decrease in physical abilities, if not others. So, here I am, foolishly admitting that I made a major mistake in reasoning. What value is a blog that I myself will eventually not be able to read, thus continue writing?

Which brings us to this new face I am wearing. I spent as much time over the last few days, perusing the themes, as I did that first time around. Found this one, which is far more readable for my own person, and hopefully for those readers who come to see what I have to say. I think it is fresher looking, simpler, and clearer than the first one. I have kept the original banner, in hopes that anyone who comes looking will find at least that bit of familiarity without moving on because they think they have accidentally happened on the wrong page or destination.

And the name of this new theme, I have chosen? Which, by the way, proves that I am still going more for  appearances rather than definitions. The name of this present theme is Contempt. Now, I am sure that that is short for contemporary, but at first glance, I could hear the laughter bubbling up from that still small voice inside of me. Point taken. One can only hope that I haved learned the lesson. If not, all I have to do is come back here and see this bright white page with black lettering. White which symbolizes innocence, which in turn equals ignorance in need of experience. Now where have I seen that before?

Opposite Sides And Another Challenge

I truly like to hear at least two sides of an issue before making a decision. In my last blog, I wrote about why we have difficulty with admitting that we don’t know certain things. I knew when I finished, that I would need to address the other side of that issue and speak about what we do know. Synchronistically, I wandered onto a blog, titled What I Know For Sure, http://beccasbyline.wordpress.com/ in which the author tells her readers that she found her source in O Magazine. She goes on to write out a list of things, she knows for sure at the present moment. Then asks her readers to do the same. I didn’t know how to comment, decided to let it digest for a while, and went back and posted my response yesterday.

Then promptly knew what I would write about today. And also knew (I had to have time to digest, remember), how it might be even more difficult to write about what we know, than it is to write about what we don’t know. It’s that carving a thing in stone, I have already written about, doubly difficult in a time and world where the only thing one can be sure of is change. But, I have a friend who started taking carving lessons some time ago, and she assures me that anything, even something carved in stone, can be changed. She knows that because she has done it, not with stone but in wood. She speaks of first hand knowledge, gained through personal experience. She knows what she knows.

As do each of us. Granted, it is of utmost importance to come to know what we don’t know, that is a distinct step in the learning process. But, if we get so comfortable with what we do know, we may someday take it so much for granted, that we actually forget what we know. We must keep using what we know or suffer the consequences. That was the reason I had to pause and allow myself to catch up with the idea of writing out what I know for sure. I know it because I have been practicing it and discovering the truth buried inside of what I know. It works, because I have used it many times with the same outcome.

Which leads me to the challenge in the title of this blog. I intend to paste some of my response to Becca’s request right here on the page. But, again, because I am a cook who can’t just follow a recipe blindly without adding some of her own spice to the mix, I am going to change the parameters a bit. One of the reasons, I paused, is because I am 62 years old. That’s a whole lot of knowing. I was immediately intimidated by the prospect of trying to make some clear choices from all of that information. So, when I started making my comment, I did it with a certain age and processed from there. This is the challenge: write out what you know starting with your age ten years ago. For each year of those ten, put down one thing that you know from that time period in your life, and expand as needed. Something you learned to be true within your own experience. I will start my own response a little before that and you may use it as an example, add your own spice as you feel led. If you wish, you may come back and put any, or all of it in the comments below.

What I know for sure:

I know that fifty was one of the best years of my life. Two of my children got married, and I was present and helped in the birth of my first granddaughter. One of my poems was the anchor piece for an anthology that was nominated for a Grammy Award, in the Spoken Word category, and I flew, alone, to San Francisco to meet an online friend for the first time, and to go “shopping” on the beach of the Pacific Ocean.

I know that at fifty-one, the heart of my life went out of it, and my world, as I knew it, disappeared forever.

Thus, I know, that genuine love can be the most painful experience one can ever encounter.

I know that grief is stepping off a cliff and descending, seemingly forever, through a darkness that doesn’t want to end.

I know that love, pain, and grief must be expressed or sicken the individual who would choose not to do so.

I know, in turn, that that all takes time, as much time as the individual needs without being told to “just get over it and move on.”

I know that we must each tell our story again and again until we don’t need to anymore because the story has been healed and we can move on.

I know that every single human being needs a means of expression, and that I will use whatever strength I own to encourage that.

I know that laughter heals more and far faster than any other element.

I know that sometimes life gives us a second chance, and we must let our hearts lead us, or risk that chance altogether.

I know that when I listen to someone else’s advice, it is wise to know that most people are speaking to and of themselves and might not really know about what they speak.

I know that teaching another what I know is the best way to learn anything. That students have far more to teach the teacher than she might have to teach them, just as children must teach their parents.

I know that I am a survivor because I am 62 and am still breathing.

I know that if tomorrow comes, I will greet it with eagerness and a gratitude that grows with each moment I am given.

And this last one, you will have to go read Becca’s Byline to understand:

I know that a dog is a symbol of loyalty. No matter, he is rejected, neglected, ignored, or even abused, he will come back and offer his steadfast presence and his joy, if allowed to do so. And that, in turn, is a god that I can believe in.

Have fun, and by all means, write.