Bea Arthur and A Skinned Knee

 

It’s Sunday and Bea Arthur passed away. Normally, I don’t blog on Sunday, but yesterday was busy and eventful and I never got here. And then on my way here, I read about Bea Arthur’s death. I really liked her, the roles she played, and the example she created of a woman with purpose and meaning, who could laugh and make others do so with ease. But, under the laughter was a definite message and one that my generation of women needed to hear.

I envied her height and her clothes. At five feet, one and a half inches, how could I not? With her deep voice, she commanded attention, and because of her often brisk and brusque delivery, she more often than not, got it. But, her clothes were soft and draping, always feminine without being flashy. They suited her and the personality she depicted. And although she was often only a few steps away from being militant, she wasn’t afraid to show her vulnerability.

She was consistent as well as constant. There might be those who would call that typecasting, but Bea Arthur found a niche that suited her and she made the best out of what was there and what she personally had to offer. I think she was an excellent role model on many levels. I didn’t always think that, however.

When I first saw her in her role as Maude, all I could think was, “Oh no, another ball buster.” And I refused to watch the program. But later, in The Golden Girls, she took that same personality and made it work in a household of women. That’s when I really began to listen to what she was saying, instead of tuning her out simply because of my own preconceived notions.

Granted, in that show, many of the situations were scripted for downright foolishness and pure humor, but Arthur always had an underlying message. One that I found held value, especially to women seeking to be comfortable in their own skin, in a world often focused on telling them how and what to be, without a clue as to genuine uniqueness and its inherent necessity for continued growth and evolution. I will miss her and that deep, rapid fire delivery.

I fell down yesterday, while out doing some spontaneous shopping. Missed a  step and landed hard on my palms and one knee. Couldn’t get back up without assistance. It was raining as well, so I was completely soaked after recovering my feet. Went straight home, changed my jeans, and finished my errands. That may seem like a total change of topics, but it’s not.

As I wrote about Bea Arthur, I realized that I needed to think a bit about why she meant so much to me. I have been too busy trying to adjust to several changes in my life and schedule. In that process, I have lost contact with the person I want to be and have become something else. Someone who is confused and frustrated by that confusion. Some of that is natural to what is actually happening, but I think I might have missed a step somewhere along the way.

I spent the rest of the day, yesterday, aware that my palms were stinging and my knee was skinned and stinging severely as well. In all the commotion of the last few weeks, I have lost my balance and gotten out of sync with where I really want to be. That is comfortable in my own skin and accepting of my own uniqueness. I don’t want to be Bea Arthur, no one can be that except Bea Arthur. But, I do want to be me. And I haven’t been.

Sometimes, we need to fall down in order to catch our breath, reassess our situation, and maybe realign our direction. We might need help in getting back up, may even have to ask for that. We need to be aware of our own vulnerability and even show that on occasion. Use it to redefine where we are and what we really want to do about any of it.

Circumstances as such, have given me a bit of breathing space from the present demands and responsibilities. I am and will continue to use that time and space to really get my feet under me. I can still feel the stinging in my knee and probably will for a couple of more days. However, it is now a reminder of all those other messages. The ones I had forgotten in the press of doing and being something other than what I truly desire.

I will never be tall enough to wear Bea Arthur’s clothes, no matter how much I may wish for that reality. But, I can and do remember her underlying message and for that I am grateful. She made a lasting impression and I will miss her and what she did so very well.

To My Inner Child

 

Dear Beth,

I have been negligent. I forget that you are just a kid and need to be encouraged and supported. I take for granted that you will do your thing, explore your world, create beautiful things that sometimes take my breath away, stop and stare into a puddle mesmerized by the reflections you find there, sing the same two lines from an old old song for long long minutes, or simply need to move, to find, to look, to discover for yourself what is around the next corner.

You are an absolute delight and I forget to tell you that. I’m sorry. I get so wrapped up in all the adult things, that I forget to look at them through your eyes which are fresh and new and sometimes so much wiser than my own. You are a gift and I forget to unwrap you at moments. Let you out to breathe and tell me what you are seeing and knowing.

We both know that I can be impatient at times. Not so much with you as with the circumstances that don’t allow me to let you freely explore this world that is wrapped around both of us. I love to hear the sound of your laughter, your giggles, and that simple gasp of awe that escapes your lips when the colors you play with come together in surprising ways that delight and entrance you.

Over the past few weeks, I have caught a glimpse of a bald eagle soaring through my small patch of sky. You keep pointing him out to me, but I have failed to realize why. He is the symbol of all that is spirit, therefore a symbol of you. A message I was in danger of missing altogether. Thank you for your persistence and ongoing patience with this old woman. It must be difficult, at moments, to be trapped inside of her when you would prefer to run and skip and jump and dance.

Even more so, thank you for last night. For that whim to go looking for what you needed and for finding it. That alone altered so much. Opened new doors, new possibilities, and showed me new unwinding paths for the two of us to travel down. And we will walk down them together, your hand in mine, your eyes showing me all those details I might otherwise miss. I need you and what you bring into my reality.

Especially now with all these changes and new responsibilities and obligations. They get so heavy at times, and I feel weighted down and discouraged, thinking that it will never end and will go on forever. You remind me that we only have but this one present moment. Why waste it with all those negative thoughts, when we could be exploring so many other things? Thank you for sharing your joy and pleasure so readily and unselfishly. That alone is a treasure that is priceless.

Can I tell you a secret? I get sad when I see so many people who don’t know there is a you inside of them. They get so full of being an adult, doing adult things, that they don’t ever play. And playing is such an important type of work. We learn so much faster and easier when we play. And there is always so much more to learn, to be, to become.

In a very real way, you are my secret weapon. Your simple delight in getting up each day marks that chore with an eagerness I find it hard to explain to others. They look at me and see an old woman, but we know differently don’t we? We have an entire world that needs to be explored and we only have this one life to do that in. Thank you so much for reminding me of that reality.

It is so easy to forget. Get so busy in things and other people, that you get lost in all the shuffling. I’m glad you are strong and wise enough to just keep coming back and reminding me. It might take longer on some occasions, but eventually I hear you calling me and respond. And I can count on you to never let me truly forget how much I owe to you and will continue to need your presence.

You have made this present task so simple and easy. And I look forward to much more. Maybe you could spend some time thinking about how to wake up all those other inner children that have maybe fallen asleep due to adult lives that are thought to be too busy, too full, to give you the time and space that you need. Yes, you do understand and know that I am thinking of a specific individual, as well as others.

Maybe we could have a wake-up party. What better time than now when spring is struggling to come into full bloom? Think of all the fun we could have, playing silly games, singing silly songs, and watching all those sleepy-eyed inner children awaken. Whew! That’s quite an image. There’s a parking lot out there full of puddles. Don’t forget your yellow rain slicker and red boots. We have some stomping to do.

Thank you most of all for being you. For single-handedly lifting my spirits this morning, and every other morning. Like I said, you are my own private treasure and secret weapon. It’s raining again, and that means a different kind of fun. Shall we go explore? I can’t wait.

Hugs and love,

Elizabeth

The Wild Child

In response to Claudette’s weekly writing challenge #12: Inspire
http://claudetteellinger.wordpress.com/

About fifteen years ago, when my middle daughter was still in high school and working part-time in the evenings, she came home from work exhausted, one night, and was complaining that she had to watch a video for her sociology class the next day. I volunteered to stay up and watch it with her, and perhaps discuss some of it so she’d have some ideas for the next day’s class.

I had no idea what the contents of the video were. It was about a young girl, age thirteen, who had been discovered after being isolated in an upstairs back bedroom since her birth. She had spent most of her days tied to a potty chair, and her nights tied into a sleeping bag in a crib that was completely enclosed by wire mesh. Her father had decided that was the best way to deal with her after doctors told him that his newborn daughter might be retarded.

She had not been taught how to speak, walked with a strange gait, and was a dark-haired pixie who looked about eight years old. The video was her story and how she became the center of a dispute between linguists and researchers over the idea that children, once past puberty, couldn’t learn language. I was completely captivated.

I had recently committed myself to a daily writing regimen. I had done that many times over the years, but always, at some point, dropped the commitment when life became too busy or complicated to continue. Genie, so named by her caregivers, became the inspiration that kept me on the page, kept me writing day after day, week after week, and still doing so after all of these years.

Back then, I already knew that researchers had found that an infant who fails to bond with a parent figure, did not flourish, and many died because of that lack of bonding. It fascinated me that this child, without any form of regular stimulation had survived at all. She hadn’t flourished, but she had survived. And her presence inhabited my daily pages for months after watching the video.

Obviously, I began to relate and identify with her and her story, exploring some of the psychological issues that arose around her person. I love language and communication. Here was a child that had been utterly deprived of both, and yet she continued, albeit, in a somewhat stunted manner, but her eyes danced with intelligence and an eagerness to explore her brand new world.

While focusing on Genie, I became aware of other similar stories reaching back in time. Mythology tells us about Romulus and Remus, the twins who founded and built Rome and, we are told, were fed and raised by a female wolf. The Wolf Boy, in France of the 1800’s. And even more recently, last week, the report of three Austrian children kept in a basement with their mother for over twenty years.

They, and Genie, are defined as feral children, thus The Wild Child. Their prognosis isn’t a good one, and their stories are sad and painful to read. Completely cut off from the socialization process, they develop coping mechanisms that have little to do with living within a community and everything to do with moment to moment survival. The movie Nell, starring Jodie Foster is a fictionalized version with at least a somewhat happy ending.

My major question, in the midst of my exploring, was what did Genie do to survive? How did she exist from one moment to the next in her silent tied up world? The only tool she had was her own mind and her imagination. Did she create a world separate from this one and go there in order to pass the time? I think that is exactly what she did.

But, Genie is now in her fifties, and although she did learn some language skills and sign language, she was eventually passed through several foster homes, sometimes abused, and finally ended up in an institution for adults unable to care for themselves. You can read more about Genie and other feral children by simply googling Genie or The Wild Child.

As I said earlier, I did eventually relate and identify with Genie. Especially with the idea of using the imagination to create coping mechanisms. Some of my own experiences, related in past posts, include aspects of my own adventures in that arena, especially in the area of spontaneous imaging. I not only incorporated them into my own life, but once I started teaching, used many of them in my classroom.

Here, within this blog, I have written several articles about the Wild Thing that lives in each of us. Those pieces and parts of us that get silenced or cut off during the socialization process. Many of which actually form the basis of continued creative energies seeking some form of outlet. If allowed to speak, they can and do provide a richness to the texture of our lives that might otherwise never be explored, let alone utilized. And, perhaps more important, may become the gifts we can share with our world.

I have also written here, of friends who are Multiples, suffering from DID (Dissociative Identity Disorder), or what used to be defined as Multiple Personality Disorder. These individuals are dealing with life as did Genie and all other feral children, by creating coping mechanisms that allow them to survive in a world that is often hostile and brutal. And like Genie, they have much to offer for inspiration.

Genie’s story doesn’t have a happy ending, like that of Nell. But it does point out the very real fact that there is much to be learned from taking the time to explore and investigate these very real stories and how they pertain to all of us as human beings. What we find can change the way in which we perceive and interpret our own little pieces of reality.

For me, Genie will always be a cornerstone of inspiration. She has taught me a great deal and continues to do so. There are those who might define her as somehow invalid. Of no value to society or to herself. I would strongly disagree. Personally, I find her story, her very existence,  absolutely priceless.

Sorting This From That

 

This morning, I am confused. That means I am both hesitant and indecisive. Slow to move on anything, no matter how small or inconsequential. Feeling fogged in and hoping for some clearing soon. Don’t like the feeling. Much prefer to know exactly where I am going and what it is that I need to do.

For the first time in years, I have been plagued by feelings from the past and those are interfering with the present moment. They are strong and drag me back to a place I have not been in for decades. They also have a tendency to color everything that is happening now.

I have been exploring some of that in my journal, not even realizing that was what was happening, just writing down feelings and random thoughts, amazed at the strength of these old forgotten hurts and wounds. Why that should surprise me, I’m not sure. Perhaps because I have been doing the journal writing for so long that I somehow think all of the past should be covered, resolved, and taken care of by now. Obviously it hasn’t been.

If I’m honest, there is even a bit of resentment that I should have to deal with any of it at all. Now, that really makes sense, doesn’t it? It’s there and needs to be dealt with, doesn’t matter if it is now or three years from now. It still remains to be cleared away and resolved. And, of course, the only one who can do that is me.

But, I am really busy at the moment. Need all my faculties to deal with what is happening in this moment. Ahh, the whisper of self-pity has raised her whining little voice and made herself known. I am feeling put upon, and again, “Why me? Why now?” The answer, of course, is “Why not? And just when would be more convenient for her highness?”

Reality is, I have never wanted to deal with these particular feelings, and have somehow avoided doing so for most of my life. They are incredibly messy and just so confusing. Now we are back at square one. They are confusing because they don’t line up with the way I think my life should unfold and move and be. I very much still want that happy ending, the magic of happily ever after. That ever after that means that nothing too bad is going to happen so I can just relax and enjoy the ride into that glowing gorgeous sunset.

Reality is, the sunset is skewed, covered over by clouds and dense fog, I am not happy in this moment, and ever after is a joke of cosmic proportions. And I want to lay down on the floor and throw a Queen-sized tantrum, kicking and screaming til I’m blue in the face. Not that that will do anyone, especially me, any bit of good.

With my stiff and sore joints, if I got down on the floor, I might never be able to get back up again. And although blue is my favorite, it isn’t good at all as a skin-color. Besides, everyone, including me, would define such actions as Drama Queen Supreme and I still couldn’t get up from the floor without assistance, and everyone would simply disappear at the first burst of wailing.

But, it was certainly fun to think about that image. Maybe that’s exactly what I needed: a bit of humor to clear away some of the fog. These feelings are mine, they don’t belong to anyone else. Avoiding them has only forced them back into this moment, and needing to be handled now. Ahh, another light bulb goes on. Perhaps I haven’t dealt with them before because I assumed they were someone else’s responsibility? And just who would that someone else be?

The person, or persons, who originally hurt me way back there in that dim past on the other side of the fog, of course. Okay, things are getting clearer. They are responsible for their actions back then, but not now. I have made the choice to avoid these messy confusing feelings. By doing so, I have made them and their attendant consequences my own in this present moment. Things are beginning to fall into place.

To avoid these things further, means I’ll just have to face off with them some time in the future. Which means that I have a task in front of me. It is one of sorting this from that, what is past from what is present. I was a child in the past. That means I didn’t have a clear or even whole picture of what was actually going on. Now, I am an adult with a much wider knowledge base.

And a long-standing journal habit. I can and will do my sorting, but I will do it privately and at my own rate of speed. I have actually been doing a bit of that already. Just didn’t see it clearly for what it was and where it was aimed at taking me. Consciously aware of that now, I can separate those feelings from the past, freeing myself for whatever needs to be done and accomplished in the present.

Had no idea what I was going to write about this morning. Now I have a full page and a much more seeable path on which to proceed. Writing is a wonderful tool for all the sorting we need to do at any period in our lives. Doing it only in our heads and not on paper, can easily be an act of avoidance, like the one I have just now discovered. Is that one of the reasons you don’t write on a regular basis?

On Madness and Creativity

In response to Claudette’s weekly writing challenge #10: Discernment
http://claudetteellinger.wordpress.com/

Much madness is divinest sense
to a discerning eye;
Much sense, the sharpest madness
                                                                             __Emily Dickinson

I found this quote a few days ago. Seeing as Claudette’s weekly writing challenge is the word Discernment, I let the quote take me into a thought path that I haven’t visited for some time. It dovetailed into several other things as well.

There are some myths about the close relationship between Madness and the Creative Genius, and because most myths are based somewhere in a bit of truth, the subject is well worth looking into. Scientific research has been able to link the two in some respects. The intensity and focus associated with creative endeavors, and the natural let-down when the project is completed seems to mirror the manic-depressive mood swings of Bi-polar Disorder. That however, does not mean they are one and the same.

For centuries, we have thought of Creativity as the rare domain of a gifted few…the Artists. When in all reality creative energy is inherent in all individuals. There would be no growth, no progress, or evolution if that were not the reality. But, the human mindset is toward the making, creating of hierarchies, linear progressions that move up or down. Thus, the majority of individuals might find themselves on the low end when it comes to artistic skill and ability. Crafts and hobbies, versus Art with a capital A.

My mind jumps to numerous examples. My father, who late in life, finally had the time and space to set up a woodworking shop in the basement. He made tables, toys for his grandchildren, plant holders, and even clocks. One of his creations hangs on my living room wall, while another holds a green plant that was given to me as a gift and holds a place of prominence in the same room. My Mother’s painting which wasn’t begun until after she turned sixty and had a bout with cancer.

These things are considered hobbies, no more than craft projects, yet they are beautiful in their own right, and entail hours of learning and work. And therein, might be considered a bit mad. Why all the time and effort put into things that will never bring about material success or public recognition (although my mother did have a one woman local showing of her artistry, and Dad did sell a few of his creations)?

The rest of the world might disagree, but I would and do define both of my parents as Artists. What’s more, I define myself as such, as well. I write and I color. Both of those things are creative endeavors. They bring hours of satisfaction, personal pleasure, and a great deal of creative beauty into my life and the lives of those around me. In the world’s eye, I might never be successful because I don’t make money at what I do, nor do I gain a great deal of public recognition for any of it. So, does that make it madness to continue?

Because we have created this sort of High End/Low End scale of artistic talent, we have also created an elite group of those who can, and a majority of others who wish they could. Personally, I think that is madness. I heartily agree with Emily Dickinson on this one. She retreated into her room, was seen as an eccentric by most, and never recognized as an American Poet of some amount of skill and ability until after her death. Did she care? Who really knows? She followed her own path and now we can take part, and find pleasure in her creations.

Emily, in her white clothing and isolation, stepped completely outside the norm of the society she inhabited. At the time, that was called, and defined as Madness, yet today it is defined as Artistry of a superior nature. And I think that is what troubles me about this seeming connection between Madness and Creativity. I think we might have it all backwards.

Instead of looking at Creative Genius and comparing it to Madness, we might be far better off turning that all around and perhaps looking more closely at our definitions and the affect they might be having on the individuals who are concerned. I think there are a great many individuals out there who want, maybe even yearn to explore their creative energies and get blocked by the fear of being defined as nuts should they do so.

That was brought home to me when I got peripherally involved in a discussion going on at

http://blogs.harvardbusiness.org/cs/2008/10/i_just_quit_my_job_am_i_crazy.html

What started as one man writing about his personal choice to quit his well-paying job in order to pursue his personal interests, turned into months of discussion from around the globe. The discussion continues into the present, and actually centers around the idea of doing exactly what Emily Dickinson did. She opted out of the role society defined as hers as a woman, and followed her bliss. Again, was that madness? From her words, I think not.

Creative energy is an element of healing. Our creative endeavors heal our souls. Bring them peace in a chaotic and over-stimulated environment. Because that is real, our creative endeavors, no matter if they are “high” or “low”, also alter and change our world. The peace I find in coloring a pretty design, ripples outward to anyone I come in contact with.

The opposite of all of that is the thought that at least some of the madness in the world today, might just be blocked creative genius. Madness that is seeking healing, yet is blocked from ever participating in that healing. Can’t get past the barriers of definition that have been placed on it. Emily might have been considered a bit ‘mad’ in her day, but was she? Or, was she just an individual who realized that she only had one life to live, and wrote poetry instead of making friends, getting married, and perhaps dying in childbirth? Leaving the generations that came after her with a gap of silence about death and its many emotional and psychological ramifications and definitions?

Emily wrote poetry. I write poetry. She wrote about her memories, and about death. I write about memories, and changes. She favored white dresses. I favor soft colorful flannel lounging pants. She was a recluse. I often call myself a quasi-hermit. She was considered a bit mad and eccentric. I believe I am considered a bit strange, but funny as well. She populated her world with words. I do the same and have added a great deal of color. Are we the same? Yes, in some respects, no in others.

I once wrote that one of the people I would really like to meet is Emily Dickinson, but if we did, she probably wouldn’t speak because of shyness. That’s okay, because I could certainly talk enough for both of us.

Hello Emily. My name is Elizabeth. I just recently realized that your middle name is the same. Isn’t that a wonderful piece of synchronicity? I hope you don’t mind, but I intend to enter your name in my personal Hall of Heroes.

She would think I was Mad! That’s okay, that just gives us more common ground.

Expectations and Rose-Colored Realities

 

I watched David Cook on American Idol last night. My journal, this morning, is filled with my personal reactions to doing so. Not sure exactly what my expectations were in the moment, but I was once again, mesmerized, feeling a bit foolish, yet eager to see and have my senses satisfied. They were and they were not.

That’s the problem with expectations. They are so wide open, so hopeful with a cloud of possibilities that seemingly go on into an unknowable future. But, also laced with at least a fifty percent chance of failure, often more. Yet, we go on creating them, fantasizing over those possibilities and sometimes investing ourselves emotionally, and otherwise, into what is essentially a long shot at best.

When they, as they most often do, fail to materialize, we spiral downward into disappointment, sometimes depression. Think ourselves foolish or worse, for placing our emotional well-being in what is essentially nothing more than a dream, a rose-colored reality where all things wished and wanted suddenly come true.

Is that an accurate assessment? Yes. And, no. Hope is a necessity. Without it, we simply become lumps of energy forever stuck in a gray world that lacks all color. We move, but our movement lacks meaning because it doesn’t have a goal or a purpose. We trudge through our gray world, never looking up, unable to see whatever might be in front of us. What is always in front of us, are other possibilities.

That may be what is wrong with expectations. They are a narrow path, leading only to what we want, not necessarily to what we need. And because the want is so deep and strong, we fool ourselves into thinking it is a need, the only one. That one, that if it is fulfilled will make the rest of our sojourn not just palatable, but filled with contentment and enough excitement to last forever. That is a fantasy. Life doesn’t work that way on a moment to moment basis.

Life is a balancing act of ups and downs, joys and pains, laughter and sadness, and all the other opposites one can think of. It doesn’t run smoothly for more than a short time, no matter how much we may want it to do so. And because expectations are, for the most part, very narrow paths, when we get caught up in them, we fail to prepare for those other eventualities.

A lot of expectations center around other people. Other people doing what we want them to do. In the process, we forget that each individual has choices, a life of their own, people and things to be accounted for and to. As I wrote in my journal this morning, I realized that I simply wanted more time to watch David Cook. I want to sit down and talk to him, ask him questions about his journey, hear the small details of how that journey has changed and altered him.

I will never meet David Cook. If I did, I’d blow it and become completely tongue-tied and probably just stare at him with my mouth hanging open. Not a pretty image. He’d walk away, disgusted at this waste of his time, and probably thinking something quite derogatory about old women who have too much time on their hands. Would his assessment be accurate? Yes and no, perhaps.

Yes, I am an old woman and one that is fascinated by this man’s journey because it has impacted on my own. If you want to know how that came to be, you will have to go back to the beginnings of this blog. For right now, we are discussing expectations. And some of mine were fulfilled last evening. I wanted to know if I still experienced a connection with his person and his music. I did and do.

The song that he sang, Come Back To Me, has a big piece of my own story inside of it. I’d not heard it before and was surprised to find soft tears falling as he sang it. When members of the audience screamed out that they loved him, and he immediately responded with, “I love you, too!”, I laughed because that was a 100% David Cook response. So, yes, I am still connected to the man and his music. And no, he has no idea and never will. That’s the way it should be.

Which brings us to realistic expectations. One of the reasons I have them is because I keep a journal. It is always amazing to me, how easy it is to see the fantasy versuss the reality when one actually writes the words down in black and white. Those rose-colored images actually have clouds of pink mist floating around and through them. Makes it so much easier to see.

The reality may be far more mundane, but it is also easier to accept than getting lost in all that mist and coughing at its fumy presence. Which, by the way, is probably what I would do if I ever came face to face with David Cook, have a coughing fit, or faint, something I have never done in my life. Which, as far as I am concerned, simply means that David Cook is an extremely lucky man for being totally oblivious to my existence.

So, where does that leave me with all of my expectations. Surprisingly satisfied. Disappointed that he was only on for less than ten minutes, but happily aware that his journey continues with a platinum record under his arm. Happy to realize that my journey will also continue and that, on occasion, I may sit down in front of my TV and catch a glimpse of the only connection I have with him. That is reality as it should be, and I am more than happy to allow it to remain so.

Those rose-colored clouds leave a residue of dust behind that simply mean more dusting and cleaning to be done. I am so not into that.