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?