Panning For Nuggets of Sanity

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Filling The Holes

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alyssa's Mandala 10-10-09

 

Mandala 10-10-09

 

Sara's Mandala 10-10-09