My Fight With Red

In response to Claudette’s Challenge #2 The Art of Humility

Flamingo Dance

 

I have been coloring Mandalas and have mentioned that here and elsewhere. Although I love doing so, I also like a challenge. I wanted to do something more intricate then the simple designs I was finding on the Internet. Last week, I found a Dover book of Kaleidoscopic Designs by Lester Kubistal. It was just what I had been seeking.

My daughter came over yesterday and suddenly became aware of the many images I have been playing with. She really liked what she was seeing and started asking me if I’d do one for her with reds in it. I hemmed and hawed around and finally confessed that I have a great deal of trouble with the reds when coloring.

Red is the color of passion, but also of rage and anger. It is also the color of fire, warmth, and thus, creative energy. These are all things I know about and have written about and discussed for years. Yet, when it came to putting that color on paper it always seemed to fight me and the other colors. I had tried it many times and it just wasn’t working with or for me.

So, I had been sort of ignoring it. Using other friendlier colors. Ones that would lay down and do what I expected and definitely play nice with all the other hues I was toying with. In the back of my mind, I knew I would eventually have to confront this peculiar dilemma, but for the moment I really just wanted to enjoy what I was doing in peace. So I have been substituting the rust tones for the reds, making up excuses why they just work better with the blues and greens.

However, my daughter’s enthusiasm and eagerness brought the pending confrontation to the fore immediately. So I admitted to her that I just didn’t fully comprehend the function of red, in the scheme of things. It wouldn’t cooperate with me, so I wasn’t using it. I think that’s called spite and avoidance.

After she and her friends left, I got out one of my new designs and decided to take the plunge. I put two different shades of red at the very center of the design because that would mean that it would need to be repeated if  the design was going to work at all. Kaleidoscopes work on color and mirror images of those colors.

I have learned a great deal by engaging in this activity that is seen as child’s play. Although I took four years of Art in high school, and was even the teacher’s assistant in my senior year, I had never really learned about colors and how they interact on and affect one another. That may seem a bit incomprehensible, but I had a good beginner’s eye for color and that sufficed for most of my art activities. Until a few months ago when I began doing this thing with the entire spectrum of possibilities.

This has been a learn as you go process for me. But one of the most important lessons I have learned is that mistakes are not necessarily mistakes. They can be new paths opening up right in front of me. New ways of seeing things, and new movements to be tried. And yesterday, after admitting my ignorance, I did all of those things.

About half way through, incredibly pleased with what was coming alive beneath my fingers, I made a choice that could have been disastrous to the design and this new wrestling with the color red. One of the problems with laying down red is that its so difficult to cover up. It has a tendency to bleed into anything one might use to mend the image and quickly becomes a muddy mess. But there I was, half way through this wonderful little jewel of an image and there was red, sticking her tongue out at me and giving me a really loud raspberry to boot.

I refused to quit and throw out all of that work. I do know one thing, black will cover anything and still remain black. So I raspberried right back at red and she was so shocked she actually cooperated with my ongoing efforts. She became, if one might say it, compliable with my efforts. I really like the outcome and learned another valuable lesson.

It’s perfectly okay to admit out loud that you’ve made a mistake. The only thing that stands in the way of that is pride. Pride is the direct opposite of humility and humility steps up to bat when pride is lowered or even given the out signal. I can be grateful to my daughter for bringing my dilemma to the forefront. I can be grateful that I finally admitted that I was having problems and also avoiding them, and in doing so, exiling myself from the full spectrum of my own experience.

Perhaps that means that humility is really the color black. Able to absorb all other colors, yet toss them back again for better choices. Able to cover the worst mistakes and open up new doors of possibility. I like that and really love what I do, when it finally all fits together and makes something beautiful that didn’t exist before. Red and I may never become bosom buddies, but we at least now, have the beginnings for a multitude of new adventures and future engagements.

That Friday Night Feeling

 

I just spent the better part of an hour and a half writing and talking about the issue of self-trust. It’s a biggie and the umbrella under which each of us travels through every day and night of our existence. It is the most often hidden motivation behind an endless array of personal choices we make, especially in the arena of relationships, as well as a multitude of others.

We are drawn to and attracted by others who validate and help us to like and love ourselves. We need others to let us know that we are not alone, or incapable of being loved. We are born knowing we can’t survive alone and we spend an inordinate amount of the rest of our lives trying to prove that that isn’t the reality, but that scared feeling will arise and eat away at us at odd moments because we first learn to trust others before self.

I trust myself, but I have also spent many Friday night evenings waffling through feelings that don’t seem so clarified at any other time. Why is that? Because on Friday night, the rest of the world is off celebrating the beginnings of a weekend that holds a world of possibilities and I am alone. If I am going to find myself wallowing in a trough of self-pity, it’s probably Friday evening. That very definitive knowledge doesn’t seem to stop all of those feelings, however.

One of the biggest problems with all of that is that when we do get lonely, we have a tendency to look inward and start picking at ourselves. Being our own best bully is a Universal trait. Why didn’t I make plans? I know that Friday evening comes around with precise clockwork efficiency, so why didn’t I act to eliminate the possibility? Well, because. I didn’t really think about it, that’s why. So, week after week, Friday after Friday, that horde of feelings rises up and pretty soon I have created a habit out of it, and those feelings are just doing their part in the way I work.

What a wonderful little circular tread I have created for myself. I’m lonely, or feeling lonely, and that must be my own fault. It would help if I could just remember that Friday night is going to arrive no matter what else I might be engaged in doing. I have to get into the habit of making plans for Friday night so I don’t have to sit here and be bombarded by all of these feelings.

But, I’ve done just that in the past. And yes, it even worked for a while, years in fact, and the fear of Friday evenings was actually diminished for a time. I had a good time instead. Until I got tired of all the running, and discovered that I could feel just as lonely in a crowded room, surrounded by friends, as when I was sitting alone in my easy chair at home. And the awful part was that I was at least more comfortable at home. Didn’t have to deal with looking my best, being on my good behavior, or worry about what someone else might think of the outfit I had on, or the way my hair wouldn’t do anything but fly away.

So, I took my fly away hair and flew home. Ah yes, my own little comfort zone, where I can just relax, listen to my music, read my books, eat whatever I choose, and just be me. Watch tv, or get out an old sketch book, maybe do some drawing or coloring. I could even write, what a novel idea. And that worked for the longest time. That Friday night feeling was all just a myth, a boogey man story to scare little children, and little old ladies.

Wait a minute. I am now one of those little old ladies. And that Friday night feeling seems to be creeping back in, separating itself from the rest of the shadows, and no matter what I might be engaged in, those feelings are being felt again. I put in all this effort, all these years of reading, writing, coloring, and tv watching, just to come back to this place again? Crap! Unadulterated crap.

Okay, let’s go back to the beginning. Do we have to? Yes, afraid so. The beginning was all of those Friday night feelings, right? Well, not exactly. The beginnings were actually the fear of those feelings. They are so heavy and depressing. So what are those feelings, exactly?  Number One, I am not okay if or when I am alone. That is absolutely not true. Prove it. I’ve been alone for a whole lot of years and I’m still breathing. I have not deteriorated into some slavering idiot, or worse, some anti-social monster.

As a matter of fact, its been just the opposite. I’ve found a great deal of value in what I do and who I am. Furthermore, I don’t need anyone else to tell me those things because I know them to be true. Ahhhhhh, did you see that light bulb go on? So what does that all say to you? Mainly it says that yes, I am alone, but that does not automatically mean I need to feel lonely. The two things are not the same. Alone is not lonely, and lonely does not mean alone.

As a matter of fact, being alone on all those Friday evenings has only served to show me that there are a world of things I can do to eliminate those feelings. Not just shove them back into the shadows where they came from, but actually get rid of them. Dispel them, altogether. And all those ‘alone’ Friday evenings taught me one other important thing I needed to learn. I can trust me to deal with those feelings. I can trust the person I have become to see them for what they really are. Just feelings.

Left overs from a past in which I was genuinely lonely and, most often, blamed myself for that reality. It must be because I wasn’t a good enough friend, or failed to make them. I was a bit off, didn’t really fit in anywhere, heard a different drummer, and was always humming some other tune. The most amazing part of those lonely feelings is that they somehow convince one that no one else ever feels them. At which point, one becomes either self-pitying, or beating oneself over the head with a stick of accusations and punishment.

And all of this just brings up a really big question. Do I trust myself enough to be alone with me? The answer is yes, been doing it for years. So much so, that I had to get on the page and explore the whole subject matter, trusting me to get me where I needed to be. I rather like what I have found. Do you trust yourself enough to be alone with you, even on a Friday evening?

Challenges

In response to Claudette’s Writing Challenge # 1  “the Power of Creativity”

Was very surprised when I went to check out the Writer’s Island prompt for today. The site has been closed and there will be no more weekly prompts. Was disappointed, to say the least. But then, being who I am and wanting to encourage others to write, I made a decision to create my own challenges.

I had another site, which was going by the wayside. Hadn’t been using it or posting to it at all. So I deleted everything from it and set up a writing challenge for anyone who is interested. Being a former writing instructor, I do have a lot of those at hand. I plan to post a writing challenge every Friday morning. You can find it at:

http://claudetteellinger.wordpress.com/

I will also probably respond to my own challenges. That’s what I did in my classroom and I might as well continue. And there is no better time to start than right now.

The Power of Creativity is a rather large subject matter, but I believe that each individual has creative power built into the original design. It is the energy that creates growth and healing. It includes inspiration, mental and physical skills and abilities, and is not limited by narrowed definitions.

The first class I taught was titled Connecting With Your Creativity. I was incredibly nervous because it was happening on the campus of the four year University from which I had graduated in years past. When the Director of the program introduced me as the Instructor, I almost couldn’t speak. But, I did eventually. One of the first exercises I had my students do was to write out very quickly, a brief paragraph of how they saw creativity at work in their own lives. Then went around the room and asked them to read what they had written.

It was a small group and everyone responded, until I got to the last woman there. She read what she had written and it became the first direct challenge I was to encounter as a new teacher. She had written about how she didn’t have a creative bone in her body. After trying for years, several different disciplines such as writing, painting, and music, she had given up and thrown in the towel. She simply wasn’t a creative human being.

My first thought, and I definitely didn’t voice it, was why would you take a class about connecting with your creativity if you truly believed you had none? Instead, I asked her to define what she meant by creativity. She immediately said, “The Big A, Art. You know, music, painting, drawing, all of those things.” The room was terribly silent, I wasn’t the only one aware that I was being challenged.

So I asked her if she thought that making a delicious home cooked meal that was nurturing as well as attractive was a creative skill. She said yes, of course it was. Then I asked her if a father who put his children to bed each night by telling them made up stories that included characters with each of his children’s names was engaging in creative energy. She nodded emphatically. And all of a sudden the room came alive.

Each person there had another example to add to the list. People they knew at work, or casually, neighbors and friends, who did very creative things that didn’t fit under her Big A umbrella. The two of us were grinning at each other by the time that little, but really important discussion ended and I could go on with the class I had planned out so carefully.

In the course of the next six weeks, that woman became one of the most enthusiastic students I have ever had. She eagerly participated in every exercise I presented, both writing, and other activities. At the end of the six week period, she came to class with a petition she had written up and planned to pass around to the other members in the classroom. It was addressed to the Director of the Program, asking that I be allowed to teach a second class on the same subject matter. The Director agreed, and I became a free-lance writing instructor, specializing in writing based classes for self-awareness and personal growth.

The power of creativity is that it is an energy that can be felt and experienced on all kinds of levels. It calls for a response. It initiates action, it gets us moving and thinking. And it is a healing energy for all of those reasons. To give it some sort of elite definition, is to miss its real importance altogether. For some of us, the mere fact of getting up and getting dressed is a creative activity. I’m sure I’m not the only one who has had that particular experience of enticing myself out of a prone position.

I did it this morning, as a matter of fact. When I realized that there would be no writing prompt this week, or any of the weeks to follow, I was very tempted to go back to bed and just forget it. Instead, I am here responding to my own challenge, writing about my own experience and connecting once again with my own unique creative power. Can, or will you do the same?

Guilt Is Not a Feeling

 

Many years ago, a very wise person told me that “guilt is not a feeling, it is a fact.” It took me several more years to fully comprehend exactly what that meant. If guilt was not a feeling, and I could wrap myself around that reality, then I could be free of at least half, if not more, of the burden I was carrying around about my own person. But first, I had to be able to separate the fact from all of those feelings. That isn’t as easy as it sounds, because guilt feelings can be nothing more than a habit picked up in childhood and never dropped, through out a lifetime.

But, at least I had a starting point and that was better than none. We all carry guilt around, for both real and unreal reasons. Guilt is a hell of a motivator, when it comes to carrying out what we have decided, or chosen, as our responsibilities. And we all know people, individuals who carry far more than their fair share of responsibility. Always busy taking care of something or someone else, with never enough time to just sit back, relax and take time for themselves.

Freedom entails responsibility. Yet those overly burdened individuals, seem to have missed that point, given up the freedom in order to be the responsible people they are and have become. I often wonder what they think they are guilty of and how long they will continue to operate under the seeming mountain of guilt that they obviously feel a need to atone for. Vicious cycle, that one. It can and does often end up being the reason for disastrous choices that result in lives never lived fully, or far from happily.

So how does one separate the fact from the feelings? Carefully. Because there is a delicate balance in all things, there are those out there who never take responsibility for anything. They are experts at pointing a finger, laying down blame and walking away free and clear. Or do they? The best example I can think of is Adam in the Garden of Eden. When faced with God’s possible wrath for breaking the rules set up, Adam didn’t take responsibility, he shifted it to Eve, and then to God Himself, by saying in effect, “Don’t look at me, it was that woman You made for me that did it. She talked me into it, and I just didn’t have any choice in the matter.” Ahhh, poor man, he obviously didn’t know that one always has the choice to say no. Good thing God knew and still held him accountable.

But that is a good place to begin that sorting out that I spoke about earlier. Do you have anyone in your life who is constantly pointing a finger at everyone else, other than at self? If you are someone who picks up guilt feelings like a magnet, it might be a worthwhile endeavor to see if that pointing finger has homed in on you and if you have accepted the flag of guilt that it portends to.

Unhappy people have a tendency to complain and often wag a finger in the process. I have been dealing with someone like that lately. It is difficult to point back at the source, but I’ve actually done that on occasion. Most often, that falls on deaf ears, but at least I am able to remind myself that I haven’t done anything wrong and I am not responsible for that individual’s happiness, she is. It would be wonderful if she understood that, and maybe some day she will. One can always hope.

Most often, I head for my journal and talk it out with myself. I sort through the feelings until I find the facts of any given situation. If I don’t do that, I will walk around with a burden that is vague and uncomfortable, and definitely puts a cramp on my own freedom of thought and action, and negatively affects the simple pleasure in this life I have created. It doesn’t take more than a half hour to do so and the rewards are a lighter me, who can then go about my own life far more freely.

The flip side of that coin is to be honest when you ask yourself, “Did I do anything wrong?” I’m not talking about thoughts, or feelings. I am talking about actions taken. Remember, this is about facts. Thoughts and feelings are not facts. They do not become facts until they are acted upon. And the act is the only part of this that retains any possibility of guilt. And once that is determined, one has a definite path one can choose to take, or not.

That is not to say one should dismiss negative thoughts and feelings. One should, and can choose to explore them and try to discover their source. Perhaps, when it is discovered, it will lead to a change of heart, or even acceptance. And those are definitely to be counted in the freedom columns. They will also allow a wider of range of choices in actions, and thus, far less guilty feelings.

But what happens when you find that the guilt is indeed a fact? Again, new paths are immediately opened. A simple acknowledgment of the guilt, immediately lessens the burden of the whole. Apologies are difficult for some, but they often suffice and release a great deal of positive energy into a world that desperately needs more of that commodity. And that might lead to an action that will redeem or nullify the original one that caused all of it in the first place.

An act of recompense is definitely the individual’s choice. It doesn’t have to be public, or even stated as such. I once gave someone a gift to replace something I had inadvertently lost. I felt no need to explain and the individual was pleased with the gift and none the wiser. The individual never missed the object, but I still felt a need to do what I did, and get rid of the feelings attached to the experience. And it did just that. I made recompense and was glad to do so.

Some actions do need a more public recompense. But again, that is up to the individual. Giving ones self the opportunity to finally put paid on anything that will result in new freedoms is worth the effort. Getting rid of whatever load of guilt one carries is, and can be, an incredible experience. Allowing one self to know that guilt is never a feeling, but is a fact, is one of the healthiest things one can do for oneself.

Signature Strokes

 

In the world of Fine Art, such as painting, one can, if one has the knowledge of such things, know who the painter is without seeing a signature somewhere on the canvas. It has to do with the manner in which the artist lays the colors onto the canvas, sometimes the choice of subject matter is also a clue. That distinguishing mark is called a Signature Stroke. Thus, even an untrained eye can catch the difference between Michelangelo’s full three dimensional human figures, and Van Gogh’s brilliantly lit pastoral scenes, or Picasso’s cubism from Salvador Dali’s melting timepieces.

Each of these painters was an individual first, before becoming an artist. Each of them lived in a different place, time, and had very distinct individual experiences that trained their eyes to see in different and unique ways. And those differences were conveyed to their subjects and the manners in which each of them expressed what they painted. Each of them, during the process of expression, developed a very distinctly recognizable Signature Stroke.

That distinguishing stroke applies to most forms of expression. Frank Sinatra did it My Way, and although others might do that same song in their own fashion, it will always bring Old Blue Eyes to mind when it is heard. Fashion designers build whole careers, as well as fortunes, on creating a look that is easily recognizable by those who can afford their products. A Signature Stroke is simply that which marks the particular expression from others, makes it uniquely individual as such. And the competition to establish such individuality is extremely fierce in all fields.

We, as individuals, are each unique. I have been writing about just that for a long time now. We each have our own way of doing things, our own perceptions, and definitions of the way things work and their meanings. And whether or not we set out to do so, that means that each of us have been, or are, in the process of developing a Signature Stroke.

In the world of writing, which is the one I speak to most frequently, there is a definite Signature Stroke experience. No one will, or can, lay down words in the same exact fashion in which I do, or you do, for that matter. My words are shaped and formed by my individual experience, and so is the choice of subject matter. And the same goes for each of you who might be reading these words I am laying down on this canvas called a blog.

Someone else may very well write about keeping an ongoing journal, but they will do that in their own unique style and the manner in which they perceive it. We may even agree on the majority of issues that arise under the heading of that topic, but we will not choose the same exact words to do that.

Someone else might focus in on making rules to write by. I, obviously would see that differently. And that is absolutely necessary, because there are individuals out there who need to know the rules before they can begin, and then there are those, like myself, who balk at the very thought. And between us, myself and this imaginary other writer, we will cover a bit of the territory that entails a broader and wider view of the entire subject.

And, by the way, readers also have a distinct Signature Stroke. It can be seen in the choice of reading materials. There is an entire world out there that could care less about these words I am laying down and will never even think to read them. Just as there are worlds of words out there that I would never take a glance at, simply because they don’t particularly interest me.

The point I am trying to get at is that devilish issue of comparison. It stems from that absolute necessity to choose one thing over another, listen to one voice rather than another, especially where it concerns the development of that Signature Stroke we all have and use on a daily basis.

Comparisons, especially when made in the arena of creativity are deadly. They are extremely poisonous to the fragile creative element in all of us. Creative energy is a healing element built into the human psyche. And it can be killed off, murdered by one misplaced and thoughtless comparison.

Yet, comparisons are a daily, ongoing experience. How do we choose, if we don’t compare this to that? The problem originates when we apply those comparisons to our own person and the creative activities we engage in. We all need to engage in creativity of one sort or another. It is healing because it allows some form of release in lives that are constantly stressful and can often become overwhelming.

Creativity is an expression of ones individual self. Whether it is found in a well cooked meal, a delightfully told story, or the composing of an opera, it is all the same and provides the same things for the individuals thus engaged. My schtick ( I love that word), is encouraging others to write on a regular basis. It is an extremely cheap form of self-expression, therefore creativity. It is my effort to help heal the world I live in, while healing my own inner person.

But, if I compare my own writing to that of others, I will always first find fault with my own. We are our own worst enemies on this one. I am an expert on how many ways I do this incorrectly and could make a list, that might go on for pages, concerning how badly I do this thing. What would it prove? That maybe I should try cubism? It’s far too late for that, and I already know I wouldn’t have the patience for that kind of detailed work.

Nope, I will continue to stick with my schtick, even if I don’t do it as well as hundreds of others out there. They remain out there, while I am here, inside my own skin, doing this thing I love to do, and although I know I don’t do it perfectly, I do it well, on occasion. That, in turn,  lifts me up, it sings through my veins, and it makes me happy to be so engaged. That makes it, for no other reason, the healthiest thing for me to be doing.  

This writing might be considered square, even “cubic”, to others, but that doesn’t matter. It really doesn’t. And as long as I steer clear of comparing what I do to what others do, I will find my own form of happiness right here on these pages. I might even find my own Signature Stoke, and wouldn’t that be something to write about?

About Authenticity

Writer’s Island prompts #12 and #13 “Change For the Better”

Was a bit disappointed when I went to see what the prompt might be for today. My last blog was about all the changes I have had to deal with, and have made, over the past year. I could have used it, but I really wanted a fresh challenge. As I was about to leave the site however, I noticed this quote:

be nobody but yourself in a world which is doing it’s best, to make you everbody else…    __ee cummings

Now that I can dig my teeth into, it is the story of my life. “If you’d just change this or that, you’d be more… lovable, likable, attractive, friendly, popular, pleasant, companionable, easy to get along with, acceptable, easy to work with, spiritual, skilled, graceful, content, enjoyable, light-hearted, approachable, genuine, authentic, organized, committed, rounded, satisfied, as well as satisfying,” and on and on ad finitum. What is really being said here, is never really spoken aloud. What is actually meant is that “if you would change this or that, you would be far more like me and then I could be a lot more comfortable than I am.”

In keeping with the prompt, I think the best thing I could do in order to make me a better person is to stop listening to all those things other people would prefer me to be, and just get on with being me, whoever that might be at any given moment. That is the easiest solution, but also the most difficult one to maintain.

I have written here, about how and why I have felt that I didn’t ever quite fit in for the majority of my life. The circumstances that created that reality were completely out of my control, and yet the result has kept me doing a balancing act that includes tap dancing on a high wire. Try it, it ain’t easy, or even doable in most moments. Yet, I have tried to dance the undoable far more than anything else in my life. Why?

Because I have also longed to feel at ease within my own skin. To be relaxed and comfortable in any given moment. To belong. A few years back, I began to hear a phrase that, at first, seemed to make a great deal of sense, but then began to niggle in that deep dark reservoir at the back of my mind and wouldn’t be quieted or stilled. The phrase went something like this, “Learn how to be your authentic self.”

The phrase was often followed by a pitch, of one sort or another, that meant one could pay a certain amount of money and learn “authenticity” of being. In other words, one could pay someone else to teach one how to tap dance on a high wire they had created for just such a purpose. Been there, been doing that for years. How could anyone possibly teach me how to be authentically who I am? How the hell would they know such a thing unless they also were extremely familiar with and ready to tell me, “If you would just change this or that, you would be so much more…” (read second paragraph). One could be paying for the rest of ones life and still never find whatever authenticity is to be found.

And now, of course, she pulls out the Dictionary. According to that said reference, authentic means original, the genuine article, verifiable as such, meaning origin is provable. So, a birth certificate would suffice, right? Well, yes, if all I wanted to do was prove that at some moment in the past, I came into being as a living, breathing human being. It doesn’t tell me who I am now, in this present moment, in the only place that genuinely matters, inside me and my skin. Besides, I already know that because I am here, typing these words, breathing and living through this moment in time.

Long story, made much shorter. All that disquiet and lack of stillness brought me right back to one thing. I still wanted to belong, to fit in, and only I could know that at any given moment. I would feel it, right here inside my own skin. Funny thing is though, the more I felt it, that relaxed comfortable ease, the more people around me seemed to need to tell me how to be better at what I was already doing.

In that very convoluted manner, I came to know what was really being said when I would hear that old familiar refrain, “If you would just change…” Amazingly enough, that really helped that ease for which I had been seeking all of those years. It put the choices right back where they belonged all along, in my hands. I will listen to most suggestions, weigh them seriously if I feel they have some validity, but then I will choose to change in whatever fashion I think and perceive is best for me and the person I am still becoming. The one that I know and feel is me.

So, how do I justify doing what I am doing on this blog? Asking you to change, to find your authentic self by keeping a journal, and writing in it every day. I don’t. There is nothing to justify. What I write about is always whatever I choose. You have the same choice. You don’t have to read it and no one is paying me to do it. That’s one of the basic reasons I do it at all. Because it allows each of us the freedom to choose. I will continue to be who I am, doing what I love to do, and by doing that, being exactly who and what I am. And leave you to make your own choices. Leaving you to be exactly who you are, and being your authentic self in the bargain.

And by the way, I love ee cummings, he is always authentic, and well worth the read.

Checking The Temperature

I have spent the last three days watching my temperature rise and fall drastically in both directions. I am speaking of my emotional temperature, not my physical one, although the physical one did some jumping around because of the other, I am sure. Many of us have thermometers nailed up somewhere outside that we can give a quick glance at and know what the physical reality of our environment is up to. That allows us to dress appropriately, be prepared when we venture out on whatever errands we will engage in. However, a thermometer doesn’t do any good, if we forget that its there and no longer take the time to consciously check it to see what it is reading.

Consciously checking our emotional temperature is just as, if not, more important. Had I ventured out yesterday, I might have been in trouble. As it was, I stayed in and weathered the storm in warm privacy with a bit of help from two friends who happened to call and ask how I was doing. Neither of them had any idea of the emotional thundercloud I was sitting in, but each, in her own fashion, gave me the necessary equipment to get myself outside of the storm, and keep me safe from gusting winds and torrential rain, with repeated flood warnings.

In her book, A Cloister Walk, Kathleen Norris explains a wonderful little writing exercise: writing out your own emotional weather report. Mine, for yesterday, would have been approaching hurricane conditions with a gradual change in wind direction that will keep the storm offshore and away from human population. And Tom Waits does a bang up job in his song Emotional Weather Report:  

with tornado watches issued shortly
before noon Sunday, for the areas
including, the western region
of my mental health
and the northern portions of my
ability to deal rationally with my
disconcerted precarious emotional
situation, it’s cold out there…

I particularly like the way he adds specific directions to his report. Locations and directions are important both in the physical realm, and the emotional reality.

When people ask me for ideas about what to write, I always forget this one, but was reminded by my own journal pages from yesterday and today. I glanced at the thermometer, but didn’t let it register the day before. That is so easy to do. Our emotions are always there, always speaking to us, always telling us where we are and what we are headed into. We disregard, ignore, and even deny their potential for measuring our moment by moment lives. It might be very wise to write out a one or two sentence weather report on each journal page created. Make it the first thing, and then go on to whatever else might need to be said. I think I’ve just given myself another assignment. A very practical, but priceless one, at that.

What is the alternative? Watch TV and make sure I catch the weather report? We all know that is, at best, a great deal of guess work, and results only in possibilities, or a constant switching to the weather station for any new developments. Besides, there is no weather man alive who knows the temperature inside of my apartment and why would I depend on someone else’s (expert, or otherwise) definition of my emotional landscape? Yes, I had help yesterday. But not the kind that told me what my weather conditions were. The help, I received, was of the variety of gently chosen words that might lead me to the definitions, I myself, needed to make my own analysis (thank you, Marj and Sandy). And both women engaged in gentle laughter and affection while doing so. Can’t beat that.

Writing a daily weather report is a very creative way of assessing one’s reality. How long, how many days, months, years, have those dark storm clouds been resting against that distant horizon? And what about the weather conditions other people seem to bring with them? That constant shudder of chill so and so carries around and brings into any room she enters? Checking out the anomalies could open doors into possible working solutions. And yes, this is a metaphor: your pen the hand held thermometer, and your pages the opening you alone can set it to. All done in private with never anyone the wiser. Best of all, you don’t need a degree to be able to do it.

If it’s been raining too many days in a row, what can you do about it? Unlike real physical weather conditions, we can change the emotional conditions we are creating. If so and so enters your space, you will know that you need warming cover and can keep it handy and readily available. If, however, so and so turns out to be you, you always have the option to move yourself to Tahiti and learn how to acclimatize to much warmer conditions with lots of sunshine and balmy breezes. It doesn’t have to be work, it is an adventure, if you choose to let it be.

Taking your emotional temperature is a choice you make. Taking the time to do so is another. I sense a dust storm coming on so its best if I make sure the pegs holding down my tent are as firmly planted as possible and then do a quick run for extra provisions which must include Cedar Crest Mackinac Island Fudge, of course. That way, I can listen to the howling monster outside my door while enjoying my own special soothing treat, knowing all the while that the monster will exhaust himself eventually, and I will be ready to greet the coming, and possible, drastic changes in my outer environment. It’s only sand, after all.