The Underdog

 

I have often thought that the Underdog Archetype should be higher up on any list of such energies. The Underdog is that ordinary person doing extraordinary things. The Underdog comes from behind and through steadfast endurance could still possibly take the prize. He/she may not be the best at what he/she does, but each one deserves to be recognized as a winner in their own right. And probably more important, we all recognize that individual because we often find him/her within ourselves.

How many times do we, in our lives, stop and whisper something like, “Why am I doing this, no one cares or even understands.” Yet, for whatever reason, we care enough to continue and often do simply because it is important to our own person and how we see ourselves and our place in the world which we inhabit. That is the energy of the Underdog, often the doings of an unsung hero. Someone who is simply an anonymous blip on the radar of others.

On the same token, we often identify with such energy. Because there are only so many positions at the top of the heap, most of us either accept, or resign ourselves, to going unnoticed. We may wish it were different, but we usually know better and proceed according to our own dictates regardless. If the only reason for doing a thing was public recognition of that, very little would ever get accomplished. And, we do recognize that experience in those around us.

Nowhere was that more apparent than on the American Idol finale last night. Kris Allen won. Did America get it wrong? I don’t think so. Yes, Adam Lambert was definitely the powerhouse vocalist throughout this past season. He also had the flash and sparkle of an already established artist on many levels. He moved onstage with Kiss and Queen as though he’d been doing it for years, while Kris Allen looked bewildered and star-struck to be standing that close to that much fame and glitter.

That did not, however, stop him from performing and making himself and his talent heard. There were a few times when he simply grinned and I thought that he knew he was going to be upstaged and didn’t care because he was there and partaking in a once in a lifetime experience. He was game despite the odds. And that  is definitely the energy of the Underdog. That willingness to go ahead and simply do what one does because it is there to do. And incredibly satisfying just in the doing of it.

American Idol is a singing competition. But, more important, it is the giving of an opportunity to someone who might not otherwise receive such a chance. Placed in the hands of a voting audience that identifies with the Underdog energy, it becomes much clearer that that audience still holds tight to the American Dream and its promise to each and every one of its citizens, no matter how tattered or faded that dream might have become. Not only that, but will put out the energy necessary to see that dream come true for one of its own.

Adam Lambert is an already proven star. Kris Allen is a hopeful. And I happen to like what that says about us as a country and a nation. I like the fact that it says we have certain ideals that we adhere to. That we recognize steadfastness and enduring effort and will reward it. That doesn’t mean we don’t enjoy and support the glamour and sparkle that occurs on occasion. But, we are also more than willing to give our support to the Underdog because we recognize that he deserves the chance to prove himself over time.

It can be and is painful to find oneself in the Underdog position. Yet, for the very reason I stated earlier, most of us are in that place. What does that really mean? It means that we have a choice to continue, or simply let go and admit defeat. We may think that giving up and quitting only affects our own personal space. That isn’t true. It affects our world and the way it functions. Our despair and depression reaches out and touches everyone we come in contact with.

And on the same token, our willingness to continue despite whatever obstacles or odds are encountered, gives hope and strength to anyone we happen to interact with. It might very well be the only ray of hope one or more of them finds in his/her daily existence. And, I think, that is the reason we voted for Kris Allen. We all want that chance, some form of that opportunity, so we gave it to another individual just because we could.

That in turn says something incredible about us. I think it says that we have heart, as well as soul.

Picking Up The Pace

 

My journal does a lot of things for me. It makes me aware of where I have been, what I have done, teaches me about myself and my life. Helps me to keep track of my friends and my feelings at moments. This morning, it helped me remember all of those things, especially what day it is.

Have you ever done that? Awakened and become aware that you are not quite sure what day of the week you are operating in? I did that this morning, sort of stumbling through my usual routine, but kind of confused because thoughts about what was supposed to be going on today were blending into tomorrow and yesterday. I finally stopped when I got to my journal page because I realized I just couldn’t think of exactly where I was.

So, I read through yesterday’s page. No wonder I was confused. A great deal has been happening. Lots of changes and alterations looming on the horizon. People, both friends and family, with life altering health issues, a huge possible move for one with daily implications of change for me personally. And a small incident that happened in my home, that I wasn’t even aware of until last night. Nothing major, just a bit stunned that I missed it completely.

Spring is definitely shaking the moth balls out of her green skirt. And I don’t think I’m quite ready for her arrival. I had gotten nicely comfortable with my quiet slow-paced winter days and evenings. Now, it seems, suddenly that is all at an end. And here I am, just wanting to sit down and relax for a few minutes. Nothing to do but pick up the pace and hope it all happens as smoothly as possible.

It’s funny. I write this blog about keeping a journal because it is what I know about, have taught, and really believe it is genuinely important for all kinds of reasons. Then suddenly get slapped in the face with the reality of just how important it can be and is to me, personally. I really don’t want to miss a day because of confusion or any other reason. I only have so many of them and that makes each one important.

My Mother is ninety years old. She does really well, but is also slipping a bit and its becoming apparent to all of us. She doesn’t always remember things, people, or aspects of her own history. She needs more of our attention and we have figured out a way to accomplish that without limiting her sense of independence and freedom. She is also a very proud lady and we take pride in all of that.

At the same time, that all reminds me of my own age and thoughts about my own future. I take pride in the same things my mother does. And although I have been keeping a journal for many many years, I am far more aware of its importance now, then ever before. A very long time ago, I read that one of the major issues about aging is keeping the mental faculties alert. I decided that keeping a journal would be, for me, a cornerstone in my own process of preparing for that reality. I am so glad that I did.

The few minutes I spent reading yesterday’s journal page, put me back on track and even helped me decide what I need to get done today. I could have just kept stumbling through, hoping that at some point, I’d make it around the corner and it would all fall in place again. It’s scary to think there might come a day when it doesn’t. There are very good reasons why people fear old age, and that is one of the biggest of them.

At the moment, I am old, but not yet elderly. Personally, I intend to push those limits for as long as possible. Which means I will continue to challenge myself and my mental faculties wherever possible. I did that yesterday, as a matter of fact. I invited Diddums to send me some of her art to use as inspiration on my poetry site. She graciously and promptly agreed. You can find the results at:

http://soulsmusic.wordpress.com/

and you can find Diddums at:

http://diddums.wordpress.com/

My journal is looking somewhat like an anchor in all of that, at this moment. Perhaps, more a key. Yup, I like that definition better. An anchor is meant to limit movement, or to at least slow it down. A key holds the promise of further possibilities. The same sort of possibilities held in those green skirts that Spring is shaking loose. I might have thought, even wished, that she would hold off for a while, but I certainly can’t hold her back from doing and being exactly what she is: an invitation to new beginnings.

So, take a deep breath, pick up the pace, and whatever you do, don’t forget that key.

Stain Removal

 

Remember being dressed up in a new outfit, new shoes, cleaned and sparkling from head to toe, with Mom’s smiling approval? On the way to some social event, if only at Grandma’s house for holiday festivities? Then within the first hour disaster strikes and somehow you have to spend the rest of the day looking at some horrible stain on snow white shirt, fancy pants, or new dress? Worse part is, it wasn’t actually your fault, but Mom’s smile has turned to a frown of disapproval or disappointment, each and every time she looks over at you.

Those looks haunt you, even years later, because they are a moment when you knew you didn’t have that approval that made you feel secure, safe in a world that was, for the most part, quite overwhelming at times. It would be great if there was some sort of All Purpose stain remover that could be applied to the memory, remove the stain, and let life go on without it.

A few days ago I wrote, in a poem (Only Lightly Grasped),  about the stain of sin on a precious white soul, that the nuns of my childhood told us about. They knew their stuff. Knew of that almost universal experience and its consequences and affects on young and impressionable children. Knew it and used it to create an image that is quite haunting and somewhat daunting to deal with.

In the poem, I compared that stain, that image, with writing words on white paper. But, the writing is a stain remover, one that actually works. Being a child means making mistakes both large and small. Making mistakes is simply an inherent part of the process of learning and growing. Yes, it can be avoided on occasion, but never completely. And those mistakes leave a stain on the soul and in the memory. Not just stains, but sometimes scars on that developing psyche.

The word sin actually means, missing the mark, ie. mis-take. It does not mean evil, wicked, or hell-bound for a surety. Those definitions came later, and depend on the particular view of the speaker using the word. It simply means missing the mark, and because it does, it also means that one might do better to change ones trajectory so that it doesn’t happen again. Which means there is always hope that with practice, little or much depending on circumstances, one may eventually hit the mark and move on to other things.

Yes, I know there are Big and Little sins, but regardless of the adjective placed before it, the sin still means the target has been missed and its best to try again, or walk away and not even make the attempt. That also depends on the individual and is therefore, a matter of personal choice.

It took me years to discover this small bit of reality, the meaning of the word made a world of difference to my sense of self, as well as the past I carried with me no matter where I went, or what I was engaged in at any given moment. With that discovery came the realization that if sin was a mistake, a missing of the mark, then I could possibly find a few ways to undo what was irritating and disappointing in my past, and maybe even put that smile back on my Mother’s face. Wow, that was a freeing moment of enlightenment.

Simply put, it meant I could actually go back and correct the trajectory, change my aim, and remove some of those stains the nuns spoke about. For a while, if I’m to be honest, it meant I could thumb my nose at those black clad women who sometimes haunted my dreams even into adulthood. Eventually, however, I had to admit and acknowledge that the image they used, was also a key into redefining my life experience. Which meant that I could actually thank them profusely for supplying it. Hell of a turn around, that was.

So, how does this all work? We do remember every moment of our existence. Each one is stored somewhere inside of us. Some of those memories have the power to make us wince, feel shame or embarrassment, even years after the experience. They can prevent us from moving freely through our lives. Tie us up in knots that don’t allow any form of forward progress.

The first step, always the most difficult, is to take them out from that dark space inside our person. Bring them out into the light of today, rather than leaving them in the shadows of yesterday. Hang them on a clothesline and let the fresh air get all that musty smell off of them. We do that by writing them down on a piece of paper. Yes, making another stain, this one with focus and deliberate purpose. This is the stain of new beginnings, new avenues to explore, new images to record and to learn from. This is the stain of hope. Hope of change, perhaps of renewal and even rebirth, new uses, and purposes and possibilities.

None of that will happen if we just walk away and leave them. That old stain will always remain, and with it, the discomfort of emotions that attend all such things. And there is also the fear of what such exposure can bring. It is the inherent value of a personal journal that allows that risk. But also allows the fresh air and sunlight such an airing provides. That reduces the risk to time and energy spent. Not a bad price for stain removal and possible renewal in the bargain.

Do you have a new outfit for the holidays? Something really special that might even make your Mom’s eyes sparkle with approval and regard? Wear it with confidence, let it inform you that all things are possible if you want them enough. But also remember, if some clown comes along and dumps his dinner plate in your lap, you can go home, and remove the stain, begin the process that could allow you to be a new person in the coming New Year. Trust yourself and the stain remover, it works. Happy Holidays to one and all.

That Other Kind of Dream, Or The Airplane Lady

That one that has nothing to do with sleeping, but everything to do with our waking moments. Our bag of expectations, wants, and desires for our own lives. Those secret plans for our future, sometimes so secret, we aren’t aware of them ourselves. Oh, they might occasionally surface, but we dismiss them for wishful thinking, or just plain fantasy. We often ignore them, telling ourselves that they are meant for someone else, someone far more capable of actually living inside of them, realizing them, bringing them to fruition. We dismiss them as though they are nothing more than fluff. But are they?

Many, many years ago, while I was working as the General Manager of a new/used Bookstore, a woman came in and asked if I knew of two particular books. It turned out that she had already read them and simply wanted to discuss the effect they had had on her life (individuals who work behind the counter in a bookstore often find they also play the role of a neighborhood bartender). What she really wanted was to talk about her dream and how far she had come in bringing it to fruition. As she told her story, I was amazed at how far away from my own dream I had drifted.

The amazing part of it all was that I had read the two books she was asking about, but somehow hadn’t put it together in the same manner she had done. She spoke about using her time to prepare herself for that dream of hers (becoming the owner and operator of a light-weight airplane), so that when the opportunity arose, she’d be ready to move on it. In other words, she was actively seeking ways to participate in her dream, while I was sort of waiting for mine to magically coalesce around me, form itself ready made, so that all I had to do was step into it.

That could be the reason why so many of us dismiss those fluff fantasies of another me, living another life. One that is exciting, fruitful, and fulfilling. Because we just don’t know how, or where, to begin and it all sounds like a whole lot of work, and its just a dream, after all, beyond the impossible, right? The Airplane Lady (I never did learn her name and never saw her again), left the store but also left a seed that day. I doubt she will ever know what her random planting did for me. I went home that night and began to write on a daily basis. I had no idea where it would take me, but I had to at least begin preparing for that dream I had kept in the fog at the back of my mind.

The first thing I discovered was that I had no idea of what I actually meant by, “I want to be a writer.” I needed a definition. My own definition. The desire to write was solidly there, I had been moving toward it for most of my life, yet didn’t have a clue what it was I wanted, or was capable, of writing. That was obviously the beginning of my journal writing. I had done some of that on a hit and miss basis for many years. That night I actually made a commitment that continues to this day. There is a saying about how it isn’t the particular destination, but the journey itself that is important. The recording of that journey became the most important factor for me. The definition became the destination, and still remains so.

Along the way, I have tried many different paths: poetry, publishing, editing, fiction, non-fiction etc. I have learned a great deal from each of them and recorded those lessons in my daily writing. My journey has not been completed, but I am certainly living inside my dream. A dream that is far more play than work. That may be another one of those reasons that we continue to dismiss those wish filled fantasies. They seem to be only play, not a reality of ongoing effort. Yet, the Airplane Lady had a much better grasp of reality than I did. She was working as an airplane mechanic, surrounded by the stuff of her dreams and loving every moment of that reality. And thanks to her and the little seed she planted, albeit all unknowingly, I am doing the same.

Which brings me to the big questions: What is your dream? What are you doing to prepare yourself to grasp hold of it, if it should ever appear on your horizon? What are the excuses you place in your own path to that dream? Do you think you are too old? Too set in your ways? Too inept to even begin? Can you define exactly what it is you want, wish, or desire? What small step could you take right now, at this moment, to move yourself closer to those wants and desires? Is there something wrong with gathering information? With allowing yourself to explore even small possibilities? What about a dream journal, one that has nothing to do with sleeping, and everything to do with waking up?

The Airplane Lady, whether she knows it or not, remains very high on my list of heroes. I am following in her footsteps, learning to fly my own airplane. This one I have built word by word, learning the mechanics of my own wish filled thinking, getting myself up and moving toward my own dreams. Those pie in the sky things I never thought were possible, yet now, are my reality. There may be only one difference between us. I know I am deliberately throwing those seeds from my airplane window.

Oh No, It’s Mom!

You’ve planned it all out. You have carefully chosen the words. You begin to express your feelings about some behavior your child has engaged in. It’s going pretty well, your son or daughter seems to be getting the message, when you suddenly find yourself segueing into something your Mother said to you thirty years ago. Something you always resented. And there you are, saying the same thing, almost word for word, to your own child.

Many, if not most of us, have had this experience in one form or another. We may vehemently disagree with Mom’s opinion or critique, but find ourselves spouting off something so similar that we are shocked and can’t figure out where it all came from. Well, we do know exactly where it came from. Mom. It’s all her fault, right? Not exactly. We ourselves have a great deal to do with it.

We create our worldview, our sense of how the world works and our own place in that world, at a very young age. Usually, by the time we are five. As most children do, we learn by experience, seeing and hearing etc., and by the repetitive actions and words of those around us. In other words, we learn to define our world in the words and actions of the most prominent individuals in our lives. For the majority of us, that means Mom, our parents, and our siblings if we have them. It is here that we learn acceptable behavior, as well as the unacceptable.

As we grow into our unique individuality, we may find some, or a lot of that, that we disagree with, wish to change, or even get rid of altogether. That’s really hard to do, after all, we are still using the same language that we learned as impressionable children. In a very real sense, we are stuck with words that are not our own unless we set out to create our own definitions, as individual as the people we hope to become. And yes, that is one of the reasons that each new generation creates its own jargon, that can often be incomprehensible to the last one. It is that deep need to leave home, all that it entails, and to see the world on our own terms, with our own eyes and ability to judge, and our own definitions.

Many of you perhaps, have figured out where I am headed with all of this: to that word definition. A definition is a simple explanation of a thing, an object, a state of being, and yes, even a person. If we do not set out, deliberately, consciously, to find our own definitions for the life we choose, we run the risk of living our parent’s life, not our own. Not the one they lived, but the one they defined for us when we were young children, watching and listening. Think about that for a moment.

I am not my Mother, nor am I my father. Although I love them dearly, respect them in many ways, even count them at the top of my list of heroes, I am not them. I am me, this separate entity. I look, feel, and often think very differently than they have done. Although, at the same time, I am parts and pieces of what both of them have taught me, a blend of some of their better qualities, I would hope. For an example, this writing thing I do, is something quite foreign to either of them, even though they both taught me different aspects of Creativity and the need for that element in my life.

My father crafted things in wood: plant stands, small toys, frames, and even the clock that hangs on my living room wall. He taught me the joy to be found in quiet pursuits, steady ongoing rhythms, to listen to my own ideas of how things should be pieced together, and the simple pleasure of a job well done. My Mother, on the other hand, secretly played a harmonica for years, until we discovered her doing so one day. She also decided to learn how to paint when she was sixty and eventually had her canvases hung for public showing. She taught me that one is never too old to learn, and again the importance of detail, patience, and an eye for the completed picture.

Somehow that all translated into the manner in which I approach my own chosen participation in creative pursuits. But, again, very different from theirs, and according to my own definitions. And it is that writing that allowed me to find those different definitions, as well as the desire to encourage others to do the same. Something neither of my parents ever really thought about doing, yet quite clearly sent the messages silently by their own actions.

Here is a simple exercise you can do to discover some of those “other people” definitions you are still using. It’s called Stream of Consciousness writing. Simply sit down with a piece of paper and pen and write the first word that comes into your head. Then write the next word that pops into your head. Continue your list of words until you run out of paper, or simply feel that you are done. Keeping in mind, the major individuals of your youth, slowly read back through your list. Mark the ones that you associate with those figures, whether it is the word you chose, or something inside the word that triggers off a memory, or input from your senses. Mark those words that do just that with initials or a few words of explanation. You might be surprised at the doors you can open by doing such an exercise.

More important, is the very real fact, that you will come away with a better, broader understanding of your own person as well as the definitions you use to make your way through your life. You will also present yourself with an opportunity to change those choices you have made, by changing the words to new or other ones that suit you more directly. Don’t throw the list away. Keep it. You may want to explore it more deeply in a few days. Or write about what you have discovered about yourself and your own personal worldview. Who knows? You might even find your Mother.