In The Way of the Fox

 

The Fox is a very clever little creature, he’s had to be, in order to survive. One of his means to do just that is to backtrack, stepping in his own paw prints, to confuse whatever pursuers are hounding him.  And although I have never truly considered myself a ‘foxy’ lady, other than on a mental level on occasion, I intend to incorporate the fox’s behavior in today’s article. Which means I’m going to do some backtracking in my own footprints, sort of speak.

A while back, I wrote about the Masks we wear, especially in public. We do that so as to continue to belong within whatever society we find ourselves in, be that a peer group, fellow workers, friends, and yes, even (maybe especially) family. We do that by hiding behind a Mask that is, or so we think, more acceptable to the group, than the face of what we are actually feeling, thinking, and doing.

Like the fox, whose coloring is extremely noticeable in the often green and brown landscape he inhabits, we learn to be clever,  and quick about hiding our real state of being, especially when we feel or think that that state of being we are in is unacceptable, inadequate, or just won’t do for the circumstances we inhabit. Most of us learn, at a very young age, that a smile and accommodating demeanor will far more quickly get us through, and to, what we want or need, then a scowl, or howl, or an abrasive, aggressive appearance. And in that sense, we like the fox, adopt those demeanors which will allow us to preserve ourselves, keep our sense of belonging intact.

We wear Masks. Masks are fascinating things and have an intriguing history. There have been cultures that have based their entire belief systems on masks that are called ‘false faces.’ And by doing so, actually create a secret society for their members. Belonging means one recognizes and accepts those false faces for what they symbolize and act, react accordingly. There was a time when a masquerade ball was an occasion of intrigue and excitement, because the intricate masks participants wore,  allowed one to move within ones society of peers, but, at the same time, behave in ways that were outside of the rules of said society. And here, on the Internet, we use avatars to represent whatever identity we choose to display at any given moment. Which is to say, that things haven’t changed all that much over time.

So, what are we really hiding behind the masks that we wear? All those things that we have come to define as inadequate, inappropriate, less than acceptable, unseemly, or worse, just plain wrong. Our definitions might be skewed, unbalanced, or lacking in logic, or wholeness, but we will stick by them until we find they no longer serve their, our purpose. We do that because we learned a great many of them within our family unit, which is the most basic unit of society, and therefore the first, and possibly or often, the strongest influence as regards our individual socialization process.

What is the fox actually hiding when he engages in all of those clever actions to confuse and confound his hounding pursuers? Much the same thing as we are when we put on our Masks. He is hiding his true state of being, his wildness, and that often startling and  beautiful coloring that sets him apart from all other creatures. That which marks him as a target for chasing and possible extinction at a moments notice. And just like him, we understand that we too must hide those things that set us apart, might not allow us to go on existing within our families, our peer groups, our fellow employees, and so on.

And just what are those specific things? Many of them are the Wild Things I have been discussing. Like the boy, I used as an example. His interest and fascination with poetry wasn’t wrong, nor was it misplaced, or even inadequate for his age and abilities. But it created a situation in which his basic social unit erupted into chaos, anger, and misunderstanding. So, he interpreted that to mean it was unacceptable. He chose to ignore that piece of his own development, putting on a mask that was, as far as he was concerned, far more acceptable. He chose to suppress that Wild Thing inside of himself, which wasn’t wild at all, but certainly occasioned some rather wild results.

His actions and choices were based in what he knew at that time. But they gave birth to that Wild Thing inside of him that came back to haunt him on occasion with its desire to express himself in a certain manner. And each time he suppressed and ignored its calling, he, in effect, contained it, hid it behind what he had decided was a better face, a more appropriate mask within the environment in which he lived.

Furthermore, he actually defined it as a Wild Thing, a part of himself that didn’t fit within the boundaries of the piece of the socialization process blanket under which he existed. Talk about backtracking, hunh? That is what I said I was going to do. Which leaves us with the Fox, the Wild Thing, and a whole lot of questions.

Maybe only one or two. Is that a sigh of relief I hear? So, like the fox, it might be much more important, than we have so far realized, to backtrack on our own footprints through this journey we call life. Find and come to know those pieces and parts of us that have been kept outside, ignored as much as possible, and contained in that wilderness of the imagination. If you ask me how to do that, I will simply point you to the Introduction of this blog.

It is my intention to introduce you to some of the Wild Things I have encountered and yes, befriended on my own backtracking adventures. Who knows, I might even tell you about the actual wild foxes who seemingly, but very deliberately, crossed my path to help me know what I know about the extremely important messages they came to teach me. You didn’t really think this was the only one, did you?

Wild Thing III

 

A Definition and an Example:

First things first. What exactly do I mean by the term Wild Thing?  I do not mean some sort of slavering monster bent on total annihilation of you, me, or anyone else. I am speaking specifically of those things, within each of us, that get shut away because they do not meet whatever standards of the Socialization Process, each of us finds ourselves under, at any given moment in our existence. I am not speaking of the Psycho Within. That doesn’t fit under my umbrella of expertise by anyone’s definition. I am however, speaking directly to those pieces and parts of our individual psyche that can, and often do, get lost during our formative years, as well as all other years we remain alive and breathing.

As an example, perhaps a young boy, while still in grade school, finds he has an affinity for poetry. He likes it, and even begins to write it. He is proud of what he has accomplished and brings it home to share with his family. His mother pats him on the back and tells him what a wonderful thing he has done. At the supper table, barely able to restrain his eagerness, he tells his father of his accomplishment. And Dad goes very still and silent. Dad doesn’t explain his stillness or his silence. Instead, he takes a deep breath, and says carefully, “That’s nice, but I hope you realize that poets usually have an extremely difficult time making any kind of living, and the ones who get recognized at all, don’t get that until they are dead and gone. It makes for a very hard and painful life, actually.”

This is met by even more silence as the child tries to assimilate what his father is trying to actually tell him. Then Uncle Harry pipes in (he’s just there for an overnight visit), and says with a grin and a chuckle, “You also have to know that any man who writes poetry is probably gay, and that’s something you don’t ever want to be.” Now the room erupts into a flurry of action and noise as Mom gets up and says she’ll get dessert, Harry’s wife gets up to help clear the table, removing the boy’s only half consumed plate but patting him softly on the shoulder as she does so, as though he has broken a bone and needs specific comforting. His older sister looks at Uncle Harry, and being a rather outspoken teenager, says, “That was really nasty,” and his younger brother turns to Dad and asks, “What’s gay?”

In the midst of this chaos, the boy wonders what he did to bring it all about. All he wanted, after all, was to share his accomplishment and perhaps, receive some approval in the process. What he sees is a great deal of discomfort, even anger, and a flurry of activity, none of which tells him anything except that maybe he has done something wrong. He doesn’t exactly know what that might be, but it obviously has something to do with the poem he wrote and was so proud of just a moment ago. It isn’t hard to imagine the same young boy, a few weeks later, when his teacher asks him happily if he’s written any more poems, answering her question with, “Oh, I don’t do that anymore. It was just something silly, anyway.”  

As the boy grows into adulthood, and even middle age, he may, periodically feel the urge rise up to express something in poetic form. However, having forgotten that disastrous dinner from years ago, he simply tells himself, that the urge is a silly one, and everyone knows he is a plumber and plumbers don’t write poetry because they just don’t do that sort of thing, not and make money to keep a family in a home with all the things they need.

That periodic urge is the Wild Thing of which I speak. It can be that one to write a poem, draw or paint a picture, dance, sing, travel to a place one has never been and immerse oneself in a totally foreign culture. It may be an urge to learn more about any given subject, or a need to explore woodworking, carving, cooking, or dream language and what dreams really mean. It can be anything. But it is something we ignore, suppress, hold at bay, dismiss, or even make fun of. We consider it a whimsy, foolishness, even forbidden. We might even define it personally as the Psycho Within.

It is the urge to create and express. We all have it, each and everyone one of us. It’s built in and is not easily silenced, if ever. It is that restlessness we encounter at times which we can’t quite put a finger on, (like an inner itch), and that distant howl we might hear coming from inside of ourselves (and possibly define as the Psycho Within). It is that nipping at the heels of which I have already spoken. It is self, calling to self. And what is it saying? Maybe we can ignore it because it sounds so much like an echo, a bit distorted and coming from a long way off. As it might well be, depending on ones age at the time of sending and the other time of receiving it.  But, whatever it sounds like, however we interpret it, it does speak.

And because it has been kept in captivity, or beyond our present reach, thus hidden, but still beneath the blanket of the Socialization Process, I refer to it as the Wild Thing. If we care enough about ourselves and our future, we must begin to listen to those urges, that seemingly senseless howling, feel that nipping at the heels, stretch an ear to interpret that distant echo. To not do so, is to alter our own outcome to one that is far less than it could be. But how does one do that, you might ask? The answer here, on this blog, is always the same. Learn to listen to that voice inside of you. Take the time to hear it, then interpret what it is saying to you, about you.

I didn’t give the boy in my example a name. It could easily have been Walt Whitman, Carl Sandberg, William Carlos Williams, Robert Frost, Alan Ginsberg, Theodore Roethke, William Safford, Robert Bly, or any of a hundred more. I didn’t give his father a name either. Nor, do I want anyone to think that his advice was untruth, it wasn’t. But, if you doubt the validity of what I have said, go read anything that any one of these gentlemen have written, maybe starting with Walt Whitman’s Song of Myself. He got that title from somewhere, didn’t he? I can guarantee, it didn’t come from me.

A Not So Brief Challenge

This is a meme, a writing prompt, an exercise I have found on several blog cites lately. Each one is distinctly different because it is flavored with the individual’s own voice and honesty. It fascinates me, and so I brought it back here and want to present it as a challenge to you. I have tried to make it easy to copy and paste onto another page to make it as comfortable as possible. You simply use each prompt to begin a brief statement about your own person. There are no wrong answers, no bad ones either. It is simply an encouragement to get on the page. I will do the exercise by filling out the statements as they pertain to the writing of this blog, and you may erase those answers before beginning with your own. My response is only meant as an example, while you, of course, are free to answer across the entire spectrum of your experience.

I am: deeply grateful that I found and began to do this blog.

I think: it is a challenge fitting my skills and abilities.

I know: that I couldn’t have done it just a few years ago.

I want: to encourage as many people as possible to find the things I have found in personal writing.

I have: wanted to do this for a long time.

I wish: I had trusted myself to do it years ago.

I hate: the idea that so many people have been discouraged, dismissed, ignored, even punished for seeking to explore the realm of their own person in this manner.

I miss: not hearing comments from so many who come here. I really do want to hear what you think, and feel, about all or any part of this.

I fear: not being able to sustain what I have begun, for any reason.

I feel: that I have finally found the comfortable niche that was carved out for me before I was born.

I hear: the sound of my computer keys clicking and it is music, tempered by the background noise of the fan that I keep on most days to circulate the air.

I smell: the fading scent of my own perfume, and the sweet breath of a whole lot of ideas.

I crave: Cedar Crest Mackinac Island Fudge Ice Cream

I search: constantly for words that will allow me to express all of this.

I wonder: occasionally, if I’m crazy, preaching to the choir, or just in love with the sound of my own voice.

I regret: having listened for years to those voices that told me I think too much, can’t always have what I want, am foolish, have nothing of value to offer or say, and am far from adequate.

I ache: for anyone who has ever been told repeatedly that they should remain silent to accommodate someone else’s feelings.

I care: about a great many things, one of them is the need for self-expression.

I always: get scared just before I click the button marked Publish.

I am not: anywhere near as afraid as I used to be.

I believe: that the more people who become aware of their own inner workings and actually deal with them, the better the world will be.

I dance: on paper.

I sing: poetry

I cry: far more easily than ever before and see it as a signal rather than a weakness.

I don’t always: come here knowing what I’m going to write.

I fight: with words, they are my weapon of choice

I write: every morning as soon as I awake.

I never: will be perfect, nor consciously stop learning.

I stole: the time to write for many years, now give it to myself as the ultimate gift of freedom

I listen: to others when they ask because I know how important it is to be heard

I need: my daily journal

I am happy about: the fact that this is the last prompt and I am finished.

Because I am the kind of cook who can never simply follow a recipe, but must add some of my own spice to the mix, I have a few suggestions. First is that I want to add more prompts to this list:

I am curious about:

I would like to investigate:

I find:

I used to:

I remember:

I speak:

I meditate:

I communicate:

I trust:

I get sad:

I am enlightened:

I need to learn:

I lack:

I am strong:

Okay, those can be optional. Add them if you like, or feel so inclined. And now that I have done the exercise in my own fashion, I would like to ask that you first do it while focusing on the topic of writing, especially about journal writing. That is what this blog is all about so we might as well stay with the topic. When you have finished, choose two or three of the prompts to share with the rest of us and put them and your completed statements on the comments below (again, optional).

Have fun, and write.

Addendum to previous instructions: I have created another page, on the sidebar for any and all responses to the I am statements in the challenge. Please click on Responses to A Not So Brief Challenge and put your I am statements in the area for comments. You can post as many as you like. Thanks.

Taking Out the Garbage

My oldest daughter came to visit yesterday. She brought two of her friends. One of them asked if he could use my computer to check his emails. I teasingly told him that he would owe me, and then snapped my fingers and said he could use the computer if he took the trash out to the dumpster when he left. He grinned and agreed. My disability doesn’t allow me to walk too far without pain, so we solved both of our problems and were satisfied.

That isn’t necessarily the case in our daily lives, where the garbage from yesterday can interfere with the experience of today. Feelings can follow us around, draining our energy, taking up mind space, and using thought gymnastics that are needed elsewhere. That’s just plain frustrating. I find that many of my journal pages seem to be brief summaries of the events of the day before, along with short notes about my own thoughts and feelings on those experiences. It is a sorting process and I do it first thing in the morning. Each morning. Sorting this from that, dropping a lot of it on those pages, like taking out the garbage.

I’m not saying that emotions, feelings, are just garbage. They do serve a purpose as a barometer of where we have been, allowing us to take our temperature and thus, clothe ourselves appropriately for the present moment. However, they can also be a troubling distraction in that present moment as I have already said. Carrying around a load of angst over something someone said, or did, may result in lashing out inappropriately at someone who certainly doesn’t deserve the lashing. And the weight of that angst, and the added guilt for misappropriated feelings, can get very heavy, very fast.

When we write out those feelings, even briefly, we assign them to a place of containment, a proper receptacle that can and will hold them until we decide how and when we choose to deal with them. And trust me on this one, if they are important, they will return themselves to our attention again and again. They will make themselves known no matter how much we may try to avoid them. And that too, is part of the sorting process, I mentioned earlier. If I find my journal pages repeatedly filled with a certain person, an idea, that just keeps popping up over and over again, I will move to deal with it far more quickly than otherwise. It is literally taking up my space and I want to use that space for other things.

So, what exactly, am I sorting? The trash from genuine inspiration. I really do love to write poetry and much of the poetry I write, comes directly from those journal pages. Many of them are actually Freudian slips of the pen that tickle my inner ear for whatever reason. Some of them are a direct result of that angst I dragged into today from yesterday. They have become even more important since I began writing this blog. The ideas for this writing also come from those journal pages. But, if I didn’t first write them down, they could be, and often are, lost in the course of living my day to day life. Because I have been doing this for many years, its a lot easier to spot the garbage and retain the inspiration.

Let me give you an example. Many years ago, I used an inordinate amount of paper writing about my boss of the current moment. The things he said, did, and the anger I felt over each and every one of those things. One day, as I leafed through those pages, I could see his name jumping out at me in almost every one of them. It finally dawned on me that this was no longer my journal. He, this man who had usurped my time and energy, was taking up squatter’s rights in what I defined as ‘my’ territory. We had been engaged in a silent battle of control for far too long and when I mentioned it to a fellow worker, he agreed and actually told me that we were acting like partners in an abusive marriage. As I paged through my writing, I could physically see that reality. Ugh!

I got busy and within three months had found a new career and quit my job. And yes, I may have done that eventually, somewhere down the road, without the prompting from my own words. But how much longer? How much more time would I have wasted, not to mention pages in the book of my life? I actually shudder at the thought.

That might seem like a drastic example, but how many individuals do you know who spend most of their time complaining about their present circumstances, yet doing nothing to change them because they simply can’t see what is happening to, and in, their own lives. They lack a barometer to help them to clothe themselves appropriately for whatever weather they might encounter. I, personally, would prefer to use my time and energy writing my daily pages than to take a happy pill that simply numbs the symptoms that might allow me to see my own path and the direction I am moving in and toward.

Just think about all the time wasted on guilt feelings of one sort or another. Guilt is not a feeling. It is a fact. We did, or did not, do something wrong. That has nothing to do with feelings, and everything to do with actions. Yet, guilt feelings are perhaps even heavier than angst. Put them on the page. Work through the feeling and resolve it. If you are guilty then find a way to make recompense. If not, tell the feelings to shut up. You can stop writing about them, unless they are comfortable and can be used as an excuse to not engage in some other activity. But all of that is the individual’s choice, unless he/she is unaware that all that tiredness he/she feels is directly related to all those guilt feelings sucked up like an absorbent sponge. And because we live in world that abounds with guilt feelings in every shape, size, and color, one will never run out of material, or have to stand in a line at a soup kitchen to get more.

So yesterday, I got someone else to put out the garbage and he got to use my computer. Fair trade? Not hardly, I also got all these words out of it, another page in my journal, some very real sorting, and another blog under my belt. Hope he got some extras as well.

An Example of Synchronicity

One of the rewards of being a teacher assigning exercises within the classroom, was my choice to do those exercises right along with my students. Many of them were shocked at that practice, and even more so when I would take my turn to read the outcome right alongside theirs. I felt that it drastically reduced that whole dynamic of me as someone above, or in some superior position. I truly wanted them to know that even though I might have been doing this thing far longer than they, I still had to struggle with it on occasion and stumble through embarrassing moments of sudden realization, just as they did. It seriously reduced the amount of tension inherent in such a situation, but also increased both the intensity and depth of participation.

That said, I am going to offer you, the reader, an example of synchronicity. I am aware that it might be a difficult concept to wrap ones head around and I also want you to get the best understanding I can offer. And just as I did in my classroom, my example will be drawn from my own personal experience. In my Introduction, I briefly outlined some of the circumstances that led me to this space and the writing of this blog. My example is drawn from some of the details involved in that experience.

I moved back here, to the city of my birth, a little over a year ago. With my physical disability, and the current situation in my family of origen, my energy levels were sorely depleted and I got sick. During that recovery, I spent most of my time, reading, sleeping, eating, and watching television, an activity I had not engaged in for many years because I didn’t own a TV set. Someone gave me one and it seemed only appropriate that I use it under the circumstances.

While flicking through the channels one evening, I stumbled on to the first auditions for American Idol. I had heard of the program, but had never watched it. I wasn’t into reality TV. It is far too scripted to be defined as such, or that’s what I thought at the time. But I remained seated and decided I’d give it at least one attempt. Everything, even a TV series, needs the benefit of the doubt and I was free to change the channels at any time, right?

I never changed the channel, becoming so engrossed that later in the season, I actually found myself resenting anyone who called while I was watching my program. At first, I was definitely intrigued by Michael Johns, the Australian. I’m a sucker for that Aussie accent and he sang Bohemian Rhapsody without musical backup, and nailed it. Sorry, I am a product of the sixties and seventies, and I was impressed. However, as the season progressed, I became far more fascinated with David Cook and what he was doing with the songs he chose and how well he was doing it. My apologies to Michael, but when David did his version of Hello, I sat up and said the same.

Part of me being a writer, therefore an observer, sort of sat back during all of this, intrigued by my own sudden diversion onto a path that was totally disconnected from normal behavior. When Mr. Cook did Music of The Night, I felt compelled to pick up my phone and actually vote, oh my (said that silent but ever present observer). I realized that all of this new behavior might be noteworthy and began to keep a daily journal after having stopped for some time. But I did even that differently. Usually I write my journal pages longhand. For whatever reason, I chose to do this particular writing on the computer, and coincidently (sure that it was coincidence), began to follow the news articles about my favorite musician of the moment.

A note here might be best: I have always known that writing will eventually lead the individual, who participates in it, back into him/herself. My main schtick in writing is self-exploration, so turning back to the journaling was a very natural move on my part. I wanted to explore my own behavior and the intensity of my response. My fascination was a simple curiosity, but I wanted to record it and see where it went.

Eventually, it led to the knowledge that David Cook had a Myspace page, where I could go and hear the tidbits of his ongoing progression through the ranks of competitors and ultimately the number one position. But to get to his page and view his blog, I had to register on the site itself. I promptly dismissed the idea of creating my own page, knowing I wouldn’t do that, and the specifics of why I was there. I also continued to write and explore my own personal interest.

That, in turn, led me to a dialogue about heroes. I had explored and taught classes on archetypal energies, one of the best known being that of the hero. When I had registered on Myspace, I saw that empty page and had noted some of those blank spaces, one of them being the heroes of the user. I knew that I had identified strongly with Mr. Cook, so I began to write about how he measured up with my own list of personal heroes, starting with my father and running through about five more. It was a very interesting comparison, and David held up quite well.

That led me to a personal dilemma (what else was I expecting)? I knew I had a hero, the most prominent of all of them, but one that no one else would consider inside of that definition. I couldn’t leave her out, she was a direct link between the music, David Cook, and myself. She hadn’t been in my life for ten years, and that was a pain I carried around silently inside of myself. Along with a thousand questions as to why our relationship had ended in chaos and seeming insanity. Hers and mine, if I am to be completely honest. I had hit the proverbial brick wall. Do I open myself up, write about her as a hero in my life, or totally disregard this seemingly curved path back inside myself and how I became whoever I am?

I dithered around for a bit, then wrote about this piece of sacred ground inside my own experience. I made detailed statements about why she was a hero, and how much I had learned by befriending her, and how very grateful I was for coming to know her, and myself, by doing that. It had been ten years since that experience, and I was a bit astounded at how certain I was of my thoughts and feelings. It really was an easy write. But more important, was the realization of how all of it had changed while living in that silence. I was satisfied.

The very next afternoon, she called me after years of silence. Asked me for my email addy, and gave me hers. We laughed and talked for two hours. And promptly began the process of renewing our relationship. It hasn’t been easy, but it certainly has been a tremendous joy for a might have been couch potato watching reality TV, of all things.

That is my example of synchronicity. It might be a bit more convoluted than others, but the end result remains the same. If I had not gotten sick, watched the show, connected with a totally unaware David Cook, started writing directly about all of that, entered the arena of the hero archetype, and finally written about one of the most prominent heroes in my own experience, realizing and detailing those very connected diverse elements, I might have been completely taken aback by that totally unexpected phone call. Instead, I welcomed it, and her, with a warmth and eagerness that seemed both genuine and natural to me. I was, after all, connecting the dots, being in the right place, doing the right thing for me, and confidently taking the next step in this journey I call my life.