It’s Just A Word

There are those moments when words seem to have an almost magical power. When they take us to the places of our dreams and even beyond. Then there are those times when they seem to utterly lack any meaning at all. Come at us like distorted echoes that are far too much work to even begin to comprehend. Mostly, however, they tend to fall somewhere between those polar opposites.

One word can bring a smile to a face that was blank just the moment before, or sting for hours like an almost invisible paper cut. Some seem wet, like the sloppy kiss of an overexcited puppy, others are dry and can lull the reader to sleep trying to slog through them. Words can bring inspiration and joy to a life that was heading toward bland, or trip up that individual who was moving so smoothly (just a minute before) through his/her life experience.

Because words are so important to my person, I have had all of these experiences and thousands more. Does that mean I should be afraid of this thing that I love and chase after through most moments of my existence? Words have power even when they put us to sleep.

A few days ago, I ran into a word that both startled me and then made me run for cover. I didn’t literally do those things, I did them on an emotional and psychological level. The response was so immediate that I didn’t even know that I was thus engaged until after I had done so. It was just a word, random letters placed in an arbitrary order that sent messages throughout my nervous system. Those messages had me in flight like a small bird that suddenly becomes aware of the tangerine cat sneaking up on it as it hops over the ground seeking some form of sustenance.

When I realized that I had already taken to the air without thought of doing so, I went back and explored the word. It wasn’t a bad word. As a matter of fact it is a rather good and positive one. So what had sent me into unthinking motion? I settled all my ruffled feathers and decided to explore what had actually happened.

First of all, the word had been applied to my person as a definition. Someone else’s definition, and not one I would ever have considered to be attached to me, to the person I am and see myself being. It was just too big, large with meanings that I felt carried way too much responsibility for my shoulders to carry, let alone still allow me to fly in whatever direction I might choose. It, to my senses, felt like a trap. Steel bars suddenly springing up around me that would forever stop any forward movement, perhaps all movement of any kind.

When I realized that my flight had been initiated by my own senses, I perched for a while and decided to face off with this tangerine tabby. You must confront your fears or forever be limited by them. It’s a word. It’s in the dictionary. Look it up and see if it means what you think it means. I did that and found just a word.

But, that word held some very real consequences for my person. It meant a possibility of change in the very manner in which I viewed me. The dictionary definition didn’t do that, I did that. It was my definition of the word and what I thought it entailed that had sent me flying away, looking for a safe place in which to recover my equilibrium. I had attached meanings and consequences that were not in the word itself, but only occupied a space between my own ears and deep inside my own feelings. Which only means that my fear was only one of many possibilities.

Okay, I am getting somewhere with all of this. Next step: try to get another or, other perspectives. That meant discussing the word and my feelings with others. Oh boy. This could be embarrassing. So, I carefully chose two people with whom I am comfortable admitting my personal foibles with. That doesn’t mean I wasn’t somewhat embarrassed, it just means that I was disturbed enough by the whole thing to see that embarrassment was just another form of the original fear.

But, before discussing it with either of my friends, I wrote about it in my journal. Getting my thoughts and feelings sorted out before actually opening my mouth. Who would have thought that something definitely meant as a compliment could create this much trouble? But it did.

When I did finally discuss it with my friends, they helped me to see where I had made a left turn instead of a right one. I thank both of them profusely and am far more comfortable than I was when the word was originally aimed in my direction. That tangerine tabby turned out to be made of mist. Just a movement caught in a side glance that felt threatening. Would I now use that word to define my own person? No. But, at least I am far more comfortable with it and might even get to the point where I will accept it gracefully and just say, “Thank you,” should it ever happen to cross my path again.

Words do have power. They motivate and move us from one moment to the next. They can be weapons, but also priceless treasures. Without them there might be no movement at all. Only unceasing silence. Now that wouldn’t send me into unthinking flight. It would freeze me up completely, perhaps for all eternity.

How do you handle the words in your life? Do you greet them as friends or ward them off in panic? Are you careful with the words you choose, or do you think of them as only words?

A Partial List

 

A couple of days ago, I was on someone else’s site and once again found a sidebar page that was titled Twenty Things About Me. I always read those because I find them interesting as well as informative. At one point, I found one that said, 101 Things About Me. Found that number somewhat intimidating, but also envied the individual the courage to do such a thing.

Decided I would do a 101 list in increments and today will be the first twenty. I have not prewritten any of this, haven’t even thought about it until this moment. So here goes:

1. I take my name very seriously. I do not like being called Liz under any circumstances. I chose to be Elizabeth as an adult, after being called Betty as a child. I did that for very good reasons that have to do with definitions. A  shortened version of my name narrows that definition, considerably.

2. I love words and writing. That should be obvious to anyone who comes here, but sometimes it is best to state the obvious.

3. I have made it one of my purposes to encourage others to write. I truly believe it is one of the healthiest and cheapest forms of therapy available. Besides, I really don’t want to be doing this alone. It’s a good idea to also state ones ulterior motives in order to lessen shock value later on.

4. I love Chocolate. Milk chocolate to be exact, and especially when it is crossed in any form with caramel, nuts (especially pecans), or coconut.

5. I was recently diagnosed with diabetes, which makes number 4 a true tragedy, but one that I have found is still workable in moderation.

6. I believe in the subconscious mind, as well as the collective unconscious. I have spent a great deal of my existence exploring both and find them paths to untold and incredibly rewarding adventures.

7. Because of number 6, I believe in the deep value of symbolism, mythology, dream work, story (written or spoken), connective links between all things, and several other areas that don’t necessarily have a mainstream value with the majority of people. I also believe in the necessity of building bridges.

8. I am opinionated, but also a good listener. I have been known to change my mind and am willing to admit when I’ve gotten it all wrong.

9. I think that laughter is the best healing medicine the human race owns. Used regularly, it ranks right up there with apples, but is also readily available and still free out of season.

10. One of the things I look for in others is the ability to laugh at self. That is far more telling than all the knowledge of a lifetime. That, for me, is true wisdom.

11. I have seven grandchildren, 3 grandsons, and 4 granddaughters. One I have never met, and another who is a stepchild from a former relationship. I love them all and miss them. They are each incredible individuals with tremendous potential.

12. I love going for long drives to nowhere, committing gluttony of the eye, and fishing. Not in that particular order, and they are even better when they are engaged in spontaneously.

13. I am of Native American descent on my Mother’s side and truly recognize the kinship we humans share with all living things. I also have totem animals and even believe they speak to me when I listen.

14. Music is, and always has been, an integral part of my existence. I am drawn by song lyrics that speak to me of my own experience, and my tastes are somewhat eclectic, ranging from country to funky instrumentals.

15. Writing poetry is a natural part of breathing.

16. I am fairly new to blogging and it is still a strange new world I am exploring and loving. I hope that continues.

17. I have an incredible number of friends, both online and in real time. They encourage and support me, and I reciprocate in kind. I have a tendency to view these relationships as a secret hidden treasure that I horde, defend, and protect jealously.

18. Although I am open to new things, I have to consider my physical capabilities which have decreased with the passing of the years. That only means I am willing to make adjustments and do, quite often.

19. I dread the idea of ever being confined to a wheelchair because it will inevitably narrow my choices considerably. On the other hand, one of the funniest experiences I have had was when a friend was propelling me through the doors of an elevator, in a wheelchair, and managed to get me in the chair, stuck in the closing doors. Another friend simply walked away refusing to admit any connection with either of us as we laughed uproariously and made a public spectacle to boot.

20. I love ice cream, especially the varieties that have a ribbon of fudge or caramel running through them. Because of that particular passion, I have an inordinate number of clean plastic tubs, with covers, in my kitchen cupboards. Do you have leftovers? I have a container for you, do you want to be my friend?

Stone and Water and the Red-Cross Driver

 

I’ve been sitting here, in front of this blank page, for over half an hour. So many thoughts about what I could write have floated in and out of my head, that if strung together, and actually written down, would probably fill a book. Not that the book would make any sense, unless it was a volume of random short essays about diverse topics that might, or might not, connect one with another. I seem to be sitting still in the midst of a flow that just keeps moving around me, like a boulder in a riverbed.

Although that boulder seems unchanging, it isn’t. Stone gets worn away by the friction of constantly flowing water. Which only reminds me of the lyrics of a song: Solid stone is just sand and water, baby, sand and water and a million years gone by (Beth Nielsen Chapman). I don’t have a million years. I have today, this moment, and maybe the next. No more. Don’t want to waste it.

I didn’t come here and write yesterday. Had appointments in the outside world. Things to do, people to be with. That might be why I can’t seem to pick a place and just get started today. Have somehow turned into stone overnight. That was a really short million years.

Think I am still sorting out all that happened yesterday. The people I talked with, some strangers, others family and friends. The things I saw and touched, each left an impression like water flowing around a stone. Each taking a moment of my time, some more moments than others. I wrote about a lot of that in my journal this morning. But, apparently I’m not finished yet. Maybe because the water doesn’t stop flowing, it just keeps moving. And because it does, both the water and the stone are changed.

I wonder, did my presence in all of those moments yesterday, change or alter anything or anyone? The Red-Cross driver, a volunteer who picked me up to deliver me to my appointment. We spoke about his coming drive to Florida where he and his wife have rented a Condo for the coming month. My brother and his wife have done the same for many years, so the driver and I had a point of contact.

My counselor, whom I haven’t seen since before Christmas. The intensity of our discussion which ranged from Creativity, to Meditation, Dissociative Trance States, and mending the holes in my soul, and relationships. That altered me, made me think in new ways, and I know she will do the same.

My sister and Mother and all the staff and customers at the Goodwill store where we went shopping. The practical things I bought, and the one exquisite gift I chose to give myself, all for under twenty dollars. Those will change the way I deal with future moments. And I will alter them by that use.

The calm quiet exchanges between myself and my Mother and sister. The trading of opinions, giving of directions, and the slow smiles of shared feelings and thoughts. Changes from the hectic exchanges during the holidays, and a bit of mending in what could have been strained moments, will definitely alter all of us, perhaps minutely, but those alterations were felt and accepted with ease and gladness.

Yes, the stone has moved and been moved. Is still settling back into place. Has more experiences scheduled for today and tomorrow and the next. And in all those moments there were, and will be, changes and exchanges. Minute bits of stone becoming sand once again, altering its purpose and function, and its environment. Being equally altered in the process.

Were any of those exchanges more important than the others? Depends on where I am looking at them from. In this moment, the exchanges with family members hold more weight, but who is to say that the Red-Cross driver won’t meet my brother in Florida and find they enjoy playing golf together and eventually thank me for whatever occurs while they do so? And will I even remember that initial exchange months from now?

When I arrived back home, there was a package leaning against my door. A small book of coloring designs for me to dive into. Something I ordered on a whim last week. And spent most of the evening pouring through and working with last night. A new avenue to explore and enjoy. Some of the best exchanges are those I have with myself. Someone else might define it as just more sand, lost in the flow of time and water, but I would certainly beg to differ.

Each day that passes is filled with moments. Moments that mean exchanges with everything and everyone I brush up against. They alter me, as I alter them. I am not a stone, not a boulder in the middle of life’s stream, even though I may feel that way on any given day. I am flesh and blood, living and breathing through each of those moments. I am both water and stone, time and sand, and so much more, all at the same time. Which of these are you in the present moment?

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?

Yah, Let’s Do It

 

Was chatting with a friend on Instant Messenger yesterday. In the course of the conversation, she dropped a comment that included a memory we shared from years ago. So we began to throw one liners at each other about our years of shared experiences. All of them included laughter, the result of the things we did back then and got ourselves into and out of. When I finally remarked that she was a part of the best memories I own, she agreed and said that it was like following your heart, but with a best friend along who would always say, “Yah, let’s do it.”

We ended our conversation by making plans to revisit some of those experiences in warmer weather. Many of them centered around road trips, camping, and fishing. We even discussed the adjustments we would have to make to accommodate the effects of the years that have passed since we did those things. Road trips and fishing won’t be too difficult, but sleeping in a tent would definitely put a strain on arthritic joints and a deteriorating back condition. But I am hopeful that together we will figure out the logistics and find a way to do what we both long to do.

It all reminded me of a little saying I have seen here on the internet. It’s a sticker you can send to another individual and it says, “When you are in jail, a good friend will come and bail you out. A best friend will be sitting next to you and saying, ‘That was fun, so what’s next?’ “ Well, at least the gist is the same.

It’s not that either one of us want to go back and be the people we were all those years ago. We want to have that feeling, especially the laughter that was so much a part of our shared adventures. The laughter that comes so easily even now, separated by distance and years of silence. It might be a lot of wishful thinking, no more than a dream, but in that dream we are standing next to one another and both saying, “Yah, let’s do it.” That’s a commitment.

Another friend recently put a quote by Goethe in a comment she left after a piece I had written on Soul’s Music. This is the quote:

The moment one definitely commits oneself, then Providence moves as well. All sorts of things occur to help one that would never otherwise have occurred. A stream of events issues from the decision, raising in one’s favor all manner of unforeseen accidents, meetings and material assistance that no one could have dreamed would come their way. Whatever you can do, or dream you can do, begin it. Boldness has genius, power and magic in it. Begin it now.

Personally, I would define that as synchronicity, one of my favorite subjects. And it does apply here. Boldness, power and magic, three hefty little words, subtitles to that one word: Commitment. And all three of them were present and active during those long ago memories we made. They have been present throughout the complex history of our relationship. It might be that that is the very substance each one of us is seeking with our thoughts of warmer weather, the substance of synchronicity. All it takes is a commitment. Simple, right?

Commitment means so many things, yet only one thing. Committment means change. Raising your hand when all others are neatly folded on flat surfaces. Speaking into a lull in the conversation. Stepping through a doorway, where one has been standing, hesitating, perhaps for years. All of those things are commitments that will change whatever the background image entails.

Following your heart would be so much easier if your head didn’t stack up logistics that feel like mountains that rise higher and higher into infinity. And each mountain wreathed in the clouds of self-doubt that accompany such longings. It would be so much easier if you had a friend with you, someone to nudge you, whisper in your ear, “Yah, let’s do it.”

Someone to move through those changes with you. Share the ups and downs of whatever comes, offering a smile of encouragement when needed, or a pat on the back when things go well. Or a bit of dark humor that erupts into raucous laughter that lightens all that it touches.

Which brings me full circle and back to the beginnings of this blog. I have a friend who wants to go on a road trip, fishing, maybe even camping (can you hear the doubts on that one?). And I am committed to doing that. I have another friend who reminds me of synchronicity and how it works to encourage following through on that commitment. But best of all, I have a third friend that will listen while I work my way through all those doubts, concerns, what-ifs, the actual planning, and more. A friend who happens to hold a Get Out of Jail Free card. Will lean in and whisper, “Let’s do it.” That friend waits patiently as always, on the empty pages of my journal.

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?

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.

Distillation

The day before yesterday, my siblings and I hosted a party to celebrate my Mother’s ninetieth birthday. We rented the back room of a local restaurant and invited some family and friends. About 60 people showed up to share in the experience, delighting in Mom’s eager participation of wearing a silver tiara sporting the number 90 in purple across its width, and being queen for the day. And oh, what a queen she was, leading the entire group in a rousing rendition of You Are My Sunshine, while playing her harmonica accompanied by her 76 year-old baby sister, who had been asked to bring hers, as well. We do know how to have fun.

My cousins, Mom’s brother Joe’s children, proudly carried in a tree they had made from white plastic tubes for branches, with ninety one dollar bills tied with colorful ribbons to it. Mom, who is usually a bit on the shy side, seemed to expand in the spotlight, sharing in the teasing and laughter that accompanies such festivities.

My sister, the ultimate arranger, had brought along a digital frame and turned it on for a slide show of family photos dating back over 120 years of our shared history. Small groups of guests would gather around the table, where it sat, trying to guess who was who in the photos. My cousin Fred proudly turned to me to say that he had been named after our grandfather, who was thirteen, at the time of one family portrait. And I, in turn, explained the ease with which I had converted well over three hundred photographs onto a flash disc for this current perusal.

Cameras abounded as Mom opened gifts and cards of well wishes amidst extensive banter about the ‘favorite’ daughter, while my two sisters and I helped her organize and write down what came from who so she’d have a list for thank you cards. When it came time to blow out the candles (only one large one, to insure against burning the place down), Mom was helped by five or six of her great-grandchildren. The cake was strawberry (one of Mom’s favorites), and lovingly baked and decorated with deep purple roses (again Mom’s favorite color) by my niece Patti, who just happens to be an expert in that arena.

The food was plentiful and extremely good, the service unobtrusive, but swift and friendly. And people lingered long beyond the time we had reserved for the reception. There was a great deal of laughter as individuals drifted around the room to talk, reminisce, and catch up with others they hadn’t seen, sometimes in years. And my sisters and I were terribly grateful that none of us had to stay and clean up the mess.

It was a small party, especially when you realize that my grandmother had nine children and 156 grandchildren. I called my Mother yesterday morning and she was still bubbling with giggles and laughter at the memories we had made the day before. Memories I have distilled here and in the pages of my journal.

Distillation is a process by which a substance is broken down, it’s components separated to make another, different substance, like moonshine made with a ’still’. And that is what we do with memories even as we are making them. I am certain that there are as many versions of that birthday party as there were guests, each one capturing some of the components that I, myself, have written here, but many different ones as well. Kimberly, my niece’s almost two year-old daughter, would definitely have a much different perspective than any of the adults in that room, if she remembers at all, other than through the photographs that were taken as she maneuvered her way through the stalks of adults who stood around speaking and laughing. My Mother will remember certain faces, a flash of gifted silver jewelry, a particularly funny anecdote someone told her, etc.

The photographs are a different kind of still. They capture one moment in the life of the individuals who are caught on film, yet separated by the photographic process. Someone recently said to me that the past casts a far dimmer light than that of today. That is true except for those of us who take the time to distill a few of those moments, breaking them done into separate components, making a different kind of substance from all of them.

A record that is far better than a photograph because it captures more than one stilled moment. Our words give that moment a taste, a feel, a smell, along with the sound of laughter. Our words give it life in the way that a photograph never could, and our memories might not have noticed, or have lost in the passage of time. To borrow from my own verbiage, those words shed a brighter reflection of moonshine on the shadows that might be all that remains for many of our guests. But they do something even more important.

When my own grandchildren are adults, and hopefully curious about where they came from, they might find particular meaning, or a bit of delight, in knowing that their great-grandmother entertained a roomful of well wishers, by playing her harmonica at her ninetieth birthday party. “The very best one,” she says, she has ever had.