To My Inner Child

 

Dear Beth,

I have been negligent. I forget that you are just a kid and need to be encouraged and supported. I take for granted that you will do your thing, explore your world, create beautiful things that sometimes take my breath away, stop and stare into a puddle mesmerized by the reflections you find there, sing the same two lines from an old old song for long long minutes, or simply need to move, to find, to look, to discover for yourself what is around the next corner.

You are an absolute delight and I forget to tell you that. I’m sorry. I get so wrapped up in all the adult things, that I forget to look at them through your eyes which are fresh and new and sometimes so much wiser than my own. You are a gift and I forget to unwrap you at moments. Let you out to breathe and tell me what you are seeing and knowing.

We both know that I can be impatient at times. Not so much with you as with the circumstances that don’t allow me to let you freely explore this world that is wrapped around both of us. I love to hear the sound of your laughter, your giggles, and that simple gasp of awe that escapes your lips when the colors you play with come together in surprising ways that delight and entrance you.

Over the past few weeks, I have caught a glimpse of a bald eagle soaring through my small patch of sky. You keep pointing him out to me, but I have failed to realize why. He is the symbol of all that is spirit, therefore a symbol of you. A message I was in danger of missing altogether. Thank you for your persistence and ongoing patience with this old woman. It must be difficult, at moments, to be trapped inside of her when you would prefer to run and skip and jump and dance.

Even more so, thank you for last night. For that whim to go looking for what you needed and for finding it. That alone altered so much. Opened new doors, new possibilities, and showed me new unwinding paths for the two of us to travel down. And we will walk down them together, your hand in mine, your eyes showing me all those details I might otherwise miss. I need you and what you bring into my reality.

Especially now with all these changes and new responsibilities and obligations. They get so heavy at times, and I feel weighted down and discouraged, thinking that it will never end and will go on forever. You remind me that we only have but this one present moment. Why waste it with all those negative thoughts, when we could be exploring so many other things? Thank you for sharing your joy and pleasure so readily and unselfishly. That alone is a treasure that is priceless.

Can I tell you a secret? I get sad when I see so many people who don’t know there is a you inside of them. They get so full of being an adult, doing adult things, that they don’t ever play. And playing is such an important type of work. We learn so much faster and easier when we play. And there is always so much more to learn, to be, to become.

In a very real way, you are my secret weapon. Your simple delight in getting up each day marks that chore with an eagerness I find it hard to explain to others. They look at me and see an old woman, but we know differently don’t we? We have an entire world that needs to be explored and we only have this one life to do that in. Thank you so much for reminding me of that reality.

It is so easy to forget. Get so busy in things and other people, that you get lost in all the shuffling. I’m glad you are strong and wise enough to just keep coming back and reminding me. It might take longer on some occasions, but eventually I hear you calling me and respond. And I can count on you to never let me truly forget how much I owe to you and will continue to need your presence.

You have made this present task so simple and easy. And I look forward to much more. Maybe you could spend some time thinking about how to wake up all those other inner children that have maybe fallen asleep due to adult lives that are thought to be too busy, too full, to give you the time and space that you need. Yes, you do understand and know that I am thinking of a specific individual, as well as others.

Maybe we could have a wake-up party. What better time than now when spring is struggling to come into full bloom? Think of all the fun we could have, playing silly games, singing silly songs, and watching all those sleepy-eyed inner children awaken. Whew! That’s quite an image. There’s a parking lot out there full of puddles. Don’t forget your yellow rain slicker and red boots. We have some stomping to do.

Thank you most of all for being you. For single-handedly lifting my spirits this morning, and every other morning. Like I said, you are my own private treasure and secret weapon. It’s raining again, and that means a different kind of fun. Shall we go explore? I can’t wait.

Hugs and love,

Elizabeth

About Heart Day

 

It’s Valentine’s Day, today. As if anyone needs to be reminded. One can’t step inside a store without being hit with the colors pink, red, and white. I think there are two things I appreciate about Valentine’s Day. Those would be that it’s only one day, 24 hours, and then all that chocolate goes on sale. Chocolate remains chocolate no matter the color it is wrapped inside of.

You may have already guessed it. I’m not a fan. I try very hard to not even think about the day itself. So why am I writing about it? Maybe because I’ve kept silent all of these years and have realized that avoidance only means that I get hit twice as hard every year when I can’t sidestep the inevitable.

And before anyone says it, this is not sour grapes from a little old lady who finds herself alone. I am quite content with my lot because I myself have chosen it. That is not to say I don’t enjoy some companionship, I do. But, I have to admit, that with each year that goes by, the standards go up, not down. I have a great deal to offer and expect reciprocal dividends. That could be defined as choosy, and I would have to agree. Why waste my time and effort on being bored or worse?

So, if its not sour grapes, what is it about this day that rankles? The first thing that comes to mind is that anyone who needs a specific day to remember the one, or ones, that they love, might be better off seeking out a different definition for that word. One that includes the ideas of constancy, continuity, and enduring over time. One that also includes the idea that the love alone is the only gift that really counts or has any meaning. And although the candy, flowers, and jewelry are nice, if one needs them to know that one is loved, one is in deep do-do.

Another reason for my out of season bah-humbug attitude is the expectations such a day creates, and often deflates, leaving in their stead self-doubts and tons of depression and insecurity. I would wager to guess that more individuals are made inescapably aware of their loneliness by this day, than its opposite promises, even though we all understand that this is commercialism at its extreme.

Last week, I went shopping with my sister. Of course, we had to walk through the aisles, strategically placed I might add, filled to overflowing with red cellophane, heart shaped boxes, and pink teddy bears. I found myself telling my sister that the really and truly best shopping day of the year is the one after Valentine’s Day when all that chocolate goes down to half price or less. That got me a side glance that spoke volumes.

I’m pretty sure her thoughts were along the lines of the sour grapes I mentioned above. What she doesn’t know perhaps, is that although I was married for twenty years, I seldom received gifts or cards on that one day a year when I should have rightfully expected to. What’s more, the occasional ones I did receive were obviously hasty last minute grabs that had nothing to do with the person I was and am. The cards were always oversized and included awful syrupy poetry that had nothing to do with the real life we were living and never included even one apology for the physical and emotional abuse that became a routine experience within that life.

What’s more, if I did receive a box of chocolates, they weren’t the kind I really prefer and usually came with a direct quote, “If you can possibly keep it down to one a day, you shouldn’t gain too much more weight.” Ah, love. And he actually thought that was what he was displaying. He is extremely fortunate that I was more concerned with being gracious back then, than in letting him wear his ‘love’ for all the world to see. That certainly wouldn’t occur now.

I guess what I am trying to say is that if love is not given on a regular basis, why make it a one day affair? Doesn’t that make love nothing more than an obligation, or worse, a joke? I would have much preferred an eagerness to sit down and quietly converse, actually speaking of the things and feelings that were important to both, or either of us. I would have much preferred a helping hand in the kitchen or with the kids rather than the judgments of how poorly I was doing as a wife, mother, and human being.

And yes, I know that all these things have been said before. Probably by far more women then men. Yet, every year, I find that I must face this 24 hours and am tired of being silent about it. What it does to people who yearn for even one person to remember them on this day, and we all yearn for that. Wouldn’t it be nice if instead of dithering about which one of the teddy bears is the ‘right’ one, several people purchased five of them and then sent them randomly to unknown names found in the phone book?

That kind of gift, without rhyme or reason, could go a long way toward making a better world. A happier, and perhaps more loving one. As it is, tomorrow will be the biggest sale of the year on chocolate. That’s something to look forward to. What’s more, I’ll know exactly who purchased it, for what reason, and why she gave it to me.

My Fight With Red

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

Flamingo Dance

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Waiting On The Page

 

It’s one of those days. Usually I come here via my journal, and by the time I arrive I have some thought or issue bouncing around inside my head so that when I get to this blank page, I have a general idea of what direction to take and just begin. The rest unfolds, many times surprising me more than anyone else. But, today I seem to be the blank page itself. Disconnected thoughts float through and I let them. Nothing concrete, just clouds moving through the landscape, but leaving no residue to hang onto.

I could leave and go do something else, but if I do that, I might never come back, and that thought frightens me. There is nothing that holds me here, nothing that forces me to stay, other than this blank page that needs filling. It is my choice to attempt to do that, and although I am more than willing, I still can’t come up with a subject that will interest me, let alone anyone else.

Even that statement isn’t quite true. There is something I do wish to write about, but when I try to focus in on it, the words simply disappear and the thoughts seem to run for cover, and everything goes blank like this page of paper. A blank piece of paper can be so intimidating. It’s innocent of any wrong doing, and yet seems to have pointing fingers, chiding remarks that rise silently, fast becoming a dark cloud that simply hovers waiting to drop a storm that never really comes to fruition.

On the flip side, a blank sheet of paper is an open invitation, whispering of untold fulfillment to be had with simple action. It’s a promise waiting to be filled, a journey, a path yet to be discovered, a story never told awaiting its own unfolding. The only thing involved is a bit of risk, a chance taken that might, or might not, go somewhere. Might lead anywhere. And that anywhere is what stops the action necessary to proceed.

Anywhere means without specific destination. What if I end up in the one place I don’t want to be? What if it takes me to one of those dark corners where the shadows move for no reason, and one just barely catches the sound of something that might be breathing? Shudder at the thought. Maybe I should run now, think later.

But anywhere could also be a bright space of sunshine and laughter. If I run, I would miss all of that. The moment would be lost, possibly never to come again. And that would be just plain sad. It might hold a lesson I have been seeking to learn for years, and my fears would cheat me of that opportunity. That would leave me ignorant, blank, once again, just like this sheet of paper. What exactly is this sheet of paper trying to tell me?

Dear Writer,

you come to me filled with ideas, and I wait to accept any and all you wish to say, think, feel. I see your hesitation and can only greet it with hope. I will never be fulfilled unless you begin. I hold only this one purpose, but I need you to act before that purpose can be satisfied. I long to carry your burdens, share them with you, for that would give me shape, form, and dimension. But, unless, or until you act, I possess none of those things. I am simply empty, so I mutely stare back at you and plead for your mercy.

Yes, I am a beggar, without pride or even distinct purpose. I long to be filled, given a reason for existing. Not only am I strong enough to hold and carry your burdens, but I can and will encompass all of your joys as well. Help you celebrate even the smallest of these, and do that gladly and with deep gratitude. I can help you in so many ways, to remember specific days, moments, and experiences. I can teach you things you never dreamed, give you more experiences than you have ever imagined. All of this and so much more. But none of this will come to pass unless you move, act. So, I have no problem imploring you to take me, use me, fill me up, and in the process I will become more than I have ever been or could hope to be.

I would be your friend. Do that gladly and extend your world exponentially. You speak of fear, that I frighten you. Don’t you realize that the fear will only grow each time you say no to me? Become as solid as a brick wall you are incapable of climbing? You can run away, but be certain you will have to keep running forever. Is that what you really want? Really?

Fear must be faced, confronted. That is another of my purposes. I will be here, with you as you move into those dark and shadowy places. I will be your friend and help you attend to whatever you find there. But, again, that is all up to you. You are the main ingredient and I am just a tool.

So, use me, abuse me if you must, I don’t care, after all that is exactly what I am here for. And I can make you a promise, one that I can keep forever. I will never speak out of turn, never chide you, never point a finger, I don’t own them. The only speaking I will ever do is that which you allow me. I alone am nothing, just a sheet of paper, your humble servant awaiting your bidding.

With a great deal of gratitude, I am and will remain,

Forever Filled

Final Accounting: 2008

 

Today is the last day of this year, 2008. I have spent some time, looking back on the days, weeks, and months that are passing into my personal history, perhaps better labeled herstory. This has been an incredible year, an extremely good one. Looking back on it has been a mostly satisfying pleasure. My life has changed, and I have changed with it. Challenges met and overcome, dreams fulfilled, and new avenues of experience risked and met with success.

I started the year in a sort of fog, settling down in front of the TV with an unconscious, but strong inner urge to become just another couch potato. If I wasn’t watching the boob tube, I was reading yet another murder mystery, completely oblivious to the fact that I was well into committing my own form of soul murder. I wasn’t writing at all, the pen and its demands had been given up for activities that were far less demanding of any thought, let alone process.

Then came American Idol and David Cook. Bless you David. I know that you don’t know me, don’t have a clue what you did for me, but I will always be grateful, none the less. You got me up and out of that overstuffed rocking chair and back on the page. Back inside this thing I really love to do, and am quite good at. But, and this might be the most important part, I was back in a very new and different way. Awakenings are wonderful things, or can be, if we allow them.

Then the doctor diagnosed the beginnings of diabetes. What a shock that was, even though I knew that I was an excellent candidate because my father had had it and my oldest daughter has it as well. New regimens: diet, and daily blood sugar counts. Although I don’t enjoy poking myself everyday, I have done it, without fail and reaped many rewards. A new awareness of my own physical reality, a weight loss that continues and has allowed me to drop five sizes in my clothing, and a much deeper respect for my own ability to follow through and stick with it, staying inside the present moment.

I started counseling and have found it to be very satisfying as well. Letting someone else see my emotional well-being, or lack of it, has given me new perspectives on most of what has happened over the past year, as I’ve listened to an objective voice that is constant in its support and ongoing encouragement, a voice that often asks those questions I don’t even consider, or see, as important.

I began blogging in June. All new territory and one that led me here, to this site, and a deep committment to continue to explore my own personal space while encouraging others to do the same. And one that also led me back to my first love: poetry. I have written well over sixty prose articles on this site, but have also written a great deal of new poetry, exploring and finding new ways of expressing myself. Allowing myself to be prompted and challenged in several different directions.

That, in turn, has also led to the establishment of another new blog: 
 http://soulsmusic.wordpress.com/ which will be centered around my poetry and the music that feeds me. I will post there for the first time, tomorrow, on the first day of the New Year. My first post will be titled A Woman of Color, and inadvertentlycelebrates yet another new endeavor I have stumbled into. Coloring. Laying down colors and watching the patterns come alive beneath my fingers. It is closely associated with laying down words and watching the patterns come alive with meaning and awareness. I would hope that you come and take a look and drop a comment or two.

Along with all these new disciplines and activities which constantly challenge me, I have recovered a number of old friendships and deepened each of them, so that they feel new, but also have the comfort and strength of familiarity. Each one has meant a deeper commitment to my own life and has afforded me the opportunity to re-establish this person I call Elizabeth, that one who was getting lost in that overstuffed rocking chair in my living room (I haven’t watched more than a few hours (maybe four or five total) of TV in the past three months, and have read only two and a half books in that same time period).

I have also had the pleasure of creating several new friendships, here online. Meeting diverse new individuals and finding common ground is exciting and challenges me in other and different ways. I have been able to teach, encourage, and to learn, all at the same time, and with the ease of doing so from my own comfortable little space called home.

All in all, this has been a year of awakenings on many levels. It has led me here, to the beginning of a New Year that is filled with the brightness of hope and even more opportunities to learn and to experience. I was recently prompted to write about daring to dream, and found that I couldn’t, didn’t seem to have a feel for the topic and came up blank with no more than fading dribbles that went nowhere. Maybe, because so many of my personal dreams have found fulfillment in this past year, and the very real fact that I am now living inside of those dreams. They are my reality, continuing to feed and nurture even more of the same and bringing them to fruition. There is no daring involved, there is only new and deeper life and meaning.

Curious Confession Time

Okay, I was raised Catholic, went to parochial school, so I know the drill: “Bless me, Technologies, for I found the stats page on this site yesterday.” I did a History major in college, as well as one in English, so I do have a wee bit of understanding about stats. Know they can be made to say whatever the prevailing bias of the stats. maker has in mind. Even understand, on some level, what an a priori definition can be. All that aside, I went from a single viewer to viewers in the double digits yesterday. All because I used (some would say dropped), a particular name/s.

The name/s were important to the story I was telling. They set up the scene in which I was fast becoming a couch potato with a TV obsession. For a few uninhibited moments yesterday, it gave me the very fresh feeling of a young teen-ager involved in her first popularity contest, blushes and all. But then, my ever present observer stepped in and whispered in my ear, “Okay, take a good look and understand what happened here.” A cold water shower and a light slap to the cheek usually wakes up any of us dreamers, even in mid-snore. I swiftly apologized to my observer, and to the young teen-ager for leading her down the garden path to corruption. But, secretly, it still felt good.

Curiosity is an extremely good energy force. It can compel us out of the place, state we are in, and get us moving toward something all together different. So, my heartfelt thanks to all of you curiosity seekers. Sorry, if you were disappointed, but you also provided me with another opportunity to discuss one more important element enhanced by regular writing. You got it, curiosity.

In attempting to put down ones thoughts, one is forced to find a language that expands to express those thoughts into some form of clarity. That, in turn, also creates that persistent observer I keep mentioning. He doesn’t just make comments, he/she also asks questions, sometimes very pointed questions, makes acerbic statements, as well as using a great deal of humor in all of that. She will often focus my attention on points of interest, prompting even more curiosity and closer inspection. That not only loops back to more of the same, but also has a tendency to bookmark it in my memory, making constantly new connective points for synchronistic adventures.

“Curiosity killed the cat, but she came back because she has nine lives.” I’ve had, and lived, a number of different lives: Housewife, Mother, College Student, Divorcee, Single Parent, Published Poetry and Prose Writer, Bookstore Manager, Editor, Publisher, and Freelance Writing Instructor, to name a few. Many of those lives were based in nothing more than curiosity at their beginnings. How many lives have you lived? Which was your favorite, and which one were you most glad to walk away from? Are there others you would like to try and what steps would you need to take to make them more than a wispy cloud somewhere far out on the horizon? Are you curious enough to write about it?

All of which brings me back to that name. I’d apologize, but I need to drop it again. Not for the stats (I know that’s just a momentary thing), but in the hopes that its owner will somehow find this particular space and come to know how really grateful I am, that he all unknowingly saved me from the life of a Tubular Root Plant, and set me back on my Journey accompanied by music, the best friend I have ever known, lots of periodic resting places like this one, and enough curiosity to continue. Gratitude doesn’t have much value except to its giver, unless the name of its receiver is also apparent. Thank you, David Cook, and best of wishes on your own journey.