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?

Panning For Nuggets of Sanity

Had another whirlwind weekend. Drove three hundred miles, attended a wedding, made a one-of-a-kind gift, manufactured another, celebrated one of those milestone birthdays, saw and hugged old friends, and family, played with my granddaughters, found tears in my eyes several times, and laughed uproariously far more. Talked with lots of people, yet didn’t have very many really meaningful conversations except via long distance on the phone.

And now its already Tuesday and my head is still filled with flashing images of people, antics, words spoken in passing, surprises at the changes I encountered, and a whole load of reflective type material to write about. The problem is picking one and staying with it long enough to make sense out of it, or hopefully resolve it. It all flashed by so fast, some of it making deeper impressions than others, and trying to sort that all out looks overwhelming to me. Especially because life continues and demands constant attention.

I did fill journal pages during those few days, but they are far more notes than anything coherent. Lots of dots and dashes to simply help me remember some of the things I want to go back and consider on some deeper level, only to find myself sidetracked by things and people that had nothing to do with what actually went down during those few days of hectic movement.

I had an interesting conversation with a close friend who happened to be the bride at the wedding I attended. She said that although she knew all of the people who attended, there were moments when she felt that she didn’t recognize any of them and couldn’t remember most of the day at all. In a similar fashion, with all that running, greeting, hugging, and surprises, I felt exactly the same way.

We discussed how although there were hundreds of photos taken, we might look at them later and not remember the moment they had captured. That is where my journal may be the more efficient manner to hold those memories.

Before I write my daily page, I reread what I had written the day before. That often leads me to explore something mentioned in the reading. Too often, photos are not developed immediately and the time lapse between the taking and the actual viewing is filled with more moments that have meaning as well. And although the human mind retains all of those moments, they do not always easily surface or appear on demand.

That in turn, means that months or years might pass and suddenly we remember a flash of memory but lack the framework that gives it context. Can’t remember when that happened and why we were involved in the first place. How it actually came to be. The details are muddy because we were moving through them too quickly to take notes. They become no more than flashes in the pan that although valuable, get missed because we are simply moving too fast.

I can’t say it enough: my journal holds the threads that help me stay sane, if indeed, I can be defined as sane at any given moment. That all depends on whose definition we might be using in that moment. I prefer mine in most. Those glimpses of gold nuggets in all of that mud certainly help the process. They create the context of all that mud and hold it together until I can ascertain its true value. After a weekend, like this one just past, I need that.

What is the process you use to find meaning and value in your own experience? Do you sift through all that mud and just throw your hands up in defeat? How do you stay sane and remain in contact with who you are and truly wish to become?

We make choices everyday. Those choices are informed by all of those past moments we have experienced. If we don’t take notes, make mile markers in our journey, what exactly do we base those choices in? The emotional whim of the moment, or the accumulated nuggets we have extracted from all the rest of these swiftly passing moments? Do you make space for the sorting process? How do you do that?

My journal is not the only way I choose to do that, although I think it is the most important one. It forms the basis of the other ways I store those nuggets as well. Writing a poem is far better than a photo because it often captures the emotional level within that distilled moment. The images I create in my sketchbooks do something very similar as well, but allow a much greater level of interpretation. Interpretation that allows for more than a one-dimensional view.

Collage is also another favored process in which the layers of meaning can be aptly portrayed and reflected upon. Song lyrics run through my mind on an almost constant basis. They can be some of those gold nuggets of immeasurable value in a manner that these others can not do, often suggesting deeper emotional attachment than otherwise suspected.

The gifts I create and manufacture do that for others as well as for myself. A piece of me lives in each one and is a tangible proof of my passage. And my journal, more than anything else, most often holds the first glimpse of those mud-covered nuggets, inviting me to a closer look, a sorting process that never really ends.

Filling The Holes

 

My youngest daughter came for a visit this past weekend. She came alone and stayed for two nights, both of which are firsts for her. We shared a great deal of laughter, tears, emotional upsets, new and old music, and lots of wonderful warm fuzzies. She is thirty years old, has three daughters and a stepdaughter, and sometimes works 70 hours in one week. So, this visit was extremely special and I miss her even more since she left.

She cried when she visited her grandmother, and was amazed at all of my doodling sketchbooks and mandalas. Saturday evening she actually suggested that we all color together. So we each chose a design and went to work. My oldest daughter was here, as well. We worked separately, but talked and commented while we played with all of my pens. And each of us created distinctly different styles and affects.

She had brought a trivia game called Mental Floss with her. After the coloring session, we played the game and finally dissolved into giggles and wise cracks which only prolonged the laughter and off-colored one liners. Sunday morning, before she left, we all signed our coloring endeavors and took them over to my Mother’s apartment and stuck them up on her refrigerator. My Mom loved it and then my daughter was gone. Back to her life and her family. Leaving a hole that no one else can fill.

Yesterday, I went on my poetry site and found a comment from her on an old post. Just two sentences that told me she was dealing with a similar hole that carries my name. Why is it that we can desire a thing so much, have that desire completely met, only to feel it even more strongly for having it fulfilled? From the moment she drove away, I have been flooded with the images of memories we created over those two days she was  here. And the desire to have her close again is even stronger than it was before she arrived.

I am busy filling up that hole with the sound of her voice as she sang along with music I had never heard before, but which brought new insight into my own reality. I hear her laughing and teasing as only she will do, close my eyes and see her grinning, or crying, because she is a softie in so many ways. And I think that I didn’t hug her enough or tell her how much she means to me and is a gift I cherish as no other. Yet, know that I did those things and that she knows them to be true.

We all have those spots in our existence, or we should have them. Holes that can’t ever really be filled because they are expectant and always waiting for more. They help us to know that we are living, breathing creatures filled with thoughts and feelings that no one else might ever know or feel. Marked off with a name, or a time, when we knew we were completely alive and in the moment. Holes that are noteworthy because they belong to us, to that distinct individual we are and are becoming.

Those holes are marks, footprints that tell of our passage on whatever path we travel. They form and make us who we are and tell us how we got to whatever place we truly live in. They need to be held close, celebrated in some fashion. Written down so they can be held in hands that might go empty in the future and need something real to grasp.

My daughter exists in my heart, but she also lives and breathes inside the pages of my journal as I carve those memories on paper and celebrate her existence and our relationship. She said, as she was leaving, that she would come back soon. I intend to hold her to that promise. But, in the interim, I will continue to fill that hole with her name on it.

Do you have those distinct types of holes in your life? How do you fill them, celebrate them, express them so that they remain a living, breathing reminder of who you really are and desire to be?

Alyssa's Mandala 10-10-09

 

Mandala 10-10-09

 

Sara's Mandala 10-10-09

What’s In Your Passenger Seat?

 

Okay, I am frustrated this morning. Wanted to post a new poem on my poetry site, but kept getting knocked off when I tried. Was trying to copy and paste because of some of the wordage within the piece, but every time I would click the paste button, the entire page and all that I had written would simply disappear and I was back offline again. So, decided to let it go for the moment.

Because my time is being regulated by other circumstances, I had pretty much decided to stick with this blog and let the others go for a while. But then found poetic inspiration on someone else’s blog. It’s been a while since I wrote any poetry and I dove after the idea with a bit of eagerness. After the third attempt however, I chose to come here and not allow the frustration to waste any more of the few minutes of free time I have been gifted this week.

My usual routines have been scattered to the winds of late. That includes my journal writing. Normally, I get up and immediately settle in to do my journal page for the day. But, I’ve been staying at my Mom’s and fixing her breakfast and waiting for the relief team to show up before I can get home to my computer. Because my morning pages signal the beginning of my day, it’s been a bit discombobulating to begin that day at 2pm, or even later on occasion.

I had a counseling session a few days ago. My counselor, after listening to my none-stop descriptions of what’s been going on, asked me a very simple question. “How are you taking care of yourself in the midst of all of that?” I promptly went blank. My response to her question was somewhat vague even to my own ears. So, of course, she asked it again. Thank goodness the session was almost over, because I was stumped.

I drove home with the question in the passenger seat, belted in with the safety harness, but very present and leaning in to hear something other than vague hand motions and mumbled replies. When I walked through the door of my apartment, I immediately had several clear answers. Why does that always happen? Maybe because on an almost daily basis, I am moving a great deal outside of my own small comfort zone? It takes time to think and I don’t have much time for anything at the moment other than the current changing situation, dealing with whatever task needs attention and what, most often, seems and feels like some sort of controlled chaos.

When I walked through that door, I took a deep breath and found four very specific answers to the counselor’s question. Number one, I was keeping my counseling appointments. That outside space to vent is incredibly important.

Number Two, my oldest daughter was staying with me for a few days, relieving me of planning and cooking meals, but also providing me with a sounding board and a very deeply needed sense of not being completely alone.  

Number Three, I have not given up or let go of my sketchbooks and the relaxation and play that they provide for me. Those few hours I spend exploring the realm of color and shape, allow me ease and comfort, while allowing my mind to bend itself around something completely separate from the current emotional situation.

Number Four, and probably more important than the others, I have not missed a day in my journal. Talking with others, being able to vent to a listening ear is terribly important, but that contact with my own person, that one on one dialogue with myself is far more essential. I would go so far as to say that that is the very reason why, when I opened that door and took that deep breath, I wasn’t scattered and lost as I had been in the counselor’s presence. She is paid to ask those kinds of questions, and if they were easy, I wouldn’t being paying her to ask them.

As a matter of fact, that particular day, I had slept over at my Mom’s, fixed her breakfast, changed her bed, cleaned up her apartment, got her settled in and a load of wash going before my younger sister came in, and I could go home, take a shower, get dressed and get to the counselor’s office. When I got back home, my only thought was to get on the computer and get my page done for the day. That’s when it all fell into place and I had all of the answers I needed.

It isn’t easy staying sane, or healthy,  in the midst of chaos. But, I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else in this moment. Yes, I am moving outside my normal comfort zone, but I’m making sure that I hang onto the most essential aspects of that zone even if the beginning of the day doesn’t happen until quarter after eleven in the evening. My journal pages are always the beginning.

What are you doing to take care of yourself in the midst of whatever chaos life might be throwing your way in the present moment? Do you have a safety harness and do you use it?

Avoiding A Cart and A Horse

 

One day, last week, I was impulsively prompted to start reading this blog from its very beginnings. I made it through almost an entire month’s worth of articles before being called away to other things.

This morning, although I came here to add yet another blog article, I found myself dithering around, distracting myself with other thoughts, and simply avoiding the task at hand. Eventually, I went back and started rereading my old posts again. I made it through several weeks worth and am now here and present. I think.

I have been very busy of late and my days, although full, seem to run from one into another without much time spent in reflection of any kind. I do my journal writing, but it is quickly completed and then left for all those other obligations and responsibilities. But, I really stalled out when I got here this morning. Although I had a lot of things running through my mind, I simply didn’t seem capable of plucking out one of those thoughts and just going with it to fill this page.

I tried several other things, getting up from the computer, rambling around my small apartment, doing small things, coming back only to get up and ramble a bit more. I tried doing something in my sketchbook, but put that away almost as quickly as the thought of writing here. Nothing was working, let alone, coming together. So, I went back to the rereading of the things I had written many months ago.

What I found was me. The one who does all of this writing, and often wonders why she does it to begin with. As a matter of fact, she was stuck right there this morning. Distracting herself, looking for herself, and accidentally finding herself in her own words. Bummer? Or an amazing coincidence? A neat little piece of synchronicity to get her back here, on the page, laying down words, and hoping they will all come together somehow and make sense. Hopefully, to you the reader, but more importantly, to herself.

Avoidance does work, at least for a time period. But, no matter how much we dither around, ramble through whatever rooms and things are available, attempt to distract ourselves, we invariably end up back where we needed to be all along. Back to the very thing and place we have been avoiding. Why do we do that?

Good question and one I’m not real sure I can answer at the moment. All I know is that I am here because this is where I am supposed to be, doing exactly what I am supposed to be doing. And I am here, because I found myself telling me, in my own words, to do just that. Finding that message in words I wrote over a year ago. Words that made all kinds of sense, and had a much deeper meaning than I thought at the time they were written.

The message was quite clear: Just get on the page, start, and it will all go where it is supposed to go and become whatever it is to become. Perhaps, even more important, was the fact that those words contained an element of joy and satisfaction that I was definitely missing in this present moment. Missing, and incorrectly thinking that one must have the joy and the knowledge of satisfaction to even begin. That’s putting the cart before the horse and expecting it to roll itself uphill and drag the nag right along with it.

I want to be a good writer. By that, I do not mean famous or profound. I want to be coherent and enjoyable on the page. But, if I’m not feeling those things in the moment, how can they happen and become that? It might sound completely silly, but I forgot in the present moment, that satisfaction and the attendant joy that comes with it, are a result of the doing of the task, of and in actually completing it. Dah!

Laughing at myself also helps. It lightens all the tangles and knots I was creating by dithering and rambling. And believe me, those knots were getting really really tight. If I had let them, they might have paralyzed me for hours, maybe even days, wasting daylight and lots of time accomplishing nothing other than tighter knots. Preventing me from not only this task but all those others I spoke of earlier.

Going back and rereading my journal, often has the same affect. Yet, it is so very easy to forget the simplest things and have to relearn them again. Or, at least make contact with them frequently. Which, in turn, is one of the most important aspects of writing a journal in the first place. Staying in contact with the most important individual in ones existence. That of self.

At the very least, for today I do know that ideas and thoughts come first. Then comes action based on those thoughts and ideas. And only after action, come feelings. Now the nag is at the front of the cart, pulling it up the hill that is today. That works much much better. I might even be able to find a carrot with which to keep her moving in whatever direction I find myself in need of going.

What are the thing/s you avoid most often and why? How do you avoid and does it work for more than a short time period? Do you feel a certain satisfaction in that avoidance? What is it you want to accomplish and are you somehow avoiding it? Just some questions for thought, or even for words on a journal page. Who knows? They might actually become carrots.

Creativity Closet

 

When I was teaching, I would often ask my students to breathe deeply, then close their eyes and visualize their personal Creativity Closet. The visualization came about because of something that had occurred to me spontaneously, one afternoon while I was alone. I found myself, in my imagination, standing at an open closet door. When I entered the closet, I discovered there was a backdoor and upon opening it found a world of wonderful color and a variety of objects. This imaginary closet didn’t seem to have parameters, it went on forever. An endless space, with room after room to explore and discover.

The first time I did the visualization with a group, one man in the audience said that he couldn’t see anything when he closed his eyes, it was all darkness. I told him this was in his imagination and that there, he could reach out his hand, find a light switch and flick it on. He did so and was inordianately pleased with what happened when he turned on the light.

The response to this little exercise was always varied and full of surprising experiences. One woman said she could not get past the doorway because there was no floor to her closet. We discussed the fear of falling and failure. Another gentleman saw himself enter the room and promptly sit down and fall asleep. We talked about denial and our personal responsibility to see that we stayed on our journey, alert to what life was offering to us. Most people were amazed at the diversity of objects and activities they found inside that imaginary closet. We would discuss the world of possibilities and what to do with all of that.

I always had them write down as much of their experience as they could remember immediately following the exercise. Most people were stunned at the size of the space they discovered within themselves. Only a very few found cramped dark places. When they did, I would encourage them to use their imaginations to push back the walls, creating a space that was comfortable, but still felt safe and secure.

What I found fascinating was the endless variety of what they wrote and listed after doing the exercise. And each one was uniquely individual, tailored to the person who created it. Some found animals or birds, others found a room filled with hats, or coats, scarves of variegated colors, or desks with writing and drawing tools ready to be used. One woman found several different types of sewing machines and an endless supply of fabric in textures and contrasting colors and laughed delightedly when she could see herself spending time in such a space. Some found open space, no walls, but somehow protected from bad weather.

The eagerness to explore this inner space was highly contagious and just plain fun to participate in. After exploring and writing about it, we would always discuss staying open and going back to that writing as often as possible. Those feelings remain attached to the words and are not difficult or hard to recapture. And I was quick to point out that the exercise was one that could be repeated at will. Things, conditions, realities change and that would change perspectives and perceptions, but also give rise to even more possibilities.

I am personally, still exploring my own creativity closet. And even though I have been doing so for many years, there is always something new to be found and worked with. Writing them down, not only anchors them into memory, but also often suggests even more connections and activities. Which, of course, also need to be noted.

Another activity, which I used to encourage further exploration, was a collage of that inner space. Finding images, even objects to put together as a whole image. On more than one occasion, students would come back and tell stories of how they actually found, or encountered, those very real things and activities within a short space of doing the collage.

One gentleman actually started gluing images on the inside of a physical closet door. I thought it was fantastic and when I was allowed to see it, he had already glued images on over half of that threshold. It was beautiful and he spoke of when the door was completely covered, how he intended to move on to the walls and maybe even the ceiling. By the way, this was the same man who found only darkness when he closed his eyes.

Having repeatedly written about how creative energy is also healing energy, his very real closet door was a constant source of encouragement to my own person. The awareness of just what openness can accomplish when allowed. After he showed it to me, we discussed the C.S. Lewis story about The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe. How each of us had read the story many years before and how it related to the ease of imaging our own Creativity Closet with all of its contents.

Here, I am constantly trying to emphasize how a journal can be many things, but most importantly it is a source for discovering ones own creative possibilities. In a very real sense, it is another kind of physical Creativity Closet. All one needs to do is open the door and walk through it.

Pulling Strings and Darning Socks

 

This past week I pulled one of those strings. You know, the kind that suddenly appear when you are out, or busy, and you impulsively reach out and grab to break it off so it won’t stick out anymore? Only to have it unravel instead of breaking and disappearing altogether, so that you can smoothly go on about your business.

This particular string appeared while I was watching a movie with my Mother. An actress in the film, playing the role of a very articulate psychiatrist, very succinctly explained an issue that periodically crops up in my existence and has done so several times over the years. I left my Mom’s and went about my business but that string was there and I decided to pull it, break it off and get on with getting on.

Twenty-four hours later, what I had was a pile of unraveled thread. That thread was an adventure of almost precise step-by-step processes that reached all the way back to when I was a four year old child. In other words, lots and lots of thread.

It included a quiet conversation with my Mom, some reading online, a 7 minute video on You Tube, a scholarly excerpt full of academic phrases that sometimes went over my head, a search for a particular author that led to a breathtakingly beautiful painting which incorporated a color scheme I just had to experiment with, a rather ugly Mandala loaded with layers of meaning, and lots of writing, as well as whispers of poetry, and a serious look at an old name in the brand new light of yet another Mandala, this one unusual and even a bit spectacular. Whew!

At any time in all of this, I could have broken the thread, even tried to at different moments, but it seemed to have a mind of its own and was bound and determined to do its own bit of unraveling. And to be very honest, I’m not even sure it is done doing so.

There were four of us children growing up. My parents didn’t have a lot of money, so my Mother made do in many small ways. One of them was to periodically mend socks. I watched her engaged in this activity countless times throughout my childhood.

She would get out the wicker basket that always held those old socks that had holes in them at toe and heel. In the basket was an old burned out light bulb that she would push inside the sock to be darned, creating a smooth but stable work surface. Then with needle and thread she would weave a patch, back and forth, over the hole exposed in the sock. Those patches were stronger than the original material and could be felt when the sock was worn once again while working or playing. But, they also made the stockings usable and far more durable for a much longer time period.

It didn’t surprise me when that image of my Mom, bent over a white sock stretched over the surface of a burned out light bulb, popped into my head. It made sense of all this unraveling that I was doing. That pile of thread, unbroken and coiled at my finger tips, ready to be used to create a slightly different, but definitely emotional image for that hole in my existence. That hole created by the periodic issue spoken of in the movie.

The Mandala I deliberately tried to create, expressing the story of that issue, ended up looking like just what it was: a pile of disconnected threads that refused to become anything but discordant coils of meaning layered one atop another. I realized that the only way to actually make it work would be to break it down into those separate layers, creating a series of Mandalas all related to the same issue or focal point. That seemed rather daunting.

So, instead I pulled out a new and totally different design and relaxed into it. About half way through it, I began to hear those whispers of poetry that sometimes occur when I color. It began with the phrase that is the literal meaning for my middle name and went from there. In less than two hours, I had a rather stunning Mandala and a poem about rich red wine and armor kept in a wicker basket. All that unraveled thread had found a home.

A brand new way to see an old story. And that story is written in my journal pages, held in place by the words I have been writing throughout the process. Bits and pieces that once seemed disconnected, perhaps even useless in the greater scheme of things.

What might be even more exciting is that I bought an attractive frame with matt at a rummage sale a few weekends ago. It happens to be the color of deep red wine and the matt is woven like wicker. It will be a perfect compliment to my new image, the one I created, the one that used all those broken pieces of thread and gave new energy to a seemingly burned out light bulb.

A Friend In The Justice Department

 

“All I’m saying is, it’s living that takes courage. In my experience, the hero who charges the machine-gun nest is sometimes the guy who didn’t have anything to go home to. To me, the real hero is the guy who goes home to face whatever life hands him, no matter how tough it might be.”

The above quote is from Third Degree, a novel by Greg Iles. I finished reading the book last night. It isn’t an easy story to live with because it presents a great many of those really hard questions we all face if we are doing as the character says, facing off with whatever life hands us, no matter how tough it might be.

I spent part of the morning, yesterday, in a courtroom. I was there in support of a friend who was being accused of abuse by her adult daughter. Talk about tough. I was there for two main reasons. I don’t believe my friend is an abuser, and I, myself, have faced similar accusations. We live in a world where this is neither a rare or uncommon occurrence. But, it is certainly one that can and does leave scars on everyone involved.

The charges against my friend were dismissed. There was no celebration. Now, we must all wait to see if the daughter will appeal that decision and that is anyone’s guess, at this point. What makes this even tougher is that my friend adopted her daughter when she was no more than a three-month old baby. The young woman has had difficulties throughout her life with issues of mental instability, something that couldn’t be foreseen at the time of the adoption, but circumstances that my friend dealt with for well over twenty years, as she tried to get the help her daughter needed, and stuck by her through the ups and downs of a continued diminishing level of hope for resolution.

By Iles definition, my friend is certainly a hero. I strongly doubt, however, that she feels that way about her own person. Being in that courtroom was not a simple or easy thing to do. The awareness of the pain that coursed just below the surface of all those alleged facts had to touch each individual present. They certainly impacted on my person, bringing up memories and feelings I thought were long behind me.

And, of course, I wrote about some of that in my journal pages this morning. Am fairly certain that will not be a one-time endeavor. However, finding the Iles’ quote last night, did give me another perspective to explore, both intellectually and emotionally. I am not speaking about the concept of being a hero, but that one about staying and confronting whatever life deals us.

I couldn’t help but think of how my journal pages were an anchor during my own similar experience. They grounded me in a way that allowed me to face whatever was coming. They also contained facts that I might never otherwise have had at my fingertips. In a very real way, they were the justice that can be a crap shoot because it is dealt out by other human beings who have their own agendas and perspectives.

That isn’t to say that our justice system doesn’t work. Some of the time it does, but one can’t be guaranteed that in ones own case it will. That reality can turn up the volume of emotions to the point of implosion. As far as I know, my friend doesn’t keep a journal. She is however, meticulous about keeping records of any thing she deems significant. Records her lawyer used yesterday morning that resulted in a dismissal of all charges.

In my own situation, my journal pages were like a secret friend that accompanied me through my experience. Both past pages as well as those written through the experience itself. They allowed me to keep a somewhat clear head and that was far more important than anything else that might have been occurring during that time period.

That isn’t to say there were no scars. There were, and they were felt while I sat in that courtroom yesterday. But, I do know what to do about them and have already begun that task and will continue as long as that is necessary. At least I know that with the help of my secret friend, I can stay and face the healing of those scars. There is a great deal of comfort in that knowledge.

My daughter and I now have a good relationship and a stronger bond than I would have thought possible. And again, I am sure that my journal pages were a supportive friend through that process. They kept me alert and aware throughout our own experience and were invaluable in keeping me focused on what I considered the ultimate goal, rather than the emotional pain of any one given moment.

Do you have a friend in the justice department? Isn’t it about time you allowed yourself that very priceless element as you stand to face whatever life throws in your path?

Oh Goody! It’s Recess Time

 

Okay, I have been busy. That happens when you get an unexpected respite from the usual routine. My older sister came to town and relieved me of my daily duties of fixing meals for Mom who fell and broke a bone and is very slowly recovering. She is ninety and the inactivity is frustrating for her and thus, all of us who love and are taking care of her.

When my sister first called and told me I was ‘off duty’ for a few days, I was both pleased and stunned. Rapidly ran through a mental list of things I could do, things I should do, and some that I might even want to do. Then sort of relaxed, did a deep exhale, and realized I was tired but didn’t want to waste this opportunity by sleeping through it. Decided to do something I have been thinking about for weeks, but thought might take too much time and be too much of a chore to commit myself to under the present circumstances.

For those of you who have been reading this blog, you already know that I have been spending some time coloring. Mandalas to be exact. They fascinate me and do exactly what they are designed to do. Create a space for spiritual growth and healing. Simply put, they soothe the soul because they are a genuine source of natural meditation.

I now have a large number of completed drawings that have been colored and have provided me with a much smoother path through a rather difficult time of transition. So, what to do with all of them? Have had the desire to share the images, but wasn’t quite sure if I was up to the task. When my sister phoned, I suddenly realized what I really wanted to do: create a small Mandala Gallery on one of my sites.

You can find it at http://soulsmusic.wordpress.com/ It is located on a sub-page that is listed just below the banner which is also one of the Mandalas I have colored. I didn’t actually set out to create the Gallery. Was more curious about how and if  it was something I could actually accomplish. Once started, I got completely caught up in the process and spent several hours pouring over the completed designs and deciding which ones I wanted to use.

One of the unexpected things that happened was that I got several new ideas of things I could do with them in the future. New ways of coloring them and even some ideas about backgrounds and framing. Found several I want to redo in different ways and the things I might do to improve them. It was both exciting and relaxing all at the same time. A much needed rest and refueling experience. The best part was that I didn’t have to get up and leave before I finished and also knew I could take whatever time was needed.

Although the practical side of my person wants to use this time to catch up on all those mundane chores I have allowed to slide by me, the child in me is far more interested in recess. No plans, just play. And that has been satisfied in spontaneous ways. Yesterday afternoon, I went rummage saling with both of my sisters. And last night I managed to finish up several birthday gifts, as well as complete reading a mystery novel that seemed to go on forever.

In the midst of all of that activity, I managed to stumble across the answer to a question that has been bothering me for weeks. I would not have done so if I had been doing laundry or washing dishes. It was a very specific answer and I found it laying on a side table at one of those rummage sales. That, in its own way, was as satisfying as putting the Gallery together or finishing the birthday gifts.

Which brings me to today and the rest of my respite. The laundry awaits, as does the stack of dishes. I will willingly and gladly do them both. The child in me has been satisfied and the practical side needs her own time as well. Tomorrow I go back to my new chore oriented schedule. But will take with me a great many new ideas and answers that have a tendency to create new questions.

Do you remember recess time? Do you make room for that in your own busy schedule? Are you aware that we learn far more, and far more quickly, when we allow ourselves to play, rather than turning it into work? Something we have to do and possibly even resent doing?

Going through my completed images, sorting them out and letting them speak to me, one at a time, was a lot  like rereading pages from my journal. There are tidbits there that can get lost in the rush to get to the bottom of the page. Priceless pieces of knowledge and information stored right alongside all those mundane things I rushed to get past. Answers I didn’t recognize as such while writing them down, ideas for things I can, and really want, to do but don’t think there is enough time or energy.

Recess was a short break, probably intended for the teacher’s benefit rather than the students’. Yet, those few moments allowed both to rest and refuel for further adventures in the learning process. Do you allow for a few moments of recess on a regular basis? Do you go back and reread a few pages of all that you have written just to see how things have changed, or maybe haven’t? What does the word recess actually mean to you and how important do you think it could or might be? When was the last time you actually let yourself play just to play?

Sorting This From That

 

This morning, I am confused. That means I am both hesitant and indecisive. Slow to move on anything, no matter how small or inconsequential. Feeling fogged in and hoping for some clearing soon. Don’t like the feeling. Much prefer to know exactly where I am going and what it is that I need to do.

For the first time in years, I have been plagued by feelings from the past and those are interfering with the present moment. They are strong and drag me back to a place I have not been in for decades. They also have a tendency to color everything that is happening now.

I have been exploring some of that in my journal, not even realizing that was what was happening, just writing down feelings and random thoughts, amazed at the strength of these old forgotten hurts and wounds. Why that should surprise me, I’m not sure. Perhaps because I have been doing the journal writing for so long that I somehow think all of the past should be covered, resolved, and taken care of by now. Obviously it hasn’t been.

If I’m honest, there is even a bit of resentment that I should have to deal with any of it at all. Now, that really makes sense, doesn’t it? It’s there and needs to be dealt with, doesn’t matter if it is now or three years from now. It still remains to be cleared away and resolved. And, of course, the only one who can do that is me.

But, I am really busy at the moment. Need all my faculties to deal with what is happening in this moment. Ahh, the whisper of self-pity has raised her whining little voice and made herself known. I am feeling put upon, and again, “Why me? Why now?” The answer, of course, is “Why not? And just when would be more convenient for her highness?”

Reality is, I have never wanted to deal with these particular feelings, and have somehow avoided doing so for most of my life. They are incredibly messy and just so confusing. Now we are back at square one. They are confusing because they don’t line up with the way I think my life should unfold and move and be. I very much still want that happy ending, the magic of happily ever after. That ever after that means that nothing too bad is going to happen so I can just relax and enjoy the ride into that glowing gorgeous sunset.

Reality is, the sunset is skewed, covered over by clouds and dense fog, I am not happy in this moment, and ever after is a joke of cosmic proportions. And I want to lay down on the floor and throw a Queen-sized tantrum, kicking and screaming til I’m blue in the face. Not that that will do anyone, especially me, any bit of good.

With my stiff and sore joints, if I got down on the floor, I might never be able to get back up again. And although blue is my favorite, it isn’t good at all as a skin-color. Besides, everyone, including me, would define such actions as Drama Queen Supreme and I still couldn’t get up from the floor without assistance, and everyone would simply disappear at the first burst of wailing.

But, it was certainly fun to think about that image. Maybe that’s exactly what I needed: a bit of humor to clear away some of the fog. These feelings are mine, they don’t belong to anyone else. Avoiding them has only forced them back into this moment, and needing to be handled now. Ahh, another light bulb goes on. Perhaps I haven’t dealt with them before because I assumed they were someone else’s responsibility? And just who would that someone else be?

The person, or persons, who originally hurt me way back there in that dim past on the other side of the fog, of course. Okay, things are getting clearer. They are responsible for their actions back then, but not now. I have made the choice to avoid these messy confusing feelings. By doing so, I have made them and their attendant consequences my own in this present moment. Things are beginning to fall into place.

To avoid these things further, means I’ll just have to face off with them some time in the future. Which means that I have a task in front of me. It is one of sorting this from that, what is past from what is present. I was a child in the past. That means I didn’t have a clear or even whole picture of what was actually going on. Now, I am an adult with a much wider knowledge base.

And a long-standing journal habit. I can and will do my sorting, but I will do it privately and at my own rate of speed. I have actually been doing a bit of that already. Just didn’t see it clearly for what it was and where it was aimed at taking me. Consciously aware of that now, I can separate those feelings from the past, freeing myself for whatever needs to be done and accomplished in the present.

Had no idea what I was going to write about this morning. Now I have a full page and a much more seeable path on which to proceed. Writing is a wonderful tool for all the sorting we need to do at any period in our lives. Doing it only in our heads and not on paper, can easily be an act of avoidance, like the one I have just now discovered. Is that one of the reasons you don’t write on a regular basis?