Expectations and Rose-Colored Realities

 

I watched David Cook on American Idol last night. My journal, this morning, is filled with my personal reactions to doing so. Not sure exactly what my expectations were in the moment, but I was once again, mesmerized, feeling a bit foolish, yet eager to see and have my senses satisfied. They were and they were not.

That’s the problem with expectations. They are so wide open, so hopeful with a cloud of possibilities that seemingly go on into an unknowable future. But, also laced with at least a fifty percent chance of failure, often more. Yet, we go on creating them, fantasizing over those possibilities and sometimes investing ourselves emotionally, and otherwise, into what is essentially a long shot at best.

When they, as they most often do, fail to materialize, we spiral downward into disappointment, sometimes depression. Think ourselves foolish or worse, for placing our emotional well-being in what is essentially nothing more than a dream, a rose-colored reality where all things wished and wanted suddenly come true.

Is that an accurate assessment? Yes. And, no. Hope is a necessity. Without it, we simply become lumps of energy forever stuck in a gray world that lacks all color. We move, but our movement lacks meaning because it doesn’t have a goal or a purpose. We trudge through our gray world, never looking up, unable to see whatever might be in front of us. What is always in front of us, are other possibilities.

That may be what is wrong with expectations. They are a narrow path, leading only to what we want, not necessarily to what we need. And because the want is so deep and strong, we fool ourselves into thinking it is a need, the only one. That one, that if it is fulfilled will make the rest of our sojourn not just palatable, but filled with contentment and enough excitement to last forever. That is a fantasy. Life doesn’t work that way on a moment to moment basis.

Life is a balancing act of ups and downs, joys and pains, laughter and sadness, and all the other opposites one can think of. It doesn’t run smoothly for more than a short time, no matter how much we may want it to do so. And because expectations are, for the most part, very narrow paths, when we get caught up in them, we fail to prepare for those other eventualities.

A lot of expectations center around other people. Other people doing what we want them to do. In the process, we forget that each individual has choices, a life of their own, people and things to be accounted for and to. As I wrote in my journal this morning, I realized that I simply wanted more time to watch David Cook. I want to sit down and talk to him, ask him questions about his journey, hear the small details of how that journey has changed and altered him.

I will never meet David Cook. If I did, I’d blow it and become completely tongue-tied and probably just stare at him with my mouth hanging open. Not a pretty image. He’d walk away, disgusted at this waste of his time, and probably thinking something quite derogatory about old women who have too much time on their hands. Would his assessment be accurate? Yes and no, perhaps.

Yes, I am an old woman and one that is fascinated by this man’s journey because it has impacted on my own. If you want to know how that came to be, you will have to go back to the beginnings of this blog. For right now, we are discussing expectations. And some of mine were fulfilled last evening. I wanted to know if I still experienced a connection with his person and his music. I did and do.

The song that he sang, Come Back To Me, has a big piece of my own story inside of it. I’d not heard it before and was surprised to find soft tears falling as he sang it. When members of the audience screamed out that they loved him, and he immediately responded with, “I love you, too!”, I laughed because that was a 100% David Cook response. So, yes, I am still connected to the man and his music. And no, he has no idea and never will. That’s the way it should be.

Which brings us to realistic expectations. One of the reasons I have them is because I keep a journal. It is always amazing to me, how easy it is to see the fantasy versuss the reality when one actually writes the words down in black and white. Those rose-colored images actually have clouds of pink mist floating around and through them. Makes it so much easier to see.

The reality may be far more mundane, but it is also easier to accept than getting lost in all that mist and coughing at its fumy presence. Which, by the way, is probably what I would do if I ever came face to face with David Cook, have a coughing fit, or faint, something I have never done in my life. Which, as far as I am concerned, simply means that David Cook is an extremely lucky man for being totally oblivious to my existence.

So, where does that leave me with all of my expectations. Surprisingly satisfied. Disappointed that he was only on for less than ten minutes, but happily aware that his journey continues with a platinum record under his arm. Happy to realize that my journey will also continue and that, on occasion, I may sit down in front of my TV and catch a glimpse of the only connection I have with him. That is reality as it should be, and I am more than happy to allow it to remain so.

Those rose-colored clouds leave a residue of dust behind that simply mean more dusting and cleaning to be done. I am so not into that.

That Other Kind of Dream, Or The Airplane Lady

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

An Example of Synchronicity

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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