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 History of Happiness

In response to Claudette’s Writing Challenge #13:  It’s In The Details
http://claudetteellinger.wordpress.com/

 Someone recently told me that she wanted happiness in her future. I replied that I get a bit fudgy when it comes to that word. It means so many different things, and those things change, seemingly sometimes from one moment to the next. So, I decided to write a history of the different things it has meant to me over the years.

There was a time, when I believed that marriage and having children would be, must be, the ultimate happiness. I was wrong, but it took an awful lot of time to figure that out. There were other things on the horizon while I was unknowingly waiting to know that.

Like crafts. I believed that if I decorated the walls of my house with hand-made projects, that would make me happy. I kept myself busy for years doing things like macrame, embroidery, crocheting, flower-arranging, drawing and painting, and lots more. I wanted my home to reflect my person, and to some extent it did. I also discovered that I was a very creative individual, but beautiful things don’t necessarily make for happiness.

Then there was music and learning how to play the guitar. That was hard because I didn’t start until I was thirty. I love music and although it was satisfying and gave me contentment at moments, I finally realized that that was just not enough.

So, I went to school. Actually, school was both a desire and a necessity. And for several years it made me happy, if happiness is defined by a certain level of contentment and the challenge that makes one move forward. College certainly did both of those things, and taught me a great deal for which I will always be grateful.

But, all things come to an end eventually. I graduated and found work. I actually liked my job a great deal, but mostly I liked the fact that much of the time, I was the one in charge. And although that too had an element of satisfaction in it, I became aware that whatever satisfaction was there, it just wasn’t enough.

Then the opportunity to teach came along. Not something I was looking for, but something I was willing to try. And it worked for several years. Again, that element of satisfaction was high a great deal of the time, I was absorbed in what I was doing and being. But, as will happen, the bottom dropped out and I was no longer physically able to meet the demands of the niche I had found. I entered the world of disability and all the bureaucratic hassles attached to that reality.

Just trying to make the adjustments took up a great deal of my time and energy. That wasn’t a particularly happy period, but I did manage to get through it. I survived. There was satisfaction in that awareness, even if it lacked a sense of contentment. Actually, I had to struggle against resignation a great deal of the time.

Next came the move back to the city of my birth. Coming full circle. For those of you who are familiar with this blog, you know that I spent some time trying on the role of a couch potato. I had earned it. But, I certainly wasn’t happy with it.

Throughout all of this, there was the writing: daily journaling, sometimes sporadic, poetry, and essays. It was another kind of music that wove all of the rest of my time together. Made it all of a piece. It was the warp and woof of the tapestry of my life. And no where else, was I ever as happy as when I was writing. Writing was the glue that held my life together.

Oh, there were always other things and people. I owned several dogs and they were each a delight onto themselves. But dogs, like people, come and go and take emotional investment that hurts when they must pass on. I had learned that other people can’t be ones only source of happiness. Happiness must come from within.

When I said that I get fudgy about that word, that is what I was speaking about. I love fudge, especially the kind with chunks of walnut in it. But walnuts can get stuck in the teeth, and can even break them if bitten wrongly. That is a great deal of what life is all about. Enjoying the fudge, but also staying alert to the fact that it is only a momentary pleasure. Just as happiness can be.

I truly believe it is important to take the time to explore ones history of happiness. The word itself is rather slippery, its definition often changing with or without a moment’s notice. Taking the time to define what has made you happy in the past, can lead to other paths that allow those moments of contentment to flourish.

Writing makes me happy. That doesn’t mean it is always easy or even goes smoothly. I find contentment and satisfaction on the page, more often than not. And after all of these years of searching for happiness, it is incredibly wonderful to know that piece of information. I wouldn’t have ever found it if I hadn’t been driven to write again and again and eventually realized that words and forming them were what held my existence together.

What makes you happy? How do you define happiness? For me, it means a certain balance of contentment and satisfaction derived from a continuing challenge that keeps me exploring and searching, as well as finding what I am searching for. And yes, there are still chunks of walnut in my fudge, but it’s also home-made and that is pleasing all in itself. I am still creating what surrounds me, still moving to the music that I hear inside of my head, still making new friends, and that for me is happiness.

I’d also like a Golden Retriever puppy, at least for a few days, but pets are not allowed where I have chosen to live. That’s okay too, dogs have a tendency to find me and I love the surprises they often bring, along with the love and exuberance they carry within their very cells. It’s contagious.

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.

Wild Thing III

 

A Definition and an Example:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That Slippery Slope

Memory can be
seductive, perverted
little bugger. For most
part, nothing more
than simple tree hugger,
’til something grabs
its attention:
bit of scent wafting
through wood paneled
rooms, music played
just out of tune, or
flash of scant
sequined costumes.

Then it becomes bold,
parting dark cloak
at edges of forgetfulness.
Exposes itself, dangling
between present moments,
or rushes toward shadowy
stage of existence, undulating
against pole of time, doing
bump and grind dance
of remembrance.

Long to turn face away
from shameless display,
ignore it, but find myself
caught behind thrice-braided
cord of scent, sight, and sound,
sometimes held captive for hours,

fascinated, yes even envious,
of moves this body
can no longer make,
yet remembers. Slides
back in time with present
mind, to solo bedroom,
wood-paneled walls
swaying with smoky
shadows, bits of light
from Tiffany lamp,
moving as I moved alone
to rhythms of yet another era.

Anger As Energy Flow

        I have done my part, and whatever happens, will simply happen. But it will only happen at my choosing. That knowledge alone, is worth the few tears I shed.  ___quoted from last post

After years of words that were not understood, or worse, misunderstood, I have learned to choose my words carefully. That sentence:  But it will only happen at my choosing, was written deliberately and with thought. For many years, I held my anger deep inside because it was inappropriate, unseemly, foolish, or just plain wrong. Or so I had been taught. And in turn, I thought I was all those things because I felt them. It took me years to fully understand that feelings are feelings, a barometer to let me know what the temperature is in my environment at any given moment. A simple gage, that allows me to access the information I need to be able to choose how I want to respond inside of that situation. Obviously, as a child, I jumped to the conclusion that if anger spoken was wrong, bad, or not okay, then silence would be the only way to deal with it.

Although a childish, therefore only partial solution, it still remains one of my choices. A good one in the appropriate situation, even as an adult. Let me explain. Anger is an energy flow provided by the system to allow for action. It is not bad, good, and hardly indifferent. It is simply the energy we need to either stand and fight, or to flee and save further action for another day. As an energy flow, it can be either destructive or constructive, used to end the threat that caused it, or build, create something new in its stead. And that is where the matter of choice comes forward. I can either choose to scream as insanely as the idiot who is pissing me off, or I can walk away and conserve the energy for something more creative in the future. Why waste the energy, especially at my age, when it comes as a priceless commodity? Ahhhh, the things I have learned by keeping a journal.

Pain is a threat to the system. As such it produces anger, the energy flow to combat the threat in whatever manner we choose. In my last blog, I wrote about a deep wound that I had uncovered, and allowed myself to revisit on the page, and in private. I even stated that I was consciously aware that it was only a first step in the process I have been learning by writing regularly. I woke up yesterday morning with a depth of anger that might easily match that of Mt. Vesuvius on her best days. Acting on it, was out of the question. It meant that I might very well explode at everyone and everything that crossed my path. Although satisfying in the moment perhaps, releasing the steam, could do damage to me and to others as well.

I acknowledged the anger, but then went on with the day I had already planned that centered around several different creative outlets. I didn’t bury it, simply put it on a shelf where I could easily see and even use it for other purposes. And I did just that. I changed the look of this blog space to one of my original design. Not the one I ultimately want here, because that one will take more time and effort, but an inter-um image that tells me this is now my space. I chatted with a friend, and even took a nap. I read some things in a very good book, which has a great deal of information (synchronistically speaking) about the hard work that must take place after uncovering buried memories and the very real emotional storm they produce.

Before I went to bed, I had a telephone conversation with a friend. At the end of the conversation I told her I needed to go write a poem that was waiting for me to find it. She laughed and said two words that became the poem I wrote in the following half hour. It is one of the better pieces I have written in a long time. And it includes some of the images and feelings from that original unspeakable pain. It is actually a love poem, addressed to someone very important to me. For me, it was the best use of that anger energy I had encountered that morning. Not destructive, or explosive, but contained, controlled, and ultimately, far more satisfying than any other choice I could or would have made.

There was a time when I would have written down those angry feelings in graphic detail. That does work. However, I knew intuitively, also based in past experience, that that can backfire as well. Sometimes the writing is like poking at the anger, watching it to see what happens, releasing some of its fumes into the air I breathe. Other times it can be an incredibly soothing release and answer for pent up emotions that have no other place to live and would become destructive if left inside. That again, is a matter of choice to be engaged in by the individual in individual circumstances, learned through experience, and the growing of discernment. Sorry, it all takes time.

What do you do with your anger? Let it possess you, corrode you from the inside out? Do you confront it and how? By letting it drip from your lips, or explode like uncontrollable and flammable chemicals that are corrosive to your own and others’ environments? Do you struggle with it, like I have done, or throw up your hands in defeat and let it fly wherever, or bury it in the hopes that it might not hurt anyone, but especially you? These are just questions you might want to investigate on paper with pen. Until next time…

Introduction

When I was four years old, I already knew that pencil marks could be erased and never seen again. So, I very deliberately went looking for an ink pen for the adventure I had planned (there were always one or two in the kitchen junk drawer). Pen in hand, I secreted myself away with the photographer’s portrait of me, at age two, that sat out on a table in the living room. Carefully removing the photo from its frame, tongue winking between my pressed lips, I set out to make sure no one would ever forget the name of the little girl with creamed coffee curls and a wispy smile pictured there. With the spidery scrawl of a neophyte, I wrote my name at the bottom of the portrait in big black block letters, and unknowingly launched myself into a life- long love affair with pen, paper, and words.

Much much later, after marriage and four children, I went to college. And although I first set out to achieve a degree in History, I realized half way through, that all my elective credits were in English with a definite preference for writing classes. There I was introduced to poetry, and again found another life-long attachment, as well as a second major. Halfway through my college career, I became a single parent and afterward, found a full-time position as the General Manager of a new/used Bookstore.

At that point in time, I didn’t see writing as a career base. First of all, it was far too risky for a single mother with children to feed and to finish raising, and I saw myself as a poet and poets rarely, if ever, get to quit their day jobs. If I am to be completely honest, I also really liked working in the Bookstore surrounded by the other love of my life. However, I did start publishing some of my poems and one of them was accepted and anchored an anthology which was later nominated for a Grammy Award. The local media fuss about the award and my participation, opened another door, I might not have ever walked through otherwise.

I became a Freelance Writing Instructor, teaching my first class at the four year university from which I had graduated. Actually, it was a credit course in the Teacher’s Certification Program. Certainly not bad wages for a poet who only saw herself as a beginner. My specialty was Personal Writing: how to get on the page regularly and sustain that process over time. In other words, the Art of Keeping a Journal. I used everything I had learned by keeping a daily journal for ten years before that. It was one of the most exciting adventures I had ever committed myself to, and is the basis for this current blog.

I continued to teach for ten years, also giving workshops, and all day retreats, as well as leading classes in most of the fine arts schools and museums in the area. However, a life-long back condition disabled me about four years ago, and I had to quit and settle down to become, of all things, just another couch potato, watching television, reading books, and occasionally getting on my computer to write a random poem or email. Last year, on my 61st birthday, I tried an old exercise of writing a poem a day. It actually astounded me and I continued for four months until I moved back here to the city of my birth. The physical energy used up in transplanting myself put an end to the exercise, and I once again turned back to television and reading.

More recently, something I watched on TV prompted me to reopen my journal writing and that in turn, led me to create a Myspace page on which I used those poems from last year to fill up the blog space therein. Last week, I stumbled into a poet’s blog, here on Word Press, in which the author was writing a poem a day. I found myself going back to her page, encouraging her to continue. It isn’t often one finds another fool who will do that exercise and succeed at it. Which, of course, led me to here and this page where I intend to do what I am really quite good at: encourage others to get on the page and stay there because it just happens to be the cheapest form of therapy known to humankind, other than laughter, which can hurt if one does it too loudly and too much at a single go. So can writing, but both of them are in the category of ‘good pain.’ “I laughed until every muscle ached”, or, “I wrote until my fingers stiffened up and I couldn’t write anymore”, are good memories that I cherish. Do you?

I do welcome comments, and even disagreements, as long as they respect both participants’ rights to speak and to be heard.