The word for today is AVOID. AVOID means to stay away from or to prevent from happening. There are so many things I try to AVOID. Actually, every time I do one thing, I am AVOIDING doing something else. I have tried to analyze AVOIDANCE over the last few days and I got myself so confused that I AVOIDED writing about it.
On Monday morning I did several things that I had been AVOIDING. I paid some bills, I went to City Hall to get my 2010 parking sticker, I requested a hearing to protest a snow emergency parking ticket, I called both the Maine Turnpike Authority and the Illinois Tollway Authority to clear up confusion about my EZ/I-PASS.
Usually I try to AVOID bureaucracy and authority, but on Monday morning I was on a roll. I faced my fears head on. Actually, I was AVOIDING the dire consequences of continued AVOIDANCE. If I did not get my parking sticker I would get more parking tickets; if I did not clear up the confusion with the turnpike authorities I would be zapped with fines and violations. My AVOIDANCE would cause more trouble--and more money--than it was worth.
Another thing that I AVOID is housework. Today for instance, I had a mess of dishes in my sink. Instead of doing my dishes, I went to my neighbor's and washed her dishes. More than a week ago I told someone that I would throw away all the rotten food (old soymilk and chicken broth containers and spaghetti sauce jars, etc.) in my refrigerator. One night I washed out a few containers, decided I'd done enough and AVOIDED the rest. If I AVOID opening the refrigerator I won't even see what I'm AVOIDING.
The problem with AVOIDANCE, as I've alluded to above, is that it never really works. If I never clean out my fridge, eventually it will get so stuffed with rotten food that the door won't close and my apartment will begin to stink. If I don't open my mail or don't pay my bills or don't answer my phone, there will just be more to deal with when I do.
I went to the movies with a friend this weekend, someone who engages in similar AVOIDANCE behaviors. I don't really think of myself as a grown up, he told me. I don't think of myself as a man, I'm just a guy. But you own a condo and have a daughter in college, I reminded him, you're not giving yourself enough credit.
There are some things we can't AVOID. Whether my friend thinks of himself as a grown up or not, he is. Whether I AVOID my responsibilities in this organized society or not, I still have them. When I want friendships and relationships to go away, when I want to AVOID people, places and things, they are still there.
I spend a lot of time with animals. And, I spend a lot of time with other people who spend a lot of time with animals. Some of these animal people don't like other people very much. They would prefer to AVOID people and just be with animals. There are lots of women I know who would prefer to AVOID relationships with men, because they are just too much trouble.
Everyone who knows me or who reads my blog knows how much I love animals, and yet I know that if I did not allow people-- men, women, children, friends, colleagues, family members, lovers, neighbors into my life there would be a huge void. Because sometimes AVOIDANCE creates A VOID or makes the one that's there even bigger.
I'm making a commitment to fill my void; I'm making a commitment to AVOID AVOIDANCE; I'm making a commitment to engage with myself and with others in my life. YIKES! Maybe that's why I didn't want to write about AVOID.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Thursday, January 7, 2010
BENCH
The word for today is BENCH. A BENCH is something I don't think about much, don't notice, until I do, and then they are everywhere--in my local park, along the lakefront, on sale at the local nursery and landscape store. A BENCH is a simple structure that supports someone who is sitting, but it is not a place where one would get too comfortable or stay very long. Most BENCHES are designed so that you cannot sleep on them. BENCHES can also be found in stadiums, but if you are in a church they are called pews.
In the BCS football game on television right now the freshman quarterback for the Texas Longhorns was called off the BENCH because the regular quarterback got injured. While athletes do not want to be BENCHED, lawyers are honored when elevated to the BENCH. In dog shows, I just learned, the platform that holds the animal for exhibition is called a BENCH.
Sometimes BENCHES are in idyllic settings or offer stunning views. Often BENCHES are donated by families or friends in memory of a loved one who enjoyed that particular setting or view. I make it a practice to read the name(s) on all the BENCHES I sit on. My neighbor Eli pointed out the bench in our local park. It's dedicated to my friend's mother, he told me, she died from breast cancer. It's different sitting on that BENCH now. With that knowledge I have more reverence for the BENCH. I have more reverence for my life.
When I was in Maine recently my friend Kathy told me that a BENCH was dedicated to our friend (her partner) John, who died two years ago. John was not the kind of man who sat on a bench--he walked, swam, sailed, hiked, camped. John's entire life was an adventure. I met John during the years that I walked my dog Rosie along the Eastern Promenade every morning. He would be walking along appreciating the trees or the clouds or picking up litter. Once we became friends, we drove his truck to the ocean, cooked dinner in the back of the cab, drank a glass of wine, played Scrabble and watched the sun set. We paddled his canoe out to his sailboat and toured the islands in Casco Bay. We watched the movie Seabiscuit together at his house one New Year's Eve when I thought I was going to lose my mind. I will never forget his kindness.
Here in Evanston I have another friend with whom I walk frequently. We walk along the lakefront from southern Evanston up to the Northwestern campus, where there is a point that looks up toward Grosse Point Lighthouse. This is where we take a break. I lay down on the grass and relax; he does yoga stretches. There is no BENCH at this spot. It helps the spot feel less tamed, more private. I don't mind the feeling of the ground when it is hard and dry or wet and damp.
John's BENCH is near the picnic table about three-quarters of the way down the hill, Kathy told me. I didn't have time to see it during my visit. A BENCH is no substitute for a man; a BENCH is no substitute for solid ground. Still, I hope that those who come upon John's BENCH read the dedication, and either learn about or remember someone who loved the Eastern Prom and life and his friends very, very much. Funny how a BENCH can make me think about how much I miss him.
In the BCS football game on television right now the freshman quarterback for the Texas Longhorns was called off the BENCH because the regular quarterback got injured. While athletes do not want to be BENCHED, lawyers are honored when elevated to the BENCH. In dog shows, I just learned, the platform that holds the animal for exhibition is called a BENCH.
Sometimes BENCHES are in idyllic settings or offer stunning views. Often BENCHES are donated by families or friends in memory of a loved one who enjoyed that particular setting or view. I make it a practice to read the name(s) on all the BENCHES I sit on. My neighbor Eli pointed out the bench in our local park. It's dedicated to my friend's mother, he told me, she died from breast cancer. It's different sitting on that BENCH now. With that knowledge I have more reverence for the BENCH. I have more reverence for my life.
When I was in Maine recently my friend Kathy told me that a BENCH was dedicated to our friend (her partner) John, who died two years ago. John was not the kind of man who sat on a bench--he walked, swam, sailed, hiked, camped. John's entire life was an adventure. I met John during the years that I walked my dog Rosie along the Eastern Promenade every morning. He would be walking along appreciating the trees or the clouds or picking up litter. Once we became friends, we drove his truck to the ocean, cooked dinner in the back of the cab, drank a glass of wine, played Scrabble and watched the sun set. We paddled his canoe out to his sailboat and toured the islands in Casco Bay. We watched the movie Seabiscuit together at his house one New Year's Eve when I thought I was going to lose my mind. I will never forget his kindness.
Here in Evanston I have another friend with whom I walk frequently. We walk along the lakefront from southern Evanston up to the Northwestern campus, where there is a point that looks up toward Grosse Point Lighthouse. This is where we take a break. I lay down on the grass and relax; he does yoga stretches. There is no BENCH at this spot. It helps the spot feel less tamed, more private. I don't mind the feeling of the ground when it is hard and dry or wet and damp.
John's BENCH is near the picnic table about three-quarters of the way down the hill, Kathy told me. I didn't have time to see it during my visit. A BENCH is no substitute for a man; a BENCH is no substitute for solid ground. Still, I hope that those who come upon John's BENCH read the dedication, and either learn about or remember someone who loved the Eastern Prom and life and his friends very, very much. Funny how a BENCH can make me think about how much I miss him.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Over
The word for today is OVER. It ain't OVER til the fat lady sings; OVER and OVER crimson and clover; think it OVER; turn it OVER; roll over; get OVER it; I'll have my eggs OVER easy.
I thought of the word OVER when I was walking Basker this afternoon. Basker lives OVER on Michigan Ave. on the other side of Sheridan Rd. I go OVER to Basker's around one o'clock each week day. I can't get OVER that I have created this new life--walking and boarding dogs. It doesn't quite fit the image of the OVERachiever I was supposed to be. But those days, of trying to be an OVERachiever, are OVER. Instead I walk dogs and think about words. I thought about Meryl Streep portraying Julia Child trying to flip OVER an omelette.
The dictionary has OVER fifty entries defining OVER. OVER can mean to be above something such as a speed limit or a certain age; OVER can mean do to something while in the midst of another activity such as reading the paper OVER breakfast or making plans OVER a drink. Sometimes we talk OVER the telephone; other times we fly OVER many states to visit a friend who lives in another place.
I read in a friend's blog that she thought she would never get OVER the death of her three-day old son. Her son died more than twenty-five years ago; though she did not get OVER her child's death, she did have more children, she changed careers, partners; she got on with her life; her own life was not OVER.
OVER time, I have gotten OVER experiences that I did not think I would survive. On the other hand, some problems I encounter OVER and OVER. One of the beautiful and comforting things about getting older is developing perspective. OVER time I will get OVER "it"; I will get through to another side.
P.S. I know a lot of folk who listened to this song OVER and OVER....Enjoy the "oldster" version.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3C4HQQSz-K8
I thought of the word OVER when I was walking Basker this afternoon. Basker lives OVER on Michigan Ave. on the other side of Sheridan Rd. I go OVER to Basker's around one o'clock each week day. I can't get OVER that I have created this new life--walking and boarding dogs. It doesn't quite fit the image of the OVERachiever I was supposed to be. But those days, of trying to be an OVERachiever, are OVER. Instead I walk dogs and think about words. I thought about Meryl Streep portraying Julia Child trying to flip OVER an omelette.
The dictionary has OVER fifty entries defining OVER. OVER can mean to be above something such as a speed limit or a certain age; OVER can mean do to something while in the midst of another activity such as reading the paper OVER breakfast or making plans OVER a drink. Sometimes we talk OVER the telephone; other times we fly OVER many states to visit a friend who lives in another place.
I read in a friend's blog that she thought she would never get OVER the death of her three-day old son. Her son died more than twenty-five years ago; though she did not get OVER her child's death, she did have more children, she changed careers, partners; she got on with her life; her own life was not OVER.
OVER time, I have gotten OVER experiences that I did not think I would survive. On the other hand, some problems I encounter OVER and OVER. One of the beautiful and comforting things about getting older is developing perspective. OVER time I will get OVER "it"; I will get through to another side.
P.S. I know a lot of folk who listened to this song OVER and OVER....Enjoy the "oldster" version.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3C4HQQSz-K8
Monday, January 4, 2010
END
The word for today is END. It may seem strange to write about the END at the beginning of the year, but sometimes to get on with the new, other things need to END.
The END can mean the part of a table that is the extreme edge of it. If you don't get along with someone it is a good idea to sit at the other END of the table from them. I might be at the END of my rope or my wits END. Old movies rolled until the credits said THE END; my childhood storybooks also said THE END when there was no more story to tell. Some ENDINGS are happy; some are not.
Sometimes things END and no one tells you. Sometimes ENDINGS come by surprise without warning. All of a sudden I find myself at the END of a roll of toilet paper. Car accidents and sudden illnesses END lives; relationships END. Some ENDS are clean breaks and others go on and on, seemingly without END. Seasons END; semesters END; jobs END, but war and poverty and suffering never seem to END. There is a position in football called a tight END, the position farthest from the center. When the game is over one may wonder, to what END?
When I hike I want to walk to the END of the trail. Some people get on a train or a bus and ride all the way until the END of the line. In these cases the END is simply a marker, a termination point. Get off the train or the bus and keep walking. There is no END to what one can say about the word END.
Rosie and I are coming to the END of over twenty consecutive days of dog guests at Amy & Rosie's B&B. We are tired, ready for our nonstop caregiving to END so we can rest and begin again.
To what END am I writing this? I am writing this to avoid feeling sad, and at the same time to acknowledge, the END of yet another brief romance. I am writing this to avoid feeling anticipatory grief about the likely END of my cat Albert's life.
Albert has been on this earth for almost twenty years. I have been watching him lose weight and struggle to urinate and defecate. I know THE END is near, but I don't know when it will come. I will have to wait and see whether or not this time -- today, this week, this month -- is actually THE END.
The END can mean the part of a table that is the extreme edge of it. If you don't get along with someone it is a good idea to sit at the other END of the table from them. I might be at the END of my rope or my wits END. Old movies rolled until the credits said THE END; my childhood storybooks also said THE END when there was no more story to tell. Some ENDINGS are happy; some are not.
Sometimes things END and no one tells you. Sometimes ENDINGS come by surprise without warning. All of a sudden I find myself at the END of a roll of toilet paper. Car accidents and sudden illnesses END lives; relationships END. Some ENDS are clean breaks and others go on and on, seemingly without END. Seasons END; semesters END; jobs END, but war and poverty and suffering never seem to END. There is a position in football called a tight END, the position farthest from the center. When the game is over one may wonder, to what END?
When I hike I want to walk to the END of the trail. Some people get on a train or a bus and ride all the way until the END of the line. In these cases the END is simply a marker, a termination point. Get off the train or the bus and keep walking. There is no END to what one can say about the word END.
Rosie and I are coming to the END of over twenty consecutive days of dog guests at Amy & Rosie's B&B. We are tired, ready for our nonstop caregiving to END so we can rest and begin again.
To what END am I writing this? I am writing this to avoid feeling sad, and at the same time to acknowledge, the END of yet another brief romance. I am writing this to avoid feeling anticipatory grief about the likely END of my cat Albert's life.
Albert has been on this earth for almost twenty years. I have been watching him lose weight and struggle to urinate and defecate. I know THE END is near, but I don't know when it will come. I will have to wait and see whether or not this time -- today, this week, this month -- is actually THE END.
I have returned to this blog because it is one of the few things in life I can control. I can say I have no more to say tonight. I can say I have come to THE END.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
MATTER
The word for today is MATTER. As in "what's the MATTER," or "does it really MATTER." I am keeping things simple here, due to post-holiday exhaustion, so I will not tackle the type of MATTER that is smaller than an atom.
That type of MATTER does not MATTER in this MATTER.
The concept of MATTER that I'm interested in may be defined as a noun, meaning something that is troubling, or it may be defined as a verb, meaning to be of importance, to signify. But if something MATTERS can't it MATTER in a good way? No one ever says "what's the MATTER" when you're smiling or laughing. That remark is only evoked by worry or concern, by pensiveness or silence. It is completely different than asking "what's up," "what's going on," "what's so funny" or "what's going on."
This morning I wondered if it MATTERED whether the temperature outside was -1 or +1. Well it did MATTER to me, it made a psychological difference. Sometimes my inquiry continues, does it MATTER whether I look at the temperature on the computer or on an actual thermometer outside? Isn't it how I feel when I go outside, isn't it what I experience that MATTERS?
I wonder about what MATTERS when there is too much MATTER in my mind. Does it MATTER if I do the dishes before I go to sleep; does it MATTER if I wash my hair in the morning; does it matter if I put on lipstick before I go the dog park or into the Starbucks. Does it MATTER whether I put on both socks before I put on my shoes, or put on one sock and then one shoe, etc., etc...Some of these inquiries are extremely ridiculous.
On the other hand, does it MATTER if I step on the brakes or on the gas at a red light. YES!!! Does it MATTER if I pay the rent? YES!!! Does it MATTER if I eat every day? YES!!! Does it MATTER if I give and receive love in this world. YES!!!
Maybe, in the spirit of the New Year, I will make a commitment to let go of who and what do not MATTER in my life and to focus on the people and things that do MATTER.
Does getting enough sleep MATTER. YES!!! Good night everyone. You all do MATTER to me.
That type of MATTER does not MATTER in this MATTER.
The concept of MATTER that I'm interested in may be defined as a noun, meaning something that is troubling, or it may be defined as a verb, meaning to be of importance, to signify. But if something MATTERS can't it MATTER in a good way? No one ever says "what's the MATTER" when you're smiling or laughing. That remark is only evoked by worry or concern, by pensiveness or silence. It is completely different than asking "what's up," "what's going on," "what's so funny" or "what's going on."
This morning I wondered if it MATTERED whether the temperature outside was -1 or +1. Well it did MATTER to me, it made a psychological difference. Sometimes my inquiry continues, does it MATTER whether I look at the temperature on the computer or on an actual thermometer outside? Isn't it how I feel when I go outside, isn't it what I experience that MATTERS?
I wonder about what MATTERS when there is too much MATTER in my mind. Does it MATTER if I do the dishes before I go to sleep; does it MATTER if I wash my hair in the morning; does it matter if I put on lipstick before I go the dog park or into the Starbucks. Does it MATTER whether I put on both socks before I put on my shoes, or put on one sock and then one shoe, etc., etc...Some of these inquiries are extremely ridiculous.
On the other hand, does it MATTER if I step on the brakes or on the gas at a red light. YES!!! Does it MATTER if I pay the rent? YES!!! Does it MATTER if I eat every day? YES!!! Does it MATTER if I give and receive love in this world. YES!!!
Maybe, in the spirit of the New Year, I will make a commitment to let go of who and what do not MATTER in my life and to focus on the people and things that do MATTER.
Does getting enough sleep MATTER. YES!!! Good night everyone. You all do MATTER to me.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
HARAMAKI
The word for today is HARAMAKI. It is the first word I have written about that is not, as far as I know, in an English dictionary.
Until a few weeks ago I did not know that HARAMAKI already existed. I was very excited because I thought I had invented something. I thought I had invented what I would have called a tummy scarf.
You see I live in Chicago and I am a dog walker. I am also a middle-aged woman who is determined not to look frumpy, which means I wear relatively low cut jeans and jackets that come to my hips. Oh a cold draft can creep in that small gap between my jeans and my jacket. (Especially at the small of my back.) One day I took a fleece scarf, wrapped it around my waist, secured it like a bath towel, and then zipped up my jacket--it worked great! I felt so warm, so secure. Why hasn't anyone created this I thought. Well....
Thanks to Google I discovered that tummy warmers were first created in the Samurai period in Japan. It turns out that now they are a "fashion" item in Japan, and hip Americans have imported them. And, though they come in many designs for tweens, teens and twentysomethings, some HARAMAKI are simply solid-colored fleece, for oldsters like me, who just want to keep warm. (I'd like to give a plug to www.haramakilove.com.)
Growing up in the Northeast I learned to wear a hat and gloves, warm socks and boots, and a scarf around my neck. When I lived in Maine, I learned to love long underwear from L.L. Beans. My friends and I joked about old men who didn't take off their long underwear from October through May, though behind the joking I really understood why.
During my time in Maine I learned a lot about macrobiotics, acupuncture and Eastern medicine. I learned that the kidneys are vital to my life's essence and energy. I learned that the dark circles I have always had under my eyes could be due to kidney deficiency (or my heritage as an Ashkenazi Jew).
Here is a rather beautiful excerpt that I just found about the kidneys.
From Zhuang Yuanchen, Shujuzi: Inner Chapters (Shujuzi Neipian), Ming Dynasty:http://www.itmonline.org/5organs/kidney.htm
The kidney is the ocean of the human body. Since oceans are situated on a lower level than the earth's streams and rivers, they draw every one of them to form one large body of water. Oceans may appear vast and inexhaustible, yet they still drain off some of their seemingly unlimited supply. One way of drainage is called 'going to ruins,' meaning the water drains down into the earth from where it will not return. The other way of drainage is called 'dwelling with the stars,' meaning the water steams toward the sky and later rains down to earth again, where it dissipates into rivers and streams and eventually returns to the ocean. This is the water that circulates between heaven and earth, always striving to keep an equilibrium between the extreme states of drought and flooding.
Though I no longer live near the ocean, I do live near Lake Michigan. On cold January mornings, when the air temperature is in the single digits, I see the water steaming towards the sky. I did not know, until I read the passage above, that this is part of the EQUILIBRIUM that I search for between my extreme states of despair and euphoria. When I walk the dogs by the lake each morning my EQUILIBRIUM is rignt in front of me. I have a sense that the animals know this. I am grateful that they bring me closer to the connection between the earth, the water and the sky. It would be so much harder to find the connection, to find EQUILIBRIUM, without them.
Until a few weeks ago I did not know that HARAMAKI already existed. I was very excited because I thought I had invented something. I thought I had invented what I would have called a tummy scarf.
You see I live in Chicago and I am a dog walker. I am also a middle-aged woman who is determined not to look frumpy, which means I wear relatively low cut jeans and jackets that come to my hips. Oh a cold draft can creep in that small gap between my jeans and my jacket. (Especially at the small of my back.) One day I took a fleece scarf, wrapped it around my waist, secured it like a bath towel, and then zipped up my jacket--it worked great! I felt so warm, so secure. Why hasn't anyone created this I thought. Well....
Thanks to Google I discovered that tummy warmers were first created in the Samurai period in Japan. It turns out that now they are a "fashion" item in Japan, and hip Americans have imported them. And, though they come in many designs for tweens, teens and twentysomethings, some HARAMAKI are simply solid-colored fleece, for oldsters like me, who just want to keep warm. (I'd like to give a plug to www.haramakilove.com.)
Growing up in the Northeast I learned to wear a hat and gloves, warm socks and boots, and a scarf around my neck. When I lived in Maine, I learned to love long underwear from L.L. Beans. My friends and I joked about old men who didn't take off their long underwear from October through May, though behind the joking I really understood why.
During my time in Maine I learned a lot about macrobiotics, acupuncture and Eastern medicine. I learned that the kidneys are vital to my life's essence and energy. I learned that the dark circles I have always had under my eyes could be due to kidney deficiency (or my heritage as an Ashkenazi Jew).
Here is a rather beautiful excerpt that I just found about the kidneys.
From Zhuang Yuanchen, Shujuzi: Inner Chapters (Shujuzi Neipian), Ming Dynasty:http://www.itmonline.org/5organs/kidney.htm
The kidney is the ocean of the human body. Since oceans are situated on a lower level than the earth's streams and rivers, they draw every one of them to form one large body of water. Oceans may appear vast and inexhaustible, yet they still drain off some of their seemingly unlimited supply. One way of drainage is called 'going to ruins,' meaning the water drains down into the earth from where it will not return. The other way of drainage is called 'dwelling with the stars,' meaning the water steams toward the sky and later rains down to earth again, where it dissipates into rivers and streams and eventually returns to the ocean. This is the water that circulates between heaven and earth, always striving to keep an equilibrium between the extreme states of drought and flooding.
Though I no longer live near the ocean, I do live near Lake Michigan. On cold January mornings, when the air temperature is in the single digits, I see the water steaming towards the sky. I did not know, until I read the passage above, that this is part of the EQUILIBRIUM that I search for between my extreme states of despair and euphoria. When I walk the dogs by the lake each morning my EQUILIBRIUM is rignt in front of me. I have a sense that the animals know this. I am grateful that they bring me closer to the connection between the earth, the water and the sky. It would be so much harder to find the connection, to find EQUILIBRIUM, without them.
Friday, January 1, 2010
EQUILIBRIUM
The word for today is EQUILIBRIUM. It could be the word for the year or even for my whole life. I have been thinking about this word for a long time; I have been wanting to find and experience EQUILIBRIUM for a long time.
When I think of EQUILIBRIUM I think of balance, of all parts being equal and in harmony. I think of myself as a child (young or grown) trying to find the place on a seesaw where I could sit and still have both ends equidistant from the ground. It's hard to do that all alone; you need someone on the other end to move forward and back, you need someone to balance with you. I remember trying to balance by myself by pushing off just a little with the balls of my feet, going up with the seesaw and then finding that short precious moment of balance, but without someone on the other side, I always fell. If I had pushed off too hard, I returned to the ground with a jolt; if I had pushed off softly I had a gentle return.
I do not think that EQUILIBRIUM includes euphoria or despair even if you mix in equal parts of each. EQUILIBRIUM would push euphoria or despair away repelling them like a reverse magnet.
My dictionary defines EQUILIBRIUM as a state of rest of balance due to the equal action of opposing forces; mental or emotional balance; equanimity, which is another word that sounds calm and peaceful.
I think that is all I have to say about EQUILIBRIUM right now. Writing in this blog gives me EQUILIBRIUM. I have missed it.
When I think of EQUILIBRIUM I think of balance, of all parts being equal and in harmony. I think of myself as a child (young or grown) trying to find the place on a seesaw where I could sit and still have both ends equidistant from the ground. It's hard to do that all alone; you need someone on the other end to move forward and back, you need someone to balance with you. I remember trying to balance by myself by pushing off just a little with the balls of my feet, going up with the seesaw and then finding that short precious moment of balance, but without someone on the other side, I always fell. If I had pushed off too hard, I returned to the ground with a jolt; if I had pushed off softly I had a gentle return.
I do not think that EQUILIBRIUM includes euphoria or despair even if you mix in equal parts of each. EQUILIBRIUM would push euphoria or despair away repelling them like a reverse magnet.
My dictionary defines EQUILIBRIUM as a state of rest of balance due to the equal action of opposing forces; mental or emotional balance; equanimity, which is another word that sounds calm and peaceful.
I think that is all I have to say about EQUILIBRIUM right now. Writing in this blog gives me EQUILIBRIUM. I have missed it.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
FLOAT
The word for today is FLOAT. FLOAT can be a noun or a verb. We can decorate a FLOAT and then ride it in a parade. We can drink a root beer FLOAT at an old-fashioned soda fountain. We can FLOAT down a river on a raft or a FLOAT. Leaves FLOAT through the air, people FLOAT in water, angels (if you believe in them) FLOAT on clouds.
When we FLOAT something is supporting us, we do not have to work for or at it. When I was in high school in the high pressure, high performance suburbs of NYC, I used to anticipate the first time I could go the beach, to the ocean--the first time I could FLOAT. I would walk from one classroom to another or study for an exam annd imagine my first immersion in water, the weightlessness, the absolute lack of pressure, the easing of all my distress and worry.
I have lived near the water most of my life. Now, as a Midwestern resident for the first time, after 45 years on the East Coast, I live 1/2 block from Lake Michigan. I can walk into the lake, raise my legs, throw back my body and FLOAT. The fresh water does not have the same buoyancy, the vitality and energy of the ocean, but it does support me, it does relieve me. For a few moments I have no worries, only total trust in what lies beneath me.
When I was a girl, before high school, before grade school even--I remember being carried into the water by my father. My father was and is a relatively big man, 6 ft. tall, strong, capable. Maybe I was 3 or 4 maybe I could swim, maybe not, but he would hold me in the ocean, teach me how to float, lift me above the waves, protect me from the imaginary sharks. I have never felt either safer or more exhilarated.
There is a man who lives in my neighborhood, a relatively big man, 6 ft. tall, strong and capable (at least in my imagination). Sometimes we meet at 8:30 or 9 at night, after the lifeguards have gone off duty, after the sun worshippers have gone home, the moms have made dinner,the children have been tucked in. We dive into the water, we swim, I jump up and wrap my legs around him, he puts his arms around me. I recognize a feeling of primal safety. There is a lot I do not understand about my friendship with this man, but I do understand this feeling. It is very basic, very simple. It is a feeling that I've been looking for, either consciously or unconsciously, all my life.
I have also been wondering about the difference between floating and drifting. Floating sounds and feels safe; drifting implies a directionless danger. I could drift into the rapids, I could drift into trouble, I could drift away--and maybe no one would notice or no one would find me. But when I float there is no need to go anywhere to do anything, no need to worry. For that moment I am perfect, I am taken care of. I am home with nature. I am light, I am free.
When we FLOAT something is supporting us, we do not have to work for or at it. When I was in high school in the high pressure, high performance suburbs of NYC, I used to anticipate the first time I could go the beach, to the ocean--the first time I could FLOAT. I would walk from one classroom to another or study for an exam annd imagine my first immersion in water, the weightlessness, the absolute lack of pressure, the easing of all my distress and worry.
I have lived near the water most of my life. Now, as a Midwestern resident for the first time, after 45 years on the East Coast, I live 1/2 block from Lake Michigan. I can walk into the lake, raise my legs, throw back my body and FLOAT. The fresh water does not have the same buoyancy, the vitality and energy of the ocean, but it does support me, it does relieve me. For a few moments I have no worries, only total trust in what lies beneath me.
When I was a girl, before high school, before grade school even--I remember being carried into the water by my father. My father was and is a relatively big man, 6 ft. tall, strong, capable. Maybe I was 3 or 4 maybe I could swim, maybe not, but he would hold me in the ocean, teach me how to float, lift me above the waves, protect me from the imaginary sharks. I have never felt either safer or more exhilarated.
There is a man who lives in my neighborhood, a relatively big man, 6 ft. tall, strong and capable (at least in my imagination). Sometimes we meet at 8:30 or 9 at night, after the lifeguards have gone off duty, after the sun worshippers have gone home, the moms have made dinner,the children have been tucked in. We dive into the water, we swim, I jump up and wrap my legs around him, he puts his arms around me. I recognize a feeling of primal safety. There is a lot I do not understand about my friendship with this man, but I do understand this feeling. It is very basic, very simple. It is a feeling that I've been looking for, either consciously or unconsciously, all my life.
I have also been wondering about the difference between floating and drifting. Floating sounds and feels safe; drifting implies a directionless danger. I could drift into the rapids, I could drift into trouble, I could drift away--and maybe no one would notice or no one would find me. But when I float there is no need to go anywhere to do anything, no need to worry. For that moment I am perfect, I am taken care of. I am home with nature. I am light, I am free.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Teeth
The word for today is TEETH. I think about TEETH a lot. I have dreams in which my TEETH are falling out. When I wake up they are all still there. I have worn braces two times in my life, once as an a child and once as an adult. Now I wear a retainer every night so my "fang" does not reappear.
TEETH are the hard individual masses attached to our gums that help us bite and chew food. When I lived in Maine, I used to joke with my girlfriends that I just wanted to go out with a guy who has his own TEETH. My dog has TEETH but she does not bite. When she was a puppy I put my fingers in her mouth and rubbed her gums, so she would get used to the feel of someone's hands in her mouth, so she would let me brush her TEETH or reach in and grab a piece of food or something else that wasn't supposed to be in there. Sometimes I put my fingers in a puppy's mouth; lots of puppies have really sharp TEETH.
When babies or animals are TEETHing they need to grind the growing masses against something hard to ease their pain. Babies have pacifiers, TEETHing rings, non-toxic chew toys, thumbs (not so good); animals get bones, chew toys. They find wooden legs that hold up tables or chairs, shoes and other items that have their owners' scent (not so good). They need something to work with so the tooth can emerge from the gum, come into its own and do its job. The tooth needs some kind of resistance to ease its pain. The tooth needs to grow up (or down as the case may be).
My father is getting six new TEETH, dental implants on the bottom gum. He has little TEETH, anything little (or not "normal" sized) is seen as a defect in my family. It's costing him lots of money, and time and aggravation and discomfort, to get these implants. The small ground down TEETH were extracted and a temporary bridge was put in. A couple of months later the gums were prepared to accept the implants, but he still has to wear the temporary bridge for another four months. My father is 80 years old. "I don't know if he would've done this if he knew how involved it was," my mother tells me on the phone. "The whole process is going to take almost a year." But I can't imagine my father with false TEETH; I can't imagine him without TEETH. I can't imagine him without power or competence.
What is it that gives someone, something, an action, an idea TEETH. If an idea has legs, it will travel and move forward, but if an idea has TEETH it has power, grip, it will take hold, it will cut through nonsense. I want my life to have TEETH. I want to be strong and stable; I want to cut through all the nonsense, taste it, digest it, and then be rid of it. I want to cleanse my palate with a little sorbet and then be ready for the next course.
TEETH are the hard individual masses attached to our gums that help us bite and chew food. When I lived in Maine, I used to joke with my girlfriends that I just wanted to go out with a guy who has his own TEETH. My dog has TEETH but she does not bite. When she was a puppy I put my fingers in her mouth and rubbed her gums, so she would get used to the feel of someone's hands in her mouth, so she would let me brush her TEETH or reach in and grab a piece of food or something else that wasn't supposed to be in there. Sometimes I put my fingers in a puppy's mouth; lots of puppies have really sharp TEETH.
When babies or animals are TEETHing they need to grind the growing masses against something hard to ease their pain. Babies have pacifiers, TEETHing rings, non-toxic chew toys, thumbs (not so good); animals get bones, chew toys. They find wooden legs that hold up tables or chairs, shoes and other items that have their owners' scent (not so good). They need something to work with so the tooth can emerge from the gum, come into its own and do its job. The tooth needs some kind of resistance to ease its pain. The tooth needs to grow up (or down as the case may be).
My father is getting six new TEETH, dental implants on the bottom gum. He has little TEETH, anything little (or not "normal" sized) is seen as a defect in my family. It's costing him lots of money, and time and aggravation and discomfort, to get these implants. The small ground down TEETH were extracted and a temporary bridge was put in. A couple of months later the gums were prepared to accept the implants, but he still has to wear the temporary bridge for another four months. My father is 80 years old. "I don't know if he would've done this if he knew how involved it was," my mother tells me on the phone. "The whole process is going to take almost a year." But I can't imagine my father with false TEETH; I can't imagine him without TEETH. I can't imagine him without power or competence.
What is it that gives someone, something, an action, an idea TEETH. If an idea has legs, it will travel and move forward, but if an idea has TEETH it has power, grip, it will take hold, it will cut through nonsense. I want my life to have TEETH. I want to be strong and stable; I want to cut through all the nonsense, taste it, digest it, and then be rid of it. I want to cleanse my palate with a little sorbet and then be ready for the next course.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Arms
The word for today is ARMS, the kind you lift with, reach with, hold with, hug with, the kind that go in sleeves, that have pecs, triceps, biceps, or flab. An arm is also a part of a chair, a part of an organization or military operation. As a verb ARMS means to provide with weapons. Ever since nuclear weapons were developed, countries have been trying to win or defuse the ARMS race. In the Constitution the second amendment of the Bill of Rights reads: A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear ARMS, shall not be infringed.
I do not intend to write about the second amendment. I do though find it curious that the introductory phrase concerning a well regulated Militia, is so often, and so conveniently, forgotten, by those who advocate gun rights. When I think of the right to bear arms, I prefer to think of the right to BEAR ARMS, meaning everyone should be able to have big arms covered with brown fur that end in big padded paws. We could have bumper stickers that say "I believe in the right to BEAR ARMS" with a picture of a person holding a shotgun or automatic weapon in their big brown hairy paws! Of course one would have to decide if he or she believed in the right to black bear ARMS, brown bear ARMS, or polar bear ARMS.
So let's get back to the arms that are part of our bodies. When I was growing up I had long, gangly arms. My arms were so long that I had trouble finding jackets or blazers with sleeves that went down to my wrists. I didn't like to wear sleeveless tops. I thought my arms looked like fragile sticks protruding from an overgrown plant. Until just a few years ago, I preferred my arms to be covered up by fabric. I was ashamed of how long they were.
Now that I'm 50, I like my ARMS. My ARMS bear no flab, no shaking curdled skin unlike my thighs, sigh.. My long arms help me reach up high, they help me hold on tight, they help me hug and show affection. A part of me that I thought was a liability is really an asset. I am glad I have the right to bear my bare ARMS.
I do not intend to write about the second amendment. I do though find it curious that the introductory phrase concerning a well regulated Militia, is so often, and so conveniently, forgotten, by those who advocate gun rights. When I think of the right to bear arms, I prefer to think of the right to BEAR ARMS, meaning everyone should be able to have big arms covered with brown fur that end in big padded paws. We could have bumper stickers that say "I believe in the right to BEAR ARMS" with a picture of a person holding a shotgun or automatic weapon in their big brown hairy paws! Of course one would have to decide if he or she believed in the right to black bear ARMS, brown bear ARMS, or polar bear ARMS.
So let's get back to the arms that are part of our bodies. When I was growing up I had long, gangly arms. My arms were so long that I had trouble finding jackets or blazers with sleeves that went down to my wrists. I didn't like to wear sleeveless tops. I thought my arms looked like fragile sticks protruding from an overgrown plant. Until just a few years ago, I preferred my arms to be covered up by fabric. I was ashamed of how long they were.
Now that I'm 50, I like my ARMS. My ARMS bear no flab, no shaking curdled skin unlike my thighs, sigh.. My long arms help me reach up high, they help me hold on tight, they help me hug and show affection. A part of me that I thought was a liability is really an asset. I am glad I have the right to bear my bare ARMS.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Lap
The word for today is LAP. I thought I'd try a short, simple word since some of the words lately have been rather complex. Then, I looked up the definition of LAP in the dictionary. There is nothing simple about the word LAP.
There is the LAP that is part of the body from the waist to the knees (but only when someone is sitting down); there is the LAP that one runs on a track or swims in a pool; there is the LAP of a journey that has many stages; there is the LAP that occurs when an animal drinks water with its tongue; there is the LAP(ping) of waves against the rocks; there are parts of graphs or charts or actual pieces of fabric that (over)LAP one another.
The human LAP only exists when a person is sitting down. I can't think of another part of the body quite like that. An arm is an arm, a leg, a leg. We can cradle a baby by folding our arms, but we only have a lap when our thighs are perpendicular to our torsos.
Some dogs are called LAP dogs because of their size and propensity to sit in the LAP of a human. Though cats are more likely to sit in your lap, there is not a word LAP cat. Some computers are laptops. But we don't sit the laptops on our laps. Usually these computers sit on desks or on specially designed lapboards. When they were first designed they were considered small because they were smaller than desktop computers, but now there are notebook computers (the size of a notebook), and PDAs, personal assistive devices, which are much, much smaller than actual human personal assistants.
LAP is a word that makes me think of comfort. I do not have children, but there is nothing that feels as warm and safe as holding a toddler in my lap. Their body fits his or her 90 degrees atop my 90 degrees, I take my arms and fold them around the child. And for a short moment, we are both safe. Love and human kindness can LAP across our souls bringing the peace we feel when we hear water LAP the shore.
There is the LAP that is part of the body from the waist to the knees (but only when someone is sitting down); there is the LAP that one runs on a track or swims in a pool; there is the LAP of a journey that has many stages; there is the LAP that occurs when an animal drinks water with its tongue; there is the LAP(ping) of waves against the rocks; there are parts of graphs or charts or actual pieces of fabric that (over)LAP one another.
The human LAP only exists when a person is sitting down. I can't think of another part of the body quite like that. An arm is an arm, a leg, a leg. We can cradle a baby by folding our arms, but we only have a lap when our thighs are perpendicular to our torsos.
Some dogs are called LAP dogs because of their size and propensity to sit in the LAP of a human. Though cats are more likely to sit in your lap, there is not a word LAP cat. Some computers are laptops. But we don't sit the laptops on our laps. Usually these computers sit on desks or on specially designed lapboards. When they were first designed they were considered small because they were smaller than desktop computers, but now there are notebook computers (the size of a notebook), and PDAs, personal assistive devices, which are much, much smaller than actual human personal assistants.
LAP is a word that makes me think of comfort. I do not have children, but there is nothing that feels as warm and safe as holding a toddler in my lap. Their body fits his or her 90 degrees atop my 90 degrees, I take my arms and fold them around the child. And for a short moment, we are both safe. Love and human kindness can LAP across our souls bringing the peace we feel when we hear water LAP the shore.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Respect
The word for today is RESPECT. Not the R-E-S-P-E-C-T kind, not the angry, you owe me kind, but the kind that comes from somewhere deep inside, the kind you don't have to ask for, the kind you can't stop. The verb RESPECT means "to hold in esteem or honor," "to show regard or consideration for," "to refrain from intruding upon or interfering with."
I'm writing about RESPECT because I just watched the tribute to Michael Jackson that was held at the Staples Center today. Since his death, and often during his life, Michael Jackson has been the subject of 24-hour cable news fests. His life has been examined in ways, that, thank God, most of our lives will never be. Along with the great RESPECT we as a populace had for his talent, for his ability to perform, we collectively had no RESPECT for his privacy, for the part of him that he did not want to give over to the public.
In the days since his death I have not been compelled to write about Michael Jackson. I was not attuned to his incredible success in the 80s. Sure I liked his music, sure I saw some of the groundbreaking videos on MTV, but his persona, his pyrotechnics, his over the topness, never resonated with me. He became the stuff of tabloids and Entertainment Tonight. He was lost to the currency of serious culture. Until his death.
Since his death, I have begun to wonder why the news of his death hit our collective culture harder than John Lennon's, harder than Jerry Garcia's. It hit on the scale of Elvis's. People cared about who this man was to them. And he was different to everyone except in one key RESPECT. Almost everyone responded to his music with joy. He was an entertainer; he spread joy, and spreading joy is truly work of a higher order.
As I watched and witnessed today, the word that came to mind was respect. His life, his legacy and memory were treated with the utmost RESPECT. He was acknowledged as a man who wanted to use his gifts to bring the healing power of love to the world. I listened to everyone from Rev. Sharpton to Brooke Shields to Magic Johnson to Rev. Martin Luther King III to Congresswoman Sheila Jackson Lee pay homage to the man. I listened to Jennifer Hudson, Stevie Wonder, John Mayer, and his brother Jermaine sing to us because he no longer could.
I just thought of the song "Wanna Be Starting Something." I never paid attention to the lyrics. Here's the last verse:
Lift your head up high
And scream out to the world
I know I am someone
And let the truth unfurl
No one can hurt you now
Because you know what's true
Yes, I believe in me
So you believe in you
After I watched the memorial I went to the coffee shop to write this blog entry. Michael Jackson made me want to start something. I hope he makes you want to start something too.
I'm writing about RESPECT because I just watched the tribute to Michael Jackson that was held at the Staples Center today. Since his death, and often during his life, Michael Jackson has been the subject of 24-hour cable news fests. His life has been examined in ways, that, thank God, most of our lives will never be. Along with the great RESPECT we as a populace had for his talent, for his ability to perform, we collectively had no RESPECT for his privacy, for the part of him that he did not want to give over to the public.
In the days since his death I have not been compelled to write about Michael Jackson. I was not attuned to his incredible success in the 80s. Sure I liked his music, sure I saw some of the groundbreaking videos on MTV, but his persona, his pyrotechnics, his over the topness, never resonated with me. He became the stuff of tabloids and Entertainment Tonight. He was lost to the currency of serious culture. Until his death.
Since his death, I have begun to wonder why the news of his death hit our collective culture harder than John Lennon's, harder than Jerry Garcia's. It hit on the scale of Elvis's. People cared about who this man was to them. And he was different to everyone except in one key RESPECT. Almost everyone responded to his music with joy. He was an entertainer; he spread joy, and spreading joy is truly work of a higher order.
As I watched and witnessed today, the word that came to mind was respect. His life, his legacy and memory were treated with the utmost RESPECT. He was acknowledged as a man who wanted to use his gifts to bring the healing power of love to the world. I listened to everyone from Rev. Sharpton to Brooke Shields to Magic Johnson to Rev. Martin Luther King III to Congresswoman Sheila Jackson Lee pay homage to the man. I listened to Jennifer Hudson, Stevie Wonder, John Mayer, and his brother Jermaine sing to us because he no longer could.
I just thought of the song "Wanna Be Starting Something." I never paid attention to the lyrics. Here's the last verse:
Lift your head up high
And scream out to the world
I know I am someone
And let the truth unfurl
No one can hurt you now
Because you know what's true
Yes, I believe in me
So you believe in you
After I watched the memorial I went to the coffee shop to write this blog entry. Michael Jackson made me want to start something. I hope he makes you want to start something too.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Flashback
The word for today is FLASHBACK. A FLASHBACK can be a device in a story that includes an incident that happened before the present time of the narrative; a FLASHBACK can be a spontaneous hallucination induced by drug use; a FLASHBACK can be a recurring image of an old traumatic experience. The local classic rock station uses the term FLASHBACK to label a chunk of programming devoted to music from a particular year. I'm at the tail end of the baby boom, so the musical FLASHBACKS I listen to go all the way from the late 1960s through the early 1980s. The Beatles to Pearl Jam--that pretty much sums up my reference points for pop music.
Whenever I go into the Whole Foods, the soundtrack is full of musical FLASHBACKS. Their marketing department must figure that customers will buy more products if they're grooving to a particularly fine musical FLASHBACK.
Sometimes I tell people that once upon a time I was a lawyer. Once upon a time I was a lot of different things, but lawyer is a very difficult identity to shed. I remember (a memory, not a FLASHBACK), my father and other relatives telling me that in law school you learn how to think, as if all the other forms of higher education taught something not quite as valuable.
Recently, I met a man who is a trial attorney. He invited me to come to a deposition with him, and out of a combination of curiosity, intrigue and (yes I will admit it) interest in this man, I went. I had not been to a deposition in almost 20 years. I got dressed up in lawyer clothes, heels, pantyhose, a dress and a linen jacket. I heard myself clip clop along the cement sidewalks, trying to keep up with my friend, trying to be with it. We got to the deposition (he was deposing the defendant's expert witness) and he introduced me as his partner, assistant, or colleague (I really cannot remember).
My friend is a middle-aged white man, the opposing attorney was a middle-aged white man, the expert witness was a middle-aged white man. The only other woman in the room was the court reporter. I flashed back to my time as a young associate at an insurance defense firm. I flashed back to all the times I sat in the name partner's office waiting to discuss my research on a case, while he took phone calls from his colleagues and recounted his son's feats as a hockey star at Boston College. I flashed back to the performance review another partner conducted with me in the car as we drove back from a deposition in Boston--the only time he could spare. I flashed back to the horrible degradation I felt, to my inability to function in the male lawyer world, for my inability to know myself, be myself, speak up for myself. All I could think to do was leave. Within two years I did. I left the firm before the firm could ask me to leave. I landed some part-time work with a legal services organization; later I used my skills in social services.
When I am with my lawyer friend I FLASHBACK. I FLASHBACK to a time when I did not know who I was. Then I come back. At the deposition I realized that I am no longer a 30-year-old junior associate; I am a 50-year-old woman, who has had some real accomplishments in the professional world, who has spent an enormous amount of time and energy learning to understand and live my values. I am no longer intimidated by white men in suits.
I am even thinking of taking the bar exam next winter. I'm thinking of how I can use my dormant legal skills to advance my values. I'm thinking of how I can live in the present, move forward, and not be detained by the power of a FLASHBACK.
Whenever I go into the Whole Foods, the soundtrack is full of musical FLASHBACKS. Their marketing department must figure that customers will buy more products if they're grooving to a particularly fine musical FLASHBACK.
Sometimes I tell people that once upon a time I was a lawyer. Once upon a time I was a lot of different things, but lawyer is a very difficult identity to shed. I remember (a memory, not a FLASHBACK), my father and other relatives telling me that in law school you learn how to think, as if all the other forms of higher education taught something not quite as valuable.
Recently, I met a man who is a trial attorney. He invited me to come to a deposition with him, and out of a combination of curiosity, intrigue and (yes I will admit it) interest in this man, I went. I had not been to a deposition in almost 20 years. I got dressed up in lawyer clothes, heels, pantyhose, a dress and a linen jacket. I heard myself clip clop along the cement sidewalks, trying to keep up with my friend, trying to be with it. We got to the deposition (he was deposing the defendant's expert witness) and he introduced me as his partner, assistant, or colleague (I really cannot remember).
My friend is a middle-aged white man, the opposing attorney was a middle-aged white man, the expert witness was a middle-aged white man. The only other woman in the room was the court reporter. I flashed back to my time as a young associate at an insurance defense firm. I flashed back to all the times I sat in the name partner's office waiting to discuss my research on a case, while he took phone calls from his colleagues and recounted his son's feats as a hockey star at Boston College. I flashed back to the performance review another partner conducted with me in the car as we drove back from a deposition in Boston--the only time he could spare. I flashed back to the horrible degradation I felt, to my inability to function in the male lawyer world, for my inability to know myself, be myself, speak up for myself. All I could think to do was leave. Within two years I did. I left the firm before the firm could ask me to leave. I landed some part-time work with a legal services organization; later I used my skills in social services.
When I am with my lawyer friend I FLASHBACK. I FLASHBACK to a time when I did not know who I was. Then I come back. At the deposition I realized that I am no longer a 30-year-old junior associate; I am a 50-year-old woman, who has had some real accomplishments in the professional world, who has spent an enormous amount of time and energy learning to understand and live my values. I am no longer intimidated by white men in suits.
I am even thinking of taking the bar exam next winter. I'm thinking of how I can use my dormant legal skills to advance my values. I'm thinking of how I can live in the present, move forward, and not be detained by the power of a FLASHBACK.
Monday, June 8, 2009
Date
The word for today is DATE. DATE can mean many things, a small dark fruit that grows on a tree, a specific moment in time and space--the time when food will perish, someone will graduate, retire, get married, celebrate his or her birth. A DATE can refer to an appointment between two people, colleagues can have a lunch DATE, Barack and Michelle (our POTUS and FLOTUS) have DATE night. This is the kind of DATE I'm thinking of.
I had a DATE on Saturday night. I knew it was a DATE because the man, who is also a neighbor, kissed me on the cheek and said "I can kiss you because we are on a DATE." When we arrived at the restaurant for dinner he said, "this is our first DATE." We had taken long walks and gone to a baseball game together, but I guess those didn't qualify.
I've gone out to dinner with male friends on weekend nights, but it's been a long time since any one of them specifically called what we were doing a DATE. In fact, I'm more accustomed to my friend who makes it clear to me that we are not on a DATE, we are just two friends having dinner together. Even the men I've known who have been interested in getting physical, didn't want to use the word dating; they were even more emphatic about not using the word relationship.
I had fun on the DATE. The man I went out with isn't like most of the people I spend time with. He's pretty straightforward and uncomplicated; he doesn't analyze or overanalyze his emotions. He said right away, "I'm not looking for anything serious, I'm dating a lot of people."
So now I am challenged. Can I adhere to casual dating etiquette? Since I know I am not the only woman this man is dating, there are lots and lots of things that I will not do with him, there are lots of feelings that I will not let myself have. I can go out for dinner, I can go to a ball game, I can go sailing or hiking, I guess I can even have some fun. I hope we have another DATE.
On Sunday I had tickets to a concert. I had asked a friend, a man I do not DATE, to go with me. At first he accepted, but then he changed his mind. Sunday came and I did not have anyone to go to the concert with. I did not have a DATE. I asked a series of friends, but we've been having a cold spell here in Chicago and the idea of going to an outdoor evening concert did not appeal to anyone I approached.
Once again, I would have to go on a DATE with myself. I got in the car and drove to Ravinia, where the concert was being held. I tried to breathe deeply and make that small lump in my heart and throat go away. I didn't want to feel sorry for myself; I just wanted to go and enjoy the music. As I was about to enter the concert grounds the friend who'd cancelled on me called. He'd just received a call from another friend of his who was at the concert. "Call her," he urged me, "she said you should join her and her group of friends on the lawn."
I called the woman and navigated my way towards her party via cell phone instructions. Soon she said, "you're wearing sunglasses" to me over the phone, and I knew I'd found her on the Ravinia lawn. Her friends had gone to enter a drawing for indoor pavillion seats. They won and we packed up the food and blankets they'd set out on the lawn and took the seats of our good fortune.
I didn't have a DATE. I had the company of a warm and welcoming group of women. I had wonderful seats. I listened to Emmylou Harris, Shawn Colvin, Patti Griffin and Buddy Miller. I remembered listening to the music of the three female artists over the last 20 years, through a lot of heartbreak, loneliness and hope. I remembered that I once had the kind of female friendship that exists among the women I had just met. I looked at the faces of the women next to me and I saw closed-eye contentment, satisfied smiles, authentic tears. I was in the right place at the right time. It was a very different kind of DATE than the one I'd had the night before. But I was just as glad to be there.
Link: The artists performed this song as the encore last night. Here's a version they performed in Roanoke, VA.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S5Rx6DcEly0
I had a DATE on Saturday night. I knew it was a DATE because the man, who is also a neighbor, kissed me on the cheek and said "I can kiss you because we are on a DATE." When we arrived at the restaurant for dinner he said, "this is our first DATE." We had taken long walks and gone to a baseball game together, but I guess those didn't qualify.
I've gone out to dinner with male friends on weekend nights, but it's been a long time since any one of them specifically called what we were doing a DATE. In fact, I'm more accustomed to my friend who makes it clear to me that we are not on a DATE, we are just two friends having dinner together. Even the men I've known who have been interested in getting physical, didn't want to use the word dating; they were even more emphatic about not using the word relationship.
I had fun on the DATE. The man I went out with isn't like most of the people I spend time with. He's pretty straightforward and uncomplicated; he doesn't analyze or overanalyze his emotions. He said right away, "I'm not looking for anything serious, I'm dating a lot of people."
So now I am challenged. Can I adhere to casual dating etiquette? Since I know I am not the only woman this man is dating, there are lots and lots of things that I will not do with him, there are lots of feelings that I will not let myself have. I can go out for dinner, I can go to a ball game, I can go sailing or hiking, I guess I can even have some fun. I hope we have another DATE.
On Sunday I had tickets to a concert. I had asked a friend, a man I do not DATE, to go with me. At first he accepted, but then he changed his mind. Sunday came and I did not have anyone to go to the concert with. I did not have a DATE. I asked a series of friends, but we've been having a cold spell here in Chicago and the idea of going to an outdoor evening concert did not appeal to anyone I approached.
Once again, I would have to go on a DATE with myself. I got in the car and drove to Ravinia, where the concert was being held. I tried to breathe deeply and make that small lump in my heart and throat go away. I didn't want to feel sorry for myself; I just wanted to go and enjoy the music. As I was about to enter the concert grounds the friend who'd cancelled on me called. He'd just received a call from another friend of his who was at the concert. "Call her," he urged me, "she said you should join her and her group of friends on the lawn."
I called the woman and navigated my way towards her party via cell phone instructions. Soon she said, "you're wearing sunglasses" to me over the phone, and I knew I'd found her on the Ravinia lawn. Her friends had gone to enter a drawing for indoor pavillion seats. They won and we packed up the food and blankets they'd set out on the lawn and took the seats of our good fortune.
I didn't have a DATE. I had the company of a warm and welcoming group of women. I had wonderful seats. I listened to Emmylou Harris, Shawn Colvin, Patti Griffin and Buddy Miller. I remembered listening to the music of the three female artists over the last 20 years, through a lot of heartbreak, loneliness and hope. I remembered that I once had the kind of female friendship that exists among the women I had just met. I looked at the faces of the women next to me and I saw closed-eye contentment, satisfied smiles, authentic tears. I was in the right place at the right time. It was a very different kind of DATE than the one I'd had the night before. But I was just as glad to be there.
Link: The artists performed this song as the encore last night. Here's a version they performed in Roanoke, VA.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S5Rx6DcEly0
Friday, May 22, 2009
Perspective
The word for today is PERSPECTIVE. Actually, it has been the word for over a week and a half now. I have been carrying the word in my head, letting my thoughts ruminate, writing different phrases for this blog in my head, but not putting anything down or out into cyberspace. From the PERSPECTIVE of anyone who may follow this blog, it would have been reasonable to assume that I had abandoned it. I HAVE NOT.
When I looked PERSPECTIVE up in the dictionary, the first definition concerned depicting spatial relationships on a flat surface; it is a term that concerns art or drawing, a representation on paper or on a canvas of how someone sees a scene. In Webster's New International Dictionary Second Edition there is a wonderful diagram that depicts ground planes and picture planes and base lines and horizons. But the PERSPECTIVE that I'm interested in is "the capacity to view things in their true relations or relative importance," or "the ability to see all relevant data in a meaningful relationship." (Random House Webster's College Dictionary)
Maybe I have been putting off writing about this because it all seems too complicated. It is just as complicated to explain a mental perspective as it is to depict perspective on a flat canvas. I am trying to get the curves of my thoughts into the flat forum of written expression.
All I know is that I see what I see and I hear what I hear and I believe what I believe. What shapes my perspective? What is the ground upon which I stand, the place from which I form my view?
Not surprisingly, these questions came up in the context of a family visit two weekends ago.
I felt that I had honored my father in my last blog post, so I asked him to read it. After reading what I had written about him, he said "Amy, that's all nice, but I feel like I'm reading about a fictional character. That fellow you wrote about, that's not me."
I have been working on memoir pieces for the last several years, so this piece of feedback was more than a bit disconcerting.
"What do you mean Dad?"
"I never felt apart. I didn't feel different when I went down to Charlottesville. I felt anxious, but not because I was different; I felt anxious because I was doing something new. I thought we're all just people, I'm a person meeting other people."
"Ok," I said. I took a deep breath. I was as open as I could be to his PERSPECTIVE. "Maybe I was projecting," I continued. "Maybe that's how I would've felt. Maybe you're just a lot more well-adjusted than I am. Thanks for the clarification."
My Dad walked back from my sister's den to the dining table.
Later the same evening my parents started talking about how my father had never dated
anyone other than my mother. My parents have been married for more than 54 years. The fact that my mother had many boyfriends before she met my father, and that my father was not as popular with the opposite sex, has become part of the family lore.
"But Dad," I said, "didn't you date someone at law school. Didn't you date a non-Jewish woman. Isn't that why your parents wouldn't go to your graduation?"
"Where did you hear that?" my sister asked. My mother repeated the question. My father, after a long silence, said he never dated anyone during law school. I felt crazy. I felt like pieces of information that I had taken as facts, facts upon which I created a story, a story upon which I based my PERSPECTIVE, all of it dissolved and I did not know where I was or what I was looking at. I could not trust my PERSPECTIVE.
"I know I heard it somewhere," I responded. "Someone told me this, maybe Nana told me." Nana, my grandmother is dead.
"Maybe Nana made it up," my sister offered. "Maybe Nana made that up because it sounded better than saying her son didn't invite his own parents to his law wchool graduation because he was ashamed of them.?"
What, I thought to myself. Who made up what and why and how was I ever supposed to figure it all out?
"Well, there was someone I met once," my father acknowledged, throwing out a small fact, so there was something real that my grandmother or I might have based a story upon. I didn't ask for any more information.
When I got my bearings, as I left the family gathering and drove home to my own apartment, I realized that everyone has his or her own PERSPECTIVE. As a memoir reader and writer, I am learning this. Ultimately, no matter how much research I do, how many other people I consult, the only story I will be telling is my own. That so much of my understanding about life may be based on my own distortions of other people's stories is disturbing. The only thing that is comforting, is that most likely my approach is not that different from everybody else's. Let me know if I am wrong. I am truly interested in your PERSPECTIVE.
When I looked PERSPECTIVE up in the dictionary, the first definition concerned depicting spatial relationships on a flat surface; it is a term that concerns art or drawing, a representation on paper or on a canvas of how someone sees a scene. In Webster's New International Dictionary Second Edition there is a wonderful diagram that depicts ground planes and picture planes and base lines and horizons. But the PERSPECTIVE that I'm interested in is "the capacity to view things in their true relations or relative importance," or "the ability to see all relevant data in a meaningful relationship." (Random House Webster's College Dictionary)
Maybe I have been putting off writing about this because it all seems too complicated. It is just as complicated to explain a mental perspective as it is to depict perspective on a flat canvas. I am trying to get the curves of my thoughts into the flat forum of written expression.
All I know is that I see what I see and I hear what I hear and I believe what I believe. What shapes my perspective? What is the ground upon which I stand, the place from which I form my view?
Not surprisingly, these questions came up in the context of a family visit two weekends ago.
I felt that I had honored my father in my last blog post, so I asked him to read it. After reading what I had written about him, he said "Amy, that's all nice, but I feel like I'm reading about a fictional character. That fellow you wrote about, that's not me."
I have been working on memoir pieces for the last several years, so this piece of feedback was more than a bit disconcerting.
"What do you mean Dad?"
"I never felt apart. I didn't feel different when I went down to Charlottesville. I felt anxious, but not because I was different; I felt anxious because I was doing something new. I thought we're all just people, I'm a person meeting other people."
"Ok," I said. I took a deep breath. I was as open as I could be to his PERSPECTIVE. "Maybe I was projecting," I continued. "Maybe that's how I would've felt. Maybe you're just a lot more well-adjusted than I am. Thanks for the clarification."
My Dad walked back from my sister's den to the dining table.
Later the same evening my parents started talking about how my father had never dated
anyone other than my mother. My parents have been married for more than 54 years. The fact that my mother had many boyfriends before she met my father, and that my father was not as popular with the opposite sex, has become part of the family lore.
"But Dad," I said, "didn't you date someone at law school. Didn't you date a non-Jewish woman. Isn't that why your parents wouldn't go to your graduation?"
"Where did you hear that?" my sister asked. My mother repeated the question. My father, after a long silence, said he never dated anyone during law school. I felt crazy. I felt like pieces of information that I had taken as facts, facts upon which I created a story, a story upon which I based my PERSPECTIVE, all of it dissolved and I did not know where I was or what I was looking at. I could not trust my PERSPECTIVE.
"I know I heard it somewhere," I responded. "Someone told me this, maybe Nana told me." Nana, my grandmother is dead.
"Maybe Nana made it up," my sister offered. "Maybe Nana made that up because it sounded better than saying her son didn't invite his own parents to his law wchool graduation because he was ashamed of them.?"
What, I thought to myself. Who made up what and why and how was I ever supposed to figure it all out?
"Well, there was someone I met once," my father acknowledged, throwing out a small fact, so there was something real that my grandmother or I might have based a story upon. I didn't ask for any more information.
When I got my bearings, as I left the family gathering and drove home to my own apartment, I realized that everyone has his or her own PERSPECTIVE. As a memoir reader and writer, I am learning this. Ultimately, no matter how much research I do, how many other people I consult, the only story I will be telling is my own. That so much of my understanding about life may be based on my own distortions of other people's stories is disturbing. The only thing that is comforting, is that most likely my approach is not that different from everybody else's. Let me know if I am wrong. I am truly interested in your PERSPECTIVE.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Apart
The word for today is APART. This word interests me because putting a space in it makes such a difference. APART means separate, distinct, isolated, independent. The words "a part" usually mean "a part of" something bigger, a part of a whole, a part of a community or family.
Earlier today I felt APART. I was planning yet another MoveOn political event and I wasn't getting the support I wanted. One of our council members left for a rafting trip on the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon; another is visiting family in the Phillipines; another needed to leave with her husband to pick up her daughter from college in Washington, D.C. It seemed as though everyone, APART from me, needed to be somewhere else, not at our event.
I wished that I could be somewhere else, that I did not have to lead our council's meeting with a congressional staffer. I wanted to close the door to my APARTment and be APART from the world. Of course, I did not do that. I showed up, I helped the other council members who showed up feel a part of a movement. I did my part.
Because of the way MoveOn works, I often do not know who will be at our meetings. Two men attended who are with the American Muslim Task Force. One of the gentleman has lived in this country for over thirty years and yet he, and other people from his native Pakistan, are treated as though they are apart from the rest of us, different, not to be trusted. Although MoveOn is not a "civil rights" advocacy group, I listened to his complaints about the lack of change in the Obama administration's treatment of detainees and alleged terrorists. I tried to think of other organizations that would be more helpful.
Somehow our conversation turned to the former Attorney General Ramsey Clark. "Ramsey Clark is my role model," said the gentleman. "I love that man. He came with me to visit a detainee being held in jail in Virginia." "I love him too," I responded. The gentleman and I were both holding our hands over our hearts. "When I was a little girl I received an autographed photograph of him. I still have it."
Some people set themselves APART because they are exemplars of truth, justice, and integrity, regardless. To me that is what Ramsey Clark stands for. His photograph has personal meaning to me because I almost met him when my family took a trip to Washington D.C. during the Johnson administration to visit my father's law school roommate, an assistant attorney general in the Justice Department.
APART from his time in law school and the army, my father, who turns eighty this Sunday (and who is my hero when it comes to integrity), has lived his entire life in what is known as the NY metropolitan area. I have to admit that he has a pretty good perspective on things, despite living so far APART from the rest of the country.
I often think of his time at the University of Virginia Law School in Charlottesville. It was the early 1950s. He was a Jewish kid from Brooklyn, NY who got on a train and found himself in the midst of an institution designed by Thomas Jefferson (yet another man who had many parts to his life). After law school my father had difficulty finding a job. Even with a degree from UVa., he was still a Jew, the well-heeled NY law firms found reason to hold him apart. Eventually, he became a corporate tax attorney and spent his career as an executive for a large railroad and a retail giant. He done good.
My father was held APART, kept out, because of his religion, and maybe for other cultural reasons. But he was and is smart as hell. For reasons I never understood, throughout his entire life he held himself APART, from organized religion, from civic, cultural, and political groups. He has always been a very independent man.
I keep looking for the balance between the space in the word. Often I'm APART; yet I yearn to be "a part of." I want to feel together with something, someone, with myself.
In honor of togetherness I offer this adorable but hokey song from my '70s adolescence.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wEWU25aN67U&feature=PlayList&p=91541ADE5F0B295A&playnext=1&playnext_from=PL&index=39
Earlier today I felt APART. I was planning yet another MoveOn political event and I wasn't getting the support I wanted. One of our council members left for a rafting trip on the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon; another is visiting family in the Phillipines; another needed to leave with her husband to pick up her daughter from college in Washington, D.C. It seemed as though everyone, APART from me, needed to be somewhere else, not at our event.
I wished that I could be somewhere else, that I did not have to lead our council's meeting with a congressional staffer. I wanted to close the door to my APARTment and be APART from the world. Of course, I did not do that. I showed up, I helped the other council members who showed up feel a part of a movement. I did my part.
Because of the way MoveOn works, I often do not know who will be at our meetings. Two men attended who are with the American Muslim Task Force. One of the gentleman has lived in this country for over thirty years and yet he, and other people from his native Pakistan, are treated as though they are apart from the rest of us, different, not to be trusted. Although MoveOn is not a "civil rights" advocacy group, I listened to his complaints about the lack of change in the Obama administration's treatment of detainees and alleged terrorists. I tried to think of other organizations that would be more helpful.
Somehow our conversation turned to the former Attorney General Ramsey Clark. "Ramsey Clark is my role model," said the gentleman. "I love that man. He came with me to visit a detainee being held in jail in Virginia." "I love him too," I responded. The gentleman and I were both holding our hands over our hearts. "When I was a little girl I received an autographed photograph of him. I still have it."
Some people set themselves APART because they are exemplars of truth, justice, and integrity, regardless. To me that is what Ramsey Clark stands for. His photograph has personal meaning to me because I almost met him when my family took a trip to Washington D.C. during the Johnson administration to visit my father's law school roommate, an assistant attorney general in the Justice Department.
APART from his time in law school and the army, my father, who turns eighty this Sunday (and who is my hero when it comes to integrity), has lived his entire life in what is known as the NY metropolitan area. I have to admit that he has a pretty good perspective on things, despite living so far APART from the rest of the country.
I often think of his time at the University of Virginia Law School in Charlottesville. It was the early 1950s. He was a Jewish kid from Brooklyn, NY who got on a train and found himself in the midst of an institution designed by Thomas Jefferson (yet another man who had many parts to his life). After law school my father had difficulty finding a job. Even with a degree from UVa., he was still a Jew, the well-heeled NY law firms found reason to hold him apart. Eventually, he became a corporate tax attorney and spent his career as an executive for a large railroad and a retail giant. He done good.
My father was held APART, kept out, because of his religion, and maybe for other cultural reasons. But he was and is smart as hell. For reasons I never understood, throughout his entire life he held himself APART, from organized religion, from civic, cultural, and political groups. He has always been a very independent man.
I keep looking for the balance between the space in the word. Often I'm APART; yet I yearn to be "a part of." I want to feel together with something, someone, with myself.
In honor of togetherness I offer this adorable but hokey song from my '70s adolescence.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wEWU25aN67U&feature=PlayList&p=91541ADE5F0B295A&playnext=1&playnext_from=PL&index=39
Monday, May 4, 2009
Margin
The word for today is MARGIN. I was thinking of writing about the word marginal, but I decided to stick with the noun. As a writer, the MARGIN I think of is the space that surrounds the print on a page (these days either a paper page or a computer page).
There are many other margins. The word is used in business in ways I find too complicated to explain here...to describe the difference between the market value of collateral and a loan or the amount provided as security or the point at which a business barely covers the cost of production. It is 7 am in the morning, and this is making my head swim.
MARGIN also means the limit beyond which something (usually abstract) ceases to exist, such as you have reached the MARGIN of my patience or tolerance. To me this sounds mean, a more distinguished form of time's up, too bad, so sad, or something like that. I have reached the MARGIN of my bank account; I have reached the MARGIN of my sloth. What happens when we use MARGIN with something concrete? I have reached the MARGIN of having clean clothes in the closet, food in the refrigerator; I have a one day's MARGIN of cat food or medication. There is a thin MARGIN between sanity, eccentricity and insanity. I haven't heard the word used that way, but I suppose it could be.
But let's get back to the page, which is where I feel most comfortable, because written words are my security. Since I was a little girl, I have noticed margins. I noticed the layout in books and magazines and how the amount of white space on a page gave the words a different impact. When I was in high school and college (a prehistoric time before desktops and laptops and cell phones), we produced the school newspaper by doing mock layouts on pieces of paper; we pasted columns of text on blank paper on top of a lightboard. White space was like one of the ten commandments.
Subconsciously, I knew that playing with margins was the stuff of poetry. (How unpoetic) Playing with margins is part of the whimsical intentionality of poetry. T.S. Eliot wrote that when the lines run all the way to the right the result is prose.
The margin is where the written word ceases to exist, and when words cease to exist, I am in dangerous territory. Or maybe if I can stay present in the emptiness, I will be in the purest territory imaginable. Maybe there really is life in the margins.
may my heart always be open to little
may my heart always be open to little
birds who are the secrets of living
whatever they sing is better than to know
and if men should not hear them men are old
may my mind stroll about hungry
and fearless and thirsty and supple
and even if it's sunday may i be wrong
for whenever men are right they are not young
and may myself do nothing usefully
and love yourself so more than truly
there's never been quite such a fool who could fail
pulling all the sky over him with one smile
ee cummings
There are many other margins. The word is used in business in ways I find too complicated to explain here...to describe the difference between the market value of collateral and a loan or the amount provided as security or the point at which a business barely covers the cost of production. It is 7 am in the morning, and this is making my head swim.
MARGIN also means the limit beyond which something (usually abstract) ceases to exist, such as you have reached the MARGIN of my patience or tolerance. To me this sounds mean, a more distinguished form of time's up, too bad, so sad, or something like that. I have reached the MARGIN of my bank account; I have reached the MARGIN of my sloth. What happens when we use MARGIN with something concrete? I have reached the MARGIN of having clean clothes in the closet, food in the refrigerator; I have a one day's MARGIN of cat food or medication. There is a thin MARGIN between sanity, eccentricity and insanity. I haven't heard the word used that way, but I suppose it could be.
But let's get back to the page, which is where I feel most comfortable, because written words are my security. Since I was a little girl, I have noticed margins. I noticed the layout in books and magazines and how the amount of white space on a page gave the words a different impact. When I was in high school and college (a prehistoric time before desktops and laptops and cell phones), we produced the school newspaper by doing mock layouts on pieces of paper; we pasted columns of text on blank paper on top of a lightboard. White space was like one of the ten commandments.
Subconsciously, I knew that playing with margins was the stuff of poetry. (How unpoetic) Playing with margins is part of the whimsical intentionality of poetry. T.S. Eliot wrote that when the lines run all the way to the right the result is prose.
The margin is where the written word ceases to exist, and when words cease to exist, I am in dangerous territory. Or maybe if I can stay present in the emptiness, I will be in the purest territory imaginable. Maybe there really is life in the margins.
may my heart always be open to little
may my heart always be open to little
birds who are the secrets of living
whatever they sing is better than to know
and if men should not hear them men are old
may my mind stroll about hungry
and fearless and thirsty and supple
and even if it's sunday may i be wrong
for whenever men are right they are not young
and may myself do nothing usefully
and love yourself so more than truly
there's never been quite such a fool who could fail
pulling all the sky over him with one smile
ee cummings
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Better
The word for today is BETTER, as in I feel BETTER, or this book, movie, recipe is better than that one. BETTER involves a comparison in which one thing or person is assigned more value than another.
I've been thinking about this word because I've been thinking about relationships, about whether any of my romantic relationships have been BETTER, more satisfying, than others. What I came up with, what I focused on, was that the last relationship in which I felt truly loved, was oddly enough, one in which I thought I was BETTER than the other person, BETTER than my partner.
I thought I was BETTER than he was because I had a steady professional job and he didn't; I had a car and he didn't; I rented a little house and he rented a room; I had credit with a bank and he had credit at the corner store.
For all these reasons, and because of my education and my upbringing, I thought I was BETTER than this man. I don't know how he dealt with it; I don't know how or why he put up with my attitude. I was mistaken; I still had so much to learn.
During my formative years, I was indoctrinated with the idea that I was BETTER. At college I learned that my classmates would do great things--we would be leaders in science, industry, academics, culture and government. I learned that I was different from other people, I was above them, I was BETTER.
Sometimes it seems as though I have spent the last twenty-five years losing everything. I have not actually lost everything, but I have lost a lot of my preconceived notions, a lot of the rigid ideas I had about myself and about other people.
The idea that I was BETTER kept me safe, kept me insulated. I had a reason to be separate; I had a reason to be apart. I had a reason not to open myself, not to be vulnerable to the myriad of people and conditions in the world.
Now, I don't measure myself by my job (I don't have one) or my house (I don't own one) or my car (I am grateful for my 10-year-old Honda Civic). I don't have a partner; I don't have children. All I have are my heart and mind and soul and a little bit of integrity. I have a small community of friends and neighbors and a family who, though they may be frustrated and bewildered by me, have never forsaken me.
None of these things make me BETTER than anyone else. They just make me feel a little BETTER so I can get on with my life and share whatever gifts I have with the world.
I've been thinking about this word because I've been thinking about relationships, about whether any of my romantic relationships have been BETTER, more satisfying, than others. What I came up with, what I focused on, was that the last relationship in which I felt truly loved, was oddly enough, one in which I thought I was BETTER than the other person, BETTER than my partner.
I thought I was BETTER than he was because I had a steady professional job and he didn't; I had a car and he didn't; I rented a little house and he rented a room; I had credit with a bank and he had credit at the corner store.
For all these reasons, and because of my education and my upbringing, I thought I was BETTER than this man. I don't know how he dealt with it; I don't know how or why he put up with my attitude. I was mistaken; I still had so much to learn.
During my formative years, I was indoctrinated with the idea that I was BETTER. At college I learned that my classmates would do great things--we would be leaders in science, industry, academics, culture and government. I learned that I was different from other people, I was above them, I was BETTER.
Sometimes it seems as though I have spent the last twenty-five years losing everything. I have not actually lost everything, but I have lost a lot of my preconceived notions, a lot of the rigid ideas I had about myself and about other people.
The idea that I was BETTER kept me safe, kept me insulated. I had a reason to be separate; I had a reason to be apart. I had a reason not to open myself, not to be vulnerable to the myriad of people and conditions in the world.
Now, I don't measure myself by my job (I don't have one) or my house (I don't own one) or my car (I am grateful for my 10-year-old Honda Civic). I don't have a partner; I don't have children. All I have are my heart and mind and soul and a little bit of integrity. I have a small community of friends and neighbors and a family who, though they may be frustrated and bewildered by me, have never forsaken me.
None of these things make me BETTER than anyone else. They just make me feel a little BETTER so I can get on with my life and share whatever gifts I have with the world.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Foible
The word for today is FOIBLE. A FOIBLE is a moral weakness or failing. It is also the part of a sword between the middle and the point of the blade; the part that bends and gives, as opposed to the forte, the part between the hilt (handle) and the middle, which is considerably stronger. The FOIBLE of a sword is like the branch of a tree that can bend and sway, until the wind is too strong, and then the branch is struck down, while the trunk and roots remain. Have you seen the trees with new branches growing from a cut or struck down trunk? These are foibles that will not die.
I heard the word FOIBLE when I was speaking with a friend, trying to describe what I had just done. I was certain that I had created a fiasco, another in a long line of humiliating failures. As Hemingway says in his memoir, A Moveable Feast, I was stupid. I was searching for a word to describe a part of myself that I hated. I thought that this particular problem behavior was part of my past. I did not know how to say that I had done something so ill-advised yet again, that I had gone out onto the social battlefield, and that I had failed.
This is one of your foibles, my friend said. And because my friend is a gentle man (and I suppose a gentleman as well), the word FOIBLE did not sound as harsh as the fiasco I was sure I had created. The word FOIBLE did not make me want to stick the point of the sword into myself and hurt myself even more than I was hurting already.
Everyone has foibles. It's okay that I have them too. A FOIBLE is a weakness, but it is just part of me. It's part of that same sword that contains my forte or strength as well. I have to have a handle on things, I have to hold on. I have to bend and I have to give. I have to learn to get out of the way when the wind blows too hard or my resistance is too weak. Given what I am learning, I know that my foibles are not the measure of my mettle, my courage or my fortitude.
As many an artist has said, well at least I got a song out of it. My You Tube is working again. Enjoy today's song: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c0JvWVbxOkQ&feature=related
I heard the word FOIBLE when I was speaking with a friend, trying to describe what I had just done. I was certain that I had created a fiasco, another in a long line of humiliating failures. As Hemingway says in his memoir, A Moveable Feast, I was stupid. I was searching for a word to describe a part of myself that I hated. I thought that this particular problem behavior was part of my past. I did not know how to say that I had done something so ill-advised yet again, that I had gone out onto the social battlefield, and that I had failed.
This is one of your foibles, my friend said. And because my friend is a gentle man (and I suppose a gentleman as well), the word FOIBLE did not sound as harsh as the fiasco I was sure I had created. The word FOIBLE did not make me want to stick the point of the sword into myself and hurt myself even more than I was hurting already.
Everyone has foibles. It's okay that I have them too. A FOIBLE is a weakness, but it is just part of me. It's part of that same sword that contains my forte or strength as well. I have to have a handle on things, I have to hold on. I have to bend and I have to give. I have to learn to get out of the way when the wind blows too hard or my resistance is too weak. Given what I am learning, I know that my foibles are not the measure of my mettle, my courage or my fortitude.
As many an artist has said, well at least I got a song out of it. My You Tube is working again. Enjoy today's song: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c0JvWVbxOkQ&feature=related
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Trepidation
The word for today is TREPIDATION. Actually, it has been the word for the past few days, but I have not sat down at the computer to write. Was that due to TREPIDATION? I don't know; I just know I have been holding onto the word. TREPIDATION is not something I want to hold on to.
TREPIDATION is panic, agitation or in its most basic form, fear. There is nothing to fear but....
Oddly, I like the sound of the word. The first two syllables sound like something I might trip over, or the act of tripping over--TREPI. I'm not sure, but I think "ation" means the state of. So TREPIDATION would mean being in the state of tripping over something, being in the state of being tripped up by one's own fear.
One of the many slogans or acronyms I retain from recovery is FEAR = False Expectations Appearing Real. But what about Real Expectations Appearing Real? What about when we can't push fear aside or push it to the REAR?
Another slogan I recall is Feel the Fear but Do it Anyway. I have learned to feel my feelings, but not get stuck in them. I have learned that my emotional process is not stuck in the mud or clogged like a drain. It flows. My feelings flow, my body flows, (yes, at age 50 my g__damn menstrual cycle still flows and flows and flows), my life flows. My emotions are like the clouds in the sky, like the weather--if I am patient, if I wait, they will change. Those who know me know how much I love language, and yet every one of these slogans, trite as they may sound, means something to me. I do not resent them. I believe, for instance, in the saying, this too shall pass.
Technology in itself is not very lyrical, but today, after a period of interruption, the music from my IPOD is flowing through my stereo speakers--Chopin, Mendelsohn, Bach,--what incredible pleasure I am capable of receiving. Also, my neighbor has fixed the sound from my computer so I once again have access to the YouTube videos and audio. My frustration was temporary.
But I was writing about fear, about TREPIDATION. My employment situation is precarious (ah, a word for another day), to say the least. On Wednesday, my Census crew leader told our team that we had almost completed our work. Apparently the government had "misunderestimated" the length of our assignment by 6 weeks! A month and a half of decent income-whooosh, gone. I felt fear.
Today I am meeting someone whom I have never met before. We have spoken extensively on the telephone--but that is different. I am meeting this person "in the flesh" as they say. I move from glorious anticipation to trepidation. I move back and forth and that is okay.
I have been thinking about another word--INTREPID. I did not know the word INTREPID until I learned about the battleship that is now permanently docked in Manhattan as a museum.
I love the word; I want to be INTREPID.
A brief history lesson for the day--with due credit to Wikipedia. The USS Intrepid is a WWII aircraft carrier that serves as a museum ship. In 1978, Zachary Fisher, a Manhattan real estate developer and philanthropist, saved the ship from being put to scrap. The museum ship served as the FBI's temporary headquarters after the destruction of the World Trade Centers on September 11, 2001. A scheduled renovation, in 2006, was delayed because one of the ship's propellers got stuck in the mud in Hudson River. Eventually, the ship was dredged out of the mud and floated to Staten Island where renovations took place. The ship museum is back in Manhattan and reopened in November 2008.
Next time I am in Manhattan, I am going to see the USS Intrepid. In the meantime, I think I will just be intrepid myself!
TREPIDATION is panic, agitation or in its most basic form, fear. There is nothing to fear but....
Oddly, I like the sound of the word. The first two syllables sound like something I might trip over, or the act of tripping over--TREPI. I'm not sure, but I think "ation" means the state of. So TREPIDATION would mean being in the state of tripping over something, being in the state of being tripped up by one's own fear.
One of the many slogans or acronyms I retain from recovery is FEAR = False Expectations Appearing Real. But what about Real Expectations Appearing Real? What about when we can't push fear aside or push it to the REAR?
Another slogan I recall is Feel the Fear but Do it Anyway. I have learned to feel my feelings, but not get stuck in them. I have learned that my emotional process is not stuck in the mud or clogged like a drain. It flows. My feelings flow, my body flows, (yes, at age 50 my g__damn menstrual cycle still flows and flows and flows), my life flows. My emotions are like the clouds in the sky, like the weather--if I am patient, if I wait, they will change. Those who know me know how much I love language, and yet every one of these slogans, trite as they may sound, means something to me. I do not resent them. I believe, for instance, in the saying, this too shall pass.
Technology in itself is not very lyrical, but today, after a period of interruption, the music from my IPOD is flowing through my stereo speakers--Chopin, Mendelsohn, Bach,--what incredible pleasure I am capable of receiving. Also, my neighbor has fixed the sound from my computer so I once again have access to the YouTube videos and audio. My frustration was temporary.
But I was writing about fear, about TREPIDATION. My employment situation is precarious (ah, a word for another day), to say the least. On Wednesday, my Census crew leader told our team that we had almost completed our work. Apparently the government had "misunderestimated" the length of our assignment by 6 weeks! A month and a half of decent income-whooosh, gone. I felt fear.
Today I am meeting someone whom I have never met before. We have spoken extensively on the telephone--but that is different. I am meeting this person "in the flesh" as they say. I move from glorious anticipation to trepidation. I move back and forth and that is okay.
I have been thinking about another word--INTREPID. I did not know the word INTREPID until I learned about the battleship that is now permanently docked in Manhattan as a museum.
I love the word; I want to be INTREPID.
A brief history lesson for the day--with due credit to Wikipedia. The USS Intrepid is a WWII aircraft carrier that serves as a museum ship. In 1978, Zachary Fisher, a Manhattan real estate developer and philanthropist, saved the ship from being put to scrap. The museum ship served as the FBI's temporary headquarters after the destruction of the World Trade Centers on September 11, 2001. A scheduled renovation, in 2006, was delayed because one of the ship's propellers got stuck in the mud in Hudson River. Eventually, the ship was dredged out of the mud and floated to Staten Island where renovations took place. The ship museum is back in Manhattan and reopened in November 2008.
Next time I am in Manhattan, I am going to see the USS Intrepid. In the meantime, I think I will just be intrepid myself!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
