Stress and Teamwork.
The last few days have been stressful for a number of reasons. I am up against a few writing deadlines and that is eclipsing my attendance to this blog. It is disappointing to not have the urgent sense to write here because I have urgency to write elsewhere. This writing place was providing me a sense of solace and transitional buoying, if you will, toward the Spring and my commitment to my writing. I wanted to make every morning a committed action within this blog. I have only missed one day, but I recognize a slippery slope and want to break the fall before I run out of branches to grab!
This will take teamwork. I am the team. As strange as that sounds, I have to listen to the parts of myself which are telling me to go to bed at a certain time, to organize my day, to remember to take a walk, and to not over-commit myself to other people and unnecessary things. That will take cooperation.
I believe I am a loner at heart. I have to create a reward system that really matters to me to insure this cooperation. Since I stopped eating sugar - I barely can enjoy it anymore - food is out! This is a conundrum!
However, today, I will have to put the process on hold. I have a deadline to meet.
Until tomorrow....
Saturday, February 25, 2012
Thursday, February 23, 2012
This Morning 2/23/12
Family.
Willa Cather, in her Pulitzer Prize winner, One of Ours, describes the harmonic dissonance accompanying the sense of home and family:
"He both loved and hated to come home. He was always disappointed, and yet
he always felt the rightness of returning....even when it broke his spirit and humbled
his pride, he felt it was right that he should be thus humbled" (65).
The closer one comes to the core of us, the stronger our tolerance for that which is contrary to our best expectations in human relations. Our boundary lines blur. It's the price we pay, I suppose, for the comfort of commitment or more accurately, a sense of belonging.
The essence of family is a state of belonging. With the knowledge of where one comes from, and one's place in the world despite requisite wanderings, it seems anything is possible. Strength of character and self-effacing vulnerability are not obstacles in the world of family; they scream from the pores of the skin and from the paint on the walls. The exact pitch of the screams may differ from household to household, yet they are there in each family. Tension and release in every breath.
To be so close is to risk belonging. To risk becoming entangled, enriched, enloved, and enslaved to this sense of family where anything is possible and nothing is spared. Real life. No formalities and no masks. It is exhilarating and frightening to have such a sense of belonging.
Art is like family. The boundaries between the acceptable and the truth blur in the arenas of music, paint and prose. Art cannot lie, if the artist belongs to the art.
And, there is the question. Where do I belong? To the art or to the family?
Willa Cather, in her Pulitzer Prize winner, One of Ours, describes the harmonic dissonance accompanying the sense of home and family:
"He both loved and hated to come home. He was always disappointed, and yet
he always felt the rightness of returning....even when it broke his spirit and humbled
his pride, he felt it was right that he should be thus humbled" (65).
The closer one comes to the core of us, the stronger our tolerance for that which is contrary to our best expectations in human relations. Our boundary lines blur. It's the price we pay, I suppose, for the comfort of commitment or more accurately, a sense of belonging.
The essence of family is a state of belonging. With the knowledge of where one comes from, and one's place in the world despite requisite wanderings, it seems anything is possible. Strength of character and self-effacing vulnerability are not obstacles in the world of family; they scream from the pores of the skin and from the paint on the walls. The exact pitch of the screams may differ from household to household, yet they are there in each family. Tension and release in every breath.
To be so close is to risk belonging. To risk becoming entangled, enriched, enloved, and enslaved to this sense of family where anything is possible and nothing is spared. Real life. No formalities and no masks. It is exhilarating and frightening to have such a sense of belonging.
Art is like family. The boundaries between the acceptable and the truth blur in the arenas of music, paint and prose. Art cannot lie, if the artist belongs to the art.
And, there is the question. Where do I belong? To the art or to the family?
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
This Morning 2/22/12
The Auspicious Five Kilometers
I like my winters like my salsa...mild. It is expected to hit the 60 degree Fahrenheit mark today. It's February and that silly groundhog did see its shadow in the beginning of the month, signalling six more weeks of winter. However, since then, the weather has been nothing but pleasant and almost Spring-like.
I stopped running nearly six months ago. In September, I became busy with classes and decided I didn't have time for it right now. I often will not want to go outside much when I even smell winter coming. The huge snow and ice storm in October which knocked out power, heat and water, as well as trees and a telephone pole for four days convinced me I was not interested in testing Mother Nature. Since then, though, there has been little excuse for my avoidance of the outside. .
When I start running, my first goal is always to run one mile. I don't always make it for days, but when I do, I feel I've accomplished something great. I could almost just stay at that level, but I feel guilty after two or three days of easing into the pace of this milestone. I ratchet up the expectation to 1.5 miles and increase at 1/10 mile intervals. However, I have never made my overall goal of a running 5K. Perhaps it has something to do with being stuck between the USA measurement (based on the English system) and Metric measurement systems. However, not even the English are stuck in that limbo anymore. While they and the rest of the world have gone metric, the Americans are sadly, stubbornly holding on to a standard which is practically nonexistent.
We can't go on like this forever. Only Myanmar (Burma), Liberia and the USA are holding on to this antiquated system of feet, pounds, gallons and Fahrenheit. Poor Daniel Fahrenheit - it was a good run! At some point soon, globalization will demand a shift to only metric measurements. Perhaps the math and science test scores of USA students would improve if our children were being taught this measurement system as the standard instead of as an alternative.
Besides, it sure is going to be good to say I ran 5K instead of 3.1 miles! Until then, at 1.6 meters and 61 kg, sitting on my .6 hectare of land, drinking 354 ml of coffee...have a jolly good day!
I like my winters like my salsa...mild. It is expected to hit the 60 degree Fahrenheit mark today. It's February and that silly groundhog did see its shadow in the beginning of the month, signalling six more weeks of winter. However, since then, the weather has been nothing but pleasant and almost Spring-like.
I stopped running nearly six months ago. In September, I became busy with classes and decided I didn't have time for it right now. I often will not want to go outside much when I even smell winter coming. The huge snow and ice storm in October which knocked out power, heat and water, as well as trees and a telephone pole for four days convinced me I was not interested in testing Mother Nature. Since then, though, there has been little excuse for my avoidance of the outside. .
When I start running, my first goal is always to run one mile. I don't always make it for days, but when I do, I feel I've accomplished something great. I could almost just stay at that level, but I feel guilty after two or three days of easing into the pace of this milestone. I ratchet up the expectation to 1.5 miles and increase at 1/10 mile intervals. However, I have never made my overall goal of a running 5K. Perhaps it has something to do with being stuck between the USA measurement (based on the English system) and Metric measurement systems. However, not even the English are stuck in that limbo anymore. While they and the rest of the world have gone metric, the Americans are sadly, stubbornly holding on to a standard which is practically nonexistent.
We can't go on like this forever. Only Myanmar (Burma), Liberia and the USA are holding on to this antiquated system of feet, pounds, gallons and Fahrenheit. Poor Daniel Fahrenheit - it was a good run! At some point soon, globalization will demand a shift to only metric measurements. Perhaps the math and science test scores of USA students would improve if our children were being taught this measurement system as the standard instead of as an alternative.
Besides, it sure is going to be good to say I ran 5K instead of 3.1 miles! Until then, at 1.6 meters and 61 kg, sitting on my .6 hectare of land, drinking 354 ml of coffee...have a jolly good day!
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
This Morning 2/21/12
Forgiveness.
Today, I forgave my cat, Wakiyan. Yesterday, as I sat at my computer writing for this blog, he clawed me. He often will jump up on my lap while I write. Usually, I will be wearing a pair of jeans and he uses his claws to hurl his 11-pound body the 22 inches or so he has to leap up to land on me. Yesterday, I had thin cotton pants on and he didn't retract his claws fast enough before they punctured my thigh in three places. I kind of screamed and grabbed him on either side of his body, and more than gently, put him back on the floor. It was not a happy moment between us.
I realized he didn't necessarily mean to hurt me, but he was trying to get my attention. He and I live alone together here and we need each other's attention. At times, though, I don't want to hold him.
I put him outside and later, I fed him and put him back outside where he stayed for the night.
This morning, he came in and I fed him. I told him, "I forgive you, Wakiyan," and he ate. Afterwards, he didn't even try to jump on me. He's on the rug next to me.
Wakiyan can't say he's sorry, but I know he is.
And he understands my words of forgiveness.
We speak in different languages, but the meaning is clear to both of us.
Today, I forgave my cat, Wakiyan. Yesterday, as I sat at my computer writing for this blog, he clawed me. He often will jump up on my lap while I write. Usually, I will be wearing a pair of jeans and he uses his claws to hurl his 11-pound body the 22 inches or so he has to leap up to land on me. Yesterday, I had thin cotton pants on and he didn't retract his claws fast enough before they punctured my thigh in three places. I kind of screamed and grabbed him on either side of his body, and more than gently, put him back on the floor. It was not a happy moment between us.
I realized he didn't necessarily mean to hurt me, but he was trying to get my attention. He and I live alone together here and we need each other's attention. At times, though, I don't want to hold him.
I put him outside and later, I fed him and put him back outside where he stayed for the night.
This morning, he came in and I fed him. I told him, "I forgive you, Wakiyan," and he ate. Afterwards, he didn't even try to jump on me. He's on the rug next to me.
Wakiyan can't say he's sorry, but I know he is.
And he understands my words of forgiveness.
We speak in different languages, but the meaning is clear to both of us.
Monday, February 20, 2012
This Morning 2/20/12
Connection.
I'm sitting in a group of 50-68 year old Anglo-Saxon, trying-to-make-the-best-of-it-all lifers, most of whom used to think of themselves as middle-class before the markets crashed in 2001 and 2008. There are thirty of us sitting in a living room called together this day to talk about "connection." Most of these people have probably filed for bankruptcy, or seriously considered it, at least once. There's a connection. Most consider themselves "conscious" in the new age vernacular of the word. All have been through some form of psychoanalysis. All consider themselves Cultural Creatives: the ones who make mundane life seem somehow interesting. These are the people who came of age sometime between 1963 and 1977; the Golden Years of idealism. However, I think the light bulb must have shorted out somewhere along the way.
Here we are in 2012 and most of us are struggling to make a living, have been divorced at least once (and most, twice), can't understand or afford to understand the paradigm shift to business brought upon us by the Technology Age, and don't know what happened to peace and love. Wine is passed around.
Are we celebrating something? We have all survived so far. Cool. That really helps.
Are we numbing ourselves? Just a little won't hurt. Maybe a little more.
Is this called coping? Talking about connection is at least getting the dialogue started. And how many times have we begun this dialogue?
I don't understand this place. It's like everyone is talking Vulcan or Klingon or something very foreign. Yet, I swear, I've heard all these exact words before in some weekend Gestalt workshop, or UU church event, or holistic-something gathering where we tell each other how wonderful we all are and try to sound like we know what the hell we're doing here.
If anyone were to really connect in this room, I think there would be a nuclear explosion from all the pent-up aggression. We're so desperately clinging to what should be that nobody is really dealing with what is.
I sing. I do what I do. I get people to sing along and clap. And dance. And put arms around each other. I warned them first. This is a new song, I told them, but it is just like every other song I've ever sung at a gathering of this type. I tried to get them to realize things just don't change; we just put on new clothes, or a new hat, or color our hair, or write a new song.
But change - real connection to the deepest concentration of cells and the substance/essence that can alter the out-product - that is a very rare thing. It certainly isn't happening in a roomful of people where most of their lives is behind them.
Some of us are lucky enough to realize it. Or maybe, unlucky.
Some of us just enjoy the wine. And forget about the details.
I'm sitting in a group of 50-68 year old Anglo-Saxon, trying-to-make-the-best-of-it-all lifers, most of whom used to think of themselves as middle-class before the markets crashed in 2001 and 2008. There are thirty of us sitting in a living room called together this day to talk about "connection." Most of these people have probably filed for bankruptcy, or seriously considered it, at least once. There's a connection. Most consider themselves "conscious" in the new age vernacular of the word. All have been through some form of psychoanalysis. All consider themselves Cultural Creatives: the ones who make mundane life seem somehow interesting. These are the people who came of age sometime between 1963 and 1977; the Golden Years of idealism. However, I think the light bulb must have shorted out somewhere along the way.
Here we are in 2012 and most of us are struggling to make a living, have been divorced at least once (and most, twice), can't understand or afford to understand the paradigm shift to business brought upon us by the Technology Age, and don't know what happened to peace and love. Wine is passed around.
Are we celebrating something? We have all survived so far. Cool. That really helps.
Are we numbing ourselves? Just a little won't hurt. Maybe a little more.
Is this called coping? Talking about connection is at least getting the dialogue started. And how many times have we begun this dialogue?
I don't understand this place. It's like everyone is talking Vulcan or Klingon or something very foreign. Yet, I swear, I've heard all these exact words before in some weekend Gestalt workshop, or UU church event, or holistic-something gathering where we tell each other how wonderful we all are and try to sound like we know what the hell we're doing here.
If anyone were to really connect in this room, I think there would be a nuclear explosion from all the pent-up aggression. We're so desperately clinging to what should be that nobody is really dealing with what is.
I sing. I do what I do. I get people to sing along and clap. And dance. And put arms around each other. I warned them first. This is a new song, I told them, but it is just like every other song I've ever sung at a gathering of this type. I tried to get them to realize things just don't change; we just put on new clothes, or a new hat, or color our hair, or write a new song.
But change - real connection to the deepest concentration of cells and the substance/essence that can alter the out-product - that is a very rare thing. It certainly isn't happening in a roomful of people where most of their lives is behind them.
Some of us are lucky enough to realize it. Or maybe, unlucky.
Some of us just enjoy the wine. And forget about the details.
Sunday, February 19, 2012
This Morning 2/19/12
Anniversaries.
Yesterday was the 21st anniversary of a horrible car accident I had. There was ice and snow, but mostly ice, and I was coming home from a therapy appointment I'd had in Doylestown. I don't remember the actual sequence, but according to the police reports, I skidded and lost control, slamming into a tree on the driver's side front door. The impact snapped my left femur in two, dislodged my seat belt, and my head hit metal, which caused a contusion, a concussion, nerve damage to my eyes and a bit of brain trauma. I was knocked unconscious.
The police, fire and rescue workers had to cut me out of the car with the jaws of life and Medivac me by helicopter to Lehigh Valley Hospital. A photograph of my smashed car was in three newspapers - it was my first really great publicity! But, not my favorite!
It was six months before I drove again and ten months before my brain settled enough for me to play guitar in rhythm. Two years of limping before I underwent the final operation on my leg and five years before I felt safe enough to ride a bike without my leg breaking again. The damage to my eyes caused double-vision in a particular field of my vision and although I've never had surgery for that, it has become manageable. But even now, 21 years later, as I look down at the neck of my guitar when I hold it, I'm never completely sure which fret I'm pressing!
Memories have a way of haunting us. I used to dread the day was coming weeks ahead of time. To be fair, this experience of the car accident added to the foreboding nature of February 18. Seven years before this, I had an abortion, also on February 18. The effects were about the same in terms of the level of trauma; just a different kind.
I still carry some of the scars of the accident. I still carry scars of the abortion. But what I realize is that these anniversaries are just missing pieces of our sense of safety in the world. The how's and why's of bad things happening to us are part of the randomness of this life which is completely unclear. It's a mystery.
What we do have a choice about is our response to the randomness. As for the rest, I defer to the great Americana folk songwriter, Iris Dement, "Let the Mystery be."
Yesterday was the 21st anniversary of a horrible car accident I had. There was ice and snow, but mostly ice, and I was coming home from a therapy appointment I'd had in Doylestown. I don't remember the actual sequence, but according to the police reports, I skidded and lost control, slamming into a tree on the driver's side front door. The impact snapped my left femur in two, dislodged my seat belt, and my head hit metal, which caused a contusion, a concussion, nerve damage to my eyes and a bit of brain trauma. I was knocked unconscious.
The police, fire and rescue workers had to cut me out of the car with the jaws of life and Medivac me by helicopter to Lehigh Valley Hospital. A photograph of my smashed car was in three newspapers - it was my first really great publicity! But, not my favorite!
It was six months before I drove again and ten months before my brain settled enough for me to play guitar in rhythm. Two years of limping before I underwent the final operation on my leg and five years before I felt safe enough to ride a bike without my leg breaking again. The damage to my eyes caused double-vision in a particular field of my vision and although I've never had surgery for that, it has become manageable. But even now, 21 years later, as I look down at the neck of my guitar when I hold it, I'm never completely sure which fret I'm pressing!
Memories have a way of haunting us. I used to dread the day was coming weeks ahead of time. To be fair, this experience of the car accident added to the foreboding nature of February 18. Seven years before this, I had an abortion, also on February 18. The effects were about the same in terms of the level of trauma; just a different kind.
I still carry some of the scars of the accident. I still carry scars of the abortion. But what I realize is that these anniversaries are just missing pieces of our sense of safety in the world. The how's and why's of bad things happening to us are part of the randomness of this life which is completely unclear. It's a mystery.
What we do have a choice about is our response to the randomness. As for the rest, I defer to the great Americana folk songwriter, Iris Dement, "Let the Mystery be."
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