Jumping into the Water
I am on a boat - it's a large luxury liner type of boat. There are only myself and a man left on it. The others, of which I can only see two swimming off, have jumped some 10 meters down into the water and are swimming towards the shore. The night is falling. I am gathering my things - glasses, keys, phone - to take with me into the water when I jump. Stuffing these things into my pants pockets, I am afraid I will lose them if I jump. My shoes are on. I see it is getting close to dark and know I have nearly 200 meters to swim to safety after I hit the water. The water will be cold and I may lose my things. Something is holding me back. I realize it is, somewhat, this man, who is more reticent to jump into the water than I. He is stiff, almost robot-like in his affectations. He is stubborn and doesn't want to go. He isn't afraid, he just isn't going to jump into the water.
This dream came last night after I had explored the possibility of staying in Pennsylvania to attend college for my bachelor's degree. It would be much cheaper to do so and I would still be nearby for my daughter. I have been seriously considering a move to North Carolina to attend University of North Carolina. Financially, I would go into major debt to move and pay out-of-state tuition costs. If I stay here in-state, my costs will be reduced dramatically. In another two years, I would have a B.S. in Public Health/Community Education with a minor concentration in Jazz Studies (because I know the program is excellent at this school).
It makes more sense to do this - and maybe this is the boat. Maybe the water/the shore around which the sky is darkening represents my moving farther away, taking the plunge to something bolder. Water is a symbol of spirit, emotions and movement, but this body of water wasn't moving per se; it was a channel through which to swim towards another shore.
A prominent theme in the dream is "getting ready." I kept getting ready to jump, but never actually did jump.
Last night, I visited an old folk club where I have spent many nights over the last 20 years. I knew many people at the concert and we are all aging - some for better or worse. It felt good to be among them; to feel like I belonged somewhere. It was, simultaneously, a strange feeling, after spending so much time lately up on this hill alone.
The water is unknown. It's dark and cold, but leads somewhere; to an unknown place. Really, it's all an unknown place. Every step is unknown if we really admit it. I suppose we can sit awhile until we get ourselves secure enough - ready enough - to take the next step. But whether we step once to the left, once to the right, or jump straight down into the water, we are just killing time. Whether you kill time with a water pistol or an atom bomb or something in between, it's merely a choice. Is one better or worse? Not really; just different.
I'm way too experienced to think I have any answer that is "right." But I do have an answer that is "mine." If I'm going to jump into the water, I'm going to do it in my own time.
Saturday, March 3, 2012
Friday, March 2, 2012
This Morning 3/2/12
Definition
We love to define everything. From explaining our inability to lose weight (must be a thyroid condition) to creating terminology for our lackluster dating life (in transition). Some of us cannot survive our feelings unless we put some label or term on them to understand why we aren't perfectly happy, satisfied, content, good, or any other term that defines our idea of what we should be feeling. I love seasonal mood disorder (SAD) for this reason! It just allows me to be a bear in the winter - sleepy and grumpy!
Although adding definition is obviously a helpful tool, I think it is overrated. On this subject, one of my favorite quotes is from Pema Chodron, author and Buddhist scholar:
“We think that the point is to pass the test or to overcome the problem, but the truth is that things don't really get solved. They come together and they fall apart.”
Also:
“To be fully alive, fully human, and completely awake is to be continually thrown out of the nest.”
These definitions we assign ourselves and our life circumstances are our attempts to stay in the "nest." They are our way of staying grounded in a very often ungrounded, unknown existence.
I had a teacher once with whom I studied specific spiritual and psycho-somatic healing techniques. She often spoke of the "pause." She defined this pause as the space between the in-breath and the out-breath. Metaphorically, it's that moment at the edge of the nest, when we crouch down to jump, right before we lift. Metaphysically, it's the space between life and after-life. Presently, it is those moments of uncertainty and non-definition of ourselves, our plans and our purpose.
It's okay to just commit, to show up, for life. Life has no expectations of you. It is you who has the expectations.
Sometimes, to just live, is enough.
Thursday, March 1, 2012
This Morning 3/1/12
My House
It's March and there are so little days left until I have to get myself ready to move from this place - my little blue house on the hill.
Since 1996, I've lived in this house; first with my husband and kids; then with my kids for ten years; and now, alone with my cat, Wakiyan. It's a great little house which would be a wonderful dwelling for a single person or couple only. For me, there are too many memories and my kids' rooms are still stuffed with their belongings they've yet to sift through. It's not a good house for this single person; although I love my bedroom with it's lavender walls and paintings arranged in asymmetric patterns. As well, I love the colors and feathers, drums and sage crowns adorning the southwest wall. I have lived here.
Set on top of a hill against woods, overlooking over 40 acres of farmland, the driveway is about nearly a quarter mile long. It's a frame house build in the 1940's; there's a barn foundation and garage with a loft unattached. The actual land that "belongs" to the house is a little over an acre.
The songs, the dreams, the romance, the struggles, the prayers - this house has made them safe. I am grateful to these walls and the spirits that live here for keeping me so long.
It's March and there are so little days left until I have to get myself ready to move from this place - my little blue house on the hill.
Since 1996, I've lived in this house; first with my husband and kids; then with my kids for ten years; and now, alone with my cat, Wakiyan. It's a great little house which would be a wonderful dwelling for a single person or couple only. For me, there are too many memories and my kids' rooms are still stuffed with their belongings they've yet to sift through. It's not a good house for this single person; although I love my bedroom with it's lavender walls and paintings arranged in asymmetric patterns. As well, I love the colors and feathers, drums and sage crowns adorning the southwest wall. I have lived here.
Set on top of a hill against woods, overlooking over 40 acres of farmland, the driveway is about nearly a quarter mile long. It's a frame house build in the 1940's; there's a barn foundation and garage with a loft unattached. The actual land that "belongs" to the house is a little over an acre.
The songs, the dreams, the romance, the struggles, the prayers - this house has made them safe. I am grateful to these walls and the spirits that live here for keeping me so long.
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
This Morning 2/29/12
Memoir
Having just finished a 5,000-word autobiographical feminist criticism of Willa Cather, my mind is reeling from the possibility of actually approaching writing from the position of the memoir. Although I have always done so to some extent or another - relating my own experiences in context to my subject's - I have never imagined it to be a legitimate form of narrative. In my mind there have always been only two genres by which to approach writing: fiction or non-fiction, and memoir falls into the non-fiction category, with no particular substantive expertise required.
However, the feminist memoir or cultural memoir can encompass personal history within the context of time and sociological sub-groupings in a more structured framework. The addition of the personal narrative is seen as the "new" contemporary feminist theory of critical analysis. Good storytelling is paramount in any genre - from journalism to folk songwriting to novels; narcissistic expression for it's own sake is not the idea here. Weaving stories within stories in an autobiographical or memoiristic fashion unveils the cryptic nature of fiction and criticism. It grounds it.
The 17th century writer, Mary Wroth, was ahead of her time in this genre with her The Countess of Montgomeries's Urania. If we rely on the patriarchal "experts" of that time, Ben Jonson and William Drummond considered Wroth a peer and her uncle, Sir Philip Sidney, was certainly one of her first inspirations. Wroth was eventually shunned as a writer, despite her genius and her distinction as being the first woman to publish prose fiction. Her own "truth" stories were inter-weaved throughout the Urania and included masked male literary figures of the time who took issue with these showings from the eyes (and pen) of a woman. They proved much too revealing of the harsh treatment of women in the throes of patriarchal society. Wroth was silenced for 100 years until being discovered again by feminist critics looking for definitive role models in Elizabethan and Jacobean England.
There's something eerily similar between Wroth and Cather; their approaches to writing have a common ring I need to explore further.
The memoir as analytical theory brings me back to one of my original personal descriptors; I used to say I have a "self-centered world view," meaning that if I can improve myself, I am improving the world. I am feeling myself thrown back thirty years here and wondering if we aren't just getting caught up in another cyclical rediscovery with this notion of memoir as legitimate theoretical narrative. If we are bringing something new to the table, then we are making progress. But, just to move one step to the left or right does not a new perspective make. We are still on the same plane. To advance the understanding of humanity as a whole, we must pick ourselves up and view it differently, from underneath or above - changing the plane entirely. This is, of course, if our intent is to contribute to the overall understanding of humanity or to present an entirely new narrative.
Alternately, if what we want is to tell our own story in relation to humanity's, then the memoir is an excellent model. It may not change the world, but possibly, will create an opening for a select few, and will likely engender a sense of personal satisfaction.
If that translates to joy, then it all comes down to "just living" as enough of an end in itself, and not the changing, or optimizing, of that living as most important. And that is a subject for another entry.
Having just finished a 5,000-word autobiographical feminist criticism of Willa Cather, my mind is reeling from the possibility of actually approaching writing from the position of the memoir. Although I have always done so to some extent or another - relating my own experiences in context to my subject's - I have never imagined it to be a legitimate form of narrative. In my mind there have always been only two genres by which to approach writing: fiction or non-fiction, and memoir falls into the non-fiction category, with no particular substantive expertise required.
However, the feminist memoir or cultural memoir can encompass personal history within the context of time and sociological sub-groupings in a more structured framework. The addition of the personal narrative is seen as the "new" contemporary feminist theory of critical analysis. Good storytelling is paramount in any genre - from journalism to folk songwriting to novels; narcissistic expression for it's own sake is not the idea here. Weaving stories within stories in an autobiographical or memoiristic fashion unveils the cryptic nature of fiction and criticism. It grounds it.
The 17th century writer, Mary Wroth, was ahead of her time in this genre with her The Countess of Montgomeries's Urania. If we rely on the patriarchal "experts" of that time, Ben Jonson and William Drummond considered Wroth a peer and her uncle, Sir Philip Sidney, was certainly one of her first inspirations. Wroth was eventually shunned as a writer, despite her genius and her distinction as being the first woman to publish prose fiction. Her own "truth" stories were inter-weaved throughout the Urania and included masked male literary figures of the time who took issue with these showings from the eyes (and pen) of a woman. They proved much too revealing of the harsh treatment of women in the throes of patriarchal society. Wroth was silenced for 100 years until being discovered again by feminist critics looking for definitive role models in Elizabethan and Jacobean England.
There's something eerily similar between Wroth and Cather; their approaches to writing have a common ring I need to explore further.
The memoir as analytical theory brings me back to one of my original personal descriptors; I used to say I have a "self-centered world view," meaning that if I can improve myself, I am improving the world. I am feeling myself thrown back thirty years here and wondering if we aren't just getting caught up in another cyclical rediscovery with this notion of memoir as legitimate theoretical narrative. If we are bringing something new to the table, then we are making progress. But, just to move one step to the left or right does not a new perspective make. We are still on the same plane. To advance the understanding of humanity as a whole, we must pick ourselves up and view it differently, from underneath or above - changing the plane entirely. This is, of course, if our intent is to contribute to the overall understanding of humanity or to present an entirely new narrative.
Alternately, if what we want is to tell our own story in relation to humanity's, then the memoir is an excellent model. It may not change the world, but possibly, will create an opening for a select few, and will likely engender a sense of personal satisfaction.
If that translates to joy, then it all comes down to "just living" as enough of an end in itself, and not the changing, or optimizing, of that living as most important. And that is a subject for another entry.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
This Morning 2/28/12
A Dream
(a possible recurrence since I remembered (while I was dreaming) that I know what to expect here)
I am in a white house, split-level, built circa 1970's, with an attached garage. There is a group of three or four other adults who are awaiting the arrival of some "Force" of alien-like and human beings. The purpose of this Force is to show us how to be unattached to our physical existence by removing most - if not all - of our material possessions. In fact, their job is to take our possessions and/or convince us to freely give them away to them.
Just before the arrival of the Force I had been given, in coin denominations of $20, $10, etc., the sum of $100 in a Ziploc bag. I knew the Force was coming and that they would take it, so I hid the bag of coins near a motorcycle in the garage. I then looked for a place to hide in the house; at first in an attic, but then, someplace else since a few of the others in the house came up the attic stairs.
When the Force arrived, they were odd-looking, misshaped facially, and I was not afraid of them hurting me, but cautious. There were some conversations/negotiations going on with the others. One of the Force looked like JR, heyoka, and he turned a back bend, levitated and performed other acrobatics in front of me. I knew he could levitate himself already, but to instill a sense of awe and fear within me, he made it appear as if one of the Force was making him levitate. I began to be suspicious of the true authenticity and force of the Force. I began to feel it was a conspiracy to get people to give away their properties so that the Force could then sell those things for money for themselves.
There was some fire and an explosion and soon, a trailer (or truck) with many possessions from the house filled inside, was ready to go. I was concerned about my $100. Outside, I went up to one of the Force (a fat man, looked Eastern European) and told him I was not doing well financially and needed the money I had. He pulled crumbled up paper out of his pocket and put it into mine. (I assumed it was money.) Then the woman next to him (who was genuinely empathetic) gave me a few dollars.
I went back in to the garage and saw the motorcycle still there. I looked and there was my Ziploc bag with the coins intact. I walked outside to return the money, but when I pulled the crumbled paper from my pocket to return it to him, I saw it was just crumbled-up blank paper, not money. The joke was on me. I felt a little angry and embarrassed.
The next I knew I was in a car on a wooded road in a large old Cadillac-type car with those two. We had spoken together about some things and then I wanted to get out and go back. They let me out and I began to walk back, sometimes running, toward where I had come from. I was barefoot on a dirt road where there had been rain recently. (It looked like like Tobin's road, unpaved.) It was the gloaming. I was running to get back before I couldn't see because of the dark.
(a possible recurrence since I remembered (while I was dreaming) that I know what to expect here)
I am in a white house, split-level, built circa 1970's, with an attached garage. There is a group of three or four other adults who are awaiting the arrival of some "Force" of alien-like and human beings. The purpose of this Force is to show us how to be unattached to our physical existence by removing most - if not all - of our material possessions. In fact, their job is to take our possessions and/or convince us to freely give them away to them.
Just before the arrival of the Force I had been given, in coin denominations of $20, $10, etc., the sum of $100 in a Ziploc bag. I knew the Force was coming and that they would take it, so I hid the bag of coins near a motorcycle in the garage. I then looked for a place to hide in the house; at first in an attic, but then, someplace else since a few of the others in the house came up the attic stairs.
When the Force arrived, they were odd-looking, misshaped facially, and I was not afraid of them hurting me, but cautious. There were some conversations/negotiations going on with the others. One of the Force looked like JR, heyoka, and he turned a back bend, levitated and performed other acrobatics in front of me. I knew he could levitate himself already, but to instill a sense of awe and fear within me, he made it appear as if one of the Force was making him levitate. I began to be suspicious of the true authenticity and force of the Force. I began to feel it was a conspiracy to get people to give away their properties so that the Force could then sell those things for money for themselves.
There was some fire and an explosion and soon, a trailer (or truck) with many possessions from the house filled inside, was ready to go. I was concerned about my $100. Outside, I went up to one of the Force (a fat man, looked Eastern European) and told him I was not doing well financially and needed the money I had. He pulled crumbled up paper out of his pocket and put it into mine. (I assumed it was money.) Then the woman next to him (who was genuinely empathetic) gave me a few dollars.
I went back in to the garage and saw the motorcycle still there. I looked and there was my Ziploc bag with the coins intact. I walked outside to return the money, but when I pulled the crumbled paper from my pocket to return it to him, I saw it was just crumbled-up blank paper, not money. The joke was on me. I felt a little angry and embarrassed.
The next I knew I was in a car on a wooded road in a large old Cadillac-type car with those two. We had spoken together about some things and then I wanted to get out and go back. They let me out and I began to walk back, sometimes running, toward where I had come from. I was barefoot on a dirt road where there had been rain recently. (It looked like like Tobin's road, unpaved.) It was the gloaming. I was running to get back before I couldn't see because of the dark.
Monday, February 27, 2012
This Morning 2/27/12
The wind seemed to be blowing from behind
It felt good to be busy
Absent of thoughts
To hamper joie de vivre
Without thinking, conflict resolved
To joy!
Stress fell away
To joy!
Aching muscles cowered
To joy!
High-heeled boots stepped up
To joy!
To joy!
All day
Five foot six was
Five foot eight
And there was joy
When taller
More joy
Easier to reach UP
Harder to bend DOWN
Easier to reach UP
Up is the new Black!
It felt good to be busy
Absent of thoughts
To hamper joie de vivre
Without thinking, conflict resolved
To joy!
Stress fell away
To joy!
Aching muscles cowered
To joy!
High-heeled boots stepped up
To joy!
To joy!
All day
Five foot six was
Five foot eight
And there was joy
When taller
More joy
Easier to reach UP
Harder to bend DOWN
Easier to reach UP
Up is the new Black!
Sunday, February 26, 2012
This Morning 2/26/12mm
Timing.
It's 3:17AM and I just finished one of those writing assignments I have been stressing about. It's a 5000 word paper on Willa Cather called, "Love Forsaken for Art's Sake." Cather is a magnificent writer, "fully the peer of F. Scott Fitzgerald," according to Harold Bloom, one of my favorite Shakespearean literary critics. I do refer to her in the present tense although she passed over in 1947. She was in her 70's and had lived a successful life devoted, committed and fully attended to her writing. This is her art; like a child, a spouse, a soul mate.
Reading her novels is akin to inhaling the forest and the trees, the sky and the sea; it's invigorating and incredibly overwhelming. I call it harmonic dissonance because that's what it feels to be.
Google her books, her quotes, and her short stories. Some are available as free e-books, and you can download many of her stories in the PDF format. I won't recommend specific work because it is all amazingly rich and alive. Her writing is truly among the best I've read.
One of her most famous quotes comes from a scene in Song of the Lark, when after Thea’s brilliant performance of Sieglinde, the narrator ponders, “Artistic growth is, more than it is anything else, a refining of the sense of truthfulness. The stupid believe that to be truthful is easy; only the artist, the great artist, knows how difficult it is” (Cather 421).
Just a teaser...go find a Willa Cather book and spend a week in a place of inexplicable presence.
It's 3:17AM and I just finished one of those writing assignments I have been stressing about. It's a 5000 word paper on Willa Cather called, "Love Forsaken for Art's Sake." Cather is a magnificent writer, "fully the peer of F. Scott Fitzgerald," according to Harold Bloom, one of my favorite Shakespearean literary critics. I do refer to her in the present tense although she passed over in 1947. She was in her 70's and had lived a successful life devoted, committed and fully attended to her writing. This is her art; like a child, a spouse, a soul mate.
Reading her novels is akin to inhaling the forest and the trees, the sky and the sea; it's invigorating and incredibly overwhelming. I call it harmonic dissonance because that's what it feels to be.
Google her books, her quotes, and her short stories. Some are available as free e-books, and you can download many of her stories in the PDF format. I won't recommend specific work because it is all amazingly rich and alive. Her writing is truly among the best I've read.
As she explained in “The Novel Demeuble”
“Whatever
is felt upon the page without being specifically named there —
that,
one might say, is created. It is the
inexplicable presence of the thing not
named,
of the overtone divined by the ear but not heard by it, the verbal
mood,
the emotional aura of the fact of the thing or the deed, that
gives
high quality to the novel or the drama, as well as to poetry itself”
(Cather
51).
One of her most famous quotes comes from a scene in Song of the Lark, when after Thea’s brilliant performance of Sieglinde, the narrator ponders, “Artistic growth is, more than it is anything else, a refining of the sense of truthfulness. The stupid believe that to be truthful is easy; only the artist, the great artist, knows how difficult it is” (Cather 421).
Just a teaser...go find a Willa Cather book and spend a week in a place of inexplicable presence.
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