It all began on a wet and rainy Tuesday afternoon. Looking around at what should be done versus what she wanted to do, Rose chose the later. As usual, the house stayed in the same cluttered messy pattern that was more often typical than not, and Rose early went to the computer. An anxious bubble in her chest, she toyed with the computer, checking her face book account, even pausing long enough to make a couple of updates, before getting before clicking on the icon that would open the word processing program.
There before her lay the snow white page waiting to be filled with her musings. Just like an eager child on Christmas morning, impatient for the wrappings to be torn off the delicious packages nestled under the tree, Rose was filled with the same trepidation as the child: would the words be the gift she really wanted? Pausing only for a few moments, she began the ritualistic tap trapping of the keyboard, allowing the words to flow forth to fill up the page that lay before her.
Her audience for the morning we two sleepy dogs and a cat. None of which cared whether she was tapping away at the computer or cleaning the disheveled house. Their half asleep state interrupted only occasionally by the noise of a nearby car or an exclamation from Rose. They were patiently waiting for their turn, when, weary from the exercise of writing, she would turn her attention on them, scratching behind ears, and perhaps even venturing out with the dogs for a walk around the neighborhood. But for now, they lay like old men on a lazy Sunday afternoon.
But for Rose, her audience was of no importance at the moment. The exercise was to cover the white space that lay before her. It didn’t matter if the result was publication worthy or not, only that the words made it onto the page.
Often, she would muse about her life and of opportunities missed. In her struggle to maintain a balance in her life that masked the insanity she felt always bubbling just beneath the surface, she would revisit those lost times. They would be examined; dissected like a frog in a biology class, in order to discover their deeper meaning. She hadn’t arrived at this place walking down a petal strewn path. No. Her path was uneven and rocky, barely a path at all in many places.
Sometimes, it would be so garbage filled that it was all she could do to keep breathing; her existence only that of the breath and placing of one foot in front of the other. It was during these times that the path became invisible, and the insanity was allowed to spew forth, like some molten lava from a long dormant volcano.
Chaos would replace the normal. It could take months before the path reemerged from under the piles of garbage. Slowly, with a great deal of effort, Rose would begin looking for pieces of the path, anything to let those around her know that she was emerging from the chaos once again.
Hours turned into days, which turned into years. Rose began to realize that she was gaining some wisdom with the unrelenting march of years. It came out of no where, like a rainbow appearing after endless days of gray sky. Sometimes, it came in the form of a gift -- an unexpected conversation with an old friend or an even older soul. Whatever the method of acquisition, Rose began to scoop up the bits of wisdom that she would find, and try to apply them to her own existence, much like one trying to fit together the parts of a jig-saw puzzle.
It was on that one rainy Tuesday afternoon that Rose realized that instead of looking backward, trying to fit all the pieces of the puzzle together, that she should be spending at least some of her time looking forward, and learn how to read that path before stumbling down it, and caution should be taken when running head on into a pack of dogs. For sometimes, if you let sleeping dogs lie, the end result is a well rested dog.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Monday, November 16, 2009
Reflection
Listening to a variety of music this morning -- and, as usual, drift back to Michael Jackson. If you are not a fan, you should really listen to some of his music -- like Heal the World, Man in the Mirror, Black or White, and You are Not Alone for starters. He had a message, and it is now for us to pick up and carry on regardless of personal feelings for him.
The message -- to take care of each other and our planet -- is perhaps needed more than ever before. Check out the news -- pick up a paper, listen to the radio, watch it on TV. We are a violent planet. We are a violent nation. I live in the St. Louis metropolitan area. Each night on the news, there are more gang wars, more people destroyed in my own backyard.
Has life always been this way? With the internet, we can catch things just as they are happening, and we see globally each night on television. Is it just because of this instant access that gives us pictures that we have never has access to before. My husband and children love history. It seems that since the time the Europeans first came to what we now know of as the USA, we have been a violent people.
Native Americans helped those first settlers to survive. In hindsight, it was a terrible decision on their part. We, collectively, have reduced their numbers until some tribes no longer exist. Things have not changed much since that time. A lot of the violence stems from greed. We want what we don't have. More money, more power, more things is the message that is continually broadcast.
That is why the words sung by Michael Jackson are so important. Listen to his broader message. Stop fighting. Stop hounding people to the point that their lives seem to spin out of control. Stop buying needless things to stuff our houses until they seem to burst at the seems. Just STOP. Replace anger, violence, greed ... with love, compassion, giving. One by one we can make those needed changes.
The message -- to take care of each other and our planet -- is perhaps needed more than ever before. Check out the news -- pick up a paper, listen to the radio, watch it on TV. We are a violent planet. We are a violent nation. I live in the St. Louis metropolitan area. Each night on the news, there are more gang wars, more people destroyed in my own backyard.
Has life always been this way? With the internet, we can catch things just as they are happening, and we see globally each night on television. Is it just because of this instant access that gives us pictures that we have never has access to before. My husband and children love history. It seems that since the time the Europeans first came to what we now know of as the USA, we have been a violent people.
Native Americans helped those first settlers to survive. In hindsight, it was a terrible decision on their part. We, collectively, have reduced their numbers until some tribes no longer exist. Things have not changed much since that time. A lot of the violence stems from greed. We want what we don't have. More money, more power, more things is the message that is continually broadcast.
That is why the words sung by Michael Jackson are so important. Listen to his broader message. Stop fighting. Stop hounding people to the point that their lives seem to spin out of control. Stop buying needless things to stuff our houses until they seem to burst at the seems. Just STOP. Replace anger, violence, greed ... with love, compassion, giving. One by one we can make those needed changes.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
the dance
Sitting in the now quiet house, ideas begin to flow like electric current to a light bulb. How to get them to their destination becomes the issue, as the often half formed ideas flit about in a haphazard fashion. Some begging to be released, while others cling to the corners as if they are afraid to be released in the time tested tradition of pen to paper.
Plagued by self doubt, the writer pecks at the keyboard for a few moments, then drifts as eyes stray to the pencil, standing almost stoically in the kitten covered mug that is spending its eternity as a pencil holder. Often, it is not the tap tap of the keys on the keyboard, but the drag of the pencil across the paper that enables the thoughts to be released and allowed to flow unimpeded across the pages of the notebook. It is the dance of the writer, performed to an audience of sleeping children, pets, and the often neglected husband. Sleep comes easily to them, but not the writer.
Until most recently, the inability to fall into the same sleeping patterns like the other members of the house was seen as a detriment. Something to rant against when engaged in conversation with others, and a reason for taking the offerings of the family healer. This masking provided a sense of normalcy to the writer, and was not taken for the gift that was. The gift that it is. For it is in these moments that the dance begins, and the stories unfold.
Plagued by self doubt, the writer pecks at the keyboard for a few moments, then drifts as eyes stray to the pencil, standing almost stoically in the kitten covered mug that is spending its eternity as a pencil holder. Often, it is not the tap tap of the keys on the keyboard, but the drag of the pencil across the paper that enables the thoughts to be released and allowed to flow unimpeded across the pages of the notebook. It is the dance of the writer, performed to an audience of sleeping children, pets, and the often neglected husband. Sleep comes easily to them, but not the writer.
Until most recently, the inability to fall into the same sleeping patterns like the other members of the house was seen as a detriment. Something to rant against when engaged in conversation with others, and a reason for taking the offerings of the family healer. This masking provided a sense of normalcy to the writer, and was not taken for the gift that was. The gift that it is. For it is in these moments that the dance begins, and the stories unfold.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
A life well lived
Live every day as if it were your last. If the old adage is followed, at the end of life's journey, one should be able to feel that their life has been well lived. Just exactly though, does one live life well? It would seem that if followed, the result would either be a happy well adjusted individual or a narcissist. The fine line comes, I think, in the feelings of those with whom that life is shared.
It speaks to the character of a person when those sharing the same space are living a happy and fulfilling life. This is not to say that all days are filled with wine and roses. Real life is not that way. Staying focused on wrapping tendrils of positive energy around one's self and others does lead to that well-lived life.
To that end, being surrounded by positive, uplifting people make the life journey an easier road. My list of these people has recently expanded thanks to the explosion of social networking sites. One such person if my brother's ex-wife. Only appearing in my life at a young age, and then disappearing quickly, it was years before our paths would cross. Thanks to our cyber universe, she has gently wound herself around my heart. She is a voice of experience and wisdom, and a sister who was missing from my life for far too long.
A family sharing life and love and friends that have become more like siblings than my own provide an environment for those positive energy tendrils to wrap around the hearts of all involved. While not exactly living each day as if it were my last, I am -- finally -- living my life well.
It speaks to the character of a person when those sharing the same space are living a happy and fulfilling life. This is not to say that all days are filled with wine and roses. Real life is not that way. Staying focused on wrapping tendrils of positive energy around one's self and others does lead to that well-lived life.
To that end, being surrounded by positive, uplifting people make the life journey an easier road. My list of these people has recently expanded thanks to the explosion of social networking sites. One such person if my brother's ex-wife. Only appearing in my life at a young age, and then disappearing quickly, it was years before our paths would cross. Thanks to our cyber universe, she has gently wound herself around my heart. She is a voice of experience and wisdom, and a sister who was missing from my life for far too long.
A family sharing life and love and friends that have become more like siblings than my own provide an environment for those positive energy tendrils to wrap around the hearts of all involved. While not exactly living each day as if it were my last, I am -- finally -- living my life well.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Ghosts and the long and winding road
As usual, when it is time to go to bed, my head runs in different directions, and I find myself often not wanting or, at other times, not able to fall asleep. On this particular night, I found myself thinking of past ghosts that seemed to rise from nowhere and fill the inky blackness of my bedroom. Awash in the memories and unable to sleep, I found my way to the computer.
With a click of a mouse, the computer hummed to life under my finger tips, and I found myself stroking the keys in a mad rush. I found a friend, an old soul from years gone by, willing to listen and provide much needed wisdom. It was during this discourse that I came face to face with the ghosts of the parents I wish I had versus the material being.
In recounting life events that could have been, I pondered where the steps toward the pothole filled road could have been averted, and a more even and stable road taken instead. What impact could have been made by open lines of communication between parent and child? Is this conflict between ghosts and shadows of what could have been a legacy that must be fulfilled?
Thoughtful and thought provoking answers were provided. My friend’s wisdom and honesty helped some old ghosts find a resting place. Other ghosts, although not vanishing completely, were calmed. I found myself looking at truths that I had not expected to find. Perhaps all of this answer seeking madness is really a juxtaposition of the parenting I received and my own parenting skills. One truth is that most children grow up and away from their parents, regardless of how they were parented.
The road begins the same – away from the parental nest. What appearance the road takes next can be altered to some extent by the type of parenting the child received while still in that nest. Indifferent parenting can almost guarantee a difficult path. Choosing to be an active and involved parent may seem to lead to a harder road in the short term, but the adult road is more even and easily travelled. This produces fewer ghosts to deal with on sleepless nights.
With a click of a mouse, the computer hummed to life under my finger tips, and I found myself stroking the keys in a mad rush. I found a friend, an old soul from years gone by, willing to listen and provide much needed wisdom. It was during this discourse that I came face to face with the ghosts of the parents I wish I had versus the material being.
In recounting life events that could have been, I pondered where the steps toward the pothole filled road could have been averted, and a more even and stable road taken instead. What impact could have been made by open lines of communication between parent and child? Is this conflict between ghosts and shadows of what could have been a legacy that must be fulfilled?
Thoughtful and thought provoking answers were provided. My friend’s wisdom and honesty helped some old ghosts find a resting place. Other ghosts, although not vanishing completely, were calmed. I found myself looking at truths that I had not expected to find. Perhaps all of this answer seeking madness is really a juxtaposition of the parenting I received and my own parenting skills. One truth is that most children grow up and away from their parents, regardless of how they were parented.
The road begins the same – away from the parental nest. What appearance the road takes next can be altered to some extent by the type of parenting the child received while still in that nest. Indifferent parenting can almost guarantee a difficult path. Choosing to be an active and involved parent may seem to lead to a harder road in the short term, but the adult road is more even and easily travelled. This produces fewer ghosts to deal with on sleepless nights.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Reflection, November 7
Stress and frustration hang over me like some distant rain cloud, which threatens at each moment to spill it’s wet drops. The more I fight against it, the closer it comes, until I just give in and allow myself to be enveloped in it’s inky darkness. My body is showing the effects of the battle, with skin that is freckled with an acne outbreak, and a bloat that resembles an overfilled balloon.
It is hard to move past the obvious signs to what lies festering just beneath the surface. The aches and pains of multiple illnesses claw and gouge their way in, making me rail against them one moment, and give in the next. This continual see sawing fight is wearing on me, allowing for raw nerves to edge ever closer to surface. It doesn’t take much for emotions to come tumbling out, one over the other as my family watches in a shocked disbelief.
Relief comes in small waves of medication and sleep. It becomes a crazy cycle that I can’t break free of.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
November 1, 2009 -- Reflection
I was once told that the most successful of people spend a few moments at the end of the day reflecting over their day -- what went well and how to correct what went wrong. I had some things that went well, but I am feeling that many of the things of today didn't go so well.
I know I am a glass half empty person, and tend to look on the ark side of things. This is a protective mechanism that I learned when I was small. If you look at things from the point of view of what is the worst thing that could happen, then if something better did happen, then that was all gravy. It is how I have lived my whole life.
So now here I am, looking on the down side of my 40s, and in the wink of an eye, 50 will be knocking at my door. The cranky lady on the streets seems to be looming in my future, as that door seems to grow ever larger and closer. She reared her ugly head today at the moment when my house needed peaceful soothing tones, there was screeching and loud tones. Time for being in bed has come and gone, yet I remain awake -- trying to still that screechy scratchy voice and calm the wretch of a lady that looms so ever-present within the walls of this house.
Allowing the quiet rumblings of night time flow like soft tendrils reaching up from the tan mass that covers the floor teases , giving glimpses of a calm so longed for, yet held at bay by invisible strands that need their own time of reckoning. So as thoughts of the days wrongs try to work themselves into soft pillowing clouds that would have eased much of the sting that was felt by the hot voices that allowed them to flow forth in the first place, the longed for calm does begin the edge its way in. The promise of a new day allows for the those tendrils to take hold.
I know I am a glass half empty person, and tend to look on the ark side of things. This is a protective mechanism that I learned when I was small. If you look at things from the point of view of what is the worst thing that could happen, then if something better did happen, then that was all gravy. It is how I have lived my whole life.
So now here I am, looking on the down side of my 40s, and in the wink of an eye, 50 will be knocking at my door. The cranky lady on the streets seems to be looming in my future, as that door seems to grow ever larger and closer. She reared her ugly head today at the moment when my house needed peaceful soothing tones, there was screeching and loud tones. Time for being in bed has come and gone, yet I remain awake -- trying to still that screechy scratchy voice and calm the wretch of a lady that looms so ever-present within the walls of this house.
Allowing the quiet rumblings of night time flow like soft tendrils reaching up from the tan mass that covers the floor teases , giving glimpses of a calm so longed for, yet held at bay by invisible strands that need their own time of reckoning. So as thoughts of the days wrongs try to work themselves into soft pillowing clouds that would have eased much of the sting that was felt by the hot voices that allowed them to flow forth in the first place, the longed for calm does begin the edge its way in. The promise of a new day allows for the those tendrils to take hold.
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