Some people spend an incredible portion of their present-moment life searching for & through the debris of their past. Until - past - I was fifty, that would have described me pretty well; on a constant loop of reviewing & rehashing long ago bits of this & that, trying to get clarity, to make sense of some if not all of it.
Well, there is a use in considering our past, but it seems to me it's only as potent as our willingness to get the lesson from the ancient moment, hold onto heightened positive awareness & let go of all the rest. None of the rest is real anyway ~ it's just our selected memory of a selected moment. Not false, just unreliably skewed.
The power is in the intangible ethereal, not in the memory. We don't keep going over the math problems we did in high school geometry or constantly reviewing the basics of grammar ~ we leave the lessons behind as we live the lesson learned.
Track 9 to NYC
dropping off "my guys" at Hamilton Train Station
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Saturday, July 9, 2011
By the sea
friends of ours are spending today in our beloved spring lake. such memories...
spring lake is the opposite of wildwood, n.j.
its beautiful boardwalk is devoid of any commercial establishments (except one or two tucked discreetly into the pavilions; instead, elegant overlooks jut out over the beach, a perfect place to commune with the ocean (which at high tide crashes underneath).
no "mile wide" beach with gentle slope into the ocean - it's a narrow beach with a fairly steep drop, making it more prone to strong undertows.
instead of glaring neon & blaring arcades, spring lake is home to green gables croquet club & the united states croquet association. its genteel calm is the polar opposite of wildwood's... wildness.
it's long been a surprise that so few of my friends are familiar with spring lake. it's not only more civilized, it's so much closer than the more southerly beaches - basically due east from bryn athyn on rt 195.
confession - we rarely take the mega lane highway, instead driving up from trenton, through cozy allentown, then staying parallel to 195, driving past some stunning horse farms (albeit fewer than there were 25+ years ago).
you could gauge the state of my mother's general physical condition by our annual pilgrimages to spring lake.
for many years (long before john), the three of us - mom, mim et moi - made the trek from bryn athyn, pa to spring lake, nj. we savored every moment of our leisurely drive, always wondering aloud how "you'd never know you were so near the seaside."
we'd swing around the charming spring lake, then nip into sundae times so mom could get a reviving scoop of delectable ice cream (on an old-fashioned, never a sugar, cone). we'd drive past the IMMENSE american flag that snapped in the breeze as we turned right onto the village's main street. we'd check out if there were any changes since our last visit before nipping into dale's coffee shop for a cup of coffee.
we used these long, lovely moments to build toward, like a crescendo of anticipation, our final destination - ocean avenue and the OCEAN.
finally, we could bear it now longer & we'd head the car toward the smell of sea breezes.
the first sight of ocean avenue, which parallels the shoreline, always made our hearts leap. we'd find the just right parking spot, pull in, then head across the dunes to the boardwalk & beach. we'd walk up & down, both mim et moi taking immense delight in watching mom commune with her much-missed ocean, turning into a water sprite before our very eyes. we'd end the day with a drive up & down ocean avenue, with a seafood dinner at the aptly named beach house.
then there came a time that mom wasn't up to ambling up & down the shore. for several years the three of us, or just mom et moi, would got through all the preliminaries with gusto, but instead of walking up & down the beach, we trekked the boardwalk from from one end to the other before heading up & down ocean avenue, followed by a early dinner at beach house.
after 1995, when mom's energy had started flagging but never her deep love of the ocean, the two of us took a shorter prilgrimage, parking alongside the dunes, heading across the boardwalk to one of the soul-satisfying overlooks, a place mom could settle in, transfixed by the ocean waves crashing down, feeling at one with the tides. when she finally stirred from her reunion & reverie, we'd head back to the car for the drive up & down ocean avenue, followed by a late lunch at beach house.
for the last two years of mom's life, we took our back roads ramble ~ me at the wheel, mom riding "shot gun" ~ nipped into sundae times for a scoop, then pulled up to a low dune that gave mom a soul-satisfying view of her beloved ocean. after about 15 minutes, we pulled out, drove the length of ocean drive & ended up at beach house for an early lunch.
when mom passed in 2001, i was sad we never got to spring lake that last summer.
that was, until i stopped by about two weeks after mom was reunited with her o best beloved. i'd been to visit mim, who was living in brick or toms river at the time. since spring lake isn't far away, i thought it would be a nice tribute to mom to swing over on my way home.
i was so happy mom had NOT been. we knew the essex-sussex house ~ which we knew as an immense yet utterly elegant seaside hotel (complete with its own promenade & private access to the beach) - was being converted into condominiums, but to my horror it was clear the project had fallen through & the once grand hotel looked utterly shabby & forlorn. what shocked me even more was the sight of beach house, closed & shuttered, the sign gone along with any sign of life.
within a few moments, i went from sorrow mom had missed our annual trek to joy she never saw or felt what i did.
yes, spring lake is different than it was when we had such grand times there, whether as a chortling trio having a cuppa at dale's coffee shop or just the two of us gazing over the dunes at the waves rising afar off. but i still love it, always will: still love to take people there, still love to visit at least once a year - usually early fall, still love to walk the beach, wrapping myself in an oversized metaphysical beach blanket of memories.
spring lake is the opposite of wildwood, n.j.
its beautiful boardwalk is devoid of any commercial establishments (except one or two tucked discreetly into the pavilions; instead, elegant overlooks jut out over the beach, a perfect place to commune with the ocean (which at high tide crashes underneath).
no "mile wide" beach with gentle slope into the ocean - it's a narrow beach with a fairly steep drop, making it more prone to strong undertows.
instead of glaring neon & blaring arcades, spring lake is home to green gables croquet club & the united states croquet association. its genteel calm is the polar opposite of wildwood's... wildness.
it's long been a surprise that so few of my friends are familiar with spring lake. it's not only more civilized, it's so much closer than the more southerly beaches - basically due east from bryn athyn on rt 195.
confession - we rarely take the mega lane highway, instead driving up from trenton, through cozy allentown, then staying parallel to 195, driving past some stunning horse farms (albeit fewer than there were 25+ years ago).
you could gauge the state of my mother's general physical condition by our annual pilgrimages to spring lake.
for many years (long before john), the three of us - mom, mim et moi - made the trek from bryn athyn, pa to spring lake, nj. we savored every moment of our leisurely drive, always wondering aloud how "you'd never know you were so near the seaside."
we'd swing around the charming spring lake, then nip into sundae times so mom could get a reviving scoop of delectable ice cream (on an old-fashioned, never a sugar, cone). we'd drive past the IMMENSE american flag that snapped in the breeze as we turned right onto the village's main street. we'd check out if there were any changes since our last visit before nipping into dale's coffee shop for a cup of coffee.
we used these long, lovely moments to build toward, like a crescendo of anticipation, our final destination - ocean avenue and the OCEAN.
finally, we could bear it now longer & we'd head the car toward the smell of sea breezes.
the first sight of ocean avenue, which parallels the shoreline, always made our hearts leap. we'd find the just right parking spot, pull in, then head across the dunes to the boardwalk & beach. we'd walk up & down, both mim et moi taking immense delight in watching mom commune with her much-missed ocean, turning into a water sprite before our very eyes. we'd end the day with a drive up & down ocean avenue, with a seafood dinner at the aptly named beach house.
then there came a time that mom wasn't up to ambling up & down the shore. for several years the three of us, or just mom et moi, would got through all the preliminaries with gusto, but instead of walking up & down the beach, we trekked the boardwalk from from one end to the other before heading up & down ocean avenue, followed by a early dinner at beach house.
after 1995, when mom's energy had started flagging but never her deep love of the ocean, the two of us took a shorter prilgrimage, parking alongside the dunes, heading across the boardwalk to one of the soul-satisfying overlooks, a place mom could settle in, transfixed by the ocean waves crashing down, feeling at one with the tides. when she finally stirred from her reunion & reverie, we'd head back to the car for the drive up & down ocean avenue, followed by a late lunch at beach house.
for the last two years of mom's life, we took our back roads ramble ~ me at the wheel, mom riding "shot gun" ~ nipped into sundae times for a scoop, then pulled up to a low dune that gave mom a soul-satisfying view of her beloved ocean. after about 15 minutes, we pulled out, drove the length of ocean drive & ended up at beach house for an early lunch.
when mom passed in 2001, i was sad we never got to spring lake that last summer.
that was, until i stopped by about two weeks after mom was reunited with her o best beloved. i'd been to visit mim, who was living in brick or toms river at the time. since spring lake isn't far away, i thought it would be a nice tribute to mom to swing over on my way home.
i was so happy mom had NOT been. we knew the essex-sussex house ~ which we knew as an immense yet utterly elegant seaside hotel (complete with its own promenade & private access to the beach) - was being converted into condominiums, but to my horror it was clear the project had fallen through & the once grand hotel looked utterly shabby & forlorn. what shocked me even more was the sight of beach house, closed & shuttered, the sign gone along with any sign of life.
within a few moments, i went from sorrow mom had missed our annual trek to joy she never saw or felt what i did.
yes, spring lake is different than it was when we had such grand times there, whether as a chortling trio having a cuppa at dale's coffee shop or just the two of us gazing over the dunes at the waves rising afar off. but i still love it, always will: still love to take people there, still love to visit at least once a year - usually early fall, still love to walk the beach, wrapping myself in an oversized metaphysical beach blanket of memories.
Loved in Toms River
For how long did I send Peter & Mim bimonthly One Book, One Family selections ~ just over a year? Just under? Can't remember.
Can recall that I started sending each of them a copy of the same book - and kept a copy for myself - after being inspired by Philadephia's One Book, One City program. It seemed one way to be in contact with my USA-based sibs without stirring the aggravation & angst that touches so many of our encounters.
As the months went by, friends thought I was nuts.
"Why, with your finances so low do you continue to spend money on books and postage when neither of them have given you the faintest inkling that they've received, let alone like what you send?"
And I would explain how - to me - it was one of the most important investments I could make.
Did I get discouraged over not hearing a peep from either Peter or Mim? I'm not sure how I felt, or maybe I know but can't figure out how express it. It was certainly tough to depend on a confirmed receipt notice to know books arrived at the correct addresses.
It was when I sent a package via confirmed receipt ~ near the end of my initiative ~ that I got a nice thank you from Mim for the book, Playing Their Hearts Out, about how inner city athletes often fall prey to unscrupulous coaches.
While One Book, One Family is shelved (for now), about six weeks ago I sent Mim a small book of inspirational passages that she gave Mom many many years ago, a treasure Mom always kept on her bedside, atop her Bible. In the note accompanying it, I took the opportunity to ask if Mim had received - back in the early fall - the dvd starring Claire Danes as Temple Grandin, a high-functioning, remarkably accomplished autistic whose life illustrates that there are things people with autism can do that people with standard senses cannot. (Seemed a good pick for Mim, who works with autistic children; ordered it pre-release, so she'd get it the moment it came out.)
Received a note today ~ along with confirming receipt of the dvd, Mim included some personal information about the surging summer crowds in the shoreside town where she lives. She apologized, explaining she thought she'd long ago confirmed & thanked. It was a cozy little note, written on lined paper torn out of a spiral-bound book ~ homey, not homely!! And it closed, "You are loved in Toms River."
"You are loved in Toms River." That's why I sent books et al for just over or just under a year. A connection. Not the outsized sort my basic Tiggerish nature hankers after; rather somewhat distant & a trifle oblique - the sort PRL & JKL seem more comfortable receiving.
Perhaps I'm getting better at empathy. It's way more important to express love in ways my sibs can connect with than ones most natural to me. That's always been a major challenge, even a daunting barrier with my own family. How to connect without being too personal, too present.
Maybe One Book, One Family was a successful first step toward striking that balance. Or maybe it was just a step.
Whichever it is, sure feels good to have taken it, to know that I am "loved in Toms River."
Can recall that I started sending each of them a copy of the same book - and kept a copy for myself - after being inspired by Philadephia's One Book, One City program. It seemed one way to be in contact with my USA-based sibs without stirring the aggravation & angst that touches so many of our encounters.
As the months went by, friends thought I was nuts.
"Why, with your finances so low do you continue to spend money on books and postage when neither of them have given you the faintest inkling that they've received, let alone like what you send?"
And I would explain how - to me - it was one of the most important investments I could make.
Did I get discouraged over not hearing a peep from either Peter or Mim? I'm not sure how I felt, or maybe I know but can't figure out how express it. It was certainly tough to depend on a confirmed receipt notice to know books arrived at the correct addresses.
It was when I sent a package via confirmed receipt ~ near the end of my initiative ~ that I got a nice thank you from Mim for the book, Playing Their Hearts Out, about how inner city athletes often fall prey to unscrupulous coaches.
While One Book, One Family is shelved (for now), about six weeks ago I sent Mim a small book of inspirational passages that she gave Mom many many years ago, a treasure Mom always kept on her bedside, atop her Bible. In the note accompanying it, I took the opportunity to ask if Mim had received - back in the early fall - the dvd starring Claire Danes as Temple Grandin, a high-functioning, remarkably accomplished autistic whose life illustrates that there are things people with autism can do that people with standard senses cannot. (Seemed a good pick for Mim, who works with autistic children; ordered it pre-release, so she'd get it the moment it came out.)
Received a note today ~ along with confirming receipt of the dvd, Mim included some personal information about the surging summer crowds in the shoreside town where she lives. She apologized, explaining she thought she'd long ago confirmed & thanked. It was a cozy little note, written on lined paper torn out of a spiral-bound book ~ homey, not homely!! And it closed, "You are loved in Toms River."
"You are loved in Toms River." That's why I sent books et al for just over or just under a year. A connection. Not the outsized sort my basic Tiggerish nature hankers after; rather somewhat distant & a trifle oblique - the sort PRL & JKL seem more comfortable receiving.
Perhaps I'm getting better at empathy. It's way more important to express love in ways my sibs can connect with than ones most natural to me. That's always been a major challenge, even a daunting barrier with my own family. How to connect without being too personal, too present.
Maybe One Book, One Family was a successful first step toward striking that balance. Or maybe it was just a step.
Whichever it is, sure feels good to have taken it, to know that I am "loved in Toms River."
Friday, July 8, 2011
Mim
When I was younger, you could always spot people who didn't know my sister very well - they'd call he JOANN. Well, her christened name was Joann K Lockhart, but her family & host of friends called her Mimmy, later MIM.
Dad insisted their first daughter be named in some way for her mother, Katharine Reynolds Lockhart. The most that Mom would allow was her initial as Mim's middle name.
"When she wants, she can pick her own middle name," Mom explained. (It took over 40 years, but Mim finally did, in time to have it emblazoned on her degree of Masters of Social Work, from Rutgers.)
Will never know if Mom's decision was based on her lifelong deep sense of deprecation ~OR~ a canny awareness of Mim's iconoclastic personality.
It wasn't until near the end of her life - and years after she passed - that I discovered far deeper implications behind Mom's choice of her first daughter's names.
Dad insisted their first daughter be named in some way for her mother, Katharine Reynolds Lockhart. The most that Mom would allow was her initial as Mim's middle name.
"When she wants, she can pick her own middle name," Mom explained. (It took over 40 years, but Mim finally did, in time to have it emblazoned on her degree of Masters of Social Work, from Rutgers.)
Will never know if Mom's decision was based on her lifelong deep sense of deprecation ~OR~ a canny awareness of Mim's iconoclastic personality.
It wasn't until near the end of her life - and years after she passed - that I discovered far deeper implications behind Mom's choice of her first daughter's names.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
My Greatest Life Mentor
The very first tip of my hat has to be to my all-time, hands-down greatest life mentor - my husband, John. He illuminates all around me - all that I am & can be - through simply being who he is.
John is kind & gentle. In all my grousing & grumbling about my family, especially about my siblings, he's never ever criticized, belittled or taken any of them (except one s-i-l ~ and even then, only with light humor) to task.
The Budgemeister brings to our relationship the quality I always admired in my parents' marriage & long to mirror in all of my relationships - caring, supportive partnership.
I've dubbed us "one couple, many hats" because of all the two of us do, together and individually, And I tip them all to my hubster, my keet, my forever love - John.
John is kind & gentle. In all my grousing & grumbling about my family, especially about my siblings, he's never ever criticized, belittled or taken any of them (except one s-i-l ~ and even then, only with light humor) to task.
The Budgemeister brings to our relationship the quality I always admired in my parents' marriage & long to mirror in all of my relationships - caring, supportive partnership.
I've dubbed us "one couple, many hats" because of all the two of us do, together and individually, And I tip them all to my hubster, my keet, my forever love - John.
god, existence & family
at age seven, i turned to tv as safe harbor from whatever conditions i was experiencing in my young life. most of what i watched was drivel, with a few exceptions.
at age 10, i discovered two films that changed my life ~ roshoman (japanese - subtitled!) illustrated how our personal perspective influences how we see a situation. outward bound (a early 1930s film that's disappeared or no longer viewable) reinforced two key lessons - it's possible for people to experience the same situation in vastly different ways, that what feel awful to one could feel like heaven to another, and that are consequences to our actions.
my first lessons that we each have our own stories (which can lead to confusion), that the same moment can be experienced in different ways, that actions have consequences. looking back, even i scratch my head over how a 10-year old could divine such heavy messaging, but it didn't feel in the least bit heavy, but like light falling across a page.
did i, as my brothers said, watch too much tv? absolutely. still do, although far less than back then or even a few years ago.
but i suspect tv will always have a healthy place in my life.
what was once a crutch became a therapist, delivering many great insights. from hearing a hero mouse answer "With any luck - forward" to his father's question about where he's going to the Robinson family motto "Put the past behind you and keep moving forward" to Bob Balaban's shrink character making a point about life to his chef-patient, Catherine Zeta-Jones' ~ "You know yourself - the best recipes are the ones you come up with yourself." i heard these and countless others, recording many of them on dvr & all of them in my heart.
in particular, i've gleaned a lot of insights about god, our core existence & family from my hours in front of the telly.
can remember the first time i watched oh, god - in my mid-twenties. riveted ~ here was an expression of god that spoke to me with the voice of comedic thunder!
then there was the world-shaking, mind-expanding moment in mindwalk when the writer character, sitting in an ancient chapel on mount saint michele, explains to two friends how physics explains that everything - alive, inanimate, everything ~ is connected. lightening struck in one immense illumination.
in the present moment ~ and inspiring this post ~ was blessed anew over the past 12 hours with several clarifying moments, all tied to tv watching.
divya, in royal pains, responding to someone asking why her parents aren't talking to her, gives the very explanation i could give for why my sibs won't talk to me ~ "i could give you a bunch of reasons ~ but when it comes down to it, i don't understand any of them." and she later wonders about how her parents could not want to hear her voice. i know how she feels - and can relate to her determination to neither dismiss her sadness nor let it limit her life.
have i mentioned in previous postings that i occasionally use the telly as an oversized night light? flipped it on in the wee small hours of this morning ~ there was oh, god on hbo! already well into the story, but with the best parts still to come - commercial-free! taped & ready for my leisurely viewing, big bowl of popcorn on my lap & john by my side. expect a posting!
the #1 reason i am inspired to write a book is to give thanks to all the resources, mentors & other influences in my life that helped me emerge from my longtime cocoon, stretch my wings & take flight. television was my first. going from crutch to counselor to conduit. thank god!
at age 10, i discovered two films that changed my life ~ roshoman (japanese - subtitled!) illustrated how our personal perspective influences how we see a situation. outward bound (a early 1930s film that's disappeared or no longer viewable) reinforced two key lessons - it's possible for people to experience the same situation in vastly different ways, that what feel awful to one could feel like heaven to another, and that are consequences to our actions.
my first lessons that we each have our own stories (which can lead to confusion), that the same moment can be experienced in different ways, that actions have consequences. looking back, even i scratch my head over how a 10-year old could divine such heavy messaging, but it didn't feel in the least bit heavy, but like light falling across a page.
did i, as my brothers said, watch too much tv? absolutely. still do, although far less than back then or even a few years ago.
but i suspect tv will always have a healthy place in my life.
what was once a crutch became a therapist, delivering many great insights. from hearing a hero mouse answer "With any luck - forward" to his father's question about where he's going to the Robinson family motto "Put the past behind you and keep moving forward" to Bob Balaban's shrink character making a point about life to his chef-patient, Catherine Zeta-Jones' ~ "You know yourself - the best recipes are the ones you come up with yourself." i heard these and countless others, recording many of them on dvr & all of them in my heart.
in particular, i've gleaned a lot of insights about god, our core existence & family from my hours in front of the telly.
can remember the first time i watched oh, god - in my mid-twenties. riveted ~ here was an expression of god that spoke to me with the voice of comedic thunder!
then there was the world-shaking, mind-expanding moment in mindwalk when the writer character, sitting in an ancient chapel on mount saint michele, explains to two friends how physics explains that everything - alive, inanimate, everything ~ is connected. lightening struck in one immense illumination.
in the present moment ~ and inspiring this post ~ was blessed anew over the past 12 hours with several clarifying moments, all tied to tv watching.
divya, in royal pains, responding to someone asking why her parents aren't talking to her, gives the very explanation i could give for why my sibs won't talk to me ~ "i could give you a bunch of reasons ~ but when it comes down to it, i don't understand any of them." and she later wonders about how her parents could not want to hear her voice. i know how she feels - and can relate to her determination to neither dismiss her sadness nor let it limit her life.
have i mentioned in previous postings that i occasionally use the telly as an oversized night light? flipped it on in the wee small hours of this morning ~ there was oh, god on hbo! already well into the story, but with the best parts still to come - commercial-free! taped & ready for my leisurely viewing, big bowl of popcorn on my lap & john by my side. expect a posting!
the #1 reason i am inspired to write a book is to give thanks to all the resources, mentors & other influences in my life that helped me emerge from my longtime cocoon, stretch my wings & take flight. television was my first. going from crutch to counselor to conduit. thank god!
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
if only
of the many conversations i wish i'd had with my sibs, two would have to be 1) with mim about the weeks she spent in san francisco in the late '60s, bunking with mike who lived there and 2) with kerry on her brief stint as a nurse in jasper, b.c.
i had a chance to get a taste of mim's experiences in san francisco ~ through her letters to mom (which i forwarded to mim without reading ~ what treasures) ~ but felt/feel they were confidential between the two of them. what an incredible time to be in my beloved city by the bay! but mim had a knack for being at the right place at the right time - in the mid-'60,she spent an entire summer in a summer theater workshop at greenwich village's famous circle in the square. what tales she must have to tell. i visited both, but she lived there. remarkable!
and i kick myself all over the place that i never heard kerry talk in depth about her months in jasper, british columbia. i can recall her saying that her first experience with racism was in b.c. - against the indians - but no memory of her talking about what it was like to live in the heart of the canadian rockies, on perhaps its most beautiful lake, from fall to early spring. the physical grandeur of the place - i had NO idea of its stunning glory.
if only...
i had a chance to get a taste of mim's experiences in san francisco ~ through her letters to mom (which i forwarded to mim without reading ~ what treasures) ~ but felt/feel they were confidential between the two of them. what an incredible time to be in my beloved city by the bay! but mim had a knack for being at the right place at the right time - in the mid-'60,she spent an entire summer in a summer theater workshop at greenwich village's famous circle in the square. what tales she must have to tell. i visited both, but she lived there. remarkable!
and i kick myself all over the place that i never heard kerry talk in depth about her months in jasper, british columbia. i can recall her saying that her first experience with racism was in b.c. - against the indians - but no memory of her talking about what it was like to live in the heart of the canadian rockies, on perhaps its most beautiful lake, from fall to early spring. the physical grandeur of the place - i had NO idea of its stunning glory.
if only...
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
tender
been thinking a lot this morning about a fateful race i ran back in the late 1950s, early '60s. an all-around athletic glutz, i believed heart & soul that my brand new pf flyers would turn my feet from lead to winged victors. when i fell totally beyond the rest of the runners, i scanned the sidelines for a familiar face & tore off the field, flinging myself into the startled arms of my older, high school senior brother.
in writing about it on another blog, it dawned on me how often i've repeated the first part of the situation throughout my life - great hopes based on great hype (often my own) but lacking the preparation & skill, the determination & follow-through to make a real go of whatever it was, from school assignments through pampered chef.
when i started writing down that particular special memory, it never dawned on me that it would lead me to consider how many times i failed to get what i'd set out to achieve because it somehow seemed that wanting it be so would make it, without focused thought or determined action on my part. all glitzy picture from architectural digest, no blueprints or contract or home site. the signs are everywhere, just didn't expect to see one in an ancient foot race.
the other thing that came home to me writing about that poignant race was how deeply i saw my brother as sanctuary, his arms my safe place to be. how strange that i've always experienced my sibs as safe people to be with, since it seems they've rarely felt that way about me. peter & kerry both literally told me that - they do not feel safe with me, therefore are forced, for their own good, to keep me at a safe distance.
look back at that ancient july 4th race, look at it from what could be mike's experience. what was sanctuary & comfort to me ~ my older brother ~ could be utter mortification to him: his sister, not merely the slowest racer on the field, took the unsportsmanlike action of leaving the field - not even honorably finishing the race - to dash into his arms in front of EVERYONE.
my late middle age self feels such a swelling of tender feelings for both of those young people. i am awed by the utter trust of a little girl that her older brother could hold her safe against humiliation AND i feel compassion for the high school senior faced with utter embarrassment by a sibling. to that little girl, he was safe; to him, she was... i don't know. but i can imagine.
he was seventeen, taken totally unaware. how do you think he felt?
Saturday, July 2, 2011
engagement
came across an interesting e-mail from a s-i-l to my mom, sent eons ago (okay, in 1997). she was taking several bows on her boldness in calling me out (via internet) on my "temper tantrums" - times i banged my head repeatedly against the wall or ran out into the frigid cold to cool down after a family disagreement.
she was quite proud to have done "what one else dared."
and she was completely correct - she literally was the only one of my birth family to note & comment on such behaviors. from my youngest days, whenever i evidenced self-destructive behaviors, everyone politely & utterly ignored them.
ah hem... guys ~ a 40+ year old woman banging her head repeatedly against the wall - hard - or running out into the cold are both pretty loud calls for HELP, not mere outbursts of a nasty temperament.
thank goodness for john. he not only became engaged to me but also brought the blessed ability to engage with me. can still recall when, within the first few months of being married, i went ballistic with him over some trivial thing. rather than respond in kind, he seemed to step back - step away - as he gently asked, "what is the matter?"
my jaw dropped. i stood there, agog & silent. huh??
again, he asked - "what is the matter?"
my mind whirled as i realized the man was sincere, that he actually wanted to hear WHAT had sent me off on a rant.
i sputtered out, "you said such & such & so & so!!!!"
"oh," said john. "you heard me say...." and repeated back to me almost verbatim what i thought he'd meant. "no wonder you're upset," he continued, "what i meant by what i said was..." and he told me. and i got it. and peace - and mutual understanding - prevailed.
in a swoosh of amazement, it hit me - i married the relationship long sought within my family & never found: someone willing to hear out my story. not necessarily agree with it, just hear it.
never in my wildest dreams had i dared hope to find the answer to my unspoken prayers. and here he was - and he was my husband!!
she was quite proud to have done "what one else dared."
and she was completely correct - she literally was the only one of my birth family to note & comment on such behaviors. from my youngest days, whenever i evidenced self-destructive behaviors, everyone politely & utterly ignored them.
ah hem... guys ~ a 40+ year old woman banging her head repeatedly against the wall - hard - or running out into the cold are both pretty loud calls for HELP, not mere outbursts of a nasty temperament.
thank goodness for john. he not only became engaged to me but also brought the blessed ability to engage with me. can still recall when, within the first few months of being married, i went ballistic with him over some trivial thing. rather than respond in kind, he seemed to step back - step away - as he gently asked, "what is the matter?"
my jaw dropped. i stood there, agog & silent. huh??
again, he asked - "what is the matter?"
my mind whirled as i realized the man was sincere, that he actually wanted to hear WHAT had sent me off on a rant.
i sputtered out, "you said such & such & so & so!!!!"
"oh," said john. "you heard me say...." and repeated back to me almost verbatim what i thought he'd meant. "no wonder you're upset," he continued, "what i meant by what i said was..." and he told me. and i got it. and peace - and mutual understanding - prevailed.
in a swoosh of amazement, it hit me - i married the relationship long sought within my family & never found: someone willing to hear out my story. not necessarily agree with it, just hear it.
never in my wildest dreams had i dared hope to find the answer to my unspoken prayers. and here he was - and he was my husband!!
"Tell me a story"
Tell me a story!
Tell me a story!
Tell me a story ~
you promised
that you would!
Tell me about the
birds & bees,
how to make a
chicken sneeze.
Tell me a story -
you promised
that you would!
As mentioned in my very first posting, many a Lockhart child delighted at Mom singing that ditty to us. It resounds with me still, today.
Small wonder.
For five years, it was my pleasure to teach high school science ~ biology, astronomy, earth science. I taught about the composition of our bodies, of our planet, of the solar system & universe. I did not teach, however, about what I believe really makes up our core being ~ our stories.
Science teaches us that our bodies are basically only an appearance of solid matter. Actually, we are more water than anything else, and even that's composed almost entirely of unidentified empty space.
Our knowledge of our physical make-up changes with every new discovery, but throughout the millenia one thing has remained true ~ we may have come from the seas or from the stars or who knows where, but our most real self begins & ends with our stories.
I believe that how well we respect our experience as a constantly changing collection of stories ~ and honor the same as true for every living creature ~ determines how well we function in life.
It's all stories, any of which can change in an instant.
That "changing in an instant" business can get us into extremely hot water. Many's the time I've based an expectation of what someone will do on what turns out to be an outdated storyline. Or assumed that the way I experienced something is the same as anyone else.
Over the years, I've been blessed & helped along my way by reading, listening to, talking with many voices. Some have been as close as across a table, sharing a cuppa. Others are in my bookcase, my bedside table, my video collection. Before developing my current wonderful circle of friends, my greatest counselors could be found in Barnes & Noble, in Borders, on PBS or Oprah, all sharing their own stories in their own voices. All deepening my own.
The reason for this book, in large part, is to give a tip of the had to these life mentors, to the stories they shared about themselves or the lives they saw as possible. I've never turned to them as teachers - as lecturers in what I should be doing - but as educators, men & women who help draw out my own stories.
We are our stories. These are some of mine.
Tell me a story!
Tell me a story ~
you promised
that you would!
Tell me about the
birds & bees,
how to make a
chicken sneeze.
Tell me a story -
you promised
that you would!
As mentioned in my very first posting, many a Lockhart child delighted at Mom singing that ditty to us. It resounds with me still, today.
Small wonder.
For five years, it was my pleasure to teach high school science ~ biology, astronomy, earth science. I taught about the composition of our bodies, of our planet, of the solar system & universe. I did not teach, however, about what I believe really makes up our core being ~ our stories.
Science teaches us that our bodies are basically only an appearance of solid matter. Actually, we are more water than anything else, and even that's composed almost entirely of unidentified empty space.
Our knowledge of our physical make-up changes with every new discovery, but throughout the millenia one thing has remained true ~ we may have come from the seas or from the stars or who knows where, but our most real self begins & ends with our stories.
I believe that how well we respect our experience as a constantly changing collection of stories ~ and honor the same as true for every living creature ~ determines how well we function in life.
It's all stories, any of which can change in an instant.
That "changing in an instant" business can get us into extremely hot water. Many's the time I've based an expectation of what someone will do on what turns out to be an outdated storyline. Or assumed that the way I experienced something is the same as anyone else.
Over the years, I've been blessed & helped along my way by reading, listening to, talking with many voices. Some have been as close as across a table, sharing a cuppa. Others are in my bookcase, my bedside table, my video collection. Before developing my current wonderful circle of friends, my greatest counselors could be found in Barnes & Noble, in Borders, on PBS or Oprah, all sharing their own stories in their own voices. All deepening my own.
The reason for this book, in large part, is to give a tip of the had to these life mentors, to the stories they shared about themselves or the lives they saw as possible. I've never turned to them as teachers - as lecturers in what I should be doing - but as educators, men & women who help draw out my own stories.
We are our stories. These are some of mine.
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