We are our stories. Our stories are more substantial than our dna. Energies within energies.
And so many times, way too many times, we use stories against ourselves. Don't. It's stupid.
Instead, I will take to heart, each & every day of 2013, the daily mantra (courtesy of an early influence - I was in 8th grade - Dag Hammerskjold) - - For all that has been, Thank You. For all that is to come, YES!
Track 9 to NYC
dropping off "my guys" at Hamilton Train Station
Sunday, December 23, 2012
Wondering
Been wondering about the power of the messages we think we got through family, teachers, friends, messages which might have little to no connection to anything ever voiced. How many times did we misinterpret something because of where an inflection fell or garbled body language or because we were feeling stressed or unhappy & completely took what was said the wrong way, then believed it for years, even decades?
We all do.
It's the nature of the human condition - to mess things up, even when we have the best intentions.
One of the few things I know for sure is that WHAT we know is a teensiest tiniest sliver of a sliver of what there is to be known - and most of that humans mess up by thinking we know it all.
Imagine how different life on the planet would be if we considered as suspect all the messages we use to set the gps of our personal life.
How many of us have discovered that mapquest.com is NOT the most reliable way to get driving directions, that it should always be backed up by a long, hard look at a MAP of where we are & where we are going?
The same is true with life. How many times do I figure out my next destination using information already in my head, info which - in many instances, in many ways - has been messed up, either from the its beginning or over the years?
More & more I find that the smartest thing for me to do is to clear out the old info, take a fresh look at where I am & where I want to be, and plot a course based on that information, not well-intentioned gobblety-gook.
We all do.
It's the nature of the human condition - to mess things up, even when we have the best intentions.
One of the few things I know for sure is that WHAT we know is a teensiest tiniest sliver of a sliver of what there is to be known - and most of that humans mess up by thinking we know it all.
Imagine how different life on the planet would be if we considered as suspect all the messages we use to set the gps of our personal life.
How many of us have discovered that mapquest.com is NOT the most reliable way to get driving directions, that it should always be backed up by a long, hard look at a MAP of where we are & where we are going?
The same is true with life. How many times do I figure out my next destination using information already in my head, info which - in many instances, in many ways - has been messed up, either from the its beginning or over the years?
More & more I find that the smartest thing for me to do is to clear out the old info, take a fresh look at where I am & where I want to be, and plot a course based on that information, not well-intentioned gobblety-gook.
Thursday, December 13, 2012
QUIDDITY
(cross posted onto savingallmybestlines.blogspot.com)
A lot, maybe a majority, of people dismiss the importance of saying – out loud, in writing – our personal stories. Stories can be seen as symptoms of self-absorption, indicative of narcissism, dull prattlings of people with too high a regard for themselves & too little of matter to keep themselves occupied.
Such folk miss the importance of personal stories, ours & others. A wise woman wrote that celebrating life stories, big & small, important & apparently inconsequential, provide a “strategy for learning.” By taking the time to look back on who we were, on what we did, on the impact of others on us, of the things we knew for sure that turned out to be way different than what we thought – by doing that, we help get a bead on who & where we are, maybe get a hint of where we might be going.
How can we know who we are if we don’t honor what we’ve been? How can we know where we’re headed without giving at least giving a tip of the hat to the tracks we left behind?
Learned a new word this past fall – quiddity.
According to Merriam-Webster, quiddity is a noun meaning “whatever makes something the type that it is; essence.” Strangely, the same source includes another meaning - a trifling point.
Interesting.
So many people find life stories to be mere trifles. They tend to chalk up folks like me, who find that such stories cup in their metaphysical hands whatever it is that makes us who we are, as eccentrics.
Quiddity - essence. The gist of who we are. That could be why working with stories - naturally, without any sense of forcing – can make it easier to interact with olders, especially olders struggling with the delicate balance between what they remember & who they were with what they forget & how they've unraveled.
Words – once partners in expressing thoughts – turn against them. They can’t remember the right word or they seem to pluck ones out of the air, whether they apply or not.
Ah, but things of essence are beyond words. They simple ARE. Things of essence conjure images in the mind & heart that need no words, would be hemmed in & caged by words.
Maybe those who seem to find my passion for honoring, sharing, recording life stories to be a trifle, not worth significant time or effort, miss the essential point, which true for young & old, robust or frail, sharp-as-a-tack or forgetful ~ stories anchor who we are, help us find ease with who we are becoming, help us find peace with who we were.
They conjure up, reflect & shine a light on our quiddity.
Passionate?
(cross posted onto savingallmybestlines.blogspot.com)
Am I passionate about sharing/saving personal & family stories.
To quote the much-missed Carson Tyler – you bet your booties, grandma!
Maybe it’s because I’ve seen the effect sharing stories has on the majority of older people.
Is it easy getting an older to tap into their treasure house of memories, to share them with others? With 9 out of 10 olders, no.
First of all, olders - make that almost everyone – tend to think of their stories as of little interest to others, inconsequential. Just little stories from long ago.
It typically takes another's genuine interest & lots of low-key cajoling to get most olders to open up. It rarely happens the first, or even fourth, time it’s attempted.
What is the value?
Stories can be an invaluable tool working with olders. Even the healthiest generally experience increasing isolation, as friends move or pass away. Remembering stories, valuing them & having them valued by others, helps keep many olders engaged with life. They have proved powerful tools working with folks suffering from memory challenges, providing connections when there might be their grasp on the here & now might not be as strong as it is on the back then.
Today's culture has become so automated & digitalized, we’ve lost many – perhaps most – oral traditions that were once commonplace.
When olders live with their children, sharing stories about grown sons & daughters was natural as dishes were washed or meals were made. There were countless opportunities to ask questions about early years, courtship, marriage.
The current barrage of distractions is so different from anything that existed before. Radio gathered families around it, which television did not. Today, computers & iPads et al make entertainment an often solitary experience. So different from the typical households of the 100 years ago, when entertainment was often as low tech as the family piano & story telling, tales of past adventures & triumphs, challenges & tragedies, resilience & victory were shared across generations.
Stories are not all sweetness & light. There can be pain there, too. Clients of mine lost relatives & dearly loved ones in World War II. My brother died when I was seven. Mom was widowed at 63. Both John & I have ridden financial roller coasters & wrestled with difficult relationships.
Who wants to hear sad stories? Truth be told, there can be a lot of power in stories of tragedy, loss & woe.
One tragic tale I heard from my Mom happened before she was born, a story handed down from her mother, about an uncle I never heard about until the final weeks of Mom’s life.
We did a lot of talking over those weeks, both at INOVA Alexandria (VA) & St. Mary’s (PA), especially when we thought she was on the mend. Maybe we’d been discussing medical advances. For whatever reason, she started telling me about her older brother, William – Willie – born after Uncle Al and before Uncle Bob.
Newborn Willie couldn’t accept his mother’s milk, couldn’t take a bottle. This was in the first years of the last century - there was no alternative, like there is now. My grandparents, in their late 20s, had to watch their sweet little babe ebb away.
Near the end, my grandfather refused to leave his tiny son’s crib. Finally, my grandmother went in, draped her arms around her bereft husband’s shoulders, and said – “Ben, come away. Let him go.” In tears, my grandfather let himself be led out of the room. Within the hour, Willie was gone.
Yes, it was a tragedy. Still, imagine a father’s love being so strong, it was kept a wee baby connected to this life. It happened over 109 years ago, to someone even my mother didn’t know – except through her mother’s stories. And it’s retelling is the only presence that little baby, my Uncle Willie, has in the here & now.
Am I passionate about sharing & saving such stories?
YES!!
Just one broken heartbeat...
(cross posted onto savingallmybestlines.blogspot.com)
It might seem sort of a downer thing to bring up during this Christmas season, but we are all just one broken heartbeat away from losing the stories of our lives. The people we love – especially parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins – are just one broken heartbeat away.
Friends often say to me, “I wish we’d had stories from our parents. You’re lucky to have so many of your Mom’s.” Just the other day, a friend mentioned my passion for sharing Mom’s stories.
It’s not a passion for sharing Mom's stories, but for nudging others into have their olders do the same.
We are our stories.
Yet how many of us know much about our parents before the years we started being consciously aware of them?
It's a joy whenever a friend posts snapshots of her Mom & Dad & their friends enjoying good times together, back when they were very young adults. I look at their older selves at church or other places and see the vibrant young woman, the dashing young man, in their smiles, their eyes. And so many of the photos are at spots where their children & grandchildren & even greatgrands have similar grand times!
Their daughter isn’t telling their stories in words, like I did with Mom, but in photos. Clear evidence that pictures really do speak a thousand years!
Albums
We are only one broken heartbeat away from throwing out albums of uncaptioned pictures, like I did with a haunting one full of pictures from the late 1800s & early 20th century, photos of my father’s beloved aunts & uncles at their summer place on a unknown river in an unknown place - there wasn't so much as a single caption under any of them. Will always remember the zest, the pure pleasure of being with each other. But without the captions, they were strangers to me, in a strange but wonderful land.
Are your family album photos clearly captioned? Not just on the page. Unless it’s actually glued onto the pages, as Dad’s family album was, each photo should also be captioned on the back. Photos sometimes fall or are taken out of albums. If it only has a page caption, it’s history is gone.
Christmas Heritage
It is my pleasure & great honor to work with some fabulous grannie clients. Some of them have A LOT of grandchildren, so buying Christmas presents can take a big bite out of their funds. A wonderful present to give adult grands is a photo of the olders back when they were youngers. I don’t have children, hence no grandkids, but aunts & uncles can give photos of their parents, brothers or sisters. Captioned on the back! Reprints are easy to get these days, even at the corner Walgreens or CVS. Team it up with a mat from the arts & crafts store, and you’re good to go!
Captioning suggestion – I write captions on white labels, then affix them to the back of the photo. That way, I don’t have to work about a ball point pen leaving an indentation on the precious photo or ink bleeding through.
Passion for Sharing
We are all just one broken heartbeat away from losing all our stories. I am passionate about sharing the joys of gathering them. Each of us is an walking album of stories – this holiday season is a wonderful time to help olders open up & share them with you, to haul out family albums & remember the stories, the people behind each photo.
Just one….
Power of Stories
(cross posted onto savingallmybestlines.blogspot.com)
Chalk it up to having the honor of being the daughter of someone who lived well past the proverbial "3 score years & ten" and the friend of many others who did, too - from Grandma Rose & Viola Ridgeway to my mother-in-law & many beloved teachers ~ ~ it's impossible to remember a time I didn't understand the remarkable power of stories in living a joyful life.
Chalk it up to having the honor of being the daughter of someone who lived well past the proverbial "3 score years & ten" and the friend of many others who did, too - from Grandma Rose & Viola Ridgeway to my mother-in-law & many beloved teachers ~ ~ it's impossible to remember a time I didn't understand the remarkable power of stories in living a joyful life.
It's impossible to remember a time that sharing life stories with others, over a family meal or a friendly cuppa, recording them in letters or journals or now blogs, wasn't a natural part of my life.
It constantly stuns me how many people didn't have that same sense of connection to past generations, to their parents' younger selves.
What fun it was, hearing Mom talk about Aunt Dot, Uncle Al, Uncle Bob, and especially Aunt Betty, her lifelong BFF as well as baby sister. To hear stories about Dad's family, especially summers with his mother's relatives. Those stories held important life lessons, too - both Mom & Dad had early years marked with great tragedy, left with surviving parents who had somewhat dysfunctional ways of parenting.
From both my parents, but especially from Mom, I was given a rich treasure house of memories of people I never met, times I never lived in, circumstances I never faced.
One of the most important things I do with my grannie clients is to talk about their earlier years. It's interesting, coming from a family that always & still values such stories, to hear client after client dismiss their earlier years as being of no value. And I mean stories from their lives, not things that happened to others.
Most - sadly, most - of my clients don't initially see much value in their earlier experiences. Taking the bull by the horns, I explain to them that I am a compilation of all my previous experiences - good, bad & indifferent. In recognizing & honoring them - even the stinky ones - I've come to have a better understanding of who I am at this moment in time, which will be itself a memory tomorrow. Strange but true, they can see the truth of that about me, but shake their heads that it could be true of them, too.
One of my greatest wishes for EVERYONE is that they develop an urgency about recalling, honoring and recording their memories. No need to dredge up icky stuff. There's plenty to recall that can be shared without fear of causing so much as a single kerfluffle.
That being said, let dark things come up if they arise - there's power in remembering uncomfortable, even sad moments. Sometimes, we learn the most from those moments.
Some of my grannie clients have memory problems, which makes story telling a challenge. They can get frustrated not remembering a name or a town or a date. It's interesting how many times, if the sharing is very general, the details will float up in ways they don't when being forced.
Folks with fully intact memories can find it hard to grasp the challenges memory lapses present. It's easy to feel (even if we don't express it) exasperation at the person we arrive to pick up who comes to the door on a cold day in a warm weather outfit & a light coat, who forgets the name of a grandchild, who has lots of pieces of paper around the house to remember important dates & events & people. It's not so easy to see the person who's doing their best to hang on, to bridge the chasm they face every moment between knowing & not knowing, between being their self & watching their self.
One reason my Mom aged so well is that she had the constant point of reference that stories provided. We batted them about frequently - not just me, but my brothers & sister, too. It seemed every family gathering included the three older kids swapping tales of swimming at the pond or in the creek or a legion of other things that were great unknowns to much-younger me; Peter, Mike & Mim were many years older than I, a generation before, rooted in a culture I never knew. But Mom did. And those stories of the past - along with the ones I added, the ones John could recall with a smile & a laugh - helped anchor her in the present.
Imagine an older person, someone who lived in a house filled with kids, busy & bustling with being a mom & a wife. Imagine that person downsizing with her husband, moving into a smaller house, with no kids needing her care, but a house that still had to be cleaned, gardens that still needed tending, a husband who still needed her. Imagine that person alone, living in an apartment - still in her town, but not able to get around as much as she did, still able to drive but fewer places to go & never at night. Imagine that person no longer able to drive, without the energy to do much of what she did, with someone who comes in to clean her apartment, who has trouble figuring out how to turn on the radio or work the TV. remote control.
Having a store house of memories, a lot of pictures around as reminders of past times, maybe albums of photos with captions identifying people-places-times, helps us stay grounded in our present moment. Building up that store is a safeguard against loneliness when we're at the age where our aging bodies & sometimes failing minds limit our once busting-at-the-seams energies.
Storing up stories is more than simply a safeguard against isolation. We all need ways to recall, honor & story our lives. We need their nourishment as much as we do wholesome food & physical activities.
Without our stories, our spirits can too easily atrophy. With them, we have moments long past from which we can take pleasure and even learn new lessons. With them, we have a rich legacy to leave when we're gone.
Mom didn't have much of an estate when she was finally (after 28 years) reunited eleven years ago with her O! Best Beloved. At the time, I said that her legacy was much like prizes awarded at certain events, where you had to be present to win because Mom's greatest legacy was the stories she recalled to us, the stories that made up her life.
There is great power in stories, but time is short. We are all just a broken heartbeat away from losing those stories.
Take the time to talk with an older relative or friend. Do it frequently, without agenda - it takes time to get most people to open up & share. It's hard for people who knew Mom through her Mindwalker1910 e-mails to believe how many weeks & cups of tea it took for me to get her to share her personal stories, not just the amusing "war stories" we grew up with. Can recall her scoffing that anyone would care - I'd agree that her kids wouldn't (and sure enough - the others didn't), but she should do it for the grandchildren, the great grands she hoped to someday see. Through her stories, they'd see her.
Take the time to talk with an older relative or friend. Do it frequently, without agenda - it takes time to get most people to open up & share. It's hard for people who knew Mom through her Mindwalker1910 e-mails to believe how many weeks & cups of tea it took for me to get her to share her personal stories, not just the amusing "war stories" we grew up with. Can recall her scoffing that anyone would care - I'd agree that her kids wouldn't (and sure enough - the others didn't), but she should do it for the grandchildren, the great grands she hoped to someday see. Through her stories, they'd see her.
It took many weeks & much softly delivered cajoling, but Mom finally started making tape recordings, sometimes over a cuppa, sometimes out on drives. In time, she evolved to e-mail, going from sharing them with me to sending them out into cyberspace where anyone who cared could read them, to an ever-growing circle of old friends & new connections, people she never met but who knew Mom through her posts.
I guess that is my great hope for all of my grannie clients, although I've yet to convince them (still working on it) - to share their stories, if only with me. To them, as to my Mom, their stories are piddly things, nothing that would engage anyone's interest. But it was never, is never, about who reads the stories. It might be no one. It's about the remembering, the writing of them, the recording of a life, the honoring past selves whose accumulated whole is your present self.
There is power in our stories. They are not minor or piddly. The reason is simple, yet so often overlooked. Our body is composed of flesh & blood & bone, but WE are so much more ~ we ARE our stories.
Saturday, December 1, 2012
Wrapped In Memories
It's such a blessing to have so many remarkable memories of Christmastime - they warm & soothe, like the very best sort of comforter. So many patches of special moments, stitched together with love & laughter.
Until fairly recently, I had no idea that my family approached the holidays any differently than most. Much to my surprise, few of my friends have the rich treasure trove of out & abouts, trips into Philadelphia & NYC, and more "must-do" Christmas events than you might believe.
One of the BEST ways I'll celebrate the season this year is by recalling a memory a day, much like the advent calendar I made my sister a couple years back, each hand-decorated tiny box containing a Lockhart Christmas moment. Never kept a copy for myself, so this is sort of my own countdown to Christmas.
The LONG Wait
All of us Lockharts were sticklers about waiting for Christmas, delaying our holiday gratification until AFTER Thanksgiving, however tempting it might be to put on the Mormon Tabernacle Choir or set out a wrapped present.
But once Thanksgiving was in the rear window - WHOOSH! All manner of Christmas music hit the air waves, decorations seemed to materialize out of nowhere & wrapped packages came out to be ooooo'ed & ahhhhhhh'd over.
Since getting married, it's not just enough for me to wait until after Thanksgiving to break out the decorations & music. My kick off day is Dec 1 - today. Let the merriment begin!
Until fairly recently, I had no idea that my family approached the holidays any differently than most. Much to my surprise, few of my friends have the rich treasure trove of out & abouts, trips into Philadelphia & NYC, and more "must-do" Christmas events than you might believe.
One of the BEST ways I'll celebrate the season this year is by recalling a memory a day, much like the advent calendar I made my sister a couple years back, each hand-decorated tiny box containing a Lockhart Christmas moment. Never kept a copy for myself, so this is sort of my own countdown to Christmas.
The LONG Wait
All of us Lockharts were sticklers about waiting for Christmas, delaying our holiday gratification until AFTER Thanksgiving, however tempting it might be to put on the Mormon Tabernacle Choir or set out a wrapped present.
But once Thanksgiving was in the rear window - WHOOSH! All manner of Christmas music hit the air waves, decorations seemed to materialize out of nowhere & wrapped packages came out to be ooooo'ed & ahhhhhhh'd over.
Since getting married, it's not just enough for me to wait until after Thanksgiving to break out the decorations & music. My kick off day is Dec 1 - today. Let the merriment begin!
Sunday, November 25, 2012
Wanamaker Light Show
The ultimate traditional Lockhart Christmas Trip was down to Philadelphia, to Wanamaker's, to see Santa & be awed by the annual Wanamaker Light Extravaganza. Those were the glory days of family Christmas Trips.
We would walk down to Bryn Athyn to get the train or hoof it all the way to Bethayres - Mom didn't drive. (It was usually the much farther Bethayres, since there were way more trains no the West Trenton Local's schedule than on Newtown's.)
The last Lockhart Christmas Trip to Wanamaker's (now Macy's) was in 1991. Mom & I took John down to hear the magnificent Wanamaker Organ & be dazzled by the spectacular Light Display (still a store tradition). He'd never been!!
We drove in, parking at The Bellevue, blocks away from the store, because it was December 8 and Center City was bustling.
Or at least that was the story we told Mom.
We nipped up to the hotel (which now takes up the top floors, not the entire building, as it did back when I was in college - another great story) for a reviving libation in the Library bar.
Or at least that was the story we told Mom.
As we sat in the big comfy chairs, I opened up my big handbag to get out something.
Imagine my feigned "surprise" to " discover " that Sissy & elmo - two very small stuffed monkeys - had stowed away!!! And, why look - as I drew they out from the bag, it appeared they were holding an even smaller wrapped package. John took the teen package, looked at the teensy tag, and turned to Mom, saying, "It seems to be for you."
Mom thanked the two stuffies as - taken quite unawares - she carefully took off the ribbon & unwrapped the paper & opened the tiny box, lifting out a tiny rolled scroll of paper.
She carefully unwound it, to read, "Surprise! We're staying here overnight!!"
What a delighted, amazed, thrilled face rewarded our careful planning & collusion with our willing accomplice, the doorman. And what a difference it made to the rest of the day, since we could take our time & be as leisurely as we liked - we were there overnight, not just from mid afternoon through evening!
It was splendid & unforgettable - we have a picture featuring the backs of Sissy & elmo watching the extravaganza.
We took a meander around City Hall - the interiors were all alight in one part of the building, where they were filming a courtroom scene from Philadelphia - before having a laughter-filled dinner at a no-longer-there restaurant.
Turned out that our special weekend was also special to the service academies - it was the weekend of the Army-Navy Game, and The Bellevue served as the grand & glorious temporary billet for the top Navy brass & honored guests! A bevvy of admirals & other dignitaries, all grinning & laughing, having a WONDERFUL time (Navy tromped Army).
Could write on & on about what an incredible time we had at The Bellevue, how pampered & privileged we felt, but that's for another time, maybe even another year. Smiling, remembering a perfectly planned, executed & savored holiday surprise!
We would walk down to Bryn Athyn to get the train or hoof it all the way to Bethayres - Mom didn't drive. (It was usually the much farther Bethayres, since there were way more trains no the West Trenton Local's schedule than on Newtown's.)
The last Lockhart Christmas Trip to Wanamaker's (now Macy's) was in 1991. Mom & I took John down to hear the magnificent Wanamaker Organ & be dazzled by the spectacular Light Display (still a store tradition). He'd never been!!
We drove in, parking at The Bellevue, blocks away from the store, because it was December 8 and Center City was bustling.
Or at least that was the story we told Mom.
We nipped up to the hotel (which now takes up the top floors, not the entire building, as it did back when I was in college - another great story) for a reviving libation in the Library bar.
Or at least that was the story we told Mom.
As we sat in the big comfy chairs, I opened up my big handbag to get out something.
Imagine my feigned "surprise" to " discover " that Sissy & elmo - two very small stuffed monkeys - had stowed away!!! And, why look - as I drew they out from the bag, it appeared they were holding an even smaller wrapped package. John took the teen package, looked at the teensy tag, and turned to Mom, saying, "It seems to be for you."
Mom thanked the two stuffies as - taken quite unawares - she carefully took off the ribbon & unwrapped the paper & opened the tiny box, lifting out a tiny rolled scroll of paper.
She carefully unwound it, to read, "Surprise! We're staying here overnight!!"
What a delighted, amazed, thrilled face rewarded our careful planning & collusion with our willing accomplice, the doorman. And what a difference it made to the rest of the day, since we could take our time & be as leisurely as we liked - we were there overnight, not just from mid afternoon through evening!
It was splendid & unforgettable - we have a picture featuring the backs of Sissy & elmo watching the extravaganza.
We took a meander around City Hall - the interiors were all alight in one part of the building, where they were filming a courtroom scene from Philadelphia - before having a laughter-filled dinner at a no-longer-there restaurant.
Turned out that our special weekend was also special to the service academies - it was the weekend of the Army-Navy Game, and The Bellevue served as the grand & glorious temporary billet for the top Navy brass & honored guests! A bevvy of admirals & other dignitaries, all grinning & laughing, having a WONDERFUL time (Navy tromped Army).
Could write on & on about what an incredible time we had at The Bellevue, how pampered & privileged we felt, but that's for another time, maybe even another year. Smiling, remembering a perfectly planned, executed & savored holiday surprise!
Precious Memories
Have been posting suggestions on holiday outs & abouts on my Well Worth The Gas blog.
It's been a gift, writing each one, remembering scootling off, almost
always with Mom, often Mim & Margaret.
What a rich treasure house of
memories to tap into as the countdown to Christmas begins.
Several years back, I made Mim an advent calendar featuring 25
memories of Lockhart Christmases. Alas, I didn't think to print out a
copy of the memories & the selection was lost when a computer crashed.
This year, will give myself a similar present, only instead of
tucking each one into an artsied match box, will post them under this blog,
celebrating the stories in our lives.
What better time to reflect on the healing
power of happy memories. It doesn't matter which memory is recalled, it's memories of moments long gone by
~ ~ of tea in Odessa & Christmas cocktails at the Algonquin, of Christmas
bazaars in Philadelphia's Frankford section & down at Mitchellville,
outside D.C. ~ ~ that are what today's holiday experiences will become.
Treasure troves of priceless moments where our best selves came out to
play.
What better time to reflect on my core belief that - our true
self is made up of the energy of stories, not atoms.
What better time to honor & share them than at Christmas.
Tuesday, October 9, 2012
Painting Pictures
When I started legacy coaching - although I didn't know that's what it was - with my Mom, I'd all too frequently ask her something along the lines of, "So, Mom - how was life different when you were young than it is today?"
In the beginning, it never dawned on me that the question was so broad, encompassed so much, there wasn't any hook to help make it simple for her to remember, let alone share.
Always amazed me how Mom initially clammed up when I asked for stories about her life. She'd freeze every time I switched on the tape recorder. It's really hard for people who came to know & love her Mindwalker1910 e-mails to picture her balking at thinking about the past, the people & moments that I never experienced yet were part & parcel of Mom's being, because what she ended up sharing is so rich, so alive.
That tape recorder was as intimidating to her as putting a big blank piece of paper in front of most of us and saying, "Now draw something." We see the empty space and it scares us.
It didn't scare us when we were little kids. Have you ever painted with children? They go through pages & pages & pages of blank pieces of paper, filling them up with all sorts of interesting things. You might not recognize that the big blobby thing in the center is an elephant & the figure to its right is a monkey, but the artist happily explains it all.
That's basically all I did with Mom - helped her get to a place where she couldn't wait to fill big blank spaces with remembering, with current day insights, with even mental meanderings. It became a joy that she savored up to her final days. And it enriched so many lives beyond her own, so many lives beyond the friends & acquaintances that composed her ever-growing dist list.
What changed? The way that I asked my questions. And it wasn't anything I changed due to something I read or heard - it just evolved over a LOT of unsuccessful attempts to help her relax, open up, share what I'd heard her talk about so many times & things she'd never thought to bring up before.
When I started writing this Sneezing Chickens blog, I was on the cusp of understanding how important it is to honor the stories of our lives, to leave them - however simple & unadorned as they might seem to us - for others to hear, experience. Kevyn Malloy, Mom's mega gifted psychologist, was moved when she heard about Mindwalker1910 - she told Mom that recalling & sharing such stories is one of the deepest ways we can honor our life.
That was about 13 years ago. Didn't fully register at the time, but the more I work with my "grannie" clients (and the older I get), the more the fullness of what Kevyn said sinks in on me.
What did I learn that turned my mother from tight-lipped, uncomfortable silence to willing, eager collaborator? I learned to paint pictures. Not with paints & canvas, but with words. Instead of asking, "What were your favorite foods growing up?", we'd just have a cup of tea & talk - about her younger days, about holidays, about birthdays, until FINALLY the question might come out, "Did you usually have a big Sunday dinner?" If the answer was yes, we'd get into talking about when they ate, was it in a special place, did my grandmother make a special menu. And THEN we'd go into some form of, "What were your favorite foods growing up?"
By then, she was so comfortable with the pictures in her mind, felt so connected to people, places & times long past, she was totally at ease remembering. And I had a lot of information to use painting future pictures.
It sounds lyrical; it was NOT easy. It took time. Lots of time. And patience. Like an artist, I learned which colors to use, to avoid; which brushes to favor - big canvas or small.
If I approach it in the right way, in the right time, with the right questions, I just might get end up with a masterpiece.
In the beginning, it never dawned on me that the question was so broad, encompassed so much, there wasn't any hook to help make it simple for her to remember, let alone share.
Always amazed me how Mom initially clammed up when I asked for stories about her life. She'd freeze every time I switched on the tape recorder. It's really hard for people who came to know & love her Mindwalker1910 e-mails to picture her balking at thinking about the past, the people & moments that I never experienced yet were part & parcel of Mom's being, because what she ended up sharing is so rich, so alive.
That tape recorder was as intimidating to her as putting a big blank piece of paper in front of most of us and saying, "Now draw something." We see the empty space and it scares us.
It didn't scare us when we were little kids. Have you ever painted with children? They go through pages & pages & pages of blank pieces of paper, filling them up with all sorts of interesting things. You might not recognize that the big blobby thing in the center is an elephant & the figure to its right is a monkey, but the artist happily explains it all.
That's basically all I did with Mom - helped her get to a place where she couldn't wait to fill big blank spaces with remembering, with current day insights, with even mental meanderings. It became a joy that she savored up to her final days. And it enriched so many lives beyond her own, so many lives beyond the friends & acquaintances that composed her ever-growing dist list.
What changed? The way that I asked my questions. And it wasn't anything I changed due to something I read or heard - it just evolved over a LOT of unsuccessful attempts to help her relax, open up, share what I'd heard her talk about so many times & things she'd never thought to bring up before.
When I started writing this Sneezing Chickens blog, I was on the cusp of understanding how important it is to honor the stories of our lives, to leave them - however simple & unadorned as they might seem to us - for others to hear, experience. Kevyn Malloy, Mom's mega gifted psychologist, was moved when she heard about Mindwalker1910 - she told Mom that recalling & sharing such stories is one of the deepest ways we can honor our life.
That was about 13 years ago. Didn't fully register at the time, but the more I work with my "grannie" clients (and the older I get), the more the fullness of what Kevyn said sinks in on me.
What did I learn that turned my mother from tight-lipped, uncomfortable silence to willing, eager collaborator? I learned to paint pictures. Not with paints & canvas, but with words. Instead of asking, "What were your favorite foods growing up?", we'd just have a cup of tea & talk - about her younger days, about holidays, about birthdays, until FINALLY the question might come out, "Did you usually have a big Sunday dinner?" If the answer was yes, we'd get into talking about when they ate, was it in a special place, did my grandmother make a special menu. And THEN we'd go into some form of, "What were your favorite foods growing up?"
By then, she was so comfortable with the pictures in her mind, felt so connected to people, places & times long past, she was totally at ease remembering. And I had a lot of information to use painting future pictures.
It sounds lyrical; it was NOT easy. It took time. Lots of time. And patience. Like an artist, I learned which colors to use, to avoid; which brushes to favor - big canvas or small.
If I approach it in the right way, in the right time, with the right questions, I just might get end up with a masterpiece.
Sunday, October 7, 2012
Shared Stories
My sister treated someone else the same way she's treated me since forever. It felt comforting & strangely positive. It's not just me, not just me misreading a story line into something it's not. Doesn't make it easier, but does feel strangely more comforting. After 60 years, to know in about as tangible way as possible - it's not just me.
Monday, September 3, 2012
One Regret
I have but one regret when it comes to my wedding, on today's date, 23 years ago.
As the party following our church reception was winding down, my oldest brother requested a few minutes of my time so he could pass along some big bro advice on being married.
We settled down in a quiet room, a distance from the thinning, but still jolly crowd.
As he was opening his comments, my brother, Mike, appeared in the door, a big smile wreathing his face.
"Am I supposed to be part of this?" he asked, all brotherly happiness.
"No," Peter said.
And I backed him up.
The brother who had nurtured a wonderful partnership with his wife, who raised two great kids as well as established a successful career that kept blossoming as he got older, who was a pillar of my church, who shared my love of our alma mater & community - I turned HIM away to get advice from someone who didn't even like me.
Knew IMMEDIATELY what a ninny I'd been, but it was too late. Crestfallen, smile wiped from his face, spirit downcast, Mike stepped back & softly shut the door behind him.
I will carry that moment, with regret, to my grave....
As the party following our church reception was winding down, my oldest brother requested a few minutes of my time so he could pass along some big bro advice on being married.
We settled down in a quiet room, a distance from the thinning, but still jolly crowd.
As he was opening his comments, my brother, Mike, appeared in the door, a big smile wreathing his face.
"Am I supposed to be part of this?" he asked, all brotherly happiness.
"No," Peter said.
And I backed him up.
The brother who had nurtured a wonderful partnership with his wife, who raised two great kids as well as established a successful career that kept blossoming as he got older, who was a pillar of my church, who shared my love of our alma mater & community - I turned HIM away to get advice from someone who didn't even like me.
Knew IMMEDIATELY what a ninny I'd been, but it was too late. Crestfallen, smile wiped from his face, spirit downcast, Mike stepped back & softly shut the door behind him.
I will carry that moment, with regret, to my grave....
Thursday, August 30, 2012
Fleeting Opportunities
My college alma mater has a challenge most other colleges & universities don't face - a stunning scarcity of photos & stories of past years, past teachers, past accomplishments & achievements.
For decades, it was secondary in focus to it's companion high school. It even shared the same name. Now, it stands on its own, with an inspiring present & promising future unfolding before it.
But where are its roots, where are the stories of those who came before? Not the bound-in-leather stories, the official accounts, but the small ones, the personal ones, the ones that only a few or maybe just one person knows.
These stories are fleeting. So many have already slipped from us, teachers & coaches & staff who will only be a name on a list instead of a living, breathing character in a story or an appreciation that someone has taken the time to share, to write down, to discuss.
I had a dream for this year's Charter Day, but I allowed myself to get discouraged, distracted, disconnected from it. What can I do between now & early October to get the ball rolling on collecting stories about my college alma mater, helping give deeper roots to what's been, is & will be to countless people a sheltering tree of knowledge?
The opportunities are fleeting, each person, each memory & moment truly does count...
For decades, it was secondary in focus to it's companion high school. It even shared the same name. Now, it stands on its own, with an inspiring present & promising future unfolding before it.
But where are its roots, where are the stories of those who came before? Not the bound-in-leather stories, the official accounts, but the small ones, the personal ones, the ones that only a few or maybe just one person knows.
These stories are fleeting. So many have already slipped from us, teachers & coaches & staff who will only be a name on a list instead of a living, breathing character in a story or an appreciation that someone has taken the time to share, to write down, to discuss.
I had a dream for this year's Charter Day, but I allowed myself to get discouraged, distracted, disconnected from it. What can I do between now & early October to get the ball rolling on collecting stories about my college alma mater, helping give deeper roots to what's been, is & will be to countless people a sheltering tree of knowledge?
The opportunities are fleeting, each person, each memory & moment truly does count...
O Give Thanks
There are only two things of which I am
absolutely certain. One is that I am not
my body, that I am something way more ineffable, although I can't say with
absolute certainty what it is. The other
is that our existence is made up of the stories we tell ourselves.
And most of us are really bad storytellers. So, the more we can detach from our stories, the
more we can see that’s all they are and the better equipped we are to live lives
more in sync with happiness, with a sense of balance & appreciation.
That’s easy for me to say because doing just
that has always come naturally to me, even as a little kid. Mind you, it's felt more a curse than a blessing. Right in my own family, there are people who think me insincere for how swiftly I can step away from a heated conversation to see their point. Since they can't do that, they reject that anyone can. I'm pandering or blowing them off. Ye gods! Who'd guess that being in agreement with them could generate a sense of ill will??
My sister is a good example. When she gets angry, upset, it has deep
roots. It doesn’t with me.
Last week, when I was more distraught than I’d
ever been in my entire life, some part of me still held back,
asking even at the height of my unraveling, “Now, what is this all about?” I
was able to get a grip on myself , see that I was feeling a bottomless sense of abandonment, of being utterly &
completely yet casually Xed out, take a look at the thing that had triggered that sense of nothingness, realize how bizarre it was that an apparently trivial comment touched off a wild journey through a wormhole sucking me straight to a place where my worst experiences engulfed. I was able to see
how whacked out that was, able to figure out – finally! – how to step away in the future from
similar scenarios so that even worse situations don’t erupt. That including giving John a few simple words he could use - "I'm not them." - if he felt I'd been sucked out of balance.
That very tendency drove my family, in
particular two siblings, absolutely bonkers.
The way I experienced it, particularly with my sister, was that the
negative energies seemed to become part of her.
Whereas I could go from the height of distress to a calm understanding
of her point in a matter of seconds – once my brain got what she was trying to
say – she took a much longer time.
Sadly, instead of chalking it up to different styles, she seemed to experience it
as my being insincere or dismissing her by agreeing when I actually didn’t.
Knowing that we are our stories
means that I have to respect the tales others tell themselves, because they’re
every bit as valid as the ones I tell myself.
That’s been a HUGE help, especially since being married to John. Many’s the time we’re having a bit of an
upset or he seems to have processed abc when I was conveying xyz. But my John is a master of detaching from his stories to get a better peek into mine. “Oh, that’s what you
heard! Here’s what I meant to convey…” has been a downright miraculous eye
opener. Gee, maybe what I intend to be
saying isn’t what he’s hearing. And the way he conveys it, it’s
not personal, just messed up wording or garbled processing.
Does innately doing this, doing what I can to refine it, make me awesome? No. Came naturally to me, like caring for kitties or baking for the schools. Born knowing on some level that we are our stories, that your stories are as valid as mine.
Is it
an awesome blessing, one that I’m mega grateful has been part of my life tool
kit since forever? Absolutely! I thank whatever divine force so blessed me
with the ability to step back & observe instead of getting emeshed & pinned down.
Now, how best to show thanks?
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
Creativity Colony
Looking forward to the day my social media skills match my dreams! Get grand ideas that wouldn't take much social media savvy, but enough to put making them happen beyond my current reach. It would be wonderful if Scott or Karen lived near by so I could get their help, but Georgia & New South Wales are a bit far for hands on support.
My biggest dream is creating an online New Church creativity colony, featuring current creatives AND ones from the distant past. Artwork by Lisa Knight AND Nishan Yardumian, Gillian Bedford AND Maggie Bostock, Christine Orthwein AND Cary Smith; music performances by the Feddertones & archived recordings from long ago concerts; photography from the college, jewelry from the high school, 7th Grade dolls. Every sort of creative, from art, performance, writing, architecture, lifestyle, cuisine - no limits.
Make it like Wikipedia, where anyone can post copy & pictures, video & audio. Use the church as structure, keeping the focus on a no-boundaries colony of creatives.
Breathe in, breathe out, infuse with inspiration, make real what is now a dream.
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
Stories That Turn Toxic
Been thinking a lot of late about how I came to be so beyond rolly polly & unfit. It seems to me that we are all called, by our very creation, to be the best level of fitness possible, regardless of our overall health.
Mom epitomized that, but I was loathe to learn her lesson. Two things she did FOR HERSELF every day - took a nap & exercised.
Every day.
In addition to waist twists and arm up & overs and toe touching, she walked.
Boy, did she walk. In her 70s, the woman walked from our house on Woodland Road up to Benita Acton Odhner's on Alnwick - even in bad weather. Nap - exercise - walk.
So, why didn't I process my experience of her into an active role model? 'Cause you'd be hard pressed to find a more sedentary soul than yours truly. And it shows, in my weight & in my flabby condition.
What whatevers over-rode the "fitness is natural" message Mom clearly sent throughout her life? Let's see: delusion ~ negative messaging (you look just like your sister, Lockharts are lesser, you aren't intellectually curious, you're hopelessly out of shape, you're just big boned - gosh, there are too many to list) ~ distress ~ feeling tired ~ stuff down feelings ~ food = connection ~ socializing = food ~ okay to eat if others allow ~ "wedding 25" (became 22nd anniversary 50+) ~ just a little ~ too busy to cook wisely ~ love fat ~ reward = food ~ family = food ~ what set me apart was baking prowess ~ numb numb numb.
Each of those - and many more - have a stockpile of supporting stories backing them up, making eating unhealthy things or too much of healthy ones okay. Making exercise something chronically outside my reach. Stories that turned toxic & created toxins within my body. Stories that overrode the shining of low tech exercising Mom, of my own sense that healthier cooking just might be more interesting. Stories that shrouded with thick layers of fat the deepest belief I have about my sense of physical fitness - that we are given life to live in a manner that calls out our best, not our most mediocre.
Time to turn those stories away from toxic to terrific!
Mom epitomized that, but I was loathe to learn her lesson. Two things she did FOR HERSELF every day - took a nap & exercised.
Every day.
In addition to waist twists and arm up & overs and toe touching, she walked.
Boy, did she walk. In her 70s, the woman walked from our house on Woodland Road up to Benita Acton Odhner's on Alnwick - even in bad weather. Nap - exercise - walk.
So, why didn't I process my experience of her into an active role model? 'Cause you'd be hard pressed to find a more sedentary soul than yours truly. And it shows, in my weight & in my flabby condition.
What whatevers over-rode the "fitness is natural" message Mom clearly sent throughout her life? Let's see: delusion ~ negative messaging (you look just like your sister, Lockharts are lesser, you aren't intellectually curious, you're hopelessly out of shape, you're just big boned - gosh, there are too many to list) ~ distress ~ feeling tired ~ stuff down feelings ~ food = connection ~ socializing = food ~ okay to eat if others allow ~ "wedding 25" (became 22nd anniversary 50+) ~ just a little ~ too busy to cook wisely ~ love fat ~ reward = food ~ family = food ~ what set me apart was baking prowess ~ numb numb numb.
Each of those - and many more - have a stockpile of supporting stories backing them up, making eating unhealthy things or too much of healthy ones okay. Making exercise something chronically outside my reach. Stories that turned toxic & created toxins within my body. Stories that overrode the shining of low tech exercising Mom, of my own sense that healthier cooking just might be more interesting. Stories that shrouded with thick layers of fat the deepest belief I have about my sense of physical fitness - that we are given life to live in a manner that calls out our best, not our most mediocre.
Time to turn those stories away from toxic to terrific!
Monday, July 30, 2012
A Magical Life
It continuously amazes me what a truly magical life I've been graced to live. I can look at the most astonishing turns of events that even now leave me slack-jawed in awe.
Totally gobswoggled.
To all the forces that have helped make it so - thank you! And please send more of the same - promise to put it to great use!!
Sunday, July 29, 2012
Weight Lifter
Suzie Gladish Snyder tagging me with the quality INGENUITY was one of the greatest weight lifters of all time! Lifted a weight right off my shoulders that I didn't even know was there!!!
Am so glad to realize how much I like things to WORK to their best potential. Just came across a quote I wrote several years back. Not very original, but it's more or less mine - Those who succeed aren't the people with the greatest gifts, but those who put what gifts they have to the greatest use.
Point of greatest happiness - it's never too late to put that quote into present moment action.
Am so glad to realize how much I like things to WORK to their best potential. Just came across a quote I wrote several years back. Not very original, but it's more or less mine - Those who succeed aren't the people with the greatest gifts, but those who put what gifts they have to the greatest use.
Point of greatest happiness - it's never too late to put that quote into present moment action.
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
Geeeeez...
What a lot I've learned since my last posting!
Yes, John wasn't letting me into the studio, so I wasn't able to spot right off the bat the misdirection he was taking.
How often is that true for all of us?
Hopefully, next time John won't be so wed to his old "I go it alone" art process. I know for sure that next time I'll simply say, "Boa," and that should gain me entrance.
Seems John was taking so long because he was unhappy with the drawing. Reality checkL had he worked at it for a hundred hours, he'd still have been unhappy with it. As would I, since what he was envisioning was NOT the drawing I'd requested. He thought I wanted him to draw the boa as it appeared in real life, and it frustrated him, messing up all the rest of his efforts, Praise be, not so, not so - the slightly abstract boa in the photo is far more alluring.
John decided to go back to the drawing board, using ONLY the photo as reference. And he got it done to his client's (me) total satisfaction in under a week! It now hangs on the critter wall at our art show.
Life's all about stories. John didn't hear what I wanted, although his thumbnail indicated he did. And because he shut me out of the narrative, there was no way to change his image of what I'd requested.
Far from being distraught over what happened, we will use it in the future in so many ways. John will, hopefully, feel more secure allowing me in; I will, hopefully, be more pointedly persistent (something I hate doing).
The whole thing was quite the little educational vignette. When it came down to it, I tried for a different, better ending - and we got it!!
Yes, John wasn't letting me into the studio, so I wasn't able to spot right off the bat the misdirection he was taking.
How often is that true for all of us?
Hopefully, next time John won't be so wed to his old "I go it alone" art process. I know for sure that next time I'll simply say, "Boa," and that should gain me entrance.
Seems John was taking so long because he was unhappy with the drawing. Reality checkL had he worked at it for a hundred hours, he'd still have been unhappy with it. As would I, since what he was envisioning was NOT the drawing I'd requested. He thought I wanted him to draw the boa as it appeared in real life, and it frustrated him, messing up all the rest of his efforts, Praise be, not so, not so - the slightly abstract boa in the photo is far more alluring.
John decided to go back to the drawing board, using ONLY the photo as reference. And he got it done to his client's (me) total satisfaction in under a week! It now hangs on the critter wall at our art show.
Life's all about stories. John didn't hear what I wanted, although his thumbnail indicated he did. And because he shut me out of the narrative, there was no way to change his image of what I'd requested.
Far from being distraught over what happened, we will use it in the future in so many ways. John will, hopefully, feel more secure allowing me in; I will, hopefully, be more pointedly persistent (something I hate doing).
The whole thing was quite the little educational vignette. When it came down to it, I tried for a different, better ending - and we got it!!
Monday, July 2, 2012
Trying for a Different Ending
Several months back, I had the idea of asking - commissioning - John to draw a portrait of Chessie using a photo I'd snapped of her with against a grey background, back lit with indirect sunlight, semi-laying atop a multi-colored boa. It was a really terrific photo, or so I thought, that incorporated play of shades & colors, sharp edges & fluffy feathers, cool slate & a cool cat. It would give me a great opportunity to work hand-in-glove with John, providing input as he worked through thumbnail to first drawing to final picture.
Or so I thought.
John wouldn't let me see it. All but one request was firmly denied. Weeks - weeks - of requests were turned down. No - I'm wrong. I was allowed to see it, once, several weeks back. No input, no working together, no discussing getting down on paper whatever it was I saw in the photo I'd taken, what I'd envisioned John drawing since first spotting Chessie with the boa on the foyer slate slabs.
So, it's not surprising that what John's spent weeks & weeks drawing bears basically no semblance to what I'd envisioned in my mind's eye, in my heart. Because it was a picture that totally won my heart. A picture that could have cemented our partnership in expanding his art process without sacrificing the quality that makes it John's.
Just the subject matter alone would have been a playful stretch for John, as it was soft-edged, even out-of-focus, which - in my eyes - gave it a wonderful sense of contrasts. Except he didn't envision it as playful, as his artistic sensibility isn't about paradox, let alone partnership. He drew the picture the way he wanted, which included no input from me. My opinion had no value to him.
It would make me sad if it didn't irk me more.
The drawing is ruined for me, although the photo is not (thank goodness). The picture would be a constant reminder of what could have been, if it had been of interest to John. What I hoped for in my heart goes against John's nature. That is not a criticism, just a reality. Not worth my time or even the energy of regret.
It would have been a nice painting, the one I envisioned. It would have had depth - where this is flat. It would have had a sense of play - where this one is static. It would have been playful - where this one is stodgy. It would have been filled with lights & greys & a boa infused with a variety of colors, rather than dark & light & red.
And I'm okay with that. What I'm not okay with is going through the heartbreak of what I went through, then John turning around & drawing what I requested. Because the drawing isn't, wasn't, never was what I was after.
I wanted to work a different process, to arrive at the ending through collaboration from first to last. And that will never be. The experiment failed. But I learned (or relearned) a great lesson ~ ~ I can't, won't playing the shrew, badgering someone to do something I see as important. Not my way of getting through life.
If it had mattered to John, then it might have been something very special. It didn't. He could redo the picture, he could make Chessie smudgier (although that might be outside his style sense), the boa looking & positioned more like the one in the photo. But it wouldn't matter. Because it was never about the picture, but about the process.
I hoped for a different ending, but it seems that it was never to be. Move on to the next story.
Or so I thought.
John wouldn't let me see it. All but one request was firmly denied. Weeks - weeks - of requests were turned down. No - I'm wrong. I was allowed to see it, once, several weeks back. No input, no working together, no discussing getting down on paper whatever it was I saw in the photo I'd taken, what I'd envisioned John drawing since first spotting Chessie with the boa on the foyer slate slabs.
So, it's not surprising that what John's spent weeks & weeks drawing bears basically no semblance to what I'd envisioned in my mind's eye, in my heart. Because it was a picture that totally won my heart. A picture that could have cemented our partnership in expanding his art process without sacrificing the quality that makes it John's.
Just the subject matter alone would have been a playful stretch for John, as it was soft-edged, even out-of-focus, which - in my eyes - gave it a wonderful sense of contrasts. Except he didn't envision it as playful, as his artistic sensibility isn't about paradox, let alone partnership. He drew the picture the way he wanted, which included no input from me. My opinion had no value to him.
It would make me sad if it didn't irk me more.
The drawing is ruined for me, although the photo is not (thank goodness). The picture would be a constant reminder of what could have been, if it had been of interest to John. What I hoped for in my heart goes against John's nature. That is not a criticism, just a reality. Not worth my time or even the energy of regret.
It would have been a nice painting, the one I envisioned. It would have had depth - where this is flat. It would have had a sense of play - where this one is static. It would have been playful - where this one is stodgy. It would have been filled with lights & greys & a boa infused with a variety of colors, rather than dark & light & red.
And I'm okay with that. What I'm not okay with is going through the heartbreak of what I went through, then John turning around & drawing what I requested. Because the drawing isn't, wasn't, never was what I was after.
I wanted to work a different process, to arrive at the ending through collaboration from first to last. And that will never be. The experiment failed. But I learned (or relearned) a great lesson ~ ~ I can't, won't playing the shrew, badgering someone to do something I see as important. Not my way of getting through life.
If it had mattered to John, then it might have been something very special. It didn't. He could redo the picture, he could make Chessie smudgier (although that might be outside his style sense), the boa looking & positioned more like the one in the photo. But it wouldn't matter. Because it was never about the picture, but about the process.
I hoped for a different ending, but it seems that it was never to be. Move on to the next story.
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
INSPIRATO
Okay, so there's no definition for the word, inspirato. Even if it doesn't show up in the dictionary, even iif nothing shows up if you google "define inspirato," I know its meaning - those who inspire, whose energies flow back & forth with my own.
So many people have played that role with me over the years. It feels wonderful to be crafting a paper chain that celebrates that essence. To include others in the process, in the results. One name, one quality - so many stories behind the pair that I'll never know, but will always feel the undefined, powerful vibe.
Inspirato!
So many people have played that role with me over the years. It feels wonderful to be crafting a paper chain that celebrates that essence. To include others in the process, in the results. One name, one quality - so many stories behind the pair that I'll never know, but will always feel the undefined, powerful vibe.
Inspirato!
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
Wisdom from Kung Fu Panda 2!!
Soothsayer: You're story may not have such a happy beginning, but that doesn't make you who you are. It is the rest of your story, who you choose to be.
[Po remembers all the things that have happened to him in his life so far]
Soothsayer: So who are you, panda?
[Po stands up slowly]
Po: I am Po. And I'm gonna need a hat.
[Po remembers all the things that have happened to him in his life so far]
Soothsayer: So who are you, panda?
[Po stands up slowly]
Po: I am Po. And I'm gonna need a hat.
Monday, June 4, 2012
Left Without Words
Impossible to remember a time when I wasn't on overload when it came to words. Among family & friends, I was acknowledged to be Queen of the Unending Gab. At least one (considerably older) sibling complained bitterly about my motor mouth to Mom ~ "She talks such drivel."
And I did. Small wonder - no one talked to me about anything of substance. My sibs were 8, 10 & 14 years older than moi. Mim felt most comfortable talking to me about the dynamics of other peoples' families or - way more amazing - about television shows as if they had any actual bearing on reality.
Small wonder I never developed the knack that Mim so beautifully mastered - the art of delightful, engaging conversation.
Nope, I just rattled on - & on & on, never knowing when to stop.
It's why I'm attracted to watching way too much TV - it fills up the air space in my head in ways that feel familiar. Familiar, but far from helpful, productive or even safe.
TV seems the antonym to wordlessness. And in wordlessness is great power. Not as in "non-verbal type" wordlessless, but a more conscious, more genuinely effective stepping away from words & toward the Great Unspoken That's The Epitome of Real.
"Be still (silent) & know that I am."
The Writings teach that in heaven & in hell, words have no power to twist or distort - people see others as they are, not as they try to represent themselves through words. What we feel shows on our face, through our very being.
Striving for a higher sense & experience of wordlessness, of getting to the point where I am no longer burdened with a plethora of words, where I am blessed with quiet focused action.
And I did. Small wonder - no one talked to me about anything of substance. My sibs were 8, 10 & 14 years older than moi. Mim felt most comfortable talking to me about the dynamics of other peoples' families or - way more amazing - about television shows as if they had any actual bearing on reality.
Small wonder I never developed the knack that Mim so beautifully mastered - the art of delightful, engaging conversation.
Nope, I just rattled on - & on & on, never knowing when to stop.
It's why I'm attracted to watching way too much TV - it fills up the air space in my head in ways that feel familiar. Familiar, but far from helpful, productive or even safe.
TV seems the antonym to wordlessness. And in wordlessness is great power. Not as in "non-verbal type" wordlessless, but a more conscious, more genuinely effective stepping away from words & toward the Great Unspoken That's The Epitome of Real.
"Be still (silent) & know that I am."
The Writings teach that in heaven & in hell, words have no power to twist or distort - people see others as they are, not as they try to represent themselves through words. What we feel shows on our face, through our very being.
Striving for a higher sense & experience of wordlessness, of getting to the point where I am no longer burdened with a plethora of words, where I am blessed with quiet focused action.
Thursday, May 31, 2012
Changing the Storyline
How respond to/within life has to do with my storyline. Crafting one that throws full support behind welcoming with open arms a robust, full-flavored, fully experienced life!
Mind you, even my former fairly faulty storyline couldn't completely deny that my life's been graced with awesome blessings since Day 1. Praise be that the over-hauled & updated version sees clearly the endless bounty of wondrous things that grace my life and welcome even more to flow right in, thank you!
Through my most challenging years, my weird saving grace was the ability to hear & register when I said over-the-top things. Like when I accused a sib of KNOWING that asking me to do something equated to telling me I had to do it. What an internal shocker to hear myself say the words & KNOW that I believed them. Or when Page Morahan talked about setting goals & I heard myself explain, "Oh, I never set goals; setting them is a sure way to ensure I never reach them." Again, can remember the shock I felt hearing the words come out of my mouth, come from a deep deep place within me.
Am in such an intriguing place at this point in time. Know it's essential I continue overhauling my storyline to keep step with my true self, with my sense of awesome destiny waiting to be experienced, with the lessons I've learned (instead of the lessons themselves, which want to hang around but only hold me back). What got me to where I am is my ability to work with words, to step back & analyze, to hold things in a warm embrace but not too tightly. What will move me forward will be my willingness to welcome wordlessness, to not have to understand everything, to let things just BE without examination & dissection. To where my storyline has changed so much, it doesn't even exist - just the story.
Mind you, even my former fairly faulty storyline couldn't completely deny that my life's been graced with awesome blessings since Day 1. Praise be that the over-hauled & updated version sees clearly the endless bounty of wondrous things that grace my life and welcome even more to flow right in, thank you!
Through my most challenging years, my weird saving grace was the ability to hear & register when I said over-the-top things. Like when I accused a sib of KNOWING that asking me to do something equated to telling me I had to do it. What an internal shocker to hear myself say the words & KNOW that I believed them. Or when Page Morahan talked about setting goals & I heard myself explain, "Oh, I never set goals; setting them is a sure way to ensure I never reach them." Again, can remember the shock I felt hearing the words come out of my mouth, come from a deep deep place within me.
Am in such an intriguing place at this point in time. Know it's essential I continue overhauling my storyline to keep step with my true self, with my sense of awesome destiny waiting to be experienced, with the lessons I've learned (instead of the lessons themselves, which want to hang around but only hold me back). What got me to where I am is my ability to work with words, to step back & analyze, to hold things in a warm embrace but not too tightly. What will move me forward will be my willingness to welcome wordlessness, to not have to understand everything, to let things just BE without examination & dissection. To where my storyline has changed so much, it doesn't even exist - just the story.
Sunday, May 27, 2012
Inaugurations & Ordinations
Until today, I didn't grasp the difference between a priestly inauguration & an ordination. Thanks to the Rt. Rev. Tom Kline, I now get it - a person is only inaugurated ONCE, on being officially designated a priest, but could be ordained up to three times: into the 1st degree (white stoll - teacher), into the 2nd (blue stoll - pastor), into the 3rd (episcopal - red stoll). One has to do with use, the other with #ing.
Much more to write about, but - as so often happens when I feel something deeply - am feeling challenged putting down into words all that I felt this morning.
In time.
Much more to write about, but - as so often happens when I feel something deeply - am feeling challenged putting down into words all that I felt this morning.
In time.
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
A Picture's Worth
A picture is truly worth countless words!
A friend just posted a vintage photo on Facebook. Two young ladies, apparently barely out of high school, with a rather dour-looking older woman in the foreground, all three seated on what looks like either the stern of a boat or a bench overlooking a lake. The girls look is relatively timeless, although the older woman's hat places the photo in the 1930s.
Turns out it was shot in Scotland, on a trip the girls - cousins - took in the '30s. (Small wonder the aunt looked a trifle dour - not always a lot of fun chaperoning even the most well-bred young ladies abroad!) The girl in the middle - Morna, a distinquished "ancient" (as my Mom would say) in her 90s, generally regarded by one & all as a living treasure - had given it to one of her nieces to post.
Impossible to imagine the impact seeing that one photo will have on so many of us youngsters, who will smile with memories of Karen, of Morna, of Miss Creda. To see that Miss Morna's smile - known by so many of us from thousands of math classes, from being greeted by her as principal, from it being flashed to us as we pass by her - remains basically unchanged over the years. And that Mrs. Cole - Karen - projects the same quiet quality I always sensed when I was a classmate of one of her daughters. Funny seeing Miss Creda look like she'd just tasted something sour, as I can't recall a time when, as a white-haired "ancient," she didn't invariably have a warm smile for me.
So many memories, all stirred by one snapshot.
Impossible to imagine how many memories would be stirred by someone with "real-time" memories of Morna & Karen in those younger years. And it's a spur to me to get Cyber Access for the Technically Timid up & running asap. This blog - Sneezing Chickens - honors the stories in our lives. By making CATT a success, I'll open up to so many of my older friends access to countless memories, priceless moments.
Still thinking about all the different responses to that one photo, all the different memories stirred by all the FB friends when they spotted it, when many shouted out to someone, as I did, "Hey - you've gotta see this!" What is a picture worth? More than any of us can imagine!
A friend just posted a vintage photo on Facebook. Two young ladies, apparently barely out of high school, with a rather dour-looking older woman in the foreground, all three seated on what looks like either the stern of a boat or a bench overlooking a lake. The girls look is relatively timeless, although the older woman's hat places the photo in the 1930s.
Turns out it was shot in Scotland, on a trip the girls - cousins - took in the '30s. (Small wonder the aunt looked a trifle dour - not always a lot of fun chaperoning even the most well-bred young ladies abroad!) The girl in the middle - Morna, a distinquished "ancient" (as my Mom would say) in her 90s, generally regarded by one & all as a living treasure - had given it to one of her nieces to post.
Impossible to imagine the impact seeing that one photo will have on so many of us youngsters, who will smile with memories of Karen, of Morna, of Miss Creda. To see that Miss Morna's smile - known by so many of us from thousands of math classes, from being greeted by her as principal, from it being flashed to us as we pass by her - remains basically unchanged over the years. And that Mrs. Cole - Karen - projects the same quiet quality I always sensed when I was a classmate of one of her daughters. Funny seeing Miss Creda look like she'd just tasted something sour, as I can't recall a time when, as a white-haired "ancient," she didn't invariably have a warm smile for me.
So many memories, all stirred by one snapshot.
Impossible to imagine how many memories would be stirred by someone with "real-time" memories of Morna & Karen in those younger years. And it's a spur to me to get Cyber Access for the Technically Timid up & running asap. This blog - Sneezing Chickens - honors the stories in our lives. By making CATT a success, I'll open up to so many of my older friends access to countless memories, priceless moments.
Still thinking about all the different responses to that one photo, all the different memories stirred by all the FB friends when they spotted it, when many shouted out to someone, as I did, "Hey - you've gotta see this!" What is a picture worth? More than any of us can imagine!
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