Breathe and Release.
Seems easy but the diaphragm struggles.
The Cure is time.
Yet how can time be a cure when we talk about Time in a Bottle? Aren't bottles a bit confining?
Breathe and Release. Even the best of everything will settle where it's meant to be.
Sew up the heart, stitch by stitch, breathe, gently, release slowly. Grieve, breathe, release, believe.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Friday, January 7, 2011
Stars and the General Masses
Stars. I love stars. I enjoy watching clouds, big masses of nothingness floating by in my view. They move, change shape, stretch out into elongated fingers that stretch into other white masses. With the right climate, those wispy fingers form into other shapes, stretching far beyond the eye can see. A bird, running dog, bull's head, or Wile E. Coyote in hot pursuit of the ever-changing Road Runner. Comical in the moment, a delight to see and feel the release from within as the imagination releases, the tension melts away.
I saw such clouds the other day. Outside the sun shone brightly, blue sky. It was a sunglasses day.
Inside, the clouds had already formed - unmoving, they were blobby but not, with stringy hairs poking out, reaching out towards other whitishy, hairy brethren. This was white on black, a still image. A side view. Hardly noticeable, no Mickey Mouse or Flintstone character. A mossy looking cloud resting deep, hiding, actually below the breast close to my chest. Like a coveted treasure - it looked like a spoonful of yogurt that was sliding apart, gravity or centrifugal force drawing it away from its core. Just the one, about a quarter's breadth, maybe a little thicker, but wide enough for a thumb to rest upon.
What is this, this cloud, this deviant from my imagination? Why is this not shape-shifting into something I like, a tree, a moon, or a heart that denotes the love I feel for someone? It's stretching alright, but into what? More of itself or, worse, is it reaching out into other areas , creating toxic clouds that don't belong?
I don't want this here. I don't want to know that my right side has this misplaced postage stamp of unwelcomness that hides beneath my breast tissue like some sort of evil nymph or ogre under a mass of morning glory or outstretched fern.
I am healthy. I have no risk factors. I have nothing that calls attention to this cloudiness that has decided to stay with me rather than move on to the next environment. It does not enlighten my imagination nor release my stressors.
This cloud, this stellate cluster, this little mass, its presence is not welcome.
I saw such clouds the other day. Outside the sun shone brightly, blue sky. It was a sunglasses day.
Inside, the clouds had already formed - unmoving, they were blobby but not, with stringy hairs poking out, reaching out towards other whitishy, hairy brethren. This was white on black, a still image. A side view. Hardly noticeable, no Mickey Mouse or Flintstone character. A mossy looking cloud resting deep, hiding, actually below the breast close to my chest. Like a coveted treasure - it looked like a spoonful of yogurt that was sliding apart, gravity or centrifugal force drawing it away from its core. Just the one, about a quarter's breadth, maybe a little thicker, but wide enough for a thumb to rest upon.
What is this, this cloud, this deviant from my imagination? Why is this not shape-shifting into something I like, a tree, a moon, or a heart that denotes the love I feel for someone? It's stretching alright, but into what? More of itself or, worse, is it reaching out into other areas , creating toxic clouds that don't belong?
I don't want this here. I don't want to know that my right side has this misplaced postage stamp of unwelcomness that hides beneath my breast tissue like some sort of evil nymph or ogre under a mass of morning glory or outstretched fern.
I am healthy. I have no risk factors. I have nothing that calls attention to this cloudiness that has decided to stay with me rather than move on to the next environment. It does not enlighten my imagination nor release my stressors.
This cloud, this stellate cluster, this little mass, its presence is not welcome.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
The Windblown Rental
Life in a rental.
Not unlike life in a rental car, I might add: restrictions, limitations and, in the case of a Plymouth Neon I once rented (purple, at that), drafty and somewhat leaky. The car's trunk leaked, only discovered after two days of driving through a massive Washington rainstorm. Fortunately, a dryer was near the destination, otherwise it would've been a miserable trip.
This rental unit, though, aka, my 1935-era apartment defintiely has charm. It's an upstairs unit in a four-apartment building located in a very quiet neighborhood. Rooms are square, well-painted, and southeastern light pours in, which I love. This is quite obvious by my multitude of sunrise phone pix I've posted on facebook. Can't get enough of those colors.
All door handles are original glass, and crazily, all doors close with ease, no stickiness over the shiny hardwood floors. The selling feature, other than the upstairs location was not the view of the Mormon Temple in the distance as pointed out by my landlord. I controlled my commentary and chortle in that unexpected closing deal point. I'd like to point out that despite their 10 million holiday bulb and display this year, not a single red, blue, or orange light could be seen from where I stand right now. Sad. I had to drive by and get blinded by the massive electrical display the Temple is widely known for. If you've not seen it, hurry and swing by: in Oakland, just off Highway 13. You'll see the sky lit up like a fireworks display just over its peaked tower. Can't miss it; I think airline pilots use it as a guide in heavy fog.
No, the selling feature was the closet hidden behind a flush wall. Very Batman, if you ask me. The wall swivels out; in its prime, it once held a Murphy bed and built-in dressers were tucked in behind. Now, it's just a virtually unnoticeable walk-in closet with a swing-out single paned window for daytime illumination. Love it!
Besides these fine features and the olive green gas stove, circa 1971 of which it's four burners are either on High or Off (makes for some very interesting cooking, I tell you), the downside is where the rental becomes a true rental. I'm sitting here at my desk, facing south a window nary 12 inches from me. As I type these very letters, a cold draft sweeps down over the Levoloar slats and chills my fingers. The string that's used to draw up these blinds sways not from my fast typing but from the wind that's gusting through the 75 year-old, single-paned windows. I hear wind whistling here.
I have a heater, oh yes, of course I do. However it's a single wall unit located two rooms away. It effectively heats that space dirctly in front of it, which is where I often stand to scald my skin and warm up.
My landlord maintains that the windows add character, not unlike the ancient galvanized pipes with little to no water pressure do too. I think he's got stock options with PG & E, as my gas bill has been climbing steadily since moving in: showers take an extra 20 minutes since a trickle makes for some slow shampoo rinsing. Yes, I'm bound up in a hat, extra sweater, down booties and finger-cut gloves. Finger tips are bluish ice cubes. Ear lobes are rounded icicles.
For charm, I freeze. Could I move? I'm bound by a lease for another 10 months. I suppose I could plasticize my windows with that funky clear insulation, aka, dry cleaner packaging. Dare I? Then my lovely rental would lose some of the charm that makes it so inviting. That devine secret closet wouldn't have its clear, southerly light casting a pale glow upon my clothes - they'd be shrouded by an opaque plastique hue.
Life in a rental. We must accept so many of the benefits in the face of the pitfalls. Like that Dodge Neon, I got great mileage but paid a ton for extra trash bags and laundromat usage. Here, I'm in an optimal locale, but feel like I'd get a different kind of trash bag on my windows that might chip away at that convenience discount significantly. I heard the windchime tinkle outside and noticed that the blinds just clacked against each other as another gust blew through.
I need to go stand in front of my heater and defrost.
Not unlike life in a rental car, I might add: restrictions, limitations and, in the case of a Plymouth Neon I once rented (purple, at that), drafty and somewhat leaky. The car's trunk leaked, only discovered after two days of driving through a massive Washington rainstorm. Fortunately, a dryer was near the destination, otherwise it would've been a miserable trip.
This rental unit, though, aka, my 1935-era apartment defintiely has charm. It's an upstairs unit in a four-apartment building located in a very quiet neighborhood. Rooms are square, well-painted, and southeastern light pours in, which I love. This is quite obvious by my multitude of sunrise phone pix I've posted on facebook. Can't get enough of those colors.
All door handles are original glass, and crazily, all doors close with ease, no stickiness over the shiny hardwood floors. The selling feature, other than the upstairs location was not the view of the Mormon Temple in the distance as pointed out by my landlord. I controlled my commentary and chortle in that unexpected closing deal point. I'd like to point out that despite their 10 million holiday bulb and display this year, not a single red, blue, or orange light could be seen from where I stand right now. Sad. I had to drive by and get blinded by the massive electrical display the Temple is widely known for. If you've not seen it, hurry and swing by: in Oakland, just off Highway 13. You'll see the sky lit up like a fireworks display just over its peaked tower. Can't miss it; I think airline pilots use it as a guide in heavy fog.
No, the selling feature was the closet hidden behind a flush wall. Very Batman, if you ask me. The wall swivels out; in its prime, it once held a Murphy bed and built-in dressers were tucked in behind. Now, it's just a virtually unnoticeable walk-in closet with a swing-out single paned window for daytime illumination. Love it!
Besides these fine features and the olive green gas stove, circa 1971 of which it's four burners are either on High or Off (makes for some very interesting cooking, I tell you), the downside is where the rental becomes a true rental. I'm sitting here at my desk, facing south a window nary 12 inches from me. As I type these very letters, a cold draft sweeps down over the Levoloar slats and chills my fingers. The string that's used to draw up these blinds sways not from my fast typing but from the wind that's gusting through the 75 year-old, single-paned windows. I hear wind whistling here.
I have a heater, oh yes, of course I do. However it's a single wall unit located two rooms away. It effectively heats that space dirctly in front of it, which is where I often stand to scald my skin and warm up.
My landlord maintains that the windows add character, not unlike the ancient galvanized pipes with little to no water pressure do too. I think he's got stock options with PG & E, as my gas bill has been climbing steadily since moving in: showers take an extra 20 minutes since a trickle makes for some slow shampoo rinsing. Yes, I'm bound up in a hat, extra sweater, down booties and finger-cut gloves. Finger tips are bluish ice cubes. Ear lobes are rounded icicles.
For charm, I freeze. Could I move? I'm bound by a lease for another 10 months. I suppose I could plasticize my windows with that funky clear insulation, aka, dry cleaner packaging. Dare I? Then my lovely rental would lose some of the charm that makes it so inviting. That devine secret closet wouldn't have its clear, southerly light casting a pale glow upon my clothes - they'd be shrouded by an opaque plastique hue.
Life in a rental. We must accept so many of the benefits in the face of the pitfalls. Like that Dodge Neon, I got great mileage but paid a ton for extra trash bags and laundromat usage. Here, I'm in an optimal locale, but feel like I'd get a different kind of trash bag on my windows that might chip away at that convenience discount significantly. I heard the windchime tinkle outside and noticed that the blinds just clacked against each other as another gust blew through.
I need to go stand in front of my heater and defrost.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Love & Life Drifts Upon an Open Sea
We give. We take. It's often a school of hard knocks because it seems that we're experiencing the take more than the give part.
If I look at the big picture, I'd have to say that I'm a giver. Not like a giver in the sense that I'm one of the Chosen. Rather, that I give of myself, my assistance, or my generosity, my heart, or an ear, or a present or two or three or four for a holiday or birthday. I probably 'shouldn't' as it often makes the receiver uncomfortable to receive a pile of gifts. Yet, when it comes down to it, I'm really thinking of her and what she actually gives to me without really knowing it.
Life is a gift and it seems we take so much for granted -- or is it that we take love, affection, interaction, patience, kindness, thoughtfulness, time, effort, desire to overcome adversity, peace to such an extent -- that we often only see what doesn't occur or the difficulty in the moment. We let go of the fact that more often it is laughable, engaging and simple such that when the hard shit arises, that's all we hold onto: the impenetrability and extremity of it all.
A ship sails the sea. Days and days it glides over the ripples. The sun shines, fish and dolphins leap and dive. Clouds form and dissipate, wind blows and fades. All is gentle, manageable, we are flowing over time, taking in all the rays, the moon, the clear and opaque life and beauty that surrounds as it should be.
Then, seemingly out of nowhere, high seas wall up, water pounds and plunges the deck, sails flap and tear. The rudder trips port, then starboard, then port, then starboard, completely out of control. Fore and aft we lose ballast. We try to right ourselves, yet minimally, only seeing the darkness in that moment ahead instead of the placidity that preceded. The moments become hours, darkness overtakes and we lose our way -- stars, our once coveted guiding lights are obscured or forgotten.
We let go, fall to this temporary force by feigning ignorance, inability to guide through, or lack of desire to bond and labor a bit through this unseemly power. It's too much. It's too vast, overwhelming (because of its newness or distant familiarity from storms past?), as it seemingly instigated and pushed us to a level of instability that's determined to be too far; we cannot come back, recover, settle down. This surge is too foreign; it is scary.
When the squall moves on, all we see is the destruction, the bent floorboards, the lack of direction, the loss of movement, the tattered sails, the difficulty. The thrashing. The absolute defeat. Nothing is what it was before. What's worse, though, is that we see only this - the pummeling, the lack of forward movement. We don't see that we can suture taut the canvas, that we can counterbalance this temporary disruption. Overlook the pummeling as what it was: a transitory incident. It is deduced that more will come thus it is better to abandon ship altogether. No sense in learning during the calm, during the blue sky moments.
We take for granted what such natural phenoma can offer: the struggle that presents us with the gift of growth, awareness, the ability to come together, fresher, more alive, more connected . We disengage because it's easier. Let go of the rope, don't bail its water that might appreciate its strength. Just leave it adrift and never look back or reflect on what happened.
I've lost a lot this year. More than I could ever say here. Much is my own doing (or undoing?), my own unraveling and allowing for an unsteered course. However I've discovered that 50% of which I'm responsible and for which I've repeatedly apologized has been countered by an even stronger 50% to abandon ship. And though my confidence wavered in these hammering storms, not having had any experience from which to draw any skill over these tides, I'm willing to find an emotional sextant and learn and try to locate a path, something that charts us towards tranquility and not torrent.
Sadly, this simple, yet ancient tool is seen as beyond difficult to comprehend as it is far too new or different to conquer another possible rough sea ahead. It is tossed overboard, and again, that which housed so much life and potential is abandoned without any regard. We took for granted all that we learned, the stillness and harmony and only give this life, this experience a half-hearted nod and headshake; no sense of bailing out water (overlooking the fact that it's worth the effort especially as time and sun will dry out that which remains).
Gave some, took a lot. Unwilling to give more and take less.
I gave a lot, received even more. I am willing and already do provide an open heart and hand so that part of the ballast is restored, strength in the steerage is coordinated such that a passageway is sought but needs another's sail, another's hand and heart to see us through.
Instead, love remains adrift, floating and abandoned.
Given this, I wished that the other would recall and believe and embrace what Maya Angelou wrote, "Love recognizes no barriers. It jumps hurdles, leaps fences, penetrates walls to arrive at its destination full of hope."
A rather rare, albeit workable, rough sea - even those which may seem unexpectantly horrid - should not be a barrier or wall or reason to walk away from love. Truth, patience, willingness to examine and change and hope are reasons to sail through. There have always been other rough seas, but now there's something better, a port to which we may reach and find safety and comfort: love. There is always hope.
If I look at the big picture, I'd have to say that I'm a giver. Not like a giver in the sense that I'm one of the Chosen. Rather, that I give of myself, my assistance, or my generosity, my heart, or an ear, or a present or two or three or four for a holiday or birthday. I probably 'shouldn't' as it often makes the receiver uncomfortable to receive a pile of gifts. Yet, when it comes down to it, I'm really thinking of her and what she actually gives to me without really knowing it.
Life is a gift and it seems we take so much for granted -- or is it that we take love, affection, interaction, patience, kindness, thoughtfulness, time, effort, desire to overcome adversity, peace to such an extent -- that we often only see what doesn't occur or the difficulty in the moment. We let go of the fact that more often it is laughable, engaging and simple such that when the hard shit arises, that's all we hold onto: the impenetrability and extremity of it all.
A ship sails the sea. Days and days it glides over the ripples. The sun shines, fish and dolphins leap and dive. Clouds form and dissipate, wind blows and fades. All is gentle, manageable, we are flowing over time, taking in all the rays, the moon, the clear and opaque life and beauty that surrounds as it should be.
Then, seemingly out of nowhere, high seas wall up, water pounds and plunges the deck, sails flap and tear. The rudder trips port, then starboard, then port, then starboard, completely out of control. Fore and aft we lose ballast. We try to right ourselves, yet minimally, only seeing the darkness in that moment ahead instead of the placidity that preceded. The moments become hours, darkness overtakes and we lose our way -- stars, our once coveted guiding lights are obscured or forgotten.
We let go, fall to this temporary force by feigning ignorance, inability to guide through, or lack of desire to bond and labor a bit through this unseemly power. It's too much. It's too vast, overwhelming (because of its newness or distant familiarity from storms past?), as it seemingly instigated and pushed us to a level of instability that's determined to be too far; we cannot come back, recover, settle down. This surge is too foreign; it is scary.
When the squall moves on, all we see is the destruction, the bent floorboards, the lack of direction, the loss of movement, the tattered sails, the difficulty. The thrashing. The absolute defeat. Nothing is what it was before. What's worse, though, is that we see only this - the pummeling, the lack of forward movement. We don't see that we can suture taut the canvas, that we can counterbalance this temporary disruption. Overlook the pummeling as what it was: a transitory incident. It is deduced that more will come thus it is better to abandon ship altogether. No sense in learning during the calm, during the blue sky moments.
We take for granted what such natural phenoma can offer: the struggle that presents us with the gift of growth, awareness, the ability to come together, fresher, more alive, more connected . We disengage because it's easier. Let go of the rope, don't bail its water that might appreciate its strength. Just leave it adrift and never look back or reflect on what happened.
I've lost a lot this year. More than I could ever say here. Much is my own doing (or undoing?), my own unraveling and allowing for an unsteered course. However I've discovered that 50% of which I'm responsible and for which I've repeatedly apologized has been countered by an even stronger 50% to abandon ship. And though my confidence wavered in these hammering storms, not having had any experience from which to draw any skill over these tides, I'm willing to find an emotional sextant and learn and try to locate a path, something that charts us towards tranquility and not torrent.
Sadly, this simple, yet ancient tool is seen as beyond difficult to comprehend as it is far too new or different to conquer another possible rough sea ahead. It is tossed overboard, and again, that which housed so much life and potential is abandoned without any regard. We took for granted all that we learned, the stillness and harmony and only give this life, this experience a half-hearted nod and headshake; no sense of bailing out water (overlooking the fact that it's worth the effort especially as time and sun will dry out that which remains).
Gave some, took a lot. Unwilling to give more and take less.
I gave a lot, received even more. I am willing and already do provide an open heart and hand so that part of the ballast is restored, strength in the steerage is coordinated such that a passageway is sought but needs another's sail, another's hand and heart to see us through.
Instead, love remains adrift, floating and abandoned.
Given this, I wished that the other would recall and believe and embrace what Maya Angelou wrote, "Love recognizes no barriers. It jumps hurdles, leaps fences, penetrates walls to arrive at its destination full of hope."
A rather rare, albeit workable, rough sea - even those which may seem unexpectantly horrid - should not be a barrier or wall or reason to walk away from love. Truth, patience, willingness to examine and change and hope are reasons to sail through. There have always been other rough seas, but now there's something better, a port to which we may reach and find safety and comfort: love. There is always hope.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
