H is for Haiku. I've always been fascinated by the haiku, because, if properly done, they allow for so much to be said in just three short lines,each with an assigned number of syllables (1st line- 5, 2nd line- 7, and 3rd line- 5). But, since I am not known for my ability to keep things brief, I decided -a few years back- to create a poem within a poem...or, rather, several poems within a single poem...using the almighty Haiku. So, here it is. ***drum roll please***
"A Foreign Sneeze" (many people in the past have pondered this title, and I have not -until now- revealed the simple -and juvenile- "meaning" behind it: basically, when someone says "haiku," I always want to say "bless you." Sounds like a Japanese sneeze to me).
Inspiration found
Inhibitions lingering
Something old comes forth
Her world has gone cold
Ice clings to her memories
Her core is locked tight
He can see a flame
Desperate, he beckons it
He won't let her freeze
Pregnant with questions
Solitude shows no mercy
She must birth alone
Thoughts like fireflies
Now caught in an air-tight jar
Die on the bottom
Seasons keep changing
The flickering can be seen
The lid is removed
Hope sits in her lap
With his face against the glass
He saves his last breath
Monday, April 9, 2012
Saturday, April 7, 2012
A to Z/Day 7- letter G
G is for Goldfish. I had a goldfish. His name was Morpheus, and much like his name-sake, he was big and black (he had gold flecks speckled about his fat black body, so I suppose that's what qualified him as a goldfish; that, and some other scientifically mundane trait classification chart). Morpheus also had giant eyes atop his head, which put him in the "he's-so-ugly-he's-cute" category of existence...not the worst list to be on, I suppose. There's always the "he's-so-ugly-he's-ugly" list, so I guess you could say that Morpheus had a fin up on the world and its grotesque need for labeling. But that is not what made him special. Despite what many humans like to think, not all goldfish spend their lives swimming about their tanks, desperately trying to escape the relentless piece of aquatic doo-doo trailing from their asses. Not all goldfish pass the time between feedings by staring at the other identical goldfish in the tank that has seemingly decided to devote its life to being an irritating mimic. No. Morpheus was so much more than that.
He had such ingenuity; for instance, at "play-time," he would place himself above the air bubbles that came out of the air bubble thing on the bottom of his tank, and he would let it push him lazily up to the top of his watery world. Then, he would swim back down and do it again. And again. And again. Crazy fish. He was so special.
He also got the biggest kick out of "playing dead." There he would be, lying in the corner, eyes holding a wild blank stare while I tapped frantically on the glass, screeching his name. Every time I would think, "This is it. He really is dead this time." And just before I would reach for the net thing that nets things out, he would jump back to life. He got me every time with that trick. I would scold him, insisting that one day he really would be dead, and I wouldn't believe him because he was the "fish that cried shark." He never did get the point, but I could never stay mad at him for long. Crazy, crazy fish. He really was special.
He had this way of cheering me up, too. When I was feeling down, I would often sit in front of his tank and watch him. And, as odd as this sounds, it was as if he could sense my murky mood. Each time -without fail- he would swim over to me and....are you ready for this?...he would make funny faces at me! Am I kidding you? No, I am not! I swear by god. He would do this thing with his lips, pooching them in and out. It was hysterical. Oh, how we would laugh! Crazy, crazy, crazy fish. Incredibly special.
Of course, everyone knows that goldfish usually die after just a short time (I've never understood why people marvel at this as if it is some huge mystery), but not my Morpheus: he held his breath for almost four years! Didn't I say he was special?
He had this way of cheering me up, too. When I was feeling down, I would often sit in front of his tank and watch him. And, as odd as this sounds, it was as if he could sense my murky mood. Each time -without fail- he would swim over to me and....are you ready for this?...he would make funny faces at me! Am I kidding you? No, I am not! I swear by god. He would do this thing with his lips, pooching them in and out. It was hysterical. Oh, how we would laugh! Crazy, crazy, crazy fish. Incredibly special.
Of course, everyone knows that goldfish usually die after just a short time (I've never understood why people marvel at this as if it is some huge mystery), but not my Morpheus: he held his breath for almost four years! Didn't I say he was special?
Friday, April 6, 2012
A to Z Challenge/Day6- letter F
I actually wrote this a while ago and posted it as a Facebook "note," and while I have enjoyed coming up with A to Z blogs on the spot, not knowing what the word to each corresponding letter would be until the clicks of my keyboard gave them life on the screen before me, I guess I've known all along that this previously written piece (though I did change the title to fit with today's letter) was going to make it on to one of my A to Z's eventually. The subject matter is too relevant not to express...again. So, here it is: F is for...
"Face-me-not"
Standing in line, waiting patiently to pay far too much for processed and injected food (because, based on the price of it, the organic stuff obviously has pieces of gold and diamond chips hidden within for which one can "sift" after proper digestion and waste disposal has occurred), i look around and can't help but notice the downward gaze or sideways glance of every person in my general vicinity. It's as if making eye contact with a fellow human being poses the same threat that Perseus stood against in his battle with the infamous gorgon, Lady M. Our ipods and cell phones have become modern day Shields, and anyone that doesn't know our name on sight is the enemy. So, I study the people around me without any worry that i will be noticed, as it has quickly become apparent that they are conjuring & expending precious energy to SEEM as though they don't have the time or will to waste their energy on anything outside of their play list or mobile solitaire game. I watch as a dozen or so people carry on as if the matter that composes their bodies and their buggies define the beginning and end of their worlds. I watch as a dozen or so pairs of eyes bounce around until they can find some superficial place of rest; which, incidentally, seems to manifest in the following order of descending pseudo-comfort: 1) any sort of compact piece of technology, 2) the editorial that boasts the skinniest girl on the cover; or 3) the ingredients or calorie content on the back of which ever container is closest at hand in the shopping cart. If two sets of eyes do happen to catch each other in mid-pass, the exact same phenomenon occurs, every time: the half-smile. Ah yes. The half-smile...the go-to expression that says, "this is as far as i am willing to go to engage you. I will try not to surf the same sight line as you again, and would appreciate it if you'd do the same so this awkward exchange does not have to ensue a second time. Have a nice life."
As I'm observing the strange meandering that is humanity, a lady takes her place in the line to the right of me. Careful to station herself the accepted 3 to 5 feet away from the person in front of her, she immediately whips out her iphone. My eyes fall to about the height of her kneecap, onto which a darling little girl grips with one arm, while ambitiously sucking her thumb. As a thumb sucker myself, I find fellowship. The little one, who I dubbed "Layla," is looking at me...right in the eye. She blinks, shyly. I wrinkle my nose playfully and smile. "Layla" responds by removing her thumb long enough to smile back. Sincere and without any face other than her own, she smiles. In my peripheral, I see the mother's face turned toward me. Just as I look up, she looks down, following the line of my previous gaze to find her daughter at the end of it. She then places her hand - the one not holding the iphone that only moments before took precedence to the joy and attention of her child - on her daughter's head and guides the little one around to the other side of her, allowing "Layla" to grasp her other knee for security before returning her attention to the iphone app of the day. "Layla" peers around her mother's thigh at me. Mother shifts her posture to block any further interaction. The man behind me clears his throat to let me know that he feels it is time for me to begin unloading my groceries on the whole four inches of available conveyor belt space that lies between me and the plastic grey separation bar that marks the end of the transaction in front of me. I ignore him.
After another ten minutes or so, I pay for my groceries and begin the walk out to my car. My thoughts turn to "Layla" and her mother. I'm sad and a little angry. My eyes dart around in search of the vehicle that I can't afford to put gas in and by their haste, they accidentally fall upon another set of eyes. I register the image of an elderly woman, with a cane. By the time showing on her face, I can only imagine her story: the things she has seen & done, and learned... by reward or consequence. I understand in that fraction of a second that she is a piece of human history; she is an offering of insight that only a combination of such an acquired past and the appreciated present can extend. I want to reach out to her, thank her for her contributions and honor her mistakes. I want to hear her stories. But then "Layla" and her mother's influence - the story of our future - floats back to the forefront of my mind, and all the old woman gets from me is a guarded half-smile.
"Face-me-not"
Standing in line, waiting patiently to pay far too much for processed and injected food (because, based on the price of it, the organic stuff obviously has pieces of gold and diamond chips hidden within for which one can "sift" after proper digestion and waste disposal has occurred), i look around and can't help but notice the downward gaze or sideways glance of every person in my general vicinity. It's as if making eye contact with a fellow human being poses the same threat that Perseus stood against in his battle with the infamous gorgon, Lady M. Our ipods and cell phones have become modern day Shields, and anyone that doesn't know our name on sight is the enemy. So, I study the people around me without any worry that i will be noticed, as it has quickly become apparent that they are conjuring & expending precious energy to SEEM as though they don't have the time or will to waste their energy on anything outside of their play list or mobile solitaire game. I watch as a dozen or so people carry on as if the matter that composes their bodies and their buggies define the beginning and end of their worlds. I watch as a dozen or so pairs of eyes bounce around until they can find some superficial place of rest; which, incidentally, seems to manifest in the following order of descending pseudo-comfort: 1) any sort of compact piece of technology, 2) the editorial that boasts the skinniest girl on the cover; or 3) the ingredients or calorie content on the back of which ever container is closest at hand in the shopping cart. If two sets of eyes do happen to catch each other in mid-pass, the exact same phenomenon occurs, every time: the half-smile. Ah yes. The half-smile...the go-to expression that says, "this is as far as i am willing to go to engage you. I will try not to surf the same sight line as you again, and would appreciate it if you'd do the same so this awkward exchange does not have to ensue a second time. Have a nice life."
As I'm observing the strange meandering that is humanity, a lady takes her place in the line to the right of me. Careful to station herself the accepted 3 to 5 feet away from the person in front of her, she immediately whips out her iphone. My eyes fall to about the height of her kneecap, onto which a darling little girl grips with one arm, while ambitiously sucking her thumb. As a thumb sucker myself, I find fellowship. The little one, who I dubbed "Layla," is looking at me...right in the eye. She blinks, shyly. I wrinkle my nose playfully and smile. "Layla" responds by removing her thumb long enough to smile back. Sincere and without any face other than her own, she smiles. In my peripheral, I see the mother's face turned toward me. Just as I look up, she looks down, following the line of my previous gaze to find her daughter at the end of it. She then places her hand - the one not holding the iphone that only moments before took precedence to the joy and attention of her child - on her daughter's head and guides the little one around to the other side of her, allowing "Layla" to grasp her other knee for security before returning her attention to the iphone app of the day. "Layla" peers around her mother's thigh at me. Mother shifts her posture to block any further interaction. The man behind me clears his throat to let me know that he feels it is time for me to begin unloading my groceries on the whole four inches of available conveyor belt space that lies between me and the plastic grey separation bar that marks the end of the transaction in front of me. I ignore him.
After another ten minutes or so, I pay for my groceries and begin the walk out to my car. My thoughts turn to "Layla" and her mother. I'm sad and a little angry. My eyes dart around in search of the vehicle that I can't afford to put gas in and by their haste, they accidentally fall upon another set of eyes. I register the image of an elderly woman, with a cane. By the time showing on her face, I can only imagine her story: the things she has seen & done, and learned... by reward or consequence. I understand in that fraction of a second that she is a piece of human history; she is an offering of insight that only a combination of such an acquired past and the appreciated present can extend. I want to reach out to her, thank her for her contributions and honor her mistakes. I want to hear her stories. But then "Layla" and her mother's influence - the story of our future - floats back to the forefront of my mind, and all the old woman gets from me is a guarded half-smile.
Thursday, April 5, 2012
A to Z Challenge/Day5 - letter E
E is for Enchantment: a mystical induction of bewildered beauty and wonder. Some might even claim that to be enchanted is to be exposed to a magical obsession outside the realm of free-will. The dictionary defines "enchant" as: 1. to delight to a high degree, or 2. to impart a magic quality or effect to. I believe in enchantment, myself, and I believe that it is both highly delightful and magical. I also believe that each of us should allow ourselves a bit of enchantment every single day (or night) of our lives.
The one thing I don't believe about enchantment is that it is hiding within a witch's brew or a wizard's wand just waiting to be cast upon some unsuspecting recipient, and while I might believe in bits and pieces of "magical obsession," I do not believe that any of it operates without our full participation and acknowledgment. Enchantment is not something that is done to us; it is something we do to ourselves. It is something that we let happen in our own sense of time and space and wonder. But just as spending endless days sitting against the base of a tree down by the pond kissing random frogs has never once rendered a Prince Charming, we can't just sit around waiting for the feeling of enchantment to come along and ask our permission to enliven and inspire us, either. We have to seek it, and once found, we have to welcome the beauty, the "magic," to come in. We have to allow ourselves to see all the things that are anxiously waiting to carry us away in a moment of sheer awe, but we have to open more than our eyes to be enchanted in this way; we have to open our souls and our hearts (not the blood-pumping organ, but the life-enhancing essence), thereby allowing the super-human power of imagination that lurks within us to flourish and mingle with our very existence.
As for me, I find enchantment in the night sky. Not every night. Though I go outside every night to admire the speckled dome of hieroglyphs above me, I do not always see beyond the obvious beauty to the hidden meaning and wonderment, because the jagged edges of life tend to distract me more often than not, making it difficult to impart myself with the openness required to consistently experience the magic. I also find -when I can- enchantment in the interaction of children (well, enchantment and astonishment). I find enchantment -almost always- near the ocean. There is something about the ocean that assists -with a gentle ease- in opening my heart and soul, helping me to let its holiest of elements pour over me as the waves pour over each other with a playful, but powerful Truth. I know, too, that I am not the only one that has this special relationship with the ocean. I don't know why it is, but some places are more magical than others, and therefore easier to "access." Mountains, for instance: I would find it hard to believe that any one could stand atop a mountain and not feel the absolute majesty that lives there. But, even still, it is up to us to bring it forth and allow it to fill the open parts of us with its secrets.
The best and biggest part about all of this is that once we realize just how we control the enchanting moments of our lives, it will soon follow that we come to understand that WE have been the magic all along.
The one thing I don't believe about enchantment is that it is hiding within a witch's brew or a wizard's wand just waiting to be cast upon some unsuspecting recipient, and while I might believe in bits and pieces of "magical obsession," I do not believe that any of it operates without our full participation and acknowledgment. Enchantment is not something that is done to us; it is something we do to ourselves. It is something that we let happen in our own sense of time and space and wonder. But just as spending endless days sitting against the base of a tree down by the pond kissing random frogs has never once rendered a Prince Charming, we can't just sit around waiting for the feeling of enchantment to come along and ask our permission to enliven and inspire us, either. We have to seek it, and once found, we have to welcome the beauty, the "magic," to come in. We have to allow ourselves to see all the things that are anxiously waiting to carry us away in a moment of sheer awe, but we have to open more than our eyes to be enchanted in this way; we have to open our souls and our hearts (not the blood-pumping organ, but the life-enhancing essence), thereby allowing the super-human power of imagination that lurks within us to flourish and mingle with our very existence.
As for me, I find enchantment in the night sky. Not every night. Though I go outside every night to admire the speckled dome of hieroglyphs above me, I do not always see beyond the obvious beauty to the hidden meaning and wonderment, because the jagged edges of life tend to distract me more often than not, making it difficult to impart myself with the openness required to consistently experience the magic. I also find -when I can- enchantment in the interaction of children (well, enchantment and astonishment). I find enchantment -almost always- near the ocean. There is something about the ocean that assists -with a gentle ease- in opening my heart and soul, helping me to let its holiest of elements pour over me as the waves pour over each other with a playful, but powerful Truth. I know, too, that I am not the only one that has this special relationship with the ocean. I don't know why it is, but some places are more magical than others, and therefore easier to "access." Mountains, for instance: I would find it hard to believe that any one could stand atop a mountain and not feel the absolute majesty that lives there. But, even still, it is up to us to bring it forth and allow it to fill the open parts of us with its secrets.
The best and biggest part about all of this is that once we realize just how we control the enchanting moments of our lives, it will soon follow that we come to understand that WE have been the magic all along.
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
A to Z Challenge/Day 4-Letter D
D is for Dog. I've never really been a cat person. Don't get me wrong: I would love to raise a lion from cub to beast and snuggle with it daily, but I really don't have the room and quite frankly, that is one litter box I don't want any part of. Not to mention, precious cub would grow into giant predator and would probably eat my dogs, and that would be no good. It certainly wouldn't make for a happy ending to this blog-post. In fact, it would probably eat me, making any further blogging impossible on my part. So...okay...D is also for Digression, it seems. Back on track, shall we?
I, like thousands of humans, have dogs. I have always had or lived with a dog, except for the four and a half years I lived with my dad, because my little sister was terrified of them (when she was but a wee tot, she got bit in the face by one). Anyway, over the years, I have learned a lot about dogs and -as it turns out- they have taught me just as much, if not more, about myself. At the moment, I have two dogs: a beautiful Golden Retriever that we call Baley (he also has other names like: Boobie, Boo-Boo, Fartie, and Bay-Bays) and a "yellow lab" whose official name is Doc, but he will also answer to Doctavius, Tater-Face, Tatie, and Monkey. They could not be more different in personality and demeanor, but the one thing they have in common is they would both die for me, my husband, and our son if the need arose. Even if the (hypothetical) danger presented them a steak-bribe, I feel pretty confident they would still put our safety first. Their instincts would tell them that members of their beloved family (pack) were in trouble, and they would fight for us; without any thought of their own safety, they would fight for ours. Their love is just that big.
And that's just it, isn't it? That's what makes dogs so incredibly stellar. They love us no matter who we are or what we've done. They are loyal in a way that most human beings cannot even begin to fathom, much less put to practice. And all we have to do to be worthy of such a love is love them back (and only a little, by comparison).
Every now and then, as I watch my dogs sprawled out on my king-size bed, leaving only just enough space for me and my laptop, it dawns on me that creatures live with me. Actual creatures, derived from wolves, live with us! They are creatures, yet they become ashamed and hurt when they have let us down, when we scold them. They seek forgiveness until it is given so that life -for them- can go on. And all the while, they have the ability to tear our throats out if they so desired (well, the breeds I prefer do; still, the little yippies could at least do some damage to an Achilles tendon or a big toe). But all they know is they love us and need us to love them. That's all they need to know.
There is so much more I want to say about the utter awesomeness that is the canine unit, but I am told that A to Z blogs are best if kept short, so I will sign off with this thought: I believe entirely that dogs were put here for us (whether by evolutionary prowess or divine command, I cannot say; though I suspect it's a bit of both). They were put here for us, and they seem to be aware of it. We were put here for each other, yet remain unaware of this point of existential relevance. And "experts" say that dogs have only a fraction of human intelligence. Is that so?
I, like thousands of humans, have dogs. I have always had or lived with a dog, except for the four and a half years I lived with my dad, because my little sister was terrified of them (when she was but a wee tot, she got bit in the face by one). Anyway, over the years, I have learned a lot about dogs and -as it turns out- they have taught me just as much, if not more, about myself. At the moment, I have two dogs: a beautiful Golden Retriever that we call Baley (he also has other names like: Boobie, Boo-Boo, Fartie, and Bay-Bays) and a "yellow lab" whose official name is Doc, but he will also answer to Doctavius, Tater-Face, Tatie, and Monkey. They could not be more different in personality and demeanor, but the one thing they have in common is they would both die for me, my husband, and our son if the need arose. Even if the (hypothetical) danger presented them a steak-bribe, I feel pretty confident they would still put our safety first. Their instincts would tell them that members of their beloved family (pack) were in trouble, and they would fight for us; without any thought of their own safety, they would fight for ours. Their love is just that big.
And that's just it, isn't it? That's what makes dogs so incredibly stellar. They love us no matter who we are or what we've done. They are loyal in a way that most human beings cannot even begin to fathom, much less put to practice. And all we have to do to be worthy of such a love is love them back (and only a little, by comparison).
Every now and then, as I watch my dogs sprawled out on my king-size bed, leaving only just enough space for me and my laptop, it dawns on me that creatures live with me. Actual creatures, derived from wolves, live with us! They are creatures, yet they become ashamed and hurt when they have let us down, when we scold them. They seek forgiveness until it is given so that life -for them- can go on. And all the while, they have the ability to tear our throats out if they so desired (well, the breeds I prefer do; still, the little yippies could at least do some damage to an Achilles tendon or a big toe). But all they know is they love us and need us to love them. That's all they need to know.
There is so much more I want to say about the utter awesomeness that is the canine unit, but I am told that A to Z blogs are best if kept short, so I will sign off with this thought: I believe entirely that dogs were put here for us (whether by evolutionary prowess or divine command, I cannot say; though I suspect it's a bit of both). They were put here for us, and they seem to be aware of it. We were put here for each other, yet remain unaware of this point of existential relevance. And "experts" say that dogs have only a fraction of human intelligence. Is that so?
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
A to Z Challenge/Day 3 - letter C
Today, C is for Chewing, impolite chewing (and by association, I guess C is also for Consideration). There are a few things that can instantly ignite flames of rage within the core of my very being. Loud and obnoxious chewing, also known as smacking, is at the top of my fire and brimstone list. I cannot explain it; well, I can...and I suppose I will within this blog-post, but it can be a lonely existence. Although I once met a girl who described the exact same feelings that I undergo when subjected to the inexcusable practice of excessively audible CHEWING, and as she carried her description through to the end, I thought two things and nothing more: 1) 'Oh my God! I am not the only one whose entire body, mind, and soul has a borderline homicidal reaction to smacking!' And 2) 'I really, really like this girl. I don't need to know anything else about her. She is my friend and my sister.' I never saw her again after that initial and brief visit, but my feelings about her remain to this day.What I would like to do now is try to explain what I undergo when I hear loud chewing, crunching, smacking, etc. Many of you will think that I need professional help, but I hold out hope that there will be those of you that understand PRECISELY every detail of what I describe, and together we can bring about a public awareness of the importance of Considerate Chewing by striking down -with a heavy and vengeful fist- those that engage in the grotesque practice of smacking and excessive crunching. So, here it is:
When the very first watery, mushy clicking noise of a smacker reaches my ears, my skin runs cold, but my very first thought -every single time- is: 'Maybe it was just a one time thing, a slip-up. It happens to the best of us; we all accidentally let one loose every now and again.' So, you see, I do try to begin with an extension of beneficial doubt. But when the disgusting, indefensible assault on my hearing continues -seemingly without end, as if time itself also becomes offended at the despicable and punishable sound- my eyes glaze over. Seriously, I can actually feel my pupils dilating. The corners of my mouth turn downward, while the left side of my top lip quivers in a failing attempt to restrain a sneering snarl. The carotid artery in my throat quickens in a natural mimic of my heart. My right foot begins to bounce up and down as my body tries to find some way to process and expend the build up of adrenaline coursing through it. Then, as the guilty takes barbaric bite after barbaric bite, the rage becomes too much for further containment. Visions of plunging my own eating utensils into the face of the smacker take full occupancy of my mind, and it is at this point that I will close my eyes, tighten my mouth into a thin white line, leaning my head first to the right, then to the left: each time raising my chin slightly upward so that my neck cracks on both sides, thus allowing the rage free flow to my face, turning it varying shades of red and purple.
Right about this time, one of two things usually transpires: 1) Either my husband has noticed what is happening and will quickly try to diffuse the situation by light-heartedly joking about the offender's caveman-like monstrosity of an excuse for eating, with the hope that it will politely bring it to his/her attention and he/she will refrain from his/her poor display of humanity (and most of the time, they do get the hint, and I can see them visibly asserting concentration on something most of learned to master right around the time we learned not to color our nursery walls with our own feces); OR 2) I will stand up abruptly and say something like, "I WILL NOT endure this for another second," after which I will storm out of the room, leaving everyone shocked and wondering what the hell just happened (as if they are incapable of hearing the same piggery that I am. Whatever).
So, who can relate?
When the very first watery, mushy clicking noise of a smacker reaches my ears, my skin runs cold, but my very first thought -every single time- is: 'Maybe it was just a one time thing, a slip-up. It happens to the best of us; we all accidentally let one loose every now and again.' So, you see, I do try to begin with an extension of beneficial doubt. But when the disgusting, indefensible assault on my hearing continues -seemingly without end, as if time itself also becomes offended at the despicable and punishable sound- my eyes glaze over. Seriously, I can actually feel my pupils dilating. The corners of my mouth turn downward, while the left side of my top lip quivers in a failing attempt to restrain a sneering snarl. The carotid artery in my throat quickens in a natural mimic of my heart. My right foot begins to bounce up and down as my body tries to find some way to process and expend the build up of adrenaline coursing through it. Then, as the guilty takes barbaric bite after barbaric bite, the rage becomes too much for further containment. Visions of plunging my own eating utensils into the face of the smacker take full occupancy of my mind, and it is at this point that I will close my eyes, tighten my mouth into a thin white line, leaning my head first to the right, then to the left: each time raising my chin slightly upward so that my neck cracks on both sides, thus allowing the rage free flow to my face, turning it varying shades of red and purple.
Right about this time, one of two things usually transpires: 1) Either my husband has noticed what is happening and will quickly try to diffuse the situation by light-heartedly joking about the offender's caveman-like monstrosity of an excuse for eating, with the hope that it will politely bring it to his/her attention and he/she will refrain from his/her poor display of humanity (and most of the time, they do get the hint, and I can see them visibly asserting concentration on something most of learned to master right around the time we learned not to color our nursery walls with our own feces); OR 2) I will stand up abruptly and say something like, "I WILL NOT endure this for another second," after which I will storm out of the room, leaving everyone shocked and wondering what the hell just happened (as if they are incapable of hearing the same piggery that I am. Whatever).
So, who can relate?
Monday, April 2, 2012
A to Z Challenge/Day 2- letter B
B is for Butterfly. "What the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the master calls a butterfly." (Richard Bach)
What living creature gives us a more accurate reminder of Purpose? Everyone is seeking their purpose, their reason for living. Everyone wants to know why they are here, and everyone wants so badly to be of monumental significance to the world and the human race that most will go their whole lives overlooking the very Purpose that cannot ever not be. Even with magnificent clues like the butterfly fluttering around us, we miss it.
Will I cure cancer? Will I be president? Will I be the first to walk on the surface of Mars? Will I invent something equal in genius to the Keurig coffee maker? Will I unite the world in love and harmony through music, poetry, and interpretive dance? And if I can't do any of these things or something else as cosmically resounding, then maybe the psychic palm-reader downtown can tell me what amazing and influential historical figure I used to be in a past life. Because, obviously, if I was Ben Franklin or Einstein or DaVinci, I deserve a bit of a break in THIS life. Right? Maybe. Maybe not. Regardless, though, none of the above referenced things are Purpose. They begin as dreams, inspiration. They lead to other dreams, possibilities. And even if they should come to fruition, they are effects to the cause; results of choice. They are accomplishments. But Purpose? Not so much. "But," you ask, "can't a person have more than one purpose in life and of varying degrees?" To which I respond, "No." We have reasons for living, and while our reasons most certainly feed our Purpose, they are not Purpose, Itself. All of this is naught but my very humble opinion, of course. But, follow me for a minute (as it turns out, B is also for Brief, as this blog has much to say but in few words, it seems). Follow me and consider:
What if we are born to digest as much of the world as we can, growing all the while, having to shed old skins for new skins as we expand our boundaries and increase our hunger for more and more knowledge? What if we are born to grow until we simply cannot grow anymore? And then we rest. We rest because we realize that all of the knowledge we have sought and acquired ultimately lead us to one simple Truth: we already knew it all. We already knew it, but we mistook the desire to transform for the need to be moving, to be set in motion, to be constantly seeking when, in fact, all we've ever had to do all along is just...be...still (note: it is EVER SO important not to confuse "still" with "stagnant." Please, for the good of the world, never make that mistake). With all the movement and yearning and distraction, we forget the things we know. And here's the GRAND paradoxical nature of the universe and the existence coveted within (at least as I see it): we were meant to forget, because we are never meant to forget. See? All Truth leads us to the Understanding that to be still is to let ourselves be silent, and in that silence we can hear the Song of Home. When we can do that, we can emerge...Transformed, with a capital "T."
So, what if our only Purpose in all of life is to learn enough to be silent enough to hear enough to remember it all...to be transformed back into the Something from which we came (and paradoxically, of which we cannot ever really not be): light and free, soaring on a holy breeze; a beautiful reminder to others of their Purpose.
Yes. B(e) is for "Butterfly."
What living creature gives us a more accurate reminder of Purpose? Everyone is seeking their purpose, their reason for living. Everyone wants to know why they are here, and everyone wants so badly to be of monumental significance to the world and the human race that most will go their whole lives overlooking the very Purpose that cannot ever not be. Even with magnificent clues like the butterfly fluttering around us, we miss it.
Will I cure cancer? Will I be president? Will I be the first to walk on the surface of Mars? Will I invent something equal in genius to the Keurig coffee maker? Will I unite the world in love and harmony through music, poetry, and interpretive dance? And if I can't do any of these things or something else as cosmically resounding, then maybe the psychic palm-reader downtown can tell me what amazing and influential historical figure I used to be in a past life. Because, obviously, if I was Ben Franklin or Einstein or DaVinci, I deserve a bit of a break in THIS life. Right? Maybe. Maybe not. Regardless, though, none of the above referenced things are Purpose. They begin as dreams, inspiration. They lead to other dreams, possibilities. And even if they should come to fruition, they are effects to the cause; results of choice. They are accomplishments. But Purpose? Not so much. "But," you ask, "can't a person have more than one purpose in life and of varying degrees?" To which I respond, "No." We have reasons for living, and while our reasons most certainly feed our Purpose, they are not Purpose, Itself. All of this is naught but my very humble opinion, of course. But, follow me for a minute (as it turns out, B is also for Brief, as this blog has much to say but in few words, it seems). Follow me and consider:
What if we are born to digest as much of the world as we can, growing all the while, having to shed old skins for new skins as we expand our boundaries and increase our hunger for more and more knowledge? What if we are born to grow until we simply cannot grow anymore? And then we rest. We rest because we realize that all of the knowledge we have sought and acquired ultimately lead us to one simple Truth: we already knew it all. We already knew it, but we mistook the desire to transform for the need to be moving, to be set in motion, to be constantly seeking when, in fact, all we've ever had to do all along is just...be...still (note: it is EVER SO important not to confuse "still" with "stagnant." Please, for the good of the world, never make that mistake). With all the movement and yearning and distraction, we forget the things we know. And here's the GRAND paradoxical nature of the universe and the existence coveted within (at least as I see it): we were meant to forget, because we are never meant to forget. See? All Truth leads us to the Understanding that to be still is to let ourselves be silent, and in that silence we can hear the Song of Home. When we can do that, we can emerge...Transformed, with a capital "T."
So, what if our only Purpose in all of life is to learn enough to be silent enough to hear enough to remember it all...to be transformed back into the Something from which we came (and paradoxically, of which we cannot ever really not be): light and free, soaring on a holy breeze; a beautiful reminder to others of their Purpose.
 |
| playing the game only to learn not to play the game |
Sunday, April 1, 2012
A to Z Challenge: Day 1/Letter A
From this point on, the next 26 blog-posts of The Basement Window will be a departure from the list of "ingredients" that has fed its inspiration thus far. I will, without doubt, return to that list. But, for the month of April, I turn my attention to another list of sorts: the alphabet. Thousands of bloggers will be doing this very same thing as we each attempt the A to Z Blog Challenge, whereby we will blog about subject matter that corresponds with each day's letter. Today, April 1st -day one- presents the letter A to be conquered. And I say, on this day, that "A is for APPLE."
That's right. Apple. That sweet, supple fruit whose crunch is as appealing as its taste. The Apple: a food product that -"in the beginning"- held more sway over mankind than the words of God. The serpent could have offered Adam and Eve anything from the fruits and veggies category (it was a garden, after all; and further, it was "paradise." Wasn't it?), but it was the apple that the wryly, ornery snake presented as the ultimate temptation. Why? Because it was the apple, of course, that grew from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. Duh. So, in honor of all the apple cobblers and pies of the world, I am making a recall on the apple's biblical notoriety, because the real issue is not -was not ever, in fact- the fruit itself so much as the tree from which it sprung. But, is the inquiry of this blog whether or not the apple deserves absolution from the pope, or is the real question...
Do Adam and Eve deserve not only pardon, but celebration for having the courage to take that first legendary bite of...Life? Did the presentation of the fruit -the apple- present us with the chance to be both teacher and student?
**Now would be a good time to insert a side note: this blog is not an attempt to unravel the testament of Christianity's version of the beginning of the human condition. It is, however, meant to serve as an expansion to it: an expansion of thought and possibility.**
From the moment we take our very first breath on this earth, we begin absorbing knowledge. We may not yet have the words to describe the sensory explosion that immediately follows that first breath, but really, we don't need words at that time, because ultimately words exist solely for the service of others anyway, but thought...now THAT is all ours, and the moment of our birth is just for us, too: an awakening to the experience of the knowledge of good and evil. An awakening to life. As infants, we process and sort through our experiences in a very basic way: pain and comfort. That's it. And without having to understand a single word of any spoken language, we know the difference between the two, because one is what the other is not. And life carries on that way. We gather new knowledge based on how it compares to the knowledge we already hold, because one cannot just live in acceptance of the good without also waking to the bad - the "evil" - of the world. Everything is relative to something else. Without its comparable counterpart, we just simply cannot know a thing.
But, as we grow, so does our range of experiences, and suddenly what was so instinctively black and white is now coated in layers of grey. We begin reaching out for ways to properly categorize the innumerable influences in and of life. I believe that there are two ways to make discoveries in life: 1) We can let someone else do the defining for us, thereby taking their information as the whole truth and then applying it - without question - to the thing for which we seek definition, or 2) We can live. We can live life as it was meant to be lived. We can learn from personal experience that where there is no heat, there will be a chill; where there is no light, there will be darkness; where there is no action, there is inaction; where there is no truth, it is somewhere other than where we are in that moment. To know that something is absent, we must first know its presence, yet to know how to define something as present, we must also have experienced absence. In short, there can be no knowledge of "good" without knowledge of "evil." And, with each side of a coin comes individual perspective, but the true beauty of knowledge of all kinds is that we are free to do with it as we please.
I suppose the next question begs to determine if God created us to be static or vital. Was "paradise" really meant to be a state of blind and unchanging existence? Because, let's face it: the only way we can change is through knowledge. OR is it more logical -more loving, even- to believe that we have been presented with the choice of leaving "paradise" -with the promise to one day return- so that we may receive the gift and experience of remembering all that we have chosen to forget? Maybe...just maybe...after that first breath in infancy (the bite of the apple), we set out to seek the knowledge that "paradise" is really the Home for which we all strive; that place in which rest and rejuvenation can be found. And how could we possibly know rest without first knowing unrest?
That's right. Apple. That sweet, supple fruit whose crunch is as appealing as its taste. The Apple: a food product that -"in the beginning"- held more sway over mankind than the words of God. The serpent could have offered Adam and Eve anything from the fruits and veggies category (it was a garden, after all; and further, it was "paradise." Wasn't it?), but it was the apple that the wryly, ornery snake presented as the ultimate temptation. Why? Because it was the apple, of course, that grew from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. Duh. So, in honor of all the apple cobblers and pies of the world, I am making a recall on the apple's biblical notoriety, because the real issue is not -was not ever, in fact- the fruit itself so much as the tree from which it sprung. But, is the inquiry of this blog whether or not the apple deserves absolution from the pope, or is the real question...
Do Adam and Eve deserve not only pardon, but celebration for having the courage to take that first legendary bite of...Life? Did the presentation of the fruit -the apple- present us with the chance to be both teacher and student?
**Now would be a good time to insert a side note: this blog is not an attempt to unravel the testament of Christianity's version of the beginning of the human condition. It is, however, meant to serve as an expansion to it: an expansion of thought and possibility.**
From the moment we take our very first breath on this earth, we begin absorbing knowledge. We may not yet have the words to describe the sensory explosion that immediately follows that first breath, but really, we don't need words at that time, because ultimately words exist solely for the service of others anyway, but thought...now THAT is all ours, and the moment of our birth is just for us, too: an awakening to the experience of the knowledge of good and evil. An awakening to life. As infants, we process and sort through our experiences in a very basic way: pain and comfort. That's it. And without having to understand a single word of any spoken language, we know the difference between the two, because one is what the other is not. And life carries on that way. We gather new knowledge based on how it compares to the knowledge we already hold, because one cannot just live in acceptance of the good without also waking to the bad - the "evil" - of the world. Everything is relative to something else. Without its comparable counterpart, we just simply cannot know a thing.
But, as we grow, so does our range of experiences, and suddenly what was so instinctively black and white is now coated in layers of grey. We begin reaching out for ways to properly categorize the innumerable influences in and of life. I believe that there are two ways to make discoveries in life: 1) We can let someone else do the defining for us, thereby taking their information as the whole truth and then applying it - without question - to the thing for which we seek definition, or 2) We can live. We can live life as it was meant to be lived. We can learn from personal experience that where there is no heat, there will be a chill; where there is no light, there will be darkness; where there is no action, there is inaction; where there is no truth, it is somewhere other than where we are in that moment. To know that something is absent, we must first know its presence, yet to know how to define something as present, we must also have experienced absence. In short, there can be no knowledge of "good" without knowledge of "evil." And, with each side of a coin comes individual perspective, but the true beauty of knowledge of all kinds is that we are free to do with it as we please.
I suppose the next question begs to determine if God created us to be static or vital. Was "paradise" really meant to be a state of blind and unchanging existence? Because, let's face it: the only way we can change is through knowledge. OR is it more logical -more loving, even- to believe that we have been presented with the choice of leaving "paradise" -with the promise to one day return- so that we may receive the gift and experience of remembering all that we have chosen to forget? Maybe...just maybe...after that first breath in infancy (the bite of the apple), we set out to seek the knowledge that "paradise" is really the Home for which we all strive; that place in which rest and rejuvenation can be found. And how could we possibly know rest without first knowing unrest?
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