Wednesday, December 26, 2012

Wintery Mix

No doubt.
This is a season that mixes whether snow and rain or sleet and hail or sun and shadow, it is a mix.
We are in the darkest part of the year, yet expecting light.
We expect cold, and we experience Spring like weather.
All the stores are open for extended hours after Thanksgiving, and then shut - even slammed shut for a quick nap before reducing the prices of merchandise that was of such value before.
We eat all we can stand, only to make a promise for the new year that we won't do that again.
Are we confused?
Probably not - well, not entirely.
A mix is essential for a good recipe.
A mix requires some balancing and it may take some time to get it right.
Maybe our mixes do just that - keep us balanced.
Here's to a balanced new year - trusting all we mix will come out quite well.

Tuesday, December 25, 2012

We do what we do because...


So, I've been away from the Bloggerhood for a while.
For one thing, I couldn't find it!
As fellow writers know, sometimes, writing is dependent on mood or a muse. 
Well, hope you'll read while I get the kinks out and work to get my thoughts back up and running.
By the way, Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to you. 

Conventions: Not the frenzied meetings with welcome packets and sign in sheets and name badges, but all the behaviors that surround such as well a multitude of others. Would love to hear of some of your chosen conventions - feel free to be liberal with any of your own invention.

At the university where I teach, my students were to write a paper on the origin and development of a social convention: hand shaking, table manners, greetings, keeping personal or public space, gift giving and such. We do what we have always done for different occasions. Maybe Mom told us it was "the right thing to do." 

Why, it's just how it's done in our family - always has been - I'd miss it. That's how Momma put a meal together, bless her. She mighta' complained 'bout her back, but she was proud to do it. Give her a Goody powder and a beer and she was fine.

IT may refer to pickles or no pickles in the potato salad, always served with cold ham, a relish tray and deviled eggs. 

Not to mention a coconut cake, 'nanner puddin', and sweet tea. Oh, and a congealed salad. 

What? You forgot the ham? You brought what? A chicken - rotissi...who? 

I don't give a damn who cooked it, you shoulda'. Oops, sorry 'bout the cuss word. Lord, forgive me. Have mercy, a chicken and store bought all pent up in a plastic box like such as that is a gonna' feed this brood. 

Who knows who's had they hands on it! It's just not right - why, the whole meal's just a mess now. Might as well just pitch it. Can't eat anyway. Might as well just drive down to the Shoney's on 21 and eat whatever they got (food's probably been sitting there for hours on end - somebody comes by and stirs it now and again, like that freshens it all up.  

Okay, so a little dramatic.  

IT may refer to a phrase, "Hug my neck!" Why should I hug your neck? Has anyone ever just hugged a neck? Seems difficult to hug a neck with any gusto without a strangle hold. But, I know the connotation, so I hug a neck. In like manner, we know when to do the "side hug," "full bodied hug - sincerity that," and even the timing. Guys will give each other the "time's up" with a slap on the back or a squeeze of the neck. One or two seconds past the guy hug time limit is an unspoken convention that guys just know. 

I suggest it worth thinking about, and researching some of our conventions. Do they work? What might we change? This Christmas - well, today is the official day - I paid more attention to our conventions than usual and I guess...NO, I'm sure it's because I just lost my sister to cancer's grip. Such made me really think about my purpose here, and why I do things the way I do things or speak words, or greet others, or schedule my time. 

Her disease dismissed the conventions of the season in her fading world. I made sure she had a Christmas tree weeks before, just so she wouldn't miss that; she may have missed it. I don't know how lucid she was, but probably I had to have that convention during her last days, so I had something I knew well and could count on for stability. Nothing wrong with that. Her last days and death have me thinking. Thanks, sister.  

So, if I or you give up a convention or create a new one, what would that be like? Always maintaining the status quo, while at times a necessity, I admit, may keep us locked in patterns that keep us from being fully who we are. It is exciting to think that there are possibilities, hundreds or thousands, of ways to be or do or speak or think or act that expand our own worlds to embrace life differently. 

Sure, others will respond and possibly with their own discomfort. Remember, that is their choice or convention. Let me hear from you.

Signing in a most conventional style (?)

Most cordially,

Tim

Saturday, June 30, 2012

Worthy to live?



     On my Facebook page, I have posted numerous links regarding animal cruelty which is rampant and to find such cruelty within a block of my home only makes the awareness of decisions local officials have made to destroy innocent creatures more horrific. (The intent, unless I'm already too late, is to exterminate beautiful geese so they are not in the flight pattern of the local airport.) It brings to mind an image of the Holocaust of WWII when people were exterminated because they didn't fit in and even that statement is a severe simplification of the dreadful dynamics in play at the time. Relocate them. Make them live in squalor. Don't give them what they need. Humiliate their very dignity. Create a raging hell for them. Keep them off guard. They're targets, but they don't need to know it.

What made such okay? 
Who says it's okay? 
Well, it's NOT okay. 

     Such takes me to Ted, my pup of whom many of you are aware. He is still paralyzed from the waist down and I still have to express his bladder so he can urinate. Yes, he has his struggles and so will I as I care for him, but I don't count him part of our throw away society. He isn't a creature of convenience or a toy that can be found on a recall list; he is a dignified, incredible little guy, a creature who brings light, laughter, joy and unconditional love to my life and the lives of others. People tell me he is spoiled. You better believe he is, and that is exactly how he will stay! Spoiled rotten. His quality of life is my priority.



     "This doesn't work, so pitch it, and get another." "This is not in fashion, so pitch it and buy the latest." We used to have things repaired, or mended; socks were darned; shoes were half soled and polished; cars were okay as long as they got us where we were going; leftovers weren't a choice - they were the next meal and usually tasted better the next day anyway.

     Momma wore the same "winter coat" for forty years; it was her best and it kept the chill off, even it was out of style with it's big oatmeal cookie sized buttons, three-quarter sleeves, beige cashmere fabric with a copper colored, shiny inner lining, all topped off with a white fur collar - smack dab out of 1955. It was the coat that meant things were good in our family's world; it's the coat I snuggled up to as a kid so I could be close to her, smelling her perfume and feeling the luxury of cashmere. Lucille Ball would have been proud to wear it.  

     If we're going to be fully human, it does take sacrifice and putting other people and creatures first. "ME" has become the supreme idol I fear; convenience and wealth are primary goals, and by the way, I want "IT" now, damn it. No waiting please; I'll stand in line for hours and when the next version of whatever it is comes out, I want that too because if I have it, then I ........well, I don't know what that makes a person have or be. And whatever it makes us, how long will that last? A day? Week? Month? Year? Minutes?

     A lady used to sing in my choir. Entering her kitchen one day, there was an old, well worn and somewhat beaten up white kettle on the stove. It was white enamel with bits of paint missing. "This is where I make tea," she said. How many years did she make tea in that kettle? What kind of tea? Did the kettle have an aroma of Earl Gray or Jasmine or the local store's generic black tea? How many memories were attached, reminding her of friends who had shared tea with her from a mug or a china cup along with her incredible home made shortbread? That kettle was a constant. It looked old and loved and used and worse for wear. It was endearing like an old friend, one that couldn't speak in words, but in memory. Sweet. It wasn't perfect, gleaming stainless or oddly shaped to be trendy. It was real - used, tough, substantial, appreciated and had worth, regardless how it looked or how old it was.

     As I said only yesterday to a dear friend in regard to smart phones and the like - sure, they're cool and technology has its place. But, when I bought my first phone in 1982, I bought a desk phone, black with rotary dial. I insisted on it to the lady at South Central Bell, before phones were purchased just anywhere. I can still recall the sales lady really pushing a slim line, push button phone -  how sleek; it's the latest, blah, blah, blah. The black desk phone to me was a classic; it was enough for $25.00 at the time, added dollar by dollar to my $20 monthly bill. It did the job and certainly kept boundaries in place for me, so people could not find me anywhere at anytime like they can today on my Go Phone (no contract please).

     What makes a person, an animal, an object have worth? When and who decides and by what permission does that someone decide such worth is now worth-less? Worth has been deleted, denied, diminished or destroyed. Being fully human and in relation with the earth and its amazing creatures, deeming worth, being worthy. Worth thinking about.

     Thanks for reading.
     Timothy


Wednesday, June 27, 2012

There's toilet paper on your shoe.

We all know the image.

     Someone comes out of a public restroom, a length of toilet paper in tow, stuck to his or her shoe. Just recently relieved, this dear soul isn't aware of the unexpected accessory following in step like some devoted white, fluffy puppy. Bring this companion to his or her attention, what is the response? :)

"Do you know you have a trail of toilet paper on your shoe?"  OR
"Do you know you have a small seedling of spinach between your teeth?" OR
"Do you know your zipper is down? Love the boxers with the little yellow ducks."

     If you are familiar with the Johari window, then you are aware of the idea that we are not fully aware of who we are entirely, whether it is a behavior, a gesture, a preference or a characteristic or...

     Years ago, my students informed me that every time I made a point in class, I adjusted my tie. Surely not. I paid attention, and I did indeed punctuate my points with a tie adjustment! So, does awareness demand change? I could continue to happily adjust my tie, stop the behavior (if I remembered to), stop wearing a tie, stop making points in class altogether or punctuate points with some other behavior, like clearing my throat or snapping my fingers.  

     To become more fully aware, a catharsis, an epiphany, a wake up call or a jump start are helpful. Such moments of seeing beyond, behind or through the veil of unawareness, ignorance or blessed innocence may be yet other catharses.

     (Yes, "catharses" is the plural of "catharsis"; I looked it up so I would be aware. Now I am. I wasn't aware of its plural form a few minutes ago, so writing this blog became a catharsis, making me aware that I did not know the plural of catharsis, so I chose to become aware because I also realized that if someone reads this, and I misspell the plural form, I might lose credibility, and that would be uncomfortable, so now I'm aware of my insecurity about losing credibility which makes me wonder why that is important in the first place. Will this never end? Probably not. So there.)

     So, can I create a catharsis? I suspect I can if I choose to try something new, read, write down my words as they flow in my stream of concscientiousness. What might new awareness bring about?

     "I had no idea I liked anchovies right out of the can!"
"Imagine that, all of this time I thought I was an extrovert. No wonder being around people actually wears me out."

     My roommate in college was from another country, a country in which wearing deodorant was considered quite unmanly. Without question, with the resulting, almost solidified funk, a person could find our room easily, even blindfolded, in the dark, and walking through the haze of a pizza delivery. We guys in the dorm, suffering his notable "fragrance" felt it best to inform (make him aware) that in this culture, it is okay to not stink, especially if he wanted to actually get some dates, which he did desperately. Yep, awareness brought some real relief: we could breathe and he could date.

     Some would suggest  awareness brings wisdom, positivity and safety; others suggest awareness brings dissappointment, negativity and insecurity. I have experienced both paths, yet I am confident many other paths exist in the light of awareness.

     Finally, I suggest that awareness also finds its way to us in subtle ways. We may never know or know fully why a feeling, belief, habit or any of life's intricacies are made manifest, not that we need to know, but I am intrigued with the idea that the unknown can be unknown, and then present itself, and quite possibly as a gift when least expected. 

Monday, June 18, 2012

Honesty


Honesty - lately, I've been slammed with it. I know it is supposed to be a "good" thing, yet honesty seems like a paper cut, one that slices in an instant right across breath and soul and time; it comes out of nowhere and from people who spout such (honesty I mean) with absolute, pure and innocent abandon. How dare they? How unbecoming. Why, it just isn't done.
 
Coming from deep roots of Southern culture - roots thick and ripe like ropes -protocol and expectation, honesty is indeed admired for its surface appeal, shiny like a pool of water on a lazy afternoon, sun reflecting on it, gentle goldfish submerged, blowing kiss bubbles to the surface, just as they're savaged by razored shark teeth, so quickly devoured as to go unnoticed. Why, not even enough to break a sweat - "fiddle dee dee". Such is the shadow behind much honesty.
 
search for tenderness
it isn't hard to find.
You can have the love you need to live.
But if you look for truthfulness
You might just as well be blind.
It always seems to be so hard to give.

Honesty is such a lonely word.
Everyone is so untrue.
Honesty is hardly ever heard.
And mostly what I need from you.

I can always find someone
to say they sympathize.
If I wear my heart out on my sleeve.
But I don't want some pretty face
to tell me pretty lies.
All I want is someone to believe.

Honesty is such a lonely word.
Everyone is so untrue.
Honesty is hardly ever heard.
And mostly what I need from you.

honesty early 14c., "splendor, honor; elegance," later "honorable position; propriety of behavior, good manners; virginity, chastity" (late 14c.), from O.Fr. honesté (Mod.Fr. honnêteté), from L. honestatem (nom. honestas) "honor received from others; reputation, character;" figuratively "uprightness, probity, integrity, virtue," from honestus (see honest). Meaning "moral purity, uprightness, virtue, justness" is from c.1400; in English, the word originally had more to do with honor than honest.



probity early 15c., from M.Fr. probité, from L. probitatem (nom. probitas) "uprightness, honesty," from probus "worthy, good"...
 
http://www.lyrics007.com/Billy%20Joel%20Lyrics/Honesty%20Lyrics.html
 

How much wait is enough?

Waiting...for the water to boil, dinner to be cooked, the mail to arrive, money to show up in my account, someone to read this blog, the nurse to call my name so I can wait for the doctor to come in the room; wait for the day to be over or start.

Days keep coming though and life seems to get in the way of living.

When will I know I have waited long enough and for what or for whom? If I wait too long, I'll miss something, or if I don't wait long enough, I may miss something. 


If I wait long enough, someone will show up, right? Picture a little boy in a play pen, leaning over the wooden side, a red plastic railing supported by wooden posts, the little guy's cow-licked head resting on his open palms. If he waits long enough, someone is bound to stop and notice, right? Someone has got to stop, smile, kiss his head, hug him and be unable to resist his little arms outstretched to be lifted from his confined, soft floored, open-air hut.


Just waiting. Hear it: tap, tap, tap of a pencil or a shoe or the smack-clack of gum, a deep sigh and a breath.

How much longer?

Are we there yet? Such angst from kids - excitement filled with the need, no - the want to be there now - why?

You just wait 'til.......'til what? "your father gets home" - why is that? Mom could switch the back of my legs quite well herself even if I did have to go out and get the switch myself, thinking the skinny switches were the better; they didn't hurt as much, don't you know, kind of like a little kid can't throw much of a punch like a big kid can.

Would you believe that "switch" bush is still alive! It has been over forty years since I harvested my last leg-striping, tiny knobbed switch from it, yet I have driven past the house where I grew up and the thick wad of brown and green thrives, unyielding its clutch of the earth next to the chain link fence, right next to the screen door of the kitchen, an easy harvest for Mom's switches.

At least I didn't have to wait when Mom just went on ahead, not waiting for Daddy, and gave me my lashes, the lashes that made me hold my hands across my bottom, fingers interlaced, my butt cheeks clenched with all the power of a vice grip, knowing with childlike belief that such a gluteal contraction would make any switch just bounce off my behind, wielding no power, having no impact, no pain, no sting. 

Not so. Oh, not so. Not so. Ohhhh, not so.

I'll wait as long as it takes. What are you waiting for?

The wait is worth it... worth what? And is it really worth it? What is it?
Just you wait. I'll show you. Show me what?    

Hurry up and wait........Can you do that?

Your wait time until the next representative is available is - how many minutes? You've got to be kidding.

I think I've put on a little wait.

Tuesday, June 5, 2012

Pax

I have a "Manual of Prayers" from which I read almost daily. One of the prayers has to do with becoming aware of the very simple messages and clues that come our way daily, clues that are so simple and obvious that I miss them: my stomach in knots, general malaise for no apparent reason, indifference, apathy, validation from others or the withdrawal of validation, or a sense of determined and resolute intention to make things different. 

What would those events be if articulated as words" "Get off your can and do something else. What is it with you? Is your heart blind? Is your soul asleep? Notice what is around you; just what do you think the messages are?"

Of late, I have been dealing with job issues. Lo and behold, my friend Jane's blog today was a reflection on peace, and that maybe creating peace or being peace could be our job. Then, I proceeded to the idea of a peaceful job; I do believe that such is out there, as I have experienced it. Usually I phrase such as "I'm in my element" or "This is where I belong". No, it may not fit another person's idea of a job, occupation nor have the same goals. How could this be my job? It's too easy! Well, could someone else do my job with such ease? 

It appears from the fatted parking lots I see as I drive past stores where many of us shop not only to sustain ourselves and acquire basic needs (food, toilet paper?), but to gather all possible. I often say under my breath as I pass these consumption centers, "When will we have enough?" I'm no different. For years, I have collected stuff; I had to have "it" and now all of the "its" sit on shelves, rarely noticed. As I've gotten older, the stuff has begun to be suffocating. 

I knew a gentleman years ago who had an Estate Sale. An Estate Sale in my book of connotations means that someone died, and now that person's family is ridding themselves of all the stuff they don't want. But, this gentleman was fully alive, just ridding himself of years and years of collected things. Ironically and humorously, he sat in the backyard of his home, sipping tea or wine (don't remember) and had someone else run the sale. There he sat, knowing that many people, all unknown to him, were rummaging through his things, but how refreshing that others found new value in those things, just as he found new value in being rid of them. Who knew he was the owner? Who knew he wasn't dead? 

How liberating to dismiss things so that just maybe peace can become my goal, redefining myself not by things, but by myself alone. (It's time for a yard sale - I've been saying that for over a year. I should pretend I'm dead maybe.) I'll end this missive on a more reflective note. 

Lord, make me an instrument of thy peace.
Where there is hatred, let me sow love;
where there is injury, pardon;
where there is doubt, faith;
where there is despair; hope; 
where there is darkness, light;
and where there is sadness, let me sow joy.

St. Francis

Wednesday, May 23, 2012

Brewing the words............shhh.............

So, brewing words were the last words I wrote and, and I suppose like yesterday's hard perked coffee, you can drink over brewed words, but they might be too bitter to swallow, too hot - tongue scalding. Words are like that - hard to swallow at times. Words heard. Words spoken or words thought. I have taught an effective speaking class many times and caution students all too often to be cautious about what they share. Keep your boundaries where you want them. Are you sure you can comfortably share "that" information?

"Oh sure. No problem. I'm over that." That often refers to some trauma experienced, and certainly forgotten. Sorry, trauma tends to lock itself in memory whether we are aware or not. Speaking has a way of tapping into those memories, wherever they are stored, so that we re-member - put back on our screen, in view, and feel it all again. We put the member back. A trauma, an experience, is a part of us, a member of us.

There's something about speaking the words though. Writing words on paper is one thing, but to speak engages our being, and the spoken word has a power all its own. Inevitably, when some students begin to speak their thoughts, these type-written or hand crafted shared marks of code become a powerful catalyst, a catharsis and a student finds him or herself in tears, unable to speak, lips and chin trembling.

"I don't know why I'm crying! I was sure I could do this."

Such cathartic moments caution me to remember that what I speak can't be retrieved. What I say may expose me - the real me - the true me.

So much discourse is expressed with little thought, but by way of habit and defense and parroting, and if I keep speaking, then maybe "they" won't notice who I am. One of my favorite lyrics is from a song by David Sereda, "It's hard to hit a moving target." Always talking, filling space with sound, is like that, a moving target or a smoke screen. Let me keep you so occupied and stimulated or bored with a simmering verbal broth, one that reeks of such vapid, life sucking vanity that you are more focused on escape than engaging in worthwhile conversation or just being present with me.

We have our scripts, scripts learned as we grew up because these scripts provided needs and wants, however inappropriate or toxic such scripts may have been or still are - a constant cacophony of sound to the point that silence is often deemed of little merit and certainly not productive. Silence seems to be the territory of cloistered nuns or men in a hermitage or eccentric people or the socially unschooled. Quiet makes many of us so uncomfortable and we have unspoken (interesting turn of words) rules for how long quiet should last: a silent prayer, conversation in a group, wait time of any sort. There are places where quiet is acceptable: waiting rooms, elevators, lines in fast food restaurants, public bathrooms and we even have rules to maintain the quiet such as looking in the same direction or avoiding eye contact. Once the security of escape is at hand, we may speak. 

Lately, I have wondered about my own conversations - usually while I'm having them. Are they actually conversations or is this just a monologue? Does the other person have any interest in what I'm saying or is this person's attention feigned so as to avoid conflict and follow social protocol. What would happen if I didn't say this or that or tell a story or recall an event or complain about the price of farm raised, cage free, no use of hormones or antibiotics, free range, organic chicken?  
I'll let you know..............if I decide to say anything about it.

Peace,
Timothy

Sunday, May 20, 2012

Square peg - round hole

Square peg - round hole. You can see the little tool bench that kids have played with for years. There is a hammer and different peg things to fit into different shapes in the bench. The point is to find and learn what fits or possibly learn to mercilessly beat the poor peg until it fits. By then, the peg is of little use, the tool bench is possibly broken, the hammer is useless, the child is exhausted or upset or possibly exhilarated. Something just doesn't fit in this picture, aside from the peg flattened beyond recognition.

Thank goodness I never tried to be a mechanic. Well, once, while under direct supervision, I did change the spark plugs in my cobalt blue 1987, stick shift, Nissan Sentra. Note the word "once". I have and need only one tool for any and all repairs whether for my car, home, appliance or mortal flesh: a debit card. It's small and convenient, and I can carry it around without the need for a tool belt. It works for me. It's a fit. 

The 5/8" wrench socket adjustable flat-headed with extra grip capacity thingy is probably dandy, but I don't get it. Spreadsheets, while providing valuable information - so I'm told - would better serve as coloring book pages in my world. I don't even have to color the page; let's smell the crayons and remember grade school years and the day Mrs. Glass told me my coloring was so grand because I stayed in the lines. She held up my paper, and revealed the perfectly red colored circle to the whole class. I could not have been more proud. Had she asked me to measure the circumference or radius of the circle (I can't believe I actually remember those words.), I would have certainly shut down, head on desk, given up. 

Puh-lease just let me color the circle.

Such is life. We tend to do what we think we should do even if it does not match what we can do. How many times have I attempted such? It has taken a life time, but just maybe I am finally getting comfortable with the idea that what I can do is what I should do. For whatever reason: perfectionism, a little OCD, expectations from others, Depression era parents' work ethic, harsh self judgment; regardless, my long held belief is that "it" isn't worth it unless it is difficult or hard or unpleasant just like medicine simply does not work unless it tastes like reptile waste-laden swamp water.  

Why shun that which comes easily? Think of the ease with which a freely given gift comes. There is little effort on my part. It is grace-full-y given for me to enjoy. 

So, what fits for you? What gift do you have that you can embrace fully, one that you put off far too often, one that lightens your step or affords you breath when you have time for it? 

Appraising English silver.
Cleaning floors until they are like mirrors.
Learning a new Chopin "Nocturne"
Listening to a hurt soul.
Selling tools, hardware, and spark plugs. :)
Watching children color.
Making cakes (coconut please)
Mailing out debit cards.
You decide...

I know that when I write, I can relax and sense peace and be fully present. Should my keyboard or mouse or PC have a moment of rebellion, I have a debit card, a pad of paper and a pen.  

Pax tecum - Peace be with you.
Timothy

Saturday, May 19, 2012

Change

I work in academics, and have for the past thirty plus years - hard to believe. My students range in age from 19 to mid 60's. Chatting with my younger students, those in their twenties, I tend to think I'm right there with them, in the same generation, sharing many of the same memories from the last five decades: world events, music, "slang of the day", using just books, periodicals, and newspapers for research. We communicate well. But, those moments help remind me that things have changed. My, haven't they changed. Yet, I take joy in describing events, things and how things were done years ago - just to see the reactions.

Yes, we had to type our research papers on typewriters, some manual and some electric, and there was no White Out, only erasers or these odd powdery slips of paper to type on, hoping to cover up a mistake by retyping the mistake over the mistake to cover it up in order to correct it. 


Yes, there were eight track players, and I was so proud to have one installed in my 1970 Buick, especially since this fine LeSabre had only AM radio.


A '45? Well, that's a record. A record? Well, that's a vinyl, round...it's a CD.


Yes, televisions looked like furniture. We had three channels. The picture was black and white - all the time.


Yes, a telephone was attached by a cord, and the phone was attached to a wire that ran through the house and out to a telephone pole and if you weren't home when the phone rang, you missed the call - just missed it. 


Yes, someone actually pumped the gasoline for you, washed your windshield, checked your oil, was courteous and wore a uniform - all that and it didn't cost extra.

The list could go on and on....and it may later on...just have to remember it all first.

My students laugh; they find much of it hard to believe. I find it hard to believe that I'm old enough to say, "thirty years ago..." since in my mind (sometimes), I still have a 33" waist, jet black hair, and cash a check at the grocery store for $5.00 for the week's pocket money. Then, I stop long enough in front of a mirror to look and wonder just who in the hell that guy is looking back at me! He has some lines on his face, grey hair and a white goatee. He's wearing conservative clothes, has no tattoos or piercings and still polishes his shoes.

He's the guy to whom I would say "Yes, sir" and see at the front of the classroom, lecturing about composition and literature. Well, that guy IS me - thank goodness I've made it this far! Yep, I have changed, typed plenty of ibid's, driven a land yacht on $2.00 worth of gasoline and all but strangled myself on the telephone cord.

Becoming comfortable with who I am today, settling into the grey while using a cell phone and taking out a loan for gasoline is okay. I think owning the fullness of who we are, with piercing honesty, feeling fully, being awe-fully human is a great gift to ourselves and a great gift to others.

What will change next? Hmmmm...............................

Tuesday, May 15, 2012

Best Teddy - nope, only Teddy

best buddy
only buddy

best friend
only friend

best dog
only dog

best little guy
only little guy

best pup
only pup

You lap water and bring your small, wet, white furry chin to share some.
You bring your toy just so I'll fight you for it.
You tell me when it's time to go to bed - with just a look.
You know when I'm coming home long before I arrive - you just know.
You sling toys over your shoulder until you find the right one in your toy basket.
You run to greet me.
You smile and remind me that joy is just in being fully you.
You run, pulling me along with you; I laugh and chuckle at the strength such a little guy can have.
You fit in my hand when eight weeks old.
You made my shoulder your safe place.
Your curl of a white tale is a plume like a feather.
You go with me for big adventures: the post office, the drug store, the gas station.
You ride in the car, on my lap, head out of the window, face leaning into the wind, sniffing all that comes your way.
You take a bite from my fork, gently, with the manners of a Prince.
You sit next to me when I need quiet support.
You wait and wait and wait for me.....
You have given and still give with no expectations.

Best puppy - nope, only puppy.
Best friend - nope, only friend.
Best guy - nope, only guy.
Best buddy - nope, only buddy. 

Monday, May 14, 2012

That's too much...

Lessons present themselves yet I'm still often oblivious to them. Today, a dear friend decided it was time to "stop" - that is to "stop" or "give up" one piece of his life's luggage, a piece that was adding just enough weight to remind him how much was too much. Like having to leave a burning home in a hurry as flames hurl death, it can be hard to know what to leave behind, put down or pick up. I admire him. I admire his wisdom to know what to put down and when to put it down.

Whether it is a duty, a job, a relationship, or a habit (good for you or not), what a relief to have permission to say, "Stop, that's too much." Such a moment of personal liberty and self love reminds me I'm human, and as such, have limits. My friend's ability to respect his own limits encourages me to respect mine as well. Such takes some time, time to reflect and identify invisible borders (well, there's another word in this inventory and yet each one smacks of meaning still relevant) that can either save or enslave us.

I don't think a limit is a deficit of character, but a definition of character. Limits are boundaries that keep me safe. Maybe the words themselves (limits and boundaries) are synonyms, only differentiated by who is saying them and when. I like that idea. I would like to think that my friend, by owning his limits, is a little less stressed today, a little lighter in mind and soul. Thanks for the reminder today.

Saturday, May 12, 2012

Blog...Such a Word!

Blog....Such a Word!


It approximates "bog" I think and a bog is a place I doubt is easy to navigate. Such a place as a bog brings to mind dark and wet, mud and roots, vines and bugs. Some such things have to be waded through; others just need a good swat. Either way, a bog isn't something a person runs through without thought. But, what if I do? What if I run through a bog (or a blog) with abandon, not thinking, just being and moving and falling and then find myself laughing through it all or crying, sobbing, wishing I hadn't been so free in a moment and a place that I have been told requires caution? 


Well, I guess I should then define "caution". Seems to me that caution is that vigilance taught to us keeping us from getting hurt, and then I have to ask what "hurt" is and how do I know hurt when hurt happens? Just how much of our behavior is old expectation, required by some force that has us on a leash? I think I have spent far too much time worrying about how attractive my leash is and less time on whether or not I should be on a leash. 


One of the most provocative films I have ever seen is "Yentl" with Barbara Streisand. If you have seen it, you recall her adamant resolve to take off her leash and be herself fully. She did it. The songs provided lyrics and rhythm to embrace the passion and belief and message of the film. "Where is it Written?" especially: Where is it written what I'm supposed to be....? I paraphrase, but I highly recommend it to you. Whether you care for the style of music or not, hear the message. 


How many of us are in bogs, on leashes and don't know it? Which of us has the most amazing leash? Check your neck. Check what you're walking in, dodging, swatting, or maybe you are indeed running with abandon, swatting gnats with a jewel encrusted leash as you laugh and cry and sob and trust that your life is as it can be.


I pray that joy and our own full humanity brings us through bogs and unbuckles our leashes.
Peace to you.  Tim  

Sunday, May 6, 2012

Sunday Morning - Again

Sunday Morning - Again

The images such brings. Between Sunday school and church, Dad would give my brother and I a nickel each (yes, a nickel even though we asked for a quarter) so we could run to the corner store - family owned with the pungent smell of local produce. No air conditioning in this place, just ceiling fans and of course, candy bars. A nickel would buy a candy bar then. My brother and I were usually dressed in nice slacks, a white short sleeved shirt, and a clip on black bow tie, accentuating our "every two weeks almost flat top haircuts" - Daddy, of course, wore a suit as well as a fedora as did the other men. The wives showed up in their Sunday best including the wrap around corpses of minks or foxes, each of them hanging on by biting its own tail in a rigor mortis-esque clamp, one impossible to release. I imagine the  poor thing was sewn to itself. Aside from the imposed neck clamp, legs and paws and feet lay about each woman's neck with abandon, as if the furry neck accessory had just been picked up from its nap, one induced by a good dose of Southern Comfort or a nicely aged Xanex. 

If you picture such, along with the requisite robes for the choir, the Hammond B-3 having to warm up before it vibrated to life and a microphone that smacked exactly as one Sinatra might have used in the 1940s, then you know the scene well. Such tradition! Such fond memories of how it was "supposed to be". 

Church has taken on such different meanings now, whether you worship through a very organized liturgy, or let the Spirit move or you stay in bed and wait for some imagined "foot to fall" since life just refuses to stop long enough for a person to actually live. Many seem to have stopped worshiping altogether however, and who can blame them? The world's condition doesn't bode well for many of the teachings we have received through the years and how easy it is to become cynical. I know I certainly have: "What's the point? Everyone is out for number one. Might as well do as I damn well please." You know the drill. 

Fortunately, something or someone will pull me back to a place of quiet, stillness and remembrance: a subtle and loving word, the surreal fragrance of the jasmine blooming in my front yard, a cat's furry side brushing against my leg, a quiet rain.

One of my favorite prayers to remind me of purpose, a prayer of simplicity that resounds with the basic truths of faith is one I often need to remember. So, happy Sunday.


Prayer of Saint Francis of Assisi

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.
Where there is hatred, let me sow love;
where there is injury,pardon;
where there is doubt, faith;
where there is despair, hope;
where there is darkness, light;
and where there is sadness, joy.


O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek
to be consoled as to console;
to be understood as to understand;
to be loved as to love.
For it is in giving that we receive;
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned;
and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life. Amen

Saturday, May 5, 2012

The best place to write...

I try to write in a number of places and find myself spending more time looking for the right spot than actually writing - like a dog searching for just the right spot in a low field of vines to squat, finding it, and then the mood for his "imagined" much needed moment has passed. So, maybe this blog is my lush ivy where I can squat and write. We'll see. Who knows what these musings will be, but I must thank my dear friend Jane for prompting this venture. Once you jump in or off or over or across, who knows what will happen?