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

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

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...............................

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. 

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.

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 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

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?