The Vault?

I fear I am a default vault. With the recent passing of my last aunt, I have become more aware of family dynamics. It appears (and often it is but appearance) we accept and submit to the expectations and conventions which family had agreed upon years, even generations before our bright soul either dripped or plummeted to the planet. Awareness of such may startle us at some point, thanks to a cathartic moment or experiences that inform us. So...

Of late, and specifically since my aunt's passing (again, a euphemism required although I'm quite comfortable with it), "things" have begun to take on new meaning. I note the hobnail, white, milk glass entertainment service. Each scalloped edged plate has a slight lip, a ring, just inside the upper right corner. This holds the matching cup. The set has a sugar bowl and a creamer. There is also a vase - all match. It's a quaint service last used "formally" when Mom hosted the Women's Auxiliary of our Presbyterian Church. Dad was required to whisk my brother and me off the premises while the event took place. I'm confident my Mom was a nervous wreck (her words).

Returning home, I was overjoyed at the remaining mixed nuts (especially the Brazil nuts), and pastel colored butter mints. These ladies had nibbled on such and on these prized plates? I had never known these milky white, specialized plates to be used. Maybe they were purchased for the occasion. Just don't know. I can tell you this memorable event, so clearly etched on my mind, both excited and confounded me sometime during 1965 - I think. The sight of butter mints still brings a subtle smile to my face as those delicate, pastel, melt away standards of an expected delicacy for such functions knocks at my door - a gloved hand no less.

So today, there they are. On the top shelf. Stacked. Neat. Haven't changed. Probably quite dusty with an adequate layer of residual grease. I have taken one of these dear plates down within the past thirty-nine years and put food on it, hoping or projecting that the moments spent with it would somehow bring back mixed nuts, butter mints and Mom in a dress, and wearing heels, and surrounded by other ladies, following the conventions of 1965. Well, it hasn't happened.

So, there the plates sit. Rest. Still. Quite still.

I'm the youngest of my generation. Mom and Dad's generation has passed. My eldest brother is 72. One member of "our" generation is in her late 80's. We're the top tier! We're next! Having not procreated, I sense there's a drop ceiling just below me - careful steps.

Being the youngest - I have ended up with all the "things" from Mom and Dad; some items from grandparents. Thus, the title of this missive - "The Vault?" Aside from having plenty of stuff, there is much of what I have that will mean little to anyone. Photographs of extended family - who will know, so I have started sorting in order to give the photos to those family members who do have children. Everything else? E-bay?

A convention possibly - someone must keep the family stuff, until death do we part. I'm rethinking this. Just what do these things provide aside from functional storage and accessories? What can I possibly do with a cashmere coat with three-quarter sleeves and a mink collar? Yep, still have that.

One thing is for sure. All of these items provide a sense of history and identity and attachment and worth for me. All of these things provide amazing story starters, and conversation prompts. There is a fractured yet oddly fluid timeline weaving its way through my home - in and out of boxes and baskets, cabinets and on shelves. Worth keeping? For now - sure. For a while.

I would like these beautiful shadows to fade before I do though.
Peace,
Timothy   

Writing is healthy. Here is a link a friend sent that is most validating for those of us who enjoy word crafting. See what you think.

Upon review of this article, the assertion was made that I ought to live forever. Guess I'll write about that!!!

http://mic.com/articles/98348/science-shows-writers-have-a-serious-advantage-over-the-rest-of-us?utm_source=huffingtonpost.com&utm_medium=referral&utm_campaign=pubexchange_facebook#

I am different, not less. Temple Grandin A commentary on language diversity

     What a simple, yet grand assertion: "I am different, not less," and one I find most provocative. I live in the halls of academia, surrounded by colleagues and a multitude of students. One might think teaching the same material year after year would be boring, monotonous, draining. Not so. The material has a sense of stability, especially works that have been in our shared canon for centuries There is always an undiscovered nuance in a verse or line or story that is birthed before me, providing a continuous process of discovery and exploration. Such an evolution of meaning in a text may be the result of a more contemporary, and even more accurate translation; however, more often than not, I am the one who changed, grew, evolved, or shifted perception.

      These thoughts are to provide a backdrop for ideas in reference to the quotation, "I am different, not less." My amazing students come in to the picture here. Each semester brings a new group of students to each of my classes. The material, even if the same, has a new life through the perspectives and filters of these diverse groups of people. Often, they catch me off guard with their questions and comments. I have become increasingly comfortable with my mouth hanging open, eyes glazed over, having no idea what to say. Eventually, something will click, affording me a response or a question in return. "I don't know" works quite well too!

     With sadness, I confess that students have experienced devaluation in their educational experiences due to their differences. A pivotal example is language, especially apparent when teaching English composition. The ability to write and communicate clearly in Standard American English is the "standard" or benchmark for such classes, and understandably so in consideration of its use in professional and academic settings.

     Yet, all too often I hear horror stories of students' language styles, dialects, regionalisms, colloquialisms, being dismissed in the classroom as "less than," or wrong or bad. These various language styles have clearly been adequate, or it is doubtful these students would have made it to college. Adequate is fine. Adequate works. Adequate keeps you alive.

     Language patterns, whether  a Southern drawl, popular slang, ghetto, hick, country, polished and redundant, you name it (and my students do!), such differences are part of our identity. I suggest that choices of words for communicating fit well quite if matched appropriately with your listener.

     In one situation, I may say, "I'm fixin' to go," yet another might require, "I must prepare to leave as I have class in a few minutes." Both work. Knowing when to use a language style is vital. Knowing more than one style is essential in today's world. I encourage students and anyone to celebrate that vibrant part of identity that is language; consider the Standard as yet one more style to learn; it will serve you well.

     One last note: after having this discussion in class one semester, I asked my class to tell me one new idea or concept they were taking with them from class. One young lady raised her hand, and with a radiant smile, eyes passionate, "I learned that the way I talk is okay! It isn't a bad thing!"

     A valued student can be a student. Quote me on that.

      Ya'll have a good day, you hear!

Most cordially yours,
Timothy

Am I still here if a tree falls in the forest?

Something like that. Such a wonderful question and pondered by many. Its answer may be anecdotal or analytic, depending on the person so engaged. What about that tree? Is a tree actually dependent on me or some other creature in order to make a big crashing sound when it falls? Personally, I hope not. There is certainly plenty to be said for being a catalyst for change, thought, hope, and new perspectives. Seeing new light shine through a student's eyes or even a smoldering light finally give up the ghost is an amazing moment. A basic, "Ohhhh, I get it" is auditory euphoria.

Being such finite creatures, just what all do we not know or realize about ourselves? At what point might one decide to not be in the forest with a tree; not be in the forest; listen to the tree or not; listen and not care; go to a different forest? It appears much has to do with perception, more self to self revelation and owning permission to be authentic even when our authenticity is so different from the person we have "demonstrated" to the world for so long.

At this point in life, the energy it requires to be fully "not me" is not worth it.  At what point does one choose to "chunk" all the social conventions and the old scripts of "Be good" in order to be honest? I am an avid believer in the positive good of social convention as long as we realize we have chosen to follow said conventions.

How many of us have learned such superb masking skills that if others knew us fully, they would likely be shocked or horrified or perplexed or amused even. Are there consequences (one might say results or effects since "consequences" does connote a sense of guilt or shame or retribution - at least in my world) to such authenticity? Actually, being more authentic may be just the ticket for a pleasant journey while on this massive earth ship.

I hear my Daddy in the back of my mind..." 'Nuff said."
Thanks for reading. More later.
Timothy

Darkcornerjavadrinkingwriter: Virtually yours, Timothy

Darkcornerjavadrinkingwriter: Virtually yours, Timothy: "It's how it is..." could come across as resignation or it may validate or be little more than an assertion of something that...

Virtually yours, Timothy

"It's how it is..." could come across as resignation or it may validate or be little more than an assertion of something that is so. It's "so." So what? Such an idea struck me today, while I sat on a bench on campus here at UAB. Teaching duties complete, and having walked toward my car, the bench seemed a welcome and convenient place for a brief nesting, putting aside my briefcase, books, and the duties of my feet - walking. To decide to just sit for a few minutes takes some courage for me, as I remain hyper vigilant most of the time I'm breathing, and to sit takes me out of the constant considerations: "what if; who; why did that happen and the multitude of messages, beliefs, thoughts, curses, prayers, lists."

This urgency for movement, and activity is really a survival instinct, one that so many have - I should think many do. Movement keeps those in pursuit of me (us?) at bay, but so often, I do believe that I am the one in pursuit. My suspicion is I am my own worst monster, nightmare, fear, ghost. Actually, such is more than suspicion. Turn around and look at what is in pursuit or sit on a bench and just have a chat with him (or her or it or them or...). For me and many of my fellow bloggers, writing provides that very chat, and fortunately, writing provides safety for the chat. It is quiet; no one is yelling. It is usually solitary; no others around makes me feel safe.

Writing allows us to talk, speak, share, confide, giggle, cry, mourn and to do so as long as we like with no need to wait on another to agree, or validate, or become impatient with our intrinsic, soul centered thirst to tell. Consider how much it costs to secure someone to listen for a fifty-minute hour. The comfort there (as if I had ever been to a professional "listener" - honestly), is that such a person HAS to listen or at least pretend to do so. There is no relationship outside of the listening (seems so mystical when so framed) - mystical like a rite of passage.

Sadly, we have often passed through the times of listening to others or having others listen to us. There just isn't time; we'll be late for an imagined duty that matters to no one but ourselves, and that only because it keeps us so busy, we don't have to feel - feel the seat of a bench, or a gust of crisp wind. Don't have to listen to an elderly and venerable person who has so much to share, so much wisdom and stories...stories help define us, remind us, color our history, engage being human. Listening, engaging each other, especially our elders, has become so foreign.

We have replaced the fire, the fireplace, the Sunday dinner table, the breakfast table, the water cooler, having company over to our homes for coffee and cake; cigarette smoke and ash trays; a cold cocktail in a real glass; coffee or tea in china cups and saucers, sweetened with sugar - real sugar - time spent with people. So, I blog and surf and e-mail and instant message and maybe one day will Skype - I'm in the mix, but thoroughly enjoy embracing the images of sharing our lives, stories, gossip and all the nice and nasty of being human, yet without being connected to a power cord.

Timothy