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I know I fail many times over; I am human and humans do fall into traps where their focus is misplaced, where kindness is not a priority. If there exists any real purpose to living, I believe this purpose is to support those merely surviving life with fear, hurt or worry. It is to help those whom are not able to see the wonder and thrill in the simplest and most natural of life’s gifts, see them.
I often feel much guilt in that I have been overly blessed and that I periodically lose sight of that fact. I feel guilt that I complain. I feel guilt that I often have to reiterate the knowledge of how beautiful my life is to my own self. I feel guilt that I spend too much time on me.
I want to have a positive impact in this world before I leave it. Again there exists guilt because I worry my thoughts are not purely altruistic. I often wish I had the mindset of those that seem to give their lives to others without thought to themselves other than good health, food and water, shelter of any sort, and minimal clothing.
I wish I were a better person. No fishing here. This is just a truth. I believe many, many others think the same as I do. Wouldn’t this world be a spectacular place if each acted on those feelings?
Again I will feel guilt as, or after, I worry about how dinner tonight will taste to others; as I get annoyed when my kids do not go to bed when I tell them to do so. I will worry that I ate too much. How ironic in this world too worry of such. I will worry that I might not sleep well though I have a comfy bed on which to sleep. I will curse myself as I jump out of bed to charge a laptop I am fortunate to have when I have forgotten to do so before I climbed into bed with a totally human, ever so loving husband. More guilt will be felt. I will again worry that my alarm may not awaken me, though I have a mini-computer at my side set to a favorite song at a selected time. The sun and a bird should be sufficient alarms.
There is more guilt as I am aware of what needs to be done and I recognize this lack of help from myself. I will try to behave in a more loving compassionate way, though I will always be ashamed of my lack of involvement and absence in working to see others have the necessities of life and find joy in the simplest of life’s offerings.
More than guilt, there is shame.
“Shame on you!” Wholeheartedly I agree with the woman in the Senate chamber who chastised those that voted to continue to help criminals, terrorists, gang members and dangerously mentally ill persons get their hands on guns. The cowardly men and women who put their interests above those of the people by whom they were entrusted, entrusted, to work need to hear these words repeatedly spoken.
The bill rejected yesterday was a common sense bill. It was a simple and constructive way to protect the people of these United States. The bill was a simple way to protect the most precious amongst us, our children. Yes, an approach which considers other factors which create gun violence should be addressed, but we need this bottom line. The Manchin-Toomey Bill was nearly the least of what is needed, in regards to guns, to make the neighborhoods we inhabit safer. After the tragedy at Sandy Hook Elementary, the people of our country demanded change. After the tragedy at Sandy Hook, the tide rose along our shores and those that are staunch supporters of the 2nd Amendment, those who are card-carrying NRA members, those people who were previously against any form of gun control legislation stood behind this minimalist bill.
This bill did not include a restriction on magazine clips. This bill did not address the problem of assault weapons in the hands of civilians. This bill was a barebones piece of legislation that should have been easy to pass. It was made complicated by the pockets of the NRA lobbyists. It was made complicated by a busy political week and impending votes on other legislative interests. This bill should have had none of such interference. Our, our politicians should have focused on what they claim to be foremost on their minds, the desires of the people, the safety the public so desperately wants. Instead, for most in the Senate, the amazingly high percentage of people who saw this bill as something needed were ignored. Their lives would have been more safe. There are people and children that will not live out there lives because this bill died on the Senate floor. They might as well have laid bodies on that floor.
I am ashamed. I am worried. I am angry that we live in a country where most of our elected officials in the Senate value life less than gun rights and their own careers. I feel as Joe Biden did in the photo shot of him when Obama expressed his outrage yesterday, April 17th, 2013, with his head down and his disappointed face covered by his hand. It was a sad day in America. It was a devastating day for those that have experienced the horror of gun violence. It will be for some that will die as a result of the shameful vote of yesterday.
I am hopeful the more courageous of Senators and the citizens which desired the Manchin-Toomey Bill to pass will continue the push for desperately needed changes in our gun laws. I want to be hopeful that bravery and common sense win out over cowardice.
Bestow your time upon expansive fields of grasses and soil, in winds of rain, and in the light of the sun. These together are the lifeblood, soul and footing of your existence. Lavish time upon the preeminent in life; squander scant on paltry concerns.
I put utensils in the dishwasher, without thought, without plans.
This is significant, as not all forks have their tines pointing towards the ceiling. Not all knives have the cutting edge down. Silly to some yet not inconsequential. I dare say, “To mix the spoons amongst the other silvers is somewhat delicious.” Odd I had the desire to say such in a somewhat proper manner. I might be trying to create order by using those words; create the illusion of it, order. Something upon which I know I will think.
Ruminating thoughts of creating order, creating a certain peace in the midst of the continual chaos of a full life is a difficult place from which to steer away. “I do not have the papers in their proper place,” is a remark I shudder to make, so I catch those perceived mistakes before my hands are off the file. To believe I have reached that point takes time, and much time in my mind’s file cabinet.
I have one important note which cannot be overlooked in an attempt to clarify my experience with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Should there not exist the time to order and manage according to my inner friend’s voice, I simply and regrettably leave the object or issue in an associated stack or grouping, real or in thought only, until I can give it its deserved time. With a family of six children, homeschooling the youngest four for the past 14 years at this point, dealing with the demands of a complicated life, which we all do, this type of organization is often left to eat away at me. It can reach and has reached the point of paralyzing me and restricting my movement.
While breathing and dreaming, I have sorted all aspects of life. I have built an Organizational Bible,of sorts. This is my link to correct perspective and peace. It is my safe haven.
It is not a minute, minuscule effort to see the world with eyes not blurred; my vision is blurred with all there is to see, hear and touch. The undefined, hazy mix has been and still is, to a large extent, a reality that causes me much stress and anxiety. Defined. Distinct. Genuine. True. Pure. These are adjectives that I have tried so diligently to see become a reality, amongst all, within all, within the entirety of living.
As it may be obvious, much, much, too much time is used in the endeavor of order. Too much is used in the effort of reaching a perceived perfect. Too much is spent in the effort of achieving rightness, as subjective as rightness is. Too much time is lost trying to break life into pieces to see how the whole is formed. As it is a method to attain these conditions, I find divisions in life and separate one from another. The divisions in these aspects of life are carried down to the smallest coin, the oldest toy in our home, the seemingly most useless piece of written information. Thoughts are spent, recently, trying to create a straight line between the political parties in our government, cleanly delineating the two, three, or more. Black and White. My rational mind knows it cannot be done, but my sidekick tries to force the issue. The order of clothing in the closet, or drawer, by type and by color, and divisions beyond, causes much stress until I have righted them. Photographs and albums now also in digital form as a means to store and share has muddled my outline of living. Add slides, movie film, video tapes, CD’s and DVD’s we have recorded, and cataloguing becomes an all-consuming endeavor. Every newsletter from a charity, political campaign or college must be mentally processed before it can be used or tucked away, neatly. Thoughts of religion consumed me for a period. The questions we all ask about our purpose in being alive, being human, would seep into my dreams, and nightmares.
To do what I have tried to do is not possible. I at one time was proud. I believed using my brain in this way helped me explain the world, life, and keep all intact so to speak. I did eventually learn it was an effort to control any anxiety or hurt, or fear. I am learning still; it does not eradicate negative emotions; this coping mechanism buries them and gets stronger with each burial.
I am learning each thought does not live alone. I am learning each item, each word I encounter does not fit neatly into the deep and far-reaching outline I have created. I have touched a tiny seed of letting go. I have felt that seed move from plant through the wind to the soil. The wind is freedom. The momentary exhilaration of not employing my own self-employed rules is somewhat new.
And it simply, purely is exhilaration. Though short-lived, I have experienced this brief, breakthrough moment on occasion. To me it is a breathtaking sight. It is very awkward to live in a new pureness, one of pure feeling, emotion and not logic. Little movements of breaking free are things of no usual consequence to those without this same invisible entity that resides in me.
It is heavy and busy and demands constant care. It is intrusive. It holds its own mind and controls mine.
To remove it and its decidedly arrogant stiffness is done slowly so as not to shock and awaken.
If movements are too large, its heart beats rapidly and fear takes room in its mind. This separate, but very much connected life lurches then forward to ruminate and press order. It sees no sense in the world without tremendous thought.
I feel the pressure to return to my lists and my alignment of….
every thought, spoken word and object.
To place a flower in a vase, without thought as to how this action fits into its place in my life, is at that moment tense. To dress unrestrained by the order in which I bathe my body and feet, fingernails and hair, apply lotions and add jewelry provokes an underground anxiety. For years, from the age of nine forward, I have organized and straightened. It became something of which I was proud, as if I had it “all together,” knew where I was from and where I was going. This desire grew into something much more. These obsessions and the resulting compulsions (actions or ruminations) took on a life of their own. My husband and I argued about whether what I was doing actually made a difference; was it necessary? I would argue that my thoughts and my rituals made life better, more organized. I argued nothing would slip through the cracks. Something did slip through the cracks. Me.
I was suffocating. The oxygen meant for me was being used by the entity that had been controlling more and more of my thoughts and actions. I, at this time, still did not see that I could be or should be separated from this presence. I believed it was me; I was it.
Through a residency rotation with psychiatry, my husband met a patient, a boy. This teenager was suffering with OCD and anorexia. Now this was during a time when OCD was not a catch phrase for casual organized behavior, as it is often used today. The term was just beginning to walk out of hospital environs and into mainstream media. My husband, upon meeting this young man, began rather quickly to see that I was living the same life, in some respects. After months, years of denial, I came to understand that my thought processes were not normal. Very difficult it was to see this and accept it. Even more difficult to change. I do now have to admit that it was a very small start to a grand, new way of life. Again, I didn’t see it at that time.
Through therapy and medicines, I still struggle but am living life now more than I ever did before. I am learning that no thought or word stands alone. No item dwells in a lonely place. No bits of information are solitary. All musings, beings, objects affect others beyond themselves. Just as the wind has taken the seed and the seed disturbs the soil, every action or non-action weighs in on another. This is the freedom I desire. I desire to move and drift and find joy in the interaction of all in life. To see and accept the amazing play between circumstances and objects, action and consequence, this is my aspiration. I want to accept the hazy mix, the interplay. It is in this home I want to stay, where my coercive friend is not taking any of my oxygen.
~
warm air
so much warm air
such bold comfort in the color of a friend’s eyes
I am missing warm air
I miss heat from arms shielding
I miss grounded strength in which to rest
~
blessed I am to have known it
not quite sure why I was allowed to see,
the care, the concern, the worry
not sure why this friendship was built only to see it leave
~
our friendship must somewhere still exist
its riches could not be left to spoil
sit unused at roots of a tree
one day a child will find it while playing hide and seek
and spend it on another fully
transferring warmth and a tender moment’s peace
~
~
Interesting how we can see someone who is within hearing range and not engage them with speech. We act as if said person is not close, or we ignore each other as if we’d be breaking societal mores. Our action, or inaction, is to behave as if we cannot cross the invisible wall between us.
Personal space issues we have, and not necessarily negative ones at that. As creatures who desire to control a good bit of what happens to us and thus partly control our immediate surroundings, it can be looked at as part of our survival nature at its deepest. We read others’ body language ques and on them base decisions as whether to converse or no. Is there a threat? Will I be uncomfortable? My personal space is quite large. My boundaries are a good ways from my body, larger being an introverted type. I need a wide girth of “protection” as I see it, not that I see others in a negative light, quite the opposite. My choosing no conversation is more a function of my need for controlling my life, my organized life. It is more a function of not getting off track, staying with the plan, remaining with the ritual (of which I try too much to do), but that is another story and a long, long tale at that.
To function well, I do not multitask. I cannot. My intrepid OCD sees to that. One thing at a time and if that task is interrupted, by any number of variables, or if my physical space has been populated, well, my mind is overloaded. Speaking to another often sees my OCD brain become anxious, so I smile to cover. I DO acknowledge the other; I am not rude, I believe. I try though not to engage unless necessary, unless I feel fully on my organizational game, and I am happy, satiated, content. Conversely, I see myself as one who tries to see a smile grow on someone’s face. I do try to “spread the love”, as goes the colloquial expression, share a good moment and it is always an intent of mine to be kind, to be empathetic. If there is a hint of sadness or worry, I, as almost all of us, step outside my box to speak. Clearly I do cross boundaries on occasion as everyone I would think does, particularly extroverts. Sometimes, without provocation or much reason, the bravado in me takes hold and I actually speak.
No longer do I feel being the quiet one in the room is undesirable. Though it took me awhile to let myself off the hook, I finally learned that not all people should be extroverted. It shouldn’t be a goal to be such if you aren’t naturally gregarious. This would be against nature, my nature, possibly you the reader’s nature. This planet does need persons that take more time to listen, and less time garnering attention or naturally drawing attention. It takes both. If too many were gregarious, just as if there existed a great majority of those introverted, this would not be a soothing world in which to live.
Balance is needed in society. Balance is needed in ourselves, but this balance need not be symmetrical. Sounds much like an oxymoron, but just as in art, balance here can be created with unity that is implied. A painting may seem more weighted at one side with vivid color, but is balanced by more action of line on the other. We can be balanced even without obvious equal distribution of all variables. One doesn’t need to do all, experience all, nor express all equally. There is a unity in simply being oneself. Oneself may look to be heavier in one aspect of personality and lacking in another, LOOK being the operative word. The balance though is in the whole, made up of many variables not all equal in amount.
At some point in societal history, it was decided that being “on” the majority of the time was preferable to slowing down, backing up and thinking, using perspective to balance the active voices. This world needs both types of social personalities and variations in between; no type is optimal for all of life’s business.
At any rate, I try to surprise myself occasionally. When the stars are aligned and I feel I am on my game, it is fun to speak to a stranger in line at the market and ruffle feathers in some regard, just as inviting conversation with someone I am standing next to at a concert or as I’m walking down the beach is as well. I guess what I am doing is ruffling my own feathers. We all need to jump out of our personal boxes periodically and “ruffle.” Surprising ourselves on occasion is a necessary release which keeps us balanced, as long as we remain true to whom we ultimately are.
~
Distressing it is to see courage is often needed to merely speak for what is good.
Distressing it is to find a war through words is often necessary
to do,
that which is good.
Distressing it is to find violence of battle ensues due to spoken, written words, words which search for right and good.
symbols on stone, designs on paper, sounds of air traveling from lungs through lips
though these are simple marks,
though simple noises,
in patterns particularly designed, a tension, a pain, an injustice may follow
though for good the intent
Troublesome
good not often is perceived, not often sighted.
~
The following was written as a cathartic response to the massacre of many children beginning their precious last hours at Sandy Hook Elementary in Newtown, Connecticut.
I am trying hard to embrace 52. In more and more instances I find myself thinking about how much time I have left with my children. Not the time until they are out of the house, but the years left in my life. Melancholy holiday thought yes, but when you hit a certain age you do begin to view life from that point of reference. The true realization of death is scary, although less so than it has been prior, for me at any rate. It is more a deep, calm acceptance, a deep sadness.
Though thoughts such as this aren’t in and of themselves positive, they do have a positive affect on my actions. Realizing that though time may move on steadily, our time is but an instant. Recognizing that fact sees me loving my children even more deeply. Such a sentiment reveals to me I am in need of checking my priorities, to see if any have shifted to a place where they gain higher prominence on life’s ladder than they should. Our country is in need of this check. As I see it, the horror of this massacre is our check. We have lost sight of what our priorities should be and what they should have been.
With the shocking event of this past week, the innocent died with fear in their hearts at the hands of an unstable individual with easy access to guns. These are two issues of which we as citizens need to strongly consider changing our current treatment. As we discuss, debate and linger too long on the trivialities of new laws, changes in healthcare and in the management of mental illness, the parents, grandparents, brothers and sisters will be left to grieve. They will be left with a hole in their hearts. They will be left to try to rationalize a tragedy that cannot be rationalized. A new incident will occur while nothing will have moved forward in an effort to save our children.
This horror has added to my preoccupation with time and my children. Forever grateful I am to have them in my life and they have blessed me with their different personalities and strengths. I do not want to regret. I do not want to spend my later years searching for ways to make up for lost time, for time I missed laughing, arguing, teaching and playing with my children, my children that still have a life to experience. They have years, days. They have minutes. Minutes that were stolen from eager innocent youngsters learning of the wonder of living.
~
Belief.
Long is there innocence.
Long it can exist, though there is a tease of light from beneath the door.
Eyes may spy this light, though my mind may not thirst to see
the truth that is leaching to my feet.
~
Bearing both pleasure and hurt,
an opening door frees light to touch my ignorance.
It is to reveal light of forms both harsh and gentle,
the fluorescent bulb to the candle.
As my mind attempts acceptance,
I steady my stance to enjoy comfort, accept tears
or abruptly turn as to quickly flee fear.
When, as I turn, the tulip on the sill reacts as darkness leaves,
turning towards all that the brightness brings.
~
Naivete, though painless, is not life.
Ignorance is bliss, not reality which may sting, though I turn as does the tulip
knowing life is to soak in the light at my feet,
open the door, bask full-bodied
in its heat.
~
There is mettle in courting that which moves the heart.
The light that escaped the opening door,
it soaks in, soothes, yet leaves raw sores.
With honest words, the room, light expands to paint
and ever so skillfully moves fog to grace.
~
~
slippers off as wood meets shore
cool grains of sand soften
pumice the heels that have hardened
safety is sure from spurs which did cling and pierce
through slippuhs some
relief as a line of pure sand and shells is met
~
moving water builds
a crescendo in both volumes,
sound and amount
turning upon itself does the wave
water seems to flatten, spreads as batter in a skillet
the roar rises in pitch
softens as water approaches my ears
~
young cousins scream as if they would rather not meet water at their feet
each turns, each runs, with innocent fibs
~
digging toes into moistened sand, I
lured memories out of small craters dug
our wood cottage still exists
smelling of cocoa butter and coppertone and salt and hamburgers
the scents of summers in the sixties
~
cousins, all too young to need solitary recharge, curl on shared beds
still in need of naps, she orders, parents need solitude
no matter
whispers and small-volumed jokes
only the cousins understand the reason for the laughter
under cheeks and elbows sand rubs, scratches
from inadequate rinses
this is a pleasing discomfort
the shore does not allow us to forget where we are
~
restless
we are losing hours in the sun
the nod is given to feel hot sand under our feet
semi-sandfree bathing suits
cold and tangled hanging on shower bars and railings
children’s flags of summer color
soon replace shorts and t-shirts
white lotion on fresh skin
we run to feed on sunlight and water just as sea oats in the dune
~
she sits in a baby pool used as a boat spinning
in tepid rolling water
her hair, brown with streaks of sunlight, damp with ocean spray
slaps her back with each wave turning
get past the first few breaks
where “fried shrimp for dinner and crab hunting in the dark” thoughts seep
into the thrill of riding the surf
hush puppies frying and flashlights with fresh batteries
she rocks in her makeshift boat
~
my feet fill the craters dug
now larger as I was absent, visiting summers some years back
my brown hair streaked with gray,
moist with spray
slaps the skin upon my back
~
