I wanted to write about the lightness and liberty I feel cleaning out my things, but it seems someone has beat me to it- well, not someone, Time. Or, more precisely, Dave Bruno who has issued the 100 Thing Challenge, inviting all to reduce their possessions to 100 Thing(s) [Dave seems a bit opposed to the plural according to Time.] Having been beaten in this way, I'll humbly continue.
I was remembering my first apartment, at the oh-so-knowledgeable age of 16, and how I felt some satisfaction in being able to contain all of my items in 6 boxes. Easy to move and often. As my personal world expanded I began to allow boxes for each of the children and eventually stopped counting. We had overgrown ourselves. As Dave and others mention in the Time article, it has been a slow process for me , this cleansing. But I have stepped it up a bit to warp speed as of late and am considering JUST the things I really 'need.' It is liberating to find so many worthless things in my closet and set them free into their respective worlds, and out of mine.
I'm back down to about 6 boxes. I feel like someone claiming to be back to their college weight. I am definitely all the lighter for this. Unburdened. Unclaimed and unchained. Most of what remains in my 6 boxes has to do with sentimental things. There are photo albums and babybooks, children's drawings and writings, my journals from age 10 and a small collection of stories written by myself. A self that was apparently obsessed with the name Gwendolyn, outer space and witches. I have a few masks from my first trip to Africa and sculptures by Mason. That's really it. I plan to add one hand painted desk and a bike to my conservative storage space (aptly named space station, is there a theme here?) I feel good.
I remember planning for our first hurricane in Florida. I had some time to think about the items most important to me. What would I like to save? That was it, handmade bowls and a suitcase of photos. And I know deep down, even these souvenirs are not necessary. They are a privilege to have, a luxury to look back on and remember the times...
Even as I write this I can see tall, strong women walking down the road, carrying things on their heads. Their small bundles, grabbed in haste as they flee for their very lives. Which women? Which country? There are so many. Yes, 6 boxes is a luxury, but for now they are my six boxes.
And I still hold the hope of passing them on.
11.6.08
7.6.08
OUT
I've been slowly letting more people know that we're leaving for Africa. It's a strange process of coming out. The reactions have varied...and it might be important to keep in mind that my social circle is the diameter of a pea. Most of those I've recently told have many more than 6 degrees of separation.
Panic- 2 people seem to be in a state of panic, voicing such concerns as "You mean I'm never going to see you again?" (This does not seem to bother the speaker when I am right here in the same county. It is ironically only a trip across the ocean that inspires him to want to spend some time with me. If only I'd known this in my teenage years...) And another who continually questions, "But are you sure it's safe?" Of course I'm not sure. How could anyone be sure about anything that has to do with Africa? I'm sure that it's as safe as one could be, venturing into the heart of conflict and contrast, bribery and beauty. This speaker wishes I would just stay here, a strange affliction of wishing for someone whom you've given just a passing nod of greeting to over the past four years. I must note it seems to be a sincere wish for safety and surety and all things concrete. Perhaps she is more observant that I have allowed.
Devastation- 2 people fall into this category as well. One woman clearly looked as if she might be ill, the other started to cry. Cry? No one knows me that well. I'm not sure from where her tears stemmed, defeat by the greater powers, perhaps. Yes, the strong and mighty often prevail. The first case of shock was simply someone looking out for her child's interest. She was hoping to secure a good class next year, packed with boys and buddies (there seems to be a shortage of males born in the 2001-02 range.) Nothing personal, just a small example of how one life can touch another while the actual people really mean nothing at all.
Judgement- I'm most familiar with this type of reaction lately, as I've grappled with the subject on a very personal level. It still has the power to unsettle me. I am routinely shocked by how free others feel to impose their ideas and values as the one true way to live. It is small mindedness and ignorance at it's most dangerous. I've had someone offer to have my child live with her (no one mentioned homelessness or calamity, where is this coming from?!?! White righteousness?) I've had very personal questions posed without any thought that they might be off-limits or crossing some line (maybe I'm just not used to attention and this is how all Americans speak to each other?) To be fair, my answers vary, for no reason I can think of other than the moment I'm in. People want to know why half of the family is staying, how they will manage without me (far better than with is my current thinking,) what would possess me to do such a thing?
Nothing- considerably rarer but worth mentioning- in at least one case there was absolutely no comment. Perhaps she was the most conservative, respecting social boundaries, perhaps it was just not a good time to get into specifics. Or maybe people jet off to Congo everyday in her world. I guess one can never really be too sure of her neighbors. Clearly.
Curious congratulations- this, to me, would seem to be the most natural of responses, if there is such a thing. The best one came from my ophthalmologist. He's known me since I was 11, as much as a doctor can really know you, and I enjoy going there much as one might the spa. (I leave there having been well attended to and with, literally, a new outlook on the world.) He offered congrats and some fatherly precautions as well as the insight that this would be an incredible opportunity. He seemed to see each aspect, comment briefly and respectably kept his distance from probing questions.
All the while, other secrets have been tumbling out.
Panic- 2 people seem to be in a state of panic, voicing such concerns as "You mean I'm never going to see you again?" (This does not seem to bother the speaker when I am right here in the same county. It is ironically only a trip across the ocean that inspires him to want to spend some time with me. If only I'd known this in my teenage years...) And another who continually questions, "But are you sure it's safe?" Of course I'm not sure. How could anyone be sure about anything that has to do with Africa? I'm sure that it's as safe as one could be, venturing into the heart of conflict and contrast, bribery and beauty. This speaker wishes I would just stay here, a strange affliction of wishing for someone whom you've given just a passing nod of greeting to over the past four years. I must note it seems to be a sincere wish for safety and surety and all things concrete. Perhaps she is more observant that I have allowed.
Devastation- 2 people fall into this category as well. One woman clearly looked as if she might be ill, the other started to cry. Cry? No one knows me that well. I'm not sure from where her tears stemmed, defeat by the greater powers, perhaps. Yes, the strong and mighty often prevail. The first case of shock was simply someone looking out for her child's interest. She was hoping to secure a good class next year, packed with boys and buddies (there seems to be a shortage of males born in the 2001-02 range.) Nothing personal, just a small example of how one life can touch another while the actual people really mean nothing at all.
Judgement- I'm most familiar with this type of reaction lately, as I've grappled with the subject on a very personal level. It still has the power to unsettle me. I am routinely shocked by how free others feel to impose their ideas and values as the one true way to live. It is small mindedness and ignorance at it's most dangerous. I've had someone offer to have my child live with her (no one mentioned homelessness or calamity, where is this coming from?!?! White righteousness?) I've had very personal questions posed without any thought that they might be off-limits or crossing some line (maybe I'm just not used to attention and this is how all Americans speak to each other?) To be fair, my answers vary, for no reason I can think of other than the moment I'm in. People want to know why half of the family is staying, how they will manage without me (far better than with is my current thinking,) what would possess me to do such a thing?
Nothing- considerably rarer but worth mentioning- in at least one case there was absolutely no comment. Perhaps she was the most conservative, respecting social boundaries, perhaps it was just not a good time to get into specifics. Or maybe people jet off to Congo everyday in her world. I guess one can never really be too sure of her neighbors. Clearly.
Curious congratulations- this, to me, would seem to be the most natural of responses, if there is such a thing. The best one came from my ophthalmologist. He's known me since I was 11, as much as a doctor can really know you, and I enjoy going there much as one might the spa. (I leave there having been well attended to and with, literally, a new outlook on the world.) He offered congrats and some fatherly precautions as well as the insight that this would be an incredible opportunity. He seemed to see each aspect, comment briefly and respectably kept his distance from probing questions.
All the while, other secrets have been tumbling out.
2.6.08
The List
"You can have this one if you want, it's pretty big." She slides a black bag over to my feet and I regard it silently. I have been scouring the web and sending emails requesting advice on what exactly to bring to Africa. I'm looking for the essential list. Although I've been before, there are striking differences here. I'm traveling with 2 children, we're going to be staying for what seems like a long time (although, as with most school years, it's certain to fly by once it gets going) and I'll be working.
I've got the medical items down and the personal items but what will the boys do to entertain themselves? We've never had a huge supply of toys but playing outside is really big. Do we try to bring basketballs, bikes...? There will be virtually no mail service (so I'm told) which makes me feel even more cut off...no surprise packages, no Internet mail orders, no Hey-I-forgot-to-pack-the-____ -Could-you-send-it-out?
Then there are teaching supplies. What exactly do I need? want? What will be available? I like to pride myself on traveling light yet always being prepared. It is becoming a bit difficult to do both simultaneously. I'm looking for the secret list that will tell me, if you just be sure to pack these things, you'll have everything you need.
I have actually found quite a few lists. But they seem to be lacking in some fundamental way. They don't get to the heart of who you really are...as a traveller, as a person, as an artist. Then there's the person you want to be; this is the trap of bringing things because, while you haven't actually painted in more than 5 years, you want to and being in Africa, you just might find the time to. I'm trying to avoid this trap. I know the thing I will miss most is the kitchen drawer, the one that holds all the odds and ends, the possibilities for projects, the inspiration for creativity, the answers to those late night puzzles.
I eye the bag on the floor, the one she has slid across to me, with rollers on the bottom- a good feature for someone whose hands are perpetually full, juggling children and keys, bags and coffee.
"You can have this one if you want." I'm struck by the enormity of my task, the impossibility. I'm bound to miss some things. "It's pretty big." Not if you're trying to fit your whole life in there, I think.
I've got the medical items down and the personal items but what will the boys do to entertain themselves? We've never had a huge supply of toys but playing outside is really big. Do we try to bring basketballs, bikes...? There will be virtually no mail service (so I'm told) which makes me feel even more cut off...no surprise packages, no Internet mail orders, no Hey-I-forgot-to-pack-the-____ -Could-you-send-it-out?
Then there are teaching supplies. What exactly do I need? want? What will be available? I like to pride myself on traveling light yet always being prepared. It is becoming a bit difficult to do both simultaneously. I'm looking for the secret list that will tell me, if you just be sure to pack these things, you'll have everything you need.
I have actually found quite a few lists. But they seem to be lacking in some fundamental way. They don't get to the heart of who you really are...as a traveller, as a person, as an artist. Then there's the person you want to be; this is the trap of bringing things because, while you haven't actually painted in more than 5 years, you want to and being in Africa, you just might find the time to. I'm trying to avoid this trap. I know the thing I will miss most is the kitchen drawer, the one that holds all the odds and ends, the possibilities for projects, the inspiration for creativity, the answers to those late night puzzles.
I eye the bag on the floor, the one she has slid across to me, with rollers on the bottom- a good feature for someone whose hands are perpetually full, juggling children and keys, bags and coffee.
"You can have this one if you want." I'm struck by the enormity of my task, the impossibility. I'm bound to miss some things. "It's pretty big." Not if you're trying to fit your whole life in there, I think.
10.5.08
one dead body
I have officially resigned and while it has brought a sense of liberty, I realize there is a residue of bitterness. I'm trying to remember that I'm off to a whole new world that I've been dreaming of for a lifetime. But sometimes I am caught up in the negativity that surrounds me in that school and I want to speak the truth. Because what happened there is wrong.
So often in these last few months I have been reminded of my fight for my children. I have been grappling with the contrasting notions of fighting and surviving. To do one is not always to do the other. I did fight for my children, and at one point I even believed that I would prevail. I believed in truth and justice and the integrity of the courts to do what is right. Slowly I began to open my eyes to the world of money, connections and power. I realized that one single mother with no money and no support could never really win. And so I survived. I am a different person now. It's impossible not to be. The focus of my world has shifted. I've gone through mourning and every so often I take a deep breathe and feel incredible sadness and injustice touch every part of me. My heart stops. Of course it resumes momentarily but for just that one minute, I lose another part of me.
In this fight, not necessarily for my job, but for my dignity and professionalism, I've experienced a similar path. I began fighting. (Although I must admit, as soon as I sensed the similarities to the fight for my children, I began to pull back.) I worked closely with a strong and supportive union representative who reminded me of the lawyer I wished I'd had during the family court saga. Every written response I submitted she praised for its insight and professionalism. I could almost believe her. And I did admire her unwavering desire to fight and her faith that this could actually make a difference.
I lose faith so easily. I think I'm something of a cynic. I don't believe some people can ever really see beyond themselves and their own power. And I'm not really sure how one can be convinced that one dead body can make a difference.
I've recently read "Four Spirits" and been confronted with news stories of current fights for human rights and liberties. I am stunned by the convictions that allow one person to know that their sacrifice will be worth something. Because it's not just one dead body that gets attention; we all know there must be many. It requires a certain confidence that others will come behind you and pick up the fight. And in myself I see someone who quickly feels alone and isolated. I don't have much confidence in anyone coming along to pick up the fight.
In many ways, this is just a small fight about one person and her merit as a professional. But there is another layer. And that involves the lives of children and families that are not receiving the caliber of education they deserve. Sometimes this other layer can stir my passion; these are fragile children that need more than they are being given. Not only are they losing valuable educational time and being allowed to stagnate emotionally, but they are infringing on others educational and emotional growth.
I'm not convinced one dead body can change things here. And the world is vast. I have a family to consider and there are many choices to move on to. I have heard there were others. Teachers sacrificed because providing the right services would just cost too much. Teachers who understand the unique needs of the emotionally distraught, but cannot provide it without a supportive district-wide philosophy designed to address these children.Time and regime change is one true path to reform.
I don't want to be just one dead body. But I do want to find the thing that inspires such passion and conviction that I am tempted to stay and fight rather than merely survive. And I want to feel with certainty that someone else is going to come along and pick up the fight.
So often in these last few months I have been reminded of my fight for my children. I have been grappling with the contrasting notions of fighting and surviving. To do one is not always to do the other. I did fight for my children, and at one point I even believed that I would prevail. I believed in truth and justice and the integrity of the courts to do what is right. Slowly I began to open my eyes to the world of money, connections and power. I realized that one single mother with no money and no support could never really win. And so I survived. I am a different person now. It's impossible not to be. The focus of my world has shifted. I've gone through mourning and every so often I take a deep breathe and feel incredible sadness and injustice touch every part of me. My heart stops. Of course it resumes momentarily but for just that one minute, I lose another part of me.
In this fight, not necessarily for my job, but for my dignity and professionalism, I've experienced a similar path. I began fighting. (Although I must admit, as soon as I sensed the similarities to the fight for my children, I began to pull back.) I worked closely with a strong and supportive union representative who reminded me of the lawyer I wished I'd had during the family court saga. Every written response I submitted she praised for its insight and professionalism. I could almost believe her. And I did admire her unwavering desire to fight and her faith that this could actually make a difference.
I lose faith so easily. I think I'm something of a cynic. I don't believe some people can ever really see beyond themselves and their own power. And I'm not really sure how one can be convinced that one dead body can make a difference.
I've recently read "Four Spirits" and been confronted with news stories of current fights for human rights and liberties. I am stunned by the convictions that allow one person to know that their sacrifice will be worth something. Because it's not just one dead body that gets attention; we all know there must be many. It requires a certain confidence that others will come behind you and pick up the fight. And in myself I see someone who quickly feels alone and isolated. I don't have much confidence in anyone coming along to pick up the fight.
In many ways, this is just a small fight about one person and her merit as a professional. But there is another layer. And that involves the lives of children and families that are not receiving the caliber of education they deserve. Sometimes this other layer can stir my passion; these are fragile children that need more than they are being given. Not only are they losing valuable educational time and being allowed to stagnate emotionally, but they are infringing on others educational and emotional growth.
I'm not convinced one dead body can change things here. And the world is vast. I have a family to consider and there are many choices to move on to. I have heard there were others. Teachers sacrificed because providing the right services would just cost too much. Teachers who understand the unique needs of the emotionally distraught, but cannot provide it without a supportive district-wide philosophy designed to address these children.Time and regime change is one true path to reform.
I don't want to be just one dead body. But I do want to find the thing that inspires such passion and conviction that I am tempted to stay and fight rather than merely survive. And I want to feel with certainty that someone else is going to come along and pick up the fight.
28.4.08
SunShine
The sun has been shining lately and I feel so completely different. I love the energy and strength that comes with the long days. We've had several extended weekends as well and that has given me a taste of summer. It is so liberating to lose the stress and negativity from my working life. I am once again basking in the warmth and joy of my children and family. We have all found our way to more comfortable footing.
I attribute this new life, feeling so much as a seedling must when it breaks through the soil into its first rays of sunlight, to many things- beginnings, endings and reconnections. Though I recognize all that has changed in my life, I always suspect that a large part of this joy is pure energy emanating from the sun. I am hoping that in Africa I will find the sunny days just as rejuvenating.
The time is drawing closer. Attending to details has taken up any time of nervousness or worry. I guess there will be time for that later. There is occassional doubt, however, and I am trying to see this step as one of many that may finally lead to a positive future for us. All of the planning may lead where you never thought, as is often the case for me. But I haven't given it up as it seems a sensible and adult thing to do.
Yes, I'm trying to be responsible and feel more like a grown-up on this eve(eve3) of my birthday. I had given myself until 35 to panic, thinking I haven't really done anything with my life yet. Honestly, I think this trip to Africa will be a significant cross off my list. (Maybe I have left: write a book, create a famous piece of art [famous only after death of course, I suppose I won't really ever be able to cross that one off,] and there was that house-boat I was going to live on with my grandma...) But I do get to thinking, as all good dreamers do, why we're here and what is so important that we must accomplish anyway.
On a bright and sunny day, I can see that just having my children and preparing them for a good life is a feat. There are days when I strive for more and feel as though I must leave something, a message, a work or service of some importance to others. Most days I feel like this. That I should be involved. And I am never involved enough; that's how my eyes see it. I'm 34 and what have I done? This is so typical, so "mid-life crisis," I can barely stand it. But its true of who we are as humans. The need to feel important, the need to be contributing.
And so I have contemplated what to bring with me to Congo. What are the things I will really need there? It has come to be similar to a ten month camping trip in my mind. There are definately things I will not be able to get there. But then, who knows what I might find.
So it is that I am considering going without any books. I wonder if I could make this a year of faithful inquisition. I considered just bringing a book of faith and comitting to reading it alone. I considered for quite a few days before relenting and suggesting to myself that I might see it more as a "theme" and bring books that help to explain or further enlighten (somewhat fearful I might not uncover enlightment without expert guidance.)
I am thinking that developing my faith will help to ease this burden of never feeling accomplished or complete. I really want to feel the faith as strong within me as my self-doubt is now. Whenever I check, it is there, waiting to conduct a lengthy conversation. It remains to remind me that I have not truly conquered it; despite my careful acquisition of education and skill, it is sown as deep and prolific as bamboo, ready to spread into a quick and hearty ground cover.
Perhaps ten months of dedication and study can replace that with knowledge and strength. I want to believe. Or rather, I do believe but it doesn't yet feel like a second skin. Sometimes I see my faith more as a jacket that I put on and take off to regulate temperature, when really I want it to be the air I breathe and the nourishment that gives me life.
Prayer is better than sleep. But so often I pull up the blankets and listen to the chirping of the birds and feel the cool breeze flowing through my open window.
There are signs for those who know. This is what I feel in the warmth and energy of the sun. And as I lay in my early morning bed listening, I am thinking of the divine, but I have not really dedicated my attention.
There are signs for those who know. Clearly.
I attribute this new life, feeling so much as a seedling must when it breaks through the soil into its first rays of sunlight, to many things- beginnings, endings and reconnections. Though I recognize all that has changed in my life, I always suspect that a large part of this joy is pure energy emanating from the sun. I am hoping that in Africa I will find the sunny days just as rejuvenating.
The time is drawing closer. Attending to details has taken up any time of nervousness or worry. I guess there will be time for that later. There is occassional doubt, however, and I am trying to see this step as one of many that may finally lead to a positive future for us. All of the planning may lead where you never thought, as is often the case for me. But I haven't given it up as it seems a sensible and adult thing to do.
Yes, I'm trying to be responsible and feel more like a grown-up on this eve(eve3) of my birthday. I had given myself until 35 to panic, thinking I haven't really done anything with my life yet. Honestly, I think this trip to Africa will be a significant cross off my list. (Maybe I have left: write a book, create a famous piece of art [famous only after death of course, I suppose I won't really ever be able to cross that one off,] and there was that house-boat I was going to live on with my grandma...) But I do get to thinking, as all good dreamers do, why we're here and what is so important that we must accomplish anyway.
On a bright and sunny day, I can see that just having my children and preparing them for a good life is a feat. There are days when I strive for more and feel as though I must leave something, a message, a work or service of some importance to others. Most days I feel like this. That I should be involved. And I am never involved enough; that's how my eyes see it. I'm 34 and what have I done? This is so typical, so "mid-life crisis," I can barely stand it. But its true of who we are as humans. The need to feel important, the need to be contributing.
And so I have contemplated what to bring with me to Congo. What are the things I will really need there? It has come to be similar to a ten month camping trip in my mind. There are definately things I will not be able to get there. But then, who knows what I might find.
So it is that I am considering going without any books. I wonder if I could make this a year of faithful inquisition. I considered just bringing a book of faith and comitting to reading it alone. I considered for quite a few days before relenting and suggesting to myself that I might see it more as a "theme" and bring books that help to explain or further enlighten (somewhat fearful I might not uncover enlightment without expert guidance.)
I am thinking that developing my faith will help to ease this burden of never feeling accomplished or complete. I really want to feel the faith as strong within me as my self-doubt is now. Whenever I check, it is there, waiting to conduct a lengthy conversation. It remains to remind me that I have not truly conquered it; despite my careful acquisition of education and skill, it is sown as deep and prolific as bamboo, ready to spread into a quick and hearty ground cover.
Perhaps ten months of dedication and study can replace that with knowledge and strength. I want to believe. Or rather, I do believe but it doesn't yet feel like a second skin. Sometimes I see my faith more as a jacket that I put on and take off to regulate temperature, when really I want it to be the air I breathe and the nourishment that gives me life.
Prayer is better than sleep. But so often I pull up the blankets and listen to the chirping of the birds and feel the cool breeze flowing through my open window.
There are signs for those who know. This is what I feel in the warmth and energy of the sun. And as I lay in my early morning bed listening, I am thinking of the divine, but I have not really dedicated my attention.
There are signs for those who know. Clearly.
3.4.08
Inside Words
This last month has been one full of paradoxes; ups and downs, ins and outs. In one of our 3 a.m. conversations, I heard this phrase..."I see your inside words....." I sat straight up in bed, finally illuminated. And it has been following me ever since. I've seen it in in print, I've heard it run through my mind at the most opportune times, reminding me that this is in fact a game we all play; the words we say and the inside words we mean.
I knew that going to Africa would highlight just how American I am- something I've never really been able to appreciate. I guess I just figured I would actually get to Africa before I started seeing it. Here I am in my very own house in a country little town in the USA realizing that I get extremely frustrated with inside words. I began to remember that this was always my fear as a child. Being misunderstood. If I created art, would people really get it? If I wrote the words, could a reader really understand? Because I love literature and poetry, I am fascinated by the many ways of saying things without really saying them. Poetry vs. prose, I guess. But I am just now understanding that in my social relationships, I don't want inside words. I want fresh, clear, honest communication.
My recent reading choices have brought me to many cultures and continents and I have found it impossible to relate to those that require silence. Keeping silence, maintaining silence, speaking in codes that hope the listener will figure out the true meaning. I'm so American. I just want people to say what they mean and mean what they say. I can't work in opposites or omissions. I can't manage polite deference or resignantion.
I appreciate these qualities, for certain. I have spent much time marveling at how my husband can hold his tongue when he is angry but though striving, I have never managed to attain this level of patience. Just lately, I am shocked at how far his inside words reach. I have always thought he was not listening (I'm not entirely giving this idea up) but of late I see that I have not been an active listener. I want to sit and plan our life together. He is not a planner. He defers to me and assumes I will hear his inside words of resistance. I take his deference to be acceptance or aloofness. How could I have been so blind? All the while looking outside at the ocean blue, forgetting to forage deep beneath the surface and appreciate the true complexities blooming there.
I've even read the book comparing Eastern and Western thought processes (I'm so bad with titles, but it was a fascinating study...if only I could recommend it....) It was very explicit in this aspect of active listening: an example would be of a child singing a song very loudly. The mother might respond with something like " You're music is very strong." The hidden message is that the loudness is disturbing to others. I'm thinking it could take years for a child to realize this. Of course, there are many subtle lessons over time that reinforce listening for the real intention of the speaker, regardless of the words. Should I be surprised that we often pass each other on our separate paths of communication. He is busy listening for my inside words that do not exist and I am busy listening to his spoken words that do not really express.
I do recognize times when I use these inside words. And I recognize times when I fear putting my words out, plainly or otherwise. Because words have a way of returning, dressed up in costumes we never intended them to wear.
I can still get lost in the plane of thought, trying to untangle the web of social interactions that prove no matter what I do or say or write, there are people who will just never be able to see me. Sometimes I wonder how important that is. Is it supposed to be important? Or can I just wander along in my own private fog, secure in my notion self?
Someone like me cannot really do that.
I knew that going to Africa would highlight just how American I am- something I've never really been able to appreciate. I guess I just figured I would actually get to Africa before I started seeing it. Here I am in my very own house in a country little town in the USA realizing that I get extremely frustrated with inside words. I began to remember that this was always my fear as a child. Being misunderstood. If I created art, would people really get it? If I wrote the words, could a reader really understand? Because I love literature and poetry, I am fascinated by the many ways of saying things without really saying them. Poetry vs. prose, I guess. But I am just now understanding that in my social relationships, I don't want inside words. I want fresh, clear, honest communication.
My recent reading choices have brought me to many cultures and continents and I have found it impossible to relate to those that require silence. Keeping silence, maintaining silence, speaking in codes that hope the listener will figure out the true meaning. I'm so American. I just want people to say what they mean and mean what they say. I can't work in opposites or omissions. I can't manage polite deference or resignantion.
I appreciate these qualities, for certain. I have spent much time marveling at how my husband can hold his tongue when he is angry but though striving, I have never managed to attain this level of patience. Just lately, I am shocked at how far his inside words reach. I have always thought he was not listening (I'm not entirely giving this idea up) but of late I see that I have not been an active listener. I want to sit and plan our life together. He is not a planner. He defers to me and assumes I will hear his inside words of resistance. I take his deference to be acceptance or aloofness. How could I have been so blind? All the while looking outside at the ocean blue, forgetting to forage deep beneath the surface and appreciate the true complexities blooming there.
I've even read the book comparing Eastern and Western thought processes (I'm so bad with titles, but it was a fascinating study...if only I could recommend it....) It was very explicit in this aspect of active listening: an example would be of a child singing a song very loudly. The mother might respond with something like " You're music is very strong." The hidden message is that the loudness is disturbing to others. I'm thinking it could take years for a child to realize this. Of course, there are many subtle lessons over time that reinforce listening for the real intention of the speaker, regardless of the words. Should I be surprised that we often pass each other on our separate paths of communication. He is busy listening for my inside words that do not exist and I am busy listening to his spoken words that do not really express.
I do recognize times when I use these inside words. And I recognize times when I fear putting my words out, plainly or otherwise. Because words have a way of returning, dressed up in costumes we never intended them to wear.
I can still get lost in the plane of thought, trying to untangle the web of social interactions that prove no matter what I do or say or write, there are people who will just never be able to see me. Sometimes I wonder how important that is. Is it supposed to be important? Or can I just wander along in my own private fog, secure in my notion self?
Someone like me cannot really do that.
9.3.08
Spiritual Justice...
...that's what she called it, and so it seems to be. I have found some new power in knowing that those who think they may do not actually hold the keys to my future. I have found a voice that is strong and solid to express my confusion and doubt, a presence to state my dissatisfaction.Seeing the light of change has allowed me to view my current situations with distance and clarity. My eyes are not clouded with panic. I am filled once again with confidence. I am a natural teacher and it is something that I love. I think we all agree that the politics can be best left behind. But with this woman at my side, supporting me and assuring me that I have every right to assert my professional opinions, I feel strength and truth and justice. I begin to see the importance of being able to speak out without fear of repercussions. Of course I am aware of the irony that I have only begun to feel this way because the repercussions would barely touch me. I would like to believe that the desperateness of my situation would lead me to speaking out regardless of the conditions upon which truthfulness is based.
It is not just at work that I begin to feel the settling peace of things falling into place. With the impending certainty of change I find it easier to manage everywhere. I am able to make social connections, talk to those in my community and even reach out to someone I once knew. It is only because I am going that I feel like I can commit. And this is a little bit of what I am looking for. It is only through leaving that I can ever feel like I belong.
I spoke to a very old and distant friend last night. Its been 20 years since we've last seen each other and almost as long since we last had any kind of real connection. I've been trying to figure out if it is something we can pick up again. She has moved south and during our conversation she spoke often of a longing for "home." I know it is something I have never really felt here, always resisted. I've been searching for "home" in a group of people, a network of family and friends that just doesn't exist. Of course, I've taken many conflicts more personally than they could have been and at one point even determined that all of this state was out to conspire against me. She spoke of the mountains, and I remember that feeling but its long been stolen from me. She spoke of old stomping grounds, and I know exactly what grasses she's trampled but I don't find the memories nostalgic.
I wonder if, by leaving, I can find this home that she is missing. Perhaps. I think there is too much....to continue
It is not just at work that I begin to feel the settling peace of things falling into place. With the impending certainty of change I find it easier to manage everywhere. I am able to make social connections, talk to those in my community and even reach out to someone I once knew. It is only because I am going that I feel like I can commit. And this is a little bit of what I am looking for. It is only through leaving that I can ever feel like I belong.
I spoke to a very old and distant friend last night. Its been 20 years since we've last seen each other and almost as long since we last had any kind of real connection. I've been trying to figure out if it is something we can pick up again. She has moved south and during our conversation she spoke often of a longing for "home." I know it is something I have never really felt here, always resisted. I've been searching for "home" in a group of people, a network of family and friends that just doesn't exist. Of course, I've taken many conflicts more personally than they could have been and at one point even determined that all of this state was out to conspire against me. She spoke of the mountains, and I remember that feeling but its long been stolen from me. She spoke of old stomping grounds, and I know exactly what grasses she's trampled but I don't find the memories nostalgic.
I wonder if, by leaving, I can find this home that she is missing. Perhaps. I think there is too much....to continue
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)