I know what motivates me. This is exciting because yesterday I was stumped and asked for some thoughts on how to answer the question. Lots of great thoughts and ideas were offered, and I tucked it all in the back of my mind for pondering. My brand of pondering tends to let the thoughts alone back there to work things out a little with others, and I let them come out when they are ready. Possibly because some of those ideas challenged me - something I've been missing in my life for a while - the creative part of my mind seems to have jumped in to assist. I digress....
Today I was asked to take an assessment as part of an application process. Fairly similar to one I completed a few months ago for another company, as I answered the questions I thought about my verbal response to the results when the time comes, since I was unprepared the last time. Many of the questions lacked context that could change my answer dramatically, and I made mental notes of them, more for my own analysis later than anything else. Since I spent that 40 minutes essentially preparing for an interview question or two, the motivation question came to mind. "What does motivate me?" I asked myself as I curled up with a cup of hot chocolate. I closed my eyes and chuckled. One of my friends said yesterday that there are only two real motivators: Love and fear. When the hiring manager asked, my first thought was to say, "Well, it's not fear!" But I didn't know what it was. Then the images came to me.
Faces filled with gratitude. With understanding, new found knowledge. Delighted at having a new idea, a new skill, a new future. Some were faces of people I'd actually met, worked with, or encountered. Others were strangers from ads or marketing materials, but not models or actors; actual delighted people. Still others were faces I've not yet seen, made up in my imagination years ago or just now it's hard to say, but the answer was clear. I'm motivated by helping others, I thought, but realized there's more to it than that. All of it is wrapped up in my first memory of life goals in addition to being a mom. I then remembered details of my dream of having a job that required me to wear a hat and carry a clipboard - a cap, a hardhat, a uniform hat of some kind - and that my mother was mortified by the thought. (Which amused me as much tonight as it did back then!) But it's what I always wanted to do; that much I remembered vividly as I thought.
One Christmas while I was in high school, I read in the paper about the Arctic League and asked my dad if we could help. At the time, I was surprised at how readily he agreed (as a mom and former youth minister, I now know that if a kid asks to do something like that, you make it possible!) and on Christmas morning, we got up at some ungodly hour to drive a half hour to the warehouse and stand in a tremendous line in the cold and snow, and it was so worth it. The world was so quiet, between the hour, the darkness, the foot or so of snow everywhere, the hats, scarves, mittens and down enveloping all the volunteers. It was Christmas morning, but even more magical than usual, because we were going to be Santa. I was awed, touched, humbled. The line moved quickly, efficiently, and cheerfully, with hot chocolate handed out while we waited, maybe cookies, some friendly small talk among strangers. At the head of the line, we were given our deliveries and our map: 5 bags of treasures to deliver to areas I didn't even know existed. Dad found each address expertly, and together we would take the bag to the door, knocking quietly as we were instructed, so the sleeping children would have no idea we'd been there. I was profoundly affected that early, early morning by the faces of each person answering the door. No words were spoken, other than a whispered "Merry Christmas" and the corresponding "Thank you." But the faces. A picture may speak 1,000 words, but those faces, those eyes, they spoke ever so much more. Shortly thereafter I began looking into the Make-a-Wish Foundation and Habitat for Humanity, and even the Peace Corps. For reasons I neither remember the details of nor understood even at the time, I was discouraged from pursuing careers in such organizations.
But I held tightly to the tail end of the dream, like the end of a kite string.
It all came back to me tonight in that question: "What does motivate me." Love, yes; not fear. Good, that was cleared up. Helping people, yes; but in what context? Can sales goals motivate me, given the right argument of helping someone? Maybe - if some donation to a cause I believe in is involved, perhaps. I knew there was more brewing. What did all those faces that played like a movie in my mind have in common - in a concise, interview answer way? What did the jobs that meant the most to me have in common that I saw in those faces? And how did that relate to the jobs that I didn't like so well - what was missing in them?
And I realized the Love that motivates me is Purpose. Habitat, Wishes, Arctic League, youth ministry, Reading with the Lions, teaching dance and making choreography -- all of them gave me, or have inherent in them, a sense of purpose; a specific goal of helping people with something in particular. That's what motivates me: knowing without a doubt that the intent of the job is to help someone in some defined way, with a project flow to make it happen. I'm motivated by purpose that allows my process-oriented mind to get creative and find the map, and bring life to the journey. Because life is about the journey; the journey is the purpose, and the purpose is Love.
Showing posts with label dreams. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dreams. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 11, 2017
Tuesday, March 8, 2016
on my way
Last week in small group, we started talking about those things we always wanted to do, to learn, to try, and whether 'now' is a time to consider them again. Our small group leader talked about getting his motorcycle license a few years ago, after many, many years of thinking about it. Since I've always wanted one, too, we talked a little about the process here. Someone else in the group pointed out that I'd been painting - choosing colors, prepping, enjoying the entire process. And it gave me the courage to think about old dreams; dreams I'd thought were lost, or at the very least, relegated to the darkest corners of my memory, only to be brought out in that 'someday' time when my grandchildren are thinking about what to do with their lives, and I am there to offer the advice that would make my own children crazy.
Growing up, I always knew I wanted to be a mom; that's no secret. No one, and I mean no one, considered it a career option I should dedicate myself to. After a while, I tried keeping it to myself so I could explore options, at least on paper, and I found myself truly interested in a variety of fields. I wanted to be a dancer. I wanted to study international law. I wanted to continue with my French and Spanish studies, and work at the UN as a translator. I wanted a job that had me traveling the world, but also gave me the opportunity to be available, always, to my children. I wanted an office with my name on the door and an assistant who would show people in, because I wanted to be able to say, "No, I don't know that person. Send him away." I wanted to be a photographer. I wanted to live out of a suitcase because the world was my home. I wanted to make things, paint things, envision things and see them come to life. I wanted to work for an organization like Make-A-Wish, Habitat for Humanity, Ronald McDonald House. I remember once, to my mother's horror, saying that my dream job would have me wearing a cap and carrying a clipboard. [at the time I was watching one of the first FedEx commercials] I wanted to be a helicopter pilot. I wanted to ride horses, to live near the water. I wanted to study psychology, and be a social worker.
Sitting in that small group, all of my dreams washed over me, gently, soothingly, and I admitted what was most on my heart. I was discouraged from all of my biggest dreams; not always directly, and not always logically, but I was a kid. And a kid bent on pleasing somebody - anybody. Unfortunately, no one had ever encouraged me to be me, to understand that I have worth, that my dreams matter. No one told me that I matter. I don't even know if anyone 'in authority' knew that I was terrified of auditioning - so much so that when I came to the realization about a year ago that an audition is very similar to a job interview, I nearly fainted. Instead, I was reminded that I "hated school" (a half-truth; I hated not being myself, and being a teenager, it was safe to blame school); UN appointments were relatively short-term; work travel and family don't mix; I wasn't taking a science; non-profits don't have paid employees; "none of these options are appropriate for an intelligent and attractive young woman like you." None of my dreams were appropriate for me.
Being a mom has been the most rewarding and challenging career choice. It's not been without its sacrifices, and I would not change any of the choices I've made. Are there things I wish had turned out differently? Some. However, the truth is, They are fine young men, amazing to watch in everything they do, and I'm honored to know them. They've taught me more than they will ever realize, and because of them, I will be able to finally, somehow, follow some of my dreams. Because of them, when I look at all the dreams I had (when I was right where they are now), I realize that my real ideal - what I shared with my small group - is somewhere in the family of project management for an organization like Habitat. I was afraid to share the realization with them, but suddenly the air was alive with ideas, suggestions, affirmations. I was surprised, and taken aback. I don't recall ever having been in so supportive a spot. These new people in my life, with whom I share rather tenuous connection, told me where where they saw the connections in my life to this newborn dream. And they made me feel loved. In the space of minutes, they had me working internationally, on a schedule that fit my entire family, as well as all the fun things I like to do: dance, sew, write, paint. In those moments, they gave me a clipboard, a cap, a passport full of stamps, and a couple of new languages. A sense of being, and gave my wildest dreams life. More than even encouraging me, they supported me. My heart and I are on our way.
Growing up, I always knew I wanted to be a mom; that's no secret. No one, and I mean no one, considered it a career option I should dedicate myself to. After a while, I tried keeping it to myself so I could explore options, at least on paper, and I found myself truly interested in a variety of fields. I wanted to be a dancer. I wanted to study international law. I wanted to continue with my French and Spanish studies, and work at the UN as a translator. I wanted a job that had me traveling the world, but also gave me the opportunity to be available, always, to my children. I wanted an office with my name on the door and an assistant who would show people in, because I wanted to be able to say, "No, I don't know that person. Send him away." I wanted to be a photographer. I wanted to live out of a suitcase because the world was my home. I wanted to make things, paint things, envision things and see them come to life. I wanted to work for an organization like Make-A-Wish, Habitat for Humanity, Ronald McDonald House. I remember once, to my mother's horror, saying that my dream job would have me wearing a cap and carrying a clipboard. [at the time I was watching one of the first FedEx commercials] I wanted to be a helicopter pilot. I wanted to ride horses, to live near the water. I wanted to study psychology, and be a social worker.
Sitting in that small group, all of my dreams washed over me, gently, soothingly, and I admitted what was most on my heart. I was discouraged from all of my biggest dreams; not always directly, and not always logically, but I was a kid. And a kid bent on pleasing somebody - anybody. Unfortunately, no one had ever encouraged me to be me, to understand that I have worth, that my dreams matter. No one told me that I matter. I don't even know if anyone 'in authority' knew that I was terrified of auditioning - so much so that when I came to the realization about a year ago that an audition is very similar to a job interview, I nearly fainted. Instead, I was reminded that I "hated school" (a half-truth; I hated not being myself, and being a teenager, it was safe to blame school); UN appointments were relatively short-term; work travel and family don't mix; I wasn't taking a science; non-profits don't have paid employees; "none of these options are appropriate for an intelligent and attractive young woman like you." None of my dreams were appropriate for me.
Being a mom has been the most rewarding and challenging career choice. It's not been without its sacrifices, and I would not change any of the choices I've made. Are there things I wish had turned out differently? Some. However, the truth is, They are fine young men, amazing to watch in everything they do, and I'm honored to know them. They've taught me more than they will ever realize, and because of them, I will be able to finally, somehow, follow some of my dreams. Because of them, when I look at all the dreams I had (when I was right where they are now), I realize that my real ideal - what I shared with my small group - is somewhere in the family of project management for an organization like Habitat. I was afraid to share the realization with them, but suddenly the air was alive with ideas, suggestions, affirmations. I was surprised, and taken aback. I don't recall ever having been in so supportive a spot. These new people in my life, with whom I share rather tenuous connection, told me where where they saw the connections in my life to this newborn dream. And they made me feel loved. In the space of minutes, they had me working internationally, on a schedule that fit my entire family, as well as all the fun things I like to do: dance, sew, write, paint. In those moments, they gave me a clipboard, a cap, a passport full of stamps, and a couple of new languages. A sense of being, and gave my wildest dreams life. More than even encouraging me, they supported me. My heart and I are on our way.
Thursday, February 18, 2016
always your day
Dear Dad,
More than anything, I wish I could call you and say Happy Birthday. Instead, this keyboard and the phone line in my heart are all I have. For the past 9 days, I have been wearing my Daddy's Girl necklace, as I do during this 'novena.' Most years I have prayed your rosary every day from the day you died until your birthday. Not this year. I've thought about it, but I had other Dad things on my heart. I've really been missing your hugs, your gaze, your smile. The way you hung your coffee cup from your finger when it was empty, along with the pot, but the conversation was still full. The way you thought nothing of staying in pajamas to talk on Saturday mornings, sometimes into lunch time. I painted my bedroom last weekend, and from time to time wished you were there to help -- mostly with the less fun parts, like the edges and painting around the radiator; the parts you would have gravitated toward. I love doing that stuff you used to do. I'm looking forward to the woodworking projects I have planned in there that would have been your 'things' and that I always wished I could do with you. I still have the dollhouse. Everyone still marvels at the table. You are still here.
We never talked about boys. Your example of who you were to me is all the advice I ever got from you. Since I knew no one could ever be you, or take your place, or calm my heart the way your left arm hugs did, I never tried to find anyone like you. I wish we had. I wish I'd told you about how much that boy in high school broke my heart, again and again. I wish I'd told you how cute I thought that boy at church was, and that it turned out his locker was across the hall from mine. And that he kissed me on my birthday, and was later threatened by that boyfriend. I wish I'd introduced you to the boy in college who had the most beautiful eyes I'd ever seen, and to his roommates who told me their job was to chaperon and protect me, because they wanted to know that there were girls out there like me. I wish I'd shown you the letters from the boy who wrote me every week when he was at boot camp. I wish you could have told me that all those things meant something; that there were lessons about life, love, hope, myself in all of those things. I wish I'd had the nerve to tell you everything. I wanted to be your little girl forever, and you promised I would be. I wish I'd known that that meant I could share grown up thoughts with you, and still know your love mirroring God's love. I wish you'd told me. I wish I'd asked.
Some days I wish I'd paused on that afternoon 25 years ago when you said to me, "We don't have to do this. We could walk the other way." Nearly every day I've wondered if there was more you wanted to say, or if you really were saying what you thought would touch my heart most. Some days I'm angry you didn't push me; other days I am so incredibly grateful that your encouragement was gentle and constant. Some days I figure by now you'd be a cranky old man, grumbling about chores and noise and things that are out of place. But I know you would be my cranky old man -- the one I would defend to the teeth, love fiercely.
Wishes can't change a damn thing. However, dreams can. I still have dreams, Dad, and I still bounce them off of you from time to time, although sometimes I forget to put you in the loop because they involve things we'd never talked about: boys, faults, fears, and overcoming the same. I still dream of introducing you to my friends. Occasionally it's you that keeps someone at a distance -- I ask myself what you would think of someone (I remember the one and only time I ever heard you say that an acquaintance was never welcome in our home again, and I'm glad you said it, but even more relieved he wasn't my guest.) Most of the time I miss you because you liked everyone, or, more realistically, had a real talent for making everyone think you liked them. I admire that more than I ever would have told you. I always wished I could have that gift. Had I talked with you about it, you would have pointed out that I do, I simply use it the way I use it, not the way you did. Had I talked with you about so many things, they would have been clearer.
Dad, I was afraid of your insights, I think. I was afraid you'd be right, and I'd be hurt by my own lack of experience. I know now, far too late, that is a hurt that you would have soothed in the way only a daddy can: with the love that a daddy has for his Stephania. I'm sorry I didn't know to talk to you. I'm sorry I didn't ask if you wanted to know. I'm sorry I let myself hide this hurt from you. I'm grateful that telling you, even after you've been gone for nine years, feels right. There was a time when your chair seemed like the best connection I had to you, and a few of your shirts, little gifts you'd given me. Today I know that the best connection I have to you is, and will always be, in my heart, in my memories. The rest is just stuff. The gravy is all around me. In the past few months, I've been missing the gravy. Please continue to intercede for me. I need you now more than ever. Remind me again which of my friends I can find you in. And know that your hug still melts my heart, my hand in yours still lifts my spirits. No boy will ever be you to me. Instead of that being a barrier, I'll make that my goal.
I love you, Dad.
I miss you.
Happy Birthday.
Love, Stephania
xo
More than anything, I wish I could call you and say Happy Birthday. Instead, this keyboard and the phone line in my heart are all I have. For the past 9 days, I have been wearing my Daddy's Girl necklace, as I do during this 'novena.' Most years I have prayed your rosary every day from the day you died until your birthday. Not this year. I've thought about it, but I had other Dad things on my heart. I've really been missing your hugs, your gaze, your smile. The way you hung your coffee cup from your finger when it was empty, along with the pot, but the conversation was still full. The way you thought nothing of staying in pajamas to talk on Saturday mornings, sometimes into lunch time. I painted my bedroom last weekend, and from time to time wished you were there to help -- mostly with the less fun parts, like the edges and painting around the radiator; the parts you would have gravitated toward. I love doing that stuff you used to do. I'm looking forward to the woodworking projects I have planned in there that would have been your 'things' and that I always wished I could do with you. I still have the dollhouse. Everyone still marvels at the table. You are still here.
We never talked about boys. Your example of who you were to me is all the advice I ever got from you. Since I knew no one could ever be you, or take your place, or calm my heart the way your left arm hugs did, I never tried to find anyone like you. I wish we had. I wish I'd told you about how much that boy in high school broke my heart, again and again. I wish I'd told you how cute I thought that boy at church was, and that it turned out his locker was across the hall from mine. And that he kissed me on my birthday, and was later threatened by that boyfriend. I wish I'd introduced you to the boy in college who had the most beautiful eyes I'd ever seen, and to his roommates who told me their job was to chaperon and protect me, because they wanted to know that there were girls out there like me. I wish I'd shown you the letters from the boy who wrote me every week when he was at boot camp. I wish you could have told me that all those things meant something; that there were lessons about life, love, hope, myself in all of those things. I wish I'd had the nerve to tell you everything. I wanted to be your little girl forever, and you promised I would be. I wish I'd known that that meant I could share grown up thoughts with you, and still know your love mirroring God's love. I wish you'd told me. I wish I'd asked.
Some days I wish I'd paused on that afternoon 25 years ago when you said to me, "We don't have to do this. We could walk the other way." Nearly every day I've wondered if there was more you wanted to say, or if you really were saying what you thought would touch my heart most. Some days I'm angry you didn't push me; other days I am so incredibly grateful that your encouragement was gentle and constant. Some days I figure by now you'd be a cranky old man, grumbling about chores and noise and things that are out of place. But I know you would be my cranky old man -- the one I would defend to the teeth, love fiercely.
Wishes can't change a damn thing. However, dreams can. I still have dreams, Dad, and I still bounce them off of you from time to time, although sometimes I forget to put you in the loop because they involve things we'd never talked about: boys, faults, fears, and overcoming the same. I still dream of introducing you to my friends. Occasionally it's you that keeps someone at a distance -- I ask myself what you would think of someone (I remember the one and only time I ever heard you say that an acquaintance was never welcome in our home again, and I'm glad you said it, but even more relieved he wasn't my guest.) Most of the time I miss you because you liked everyone, or, more realistically, had a real talent for making everyone think you liked them. I admire that more than I ever would have told you. I always wished I could have that gift. Had I talked with you about it, you would have pointed out that I do, I simply use it the way I use it, not the way you did. Had I talked with you about so many things, they would have been clearer.
Dad, I was afraid of your insights, I think. I was afraid you'd be right, and I'd be hurt by my own lack of experience. I know now, far too late, that is a hurt that you would have soothed in the way only a daddy can: with the love that a daddy has for his Stephania. I'm sorry I didn't know to talk to you. I'm sorry I didn't ask if you wanted to know. I'm sorry I let myself hide this hurt from you. I'm grateful that telling you, even after you've been gone for nine years, feels right. There was a time when your chair seemed like the best connection I had to you, and a few of your shirts, little gifts you'd given me. Today I know that the best connection I have to you is, and will always be, in my heart, in my memories. The rest is just stuff. The gravy is all around me. In the past few months, I've been missing the gravy. Please continue to intercede for me. I need you now more than ever. Remind me again which of my friends I can find you in. And know that your hug still melts my heart, my hand in yours still lifts my spirits. No boy will ever be you to me. Instead of that being a barrier, I'll make that my goal.
I love you, Dad.
I miss you.
Happy Birthday.
Love, Stephania
xo
Tuesday, February 16, 2016
an interesting combination
Over the weekend, I painted my bedroom. It was a long, three day weekend -- three glorious days in a row that I didn't have to work, plus the usual Friday afternoon I have off to almost make up for my usual 6-day workweek. I used every spare moment last week to prep the room, moving furniture away from walls, moving furniture out of the room, taping cracks, filling holes. Friday into the evening I sanded. The ladder and I circled the perimeter, getting intimately close with the walls that hold stories of all kinds. I love prepping a room for painting. I was already sore when the boys and I sat down to relax a bit at dinner time. Reaching and the consistent gentle pressure for sanding affecting my shoulders, my upper back, my hands. And I was delighted.
Saturday morning brought wall washing; another aspect to experience rather than simply get through. Changing the water halfway through, I considered the illusion of surfaces. Nothing could have indicated to me how just plain dirty the walls were when I was using nothing but my eyes to judge. There was no mistaking the black water I poured down the drain, the grit that remained in the bottom of the bucket until I rinsed and re-rinsed, filling it with fresh water and detergent. "I am that wall," I thought, happily, joyfully, I might add! Prepping, sanding, washing, painting, it's all like getting to know a friend, acknowledging the rough places, helping to smooth them over, but never meaning to eliminate or completely forget them. Making the cracks and holes bearable is a friend's responsibility, isn't it? Or at least helping them to be.
While I worked, I did talk to some friends; most via text, but one on the phone. As I relayed my plans for the room, beyond painting (I have some projects involving power tools in mind!), I was told, "You have talents. You should use them; show them off. I can see you on your own somewhere beautiful prepping, painting, and building beautiful things for people. It'd be great." It would be great. (My friend also mentioned being near water, which was interesting as there was no reason for this new friend to know this about me; that I am drawn to water, sand, islands.) That call made me smile for a good while. Some of the conversations led to tearful thinking; some to out and out sobbing. All of it was cleansing, refreshing, as much a renewal for my heart as my work was to the room.
Last week, during a break in prepping, I was asked about the color of the trim. "I never worry about that unless I have to," I said, which in reality is not entirely true. My bedroom has 5 doors and 3 windows, meaning there is a ridiculous amount of trim to consider. Truth be told, I had turned a blind eye to the trim, hoping against hope that the world could, too. It only took about three feet of painted wall to show me how imperative the trim work would be. Again I thought of the parallels: what we see and what we wish we see can only run next too each other for so long. Reality bites sometimes, and requires that we do the careful detail work, on our knees, sometimes holding our breath to be sure to get the bead just right. I trekked back to the paint store to get a nice glossy white. The friend who asked about the trim was right, of course, the trim makes the color pop even more, it pulls the room together, finishes the overall effect. Painting the baseboard requires the use of two brushes: both 1" and 1 1/2" sash brushes. My well-being requires the use of two types of prayer: speaking (1") and listening (1 1/2"). When I try to rush through with only one, the results are less than satisfying. There's more area that requires the larger brush. The edge, where the smaller brush is used, is more difficult, more painful and frightening to navigate. The way they work together to unify, though, is more than worth the effort. And in reality, it's not that hard -- and doesn't take that long. I have two walls of baseboard done, so I could move the larger pieces of furniture back in, and will work on the rest of the trim throughout the next week or so. It'll be a longer process than the walls, but that is as it should be.
Next, I will create plans for the bookcases and radiator cover, and figure out the best timing for purchasing and assembling. I have the paint, and I'm ready (and willing) to use it. The most exciting project I have planned is for the door, the details of which I must review a few more times. A sliding barn door made of wood and canvas, painted with some as yet unknown design....part of the reasoning behind this description of me, observed by my friend on the phone: "artsy, funny, pretty, detailed - an interesting combination." I'm looking forward to seeing where this life will take me; where God has me going. I'm finding more of myself, along with even more joy in sharing, although that can be so very painful. Spending time with the walls in my room, I was many times struck by the power of memories, and the force with which they will present themselves when necessary. Many of them, related to the time of year, were unpleasant, ugly, and had been hidden far below my seemingly clean surface. Some surprised me, others made me think "you again," but presented some different side or view to consider. All of them brought intense emotion; some a strong desire to act out. Instead I reached out, again and again. That's something new to me, and I was strangely surprised at how helpful it was. Even when the reaching out was repeated, in the same words, to the same person, more than once. Mercy is a beautiful thing.
My bedroom is painted, and like any good project (including myself), the work has just begun, and will continue for quite a while. I'm excited about the challenges and successes to come -- and even the bumps along the way. I know, without a doubt, that I am not alone, and never will be, even when I work in solitude.
Saturday morning brought wall washing; another aspect to experience rather than simply get through. Changing the water halfway through, I considered the illusion of surfaces. Nothing could have indicated to me how just plain dirty the walls were when I was using nothing but my eyes to judge. There was no mistaking the black water I poured down the drain, the grit that remained in the bottom of the bucket until I rinsed and re-rinsed, filling it with fresh water and detergent. "I am that wall," I thought, happily, joyfully, I might add! Prepping, sanding, washing, painting, it's all like getting to know a friend, acknowledging the rough places, helping to smooth them over, but never meaning to eliminate or completely forget them. Making the cracks and holes bearable is a friend's responsibility, isn't it? Or at least helping them to be.
While I worked, I did talk to some friends; most via text, but one on the phone. As I relayed my plans for the room, beyond painting (I have some projects involving power tools in mind!), I was told, "You have talents. You should use them; show them off. I can see you on your own somewhere beautiful prepping, painting, and building beautiful things for people. It'd be great." It would be great. (My friend also mentioned being near water, which was interesting as there was no reason for this new friend to know this about me; that I am drawn to water, sand, islands.) That call made me smile for a good while. Some of the conversations led to tearful thinking; some to out and out sobbing. All of it was cleansing, refreshing, as much a renewal for my heart as my work was to the room.
Last week, during a break in prepping, I was asked about the color of the trim. "I never worry about that unless I have to," I said, which in reality is not entirely true. My bedroom has 5 doors and 3 windows, meaning there is a ridiculous amount of trim to consider. Truth be told, I had turned a blind eye to the trim, hoping against hope that the world could, too. It only took about three feet of painted wall to show me how imperative the trim work would be. Again I thought of the parallels: what we see and what we wish we see can only run next too each other for so long. Reality bites sometimes, and requires that we do the careful detail work, on our knees, sometimes holding our breath to be sure to get the bead just right. I trekked back to the paint store to get a nice glossy white. The friend who asked about the trim was right, of course, the trim makes the color pop even more, it pulls the room together, finishes the overall effect. Painting the baseboard requires the use of two brushes: both 1" and 1 1/2" sash brushes. My well-being requires the use of two types of prayer: speaking (1") and listening (1 1/2"). When I try to rush through with only one, the results are less than satisfying. There's more area that requires the larger brush. The edge, where the smaller brush is used, is more difficult, more painful and frightening to navigate. The way they work together to unify, though, is more than worth the effort. And in reality, it's not that hard -- and doesn't take that long. I have two walls of baseboard done, so I could move the larger pieces of furniture back in, and will work on the rest of the trim throughout the next week or so. It'll be a longer process than the walls, but that is as it should be.
Next, I will create plans for the bookcases and radiator cover, and figure out the best timing for purchasing and assembling. I have the paint, and I'm ready (and willing) to use it. The most exciting project I have planned is for the door, the details of which I must review a few more times. A sliding barn door made of wood and canvas, painted with some as yet unknown design....part of the reasoning behind this description of me, observed by my friend on the phone: "artsy, funny, pretty, detailed - an interesting combination." I'm looking forward to seeing where this life will take me; where God has me going. I'm finding more of myself, along with even more joy in sharing, although that can be so very painful. Spending time with the walls in my room, I was many times struck by the power of memories, and the force with which they will present themselves when necessary. Many of them, related to the time of year, were unpleasant, ugly, and had been hidden far below my seemingly clean surface. Some surprised me, others made me think "you again," but presented some different side or view to consider. All of them brought intense emotion; some a strong desire to act out. Instead I reached out, again and again. That's something new to me, and I was strangely surprised at how helpful it was. Even when the reaching out was repeated, in the same words, to the same person, more than once. Mercy is a beautiful thing.
My bedroom is painted, and like any good project (including myself), the work has just begun, and will continue for quite a while. I'm excited about the challenges and successes to come -- and even the bumps along the way. I know, without a doubt, that I am not alone, and never will be, even when I work in solitude.
Sunday, July 19, 2015
dreambank
I had a dream I keep thinking about, wondering about. I keep wanting to ask, but I don't know who to ask. It's a very strong desire to understand -- much more so than the usual when I dream, so I wonder if the desire to understand is related to the meaning of the dream itself.
I was at an event. Something with many people, some of whom I knew casually, and some of whom I did not know at all. But there were also some people I knew very well -- a handful -- and each of them had asked specifically if I would be there, saying they wanted to talk with me, either to catch up after an absence, or to cover specific information. I was happy to be there (if you know me well, you know that alone is a tad odd), and looking forward to socializing, catching up, and discussing with my friends -- those who had asked for my presence. Consistently and repeatedly, these people were avoiding conversation with me in various ways. Sometimes they would approach me, stand with me, even hug me in greeting, but as soon as I spoke, they would walk away. Sometimes there was a direct, "Not now," spoken in lieu of greeting. I found myself confused, bewildered, hurt.
I awoke profoundly affected, with a feeling of strong reality. I spent the day yesterday trying to convince myself that a dream is simply an unconscious way to let go of daytime woes, rather than a method of explaining problems that need to be addressed. Half the difficulty for me is the specific people involved. Most of the time when these people -- or any people -- appear in my dreams, I may see faces, but really they don't look into my eyes to speak to me. This time each one did just before they walked away from me, pointedly turning away from me to walk away.
There are some strong frustrations in my waking life at the moment. Working my way through them is not going as smoothly as I'd like, and in fact, I am actively avoiding speaking about some of them, because I don't know where to turn. Or maybe I don't want to. Maybe these people are the ones I need to address. Or perhaps they are the ones I'm trying to engage, but I shouldn't be. That last possibility is what has me most perplexed -- it keeps coming back to me, almost as if it's written on paper in front of me. (The blank paper from so long ago? I've been waiting for something to be written upon it...) Perplexing and a bit painful. These are people I've counted on, shared with, cried for.
Can a season end for an entire group at one time? Where else do I turn?
I was at an event. Something with many people, some of whom I knew casually, and some of whom I did not know at all. But there were also some people I knew very well -- a handful -- and each of them had asked specifically if I would be there, saying they wanted to talk with me, either to catch up after an absence, or to cover specific information. I was happy to be there (if you know me well, you know that alone is a tad odd), and looking forward to socializing, catching up, and discussing with my friends -- those who had asked for my presence. Consistently and repeatedly, these people were avoiding conversation with me in various ways. Sometimes they would approach me, stand with me, even hug me in greeting, but as soon as I spoke, they would walk away. Sometimes there was a direct, "Not now," spoken in lieu of greeting. I found myself confused, bewildered, hurt.
I awoke profoundly affected, with a feeling of strong reality. I spent the day yesterday trying to convince myself that a dream is simply an unconscious way to let go of daytime woes, rather than a method of explaining problems that need to be addressed. Half the difficulty for me is the specific people involved. Most of the time when these people -- or any people -- appear in my dreams, I may see faces, but really they don't look into my eyes to speak to me. This time each one did just before they walked away from me, pointedly turning away from me to walk away.
There are some strong frustrations in my waking life at the moment. Working my way through them is not going as smoothly as I'd like, and in fact, I am actively avoiding speaking about some of them, because I don't know where to turn. Or maybe I don't want to. Maybe these people are the ones I need to address. Or perhaps they are the ones I'm trying to engage, but I shouldn't be. That last possibility is what has me most perplexed -- it keeps coming back to me, almost as if it's written on paper in front of me. (The blank paper from so long ago? I've been waiting for something to be written upon it...) Perplexing and a bit painful. These are people I've counted on, shared with, cried for.
Can a season end for an entire group at one time? Where else do I turn?
Friday, December 26, 2014
rest my bones
I'm tired. I slept less than I should have last night, and should really just crawl into bed now (or, really, about a half hour ago) and go to sleep. I'm fighting it. Why? I'd welcome guesses. Mostly because I don't want to admit to myself that I might have some ideas.
First of all, I have a small project I could be working on. It's a draft of a letter that I won't even be sending, but that we decided I should help with. I sent one draft already -- not a great one, but I knew that if I didn't start it yesterday when I had a few minutes, I would put it off until Sunday sometime, and I really didn't like that idea. Or how that would make me feel like I looked. (And that's a funny thing, actually, because I'm far less concerned with how the first version makes me look than how a little procrastination might look. I judge myself kinda harshly. We're working on that...)
Next, husband and most of the kids are not home. Three of those four that are not home are more than capable of getting themselves back home, into bed, and off to dreamland with no intervention from me whatsoever. I know that full well. I miss them all, though, even though they've only been gone a few hours. I'm a bit of a sap when it comes to the Team. (We're not working on that. No problem there.) I'll never make it until all of them are home, but a girl can dream while she's awake.
And that's likely the real reason I don't want to face or think about. A few weeks ago, a friend and I were talking, and working out a problem in dreams came up. I mentioned that I hadn't dreamed in months, which is unusual because I normally remember that I've had dreams, even when I can't remember any of the content. There was an aspect of prayer as an element in that conversation, and a suggestion that praying for guidance in my dreams might be helpful. Since that day, I've had a couple of dreams -- but here's the thing: usually when I realize I haven't dreamed in a while, or when I've had a particularly strange dream, I work at avoiding them. How do I do that? I stay awake and make myself overtired in an effort to eventually fall too deeply asleep to dream. I've made a few daylight connections in the past couple of days, and might be avoiding any other connections getting worked out in my sleep. (This is a weird area, because on one side of my life, I have someone who is fascinated by dreams and what they reveal, and on the other, I have an opposing view: dreams are just dreams. They are a playground for daytime thoughts. It doesn't seem we're working on that....)
As a result of just these three things, I found myself nearly dozing while listening to the end of tonight's lesson on my computer, my eyes are really heavy, and I'm wanting a snack. I think it's time to dish up a scoop or two of ice cream, and get ready to turn in. But before I turn off the light, as I say my evening prayers, I will try to remember to apologize for avoiding sleep, and ask for the grace to accept rest when I need it. I push myself too hard, which, when combined with my tendency to judge myself harshly, can become a rather ugly combination.
Good night, all.
First of all, I have a small project I could be working on. It's a draft of a letter that I won't even be sending, but that we decided I should help with. I sent one draft already -- not a great one, but I knew that if I didn't start it yesterday when I had a few minutes, I would put it off until Sunday sometime, and I really didn't like that idea. Or how that would make me feel like I looked. (And that's a funny thing, actually, because I'm far less concerned with how the first version makes me look than how a little procrastination might look. I judge myself kinda harshly. We're working on that...)
Next, husband and most of the kids are not home. Three of those four that are not home are more than capable of getting themselves back home, into bed, and off to dreamland with no intervention from me whatsoever. I know that full well. I miss them all, though, even though they've only been gone a few hours. I'm a bit of a sap when it comes to the Team. (We're not working on that. No problem there.) I'll never make it until all of them are home, but a girl can dream while she's awake.
And that's likely the real reason I don't want to face or think about. A few weeks ago, a friend and I were talking, and working out a problem in dreams came up. I mentioned that I hadn't dreamed in months, which is unusual because I normally remember that I've had dreams, even when I can't remember any of the content. There was an aspect of prayer as an element in that conversation, and a suggestion that praying for guidance in my dreams might be helpful. Since that day, I've had a couple of dreams -- but here's the thing: usually when I realize I haven't dreamed in a while, or when I've had a particularly strange dream, I work at avoiding them. How do I do that? I stay awake and make myself overtired in an effort to eventually fall too deeply asleep to dream. I've made a few daylight connections in the past couple of days, and might be avoiding any other connections getting worked out in my sleep. (This is a weird area, because on one side of my life, I have someone who is fascinated by dreams and what they reveal, and on the other, I have an opposing view: dreams are just dreams. They are a playground for daytime thoughts. It doesn't seem we're working on that....)
As a result of just these three things, I found myself nearly dozing while listening to the end of tonight's lesson on my computer, my eyes are really heavy, and I'm wanting a snack. I think it's time to dish up a scoop or two of ice cream, and get ready to turn in. But before I turn off the light, as I say my evening prayers, I will try to remember to apologize for avoiding sleep, and ask for the grace to accept rest when I need it. I push myself too hard, which, when combined with my tendency to judge myself harshly, can become a rather ugly combination.
Good night, all.
Monday, July 14, 2014
obstacle or bridge
The image memory is kinetic. I can feel each muscle as I strain against the arm around my waist, screaming and shaking my head so hard I can feel my brain. Punching my fists at someone, and feeling the soft tissue give under the blows. I try to kick, but need my feet under me for balance, for stability.
It's been a long time since I've seen this scene play out in my mind's eye. In fact, every time a teacher in oh, probably junior high, said the words "mind's eye," this is what I saw first. It's pretty dark, and the space is smallish, but I want OUT!
It used to be, when I felt this memory - and I only call it that because it's always been so vivid - or dream, I forced it away, fearful that it was how I would behave if I wasn't careful. That it was some primal, perhaps evil, instinct that could derail all of my dreams, my life. I'd see this on days when I was at the end of my rope: tired, stressed, lonely, isolated. Essentially, when I let my guard down.
Today, after enough time that I had forgotten, but not enough time to not remember, I again felt the intense feeling that I actually was there, in the vision. And I was struck by my reaction. First, I wondered if it was just me - the real, true me - wanting to come out; to break the mold of my false self (the one that's trying to please and impress). I wondered why I wouldn't let myself out. Second, I wondered if it was not a dreamed or imagined image, but an actual memory of an actual event. Only then did I remember the other feelings that had always been part of the package.
Tonight, I'd let my guard down. I was at the Adoration chapel, trying to be patient, to wait, to feel and hear. I wrote for a while, words that flowed freely to God today, but had been getting stuck lately, leaving me frustrated, and my soul tense. I went back and read some journal entries from a few months ago, and found some of myself I'd been ignoring again. I sat and waited. "Father, love me." Each time I say it, my heart opens just a little more, my eyes get more and more wet.
It's an interesting thing that happens when I allow my heart to open. I actually feel like the spaces between my ribs are widening. Usually at the point that I feel that, I get scared. I stop allowing for the presence I'm hoping for. Not tonight. And what I saw was not what I expected. Another turn in the path. An obstacle to overcome, or a bridge to cross?
Sunday, November 24, 2013
you may not know
I finally managed to come up with 10.....
1. I really miss wearing contacts.
2. My glasses are always filthy -- from tears on the inside of them, and from who knows what on the outside.
3. I've never needed a passport. And that makes me a little bit sad.
4. When Dad died, I was in the middle of choreographing a dance for my grandmother. I promised at his funeral to make one for him, but never did. All of it was in me, and I still watch it in my head, sometimes.
5. I used to want a tattoo. The argument with myself over visible vs hidden got to be unwinable, so it'll likely never happen.
6. I'm still trying to figure out what else I want to be when I grow up--I'm closer, but still not there.
7. In high school, I wanted to major in International Law and Languages, and work at the UN. My guidance counselor talked me out of that, and every one of my dream jobs. My favorite class at college was Hospitality Law. Go figure!
8. Zip lines are my favorite way to fly.
9. Favorite place I have ever been is Hawaii. Arizona is a close second. St George Island, Florida, is third.
10. My only real phobia is auditioning, which is related to being talked out of dream jobs when I was 17.
Sunday, July 28, 2013
circle gets the square
Most of my life I've thought about circles and spirals. The kinds that bring you around again to a point in time, or a place in space that seems destined and unavoidable, though perhaps delayed for various reasons. Lately, I've been reminded of forks in my road that may have delayed or changed the point of meeting some people that have become dear to me.
Some circles are fairly easy to identify as they seem to create tighter spirals. In thinking about these tight spirals, I find myself wondering which other circles may be intersecting. A new friend who feels like an old friend and lives and works where we lived when we first moved here. Minor changes in course over the past 20 years, and we easily could have met earlier. The same could be said for a few other people I've met recently who may or may not become good friends, but who are nevertheless important to me at the moment. And I wonder if those multiple circles are meant to intertwine.
An interesting circle that's crossed my mind lately is much bigger. Possibly the biggest circle I've come across, and, therefore, likeliest to be a long-shot. (Although I've come to understand the unlikelihood of mere coincidence.) When Ronald Reagan was elected, I had my first thoughts about a career path. The hostages in Iran were released, and the news was all about what sanctions might be brought, where exactly international waters were, and whether there really was a fear of "cowboy justice." I was completely intrigued by the field of International Law. According to our encyclopedia (which had been published roughly 15 years before I was born), there was no such field, per se. Nevertheless, when I went to high school, I enrolled in French and Spanish. By the time I graduated, I had taken 5 years of each language, and a year of Russian, as well. I would have taken Greek, happily, but the class was held after school, I had a job in the evenings. My goal, having largely forgotten the law aspect, was to be an interpreter at the UN. For various reasons that had less validity than I realized at the time, but as I started getting college catalogs in the mail, one particularly colorful cover caught Dad's eye.
Catholic University had nothing to offer in the Hospitality field I was then considering, but it was the right distance away from home and was near a city Dad traveled to on business. (I didn't realize how important that was to him until I eventually graduated from a school near another city he visited often.) It did have some interesting law majors--including International Law. I was also fascinated by the offerings in Canon law. I seriously considered changing my college goals, but I was talked out of it by my guidance counselor. (Law is no field for a smart young woman like you. And what good would a course in canon law be for a woman at all?) Honestly, it wasn't that hard for me to toss the thought aside: when I was in 8th grade, we went to DC for some reason, went to Mass at the Cathedral, and while there, all our clothes were stolen from our car. I was, interestingly, more upset that my favorite skirt, top and dressy sandals were gone forever than I was about any "violation." I remember Dad saying that anyone who would steal from a car in a church parking lot clearly was more in need of what they took than we were. I was not quite sure I agreed....
Again I was reminded of my early interest when I took my Hospitality Law class. I loved it. I loved the instructor--a crusty older guy with a quirky sense of humor, and a weird way of trying to awe us. (He once told us how to commit the "perfect murder" that would be impossible to be convicted of, even if we were caught, because there would be no evidence. All we would leave would be circumstantial. Odd and creepy.) I loved the way he argued that Connecticut should be outlawed, and there should then be a way to teleport from the end of I-95 in Rhode Island to the beginning in New York. Most of all, I loved the content. I loved everything about tort, proving cases, finding precedents, writing up something like 6 cases per week. (One case study was about the signage in a parking garage. I was in heaven!) At the beginning of class on the first day, he told us the only way to get a good grade in his class was to work. One hour of homework each day, and we could expect a D-C; 2 hours, a solid C. An A would require, at minimum, 4 hours of homework per night. If we managed to do less work and get the grade we wanted, we were to let him know. He'd retire. I accepted the challenge, and pulled off an A--with an hour and a half of work dedicated to Law each morning. Total. Everything about it made sense to me. I wanted to change my major.
Unfortunately, I was stubborn. I had one more trimester of classes left. I had already decided that I was going to take the Associates degree and run. I had already convinced Dad that working for a couple of years and going back to school was the best thing for me. I had already decided that instead of having a career in Recreation and Leisure Management, I was supposed to be an English teacher. But I had fallen in love with Law. When the professor told us that the school had approved a Sports Law class for the following year, and that anyone who had ever had an A in his class would get first shot at it, and that he didn't expect any women to have any interest, I was sooooooo tempted to re-enroll in school, just for that class.
I wonder now if I had followed that pull to law, would I still be at this place at some point in my life. If I would still have the people in my life that support, guide, challenge me on a regular basis. (One of whom teaches law at Catholic. Although I wouldn't have met him while I was in college, had I followed my first instinct, we may have crossed paths professionally.) If it's too late to jump into the legal waters. I'm not a shark. But the types of law I was interested in didn't (seem) to require that type of personality. In no way do I feel unfulfilled. Just a continued curiosity. One that, likely, many would not understand, and insist that if I think about it, I must have regrets. I do not. Not in the least. I see that a circle has come full around, and I feel peace. Curiosity is not, for me, something that gets in the way of peace. Curiosity is something that drives me to continue to grow, to learn, to move forward.
Some circles are fairly easy to identify as they seem to create tighter spirals. In thinking about these tight spirals, I find myself wondering which other circles may be intersecting. A new friend who feels like an old friend and lives and works where we lived when we first moved here. Minor changes in course over the past 20 years, and we easily could have met earlier. The same could be said for a few other people I've met recently who may or may not become good friends, but who are nevertheless important to me at the moment. And I wonder if those multiple circles are meant to intertwine.
An interesting circle that's crossed my mind lately is much bigger. Possibly the biggest circle I've come across, and, therefore, likeliest to be a long-shot. (Although I've come to understand the unlikelihood of mere coincidence.) When Ronald Reagan was elected, I had my first thoughts about a career path. The hostages in Iran were released, and the news was all about what sanctions might be brought, where exactly international waters were, and whether there really was a fear of "cowboy justice." I was completely intrigued by the field of International Law. According to our encyclopedia (which had been published roughly 15 years before I was born), there was no such field, per se. Nevertheless, when I went to high school, I enrolled in French and Spanish. By the time I graduated, I had taken 5 years of each language, and a year of Russian, as well. I would have taken Greek, happily, but the class was held after school, I had a job in the evenings. My goal, having largely forgotten the law aspect, was to be an interpreter at the UN. For various reasons that had less validity than I realized at the time, but as I started getting college catalogs in the mail, one particularly colorful cover caught Dad's eye.
Catholic University had nothing to offer in the Hospitality field I was then considering, but it was the right distance away from home and was near a city Dad traveled to on business. (I didn't realize how important that was to him until I eventually graduated from a school near another city he visited often.) It did have some interesting law majors--including International Law. I was also fascinated by the offerings in Canon law. I seriously considered changing my college goals, but I was talked out of it by my guidance counselor. (Law is no field for a smart young woman like you. And what good would a course in canon law be for a woman at all?) Honestly, it wasn't that hard for me to toss the thought aside: when I was in 8th grade, we went to DC for some reason, went to Mass at the Cathedral, and while there, all our clothes were stolen from our car. I was, interestingly, more upset that my favorite skirt, top and dressy sandals were gone forever than I was about any "violation." I remember Dad saying that anyone who would steal from a car in a church parking lot clearly was more in need of what they took than we were. I was not quite sure I agreed....
Again I was reminded of my early interest when I took my Hospitality Law class. I loved it. I loved the instructor--a crusty older guy with a quirky sense of humor, and a weird way of trying to awe us. (He once told us how to commit the "perfect murder" that would be impossible to be convicted of, even if we were caught, because there would be no evidence. All we would leave would be circumstantial. Odd and creepy.) I loved the way he argued that Connecticut should be outlawed, and there should then be a way to teleport from the end of I-95 in Rhode Island to the beginning in New York. Most of all, I loved the content. I loved everything about tort, proving cases, finding precedents, writing up something like 6 cases per week. (One case study was about the signage in a parking garage. I was in heaven!) At the beginning of class on the first day, he told us the only way to get a good grade in his class was to work. One hour of homework each day, and we could expect a D-C; 2 hours, a solid C. An A would require, at minimum, 4 hours of homework per night. If we managed to do less work and get the grade we wanted, we were to let him know. He'd retire. I accepted the challenge, and pulled off an A--with an hour and a half of work dedicated to Law each morning. Total. Everything about it made sense to me. I wanted to change my major.
Unfortunately, I was stubborn. I had one more trimester of classes left. I had already decided that I was going to take the Associates degree and run. I had already convinced Dad that working for a couple of years and going back to school was the best thing for me. I had already decided that instead of having a career in Recreation and Leisure Management, I was supposed to be an English teacher. But I had fallen in love with Law. When the professor told us that the school had approved a Sports Law class for the following year, and that anyone who had ever had an A in his class would get first shot at it, and that he didn't expect any women to have any interest, I was sooooooo tempted to re-enroll in school, just for that class.
I wonder now if I had followed that pull to law, would I still be at this place at some point in my life. If I would still have the people in my life that support, guide, challenge me on a regular basis. (One of whom teaches law at Catholic. Although I wouldn't have met him while I was in college, had I followed my first instinct, we may have crossed paths professionally.) If it's too late to jump into the legal waters. I'm not a shark. But the types of law I was interested in didn't (seem) to require that type of personality. In no way do I feel unfulfilled. Just a continued curiosity. One that, likely, many would not understand, and insist that if I think about it, I must have regrets. I do not. Not in the least. I see that a circle has come full around, and I feel peace. Curiosity is not, for me, something that gets in the way of peace. Curiosity is something that drives me to continue to grow, to learn, to move forward.
Thursday, June 27, 2013
dream state
Last night, I dreamt of finding a room in my house. Although it was a house I knew well, it was a house I've never seen in my waking life. And it was also distinctly "mine," as opposed to "our" house.
This was one of those dreams that is simultaneously real and an active exercise of imagination. I knew I was in a dream, and actively participated.
We had discovered some ants on a shelf. It seems every year (much like my real life house), we'd been dealing with the ants, and we had been waiting for the to show up. This time, our goal was to find where they were going, since stopping them from coming in had never done much good. So we followed their progress and discovered tjat the back of the shelf was actually a stone. Removing it, we discovered a fireplace, and beyond that, a beautiful--if dusty and empty--room with wood floors.
Funny that the rest of the room mattered little. All I could take in was the wide open space, the wide plank wood floors, and the dust. And I was as perplexed as I was contended at finally finding another secret room.
When I was a kid, and even into my 20's, I had a recurrent dream about a secret room in Grammy and Grampy's house. At the top of the stairs was a ledge that we would sometimes sit on when we were feeling brave and sure we would not get caught. I was terrified to stand or walk on it, figuring the wall behind me could never offer me enough support or balance.
In my dream, I would walk confidently to the end of the ledge and open the door that was only there in my dreams. On the other side was a beautifully appointed bedroom, fit for a queen. Too nice for me to touch much of anything, but a great place to sit by the window and read.
When we first moved to Pennsylvania, I dreamt of the house I thought we should buy and live in. To this day I can remember how excited I was when I first discovered the secret room in that house! It was almost another house, with a garden patio and French doors.
While in my dream last night, I wondered what I should be learning. I took in what came to me as important: wood floors, space, light, a fireplace, dust. And then I noticed that I was looking down into this room, and realized that had been true of the last secret room, although the room of my childhood was on my own level.
I awoke, as I always have after such dreams, happy and curious. Poised and at peace, but ready to get busy. Thoroughly confused, yet quite comforted. I hope it comes again.
Monday, May 20, 2013
still no pen
Last night I dreamt I was writing. I would be told a topic, and I would turn and go to a room and write. The feeling the writing gave me was neither positive nor negative; it's just what I had to do. Yet I was delighted. I knew writing was what I needed to do.
The funny thing is, I had a keen awareness that I was not writing on my piece of blank paper. I knew that my paper was still somewhere. And that was, interestingly, a comforting, rather than a nagging, feeling. Over the course of the past week, including some short exchanges, some reading, some pondering, and even some ignoring, I've come to see, and begin to appreciate, the subtle tweak in attitude. My blank paper is blank because it's meant to be--for the moment.
Anyway, I know that most dreams are forgotten rather quickly after waking. The fact that this one is staying with me until almost bedtime again was not my first clue that there was something there for me to know. No, the first clue was when I woke, and saw paper, and knew instinctively that answers come in small pieces, like Gramma Katie's winter jigsaws. Funny how over twenty years later, I'm learning so many lessons from her! Each winter, Gramma Katie set up a card table in her front parlor, and dumped a puzzle out onto its surface. I always wondered how she managed to find such hard puzzles, because they took all winter to put together. (At home, I would put puzzles together to have another something in common with her, and they never took nearly as long to finish.) I remember asking her about this, but I don't remember any answer past the smile she always had (open mouthed,and with laughing eyes) and shared generously.
Now when I think about my special situation, I see her putting her puzzles together, piece by piece; savoring each 'fit.' This is what the joy in life is: seeing each small piece for what it is--which is not always something more than a small part of the whole, but is oftentimes more important in the long run than we'd imagined. In my pondering, I'm coming across memories I'd nearly let slip off the edge that seem to be turning out to be those all important frame pieces. Or the hard to place, but equally important filler pieces.
Like the answer to a discussion question in on of my classes: a non-profit or not-for-profit. At the time, as with a few other things I've blurted out lately, I thought, "Where did that come from?" And yet (which I find myself saying often these days!) I knew exactly where in my heart; I just didn't know that I knew. I remember that was the strangest part. At some point, another question will move to the forefront of my thinking, and that may or may not coincide with having an answer to the current one. But contemplating has become an inspiring pastime, and has changed my outlook. (Okay, to be perfectly honest, change is slow in coming, but I can see the edges of it, and, since I like what I see, I'm inviting it, embracing it.)
Still no pen.
The funny thing is, I had a keen awareness that I was not writing on my piece of blank paper. I knew that my paper was still somewhere. And that was, interestingly, a comforting, rather than a nagging, feeling. Over the course of the past week, including some short exchanges, some reading, some pondering, and even some ignoring, I've come to see, and begin to appreciate, the subtle tweak in attitude. My blank paper is blank because it's meant to be--for the moment.
Anyway, I know that most dreams are forgotten rather quickly after waking. The fact that this one is staying with me until almost bedtime again was not my first clue that there was something there for me to know. No, the first clue was when I woke, and saw paper, and knew instinctively that answers come in small pieces, like Gramma Katie's winter jigsaws. Funny how over twenty years later, I'm learning so many lessons from her! Each winter, Gramma Katie set up a card table in her front parlor, and dumped a puzzle out onto its surface. I always wondered how she managed to find such hard puzzles, because they took all winter to put together. (At home, I would put puzzles together to have another something in common with her, and they never took nearly as long to finish.) I remember asking her about this, but I don't remember any answer past the smile she always had (open mouthed,and with laughing eyes) and shared generously.
Now when I think about my special situation, I see her putting her puzzles together, piece by piece; savoring each 'fit.' This is what the joy in life is: seeing each small piece for what it is--which is not always something more than a small part of the whole, but is oftentimes more important in the long run than we'd imagined. In my pondering, I'm coming across memories I'd nearly let slip off the edge that seem to be turning out to be those all important frame pieces. Or the hard to place, but equally important filler pieces.
Like the answer to a discussion question in on of my classes: a non-profit or not-for-profit. At the time, as with a few other things I've blurted out lately, I thought, "Where did that come from?" And yet (which I find myself saying often these days!) I knew exactly where in my heart; I just didn't know that I knew. I remember that was the strangest part. At some point, another question will move to the forefront of my thinking, and that may or may not coincide with having an answer to the current one. But contemplating has become an inspiring pastime, and has changed my outlook. (Okay, to be perfectly honest, change is slow in coming, but I can see the edges of it, and, since I like what I see, I'm inviting it, embracing it.)
Still no pen.
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