The Snood

    

Photo by Andrik Langfield on Unsplash

 I was a child of the 70s. This doesn't mean too very much to me as I was still quite a young child during the 70s. Sometimes when I filled with a nostalgic longing for a simpler time, I will look for a used women's magazine or book from these times, and imagine living a life of domestic simplicity in the past. But mostly, I don't remember much. Living in St. Louis, I have memories of baseball games, cigarettes everywhere, moonies on street corners, and long summer days that stretched into nights playing on grass, making mud pies, and dealing with the issues that come from living in a neighborhood with other children. I was earnest, temperamental, talked too much, and loved to play school or house or ride my bike like the wind. 

    Once my mom made me a snood. A snood, according to her, was a crocheted square or something that covered my hair once it was put up in a bun. I wasn't too keen on it, but my mom insisted it was stylish and made me wear it to school one day. 

    My instincts regarding the true stylishness of the snood were on point as the other children teased me about the silly thing in my hair. "It's a snood," I told them, pointy little chin held high. Unfortunately, my explanation was not quite enough for the children of Rose Acres Elementary, and the teasing continued. 

    Later, I confessed the story to my mom, and explained that no matter what they didn't get to see me cry. I have vague recollections of my primary teachers having pianos in the classroom. I am not sure WHY I remember this-I can only assume primary teachers at the time did play some simple melodies perhaps.  It makes sense. It didn't all used to be early cramming for reading skills and tests. I slid my little body behind the piano until they tears passed and then, thin lips pressed into a smile, corners forced up, I emerged. No they wouldn't see me cry. 

    I am still her. Forty-six years later and I still feel like that girl hiding behind the piano. I come out, lips pulled up, and tell myself it will be fine. It will be good. Noone will know the shame I feel at being so otherly. So unwelcome and somehow clearly wrong. 

    The only saving grace is 46 years later I am much too busy to dwell too much. I will wipe the tear away and tell myself it is a sign. A sign I must belong somewhere else. A sign I need to move on and keep looking. And I am tired. But I keep my  bag packed and close by, and my fingers and toes are starting to itch. 

    Maybe elsewhere is where I belong. I belong where snoods are okay and noone makes us wear what we don't want to wear anyway, and hearts are open, invitations flow freely, and irreverent comments are seen for what they truly are-anxiety. A place where the silliness and seriousness are embraced. 

    I know this place doesn't exist. 

    But moving is always better than standing still.

    Smile.

This Burden at My Feet

 

                                                           

Photo by Joshua Fuller on Unsplash

Yesterday, a hesitant person shared information with me. A story as old as time, of decades-old pain remembered differently by two people. As they were speaking, my head was screaming why are you telling me this?  Was it to ease their own pain and get some understanding, or to prevent me from hearing it from another source? Regardless, the knapsack was placed down and I have to decide how much to pull out and carry along with me. At the time, I sent a fervent prayer up for wisdom-wisdom to speak wisely about something I am not a party in and which is destined to bring pain-beyond that which has already occurred.

We are not others. Our soul is distinct and our journey is ours alone. However,  people join us for parts of our journey. They walk in step with us for a time, come and go perhaps, or even just flash by quickly, with a knowing smile and a quick wink. I believe we know each other in the beyond-but the ties are different there. 

In our animal bodies however, tribalism runs deep. Familial ties have meaning that perhaps they do not have in the afterlife. Tribalism run deep in me. I will defend my own. 

But the question is, what is my own? Is it humanity, my sex, motherhood, my birth family, my children. Is it teachers? Coffee drinkers, book readers?

This is a situation where either one person is lying or one person is remembering wrong. And you know what? I will never know. 

And so I gaze at the bundle and I wonder, how can I best mitigate this pain? I cannot turn my back on someone who hasn't hurt me, someone whose lonely life is destined to become lonelier, and yet, I do this with a sigh, knowing my values are being stretched, tested, perhaps. I do not have answers. Just this knot of sadness sitting there waiting for me to decide. So I reach into the bag and pull out a coat to carry. I will give warmth to this lonely person, I will provide a bit of shelter to a quieting life force. But my heart will always burn for the pain of another, and a light will shine for them there.

Hello, Dear Blog! Hello, New Year!

     This blog has fallen out of favor among my writing blogs, mainly because I struggle with defining where I want it go. I really don't want it to be another positive, motivational, self-help blog because there are so many great ones out there already. As a teacher with no interest in administration, telling others how to climb the corporate ladder seems a little absurd to me. So, this leaves me with wondering, what CAN I fill these pages with? 

    I like self-help and self-improvement. I like watching videos and listening to podcasts and reading articles. So maybe sometimes, this will be a place for me to observe my reactions to that information. I don't want to TELL you want to do. It has never been a driving force for me to persuade others to do things my way. I just want to share my thoughts, so you can either incorporate them into you own worldview or choose to just to let them pass. I don't need to be your leader anymore than I really need a leader. I just want to BE and SHARE. Although every now and then someone will come and be directive and give me such sweet, practical advice, and it literally tickles me down to my toes. I think I missed out on some gentle mothering as a child. No blame, I probably neglected my own children in the same way. We can only do what we know.

    Maybe this will be a place to respond to the books and movies I read. I want to do more serious reading. Its hard-I work a lot. I mean, a lot. Between my regular teaching job, tutoring, online teaching, and delivering food, I am putting well over 60 hours a week. I awaken early to work. I come home and rush out the door to work. It's not ideal, but its enough to scrape by a decent life. 

    I know I have addressed this issue on here before, but never really took it anywhere. I feel the need to take it somewhere, though. Even if I am just screaming my opinions into the wind, I need to get them out there. 

Just a collection of thoughts

     I ran out of coffee this morning. Well, that isn't true-I have those single serve coffee bags. However, my usually well-caffeinated body is really struggling to wake up. I was up at 4:30 and working early, but without my coffee, I just don't feel the kick. It's fine. I can survive on weak coffee bags, and my Walmart pickup order is at 5 tonight. 

    I finally gave in and watched Call Me By Your Name last night. I know it came out over six years ago, but it takes me a while to get around to things. Whenever I would search for a "very romantic movie" it would be on the list. I was reluctant to watch it because is guy on guy action really romantic to me? I was reluctant. But I was not disappointed.

   

Now, be forewarned if you frown upon same-sex coupling, this may not be for you. 

What I loved about the movie: Timothee Chalamet's face. Just exquisite bone structure. His body was a little small, but I guess he was young then. I loved the quiet subtle desire. No "most ardent" passionate speeches. Just persuasion and lust and admiration slowly growing and enticing. Now, I could have done without the self-love scenes, however they did bring a reality to movie, but oh, the awkwardness. I felt I was in the room with him, hoping his dignity was maintained and he didn't get caught with his little escapades and snooping and um...peach experimentation. It was really well done.  His character seemed really young, but I know the age of consent is lower in Europe, so it probably wasn't quite shocking to see his youth sexually exploited.

    The worst part. The peach. Good lord. And Elio's "Duckie" hairstyle at the end. I hated his hair so much I felt a little contemptuous towards the tear-dripping wimp. Not really, but it was awful. 

 The loss of a great love or relationship (when chemicals get involved it is so hard to separate love from lust), may not be something we have all felt, but the feeling of desiring something that we cannot have, this resonates with many. 

Mr. Perlman: We rip out so much of ourselves to be cured of things faster than we should that we go bankrupt by the age of thirty and have less to offer each time we start with someone new. But to make yourself feel nothing so as not to feel anything - what a waste!

 

My thoughts were much better (I tell myself) when I was driving in the car, but now I am so very sleepy and they have fled.

Christmas looms and I want to pack everything away now. The clutter is overwhelming. In the past week, Alec has intentionally cut the slipcover on the library sofa and one of the boys have broken the leg on the coffee table in there. Add this to the large hole in the rocker (which I loved), and let me tell you, we are not living well. 

Anyway, I need a nap.

    This song is stuck in my head today.

And there she is again

 

Tumble-joy reigned

Topsy-turvy 

alone again

voiceless,

fail again

 this place,

 smile.

Ah, yes. 

Home again.

This infp (who believes personality tests are pure crap for the simpleminded (like me), is drowning in the angry feels today:)

Have a good one!

P.s. I am totally being overly dramatic. It makes me happy.

Static

   

Photo by Ben Karpinski on Unsplash

 We strive to be that dynamic, exciting personality who exhibits growth and radiance. We believe we have a purpose and importance. We believe we were put here to DO BIG THINGS. Because all around us this is what the world is telling us. It's a sign on the wall, a scribble from a colleague.

    And then one day, we wake up, nearing the half-century mark, having accomplished little and feeling a bit foolish singing the praises of the palty small accomplishments we have made.  And WHAT exactly distinguishes what IS an accomplishment? Is it business success? A good-looking partner? Money, or a beautiful home? Is it a generous heart that others can rely on? Is it a novel, published? When your words spill reverently out of another's lips?

    Guys, I am going to be 50. It's a word too old to imagine. Too steady and Karenish for this faltering timid soul stumbling around in this body. I feel like I am just beginning to open my eyes and already my life is more than halfway over. Maybe 2/3 over. And I am just learning so much now. And so very disappointed by the lessons.

    It doesn't really seem fair. I used to think the world was wide open. Anyone could do and become anything. I don't anymore. Some people truly have a leg up. Sometimes it is financially. Some people were blessed with beautiful faces. Some have inviting personalities and have been taught or gifted with emotional self-control. 

    I am lucky in many ways. But in many others, I was far behind the starting line. And  I am coming to understand that maybe don't change as much as we thought we could. Maybe our core nature IS static. I will always fight being jealous, petty, insecure. It's so gross. I may never see when someone is using me for their own entertainment-or rather- I do see, but I don't believe it- until after the fact. I may always be naively forgiving of those who maybe don't deserve it. I will NEVER master my surging hormones which leave me reeling periodically. In this case, nature will lose. Just a little more time. 

    I think I  may always be socially insecure. I can use the positive self-talk and see that someone isn't better than me rationally, but the fear of eventual rejection, the fear of my own imperfections, is unshakable. To this day, I reel with shame when I post something and noone responds or likes it. I realize either my thinking is remarkably banal or just so out there and personal, I should be sharing with a therapist rather than with you. 

    Maybe the lesson isn't to learn to overcome the imperfections, but to learn to accept the limitations with grace. 

    Maybe there is beauty in accepting one's own nature, learning to tame the beast, whilst always acknowledging the hungry survivalist waiting beneath the surface. Maybe the lessons become too ingrained, too imprinted on our soul. 

    And so I wonder where to go from here. Where to take this next 25 years. I watch myself fade. I let go of once-dreams one-by-one and wonder what is left when all the built up hopes and dreams and fears  drift away. How deeply can I mesh with the soul of who I truly am and stop looking for the soul of who I hope to be?