Archives for category: Fiction

I woke with some difficulty this morning, so stiff that rolling over to shut off the alarm took effort, and the seeming ceaseless beeping until I got to the clock didn’t seem to do as much to wake me, for real, than I might have expected had I been sufficiently awake to have expectations beyond expecting to be able to turn off the alarm sooner, with greater ease. I’m still groggy.

I’ve been sitting here, gazing vacantly at my aquarium, and listening to a jazz standard that doesn’t sound quite right…even though I feel sure that the version I am listening to it the one I favor most.  It’s an odd sensation, that finds me searching YouTube for other versions, by other artists I have listened to singing this song… none of them sound the way I remember. the arrangement is somewhat different in all of them. Then…as I hum the version I expected, quietly, it hits me; I’m hearing the version of the song that is most representative of me singing it, myself. Yep. I sing jazz standards, mostly a capella, mostly in the shower, in the car, or out walking…and I rarely do so when anyone can hear me because my singing is actually pretty dreadful. lol I love the feeling that goes with whatever moves me to sing, and alone I feel no hint of self-consciousness about delighting myself in this fashion. I find it unexpected that my favorite version of any of these songs I love would be my own.

I suspect being hung up on this song this morning is a kindness my brain is offering me to distract from both pain, and the worrisome appointment later. It is convenient that the biopsy falls on the same day as therapy – however emotionally challenging the biopsy procedure may turn out to be, I’ll be getting pro-level support later. By the end of the work day yesterday, I was feeling pretty pragmatic about the appointment – and the procedure. I’m still tense about it, still a bit worried about the outcome, but it’s no surprise to me that I’m mortal, that I’m 52 this year, that aging is, or that uncomfortable medical procedures are sometimes necessary. I’m fortunate to have ‘procedures’ available that may save me from an early demise. Fear subsided by day’s end, and this morning I am…tense, yes, but unafraid. That’s an improvement.

The worst case scenarios my brain devised, of course, are dreadful – and seemingly reasonable, or at least potentially possible, but that’s sort of a requirement for a really terrifying worst case scenario, I think. I didn’t get past the fear until I allowed myself to consider these ‘worsts’ to their apparent likely conclusions, and took a moment to consider those proposed outcomes with an open heart, self-compassion, and acceptance. “What if…”  It added some things to the disappointingly long list of shit I think I need to work on, and served to reinforce an eagerness for life that is pretty positive, generally. My next step – and this one needed real will, and commitment to action, was to take some moments to consider that these worst case scenarios are just my brain running simulations – “what if” analysis – and they have no more reality at all than any other work of fiction. They are merely words, images, and projections of potential moments that are not yet, and may never be. They have no power over me that I do not give them, myself.

Perspective

Perspective

Having reached a point of emotional equilibrium about this appointment, it’s disappointing to wake up this morning in this much pain, and this stiff. My spine feels like my vertebrae are super-glued in place and lack any flexibility at all…but, hey… great day to see a doctor, even on an unrelated issue. (Are there really any ‘unrelated issues’, ever?)

So here’s a question… If you had to check out today – and I do mean end your mortal experience here in this plane of existence, no planning, no preparation, no last great experiences, just wrap things up and call it good – if you had to check out today, are you content with what you got done for yourself, and for the world? Have you left a lasting positive legacy of some kind, even if it’s only the lovely memories of having loved you that remain? Was it ‘worth it’? If the answer is ‘no’ – what will you do differently tomorrow? It was this question in mind, last night, as I arrived home that gave me insight I needed to communicate, at long last, something that had been throwing my heart’s song off-key and I was finally able to express it as a question without accusation, or grief, or baggage, and that was a wonderful moment.

Well…here it is, today, and no more stalling. Today is a good day to take care of me. Today is a good day to recognize the sometimes hurtful fictions in my thoughts are not the experience I live, unless I choose that experience, myself. Today is a good day to let events unfold gently. Today is just one day of many, and I am just one person, each of us having our own experience of the world.

 

…On what works best for me.  I’m not even a little bit uncomfortable saying I sometimes choose poorly, or that I make mistakes, or that I ‘get it wrong’ sometimes, or occasionally hurt someone I care about, or behave thoughtlessly, or fail myself through my own inaction, or bad decision-making in the moment; I am human. I am quite human, actually, and I am human every day of my experience in life. Not one moment of my life have I been super human, extra-human, human-plus, or in any way beyond the reach of mortal limits, and mortal consequences. I even make spelling mistakes. 🙂

It is also true that every morning I awaken to a new day, and a new opportunity to be somewhat improved over the day before, in some small way, and to make better choices for myself, my family, and the world. Every morning, I get to start again. It’s sort of poetic, and very promising, and I find great encouragement in contemplating my experience of life from the perspective of a fresh start every 24 hours or so.

I’ve had the weekend solo, and I have been enjoying the moments of stillness, and relishing the subtly different choices I make in solitude. Sleeping and waking feel different when I am alone in the house, and I am silenced by the lack of others off which to bounce words. I find myself wondering if anyone but me is aware that I simply never ‘talk to myself’ out loud when I am alone…and I wonder, too, if that is true of other people who occasionally speak aloud to themselves. The realization that stray remarks made aloud, directed to no one in particular, only occur when I am in the relatively near presence of others is strange; I am immediately very intent on not ‘talking to myself’ any more, because I’m clearly not actually talking to myself. Remarks intended to be heard function best when made clearly, and directed in a specific and obvious way to the person we wish to hear them; that seems so obvious there is no point saying it, really, but there it is. Words. I like direct communication. Talking to oneself with the hope of being heard by others seems pretty… indirect. Like banging cupboard doors to communicate emotions, it also seems very inefficient, and vaguely dishonest somehow. I think I will give the practice up, and communicate with great care, and intent. (See paragraph 1; the success of any intended action is limited by my human-ness, and change requires a commitment to practice.)

This morning I woke much later than I usually would. I slept in. It was lovely. I think I could have slept in later, a rare treat, if it were not for the fuzzy family members waking me with a breakfast request called out in some sort of canine code from outside. I’m considerate of their experience as creatures; my sleeping in resulted in a late breakfast for them. I’m also considerate of my neighbors, who might also like to sleep in a bit longer. One woof reached my consciousness and my feet hit the floor seconds later. The fuzzy faces at the patio door were very eager to see me. Breakfast for them was followed by coffee for me, and my morning routine was thrown completely out of sequence. I was taking a moment to savor the relaxed morning, smiling about sleeping in ‘so late’ – past 8:00 am – and turned to look at the clock… damn it. I felt a bit disappointed that the change to ‘Daylight Savings Time’ resulted in sleeping in until only a bit past 7:00 am. Much less delightful, certainly less rare… and… also completely illusory. I slept the same number of hours, regardless, so it isn’t that it really matters. It just reminded me what a stupid idea I think Daylight Savings Time is. Seriously? What nitwit thought arbitrarily changing what time we say it is really has some positive benefit? It screws with so much small stuff, too… the timing on medications that are carefully timed, the valued habits that ensure the timing of tasks or events is correct, even our sense of placement in time is affected by this foolishness – and for what? No one gets a damned thing of value out of this head game we play twice a year in the U.S.

…I am easily annoyed when I am first waking up. It’s a true thing about me. I tend to be more emotionally reactive first thing in the morning.  It’s evidently true of many people. I generally practice yoga and meditation very early in my morning, often very soon after the alarm goes off. Doing that tends to insulate me from early morning emotional reactivity, and gives me a bit of a buffer, and more emotional resilience with which to face the start of the day. It’s very helpful practice.

The solo weekend ends today, both because the weekend will end, and also because later today the travelers return. Over my coffee I’ve made a list of things I’d like to get done before they return. I have given myself a compassionate moment of encouragement and acceptance, in advance, because it’s unlikely I’ll get everything on the list done. It’s a long list. I look at it from the perspective of taking care of me, and I cross off one or two things easily handled another day. I look at it again, and consider my family’s needs, too, and cross off a couple more things, and add something different, something that matters more to them than to me, but really matters a lot. I end with a list that doesn’t drive my anxiety, seems reasonable in general, and doesn’t require super powers to achieve with a couple of hours of organized effort. I’ll take care of the list, after my morning coffee, and then spend the day relaxing and enjoying the last of the weekend.

So many possible journeys. So many words to choose from.

So many possible journeys. So many words to choose from.

This weekend I decided to experience NaNoWriMo. I have, in fact, been assembling the threads of an idea, and like others that came before this one, it is gravely at risk of abandonment. This seems a fun way to keep it on track. 🙂 What about you? Where will today take you? Where will you take you? Today is a good day to take a journey that has been delayed. Today is a good day to pursue passion. Today is a good day to commit to something very desirable, and see it through to the end. Today is a good day to make use of will and intention in wonderful ways. Today is a good day to change the world.

Before we get a lot farther, I’ll say first that I am not holding any significant credentials in linguistics, semantics, or language.  All views expressed are those of… me. Just me. My thoughts. My observations. My judgement. My bias. My baggage.  All filtered through my own experiences, my perspective on life, love and the world, my history as a human being, my education – and lack of education, the reading I have done, the consideration I have given all these things, and finally assembled as neatly as possible as a string of words in a row, hoping to capture what I think I mean to say, to share with you.  Ready? 😀

There is more to a sunny day than meets the eye; what we see is rarely all there is.

There is more to a sunny day than meets the eye; what we see is rarely all there is.

I say a lot about words. I do so using the words themselves. I share my thoughts using words. I share most of my emotional experience using words; the portions of that shared wordlessly, through non verbal expression of feelings, is not very precise and easily misunderstood or taken personally by others. I recall things that happened before now using words. Words are the building blocks of my poetry, my captions, my titles, and my jokes. Words are what I use to write love notes, and consumer feedback, to express my delight and my outrage. Words deliver hurts and words nurture my soul. Words define experiences, things, and people and they describe places, events, and experiences. Words tell profound truths, and also terrible lies. Words expose what is real, and are also used to attempt to hide what is real, or alter a shared understanding of reality. Words are used to threaten, to coerce, to convince, to persuade, to celebrate, to mourn, to immortalize, to laud and to punish. Words  are powerful. Powerful like Science. Powerful like magic. We are words as much as we are stardust; even Carl Sagan used words to communicate what he understood about life, the world, and the heavens.

I giggle to myself, at least once or twice, when I read books about words. There’s just something about it that tickles me.

A former partner, years ago, once firmly advised me in a moment of strife, that it ‘didn’t count’ if I had to be told what he wanted to hear; that soothing words, comforting words, romantic words, supportive and nurturing words only count if the speaker comes up with it on their own, from their heart, with no help from the person who needs to hear the words. An interesting thought that relies heavily on the assumption that love allows us to read minds. lol I didn’t find it to be an accurate statement, myself, but I admit it was entirely true of my then-partner, who would reliably refuse any comfort or positive outcome from any words he’d been party to suggesting might be good ones to use in that moment. (It seems unnecessary to point out the choice being made there.)

Another partner once merrily chuckled playfully (in a moment of domestic-not-quite-bliss, having provided a clear specific suggestion of the words he most needed to hear in that  moment, and having heard them repeated back by his loving partner, in  sincere and heartfelt way, honest in intent, although lacking in originality), “Knows answer when told…” and as though taking notes or scoring a test, made a check mark in the air, over an imaginary clipboard. We cracked up together; it’s a moment and phrase that still sticks with me, and not solely because of shared military experience (from whence that quote comes, actually being used in military scoring of certain task testing). He makes different choices, and he felt cared for because he used his words – and so did his partner.

I’m just saying; words matter. They matter when we listen, and they matter when we speak.

The words themselves are less about originality than the order in which they are used (there are only so many to choose from, and some are favored above all others; obviously, originality is not the issue), and whether we feel heard when we use them, or how we are spoken to when we hear them (which is a very subjective thing that I suspect we entirely make up in our heads as we go).  There are books about words, about how to use them, what they mean, and when they are most effective for what purposes. There are books that simply list words other people have said, in the order spoken, and saved on record as being peculiarly useful, effective, amusing, or historically noteworthy. There are letters and love notes of such awesome craftsmanship that their emotive power is preserved in them, and they are referenced and shared down through the years as culturally significant.

I’m just saying; words really matter – enough that it is worthwhile to put some thought into the words we choose.

Nearly every moment of wonder, of love, of delight in my own experience has been framed up in words, if not in the moment, sometime soon after when I share it with someone else.  The profound love I share with my partners is expressed to me wordlessly, often, sure – but as often, my recollection of expressions of love is in words. The eager goals of our future are shared in words. The challenges we face together, or with each other, are discussed in words. My own growth and progress with myself as a being is shared with my loved ones – and in my blog – with words. My annual review at work is in words. All the words – each of them – bring a shade of meaning to my experience I might have lacked, or understood differently, without the words, themselves. I can tell someone I love them without using words…but I can’t tell them why, or how much, or explain the nuances of what they mean to me, without the words. I can cry out in pain or anguish without words, but I can’t tell someone what is wrong, or ask for help, without the words to do so.

So…yeah. Words matter…but…they’re also totally made up. Seriously. We created each one, and someone (generally the person who thought up the word, at least initially) also made up what the word will be used to convey. What words mean changes over time, with usage. Some people are very precise with their use of language. Some people are sloppy and careless to the point of being difficult to understand, or communicating something more about their education, or character, through their choices with words. There are so many words, and still there are ideas for which no word yet exists; new ones come into being all the time. We communicate and we miscommunicate using words. Words we made up. Words we defined. Words we choose to use. We create our own experience, and color it, with words we choose ourselves, and call our ‘thoughts’; we behave as though they are real, and follow them with our actions and moods until they are.

Yes. Words matter, and I’m just saying; use your words. Use them wisely. Use them with care. Use them, don’t let them just tumble out of your face hole randomly. Use them with awareness that they are easily ‘weaponized’ and awareness that you have the power to hurt someone with words in ways that are not easily healed. We accept that actions have consequences fairly easily; words, too, have consequences.

Another perspective on a sunny day.

Another perspective on a sunny day.

Today is a good day to use kind words. Today is a good day to express myself with great clarity. Today is a good day to hear what is said, and to take a moment to understand the words. Today is a good day to consider my words, and their merit, and to use them with great care. Today is a good day to build truth, and to use honest words. Today is a good day to love, and to say so with loving words. Today is a good day for praise and encouraging words. Today is a good day to contemplate words that convey beauty and words that communicate a better understanding. Today is a good day to change the words.

I woke feeling rested and serene, this morning. My shower felt refreshing. I meditated from a starting point of alert awareness and physical comfort. My morning yoga eased my stiffness, and my body felt graceful and strong. My coffee tasted warm and nurtured my heart while it warmed my hands, wrapped contentedly around the white porcelain mug. It was the beginning of a lovely spring morning.

The garden on a spring morning.

The garden on a spring morning.

Then I got to thinking, because I was writing (they sort of go together)… and within minutes I was irritated, discontent, frustrated, annoyed, saddened, and really just struggling with myself and my experience. It was all a reaction to the thoughts I was thinking, which although they were about something ‘real’, the thing they were about wasn’t going on in the moment, and isn’t even a for-real-for-sure factual understanding of circumstances. It was more like my brain was test-driving optional understandings of my experience, and that particular one was a rather poor fit.

Instead of the change of mood driving my day, today, I put myself on pause, and selected from my increasingly vast list of topic-relevant reading material a fairly short article that had really caught my attention just a couple of days ago. I took a few minutes to read, took some notes, followed up on a cross-reference, and now find myself feeling content once again, and in a comfortable emotional space to begin the work day. 😀

I don’t find the success quite a simple as ‘distracting myself’; it matters a great deal what I distract myself with. What has been effective is to pursue something intellectually or creatively engaging, that simply doesn’t allow room for the challenging or problematic thinking, because the new topic requires too much bandwidth. It is also necessary, for me, that the new topic or activity must be emotionally positive; neutral isn’t particularly effective, and things that stress or upset me definitely make things worse.

Mindfulness is part of this strategy, too. To move from the thing that is throwing me off-balance, to some new and engaging thing, I find that the best success is found in really giving my full attention, quite actively, to the new thing. I don’t know how to explain the difference, but it feels like a very different process than trying to disengage from the stressful or upsetting thinking.

The clock reminds me that words about work are not work; it’s time to go.

Spring is definitely here. Flowers are unfolding.

Sunlight and flowers.

Sunlight and flowers.

 

Sunny days seem somehow more luminous.

Blue skies

Blue skies

 

Afternoons are reliably warmer. I’ve been enjoying it, and regretting that two of my favorite things about Spring can’t be photographed and shared: the scents, and birdsong. I delight in the fragrances of Spring. I’m fortunate that I don’t have those allergies; I can enjoy the scents of Spring without reservation, and generally without any unpleasant consequences. Each recent day has been enhanced, punctuated, and highlighted by new fragrances as different sorts of flowers begin to bloom. It’s wonderful.

Life isn’t all blue skies and flowers, of course, but I feel better equipped to deal with the occasional stress or weirdness. Practicing mindfulness makes a huge difference to both handling the stress, and enjoying the scent of flowers and sounds of birdsong. It continues to be ‘practicing’, too; there is no ‘mastery’ here. I am always beginning, always learning.

Yesterday was well-spent and interesting. I went into it resolved to be in the moment through my challenges, to refrain from taking things personally based on assumptions or baggage, and letting Spring – and life – unfold from the vantage point of student, and of observer. Yesterday, I met with a former partner. The break-up was a messy one, and although it was years ago, I certainly have my own baggage around those events, and experience suggested that I could count on my ex to have a recollection of those events as unique and personal as my own. I wasn’t looking for a confrontation; my ex had reached out to me – quite unexpectedly – to let me know some watercolors and photographs of mine, old ones, had been found – did I want them? The contact was simple. Honest. Cautious. Brief. We arranged to meet. I arrived, my ex met me. We exchanged greetings, a few polite words, a hug. I accepted the offered bag of photos and small paintings and went on my way. No drama. No unpleasantness. Not quite strangers, not adversaries – just people. I contemplated that on the train home. I considered, too, all the ways it could have gone. My fears about it. The stories in my head beforehand, built from other experiences, were varied and bore no resemblance to the event as it happened. We create our experience as we go along. I’m glad I stayed open to possibilities I could not – or simply did not – imagine. I’ve been carrying a lot of baggage, hurt feelings, pain, anger… yesterday I set a lot of it down.

We've all got baggage.

We’ve all got baggage.

The photographs that were returned to me are precious. Photos of me at 22, 23. Some of my own early photography. Some holiday photos in the apartment I lived in as a young soldier in Germany so many years ago. I looked at them closely, considering the moment each represented. I was so young. So lovely. I didn’t feel beautiful at that age. I felt fat. I felt huge. My husband-at-the-time regularly pointed out that I was ‘obese’ and really needed to ‘take off a bunch of weight’. I was 5’6″, a size 4 or 6, and weighed about 115 lbs. The big round curvy ass that he derisively commented on so frequently wasn’t going to disappear from dieting; it’s how I’m shaped, and that was enough to ‘prove’ to me I was fat to the point of grossness at that vulnerable and insecure point in my life. I looked at the pictures with some sadness, wanting very much to reach back in time and tell that younger me how incredibly beautiful she was, and teach her to understand that she could live her own story, and did not need her husband’s fictions to be the woman she most wanted to be. I wondered if anyone had tried to tell me… some of the pictures are of a holiday shared with friends. I contemplated how empty that holiday was, how disconnected, each person living some fiction intended to project something better than the moment, something more wonderful, more powerful, more appropriate, or safer… ‘appearances’. Sitting here this morning in my now, a hot coffee at hand, content and calm, I am finding it hard to imagine anything sadder than depriving ourselves of who we are by ‘keeping up appearances’. Living a fiction was not satisfying for me. It was lonely. Frightening. Isolating.

One of the photographs is a lovely shot of that young me, immersed in a bubble-bath, looking serene, eyes-closed, mouth relaxed. Appearances are insidious. I remember the day. The young woman in that photograph is black and blue beneath the bubbles, just beyond view. Serene? No, hurting, but calm – having survived again.  Those were good moments for the me that I was then, those moments when I could pause and be grateful that I lived. My few friends had no idea; I was very skilled at appearances. 

Some of the paintings I got back are small works, whimsically decorated envelopes, actually, that had contained letters to my lover, away at college. I considered the experience of cherishing a distant love, the experience of writing the letters, painting the envelopes; I was as much in love at that time as I was capable of being. I did not know much about love. I did not understand that being unable to love me, I would be mostly pretty unskilled at loving anyone else. From the future I look back and wonder – was that love? Wasn’t it? Is it fair to say now that it wasn’t, then, when it was the limit of what I was capable of, as far as ‘love’ goes?

We don’t just create the fictions that ‘keep up appearances’, we edit our history to meet our needs in the now, too. We make things a bit more to our liking in the telling, or represent ourselves as being a bit more this than that, because we value those qualities, or feel compelled to tidy up loose ends with a few good words.  Fictions.  Often not even willful deliberate fictions, just erosion of memory over time, or perhaps unnoticed adjustments to cope with trauma. Am I even able to be truly here, now, and hold on to whatever that is into my future recollections of this moment, once it has passed? Each having our own experience, and so much  of it created out of our assumptions, our interpretation, our world view, our expectations, our biases, the limitations of our knowledge, or our senses… Can I ever really know a truth that is unquestionably true?

This morning I glimpsed an understanding of something important for me; mindfulness, and an observing presence in the moment, is as close as I have ever been to ‘the true truth’. The scents of Spring. The sounds of birdsong. The unfolding of flowers. The moments when I am, and nothing more, are the ‘real me’. Quiet meditation. Being. Becoming. Without words.

I look again at that photograph, seeing the strength, the calm, the still moment. She is beautiful, no fiction required.