Archives for category: Metaphors

I’d like this to be a lovely bit of prose, whimsical and poetic, about autumn and about evening. It isn’t at all. I’m not sure what it is yet, other than distracted and interrupted…but it is autumn, it is evening, and I am distracted and interrupted by the noise and conversation of the concrete finishing crew working immediately outside my front door at this very minute, shortly before 6:00 pm.

I dislike how near to the world, exposed, and vulnerable I feel with the workers so incredibly close that I can clearly hear their conversation and see their movement through the front blinds. I feel less safe, and less private. I know that I am adequately safe, and adequately private in my day-to-day experience. I know that when the work is finished this will once again be a quiet home. Right now? Right now this is nothing that can be described as quiet and I am annoyed to have to pay rent – when I feel, fairly often, that the most important thing to be paying for with the rent is the fucking privacy and quiet. Well, if nothing else, I have learned how very much I need my home to be a quiet place – surely the knowledge will stop me from buying a place that isn’t. (I can hope.)

A leisurely shower, dinner in the oven, unhurried yoga, a few minutes writing… it is a thoroughly pleasant evening when I am able to forget, however briefly, about the noisy workmen, or at least refrain from becoming emotionally invested in moments of annoyance or resentment. It’s worth maintaining perspective; the work being done benefits the entire community, and matters to me as well. The workmen are aware of me, and there has been sufficient communication that they are – when they think to be – making efforts to minimize how disrupting this is for me (and for my neighbors). They are quite a polite and considerate construction crew, generally – it’s still work, there are still verbs – and communication – involved. No way around it, some of this shit is disruptive; it’s not a personal attack. 🙂

A lovely autumn evening; little annoyances don't have to matter. I let them fall like leaves.

A lovely autumn evening; little annoyances don’t have to matter. I let them fall like leaves.

So here I am now. Relaxed. Content. Taking time for me, making room in my heart for awareness, perspective, and compassion, and generally enjoying my evening in spite of the noise, in spite of the disruptions, in spite of the shadows just behind the window blinds. It’s a pleasant evening, and there’s really nothing ‘extra’ that I need right now. This is enough. 🙂

 

This is primarily a ‘well, obviously’ sort of parable, I’ll warn you now; there is no new information here, you already know this. It is a cautionary tale, a reminder, and a warning – like any good parable, a teachable moment being snuck into the day by way of storytelling. 🙂 This one is also ‘work related’, and very specific in that context. This is The Parable of the Wheelwright.

A beautiful morning for a journey.

A beautiful morning for a journey.

A man of vision preparing for a long journey comes to a famously skilled wheelwright to order a covered wagon for his great journey. He has a vision, and shares his needs clearly and simply. The wheelwright takes his order, and asks questions about finishing details like color, and fabric, the size of this feature or that one, and the extras her new customer may want. It is a reasonable order. The wheelwright is a busy one, serving multiple customers in the community. She provides the man with a receipt for his order, and advises that his wagon will be done in one month – four weeks from that day.

The wheelwright is skilled and orderly, and lays out the work for the new wagon so that each detail will fit the others, and the work will be assembled smoothly, efficiently, and be ready when the man comes for his wagon in four weeks; this is done in such a way that all her customers will each receive their orders on time, completed with the great skill for which she is known. The work commences in the ordinary way. The wheelwright loves her work.

Before the end of the first week, the man of vision returns to the wheelwright agitated, and eager to get started on his journey. His wagon is not ready, and will not be ready for 3 more weeks – as agreed to. “Can I just get a wheel today?” he asks excitedly. The wheelwright observes that a wheel is not a wagon, and will not serve his purpose well, but the man insists he must have a wheel that very day, well-made and able to be affixed to a wagon. The wheelwright does have a wheel ready… made for a different wagon altogether, for another customer, but she is reluctant to give it to the man – it’s not made for his wagon at all, and giving him this wheel now, it may not fit his wagon when it is ready. The man insists, and takes the wheel that she has made, over her objections – he is sure it will be just fine, and departs contented.

Nearing the end of the second week, the man returns. He eagerly requests another wheel. He inquires if perhaps he could also have the canvas wagon cover as well. The wheelwright explains that a wheel is not a wagon, and that having just two wheels would not serve his purpose well. She points out that a canvas cover made for another wagon may not fit the wagon she makes for him. He is unconcerned and urgently wants what he wants, and insists on having a second wheel and the canvas cover that very day. The wheelwright explains that while she does have a wheel and a canvas cover on hand that she could give him, they were made for other wagons – and that taking these items from other jobs will put her behind on her work on those jobs (which have due dates much sooner than his wagon) which will delay completion of his wagon – which will not be ready now, until 6 weeks. The man is annoyed that his wagon is delayed, but insistent on having the second wheel and a canvas cover that very day.

At the end of four weeks, the man returns for his wagon – which is not ready. The wheelwright reminds him of the two wheels and the canvas cover which he received ahead of schedule, and how these choices delayed completion of his wagon. The man seems surprised that these actions would change the outcome of his original order, but agrees to return in two weeks for his wagon. Over the next two weeks, he sends several small changes to the wheelwright by messenger, requesting different fabric for the canvas cover, and a different style of spoke for the wheels.

When the man returns in two weeks for his wagon. He is surprised to see other customers waiting at the counter, angry that their orders are not ready on time. The man’s requests had delayed other jobs than his. The wheelwright did not seem to be enjoying her job anymore; she felt as if she could not work efficiently or skillfully with the frequent interruptions and changes, but the man only sees his own vision, and does not see the unhappiness of the wheelwright. When his turn at the counter came, he requests his wagon. It stands on blocks, with only two wheels and no cover, and he is angry and disappointed. The wheelwright reminds him he has taken two wheels ahead of schedule, and the canvas cover – and that if he will bring them in, she’ll attach them to the wagon.

When he returns with the wheels and the canvas cover, the wheelwright attaches them to the wagon. It doesn’t stand level; the wheels are three different sizes. Only two of the wheels have the sort of spokes the man requested, and the canvas cover is a very different fabric than he had decided on after the work was started. The wagon appears quite poorly made, and insufficient for the man’s great journey. The man is angry, and disappointed, and taking receipt of his wobbly wagon he departs grumbling about the poor workmanship and wondering how this wheelwright ever came by a reputation for being extraordinarily skilled, concerned that his journey would now be a failure ‘due the lack of skill of that damned wheelwright’. The wheelwright watches the man leave and considers taking up some other work altogether, finding the making of wagons frustrating and unsatisfying.

The very same week as the man of vision submitted his order for a wagon to the famously skilled wheelwright, another man had submitted his order to a wheelwright who had only recently set up shop in the community. This other man submitted his order with great care, having never ordered a wagon but certain of his needs on his upcoming journey. He listened with care to the recommendations of the wheelwright, and departed on her promise to have the work finished in four weeks. In four weeks he returned to take receipt of his wagon, and it was ready. Other customers had arrived ahead of him, and were receiving their wagons with great satisfaction, each wagon completed and beautiful. When his turn came, he received his wagon as well, completed, beautiful, standing level, and looking precisely as he had requested in every detail. Even the interior was well-finished, with handcrafted comfortable seats and cushions, and little details to make the experience of using his wagon extra nice. He was delighted with the perfect beautiful wagon and left with it exclaiming to all he passed that indeed she was a brilliantly skilled wheelwright… including to his friend, a man of vision, who would submit an order for a wagon the very next day.

I enjoy a good change of perspective.

I enjoy a good change of perspective.

Is this one a tad over obvious? Ah, but here’s the thing… the punchline… the plot twist; the wheelwright could have said ‘no’.

There’s a lot to learning about taking care of me. It’s a nice evening for it.

I feel anxious. Well, no…actually, I don’t feel anxious at all from the perspective of emotion. What I feel feels like the emotion I call anxiety (and maybe it is, in some fashion), but there is nothing in my experience of the day to support such a feeling – or to cause it. What there is, though, is noise.

I woke up in tremendous pain this morning, and feeling quite stiff. I did all the usual things to cope with that physical experience, and looked forward to a relaxed day, contentedly doing laundry and watching the rain fall.  I’ve had that, so in that sense the day delivered well on its promise; the chainsaws were unnecessary, and unexpected. Yep. Chainsaws. Chainsaws and a pneumatic log splitter and an air compressor. It is not anything like a quiet Sunday, now. Today the landlady and her husband are cutting the lumber from the recently felled trees down to size and stacking it. I am unfortunate that the wood was piled directly in front of my apartment when the trees came down. The woodpile on which the newly cut wood is being stacked is on the other side of my apartment. The split logs are being carried via wheel barrow – quite possibly the noisiest one ever – around my apartment, along the sidewalk just outside the long west wall, currently strewn with small gravel rocks and mud, so making a rather horrible grinding noise as the wheelbarrow is dragged along on what sound like triangular wheels. I am surrounded by the sounds of work on a fucking Sunday. I don’t know how to communicate to people that getting some quiet actually matters for my physical health as well as my emotional health. There just isn’t any way for someone to understand what they don’t understand. It is unlikely that my landlady has any real awareness of what the persisting noise does to my consciousness; saying that it ‘affects my mood’ doesn’t adequately explain things – it would affect anyone’s ‘mood’. It does.

I wait it out. It will be over sooner or later. I can’t meditate. I can’t focus to read. I can’t write with any ease – even masking the noise with other noise isn’t helpful, I feel cross and aggressive. I certainly wouldn’t be able to nap, and I’d very much like to. I can’t paint or draw. I feel frustrated and on the edge of anger – and I know that it isn’t really about any of these emotions; this is a physical reaction to very irritating stimuli. I go through the steps of meditation even though my consciousness feels raw and irritated; I breathe, and I breathe again. I let go of the aggravation and relax – and I do it again. I just keep repeating gentle practices and processes. I find myself frustrated and help myself over it. I start feeling angry and aggressive, and I take a few more deep breaths, and remember the landlady’s face; she wasn’t enjoying doing this work on a Sunday, herself – it certainly wasn’t ever ‘about’ me. That small moment of compassion and sympathy matters, too; taking the time to view another person as fundamentally human also, and equal in the value of their experience compared to mine makes me far less likely to be inclined to place blame, make demands, or lash out in anger. It’s a worthwhile pause for consideration.

The way ahead is sometimes obscured with fallen leaves.

The way ahead may sometimes be obscured with fallen leaves.

Eventually the laundry is done, and a nice casserole for supper (and tomorrow’s lunch) is made. The house is generally tidy, and the bed remade with fresh linens. I see the sun peek through gray skies for the first time today. It’s finally quiet, too. A lovely hot cup of tea might be nice… or a bubble bath… a short nap might be quite pleasant… I breathe in the quiet, and feel myself relax as the quiet becomes more real minute by minute. I am pleased that I didn’t let the noise get to me, today; there’s still so much of the day left to enjoy. 🙂

It’s been a very comfortable pleasant day. I slept in, and slept deeply. I walked to the farmer’s market, and assembled a very nice picnic lunch, and loaded it into my pack. I headed into the trees for a few more miles and hours of autumn leaves and birdsong.

Autumn rose hips along the trail.

Autumn rose hips along the trail.

Yesterday was okay, too. I did some great work, but had had so little rest I was more or less a zombie analyst, and didn’t notice the day go by, and don’t really remember that much about it. I got home shortly before 6 pm, and was crashed out not long after that. I was up again around 9, and stayed up some little while before returning to bed, and to a deep sleep rich with surreal dreams. Stress reaches this point where it both disrupts my sleep and requires ever so much more than usual amounts of rest to recover from it. I slept a lot last night. I napped this afternoon after my hike – one of those sudden urgent naps when sleep simply overcomes me and I must succumb to it.

Tonight is gentle and easy. The deep consciousness encompassing sleep of my nap this afternoon left me wrapped in drowsiness. I’ll probably go to bed early again tonight. No reason not to; one of the perks of adulthood is the opportunity to choose rest. That great boon is sometimes forgotten in the fuss and bother of all the other sorts of things I think I ‘have to’ get done; choosing rest, real rest, is sometimes the best thing I can do for myself – or my partners.

I am okay. I’ve still got work to do – this fragile vessel isn’t going to heal itself without some practices and some verbs. This broken brain needs a little support, structure, and patience to find some better ways to handle small challenges. Sometimes I am going to fall short of my expectations – or fail to meet my own needs in some important way. I’ll begin again. One step at a time, one practice at a time, one moment at a time – I can begin again.

It may not be the shortest path - but this journey isn't a race, or a contest - I'll just keep walking.

It may not be the shortest path – but this journey isn’t a race, or a contest – I’ll just keep walking.

It’s a quiet evening, and I am alone with my headache and my arthritis, by choice. By mid-afternoon, my pain was just too much to find the thought of spending time with anyone else particularly enticing, and I asked my traveling partner for a rain check – as eager as we are to see each other, to cuddle, to laugh together, I am sometimes a bit of a lost soul when I hurt this much. Spreading that poison around is not a gesture of love.

Be love.

Be love.

I walked home thinking about the many ways that lovers communicate, and wondering how it is than anyone can ever justify being vile and inconsiderate to someone they love. Think it over for a moment – and just about at that moment when you’re at the edge of excusing some bit of heinous nastiness you may have recently visited upon someone you love by saying you didn’t mean to, or couldn’t help it – think about how many times you’ve shown greater self-restraint and not said something you felt was justified… because it could cost you your job. A job. I walked and wondered. How often have I – even with the little self-restraint as I can sometimes muster at all – how often have I held myself back from some angry remark  for a fucking job – but shown so little courtesy to a lover, or partner, that I would allow myself to say something that might be intentionally hurtful, diminish their value to me, or threaten their security in the relationship itself? Even once is too often! Even once is entirely incomprehensibly inappropriate between lovers. Seriously. Those sorts of words, those sorts of moments of unrestrained hostility are not love. Not only are they not love – they are not even adult. The anger of hurt children. Well…yeah. I do have this injury…  but… I don’t really find that my injury excuses treating someone I love worse than I treat my coworkers –  and I can do so much better, I mean, this is love we’re talking about! If I can generally and with exceptional reliability refrain from most bad behavior at work – how can I ever ever say to someone I love that I couldn’t do better in the way I treat them at home? It does take practice, but how is that not entirely acceptable, and needful? Isn’t love of far greater value than a job? Isn’t love worth practicing?

We choose our path, our words, our actions.

We choose our path, our words, our actions.

I’m not sure why I was thinking about all that, specifically, as I walked home. It’s been a very long time since I have had to deal with any of that. Shadows of old baggage. Remnants of nightmares. Maybe some relief that I’m not still ‘there, then’ with relationships that were a profound source of new pain. Relief that I am so much less heavily invested in old pain, too. Tonight I hurt – but it is only the more manageable hurt of headaches and back pain. Feeling my heart break hearing angry words is on an entirely other level of hurting, and there are no pills or prescriptions for heart breaks – and I am grateful to love and be loved by someone who recognizes the value of being love.

Perspective. What matters most?

Perspective. What matters most?

Attachment is a funny thing; I get so hung up on some detail that I earnestly want to be very real, and find myself unable to have the beautiful thing that is, or I fail to recognize what works for me because I am too busy struggling with what I’ve lost or can’t have. We are such complicated fucking monkeys. lol

Undisturbed by solitude.

Undisturbed by solitude.

I am enjoying the evening with myself. Listening to music I love. Feeling valued and respected by a man I value and respect in turn. Feeling valued and respected by the woman in the mirror. Content and unshaken. It has taken some hours to write even 683 words, and I wonder about that, too; I seem to write using fewer words when I write in the evenings, but it generally takes me much longer – and I’m not as certain that I’ve said what I thought I meant to… or anything worth reading significant, or insightful. I’m not bitching. I’m not feeling particularly critical on any point. It’s more the emotion that goes along with the funny face, head cocked to the side, of something I can’t quite fathom… “quizzical” is a word that comes to mind…only…it’s the wrong word for the moment. lol (…And here we quite possibly see the effect of fatigue on my injury as I begin to struggle to find words. Often. It is a source of ongoing frustration for me, but I don’t gloss over it anymore, or try to fake my way out of it; vulnerable frankness is a better fit for me. Your results may vary.)

I am tired. I still hurt. I am happily grooving to favorite tunes I’ve never heard before as I write. Think. Write some more. This is my life…at least…this is part of it, and it’s a really good part that I enjoy find meaningful. In this moment I can comfortably say ‘this is a really good part of my experience’ and it feels secure, safe, and comfortable; unthreatened. I don’t need this moment to also be the next moment. I am not regretting some other moment. No forever. No expectations of some moment beyond this one; I am so much more comfortable enjoying this one right now, just as it is. I have a slow back and forth conversation with my partner in the background while I write. It’s not an interruption; the conversation is paced to the things we are each doing, where we are.

Just in time to sit, quietly, to be still, and to listen...

Just in time to sit, quietly, to be still, and to listen…

The evening winds down slowly. Tomorrow I can begin again. 🙂