Archives for category: Metaphors

Oh, hello… Please excuse my lack of enthusiasm for your visit. I admit, I was hoping we were really over and done with, you and I. Admit it, it’s been a troubled and troubling experience for years, unhappy, unpredictable, messy… I’d have made plans for your visit, you know, even though – or perhaps especially because – I enjoy you so little.  You wear me out, and wear me down, almost as soon as you arrive on the scene. Headaches, confusion, the way you play with my emotions and lie to me – it’s not okay, and I resent the way you make me out a fool or worse, again and again, but I’ve found some small amount of relief in being prepared. Of course, now you take even that from me.

So often, just as I’m finding a way to get along with you more easily, you slip away. I’m left with cleaning up the mess and making all the apologies. I can only imagine how lame those sound after all these years.  Once you’re finally gone, I still find myself putting distance between me, and everyone, over lingering fears about whether you are really gone, and because the insecurity I feel after even a few hours with you hangs around screwing with my ability to feel emotionally safe long after you are gone.

You rarely move right in these days, and while I do appreciate that, I am still incredibly annoyed, and feeling imposed upon, each and every time you peak around a corner into my space unexpectedly.

Today I’m incredibly angry with you for being here, now. It’s just not right. You were not invited to my birthday and I don’t want you around.  I’m hurt and frustrated that I don’t have the choice of saying ‘just go and don’t come back’; you are an unreasonable and unreasoning pain in my ass (metaphorically speaking) and I’m also frankly bored with you.  Still, you return again and again with no ability to understand what you are doing to me, and clearly no concern or compassion.

344 days since I’ve had to live shoulder to shoulder with your bullshit, your mess, and your drama – and still you hassle me and mess with my good times.  You know what? You can fuck right off. I’m done with you – if not now, then very very soon, and eventually even you will not be able to deny me that.  Maybe for another little while more, but it won’t be long now; eventually I will reach your border, Hormone Hell, and I will walk on through to the other side.

Well, or something like that; it’s my birthday. I make rather a big deal of some of them, less so of others, this one has been a strange wobbly roller coaster ride of achievement, change and the passage of time.  51 isn’t generally one of the ‘milestone birthdays’.  51 isn’t even cool enough to be a prime number birthday. It’s just… a year older than 50. 🙂

To be fair, 50 kicked ass in so many ways, how could 51 really challenge it on the very first day? So, we’ll keep things simple; dinner after I get home from work, a restaurant I like and consider a bit of a treat, and near enough to home that it won’t be a ludicrously late night. Sleep matters to my well-being and good cognition; 50 taught me a lot. I reached greedily for change, and learned a lot about choice, will, and love. I spent much of the year deeply invested in study and growth, and standing on the doorstep of 51, I feel a sense of purpose, and find that I have goals of my own that matter enough to build my life around them, to make my choices consistent with those desires on a daily basis, and to be willing to lean on those goals a little bit now and then and say ‘hey, I missed the mark here, I’d like to do this one differently…’. The occasional ‘course correction’ or adjustment in everyday trajectory feels less disruptive than it once did, generally. I am, overall, less stressed out, generally less confused, mostly more chill, and rarely deeply unhappy – only briefly, now and then.  It’s been a good year for change.

So…here I am. 51. As with most birthdays, it really doesn’t feel any different than 50 did, yesterday.  I’m okay with that.  Every day is a new experience, and it isn’t about age. Age and aging just don’t seem to be the Very Big Deal people so often make them out to be.  Yesterday I enjoyed a video that proves that point.  I’ve started hiking again, myself. I still work in my garden. I manage about 5 miles a day on foot during the week and yoga every day.  I feel pretty good, in spite of pain.  I feel strong and capable. Hell, I feel more beautiful at 51 than I felt at 20, and the photographs support that, mostly because the pained and tense, vaguely angry look on my face at 20 was off-putting, to say the least. At 51, I am smiling, joyful, and generally delighted with life and love. 51 is a very nice place to be in life.

Here’s to life and love and 51! Today is a good day to celebrate life. Today is a good day to enjoy love and work and growth and the small delights that keep things fun. Today is a good day to enjoy the world.

Where will my path take me?

Where will my path take me?

I woke only a handful of minutes ahead of the alarm, feeling rested and content. I took advantage of the time to allow myself to wake slowly, gently, unfolding my awareness like a magic folding box until I was really quite wide awake. Meditation is very gentle on my consciousness first thing upon waking, and it is a favorite approach to returning to waking awareness. Meditation evolved and became yoga as my feet hit the floor and I unfolded my body, too, through a short series of easy poses. A shower. A coffee.

Over my coffee I read a blog post or two; other writer’s voices, other words of encouragement and growth, other perspectives. (I do what I can to avoid reading much ‘news’ these days, though some finds its way into my eye holes as a byproduct of work and life and interacting with others, most days.) This morning I treat myself well, almost tenderly, letting the potential ease of the day develop without being crowded by ‘have to’.

My mind wanders before I finish this post. I am distracted by the serenity of the morning as the minutes tick away and find myself still and calm, and contemplating recent favorite pictures from here and there; moments of delight frozen in time between other moments, memories in two dimensions, instant metaphors.

The loveliness of individuality.

The loveliness of individuality…

...and of shared experience...

…and of shared experience…

...the details...

…the details…

...the generalities...

…the generalities…

...and how different things can look, depending on where we stand...

…and how different things can look, depending on where we stand…

...perspective matters.

…perspective matters.

This morning life and love hit my bliss point; I am content, existing with a sense of sufficiency, and enjoying my current perspective. This ‘now’ is quite okay with me. Today is a good day to enjoy the moment.

I don’t do this sort of thing often, but when a dear friend, and a writer whose work I greatly enjoy, asks me to participate in something that could be fun, new, interesting, or just because they are dear to me and asked, I at least consider it… So here I am, at 4:00 am on a sleepless Monday morning, facing the questions put to me.  Many thanks for considering me, Oz. I am humbled to be thought interesting enough to share. 🙂

1. What am I working on?

Well, honestly, I’m ‘working on’ me. That’s really it. I write because the written word is a great way to communicate more slowly, more precisely, more poetically, and more lastingly than speaking aloud. The fundamentals of that idea don’t really hold up to much scrutiny these days, I suppose; there’s always video. Images, too, are lasting and rich with symbols and metaphors. I also take a lot of pictures.

2. How does my work differ from others of its genre?

I’m not sure what genre I’m in, and I don’t actually spend much time contemplating that, or related writer sorts of subjects, but I doubt my work differs significantly from the work of writers who are writing about similar things, aside from the details of who we each are, and the journey we are each on: mindfulness, meditation, healing, growth, compassion (and much, much more!). I doubt I’ve ever scratched the surface of ‘writers in my genre’ – there must be millions of people pouring their hearts into blog posts, doing their own best with growth, change and circumstances.  There must be differences to discuss, and commonalities, but they are beyond me without significant research.

One potential difference, is the lack of self-restraint regarding wordplay, I suppose. I often work oddball puns, references, weird humor, and bits of grammatical fun into my writing, and titles, and image captions tend to be a coherent and intentional part of the work, related to the body of the post very closely, although often tangentially, or from another perspective.  I have no particular concern that anyone else will ‘get it’… the bits of wordplay are more like easter eggs in code; a bit of fun for those that catch them.

3. Why do I write what I do?

Because I have to. Well, that sounds sort of dramatic, and I don’t mean it to… but what else would I write besides what I do write? That’s the not question, though, is it? Why do I write this blog from a positive perspective instead of drowning in bitterness and cynicism, perhaps? Or why don’t I write more graphically about sex, love, and romance than I do? Or even why am I so slim on pertinent details about people who may be mentioned in passing or by implication, but never quite allowed to develop as characters in a more full way?  It could be easier to break it down like that.  I write in the largely very positive way I do because it hurts to be foundering in a sea of pain, even emotional pain, and negativity is the last place I look for hope or solace; I don’t want to hurt anymore.  I don’t write more graphically about sex and love simply because I’ve used up all those words, there’s nothing more to say about the fun bits, the plumbing, the gymnastics, the heart and soul of it… this blog started at a different point in my life. There’s plenty to say about love and sex and romance in the world. My few words on that topic wouldn’t really be a value-add, and it could risk dragging the innocent reader through some of the worst of my chaos and damage. It seems unnecessary.  I also have a pretty firm personal mandate that this particular blog will remain as me-centric as it can be; my journey, my challenge, my life, my progress… it is, after all, ‘all about me’ – at least right here, for a few minutes, on a mostly daily basis, and I like to respect the privacy of friends and loved ones as much as possible. This blog is part of a healing process for me, a map of my journey, a log, and an ongoing reminder how human I am, and how commonplace my struggles are, it is not a place to lash out at others, or to be hurtful.  I’m still human; if I need to ‘just vent’ I save it for a private encrypted journal, a sort of practice range for words that are ‘like bullets’, and often find myself deleting the worst of who I am, which is a very nice feature of technology.

4. How does my writing process work?

It’s pretty simple; I’m having a conversation with myself, of sorts, contemplating what I am learning, what my understanding of the world is, and the meaning in my life and my choices.

I often start a blog post as a byproduct of other conversations, or reading and responding to something someone else wrote. When I am walking from one place to another, I write in my head, though generally poetry.  Those bits of internal dialogue often make it onto the page, here. My writing process is a tidied up look at the inner workings of my mind, and little more. I edit on the fly, and reliably fail to catch at least one significant spelling mistake when I hit ‘publish’. I have hungered to say just one particular thing in a particular way to the point of trashing thousands of written words that weren’t quite right, to try again. And again. Again. One more time, perhaps… and other mornings I sit down and bang out words that simply fall from brain to keyboard, thousands at a time without error or rewrite. Either way, it’s still that ‘conversation with myself’… or with a silent someone else, unstated, unidentified, and more important than mere identity. I write between 1000 and 5000 words a day, pretty easily. I’d write more, longer, more often…but people start noticing my lack of presence. lol

One of my daily challenges is around the simple practical missteps I struggle with because of my TBI.  As a result of that bit of baggage, I’m unsure who will be ‘up next’… I was not timely with my invitation. 😦 Having potentially let you down, I suggest that whether she chooses to participate in the My Writing Process Blog Tour, the blog of wisejourney is very worth exploring.  Certainly there have been many days when not one more step would be easily taken without her gentle words and lovely images to buoy my spirit on a difficult morning, and her blog was one of the first I began to read when I started down the path of real healing, self-compassion, and finding contentment in life.  I’m very hopeful that on June 16th, she’ll be ‘up next’.

It wouldn’t be a bad spot for a picture…

The beautiful thing about writers, is that although we are each on our own journey, and no one really has a map, sometimes the words of others function as a bit of pavement, a comfortable path for a portion of the journey.

The beautiful thing about writers, is that although we are each on our own journey, and no one really has a map, sometimes the words of others function as a bit of pavement, a comfortable path for a portion of the journey.

Today is a good day for honest words. Today is a good day to remember we are each having our own experience. Today is a good day for good choices. Today is a good day for love.

Sometimes life is easy, sometimes it’s hard. Tonight, I sit sweat-soaked, tired, worried, strained, tearful, confused, and honestly – just not happy to be away from home.  Hotel rooms, many of them, have a certain… ‘quality’. Let’s be honest, more a ‘characteristic’ than a quality, perhaps? It is easy to become immersed in the dreary, the grim, the fatiguing, the sad, the low… I wonder how often someone has sat, morose and alone, in a hotel room and written great tragic poetry, gritty urban thrillers, or words of disconnection, loneliness, and pain? Probably a lot.

What it is, what it isn't.

What it is, what it isn’t.

I’d rather not succumb to the dingy yellows and ochres of the decor, and hoping to provide some relief from the strangeness of the air, the windows are thrown open to breezes and the sounds of traffic. I am, nonetheless, very much alone.  The sweat that poured off me so freely in the afternoon heat as I made my way to the hotel is now chilling me through the dampness of my shirt. My head aches.  I was as efficient as I could will myself to be in the moment, purposeful, gentle, wasteful of neither time nor movement; there were other needs to meet than my own. Still, efficiency is only as useful as it is skillful, and my ankle throbs quietly reminding me that my ankle brace is still in my pack, from yesterday’s hike, forgotten in the joy of achievement and fun, and overlooked in my purposeful rush to pack and make a timely check-in to this solitary, rather cramped room peeking at the street below, through fluttering leaves.  I like the view much more than the room.

The world waits outside this room, and the world has no stress over any concerns of mine at the moment. I’m hungry. The evening is pleasant. There is no need to succumb to sorrow and pain by an effort of will, and I realize that I’m hungry.  The bottled water in the room is ‘courteously’ provided at a ludicrous mark up. There is a grocery store down the street, and in the frenzy of human beings handling human affairs I may find, too, a moment of kind contact, a brief connection, a reminder of all the good that is…

Do I take the red pill – or the blue pill? [cue Matrix theme, cut to clip of sexy people in shiny black clothes doing stuff in slow motion]

I will watch South Park tonight, and I’ll laugh – and in laughing is perspective, and healing, and a reminder that we’re all in this together, each having our own experience, each doing the best we know to do, mostly, when we can, generally, or at least…we’re probably trying, and god damn – all most of us want is to be heard, to feel visible, to know that the people who matter to us find that we matter as well.

Today is a good day to wonder ‘what can I learn from this’.  Today is a good day to consider this woman I am, and who I want to be. Today is a good day to be the change I want to see in the world.