’bout the only things stirring around here today were lungs:
needle
and nature
guess that’s just the way it needs to be sometimes.
Category: Blog (Page 77 of 101)
News of The 70273 Project with a side of Jeanne’s Barefoot Heart
i am tired. tired to the cellular level. maybe it’s understandable, given the whirlwind life i’ve lived the past 4-5 weeks, maybe it is allergy-related, maybe the cold weather is bringing out the hibernator in me. i don’t know the reason, and honestly, i’m much too tired to spend energy on the why of it all, though i sure would like to know.
it started thursday afternoon when i got back home. i made the two trips to unload the car, dropping the bags just inside the door then collapsing on the sofa. i can’t even add the number of hours i’ve slept since them, i tell my friend, angela who urges me to just fall into it.
this morning i mustered the energy to shower and wash my hair. and while i was moving, i stripped the beds and got the laundry going thinking productivity might spur me on to energy. you know, the ole’ energy begets energy theory.
but i don’t know.
i am loathe to mention this publicly for fear women will look over their glasses, cluck their tongues, and urge me to get a prescription to rid me of the obvious depression.
which i don’t think it is.
my throat is a wee bit scratchy, so i use the excuse that if i don’t rest, i’ll get sick. i sleep while my husband is at work, and i feel so darn guilty sleeping during the day while he’s up and out early, going to a job he doesn’t exactly adore. he has to be tired, too, i think, so what makes me so special that i can flop and nap at will?
then a commercial comes on (i keep the television on to help me tell time) that sparks me to wonder if it’s easier/less tiring to just follow than to structure and live into your own life? is the path of least resistance the easiest? is it easier to have a label so you and everybody else knows what you do? is it easier to have a schedule to follow instead of having to assign and fill your own time? is it easier to have an office outside the home and structure of an office outside the home than to arrange your own life pieces?
i like the front end of projects – i know that about myself – so yesterday morning i gathered flower petals and wrapped and stuck, and it was fun . . . but tiring. i persevered, though, sticking to the the ole’ familiar behave-as-though script, but honestly, that’s wearing mighty thin about now, too.
i am who i am.
and that’s all i want to be.
but i declare it takes a lot of energy just to figure out who that is.
especially when i’m interested in so many things that may or may not intersect and overlap. i love cloth and writing, improv and laughter. i love telling stories – in fact, i have a brand new prop and two stories in the ready-to-tell stage . . . but i’m too tired to muster.
i like dancing and reading, but both seem to require a near insurmountable level of energy right now.
and i can’t really find anything that interests me.
okay, that’s not true. but i want to interest me. i want to be doing something that interests me instead of reading about what other women are doing that interests me. truth? i want both.
maybe the floundering is wearing me out.
maybe i’m just simply exhausted and feeding that exhaustion by falling into the pressure i put on myself to justify, to logically explain what is simply exhaustion.
maybe i just need to take angela’s advice (which is, coincidentally, the same advice i offer other women but am loathe to offer myself) and listen to my body’s wisdom, remembering that wisdom doesn’t need explanation. wisdom doesn’t speak the language of logic or tit-for-tat. i want – i desperately want – to be one of the women who leads us back into the realm of wisdom and embodiment, so why don’t i start right now by taking a nap without further scrutiny, apology, or question mark.
Went out to do a wee bit of yardening this morning, and that included clipping the spent roses. On a whim, I brought the petals in, ripped some small pieces of an old tablecloth, wet it, then tucked the petals inside the cloth as I wrapped the cloth around a lichen-laden branch.
When I noticed how the spent purple wave blooms stained my fingers after deadheading, I dropped some of them in another piece of cloth and wrapped it on the same lichen-laden branch.
All dressed up, the branch is now sunning on a rock beside the falls.
Why is this a big enough deal to warrant a blog post? Because for longer than I care to remember, I’ve imagined doing things like this, but I never veer far enough away from the All Mighty To Do List to allow such (seemingly) unjustifiable excursions and (seemingly) frivolous expenditures of time.
That all changes today.
When I look back at how many years I’ve delighted in doing things like this – but only on the inside – I want to sit down and cry, but that would be a frivolous waste of time, that crying over spilt milk. So I just vow to turn myself inside out more often. To do the things I’ve long done only on the inside, on the outside.
From this point forward (even past the inevitable occasional speedbumps), I will be eccentric not for the sake of being eccentric, but because I can’t help myself. I will decide for myself who I am and what I think and how I feel. And who I am and what I think and how I feel may change frequently – maybe even several times a day – but the self-determination-without-apology-or-explanation-unless-I-feel-like-offering-it will stand firm.
Will everybody like what I do, think, say, or feel? I doubt it. Will anyone think I’ve lost my mind? I sure hope so.
And, hey, I’d sure love some company . . .
“and this,” she perked,
pointing to the closed-door office
to her right,
“is the business office.”
“and this,” she perked
pointing to the closed-door office
to her left,
“is the financial aid office.”
“above us,” she continued,
“is the
President’s Office“
saying the last two words
with a distinct tone of
reverence.
“you don’t want to get sent
there.”
maybe it’s because we’re nearing the end of
the second week of back-to-back
college tours.
maybe it’s because it’s hot.
maybe it’s because i need chocolate.
maybe it’s because i’m just plain cranky to the core . . .
“but you can,” i countered
looking my nephew straight in the eyes,
“go there any time of your own initiative.”
then i told them about how when i was a student there,
and discovered that
the tape player had been stolen from my car,
i marched straightaway to the
president’s office
(said without a hint of reverence)
and announced “my tape player was stolen.”
to which the president looked across his massive desk
and said,
“well, i’m SURE it wasn’t a student.”
“can you believe a
college president
led with something
so stupid?”
i asked my nephew.
“i said don’t get SENT there,”
she perked
directly at my nephew.
“bitch,”
i thought
cause i’m not
anywhere near the
sweet zen woman
i (sometimes) long to be.
when we reached the student union,
the mailboxes
more specifically,
i mentioned how
when i was a student there,
the mailboxes were in a different building
and i was assigned a mailbox on the top row,
so high i couldn’t get the key in the lockv
without the assistance of a stool.
she listened, then reached up
and tapped the top mailbox
with a key she held.
“bitch,”
i thought
because
well, you know.
“and the most fun thing of all,” she said,
her perkiness ratcheted up
three full notches,
“is when you get a yellow
sheet of paper
saying that you have a
package.
when you get one of those,
you come to this window
and pick up your package.
did you ever get
any yellow papers?”
she asked me.
“yes, i got yellow notices,
but it could sometimes
take up to two weeks
for me to actually
lay hands on my package
because the people
employed to staff the window
didn’t actually
open the window
unless they had absolutely
nothing else to do.
but the good news is: it was
most always worth the wait.”
with that, she whipped her head around
and asked
“did anything good ever happen
when you were here?”
to which i said
“there were moments.”
and then i kept my stories
to myself
and as we walked
and she talked
i wondered
why i told the
particular stories
i told.
what compelled me?
with the possible
exception of the
president’s office story,
which was pretty obviously
a thumbing my nose
at authority,
(though it was also
about not being afraid
to go to the top,
if that seems the right
thing to do at the time)
my stories
seemed
to theme around
overcoming
adversity.
of providing a counter
to the sparkling
wonderfulness
being presented.
is it a good school, this one?
oh yes,
it’s a good school.
do bad things happen there?
absolutely, undeniably
yes.
and i’m just too cranky
to let that reality
and the ensuing opportunities for lessons of
resiliency
and assertiveness
and resourcefulness
go
unnoticed.
We interrupt this crankiness because I need help:
Y’all know how horrible I am at naming, and I need a name in the worst sort of way for a woman who’s unleashed her inner Karen (Will & Grace) and Maxine (greeting card aisle), a woman who’s not afraid to sent Hyacinth a monogrammed pail. This woman didn’t just unzip, she went straight to embodiment. She’s Southern (of course), so keep that in mind. And I don’t care if it’s a real woman’s name or a noun (or even a verb) that’s catchy and fun and fits. Know what I mean?
I considered (and have used) Ethel and Blondell, but those doesn’t quite fit. So help me out. Shoot me some names. And hey, my grandmother died years ago, so nicknames are fine, too.
~~~
On another note: I’m going to BlogHer tomorrow, are you? If you are, let me know ’cause I’d love nothing better than to call you Sugar to your precious face.
i am cranky.
and i’ve tried every trick
the book to
get on the other side
of it,
but nothing works.
i’ve tried productivity,
ticking things off my
embarrassingly long
to do list.
i’ve tried buttermilk pie.
i’ve tried walking
and dancing
and an extra 15 minutes of yoga
and an extra hour of sleep.
i’ve gotten a manicure
and a pedicure,
a new haircut,
a new pocketbook.
but nothing erases
or even alleviates
this crankiness.
it’s a big ole’
tangle,
this,
and it’s gonna’ take me a while
to find my way through it
because, honestly,
lots of threads
feed this tangle.
for starters,
there’s the flight
from salt lake city.
hubbie and i had
emergency row seats
diagonally across
the aisle from
each other.
he was on the aisle in row 26
and i was across the aisle
in the aisle seat on row 27.
we could see each other,
talk to each other,
reach each other
to share the water
and magazines
and such.
when we got to our seats,
however,
a man was sitting in my seat.
“excuse me,”
i said,
“i think you’re in my seat.”
“well, this is my wife,”
he said with huge affability,
pointing to the woman seated next to him.
“so would you mind swapping seats with me?”
“where’s your seat?” i asked.
“it’s up front there. no rows of seats
in front of you. plenty of legroom.”
“but this is my husband,”
i said, pointing to andy,
“so . . . “
“okay,” he said hopping up
and moving to the seat
directly across the aisle from me.
he was mr. congeniality, this one,
quite friendly,
quite loud.
eventually came a woman who stopped
right beside him.
“excuse me,” she said,
“you’re in my seat.”
“i am?”
he said, sounding a wee bit
surprised.
“are you traveling alone?”
she said “yes” with an
understandable tone of
hesitancy in her voice.
“great!” he said.
“that’s my wife over there –
wave your hand, honey –
so would you mind swapping seats with me?”
“where’s your seat?”
the woman asked.
“it’s on the front row
of that section,” he said.
“is it an aisle seat?”
“noooo, but there’s not a
row of seats in front of you,
so you’ll have plenty of leg room.”
“is it a window seat?”
“no, it’s the center seat,
but remember: lots of legroom.”
“but what about my bag? there’s
no room in the overheads there,”
she pointed out,
“and there is here.”
“no problem.
i’ll find a place for your bag.
so what do you say?”
and with that, the woman
quietly headed for the
center seat
in the front row –
the one with
plenty of leg room
and nobody in front of her.
when he returned from finding
a place for her bag,
he looked at me and said,
“so what do you say?
wanna’ sit behind your husband?”
and when i hesitated
because being behind andy
was not nearly as convenient
as being where we currently
sat – in fact, that’s why we
chose the seat configuration
we did, he continued
“you’ll be closer to him.”
which is technically correct,
but still.
i didn’t want to move.
but what did i do?
i unbuckled my seatbelt
and moved
to the seat
behind andy
where we couldn’t share
the water nearly as easily
and we couldn’t talk without standing up
and leaning over the seat
and we couldn’t both
read the magazine article
or shop in the sky mall
catalogue.
at first i was mad
because i got so upset
over a common,
not-at-all-unusual
situation.
i mean, really
only a bitch
of a bitch
would do that, right?
then i was mad
because the man
did a sucker sales
job on me,
pointing out why
it was in my best interest
to move
when actually
there was nothing in the move for me
and everything in the move for him.
eventually i got mad
because i moved.
i didn’t have to.
i could’ve said,
“no, we selected these
seats, and i’d like to stay.”
or, preferably a simple “no.”
but i didn’t.
i unbuckled my seatbelt
and moved.
even though i didn’t want to.
even though i knew i did not benefit,
regardless of what he said.
even though i knew i didn’t really have to.
so why did i?
because i still long to be liked.
and if i’d said no to this
affable, congenial man
who just wanted to sit next to his wife,
i ran the risk of being considered
a selfish, unreasonable bitch.
by people i don’t know
or might not ever see again.
i get that,
and yet . . .
///
and so i get mad at
the society
and culture
that created
such a mindset.
which is easy to do
because it’s justified
and familiar.
///
for so much of my life,
my worthiness gas depended on
how other people saw me.
especially males.
if the men liked me,
i was an absolutely
worthwhile
woman.
if women didn’t like me,
i could convince myself
and others
that they were just being
catty.
being nice is everything.
nobody wants to be around
a cranky woman,
a mean woman,
a woman who thinks only of herself.
///
but it’s time to be over that.
and that,
is one of the threads
at the root of this
crankiness.
why do i still cave
to such nonsense?
to such wrongness?
when will i
be over that?
when will that
nonsense
not even be a
speck in my
on its own
rearview mirror?
///
i don’t want to whine.
i hate whining.
///
i am cranky with
myself.
again.
always.
///
i have to be even nicer
because i’m
overweight,
as if trying to
wanting to
needing to
lose weight
isn’t bad enough.
but to feel like people
see me as
disgusting
because i’m overweight,
well shoot.
that means i have to be
even nicer
and of course i should
swap seats
and be genuinely
and thoroughly happy
to do whatever
anybody wants.
used to be because
i wore glasses,
(boys don’t make passes
at girls who wear glasses.)
but now it’s the weight.
///
i use the word “fuck”
a lot more
than i ever did before
and it’s seldom followed
by an apology,
even though (interestingly enough)
people – especially men –
still apologize to me
for saying “shit”
or even “damn”
in front of me.
as though i have
virgin ears.
and i don’t know what i think
about that.
there was a time when it
bothered me
annoyed me, actually
because i interpreted
a virgin –
even virgin ears –
mean i had not been
found desirable
and therefore
was – say it with me:
unworthy.
and as absurd as that might sound,
it’s absolutely true.
honestly, though
sometimes fuck is the only
word that will do.
and maybe
letting that word
roll over these lips
was an early step
in the process
to claim my crankiness.
the key that would
let me out of my
own prison cell.
///
“The eyes of others our prisons; their thoughts our cages.” Virginia Woolf
///
and then i read this post about
a new paradigm of being a leader
and i think:
well, huh. maybe i just want to lead
myself.
and maybe that’s enough.
of course that’s enough.
it’s all i really want to do:
lead myself out of
this ridiculous
reoccurring
conversation
and crankiness.
i know this
seeking outside
approval
and validation
and acknowledgement,
i know that basing
my worthiness
on how others see me
and what they think of me
is antiquated,
and though i’m not sure it ever
fit,
i know that the difference
is that now
i have a choice.
i can say
enough already.
or
fuck that.
and so one of the threads
of crankiness
is that i didn’t do that.
i caved.
i sold myself out.
i dishonored myself
in hopes that somebody –
doesn’t matter who –
would think me nice
and therefore
a worthy woman.
a woman
greater than all the rubies
and diamonds
in the entire world.
///
to be continued . . .
she had closed her eyes
to so much
for so long
that eventually
they receded into
mere specks of
background color.
To see the big picture . . . Continue reading
“i was a war bride,” she says. “we were so scared – things were changing so fast – we needed something to hold onto and we knew marriage even if we didn’t know each other.”
“but i wouldn’t do it again. no, i definitely wouldn’t do it again.”
///
maybe it’s because my daddy worked in a rock quarry,
maybe it’s because i collected rocks as a kid,
maybe it’s because i’m plum nelly crazy.
whatever the reason,
i see stories in stone.
stoneiatures, i call them.
if you’d like to see the context,
the complete photo,
come right this way . . .
she had reached
that certain age
where it seemed
to those who had
known her for a long time
that she was of
two mouths
and it often seemed to those
on the receiving end
that the mouth in the back
of her head
was full of
jagged, razor-sharp, uncensored teeth.
it didn’t take long,
as it turned out,
for that toothy, cheeky,
big ole’ mouth
with the prominent overbite
to become
her favorite
way to communicate.
///
maybe it’s because my daddy worked in a rock quarry,
maybe it’s because i collected rocks as a kid,
maybe it’s because i’m plum nelly crazy.
whatever the reason,
i see stories in stone.
stoneiatures, i call them.
if you’d like to see the context,
the complete photo,
come right this way . . .
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integrity
This work by Jeanne Hewell-Chambers is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Based on a work at http://www.TheBarefootHeart.com.
here ‘n there