Category: Blog (Page 99 of 101)

News of The 70273 Project with a side of Jeanne’s Barefoot Heart

compassion: the new black

October 4, 2009 / jeanne / 16 Comments

communing with nature has countless powerful benefits – more self-control, increased working memory, lower levels of stress, better moods, decreased blood pressure to name a few – but a new study conducted by psychologists at the university of rochester shows that being exposed to animals just might actually make us more compassionate.

to test prosocial behaviors such as compassion and generosity, 370 different subjects were exposed to either natural settings (calm lakes, wooded forests, vast deserts) or man-made environments (cityscapes, skyscrapers, highways). in two of the experiments, a person was given a $5 prize and told they could share it with a stranger who would then be given an additional $5, though there was no guarantee that the second person would return any of the winnings. researchers found that subjects exposed to nature were significantly more likely to open their wallets and that increased exposure to nature led to an increased willingness to share with strangers.

results of the study led to a cornucopia of hypotheses, of course, but perhaps the “why” is not important. perhaps there are many “why’s” with no single correct answer. perhaps the evident correlation is enough to start thoughtful, meaningful conversations with ourselves and others. perhaps the results touch us in some inexplicable way that leads to a change in our behavior that ultimately makes us better people – and perhaps that is enough in and of itself.

to the ancient greek philosophers, that was the goal of life: to be the very best person you could be. it’s a quest that continues to this very day. we spend money on self-help books, workshops, seminars, schools, often overlooking the vast lessons all around us . . .

Watch CBS News Videos Online

~~~
information on the study from The Frontal Cortex by josh lehrer. video from cbs.

will all the queen’s horses and all the queen’s women be up to it this time?

October 3, 2009 / jeanne / 12 Comments

wisps of hope float around, but they’re hard to latch onto, harder still to hold onto once latched. i am anxious today. nervous. looking for the redbird as confirmation of today as a happy day. trying hard to be hopeful and optimistic, trying hard not to invest too much in hopeful and optimistic . . .

i sent a friend a book and a l-o-n-g letter, and she gets home today to open the package. this is not just any friend, mind you, it’s one of my precious few soul friends. a woman i grew up with – not in terms of chronological progression through the years, but as women growing into ourselves. this is the woman i called in the middle of my darkest night.

this is also the woman who broke up with me over a year ago. she sent me a dear jeanne email, and i have not talked to her since.

i didn’t reply to the email, didn’t call her, didn’t write her letters because the ball was in my court, and honestly, i wanted to keep it there. i didn’t even dribble the damn ball for fear it would get away from me because you see, as long as it was my turn to write, i still could. and as long as i still could, the friendship wasn’t totally, absolutely over.

we went to graduate school together (that’s where we met). she waited outside the office as we checked out of the residency, saying she wanted to walk back to the dorm with me, and that’s when i knew she was crazy enough to be my friend. while in graduate school, we shared research, ideas, and even feedback from our faculty advisers, asking each other to read the emails from faculty lest we missed something important.

in our togetherness, we built our own cathedrals.

we once spent a week in a cabin in the woods, writing, talking, laughing, walking, eating. she was working on her thesis, i was her sounding board, her editor, her questioner. the day we emerged from our week in the woods was the day sue monk kidd’s book the mermaid chair came out. before we left, i called the local bookstore and asked them to reserve 2 books – 1 in each name. we picked the books up on our way back into civilization.

a year or so later, we attended a weekend writer’s conference in charleston led by – you guess it: sue monk kidd. it was, as all our togethers were, a special time. hot like you wouldn’t believe, but oh the laughs, the tears, the places we did go in that one town on that one weekend.

she’s from the north; i’m from the south, so we decided early on (another of her good ideas) that instead of sharing physical presents on special days, we would meet twice a year and spend a week together. longer, if we could manage it. the world fell completely away when we were together, leaving us free to explore our overlapping interests without having to justify or explain. we were free to create our own little rituals, doing things that held meaning and marked significance for us, even if it looked downright silly to the outside world. for several days of our togetherness, for example, we’d put a banana out in a certain spot, and upon awakening each morning, neither of us spoke a single word until the banana was moved twice, indicating we’d both journaled our way to the surface.

we created collages as outlines for books we would write. we peeled back the bandages on old wounds and trusted that the light and salt from shared tears would help heal. we laughed till we peed and kidded each other as though a shared secret language that only the two of us spoke.

you get the picture . . . but only part of it because i haven’t the bandwidth to paint this picture of friendship in its true colorful and magnificent breadth and depth.

early in september, sue monk kidd’s new book came out. i was there, at the same local store, first in line to purchase 2 copies of the book. i brought them home and began to read mine, underlining things, making notes in the margin of things i longed to talk to my friend about.

her copy of the book lay on my desk, waiting for me to take the next step.

waiting.

one saturday morning i woke up knowing it was time to write The Letter. i couldn’t’ve picked a worse time. daughter was here, recovering from pleurisy. husband was here doing his saturday things (which means i’m on call), and to top it all off: my Self chose to write not tucked away in my studio, but at the dining room table (a.k.a. the fishbowl).

i didn’t ask, i just found paper and pen, took the book and sat down to write. i have no idea what i wrote. i remember writing “i miss you” several times, but beyond that, i just don’t know. did i even tell her why i was sending the book? will she remember if i forgot to tell her? did i come close to telling her how much she means to me? did i beg? did i say anything, anything that will spark a fire of reconciliation? i wrote for years, but it only took about an hour, and when i came to the end, i found myself rambling. though i can’t remember the words i wrote, i remember the feeling of not wanting to close the letter because signing the letter just might mean closing, ending the friendship. i was tossing the ball back, and the possible finality of that was not lost on me.

the package sat on my desk for several days before i took a deep breath and mailed it. somehow i managed to not think about it every single minute of every single day, then came an email from her last monday that she was out of town and would be home to open the package today.

today.

though i’ve tried to keep myself busy (read: distracted) this past week, i have also spent inordinate amounts of time creating an emotional scenario, giving words and feelings to my biggest hopes. feeling the absolute full body tingle of excitement when i get an email from her that opens the door to possible reconnection. imagining the talks we’ll eventually have about this time apart and our coming together again – how we’ll explore it with symbols and myths and personal archetypes. how we’ll find ways to fit it into our personal theories of resiliency and female development. i’ve tried to actually read over our imagined shoulders as we write about this whole chapter in our togetherness. i have tried to write the script then will it to happen. it is an exercise of relinquishing control.

i have also thought of all the things i wish i’d’ve said. for example, there’s the upcoming 6-week online session with clarissa pinkola estes – the kind of thing we would enjoy doing together, the value of the session hugely enriched by the discussions we’d have aftewards. i’ve signed up already, but i forgot to mention it to her. do i send her an email or is that too much? there is a deadline because of the beginning date of the session, but do i need to give my friend space? it is an exercise of patience.

who will i share these deep interests of the soul with, these explorations and forays into the unknown? who will hold the space for me to cry without clucking over me and trying to stop the tears? who will be bold enough, willing enough to step in when needed, even if not beckoned? it is an exercise of trust.

have i made a fool of myself? it is an exercise in risk.

in her book, i will not die an unlived life, dawna markova writes of learning to open herself to fear instead of numbing it out. she then asks the question, “what do i love more than i fear?” it is an exercise in confronting the bully called fear and moving past it towards something – or in this case someone – i love.

welcome to my so-called writing life

September 30, 2009 / jeanne / 8 Comments

i love this time of day . . . when i’m awake and the world’s asleep. when the cool air teases me, and the quiet bathes me in calmness and confidence. this is the time of day when i know – i just know – that anything is possible. it’s the time of day when my ideas are worthwhile and creative, not a waste of time and crazy. it’s the time of day when the loud call of the stack of to do’s is drowned out by the lure of writing and stitching. it’s the time of day when my shoulders and neck aren’t tensed, when smiles are my native language and my forehead looks freshly botoxed.

the trick, of course, is to capture this feeling and carry it in my pocket throughout the day – even as the world wakes up and stirs and begins its thievery.

in second grade, miss kerlin sat me down and talked me through how to draw a tree. put your finger on the paper, she said, and draw a line on each side of it. when you get to the top of your finger, let the lines branch off towards each corner of the paper, then fill in that “v” with other v’s and fill in those v’s with other v’s and just keep going. there, she said when i was v’ed out, now that’s a tree.

though it didn’t look like any tree that grew in the south, i took her word for it, and to this day, it’s how i draw a tree.

and a tree is the only thing i draw.

even if nobody recognizes it as a tree.

now you’d think it would be easier to draw lines – straight or even wavy ones, but lines, i tell you, are more of a challenge than trees. trees are vertical tubes, flared at each end, the top flare filled with nested v’s. they grow from the ground to the sky, and completely around whatever gets in their way. lines divide things, cordon off things, define things.

i drew trees in reading (don’t ask) (in sixth grade, i drew wrought iron railings . . . with a ruler) (again i say: don’t ask) and those cute little overlapping circles in math: venn diagrams.

~ ~ ~

of course at this point, i’ve written enough for the niggler to wake up and realize – yikes, she’s writing. to answer the first niggling question, i google “venn diagram” because no, i am not absolutely sure that’s what they are called. (yep, venn diagrams: i was right.) (ha.)

and since i didn’t really mean to write about venn diagrams – it’s just where i found myself (the most delicious part of writing) and because lord knows, i couldn’t be the first one to ever write about venn diagrams and life, i felt compelled – absolutely compelled – to google a check.

right again: others have come before me.

(the sun is coming up now, by the way, and the first discernible thing i see is the driveway.) (figures.)

i find this interesting little venn diagram as business-planning-from-a-human-perspecitve schematic, so of course i follow my intriguement to see what else the fella had written, and one link leads to another and in less than a nano i find this story about a writer who wrote his stories in longhand, and when finished, hung each sheet on a wall then retreated to a far away place to edit via telescope.

now i ask you: who could resist the urge to email that little kernel to their boy in colorado?

and now the sun is lighting the world, and the dog is hugely annoyed with the trespassing family of deer (brave – did i mention brave family of deer) (it is deer season here, remember) come to eat the tenacious piddly stumps of plants left over from prior deer feasts. and ms. redbird is back defending her territory (which may be where i was headed with the whole venn diagram thing, who knows?). and the cat makes it known that he misses the dog who’s still outside drawing biological lines – i’m pretty sure they’re lines and not trees – to give the deer what we’ll call a map.

and so it goes.

ever,
jeanne

p.s. for the clouds above the trees, i still sit my pencil aside and glue down cotton balls. i think you can probably tell why.

the perfect day

September 26, 2009 / jeanne / 8 Comments

today procrastination is consuming my energy and attention. consuming, i tell you. it’s hard work, this procrastinating. but it’s not without its benefits . . .

had i been doing that other work, i never would’ve come across this, for example, and thus would not be able to lay claim to being the first in my neighborhood to have wigs for my kittiepies.

and i ask you: had i been busting butt all day, would i have been able to oz myself? i will, however, roust myself out of this state of inertia later tonight to begin packing my bags and practicing my carefully timed thank you speech for when i accept that academy award. i’ll betcha they convene a special awards show just for moi. it’s inevitable once my people talk to their people.

while visiting over at yesbutnobutyes.com, i saw this and could not stop myself from thinking how i know some people who could learn a thing or two from this little squirrel who’s willing to work hard for food.

okay, kids. i’m worn slap out, so i’m gonna’ watch a little law & order then drag myself to bed. procrastinating is exhausting.

rainy nights (and days) in georgia

September 22, 2009 / jeanne / 8 Comments

what i learned (some for the third or thirty-first time)yesterday:

~ it’s harder than i thought to let myself out at the curb.
~ my new walking shoes are not waterproof.
~ my new wicking socks work with rain water, too – not just with sweat.
~ a house on the hill will not flood . . . unless there’s a hole in the roof.
~ floods bring out the stupid in people – which leaves more room in the ark, but still.
~ milk is not needed to make pizza dough if you don’t get the box of bisquick into the car fast enough when raining.
~ going to the grocery store in the rain is only a skoch worse than going when the sun’s shining.
~ cars are not synonymous with boats. they just aren’t.
~ rainy days and mondays don’t get me down. wet, maybe, but not down.
~ my mother was right: i do not melt in the rain.

here’s hoping for enough sun ~~today~~ this week to give us one of these:

thoughts from this morning’s walk

September 17, 2009 / jeanne / 12 Comments

sometimes i imagine
that if i could just find me a hole to tuck myself away in, like here:

or here:

or maybe even here:

with an adorable (if overweight) herding dog

to lead me (sometimes called “creative herding”)

off the road and to Just The Right Spot

perhaps beside a quiet creek

that leads to who knows (or cares, for that matter) where

i might just commit a fall bloom.

forgot to pack my muse

August 29, 2009 / jeanne / 14 Comments

we traveled above the clouds

but not in denver

so i can’t blame the altitude

and the temperature is quite comfortable

so i can’t blame the heat

dry or otherwise.

and i have a lot to do,

but none of it is here with me

my cell phone doesn’t work here

and we don’t really know that many people here

or belong to any clubs or organizations

so there are no social obligations requiring my time and attention.

so as far as i can tell

i have no excuse

no discernible, easily recognizable reason

for running on empty

coughing up dust

seeing cobwebs.

i’ve got nothing

right now.

nothing, i tell you.

i’m trying to finish up a couple of pieces

but can’t quite get theref

can’t get to that satisfying “yes”.

i’m shining

the proverbial light

down into the depths of the proverbial well.

i’m writing

even though the words lack oomph.

i’m stitching

though the result is a foreign language.

who knows why this sometimes happen

times when you can’t buy a creative idea?

sigh.

thank goodness our scarlett was right:

tomorrow is indeed another day.

and maybe tomorrow

i’ll just whip me up a beautiful fitted

ballgown

from some curtains.

oh wait,

we have no curtains.

shoot.

another one bites the dust.

see what i mean?

guess there’s nothing to do

but go have some ice cream.

chocolate

using the biggest spoon i can find.

that should do it.

learning from a bird brain

August 26, 2009 / jeanne / 0 Comments

every morning like clockwork, ms. redbird shows up to defend her space. she’s a tenacious thing, continuing her task despite the would-be distractions of a nosey cat and a growling dog. outsiders are not the issue, you see. ms. redbird tenaciously defends her space from her own reflection, from her own self. when it comes to protecting her personal territory, she is her own worst enemy.

(i posted this on another blog o’mine, now retired, but have decided to resurrect it here because the precious little ole’ bird is still going strong, beginning every morning around 7:00. she has, however, expanded her territory from that one window to 2 bedroom windows and my studio windows.)

vines with a southern accent

August 23, 2009 / jeanne / 4 Comments

while all else diminished during the great depression, my friends, kudzu thrived. it absolutely thrived. back in the day (read: early 1900s), somebody brought some cuttings over from japan, and kudzu has made itself right at home ever since, aggressively staking its claim to the georgia landscape.

because i’m not so good maneuvering needle in a car barreling down the road towards home, i didn’t get much done on overgrown. i did, however, manage to crochet kudzu vines from embroidery thread. (which godfree interpreted as a feline pillow.)