Tag: writings (Page 61 of 63)

releasing

November 27, 2009 / jeanne / 0 Comments

i used to feel most invisible around the holidays, humming the song “cellophane man” from the musical chicago as i scurried about at warp speed. weeks or months ahead, i’d study magazines, take classes, make lists. wanting everything to look amazing, sound pleasant, taste scrumptious, and feel enjoyable. i wanted my family to oooh and aaah over the holiday trappings and traditions, and not just on that particular day – oh no. i wanted to hear rave reviews for months and months after The Big Day. they did pay the occasional compliment, but not nearly enough to satisfy me that they truly appreciated – or even noticed, for that matter – my efforts and energy.

with each passing year, i seem to be shedding the desire to impress (some would use the word “control”). i sold the turkey pan at a garage sale year ago. candles surrounded by treasures found on walks make what i now call stunning centerpieces. and i save money and space by avoiding magazines like the plague. i plan the big rocks, as stephen covey calls them, letting the chips fall where they fall.

are the holidays happier? more enjoyable? more memorable? i can’t say for sure, but i will tell you that some of the family legends recently added to our archives are entertaining and hilarious tales of amazing improvisation and resourcefulness. i can tell you that though i still sleep well at night during red letter events, it’s from tiredness, not bone-level exhaustion. and today, when they went for a walk up the falls and turned to smile and wave at me as i sat by the window watching, i felt incredibly loved and visible and fortunate.

thanksgiving 2009 wrap-up

November 27, 2009 / jeanne / 2 Comments

we got off to ~~a rough~~ an interesting start on thanksgiving 2009, but as we they sit here watching football, i know we pulled it out just fine. oh, the table wasn’t worthy of a single snapshot, and the food was served in the midst of countertop clutter, and the family balked when i lit candles and turned down the lights, but it was still a very nice thanksgiving.

mimosas help move us through the day with a kitchen full of folks, each of whom has their own cooking style. i prefer to clean as i go while others prefer cooking now/cleaning later and still others say if they cook, somebody else can clean by golly.

we still honor the 20-minute rule, a little something i conjured up many years ago in a foot-stomp moment: eat as fast as you want, i tell them, but you are gonna’ sit at this table for 20 minutes because I JUST SPENT THREE DAYS COOKING AND A DAY AT THE GROCERY STORE BEFORE THAT.

long ago i, like so many others, ended every day noting at least 5 things on my gratitude list, and you know, the more i was grateful for, the more i had to be grateful for. that practice, like anything else i’ve done consistently, taught me to see, to think in a certain way. over the years, i’ve tried all sorts of ways to enkindle conversation about gratitude as we sit around the overflowing table on the fourth thursday of november, but this year i waved the white flag and just left each to his/her own way of saying thank you.

once, on a family trip, my son wandered off by himself for some alone time. when we reunited later that afternoon, he came bearing a gift for me: a handblown glass stylus, inkwell, and stand. it is gorgeous and it is delicate – far too delicate to sit ready in a house with curious cats that leap with abandon – so until 2 weeks ago, it sat in my closet. it was the first thing i saw when i opened the closet door, and i vowed that when we were once again catless, i was bringing it out into the open.

then mother and i went to vancouver 2 weeks ago, and on granville island, i bought 2 bottles of vegetable-based ink and ever since, i’ve started each day penning thank you notes with my handblown glass stylus. i dip the nib in the inkwell and delight in the sound and feel of it scratching along the paper. once at least 3 notes are finished, the dog and i walk them to the mailbox.

so why am i not afraid for the stylus’ life even though we still provide shelter for 2 cats? because, my friends, i have discovered a little something called museum mount – a clear, slightly sticky gel that holds everything tightly in its designated place. yes, thanks to that little jar of museum mount, i can look forward to penning those daily thank you notes with my glass pen far into the future, cats be damned.

but now, as we close out thanksgiving 2009, i’ll publicly revert to noting 5 things for which i am monstrously thankful:

* children who enjoy, defend, and, when necessary, support each other.
* a low-maintenance, high-companionable dog.
* a mother who is still interested in all sorts of things, who never uses age as an excuse, and who is not too set in her ways to stay up past midnight and sleep till nearly noon.
* a husband who willingly changes out switchplate and outlet covers even though he thinks what we already have is perfectly fine.
* friends – those i see in person and those i see digitally – who tickle, support, inspire, and encourage.

oh, oh, oh: and museum mount. yes siree, i sure am thankful for museum mount.

the key to thanksgiving 2009

November 26, 2009 / jeanne / 0 Comments

chapter 1:
we leave late . . . which puts us driving on the mountainous roads of western nc through the dense, opaque clouds. 2 cats fight the entire time (loudly and physically) while 1 cat practices his carsickness in my lap. and on my arms. and, when all other appendates seem to be covered, on my chest.

chapter 2:
we arrive at the house only to find ourselves locked out. my key that always lives in the car console is m.i.a., and the fella’ doing work on the outside of the house has apparently taken the (singular, as in the only) spare key home with him. or something.

chapter 3:
the garage door opens, thanks to the cooperation of that programmable thingie in my car, so we shepherd dog and cats into the garage and position a big box in front of the cat door because, at the risk of sounding inhospitable, i’m thinking i don’t want the cats to be inside without canine or human supervision. (surely you’ve heard what the cats will do when the mice are away.)

chapter 4:
we head into town where we are delighted to find the dollar store open and a rack of clothes for sale on the sidewalk. alison and mother have their clothes, but i have nothing save the ones that now smell of eau de cat vomit. i pick up clothes, deodorant, and a toothbrush . . . plus a couple of christmas trees for the front door, 31 reindeer ears, a few presents, holiday greeting cards, dog food, a gallon of water (since the water is turned off at the house), a blanket large enough for all the cats and then some, a bed for the dog, and some dog food (already have cat food). just the essentials, you know.

chapter 5:
we walk to the restaurant and inhale food while they mop the floor under our feed, refill condiments and wish we would eat faster.

chapter 6:
back to the dollar store where i purchase some black thermal pants and a mini-dress to wear over them as pajamas since both mother and alison draw the line at me sleeping naked.

chapter 7:
back to the house to feed the animals and tuck them into bed. as alison and i unload the car, mother slips behind the wheel, prepared to honk and flash (the lights) should cats even look like they’re thinking of running out of the garage. they don’t – just the sound of the door is enough to send them into cabinets, thank goodness. we put out the food and water, spread out the blanks, fluff up the dog’s bed, and leave.

chapter 8:
when mother exits the car at the front door to the hotel that we hope has one more empty room, out falls the fork that she “lost” at the waffle house where we stopped for a bite on the way to n.c. eons ago. don’t ask.

chapter 9:
we turn on television in time to see donnie osmond announced the winner of dancing with the stars then showers and smirnoffs all around (with me in pole position) followed by soft snoring and sweet dreams.

chapter 10:
after the free breakfast, we load the car and head back to the house. seeing the neighbor’s car, we stop and i ask if he knows the whereabouts of his friend who did some work on our house. turns out it’s a case of EX-friends due to the unfortunate fact that workerbee stopped paying rent to neighbor (a.k.a. landlord) which led to the eviction of workerbee. so, no, neighbor doesn’t know whereabouts of workerbee but grabs his tools and vows that he won’t leave till we’re inside our house.

chapter 11:
neighbor can’t find a spare key in keybox open either. doors all locked. windows all locked. he’s checking the last door when i notice that workerbee left a trapdoor open that leads to under the house (i immediately picture me trying to wake a family of bears and ask them to pretty please find another place to hibernate) and i hatch a hail-mary idea: “what if we can get inside by going under the house?” i explain that there are 2 closetesque doors in j’underneath (my n.c. studio) that open to – surprise – the big rock on which our house sits. (it’s eerie and captivating all at once.) the way i figure it, he’s just got to take the hinge off the smaller trapdoor (the larger, open door is a deadend – i already know that), crawl in, and find his way over to one of the 2 surprise doors. it works, and before you know it, i’m standing inside asking how can i ever repay him for breaking and entering.

chapter 12:
the key is now permanently attached to my person, and 4 duplicates are on their way up with hubbie. the animals roam contentedly (if not always peaceably). groceries are put up. yesterday’s clothes are washed, and now – at 3:11 a.m. on thanksgiving day – i prop my eyelids open waiting for hubbie and son to arrive and make the dinner table complete. let the overeating begin . . .

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: