O creator, still creating
I open myself to you
Let me be an instrument
of your will
Shaddai, let me be
with full acceptance,
who I am and help me
to accept others as they are.
Open us all to your healing.
And allow us to see
holiness and wholeness
in all creation.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Dear Artist....
Dear Writer Liz,
Please spend time with me. I don't want to talk. I want to write, draw, or paint. Coloring is good, too. Make time for me in places where you are. In your office, I'm small, I don't take up much space. I'd like a quarter of the space on your desk. A note book for me. You can publish whatever works on you management blog or on your own blog, which ever. I am not asking for money or a lot of time. Just some nurturing and space. Another thing I would ask for is more time out doors. Remember how good it felt to carve in the sun? Remember in the dead of winter how it feels to write in the sun. Create space for you and for me. We will create!
Please spend time with me. I don't want to talk. I want to write, draw, or paint. Coloring is good, too. Make time for me in places where you are. In your office, I'm small, I don't take up much space. I'd like a quarter of the space on your desk. A note book for me. You can publish whatever works on you management blog or on your own blog, which ever. I am not asking for money or a lot of time. Just some nurturing and space. Another thing I would ask for is more time out doors. Remember how good it felt to carve in the sun? Remember in the dead of winter how it feels to write in the sun. Create space for you and for me. We will create!
Diaphrams and Depression
"Flexing the diaphram to any significant extent requires conscious effort". Crap. I hate physiology. I snapped the book shut, stood, and stretched. My dorm room was a mid-term disaster. Papers mixed with dirty clothes were strewn about. My room had gone round - the corners each containing a collection of bags, books, CDs, papers and clothes. I hated it at that moment.
I glanced out the window into the courtyard. Empty. Everyone else was in a mid-term funk, too. The rain skittered off the window onto the tarmac below. Grey, grey, grey.
"God", I wondered "Is this what depression is like?"
Yep. I wonder how much of my life I've been depressed. I can look back and see the mania, but not the darkness. Not until I was in grad school and the knowledge that this IS all there is overcame me. Before I was excited by the possibilities that life held. But then I realized that we are pack animals and we structure our lives and our days to be much the same. Day after day.... That's when the greyness wins. Meds help. But I feel weak giving my mental health over to the chemical concoction that allows me to focus, to function. To not give in to the grey goat that lives on the roof of my house - trying to keep me prisoner.
What do I want? I want to be amazed - external. Try again. I want to be whole; to be different; lose the anger find the love; be a hippie; live lightly; dance; find joy.
If you live joyfully, though, how do you know? Don't you need the contrast of down days and sleepless nights to illuminate the joy? If not, how do you recognize her?
Anyway. My dorm room is a mess. It's raining and glooming and I'm struck studying my navel when I ought to be studying physiology. I think I'll go watch TV. Maybe I'll feel more inspired later. HA!
I glanced out the window into the courtyard. Empty. Everyone else was in a mid-term funk, too. The rain skittered off the window onto the tarmac below. Grey, grey, grey.
"God", I wondered "Is this what depression is like?"
Yep. I wonder how much of my life I've been depressed. I can look back and see the mania, but not the darkness. Not until I was in grad school and the knowledge that this IS all there is overcame me. Before I was excited by the possibilities that life held. But then I realized that we are pack animals and we structure our lives and our days to be much the same. Day after day.... That's when the greyness wins. Meds help. But I feel weak giving my mental health over to the chemical concoction that allows me to focus, to function. To not give in to the grey goat that lives on the roof of my house - trying to keep me prisoner.
What do I want? I want to be amazed - external. Try again. I want to be whole; to be different; lose the anger find the love; be a hippie; live lightly; dance; find joy.
If you live joyfully, though, how do you know? Don't you need the contrast of down days and sleepless nights to illuminate the joy? If not, how do you recognize her?
Anyway. My dorm room is a mess. It's raining and glooming and I'm struck studying my navel when I ought to be studying physiology. I think I'll go watch TV. Maybe I'll feel more inspired later. HA!
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Tourettes
All I can figure is the guy must have had tourettes syndrome. I mean why else would you stand on a street corner in a cold Seattle rain and yell obscenities at the mountains? It was raining for chrissake! You couldn't see them.
Nonetheless, there he stood. Hair matted to his skull, water in rivulets running around his nose, down his cheeks like tears. I noticed that under the ripped leaf bag he wore around his shoulders like a superman cape, his filthy green tee shirt was plastered to his scrawny frame. Water pooled around his feet--running from his jeans like he was a sculpture. His mouth opened whenever he noticed someone was near by and he stuttered out his cuss.
I glanced at my companion "Do you think it's Tourettes?" I asked. She was busy fiddling with her phone. "Yes?" She said "Yes, good. I'm calling about an obviously disturbed man..." Was she calling the cops? "Julie," I said "Not the cops! He's harmless". Julie mouthed 'wait' and gave whomever she was talking to our location. She flipped her phone shut with a snap and said "No, I didn't call the cops. I dialed 211- first call for help. That man is going to catch a hell of a cold and I don't want him to be sick."
Oh.
I opened our umbrella and took her arm "Wait" she whispered and she took our umbrella and approached the man.
He saw her coming and began pointing and shouting in the direction of the mountain that guarded the city. The traffic was loud enough that while I could hear him, I couldn't make out what he was saying. He turned his ear toward Julie. She gave him some money from her purse.
"Julie!" I called out. She turned and started my way. Then she stopped turned back and handed the man my extra large black watch plaid golf umbrella. She ran towards me.
When she reached me she was soaked herself, but she was smiling slightly. She must have seen my puzzled look because as she took my arm she said "Sorry about your umbrella, Michael."
"Why did you give it to him?"
She stroked my arm gently and looked at me. Her eyes were deep with old hurt and new worries "His name is Jerry and he is my brother."
Nonetheless, there he stood. Hair matted to his skull, water in rivulets running around his nose, down his cheeks like tears. I noticed that under the ripped leaf bag he wore around his shoulders like a superman cape, his filthy green tee shirt was plastered to his scrawny frame. Water pooled around his feet--running from his jeans like he was a sculpture. His mouth opened whenever he noticed someone was near by and he stuttered out his cuss.
I glanced at my companion "Do you think it's Tourettes?" I asked. She was busy fiddling with her phone. "Yes?" She said "Yes, good. I'm calling about an obviously disturbed man..." Was she calling the cops? "Julie," I said "Not the cops! He's harmless". Julie mouthed 'wait' and gave whomever she was talking to our location. She flipped her phone shut with a snap and said "No, I didn't call the cops. I dialed 211- first call for help. That man is going to catch a hell of a cold and I don't want him to be sick."
Oh.
I opened our umbrella and took her arm "Wait" she whispered and she took our umbrella and approached the man.
He saw her coming and began pointing and shouting in the direction of the mountain that guarded the city. The traffic was loud enough that while I could hear him, I couldn't make out what he was saying. He turned his ear toward Julie. She gave him some money from her purse.
"Julie!" I called out. She turned and started my way. Then she stopped turned back and handed the man my extra large black watch plaid golf umbrella. She ran towards me.
When she reached me she was soaked herself, but she was smiling slightly. She must have seen my puzzled look because as she took my arm she said "Sorry about your umbrella, Michael."
"Why did you give it to him?"
She stroked my arm gently and looked at me. Her eyes were deep with old hurt and new worries "His name is Jerry and he is my brother."
Important Calls
"Maybe there really are only 5 important calls in any one's life." she thought as she stood int he phone booth on 42nd Street, her quarter poised to drop. "Do I want to use this call now???"
Ugh. I pushed my bangs out of my eyes (note to self- I need a hair cut). This is crap! Why five? Why not two? What's the magic here?
5 calls. No more, no less. I let my brain run before my fingers on the keyboard. Five. Five members in my family. Five pets at one time. I've owned (or been owned by) five dogs - Lady, Boeuf, Doobie, Abu and Orie; and five cats - Mim, Puck, Griffen, Woodie, Pipen and Z - wait that's six....
How many important calls have I made?
1. To Mark - He's my therapist; the one who held me together when my life fell apart.
2. To my sister telling her to come home four days before Mom died.
Okay, those are the calls I've made. What about ones I've received?
1. The one from Rose telling me I had the curator job at the Governor's Mansion. I still remember that one although it's been 20 + years.
2. The call where Rose called in well - I can't come in because I feel too good - Because it was funny / not important in the scheme of things.
3. The one where Andie called about my first geek job....
Really though, I thought, most important things come by mail or in person.
I looked at the monitor. Crap, I thought, how was I going to get Juliet out of this phone booth? How was I going to rationalize...or rather how was SHE going to rationalize calling Dirk back? She had wanted to be on her own. Is she going back like a whipped puppy? Is she going back home? Is she joyful? Or is she calling to say neener neener I told you I'd be successful??
I didn't know. More importantly Juliet wasn't talking. She stood there in the phone booth - quarter poised at the slot. One hand holding the quarter and the other holding her purse, the phone receiver cradled between her shoulder and ear - nested in her wiry brown curls. She was wearing a brown suit with a tight pencil skirt. Brown. This whole thing felt ...... Brown.
Ugh. I pushed my bangs out of my eyes (note to self- I need a hair cut). This is crap! Why five? Why not two? What's the magic here?
5 calls. No more, no less. I let my brain run before my fingers on the keyboard. Five. Five members in my family. Five pets at one time. I've owned (or been owned by) five dogs - Lady, Boeuf, Doobie, Abu and Orie; and five cats - Mim, Puck, Griffen, Woodie, Pipen and Z - wait that's six....
How many important calls have I made?
1. To Mark - He's my therapist; the one who held me together when my life fell apart.
2. To my sister telling her to come home four days before Mom died.
Okay, those are the calls I've made. What about ones I've received?
1. The one from Rose telling me I had the curator job at the Governor's Mansion. I still remember that one although it's been 20 + years.
2. The call where Rose called in well - I can't come in because I feel too good - Because it was funny / not important in the scheme of things.
3. The one where Andie called about my first geek job....
Really though, I thought, most important things come by mail or in person.
I looked at the monitor. Crap, I thought, how was I going to get Juliet out of this phone booth? How was I going to rationalize...or rather how was SHE going to rationalize calling Dirk back? She had wanted to be on her own. Is she going back like a whipped puppy? Is she going back home? Is she joyful? Or is she calling to say neener neener I told you I'd be successful??
I didn't know. More importantly Juliet wasn't talking. She stood there in the phone booth - quarter poised at the slot. One hand holding the quarter and the other holding her purse, the phone receiver cradled between her shoulder and ear - nested in her wiry brown curls. She was wearing a brown suit with a tight pencil skirt. Brown. This whole thing felt ...... Brown.
Monday, September 24, 2007
Jerry
For this piece we were given a situation and asked to write about it. Here's the situation:
Last week Jerry had been told to leave his mis-behaving kids at home. This week he headed out to the store, secretly glad that the kids were not with him. A bit later, though, he returned home with produce ground into his shoes, egg dripping from his hair, and a shirt covered with chocolate syrup. What happened?
Here's what I came up with:
Jerry pushed the cart through he crowded narrow aisles of the local general grocer. It was a small town grocer which had more goods than space and maneuvering with a cart was tricky on days when the store was empty. On a typical Saturday morning, when the place was packed, it was a nightmare.
Jerry was glad to have left his four year old twins - two boys who had gotten what Jerry called 'over exuberant' last Saturday - at home. Today he'd planned a quick trip in. The list, gripped tightly in his meaty fist read:
Eggs,
Milk,
Ice cream (vanilla)
Chocolate syrup
cheerios
lettuce
apples
bananas
white bread and peanut butter.
"Huh? oh, 'scuse me" he said as his cart nearly pushed over a boy of about nine. "heh heh, dint see ya there, kiddo." Jerry smiled at the boy. The boy shot his tongue out at Jerry and said "Shut up you fat ape."
"Huh?" Jerry reached across his cart and grabbed the boys ear lobe. "You need some manners, Sonny" he said.
The kid yelped and in a flash his dad? Uncle? Protector anyway - a man twice the size of Jerry - was there by the kids side.
The kid, the weasel, began stammering how he wasn't doin' nottin -- that Jerry hadn't even asked him to move, that Jerry had tried to hit him with his cart and how he'd just been mindin' his own business....
Jerry stood there, jaws agape as he realized that the bigger guy was the same manager who had chucked him and his boys out of the store last weekend.....
Last week Jerry had been told to leave his mis-behaving kids at home. This week he headed out to the store, secretly glad that the kids were not with him. A bit later, though, he returned home with produce ground into his shoes, egg dripping from his hair, and a shirt covered with chocolate syrup. What happened?
Here's what I came up with:
Jerry pushed the cart through he crowded narrow aisles of the local general grocer. It was a small town grocer which had more goods than space and maneuvering with a cart was tricky on days when the store was empty. On a typical Saturday morning, when the place was packed, it was a nightmare.
Jerry was glad to have left his four year old twins - two boys who had gotten what Jerry called 'over exuberant' last Saturday - at home. Today he'd planned a quick trip in. The list, gripped tightly in his meaty fist read:
Eggs,
Milk,
Ice cream (vanilla)
Chocolate syrup
cheerios
lettuce
apples
bananas
white bread and peanut butter.
"Huh? oh, 'scuse me" he said as his cart nearly pushed over a boy of about nine. "heh heh, dint see ya there, kiddo." Jerry smiled at the boy. The boy shot his tongue out at Jerry and said "Shut up you fat ape."
"Huh?" Jerry reached across his cart and grabbed the boys ear lobe. "You need some manners, Sonny" he said.
The kid yelped and in a flash his dad? Uncle? Protector anyway - a man twice the size of Jerry - was there by the kids side.
The kid, the weasel, began stammering how he wasn't doin' nottin -- that Jerry hadn't even asked him to move, that Jerry had tried to hit him with his cart and how he'd just been mindin' his own business....
Jerry stood there, jaws agape as he realized that the bigger guy was the same manager who had chucked him and his boys out of the store last weekend.....
Saturday, September 22, 2007
For as long as she lived....
For as long as she lived, or maybe even longer, she would never forget his face as she climbed into her car and drove off. He looked at that moment like a lost little boy. She thought to herself for a moment "tell me to stay...." and then it was gone. For she knew he would never expose his emotions to her like that.
20 years married and it's come to this. She thought, "I'm expected to read his emotions and placate them before he knows he has them. She smiled thinly - almost a grimace - and realized that she had trained him to be that way. That expecting a change when you do something the same way for 20 years is a kind of self induced insanity.
The country side whizzed by and she settled in for the drive. Seven hours of road noise, setting sun, small towns and cornfields blown raw by the bitter March wind. Her special brand of intoxication rising through the cars floorboards.
Freedom.
No housework, no cooking, no cat boxes to clean. The project at work was over and she was, for the moment, unemployed. Her husband was behind her-left alone in the driveway and the open road poured in front of her.
His face, though, stuck with her. Years later it would be his face that she would see whenever she thought about the beginning of the end of their marriage. The sadness and sorrow at her excitement of leaving him behind.
Later she would be able to look at the memory of his face - frozen in that moment - and acknowledge that she, too, had had her share of sadness and sorrow about the end. Of course she would also realize that for her the end had actually begun 18 years before.....
20 years married and it's come to this. She thought, "I'm expected to read his emotions and placate them before he knows he has them. She smiled thinly - almost a grimace - and realized that she had trained him to be that way. That expecting a change when you do something the same way for 20 years is a kind of self induced insanity.
The country side whizzed by and she settled in for the drive. Seven hours of road noise, setting sun, small towns and cornfields blown raw by the bitter March wind. Her special brand of intoxication rising through the cars floorboards.
Freedom.
No housework, no cooking, no cat boxes to clean. The project at work was over and she was, for the moment, unemployed. Her husband was behind her-left alone in the driveway and the open road poured in front of her.
His face, though, stuck with her. Years later it would be his face that she would see whenever she thought about the beginning of the end of their marriage. The sadness and sorrow at her excitement of leaving him behind.
Later she would be able to look at the memory of his face - frozen in that moment - and acknowledge that she, too, had had her share of sadness and sorrow about the end. Of course she would also realize that for her the end had actually begun 18 years before.....
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