Recently, a girlfriend I've known since high school wrote and told me she'd been sorting old photographs, trying to put them into categories and throw useless stuff. She mentioned she'd found an old photo of herself taken at "my house" ( my folks house).
Here's what I wrote to her:
" I'd like to see that photo of you at my house-- maybe it will spark a good memory for me! (I have been inundated with not-so -happy ones of late.)
It's the move to a new town and leaving my friends behind as well as undertaking living with my new husband -- we'd lived in our own separate houses for two years. The move alone would have been hard, but coupled with living with JK, it's been an unforeseen TRIP to my dark side. "
My first dark memory resulting in writing a story about a night Uncle Bill-- my father's brother came to our house looking for a fight. (Ninepatch May 2007). I remembered that incident years ago, but never got the real depth of it until I wrote it for the newsletter last month. Now, I am probably free of it's emotional hold. (I think that's how it works-- time will tell.) Writing the one for this month was even harder though. It is one about Mother and me.
When I write my monthly stories, I work and rework them until I seem to have both the "heart" of the tale and an ending that is some kind of resolution. That's my goal, anyway. I think working the "heart line" until I find resolution is a positive goal. However I know it's not an easy one. For example, this month I have spent two weeks trying to think of a positive turn for my sad memory story. Then quite suddenly, two days ago, it came to me. It's not a BIG DEAL ending, but considering how hard I looked for one-- I am satisfied.
NOTE: May's Ninepatch story can be read at www.ninepatch9.org The Mother" memory will be available at the same address after June 10, 2007.
Here's what I wrote to her:
" I'd like to see that photo of you at my house-- maybe it will spark a good memory for me! (I have been inundated with not-so -happy ones of late.)
It's the move to a new town and leaving my friends behind as well as undertaking living with my new husband -- we'd lived in our own separate houses for two years. The move alone would have been hard, but coupled with living with JK, it's been an unforeseen TRIP to my dark side. "
My first dark memory resulting in writing a story about a night Uncle Bill-- my father's brother came to our house looking for a fight. (Ninepatch May 2007). I remembered that incident years ago, but never got the real depth of it until I wrote it for the newsletter last month. Now, I am probably free of it's emotional hold. (I think that's how it works-- time will tell.) Writing the one for this month was even harder though. It is one about Mother and me.
When I write my monthly stories, I work and rework them until I seem to have both the "heart" of the tale and an ending that is some kind of resolution. That's my goal, anyway. I think working the "heart line" until I find resolution is a positive goal. However I know it's not an easy one. For example, this month I have spent two weeks trying to think of a positive turn for my sad memory story. Then quite suddenly, two days ago, it came to me. It's not a BIG DEAL ending, but considering how hard I looked for one-- I am satisfied.
NOTE: May's Ninepatch story can be read at www.ninepatch9.org The Mother" memory will be available at the same address after June 10, 2007.
Today at a meeting I was standing in line for coffee when Mike walked up behind me and touched my shoulder. I turned and he said, "I heard you are a published author."
I was taken aback. "Well, no..." I said.
"You write, don't you?"
"Yes," I admitted, "but I'm not 'published'". I went on, "I put out a little newsletter every month..."
"Great!" he said, "I think I might have something for it."
He must have seem something in my face because he said, "It's not just for women is it?"
"Well no," I said, "It's is mostly women, but there are a few men, too."
"Good!" he smiled, "Bring me a copy, will you?"
"OK, " I smiled and nodded, then picked up my coffee cup and walked away wondering, "Who's he been talking to?"
I do publish a little newsletter and have for fifteen years. It's a place for people I know to tell "their stories". It's mostly a sort of forum to pour out those life matters that quickly cause ordinary people to yawn.
Some reader/writers are spiritual "seekers". Others are story-tellers. A few are poets and everyone is sharing something about their lives... all in unique ways through their stories.
A couple of the newsletter's contributors are "writers" who self- publish or have been recognized in some worldly way. However, most are ordinary people who are writing to sort their issues, share their stories or both.
I worry that Mike is a writer- wannabe, a different sort of person whose intent is recognition, not sharing. I guess I was worried Mike might be such a writer. On the other hand, I know a writer's intent can be a mixture, too.
Guess I will just have to trust that it will all work out. I have never said "No" to a person who wanted to appear in our newsletter. While there may be a first time, I do want to be open to "what comes".
I'll just have to trust a Higher Guidance and give Mike a try.
I was taken aback. "Well, no..." I said.
"You write, don't you?"
"Yes," I admitted, "but I'm not 'published'". I went on, "I put out a little newsletter every month..."
"Great!" he said, "I think I might have something for it."
He must have seem something in my face because he said, "It's not just for women is it?"
"Well no," I said, "It's is mostly women, but there are a few men, too."
"Good!" he smiled, "Bring me a copy, will you?"
"OK, " I smiled and nodded, then picked up my coffee cup and walked away wondering, "Who's he been talking to?"
I do publish a little newsletter and have for fifteen years. It's a place for people I know to tell "their stories". It's mostly a sort of forum to pour out those life matters that quickly cause ordinary people to yawn.
Some reader/writers are spiritual "seekers". Others are story-tellers. A few are poets and everyone is sharing something about their lives... all in unique ways through their stories.
A couple of the newsletter's contributors are "writers" who self- publish or have been recognized in some worldly way. However, most are ordinary people who are writing to sort their issues, share their stories or both.
I worry that Mike is a writer- wannabe, a different sort of person whose intent is recognition, not sharing. I guess I was worried Mike might be such a writer. On the other hand, I know a writer's intent can be a mixture, too.
Guess I will just have to trust that it will all work out. I have never said "No" to a person who wanted to appear in our newsletter. While there may be a first time, I do want to be open to "what comes".
I'll just have to trust a Higher Guidance and give Mike a try.
I can't count the number of times I have interrupted JK when he started,
"I'll get that done by..."
Eyes wide I warn him, "Don't promise!"
"My lecture" follows. "When people say 'I'll try..." and ' I promise' 95% of it never comes about. It just causes just hurt feelings."
My husband is LAID BACK and what I consider a work-avoider. I am a push-er and a do-er. Opposites attract. (I get it.) I knew that when we got together. However, living peacefully with these extremes sometimes makes me crazy. I am nutty right now.
My "critic-self" is saying, "You didn't really get to know him before you married him!"
"Nonsense." I think, "I did know him, I just was not armed for all the little situations where his nature would show itself."
Here's the little situation: I am ready to have the ugly old planter that crowds the from door taken part and discarded. So, I ask JK, "When can we start taking that planter apart?"
"I'm not having any part of that, " He says smoothly. "That's your project."
When we first looked at this house, we made a pact: he could have the back yard as wild ( read unkempt) as he wanted. I could do the front yard. I have limitations. One is I have asthma. The second is I can't get a clear idea what I want to do. Last,I hate yard work. Part of the reason I liked the house is the yard did not even have grass. ( I don't mow and hate to hire it done-- useless spending, in my book since it just grows back.)
Still, I wanted dignified but a "natural" woodsy look-- one I saw on my daily walks through the neighborhood. It looked carefree.
I don't remember that JK said he'd help remove the planter. Maybe he was just silent and I misinterpreted that silence as "OK". I can't recall what happened over a year ago when we were considering buying the house. But, none of that even matters. Here I am now. Since I have finally sold my little house I have some cash to spend on this one. I have been trying think out some elements of a front yard figure who to get to help me.
When JK said he'd have no part of removing the planter, I felt a stab in my gut. The feeling was old. It reminded me of my first marriage. In those days my hubby would plan the yard, shrubs, flower bed and trees. Then, once it was all started, my ex- left me to keep it up. He mowed when he felt like it, but nothing else mattered to him, so he went off and played golf, rode his trail bike or bummed around with his buddies. He did HIS thing but I was stuck with keeping up the yard, house and managing the kids. I was angry most of the time and sometimes at either end of that emotion: rage full or depressed.
I didn't want that anger when I decided to live with JK in a "new" house. I thought I had agreed to a house with yard I could handle.
I did want some support from him, though.
Now I am finding out, I was wrong to expect anything. I seethed at his words, but after making only one angry comment, I walked away from a potential argument. I put a CD in my travel player and went out for a walk. When I got back, JK was ready to make up-- not help me-- but" make up".
"Do you want to talk about it?" JK inquired.
"Nope." I replied.
"I should have heard you out..." he began.
"I don't want to talk about it." I repeated my intention.
"Will you ever talk about it?"
"In two or three days, " I responded and walked away.
This is day two. Last evening I tried to be loving. I turned back his bed and scooped him his nightly ice cream treat. But I also directed myself to my own "work" -- I read last night instead of watching a DVD with him.
I read in a woman's magazine that females in our society hold anger three times longer than men. The article said that with men, matters are said, done and finished. The writer continued, "Women carry their anger a while." I nod, "Bulls eye!"
Today I went to a 12-Step meeting and talked about how it is hard to not hold resentment while I am waiting to calm down enough to talk. I find myself wanting to punish. "Smart Girl" an aspect of my ego says, "Time to limit your losses." She thinks of leaving JK rather than going though the kind of marriage I had the first time. (The other side of that is, of course, to punish JK by leaving him.) A sad little voice follows along saying, "You were better off single and alone."
While parts of this may be true, none of this is rational. I am still mad. (Read crazy.)
But, one good thing has come out of my anger. I stopped at a nursery today and have an appointment with the designed there. For only $30, she will come over on Sunday and give me a consultation. Maybe I can get the yard started and not spend a bunch.
"Move a muscle, change a thought" I quote a slogan to myself. I nod. This afternoon, I will take some of my piss out on that rotten planter. I think I saw a sledge hammer somewhere in the garage ...
"I'll get that done by..."
Eyes wide I warn him, "Don't promise!"
"My lecture" follows. "When people say 'I'll try..." and ' I promise' 95% of it never comes about. It just causes just hurt feelings."
My husband is LAID BACK and what I consider a work-avoider. I am a push-er and a do-er. Opposites attract. (I get it.) I knew that when we got together. However, living peacefully with these extremes sometimes makes me crazy. I am nutty right now.
My "critic-self" is saying, "You didn't really get to know him before you married him!"
"Nonsense." I think, "I did know him, I just was not armed for all the little situations where his nature would show itself."
Here's the little situation: I am ready to have the ugly old planter that crowds the from door taken part and discarded. So, I ask JK, "When can we start taking that planter apart?"
"I'm not having any part of that, " He says smoothly. "That's your project."
When we first looked at this house, we made a pact: he could have the back yard as wild ( read unkempt) as he wanted. I could do the front yard. I have limitations. One is I have asthma. The second is I can't get a clear idea what I want to do. Last,I hate yard work. Part of the reason I liked the house is the yard did not even have grass. ( I don't mow and hate to hire it done-- useless spending, in my book since it just grows back.)
Still, I wanted dignified but a "natural" woodsy look-- one I saw on my daily walks through the neighborhood. It looked carefree.
I don't remember that JK said he'd help remove the planter. Maybe he was just silent and I misinterpreted that silence as "OK". I can't recall what happened over a year ago when we were considering buying the house. But, none of that even matters. Here I am now. Since I have finally sold my little house I have some cash to spend on this one. I have been trying think out some elements of a front yard figure who to get to help me.
When JK said he'd have no part of removing the planter, I felt a stab in my gut. The feeling was old. It reminded me of my first marriage. In those days my hubby would plan the yard, shrubs, flower bed and trees. Then, once it was all started, my ex- left me to keep it up. He mowed when he felt like it, but nothing else mattered to him, so he went off and played golf, rode his trail bike or bummed around with his buddies. He did HIS thing but I was stuck with keeping up the yard, house and managing the kids. I was angry most of the time and sometimes at either end of that emotion: rage full or depressed.
I didn't want that anger when I decided to live with JK in a "new" house. I thought I had agreed to a house with yard I could handle.
I did want some support from him, though.
Now I am finding out, I was wrong to expect anything. I seethed at his words, but after making only one angry comment, I walked away from a potential argument. I put a CD in my travel player and went out for a walk. When I got back, JK was ready to make up-- not help me-- but" make up".
"Do you want to talk about it?" JK inquired.
"Nope." I replied.
"I should have heard you out..." he began.
"I don't want to talk about it." I repeated my intention.
"Will you ever talk about it?"
"In two or three days, " I responded and walked away.
This is day two. Last evening I tried to be loving. I turned back his bed and scooped him his nightly ice cream treat. But I also directed myself to my own "work" -- I read last night instead of watching a DVD with him.
I read in a woman's magazine that females in our society hold anger three times longer than men. The article said that with men, matters are said, done and finished. The writer continued, "Women carry their anger a while." I nod, "Bulls eye!"
Today I went to a 12-Step meeting and talked about how it is hard to not hold resentment while I am waiting to calm down enough to talk. I find myself wanting to punish. "Smart Girl" an aspect of my ego says, "Time to limit your losses." She thinks of leaving JK rather than going though the kind of marriage I had the first time. (The other side of that is, of course, to punish JK by leaving him.) A sad little voice follows along saying, "You were better off single and alone."
While parts of this may be true, none of this is rational. I am still mad. (Read crazy.)
But, one good thing has come out of my anger. I stopped at a nursery today and have an appointment with the designed there. For only $30, she will come over on Sunday and give me a consultation. Maybe I can get the yard started and not spend a bunch.
"Move a muscle, change a thought" I quote a slogan to myself. I nod. This afternoon, I will take some of my piss out on that rotten planter. I think I saw a sledge hammer somewhere in the garage ...
I can't count the number of times I have interrupted JK when he started,
"I'll get that done by..."
Eyed wide I warn him, "Don't promise!"
"The lecture" follows. "When people say 'I'll try..." and ' I promise' 95% of it never comes about. It just causes just hurt feelings."
My husband is LAID BACK and what I consider a work-avoider. I am a push-er and a do-er. Opposites attract. I get it. I knew that when we got together. However, living peacefully with these extremes sometimes makes me crazy. I am nutty right now.
My "critic-self" is saying, "You didn't really get to know him before you married him!"
"Nonsense." I think, " I did know him, I just was not armed for all the little situations where his nature would show itself."
Here's the little situation: I am ready to have the ugly old planter that crowds the from door taken part and discarded. So, I ask JK, "When can you start taking that planter apart?"
"I'm not having any part of that, " He says smoothly. "That's your project."
When we first looked at this house, we made a pact: he could have the back yard as wild ( read unkempt) as he wanted. I could do the front yard. I have limitations. One is I have asthma. The second is I can't get a clear idea what I want to do. Last,I hate yard work. Part of the reason I liked the house is the yard did not even have grass. ( I don't mow and hate to hire it done-- useless spending, in my book since it just grows back.)
I wanted dignified but a "natural" woodsy look-- one I saw on my daily walks through the neighborhood. It looked carefree.
I don't remember that JK said he'd help remove the planter. Maybe he was only silent and I misinterpreted that silence as "OK". I can't remember exactly what happened over a year ago when we were considering buying the house. I guess none of that even matters. Here I am now. Since I have finally sold my little house I have some cash to spend on this one. I have been trying think out some elements of a front yard figure who to get to help me.
When JK said he'd have no part of removing the planter, I felt a stab in my gut. The feeling was old. It reminded me of my fist marriage where my hubby would plan the yard, shrubs, flower bed and trees. Then, once it was all started, my ex- left me to keep it all up. He went off and played golf, rode his trail bike or bummed with his buddies. He did HIS thing and I was stuck with keeping up the house and managing the kids.
I didn't want to have all that anger when I decided to live with JK in a "new" house. I thought I had agreed to a house and yard I could handle.
I did want some support from him, though.
Now I am finding out, I was wrong to expect anything. I seethed at his words, but after making only one angry comment, I walked away from a potential argument. I put a CD in my travel player and went out of a walk. When I got back, JK was ready to make up-- not help me-- but" make up".
"Do you want to talk about it?" JK inquired.
"Nope." I replied.
"I should have heard you out..." he began.
"I don't want to talk about it." repeating my intention.
"Will you ever talk about it?"
"In two or three days, " I responded and walked away.
This is day two. Last evening I tried to be loving. I turned back his bed and scooped him his nightly ice cream treat. But I also directed myself to my own "work" -- I read last night instead of watching a DVD with him.
I read in a woman's magazine that females in our society hold anger three times longer than men. The article said that with men, matters are said, done and finished. The writer continued, "Women carry their anger a while." I think, "Bulls eye!"
Today I went to a 12-Step meeting and talked about how it is hard to not hold resentment while I am waiting to calm down enough to talk. I find myself wanting to punish. "Smart Girl" an aspect of my ego says, "Time to limit your losses." I think of leaving JK rather than going though the kind of marriage I had the first time. (The other side of that is, of course to punish him by leaving him.) A sad little voice follows along saying, "You were better off single and alone."
While parts of this may be true, none of this is rational. I am still mad. (Read crazy.)
But, one good thing has come out of my anger. I stopped at a nursery today and have an appointment with the designed there. For only $30, she will come over on Sunday and give me a consultation. Maybe I can get the yard started and not spend a bunch.
Meanwhile, this afternoon, I think I will take some of my piss out on that rotten planter. I think I saw a sledge hammer out in the garage ...
"I'll get that done by..."
Eyed wide I warn him, "Don't promise!"
"The lecture" follows. "When people say 'I'll try..." and ' I promise' 95% of it never comes about. It just causes just hurt feelings."
My husband is LAID BACK and what I consider a work-avoider. I am a push-er and a do-er. Opposites attract. I get it. I knew that when we got together. However, living peacefully with these extremes sometimes makes me crazy. I am nutty right now.
My "critic-self" is saying, "You didn't really get to know him before you married him!"
"Nonsense." I think, " I did know him, I just was not armed for all the little situations where his nature would show itself."
Here's the little situation: I am ready to have the ugly old planter that crowds the from door taken part and discarded. So, I ask JK, "When can you start taking that planter apart?"
"I'm not having any part of that, " He says smoothly. "That's your project."
When we first looked at this house, we made a pact: he could have the back yard as wild ( read unkempt) as he wanted. I could do the front yard. I have limitations. One is I have asthma. The second is I can't get a clear idea what I want to do. Last,I hate yard work. Part of the reason I liked the house is the yard did not even have grass. ( I don't mow and hate to hire it done-- useless spending, in my book since it just grows back.)
I wanted dignified but a "natural" woodsy look-- one I saw on my daily walks through the neighborhood. It looked carefree.
I don't remember that JK said he'd help remove the planter. Maybe he was only silent and I misinterpreted that silence as "OK". I can't remember exactly what happened over a year ago when we were considering buying the house. I guess none of that even matters. Here I am now. Since I have finally sold my little house I have some cash to spend on this one. I have been trying think out some elements of a front yard figure who to get to help me.
When JK said he'd have no part of removing the planter, I felt a stab in my gut. The feeling was old. It reminded me of my fist marriage where my hubby would plan the yard, shrubs, flower bed and trees. Then, once it was all started, my ex- left me to keep it all up. He went off and played golf, rode his trail bike or bummed with his buddies. He did HIS thing and I was stuck with keeping up the house and managing the kids.
I didn't want to have all that anger when I decided to live with JK in a "new" house. I thought I had agreed to a house and yard I could handle.
I did want some support from him, though.
Now I am finding out, I was wrong to expect anything. I seethed at his words, but after making only one angry comment, I walked away from a potential argument. I put a CD in my travel player and went out of a walk. When I got back, JK was ready to make up-- not help me-- but" make up".
"Do you want to talk about it?" JK inquired.
"Nope." I replied.
"I should have heard you out..." he began.
"I don't want to talk about it." repeating my intention.
"Will you ever talk about it?"
"In two or three days, " I responded and walked away.
This is day two. Last evening I tried to be loving. I turned back his bed and scooped him his nightly ice cream treat. But I also directed myself to my own "work" -- I read last night instead of watching a DVD with him.
I read in a woman's magazine that females in our society hold anger three times longer than men. The article said that with men, matters are said, done and finished. The writer continued, "Women carry their anger a while." I think, "Bulls eye!"
Today I went to a 12-Step meeting and talked about how it is hard to not hold resentment while I am waiting to calm down enough to talk. I find myself wanting to punish. "Smart Girl" an aspect of my ego says, "Time to limit your losses." I think of leaving JK rather than going though the kind of marriage I had the first time. (The other side of that is, of course to punish him by leaving him.) A sad little voice follows along saying, "You were better off single and alone."
While parts of this may be true, none of this is rational. I am still mad. (Read crazy.)
But, one good thing has come out of my anger. I stopped at a nursery today and have an appointment with the designed there. For only $30, she will come over on Sunday and give me a consultation. Maybe I can get the yard started and not spend a bunch.
Meanwhile, this afternoon, I think I will take some of my piss out on that rotten planter. I think I saw a sledge hammer out in the garage ...
My hubby, JK, got me an Easter book. He bought a chocolate bunny for each of the two women he would see on Easter Day, but I warned him, "Don't get me a chocolate bunny!"
Mainly this was because I don't much like chocolate. I am odd -- a Vanilla's-my-favorite kind of girl! But underlying the flavor preference, my request was probably also about wanting to be "special".
Whatever my reason, JK (Bless him!) got my message. Instead of candy, he said, " I want to buy you a book for Easter."
Caught off guard, I scoured my brain for what I wanted -- I don't often allow myself to spend money on a book for my own pleasure. I hemmed and hawed, warning my chronically impatient hubby I might need some time to find a book because I had nothing in mind.
"That's OK, he said, "I'll meet you in the car."
When he mentions "meeting in the car", it's a signal he's on his way out the door and it's time to grab my keys.
Off we went to Books A Million. Bookstores are my favorite places to visit and libraries are next on my list. Even though I carry long lists of books I want to order at the well stocked library here, I was not motivated to own any of those titles.
Even paperback books are expensive, so I limit the ones I buy to gifts and titles I want to study: read with a marker and pen in hand. The only exception is a story for traveling. Often I will buy a paper-cover volume to carry when flying -- or buy one at a lay-over.
I knew of one Amish story not available through the library but on the "Centerpoint" ( religious) shelf at BAM. "I could take it on my May flight to see my kids in Michigan, " I thought. Still, it was a treat to have time to browse in my happy place, so I gazed on display tables and walked the "new releases" aisle.
After a while, I had a feeling JK might be tapping his foot somewhere in the store so I strode the aisles in search of him. I discovered him head down, deep in the pages of a chess book. He did not look up when I notice him so I quickly turned away to explore further on my own. As I turned, a floor-stacked pile of books caught my eye. The top title was Plum Lovin' a Janet Evanovitch detective story -- not related to the "Travel" sign that identified that area. I picked it up to inspect, but laid it down when the next one in the stack caught my eye : Entering the Castle Caroline Myss' newest book. Twenty-seven pages into The Castle, I looked up.
This was the book I had been led to, and since I dove right in, it must be the book I am meant to read. The introduction by Ken Wilbur explains seven stages of spirituality and Myss' first chapter tells how she was led to pen the book.
Reading it seems perfect at this point in my spiritual journey. Recently I have felt lost, a boat adrift. Not carried by a strong current I have been blown here and there by surface waves. Maybe this volume will anchor me or be a rudder-- that had surely been true of Sacred Contracts, an earlier book by Myss.
Yellow marker and pen in hand, I'm rereading the volume beginning from Wilbur's introduction. I have my fingers crossed -- hoping for great spiritual revelation.
Mainly this was because I don't much like chocolate. I am odd -- a Vanilla's-my-favorite kind of girl! But underlying the flavor preference, my request was probably also about wanting to be "special".
Whatever my reason, JK (Bless him!) got my message. Instead of candy, he said, " I want to buy you a book for Easter."
Caught off guard, I scoured my brain for what I wanted -- I don't often allow myself to spend money on a book for my own pleasure. I hemmed and hawed, warning my chronically impatient hubby I might need some time to find a book because I had nothing in mind.
"That's OK, he said, "I'll meet you in the car."
When he mentions "meeting in the car", it's a signal he's on his way out the door and it's time to grab my keys.
Off we went to Books A Million. Bookstores are my favorite places to visit and libraries are next on my list. Even though I carry long lists of books I want to order at the well stocked library here, I was not motivated to own any of those titles.
Even paperback books are expensive, so I limit the ones I buy to gifts and titles I want to study: read with a marker and pen in hand. The only exception is a story for traveling. Often I will buy a paper-cover volume to carry when flying -- or buy one at a lay-over.
I knew of one Amish story not available through the library but on the "Centerpoint" ( religious) shelf at BAM. "I could take it on my May flight to see my kids in Michigan, " I thought. Still, it was a treat to have time to browse in my happy place, so I gazed on display tables and walked the "new releases" aisle.
After a while, I had a feeling JK might be tapping his foot somewhere in the store so I strode the aisles in search of him. I discovered him head down, deep in the pages of a chess book. He did not look up when I notice him so I quickly turned away to explore further on my own. As I turned, a floor-stacked pile of books caught my eye. The top title was Plum Lovin' a Janet Evanovitch detective story -- not related to the "Travel" sign that identified that area. I picked it up to inspect, but laid it down when the next one in the stack caught my eye : Entering the Castle Caroline Myss' newest book. Twenty-seven pages into The Castle, I looked up.
This was the book I had been led to, and since I dove right in, it must be the book I am meant to read. The introduction by Ken Wilbur explains seven stages of spirituality and Myss' first chapter tells how she was led to pen the book.
Reading it seems perfect at this point in my spiritual journey. Recently I have felt lost, a boat adrift. Not carried by a strong current I have been blown here and there by surface waves. Maybe this volume will anchor me or be a rudder-- that had surely been true of Sacred Contracts, an earlier book by Myss.
Yellow marker and pen in hand, I'm rereading the volume beginning from Wilbur's introduction. I have my fingers crossed -- hoping for great spiritual revelation.
Yesterday, a friend back home, sent me a "financial prayer",
Heavenly Father, most Gracious and
Loving God, I pray to You that You abundantly bless
my family and me. I know that You recognize, that a
family is more than just a mother, father, sister,
brother, husband and wife, but all who believe and
trust in You.
GOD, I send up a prayer request for financial
blessing for not only the person who sent this to
me, but for me and all that I have forwarded this
message on to. And that the power of joined prayer
by those who believe and trust in You is more
powerful than anything. I thank You in advance for
Your blessings. God, deliver the person reading this
right now from debt and debt burdens.
Release your Godly wisdom that I may be a good
steward over all that You have given me GOD , for I
know how wonderful and mighty you are and how if we
just obey You and walk in Your word and have the
faith of a mustard seed that You will pour out
blessings. I thank You now Lord for the recent
blessings I have received and for the blessings yet
to come because I know You are not done with me yet.
Amen
The prayer made me think of being released from financial worries. That concept is part of the my Twelve-Step Program's "Promises",
"...fear of financial insecurities will leave us..." The same idea appears in every Twelve Step group I have attended. Though it is often worded a differently among Adult Children of Alcoholic, Alanon and AA, the essential promise remains.
As part of my before sleep ritual, each night I pick up my spiral bound bedside notebook and list five things I am grateful for. One circumstance I often think of is "enough" money. I can't define "enough"but each night when I look back on the day and create my five items, there has been "enough" money for the day.
My bills are paid, there's gas in the car, food in the cupboard and even extra money to buy myself a donut or cup of Starbucks.
One day at a time I am grateful, one day at a time I acknowledge a part of all I have been given. Thus, the Twelve Step Promises continue to be fulfilled.
Heavenly Father, most Gracious and
Loving God, I pray to You that You abundantly bless
my family and me. I know that You recognize, that a
family is more than just a mother, father, sister,
brother, husband and wife, but all who believe and
trust in You.
GOD, I send up a prayer request for financial
blessing for not only the person who sent this to
me, but for me and all that I have forwarded this
message on to. And that the power of joined prayer
by those who believe and trust in You is more
powerful than anything. I thank You in advance for
Your blessings. God, deliver the person reading this
right now from debt and debt burdens.
Release your Godly wisdom that I may be a good
steward over all that You have given me GOD , for I
know how wonderful and mighty you are and how if we
just obey You and walk in Your word and have the
faith of a mustard seed that You will pour out
blessings. I thank You now Lord for the recent
blessings I have received and for the blessings yet
to come because I know You are not done with me yet.
Amen
The prayer made me think of being released from financial worries. That concept is part of the my Twelve-Step Program's "Promises",
"...fear of financial insecurities will leave us..." The same idea appears in every Twelve Step group I have attended. Though it is often worded a differently among Adult Children of Alcoholic, Alanon and AA, the essential promise remains.
As part of my before sleep ritual, each night I pick up my spiral bound bedside notebook and list five things I am grateful for. One circumstance I often think of is "enough" money. I can't define "enough"but each night when I look back on the day and create my five items, there has been "enough" money for the day.
My bills are paid, there's gas in the car, food in the cupboard and even extra money to buy myself a donut or cup of Starbucks.
One day at a time I am grateful, one day at a time I acknowledge a part of all I have been given. Thus, the Twelve Step Promises continue to be fulfilled.
The moon is nearly full and I am again having VIVID dreams! Every night it's like going to the movies. The one major difference is, I can't choose what to see. My dream- self shows me a story either related to recent worldly days or images that apparently come from the collective conscious that psychiatrist Carl Jung first described and named.
Last night I was in the collective unconscious again -- a construction theme. This time I was surprised. I did not see deep ruts in the soft earth like those left by huge earth-movers, or concrete walls, a partly done shell of a building. No. Last night I was walking along a divided highway under construction. It was already at the packed sand or graveled stage, the next step was likely to pave it or set concrete forms and pour sections.
I was headed to a meeting of some kind and had to leave my car at the end of the completed highway and walk in to sit with the group. When I returned, the construction crew's progress surprised me. They had completed a l-o-n-g section of the roadway. It reached far past where I had left my car. Thus, I worried about the well-being of my little white auto. However, the crew had been thoughtful and somehow they moved my car. It was waiting for me -- safe and sound -- where I met the new road.
I consider my life's spiritual/soul path is represented by the roadway "under construction". Some deep unknown part of me develops every day. Thus, I am encouraged that a surprising amount of the path that was completed while I was not paying any attention.
That was a happy dream.
Last night I was in the collective unconscious again -- a construction theme. This time I was surprised. I did not see deep ruts in the soft earth like those left by huge earth-movers, or concrete walls, a partly done shell of a building. No. Last night I was walking along a divided highway under construction. It was already at the packed sand or graveled stage, the next step was likely to pave it or set concrete forms and pour sections.
I was headed to a meeting of some kind and had to leave my car at the end of the completed highway and walk in to sit with the group. When I returned, the construction crew's progress surprised me. They had completed a l-o-n-g section of the roadway. It reached far past where I had left my car. Thus, I worried about the well-being of my little white auto. However, the crew had been thoughtful and somehow they moved my car. It was waiting for me -- safe and sound -- where I met the new road.
I consider my life's spiritual/soul path is represented by the roadway "under construction". Some deep unknown part of me develops every day. Thus, I am encouraged that a surprising amount of the path that was completed while I was not paying any attention.
That was a happy dream.
A Frog. A frog sitting on a lily pad. The frog jumps from lily pad to lily pad.
This image has been running around in my head ro nearly three weeks. Odd little happenings have increased my curiosity, too. A cople days after the froggy image first came to me, I sat in my writers' group listening to stories as each person's turn came up. One man was writing a story about the civil war. He was reading a battle scene and one of the soldiers' name's was "Froggy." Odd name for a soldier and since I had frogs in the back of my mind to start with, I recalled it.
A few days later, my husband received a card from his daughter who lives out west. IN the packet were scribbled from his 3 year old grandchild, a packet of Morning Glory seeds, some potpourri, a a thank you card and a home-made Happy Sp ring greeting. ON the front of the folded construction paper, his daughter had drawn a frog sitting on a lily pad. When you open it, he frog is hopping away, and all you see are its extended legs. I thought, Clever!... Artistic... " then frowned... another FROG!
So what's this FROG thing about, anyway?
Yesterday, I told this frog story to my spiritual group.
I feel like a frog who sits on a lily pad, hopping to others now and then.
I once was a tadpole. I swam in the stream of willingness-- I knew what God wanted from me and I was in "the stream" of doing it. Little by little, though, I changed. MY tail got shorter and as I grew legs, it disappeared and I crawled up on land before hopping to a lily pad. Now as a frog, I have lost my sense of "being in God's stream". I hop to one thing, then jump over to another.
I don't know the end of this story, but I'll keep trying to find it.
A guy sitting next to me at the meeting drew me a cartoon of a frog sitting on his lily pad looking around. The caption was, At least you've got your own pad!"
Well, after the meeting, a gal came up to me and said, "you know Frogs turn into princes." She was smiling and all happy at that ending.
"A Prince?" I thought, Hmm.
A last commenter said, "It could mate with another frog and reproduce."
( There's a thought! They'll have to be spiritual children, though. I am PAST having babies.)
As I drove home, I thought, "What can happen to a frog? What is its next cycle, stage or development?" Then it occurred to me a frog can be eaten by ANOTHER creature-- a snake, an alligator, or a large bird. Maybe that's next for me, to be taken over by some larger creature and work from inside it -- to influence it and to carry God's will on from there.
Maybe you , my blog reader have yet another idea!
This image has been running around in my head ro nearly three weeks. Odd little happenings have increased my curiosity, too. A cople days after the froggy image first came to me, I sat in my writers' group listening to stories as each person's turn came up. One man was writing a story about the civil war. He was reading a battle scene and one of the soldiers' name's was "Froggy." Odd name for a soldier and since I had frogs in the back of my mind to start with, I recalled it.
A few days later, my husband received a card from his daughter who lives out west. IN the packet were scribbled from his 3 year old grandchild, a packet of Morning Glory seeds, some potpourri, a a thank you card and a home-made Happy Sp ring greeting. ON the front of the folded construction paper, his daughter had drawn a frog sitting on a lily pad. When you open it, he frog is hopping away, and all you see are its extended legs. I thought, Clever!... Artistic... " then frowned... another FROG!
So what's this FROG thing about, anyway?
Yesterday, I told this frog story to my spiritual group.
I feel like a frog who sits on a lily pad, hopping to others now and then.
I once was a tadpole. I swam in the stream of willingness-- I knew what God wanted from me and I was in "the stream" of doing it. Little by little, though, I changed. MY tail got shorter and as I grew legs, it disappeared and I crawled up on land before hopping to a lily pad. Now as a frog, I have lost my sense of "being in God's stream". I hop to one thing, then jump over to another.
I don't know the end of this story, but I'll keep trying to find it.
A guy sitting next to me at the meeting drew me a cartoon of a frog sitting on his lily pad looking around. The caption was, At least you've got your own pad!"
Well, after the meeting, a gal came up to me and said, "you know Frogs turn into princes." She was smiling and all happy at that ending.
"A Prince?" I thought, Hmm.
A last commenter said, "It could mate with another frog and reproduce."
( There's a thought! They'll have to be spiritual children, though. I am PAST having babies.)
As I drove home, I thought, "What can happen to a frog? What is its next cycle, stage or development?" Then it occurred to me a frog can be eaten by ANOTHER creature-- a snake, an alligator, or a large bird. Maybe that's next for me, to be taken over by some larger creature and work from inside it -- to influence it and to carry God's will on from there.
Maybe you , my blog reader have yet another idea!
I pushed my driver's door and leaned out into the bright sunlight. As I swung myself out, I looked down and spied a penny.
I pick up pennies whenever I see them. I don't pay any attention to heads or tails up. I see them all as "pennies from heaven." They seem to mark some unknown inner path. When I am " not connected to my intuitive muse, I seem to see no cents, even though I often search roadside gutters-- a haven for lost coins.
The cent was dated "1967." It was minted forty years ago. It's also one of the original wholly copper coins. Pennies also became "sandwich" money after about 1977. Current coins are copper coated zinc.
It is my custom to consider a found coin's date: what was I doing then, what could be important to me today as it relates to my life then.
Immediately I noticed several facts. One I was in my first year of marriage that year. It was the year I became pregnant for my first child.
Those two events sealed my fate for the next twenty-five years.
As I pondered these facts, I walked across the half empty parking lot headed for the Books a Million. Before I was half way to the store, I notice a second cent. I swooped down on it. It was so beat up I could not read that date. However, I clutched it as I continued on my bookstore route. Finding two pennies in different locations in a space of less than five minutes was rare.
In fact, during my first year of living in Gainesville though I had found few coins. It wasn't that I didn't look. Often scuffed along sand and detritus in roadway gutters and scoured the tiles near cash registered at the malls at food court payment areas. Still, I had found few coins.
I wondered about all this. On several Sundays, I heard my priest mention "parish pay" a credit card option. From his comments, I concluded many students carried no cash and relied entirely on plastic payment. Since I increasingly put my purchases on plastic, I thought perhaps the University's young folk were hauling this area of Florida more quickly toward a cashless society. Thus, I explained away my dearth of "found" coins.
However, during the last week, my incidentally coin finding suddenly flourished. On March 13th I found a nickel and two pennies. The Jefferson Head and one of the Lincoln's I picked up in an intersection while I was doing my daily walk. The other I picked up on the tile of the room where I attending a spiritual meeting. On March 15th I found six pennies. Two shined up at me from the floor of the same room where I found the solitary cent the previous day. While I was out walking I wondered over these two dated 2005 and 2006. During that outing, I discovered four more cents in one side of an roadway crossing. Two were so mangled by their pavement encounters that their date was obliterated. The other two read 2006 and 2005.
Today is March 17th: St. Patrick's Day and my older grandson's birthday. Since my coin finds are both more numerous and coming closer together, I carefully considered the day's finds again. The all-copper penny was clearly readable: 1967. The other was apparently copper/zinc and required strong light and a magnifier to make out it's minting which appeared to be 2005.
What does it all mean? For one thing, it seems I was wrong about coins not being "out there" to be found. It was more likely coins are still waiting to be found in all manner of places. The truth is I have not been in a spiritual space where I "saw" them.
So what can the two St, Patrick's Day dates mean to me? Stay tuned.
I pick up pennies whenever I see them. I don't pay any attention to heads or tails up. I see them all as "pennies from heaven." They seem to mark some unknown inner path. When I am " not connected to my intuitive muse, I seem to see no cents, even though I often search roadside gutters-- a haven for lost coins.
The cent was dated "1967." It was minted forty years ago. It's also one of the original wholly copper coins. Pennies also became "sandwich" money after about 1977. Current coins are copper coated zinc.
It is my custom to consider a found coin's date: what was I doing then, what could be important to me today as it relates to my life then.
Immediately I noticed several facts. One I was in my first year of marriage that year. It was the year I became pregnant for my first child.
Those two events sealed my fate for the next twenty-five years.
As I pondered these facts, I walked across the half empty parking lot headed for the Books a Million. Before I was half way to the store, I notice a second cent. I swooped down on it. It was so beat up I could not read that date. However, I clutched it as I continued on my bookstore route. Finding two pennies in different locations in a space of less than five minutes was rare.
In fact, during my first year of living in Gainesville though I had found few coins. It wasn't that I didn't look. Often scuffed along sand and detritus in roadway gutters and scoured the tiles near cash registered at the malls at food court payment areas. Still, I had found few coins.
I wondered about all this. On several Sundays, I heard my priest mention "parish pay" a credit card option. From his comments, I concluded many students carried no cash and relied entirely on plastic payment. Since I increasingly put my purchases on plastic, I thought perhaps the University's young folk were hauling this area of Florida more quickly toward a cashless society. Thus, I explained away my dearth of "found" coins.
However, during the last week, my incidentally coin finding suddenly flourished. On March 13th I found a nickel and two pennies. The Jefferson Head and one of the Lincoln's I picked up in an intersection while I was doing my daily walk. The other I picked up on the tile of the room where I attending a spiritual meeting. On March 15th I found six pennies. Two shined up at me from the floor of the same room where I found the solitary cent the previous day. While I was out walking I wondered over these two dated 2005 and 2006. During that outing, I discovered four more cents in one side of an roadway crossing. Two were so mangled by their pavement encounters that their date was obliterated. The other two read 2006 and 2005.
Today is March 17th: St. Patrick's Day and my older grandson's birthday. Since my coin finds are both more numerous and coming closer together, I carefully considered the day's finds again. The all-copper penny was clearly readable: 1967. The other was apparently copper/zinc and required strong light and a magnifier to make out it's minting which appeared to be 2005.
What does it all mean? For one thing, it seems I was wrong about coins not being "out there" to be found. It was more likely coins are still waiting to be found in all manner of places. The truth is I have not been in a spiritual space where I "saw" them.
So what can the two St, Patrick's Day dates mean to me? Stay tuned.
Dear Blog-Readers,
The tale of woe I posted yesterday shows clearly how quickly I can be overcome by aspects of my "victim mentality."
Clearly, my need to be a "smart girl" brings on a dark side that can bring me grief. Somehow I have it in my head that if I am a "smart girl", if I understand a situation well, I can avoid trouble. If I had already met with "trouble" I can also get out of it.
Ha!
I forget that God has a plan for me. I forget that I am doing the best I can in all my endeavors. If I feel angst about a situation it be not because I made a "mistake", not because I was "dumb" but because I am clearly human.
Since I wrote that essay of darkness, I gained my higher self again. I am not sure how, perhaps I had a need to DUMP -- to give the dark girl a voice. All I am aware of is that ( seemingly) I captured my husband's attention over dinner and told him some of my sexual health concerns in the 21st century. I told him that in my single years I had not had sex without first trotting us both to a health clinic for testing.
I mentioned that he was different only because he had been out of the partnering cycles for so long and had no side effects from his earlier "heavy dating".
He took it all in. His only comment was he did not know why I was so worried, "I love you. I plan to spend the rest of my life with you."
In my doubting mode, his words were unconvincing.
So what changed me? I'd tell you if I knew, but I don't.
However it happened, the DARK GIRL is gone.
Praise be!
The tale of woe I posted yesterday shows clearly how quickly I can be overcome by aspects of my "victim mentality."
Clearly, my need to be a "smart girl" brings on a dark side that can bring me grief. Somehow I have it in my head that if I am a "smart girl", if I understand a situation well, I can avoid trouble. If I had already met with "trouble" I can also get out of it.
Ha!
I forget that God has a plan for me. I forget that I am doing the best I can in all my endeavors. If I feel angst about a situation it be not because I made a "mistake", not because I was "dumb" but because I am clearly human.
Since I wrote that essay of darkness, I gained my higher self again. I am not sure how, perhaps I had a need to DUMP -- to give the dark girl a voice.
I mentioned that he was different only because he had been out of the partnering cycles for so long and had no side effects from his earlier "heavy dating".
He took it all in. His only comment was he did not know why I was so worried, "I love you. I plan to spend the rest of my life with you."
In my doubting mode, his words were unconvincing.
So what changed me? I'd tell you if I knew, but I don't.
However it happened, the DARK GIRL is gone.
Praise be!
"If you cheat on me, I will make you pay before I forgive you."
I know a person is supposed to forgive and to find love in one's heart for the person who has hurt you. When we were dating I listened hard to stories he told about his mother and father because patterns repeat. I also questioned him about his other marriages. ( Yes I said, " Marriages".)
I reasoned that he had lived single for nearly 30 years and not had a girlfriend for 20. in gathering information about this period of his life, I came to the conclusion he had "worked through" whatever tuff caused him trouble in his early marrying.
The other thing he had in his favor is he is old. He is fourteen years my senior and though he's not finished in the sex department, he is definitely slowing down. (That works for me. It seems the time I feel the most sexy is when I am single. I can't figure that out, but it is nonetheless true.)
I got all riled because he is using an old girlfriend's e-mail handle when he is playing chess. I thought it mighty odd and immediately began to wonder about his driving over a hundred miles to spend holidays with her even though I am committed to our church here for Easter. It makes me mad. I feel like I "should " go along to "protect my rights". Phooey! Why should I have to!!
It's tough when patterns repeat. 25 years ago, I was working full time and raising two kids-- one of whom was handicapped. I fell into bed most nights right after the boys were tucked in. When he first got a rare job, teaching in a teacher in a district a 45 minute drive away, I hauled the boys out for faculty parties and sitting in cold benches watching Freshman football. I soon gave up. Tired fussy kids put me over the top since I had already put in a long day, myself. However, my teacher husband seemed to have endless energy. He took on coaching: football, and golf. He also worked with the yearbook. All these were extra pay, but also which devoured after school time. Often on Friday he'd just say he was going out Friday with "the boys". Sometimes I roused when he came rolling in, but more often I was dead to the world. It was not until I decided to divorce him that I finally could see there was more happening than "working late". I hate myself for being such a chump.
Nowadays, I find traveling and long visits exhausting. Still, before we were married I did the usual holiday visits. I reasoned these folk had remained his family long after they had parted ways as romantic partners. At first I went along playing first "good sport" then "good wife."
I tried resting at the home we visited, or reading a book there. Also we got a motel room to cut down time in the car: four hours, one way. I was still beat. No kids, now, but I have a part-time job, a house to keep up and an active social life. Putting out that energy hardly seemed worth it to me. So, at Christmas I did not go.
Now he's using her e-mil name and also planning on driving down for an Easter visit. Maybe it is all in my head. (Maybe.) However, it doesn't seem right to me and I am hopping mad.
I know a person is supposed to forgive and to find love in one's heart for the person who has hurt you. When we were dating I listened hard to stories he told about his mother and father because patterns repeat. I also questioned him about his other marriages. ( Yes I said, " Marriages".)
I reasoned that he had lived single for nearly 30 years and not had a girlfriend for 20. in gathering information about this period of his life, I came to the conclusion he had "worked through" whatever tuff caused him trouble in his early marrying.
The other thing he had in his favor is he is old. He is fourteen years my senior and though he's not finished in the sex department, he is definitely slowing down. (That works for me. It seems the time I feel the most sexy is when I am single. I can't figure that out, but it is nonetheless true.)
I got all riled because he is using an old girlfriend's e-mail handle when he is playing chess. I thought it mighty odd and immediately began to wonder about his driving over a hundred miles to spend holidays with her even though I am committed to our church here for Easter. It makes me mad. I feel like I "should " go along to "protect my rights". Phooey! Why should I have to!!
It's tough when patterns repeat. 25 years ago, I was working full time and raising two kids-- one of whom was handicapped. I fell into bed most nights right after the boys were tucked in. When he first got a rare job, teaching in a teacher in a district a 45 minute drive away, I hauled the boys out for faculty parties and sitting in cold benches watching Freshman football. I soon gave up. Tired fussy kids put me over the top since I had already put in a long day, myself. However, my teacher husband seemed to have endless energy. He took on coaching: football, and golf. He also worked with the yearbook. All these were extra pay, but also which devoured after school time. Often on Friday he'd just say he was going out Friday with "the boys". Sometimes I roused when he came rolling in, but more often I was dead to the world. It was not until I decided to divorce him that I finally could see there was more happening than "working late". I hate myself for being such a chump.
Nowadays, I find traveling and long visits exhausting. Still, before we were married I did the usual holiday visits. I reasoned these folk had remained his family long after they had parted ways as romantic partners. At first I went along playing first "good sport" then "good wife."
I tried resting at the home we visited, or reading a book there. Also we got a motel room to cut down time in the car: four hours, one way. I was still beat. No kids, now, but I have a part-time job, a house to keep up and an active social life. Putting out that energy hardly seemed worth it to me. So, at Christmas I did not go.
Now he's using her e-mil name and also planning on driving down for an Easter visit. Maybe it is all in my head. (Maybe.) However, it doesn't seem right to me and I am hopping mad.
I missed the lunar eclipse last weekend. It was overcast where I live and thus no visibility. However last night as I drove dark street home from my writers' group, the moon was high in the sky and clearly visible: full and luminous.
I suppose the full moon explains why my feet are busy, tapping and dancing every time I sit down. It wears on me to have this going on. It seems an outward sign of inner turmoil. But, I don't know what is causing my dis-ease if not the moon... My wiggling feet get me wondering about unknown problems in my life, and have me frowning over inner mysteries.
I sit here and wonder what is going on "down there" in my subconscious and in my mind, I see a six or seven year old version of myself, stepping carefully down the back stairs of "the bank". I turn at the wrought iron rail and descend the marble steps. I am going down to explore. This area was once a daily part of 'the bank' where my mother and father both work. The bank was remodeled and now a new larger vault was installed on the main floor.
The lower rooms I investigate are used only for storage. In the first room I enter I see the the old vault, it's huge steel door propped open, it's gut empty. Here an attendant used to sit at a desk near the vault. One large lower drawer held large blue cards. A vault visitor sat and signed the card to gain access to their safety deposit drawer. Once the card and signature were inspected, the attendant stepped into the vault to fetch the numbered box. Then the visitor, took their box into a little locked room to inspect its contents.
There's no one working here now. Instead the room is full of tables stacked with old forms, piles of blue, pink and lots of white. I look at blue service charge forms on a wood table near the door. Stuck at the spine with red, they seem like the ones I used to stamp for Mother when she brought extra work home. But, when I told her what I saw in the room, Mother told me those were old blue forms. She said the bank didn't use "that kind" anymore.
On a metal table nearby, I see large white pages with the bank's name and address in black letters at the top. One day I took several of those sheets to draw pictures on. Later on, Mother saw my pictures. That's when she told me, those nice clean papers could not be used for drawing. She explains that even though they were not being used, they were still special for the bank.
Now, when I look into that room, I always wonder why these stacks are here if the bank doesn't use them anymore.
Perhaps, like the bank's old vault room in the basement, I have some old stored feelings and ideas -- some that are useless, yet weighing on me. I'll ponder that...
I suppose the full moon explains why my feet are busy, tapping and dancing every time I sit down.
I sit here and wonder what is going on "down there" in my subconscious and in my mind, I see a six or seven year old version of myself, stepping carefully down the back stairs of "the bank". I turn at the wrought iron rail and descend the marble steps. I am going down to explore. This area was once a daily part of 'the bank' where my mother and father both work. The bank was remodeled and now a new larger vault was installed on the main floor.
The lower rooms I investigate are used only for storage. In the first room I enter I see the the old vault, it's huge steel door propped open, it's gut empty. Here an attendant used to sit at a desk near the vault. One large lower drawer held large blue cards. A vault visitor sat and signed the card to gain access to their safety deposit drawer. Once the card and signature were inspected, the attendant stepped into the vault to fetch the numbered box. Then the visitor, took their box into a little locked room to inspect its contents.
There's no one working here now. Instead the room is full of tables stacked with old forms, piles of blue, pink and lots of white. I look at blue service charge forms on a wood table near the door. Stuck at the spine with red, they seem like the ones I used to stamp for Mother when she brought extra work home. But, when I told her what I saw in the room, Mother told me those were old blue forms. She said the bank didn't use "that kind" anymore.
On a metal table nearby, I see large white pages with the bank's name and address in black letters at the top. One day I took several of those sheets to draw pictures on. Later on, Mother saw my pictures. That's when she told me, those nice clean papers could not be used for drawing. She explains that even though they were not being used, they were still special for the bank.
Now, when I look into that room, I always wonder why these stacks are here if the bank doesn't use them anymore.
Perhaps, like the bank's old vault room in the basement, I have some old stored feelings and ideas -- some that are useless, yet weighing on me. I'll ponder that...
Being married again has not changed some aspects of me. I like to think the "good things" have remained. For example, I can be funny is simple, teasing childlike ways. I also like to see myself as helpful and considerate.
On the other hand, being loved and "socially secure" have not changed a teenage trait that has blossomed in adult life. I tend to over- commit myself. Sometimes it is not that I say "yes" to too many requests, it's just that I take on more than I can manage in terms of my own projects. My brain is busy. I have many interests. For example, I enjoy spiritual group and try to attend five day a week. Writing is an interest, too. Since I am living in a larger city, I joined to a writers' group which meets weekly. It's rather like taking a night class like I did for part of my Master's Degree. Like homework I prepare a piece to read. Then I attend "class" for three hours on Monday night.
When we moved here last year, Hubby and I bought a new old house. Since then we have painted extensively and done a little remodeling on one bathroom. I wanted to hard wood flooring to help with my dust mite and mold allergies that carpeting can aggravate. But, wood floors need care, too, and they also can wear in traffic areas. So, now I have been shopping for washable throw rungs. It's not easy because my furniture is old in terms of colors in vogue. I have bought then returned many a rug in the past several months.( read many trips to the mall.)
I still publish a newsletter ten months a year, too. I want to do it all and try.
The first two months of this year, my calendar looked clean. It looked that way because I did not write down my usual annual activities, just special appointments, snow bird visits and church work. I made no note of tax work and Directors' meeting for the newsletter. I did not include days away for work on the house I still has for sale in a city four hours away, either.
In February, fate also stepped in and I was down for a week with the flu.( Yes, I had a flu shot.) Suddenly, after that, my birthday arrived along with a little afternoon party for lady friends to paste up collages. My birthday is also our wedding anniversary -- celebrating three this year. Three years ago, it seemed a good idea to get married on my birthday. It'd be an easy date for everyone to remember and turning 60 was special. Now, there's just a lot of celebrating to do. I end up worn out.
Family snowbirds arrived, too. Seems THEY need a get away from the cold and snow. So my hubby's son, wife and two kids perched on us for two nights. Sounds easy enough. But under those two nights were: preparing bedding for four extra people, finding a video suitable for adults and children as young as 9-- one they had not seen. ( we chose "The Chronicles of Narnia.") Hubby and I got a meal for a vegetarian and two kids who eat little beyond peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. There was also a breakfast and lunch fro the same gang. None of this includes socializing which I enjoy only in tiny bits.
They left for three days but will return tonight, winging their way back north via I-75.
Looking back, it's easy to see why I truly need a GET AWAY! Interestingly enough, I applied to attend a writers’ conference in Jacksonville, Fl (about two hours away) next Saturday. I was accepted as a volunteer which means I “work” the conference half a day and then attend meetings the other half — free. I will drive over and stall all night the day before. I plan to leave here before noon, check in at the hotel then nap, eat and explore. After my prowl I can spend a whole quiet evening reading. I won’t have to cook, clean or talk to anyone! Ahhhhhhhhh!
Funny how I planned this time away at least two months ago, not knowing then how I’d REALLY need a little solo vacation just now. Cool! God is looking after me when I am too dumb to even know it! J
On the other hand, being loved and "socially secure" have not changed a teenage trait that has blossomed in adult life. I tend to over- commit myself. Sometimes it is not that I say "yes" to too many requests, it's just that I take on more than I can manage in terms of my own projects. My brain is busy. I have many interests. For example, I enjoy spiritual group and try to attend five day a week. Writing is an interest, too. Since I am living in a larger city, I joined to a writers' group which meets weekly. It's rather like taking a night class like I did for part of my Master's Degree. Like homework I prepare a piece to read. Then I attend "class" for three hours on Monday night.
When we moved here last year, Hubby and I bought a new old house. Since then we have painted extensively and done a little remodeling on one bathroom. I wanted to hard wood flooring to help with my dust mite and mold allergies that carpeting can aggravate. But, wood floors need care, too, and they also can wear in traffic areas. So, now I have been shopping for washable throw rungs. It's not easy because my furniture is old in terms of colors in vogue. I have bought then returned many a rug in the past several months.( read many trips to the mall.)
I still publish a newsletter ten months a year, too. I want to do it all and try.
The first two months of this year, my calendar looked clean. It looked that way because I did not write down my usual annual activities, just special appointments, snow bird visits and church work. I made no note of tax work and Directors' meeting for the newsletter. I did not include days away for work on the house I still has for sale in a city four hours away, either.
In February, fate also stepped in and I was down for a week with the flu.( Yes, I had a flu shot.) Suddenly, after that, my birthday arrived along with a little afternoon party for lady friends to paste up collages. My birthday is also our wedding anniversary -- celebrating three this year. Three years ago, it seemed a good idea to get married on my birthday. It'd be an easy date for everyone to remember and turning 60 was special. Now, there's just a lot of celebrating to do. I end up worn out.
Family snowbirds arrived, too. Seems THEY need a get away from the cold and snow. So my hubby's son, wife and two kids perched on us for two nights. Sounds easy enough. But under those two nights were: preparing bedding for four extra people, finding a video suitable for adults and children as young as 9-- one they had not seen. ( we chose "The Chronicles of Narnia.") Hubby and I got a meal for a vegetarian and two kids who eat little beyond peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. There was also a breakfast and lunch fro the same gang. None of this includes socializing which I enjoy only in tiny bits.
They left for three days but will return tonight, winging their way back north via I-75.
Looking back, it's easy to see why I truly need a GET AWAY! Interestingly enough, I applied to attend a writers’ conference in Jacksonville, Fl (about two hours away) next Saturday. I was accepted as a volunteer which means I “work” the conference half a day and then attend meetings the other half — free. I will drive over and stall all night the day before. I plan to leave here before noon, check in at the hotel then nap, eat and explore. After my prowl I can spend a whole quiet evening reading. I won’t have to cook, clean or talk to anyone! Ahhhhhhhhh!
Funny how I planned this time away at least two months ago, not knowing then how I’d REALLY need a little solo vacation just now. Cool! God is looking after me when I am too dumb to even know it! J
After we shared the opening prayer one woman requested "praying" as a topic. I listened as others in the group one-by one told of their various prayer experiences. This is a topic I really like hearing about and I was not disappointed in the diversity of comments... but that is another tale.
My story concerns the behavior of my feet. Almost immediately I noticed my right heel tapping. I stopped it and tuned back into prayer comments. Before long though, I noticed, my left Converse toe jumping around. I looked around at other listeners feet. S-t-i-l-l, all of them. I quieted my right foot. However, before many minutes passed I was aware both my High-topped feet tapping, alternately heel- tow, heel- toe.
I ask myself, "What's WITH you, Frances?"
I don't know. However this foot- tapping is not new. I noticed it in other meetings this week and also last Sunday in church. It's not just in public places, either, Last night I saw my feet stretch and squirm while I watched TV!
I don't think I am bored. However, "something" seems to be working on me, wanting me to wiggle, to move to ... (what?)
I visualize the calendar. Sometimes near the 20th of the month when I typically used to have my menstrual period, I still notice a faint echo of anxiousness. But, no -- it's the beginning of the month.
"Hmm... JK?" I hail my hubby quietly playing online chess three feet away, " What's the phase of the moon? "
"I don't know, " he says absently as he clicks on and moves an online chess piece.
"It would be in the paper, wouldn't it?"
"Yes."
I get up and go in search of The Gainesville Sun. After a scanning the kitchen counter and touring dining area and living room, I call back to the office, "Where's the paper?"
"In the living room."
"Not here."
(pause)
Standing in the living room, I see JK out of the side of my eye. He's passing though the kitchen behind me, headed toward the Master bedroom.
"Maybe it's in the bedroom," he says. Then, "Here it is." He hands me the paper and returns to his game. I stand in the kitchen where he passed me the section stack and ruffle them until I see "Local and State." On the last page of that unit is Weather, including tides and... MOOON phases.
I scan the moon phase dates and -- you guessed it! The moon is full.
That's why my feet are dancing! I remember now. I woke up relatively early the last couple of mornings, too. Both are signs of a full moon.
I smile. My question is answered. This month has been a relatively quiet full moon. Some months I have VERY vivid dreaming, and also wake in the middle of the might, and can't get back to sleep.
So, dance on little feet! As the moon goes dark, little-by-little you will rest.
My story concerns the behavior of my feet. Almost immediately I noticed my right heel tapping. I stopped it and tuned back into prayer comments. Before long though, I noticed, my left Converse toe jumping around. I looked around at other listeners feet. S-t-i-l-l, all of them. I quieted my right foot. However, before many minutes passed I was aware both my High-topped feet tapping, alternately heel- tow, heel- toe.
I ask myself, "What's WITH you, Frances?"
I don't think I am bored. However, "something" seems to be working on me, wanting me to wiggle, to move to ... (what?)
I visualize the calendar. Sometimes near the 20th of the month when I typically used to have my menstrual period, I still notice a faint echo of anxiousness. But, no -- it's the beginning of the month.
"Hmm... JK?" I hail my hubby quietly playing online chess three feet away, " What's the phase of the moon? "
"I don't know, " he says absently as he clicks on and moves an online chess piece.
"It would be in the paper, wouldn't it?"
"Yes."
I get up and go in search of The Gainesville Sun. After a scanning the kitchen counter and touring dining area and living room, I call back to the office, "Where's the paper?"
"In the living room."
"Not here."
(pause)
Standing in the living room, I see JK out of the side of my eye. He's passing though the kitchen behind me, headed toward the Master bedroom.
"Maybe it's in the bedroom," he says. Then, "Here it is." He hands me the paper and returns to his game. I stand in the kitchen where he passed me the section stack and ruffle them until I see "Local and State." On the last page of that unit is Weather, including tides and... MOOON phases.
I scan the moon phase dates and -- you guessed it! The moon is full.
That's why my feet are dancing! I remember now. I woke up relatively early the last couple of mornings, too. Both are signs of a full moon.
I smile. My question is answered. This month has been a relatively quiet full moon. Some months I have VERY vivid dreaming, and also wake in the middle of the might, and can't get back to sleep.
So, dance on little feet! As the moon goes dark, little-by-little you will rest.
Dear Blog readers,
I have been overly busy and thus have not taken time to consider ideas and blog. So, in place of reflective comments, I offer these few comments I collected from e-mail I sent (in early Feb) to those who read the e- newsletter I publish. I think it offers a glimpse into “ life house” where I pass my days.
To Le:
Right now, I need evenings to work. I run errands and attend meetings during
the day-- my social time. One exception is Monday evening when I go out to Writers' Group. I like to think I am improving my skills again. Time will tell.
To Fred:
Hello busy and silent man!
I can't criticize. I am overly busy myself. And silent in a way. I don't
begin to get the stories written that I THINK. My best ideas seem to
occur when I am driving somewhere and vanish like a dream on waking once I
reach home.
I wonder about myself sometimes. I didn't even make a New Years' resolution
this year. I had an idea I wanted to work on, but I didn't formalize it into
a 'resolution'. Did I expect to fail? ( frown) I don't know... it's just a
change. Usually, I am more hip to the fresh start idea.
To Maeve:
It is raining here. We get the wet stuff-- you guys get snow. It is nice to
be warm and dry indoors and listening to the drops dripping from the roof and
trees. My VERY favorite though, is to be in bed half- asleep listening to
those same sounds. AH!
To GinnyLee:
My depression has fled. It always seems to onset in November and start to
lift even before the shortest day, Dec. 21. Can't figure if it is just the
light thing. It must have some other connection-- something about November
that I don't remember!
Well, I can't understand everything that happens to me -- though I sure try! :-)
To: Engrid:
I hope that being home and back in your routine has settled you some and
allowed your active grief to melt off in the heat of normality. Bless you!
It simply takes time for come to terms with loss. Everyone does this in
different ways and some apparently take lots longer than others. WE are all
so unique.
To Phyllis:
I have been on retreats and done dedicated prayer. I have never found
specifics, only a sense that I am doing what God wants. Thus, I am always
curious about what your experience involves.
I know you are doing some hard inner work. That's interesting to me, too.
My "inner work" apparently comes through writing about my experiences. On
the other hand, other matters are being accomplished indirectly, I know.
Otherwise, I would never have an "a-ha!" experience,
To Christa:
I am guilty of not writing to my blog for some time. It's a sign of being
overly busy. I was away for two nights so that was three days away. Good
stuff, fun, but no writing got done. I am still trying to get back on track
from that little trip Mon-Wed of this week!
To David:
Happy start to the work week! Hope you are feeling rested and ready for the
routine of working. As I recall it is rather physically demanding because you
often work late nights. Following one's calling is not always easy. Funny
how I always through it would be easy to do God's work. If my life was not
going smoothly, I was probably NOT on the right path.
These days, I don't believe that is uniformly true . It may be true for some
folks, and sometimes even true for me-- but not always.
To Skysinger:
My life is full and blessed. I keep thinking I'd like more free time, but I
make the choices, so I guess I can just sort my priorities, right? ( Easier
said than done. Yet, knowing what I need to do is at least a step.)
To Jodi:
This month while I was meditating, I recalled an incident that seems to
define the moment when I stopped being a child and was pushed into
preteen-hood. I hated it. I never wanted to be a woman. What a drag! Still,
it's the hand I was dealt and it has had its perks! :-)
To Mike:
Isn't it amazing how the days, weeks and months melt and run through one's
hands? I am having quite a time with that very think. I carefully plan my
time so I "have" it for myself, yet it seems I always forget to factor in how
long it takes to just do "the usual" that's no ON my calendar.
To Ann W.:
Have you unpacked all your boxes yet? Found places for everything? Not me. I
am frustrated. By the time we finished the new closet, I had already stuffed
things other places just to have them out of the way. Now, it's hard for me
to recall what exactly I had planned fro that closet 8 months in the making.
This move sure did not go as I planned.
To Janet T.:
Another month has gone by. What a full one it was, too. I always tend to
think of January as "blank", a new start, However there are many things I
always have to deal with in January. Guess the trouble is, they are not on my
calendar. I just have to do them every year. Maybe I need to write things in
more detail, eh?
Well, here is the end. Each little bit does seem a small window in my house of life.
Blessings***
Frances
I have been overly busy and thus have not taken time to consider ideas and blog. So, in place of reflective comments, I offer these few comments I collected from e-mail I sent (in early Feb) to those who read the e- newsletter I publish. I think it offers a glimpse into “ life house” where I pass my days.
To Le:
Right now, I need evenings to work. I run errands and attend meetings during
the day-- my social time. One exception is Monday evening when I go out to Writers' Group. I like to think I am improving my skills again. Time will tell.
To Fred:
Hello busy and silent man!
I can't criticize. I am overly busy myself. And silent in a way. I don't
begin to get the stories written that I THINK.
occur when I am driving somewhere and vanish like a dream on waking once I
reach home.
I wonder about myself sometimes. I didn't even make a New Years' resolution
this year. I had an idea I wanted to work on, but I didn't formalize it into
a 'resolution'. Did I expect to fail? ( frown) I don't know... it's just a
change. Usually, I am more hip to the fresh start idea.
To Maeve:
It is raining here. We get the wet stuff-- you guys get snow. It is nice to
be warm and dry indoors and listening to the drops dripping from the roof and
trees. My VERY favorite though, is to be in bed half- asleep listening to
those same sounds. AH!
To GinnyLee:
My depression has fled. It always seems to onset in November and start to
lift even before the shortest day, Dec. 21. Can't figure if it is just the
light thing. It must have some other connection-- something about November
that I don't remember!
Well, I can't understand everything that happens to me -- though I sure try! :-)
To: Engrid:
I hope that being home and back in your routine has settled you some and
allowed your active grief to melt off in the heat of normality. Bless you!
It simply takes time for come to terms with loss. Everyone does this in
different ways and some apparently take lots longer than others. WE are all
so unique.
To Phyllis:
I have been on retreats and done dedicated prayer. I have never found
specifics, only a sense that I am doing what God wants. Thus, I am always
curious about what your experience involves.
I know you are doing some hard inner work. That's interesting to me, too.
My "inner work" apparently comes through writing about my experiences. On
the other hand, other matters are being accomplished indirectly, I know.
Otherwise, I would never have an "a-ha!" experience,
To Christa:
I am guilty of not writing to my blog for some time. It's a sign of being
overly busy. I was away for two nights so that was three days away. Good
stuff, fun, but no writing got done. I am still trying to get back on track
from that little trip Mon-Wed of this week!
To David:
Happy start to the work week! Hope you are feeling rested and ready for the
routine of working. As I recall it is rather physically demanding because you
often work late nights. Following one's calling is not always easy. Funny
how I always through it would be easy to do God's work. If my life was not
going smoothly, I was probably NOT on the right path.
These days, I don't believe that is uniformly true . It may be true for some
folks, and sometimes even true for me-- but not always.
To Skysinger:
My life is full and blessed. I keep thinking I'd like more free time, but I
make the choices, so I guess I can just sort my priorities, right? ( Easier
said than done. Yet, knowing what I need to do is at least a step.)
To Jodi:
This month while I was meditating, I recalled an incident that seems to
define the moment when I stopped being a child and was pushed into
preteen-hood. I hated it. I never wanted to be a woman. What a drag! Still,
it's the hand I was dealt and it has had its perks! :-)
To Mike:
Isn't it amazing how the days, weeks and months melt and run through one's
hands? I am having quite a time with that very think. I carefully plan my
time so I "have" it for myself, yet it seems I always forget to factor in how
long it takes to just do "the usual" that's no ON my calendar.
To Ann W.:
Have you unpacked all your boxes yet? Found places for everything? Not me. I
am frustrated. By the time we finished the new closet, I had already stuffed
things other places just to have them out of the way. Now, it's hard for me
to recall what exactly I had planned fro that closet 8 months in the making.
This move sure did not go as I planned.
To Janet T.:
Another month has gone by. What a full one it was, too. I always tend to
think of January as "blank", a new start, However there are many things I
always have to deal with in January. Guess the trouble is, they are not on my
calendar. I just have to do them every year. Maybe I need to write things in
more detail, eh?
Well, here is the end. Each little bit does seem a small window in my house of life.
Blessings***
Frances
I believe each of us has a unique story. And, perhaps everyone has a unique way of learning it. Since 1989, I have been learning mine. It has been a journey of emotions and often sorting feeling through writing about their triggers. I did not start out as a writer, though. During my thirties a friend repeatedly suggested journaling or keeping a diary. She though these activities would help me understand what was going on in my life.
I didn't like the blank page of a journal. I didn't know where to begin or what to say. Someone gave me a diary for Christmas one year. It featured just six empty lines for each day and wasn't quite so intimidating. Thus, I kept a diary that year. I can barely stand to re-read it. Those days, I scribbled anger, rage and sadness. Those three emotions scrawled across entry after entry, though many dates were also blank. That's how it was for me then. I was polarized between sadness and some shade of anger, having little to comment on in between.
In my forties I began to come out of that phase. My journey was one of discovering what lay between the sadness emotional end of the spectrum and rage, it's other face. What were THOSE feelings? back then, I didn't know their names anymore. Maybe I never even learned them.
I spent seven years actively attending a Twelve Step Program where I learned to name my missing feelings. Once discovered, I also honored those emotions by remembering my past where they were planted. Next, I learned to forgive the adults who started me on a hurtful emotional trail. After that, I set to work on letting go of blaming myself for not doing better with my choices.
In the Program, I also picked up tools for understanding situations. For example, I used to handle troubles by blaming myself or someone else. ( No blame? What a concept!) I was a child of my parents' attitudes and those of the society that also educated me. I was brought up thinking if I did everything "right" then all would be well. If things weren't going well, and I was doing everything "right" then it MUST be someone else's fault. Of course, I worried and considered all possibilities so I always made "right" choices.
After I attended my first Twelve Step meeting, for the first time I felt "something" that was not rage, or sadness. It was not quite an emotion and I could not name it at the time. Looking back, I see that feeling clearly and can name it: hope. Others in the group I attended has tales not like mine, but hones that had similar themes. Those folk were laughing and joking-- not crying or raging. I didn't have to be angry, and sad.
I have learned much about "my story" since I began identifying my feelings and following them to their roots. This activity has allowed me to even change my story. I am not longer "The Victim". My story has other characters: For example, from Caroline Myss' archetypal model in Sacred Contracts, I am artist, seeker, child, guide rebel and networker. My story is more complex than it used to be.
I believe learning one's story is the one pursuit that is both life-long and rewarding. Mine has brought me spiritual growth and a life that includes satisfaction, happiness and even joy.
I didn't like the blank page of a journal. I didn't know where to begin or what to say. Someone gave me a diary for Christmas one year. It featured just six empty lines for each day and wasn't quite so intimidating. Thus, I kept a diary that year. I can barely stand to re-read it. Those days, I scribbled anger, rage and sadness. Those three emotions scrawled across entry after entry, though many dates were also blank. That's how it was for me then. I was polarized between sadness and some shade of anger, having little to comment on in between.
In my forties I began to come out of that phase. My journey was one of discovering what lay between the sadness emotional end of the spectrum and rage, it's other face. What were THOSE feelings? back then, I didn't know their names anymore. Maybe I never even learned them.
I spent seven years actively attending a Twelve Step Program where I learned to name my missing feelings. Once discovered, I also honored those emotions by remembering my past where they were planted. Next, I learned to forgive the adults who started me on a hurtful emotional trail. After that, I set to work on letting go of blaming myself for not doing better with my choices.
In the Program, I also picked up tools for understanding situations. For example, I used to handle troubles by blaming myself or someone else. ( No blame? What a concept!) I was a child of my parents' attitudes and those of the society that also educated me. I was brought up thinking if I did everything "right" then all would be well. If things weren't going well, and I was doing everything "right" then it MUST be someone else's fault. Of course, I worried and considered all possibilities so I always made "right" choices.
After I attended my first Twelve Step meeting, for the first time I felt "something" that was not rage, or sadness. It was not quite an emotion and I could not name it at the time. Looking back, I see that feeling clearly and can name it: hope. Others in the group I attended has tales not like mine, but hones that had similar themes. Those folk were laughing and joking-- not crying or raging. I didn't have to be angry, and sad.
I have learned much about "my story" since I began identifying my feelings and following them to their roots. This activity has allowed me to even change my story. I am not longer "The Victim". My story has other characters: For example, from Caroline Myss' archetypal model in Sacred Contracts, I am artist, seeker, child, guide rebel and networker. My story is more complex than it used to be.
I believe learning one's story is the one pursuit that is both life-long and rewarding. Mine has brought me spiritual growth and a life that includes satisfaction, happiness and even joy.
TOMMY
Tommy was bigger than me and lived across the alley from me. His house faced Seventh Street, but his backyard was on Cottage Avenue-- my street. His mother and mine sometimes drank coffee in his kitchen. Those days, Mother took me along.
Their house was noisy and crowded with kids. Tommy was the older than me. Pat was a year or so younger than me and Kathleen was a really little girl who never played nice. When I'd go to Tommy's house, I played cards or a game with Tommy at the dining table so the little brat would not mess up our things. Sometimes, we'd go outside and explore his long backyard. The side next to the alley was fenced. Grass and bushes ran all the way from their back porch to my street.
Tommy did not play like the other neighborhood boys who ran through the yards shooting their cap guns. He was fun. For one thing, he had a paper route. Once, he even talked my mom into letting me go along to deliver the evening news. I rode on his back fender to Tommy's drop. There he showed me how to fold the papers in a special roll with one end inside the other so each stayed round. We tucked The Goshen News end-up in his grimy white paper bag that lay in the bike's basket. When we were done, they reminded me of Mom's Lucky Strikes in their just- opened pack. Paper in font and me on the back, Tommy started off, throwing papers as he went. Pretty soon, he was really puffing. I felt bad. I don't think Tommy knew how heavy I was.
Another time, Tommy pedaled home, dragging a huge cardboard box from down town. He put it at the Cottage Avenue end of his back yard. It was so big, two of us girls could crawl inside. We talked Tommy into bringing home another box. We girls played "house" at first. But, Tommy kept pedaling home boxes. After several days he had assembled four or five cardboards end-to-end. Then, he announced it was a train! Train? This game was puzzling at first. But, after-while, I got the hang of it. Even little kids come and "ride". Whooo- whooo! Whooo-whoo!
Then one night there was a thunderstorm. Lightning lit the sky and rain fell so hard Mom and Dad had to close all the windows. The next morning when I went down my street to play train, I saw it collapsed into a huge soggy brown caterpillar. Even though it eventually dried, its roof and walls sagged. One day I heard those cap-shooter boys had jumped on the train and Tommy's dad made him burn it.
When I was eight, my family moved several blocks away. I didn't see much of Tommy any more, not even at school since he was three years ahead of me. About ten years ago when I was home visiting, I asked some folks what had happened to Tommy. Most shrugged, but someone said he died in his thirties.
Maybe so. But Tommy still lives in my memory. He was the only big kid in the neighborhood who took time with me. And, he was the first "nice" boy I ever knew.
Tommy was bigger than me and lived across the alley from me. His house faced Seventh Street, but his backyard was on Cottage Avenue-- my street. His mother and mine sometimes drank coffee in his kitchen. Those days, Mother took me along.
Their house was noisy and crowded with kids. Tommy was the older than me. Pat was a year or so younger than me and Kathleen was a really little girl who never played nice. When I'd go to Tommy's house, I played cards or a game with Tommy at the dining table so the little brat would not mess up our things. Sometimes, we'd go outside and explore his long backyard. The side next to the alley was fenced. Grass and bushes ran all the way from their back porch to my street.
Tommy did not play like the other neighborhood boys who ran through the yards shooting their cap guns. He was fun. For one thing, he had a paper route. Once, he even talked my mom into letting me go along to deliver the evening news. I rode on his back fender to Tommy's drop. There he showed me how to fold the papers in a special roll with one end inside the other so each stayed round. We tucked The Goshen News end-up in his grimy white paper bag that lay in the bike's basket. When we were done, they reminded me of Mom's Lucky Strikes in their just- opened pack. Paper in font and me on the back, Tommy started off, throwing papers as he went. Pretty soon, he was really puffing. I felt bad. I don't think Tommy knew how heavy I was.
Another time, Tommy pedaled home, dragging a huge cardboard box from down town. He put it at the Cottage Avenue end of his back yard. It was so big, two of us girls could crawl inside. We talked Tommy into bringing home another box. We girls played "house" at first. But, Tommy kept pedaling home boxes. After several days he had assembled four or five cardboards end-to-end. Then, he announced it was a train! Train? This game was puzzling at first. But, after-while, I got the hang of it. Even little kids come and "ride". Whooo- whooo! Whooo-whoo!
Then one night there was a thunderstorm. Lightning lit the sky and rain fell so hard Mom and Dad had to close all the windows. The next morning when I went down my street to play train, I saw it collapsed into a huge soggy brown caterpillar. Even though it eventually dried, its roof and walls sagged. One day I heard those cap-shooter boys had jumped on the train and Tommy's dad made him burn it.
When I was eight, my family moved several blocks away. I didn't see much of Tommy any more, not even at school since he was three years ahead of me. About ten years ago when I was home visiting, I asked some folks what had happened to Tommy. Most shrugged, but someone said he died in his thirties.
Maybe so. But Tommy still lives in my memory. He was the only big kid in the neighborhood who took time with me. And, he was the first "nice" boy I ever knew.
It’s 2007! Occasionally I write “2006”, but not often. That’s a good sign. It tells me I know where I am in Time’s continuum. Still, occasionally, I get lost.
For example, I forget the “name of the day.” Recently -- maybe due to fact that Christmas and New Year’s both fell on a Monday -- I lost track of the day. For example, Monday “felt” like Sunday. Thus, for a couple of weeks, I wandered among the days’ names. Was it Monday or Tuesday? Wednesday or Thursday?
And that’s not all. In January, I have to concentrate as I write the year. When I pencil 2006 instead of “2007” I know I am distracted. I might thinking about the person I am writing to, or the check I am paying.
I am a little disoriented to not know the name of the day. I more distracted to not produce the correct date. But, I confess to an even deeper level of being lost. Sometimes, I call my younger son by the older one’s name. Worse, I have called my new husband “Jake", my previous husband’s name. (OOPS!)
There’s yet slip I made this year. I caught myself signing a check, Frances Rider instead of the signature I have used for the past forty-one years, Frances R.Fritzie .
I chalk up this error to being overwhelmed. Chances began with packing and moving -- first JK, then myself. Then, I had to find everything and reorganize it: “his”, “hers” and “ours.”
All the while, I was experiencing the subtleties of sharing space. I am used to quiet, but sometimes JK watches football and he continually updates me about the war in Iraq.
Other times, just his physical presence upsets my rhythm. For example, I walk to the bathroom to put on my “face” and find him in it – with the door closed. While there is a second bathroom, my make-up is not in it.)
And, I feel pressure of partnering in scheduling my day. When single, I just did what I wanted, whenever. Now, I largely organize my day around
f-o-o-d. I used to eat from a package at the sink. Now, whatever my errands, appointments or activities, I sit down with JK for our mid-day meal.
Change can be confounding. No wonder I lose track of time! Still, I am largely here and now of 2007 -- and trekking on.
Thank you, God!
For example, I forget the “name of the day.” Recently -- maybe due to fact that Christmas and New Year’s both fell on a Monday -- I lost track of the day. For example, Monday “felt” like Sunday. Thus, for a couple of weeks, I wandered among the days’ names. Was it Monday or Tuesday? Wednesday or Thursday?
And that’s not all. In January, I have to concentrate as I write the year. When I pencil 2006 instead of “2007” I know I am distracted. I might thinking about the person I am writing to, or the check I am paying.
I am a little disoriented to not know the name of the day. I more distracted to not produce the correct date. But, I confess to an even deeper level of being lost. Sometimes, I call my younger son by the older one’s name. Worse, I have called my new husband “Jake", my previous husband’s name. (OOPS!)
There’s yet slip I made this year. I caught myself signing a check, Frances Rider instead of the signature I have used for the past forty-one years, Frances R.Fritzie .
I chalk up this error to being overwhelmed. Chances began with packing and moving -- first JK, then myself. Then, I had to find everything and reorganize it: “his”, “hers” and “ours.”
All the while, I was experiencing the subtleties of sharing space. I am used to quiet, but sometimes JK watches football and he continually updates me about the war in Iraq.
Other times, just his physical presence upsets my rhythm. For example, I walk to the bathroom to put on my “face” and find him in it – with the door closed. While there is a second bathroom, my make-up is not in it.)
And, I feel pressure of partnering in scheduling my day. When single, I just did what I wanted, whenever. Now, I largely organize my day around
f-o-o-d. I used to eat from a package at the sink. Now, whatever my errands, appointments or activities, I sit down with JK for our mid-day meal.
Change can be confounding. No wonder I lose track of time! Still, I am largely here and now of 2007 -- and trekking on.
Thank you, God!
I guess my past isn't ever far away. Recently, I used the following little story, “from my arrant high school years” to introduce a topic for my newsletter. It's not a secret now. I told part of the same story at a class reunion either five years ago. "Billy" was there -- and everyone had quite a laugh!
For about a year, when I was in high school, I stole the name of a pal’s mother. I signed her name to notes I wrote on stationery my pal brought from his home,
"Please excuse Bill’s absence. He was sick from his diabetes again today.
Mrs. Kuiper "
I’d known Bill since he was “Billy” in third grade. That year, I caught up with him. since he’d been “held back”. We lived on the same side of the school, so when the bell ended our day, he often scuffed across the dirt playground and sauntered up the alley with me to the next street. There, he turned right while I continue straight up the alley.
It was Christmas time that third grade winter, when one brisk day his mother waited at the end of that first block, running the engine in her white Cadillac. As he hurried toward the warmth of the ride home, his mother waved then called me to the car, motioning to get in.
I’d seen Billy’s mom at school. She helped with parties. I lived in a small town and my parents knew her, and smiled when the family name was mentioned at the dinner table. Mrs. Kuiper pushed open the right side door for me and smiled as I slid in the warm front seat while Billy climbed in the back.
Billy’s mother turned to the back as she handed Billy a wrapped box tied with a shiny red bow. She nodded to him, “Give it to her.”
Thus, a red-faced Billy, handed me the box.
I looked at the fancy box that looked like a Christmas present. I frowned, trying to understand what was happening. My parents said the Kuipers were Jewish and didn’t celebrate Christmas. After a moment, Mrs. Kuiper spoke.“Go on and open it, Dear.”
I felt funny. My fingers were sort of stiff. Still, I pulled off the paper, then lifted the lid off a white box. There, on a bed of cotton, lay a gold link bracelet. I touched it and Mrs. Kuiper said, “Take it out.”
I held it up and saw separate gold letters hung from the chain. They spelled the name of my hometown, G-O-S-H-E-N. Following that was a small state of Indiana, enameled green. My eyes were wide. It was beautiful!
“Put it on, Dear,” Billy’s mother encouraged. She leaned over to help me with the clasp. My face was hot and I didn’t know what to say. I stammered a thank you to her and she said, “Oh, no. It’s not from me. It’s from Billy.”
So, I turned to Billy in the backseat. He was looked at me in way I’d never seen.
“Thank you, Billy,” I said. Then quickly said, “I’ve got to go. “
“Let me drive you, Dear,” said Billy’s mother.
I knew I was not to ride with strangers, but Mrs. Kuiper seemed OK. So she pulled from the curb and chatting brightly about how cold it was today, She said she heard there was snow coming. It was only three blocks to my house. When I climbed out, I said “Thank you” again, stepped up on the curb and shut the car door. Mrs. Kuiper waited while I stood on the porch and found the key I wore around my neck. I unlocked the door and Bootsie my red cocker spaniel jumped out, wiggling all over, sniffing me.
“Good-bye Dear,” she called, then and waved again before she put the car in gear. A cloud of white vapor trailed the white cars’ exterior as she drove away.
I saw Billy a lot over the years. Alphabetically seated we were never far apart. In high school, his locker was near mine, too. During tenth grade, Bill started skipping school. One day he sauntered up smiling in his always friend way and asked me to write him an excuse note. He’d skipped school, he told me and would be in trouble without a note.
“I don’t know…” I started.
He lost his grin and his brown eyes pleaded, “Please? I will really get it if I am caught!”
“I need to see your mom’s writing…” I said. He did better than that. He brought me a piece of her note paper, too. I studied her writing a little and put pen to paper.
Billy skipped school a lot that spring. I wrote so many excuses, I worried I would get caught as an accomplice. One day when Bill sauntered up to my locker before school, I frowned. “You are playing hooky too much…” I shook my head saying I was nervous about writing all the excuses. I reminded Bill that my dad just got elected to the School Board and raised my eyebrows, “There’ll be TROUBLE if I get caught… This is the last time”
I leaned on the metal door and using a book for a desk, I wrote on his mother’s creamy stationery,
"Please excuse Bill’s absence. He was having trouble with his insulin yesterday.
Mrs. Kuiper"
I blew on the ink, then folded the note and slid it into the envelope. Handing it to my pal I reminded him, “No more skipping! I won’t do this again.”
But, he had asked for a note again about a week later. I refused. He peaded. I crossed my arms and shook my head. “ No. I told you…”
He asked me again the next day. “Nope! You’ll have to get someone else,” I said and walked away.
That time, Bill got caught. It seems Mrs. Kuiper’s writing used for comparison at the attendance office did not match the new note.
Thus ended my short life of forgery.
*
THE REST OF THE STORY
This story may be MILD by today's standards, nevertheless, my hubby was surprised when he read it. "Did you write this?" he asked raising his eyebrows?
"Yes,” I said, adding, “I did that, too. Why?"
He said, “I am just surprised… you are so honest. “
It seems to me that honesty is not a trait present at birth. I have wavered for many reasons over my years. However, sine my husband has known me, I have been at least “cash register” honest I started being fair and truthful on the outside. Now I am working on finding how to live with myself without needing “excuse notes”.
For about a year, when I was in high school, I stole the name of a pal’s mother. I signed her name to notes I wrote on stationery my pal brought from his home,
"Please excuse Bill’s absence. He was sick from his diabetes again today.
Mrs. Kuiper "
I’d known Bill since he was “Billy” in third grade. That year, I caught up with him. since he’d been “held back”. We lived on the same side of the school, so when the bell ended our day, he often scuffed across the dirt playground and sauntered up the alley with me to the next street. There, he turned right while I continue straight up the alley.
It was Christmas time that third grade winter, when one brisk day his mother waited at the end of that first block, running the engine in her white Cadillac. As he hurried toward the warmth of the ride home, his mother waved then called me to the car, motioning to get in.
I’d seen Billy’s mom at school. She helped with parties. I lived in a small town and my parents knew her, and smiled when the family name was mentioned at the dinner table. Mrs. Kuiper pushed open the right side door for me and smiled as I slid in the warm front seat while Billy climbed in the back.
Billy’s mother turned to the back as she handed Billy a wrapped box tied with a shiny red bow. She nodded to him, “Give it to her.”
Thus, a red-faced Billy, handed me the box.
I looked at the fancy box that looked like a Christmas present. I frowned, trying to understand what was happening. My parents said the Kuipers were Jewish and didn’t celebrate Christmas. After a moment, Mrs. Kuiper spoke.“Go on and open it, Dear.”
I felt funny. My fingers were sort of stiff. Still, I pulled off the paper, then lifted the lid off a white box. There, on a bed of cotton, lay a gold link bracelet. I touched it and Mrs. Kuiper said, “Take it out.”
I held it up and saw separate gold letters hung from the chain. They spelled the name of my hometown, G-O-S-H-E-N. Following that was a small state of Indiana, enameled green. My eyes were wide. It was beautiful!
“Put it on, Dear,” Billy’s mother encouraged. She leaned over to help me with the clasp. My face was hot and I didn’t know what to say. I stammered a thank you to her and she said, “Oh, no. It’s not from me. It’s from Billy.”
So, I turned to Billy in the backseat. He was looked at me in way I’d never seen.
“Thank you, Billy,” I said. Then quickly said, “I’ve got to go. “
“Let me drive you, Dear,” said Billy’s mother.
I knew I was not to ride with strangers, but Mrs. Kuiper seemed OK. So she pulled from the curb and chatting brightly about how cold it was today, She said she heard there was snow coming. It was only three blocks to my house. When I climbed out, I said “Thank you” again, stepped up on the curb and shut the car door. Mrs. Kuiper waited while I stood on the porch and found the key I wore around my neck. I unlocked the door and Bootsie my red cocker spaniel jumped out, wiggling all over, sniffing me.
“Good-bye Dear,” she called, then and waved again before she put the car in gear. A cloud of white vapor trailed the white cars’ exterior as she drove away.
I saw Billy a lot over the years. Alphabetically seated we were never far apart. In high school, his locker was near mine, too. During tenth grade, Bill started skipping school. One day he sauntered up smiling in his always friend way and asked me to write him an excuse note. He’d skipped school, he told me and would be in trouble without a note.
“I don’t know…” I started.
He lost his grin and his brown eyes pleaded, “Please? I will really get it if I am caught!”
“I need to see your mom’s writing…” I said. He did better than that. He brought me a piece of her note paper, too. I studied her writing a little and put pen to paper.
Billy skipped school a lot that spring. I wrote so many excuses, I worried I would get caught as an accomplice. One day when Bill sauntered up to my locker before school, I frowned. “You are playing hooky too much…” I shook my head saying I was nervous about writing all the excuses. I reminded Bill that my dad just got elected to the School Board and raised my eyebrows, “There’ll be TROUBLE if I get caught… This is the last time”
I leaned on the metal door and using a book for a desk, I wrote on his mother’s creamy stationery,
"Please excuse Bill’s absence. He was having trouble with his insulin yesterday.
Mrs. Kuiper"
I blew on the ink, then folded the note and slid it into the envelope. Handing it to my pal I reminded him, “No more skipping! I won’t do this again.”
But, he had asked for a note again about a week later. I refused. He peaded. I crossed my arms and shook my head. “ No. I told you…”
He asked me again the next day. “Nope! You’ll have to get someone else,” I said and walked away.
That time, Bill got caught. It seems Mrs. Kuiper’s writing used for comparison at the attendance office did not match the new note.
Thus ended my short life of forgery.
*
THE REST OF THE STORY
This story may be MILD by today's standards, nevertheless, my hubby was surprised when he read it. "Did you write this?" he asked raising his eyebrows?
"Yes,” I said, adding, “I did that, too. Why?"
He said, “I am just surprised… you are so honest. “
It seems to me that honesty is not a trait present at birth. I have wavered for many reasons over my years. However, sine my husband has known me, I have been at least “cash register” honest I started being fair and truthful on the outside. Now I am working on finding how to live with myself without needing “excuse notes”.
I have four library books I am paging through. One is, Rumspringa, To Be or Not To be Amish by Tom Shachtman.
I have always been interested in the Amish. I grew up among them. In those days, however, all I saw was their funny ways of dressing and how they drove around in horse drawn buggies. As a kid when we drove over back roads we often saw what my dad called, "road apples", the droppings of horses. "Look Daddy, " I used to point them out and laugh, "road apples!"
However, as am adult, I was attracted first to the tradition Amish quilts, especially the "ninepatch" pattern Sue Bender wrote about in her coming to know self book, Plain and Simple. For years, now I have been reading Amish authors and absorbing information about Amish culture. Thus, I was attracted to this volume.
The volume is a study of today's Amish youth when they go through their "worldly" period before joining the church. This time is called, " Rumspringa". The term is Pennsylvania Dutch and comes from German "Raum" meaning "space"-- to have space or room to roam. The time begins with the youth's 16th birthday. (This is also when he or she commonly also quits school because classes after that year are considered too much of the world and unnecessary to the Amish simple life. )
At this age, Amish youth have not been baptized. Amish are Anabaptist. They believe in adult baptism followed by joining the church. Once that is done, a youth "adult" and responsible to the brethren to follow a life divorced from comforts as we know them. Most Amish have no electricity. It's also common that there is no indoor plumbing. Of course they wear unusual homemade, "plain" clothing and drive horse and buggies. These matters have been outlined for generations by the Ordnung, a collection of rules interpreted by bishops. They do this to keep them from "the world" so they might focus on living a right life, according to God's will.
Author Shachtman says The Amish are a mirror of America's youth. During Rumspringa, they have trouble with drugs, alcohol, out-of-wedlock pregnancy and even police calls to wild parties. Amish parents are not supposed to say anything, but trust and wait for the child to return.
The author says the Amish have a return rate of over 80 %. I wonder if this is because of the early upbringing. The young people give up a lot of comforts -- some more than others. Some local Bishops are more broad- minded in interpreting the Amish law.
My mother was Anabaptist. I was not baptized until I was thirteen. At that time I also joined the church. Perhaps she thought I was old enough to choose my future with God. However, we did not belong to an Anabiptist chruch. We were Presbyterian. I just felt odd being "sprinkled" in front of everyone at such an advanced age. Church friends even asked me why I had not been baptized before. Thus, the experience did not make me one of the fold and more holy. It underlined how different I was and distanced me from the community.
And, all that happened before my "worldly teen years." Sometimes I think I had a prolonged "worldly" period: some thirty plus years. When I look back all those long days, I wonder if I might have done better to leave "the world" behind at thirteen instead of going out into it.
But, as some sage quipped, "As long as there is life, there is hope." So, when I got divorced at forty-six, I left the adult world I had known. I also joined the Twelve Step Way. I started a "new life" and began to build myself a "family" who believe it is important to pray frequently and to follow God's will.
Maybe all this is why I like to read about the Amish -- I sort of identify with the characters who struggle to give up the world and to find and follow God's will.
I have always been interested in the Amish. I grew up among them. In those days, however, all I saw was their funny ways of dressing and how they drove around in horse drawn buggies. As a kid when we drove over back roads we often saw what my dad called, "road apples", the droppings of horses. "Look Daddy, " I used to point them out and laugh, "road apples!"
However, as am adult, I was attracted first to the tradition Amish quilts, especially the "ninepatch" pattern Sue Bender wrote about in her coming to know self book, Plain and Simple. For years, now I have been reading Amish authors and absorbing information about Amish culture. Thus, I was attracted to this volume.
The volume is a study of today's Amish youth when they go through their "worldly" period before joining the church. This time is called, " Rumspringa". The term is Pennsylvania Dutch and comes from German "Raum" meaning "space"-- to have space or room to roam. The time begins with the youth's 16th birthday. (This is also when he or she commonly also quits school because classes after that year are considered too much of the world and unnecessary to the Amish simple life. )
At this age, Amish youth have not been baptized. Amish are Anabaptist. They believe in adult baptism followed by joining the church. Once that is done, a youth "adult" and responsible to the brethren to follow a life divorced from comforts as we know them. Most Amish have no electricity. It's also common that there is no indoor plumbing. Of course they wear unusual homemade, "plain" clothing and drive horse and buggies. These matters have been outlined for generations by the Ordnung, a collection of rules interpreted by bishops. They do this to keep them from "the world" so they might focus on living a right life, according to God's will.
Author Shachtman says The Amish are a mirror of America's youth. During Rumspringa, they have trouble with drugs, alcohol, out-of-wedlock pregnancy and even police calls to wild parties. Amish parents are not supposed to say anything, but trust and wait for the child to return.
The author says the Amish have a return rate of over 80 %. I wonder if this is because of the early upbringing. The young people give up a lot of comforts -- some more than others. Some local Bishops are more broad- minded in interpreting the Amish law.
My mother was Anabaptist. I was not baptized until I was thirteen. At that time I also joined the church. Perhaps she thought I was old enough to choose my future with God. However, we did not belong to an Anabiptist chruch. We were Presbyterian. I just felt odd being "sprinkled" in front of everyone at such an advanced age. Church friends even asked me why I had not been baptized before. Thus, the experience did not make me one of the fold and more holy. It underlined how different I was and distanced me from the community.
And, all that happened before my "worldly teen years." Sometimes I think I had a prolonged "worldly" period: some thirty plus years. When I look back all those long days, I wonder if I might have done better to leave "the world" behind at thirteen instead of going out into it.
But, as some sage quipped, "As long as there is life, there is hope." So, when I got divorced at forty-six, I left the adult world I had known. I also joined the Twelve Step Way. I started a "new life" and began to build myself a "family" who believe it is important to pray frequently and to follow God's will.
Maybe all this is why I like to read about the Amish -- I sort of identify with the characters who struggle to give up the world and to find and follow God's will.
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