Category: essays

Yesterday was an interesting day. I was watching moon shine.

I was actually watching someone watch others in their difficult hours. But it’s sort of like watching moon shine. I’ve been observing and listening to the reactions of a friend who’s been challenged by the troubles of others. It’s an interesting third-party perspective–one that has opened my eyes a bit to the nature of shining.

For those engaged and entwined with the world around them–the people around them–there is an inherent risk. That risk is the inevitable reality of being touched by that world, by those people. The reality is being affected by what rocks that world or what disturbs the peace in those people. I’ve called it the downside of investing in others. It makes you vulnerable to the acute impact of ups and downs. It’s a by-product of giving yourself, your time, your energy. That reality is the true cost of paying attention. And it’s hard to take sometimes. It’s risky. It makes us vulnerable. It renders us helpless in times when we most want to make an impact. Yet, it offers us the greatest opportunity to shine.

Earlier in the week I was driving home and in a bit of a funk. I was frustrated by various situations and taking it out on the steering wheel. Dusk had just slipped by, and the full impact of the darkness had taken control. I had experienced a minor and temporary disappointment, which turned the actual dark of night into a metaphorical darkness of spirit as well. As I made that typical right turn on to Hwy 12, I saw the moon (at the risk of repeating myself). Hanging there in a brief visual respite from the signage and neon found between Taco Bell and the junction at Lousiville Street, that “ruler” of the night was completely full. It was a perfect circumference of light in a sea of cloudless midnight blue. Stunningly bright. Even in the presence of street lights and neon signs and car high beams, it was outstanding.

That full moon simply invaded the night of my mood at that moment. I could not escape the fact of how noticeable it was. I could not escape the fact that I wouldn’t have noticed it at all during the day time. I wouldn’t have noticed it without the pervasive darkness surrounding it. But, thanks to the night, I could see moon shine.

Yesterday was an interesting day. It was an enlightening day. There is a brightness of spirit sometimes found in people that can be quite rare. It shows up as an ability to offer light, peace, hope, or companionship in dark situations. It shines in the ability to be moved by the pain of others–to be moved to simple action. A phone call. A visit. A word to enstill courage. A tear on behalf of another. A shared sorrow. A renewed perspective. A bolstered possibility. I was a third-party to it in observing my friend. A hidden witness to that circumference of light standing in contrast to the night. In being privy to the darkness, I saw moon shine.

It inspired me.

It reminded me of some lessons on the nature of dark and light from last July. A portion of them bears repeating here, in “light” of yesterday’s witness to moon shine:

“Amazingly, light dispels dark rather quickly, efficiently and indiscriminantly. Light is generous, and despite the unfortunate efforts we sometimes impose on ourselves and others, it is uncontained…. the blackest dark loses its way in the presence of even the smallest light. Even a weak light reflecting its true Source spreads with uncommon power. The light I have to share, though small, can and will impact any sphere in which I choose to shine it.”

I aspire to that light. To that kind of shining.

I spotted this guy in my backyard this week. I glanced out the back door as I was walking through the kitchen, and I could see him clear across the lawn even though it was cloudy and just before twilight. It’s hard to miss that red in the sea of gray and evergreen at the back fence. It was like he was screaming at me; his presence was so vibrant. But, he wasn’t shouting. He was perfectly silent, and his only movements were those slight fluffing of feathers and jittery turns of the neck birds do.

His color was so bright that I wanted to get a picture. I grabbed my camera, slowly opened the back door and eased out onto the back steps. I took my zoom lens as far as it would go to capture him, which probably accounts for the slight blur in the photo. When I realized I couldn’t focus as well as I wanted to, I decided to try to get a little closer. Sure enough, as soon as I made a move down the steps toward the patio, he’d had enough. Off he flew, and the moment was gone.

I’m tempted to say this bird is a sign of Spring, but he’s not. He’s actually a sign of Winter. The cardinals have been spent the entire Winter with us like they do every year. I suppose Starkville, MS offers just the right blend of mild Winter weather to make it a good “snowbird” locale for the red birds. This one’s plump physique is an advertisement for the luxury accomodations available in our particular yard with the berries, the evergreen trees, the vinca groundcover and the tall bird feeder we try to protect from overzealous (and very acrobatic) squirrels. The only drawbacks in our bird paradise are the rowdy boys that sometimes populate the backyard as well. Still, we usually have two or three cardinal families– brilliant red males and duller brown females–that hang around throughout the year, and we’ll probably get to watch them teach their babies to fly this Spring.

It’s an odd phenomenon–how much more I seem to notice the cardinals during Winter, even this time of year, than later in Spring or Summer when they are more prolific. I suppose it’s the sheer contrast of their color and movement against the seeming monotony and stillness of the Winter landscape. As Spring gains prominence, their bright red becomes just one component of a rainbow of other saturated colors–greens, reds, yellows, blue skies. Their flight gets lost in the cacophony of other activities going on outdoors. It’s interesting how much more easily we recognize things when they are sparse, how much more significant to us they become when we aren’t saturated. When we feel deprived of something, we tend to recognize its value more poignantly. Its presence gains power, perhaps because scarcity tends to focus our attention

It’s Saturday, and I’m usually totally immersed in a flood of laundry and housework and catching up. But, I’ve been thinking about this little cardinal all week. His vibrance. His stunning addition to our backyard in that one moment. His power to capture my attention so completely. I hope I can live by the “cardinal” rules today, recognizing and giving attention to those things and people that matter to me, even on the days when their presence is crowded by so many daily occurences. I don’t want to notice them only when I’m lonely for their prominence.

Warning: This is yet another post about writing. What is it about writers that makes them write so much about writing–analyzing their own “craft,” evaluating their own habits? I can hear the chorus of oh-good-griefs resonating through cyberspace right now. Truth be told; I don’t necessarily consider myself to be a “writer” most of the time. I’m just a girl who writes, really. I don’t know if that gets me off the hook with the “writing about writing” fiasco. But here goes.

I love to write. I really do. And, I hate to write. I really do. There’s the rub. In observing myself, I’ve realized that there’s a point (call it A) at which I’m really excited about the process. And there’s a point (call it B) at which I can’t even successfully bribe myself with chocolate to do it. Then, I get back to the place where I’m willing to write, actually put some work into it. And finally, on the really fun days, I get in that zone–the state of mind where the essays write themselves, and I’m just along for the key-tapping. I’m the same way with my design projects sometimes (the day job). I imagine the process is similar for those in other creative pursuits. And let’s face it; are there really pursuits that aren’t creative? Whether it’s writing or painting or architecture or graphic design or preschool lesson-planning or cooking or running a business or whatever, sometimes it’s hard to get from unsuccessful bribery to willingness. Much less to being along to enjoy the ride. If it lights a fire inside, it has the potential to squelch itself just as easily in my experience. And at some point, hopefully the flame just burns inspite of itself.

As you may have guessed, writing has not been coming easily these days. You can surmise that from the infrequency of my posts (if this particular essay didn’t give it away.) The breakdown in the process for me comes more from simply getting started than from the actual writing itself. Once I set about putting my fingertips to the keys, the words usually come. It’s the getting there that’s the problem. So, what stalls me between point A and point B?  Just like with many kinds of decisions or pursuits, you can take a number.

Sometimes it’s fear or insecurity. Can I really do this? Sometimes it’s lack of sincerity or commitment. Am I really willing to put the time into this? More often than not, it’s the paralysis of ideas — either too many or too little.  Maybe that one comes from the quest for perfection. Ideas in their raw form are ethereal. They’re abstract to an extent. They have the glamour of perfection without the work required for a lean, toned, well-coiffed presentation. And, bringing about that toned essay from some fleeting idea regularly brings me many a moment of insecurity, indecision and non-commitment.

I’m an idea girl. I can brainstorm with the best of them. In fact, I’m a huge proponent of that unfiltered practice. I actually spend a lot of time doing it. But, I’ve been confounded by the idea of ideas lately. So many beginnings, it’s hard to choose which one to explore to a satisfying conclusion. And, an idea is only as good as where it takes me. Whenever it thunderstorms in the fall – our aluminium guttering get a little clogged, which means one of the kids has to be grounded so that the punishment of cleaning the raingutters can be dished out.

I saw a comment in a Twitter chat recently. It may have been part of some targeted conversation on innovation or marketing or social media–one of those things that verify my nerd status. I can’t remember. But the thought was that ideas aren’t really the best commodity–not the best investment. It made the case that a better investment is in those who can generate ideas. The process of producing ideas has more potential for return than any one, fleeting idea. I found that to be interesting and true. To a degree. The ability to generate ideas is indeed a notable gift, but the ability to follow through on an idea is also important. To chase an idea unencumbered by precedent or constraint or forethought can be a frustrating process, but also a rewarding one. Ideas can gain a life and passion of their own. Following them can get me to surprising places.

In my efforts to get from that unsuccessful bribe I mentioned to the willingness to work at it, to chase it, I ask myself lots of questions. Do I need to put myself on a schedule? To discipline myself more? Do I need to limit my focus? Find someone to hold me accountable? Do I need to pick a singular topic? Am I committed to this? Can I do this? Regardless of the answers, I do find that when I write, writing comes. When I stop thinking about where the ideas might lead and start following their trail in actual words and sentences, they actually take me somewhere. And it’s usually a place I enjoy going.

So, why am I sharing this? At the risk of being ridiculous, I have no idea. Call it a visual aid. It was one of those ideas that I decided to pursue, committing my fingers to the trusty laptop keyboard. Did it take me somewhere valuable? You tell me. Does it feel good to bang something out without thinking about its “postability?” Yes, it does. So, the fact that I’m along for the ride accomplishes my purpose.

EyeJunkie writing lesson of the week: Ideas are like topics of conversation, BlowPop flavors and underwear… when in doubt, just pick one and go with it.

8:26pm
On a common Tuesday, this post might be replaced by some alternately witty, profound, silly or introspective list of ten things. It would be some concise presentation of what’s been going on in my mind–something boiled down to a few words or a few descriptions. Sometimes it would expand itself to a Tuesday twenty-five or morph into a Thursday thirty–fruit of an overzealous mind or a week procrastinating about more important things. The concept for the Tuesday Ten series was honestly conceived as a way to facilitate a quick post, a catalyst for easily writing something during the middle of the week. Not so today.

8:30pm
Try as I might, I couldn’t even come up with a measely list of ten today. I’ve written before about the smoke and mirrors afforded to me by WordPress Dude. You know, the ability to germinate on posts in my queue while giving the impression that something described as “last night” actually was so. It’s not always true. (gasp!) No, sometimes when I say “tonight” it actually means several nights ago, or several months ago. I know. It’s a little opaque, and I usually try not to deceive in that way, but I’ll admit that sometimes the time markers are just a flat out lie. The sentiments are real, to be sure. It’s just the time frame that is occasionally all wonky. I’m working on such a post right now, one that describes an occurence from last Friday. I intended to write it that night, but alas, I lost my motivation. So now, several days later, the “last night” is no longer really “last night.”

Admittedly, this confessional paragraph is probably a little over-cooked and unnecessary. Nevertheless, I’ve included it to underscore the fact that tonight’s post is different. I’m writing in real time.

8:38pm
I tried this experiment once before during my 12 Days of Thanksgiving last year. I used it then–like I’m using it now–to provide a little self-intervention, coaxing myself into a better frame of mind. So, while I’m distracted by checking the score of the Mississippi State/Kentucky basketball game and starting the dishwasher and listening to one of the many updates about the car chases happening on the coffee table, I’m also writing to redirect myself.

8:44pm
I feel disconnected today.

I spend much of my time connecting things — marketing budgets with preferred advertising opportunities, brands with their favored potential customers, little boys with their juice cups and stuffed animals, a little girl with her “poppy” or board book, hamburger meat with the appropriate spices, etc. Yet today, I find myself disconnected. From myself. I’ve been in that solitary place of being at a safe, but uncomfortable distance from my own thoughts, from my own hopes, from understanding what matters to me, from the tangible realities that motivate my passions. Does that ever happen to anyone else?

I’m lonely today, lost in that place where I can’t put my finger on any one thing, any one feeling, any one desire. I find myself distracted by the constant motion of my own wandering, and removed from the tangible connections of real living. I’m avoiding. Hiding. Shielding. Hedging.

I read a statement yesterday to the effect that LIVING is more than simply breathing in and out. That one stuck. While  the inhale and exhale of life is necessary, the fact of its involuntary nature lacks the intention that moves me beyond mere existence. It’s quantity, but not quality. It’s a breath, pure and simple. And while pure and simple may fulfill the body, it doesn’t speak to the sigh or heave or gasp or laugh or whistle or sniff that could touch my soul and spirit. Today, I’m not feeling the expansion of my lungs that a deep breath should afford. I’m not feeling the expansion of my perspective. There’s a disconnect somewhere–somewhere between the ordinary of existence and the extra-ordinary of living. I’m afraid the breakdown occurs in my own attention to detail. I need a fresh view of even the monotonous and seemingly insignificant gestures that really connect me to people and relationships and experiences (both near and far)–those that connect me to the world I live in, to the LIFE I want to really live. I need a shot of tangibility, something that brings me back to myself, something that reconnects me with what matters. To me.

9:06pm

10:17pm
I feel myself wanting to experience freshly, or for the first time, the little everyday tangible things that constitute living, familiary and connection. The things that bring near those who are far. The things that remind me of important times. The things that show me what’s changed. What’s the same. The things that cause me to see what’s right in front of me. The things that let me know life is alive.

10:30pm
For the next 15 minutes I’m making a Tangible Life list and checking it twice. Hello, intervention!

Handwriting. A four-year-old boy lingering in my lap. The smell of whole wheat pasta cooking. The inflection of a voice. The subtle shift in a smile when it’s tired. A well-chosen phrase. Finishing a conversation. Hearing something you need to hear. Hard-working hands. Vibrant color. Blue cloudless skies. Rinsing a little girl’s hair. Being asked to play with trains. Playing with trains. Turning the pages of a book. An unencumbered grin. A hearty laugh. Postage stamps. Little boys who “help.” Singing songs. Moving to music. A phone call with my mother. Hearing my father say “I love you.” A familiar quilt. A good vocabulary. Three-year-old arms around my neck. A dishwasher that works. A little girl’s giggle. Wooden spoons. Dinner at a restaurant. Chocolate ganache. Sweetened iced tea. A crisp February. Shiny earrings. Soft sweaters. Honey mustard. Drools. Car chase sounds. Dinosaur fights. The sound of a saxophone. Wiping a tear. Blowing a nose. Washing a blanket. The sound of a laptop keyboard. Blue jeans. Black boots. Soft touches. Kind words. Wide open smiles. Down pillows.

10:45pm
These things and experiences let me know this day is real. And, this day is all I know I have. Connection made.

“If one is forever cautious, can one remain a human being?”
~ Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn

Little Drummer Boy recently informed me that he is no longer afraid of Pinocchio. He received the Disney classic from G-Mo and Paw-T for his birthday last year. He got several movies as gifts, and it took us a while to get around to watching Pinocchio. LDB didn’t make it far into the story before he decided it was scary. We turned it off, put it out of sight and that was that.

Now, if you haven’t seen Pinocchio lately, let me indoctrinate you. There’s plenty for a four-year-old to find scary, and plenty to get me kicked out of the Mommy-of-the-Year running. It’s filled with all kinds of questionable activities: wooden boys coming to life, wiley fox hoodlums enticing boys away from school, child labor forced by one-toothed men, child slavery forced by seedy carnival producers, boys turning into donkeys, cigar smoking, lying, ferocious ship-swallowing whales, all those tick-tocking clocks while everyone’s trying to sleep, and the word “jackass.” Yep, plenty to instill trepidation.

So, through what I can only surmise was the influence of peer pressure, LDB announced that he was no longer afraid to watch the movie. “I promise,” he said. It sounds like maybe they watched the movie in his preschool class or read the book, and during that process of comraderie, he overcame his fear of growing donkey ears. That’s how it is with Little Drummer Boy. When confronted with a new and somewhat scary situation, his preference is to wait until he’s suddenly ready–until he grows more or forgets more or learns more, until he can partake effortlessly of the thing he can no longer remember frightened him. He just waits for the experience to sneak up on him.

Bug is different. I’m not actually sure Bug’s ever been afraid of anything, which makes ME lose a lot of sleep. He’s apt to put his whole tiny being into whatever presents itself, and caution has never been a barrier for him in making the experience completely his own. When we’re watching Pinocchio, there are a few parts that cause him concern, but they are often overcome by his desire to dance during the musical numbers that surround them. He might get up from his chair and run to the edge of the hallway, peeking around to see the upcoming scary scene from a safer distance. Or, he may run over and sit right next to me in anticipation of a frightening moment. He always continues watching, though. And, he’s somehow always able to overlook those troublesome scenes in favor of choreographing his dance moves for the next song. It’s courage, I tell you. And, I have a lot to learn.

There’s never been a time in this world when courage was needed more than today. It seems like more humans are in hunger than ever before. More in slavery. More in despair of governments and poverty and disease and court decisions. Yes, adequate courage is indeed wanted in nation building, but I’m realizing that just as profound a courage is wanted in basic human living. Can I really maintain myself as a human BEING if I am forever cautious about the being part? Of all the battlefields requiring valor in this day, perhaps the one most insistent is the battlefield of the ordinary, the daily living of life–living connected and engaged with all that such a life entails. That battlefield is the one where I’m required to BE the human being I am, staking claim to each moment with the courage to live it fully, and rescuing real, meaningful life from the abyss of complacency. No, there’s never been a time in MY life when courage was needed more. And, when I come to the end of it, I want to know that I’ve partaken of that courage and built that sustainable life beyond mere existence.

That’s the crux of my 2010 theme word pursuit. I started it with a quick Tuesday 25 last week, and the concept is in dire need of elaboration in the form of a post that’s been staring me in the face, unflinching, for several months now. Courage. I want to find it, to maintain it, to live by it in this one life with which I’m blessed. I want to apply it where the voids of hunger and hope for something more need filling. I want to adopt it where the constraints of routine need more freedom. I want to employ it where the chills of exposure need more covering. I want to speak with it where silence needs more breaking.

Yes, I have a lot to learn. From Little Drummer Boy. From Bug. From Pinocchio. I don’t want to spend my life waiting for the experience to sneak up on me at a time when I might be prepared to live it. To live a life unbounded requires courage–the courage to sit through the hard parts, to stand through them, to raise a fist at them, to grab someone’s hand through them, to run and hide from them, but to come back, to sneak a peek at them, to ask questions about them, to choreograph them and dance around them. I want to have the sheer audacity to move beyond existence. I want courage.