Revealing Thoughts

A friend of mine recently told me she doesn't bother using glasses for a mild case of myopia because she doesn't need to see into the distance. I thought it was a very odd thing to say, and also very telling. Although she was referring to practical uses for glasses, such as driving, I couldn't help interpreting this seemingly innocuous statement as a personal philosophy. Another friend once told me that she"doesn't look up" when I wondered how she hadn't noticed that the house she's lived in for twenty years is situated under one of the flight paths of our city's busy international airport. Apart from the fact that I marvelled how such a thing could have escaped her notice for so long, whether she looks up or not, once again I observed how this comment reflected so much about her views on life. She's by no means a negative person, in fact, just the opposite, but such statements still circumscribe a person's outlook.
My friend who doesn't care about looking into the distance is an elder, in the best and deepest sense of the word. Usually I would consider her comment, as well as that of my ground-level oriented friend, as an indication that they fear what they choose not to see. Both women are well-travelled and worldly. They've been far away, and way up in the sky, many times. So why am I so fascinated by their casual, seemingly insignificant comments? I realize I'm dwelling on language again - something I love to do - and how its use reflects what a person thinks and feels.
A person's choice of words reveals volumes about themselves. Just ask Henry Higgins. (That's not possible, of course, he's a fictional character. And you can't ask G.B. Shaw, his creator, either, because he's dead.) The point is, much more than we probably care to share is revealed by the way we speak. Language is a human construct, and it's not just our conscious thoughts that go into the making of our personal philosophies. Our unconscious is always lurking in the background, rising up in the form of dreams when we sleep, or making an appearance when we perform certain waking, habitual behaviours - when we're on "automatic pilot." We take language so much for granted, so that we often slip into saying what we truly think, without really thinking at all.
I once knew a very pretty, insecure, and shy young woman, whom I suspected was still suffering from some sort of childhood trauma. She told me she didn't like looking in the mirror. When I asked her why, she replied that she didn't like "looking at herself." She genuinely believed she was unattractive. The mirror revealed her outward appearance, but her choice of words exposed what was going on inside her head, and as a consequence, that's what she saw in the mirror. It was as if she were looking deep within herself, and what she saw frightened her.
If what we say reveals how we think and feel, then maybe if we changed the way we spoke, we could change the way we feel. The physical senses send messages to the brain immediately and automatically. Most of these sense messages we can't control, but the things we purposely say and do can be controlled, and those messages are just as powerful. If we consciously practise saying things we'd like to be feeling and thinking, eventually the brain will get the message, and the subtle and gradual process of rewiring our neural network will have begun.
It's hard to be positive all the time. Nor should we have to be. But actually choosing to be hurtful or negative to yourself or others isn't necessary, either. I find that if I'm honestly not feeling kindly disposed towards a person or situation and have nothing good to say, I prefer to say nothing. It gets me into less trouble that way. I try to follow the Buddhist philosophy of simply doing no harm. Ultimately, I feel as if I'm a stronger and better person when I take the path of least resistance, which usually means just walking away, rather than engaging in conflict.
Language is a tool. It can build and destroy. Sometimes I slip up and show a side of myself that I'd prefer other people not to see just by letting go of a careless word or bit of profanity, although even that has its place. Words can paint vivid pictures, and what's being said describes the speaker as much as the subject.
Speaker beware.
- G.P.

We Are a Web

My new year's resolution was to read a poem a day. So far I have done so, and enjoyed it thoroughly. It's been easy to include reading a short poem as part of my morning ritual. But alas and alack, with all that's happened of late on this planet of ours, I sometimes feel as if I'm Nero playing the violin while Rome burns. It's hard not to feel useless and unable to help as so many people suffer all around the world. But feeling bad doesn't help anyone, either. So what can I do? What can anyone do? Offering monetary donations is one way to feel as if you're doing something. But the results of that sort of generosity aren't always immediately discernible. Who knows where all the money goes when people donate to worthy causes?
Since I'm not in a position to give enough money that I feel would make a difference, but have done anyway - which is a good thing - I've wondered what else I can do. So I turn to what I always do in such circumstances. I try my best to be a better person. To be grateful for what I have. To be kinder and more compassionate on a daily, work-a-day basis. I don't have to go half way around the world to see people who suffer and toil. They live right next door to me and everybody everywhere. To quote one of my all-time favourite heroes, Mahatma Gandhi, I shall try to be the change I want to see in the world. Doing that engages me all the time, and it makes me feel as if I'm continually helping in some small way, rather than just throwing some money a couple of times into a bucket and then promptly forgetting about it.
Think globally, and act locally. By locally I mean personally as well, treating a stranger or a stray dog the way you would like to be treated. It does matter. Oh yes it does.
Unfortunately, even if the entire world's population suddenly became caring, peaceful, and responsible, we'd still have to cope with things we cannot control, like the weather, or Mother Earth rising up and showing her awesome, terrifying power. We've been trying to subdue the earth for thousands of years now, and she has not taken it lying down. Mother Nature always has the last word, and always will. We can't undo all the damage we've done, but we can stop doing more, and only if everyone gets on board with that. Sadly, I don't think that's going to happen soon. But I pray, and act according to the way I wish the world to be - or at least I try. I also recognize that I can't control everything that happens to me, or to the world around me, but I can control how I respond.
Nature is the greatest teacher of all. I take my lessons from her. When she roars, I listen. We all listen. It's impossible not to. For millenia she has been showing us how utterly impotent we really are when we divide and conquer, and how strong we can be when we act to keep this beautiful, fragile but ultimately sturdy web we call earth whole and healthy. I can help in rebuilding the damaged parts of this great web by taking care of the tiny, but not insignificant, portion of this earth I live on - one moment, one word, and one deed at a time.
-G. P.

Spellbound

Words fascinate me. That's not so strange, of course, because I'm a writer and a storyteller. Words are magical. They make thought something we can hear when spoken, and see when written. A large group of words deliberately strung together communicates a story or a message. When a story is well written, you can be sure a good deal of attention has been paid to the craft of writing. That appeals to me, because the practise of magic is often referred to as The Craft.
Taking an idea and making it a tangible thing - such as the written word - is an awesome feat, though it seems as if it should be such an easy thing to do. Groupings of letters, syllables or words create spells, and spelling out loud is a form of incantation. Witches keep their spells in books called grimoires, which is derived from the Latin grammatica, via the O. French word grammaire, meaning "learning," from which we get our word "grammar." Glamour also comes from the same root. A glamorous woman has the ability to weave a spell around her, to manipulate her reality according to her will. Witches have glamour. So do actors and storytellers - at least the good ones do.
I'm waxing enthusiastic (from the Gr. entheos, inspired by a god) about words right now because my good friend Barbara just informed me that I misspelled hollow when I described my missing necklace in the previous entry. Good call, Barbara!
The strange thing is, my precious harmony ball, which Barbara found at her place - whoopee! - is indeed hallow to me. Spellcheck didn't catch the error because it's a perfectly good word on its own, but not the one I intended. It seems my misspelling was a Freudian slip. Or perhaps calling it a Jungian slip would be more accurate. Whatever the unconscious reason for my spelling error, I couldn't help noticing how my mistake so accurately described my feelings about the necklace. A single letter in a word sent me on this riff about the magic of words. No wonder I find them fascinating. (from the Latin fascinus, meaning "spell, witchcraft.")
But that's enough for now. I just wanted to inform my followers that my necklace was found. Mission accomplished. Now I have to work out some of my cabin fever, so I'm going out for a spell.
- G.P.

Lost and Found

My favourite piece of jewelry is missing. I owned it and kept it safe longer than anything else I've ever owned. It was a necklace made out of black cord with a simple, hollow copper ball adorned with a small, silver, Art Nouveau-ish fairy. There were delicate chimes inside the ball that tinkled gently when I shook it. I think they used to call these necklaces "harmony balls," back in the day when they were popular. I wore it frequently for almost thirty years, and it went with me everywhere. It was the sort of personal item one might give a psychic who gathers information by holding something that belongs to the person they're reading. I don't think there's anything I own that has my imprint on it more than my hippy-dippy harmony ball, wherever it may be. It was my signature piece, and had my "vibes" all over it.
So why am I publicly lamenting the loss of a cherished necklace on my little web? I know I'm the only one who cares, which is at it should be. It was just a thing, after all. It's just stuff. It's just part of the stuff that we collect or hoard as we go through life. It's market value wasn't worth the time spent on e-bay trying to sell it. It's only value was sentimental, and only to me. No big loss.
I've been getting rid of stuff for over 4 years now. A couple of moves from one place to another forced me to reduce what I own so that I could fit into my new digs. The process of throwing stuff out, or giving it away, was long and hard. But it felt great. I was purging myself of a lifetime of junk - stuff that I hadn't used or even looked at in many years. It was just taking up space. It made me feel crowded.
My adventures in moving in the last 4 years have streamlined me. When sifting through the heaps of stuff that was my life, I followed a simple rule, first espoused by John Ruskin (1819 - 1900), art critic and essayist, to keep only what is beautiful or useful. The real trashy stuff, and I couldn't believe how much I had, I threw out. There was a lot that was still in good condition and certainly useful, but if it was redundant, I gave it to charity. Fortunately, there was a lot that was recyclable as well. The result of all this is that now I own less than I have my entire adult life, and can contain it in two medium-size rooms. I love it, and now I love myself more, too.
One of the best habits that I've developed in the last four years is the constant maintenance of keeping what I own to a minimum. If I acquire new stuff because well-meaning friends and relatives give me gifts, I give away at least two items for every one I receive. It's challenging, because I do need a certain amount of "stuff" to live comfortably, and still be able to express my individuality. Some variety is necessary to spice up life, and that includes changes in my appearance and environment.
One of my goals in life is to have no stuff left when I die. I'm slightly facetious about that, of course, but I try to stick to that guideline when making decisions about whether I should acquire something or not. And it works.
So maybe the Universe is testing me with my recent loss. No matter how I measure it, it wasn't a deep loss at all. I am grateful for all that I have, which is much, and includes first and foremost, my health. I was probably too attached to my necklace. But I'm much more attached to my neck, which doesn't need the necklace at all. (Sorry about the bad pun. It just came out that way.)
The mid-winter sun shines brightly outside my window, and I must be going. I'm attached to my legs and feet, too, and look forward to walking and breathing in the crisp, winter air. Losing an article that I thought I would just die if I ever lost, and then I didn't die, has made me appreciate the truest, most real, and enduring things that matter in life. Most of those things aren't "stuff" at all. I won't bother to name them, because you know what they are.
Blessed be.
- G.P.

Gaudeamus

The way I begin anything - whether it's an ordinary day or week, a creative project, a journey, a relationship, a story, or any of the myriad other things in life that have a beginning, middle and end - sets the tone for the duration of whatever I've begun.
For the past few weeks I've made a point of being very aware of what I did to mark all the beginnings and endings that make up the end-of-year holiday season. The Winter Solstice and New Year's Eve indicate the beginning of winter and a new year respectively. Significantly, this past New Year's Eve was on a blue moon, which is the second full moon of a calendar month. (The next blue moon on a new year's eve will be in 2028.) It was a special night, for sure. And as if that weren't enough to celebrate, the full moon was shining on the eve of a new decade! There was much reason to make merry that night, and the pull of the full moon only added to the joyous lunacy. So yes, I was very aware of how my first hours and days went for me as the season, year, and decade turned over. So far, so good.
I celebrated Christmas with my family. I spent some of the time with my beloved aunt, Gita Tant, and her daughter Laura (my cousin). There's always something to look at in Gita's home, because her large, rambling country house is filled to the rafters with all kinds of art. My late Uncle Talis (Gita's husband) was an artist, as is his daughter, cousin Laura. So there I was, on Boxing Day, fascinated by several plastic skulls that Laura had bejewelled with beads and sequins in a riot of colours. Instead of sporting the accustomed ghastly leer, each of the fabulous skulls looked as if it were laughing. I would have enjoyed those crazy dead-heads at any time, but I couldn't help revelling in the perfect synchronicity of seeing them as 2009 drew to a close. The festive skulls reminded that when we celebrate the arrival of a new year, we are also marking the passing of the old one. And what a way to celebrate. When Laura creates her installations, she plays with a multitude of colour and texture, and her skulls are no exception. In fact, Laura has named her series of gaudy skulls "For the Love of Gaud."
The word gaudy comes from the Latin gaudeo, gaudere, which means to rejoice, to celebrate. That which is gaudy, by definition, is rejoicing in itself. Laura's skulls were fairly shouting at me to rejoice in the fleeting moment and the passing year. They were a reminder that with death comes rebirth.
A new cycle begins. Celebrate it.
I've never had the joy or privilege to see something designed or created by the Spanish architect Antoni Gaudi, but I certainly enjoy looking at photographs of his magnificent buildings and mosaics. No straight lines or grey concrete for Gaudi, no sir. He plays with space, line, texture, and colour like no other architect I know. (Mind you, I don't know that many.) His creations aren't just visually stunning, they're joyous. They're fun. What else could they be with a name like Gaudi? It literally means rejoice and celebrate.
I've made a good start to the year and decade by focussing on all the big and little things that happened in the beginning, and making them count, making them memorable. I spent some time in quiet reflection, and I spent time in being loud and silly and having fun. I rejoiced alone, and with family and friends. I deliberately began the new decade the way I want it to continue. I created momentum. (from the Latin momentum, meaning "movement, moving power." Also the root of the English word moment.) Now all I have to do is go with it. I know all the days to come this year or decade won't be a party, but I've started well, and celebrated heartily. That's how I want to live my life. And if I want to be gaudy and live out loud, I will.
- G. P.

Peep Show

A dear friend of mine is one of the slowest people I know. It's one of the things I most admire about her. Monica moves through life at a slow, easy pace. She's sometimes a little late for things, but never fails in meeting her commitments and responsibilities. When taking a walk with her, I have to slow down to her speed, because she can't keep up with mine, due to a congenital heart defect. Since I'm never in a rush to get somewhere when I'm with Monica, this is just as well. I love walking, and I do my best to take in everything around me, but walking with Monica pulls me right back to the real speed of life - the speed created by Nature, and not the speed of so-called civilized, urban living.
My friend has been slow all her life, even though her heart condition didn't manifest until she was a young woman. A few years ago I was watching her wash dishes and noticed how slowly, carefully, and almost luxuriously she did something I would normally consider dull and menial - a task I try to get through as quickly as possible. The way Monica rubbed the sponge on the dishes in leisurely, deliberate circles was almost sensuous. I watched her, fascinated, and wished that I could indulge in such a mundane pastime with so much consideration. Indeed, the manner in which she tackled the simple, domestic chore of washing dishes was almost trance-inducing.
Monica's natural rhythms are well-suited to what I call a magical life. She is a sensitive. (And I mean that as a noun, not an adjective.) Traditionally, when wise-women, witches, widows and spinsters accomplished domestic chores with intention, they were performing trance-inducing exercises. Stirring, spinning, weaving and sweeping were often used as aids in creating spells. Anything done when a person is completely engaged and focussed puts them into a mildly meditative state, or a state of flow. Think of the runner's "high." The feet may be racing, but the mind isn't.
My friend's normal, life-long pace has allowed her to experience the unseen world, where things don't work at the same speed as they do here. I've heard stories from my slow friend, and witnessed strange little events around her that other people don't notice or dismiss as inconsequential, but they're always linked to her quiet, still presence. It's poetic irony that Monica's predisposition towards the wise ways of the turtle (Mother Earth totem of Native North Americans), is how she must live with her heart condition. Ironic, yes. But is it a coincidence? Well, you know what I think.
Turtles, and tortoises, are the longest living animals on the planet. They don't rush through life, so they get to live it longer. They're associated with wisdom because of the advanced years they can reach, and they take their time getting there. Some people make a deliberate choice about learning from these animals, and emulate their slow and steady pace in daily practices such as meditation or yoga. And then there are others, like my friend Monica (who are much fewer and far between), who were born that way. Long live the Turtles of this world.
- G.P.

Moment to Moment

A single moment in time is a rare and delicate thing. It's as ephemeral as a passing thought - here and gone. Too often I wish that every moment were a beautiful one, but if I'm in pain, either physical or psychological, cherishing a fleeting moment is the last thing on my mind. Under such circumstances I'm more likely to pray that the moments pass quickly, without dwelling on how precious time is.
Boredom, however, is not to be tolerated. Better I should dwell on one good thing I have or do, even if it's as simple as breathing or walking. Fortunately, I'm able to enjoy both those things together again, without pain or discomfort, after several weeks of being robbed of the joy of walking due to an injury.
Breathing and walking aren't rare, but genuinely revelling in them isn't ordinary, either. It requires sensitivity and gratitude on a moment to moment basis. Life and time are like rivers that are constantly flowing, whether you take note or not, which is why you can never put your foot into the same river twice.
I want to spend today, the first day of December, the last month of the year, the month of the Winter Solstice, Hanukkah, Christmas and New Year's Eve as if I were marking the way I will spend the rest of my life. So that means I must write, to express myself in some way. I choose to spend all the moments on this first day of the rest of my life, which also happens to be on a full moon, so that it matters.
Doing nothing is not a waste of time as long as I'm fully conscious and appreciative of all the quicksilver moments, and of all the things that are happening to me, around me, and within me. I breathe, my heart beats, my blood flows, I see, I hear, and my mind moves from one thought to another. I'm making choices all the time. So much is happening every single moment. All I have to do to make those moments memorable is notice them.
Sometimes I fret that my life is ordinary. In many ways that's true, and I'm often unable to do anything to change the circumstances that make me feel that way. But I can observe, listen and think. I'm not without imagination, and as long as I'm capable of using it, I have enough. So I'd like to finish this simple little blurb on this seemingly most ordinary of days with another ancient Chinese maxim ... Enough is as good as a feast.
- G. P.