Today as I was standing bus duty, my principal came up to me and told me that I looked unhappy. He was checking in, concerned about me. I was startled. I wasn't particularly aware of feeling bad, but I guess maybe I'm not hiding things as well as I thought I was.
I know my patience isn't at its highest point. I've made an effort to avoid things that might stretch it past its snapping point. In short, I'm doing the best I can.
I think it may not be quite enough. I had a dream last night that I just didn't go somewhere I was supposed to. I started out to go there, but suddenly I noticed a huge rip in the leg of my pants, so I turned around and came home. From there, the dream flashed to a junktique where I was shopping for something about Abraham Lincoln.
Maybe it's not stress. Maybe like Scrooge I had something that disagreed with me for dinner....
11 more days.....
Thursday, September 26, 2013
Sunday, September 22, 2013
Wordless
I'm trying to get back into the habit of writing here. I stopped awhile back, and I'm not sure exactly why. All the places and types of things I used to like to write just shut down. It's like the flow of words I have always relied on just dried up.
I suspect I know why. Before the semi-cataclysmic events of last Wednesday, I had reached a place of such worry and such stress that I basically shut down every system that wasn't essential. Does a person do that? Is that possible? It feels possible. Nothing was resolved Wednesday. In fact, a great many things might get very much worse now. However, two of the biggest issues in my life came to a moment of crisis, and at least now I'm not running from them. Sometimes I think I was using up all my energy and effort with the running. Maybe there's a mercy in the dropping of some of the old juggling balls after all....
There's also the fact that during the most fruitful period of this blog, I was writing with the idea that someone out there was reading it, someone specific. I won't go into all that, but it's not the same now, and I've found it hard to come back here when I know that one-sided conversation is at an end. That's just stupid of me. It never should have been about a single person other than myself. Knowing that it was stupid has also prevented me from coming back. Will I fall into those same old patterns?
I miss the writing, though. At certain times in Turkey, I saw something, and a fragment of a poem or an essay would start to form, and then it's like a hand swept away a cloud of incense, leaving me with the frustrating feeling of having glimpsed the finished work while being totally unable to capture it. I found something in a random notebook I had tried to write about the Hagia Sofia, and I was astonished by how really terrible an effort it was.
I took out my book of poems the other day, the ones I have typed up and mostly in a final form, and it seemed as though another person had written them. Maybe there's truth to that. We do grow and change constantly, or at least we're supposed to. It's not supposed to be a bad thing. I just can't stand the thought that this new person, this current incarnation of me, is wordless.
I suspect I know why. Before the semi-cataclysmic events of last Wednesday, I had reached a place of such worry and such stress that I basically shut down every system that wasn't essential. Does a person do that? Is that possible? It feels possible. Nothing was resolved Wednesday. In fact, a great many things might get very much worse now. However, two of the biggest issues in my life came to a moment of crisis, and at least now I'm not running from them. Sometimes I think I was using up all my energy and effort with the running. Maybe there's a mercy in the dropping of some of the old juggling balls after all....
There's also the fact that during the most fruitful period of this blog, I was writing with the idea that someone out there was reading it, someone specific. I won't go into all that, but it's not the same now, and I've found it hard to come back here when I know that one-sided conversation is at an end. That's just stupid of me. It never should have been about a single person other than myself. Knowing that it was stupid has also prevented me from coming back. Will I fall into those same old patterns?
I miss the writing, though. At certain times in Turkey, I saw something, and a fragment of a poem or an essay would start to form, and then it's like a hand swept away a cloud of incense, leaving me with the frustrating feeling of having glimpsed the finished work while being totally unable to capture it. I found something in a random notebook I had tried to write about the Hagia Sofia, and I was astonished by how really terrible an effort it was.
I took out my book of poems the other day, the ones I have typed up and mostly in a final form, and it seemed as though another person had written them. Maybe there's truth to that. We do grow and change constantly, or at least we're supposed to. It's not supposed to be a bad thing. I just can't stand the thought that this new person, this current incarnation of me, is wordless.
Saturday, September 21, 2013
Sufis
For some reason, just tonight, that evening in Istanbul when we saw the Sufi performance is stuck in my head. It's almost like I'm there in that domelike converted bath chamber seeing and hearing it again.
I remember seeing all of them, being interested in the diversity of ages and expressions on the men as they stepped into the circle for the performance. One looked so young and somehow nervous. One was stately and older. One had the face of an angel.
I remember the way their dance began, the way their arms slowly unfurled to their dancing positions as though it were something as natural as a plant's leaves slowly growing under the sun. I remember the way they seemed to switch off the act of leading until everyone had started the pattern. It was soothing and compelling. It made me wonder what it would be like to be one of them, to spin and spin and accept and let go at the same time....
Once I knew the symbolism of what they were doing, something I found out later, it was even more powerful, and it continues to be even now that they are spinning only in my mind. I'm stealing this from Wikipedia because it's faster than my telling it all myself. Semazen is another word for sufi:
In the symbolism of the Sema ritual, the semazen's camel's hair hat (sikke) represents the tombstone of the ego; his wide, white skirt (tennure) represents the ego's shroud. By removing his black cloak (hırka), he is spiritually reborn to the truth. At the beginning of the Sema, by holding his arms crosswise, the semazen appears to represent the number one, thus testifying to God's unity. While whirling, his arms are open: his right arm is directed to the sky, ready to receive God's beneficence; his left hand, upon which his eyes are fastened, is turned toward the earth. The semazen conveys God's spiritual gift to those who are witnessing the Sema. Revolving from right to left around the heart, the semazen embraces all humanity with love. The human being has been created with love in order to love. Mevlâna Jalâluddîn Rumi says, "All loves are a bridge to Divine love. Yet, those who have not had a taste of it do not know!"
The Sufis have been turned into big-time tourist capital by Turkey. Almost any product you can imagine can be found with their image on it. Every country has something like that, some symbol from their past they've turned into a cultural shorthand for commercial endeavours. I sort of think it's a shame that this really deeply personal thing has been used for that.
On the other hand, maybe it's all good. Maybe the symbolism and the beauty of it can reach out through all the tshirts and spinning glass dolls somehow. Maybe when people use the Iznik trivet with the brightly painted dancers on its surface, some of the original intention is passed along. I am not wise enough to know. All I can say with any certainty is that, along with the Hagia Sophia's golden dome, the slow wheel of Sufis rests permanently in my mind.
I remember seeing all of them, being interested in the diversity of ages and expressions on the men as they stepped into the circle for the performance. One looked so young and somehow nervous. One was stately and older. One had the face of an angel.
I remember the way their dance began, the way their arms slowly unfurled to their dancing positions as though it were something as natural as a plant's leaves slowly growing under the sun. I remember the way they seemed to switch off the act of leading until everyone had started the pattern. It was soothing and compelling. It made me wonder what it would be like to be one of them, to spin and spin and accept and let go at the same time....
Once I knew the symbolism of what they were doing, something I found out later, it was even more powerful, and it continues to be even now that they are spinning only in my mind. I'm stealing this from Wikipedia because it's faster than my telling it all myself. Semazen is another word for sufi:
In the symbolism of the Sema ritual, the semazen's camel's hair hat (sikke) represents the tombstone of the ego; his wide, white skirt (tennure) represents the ego's shroud. By removing his black cloak (hırka), he is spiritually reborn to the truth. At the beginning of the Sema, by holding his arms crosswise, the semazen appears to represent the number one, thus testifying to God's unity. While whirling, his arms are open: his right arm is directed to the sky, ready to receive God's beneficence; his left hand, upon which his eyes are fastened, is turned toward the earth. The semazen conveys God's spiritual gift to those who are witnessing the Sema. Revolving from right to left around the heart, the semazen embraces all humanity with love. The human being has been created with love in order to love. Mevlâna Jalâluddîn Rumi says, "All loves are a bridge to Divine love. Yet, those who have not had a taste of it do not know!"
The Sufis have been turned into big-time tourist capital by Turkey. Almost any product you can imagine can be found with their image on it. Every country has something like that, some symbol from their past they've turned into a cultural shorthand for commercial endeavours. I sort of think it's a shame that this really deeply personal thing has been used for that.
On the other hand, maybe it's all good. Maybe the symbolism and the beauty of it can reach out through all the tshirts and spinning glass dolls somehow. Maybe when people use the Iznik trivet with the brightly painted dancers on its surface, some of the original intention is passed along. I am not wise enough to know. All I can say with any certainty is that, along with the Hagia Sophia's golden dome, the slow wheel of Sufis rests permanently in my mind.
Thursday, September 19, 2013
The Big C (again)
I put it off for a year. My first inclination when dealing with things that distress me, for better or for worse, is flight. When the thing you fear is actually something you carry around with you, getting away is more than a little hard.
My doctor tells me that some of the symptoms I've been having lately could be indicators of cancer. He's the sweetest person in the world, and the very last to wave a panic flag. However, I have known for some time that my condition was changing and not for the better. It wasn't exactly a surprise that something bad might be lurking.
It's an odd thought, though. It's like my own body has turned enemy. Why is that even possible? Shouldn't all the bits and pieces play together nicely?
Now begins the long run of tests, scans, and procedures. And the waiting. The glorious, terrible, soul-eating waiting.
There will be waiting in doctors' offices. There will be waiting in labs for needles which will withdraw vials of blood. There will be waiting on padded tables covered with crinkly paper. There will be waiting in loosely-tied, mostly too-small cotton gowns, feeling that terrible mix of being exposed and being vulnerable. There will be waiting for procedures. There will be waiting for test results.
Even though I know all of this is ahead of me and that there's a chance that much worse may follow, I am calm, maybe calmer than I've been in a long time. Maybe that's because I'm not running from it anymore. There is a peace that has come from turning to face the demon. I'm sure there's a lesson to be learned in that, one that I may need in the days to come.
My doctor tells me that some of the symptoms I've been having lately could be indicators of cancer. He's the sweetest person in the world, and the very last to wave a panic flag. However, I have known for some time that my condition was changing and not for the better. It wasn't exactly a surprise that something bad might be lurking.
It's an odd thought, though. It's like my own body has turned enemy. Why is that even possible? Shouldn't all the bits and pieces play together nicely?
Now begins the long run of tests, scans, and procedures. And the waiting. The glorious, terrible, soul-eating waiting.
There will be waiting in doctors' offices. There will be waiting in labs for needles which will withdraw vials of blood. There will be waiting on padded tables covered with crinkly paper. There will be waiting in loosely-tied, mostly too-small cotton gowns, feeling that terrible mix of being exposed and being vulnerable. There will be waiting for procedures. There will be waiting for test results.
Even though I know all of this is ahead of me and that there's a chance that much worse may follow, I am calm, maybe calmer than I've been in a long time. Maybe that's because I'm not running from it anymore. There is a peace that has come from turning to face the demon. I'm sure there's a lesson to be learned in that, one that I may need in the days to come.
Saturday, September 07, 2013
Thoughts on Women
I needed some quotes for something I'm writing, so I headed over to my best resource for that, QuoteGarden.com. I love them, have been using them for years for research and general entertainment since I love quotes.
Tonight, I was looking for something interesting about strong women for a story I'm doing, and, while these aren't quite ones that fit the thing I'm working on, they are good ones nonetheless.
There is no such thing as an ugly woman. ~Vincent Van Gogh
Oh, Vincent. Just one more reason to love, love, love you. As if I needed another....
Some men know that a light touch of the tongue, running from a woman's toes to her ears, lingering in the softest way possible in various places in between, given often enough and sincerely enough, would add immeasurably to world peace. ~Marianne Williamson, "A Woman's Worth"
Exactly. I don't think that needs commentary from me other than that.
The average woman would rather have beauty than brains, because the average man can see better than he can think. ~Author Unknown
Tonight, I was looking for something interesting about strong women for a story I'm doing, and, while these aren't quite ones that fit the thing I'm working on, they are good ones nonetheless.
There is no such thing as an ugly woman. ~Vincent Van Gogh
Oh, Vincent. Just one more reason to love, love, love you. As if I needed another....
Some men know that a light touch of the tongue, running from a woman's toes to her ears, lingering in the softest way possible in various places in between, given often enough and sincerely enough, would add immeasurably to world peace. ~Marianne Williamson, "A Woman's Worth"
Exactly. I don't think that needs commentary from me other than that.
The average woman would rather have beauty than brains, because the average man can see better than he can think. ~Author Unknown
Hmm. Maybe. Definitely the last part is true. I am not sure about the first. I have brains but no beauty (although Vincent thinks otherwise), and I don't think I'd trade.
Men who don't like girls with brains don't like girls. ~Mignon McLaughlin, The Second Neurotic's Notebook, 1966
I have this one on my desk. I've always thought that guys who don't like girls with brains are really just looking for a mirror or a toy....
They may talk of a comet, or a burning mountain, or some such bagatelle; but to me a modest woman, dressed out in all her finery, is the most tremendous object of the whole creation. ~Oliver Goldsmith
Oh, Goldsmith. You old flirt. I like the idea that he liked the idea of a woman being modest. That quality certainly doesn't seem to be in high appreciation today.
That's probably enough. I do have something else I'm doing, after all.
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