307 TWINKLE TWINKLE LITTLE STAR part 13

Now that I've mustered the courage to reflect over this stormy time in my family's life,  let's see if a negatively focused mind set emerges, which may have caused me to misperceive some aspect of myself.

Uh, on second thought—let's pause to remember this, first:  Insights, like sunbeams, streak through storm clouds, thus providing us with moments of clarity.  Or you may prefer to imagine insights as light sabers, flashing across a clear blue sky, empowering each mind to rid itself of latent fears, which darken our views and limit flexibility as painfully as walking through life with stones in our shoes.  Either way, insight signifies self empowerment.

As it's healthy to exorcise each dark spot of fear that twists our perspective of a sweet life into a salty pretzel, let's unlock yesterday's fears by embracing the spirit of one-for-all-and-all-for-one.  I mean which would you rather do—hunt for lost keys, all alone, pretty much forever, or buddy up?

Come-on, admit it—how often have you asked yourself:  Where the heck did I toss my keys?  Can't you see that each time you lose sight of your keys, your subconscious is needling you to unlock a significant piece of your memory?  Seriously, what may result if you work to retrieve a whole set of keys, one by one, over time?  You just might unlock a cage into which slices of your self esteem had disappeared when you were too young to see them slip away!  And what, I mean, what could feel more self empowering than redirecting your 'fate'!

Guess what?
Looks like ...
Insights can be seen as sunbeams of clarity.
Insights can be seen as light sabers, empowering us with courage.
Insights can be seen as keys, unlocking caged portions of self esteem.
Insights are worth working toward, n'est pas?

Can you think of a better time than now to identify negatively focused mind sets, which lock your freedom-of-choice inside a cage, guarded by subconscious fear?

Do you have a clue which mind sets stop you from rejoicing over shared blessings with loved ones?

As no person is an island, together, we stand tall and strong; divided by insecurity, we tend to fail and fall down—repeatedly.


Isn't it a relief to know that you need not set out on this quest, all alone?

If common sense suggests that your good health and mine depend upon exorcising latent fears, which twist the sweet life into pretzels, heavy on the salt, then let's dive straight into the deep end of TWINKLE TWINKLE LITTLE STAR part 13 and see if another fear or negatively focused attitude pops out of my mind, somewhere down the line ...

Right after my parents left to shop, I spun away from our apartment’s solid front door and ran down the length of the hall, sliding my fingers along the wall, like children tend to do.  While zooming past the open doorway of the bedroom that I shared with my Grandma, she walked out and—BOOM—we collided.

Instinctively, Grandma caught me close, so I wouldn’t fall down, and we burst out laughing.  Next thing I knew, Grandma grabbed my hands in hers and danced me down the rest of the hall, through our formal dining room and into our spotless kitchen.  I mean with two women in the apartment and help on Fridays, everything was well organized as well as spotless.  As Grandma was always eager to feed the people she loved, I found myself lifted onto a shiny chrome chair, upholstered in red vinyl, resembling paten leather.
If you glance around the kitchen while Grandma is busy pushing my chair toward the white, enamel, rectangular table, your eye might follow the red, white and black plaid wallpaper into the pantry where an old-fashioned icebox keeps our perishables fresh.

I have a secret under that ice box.  You see, the gerbil that Daddy had surprised me with (to Grandma’s consternation at sharing our abode with a rodent) had disappeared from its cage.  Since my small, furry friend couldn’t have felt very nourished after chewing on the drapes, I’m pretty certain that it has found a safe place to ‘nest’.  You see, after freeing itself of its cage, my gerbil can't starve under the ice box, because that’s where ‘someone’ shoves bits and pieces of sandwich crusts, every day.

Once we're ensconced in the kitchen Grandma asks if I’d like a slice of American cheese, but the lingering aroma of home-baked goods that wafts through the air suggests that cheese is not what I have in mind.  So while peering up at Grandma, looking as angelic as possible, I point hopefully to the pan of home made, mouthwatering ‘milchekah boulkahs’ (sweet rolls) on the counter, next to the braided challah (egg bread), which Grandma withdraws from our oven, every Friday without fail.  Since Grandma can’t resist a compliment offered up to one of her many home-making skills, and since I am an adored grandchild—I got it.

LIFE is lots of fun with my vivacious grandma.  Along with Mommy and Daddy, she takes good care of six-week-old Janet and almost three-year-old me.  After downing some milk and planting a juicy kiss on Grandma’s cheek, I scamper back through the dining room and up our apartment’s long hall.

Upon zooming past our apartment’s front door, I squat down and crawl between two of the eight ornately carved legs, which support the top of a large, black lacquered, gold trimmed, octagonal Chinese table.  It’s my habit to pretend that the tabletop is the roof over my favorite place to play house with my dolls—of which I have many, because Mommy had none.  Or else I glance through picture books, or just lie down, curl up, pop my left thumb into my mouth, wind a dark curl around my finger, and catch a nap.  It’s always my left thumb—no choice about it—because sucking my left thumb is a tough habit to break.  Whenever I’d try my right thumb, something doesn’t feel right.  And once a mind set shapes up, concerning what feels right vs. what feels wrong, the only thumb that seems to fit perfectly into my mouth, thus providing me with a sense of comfort, is the left.

If you stand in front of this octagonal Chinese table you’ll face a wall, which is pretty close to our apartment’s front door.  If you have x-ray vision and stare past the table and through that wall, you’ll see straight into my parent’s bedroom.  As people are not equipped with super powers, let’s walk past the table and stand in the doorway of their bedroom for a spell.

Now, let's peer into the room and crook our heads to the left, so we can see my baby sister’s crib hugging the same wall, separating the bedroom from the table in the front hall.  While I’m curled up, sucking my thumb, under the hexagon Chinese table, that wall is the only thing separating me from Janet’s crib.  About an hour before my mom and dad had left to go shopping, Janet had been fed, burped, and put down to nap ...

—Please—stop reading forward for a moment because I’d like you to re-read that last paragraph.  Next, I’d like you to pause and think—more deeply—about what you've reread.  Now, please tell the truth:  Did your mind draw a picture of me, under the table while Janet naps in her crib?

If so, you imagined a detail that did not exist.  And I set out to set you up for that mistake in judgment in order to highlight this next point as clearly and concisely as possible:             Misperceptions occur for many reasons.   Human nature formulates premature judgments.                                   

If we want to get the facts of a story straight, we're charged with consciously developing the patience to listen attentively and consider whether crucial facts may not yet have been disclosed.  Unfortunately—rather than listening with an open and thus neutral mind, the thought-processing center of a listener’s brain jumps from one function to another:

Our thought processors leap too far ahead and imagine.

Or we formulate closed minded judgments based upon the little that has been said.

Or we associate with what's being said by wandering to thoughts of our own.

Sometimes we get bored and drift into a daydream

Sometimes we feel defensive, which fearfully blocks out common sense.

Sometimes we belittle that which the speaker has sound reason to feel.

All too often, we think in terms of generalities.

When thinking in generalities apples are all too often mistaken for oranges.

Whenever a listener's thought processor switches tracks before a speaker’s train of thought pulls into the station, misperceptions force conversations to climb up hill battles until clarity feels trapped beneath an avalanche of chaotic frustration.  Since many problems with communications are based in the fact that listening skills are skimpy—or intermittently sketchy, at best—let’s put your patience to the test by asking you to 'listen up' with a deeper perspective than before.  In this way, we'll authorize my train of thought to take whatever time it needs to pull into its final destination for today ...

While I am crawling under the table in the front hall, Janet—who had been fed, burped, and put down to nap on her tummy by my mommy—may be found in her buggy on our private back porch, which is adjacent to our formal dining room.
This back porch is a sturdy wooden structure.  Though three sides of the porch are made up of solid wood planks, painted a medium gray, its fourth side is open to the air and fenced in for safety by a series of gray, wooden pickets.  These pickets attach to a wooden railing that stands quite a bit higher than a three-year old child is tall.

If I lean against that picket fence, during the summer,  and peer between the slats, looking down at the ground, three stories below, I see a large rectangular well-groomed lawn that’s neatly framed by several rows of brightly colored flowers.  However, this story takes place late in November, so the lush green of the grass resembles closely cut straw.  As the chill in the air has caused the flowers to wither, the vibrance of the garden is nowhere to be seen.  Did I wonder, as a tot, where all that color had gone?  I mean, a tyke has no clue about the natural order of the life cycle, in terms of four seasons:  budding, blooming, fading, and dying.  As we'll live in this apartment for years before Dad builds his dream house, I remember this for a fact:  Regardless of the season, an unfriendly sign is nailed to a stick, which has been hammered into the middle of the lawn.  And that sign cautions big and small tenants alike to:

KEEP OFF THE GRASS!

At barely three years old, I do not perceive of that sign as symbolizing this fact:  People become accustomed to following rules within the formal structure of a lovely-to-look-at-but-don’t-touch world.  One day, the landlord will sell the building.  Under the new landlord, the sign will disappear and the garden and lawn will be trampled into a dirt playground of sorts for city urchins, such as me.  As my parents are intelligent adults, they are accustomed to the natural order of the life cycle.  They understand that as rules change consequences result—some of which feel good—we had a place to play—some not so good—the hard scrabble of daily play had destroyed the restful beauty of the yard.

As Jennie and Jack take their responsibilities seriously, there’ll be no reason—as they open the outside door and walk across the ground floor foyer of our apartment complex—for either of them to consider the fact that LIFE can change as fast as the spin of a dime.  So, let’s picture my parents carrying grocery bags and gabbing cheerfully, back and forth, as they climb back up three flights of stairs—about two hours after they’d left Janet and me in Grandma's care.

Now picture a key turning in the lock, which opens our front door.  Next, imagine my young mother and father entering the front hall of our apartment.  Imagine them expecting to find both of their children awake.  And alive.

Mom places her purse and a paper grocery bag on the Chinese tabletop in the front hall.  Then, while hanging her coat on a hanger in the guest closet, she spies me curled up under the table.  I’m in the process of sitting up and rubbing my eyes, which are still full of sleep.  Smiling sweetly, my mother approaches the table, while I’m crawling out.  As I stand up, she kneels down on one slim knee and gathers me tenderly into a hug.  Upon rising, she retrieves that over-stuffed, brown paper grocery bag, while Dad is clasping two or three against his chest.  Then, carrying the groceries in her arms, Mom turns and walks through the long hall, past the bedroom where my junior bed snuggles up at the foot of Grandma’s old-world sleigh bed, and as Mom passes through the dining room, she glances out at the back porch just before turning left into kitchen.

As Dad’s arms are full of groceries, he can’t grab me up and swing me high.  So without breaking stride, he tosses a “Hi’ya Dolly” over his shoulder along with a smiling wink, which is always followed by a double click of his tongue.  And as he follows Mom down that long hall, I try to whistle this holiday tune, just like Dad: “Over the river and through the wood …” … but as I’ll not master whistling for quite a while, all I manage to blow out of my mouth is air.  Even so, I’m content with pulling up the rear and chugging along in my parents’ tracks, just like a small caboose.

Upon finding Grandma bustling about the kitchen, my mother says, “Hi Ma, where’s the baby?” When Grandma answers that Janet is still asleep in her buggy on the porch, Mom’s eyes open in surprise, and she questions in disbelief:

 “She’s been asleep all this time?”

—I remember Mom saying that she never forgot how glibly these next words fell out of her mouth—

“You’d better take a look and see if she’s alive.”