Wednesday March 12, 2014
As sometimes I write ahead, most of this post was penned in the desert, more than a week ago. Today, Will and I, along with our immediate family and Lauren's family, fly from the Midwest to the desert, where my precious mom will be laid to rest next to my father, her beloved Jack. As I have been planning Mom's graveside service to be as beautiful, heartwarming and meaningful as her life had been, long distance by phone, email and text, my mind is as weary as all of me feels heavy with grief. My need to write never fails to amaze me. As complex emotions pour out of my heart, I'm in awe while watching then untangle as each is expressed as it's own entity, while One word after another appears, as though all on its own, on my screen. Perhaps writing from my depths is meditation to me, because upon rereading my posts repeatedly, unrest always calms down. And you can believe me when I say that this magical place, where my soul speaks, first to me and then, when I push publish, to you, exists inside your being, too.
As sometimes I write ahead, most of this post was penned in the desert, more than a week ago. Today, Will and I, along with our immediate family and Lauren's family, fly from the Midwest to the desert, where my precious mom will be laid to rest next to my father, her beloved Jack. As I have been planning Mom's graveside service to be as beautiful, heartwarming and meaningful as her life had been, long distance by phone, email and text, my mind is as weary as all of me feels heavy with grief. My need to write never fails to amaze me. As complex emotions pour out of my heart, I'm in awe while watching then untangle as each is expressed as it's own entity, while One word after another appears, as though all on its own, on my screen. Perhaps writing from my depths is meditation to me, because upon rereading my posts repeatedly, unrest always calms down. And you can believe me when I say that this magical place, where my soul speaks, first to me and then, when I push publish, to you, exists inside your being, too.
So here is that which I'd written before flying to mom's side, last week. If I don't show up for a few days, imagine us repeating that which we'd created in honor of my Mom for everyone in the desert who'd loved her as deeply as did everyone whose live she'd graced in the Midwest ...
The story, First Date, served as a simple example of what happens when a true tale is so condensed that the listener's mind conjures up details, which do not resemble the truth. Then, if the imagined details are unwittingly passed forward as fact, the well-earned character traits of the story's main character may end up on the cutting room floor. As this happened to me twice, It's my hope that by relating details that offer insight into the development of personal strengths, more of us will think to ask questions, which tap into compassion, before casting negatively focused judgements that condemn a sorrow laden heart as being heartless, when nothing could be further from the truth.
Why did I think it important to serve up this story of my first date as an example of what takes place in a listener's mind when vital details are withheld? Well, when you absorb only one half of a story and then pass hearsay orward as truth, a tender hearted person, who has yet to develop a voice, may languish, imprisoned in silence, over long. And so here are multiple lessons to absorb in every story I pen:
Please work to know thyself.
Please work to develop a caring manner when expressing your version of'the truth'.
Please develop a line of control so as not to allow darkly colored emotions to slander the hard earned character traits of loved ones, who may be working determinedly and hopefully to mend torn relationships, year after year ...
Please think deep enough to ask whether you are listening to fact or conjecture before passing a story on ... And here is the reason that I implore you to take heed of today's train of thought more deeply as you read and consider story after story:
Twice in my adult life, my hard won character traits withstood rumors that cast me as villain. And due to my having been cast in the role of the main character in a story that evaded the truth, I drove down a road so dark and rocky as to have crashed into an identity crises, twice, and both times, certain people, whom I'd trusted to know me so well as to react in a lovingly supportive fashion, had proved themselves to be 'frenemies' by passing along details that had naught to do with the truth, and once the telling had circled back to me, my heart, mind and spirit felt dazed, confused and devastated to distraction, while listening to my best character traits being so darkly disparaged by —friends ...
The first time I ran, head on, into an adult identity crises had been twenty years ago, when
Will and I had sound reason to separate—a story yet to come
The second time I crashed, head on, into an adult identity crises had been thirteen years ago, in the aftermath of my dad's death—Lots of stories to tell before that that story unfolds :)
When you tell 'tales' about family and friends, may I caution you to be aware of those times you say: 'I think' … because as soon as your listener passes the story forward, he or she may mistakenly suggest that whatever you'd thunk was a fact—and that's why so many conversations end up resembling the game of Telephone, which had been played at birthday parties when I was growing up. Though that party game made us laugh, in real life, deeply valued relationships may run amuck when the story, coming full circle, causes the person, whose character has been disparaged, to see red before feeling blue, and then, so black and blue as to cause a high flying spirit to depress and seek solitude until the magic of the mind arises from the ash of yesterday, like the Phoenix, arising to take wing into tomorrow, while working to develop a voice, flowing with compassion when relating the missing details of her story with grace under pressure ... in hopes that many lives will benefit from experiential lessons laden, not with sorrow but rather with insight in life, love and human nature, which prove universal, classic and timeless.
The story, First Date, served as a simple example of what happens when a true tale is so condensed that the listener's mind conjures up details, which do not resemble the truth. Then, if the imagined details are unwittingly passed forward as fact, the well-earned character traits of the story's main character may end up on the cutting room floor. As this happened to me twice, It's my hope that by relating details that offer insight into the development of personal strengths, more of us will think to ask questions, which tap into compassion, before casting negatively focused judgements that condemn a sorrow laden heart as being heartless, when nothing could be further from the truth.
Why did I think it important to serve up this story of my first date as an example of what takes place in a listener's mind when vital details are withheld? Well, when you absorb only one half of a story and then pass hearsay orward as truth, a tender hearted person, who has yet to develop a voice, may languish, imprisoned in silence, over long. And so here are multiple lessons to absorb in every story I pen:
Please work to know thyself.
Please work to develop a caring manner when expressing your version of'the truth'.
Please develop a line of control so as not to allow darkly colored emotions to slander the hard earned character traits of loved ones, who may be working determinedly and hopefully to mend torn relationships, year after year ...
Please think deep enough to ask whether you are listening to fact or conjecture before passing a story on ... And here is the reason that I implore you to take heed of today's train of thought more deeply as you read and consider story after story:
Twice in my adult life, my hard won character traits withstood rumors that cast me as villain. And due to my having been cast in the role of the main character in a story that evaded the truth, I drove down a road so dark and rocky as to have crashed into an identity crises, twice, and both times, certain people, whom I'd trusted to know me so well as to react in a lovingly supportive fashion, had proved themselves to be 'frenemies' by passing along details that had naught to do with the truth, and once the telling had circled back to me, my heart, mind and spirit felt dazed, confused and devastated to distraction, while listening to my best character traits being so darkly disparaged by —friends ...
The first time I ran, head on, into an adult identity crises had been twenty years ago, when
Will and I had sound reason to separate—a story yet to come
The second time I crashed, head on, into an adult identity crises had been thirteen years ago, in the aftermath of my dad's death—Lots of stories to tell before that that story unfolds :)
When you tell 'tales' about family and friends, may I caution you to be aware of those times you say: 'I think' … because as soon as your listener passes the story forward, he or she may mistakenly suggest that whatever you'd thunk was a fact—and that's why so many conversations end up resembling the game of Telephone, which had been played at birthday parties when I was growing up. Though that party game made us laugh, in real life, deeply valued relationships may run amuck when the story, coming full circle, causes the person, whose character has been disparaged, to see red before feeling blue, and then, so black and blue as to cause a high flying spirit to depress and seek solitude until the magic of the mind arises from the ash of yesterday, like the Phoenix, arising to take wing into tomorrow, while working to develop a voice, flowing with compassion when relating the missing details of her story with grace under pressure ... in hopes that many lives will benefit from experiential lessons laden, not with sorrow but rather with insight in life, love and human nature, which prove universal, classic and timeless.
Today, with my friends, Socrates and Shakespeare on each shoulder, I walk forward, holding hands with Henry James, Jane Austin, Mark Twain and Erma Bombeck, in order to hold Lucifer at bay, because that guy is always trying to convince me to burn up my line of control and let the negative side of my nature burn bridges that my heart, spirit and soul need to shore up if I am to fully appreciate the amazing life that the future continues to offer up ...
And now you know why Paul Harvey's radio program:
And Now You Know The Rest Of The Story had been one of my favorites.
My dear friend, Angie, collects small boxes
One day, I found a wonderful, little porcelain box, which I
Had wrapped and bowed, because it fit her to a tee
Upon unwrapping it and lifting off the lid to the box
Angie smiled to see this inscription penned inside:
A true friend walks in when everyone else walks out
Makes you wonder, doesn't it …
I mean if you can't be a true friend
Then why be a friend, at all?
Having come to understand why certain people had need to
Imagine me through darker lens than reality proved true
My definition of friendship changed along with
Certain aspects of my identity, which had been in need of shoring up
And as there are two sides to every story—
Some of my stories prove sweet and some sour
Because, my friends ... That's true to life
My dear friend, Angie, collects small boxes
One day, I found a wonderful, little porcelain box, which I
Had wrapped and bowed, because it fit her to a tee
Upon unwrapping it and lifting off the lid to the box
Angie smiled to see this inscription penned inside:
A true friend walks in when everyone else walks out
Makes you wonder, doesn't it …
I mean if you can't be a true friend
Then why be a friend, at all?
Having come to understand why certain people had need to
Imagine me through darker lens than reality proved true
My definition of friendship changed along with
Certain aspects of my identity, which had been in need of shoring up
And as there are two sides to every story—
Some of my stories prove sweet and some sour
Because, my friends ... That's true to life
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