I once thought that skeletons in closets referred to secrets kept from others.
The fact that we keep secrets from ourselves surprised me.
As I feel a strong need to clean out this corner of my closet, let's dive in and see if any scary skeletons pop out ...
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
257 OPTIMIST OR SKEPTIC?
How many are fooled into believing themselves cup-half-full people, when their actions prove them skeptics at heart?
Whereas a cup-half-empty person is likely to edge fearfully back from the end of the diving board and leave well enough (?) alone ... an optimist is likely to say: There's enough water in my cup to prevent me from hitting bottom, so I'll inch past fear and dive forward. Or at least keep inching forward.
As you shall see in story after story:
Resolving inner conflict and regaining peace of mind has been worth each dive.
Once instinct suggests
That readiness for change is mine
I hold my breath
Pinch my nose
Take the plunge
Open my eyes
And see what 'secrets' I may find
Deep inside my mind
As to why I find that to be true:
All the better to be
Where I am today
Than where I was before
Whereas a cup-half-empty person is likely to edge fearfully back from the end of the diving board and leave well enough (?) alone ... an optimist is likely to say: There's enough water in my cup to prevent me from hitting bottom, so I'll inch past fear and dive forward. Or at least keep inching forward.
As you shall see in story after story:
Resolving inner conflict and regaining peace of mind has been worth each dive.
Once instinct suggests
That readiness for change is mine
I hold my breath
Pinch my nose
Take the plunge
Open my eyes
And see what 'secrets' I may find
Deep inside my mind
As to why I find that to be true:
All the better to be
Where I am today
Than where I was before
Monday, September 5, 2011
256 SUBCONSCIOUS WHISPERS TO MY CONSCIOUS MIND ...
As you shall see, much of this story is light and bright. Even so, heaviness, tucked inside my mind, needs to be purged.
During trying times, short spells of denial may render us numb, thus allowing us to function, day to day. On the other hand, long spells of denial imprison painful truths, which cast dark clouds over a person's sense of well being. If, with the passage of time, perception and reality fail to match up, a nagging sense of inner conflict develops and peace of mind does not return until the truth emerges, at last.
With the passage of time, a mind in denial may feel so defensive as to revise memories—meaning that we may not consciously recall certain moments as they actually took place.
Unfortunately: Upon revising memories, we're condemned to repeat mistakes.
As repeating mistakes is counterintuitive to anyone's welfare, I tend to write while memory is fresh. Upon rereading certain stories, hindsight reveals patterns of which I'd been unaware at an earlier time. In short, I enjoy writing stories for many reasons.
Through story telling, I experience the sweet nostalgia of connecting with loved ones, who've passed. Each time I sit down to write and emotion resurrects, the subconscious portion of my brain whispers 'secrets' into the ear of my conscious mind. As 'forgotten' emotions emerge on my screen, I stare in awe as thoughts shape into insights, one word at a time.
Sometimes I write while my friend, Antonio, cuts my hair. One day, Antonio's scissors stopped snipping as he said: Annie, I love to watch you write. Everything you're feeling shows on your face, and I can't help but wonder what you're thinking when a chuckle follows a frown. Then he went on to say: If you ever write a story about me, make sure you say I'm 'straight'. That made us both laugh. For thirty years, Antonio, his scissors and I have enjoyed a warm, trustful friendship. He and his mom were amongst the first people to visit the second time I was in intensive care. Somehow they smuggled in armfuls of flowers, which were given to patients with few visitors, because flowers and intensive care don't mix. So though I'd describe my friend as more sensitive than Rocky, Antonio—who's newly single and takes good care of his three sons—is most certainly an Italian stallion, who loves the ladies. And one day, the hilarity of his stories will show up in my blog. I know this, because they've been saved to my hard drive, for quite some time.
As TWINKLE, TWINKLE LITTLE STAR was saved to my hard drive, years ago, I wonder what's causing my conscious mind to resist copying this document to my blog.
Upon reflection, this possibility arises:
For the most part my summer has been light hearted. Common sense suggests that once I uncap this well, my subconscious may release waves of grief, which may dissolve my sense of peace.
Though denial staves off 'truths', too painful to bare, lugging that kind of baggage around is what weighs our spirits down.
Hopefully, I'm closing in on closet cleaning time—again.
Though you've watched me work at releasing painful 'secrets' before, I've no clue what Mother Nature may have seen fit to withhold from my conscious memory when I was a terrified tot.
So if I'm conflicted about diving into the deep then what feeds my need to perch on this diving board, now? Experience suggests that inner strength will entice my resistance to wain, because as soon as baggage, buried for decades, emerges, any pain that's released will have been worth the wait. And this is why I go about my day, practicing patience, until readiness to reclaim a lost 'truth' ripens.
And while most of my mind tends to daily tasks, one slice will perch on this diving board until—another slice of reality frees me of this ghost, which has haunted my sense of well being since I was three.
Upon taking this slow but steady approach in which subconscious turmoil is released in measured amounts, I maintain a sense of balance while exposing the difficult parts of my story.
As to why I feel the need to write this post, today?
I usually awaken with an eagerness to write. Today, I awoke with a subtle sense of dread. Dread serves to signal me that a painful memory is pushing against a locked door, which I've developed the strength to remember. And in hopes of relieving my mind of this heavy load, which developed into a subconscious fear of who-knows-what, my conscious mind is tunneling toward the key to unlocking this 'lost' memory—once and for all.
As you can see, waiting for the fearful side of my mind to gather the courage to believe me strong enough to achieve this goal takes a ton of patience. In fact, I had my annual physical, today, and my internist has been ministering to my health for thirty-five years, so we know each other well. Upon listening to me explain how much patience it takes to get my subconscious to release information, he laughed. "I want the fearful side of my brain to accept my readiness," I said. "But it just won't believe me, yet!" After laughing, together, he and I agreed that when it comes to accepting reality or sharing it's deep, dark secrets, our brains take their own good time.
GRRRRRR!
JYour friend, Annie
PS
What do you do
When a slice of your mind
Is perching on a diving board
Like mine?
Do you eat everything in sight?
Lose your appetite?
Stay awake at night?
Blame others when some aspect of life remains lame?
Drink yourself into oblivion?
Smoke weed?
Shoot up?
Except for the last three
Thank God I write and write and write
Because with each insight I absorb
My mind strengthens
Denial weakens
And insight is invited
To stoke my energy source
With positive focus
Until the sum of my parts—
That being my mind, spirit and body—
Function as a healthy whole
And having reached this stage of life
I give myself permission to ponder, perch, purge and heal
During trying times, short spells of denial may render us numb, thus allowing us to function, day to day. On the other hand, long spells of denial imprison painful truths, which cast dark clouds over a person's sense of well being. If, with the passage of time, perception and reality fail to match up, a nagging sense of inner conflict develops and peace of mind does not return until the truth emerges, at last.
With the passage of time, a mind in denial may feel so defensive as to revise memories—meaning that we may not consciously recall certain moments as they actually took place.
Unfortunately: Upon revising memories, we're condemned to repeat mistakes.
As repeating mistakes is counterintuitive to anyone's welfare, I tend to write while memory is fresh. Upon rereading certain stories, hindsight reveals patterns of which I'd been unaware at an earlier time. In short, I enjoy writing stories for many reasons.
Through story telling, I experience the sweet nostalgia of connecting with loved ones, who've passed. Each time I sit down to write and emotion resurrects, the subconscious portion of my brain whispers 'secrets' into the ear of my conscious mind. As 'forgotten' emotions emerge on my screen, I stare in awe as thoughts shape into insights, one word at a time.
Sometimes I write while my friend, Antonio, cuts my hair. One day, Antonio's scissors stopped snipping as he said: Annie, I love to watch you write. Everything you're feeling shows on your face, and I can't help but wonder what you're thinking when a chuckle follows a frown. Then he went on to say: If you ever write a story about me, make sure you say I'm 'straight'. That made us both laugh. For thirty years, Antonio, his scissors and I have enjoyed a warm, trustful friendship. He and his mom were amongst the first people to visit the second time I was in intensive care. Somehow they smuggled in armfuls of flowers, which were given to patients with few visitors, because flowers and intensive care don't mix. So though I'd describe my friend as more sensitive than Rocky, Antonio—who's newly single and takes good care of his three sons—is most certainly an Italian stallion, who loves the ladies. And one day, the hilarity of his stories will show up in my blog. I know this, because they've been saved to my hard drive, for quite some time.
As TWINKLE, TWINKLE LITTLE STAR was saved to my hard drive, years ago, I wonder what's causing my conscious mind to resist copying this document to my blog.
Upon reflection, this possibility arises:
For the most part my summer has been light hearted. Common sense suggests that once I uncap this well, my subconscious may release waves of grief, which may dissolve my sense of peace.
Though denial staves off 'truths', too painful to bare, lugging that kind of baggage around is what weighs our spirits down.
Hopefully, I'm closing in on closet cleaning time—again.
Though you've watched me work at releasing painful 'secrets' before, I've no clue what Mother Nature may have seen fit to withhold from my conscious memory when I was a terrified tot.
So if I'm conflicted about diving into the deep then what feeds my need to perch on this diving board, now? Experience suggests that inner strength will entice my resistance to wain, because as soon as baggage, buried for decades, emerges, any pain that's released will have been worth the wait. And this is why I go about my day, practicing patience, until readiness to reclaim a lost 'truth' ripens.
And while most of my mind tends to daily tasks, one slice will perch on this diving board until—another slice of reality frees me of this ghost, which has haunted my sense of well being since I was three.
Upon taking this slow but steady approach in which subconscious turmoil is released in measured amounts, I maintain a sense of balance while exposing the difficult parts of my story.
As to why I feel the need to write this post, today?
I usually awaken with an eagerness to write. Today, I awoke with a subtle sense of dread. Dread serves to signal me that a painful memory is pushing against a locked door, which I've developed the strength to remember. And in hopes of relieving my mind of this heavy load, which developed into a subconscious fear of who-knows-what, my conscious mind is tunneling toward the key to unlocking this 'lost' memory—once and for all.
As you can see, waiting for the fearful side of my mind to gather the courage to believe me strong enough to achieve this goal takes a ton of patience. In fact, I had my annual physical, today, and my internist has been ministering to my health for thirty-five years, so we know each other well. Upon listening to me explain how much patience it takes to get my subconscious to release information, he laughed. "I want the fearful side of my brain to accept my readiness," I said. "But it just won't believe me, yet!" After laughing, together, he and I agreed that when it comes to accepting reality or sharing it's deep, dark secrets, our brains take their own good time.
GRRRRRR!
JYour friend, Annie
PS
What do you do
When a slice of your mind
Is perching on a diving board
Like mine?
Do you eat everything in sight?
Lose your appetite?
Stay awake at night?
Blame others when some aspect of life remains lame?
Drink yourself into oblivion?
Smoke weed?
Shoot up?
Though I've done it all—
Except for the last three
Thank God I write and write and write
Because with each insight I absorb
My mind strengthens
Denial weakens
And insight is invited
To stoke my energy source
With positive focus
Until the sum of my parts—
That being my mind, spirit and body—
Function as a healthy whole
And having reached this stage of life
I give myself permission to ponder, perch, purge and heal
Sunday, September 4, 2011
255 TWINKLE TWINKLE LITTLE STAR #6
At not quite three years old—and for many years thereafter—I did what most children do—I took the best aspects of life with my parents for granted. Today, reflection suggests that my parents shared two powerful strengths, which profoundly affected everyone in our family:
Each conveyed the ability to express love and accept love in return.
My father, whose eyes shone with a joyful passion for life, had been famous for flashing smiles as bright as sunbeams at his wife and daughters. As for Mom, the depth of her love of family cast forth a glow as heartwarming as Dad’s expressiveness. I’d always felt welcomed to nestle in the gentle warmth of my lovely mother’s embrace, and unknowingly, I'd looked to emulate her womanly traits in every way.
Each time I’d looked up at my Dad, I saw much more than a male authority figure. I saw a handsome, blue-eyed, blond, solidly built, super hero, who, in all of life’s arenas, had seemed masterfully immune to defeat.
Each time I’d looked up at my Dad, I saw much more than a male authority figure. I saw a handsome, blue-eyed, blond, solidly built, super hero, who, in all of life’s arenas, had seemed masterfully immune to defeat.
In reality, Dad had tipped out at five-foot-six. Even so, his super sized spirit had far surpassed his height, and his playful imagination proved so engaging that it’s no wonder why I grew up laughing at his corny jokes, worshipping the ground he walked on, and eagerly obeying his every word. In addition to being my first playmate—Dad was my hero. (When I walk down the aisle and Will takes me as his bride, I'll take no issue with the verbiage: love, honor, and obey.)
Friday, September 2, 2011
254 TWINKLE TWINKLE LITTLE STAR #5
On that tragic Saturday afternoon, in the fall of 1946, my mom had asked my dad to take her grocery shopping. Dad had been an agreeable, spontaneous kind of guy who’d always been ready to help ‘his Jeannie’ in every way, so I imagine that he’d put down the newspaper and said, “Okay Sugar, let’s go.”
Once my parents had slipped into their coats; Dad would have unlocked and opened our apartment’s front door. Then, Mom would have bent down to hug and kiss me goodbye.
At that point: I’ll spin toward my daddy, and with a sunny, expectant smile, I'll reach up while he, bending forward to grab me up by my waist, laughingly swooshes me high over his head. Flying up toward the ceiling, like a plane soaring high in the sky, I’ll squeal with delight. Then, upon catching me against the strength of his chest, Daddy will dropped tender kisses on each of my cheeks before gently setting me down.
At that point: I’ll spin toward my daddy, and with a sunny, expectant smile, I'll reach up while he, bending forward to grab me up by my waist, laughingly swooshes me high over his head. Flying up toward the ceiling, like a plane soaring high in the sky, I’ll squeal with delight. Then, upon catching me against the strength of his chest, Daddy will dropped tender kisses on each of my cheeks before gently setting me down.
Once Dad, the spitting image of a young James Cagney, joins Mom on the third floor landing just outside our apartment’s front door, he'll throw me his customary, double tongue-clicking-wink, and with a good natured “See ya later, Dolly,” he’ll close and lock the door. As you can see, we were a merry trio, indeed.
253 A SERIOUS LIGHT-HEARTED SOUL
So—I keep 'talking' about self awareness.
Why?
Because there's a very serious side to me.
Why?
Not—because a star lit life
Can change on the spin of a dime.
But because in the aftermath of a major change
We're often unaware of how we sabotage ourselves
Common sense suggests that
When we're unaware of self defeating patterns
Which cause us to fail
We'll find someone else to blame
And each time we repeat that self defeating pattern
Of which we're unaware
We'll shoot ourselves in the foot
Again and again
No thank you
I've had quite enough of that
Not just from me
But, in truth, from 'you', too
Since my mind
Is busy
Detecting self defeating patterns
Of my own
I hope you'll understand
My choice to step out of range
Of any who get fired up
Without having a clue as to where to point their guns
I'll not place
Myself
In target range
Anymore
So, if you miss me
Please show respect
For the insights
I've worked long and hard to file away inside my head
PS
There's a
Light-hearted
Giddily silly
Side of me as well
Why?
Because
Why work
So hard to succeed ...
If I fail to allow
Today's joys
To sustain my spirit
When life grows quiet, tomorrow ...
If everyone is dancing forward
While I dance only at weddings
Then I quest to find out if my misery
Is due to a state of mind that shoots me down from within
As balance in all things
Is the rule of thumb
Here are questions
I ask myself when I get down:
What do you need to feel at peace, today?
Are you being the half-cup-full person you see yourself to be?
Or are you in denial of the fact
That that has changed along the way?
Twinkle, twinkle little star
Up above the world so high
Does your spirit need
The whole cup to feel deeply loved?
When we remain unaware
Of how we've changed
We misread a lot
About those we love
Being a half-cup-full person
Does not mean always being 'up'
Half-cup-full people are optimists
Who focus on resolving conflicts, which pop up, repeatedly
When I feel mistreated, misunderstood or forgotten, today
I remind myself that those who love me
Are finding their way
Through life's messy maze, just as I am
And each time
I give myself that pep talk
The spirit of this serious-light-hearted person lifts
Just like that!
Hence:
ABC
It's a life of self discovery
For me!
J
Why?
Because there's a very serious side to me.
Why?
Not—because a star lit life
Can change on the spin of a dime.
But because in the aftermath of a major change
We're often unaware of how we sabotage ourselves
Common sense suggests that
When we're unaware of self defeating patterns
Which cause us to fail
We'll find someone else to blame
And each time we repeat that self defeating pattern
Of which we're unaware
We'll shoot ourselves in the foot
Again and again
No thank you
I've had quite enough of that
Not just from me
But, in truth, from 'you', too
Since my mind
Is busy
Detecting self defeating patterns
Of my own
I hope you'll understand
My choice to step out of range
Of any who get fired up
Without having a clue as to where to point their guns
I'll not place
Myself
In target range
Anymore
So, if you miss me
Please show respect
For the insights
I've worked long and hard to file away inside my head
PS
There's a
Light-hearted
Giddily silly
Side of me as well
Why?
Because
Why work
So hard to succeed ...
If I fail to allow
Today's joys
To sustain my spirit
When life grows quiet, tomorrow ...
If everyone is dancing forward
While I dance only at weddings
Then I quest to find out if my misery
Is due to a state of mind that shoots me down from within
As balance in all things
Is the rule of thumb
Here are questions
I ask myself when I get down:
What do you need to feel at peace, today?
Are you being the half-cup-full person you see yourself to be?
Or are you in denial of the fact
That that has changed along the way?
Twinkle, twinkle little star
Up above the world so high
Does your spirit need
The whole cup to feel deeply loved?
When we remain unaware
Of how we've changed
We misread a lot
About those we love
Being a half-cup-full person
Does not mean always being 'up'
Half-cup-full people are optimists
Who focus on resolving conflicts, which pop up, repeatedly
When I feel mistreated, misunderstood or forgotten, today
I remind myself that those who love me
Are finding their way
Through life's messy maze, just as I am
And each time
I give myself that pep talk
The spirit of this serious-light-hearted person lifts
Just like that!
Hence:
ABC
It's a life of self discovery
For me!
J
Thursday, September 1, 2011
252 TWINKLE TWINKLE LITTLE STAR #4
Upon arriving home from the hospital, I found that my family lived in an urban setting, several blocks north of a prestigious university. Our two bedroom apartment sat on the top floor of a three-story, massive, brown brick building, which wraps around the corner of a quiet intersection to this very day.
At the time of my birth, ‘white flight’ will not have transformed our lovely, middle-class, culturally mixed neighborhood into the lower income ghetto that it is fated to become. (As everything comes full circle, I’ll find, much to my delight, upon returning to that neighborhood, many years later, that social awareness and urban renewal will have restored a cultural mix to the street where I'd spent my childhood, once again. At this later date, I’ll learn that our spacious, two bedroom apartment will have been broken up into smaller units where university students eat, sleep, study, and party like hell.)
At the time of our family’s tragedy, my mom's mother, Grandma Ella, lived with Mom and Dad and not quite three-year old me. Grandma Ella, who’d been raised in a Russian shtetl (a small Jewish ghetto), was a good looking, robust woman who'd mixed music and dancing into her cooking and baking.
One look at my brown eyed, brunette grandma made it plain to see why she'd deemed herself the ‘gonsa baleboste’ (number one mistress of the house). Each time her animated spirit flew around the kitchen, pots, pans, and rolling pins came to life. She was a strong-willed woman, who often spoke before she thought, but I don’t believe my grandma meant to wound anyone she loved.
One look at my brown eyed, brunette grandma made it plain to see why she'd deemed herself the ‘gonsa baleboste’ (number one mistress of the house). Each time her animated spirit flew around the kitchen, pots, pans, and rolling pins came to life. She was a strong-willed woman, who often spoke before she thought, but I don’t believe my grandma meant to wound anyone she loved.
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