Posted on by cheryloreglia · 14 Comments

Someone You Can’t Live Without

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Crazy as this sounds, finding validation within, is a real struggle for me. I tend to rely on directives outside of myself, hammer down my needs, willingly give up my power in order to avoid conflict. I’m a nine on the enneagram chart, this is the peacekeeper type, I’ll just “peace out” if need be rather than causing a ruckus over my latent desires. This was the matrix I grew up with, deeply ingrained, an era where women were encouraged to be seen and not heard.

The confidence to do what is right for me is difficult, in fact as I’m writing this sentence I feel not only guilt, but fear.

Due to a series of unfortunate events this idea has been reinforced over the years. It was near the turn of the century, I was struggling with a stubborn illness, when a close friend called to see if her family could stay for the weekend, as they were passing through town.

At the time, I had four teenagers living under my roof, a husband who traveled for business, I was enrolled in graduate school, planning a 50th anniversary event for my parents, which included a seven day cruise with the entire family. Scrambling to pass my comprehensive exams, plan a high school graduation party for my oldest, and prepare the family for a vacation that required cruise wear. I was burning the candle at both ends, half way through a second round of antibiotics, and just beginning to believe I was going to live.

I would normally rejoice over a friends request for shelter, but I girded my loins, over-explained my illness, and gently declined the request. The relationship changed, it was as if my refusal to offer hospitality (which is extremely important to me), was a reflection of my feelings, not a condition of a lingering illness?

It happened, and it scared me, not scare, but scar.

Is this how we teach people (unintentionally) that their needs are not important? It’s natural to resist unexpected changes but what have I learned (yes, I’m in the slow group)?

  1. When we ignore our intuition to say “no,” or fail to accommodate our own needs, we invalidate the voice within, it gets quieter, not louder, and before long we are no good to anyone, as if a reed in the wind, we automatically bend to the demands of others.
  2. Making rash decisions is never good (this is my downfall), look at all the facts first, get quiet, consider the possibilities, seek advice if necessary, then name the decision, and follow through with confidence.
  3. Acceptance is difficult for me when someone alters the plans, but time after time I fail to trust what IS happening, over what I want to happen. More often then not the alteration made for a better fit.

Brené Brown reminds us that we cultivate love when we allow our most vulnerable and powerful selves to be deeply seen and known, and when we honor the spiritual connection that grows from that offering with trust, respect, kindness and affection.

I failed to tell my friend the truth, I needed help, I was hanging on by my fingernails, dropping balls like a bingo machine, and deathly afraid of letting people down, maybe then she would have not only understood, but empathized?

Is guilt the culprit when relationships shift in this way? Guilt is such a powerful force and when I sit with her I usually learn something about myself.

How to repair the damage, mend the fence, because as I learned at a recent conference on forgiveness, living with peace in our hearts requires an unlimited amount of forgiveness. As Jesus claims, we should forgive each other “seventy times seven times,” a number that symbolizes boundlessness. However, even though he preaches boundless forgiveness, he does not indicate whether or not forgiveness has conditions?

Something to ponder when I can’t sleep?

  • When someone acts in a harmful way towards you, but does not seek forgiveness, repair, or repentance, is forgiveness even required?
  • If forgiveness is asked for and granted, does that oblige one to fully redeem the perpetrator (especially if the crime is grievous), and welcome them back into your life?
  • Can you forgive someone for sins they enacted against someone else?

Does it matter if it is someone you can’t live without?

When we change who we are in order to belong we deny the one person we can’t live without. Ourselves. Why did I stop writing for years? Was I looking for permission? Or worse, blaming others for my own insecurities? Maybe forgiveness starts with myself.

I still struggle with feelings of guilt associated with the time I spend writing. It’s an occupational hazard for writers, who would rather write then eat, which is good because we don’t get paid. Thank God for my day job, it’s validates my existence, well that and my charm. Brené, my new BFF says, “if we can share our story with someone who responds with empathy and understanding, shame can’t survive.” Understatement of the year.

My husband said to me just yesterday, “you were sitting on your butt for hours doing nothing,” when I complained about his participation in preparing for a recent family dinner. It’s true, I was sitting on my butt for hours, but I was writing. This time I silenced my guilt, and used humor to deflect the criticism, which was really his attempt to shift the focus from him to me, and it worked. I believe he may come to regret those feisty words as they have become my favorite tag line. This is why writers are so desperate to make the New York Times Best Seller List, to validate all the time we spend sitting on our butts, doing nothing.

The first book I ever wrote hibernates in a file on my computer, it’s called Under Reconstruction, but it helped me come to the realization that story is a powerful tool for change, especially when I’m trying to redefine my own issues. Our stories are not meant for everyone. Hearing them is a privilege, and we should always ask ourselves this before we share: “Who has earned the right to hear my story? If we have one or two people in our lives who can sit with us and hold space for our stories, and love us for our strengths and struggles, we are incredibly lucky, claims Brené Brown.

This is an excerpt from Under Reconstruction

I am clumsy, wear glasses, occasionally drink too much. I think Shakespeare may have been a girl, who like me messed up the laundry, lost time when writing, and secretly didn’t care. 

I wake from dreams with questions but eventually realize I’m still sleeping. It was the coffee that brought me back and maybe the egg, hardboiled, broken. Every day I say I’ll clean out the games cupboard, it’s a lie, I straighten the forks instead. 

Did God underestimate the treachery of her own creation? Jesus knew, he forgave us anyway, and I think that’s why we remember him.

I want this home to be remembered, to drag them back from the world, as if my umbilical cord were some sort of bungee, I want my words to linger on your mind, to tuck you in when far away, and you can’t sleep. 

Do your eyes see what I see husband, try harder, put your head next to mine.

Do you smell the coffee on my breath, there’s a full pot, I’ll pour you a cup, because I want to be someone you can’t live without.

I’m realizing something new every day in this workshop organized by Seth Godin. I am the only one who knows what is right for me. I’m ready to captain my craft, create my own wake (love that word), aim for the unknown, I might be late my dear friend, but I’ll get there.

I’mLiving in the Gap, drop by anytime, these thoughts are jumbled, they will be for the next 90 days, as I scramble from workshop, to class, to sitting on my ass doing nothing.

Anecdotes:

  • “You either walk inside your story and own it or you stand outside your story and hustle for your worthiness.” Brené Brown
  • “People may call what happens at midlife ‘a crisis’ but it’s not. It’s an unraveling. A time when you feel a desperate pull to live the life you want to live, not the one you are supposed to live. The unraveling is a time when you are challenged by the universe to let go of what you think you are supposed to be and to embrace who you are.” Brene Brown
  • “You don’t write a novel out of sheer pity any more than you blow a safe out of a vague longing to be rich. A certain ruthlessness and a sense of alienation from society is as essential to creative writing as it is to armed robbery.” Nelson Algren

 

Posted on by cheryloreglia · 7 Comments

No Fear

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I worry about the lack of rain, I heard it on the news, this is the first time in recorded history that no rain is predicted for the entire month of February in the Bay Area, but I remain optimistic despite the headlines, and carry my umbrella as if it weren’t so.

Within me is a happy pessimist waiting for me to get out of the way, I borrowed that line from Pir Elias Amidon, but tweaked it a little for my purposes. He’s a Sufi spiritual director and was referring to saints, but that’s sort of the opposite of pessimist, and it just drew me in.

Cassandra

My tendency is towards happy, the glass is half full kind of mentality, but the truth is I marginalize a prophet of doom within myself. I call her Cassandra and let me just say she has gathered some unique bedfellows in her booming little ghetto. There’s the infamous doubting Thomasine with trust issues, a Lady Darth Vader type who forgets we’re related, and Judy Iscariot who is always willing to sell me out.

Sometimes I cross the border with tulip bulbs, but her soil is as inhospitable as the tenants, and they never bloom. I consider pitching a tent in her midst, so I can hang out with these alter egos, and eavesdrop on their conversations. A what am I thinking I’m thinking kind of moment?

It might interest you to know that the 1828 Noah Webster Dictionary identifies the optimist in complimentary terms, but says nothing about the pessimist. The word ‘pessimist’ was not in our vocabulary at that time. It’s a modern ‘invention’ which I believe we should ‘dis-invent.’ Zig Ziglar

I admit, I run around as if I have a monopoly on joy, but that’s a facade, a fabricated front I like to present. Joy is a novelty, a fleeting sensation, based on optimal circumstances as if skiing on fresh powder, but we live in a more flux state of being, under rather fluid conditions I might add. It’s as if my joy is only a guest, the full-time occupant expects the shoe to drop at any moment, and that sort of thinking is always fulfilled, because the shoe eventually drops, and there she is, “I told you so.”

So what constitutes genuine happiness?

Fake it till you make it

According to Aristotle, “Happiness depends on ourselves.” Figures! Aristotle presents happiness as the central purpose of human life. That’s what I’m talking about Ari. He believes happiness depends on the cultivation of virtue, that a genuinely happy life includes physical, as well as mental well-being. The best part is Ari’s claim, if you’re not feeling it, “fake it till you make it,” so my little facade becomes a crucial element.

Essentially, Aristotle argues that virtue is achieved by maintaining the Mean, which is the balance between excess and deficiency. For example getting a good nights sleep vs sleeping all day or being an insomniac. The key question Aristotle seeks to answer is “What is the ultimate purpose of human existence?” He doesn’t mess around with the small stuff, and just because we think pleasure, wealth and popularity will make us happy, doesn’t make it so. So what are we missing?

The main problem is that happiness (especially in modern America) is often conceived of as a subjective state of mind, for example enjoying a glass of wine on a hot day, or a relaxing massage. For Aristotle happiness is a final end or goal that encompasses the totality of one’s life, unabridged if you will.

It is not something that can be gained or lost in a few hours, like a bottle of wine, or pleasurable sensations. It is more like the ultimate value of your entire life. No pressure. For this reason we cannot make pronouncements about whether we have lived a happy life until it is over, just as we would not say the Super Bowl was a “great game” at halftime! As Aristotle says, “for as it is not one swallow or one fine day that makes a spring, so it is not one day or a short time that makes a man (woman) blessed and happy.”

No Fear

In pursuit of our ultimate destiny, happiness, Larry and I have come up with a new motto, it’s called no fear, and it has to do with a new mind set we’ve adopted. As our time in this world dwindles we decided we no longer have to make decisions based on a fear mindset. It used to be all about covering the burn rate, providing shelter, making the car payments, paying off college tuitions, budgeting for clothing, yearly taxes, occasional vacations, nutritious food, one of a kind prom dresses, blessed weddings, and let’s not forget our Amazon Prime account.

Today most of our concerns have moved out, taken on a life of their own, and only come to visit.

So as we move forward in this incredible journey, we’ve adjusted the perimeters, prioritizing that which sustains our ultimate goal of living our best life. It matters how you move in the world, offering kindness instead of indifference, compassion in the face of apathy, but also allowing for radical experiences that would have been overlooked in the past. Taking time to walk the El Camino de Santiago, hanging with our friends at an Italian villa, visit the kids now scattered about the world, but also the pursuit of fulfilling work, and habits of choice, like writing, biking, and bird watching. Because we can!

As Leonard Cohen says, “I don’t consider myself a pessimist. I think of a pessimist as someone who is waiting for it to rain. And I feel soaked to the skin.” We’ve earned all the necessary accolades in this life and now it’s time to pursue our final destiny, if happiness is ultimately our responsibility, we have christened our on-going journey, a forecast that has never been heard of in recorded history, no fear in the future, but I’ll bring along my umbrella just in case.

 

I’m Living in the Gap, drop by anytime, nothing to fear.

Anecdotes:

  • The good part about being a pessimist is, when something bad happens, you’re never really devastated by it. And when something good happens, it’s such a bonus. John Rzeznik
  • Happiness is the settling of the soul into its most appropriate spot. Aristotle
  • Happiness is the settling of the soul into its most appropriate spot. Aristotle
Posted on by cheryloreglia · 7 Comments

Full of Irony

It’s five minutes after nine on Monday night, and for reasons unknown, sleep is pressing in on me like the pile of papers waiting patiently on my nightstand to be graded. They hail me as if groupies at a rock concert, I avoid them, but their presence is so damn loud.

My eyelids are heavy, I long to slip under the warm blankets, and out of consciousness. The last thing I want to do is grade papers, but I’m scolding myself, because I have no valid justification for falling asleep this early.

With herculean effort I ignore the signals, staring down those essays as if an arch enemy, as part of me caves to the enigmatic pull of sleep. I blame winter. It’s been dark for hours and my body thinks it’s well past midnight. Is it possible to miss something as remote as the sun?

The other distraction is self inflicted, an on-line course I recently enrolled in, paid for out of my teaching funds, and for reasons unknown I have committed to this folly for a consecutive one hundred days. What was I thinking?

It’s hosted by the infamous Seth Godin, a workshop for creatives, and it started today.

I had to post a written declaration for the entire community to witness, committing to daily posts, interacting with others, and being accountable for my work. Do you understand the implications?

This will require authentic engagement with other creative types, making valid but clever comments, resonating with perfect strangers, concocting new meaning from randomly spewed blurbs, and worst of all exposing myself to the intense scrutiny of writers, as if a grape aspiring to become wine, but ended up a raisin. Again, I blame the sun.

Yes, that’s where my thoughts are going, out of my neat little cluster, and into the world

Giggling to myself, because this is my life in a single metaphor, I want to be sipped, savored if you will, but I feel more like a chewable substance, full of irony.

With sweaty palms I hit the publish button and posted my commitment to the entire community. I felt naked, exposed, but damn was I daring greatly.

The interaction was surprising, people start tumbling out of cyber space, dropping atomically correct nouns and verbs on my pitch, quoting my hastily scrawled passages as if William Shakespeare (minus the penis and receding hairline), and making connections that God herself could not have created, because she rested on the seventh day.

Who thought this was a good idea?

Clearly I’m dealing with over achievers, you know the type, intent on making a ruckus (in fact there is a board specifically delegated for the “ruckus makers”), the stand outs, and for you nosey types, I’m not on it! These people pop up all over the platform, as if fleas on a dog, parasitic behavior if you ask me.

My preference is to stay well under the radar, throw me some shade, so much better for aspiring grapes.

Returning to the tabs on the Creative’s Workshop platform, I listen carefully to the detailed instructions about dailies, prompts, and tagging, I have to write them down on paper because “I’M NOT A DIGITAL NATIVE,” and I refuse to ask for tech support.

After publishing my first daily, I exchange a few banters with the students in my digital homeroom (there are 25 of us), then sit back, and wait. The comments start appearing as if snow in July, I stare at the mounting notifications with utter terror. Then I start pitching, lobbing, and tagging until my brain hurts.

There is this slight pulsing sound in my middle ear, barely audible, a persistent whine if you will. The pressure on my frontal lobe is causing a dull ache that waves outward like heat. You can’t see it but trust me it’s there.

“This wasn’t just plain terrible, this was fancy terrible. This was terrible with raisins in it.” Dorothy Parker

Void, empty, flat as the blank screen of the television, maybe I should put on the news?

All I want to do is relax, let my mind sneak out like a wayward adolescent, I tuck the computer in the bookcase, give a cursory glance to the stack of crinkled papers on the nightstand.

I feel myself drifting off, losing sight of this world, slumbering into the next.

“What can I do when night comes and I break into stars. Osmosis. ” Nayyirah Waheed

It’s weird how memory ceases to function when sleeping, I loose all sense of time and space, although the sequence of events playing out before me seems plausible, I find it odd how easily I slip into the reality with which I’m presented.

The image that abducts my reality is that of a raisin, as in I’ve actually become a raisin, but I’m not the least bit concerned.

Looming over me is this old, cracked cereal bowl, resting on the scratched surface of a pinewood table, as if a cat warming itself in the sun. I’m all knowing in my dreams, like God, omnipotent, although currently confined to a single setting, my vantage remains endless.

There is an audience of wilted yellow tulips in an etched glass vase, ironically a basket of plastic grapes has been pushed to the side, stalked by a set of penguin salt and pepper shakers, smudged with fingerprints.

A glorious sliver of light filters through the partially draped window, a lace curtain hangs limp, tattered at the edges.

I realize the lone raisin, stranded on the table as if a turtle on its back, is me, taunted by the thought “the more wrinkled the raisin, the sweeter the fruit,” but I don’t want to brag.

I think it is hysterical that I’ve become a shrinking, dry, wrinkled, dense, morsel, but even worse raisins can be deceptive.

“Raisin cookies that look like chocolate chip cookies are the main reason I have trust issues.” Woody Paige

Humored by the absurdity of it all, the soft form, this oddly staged domestic scene, when I hear laughter coming from the crackled bowl, soft at first, then it builds. I lay there because my options are limited, when someone who sounds like Morgan Freeman says, “when you’re acting above your raisin, this makes us all gloriously happy.”

I wake, thirsty, disoriented, still in my clothes, with a stack of ungraded papers gloating at me from the nightstand. Grabbing my phone off the charger, I check for notifications from the workshop, there are twelve.

What the hell. Don’t these people sleep?

It’s now well after midnight.

I take a moment to consider what happens when our dreams are deferred, the perfectly ripened grape dries up like a raisin in the sun, and the consecration we hoped for never happens.

Before I drift off again, and end up in some pinewood coffin, I crawl out of bed, and make a commitment in the light of the moon. I’m going for it Seth Godin, showing up in the dailies, engaging with others, breaking out of my shaded cluster. Look for me on the ruckus board!

A furry witness lays down by my feet.

 

I’m Living in the Gap, drop by anytime, we’ll create a new vision for 2020 (get it).

Anecdotes:

  • “If there are occasions when my grape turned into a raisin and my joy bell lost its resonance, please forgive me. Charge it to my head and not to my heart.― Jesse Jackson
  • “Something as simple as the sun asking me out. The perfect date.” Nayyirah Waheed
  • Acting in ‘Star Wars’ I felt like a raisin in a giant fruit salad, and I didn’t even know who the cantaloupes were. – Mark Hammill
  • Inject a few raisins of conversation into the tasteless dough of existence. – O. Henry
Posted on by cheryloreglia · 18 Comments

Midlife, Nettles, and Rocking Chairs

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“When she smiles, the lines in her face become epic narratives that trace the stories of generations that no book can replace.” Curtis Tyrone Jones

It’s dusk, I’m rocking two naked grand babies in an over sized nursery room rocker, they are not only identical, but perfectly replicate my memories of motherhood, including the exhaustion, cessation, and ritualistic release of our daily burdens.

Not that you asked, but here’s what I’ve been thinking.

I’m sensitive, hyper sensitive if you will, but that’s the way I came into the world, and there is not much I can do about it. This sensitivity I speak of is a double edged sword, because not only am I sensitive in the common way, one who overindulges her feelings, wears them on her sleeve so to speak, but also inversely, which includes the rather nettlesome ability to feel the emotional energy of others. Most people come wired this way, some seem more cognizant then others, but that’s irrelevant.

Have you ever run your hand over a prickly cactus, and for days are tortured by the tiny nettles that become embedded in your skin, invisible to the eye, but distressing nonetheless.  That outer layer of skin, known as the epidermis, as in you’re getting under my skin dude, and I’m feeling nettled! It’s as aggravating as it is painful, and unless you’re prepared to pluck them out one by one with a magnifying glass, you’ll have to remember which cacti should be avoided, and which are harmless, same with people.

You know what I’m talking about? When you feel pricked by the tiny, sharp, poignant feelings of those around you, as if you were a human pin cushion, and the only way to survive these porcupinian encounters, is to retreat to a safe corner, and write.

Perhaps this is why stories have such unguent properties? They anoint, consecrate, possibly ordain our hallowed lives with an inviolable purpose, one that not only sustains us, but those around us.

Don Miguel Ruiz wrote a book called the Four Agreements and I think he nails the meddlesome game. Ruiz reminds us to be impeccable with our words, not to take anything personally, or make assumptions, and always do our best. In doing so we release our emotional cache, we become unencumbered, liberated, immunized from the sting of intuitive encounters. This is a skill, it’s learned behavior, over time it becomes a habit, which eventually informs our character. #LifeSkills

I’m a bit of a sloth emotionally, but progress is relative, and please try to resist calculating my operatic health, as I share a recent experience which tested my mettle. I took an early morning call from Julie, who asked me to accompany her to the elementary school this evening for the annual book fair, and ice cream social. Two of my favorite things, with three of my favorite granddaughters, you don’t have to ask me twice.

It starts at 5:30, so I drive straight to Julie’s from work, entering the kitchen with a gregarious hello, scrambling from child to child for kisses. This is when I notice all the seismic activity going on in the room, translation everyone is on a sugar low, highly sensitive, and plying for Mom’s attention.

Julie moves from one child to the next with the practiced grace of a prima ballerina, minus the tutu, soothing, calming, and nurturing, whereas I’m compelled to rummage through the refrigerator in search of cheese, peanut butter, or yogurt, anything that will alleviate this precipitous hunger? I also have the distinct feeling that I need to cry?

I’m doing my best to hold it together with these wigged out miniature humans, shoveling Cheez-Its dipped in peanut butter into their birdlike mouths, and by the grace of God when their deprived systems start to recover, I actually feel the atmosphere in the room begin to shift. We haven’t left the house and yet I’m exhausted. #empathicissues

In need of a sedative for my sensitivities I pour myself some blessed wine and find the search for matching shoes and socks slightly amusing.

The process of buckling all these kangaroos into the mini van is heroic. I’m just sayin.

We arrive at the school, scamper to join the line forming by the cafeteria door, where each of us is handed an empty bowl as we pass through the crowded portal. There are two choices, chocolate, or vanilla ice cream. Maybe a little of both? Who can deny adorable two-year olds and their grey haired Grammie? Volunteers, that’s who, with no remorse, or leniency. Move along, move along.

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Spread out on the cafeteria tables are large bowls of sprinkles, cans of whip cream, and containers of chocolate sauce. Who thought this was a good idea? I don’t mean to tattle but some of the unsupervised children have weaponized these condiments, spraying unsuspecting souls with whipping cream, then sprinkling them with candy confetti. It’s like being tossed in a paint ball war with no barriers. I’m traumatized by the stickiness of it all but try not to take it personally, as Ruiz warns “it’s not about you.”

I forget how children are in constant motion, it’s impossible to predict the calamity of encounters during these impromptu socials, someone (I’ll not mention names because I’m impeccable with my words) knocks over not only her own dish of ice cream, but fell into the bowl of her neighbor, somehow a spoon went flying, which I was able to grab midair, but this of course meant my hand is now covered with a viscous film. And yes my coat will need cleaning.

Julie’s handing out baby wipes as if they were the solution to all our problems (not that I’m making assumptions), the children seem ignorant as to their genuine purpose, which is extracting gunk from their person, they start wiping down the cafeteria tables Cinderella fashion, tossing the soiled clothes in the garbage, faces still covered in chocolate. I’m slightly appalled, but doing my best to act non-pulsed, and quite convincingly I might add.

With the chaos of the room bearing down on me (I’m sensitive), we decide to move our slimy entourage to the book fair, and out of the war zone.

I realize this event is dependent on the service of volunteers, but who decided to line the smallest of rooms imaginable with stacks of books, all within reach of children with severe ice cream hangovers, enabling them to grab, and hoard? You can only imagine the mayhem.

There is crying, raging tantrums, and pulling of hair but that’s just me (doing my best). Haggard parents, screaming children, “I want this, all of these, and I have to have the one with Elsa, please…….” I counted no less than twenty parents madly waving credit cards at the two volunteers, as if they were trying to surrender after a lengthy battle, I just want to retreat and lick my wounds.

Did I mention it’s smoldering hot in this little room, I’m stripping off layers of clothing as I work my way around the shacks of disarrayed books, trying to keep an eye on our malty crew. They are darting around like little minions on steroids, and then there’s Julie, calm as a hindu cow, reading through the intros of several books, serenely discerning what she wants to buy. Really?

“Julie, for the love of God, let’s get the hell out of here while there’s still time!” People are staring out me like I’m some kind of alarmist? I’m feeling so much desperation I can hardly breath and every Ruiz agreement went flying out the door.

For me this is akin to falling in a vat of cacti, and as I’m gathering nettles under my skin, I somehow managed to buy forty dollars worth of books?

Back at the house we work as a team, while she fries up some animal flesh, I prepare the tub. She feeds, I baptize, until a minor skirmish ensues over tub space. Isn’t that always the way? I remove the loudest culprits from the foe and shepherd, sopping wet, howling twins down the hall to their room, but they refuse to put on their Sophia undies, and unicorn pajamas. What can I do?

I’m remember the wisdom of Angeles Arrien’s, “when we have stopped dancing, singing, being enchanted by stories, or finding comfort in silence is where we have experienced the loss of soul.” So I perform a rather enchanting rendition of the Hokey Pokey in front of the closet mirrors, and although my gig needs work, it garners some attention.

“You put your right arm in, you put your right arm out, you put your right arm in, and you shake it all about, you do the hokey pokey, and you turn your self around, that’s what it’s all about.” Clap, clap.

After three rounds of Hokey Pokey with naked two-year olds Grammie is dizzy. I fall into the rocker, silent, and open my arms, they climb into my lap, two soft pink, satiated, warm, bodies to embrace.

I feel the pace of the day begin to dissolve, heart rates calm, the silence acts as a soothing balm, my eyes feel heavy. Was it really decades ago when I was rocking my own babies to sleep? I feel their hearts beating as they rest against me, their worries begin to fade, unarticulated words tumble away, and the echoes of lonely sobs are soothed by the gentle rocking. I carry all of this inside of me, the burdens of my beloved, which over time becomes my pearl of great price.

As my hair continues to grey, I continue to search for the deeper meaning of life, but quite possibly it’s not in the thoughts and emotions that nettle our sensitive natures, maybe it’s when we allow a moment of silence to transform our emotions, a living poetry if you will, inviting the prose to gently engulf us, as we enter into the blessed rhythm of life.

 

I’m Living in the Gap, do me a favor, drop a few lines in the comments about what’s nettling you, I’d like to empathize.

Anecdotes:

  • When I’m 80 and sitting in a rocking chair listening to the Rolling Stones, there is absolutely no way I’m going to feel old or forget my younger days. Patty Duke

  • I am a boring loner. I enjoy Friday nights at home in my rocking chair with no arms, rocking and relaxing. It’s not uncommon for Netflix to be involved. Records are a possibility, but most of it is spent in silence. Valerie June

  • Before this generation loses the wisdom, one advice – read books. Amit Kalantri,