It's no secret: I adore comfy clothes. My wardrobe scores greater than 90% on the Supreme Comfort test. (That probably means I can cull at least 10% of my clothes. But I'll write a blog post instead of going on a cleaning rampage just now.)
My adoration of comfortable things has been with me since before I can remember. I spend as much time as possible in the comfiest of comfies: pajamas.
The first pajamas I remember wearing was actually a nightie. It was She-Ra, Princess of Power emblazoned on the front that caught my attention. I had no idea who She-Ra was, but she looked pretty cool, with clouds and lightning bolts and all that.
Perhaps there was a zip-up before then, but it's fuzzy enough that I don't count it.
After that, there was a white nightie with pastel ribbons in a sort of loose plaid pattern. It was so soft. I shared a room with J&V at the time. I remember once I scared J so bad: I stood, stock-still, a few feet from her bed and just looked at her. I must have been staring pretty intently, because she woke up and nearly screamed because of the apparition-like vision before here: all white, close, in the dark, silent.
Then I discovered that nighties bunch at the waist, and that's just really lame. Goodbye, nighties. Hello, real PJs.
For some reason, it bothered my mom when I didn't wear matching PJs. Really bad. She'd mention it on an ongoing basis. My perverse small self did not like being told that I did not match. I knew I did not match. I did not care. I did not want to care. I wanted to have complete self-expression when it came to whether my to-bed clothes were conventional. I'm sure I felt stilted and that it was a release to be able to defy social expectations in this small way. But no. She just /had/ to insist that I matched, even when unconscious.
So I purposely wore mismatching clothes to aggravate her. Yes, it's petty. But then it became a habit. The idea of matching PJs just seems...odd. Somehow, every once in awhile, it still gives me a small sense of comfort to purposely reach for the most ridiculous "outfit" ever.
Guess when I started with She-Ra, I was unconsciously starting down a path of PJ subconscious power. (Ha. I'm funny.)
Wonder if Mom would start me with She-Ra all over again if she had known.
Thursday, January 7, 2016
Wednesday, December 16, 2015
Cloudy
Cloudy, my thoughts are grey and white and cloudy
they seem to wander all around, you'll see
and distractions, they're all around
in a plethora abound
and my mem'ry's like a child's...
I abandoned concentration; is "fuzzy" valid style?
they seem to wander all around, you'll see
and distractions, they're all around
in a plethora abound
and my mem'ry's like a child's...
I abandoned concentration; is "fuzzy" valid style?
Cloudy, my thoughts are scattered and they're cloudy
They have no borders, no boundaries
They have no borders, no boundaries
They echo and they swell
From groceries to "what's that smell?"
From groceries to "what's that smell?"
like chasing rabbits down a well
it seems like all the jokes are new and sassy fits the bill
Hey sunshine, I haven't seen you in a long time
Why don't you show your face and bend my mind?
Why don't you show your face and bend my mind?
All questions now I find
I just leave them all behind
And let myself unwind
They don't know where they are going, and, my friend, neither do I
They don't know where they are going, and, my friend, neither do I
Cloudy, cloudy
Cloudy, cloudy
Cloudy, cloudy
Cloudy, cloudy
Cloudy, cloudy
Monday, December 14, 2015
party people in the house
Recently, I held a small soiree of sorts at my humble abode. An assortment of people came. I was so excited for it...ridiculously excited. It felt like Christmas morning and I was nervous over whether people would enjoy themselves.
First, no party happens because of just one person. Unless it's a one-person dance party, but even then, usually it involves music made by other people. So a true one-person party is rare, but should be cherished.
I had so much help with this party. I got a mild concussion earlier in the week and I was limited on driving. A friend of mine volunteered to pick some Christmas crackers for me (which were the highlight of the party), and I was so grateful. Another friend brought some folding chairs, as I did not have enough seating for my guests on my own. Yet another friend brought cream cheese and crackers to munch on. Another came to help me make hot cocoa mix, decorate, and brought Clementine oranges. Someone brought candy canes, which I hung up for more decorations. Lastly, a friend brought milk, eggnog, a record player, and good vintage Christmas vinyl.
We made food. We ate food. A children's book was read aloud. Christmas crackers were popped and jokes were read aloud. Music was listened to. Hot chocolate, eggnog, and all other comestibles were consumed. Then someone got out the guitar and started playing Christmas songs. Many others still in attendance sang. Then someone else took the guitar and the singing still went on. Then silly pictures were taken. Then I had a Grinch moment. Then we adopted the rules of "Yes or No" from A Christmas Carol and we played a round. Then the stragglers who were left went to a very late lunch, as nearly everyone was sugar-bombed. And then we said goodbye. I found out later someone in the party got a parking ticket, which made me sad.
Apparently I win the prize for "Best Non-Standard Christmas Party of 2015" -- so far. Several people told me they enjoyed themselves, and many people really liked the Christmas crackers and the sing-along. I guess having a party in the morning and then just doing what I like to do is enough to carry the day for that competition. Several of my friends were very excited, and I'm really glad that everyone seemed to have such a good time.
I felt like Ramona.."I'm going to have a par-tee! Here comes my par-tee!" Could hardly sleep a wink before the party for wondering if I would get everything done and there were a few last-minute cancellations, etc., that made things a little tricksy. But I so enjoyed myself, even if the first half hour or so was very stressful. I couldn't have done it without my MJ -- she took over the cocoa and getting the cinny stax out of the oven at the end.
There were pictures taken with crowns on, as well as with fake Rudolph nose, which really was supposed to be a magic trick. It was a good time.
Tuesday, December 8, 2015
recycling
it is a good thing
no emotion recycling
plants exist on earth.
some upwellings are
really too awful to bear
mulling or reuse.
talk about awkward.
speaking of which, I own the w's
you cannot have them!
________________________
on a separate note:
long, wavy, reddish
sparkly brown, voluminous
all describe my hair
Tuesday, November 24, 2015
Angry Birds
Once upon a time, there was a very popular app called Angry Birds.It was, for some time, the most popular game sold in the app store.
It has spawned its own full-length movie. (It won't be any good -- something that takes three seconds to explain is almost never a good 102-minute movie.)
It was actually truly amazing how the oinking pigs could mock you derisively through their little pixels and make you upset. Maybe even angry. Maybe that's why the game was so popular -- it made all the "birds" playing it angry.I'm going to tell you some things that seem unrelated, but they're not.
Today, I went and spent some time with a friend. We played with a bird. It was a dead bird that had been cooked. I was teaching her how to make broth. It will make a very tasty soup sometime. We had fun picking the meat off the bones and just generally laughing and talking together.
Late last week I had a bird adventure: I chased a band of coots in a current on foot. At least, my non-local but very loyal bird enthusiast contact assures me they were coots. I was mostly chasing them so I could tell her what kind of bird they were. I don't even like birds, really. When they bomb my car, I get upset. Angry, one might even call it. So annoying, the birds are! The crows with their noise and invasive ways, the geese with the honking and the droppings everywhere...the swallows and their porch-bombing habit...you get the idea.
Today, I got ANGRY. The scary part is, I kind of enjoyed it. It felt empowering to be so upset. I felt like my wrath was fully justified (highly unusual) and like it was useful (moving me along an emotional path I need to explore further). I was so angry. Angrier than even the Angry Birds! I have been angrier in my life, but I can only think of a handful of times where this has been the case. I reveled in the anger. It brought me joy and sparkle. Hot and spicy was how I felt today. Being mad at someone else instead of yourself is actually kind of liberating. No wonder people do it so often.
Monday, November 23, 2015
squish
squish
it's a nearly perfect word
onomotopoeic
able to be drawn out to match any circumstance:
squish
squeeeeesh
skaweesh
squishsquish
it looks odd if you analyze it
it is nearly impossible to misinterpret the meaning
it conjures up clear images when you say it
and applies to physical and emotional situations: squish a bug, feeling squished in your feelings
can be injected with horror, vehemence, playfulness
and also, many things that have been squished taste better as a result.
so it's not like it's all bad, this squishy business.
Sunday, November 22, 2015
Mondegreen in Ceylon; Picture
A few things:
1. Playing with colors on your face (also known as "makeup") can be fun.
2. My hair is really long.
3. This song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fncjgN88xUE
4. In conjunction with this song, every person deserves to feel like "warm night air" in each of their relationships. There is nothing like that time when the sun goes down and the yellow-orange-green-fade-to-blue is streaking across the sky.
5. Watching this happen with someone you care about is the keenest of pleasures.
6. When the warm air surrounds you without being too hot or too humid--it's comforting, familiar, and you just relax, that's when you know it. 7. The people from Erasure knew what they were talking about when they wrote the lyrics, but I actually have been focusing on the happy part of the lyrics, and didn't even hear the sad part, really, until I went to look for the lyrics just now.
8. From the window in the kitchen/To the fireside by the chair/Sat in familiar surroundings, warm night air...
All the feelings I remember, I cannot hide/Not for want of trying
9. I have recently discovered that mostly, I don't want to hide my feelings. I want to feel them.
10. Now comes the funny part...I thought this song had lines saying "On, into Ceylon."
I was pretty impressed with the band's geography and history awareness. Little did I know it was just another mondegreen. The lyrics really say: Longing to sail on/Through the night to the stars/On until sunrise.
Oops. I still just love the overall feeling of this song.
11. The bottom picture reminds me of my niece. She sometimes stands the same way. I didn't realize we had a similarity like that. It makes me happy that we do.
12. My socks not being the same height makes me smile.
Saturday, November 21, 2015
beyond a solecism: made to look
Recently, I did something I'm ashamed of. I took a picture of someone who didn't know I was taking his picture. He was sleeping, though, and I didn't have the heart to wake him up to ask him.
I don't think I have seen someone who so obviously was so particular about how he looked in a long time. I mean, I know people who care about their dress and appearance...but this fellow was so meticulous, so exacting in his standards. I wondered if he was extremely insecure or just very confident. Probably a mixture of both, like most of the rest of us.
My eyes probably widened when I saw him. I had just sat down on the bus.
I noticed his hat first. It was the little feather, sticking jauntily just so, that grabbed my attention. Then I looked at the rest of his hat. It was perfectly clean -- no little bits of anything stuck to it. (With hats like that, it's hard to do. Trust me, I know.)
Then I looked at his face. (I had just seen pictures of the Facial Hair competition [I did not know there was such a thing] -- some of these are pretty outrageous.)
This picture doesn't do it justice...I was very impressed by his facial grooming. His beard was perfectly pointy. Perfectly. Perfectly enough that I imagined the chin it was hiding was classic storybook villain pointy, as well. His moustache blended in so well it was scary.
His nearly full length wool pea coat fit him as if it were made for him. He had a leather briefcase (black) that was on his lap, and a large umbrella with a wood handle (it was a knob, not a cane-head shape) was between his knees. His entire person was so very well put together, I wondered how long it had taken him to get out the door that morning...if he did it every day, or if this was the Wednesday Special.
We got off at the same stop. I walked behind him. He had on black leather half boots with silver zippers with pointy toes that clicked when he walked. As I walked behind him, I imagined that the silver was a sticking point with him, but that he had been looking for the perfect boots so long he decided he would accept this quibble and just move on. His step was measured. He walked resolutely, but carefully, as if he were wanting to get to the his destination, but wanted to not disrupt anything about his appearance or seemed rushed.
His hair, which was almost to the bottom of his shoulder blades, was trimmed neatly. The only thing that anybody could argue threw off his look at all was that his hair was not perfectly straight in the back -- it looked like it had some wave, but only in the last four inches or so. It was like he had partially braided it the day before and then didn't realize there were still braid marks in it today. (Not that I've ever had this phenomenon happen to me...)
I don't think I have seen someone who so obviously was so particular about how he looked in a long time. I mean, I know people who care about their dress and appearance...but this fellow was so meticulous, so exacting in his standards. I wondered if he was extremely insecure or just very confident. Probably a mixture of both, like most of the rest of us.
My eyes probably widened when I saw him. I had just sat down on the bus.
I noticed his hat first. It was the little feather, sticking jauntily just so, that grabbed my attention. Then I looked at the rest of his hat. It was perfectly clean -- no little bits of anything stuck to it. (With hats like that, it's hard to do. Trust me, I know.)
Then I looked at his face. (I had just seen pictures of the Facial Hair competition [I did not know there was such a thing] -- some of these are pretty outrageous.)
This picture doesn't do it justice...I was very impressed by his facial grooming. His beard was perfectly pointy. Perfectly. Perfectly enough that I imagined the chin it was hiding was classic storybook villain pointy, as well. His moustache blended in so well it was scary.
His nearly full length wool pea coat fit him as if it were made for him. He had a leather briefcase (black) that was on his lap, and a large umbrella with a wood handle (it was a knob, not a cane-head shape) was between his knees. His entire person was so very well put together, I wondered how long it had taken him to get out the door that morning...if he did it every day, or if this was the Wednesday Special.
His hair, which was almost to the bottom of his shoulder blades, was trimmed neatly. The only thing that anybody could argue threw off his look at all was that his hair was not perfectly straight in the back -- it looked like it had some wave, but only in the last four inches or so. It was like he had partially braided it the day before and then didn't realize there were still braid marks in it today. (Not that I've ever had this phenomenon happen to me...)
Friday, November 13, 2015
A Pressing Matter
* It is always more fun to press cider with other people than with yourself. Kind of like a barn raising, quilting bee, corn husking, or any other sort of work "party." * 20 lbs of apples = 1 gallon of cider. No wonder it tastes so good -- all that fructose, condensed!
* Pressing cider is the most fun when you do it in a fun, beautiful location. (See picture <--. You'll get what I mean.)
* When you freeze apples before you press them, your cider turns out a lot differently -- more like applesauce than apple cider. It's not a bad thing -- just leads to extra thick, almost syrupy goodness. W says it's because the freezing action helps break down the cell walls.
* Pressing is a multi-step operation.
1. Buy apples
2. Wash apples
3. Cut apples into halves
4. Put the straining sack in the barrel.
5. Put the barrel under the press.
6. Use the press, hand cranking, to chop the apples into tiny bits that go into the bag.
7. When the bag is full, close it up, ties inside, and put the lid on the barrel.
8. Screw the lid of the barrel down tightly. Leverage (see yellow rod) helps. Don't get dizzy!
9. Enjoy the hissing and popping of the fruit and watch as the juice oozes slowly out of the cracks in the barrel.
10. When you can't press any more juice out, let it sit under pressure
11. Unscrew the lid. This is actually harder than it looks because your hands will probably be cold and it is hard to unscrew something smoothly.
12. When you've unscrewed it enough to clear the barrel top, remove the barrel and the bag for cleaning. 13. Tilt the table to make the juice run into the container under the spout.
14. Funnel the juice into your final carrier.
15. Enjoy!!!!
* And then you enjoy dinner, ever so tastily. And enjoy the view, too. This picture of one of my favorite people basically sums up how I felt about Pressing Day.
Wednesday, November 4, 2015
the power of numbers
Tonight I hung out with four guys and played video games. I haven't hung out with that many guys, with me the lone lady, in a very, very long time. I also wasn't very good at the video games, but it's okay, they beat up on me mercilessly anyway.
We were sitting around eating tortellini and dark chocolate chip peppermint cookies (rather, they were eating) and something that a friend of mine I had in middle school used to say popped into my mind: "You know when the odds are good, the goods are odd." (Meaning, if you're vastly outnumbered by the opposite sex, they are all likely bound to be weirdos, too nerdy for words, painfully awkward, unattractive, or some combination of all the above.)
I don't agree with her assessment, but it has made me smile a time or two when it came to my mind. The thing is, odd doesn't mean bad. It doesn't mean below-average looks or intelligence. It can even just mean "not even." (Not in the Valley Girl sense, either.) It's not negative -- it just...is.
But there's something about the numbers being very uneven that does change behavior--I'm not a psychologist, or a sociologist, so I can't tell you why. And I really don't care, to be honest...because tonight, I was happy to just be "one of the guys."
We were sitting around eating tortellini and dark chocolate chip peppermint cookies (rather, they were eating) and something that a friend of mine I had in middle school used to say popped into my mind: "You know when the odds are good, the goods are odd." (Meaning, if you're vastly outnumbered by the opposite sex, they are all likely bound to be weirdos, too nerdy for words, painfully awkward, unattractive, or some combination of all the above.)
I don't agree with her assessment, but it has made me smile a time or two when it came to my mind. The thing is, odd doesn't mean bad. It doesn't mean below-average looks or intelligence. It can even just mean "not even." (Not in the Valley Girl sense, either.) It's not negative -- it just...is.
But there's something about the numbers being very uneven that does change behavior--I'm not a psychologist, or a sociologist, so I can't tell you why. And I really don't care, to be honest...because tonight, I was happy to just be "one of the guys."
Sunday, November 1, 2015
Eagles vs Shakespeare
Another song plug for you:
I don't really like the Eagles. At all. I have never liked them. I was really upset when they were voted the band of the 20th century over the Beatles. At the time, Hotel California was the only Eagles song I could name, whereas I know almost all the Beatles songs by heart. The Eagles didn't have fans tht were so loud they couldn't hear themselves play. The Eagles don't have more than one "sound." The Eagles got back together after claiming they never would. The Eagles just...well...when your claim to fame is Hotel California, what else can I say?!? Hotel California seems to last an eternity for me and I really think it should be banned from all karaoke bars, as a matter of course, along with Piano Man. But that is neither here nor there in context of what I would really like to talk about, so I will move along.
There is one song that I heard earlier in the summer on my Tom Petty Pandora station that I considered for awhile. It had lyrics that, in part, went like this: [I was infuriated that the station ran amok -- I think the same day I heard it for the first time, I also heard a U2 song, which you can best believe earned a prompt thumbs down, and, thank goodness, I have not heard one since.]
I've got a peaceful, easy feeling/
I know you won't let me down/
cause I'm already standing on the ground
If that's all you hear, you might think: wow, that's a really awesome perspective to have. To be peaceful, secure, and comfortable in a relationship! That's amazing. How logical -- he's recognizing that although he isn't feeling the butterflies anymore, the peace and calm he's feeling, knowing he's not in the clouds, hoping for someone to return love, but that the person is already returning the love and it's a firm reality, a grounding, rooted relationship--solid and secure.
But if you bothered to listen to the song in its entirety, you would probably hear something else: the exact opposite of what I just described, which irritates me. He already knows the end is coming, he's seeing the fruitless inevitability of the ending of the relationship. He's already over it -- there's nothing she can do to hurt him any more, and he has his eyes wide open. He's either already hurt so much, he is either numb or already has worked through it so the fact that he is standing on the ground with zero expectations and singing this laid-back country song is just a testament to how those darn women always do you wrong and why should you expect anything else?
Or perhaps there's another meaning that I just didn't hear. I did, after all, practically fail the poetry interpretation portion of my English Lit class. That is putting Don Henley on par with Shakespeare, which I am really not comfortable with, though.
Either way, I'm probably protesting too much, methinks, about the merits (or lack thereof) of an Eagles song. So I'll leave it after this--except to say that I hope every person I know gets a chance to experience the first interpretation at least one time in their life.
I don't really like the Eagles. At all. I have never liked them. I was really upset when they were voted the band of the 20th century over the Beatles. At the time, Hotel California was the only Eagles song I could name, whereas I know almost all the Beatles songs by heart. The Eagles didn't have fans tht were so loud they couldn't hear themselves play. The Eagles don't have more than one "sound." The Eagles got back together after claiming they never would. The Eagles just...well...when your claim to fame is Hotel California, what else can I say?!? Hotel California seems to last an eternity for me and I really think it should be banned from all karaoke bars, as a matter of course, along with Piano Man. But that is neither here nor there in context of what I would really like to talk about, so I will move along.
There is one song that I heard earlier in the summer on my Tom Petty Pandora station that I considered for awhile. It had lyrics that, in part, went like this: [I was infuriated that the station ran amok -- I think the same day I heard it for the first time, I also heard a U2 song, which you can best believe earned a prompt thumbs down, and, thank goodness, I have not heard one since.]
I've got a peaceful, easy feeling/
I know you won't let me down/
cause I'm already standing on the ground
If that's all you hear, you might think: wow, that's a really awesome perspective to have. To be peaceful, secure, and comfortable in a relationship! That's amazing. How logical -- he's recognizing that although he isn't feeling the butterflies anymore, the peace and calm he's feeling, knowing he's not in the clouds, hoping for someone to return love, but that the person is already returning the love and it's a firm reality, a grounding, rooted relationship--solid and secure.
But if you bothered to listen to the song in its entirety, you would probably hear something else: the exact opposite of what I just described, which irritates me. He already knows the end is coming, he's seeing the fruitless inevitability of the ending of the relationship. He's already over it -- there's nothing she can do to hurt him any more, and he has his eyes wide open. He's either already hurt so much, he is either numb or already has worked through it so the fact that he is standing on the ground with zero expectations and singing this laid-back country song is just a testament to how those darn women always do you wrong and why should you expect anything else?
Or perhaps there's another meaning that I just didn't hear. I did, after all, practically fail the poetry interpretation portion of my English Lit class. That is putting Don Henley on par with Shakespeare, which I am really not comfortable with, though.
Either way, I'm probably protesting too much, methinks, about the merits (or lack thereof) of an Eagles song. So I'll leave it after this--except to say that I hope every person I know gets a chance to experience the first interpretation at least one time in their life.
Thursday, October 29, 2015
Hold On, Let Go
Seems like most of my blog posts are related to a song of some sort. Sometimes there are songs that just resonate, echo, explode, calm, fill the empty place, or make the jumbled thoughts in your mind clear.
I wish I could make songs like that. Perhaps I could, if I could really let myself go and focus on it. I've never...really let myself though.
[Sidetrack: If there were a Music and Lyrics of my life, I would definitely be the Lyrics part of the duet. I'd rather have someone besides Hugh Grant as my Music though...just saying. And I'm nothing like Drew Barrymore, I'm quite sure. (We both are female and live in America and speak English, but the similarities pretty much end there.)]
My parents recently came to visit. My mom told me that she sometimes thought that of all her children, I am the most expressive. I think I kind of laughed at the time...but since, I have felt that the need to express yourself, and to try so hard to do it perfectly, and then to fail but keep trying, is actually really difficult, hard, and not very much fun, to boot. As I have been thinking about expressing myself, and the emotions in my life I am trying to sort through, as usual, things came to me in my head in a song.
This song came to me from a familiar source; however, the source told me to focus on the lyrics, which almost never happens. (It is not a completely clean song, lyrics-wise, which also surprised me, considering the source -- but by no means is it anywhere close to explicit. In fact, they play much more offensive things on the radio every day.)
It reminds me of a story -- one I read in Book Club this summer, about Corrie Ten Boom. She watched the love of her life marry for money. For her, there would never be another, and she, in tears, wondered aloud how she could possibly kill love, love that was strong, love that she had nurtured. Her father told her that the better thing to do would be to give her romantic love for this person to God, and pray that she could love the love of her life as God did.
When I read it, I cried. I thought she was brave, and bold, and how horribly, horribly sad it was that she would never experience the kind of love she had dreamed of as a little girl ever again. She, being the strong, amazing person that she was, truly followed her plan. Not only did she do that with the love of her life, but I truly believe she tried to see every person who came into her path as God saw them.
Part of being able to do as Corrie did is what is mentioned in this song: "At least I hold on when I get love, and I let go when I give it." She held on to the love she had for her mother, father, sister, refugees, the Bible, God, colors, and, eventually, even was thankful for fleas! She held on tight to the memory of the love even when she was in a concentration camp, not knowing if she would survive. And she let go of love, too. She let go of her resentment toward the fleas, for the horrid conditions, for the mistreatment of the guards...of everything. And you can bet she loved those little fleas that were so pesky, because of the freedom the fleas afforded her and her fellow roommates. She cast her love net wide and did not bother to pull it back, but just kept sending out tendrils of love.
The other part that resonates is the part about taking the weakest thing in you and beating everyone else with it. Sometimes I think my weak things can't beat anything but myself--and myself, they can beat very effectively, as they know the most tender places with the freshest wounds. But weak things can become strong, and there is nothing, nothing in this world or the next as powerful as true love.
That's all you can do--be grateful for the love that you have. And when you give it, you don't know how the people you give it to will use it- if they'll return it, perhaps with interest, or if they'll hightail it out of sight and never come back. So, even though it is impossible to do this, it seems the song would advise you to have no expectations that anyone or anything will love you back. It is certainly an interesting idea to think about. In the meantime, I am going to give freely, with the best of myself-- as I wrote almost four years ago in this post. I'm going to hold on to the love that I get, tight tight tight, and when I give love, I will send it toward the other person with everything I've got, letting go completely. Only when you open yourself are you completely free.
I wish I could make songs like that. Perhaps I could, if I could really let myself go and focus on it. I've never...really let myself though.
[Sidetrack: If there were a Music and Lyrics of my life, I would definitely be the Lyrics part of the duet. I'd rather have someone besides Hugh Grant as my Music though...just saying. And I'm nothing like Drew Barrymore, I'm quite sure. (We both are female and live in America and speak English, but the similarities pretty much end there.)]
My parents recently came to visit. My mom told me that she sometimes thought that of all her children, I am the most expressive. I think I kind of laughed at the time...but since, I have felt that the need to express yourself, and to try so hard to do it perfectly, and then to fail but keep trying, is actually really difficult, hard, and not very much fun, to boot. As I have been thinking about expressing myself, and the emotions in my life I am trying to sort through, as usual, things came to me in my head in a song.
This song came to me from a familiar source; however, the source told me to focus on the lyrics, which almost never happens. (It is not a completely clean song, lyrics-wise, which also surprised me, considering the source -- but by no means is it anywhere close to explicit. In fact, they play much more offensive things on the radio every day.)
It reminds me of a story -- one I read in Book Club this summer, about Corrie Ten Boom. She watched the love of her life marry for money. For her, there would never be another, and she, in tears, wondered aloud how she could possibly kill love, love that was strong, love that she had nurtured. Her father told her that the better thing to do would be to give her romantic love for this person to God, and pray that she could love the love of her life as God did.
When I read it, I cried. I thought she was brave, and bold, and how horribly, horribly sad it was that she would never experience the kind of love she had dreamed of as a little girl ever again. She, being the strong, amazing person that she was, truly followed her plan. Not only did she do that with the love of her life, but I truly believe she tried to see every person who came into her path as God saw them.
Part of being able to do as Corrie did is what is mentioned in this song: "At least I hold on when I get love, and I let go when I give it." She held on to the love she had for her mother, father, sister, refugees, the Bible, God, colors, and, eventually, even was thankful for fleas! She held on tight to the memory of the love even when she was in a concentration camp, not knowing if she would survive. And she let go of love, too. She let go of her resentment toward the fleas, for the horrid conditions, for the mistreatment of the guards...of everything. And you can bet she loved those little fleas that were so pesky, because of the freedom the fleas afforded her and her fellow roommates. She cast her love net wide and did not bother to pull it back, but just kept sending out tendrils of love.
The other part that resonates is the part about taking the weakest thing in you and beating everyone else with it. Sometimes I think my weak things can't beat anything but myself--and myself, they can beat very effectively, as they know the most tender places with the freshest wounds. But weak things can become strong, and there is nothing, nothing in this world or the next as powerful as true love.
That's all you can do--be grateful for the love that you have. And when you give it, you don't know how the people you give it to will use it- if they'll return it, perhaps with interest, or if they'll hightail it out of sight and never come back. So, even though it is impossible to do this, it seems the song would advise you to have no expectations that anyone or anything will love you back. It is certainly an interesting idea to think about. In the meantime, I am going to give freely, with the best of myself-- as I wrote almost four years ago in this post. I'm going to hold on to the love that I get, tight tight tight, and when I give love, I will send it toward the other person with everything I've got, letting go completely. Only when you open yourself are you completely free.
Wednesday, October 28, 2015
just a girl
The particular girl I'm thinking of is wandering about in the
slush, both her own emotional, and nature's physical, in front of a tiny store. She has on a bedraggled hat, a nondescript coat, and low suede boots, which are
completely inadequate: her socks, when she takes them off tonight,
will have permanent black marks on them, as the quality
of the suede is very poor indeed. As she meanders, pretending to be
nonchalant, she is also desperately trying to ignore the fact that her
left boot has a hole the size of a dime in the sole and cold water
is seeping through at an alarming rate. If
she bothered to drag her mind away from her runaway emotions, it would
be obvious to her, as it is to all passers-by, that her efforts are
wasted, as her entire gait has been altered awkwardly to allow her foot
the least amount of contact with the pavement.
Every so often she stops, seeks the advice of a device telling time. She's impatient with herself for being impatient. To distract herself, she tentatively taps at a pile of slush with the tip of her boot. Then, as if her tap has contaminated the pile, she balances on one leg, swings the other to the side, and, using her leg as a shovel, she creates a new pile and begins to shape it with her boot, tamping it down from an irregular mountain range to a perfect mesa, sometimes even rubbing the toe in clockwise circles--just so--to even the surface. It’s as if she’s forgotten the discomfort of her wet foot, her bedraggled self – she’s pouring all her self-consciousness into the busy, busy work of smoothing the slush. Smooth! Smooth!
The taps of her boot toe and the swipes of her leg get more aggressive, until her agitated state can no longer be masked by the menial task she has assigned herself. She sullenly kicks the slightly imperfect Mesa Slushie she spent the last ninety seconds constructing and lets out a long sigh before resuming her sentry-like tread in front of the shopfront, warily watching the windows for any activity, then pausing and pretending to act as if she is waiting for something or someone whom she has high hopes of actually showing up.
But to be honest, it’s a pretty thin veneer, and even she knows it. To distract herself from the fact that she is alone, and the someone (thing) she wants to arrive is not, in fact, going to come, she begins another Mesa Slushie right next to the one she demolished just a minute ago. Tap, tap, circle, slow circle, tap goes the boot tip. She rests too much of her weight on the tapping leg and gets off-balance and slips on the slush, nearly falling. Flushed and embarrassed, she determinedly ignores the scene of the near mishap-- she doesn’t even bother to demolish her second “creation”--and rocks forward and backward in place, pointedly staring into the distance and amusing herself by pretending to be a dragon and blowing her breath toward the streetlamp. But she is foiled even in this, as it is not quite cold enough for a reliable puff, and the distraction loses its appeal, as it is no longer a distraction. Quite soon, she no longer is content with sentry duty, and after one considering look at her timepiece, and a too-long stare down the road in either direction, she heaves a sad sigh both long and eloquent and disappears.
Every so often she stops, seeks the advice of a device telling time. She's impatient with herself for being impatient. To distract herself, she tentatively taps at a pile of slush with the tip of her boot. Then, as if her tap has contaminated the pile, she balances on one leg, swings the other to the side, and, using her leg as a shovel, she creates a new pile and begins to shape it with her boot, tamping it down from an irregular mountain range to a perfect mesa, sometimes even rubbing the toe in clockwise circles--just so--to even the surface. It’s as if she’s forgotten the discomfort of her wet foot, her bedraggled self – she’s pouring all her self-consciousness into the busy, busy work of smoothing the slush. Smooth! Smooth!
The taps of her boot toe and the swipes of her leg get more aggressive, until her agitated state can no longer be masked by the menial task she has assigned herself. She sullenly kicks the slightly imperfect Mesa Slushie she spent the last ninety seconds constructing and lets out a long sigh before resuming her sentry-like tread in front of the shopfront, warily watching the windows for any activity, then pausing and pretending to act as if she is waiting for something or someone whom she has high hopes of actually showing up.
But to be honest, it’s a pretty thin veneer, and even she knows it. To distract herself from the fact that she is alone, and the someone (thing) she wants to arrive is not, in fact, going to come, she begins another Mesa Slushie right next to the one she demolished just a minute ago. Tap, tap, circle, slow circle, tap goes the boot tip. She rests too much of her weight on the tapping leg and gets off-balance and slips on the slush, nearly falling. Flushed and embarrassed, she determinedly ignores the scene of the near mishap-- she doesn’t even bother to demolish her second “creation”--and rocks forward and backward in place, pointedly staring into the distance and amusing herself by pretending to be a dragon and blowing her breath toward the streetlamp. But she is foiled even in this, as it is not quite cold enough for a reliable puff, and the distraction loses its appeal, as it is no longer a distraction. Quite soon, she no longer is content with sentry duty, and after one considering look at her timepiece, and a too-long stare down the road in either direction, she heaves a sad sigh both long and eloquent and disappears.
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