findingexpression

awe, humility, hope and a few other things I might notice


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All that comes to mind are titles

I have been reading some other blogs these days and people have captured wonderful quotes; inspiring, gritty, thoughtful. I admire those who can remember quotes or author’s names, whole poems, or stanzas at least. I used to think I had a good memory, photographic at times. I can still sometimes ‘see’ things to confirm my memory, but being able to ‘see’ the grocery list or someone’s phone number has limited use. My memory is mostly empathic; I remember the feeling about something. I am right now trying to remember what was so funny and interesting about what I wrote in my mind for this blog last night. I was too tired to get up and write it down. I am remembering only mountains and valleys of thoughts and something about narcissistic self-loathing being a genetic trait. But what was really on my mind, the unstoppable gears grinding on something I wanted to go away, like the tune from a bad pop song, were titles.

All that comes to mind are titles. Titles, titles, titles, as if we start from the beginning. There is no beginning, as much as we try to find it, as much as we want to restart from there. No, titles don’t take me far enough into it, they are just playthings, little balls we toss and toss or roll in our hands, squeezing them but they never pop, never land. Re-starting, landing, that’s what a friendless person of my age wants. The bitterness has not set in yet, there are still dreams, illusions, even a little hope of magic left, but we can’t seem to find enough of it.

Contemplating the iron blades of the just-too-high fence I dare not sit upon it to climb over into the well tended garden that does not belong to me, nor do I wish to look down at my sinking boots. I am looking for definitions, but I don’t want to be defined by this mud. I reach for the letters of others’ titles, holding onto the serif of an ‘s’ or a ‘t’, wanting to bring them into my own hand and let them grow new branches, branches that grow and grow and breath deeply the air and sunshine and make something entirely new. But I am just looking and blinded a little by the grey bright sunlight of late winter. The wind is so strong in the trees. The blowing snow is creating new topographies. So how is it that I am in the mud on this freezing day? This bright day. This blinding day that leads me only further into it….

I describe this place, the mud in front of the fence, because it is the place that belongs to me. I forever see the garden ahead of me but I can only spin around, making mud in the ground, never sinking, just turning against the wind when it stings my face.

So this is a beginning, always terrible, unscripted, too serious and disconnected. Am I supposed to think this out beforehand? Would it bring me to a different place, or just set me down for a while longer, thinking? No sustainability, no way of moving forward, no insight gained from looking back. The only teacher here is this mud, telling me something through its persistence.

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Erase

Sometimes we imagine we can walk out of our life as if it were a piece of paper, two dimensional, but we were three dimensional and we could just walk away, walk beyond it. All the objects in our life would become flat, existing somewhere, but not touching us, ¾ of the way down the trash chute, discarded, someone else’s. Sometimes we want to throw away the people in our lives too, erase them. What we really want is to erase the flaws, the father who drinks, the mother who didn’t defend herself, the brother or sister that teased too much instead of encouraging, the bullies, the thiefs, the breakers of hearts, the terrorists and haters, the sullen and the reckless. We want more heroes and we want to be our own saviors; of our honor, of our kindness. We wished we were poets or dancers, gifted surgical precision decision makers, that we always knew what was right and wrong and chose the best path more often, and always when it really mattered. But instead we are driving around in disappearing cars of our dreams and floating in the air without the power to steer ourselves over those dangerous cliffs. We cannot guarantee an easy landing or even determine where exactly we will set down. I can only hope that the journey won’t scare me as much as it used to and I try, I really try to enjoy every moment of floating, no matter where it takes me.

Wild wonderful winter weather

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winter storm

http://youtu.be/j6kCYprYWx0

Awe. Sunday’s storm brought heavy freezing rain, then hail and 50mph winds, followed by 10 minutes of sun, then snow and wind and it repeated like that all day.

Watching the storm was a great show for me. I love a good storm, not the Life of Pi kind, but the safely watched from indoors or not far from home and not needing to go anywhere kind.

Nature is simply awesome. I have no power over it and I choose to call it beautiful, I have that luxury. I am wonderstruck by it strength, soothed by its sound and delighted by its purity. The rain, snow and wind created mountains and valleys in front of me. And, while I am not delighted by the booming sound of whatever it is on our roof that buckles when the temperature goes below 20F, the sound of snow falling tickles my ears and makes me more aware of sound itself. Also, there are few things I love more than a great field of freshly fallen, untouched snow. The vast expanses sparkle like the universe itself. So, before the snowplows start doing their work and before the shovelers start clearing their walks, I dwell in the tickling sound and the sparkling splendor and feel that I am receiving a gift from the infinite.

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