The sun is out today, and it makes me feel good. I wonder why I feel so much better (other than the obvious injection of vitamin d) when it shines.
I struggle daily with the dichotomous concept of being and nothingness (this term – a title of one of Sartre’s works – was pulled from a recent Facebook comment I made regarding a poem I posted). If we are merely “nothing” then why bother engaging with the world… if we are “nothing” then why is engaging with the world in more than a perfunctory manner equally so enriching and so disappointing?
I’ve done both. In fact, I have run the gamut of emotions and cycling through the senses and the heart. Love – the idea of love – is such a construct of our imagination; the feeling it evokes internally a machination of our mind that filters through into our body and makes us experience it as something real. It’s not to say that it isn’t real in a very (pardon the pun) real sense. So what is the purpose of feeling, or our purpose of being made to feel (via our sensory processes)? Why is the discovery of our world of such great import? And how, through the unfolding of time and the culmination of our experiences of it, does it change us and, effectively, how we see it?
The idea that “there is a season for everything” rings true when considered in this way. We learn to touch and smell and see and taste and walk and finally think and reason (well, sometimes, anyway *smile*). Our experience of the world is largely based on what we think it is and is so subjective that there is no way to determine what is “true” and what is embellishment or delusion. Even through rigorous self-analysis, attempting to remain objective within the parameters of an experience, our belief of an experience underscores how our experience of it will be **and effectively shapes our reality**.
If this is the case – that no matter what we experience, it will always be skewed and be an “inaccurate” representation – then it would serve us well to figure out how we want our experience to unfold if there truly is no “default” setting which determines what that ought to be.
And you wonder, dear friends, why I exhaust myself with my own thinking processes?
(after seeing THIS site, I thought I’d put a prayer of sorts out there…)
that great thoughts, like butterflies, imaginally take flight
that hopes, like balloons, float up to great heights
that I shape the best year yet, one little step by one little step
that love will prevail, when all else fails
that discomfort be replaced by action, ache by joy
that prosperity be in numbers, abundant fruits from toil
to find my north star and follow it true
that good things come to all, and especially you
Happy New Year
Love, Me xo
It’s been foggy most mornings and evenings, which lends a veiled mystery to the beginnings and endings of days. I took this photo Monday night.
Last night I took some antihistamines and went to bed fairly early, intending to read but incapable of even doing that. Instead I had a round of Sweet Tooth 2 – something like Candy Crush (I hear) only different.
My dreams were crazy wild, something about attending a wedding and getting lost on my way to the reception and losing my date (whose friends they were) and then finding him and the wedding party again, and having crazy long and artfully painted nails (if you know me, you know that my nails are paper thin, and short down to almost quick is how I sport them).
I awoke this morning with the realization that I was breathing deeply from my belly and thinking how good it feels – how much better rested I feel when I’ve had a night full of those. Mostly I don’t, my breathing abbreviated and mirroring the stress that hides itself so well in my body.
The school year is only a month or so in, but already the emails start coming, from the teachers, from the counsellor. My son will early next year officially be of voting age, and yet, and yet…
A friend asked about consequences for his not showing up and going to school. The onus is on him. The consequences for him not following through are his failure to thrive. So no punishment, which to my mind, as far as he is concerned, has not worked since elementary school (and I question it’s effectiveness, even then, in retrospect).
We did, however, have a talk. I talked, mostly, and he listened, mostly, but when asked he did reply as best he could, and that’s all I can expect. I told him to reach out – that he is never in anything alone – and if he needs assistance or just a sounding board, people who love and care about him are around him and always available.
I did not get preachy (much) but I told him that some people are lucky and some people struggle and some work really hard and we all attempt to wring out of life what we need and want, and what that means to each person is an individual thing, but we each need to spend some time with ourselves to figure out what that is.
I told him that I struggle, that I struggle to provide us a good life because I didn’t think much about these same things when I was young and life made choices for me. I told him I struggle as a human being and at almost 50 I am still only now figuring some important things out about myself and life.
I told him I struggle as a parent, excruciatingly making choices for the both of us that will permanently, in some way, affect both our lives. Tears were shed, by both of us. I think I got through. Maybe.
…both started this morning and, in the wake of today’s neural collisions, completed as I lay in bed this evening pulling at my edges, urging myself back to equilibrium.
So here it is, as yet untitled:
I greet the day naked, soul bared even as my flesh clothes itself in the hot tendrils of a shower. Cool, cedar-tinged air flows in through the open window. A wood spider has been busy overnight, weaving a fine mesh from window to face cloth to conditioner bottle and tighter still within the frame.
I ruin its efforts with handfuls of water, flung as though I am pitching for the Redsox. I saw it last night, and yesterday morning, too, up at the edge between the ceiling and the wall, pale green and waiting. This morning the only evidence of its presence was the web. It made me think of Clotho.
Wrapped in yellow, warm and wishing for coffee, I attend to the drying and lifting of limbs, the glide of deodorant in pursuit of curved underarm. I admire, briefly, the small parts of myself that I bear witness to and incrementally appreciate more as time passes. Some parts ask to be admired, since the whole is so difficult to embrace fully, little curves that a Conté crayon would swoop in if it were to capture this fleeting monument to human form.
(c) 2013 Adriane Giberson
I am one of those people who seems to need love in order to find stability… courage… daring… in their life, and yet it has been so sparse in measure. I wonder, sometimes, how much more I could have accomplished if I had felt the way she does, about the knowingness of the foundation underlying the everything upon which all else is built. To feel solid in the binding together of two souls. To realize that nothing else really matters but that.
This is when I feel nostalgic and filled with a soft sadness. Like I’ve missed out on something epic, having tasted it but never truly experienced it fully. True, I have my son, who continues to amaze me simply because he exists, but in many ways I feel lost in my own self, as though I never could figure out what to pull out of myself, and each time I reach in, I miss catching the big fish, coming out with wet hands holding a whole lot of nothing as I watch the fish swim away into my depths again.
So. This is me, on a Tuesday before the last day of my vacation, feeling slightly sad. But grateful nevertheless.
It occurs to me that I haven’t been doing much writing or journaling lately, here or elsewhere, my posts mostly photographs or descriptions of things. (Perhaps you are all thankful for that – I do go on about things, sometimes.)
I have to admit that I’ve been in a weird place for a while, and my constant self-examination was becoming tiresome (to myself; perhaps to you too).
The rain has returned after two glorious weeks of uninterrupted sun. It trickles and shooshes, somewhere between mist and shower. It calms, sometimes. Certainly it inspires me to stay indoors, though during the week I have no choice but to go out into it. I tell myself I won’t melt, but the moisture is effusive – it permeates everything. (Enough about rain, already.)
It’s quiet in here this morning. Earlier, as I lay in bed and was going through email messages on my smart phone and started link hopping, I eventually arrived at this post.
It is beautiful and simple and touching. Something that I don’t seem to be able to evoke when I write lately, so I’ve chosen to give it a rest. Mostly because if I can’t write something gorgeous and moving (and definitively lacking in despondency), why bother writing at all?
When I write, it feels like one long and wailing lament. But then… but then I think I can’t be the only one to feel this way, to feel the contraction and the need to pull myself in, the need to contain myself, because overflowing is just dangerous and wreaks havoc. Better to let things settle and reach coherence, to harden like a diamond.
So I see, and I notice, and I rejoice in little bits, by giving hand wrought things and smiles, by being present with those who surround me, by being attentive to the rain tapping at the eaves.