tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-45051834243054813642024-03-12T19:46:15.850-04:00a life with meaning<i>stumbling toward an intentional life</i>Clarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04838656854709586779noreply@blogger.comBlogger53125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4505183424305481364.post-42307240554154979992013-08-22T17:56:00.000-04:002013-08-22T22:51:46.203-04:00Action Before Movement<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rid1-iNw8uE/UhZrULbBzJI/AAAAAAAADQ8/YGCKblRZpis/s1600/2013Aug12ToDo_vvvracer_Flickr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rid1-iNw8uE/UhZrULbBzJI/AAAAAAAADQ8/YGCKblRZpis/s640/2013Aug12ToDo_vvvracer_Flickr.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">If I had a dollar for every time I’ve promised myself to get more exercise, call an old friend more often, or spend more time in my studio making art<u>,</u> then failed to follow through, I’d be writing this post from the terrace of my house in Bali with a pitcher of mimosas by my side. I suspect that I’m not the only one frustrated by this predicament. Slogging through theories on why we don’t do what we say we want to do to foster our mental, spiritual, or physical health just make the light at the end of the tunnel more difficult to see.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">As a practical person with a Type A personality, planning and problem solving are my go-to strategies, but the items on my list don't respond to this m.o. The process that helps me honor my commitments in my professional life doesn't seem to apply here. Apparently, <i>I’m</i> the only one to whom I won't keep a promise.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Yoga is as close as I’ve come to clearing the haze. Since starting my asana practice two years ago, I’ll occasionally have what I think of as baby epiphanies. For a person whose mind seems never to stop, it's oddly liberating to be in an environment where my mind exists only to be of service to my body. After a few months of regular practice, I noticed that these periods of <i>not thinking</i> brought me a sense of clarity that I missed when I reverted to my default mode of over-thinking. A few more months, and I started to see that much of what I was working on in class was not all that different from what I was dealing with outside the studio.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">One morning early this year, my teacher, <a href="http://www.onecenteryoga.com/" target="_blank">Cindy</a>, was instructing us on how to position our right ankles to help us move into a difficult pose. She suggested we create what she referred to as an <i>action</i> in the ankle, rather than a <i>movement</i>. This action, she said, was subtler than a movement; we should be able to feel the rotation internally, yet someone else looking at our ankles might not notice any difference. This would, she said, offer us greater ease in the pose. She was right; the pose came more easily to me. The action was more than intention, than deciding simply to <i>do</i>--there was a physical component too, after all, although more internal than external. But that moment of <i>action</i> was palpable, crucial to the movement, to the effect. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">In those few seconds I took to prepare by creating action in my ankle, my mind and body were intimately and inextricably linked, joined in a common purpose. It was a uniquely satisfying experience. This, of course, is one of yoga’s big gifts: the union of the internal and external that arises from being fully present in the moment. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">This <i>action</i>, I thought later, was what was missing from the process I'd been using to meet my personal goals--whether to exercise or get into my studio more often. I’d been doing everything I usually did when I planned a project or an event. I’d made 'to do' lists, I’d scheduled appointments, I’d purchased supplies. I’d checked off all the preliminary activity that would ensure success. <i>I’d made sure there was external movement.</i> What I'd missed altogether was the <i>action</i> piece. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I’d assumed that desire--I really did want to get more exercise!-- was enough to carry me through. And I’d relied on my past experience, which told me that ideas tend to crash and burn because of poor planning and execution. I hadn’t seen that achieving what we’re not required to do because our jobs depend on them or because our families are counting on us calls for new skills we may not have much practice with, and for hefty amounts of internal <i>action</i>. Often, our list is made up of dreams that mean little to anyone but ourselves; we don't act on them because of lack of time or money (so we say), fear (far more likely), or for reasons we'd rather not explore. Pursuing these demands deep, passionate <i>action; </i>without it, no amount of movement is enough.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I hold this new definition of action close now, and try to nurture it. More than desire, interest, or hope, it's the resolute intention that arises from knowing what is truly meaningful to me. It's a nearly imperceptible internal shift in energy that moves me from wish to engagement. It asks me to accept responsibility for creating a life that fulfills me. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">What I've found isn’t the simple resolution I was hoping for. And yet, something that I once found baffling seems simpler, and getting there, wherever "there" is, seems within reach. That’s more than a fair trade for the easy answer. </span><br />
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Image by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/vvvracer/8499752998/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">vvvracer, on Flickr</a>, under a <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/" target="_blank">Creative Commons license</a>.</div>
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Clarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04838656854709586779noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4505183424305481364.post-52794383484119762692012-07-19T06:30:00.000-04:002012-10-03T11:05:18.028-04:00Is It Better to Be Good or Kind?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/2/2c/Bowl_of_peaches_with_orange_accent.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/2/2c/Bowl_of_peaches_with_orange_accent.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image by Cary Bass</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white;">For years, in whatever community I was living, I had a gym membership and made regular use of it. I aimed for five workouts a week and if I met my goal , I'd say "I was good this week." I used the same phrase when I had meals that were low in whatever I was counting at the time--calories, fat, or carbohydrates. </span></div>
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Unfortunately, this meant that when I didn't reach my exercise target or when I ate more than I thought I should, I was accustomed to thinking or saying that I'd been "bad."<br />
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Most of my female friends talked this way about themselves too, so I didn't give much thought to the terminology or to what it said about how we saw ourselves. <b style="background-color: white;">I think now that, unconsciously, we were making statements about what we valued, what was important in our lives.</b><br />
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Today, when I say those phrases out loud, I cringe a little. For starters, they seem like the words of a child, not a woman (that in itself is worth a separate post). But mostly, I find it sad that I judged myself so harshly based on how much I exercised or ate.</div>
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These days, I practice yoga. I don't visit the gym, but going to yoga classes isn't a substitute for a workout. It's more than a physical practice, although I'm glad that it's good for my body too.<br />
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After a yoga session, it's not unusual for me to notice how glad I am that I was kind to myself by coming to class. But it wasn't until recently that I noticed the actual words I'd been using.</div>
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I don't remember when I made the transition from being "good" or "bad" to the notion of being kind to myself. I do know that it feels very different from my old habit. When I thought of myself as being good or bad, my ego was in full force; I either felt proud proud about achieving or guilty about failing.<br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><b>Being kind to myself, on the other hand, isn't ego-driven or boastful; it's a small, deep pleasure--an appreciation.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I'm being kind to myself when I take the time to meditate on days when I'm rushed and think I don't have a minute to spare; I'm kind to myself when I eat enough ice cream to feel satisfied but not so much that I feel full. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">And here's what resonates most strongly: <b>treating myself kindly means accepting that I'm human, that my decisions will be better on some days than others.</b> If I decide not to meditate today, I note it and move on. Tomorrow I'll have a new set of circumstances and a new opportunity to choose, and I suspect that treating myself with compassion helps me make wiser choices.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;"><b>This was the main problem with my old way of thinking: there wasn't much room for compassion.</b> The standard was perfection, so if I wasn't being "good," then surely I was being "bad." I was either a success or a failure.</span> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I've heard it said that our thoughts are who we are--or who we become--and that we reinforce these thoughts in the way we speak. What's important to remember is that we can use this to our advantage.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">So consider: <b>If your actions don't match your intentions, will berating yourself really help you behave differently?</b> Or will it just strengthen your belief about how "bad" you are and reinforce a negative pattern? It's worth a thought.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Do you struggle with treating yourself kindly? What works for you?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Image by <a href="http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File%3ABowl_of_peaches_with_orange_accent.jpg" target="_blank">Cary Bass via Wikimedia Commons</a>, under a <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/" target="_blank">Creative Commons license</a>.</span><br />
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Clarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04838656854709586779noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4505183424305481364.post-21081181277133918842012-07-12T06:00:00.000-04:002012-07-12T17:11:09.552-04:00When Talent Needs "A Little More Time To Bake"<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-szDjfMM1GkQ/T_xyDj8UubI/AAAAAAAAB-Y/yB7PvG5mpbQ/s1600/2012_07_12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="427" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-szDjfMM1GkQ/T_xyDj8UubI/AAAAAAAAB-Y/yB7PvG5mpbQ/s640/2012_07_12.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I met Ana, a mixed-media artist, while I was managing a grants program for a municipal arts agency in Miami. The amount of money available from the agency for community arts projects was always—surprise!—much smaller than the total amount requested, so the application process was highly competitive.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Part of my job was to help artists make a persuasive case for their ideas in writing. My special talent was finding the angle that would seamlessly link an artist’s vision to whichever political scheme the city’s Commissioners were most enthused about at the time. With luck, this could up the the artist's chances for funding.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I’d helped Ana get a grant for a group show in an empty neighborhood storefront. Her intuitive arrangements of found objects on bright canvases were graceful, joyous and very beautiful. Ana experimented with everything: concepts, techniques, materials, and collaborations. “If you play it safe,” she’d say, “you’ll never know what you’re capable of.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I learned that she had started painting only as an adult. Growing up as the child of a civil servant and a teacher in Chile, art was not in her sensible parents' vocabulary of career options. Ana was encouraged to study law or finance, professions that they believed offered a stable future. She graduated from a university in the United States with a degree in international finance. "I studied business to satisfy my parents," she said, "but I had zero interest in making a life of it."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She took the first job she was offered after graduation, as an assistant in an art gallery on Miami Beach, and soon found herself spending much of her free time painting. She started exploring mixed-media compositions soon after.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Over a cup of tea in Ana's studio one afternoon, we talked about her recent work. </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She'd spent the morning painstakingly weaving filaments of copper-colored silk thread into a small painted canvas. The delicate fibers and the size of the piece were a departure from her usual imposing work. "I don't know how I feel about it yet," she said. "It needs a little more time to bake. I'll keep working on it and see what happens."</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The conversation turned to me and my writing. "I can't imagine <i>not</i> writing," I said. "There's something about it that's addictive--in a really good way. Still," I added tentatively, "I've also thought a lot about working with images."</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"And...," Ana encouraged. "And nothing."</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> I said, "I just don't have the talent for visual art. I tried, and I'm not good at it."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Ana set down her cup. "Talent, schmalent!," she said in an exasperated tone, adopting the vernacular of her elderly Jewish next-door neighbors. "How does anyone know whether they have talent--whatever <i>that</i></span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> is--until they do something, and then do it again, and then do it again some more? You don't really think having talent means things are easy and perfect the first time out, do you?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Her hands unconsciously mimed motions of gathering and placing as she described her frustrating early attempts to integrate three-dimensional objects into her paintings. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I listened, but I didn't have the nerve to tell her that, yes, I did think that talent was innate and not learned. I didn't have to do and do again to know that it was something I lacked.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When she brought the subject up a few weeks later, I deflected it, telling her I was too busy to start anything new. "I really <i>am</i> busy," I repeated to myself. And I was, wasn't I?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">How busy are you?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Image by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/whitneyinchicago/3434328067/" target="_blank">whitneyinchicago via Flickr</a>, via a <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/deed.en" target="_blank">Creative Commons License</a>.</span></div>
</div>Clarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04838656854709586779noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4505183424305481364.post-92175958589306718912012-07-10T06:00:00.000-04:002012-07-10T18:13:37.030-04:00What Would You Do if You Had Nothing to Do?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">I wrote recently </span><a href="http://www.alifewithmeaning.com/2012/07/making-room-for-yourself-on-list.html" style="background-color: white;" target="_blank">here</a><span style="background-color: white;"> about my mania with to-do lists and getting carried away with how much we think we can accomplish. But </span><b style="background-color: white;">what if there were no such thing as a to-do list</b><span style="background-color: white;">? Yes, I know, the world as we know it would come to an abrupt halt because no one would remember to do anything. Yikes!</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Well, maybe. That's probably what I'd think on my most <i>hurry-hurry-ding-ding</i>* days. And if your list is attached to you like one of those sad tethered children at the mall, you may be having similar thoughts right now.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But stay with me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">What if tomorrow the universe suffered a temporary bout of amnesia about to-dos in general?</span><br />
<b style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">What if as a side effect we also lost the ability to feel guilty, or anxious, or angry, or annoyed, about what we weren't "getting done"?</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Even better, what if there were no repercussions for not crossing something off the list?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Your boss won't care that you don't turn in the weekly report; your mother won't mind that you don't call; your son's lunch will appear magically on the kitchen counter, nutritionally sound and artfully packed.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But wait. It gets better.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Your boss emails that she'd rather write the report herself and tells you to take the day off, your mother decides to take the initiative and call <i>you</i>, and your son asks to pack his own lunch. And so it goes for anything else that might have been on that pesky to-do list that no longer exists. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So. <b>You have an entire day to yourself.</b> A whole day. To yourself.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There is nothing you </span><u style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">have</u><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> to do.</span><br />
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<i style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">What do you do?</span></i><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">*from the 1968 film, </span><i style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Sweet November</i><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">, in which free spirit Sandy Dennis vows to get Anthony Newley, a British businessman, to relax and to cure him of his unhealthy fixation with time. She refers to his problem as "hurry-hurry-ding-ding" because he's always looking at his watch and waiting for its alarm to ring.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Image by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/13891558@N00/3189669995/" target="_blank">thanker212 on Flckr</a>, via a <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd/2.0/deed.en" target="_blank">Creative Commons license</a>.</span></div>
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</div>Clarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04838656854709586779noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4505183424305481364.post-68743333653170802132012-07-05T07:00:00.000-04:002012-07-05T12:27:52.859-04:00Making Room for Yourself on the List<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fyQcYQOngag/T_TEzVIBnaI/AAAAAAAAB94/ebd-pX09MoU/s1600/121508919_e8daaa92c1_z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fyQcYQOngag/T_TEzVIBnaI/AAAAAAAAB94/ebd-pX09MoU/s400/121508919_e8daaa92c1_z.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="background-color: white;">It's time I confessed. I have never, </span><i style="background-color: white;">ever</i><span style="background-color: white;"> checked off all of the items on a </span><span style="background-color: white;">to-do</span><span style="background-color: white;"> list. I am a midlife woman and I've been making these </span><span style="background-color: white;">lists since I was a child (should I consider that last part pathetic?), yet I've never had the satisfaction of placing a crisp checkmark next to that final to-do. </span><br />
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My husband, a wonderful man who hyperventilates just thinking of making a list, says that I'm too ambitious a list-maker. "It's not ambition, it's optimism!" I respond. Each evening when I make my to-do list for the next day I'm convinced that I can complete every single task in the next 24 hours. </div>
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<b>After all, if I didn't think I could get everything done, I'd be setting myself up for failure, no?</b></div>
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<b>And why would I do that?</b></div>
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<b>Set myself up for failure, that is.</b></div>
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I had a conversation with a friend about this a few years back. She said that she'd asked herself similar questions and had come up with a possible answer:</div>
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"If I make a list so full that it's impossible to complete," she said. "I must be incredibly busy, right? And being incredibly busy is the reason I don't do have time to do the things I keep saying are important to me." My puzzled look encouraged her to elaborate.</div>
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She explained that she crammed all manner of things on her to-do lists, from minor tasks that she could complete in under five minutes ("email my accountant to confirm our meeting this Tuesday") to major undertakings that would take much longer ("update my financial records for the quarter"). She also included activities that she loved and wanted to do more of, such as playing the piano and taking lessons to improve her skills.</div>
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"Because my list is long, I always have unfinished tasks that roll over to the next day," she went on. "It's a given that I'll prioritize the things that I consider most pressing, the ones that have deadlines or that involve commitments to others. So It seems I never get around to spending time at the piano or scheduling lessons."<br />
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She paused.<br />
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<i><span style="font-size: large;">"I suspect there's something else, too. If I'm too busy to play or study, then I don't have to face my fears that I'm really not very good or that I won't get any better."</span></i></blockquote>
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Does any of this sound familiar to you? It did to me. I'd occasionally had thoughts along those lines. <b>Why was time for the things I was passionate about, like writing, for example, always so hard to come by?</b><br />
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That afternoon, as my friend generously shared that she might be sabotaging herself because she was afraid of not living up to her own expectations, I promised myself that I'd take a closer look at how I was choosing to spend my time each day.</div>
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What did I do? Well, one thing didn't change.</div>
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I still make to-do lists that have way too many items on them. I still don't know why. I've stopped worrying about this.</div>
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But I did modify how I handle my lists:</div>
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1. <b>As I prioritize the "must-dos" on my list, I make sure I've included one thing that's there purely to bring me pleasure</b>. Some days it's a small thing, like making sure I schedule an extra half-hour for reading a book I'm really enjoying. Other days, it's getting time in for catching up with a friend over coffee, or for starting an essay for my writing class.<br />
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Planning ahead and scheduling these on my calendar makes it easier to keep the commitments.</div>
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2. <b>I pay attention to that which, like my friend, I have strong positive feelings for but have conflicting feelings about.</b> For instance, I try to figure out why I'm hesitant to begin or to return to a specific writing project.<br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">Whether or not I uncover the reason, <b>I start anyway</b>. </span><span style="background-color: white;">I let myself off the hook by committing to work for only 15 minutes. Usually I get so engaged in what I'm doing that I keep going after the 15 minutes are up.</span></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: large;">The fact is, it's not about how long or short our task lists are. It doesn't matter whether we keep them on sticky notes, on our computers, or in our heads. <span style="background-color: white;">What's crucial is that we hold a choice spot for ourselves in them. </span></span></i></blockquote>
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<span style="background-color: white;">Each day merits a gift that we give to ourselves. If not now, when? </span></div>
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Where and how do you put yourself on your list?<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Image by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/lizhenry/121508919/" target="_blank">Liz Henry, on Flickr</a>, under a <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd/2.0/deed.en" target="_blank">Creative Commons License</a>.</span></div>
</div>Clarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04838656854709586779noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4505183424305481364.post-14704399199134007732012-06-28T07:00:00.000-04:002012-07-10T18:14:56.347-04:00To Boldly (and Cautiously) Go Where No One Has Gone Before<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I'm sometimes a little irked by articles about personal development in which the sentences all seem to end in exclamation points. Maybe I'm more sensitive to it because I write a lot about this topic. In fact, I started this blog in order to share my perspective as a midlife woman on the subject.</div>
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I welcome conversation about growth and transformation. I'm a convert to the benefits of gratitude over complaining, to living in the present instead of staying mired in the past, and to substituting compassion for self-recrimination.<br />
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I'm wildly supportive of dialogue that promotes taking personal responsibility, engaging in positive action, setting ambitious goals, and other such wholesome pursuits.</div>
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So it's not the concept of personal development that bugs me. And the profusion of exclamation points? Well, that's just a symptom of a deeper concern. What is it, then, that I find troubling?<br />
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It's a specific type of pronouncement about how to proceed on the path to self-fulfillment--specifically, <b>the claim that there's only one way to get there. </b>This singular way, we're told, is by jumping off a (metaphorical) cliff, preferably without looking over the edge. </div>
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Overcoming fear and risk is a key theme in these articles; the word "fierce"--as in "facing fear fiercely!"--shows up often. But whatever the actual words or the number of exclamation marks, the message is urgently clear: "Get over it and kick butt! Don't let anything stand in your way! Just do it! <span style="background-color: white;">Jump!</span><span style="background-color: white;">"</span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span></div>
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There's nothing inherently wrong with this message (with the exception of the exasperating punctuation, mind you). There are times when direct, uncomplicated action <i>is</i> the best option. Eventually we need to stop ruminating, face our fears--maybe even "fiercely!"--and forge ahead.</div>
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<b>Unfortunately, though, zealous declarations like this one tend to ignore context. The result is a one-size-fits-all prescription for whatever it is that ails you.</b></div>
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There's a phrase my wonderful yoga teacher, <a href="http://www.onecenteryoga.com/">Cindy Dollar,</a> sometimes uses as she leads us through a complex pose:<br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><i>be bold; be cautious.*</i></span></div>
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The "be bold" part of the phrase is shorthand for moving into the pose with curiosity and interest rather than with pre-conceived assumptions about what our bodies can't or won't do. "Be cautious" suggests taking the pose thoughtfully, listening attentively to our bodies to learn what's available to us in that moment. <b>We move both with resolve <i>and</i> with respect for what is possible right now.</b></div>
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Not everyone is ready to jump (or even "jump!") at this instant. Readiness depends on interrelated conditions that include our physical circumstances and our emotional and mental states. The same step that's easy for some can appear incredibly difficult to others, and the type and amount of preparation that we need is different for each person.</div>
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<b>I'm convinced that we need both parts of the equation: boldness <i>and</i> caution. </b>Yes, we need to be bold. Some of us, in fact, need to be pushed, gently, from "what is" to "what could be." Me, for one. I've been guilty of spending way too much time building a barricade made from every possible misfortune that might befall me if I dared to venture outside my comfort zone.<br />
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If this sounds like you, consider how you might test-drive the new environment--whether it's a different career, a location, or a behavior--in small, incremental ways. These "sneak peeks" can help you build the confidence to tackle the bigger moves. </div>
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<b>So be bold. Do more than you think you can; act as confidently as you'd like to feel; stretch the muscles you'll need for jumping. </b></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">But don't fall into the trap of believing that there's something wrong with you because you temper boldness with caution. Instead, congratulate yourself. Boldness and caution complement each other; each brings out the other's best qualities.</span></i></blockquote>
<span style="background-color: white;">Ultimately, </span><b style="background-color: white;"><span style="background-color: white;">you are the only one who knows when the time is right for you to take action.</span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span></b><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">Throughout, pay close attention to what your body tells you and listen with compassion. <b>Find a pace that feels right to you and stay the course.</b> And remind yourself that every day is new; what may not have been available to you yesterday may be possible tomorrow. And watch out for those exclamation points!</span></div>
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* attributed to B.K.S. Iyengar, the founder of the style of yoga that I practice.<br />
Image by <a href="http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File%3ANGC_3521-_the_Bubble_galaxy.jpg">R. Jay GaBany</a>, on Wikimedia, under a <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/deed.en">Creative Commons License</a>.</div>
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</div>Clarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04838656854709586779noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4505183424305481364.post-90455794970374320912012-06-26T07:00:00.000-04:002012-07-10T18:15:18.548-04:00Is Living Well the Best Revenge? Not So Much.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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"<b>Living well is the best revenge*"</b> is one of those sayings that surfaces regularly. When I was struggling with the fallout of a divorce 16 years ago, I repeated it to myself like a mantra. It was a goal for a future I couldn't yet fathom.</div>
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Recently, I heard a modified version: "<b>Moving on is the best revenge</b>." At first it struck me as a more helpful variation of the original, which always sounded a little desperate: "I'm going to live well, dammit! I'll show him/her!" </div>
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"Moving on" was more empowering, I thought. It connoted a willingness to let go of the past--in my case, a past connected to someone who was no longer a vital part of my life--and create a more autonomous future.</div>
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Yet as I weighed the two phrases, I understood that my issue was with the word "revenge." When I was parting from my soon-to-be ex-husband, there was a part of me, the angry part, that wanted revenge. It wasn't the juvenile notion of slashing tires or transforming into Nicole Kidman overnight, but one that I hoped would be more emotionally gratifying.</div>
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I figured that arranging my life into a semblance of happiness would do the trick. I started taking classes in yoga and volunteered with the area's literacy council; I repressed my introvert tendencies and spent most weekends exploring the local attractions with friends and acquaintances. </div>
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Other than fighting my introversion a little too hard, most of what I did was smart and healthy. Less healthy was my wish that I'd run into my ex so that he could see what a "good" time I was having and recognize that I was doing "just fine" without him.</div>
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<b>Is it natural to have revenge fantasies?</b> It strikes me as pretty darn human to have such thoughts occasionally, though acting on them is clearly a different story. I doubt I could have traveled the path of my separation and divorce without encountering them, and I don't berate myself for having had them.</div>
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Still, <b>what troubles me now about the "revenge" part of the equation is that it keeps us connected to the targets of revenge</b>. Revenge is about settling the score, about punishing, about retaliating. It's not about the joy of living well or the peace of moving on, not really.</div>
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<i><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">When we 'live well' purely for our own well-being instead of to impress others or to try to teach them a lesson we increase our capacity for spiritual and emotional growth.</span> </span></i></blockquote>
<span style="background-color: white;">We experience our emotions--negative as well as positive ones----without the overlay of what we want from or for someone else. As a result, we start seeing things more clearly. Clarity helps us reinforce the healthy behavior, which helps us gain clarity, which…Well, you get the picture.</span></div>
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Living well, then, isn't anything other the best way to try to live. Why not leave it at that?</div>
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*The phrase is attributed to George Herbert, an English clergyman and metaphysical poet, 1593-1633.</div>
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Image by JaneArt, at <a href="http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File%3ASoap_bubble_in_mid-flight.JPG">Wikimedia Commons</a>, under a creative commons license.</div>
</div>Clarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04838656854709586779noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4505183424305481364.post-82426585899904535852012-06-21T07:00:00.000-04:002012-07-10T18:15:42.655-04:00Where's Your Sanctuary?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KylCE_JUl1g/T95VSLD-duI/AAAAAAAAB70/ia-eiJhRRo0/s1600/WomanReading_ChildeHassam.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="491" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KylCE_JUl1g/T95VSLD-duI/AAAAAAAAB70/ia-eiJhRRo0/s640/WomanReading_ChildeHassam.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Growing up, my definition of sanctuary came from the movies. Sanctuary was something you sought when you needed protection and refuge. If the movie was a Western, the seeker was usually an outlaw, and the local church the place he found it. Usually, the outlaw was redeemed by his experience, though shot dead <span style="background-color: white;">anyway</span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span><span style="background-color: white;">by the sheriff as he made a run for it at the end of the film.</span></div>
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Eventually I learned that sanctuary isn't available only to villains, and that it can be found in places other than a church.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Sanctuary is an interval -- sometimes a place, sometimes a state of mind or spirit -- that offers relief when the world presses in too tightly. </i></span></blockquote>
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Sanctuary is freedom from "monkey mind," those thoughts and feelings that loop endlessly in the recesses of our consciousness: anxiety about something we haven't done or should be doing, discomfort at not measuring up to some impossible standard of performance, or fear that we've missed something crucial that we're not even aware of(!).<br />
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<span style="font-weight: normal;"><i><span style="font-size: large;">We find sanctuary by discovering -- some say recovering -- that place where we feel most natural, most ourselves. </span></i></span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span></blockquote>
<b style="background-color: white;">Sanctuary is a highly personal concept. </b><span style="background-color: white;">My friends' places of refuge run the gamut:</span><span style="background-color: white;"> Heather finds sanctuary in her garden; Norm in the kitchen where he creates delicious meals for friends; Donna in her yoga practice. </span></div>
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I didn't know the full meaning of the expression when I was a child, but I understand now that books were my sanctuary. They still are. Often, reading good writing feels like a kind of meditation: the past and future dissolve, and I'm immersed fully and gratefully in the present. It's a sanctuary of mind and spirit.<br />
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My physical sanctuary is my bedroom. <span style="background-color: white;"> Introvert that I am, it's a haven of calm for times when things are moving a little too quickly and I need to catch my breath.</span><span style="background-color: white;"> I head straight for my favorite reading-and-relaxing chair, the worn, plump one that</span><span style="background-color: white;"> traveled with me from Washington, D.C. and from Florida before that. When I lift my eyes, I see through the window the lavender we planted in the yard when we moved here. Heaven.</span></div>
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<b>Where is <i>your</i> sanctuary?</b> If you don't have one, where might you look?</div>
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Image: <i>Woman Reading</i> by Childe Hassam, 1885</div>Clarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04838656854709586779noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4505183424305481364.post-30974440404515541522012-06-18T07:00:00.000-04:002012-07-10T18:17:39.309-04:00Contemplative Photography Without a Camera<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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My husband and I live a ten-minute drive from our town's botanical gardens. I've wanted to visit the gardens since we moved into our house two years ago. Sometimes I'm slow to act unless the universe puts something is put right in front of me.<br />
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Which is what happened yesterday. A few classmates from a photography class I took this spring suggested we spend an hour at the gardens with our cameras. The universe was putting something in front of me, and I said 'yes.'</div>
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When the six of us arrived we spent a few minutes talking about what we hoped to get from the outing. Two of the women had just read a book about the practice of contemplative photography.* They talked a little about the concepts outlined in the book, many of them based on mindfulness practices. These included stepping back from the urge to frame a photo until you've taken the subject in fully through your own unfiltered senses.</div>
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The guidelines don't apply in all circumstances, of course. Contemplative photography, as the phrase suggests, is meant for places that offer opportunities for reflection. We'd picked the perfect spot for experimenting. Each of us set off in a different direction and agreed to meet back in an hour.</div>
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The gardens are a lush sheltered oasis at the center of one of the town's liveliest areas. After only a few minutes, I noticed that what I'd heard at first as traffic noise was no longer noise, just sound. I'd settled quickly into my surroundings.</div>
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After ten minutes of looking and ambling, I raised my camera to focus on a greying wooden bridge spanning a small stream. I pressed the shutter once, paused, then pressed again for a backup shot. The "low battery" light next to the viewfinder started to blink, and my "smart" camera shut itself down.</div>
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"Damn!," I thought. "Why didn't I remember to charge the battery last night? Or the day before? I've known about this visit for a week!" "Everybody will think I'm an idiot," I went on. "My first time in the gardens and THIS happens!" I continued like this for another minute or two. At least.</div>
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If this approach is foreign to you because your mind doesn't construct such unhelpful, self-scolding chatter, I bow to your wisdom and maturity. For me, unfortunately, these monologues are all too familiar.</div>
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Thankfully, the earlier conversation about mindfulness came to my rescue. After some more (virtual) foot stomping, my next thought surprised me: not being able to use my camera was o.k.--not only o.k., it was a <i>good</i> thing.</div>
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<b>The universe was speaking, and I listened.</b></div>
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It told me that on this, my first visit to this wondrous place, I didn't have to do anything but enjoy its treasures. I put away my camera, stopped berating myself for what I hadn't done (charged the battery) and what I couldn't do (shoot pictures), and wandered the trails for the next 45 minutes without an agenda. I was being contemplative without a camera.<br />
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There was much to learn and see. I savored the names of the plants I came across: <i>Turk's Cap Lily</i>, <i>Eastern Shooting Star</i>, <i>Sweet Cecily</i>, even <i>Paw Paw</i>. I liked the images the plants evoked: the thick mop of thin, curving leaves of the <i>Hairgrass</i> reminded me of a vigorous orchestra conductor's bobbing head. And who knew that the <i>Paw Paw</i> tree is a member of the custard-apple family?</div>
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Back at our meeting spot, the experience I shared wasn't about my initial irritation at having to give up my plan, but about my delight in what I'd encountered. "This was a wonderful introduction to the gardens," I said, and meant it.<br />
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<b>Sometimes life takes things out of our hands. </b>If you're anything like me, the thought of this gives you the emotional equivalent of hives. </div>
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And yet, when it happens, when we're faced with a situation that frustrates us or something that interferes with our plans, <b>we can choose how we respond and what happens next</b>. We can decide to stay with the our negative feelings or move beyond them.<br />
<br />
I don't always make the wise choice, but I feel better and lighter when I consciously shift gears than when I revert to auto-pilot and stay stuck in my anger or annoyance. How about you? What do you do to get un-stuck when things don't go your way?</div>
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*<i>The Practice of Contemplative Photography: Seeing the World with Fresh Eyes</i></div>
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Image by Clara Boza, for use under a <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/">Creative Commons License</a>.</div>
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</div>Clarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04838656854709586779noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4505183424305481364.post-20633985714855713502012-06-11T07:00:00.000-04:002012-07-10T18:16:05.704-04:00Cataracts: Why I Can See Clearly Now<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
I had cataract surgery recently. My ophthalmologist recommended it, while saying that I was "certainly younger than my typical surgery patient." I suspect it was the word "younger" that endeared me to him and sealed my decision to have the operation.<br />
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The vision in my right eye had become cloudier over time, and the last major upgrade in my eyeglass prescription hadn't helped. And since I had cataracts in my left eye too--although slower-growing ones--it made sense to operate on that eye as well.</div>
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My experience of the surgeries, two weeks apart, was hugely positive. Just as my doctor had promised, there was no pain during the procedure and little post-surgery discomfort. And the improvement in my vision was virtually instantaneous: I no longer have to wear glasses to read or drive. In fact, according to my doc, I'm a model for successful cataract surgery.</div>
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And yet…</div>
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My "new" eyes require me to hold what I'm reading closer than I'm used to: I can no longer read regular text at arm's length. Same with my computer vision: I either have to bring my laptop screen too close to be able to type comfortably or I have to wear glasses specifically for this activity.</div>
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I didn't like these adjustments. I didn't like that I had to hold the newspaper closer to my eyes. I didn't like that I had to stand very near the bookshelves at the local library to read the titles clearly, or that a close-up was necessary to see the nutritional content of cereal at the grocery store. And I definitely didn't like that I'll need glasses to work at my computer (even though my ophthalmologist assures me that it's a one-time investment).</div>
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I was cranky. For days.</div>
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The Buddha said that one of the major causes of human suffering (a/k/a "dissatisfaction") is an aversion to impermanence--to the reality that things change. Some of us resist change more than others, of course, but as a rule most of us want to hold on to what we're comfortable with, what we know, what we think "should" be.</div>
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This resistance gets smack in the way of our ability to see what's going on without the emotional baggage of shoulds and shouldn'ts. "I <i>should</i> be able to read exactly the way I used to!" and "I <i>shouldn't</i> need to wear glasses for computer work!" was blurring--like my cataracts, come to think of it--the appreciation of my great good fortune in having this terrific medical technology available to me when I needed it.</div>
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Lucky for me, it took only a few days of being cranky and annoyed with my perceived state of things before I finally reached the obvious conclusion: "You're kidding, right?"</div>
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That I can see the world around me in gorgeous detail and bright color sans glasses is amazing. That a routine 10-minute procedure made this possible seems miraculous. That I resisted letting go of old habits when new ones would serve me so much better is, well, puzzling. Still, it's not surprising. Changes don't automatically get easier with age.</div>
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Why is it so hard to embrace change, even when it's obviously for the better?<br />
<br />
---<br />
Image by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/pascalbenard/44366353/">Pascal B.</a> on Flickr. Used under a <a href="http://www.creativecommons.org/">Creative Commons license</a>.</div>
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</div>Clarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04838656854709586779noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4505183424305481364.post-24835110314480629082011-07-11T07:10:00.016-04:002011-07-11T09:21:24.621-04:003 Steps to Learning to Trust Yourself -- or, Flexing the Trust-Your-Instincts Muscle<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--WMTuRwOysc/ThmxVP3Hi5I/AAAAAAAABz0/SIlRkP3Vs_I/s1600/2011Jul10-i+am+marlon-Flckr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--WMTuRwOysc/ThmxVP3Hi5I/AAAAAAAABz0/SIlRkP3Vs_I/s400/2011Jul10-i+am+marlon-Flckr.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
Last Christmas, my husband gave me a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Global_Positioning_System">GPS</a> device for my car, at my request. For as long as I can remember, I've had an awful sense of direction. If I combined all the minutes and hours I've spent being lost while driving or walking, I could have earned an advanced degree in geography in that time. Which, come to think of it, might not be a bad idea.<br />
<br />
Last Saturday I switched on the GPS and headed to a lecture at a local college. The facility is one I hadn't visited before, so I also printed out a campus map and wrote down an on-site phone number, just in case. (Sometimes, in spite of having the GPS, I also print out directions from <i><a href="http://www.mapquest.com/">MapQuest</a></i> or <i><a href="http://maps.google.com/">Google Maps</a></i>, but I'm trying to stop this, since it seems to negate the point of having a GPS. Not to mention that it seems a tad obsessive.)<br />
<br />
I had a vague idea of how to get to the college -- then again, I always have a "vague idea," usually wrong, about locations, so I tend not to trust them. This time, 'though, Ada (my name for the disembodied female voice on the GPS) agreed with my recollection. About half-way to my destination, Ada got the hiccups. She told me make a U-turn, which seemed odd, but which I dutifully made. Then, almost immediately, she asked me to make another one. I repeated her directions not once, but twice, just in case I'd missed something crucial along the way.<br />
<br />
But, no, Ada was stuck. Either she was malfunctioning or she'd decided the lecture wasn't worth going to. So, with apprehension --and because I'd forgotten my cell phone, unable to call that contact number I'd written down-- I disregarded Ada and kept heading in the direction I thought the college stood.<br />
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I made it to the lecture in time. It certainly helped that the route wasn't complicated and that there were directional signs as I neared the college.<br />
<br />
Ever on Metaphor Alert, I thought about my experience while I waited for the lecture to begin. Yes, I'd panicked a little when Ada started repeating herself, and I was THAT close to flogging myself with a litany of self-reproach, including: "I should have printed out directions from MapQuest!" "I should have left earlier to allow for this!" and "I can't believe I forgot my phone again!" Maybe you've used one or more of these yourself. I sure have.<br />
<br />
But --consciously-- I didn't. Mind you, I was going to a lecture for pleasure, so the pressure was less than if I'd been on my way to a business meeting or if I'd been picking someone up at the airport. Still, even if those had been the circumstances, I had little to fault myself for: I <i>had</i> prepared (GPS and campus map) and I had allotted enough time to get there, and forgetting my phone hardly merited self-flagellation. The situation simply <b>was</b>, and getting wrought up about my situation would not have made it any easier.<br />
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Although it wasn't by choice, I decided to trust my instincts. And luckily, things turned out OK. Of course, the result might have been different: I might not have made it to the school at all, or arrived too late to hear the lecture. Then what?<br />
<br />
Even with different outcomes, I believe the learnings would have been very similar. That's because <i>it's less about the situation itself, and more about how we handle the situation </i>--how we respond to the circumstances we're given. Here are three things I'm taking away from that morning about learning to trust my instincts (and, ultimately, myself):<br />
<ol>
<li><b>Do what you can and then let go.</b> Prepare appropriately. Beyond that, things are usually beyond your control.</li>
<li><b>Stay in the moment</b>. There's little point in anticipating disaster or berating yourself when things don't go as expected. In fact, either of these can cloud your ability to respond effectively if a plan does go off-course.</li>
<li><b>Use it as an opportunity to hone your instincts</b>. Sometimes we're so used to looking outside ourselves for "direction" that we neglect to develop our own capacity to listen to and guide ourselves. If I'd had my cell phone with me, I'd likely have used it to get directions by dialing the campus phone number I'd written down. But I didn't have it. I'd given myself enough travel time to know that I had a few minutes to test my instincts before I tried another tack, such as pulling over and asking for directions.</li>
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While I doubt that any of us actively want our plans to derail, it's bound to happen from time to time. The Trust-Your-Instincts muscle is one I want to develop and use more often. I'm aiming to be grateful for circumstances that give me that opportunity, as uncomfortable --oy!-- as they might be.<br />
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---<br />
Image by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/imarlon/4781967673/">I am marlon</a>, on Flickr. Used under a <a href="http://www.creativecommons.org/">Creative Commons license</a>.<br />
<br />Clarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04838656854709586779noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4505183424305481364.post-50771355363539849222011-07-06T06:38:00.014-04:002011-07-06T06:38:00.553-04:00Women Reading<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JYCQheQUJLw/Tg9x8xc3h4I/AAAAAAAABy0/x4l9HCHaAu0/s1600/HomerWinslow-TheNewNovel-1877.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="289" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JYCQheQUJLw/Tg9x8xc3h4I/AAAAAAAABy0/x4l9HCHaAu0/s640/HomerWinslow-TheNewNovel-1877.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>The New Novel</i> - 1877 - <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Winslow_Homer">Winslow Homer</a></span></td></tr>
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<div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I have a soft spot for paintings of women reading. It's hardly surprising. Reading is an obsession that I picked up very early. Like many other bookish kids, I loved everything about the experience. I eagerly anticipated my trips to the library and made a beeline for the "new arrivals" shelf when I walked in; I read the first paragraph of each book I thought I might borrow to see which would best suit my mood (I <i>still</i> do this); and I loved walking home with my week's stash, wondering which book I'd read first. I've been a bookworm ever since.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Century Gothic';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So you can see why I define myself as a reader. It's the first thing i say if I'm asked about my interests. It's followed closely by 'learning,' and the two are inseparable for me. Much of what I learned about the world as a child came from books, and as as I matured, I realized that books could also help me learn about myself.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> </span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Century Gothic';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I'm an introvert who found herself working in a field usually reserved for extroverts. Over time, I learned to use the extrovert's tools so proficiently that most people are surprised when I tell them that the role doesn't come naturally --or easily-- to me. Channeling an extrovert can leave me depleted, sometimes exhausted, and I often turn to books to renew my energy.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Over the years, I've collected print and digital images of readers, almost always women. It's been a popular motif for painters over the years --it's hard to think that women holding their electronic reading devices will strike the same chord for artists, but, hey, who knows? From time to time, I'll share some of my favorites with you in this blog. I hope you enjoy them as much as I do. <i>The New Novel</i>, above, is the first of these.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>Note</i>: The following appeared in <i>Popular Amusements,</i> a book by Rev. J.T. Crane. The book was published in 1869, only 8 years before Winslow Homer completed <i>The New Novel.</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> Here's the table of contents for the chapter "Novels and Novel-Reading." (Be warned, the "Seven Reasons Against Common Novel-Reading" make it pretty clear that reading a novel can ruin you for life.)</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-style: italic; line-height: 18px;">CHAPTER VIII</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"></span><br />
<div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-style: italic; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: center; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Novels and Novel-Reading</span><br />
<div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 15px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 15px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Definition of a Novel – A Vice of the Age – FOUR MAXIMS:<br />
1. No Fiction if Little Leisure<br />
2. Only the Best<br />
3. Fiction to be but Small Part<br />
4. If any Harm results, Stop at Once!</span></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 15px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">SEVEN REASONS AGAINST COMMON NOVEL-READING:<br />
1. Wastes Time<br />
2. Injures the Intellect<br />
3. Unfits for Real Life<br />
4. Creates Overgrowth of the Passions<br />
5. Produces Mental Intoxication<br />
6. Lessens the Horror of Crime and Wrong<br />
7. Wars with all Piety, Disciplinary Rule.</span></div></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 12px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 15px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><br />
</div></div>Clarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04838656854709586779noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4505183424305481364.post-79293174834622505852011-07-01T17:10:00.022-04:002011-07-01T18:02:27.801-04:00Learning to 'Stay On My Mat,' or, Listening with Intention<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-EMSpvTAzVis/Tg0bGkshvoI/AAAAAAAAByw/FguHKusQA1I/s1600/2011Jul1-OliYoung-Flickr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-EMSpvTAzVis/Tg0bGkshvoI/AAAAAAAAByw/FguHKusQA1I/s640/2011Jul1-OliYoung-Flickr.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
At some point during every yoga class, our teacher reminds us to 'stay on your mat; stay in the room.' More often than not, it's just what I need to hear at that moment. My <i>body</i> may be on the mat, but my <i>mind</i> is moving ahead to the assignment that's due the next day, or back to yesterday's dinner.<br />
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I'm finding that the longer I commit to living mindfully, the more often I have to prompt myself to 'stay on the mat.' I think it's because I'm more aware now of when I'm not in the moment --and for someone like me who likes bright, shiny objects, Not Being In The Moment is a regular event.<br />
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At first, I recognized this tendency to 'drift away' during times when I was alone. I'd be meditating, or working on a project in my studio, or like now, writing a blog post. One minute I was fully engaged; the next I was making a virtual grocery list. So I'd tug myself back to the cushion or the table or computer.<br />
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Then I started noticing the same behavior when I was with someone else. I like to think that this doesn't occur often, but it happens often enough that red flags are now going up automatically. I'm trying to see these flags as a good thing: an opportunity for positive change, even while I mourn in advance the decline of all the multi-tasking-in-my-head that I'm so fond of.<br />
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Maybe this happens to you, too. You might be having coffee with a friend, someone you care for and whose company you enjoy. She's telling you what seems to be an interminable story about taking her car in for repairs. If she were an on-air reporter covering a ballgame, she'd be doing both the play-by-play <i>and</i> the color. She's skipping no detail about her car's ailment. You're looking right at her, with what you hope is an interested gaze, but you stopped following the game long ago.<br />
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It's just as easy to leave the mat when the speaker isn't a friend. It can be the barista at the local coffee shop whom you don't know all that well, or a stranger with whom you struck up a conversation. You find yourself drifting, only half listening. Do we have any more or less of a responsibility to be on the mat with someone we're not close to?<br />
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[Before we go any further, let's acknowledge that we're only human, so this kind of thing --drifting off the mat, that is-- will happen. Often. Then some more. So no repeated banging of heads against walls when it does, please.]<br />
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As I was saying...Surely we're allowed a little 'drift,' right? It's not as if if the people we're talking to are saying something really<i> important</i>. If they were, then <i>of course</i> we'd listen more attentively.<br />
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But here's the problem with this thinking. Who are we to decide what is or isn't important to someone telling us his story? And more to the point, it's not whether a story is 'important' or not that matters. <b><i>What matters is the potential for grace that resides in every interaction we have with another person</i></b>.<br />
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If you're lucky, you've basked in this grace firsthand. You meet someone for the first time, perhaps only briefly, and walk away feeling a little more special than you did beforehand. What you experienced, most likely, was the effect of being with someone who was wholly present in the relationship while you were together. It's what people mention most often when they describe meeting charismatic individuals: the feeling that the other person's attention was focused completely on them, as if they were the only two people in the room.<br />
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Each of us has a fundamental desire to be truly seen and heard, to feel that who we are and what we say is valued. We may not always know exactly why we feel better when this happens, but we know we want to feel that way again.<br />
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Amazingly, we have the ability to give that same gift to others. And when we're truly <i>available </i>in a conversation, when we're fully present in the moment, we reap the rewards too. It's no longer just a car-repair story; it transforms into a story about connecting at a profound level with another human being, someone who wants to be acknowledged and valued, just as we do.<br />
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It takes great effort to approach our relationships this way, not to mention time and sensitivity to see the results. I know it'll take giant heaping doses of all three for me. Still, my investment in 'staying on the mat' in yoga keeps paying dividends, so it seems reasonable to trust this process too. As always, news at 11.<br />
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--<br />
<i>Image by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/oliyoung/16168741/">OliYoung, from Flickr</a>. Used under a <a href="http://www.creativecommons.org/">Creative Commons license</a>.</i></div>Clarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04838656854709586779noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4505183424305481364.post-76061884394184489892011-06-24T06:31:00.003-04:002011-06-24T13:44:18.309-04:00Seeing the Essential<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gyM-tSqcc_I/TgMweYrPTUI/AAAAAAAABxU/ECYDensLfPQ/s1600/2011June24-Vermin+Inc-Flickr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="452" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gyM-tSqcc_I/TgMweYrPTUI/AAAAAAAABxU/ECYDensLfPQ/s640/2011June24-Vermin+Inc-Flickr.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
In a drawing class I took last year, the teacher asked her students to draw the "essence" of an object. "It's difficult to do this well," she said. It's natural to want to tell everything we know about the object, and we do this by adding details. Instead, she wanted us convey the object's fundamental qualities with only a few strokes. Expressing the essence of a sword, for instance, might be about the motions of slicing the air and thrusting.<br />
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She was right about how hard it is to do this. My object was a rubber duck, the kind that amuses kids in the bathtub. Abstracting it to communicate its light-hearted playfulness was the most difficult assignment I had all semester.<br />
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As I worked through the exercise, I started to think about "essence" as it related to the people in my life. What if we saw only the essence of our friends, our partner, the neighbor down the street? What if we stripped away everything but the one pure aspect of their personality that best illuminates who they are.<br />
<br />
It's like that photo you're lucky enough to take every once in a blue moon. The one where your sister is crinkling her eyes in a look of intense, delighted, curiosity. The one that everyone who looks at it says "Oh, yeah. That's Annie! You really captured her --she's so interested in everything around her!" And what if it was your heightened awareness, instead of your camera, that recognized Annie's essence?<br />
<br />
Would we act differently with others if we had that gift of seeing the essential? If "caring" is your husband's defining trait, would you complain when he needs to be reminded to take out the garbage or would you focus on his unfailing kindness toward you when you're feeling blue? If a friend's essential quality is fear, would you substitute kindness and inquiry for your usual impatience? And if someone is characterized by rage, would you decide to step away from the relationship rather than endure it?<br />
<br />
And what about your own "essence" --the key quality that you project? How would others define it ? What do <i>you</i> think it is?<br />
<br />
--<br />
<i>Image by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/vermininc/3278662048/in/set-72157600042659427">Vermin Inc, from Flickr</a>. Used under a <a href="http://creativecommons.org/">Creative Commons license</a>.</i><br />
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</div>Clarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04838656854709586779noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4505183424305481364.post-68310660378014710202011-06-20T06:25:00.008-04:002011-06-23T07:10:30.024-04:00Wearing My Intentions<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8oiE2xn-IZU/TfuuwOqBNxI/AAAAAAAABxI/OXfQE37tl9Q/s1600/KVKNecklace20110617_0002WEB.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="295" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8oiE2xn-IZU/TfuuwOqBNxI/AAAAAAAABxI/OXfQE37tl9Q/s400/KVKNecklace20110617_0002WEB.gif" width="400" /></a></div>When I first started reading jewelry designer <a href="http://kathyvankleeck.com/">Kathy Van Kleeck</a>'s <a href="http://kathyvankleeck.blogspot.com/">blog</a>, long before I met her, she was living in another state far, far away. I loved her jewelry designs from the start, and was delighted to learn that she was planning to moving to my town(!)<br />
<br />
You'd think I would have reached out to her at that point, but hyper-introvert that I am, I didn't. She moved here, and I kept reading her blog. Still, I didn't introduce myself. You know... I didn't want to intrude. Well, maybe you don't know. Maybe you're a normal, friendly person who thinks it perfectly reasonable, if you've been reading someone's blog for months and months, and they move to your community, at least to leave a comment on their blog letting them know that you live there too. Yep. Makes sense. But I didn't do it.<br />
<br />
Lucky for me, we ended up taking a class together taught by a terrific mixed media artist and friend. I did introduce myself then (finally), and we spent some relaxed time talking. We had a number of things in common --a childhood in Florida, for one. She told me that she, too, was an introvert, although I never would have known (which is what people say about me when I tell them I'm not naturally social).<br />
<br />
Now we see each other regularly (I did take that follow-up step after the class to suggest we get together), and we have much more in common than those few things we talked about during the class. Often, we find ourselves talking about the rewards and mysteries of living a life with purpose, and how damn hard it can be to stay on track with our intentions. <br />
<br />
Among her collection Kathy has a series of delightful <a href="http://kathyvankleeck.com/talismans.html">Talismans</a>. Each piece combines elements that are touchstones for the wearer's journey. Kathy calls it "the path towards 'waking up'.". I like the 'look and feel' of these talismans, and I wanted to incorporate my own touchstones --in this case, three words that I chose as the focus of my attention for 2011.* I also wanted to include a symbol in which I've long found special meaning: a heart resting in an open palm.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Cvw-D06liuo/Tfuu0-HZnLI/AAAAAAAABxM/RiDcw-53lVU/s1600/KVKNecklace20110617_0004WEB.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Cvw-D06liuo/Tfuu0-HZnLI/AAAAAAAABxM/RiDcw-53lVU/s400/KVKNecklace20110617_0004WEB.gif" width="400" /></a></div><br />
You can see the results of Kathy's lovely work. I was enchanted when I saw what she'd created. I like how each element has its own integrity yet joins with the others to create a piece that is much more than the sum of the parts.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wWMnw89V9AA/Tfuu4JCa15I/AAAAAAAABxQ/qYey0-75qG8/s1600/KVKNecklace20110617_0014WEB.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="292" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wWMnw89V9AA/Tfuu4JCa15I/AAAAAAAABxQ/qYey0-75qG8/s400/KVKNecklace20110617_0014WEB.gif" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>I wear this necklace often, and routinely find myself reaching to clasp the pendants. It's become a natural gesture that keeps me mindful of what I most want to practice this year: choice, connection, and gratitude. The heart/hand pendant reminds me stay open: to what my heart is saying, to the people in my life, to new ideas and ways of doing things, to what I still need to learn.<br />
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And, of course, wearing a beautiful object handmade by a friend who crafted it with love and attention is a joy that can't be measured.<br />
<br />
----------<br />
<br />
* <a href="http://www.alifewithmeaning.com/2011/02/words-for-year-one-is-not-enough.html">(here's</a> what I said about the process of choosing my words for last year: 2010)<br />
<br />
---<br />
Images: Mine<br />
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</div>Clarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04838656854709586779noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4505183424305481364.post-72157423430850397852011-06-17T09:04:00.000-04:002011-06-17T09:04:28.108-04:00Making Sense (or Not)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-g0NO3RtTcZs/TfZEvMuhxHI/AAAAAAAABwA/DWS1kG_n1fA/s1600/2011June-morten+gade-Flickr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-g0NO3RtTcZs/TfZEvMuhxHI/AAAAAAAABwA/DWS1kG_n1fA/s1600/2011June-morten+gade-Flickr.jpg" /></a></div>You know how when you're thinking of buying a new car and you've done your research and have one in mind, suddenly you see that car everywhere?<br />
<br />
I wrote recently about <a href="http://www.alifewithmeaning.com/2011/06/power-of-living-with-ambiguity.html">making peace with not having all the answers</a>. I even managed to turn Woody Allen's <a href="http://www.alifewithmeaning.com/2011/06/midnight-in-paris.html">new film</a> into a meditation on embracing the uncertainties of the present instead of longing for the narrative of an idealized past. So, when I came across <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/dani-shapiro/women-wellbeing_b_870892.html">Dani Shapiro's post</a> at <i>HuffPost</i>, I couldn't help but see a huge neon <i>Lesson-Alert</i> sign.<br />
<br />
At a time when she faced major upheaval and uncertainty in her life, Shapiro lost her grounding. She found herself questioning everything. As a writer, she has a natural tendency to look for the narrative arc of her life, for the certainty of cause-and-effect, for chapters whose events resolve themselves neatly. Shouldn't life "make more sense?" Well, she decides, not necessarily:<br />
<blockquote>Sure, there are the fortunate few from whom the journey has thus far been smooth sailing, but for the vast majority of us, there are fits and starts, hiccups, confusion, mistakes, wrong turns, U-turns, graceless moments. Life's road is nothing if not strewn with pebbles, potholes, unexpected surprises, both happy and not-so-happy ones. As one of my dearest friends, the Buddhist teacher Sylvia Boorstein says, "We are always accommodating to a new situation." That ever-changing new situation is, in fact, what makes up the shape of our lives. And that shape assumes its own kind of integrity, over time. This is how it is, how it has been. <i>The truth of who we are is all we have to offer each other. </i>(my emphasis)</blockquote><blockquote>And so it seems that the answer may well be to embrace the complexity of our lives... We are all here, trying our best, muddling through. We make choices, we re-group, we deepen. We learn from each other. We all make sense.</blockquote>In other words, we may have to accept that the "answer," such as it is, is that there is no answer. Surprisingly, I find this strangely comforting -- and yes, admittedly, a little disquieting. And, that I suppose, is part of the lesson: that experiencing conflicting feelings is natural, and that watching those feelings shift over time is simply part of "accommodating to a new situation." <br />
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Don't know about you, but to badly mangle a <strike>metaphor</strike> simile, I suspect that this topic is like a car-buy that I'll be researching all my life.<br />
<br />
P.S. If you haven't read it, I recommend Shapiro's recent book, <a href="http://danishapiro.com/books/devotion/"><i>Devotion: a Memoir</i></a>. <br />
--<br />
<i>Image by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/mortengade/2213659069/">morten gade, at Flickr</a>. Used under a <a href="http://creativecommons.org/">Creative Commons license</a>.</i><br />
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</div>Clarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04838656854709586779noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4505183424305481364.post-37468292554221415432011-06-15T06:54:00.005-04:002011-06-17T09:10:12.217-04:00Midnight in Paris<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/WtDQBNBSAsU?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br />
I saw Woody Allen's <a href="http://www.sonyclassics.com/midnightinparis/"><i>Midnight in Paris</i></a> a few days ago. It opened in Paris while I was there, and because I knew it was set to open soon at home, I waited to see it. It felt right seeing it here, feeling a little wistful, like Allen's protagonist. Like Allen's <i>Manhattan</i>, <i>Midnight in Paris</i> is a valentine to a great city. And although I initially referred to it as a beautiful trifle, I've found myself thinking about the film over the past few days much more than a simple trifle would warrant.<br />
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Walking through present-day Paris, screenwriter and aspiring novelist Gil Pender pines for the '20s, the "Golden Age" when Paris was host to a coterie of artists and writers that included Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Gertrude Stein and Pablo Picasso. Gil idealizes this past, and, luckily for him, is able to transport himself there each night, courtesy of a magical taxi that appears at the stroke of midnight.<br />
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Allen has great fun with this part of the film, and there are some wonderful set pieces as Gil hits the high spots with Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald and Ernest Hemingway, and has his novel critiqued by "Gert." (Owen Wilson is terrific as Gil, by the way. He gives the character a warmth and charm that perfectly suits the tone of the film).<br />
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The present day holds little allure for Gil. He's dragged around Paris by his shallow, materialistic fiancée Inez, who belittles him, dismisses his artistic efforts, and deceives him with the pedantic professor husband of a friend. Allen doesn't hide the contempt he feels for her or for her equally repulsive parents and the obnoxious professor (a fun turn by Michael Sheen). In a film as generous as this one, this disdain could be jarring, but Allen gives the parents and the professor such hilarious dialogue and uses them so well as foils for Gil's good nature that it doesn't ring false.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
So what does this have to do with intentional living? The more I thought about the movie, the more taken I was with how cleverly Allen reveals his themes, and in a story that revolves around time, how timeless they are. <br />
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I suspect that most of us bump up against these issues regularly. I know I do. Not about moving to Paris, of course (although I never rule that out ;-), but about listening closely to my heart first when I'm looking for answers; about gratefully embracing my life just as it is; and about pursuing my own dreams, not anyone else's. And because the story is packaged in a box of bonbons (I still have these on the brain from Paris!), Allen isn't heavy-handed about "messages."<br />
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By film's end, Gil has broken his engagement and decided to move to Paris and write. He sees that idealizing the past is a dead end. Certainly, it's kept him from from appreciating the present. The catalyst for his decision is his love interest from the 20s, Adriana (a perfect Marion Cotillard), with whom, in a story-within-a-story, he time-travels to the turn of the 19th century. The Belle Époque is Adriana's ideal, <i>her</i> "golden age." She decides to stay, and wants Gil to stay with her. Gil's response is Allen's argument for the value of living in one's own time, but Adriana doesn't buy it, and Gil returns to the modern day alone.<br />
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Romantic love, Allen seems to say, isn't sufficient reason to give up a moment in time that's unique to you, a present that invites your dreams for the future.<br />
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He also suggests that Gil's focus on the past kept him in mayor denial about the truth of his relationship with Inez. There's an echo of this when Gertrude Stein tells him that she and Hemingway think his novel shows real promise. But hey were surprised, she says. that the novel's hero doesn't realize that his fiancée is sleeping with the "pedantic professor."<br />
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When Gil tells Inez and her parents that he's staying in Paris and not getting married, Allen lets us know, with a throw-away line, that this isn't just another version of Gil's idealization of Paris. If he should find later that Paris isn't right for him, Gil says, he'll leave. We understand that he's staying because it's the right place for him right now, not because he's compelled by a romantic notion.<br />
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It's not that Allen is mining deep ground here --it's not the nature of a film as ethereal as this one. But he's smart about getting both Gil and and the audience where he wants us to be. <i>Midnight in Paris</i> is a wonderful film --not a <i>great</i> one, but a delight nonetheless. And, although it took me a few days to realize it, it's a thoughtful one, too.<br />
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</div>Clarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04838656854709586779noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4505183424305481364.post-53055511557301280372011-06-13T07:52:00.001-04:002011-06-13T10:11:53.798-04:00The Power of Living with Ambiguity<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-r0YTSJzTB1s/TfOCd8kqN-I/AAAAAAAABv0/7s58Ma4GK1k/s1600/2011June13-AnUntrainedEye-Flickr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-r0YTSJzTB1s/TfOCd8kqN-I/AAAAAAAABv0/7s58Ma4GK1k/s1600/2011June13-AnUntrainedEye-Flickr.jpg" /></a></div><br />
For over three months now, David Robinson has been writing a series of daily posts on his web site, <a href="http://www.thedirectionofintention.com/"><i>The Direction of Intention</i></a>, about recognizing the power within ourselves. David is an artist, a life coach, and the business partner of the equally multi-talented <a href="http://www.37days.com/">Patti Digh</a>.<br />
<br />
One of David's <a href="http://thedirectionofintention.com/2011/06/11/truly-powerful-people-92/">recent posts</a> refers to the importance of embracing ambiguity: <br />
<blockquote>Stepping back into your self requires some comfort with ambiguity, the capacity to stand firmly within paradox. You have to release what you think you are in order to inhabit who you really are.</blockquote>Ambiguity is something I've never been good at. In fact, if I had to make a list of things that make me anxious, ambiguity would pretty much top the list. It's not surprising, given that I've built a career and a life on "getting it right" and "doing it perfectly." Ambiguity, as in <span class="ResultBodyBlack"><b></b></span><span class="ResultBody">a situation in which something can be understood in more than one way, doesn't have a place in either approach.</span><br />
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As a recovering perfectionist and a long-time believer in the theory of The One Right Answer, I keep having to curb my instinct to make quick judgments so that I can move on to the next thing, or conversely, my tendency not to act until I have all the answers. In short, I'm trying to live with ambiguity.<br />
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It's like being accustomed to walking down a well-lit path when, suddenly, all the lights are dimmed. And, oh, you're not allowed to run. In fact, because you can't see where you're going as well as you did in the past, you have to walk more slowly. And you have to trust your instincts more, instead of relying on the touchstones along the way.<br />
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It's a whole new way of <a href="http://www.alifewithmeaning.com/2011/06/travel-re-entry.html">traveling</a>. It requires a lot of trust, mostly in yourself. And that's the big payoff, actually: that as you rely less on the external markers --the "experts," whether people or things-- you start listening to yourself more, gaining confidence along the way. As my friend Davis says:<br />
<blockquote>You come to see yourself not as fixed, a single identity, but fluid, an ongoing relationship (many identities). When you are ready to cease seeking your power from others you have the capacity to see your power within your self. In fact, you cease seeing power as something possessed by one and not by another. You see power in everything and everyone. You see.</blockquote><br />
The best reward --at least for ambiguity-averse people like me-- is learning to trust the process, whether tending a garden, creating a business plan, nurturing a friendship, writing a book, or raising a child. It's the relief that comes from acknowledging that not having all the answers is o.k. (talk about alien concepts!). I'm learning that confusion and conflict and, yes, ambiguity, are not something to fear or run from, but to accept and treat kindly, bewildering as that sometimes feels.<br />
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Geesh this is hard. What's your relationship to ambiguity? <br />
<br />
<i> --</i><br />
<i>Image by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/an_untrained_eye/5676018807/in/photostream/">an untrained eye, in Flickr</a>. Used under a <a href="http://www.creativecommons.org/">Creative Commons license</a>.</i></div>Clarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04838656854709586779noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4505183424305481364.post-73838741312180555222011-06-10T06:51:00.002-04:002011-06-10T06:51:00.501-04:00Travel Re-Entry<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-r2Z4u4cMh-M/TfD1mFiFGpI/AAAAAAAABvg/x_3zTiw7lIc/s1600/2011May10-jah%257EFlckr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="521" id=":current_picnik_image" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jitotXpHO8g/TfD2kI6qiuI/AAAAAAAABvw/7i2hwWxxeCk/s640/14527200351_FTgvQ.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Returning home from a long trip tends to disorient me for a few days, leaving me in a kind of limbo. As I try to step into my usual routines, the place I left continues to tug at my emotions. This time, re-entry seems to be taking longer than usual and some of the feelings are both new and more intense.<br />
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</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">This is my third day back, so I can't attribute my liminal state only to jet lag. I spent three weeks in France, the last 9 days on my own in Paris. For me, there's something about solo travel that demands extra energy. Sometimes this is physical, but most of the time it's psychic. Without another person to filter experiences through, I'm invited (or forced, depending on your outlook) to process everything on my own, and while that can be exhilarating, it can also be draining.</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">My time in Paris was heavy on the processing, since I made a conscious choice to "wander" rather than "sightsee." I'm finding that the more I travel for pleasure, the less I "do," and, as a result, the more I enjoy the experience. I did catch one museum exhibition and visited one historic site, but mostly I strolled through neighborhoods. I scouted out vest-pocket parks (a true Parisian art form) for lunching and people-watching, and did surprisingly little planning, other than to decide which part of the city to Metro or walk to each day.</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I don't know whether it's simply the way I'm built, or whether others have similar responses, but traveling in this way --I suppose you could call it "slow travel"-- heightens my senses. When I'm not rushing to get to the next place or focusing on what I'm supposed to be learning, I seem to take more in. And this taking in, and ruminating about it (I'm nothing if not a ruminator) left me feeling pretty emotionally depleted by the end of the day --a <i>good</i> kind of depleted, if you know what I mean. I found that I needed LOTS of sleep and that, unusual for a morning person like me, I had a tough time getting going in the mornings.</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">But wait. Wasn't I talking about re-entry? This time around, I'm feeling as if everything is a bit muffled, as if I'm participating in some sort of test that requires me to walk around with a blanket over my head. That's the physical part (the dregs of the jet lag) but there's this other stuff going on that seems more existential. Damned if I know exactly what it is, but it has something to do with 1) yearning for somewhere/something else vs. what I have here and now, and 2) wondering about the value of what I'm doing in the here and now.</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Yeah, I know, it's not exactly rocket science that returning from a trip may spark these type of feelings. And yes, at one level, it's pretty banal. On the other hand --and I'm one of those people for whom there's always another hand-- maybe it's not such a bad thing for these emotions to bubble up right now. What's that Zen adage about the teacher appearing when the student is ready?</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">It's also possible that my efforts to live more intentionally, as hit-or-miss as they sometimes seem, may be pushing these thoughts and feelings to the surface (I envision a tiny gnome yielding an even tinier stickpin, prodding away -- don't ask me why).</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">So rather than fight the discomfort, I'll invite it in and see where the conversation leads, hoping for a little more clarity. Writing this post is a step in that direction.<br />
<br />
Does travel throw you for an emotional loop? If it does, how do you handle it?</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><i style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Image by<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/jahdakinebrah/5482393007/in/photostream/"> jah~ at Flickr.</a> Used under a <a href="http://creativecommons.org/">Creative Commons License</a>.</span></i></div>Clarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04838656854709586779noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4505183424305481364.post-37308450449079564962011-05-09T06:52:00.003-04:002011-05-09T09:08:04.596-04:00Simplicity: There's No App for That<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ECwFCxA4U7Y/TcPhiRN7P3I/AAAAAAAABvI/tHkspzJsa1E/s1600/2011May9-Ampersand-F.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ECwFCxA4U7Y/TcPhiRN7P3I/AAAAAAAABvI/tHkspzJsa1E/s400/2011May9-Ampersand-F.jpg" width="400" /></a> If you read <a href="http://www.alifewithmeaning.com/2011/05/simplifying-your-life.html">my last post</a>, I've been ruminating recently on what it means to 'live more simply.' This has been front and center over the last few days as I've grown increasingly fixated on my husband's new iPad. I hadn't paid much attention to it until he offered to let me take it on my upcoming vacation. He suggested that it would be lighter to carry than my laptop, and since this is a leisure rather than a business trip, the iPad's touch-pad keyboard should adequately meet my needs.<br />
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It took me less than a couple of hours of getting acquainted with this new <strike>time-sucker</strike> technological marvel before I discovered the world of iPad apps (as in 'applications'). There are, I kid you not, a gazillion of them. OK, I exaggerate. But only slightly. The more I thought about it, the longer the list of apps I knew I had to have to make my trip easier (and better).<br />
<br />
<br />
I have now downloaded to the iPad one-and-a-half screens of postage-sized images, representing these apps. This is <i>in addition</i> to the couple of screens that my husband already has saved. Among my "must-haves" are 1) an app with maps of the places I'll be visiting; 2) an app for making lists and writing notes to myself on the fly; 3) an app in case I want to blog while I'm away; 4) a meditation app with a timer that will chime after a fixed number of minutes; and 5) an app with soothing nature sounds in case I can't get to sleep at night. Then there's the TED app, in case I feel the need to be motivated to do something world-changing while I'm away; the app that will let me Photoshop my photos on the go; and the one that aggregates and continually updates every news source known to man.<br />
<br />
I suspect that the only thing that might justify the amount of time I've spent app-searching would be spending the next two years circling the globe while I use them. If you make your own list of things that would have been more useful for me to be doing instead of this, anything on your list will be a better choice.<br />
<br />
So what does this have to do with simplicity?<br />
<br />
I started doing this --cross my heart-- because I figured it would help make the things I already do more efficient. For example, I'm a list-maker. I figure it's better to keep my list of, say, places to visit, electronically instead of on ticket stubs and napkins that I'm bound to lose. Too, the geographically challenged me won't have to carry maps; and an alarm clock app might well come in handy. <br />
<br />
Just about everything else, though, adds to, rather than simplifies, my days. If I made a point of using all the other apps over the course of my trip, I'd be doing nothing but reading news media from around the world, watching TED talks, looking at photos on Flickr, blogging, making lists and organizing them into neat virtual folders, Skype-ing, keeping up with Friends on Facebook, and Photoshopping whatever meager amount of photos I managed to take in the moments between visits to the iPad.<br />
<br />
It strikes me that there are two related things going on here. One is about efficiency, which may or may not have anything to do with living life more simply; the other is about adding to, rather than subtracting --the latter, after all, is the object of simplifying one's life.<br />
<br />
I've been taught to believe that if I can make a task more efficient, my life will be less complicated. It sounds reasonable. If it usually takes an hour to do something and a new process whittles the task down to 30 minutes, you've saved half an hour, right?<br />
<br />
My news aggregator app does that. If each morning I were to read the major stories in every major newspaper in the world, it might take me --let's just pick a number-- 17 hours. Having all of those stories on one screen, as this app allows, might let me read them in, say, 11 hours.<br />
<br />
The thing is, at home I never read all the world's major newspapers. What's more, on past vacations I usually make it a point to read only newspapers from the area in which I'm traveling, a habit I find fun, interesting, and relaxing.<br />
<br />
The moral, it seems, is that efficiency alone does you no good if, simultaneously, you're adding content. It doesn't matter if it's good content<i> --great</i> content, even. The result is More, and More and Simple are not good companions.<br />
<br />
Adding stuff to our lives life almost never simplifies them. OK, meditation and massages may be an exception (but even then we probably have to drop --subtract-- something to do them regularly). Downloading that news aggregator app, I realize now, will only make me feel guilty for Not Keeping Up (yep, NKU: a leading American malady). The symptoms will start right after I open the app and, feeling overwhelmed with all the offerings, delete the entire screen's contents.<br />
<br />
If instead, I became fully absorbed with global goings-on and spent the next six hours reading those articles, I'd feel even worse. I would have missed out on the stroll or the music or the trees or the art or the conversation or the little girl dancing to the music of a street band (during my last trip).<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qSGC60DCcQg/Tcfmu-x_fPI/AAAAAAAABvM/_BEzXuq_4Pc/s1600/France2010-Marais5-Dancing-Cropped.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qSGC60DCcQg/Tcfmu-x_fPI/AAAAAAAABvM/_BEzXuq_4Pc/s400/France2010-Marais5-Dancing-Cropped.jpg" width="250" /></a></div><br />
I feel a metaphor coming on about adding apps being like cluttering your life with unwanted and unneeded busy-ness, but it's not that black-and-white. Some of the apps will, in fact, <i>subtract</i> the unnecessary and unwanted. They'll soften the longing I feel for the people I love most by keeping me connected to them, they'll relieve my confusion by helping me find that bookstore that I read about, and they'll reduce my fear of over-sleeping and missing my train.<br />
<br />
I suppose the metaphor, if there is one, is about being thoughtful and intentional about what we bring into our lives. Which requires, of course, that we be very clear about what we value and most desire for ourselves. There should be an app for that...<br />
<br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Top Image by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/kgrocki/4369860273/">Kevin Grocki on Flickr</a>, used under a <a href="http://www.creativecommons.org/">Creative Commons License</a>. </span></i><br />
<br />
</div>Clarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04838656854709586779noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4505183424305481364.post-80396046336596215652011-05-04T09:38:00.003-04:002011-05-04T13:34:25.391-04:00Simplifying Your Life?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eXwk4opWJrk/TcFMF_GaAPI/AAAAAAAABvE/ChTNnQNOltg/s1600/2011May5-Rocks-Flckr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="280" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eXwk4opWJrk/TcFMF_GaAPI/AAAAAAAABvE/ChTNnQNOltg/s640/2011May5-Rocks-Flckr.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
If my conversations, in person and online, are any indication, I'm not the only one who wants to live a simpler life. It's easy to understand why. Our days seem increasingly complicated, our choices more difficult. Every decision seems to have more moving parts, each piece more intricate than the last, even as technology is supposed to be making things less complicated and more intuitive.<br />
<br />
As we look for a path that feels right for us, it's sometimes hard to remember which came first, our desire for simplicity or the marketing machine that, depending on how you look at it, either feeds it or created it.<br />
<br />
I remember asking this question the first time that I picked up a copy of the magazine <a href="http://www.realsimple.com/magazine-more/index.html"><i>Real Simple</i></a>. Over the years, <i>Real Simple</i> has become a <a href="http://bit.ly/jZJphg">wildly popular </a>"lifestyle" publication. Its tag line is "life made easier," and its articles aim to help readers streamline their lives -- that is, make them simpler. Advice ranges from the most efficient way to iron a shirt to how to organize our closets, to how to buy the perfect pair of black pants.<br />
<br />
As helpful as some of the advice can be, it doesn't take long to realize that much of it is linked directly to consumerism. Paradoxically, <i>Real Simple's</i> advice for "simplifying" regularly depends on buying something. If you want to spend less time ironing those shirts, or want to skip ironing altogether, you'll appreciate the half-dozen little-or-no-iron shirts in the article's sidebar; organizing your closet is so much easier if you have the right equipment: note the racks and dividers featured for the reader's convenience; buying the perfect pair of black pants requires that you -- uh -- buy a pair of black pants.<br />
<br />
I'm not singling out <i>Real Simple</i> because I think it's a bad magazine, or because it's alone in its mission (it's not). In fact, I'm a subscriber, and I do find some of its articles useful. But I never forget (really, they don't let me) that it subsists on advertising, and that those advertisers buy space in the magazine because they believe that <i>Real Simple's</i> readers are the kind of people who will buy their products.<br />
<br />
All of which is a long way 'round to the question: what does living one's life more simply mean, anyway?<br />
<br />
For me, living with less -- as in with fewer things -- is what first comes to mind. But this doesn't seem to jibe with the business world's interpretation. Simplicity is now a "lifestyle concept," with its own brand and demographic, and a corresponding list of products (color-coded clothes hangers) and experiences (exotic yoga retreats). It's a world in which, if you believe the <strike>hype</strike> messages, living with less requires buying more.<br />
<br />
Of course, there's more to simplifying our lives than cutting back on the number of physical objects that surround us. We can clear out mental clutter by, say, limiting our use of technology (checking our email only at certain times of the day, or disconnecting altogether periodically); cultivate spirituality by starting a meditation practice; or prioritize something we care deeply about but have neglected, whether writing or weaving or volunteering. (Naturally, there's an app for those. But that's another story.)<br />
<br />
Here's the thing, though. However we choose to uncomplicate our lives, what's important is that our choices and our process reflect or own values and our own needs, not those of advertisers, "experts," or the media. It's worth consuming a healthy pinch of salt with the advice of anyone whose main purpose is to capitalize on a trend. As a bumper sticker I saw last week opined: "Critical Thinking: The Other National Deficit."<br />
<br />
Are you trying to simplify your life? How are you going about it? What's helping?<br />
<br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Image by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/artbystevejohnson/4768197710/">MinimalistPhotography101.com, at Flickr</a>. Used under a <a href="http://www.creativecommons.org/">Creative Commons License.</a></span></i><br />
<br />
</div>Clarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04838656854709586779noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4505183424305481364.post-23280540994659458302011-04-29T06:48:00.005-04:002011-04-29T06:48:00.909-04:00National Poetry Month: The Ponds<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Vkb2E8vjfPc/TbnF9NW-b2I/AAAAAAAABuo/XbHlrcXWadE/s1600/2011Apr30-WaterLillies-MattJP-F.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Vkb2E8vjfPc/TbnF9NW-b2I/AAAAAAAABuo/XbHlrcXWadE/s640/2011Apr30-WaterLillies-MattJP-F.jpg" width="640" /></a><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> I<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">'ve been thinking a lot about imperfection, how striving for it rarely brings anything other than distress and frustration. We should know better (well, let's just say that </span><i style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I</i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> should know better). Perfection, after all, is a Platonic ideal, and <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8x8Ix7xPkkk">like that green light</a> at the end of Daisy's dock in <i>The Great Gatsby</i>, it's unreachable, unattainable. And more important, it's not real. The time we spend seeking illusion is time lost.</span></span><br />
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> </div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> </div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">The words Mary Oliver uses to describe the lillies in this poem (yep, <a href="http://bit.ly/muCm3y">another</a> <a href="http://bit.ly/fTR6dI">one</a>) --"lopsided," "slumped," "unstoppable decay"-- stand in for our "difficult world." But along with these imperfections there's light, lots of it. Brings to mind the words of Leonard Cohen's gorgeous song, <i><a href="http://www.alifewithmeaning.com/2011/04/national-poetry-month-anthem.html">Anthem</a></i>: "there is a crack in everything; that's how the light gets in." Amen to that.</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><b>The Ponds</b></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Every year<br />
the lilies<br />
are so perfect<br />
I can hardly believe</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">their lapped light crowding<br />
the black,<br />
mid-summer ponds.<br />
Nobody could count all of them –</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">the muskrats swimming<br />
among the pads and the grasses<br />
can reach out<br />
their muscular arms and touch</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">only so many, they are that<br />
rife and wild.<br />
But what in this world<br />
is perfect?</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I bend closer and see<br />
how this one is clearly lopsided –<br />
and that one wears an orange blight –<br />
and this one is a glossy cheek</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">half nibbled away –<br />
and that one is a slumped purse<br />
full of its own<br />
unstoppable decay.</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Still, what I want in my life<br />
is to be willing<br />
to be dazzled –<br />
to cast aside the weight of facts</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">and maybe even<br />
to float a little<br />
above this difficult world.<br />
I want to believe I am looking</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">into the white fire of a great mystery.<br />
I want to believe that the imperfections are nothing –<br />
that the light is everything — that it is more than the sum<br />
of each flawed blossom rising and fading. And I do.</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">--Mary Oliver</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Image by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/mattphipps/3796659485/">MattJP, on Flickr</a>, used under a <a href="http://creativecommons.org/">Creative Commons License</a>.</i></span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> </div></div>Clarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04838656854709586779noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4505183424305481364.post-91733191905268604282011-04-27T06:41:00.003-04:002011-04-27T06:41:00.526-04:00National Poetry Month: Peonies<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I've been reading Mary Oliver's latest book of poems, <a href="http://www.powells.com/biblio/1-9780807068991-0">Swan.</a> With her images and rhythms in my mind, it's hard to resist her words when it's time to offer a new poem for National Poetry Month. So I won't.<br />
<br />
Peonies, to me, are the most ephemeral of flowers, and Oliver captures "their eagerness to be wild and perfect for a moment" exactly. Whatever today brings, "cherish your humble and silky life." <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-K3NLcAQgQ7o/TbORWGRM4cI/AAAAAAAABuk/5vPli1YuDZo/s1600/2011Apr27-Peony-Muffet-F.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="441" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-K3NLcAQgQ7o/TbORWGRM4cI/AAAAAAAABuk/5vPli1YuDZo/s640/2011Apr27-Peony-Muffet-F.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><b>Peonies</b><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Do you love this world?<br />
Do you cherish your humble and silky life?<br />
Do you adore the green grass, with its terror beneath?</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Do you also hurry, half-dressed and barefoot, into the garden,<br />
and softly,<br />
and exclaiming of their dearness,<br />
fill your arms with the white and pink flowers,</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">with their honeyed heaviness, their lush trembling,<br />
their eagerness<br />
to be wild and perfect for a moment, before they are<br />
nothing, forever?</div><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-style: italic;">-</span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">-Mary Oliver</span><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br />
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span></div><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Image by</span><a href="http://flic.kr/p/6yo75C" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> Muffet, at Flickr</a><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">, used under a Creative Commons License.</span></span><br />
</span></div>Clarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04838656854709586779noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4505183424305481364.post-63664155490824295872011-04-26T06:59:00.018-04:002011-04-26T06:59:00.882-04:00National Poetry Month: Daffodils<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Last fall we planted daffodil bulbs in the front and back yards of our new home. It's an annual tradition since we moved to this part of the country, and I think of it as one of our most hopeful acts of the year. We know we won't see the results for many months, but the daffodils haven't let us down yet.</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">When we wake each morning, we see the backyard daffodils from our bedroom window: the different varieties living companionably with each other and with the neighboring blooms.</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Daffodils also line the walk when we step out the front door. I think of them as the spring's welcoming committee. We've been in this house a full year now, and I've never felt as truly at home as i do here. Gratitude comes naturally when the daffodils are in bloom.</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Thanks to Dominique Browning of <a href="http://www.slowlovelife.com/2011/04/daffodil-time.html">Slow Love Life</a> for reminding me of Wordsworth's lovely poem.</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Sky49UmZcoc/TbN7UmP4f8I/AAAAAAAABuc/kL3DEjtWsHc/s1600/BackyardSpring2011-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CgSC4gq8uM4/TbN7Vo10CjI/AAAAAAAABug/SRH0yhP_QtQ/s1600/BackyardSpring2011-5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" id=":current_picnik_image" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CgSC4gq8uM4/TbN7Vo10CjI/AAAAAAAABug/SRH0yhP_QtQ/s400/BackyardSpring2011-5.jpg" width="300" /></a><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Sky49UmZcoc/TbN7UmP4f8I/AAAAAAAABuc/kL3DEjtWsHc/s400/BackyardSpring2011-3.jpg" width="281" /></div><br />
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><b></b></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><b></b></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><b>DAFFODILS</b></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I wandered lonely as a cloud</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">That floats on high o'er vales and hills,</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">When all at once I saw a crowd,</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">A host, of golden daffodils;</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Beside the lake, beneath the trees,</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Continuous as the stars that shine</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">And twinkle on the milky way,</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">They stretched in never-ending line</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Along the margin of a bay:</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Ten thousand saw I at a glance,</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">The waves beside them danced; but they</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">A poet could not but be gay,</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">In such a jocund company:</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I gazed--and gazed--but little thought</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">What wealth the show to me had brought:</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">For oft, when on my couch I lie</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">In vacant or in pensive mood,</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">They flash upon that inward eye</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Which is the bliss of solitude;</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">And then my heart with pleasure fills,</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">And dances with the daffodils.</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 19px;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">--William Wordsworth</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><i>Image: Mine, Spring 2011 </i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 19px;"></span></div>Clarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04838656854709586779noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4505183424305481364.post-57462358862838310012011-04-25T06:37:00.002-04:002011-04-25T15:12:47.687-04:00National Poetry Month: Tomato<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><b></b><br />
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Nope, I don't eat tomatoes, but I was captivated by this poem.</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">In honor of National Poetry Month, because we can never have enough good poetry in the world.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-B4IHHK2InaE/TbNvjtNCq-I/AAAAAAAABuY/4zd9MFSaWTc/s1600/2011Apr24-Tomato-Muffet-F.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="399" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-B4IHHK2InaE/TbNvjtNCq-I/AAAAAAAABuY/4zd9MFSaWTc/s400/2011Apr24-Tomato-Muffet-F.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<b> <span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Tomato</span></b><br />
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: left;"> Tomato in my salad bowl</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> Is all there is.</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> Big as a watermelon,</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">big as the art,</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">big as my mind.</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> Glistening, shining, with</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">time's still rush,</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> We're locked together</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">for this part of eternity,</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> Tomato and me.</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> I feel taken into</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">the cherry roundness,</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> orange redness,</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">it's fact of existing.</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> I've never known</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">a tomato</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">quite like this.</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> This could go on a long time,</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> It's so compelling.</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> I'm becoming a tomato,</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> Tomato me.</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> Who'll blink first, me or tomato?</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> It is said that</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">"Freedom is not needing to know what comes next."</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> I eat it.</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> Then,</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I notice a leaf of lettuce.</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">--Donald Rothberg</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Image by </span><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/calliope/225163695/" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Muffet, at Flickr</a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">, used under a </span><a href="http://creativecommons.org/" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Creative Commons License</a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">.</span></i></span></div>Clarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04838656854709586779noreply@blogger.com1