May you yourself, O God of life,
Be at my breast, be at my back,
You to me as a star, you to me as a guide,
From my life's beginning to my life's closing.
- From a Celtic prayer
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
something from last November
Into The Mirror
We put our clocks back a few weeks ago, which means the US and the UK are now 5 hours apart again instead of 4. What a concept: Space, time, and the mind. Where are we really? Our we where our bodies are, or are we where we choose to direct our thoughts?
It's been an interesting year. Since my birthday is on the 1st day of the New Year, I feel an undercurrent of time shifting from January to January. It's been a philosophical year, with more questions than answers.
And it's not always easy to form the questions either! If I have a picture in my head and not just a list of vocabulary words mashed together in a sentence, than I can grasp a new concept, but so often this year I've only managed a quick glimpse now and then before the mist descends, and I'm left groping along with outstretched hands.
There's one phrase that keeps coming back to me: Walk away from the mirror. As a child, did you ever play a game with the 'You-in-the-mirror', pretending that this was a friend or a twin behind the window, but when you try to touch them your hands can't meet, but are kept apart no matter how hard you press against the glass? And the mirror world looks so much more interesting than this one; familiar, but with the potential of holding unseen treasures.
I realized one day that there's only one way to get into the mirror, and that's to walk away FROM the mirror. In your mind's eye keep a video camera trained on the mirror as you do. What does your mind-camera see? It sees you turn, and then it sees your image...WALK INTO THE MIRROR.
Well, what of it? It's a metaphor for something else, and for me what I've learned this year is I have to stop finding my sense of self through people. To really know myself, and to know anyone else for that matter, I have to lift the burden I've place on others of making me a complete person. To have what I need, I have to give up what I want. I have to walk away from the mirror to get into the mirror.
When I put it in words like that, all my clear thinking seems to go to pieces! I know the difference inside of me though. I'm not thrown off balance as easily by what people do, because my center of support is more on my own feet and less on the shoulders of others.
'Quest' seems too lofty a word, but it's certainly been a year of exploration.
We put our clocks back a few weeks ago, which means the US and the UK are now 5 hours apart again instead of 4. What a concept: Space, time, and the mind. Where are we really? Our we where our bodies are, or are we where we choose to direct our thoughts?
It's been an interesting year. Since my birthday is on the 1st day of the New Year, I feel an undercurrent of time shifting from January to January. It's been a philosophical year, with more questions than answers.
And it's not always easy to form the questions either! If I have a picture in my head and not just a list of vocabulary words mashed together in a sentence, than I can grasp a new concept, but so often this year I've only managed a quick glimpse now and then before the mist descends, and I'm left groping along with outstretched hands.
There's one phrase that keeps coming back to me: Walk away from the mirror. As a child, did you ever play a game with the 'You-in-the-mirror', pretending that this was a friend or a twin behind the window, but when you try to touch them your hands can't meet, but are kept apart no matter how hard you press against the glass? And the mirror world looks so much more interesting than this one; familiar, but with the potential of holding unseen treasures.
I realized one day that there's only one way to get into the mirror, and that's to walk away FROM the mirror. In your mind's eye keep a video camera trained on the mirror as you do. What does your mind-camera see? It sees you turn, and then it sees your image...WALK INTO THE MIRROR.
Well, what of it? It's a metaphor for something else, and for me what I've learned this year is I have to stop finding my sense of self through people. To really know myself, and to know anyone else for that matter, I have to lift the burden I've place on others of making me a complete person. To have what I need, I have to give up what I want. I have to walk away from the mirror to get into the mirror.
When I put it in words like that, all my clear thinking seems to go to pieces! I know the difference inside of me though. I'm not thrown off balance as easily by what people do, because my center of support is more on my own feet and less on the shoulders of others.
'Quest' seems too lofty a word, but it's certainly been a year of exploration.
A Jungian 'Tristan & Iseult'
I'm reading a wonderful book which tells, and makes extensive commentary on, that most Celtic of all stories, 'Tristan & Iseult'.
I've gotten this far:
Two things are required for a hero: a sword and a harp. With the sword a hero approaches the world aggressively, takes control of the situation, takes a strong position, defeats the adversary. It symbolizes the mind, the discriminating intellect that divides and analyzes. It figuratively "cuts through" problems and ideas to understand them; it represents our logical, critical faculty.
There are times we need to be assertive and strong, but there are also times when neither logic nor force will avail; then we need to turn to the harp.
The harp represents the power to develop a sense of values, to affirm what its good and true, to appreciate the beautiful; the harp enables the hero to put the sword in the service of the noble ideal. To be complete, the hero must have both. Without the sword, the harp becomes ineffectual, but without the harp, the sword is reduced to self-focused brute force. People confuse these two powers more in relationship than in any other area of human life. We often hear a man and woman trying to "settle things" by arguing, criticizing, poking holes in each other's arguments, splitting hairs. Then they wonder why all the spontaneous feeling of warmth and love has gone from their time together! These kind of negotiations are always "sword" activities.
The sword cannot build relationships, settle anything, or bind together. It can only rip apart. To heal and build relationship, we must use the language of the harp, giving respect, expressing love, feeling, and devotion. The harp heals and binds together, the sword wounds and cuts asunder.
There comes a time in life when wielding the sword, or rather, operating on the strengths of the intellect alone, doesn't provide all the answers. We don't know enough, we don't have enough resources to resolve an impossible situation. At that point we need to let go, stop trying to force things to happen, or control others, or even ourselves, and step back and wait on the natural flow of the universe.
To enter a boat without oar or sail, taking only the harp, means to wait patiently, listen to a soft voice within for wisdom that comes not from logic or action, but from intuition, the lyrical inner poet who writes from a heart full of feeling and not from the head.
We see Tristan cast upon the sea. We hear the sound of the harp floating above the waves. Drawn by a power that is high above his understanding, Tristan comes at last to Ireland. And there Iseult awaits him.
I took a class in Medieval History in highschool, and it was then that I read Tristan & Iseult. I think it was a bit wasted on me, and probably on most of us there, because in spite of being a love story, it isn't a young person's story. Tristan and Iseult are in their 40's when the events take place, and generations of teenagers have scratched their heads over that one. What would someone in their 40's know about love?? The recent movie with Sophia Myles made the mistake of departing from the centuries-old story by casting youthful leads, which turned it into another "teen" romance, and ultimately a flop at the box office.
It's about love to be sure, but even more so it's about discovering what we lack in ourselves, as well as rediscovering the strengths that we have. I think it was Picasso who stated that we have to grow old before we can be young.
At any rate, I'm getting a lot more from the story this time around then I did close to 30 years ago.
I've gotten this far:
Two things are required for a hero: a sword and a harp. With the sword a hero approaches the world aggressively, takes control of the situation, takes a strong position, defeats the adversary. It symbolizes the mind, the discriminating intellect that divides and analyzes. It figuratively "cuts through" problems and ideas to understand them; it represents our logical, critical faculty.
There are times we need to be assertive and strong, but there are also times when neither logic nor force will avail; then we need to turn to the harp.
The harp represents the power to develop a sense of values, to affirm what its good and true, to appreciate the beautiful; the harp enables the hero to put the sword in the service of the noble ideal. To be complete, the hero must have both. Without the sword, the harp becomes ineffectual, but without the harp, the sword is reduced to self-focused brute force. People confuse these two powers more in relationship than in any other area of human life. We often hear a man and woman trying to "settle things" by arguing, criticizing, poking holes in each other's arguments, splitting hairs. Then they wonder why all the spontaneous feeling of warmth and love has gone from their time together! These kind of negotiations are always "sword" activities.
The sword cannot build relationships, settle anything, or bind together. It can only rip apart. To heal and build relationship, we must use the language of the harp, giving respect, expressing love, feeling, and devotion. The harp heals and binds together, the sword wounds and cuts asunder.
There comes a time in life when wielding the sword, or rather, operating on the strengths of the intellect alone, doesn't provide all the answers. We don't know enough, we don't have enough resources to resolve an impossible situation. At that point we need to let go, stop trying to force things to happen, or control others, or even ourselves, and step back and wait on the natural flow of the universe.
To enter a boat without oar or sail, taking only the harp, means to wait patiently, listen to a soft voice within for wisdom that comes not from logic or action, but from intuition, the lyrical inner poet who writes from a heart full of feeling and not from the head.
We see Tristan cast upon the sea. We hear the sound of the harp floating above the waves. Drawn by a power that is high above his understanding, Tristan comes at last to Ireland. And there Iseult awaits him.
I took a class in Medieval History in highschool, and it was then that I read Tristan & Iseult. I think it was a bit wasted on me, and probably on most of us there, because in spite of being a love story, it isn't a young person's story. Tristan and Iseult are in their 40's when the events take place, and generations of teenagers have scratched their heads over that one. What would someone in their 40's know about love?? The recent movie with Sophia Myles made the mistake of departing from the centuries-old story by casting youthful leads, which turned it into another "teen" romance, and ultimately a flop at the box office.
It's about love to be sure, but even more so it's about discovering what we lack in ourselves, as well as rediscovering the strengths that we have. I think it was Picasso who stated that we have to grow old before we can be young.
At any rate, I'm getting a lot more from the story this time around then I did close to 30 years ago.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Grandmother's Ashes
Back in September, I got a call from Mom who'd been to a funeral (3rd one in a month!), and Bill Duckett the funeral director ("Kick the bucket? Call Duckett!"), mentioned to her that he still had her mother's ashes in his office. That might not seem so strange on the face of it, except that Grandma died in 1984 at the age of 90, and Mom was absolutely convinced that he'd already brought the ashes over in an oatmeal container (?), and that she'd put Grandma up in the attic until she got around to getting her interred next to Grandpa (??).
Well in the intervening 20+ years, the attic got very cluttered, and we understood that she was up there 'somewhere' (how heavenly!), but no clue as to where to find her. After Mom's stroke in March of '06, my brother Geoff and I decided that we had to take care of the attic, basement, and garage, and that it was either do it now or wait until she died, with us in our mid 50's or older by then, and the kids grown and gone and not around to help.
We started before the beginning of April, and finished sometime in October. We cleared the attic right down to the bare studs, with no sign of an oatmeal box, spilled ashes, or anything remotely funeral-like. Mom was convinced that mice had eaten her (ewww!), but certainly not box and all.
Now that Bill has revealed that Grandma has been peacefully ensconced on some forgotten back shelf all these years, Mom is wondering just whose ashes she was given, and what happened to them. I'm inclined to think that she created the whole memory. The director probably came over to the house with the guestbook sometime after the service, and over the years Mom filled in the gaps with her imagination. I know my uncle told me that he understood that the ashes will still at the funeral home, and was annoyed at my mother for putting it off for so long. He'd get a kick out of this, unfortunately he died 2 years ago at the age of 82.
My Dad died in 2001 and Mom still hasn't purchased a memorial stone. I've told her now is the time, and please let's not go through this bizarre business all over again. We'll get all of our family's affairs in order. It's downright unseemly not to!!
Well in the intervening 20+ years, the attic got very cluttered, and we understood that she was up there 'somewhere' (how heavenly!), but no clue as to where to find her. After Mom's stroke in March of '06, my brother Geoff and I decided that we had to take care of the attic, basement, and garage, and that it was either do it now or wait until she died, with us in our mid 50's or older by then, and the kids grown and gone and not around to help.
We started before the beginning of April, and finished sometime in October. We cleared the attic right down to the bare studs, with no sign of an oatmeal box, spilled ashes, or anything remotely funeral-like. Mom was convinced that mice had eaten her (ewww!), but certainly not box and all.
Now that Bill has revealed that Grandma has been peacefully ensconced on some forgotten back shelf all these years, Mom is wondering just whose ashes she was given, and what happened to them. I'm inclined to think that she created the whole memory. The director probably came over to the house with the guestbook sometime after the service, and over the years Mom filled in the gaps with her imagination. I know my uncle told me that he understood that the ashes will still at the funeral home, and was annoyed at my mother for putting it off for so long. He'd get a kick out of this, unfortunately he died 2 years ago at the age of 82.
My Dad died in 2001 and Mom still hasn't purchased a memorial stone. I've told her now is the time, and please let's not go through this bizarre business all over again. We'll get all of our family's affairs in order. It's downright unseemly not to!!
Hello.
In Which I Take The Plunge And Regret It Not, One Hopes.
I have a few original ideas, or it could even be said that I have FEW original ideas, but I know what I like, and so long as I footnote, credit, and link appropriately, my conscience is clear when it comes to posting other people's stuff.
If I like it, it goes here.
For starters, here's a couple of mine:
A Pocket Full Of Thistle Down
This morning I went for a walk in Puddingstone Park, a landscaped hill that's close by my house. I enjoy the respite from concrete and pavement, though to be accurate, Boston is one of the greener, prettier cities around.
Today I saw something I'd never seen before. As I followed the winding path up and over the hill, around the bend I came upon a high plant with prickly bulging green buds, topped by bright purple tufts: a Scottish Thistle. I've seen pictures of it, but I can't recall ever seeing one growing in my state, though I'm more than familiar with prickle-burrs and other thorny plants like it.
A few of the buds had already turned to down, and I was surprised how truly soft, and sensuously warm from the sun, the cozy seedbed felt under my fingers. I pulled out a few, and for no particularly sane reason, suddenly cast them in the the breeze declaring, "To a free and independent Scotland!"
Well that came out of nowhere! I grabbed three more seedy tufts of down and put them in my pocket. Then I made the mistake of brushing one of the leaves with my finger. It drew blood. I meant no harm and yet inattention doesn't excuse you, at least not around a Scottish Thistle.
I walked back home, through the gate, and around the side of the house. My stroll had jostled most of the seeds loose from their parachutes, so I fished them out from the folds of my pocket, and going around to the bare, overlooked, out of harms way spots around the foundation, I dropped them one by one.
Tomorrow I'll do it again, and after that again, and cherish hopes through the long winter ahead, that this time next year, I'll have proud flags of Scottish Thistle ringing my house.
...and here is info about Puddingstone Park - http://www.missionhillnhs.org/open_space.htm
The Fog
A salted mist wafts through the streets
The tang, the bite, it almost speaks,
And stirs within a memory fine
Of mountainside and lowing kine.
It is not mine, I have not known
The mountain roots or heather blown,
But like a child unquiet in sleep
It is not still and will not keep.
The ache is there, the longing true
These unshed tears: What shall I do?
Pluck the strings and make a song
As my heart beats for days long gone.
(a bit of rhyme that came to me after reading up on Keith family history, the Jacobite Rebellion, and the Highland Clearances)
Sinn an dòchas còrd e ribh agus gun till sibh a-rithist.
(Hope you enjoy and that you will come back again!)
I have a few original ideas, or it could even be said that I have FEW original ideas, but I know what I like, and so long as I footnote, credit, and link appropriately, my conscience is clear when it comes to posting other people's stuff.
If I like it, it goes here.
For starters, here's a couple of mine:
A Pocket Full Of Thistle Down
This morning I went for a walk in Puddingstone Park, a landscaped hill that's close by my house. I enjoy the respite from concrete and pavement, though to be accurate, Boston is one of the greener, prettier cities around.
Today I saw something I'd never seen before. As I followed the winding path up and over the hill, around the bend I came upon a high plant with prickly bulging green buds, topped by bright purple tufts: a Scottish Thistle. I've seen pictures of it, but I can't recall ever seeing one growing in my state, though I'm more than familiar with prickle-burrs and other thorny plants like it.
A few of the buds had already turned to down, and I was surprised how truly soft, and sensuously warm from the sun, the cozy seedbed felt under my fingers. I pulled out a few, and for no particularly sane reason, suddenly cast them in the the breeze declaring, "To a free and independent Scotland!"
Well that came out of nowhere! I grabbed three more seedy tufts of down and put them in my pocket. Then I made the mistake of brushing one of the leaves with my finger. It drew blood. I meant no harm and yet inattention doesn't excuse you, at least not around a Scottish Thistle.
I walked back home, through the gate, and around the side of the house. My stroll had jostled most of the seeds loose from their parachutes, so I fished them out from the folds of my pocket, and going around to the bare, overlooked, out of harms way spots around the foundation, I dropped them one by one.
Tomorrow I'll do it again, and after that again, and cherish hopes through the long winter ahead, that this time next year, I'll have proud flags of Scottish Thistle ringing my house.
...and here is info about Puddingstone Park - http://www.missionhillnhs.org/open_space.htm
The Fog
A salted mist wafts through the streets
The tang, the bite, it almost speaks,
And stirs within a memory fine
Of mountainside and lowing kine.
It is not mine, I have not known
The mountain roots or heather blown,
But like a child unquiet in sleep
It is not still and will not keep.
The ache is there, the longing true
These unshed tears: What shall I do?
Pluck the strings and make a song
As my heart beats for days long gone.
(a bit of rhyme that came to me after reading up on Keith family history, the Jacobite Rebellion, and the Highland Clearances)
Sinn an dòchas còrd e ribh agus gun till sibh a-rithist.
(Hope you enjoy and that you will come back again!)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)