Directional Signs

Don't Go This WAY!
(Sidewalk note encountered on recent morning run)

If only life's directional signs were this clear. Instead, I get the Cheshire Cat telling me that any road will do!

"Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?"

"That depends a good deal on where you want to get to," said the Cat.

"I don’t much care where--" said Alice.

"Then it doesn’t matter which way you go," said the Cat.

"--so long as I get SOMEWHERE," Alice added as an explanation.

"Oh, you’re sure to do that," said the Cat, "if you only walk long enough."

[Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland]

No Rest for the Weary

Some days, don't you feel like everything inside you is pleading to PARK, or at least stop for a minute and unload? 

  

Wednesday's Word -- Hobgoblin

Hobgoblin Hall, William Wordsworth's House

I love this quote from Ralph Waldo Emerson:  "A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds."  Reminds me a bit of the definition of insanity as doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result.

I must say that I have always taken some pride in my ability to be consistent -- even when the consistency lacks wisdom.  One foot in front of the other.  Or, keep swimming, keep swimming, keep swimming.

I'd love to talk about the meaning of the word "consistency," but the word I especially love here is "hobgoblin."  What exactly is a "hobgoblin" in the first place, and what does Emerson mean by linking it to "little minds"?

Hobgoblins are fascinating little creatures of folklore and myth.  They are said to be friendly, mischievous, troublemakers who love to play practical jokes.  I'm not sure if there are female hobgoblins, but according to tales I have heard, they are usually small, hairy elf-like men.  Strikes me as creepy, but they are typically found living in human homes, and (here's a redeeming quality), they do odd jobs around the house (like dusting and ironing) while the humans sleep.  Maybe after reading this, you are thinking of the house elves in the Harry Potter books.  It does appear that those creatures are at least loosely based on the lore of hobgoblins.  You can also find quite a few other references throughout literature and popular culture (e.g., I have memories of scary hobgoblins from my brothers' Dungeons and Dragons days back in the early 1980s).   In case you're interested, my favorite hobgoblin tale is The Stolen Child by Keith Donohue.

So what is Emerson saying?  Being foolishly consistent makes you a hobgoblin?  Hobgoblins are foolishly consistent?  Little minds are inhabited (or stolen) by hobgoblins?  (My little mind could use some dusting and ironing, so . . . .)  Based on my quick research, this quote is usually interpreted to mean that "little minds" (those unwilling to see reason) are afraid of change; they'd rather cling to foolish consistency.  To reach this interpretation, the word "hobgoblin" is read to mean a source of fear of trouble.

I agree with the sentiment.  Little minds would rather keep doing things the way they've always been done, even if there might be a better way.  But as I ponder on it, I don't think Emerson was using the word "hobgoblin" to mean scary, hairy elf.  Perhaps more of a trickster elf (like the famous hobgoblin Puck in Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream).  The full quote, which comes from Emerson's essay Self Reliance is:

"A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines."  

If hobgoblin means something scary, then wouldn't Emerson have said (something like) change is the hobgoblin of little minds?  Instead, he said that little minds adore these hobgoblins (i.e., foolish consistency).  Yes, I think the genius of the quote is that little minds do adore their foolish consistency -- comfortable sameness that plays tricks on your ability to reason.         

Stamp River, Vancouver Island (October 2005)

And finally, here's a little metaphor for you to chew on.  Many years ago, I spent some time on Vancouver Island and took a short hike one day to see salmon swimming upstream at Stamp Falls.  The rangers there had constructed an interesting little contraption called a fish ladder.  This "ladder" doesn't have rungs but is a series of ascending pools that allow the fish to rest in little pools in between jumps.  This ladder makes the process of leaping up a waterfall a whole lot more manageable.  Watching the salmon leap was a thing of beauty.  But the most fascinating thing to me was how many of the fish refused to use the ladder.  Many of them instead insisted of making the journey the hard way, as the salmon for generations before had done.  Made me think about which of the fish were the foolish ones.  I suppose they were all headed towards spawning and death, in any event! But isn't that ultimately true for us all?

The Metaphors, They Find Me

I'm out of town and out of pocket this week, immersed in a week-long leadership training course at the Kellogg School of Management at Northwestern. Fascinating stuff. Spent the day getting at least a flavor for what it would have been like to go to business school.

On a break, I literally made a run for it -- down along a path that hugs the lake. It was blustery, cold and gray -- and lovely. What to my glazed over eyes should appear, but a flock of kites, trapped in the air. I stopped in my tracks and was blown away (blustery, I tell you) by the symbolic significance--at least to a metaphor hunter like me. About a dozen kites caught in a stand of leafless trees, blowing in the wind, but going nowhere. Abandoned. So vibrant against the lifeless gray sky and yet-to-leaf trees. Took my breath away.

Ever feel like a trapped kite against a lifeless backdrop?

Monday's Metaphor -- Gravity

Snapped this shot on a recent morning run and couldn't help but see the metaphor in it.  Sometimes if you can't grow upwards, you can at least grow sideways for a while.  Some stretches in life are (by necessity) more lattice than ladder.

I love how this tree is thriving despite its current direction.  For goodness sakes, it's growing parallel to the ground instead of reaching for the sky.  But it's not giving up.  I can relate.

Wordle Fun

Oh the fun you can have with Wordle!  You paste in text, and it creates a word cloud, sizing the words based on the number of times they appear in your text.  I'll bet you can guess the poem I used for this Wordle.  And there's the message, big and clear: 

time.

To Strive, to Seek, to Find, and Not to Yield

 The night is not young, and I have much to accomplish before I sleep.  So let me be brief.  Aren't these road-crossing caterpillar mobs something?  They appeared yesterday morning and spent the day crossing an extremely busy road near my house in droves -- inexplicably pushing towards some unknown goal.  This morning on my way to work, they were still crossing, although in diminishing numbers.

I can't stop puzzling over them.  I have lived here for well over a decade now and have never observed such behavior.  They are crossing from the Indian Reservation side to the Phoenix suburb side.  I keep asking people who live near me, "have you seen the caterpillars?"  "Do you have any idea why they're crossing?"

No one seems to find this curiosity as curious as I do.  And no one seems to care about whether they make it.  And me, I'm the crazy lady who's driving about 5 MPH in a 50 MPH zone, trying not to run over the little guys and hoping they do make it -- wherever and whyever they're going.  

So in honor of the little guys, I've had these lines from Alfred Lord Tennyson's "Ulysses" in my head all day:

'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths of all western stars, until I die.
. . .
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

Wednesday's Word -- Endure

{Yes, I know it's not Wednesday, but I've been traveling for work, so I'm behind . . . .}

I still have Shantaram on my mind, and so far I'm still enjoying it.  I don't think this gives anything away in case you want to read it yourself, but there is a memorable part where the main character describes his visit to the Den of the Standing Babas.  These babas are holy men who have taken a vow to never sit down, I suppose in the belief that this act will bring them closer to God.

According to the book, these standing babas do everything standing up -- eating, studying, and even sleeping (for this they use a special harness to assure that they stay standing).  These men (as far as I can tell, women aren't permitted to be standing babas) believe that if they suffer enough pain in this life they will become one with God.  My natural question was how they can stand it (pun intended)?  The book describes a process that involves first massively painful swelling with jutting veins and ulcers.  After some time, the swelling goes away and is replaced by legs that are stick thin and hard.  Perhaps not surprisingly, part of the answer of how they "stand" it is that (at least according to the book) they all smoke kashmiri hash and subsist in a non-stop drugged-haze.

(In case you're interested, you can check out this interview:  www.youtube.com/watch?v=ojeR1fOKv_A)

So, the word I'm thinking about (at least one of them) is "endure."

Endure

Endure means "to harden; to toughen; to make hardy."  To endure is "to bear with patience; to suffer without opposition or without sinking under pressure or affliction; to bear up under; to put up with; to tolerate; to bear up under adversity; to hold out."  It comes from the Indo-European root deru-, which means hard.  (For example, the word tree also comes from the same root.  Makes sense, doesn't it?)  

As you've probably noticed, the quote at the top of my blog page is this:  "Endurance is more than pacing up and down within the cell of our circumstance; it is not only acceptance of the things allotted to us, it is . . . magnifying what is allotted to us."  

Sometimes the things allotted to us make it hard to stand.  But the thing that strikes me is that standing isn't enough.  What's even more difficult is continuing to press forward when you'd rather just hold still, shifting the weight of your burdens from leg to leg.  I wonder if there's such a thing as the walking babas?        

Climbing Trees and Shivering Timbers

The other day, my 5-year-old daughter recited a poem for me that is simple, but clever:

Shiver me timbers,

Let the wind blow,

We'll know much more

After we grow.  

I remember a spring morning this past school year.  I had just dropped off my 7-year-old at her school, and my 5-year-old and I drove in silence.  Out of the blue (and with some anxiety), she said:  "Mom, I can't take care of you when you're old.  I don't even know how to drive or cook!"  I suppressed a laugh and told her not to worry.  "I hope you won't need to take care of me until many, many years from now.  And by then, you'll know how to do so much you'll amaze yourself!"    

Whenever I start thinking about everything I still don't know (or worse -- what I know but don't do as I should), I feel overwhelmed.  Shiver me timbers, indeed!*  But of course you can't know everything at once.  We learn in bits, adding each particle to the amalgamated whole.  Sometimes you just have to let the wind blow, and the seasons of life come and go.  

In truth, we are never really "grown" or "un-grown."  Instead, we are "growing."  In fact, the word "grow" comes from the Indo-European root *ghre, meaning "to become green."  

I remember a summer morning a year ago, sitting among the pine trees in Flagstaff with my then 6-year-old daughter.  So peaceful.  Perfect.  "What, do you think, is the difference between being a grown-up and being a child?"  She considered for about thirty seconds (an eternity for a child) and responded:  "A grown-up can climb taller trees."  She was not speaking in metaphor, but her answer left me pondering for days.  Of course, she is right.  The growing in each of us (if it is to remain green) stretches ever higher, but never stops.  

*The phrase "shiver me timbers" is based on nautical slang and is a reference to the timbers (wooden support frames) of a sailing ship.  In heavy seas, ships would be lifted up and pounded down so hard as to "shiver" the timbers, startling the sailors.  Such an exclamation was meant to convey a feeling of fear and awe.  

What Matters in the End

Another quote from my bulletin board of wisdom.  It just fits at the end of a week like this one.  Somehow it's human nature (or at least my nature) to focus on the end to the exclusion of the journey.  But the reality is that sometimes the end you have in mind isn't the end you end up with.  And sometimes that's for the best.

"It is good to have an end to journey toward; 

but it is the journey that matters, in the end."

~ Ursula LeGuin ~

Lightening Your Load {and regretting it}

Have you ever thrown something away, only to find yourself in desperate need of that very item a week later?  That sort of thing seems to happen to me with some frequency.  Of course you had zero need of the thing for the year it was sitting untouched and neglected in your junk drawer or hall closet.  But that's the way it goes.

Have you ever cast aside some aspect of yourself, only to regret it later?  It won't be the next week or the next month, and maybe not even the next year.  It takes longer.  But have you ever taken a hard, long look at yourself and missed the you you used to be?  It happens.

I have travel on the brain, so here's the metaphor.

In Bill Bryson's A Walk in the Woods, he gives an entertaining account of his efforts to hike "the AT" (Appalachian Trail), which spans 14 states (from Georgia to Maine) and 2100 miles.  (I sometimes dream of doing this myself, but then come to, and remember that I have responsibilities . . . .)  His family has recently moved from England to New Hampshire, and he discovers that the Appalachian Trail snakes right through his town.  The idea starts as a crazy whim, but then he actually decides to do it.  He reconnects with Steven Katz, an old high-school friend from Iowa (who provides much comic relief, but uses bad language at times, so be warned).  Katz is ill-suited to the task in every imaginable way.

Bryson and Katz pack all sorts of equipment and provisions for the journey, some of which are useful and important, and some not.  Tents, sleeping pads, nested pots and pans, eating utensils, water purifiers, patching kit, sleeping bags, water bottles, ponchos, matches, pack covers, compasses, stove, gas bottles, head lamps, knives, clothes, etc.  Katz insists on some other items, many of which are hanging off the side of his pack on the first day on the trail:  grubby sneakers, boots, pepperoni sausages, rice, cookies, oatmeal, raisins, M&Ms, Spam, Snickers, sunflower seeds, bricks of cheese, canned bacon, Little Debbies (lots and lots of them), and bologna.

The first day on the trail requires a hike up Springer Mountain in Georgia.  Bryson and Katz are both completely overwhelmed by the difficulty of the task -- especially Katz, who is very much weighed down by all his provisions.  Bryson finally leaves Katz behind.  When Bryson stops late in the day to wait for Katz to catch up, it takes quite some time.  Katz finally appears, with a pack that has been emptied of much of its contents.  In his anger and exhaustion, he threw all sorts of items out, lightening his load in the process.  Some important and some foolish in the first place.  Spam?   Over the edge of the mountain.  Brown sugar, peanuts and cheese?  Gone.  Extra shoes?  Gone.  And so on.

As we all ascend our own personal Springer Mountains, there will be times when we cast aside parts of ourselves to continue the trek.  Some of what we send flying over the edge is good riddance.  Spam.  Goodbye.  How much of what we carry is dead weight -- something we should have never packed in the first place?  Something that must be cast off if we are to progress.

But sometimes, I think we cast off pieces that -- while perhaps not essential -- will be missed at some later point in the journey.  That has certainly been true for me.  How much of what makes up your own individual essence have you flung to the side of your path as you trudged forward toward your goal?  Have you tossed aside talents, interests and priorities only to later wish you hadn't?  Do you ever look around your destination at your fellow travelers, struck by how unlike they are to the you you used to be?  Might have been?  Or maybe only I do that.

Here's a "me" (from an old yearbook) that doesn't remotely resemble the present "me."  At least some days, I think that's a grand shame. {I don't look anything the same, but that's certainly not the part that's the shame.  Who knows why I thought this look was a good one back in the late 80s!}

*In truth, I was actually never a very good artist.  But I did have a great love for the arts of all kinds and was happiest in the midst of it.  Now, I still get my liberal arts kicks in my own way.  For me, there is a certain joy when I can insert a literary allusion in a speech, brief filed with the court or oral argument.  Even if very few of my fellow travelers notice or get it. It makes me happy, and that's enough.

Wednesday's Word -- Slog

Isn't the word "slog" fun to say?  I look for (and find) opportunities to use it just because.  Slog is kind of a grumpy word, so apply it sparingly.  But on certain days, it just works.  

Slog

The verb "slog" means to walk slowly, encountering resistance.  To walk heavily and firmly, as when weary, or through mud.  It can also be used to mean to work slowly and deliberately (overcoming significant boredom), or to strike something with a heavy blow.  All of these meanings please me.  If you like (and I do like), you can even say slogs, slogging or slogged.


Although I have never used "slog" as a noun, I think I might try.  To the British, "slog" apparently can mean a long tedious walk or session of work.  As in: "So how was your day, honey?"  "It was a slog."  I also just learned that in the game of cricket, a "slog" is an aggressive shot played with little skill.  Many of my days could accurately be described as such.

The origin of the word "slog" is unknown, but some dictionaries suggest that it may be related to "slug(2)," which means to strike hard or to push onward, especially through mud, snow or other obstacles; trudge.  Although there's no real etymological link, I also like the definition of "slug(1)," which is any various snaillike terrestrial gastropod mollusks having no shell or only a rudimentary one, feeding on plants, and often a pest of leafy garden crops.  That's an apt description of how I sometimes feel on my sloggiest days.  Is sloggiest a word?  Oh, why not. 

Wednesday's Word -- Ascension

This week's word comes from the creative work of Daniel Everett (talented, and my brother to boot):

Daniel Everett, Ascension II, 2010

You can follow Daniel's work and get information about his shows at daniel-everett.com and at his tumblr site.

Ascend

Ascend means to rise or increase to higher levels, values or degrees; mounting or sloping upward. The word ascend comes from the indo-european root skand-, meaning to leap or climb. You might think of ascending the stairs or ascending to the throne, or even the ascension of Christ.

I love Daniel's Ascension, because it's maddening -- but oh so typical of life -- to feel like you're moving but never really progressing. Watching this video makes me want to rest. But it also makes me think about the importance of continuing to press forward, and that the joy should be in the journey and not the destination.

Because one of the meanings of "ascend" is to go toward the source or beginning, I'm also reminded of a favorite excerpt from T.S. Eliot's "Little Gidding":

We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.

It might be the aging process, but I feel like that quite a bit lately!

Keeping the First for Another Day

Photo by sschneider101

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that, the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

~Robert Frost

Have you ever noticed that while Frost says that taking the road less traveled by "has made all the difference," he never says whether it was a good or bad difference?  And that when he tells someone how he took the road less traveled by, he will be doing it with a sigh?  In truth, taking either of the two paths would have made "all the difference," because each (presumably) led to a different destination.  

I've spent some time over the years trying to decide whether I've taken the path less or more traveled by.  To a certain extent, it's both.  I took a safe route professionally (which could be considered the path more traveled by), but given the particular circumstances of my life and the roughness of the terrain, my path is indeed less traveled by (at least by travelers that fit my description).  In the end, I'm not sure it matters.  As I said, whatever path any of us chooses can make all the difference if we keep traveling instead of just plopping down on the side of the road.  

What I'm particularly taken with is the idea of keeping the road not taken "for another day."  (Notice that the poem is entitled "The Road Not Taken," rather than "The Road Taken" or even "The Road Less Traveled By.")  Frost doubted that he would ever come back to the divergence point, because "way leads on to way."  But why not?  And why--necessarily--must the two roads continue in completely separate directions?  Isn't it possible that the roads might converge again at some point along the way?  

I--like you and every other person--have stood staring down personal roads as far as I could see, only to choose one and not the other.  The biggest divergence I can identify in my life occurred at the point at which I chose between a path of creativity and a path of practicality.  I chose practicality (for more than the practicality, of course -- nothing is so simple), and it has indeed made all the difference.  I do, however, intend to come back and explore the road I kept for another day.  To some extent, I'm doing it now with this blog.  

Who's to say I can't "travel both and be one traveler"?  Who's to say you can't?  

Send My Roots Rain

Here's a poem that's been on my mind over the past several days:

Thou art indeed just, Lord, if I contend
With thee; but, sir, so what I plead is just.
Why do sinners' ways prosper? and why must
Disappointment all I endeavour end?

Wert thou my enemy, O thou my friend,
How wouldst thou worse, I wonder, than thou dost
Defeat, thwart me? Oh, the sots and thralls of lust
Do in spare hours more thrive than I that spend,

Sir, life upon thy cause. See, banks and brakes
Now, leaved how thick! laced they are again
With fretty chervil, look, and fresh wind shakes

Them; birds build--but not I build; no, but strain,
Time's eunuch, and not breed one work that wakes.
Mine, O thou lord of life, send my roots rain.

 ~Gerard Manley Hopkins 1918

Now for a little translation.  Hopkins was a Jesuit priest, and he sometimes used his poetry to complain to God.  This is one of those complaints, like a pleading prayer you might offer in a time of despair.  Hopkins' use of language and imagery is amazing, but the simple gist of what he says is this:  Why do good things happen to bad people?  And why is my life (despite all my good efforts) such a struggle?  

That's a refrain we all sing from time to time.  And sometimes it's tempting to wallow in self-pity, and perhaps even question God's role in it all.  Hopkins takes it a bit further, saying:  I know you're my friend, but with a friend like you, who needs enemies?  ("Wert thou my enemy, O thou my friend, How wouldst thou worse, I wonder, than thou dost defeat, thwart me?")  Hopkins ends the poem by describing himself as "time's eunuch," pleading with God to send his roots rain.  In other words, I'm not producing anything here, so please end this drought!     

Can you relate?  I know I have "send my roots rain" moments.  Living in the desert as I do, the metaphor hits home.  I remember moving here over a decade ago.  It was the first weekend in July,  and as my husband and I stood outside the Phoenix airport, waiting for a shuttle in 120 degree temperatures, I wondered what we had done.  We confined ourselves like prisoners in our tiny air conditioned apartment, waiting for the moving truck to deliver our life.  Even then, for months after, we rarely ventured out in daylight.  The Arizona heat was overwhelming, and I recall looking at the plants in that baking July heat and thinking that they all looked so hostile and angry!  As if they were saying, I just dare you to touch me.  I will poke you, scrape you, inflict whatever harm I can.     

The years have passed, and I have come to see the beauty in this landscape.  It truly is amazing that those angry plants can live on so little water and, given even a little of what they need (send my roots rain!), will explode in an array of blooming colors that leaves me awe-struck with the beauty of it all.  We are enjoying a rainy season in Arizona now, and even the angriest plants look cheerful.  The rough, scraggly-brown foothills around us are blanketed in green, and wildflowers of all varieties are just biding their time, waiting to emerge to put on a show -- along the freeway, in the open desert, untended, unexpected, delightful.

Just think what you could be with a little rain for your roots.

Wednesday's Word -- Rescue

This past Sunday, all the talks given during our church meetings focused on the theme of "rescue."  In a religious sense, "rescue" might make you think of the Savior rescuing and delivering us from sin.  In a secular sense, "rescue" might make you think of a firefighter or some other brave person taking a risk to bring another person to safety.

The word "rescue" does encompass all of these things, but being the curious word nerd that I am, I decided to take a closer look at the origins of the word.

When you use the word "rescue," you probably use it to mean "to free from danger."  If you rescue someone, you save that person's life.  As in, the fighfighter rescued the family from the burning house, just in the nick of time.  

But the word actually comes from the Latin excutere, meaning "to shake."  So you put the "re-" at the beginning, and you literally have "to shake off again."  I suppose a rescue does involve shaking off or ridding someone of something that is confining that person.  Shaking off the burning house.  Shaking off the desert island that holds the person captive.  Shaking off death itself.  

But this new understanding of the word has left me thinking about habits, thoughts, tendencies, possessions, fears and other such things that take hold of a person, resulting in confinement and danger of a sort.  The kind of baggage that weighs a person down.  The kinds of weight that begs for a shake.  The kind of shake that leaves you lighter and with a clearer perspective on life.  

James Christensen's painting, The Burden of a Responsible Man, makes the point:

I can relate.  While there are certain burdens that must be carried, I have been making a concerted effort to rid myself of some responsibilities as of late -- taking on fewer "voluntary" tasks, letting certain unessential things slide.  I've also been selling things I don't need and giving other things away.  My goal is to get rid of at least one thing every day.  I'm amazed at how much it lightens my outlook.  Who knew?  It's a rescue (shake, shake, shake) -- of sorts.  Maybe you need to be re-shaken (rescued) too?  You'll either need to jump up and down vigorously, or withstand a hard impact from a fast moving object.  I'd suggest the former.    

Acquisitions and Dispositions

I spent several hours cleaning and purging my bedroom closet over the weekend.  Here are some of the cast-off offerings, all bagged up and ready to clutter up Goodwill instead of my closet.  

Since the "purge," I find myself making frequent visits to the closet just to take in the order and liberation of it all.  

Isn't it ironic that both acquiring and disposing of possessions brings such joy and satisfaction?  My father recently told me that he would be happy if all that he owns could be contained in a single suitcase.   I don't know if I could quite say the same at this point in my life, but I do feel so inexplicably pleased when, for example, I can use up the remainders of a bottle of shampoo and throw it away, reducing the total number of bottles taking up space in my shower.  Or throw tupperware container after container of food away to restore orderly emptiness to my refrigerator shelves.  Why is that?  The silly part, of course, is that I buy more clothes, more shampoo and more food, and the cycle begins again. 

My life is one endless round of subtraction and addition, ebbing and flowing, cleaning out and cluttering back, removing and replacing.  Can you relate?

Thoreau (who, as much as I love him, was a bit of a spartan -- the man did write "beware of all enterprises that require new clothes" after all . . . .) had this to say about possessions:

"Most of the luxuries, and many of the so called comforts of life, are not only not indispensable, but positive hinderances to the elevation of mankind."  [Walden, "Economy"]

Studies show that acquiring possessions does in fact bring happiness.  But that happiness is fleeting.  We adjust to our things, and they lose their magic.  One interesting finding (that completely meshes with my own personal experience) is that giving our possessions away, on the other hand, brings more lasting joy.

Perhaps the solution is to enjoy something for a short time and then gift it to someone else who will get the same joy and can then gift it along to another?  Or we could periodically swap possessions with each other?  The lovely handbag that I just had to have for the kitchen gadget that called your name and then sat on your counter?

Well, for now, I'm going to enjoy my gutted closet.  But, truth be told, I will enjoy filling it back up again -- even if (apologies to Thoreau) it hinders my "elevation" to some degree.

Post Script:  Isn't this Everything I Have Poster cool?  Doesn't it make you want to throw things out?

Post Post Script:  Some time ago, my sister Becky told me about a great children's book called The Girl Who Wore Too Much.  I would highly recommend it!  How many of us (myself included) are carrying around too many layers?  It's no wonder we can't climb the hill.  Elevation hindered.  Indeed.

One Tangle at a Time

I had a dear cat named Minino (pronounced me-knee-no).  He was a long-haired cat, and while I did a good job of grooming him in the early years, as my life got crazier, I turned a blind eye.  Over the years, his matted tangles took on a life of their own, to the point that I became too overwhelmed and even ashamed of his condition to even know where to start.  I am embarrassed to say that he perhaps could have set a Guinness World Record as the world's tangliest cat.  He had a solid, matted hump on his back the size of a kitten (or small monkey) and a second tail, among other unnatural matted formations.

One day about six months ago, I decided to start one tangle at a time.  I made a goal to cut at least one tangle off that cat each day.  Minino was not, at first, a willing participant in this experiment.  He would hide from me, hiss at me, and even try to bite me when I came close to him with the scissors.  I found myself spending more time with him each day, scratching his head, breaking down his fears and defenses, building his trust.  As my little experiment progressed, he still had his reservations, but the process got easier.  I think he himself could feel the transformation as the tangles came off, one by one.  And the transformation was deeper than his appearance.  He became a younger, more playful, more joyful version of himself.

There's nothing profoundly genius about breaking a daunting task into bite size pieces, but--for me--the effect was liberating, and I began to find myself applying the technique to all aspects of my life.

Messy, cluttered house?  Mop the kitchen floor and call it good until tomorrow.  Home decor that hasn't been updated in a decade?  Move a painting from one room to another and give myself a pat on the back.  Daughter who complains heartily about a big homework assignment?  Help her figure out how much she needs to do each day to finish by the due date and then do the minimum for the day.  Too much junk in my diet?  Instead of a major overhaul, add one fruit and vegetable to each meal.

I do have to admit that not all of my life de-tangling experiments have worked.  For example, one of my tangles is a lack of "stillness" in my life.  I made a goal to sit completely still and try not to think about anything for 5 minutes each day.  Not too ambitious.  But I failed horribly.  I found myself up at midnight, trying to steal some "still" time.  And while I was sitting there, my multi-tasking brain was jumping around, out of control.  The experiment was off within a week.  That likely means I didn't try nearly hard enough.  Like Minino, the most essential cutting may cause the one with the tangles to hiss and hide and even bite.    That only means you're on to something important.

What tangles are you dealing with?  Try cutting them off one tangle at a time, and you might be surprised!

P.S.  It was painful to use the past-tense to say that I "had" a cat named Minino.  Sadly, Minino died very quickly and unexpectedly a few days before Thanksgiving.  I found him not "quite right" one morning before leaving to pick my parents up at the airport for a visit.  I had a sick feeling about it, and when I arrived back at my house with my parents, he was dead.  I am still in a bit of shock even as I write this over a month later.

I can't help but continue the analogy.  Even when we break a problem down into manageable bites, we still sometimes don't get the chance to feel quite finished with the project.  I am, though, so grateful that I was inspired (or something) to reconnect with and nuture Minino while I still had him with me.  Perhaps there is a lesson in that too.  A week ago today, my 84 year old grandpa -- who was strong and independent and kind and amazing -- died unexpectedly of heart failure.  I don't deal well with death--whether pets or people.  This loss, leaves me with so many regrets about visits not taken and letters not written and phone calls not made.  Tangles untended.