Sometimes I create images and I don’t know what to make of them exactly. Today, is one of those days. I would’ve preferred using images of other people…I wasn’t in the mood to ask for and wait for permission though. Shocking to those of you who know me well, I know.
OK, if I had to guess what sparked these now that I’m about to post them. I think they are about being honest with myself and protecting my heart, even when faced with uncomfortable truths I would rather deny or compartmentalize in some way.
macro: intended for use with relatively large quantities or on a large scale
A constant macro view can be exhausting—wasting our time and talents. Most days require us to narrow our focus, take a micro view, and determine where & how we can make the most difference to the people and circumstances we face in our lives.
As I age, it seems much of life is experienced within the gray areas of uncertainty. Thankfully, now at fifty-three, I’m finding not knowing is sort of interesting, perhaps even a bit wonderfully mysterious.
I’ve been reading Pema Chödrön’s book When Things Fall Apart: Heart Advice for Difficult Times, she writes about hope and fear—
“Hope and fear come from feeling that we lack something: they come from a sense of poverty. We can’t simply relax with ourselves. We hold on to hope, and hope robs us of the present moment.”
HOPEverb: to cherish a desire with anticipation, to want something to happen or be true
FEAR verb:to be afraid of, expect with alarm
Hope was on my mind, so this morning Dusty Springfield’s 1964 song—Wishin’ and Hopin’ popped into my head as didEmily Dickinson’s poem—Hope Is A Things With Feathers. Oh you brilliant, creative women…you’ve been homesteading in my psyche the last few days. Thank you, your timing is impeccable.
Wishin’ and hopin’ and thinkin’ and prayin’ Plannin’ and dreamin’ each night of his charms That won’t get you into his arms So if you’re lookin’ to find love you can share All you gotta dois hold him and kiss him and love him And show him that you care
Songwriters: Hal David / Burt Bacharach—Artist: Dusty Springfield
All of this hope talk made me think about parenting, religion, and my childhood. My mother’s prayers for me when I was growing up were that I would eventually become someone or something else—an idealized version of the raw potential she saw in me. Please help Lisa stop picking her fingernails, overeating, cussing, being lazy, not caring about her grades, reading the wrong books, listening to the wrong music, drinking beer, or NOT believing the way I do.
I don’t blame her, this was her programming. I’m sure it felt quite loving hopin’ and prayin’ for my needed improvements. She feared who I might possibly become, and truly believed her prayers could turn things around for me. Her faith then required that she gave the God of her understanding credit whenever my improvements, no matter how barely detectable emerged.
I did the same thing to my children—always hopin’ they would become the best version of themselves. I guess I thought wishin’ for the hidden potential in them to emerge would reflect what a stellar job I’ve done mothering and flatter my ego. Damn, that was my programming too.
Emily Dickinson’s poem, Hope Is The Thing With Feathers reveals the unsettling nature of the never ending loop of constant hope…and never stops – at all -.
Hopin’ I believed would make all of my sleepless nights and heartache worthwhile. However, instead, what I’m finally understanding is that all of that motherly wishin, hopin’, thinkin’, and prayin’ kept me from accepting them as they were/are in the present. I’m truly sorry Ellis, Lucy, and Willa that I did not learn this sooner.
Wishin’, hopin’, thinkin’, and prayin’ doesn’t seem to actually be working in any part of my life now that I give it more though...and never stops – at all—thanks Emily for that reminder.
What if I practiced more acceptance in all areas of my life? What would that feel like? Complacent? Uncaring? UnAmerican? Untethered? Unbelievable?
Let’s experiment, take a moment…breathe, just let the word acceptance settle into our soul a bit…repeat it a few times. Thoughts?
What if right now in America we just quit wishin’, hopin’, thinkin’, and prayin’ for things to be different than they are? What if collectively we ACCEPTED that the God of our personal understanding is desperately trying to reveal to us that all of the political division, rage, wounded egos, destruction, inequality, brutality, greed, spiritual aches, righteousness, grief, and suffering requires our heart’s immediate attention right now and we can no longer keep hopin’ and prayin’ for it to magically disappear?
All you gotta doishold him and kiss himand love him Andshow him others that you care
I’ve been so inspired the stories of women lately exhibiting remarkable backbone, even in light of very challenging circumstances. I think we all have a little more backbone in us when it’s required. As I created the stories of these women and the various backbones they’ve had to summon to carry on: ancient, adventurous, creative and protective.
What type of backbone is required of you right now?
HORIZONTAL MYSTERY SHIP
when you leave at seventeenrarely homemore than two weeks at a time months, years and decades
can be surprisingly unreliable markers of adulthoodonly once
in the summer of ‘88a recent college gradwide-eyed and wanderlust-fueledmy tonsils required moreI stayed a whole monthonce healed, packed, and in possession of necessary visasoff to the southern hemispherea young pioneer in search adventureand different starsnow, when visiting after a lifetime lived elsewheregrey hairs visibleno matter my effortsI find myselfsliding into a peculiar second adolescence of sorts
driving Dad’s truck
windows down, hair blowing
mile after mile of expansive, wild beauty
a determined cellular homesteader
forever staking a claim in my blood and bonesI want to sneak out to the barplay Space Invaders
sadly, no longer a standard
unlike 1982drink beer, eat junk foodand avoid the endless expectations of being a grown-upLooking back with midlife sensibilities
I realizethose late nights in high schooltenth grade, I believelaser focused, playing Space Invadersprovided a surprisingly valuable education initials entered, quarters stackedprotect the bunkers, defeat the aliensmonitor the horizontal mystery ship with vigilance my peripheral vision unknowingly trained to notice things beyond immediate scope
bonus points pingedwhile friends waited impatientlytwenty more minutes, pleaseunder a waning August moon
only one lunar phase agoI was still my father’s daughtera middle-aged, South Dakota teenagerpretending time actually plays trickswanting desperately to disregard reality one more visit on the calendarone more phone callcheeseburger or ice cream cone one more evening watchingEverybody Loves RaymondM.A.S.H. or Mayberry RFDtwenty more minutes, pleasequarters stacked no longerSpace Invaders
the nearly forgotten teenage relic
of a heartbrokenfifty-somethingfatherless daughter
I am protecting my bunkersmonitoring a new horizontal mystery shippaying very close attentionto what's just beyond my immediate scopejust twenty more minutes, please