After rolling out of bed this morning at my normal, unnatural hour of 5 a.m., the first addictive switch of the day triggered and off I went to check whatever emails magically found their way to me overnight. First in the batch was Joel and his dream.
"The night before Christmas I had a dream: I was running/walking down a trail to get to the old lake house. There were several wild animals on the way there -- some of them chasing me, some of them just there. I remember a badger type animal and then a large boa constrictor that I had to step over. At the very end of the trail, right before the lake house, one miniature white unicorn the size of a large dog or a goat came running up to me. I held it in my arms and it licked my face affectionately. This was very vivid. What does it mean?"
After the first sleepy read, I realized this dream required some cogitating boosted by a cup of coffee. There were just too many animals to think about this early in the morning.
By 6:00 a.m., I was on to my next addiction -- early morning running. Lucky me, I can still claim a running partner. And, double lucky for me, Laura is about 25 years younger than me. but, I decided, long ago, it's a trade-off. I learn from Laura and somehow or another, I manage to say a few things that elicit an "Oh, I didn't know that!" from her. For example, we were talking about some subject a couple of days ago, and Sheena came to mind -- Sheena, Queen of the Jungle. Imagine! Laura had never heard of her. I have to bring Sheena out occasionally, grab her shield and hold it in front of me to help fight off the foes and forces of whatever. As we start the New Year, it's the Whatever's I'm getting ready for, I told Laura and she laughed with joy.
As for my daily dose of education, Laura tried to explain to me how she got those family pictures into a Christmas card and managed to send it by email to her crowd of family and friends. So, you see, Laura teaches me the concepts and basic vocabulary used by the wizardry of technology and I try to remember to share lessons I learned -- far before Laura ever imagined she would be running the streets of Austin, in the dark, listening to Sheena, tales of animal dreams, and bits and pieces of wisdom learned, joggled into my memory by the fresh air of the morning from a childhood lived in another time. I call it the forward running and backward running time of the day.
Yesterday morning we were running -- Laura and I. The streets were unusually vacant. Not many runners, early morning walkers, bicyclers, or cars. The couple of people we met or passed and said a "Good Morning" to, didn't respond. One man we passed was just standing with a Thursday morning glum look on his face. Laura mentioned that what we were seeing and not hearing was certainly peculiar. I told her the last time that I could remember experiencing such non-responsiveness from people and not understanding why, was the morning I learned that President Kennedy had been assassinated. Back home, and turning on the T.V. to catch the morning headlines, an eerie reminder of, although we live with such rapid change, there is some enduring sameness after all -- Benazir Bhutto of Pakistan had been assassinated.
I wonder if Laura even remembers my Kennedy comment. I will have to ask her. this is a time tested given with running -- although there is talk, talk, talk, and many personal secrets shared, as soon as the run is over, much of what is said, is forgotten. What if the streets and trails could talk? The animals? Back to the animals again -- The dream. In this story, it's time to close the circle.
Joel knows I have this old, thick, thumbed through, dream book. From A to Z, 10,000 dreams are interpreted. It's been grabbed many a morning, as both Joel and I seem to have dreams a few ticks off center. Take this morning for instance, my dream memory was of oatmeal. Now really, how many people usually dream of oatmeal? There were a couple of individual oats in my bowl with dark, unwanted flicks. In my dream, I simply picked them out, threw them away, and went on about my merry business.
New knowing what I am going to read about a particular dream, and not wanting to be, 'three strikes and you're out' with the Badger, Boa Constrictor and the Unicorn, I picked up the book, blew the dust off the cover, closed one eye and squinted with the other, and turned to the U's -- Unicorn. I know it's silly, but the pace of my heartbeat picked up a tad. "To dream of a unicorn, signifies good fortune and happy circumstance." Whew! This is what the G. H. Miller book said. Right there on page 529.
On to the B's -- Boa Constrictor. Whoops! "To dream of this, is just about the same as to dream of the devil." Joel would have been better off to have killed the darn snake according to Miller. I hesitate. Oh, the confusion of coming from and mixing two worldviews. But, there is a lesson here. The Cherokee have a great reverence for snakes. They are ghosts that occasionally visit us in dreams with reminders of caution. They can be regarded as prophesies. And, as it is said, the devil is in the details -- such as being on the lookout for how and what we are eating, whether or not we have forgotten to schedule our days with regularity in reference to food and sleep. The devil can be a good little reminding tap on the shoulder.
Last comes the B's -- Badger. "to dream of a badger, is a sign of good luck after battles with hardship." Thank you Mr. Miller. After the third swing, I'd say Joel hit a home run. The devil, the Lord, and his mother, only know the battles of life he has fought and survived. I've even thrown Sheena's shield in front of him more than once. But, for the moment, if Joel remembers the lesson of the Boa Constrictor, I would say he jumped the devil and had a double-dose of good luck. Oh-me-oh-my. Third addiction coming on.
Friday, December 28, 2007
Saturday, May 12, 2007
semester over -- I'll never get to big for my britches!
Last Sunday, 10:00 in the morning, I declared the semester over! Finished!! Completed!!! It is now Tuesday morning and I am wondering what to do with myself. The ending of it all wan't without its own brand of terror, though. All computer/software related. It is really irritating to know that all these little steps of getting the computer to do what it is supposed to do, are already mastered by elementary school children. I mean, it is really, really irritating. My level of understanding is very evident in my voacbulary. I am still at/with -- "it," and, primarily, "thingamajig."
Anyway, the current frustration all started with my having finished the last semester's paper -- the one for Qualitative Analysis. We were supposed to post our paper on Blackboard, number the pages, but leave off #1 on the first page. Well! I didn't know how to do that so I called Linda Fernandez to help. She said, "No problem," just email my paper to her and we would get it fixed on the spot. So, I did -- and, we did. Or, rather, Linda did. All I needed to do then, was create my Table of Contents, which would show up with a #2 on its page.
Following Linda's instructions, I could then post my paper. This was Saturday night. Well! The final product, remember, was captured in the email to Linda. The original unfinished, non-numbered paper was in "My Documents." It is when the paper is in this spot -- where it is supposed to be -- that I know how to post from Blackboard. Somehow or another, I was supposed to get the finished paper that was captured in Linda's email to "My Documents." Well! I couldn't do that. "It" kept telling me "it" was already there. When I tried to trick the computer and rename the file, "it" still kept telling me "it" was already there. Now it was both the computer and elementary school children that are smarter than me.
As it got later and I got more tired and frustrated, I became fearful that I would, not-so-very-gently, hit the wrong button and erase my paper. So, I made the decision to call it a night, emailed Linda that we did not have lift-off, and I would call her in the morning again seeking help. Well! That computer kept me awake until after mid-night.
O.K. It is Sunday. New day and new attitude. Actually, it is what you might call, fake it until you make it. Went for a long run, came home, bathed, shampooed my hair, and got into my "fighting-I'm-gonna-win-this-round," clothes. Called Linda. She led me throught the steps of getting "it" over to "there." I had added a paragraph to the original, non-finished paper that was sitting in "My Documents," which also required an addition to the reference page. I just can't stop fiddling with my writing. It is never finished and I can always think of new and different ways of saying things. Anyway, this required Linda leading me through the process of "copy and paste." Well! By 10:00, it was a done deal. Posted. You would think one by-product of all this intense stress would be loss of appetite with the reward of weight loss. No way, Jimmy Joe. It was munchy, munchy, munchy, until the end of the ordeal.
This is the end of the story. You would think I would feel better with mission accomplished. But, that state of well-being can't quite come over me because I can't remember anything Linda taught me. That's what anxiety will do to you. It's a memory stealer -- that's for sure.
Anyway, the current frustration all started with my having finished the last semester's paper -- the one for Qualitative Analysis. We were supposed to post our paper on Blackboard, number the pages, but leave off #1 on the first page. Well! I didn't know how to do that so I called Linda Fernandez to help. She said, "No problem," just email my paper to her and we would get it fixed on the spot. So, I did -- and, we did. Or, rather, Linda did. All I needed to do then, was create my Table of Contents, which would show up with a #2 on its page.
Following Linda's instructions, I could then post my paper. This was Saturday night. Well! The final product, remember, was captured in the email to Linda. The original unfinished, non-numbered paper was in "My Documents." It is when the paper is in this spot -- where it is supposed to be -- that I know how to post from Blackboard. Somehow or another, I was supposed to get the finished paper that was captured in Linda's email to "My Documents." Well! I couldn't do that. "It" kept telling me "it" was already there. When I tried to trick the computer and rename the file, "it" still kept telling me "it" was already there. Now it was both the computer and elementary school children that are smarter than me.
As it got later and I got more tired and frustrated, I became fearful that I would, not-so-very-gently, hit the wrong button and erase my paper. So, I made the decision to call it a night, emailed Linda that we did not have lift-off, and I would call her in the morning again seeking help. Well! That computer kept me awake until after mid-night.
O.K. It is Sunday. New day and new attitude. Actually, it is what you might call, fake it until you make it. Went for a long run, came home, bathed, shampooed my hair, and got into my "fighting-I'm-gonna-win-this-round," clothes. Called Linda. She led me throught the steps of getting "it" over to "there." I had added a paragraph to the original, non-finished paper that was sitting in "My Documents," which also required an addition to the reference page. I just can't stop fiddling with my writing. It is never finished and I can always think of new and different ways of saying things. Anyway, this required Linda leading me through the process of "copy and paste." Well! By 10:00, it was a done deal. Posted. You would think one by-product of all this intense stress would be loss of appetite with the reward of weight loss. No way, Jimmy Joe. It was munchy, munchy, munchy, until the end of the ordeal.
This is the end of the story. You would think I would feel better with mission accomplished. But, that state of well-being can't quite come over me because I can't remember anything Linda taught me. That's what anxiety will do to you. It's a memory stealer -- that's for sure.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Conversations with Karen
Why, Oh Why, have I been resisting writing journals these past few days. Two reasons really. Sometimes I just get plain tired and bored talking about myself. The second, when I roll out of bed in the mornings, my mind starts thinking and coding my dreams and letting free thoughts float to the surface. Some are often surprises, having been stuck back in the shadows for quite some time.
By the time I've packed the car, driven down Mesa to my running spot and finished, driven to the office, unloaded books and the day's lunch on my chair, I would guess a couple of jounal stories have been mentally written. Here are a couple of thoughts I've been meaning to mention.
When we were in Albuquerque, Karen watched me throw away a half smoked cigarette. "Why did you do that? she asked. "Isn't that expensive?" I rationalized to her that smoking half was better than smoking the whole thing. Besides, my pharmacognocist friend, Jerry, told me that the worst part of the nicotine and tar were in the last half of the cigarette. And, remember, Jerry is a PhD. He should know what he's talking about -- shouldn't he? Also, he smoked years ago when he was in the military. I really am running out of smoking excuses, aren't I?
A couple of weeks ago, I emailed Karen that I'd just tapped the computer "send" key and emailed a paper due for my quantitative class. She asked, "Were you please with it? Or, just glad to get it done?" Probably more the latter. As I get closer and closer to finishing the "programs" course work, I can't deny that I am getting mentally tired. Stoking up the energy to read and write is becoming more of a chore. Then, was I pleased with it? I'm truly never completely pleased with my writing as I think of the exercise as putting a puzzle together. Your've got ideas, you've done research, and there are all of these words that need to be put together to make a story. I take all of those words, toss them in the air and look at them, where they fell and then start picking up the pieces to fit them together. The thing is, you can do this a hundred times. Throw them in the air, watch them fall, reach down, pick up, and put them together again for the story. Only this time, it can be told a different way. The writer in me always wonders if there was a better way to tell it.
By the time I've packed the car, driven down Mesa to my running spot and finished, driven to the office, unloaded books and the day's lunch on my chair, I would guess a couple of jounal stories have been mentally written. Here are a couple of thoughts I've been meaning to mention.
When we were in Albuquerque, Karen watched me throw away a half smoked cigarette. "Why did you do that? she asked. "Isn't that expensive?" I rationalized to her that smoking half was better than smoking the whole thing. Besides, my pharmacognocist friend, Jerry, told me that the worst part of the nicotine and tar were in the last half of the cigarette. And, remember, Jerry is a PhD. He should know what he's talking about -- shouldn't he? Also, he smoked years ago when he was in the military. I really am running out of smoking excuses, aren't I?
A couple of weeks ago, I emailed Karen that I'd just tapped the computer "send" key and emailed a paper due for my quantitative class. She asked, "Were you please with it? Or, just glad to get it done?" Probably more the latter. As I get closer and closer to finishing the "programs" course work, I can't deny that I am getting mentally tired. Stoking up the energy to read and write is becoming more of a chore. Then, was I pleased with it? I'm truly never completely pleased with my writing as I think of the exercise as putting a puzzle together. Your've got ideas, you've done research, and there are all of these words that need to be put together to make a story. I take all of those words, toss them in the air and look at them, where they fell and then start picking up the pieces to fit them together. The thing is, you can do this a hundred times. Throw them in the air, watch them fall, reach down, pick up, and put them together again for the story. Only this time, it can be told a different way. The writer in me always wonders if there was a better way to tell it.
Sunday, March 04, 2007
On The Path To Wisdon....and Other Thought Fragments
The moon is too full this evening. It doesn't feel right. The "spirits" of the universe are distrubed. This is what I believe.
I really do pay attention to astrology -- what happens in the heavens -- the positioning and action between the planets and the stars does have bearing on our Earth and therefore, our lives. Also, I believe in my dreams. They tell me stories with their own signs and symbols. They create my private dream language. Most of the time I listen to what they are saying because I've learned to do so.
On windy days, like today, it's prudent to take notice. Messages are carried on the wind.
Vine Deloria, Jr. in "God Is Red (2003, p. 144) talks about Carl Jung's suggestion of the existence of the archetypes and symbols of the universal human experience found in a collective unconscious. As Jung studied human spiritual problems, he further suggested that the unconscious presented dreams to us, using these various symbols as stories, so we would be able to work through various psychological difficulties. Generally, stories do hold a lesson. Some are buried a little deeper than others.
Peter came by this afternoon for a visit. I've done a disservice to my sons as I protected them too much after Eric's death. I kept them children too long. Now I can see the mistakes of my ways but there was not too much I could do about it during the years of time past. As they grew to manhood, I was always there to help -- never letting them solve their own problems -- learn from their own mistakes that are the inevitabilities of a life. And, of course, this is the only way character and soul depth and internal strength are developed.
Recognizing what I'd done, this last peck of trouble Peter got himself into, I stood aside. And, oh, it has been so painful to watch him these past four years -- learning how to solve his own problems -- a process I should have allowed to begin years ago. Often I feared for his emotional health. But, he is finding his way through. He is getting his "game" back. And, most importantly, he is doing the work by himself. I will always be there as a safety net. I think everyone has to believe they have this fall back, even if it's never asked to be used.
Listening to him this afternoon I can tell that heh is different. It's apparent he has become a little wiser having learned from past mistakes. This is good.
A new month is beginning. March. My Cherokee calendar says this is the "Month of the Windy Moon." The featured "Herb" Wild Onions relieve dizzy spells, aid digestive process & lower blood pressure."
Love to Everyone.
Jody
I really do pay attention to astrology -- what happens in the heavens -- the positioning and action between the planets and the stars does have bearing on our Earth and therefore, our lives. Also, I believe in my dreams. They tell me stories with their own signs and symbols. They create my private dream language. Most of the time I listen to what they are saying because I've learned to do so.
On windy days, like today, it's prudent to take notice. Messages are carried on the wind.
Vine Deloria, Jr. in "God Is Red (2003, p. 144) talks about Carl Jung's suggestion of the existence of the archetypes and symbols of the universal human experience found in a collective unconscious. As Jung studied human spiritual problems, he further suggested that the unconscious presented dreams to us, using these various symbols as stories, so we would be able to work through various psychological difficulties. Generally, stories do hold a lesson. Some are buried a little deeper than others.
Peter came by this afternoon for a visit. I've done a disservice to my sons as I protected them too much after Eric's death. I kept them children too long. Now I can see the mistakes of my ways but there was not too much I could do about it during the years of time past. As they grew to manhood, I was always there to help -- never letting them solve their own problems -- learn from their own mistakes that are the inevitabilities of a life. And, of course, this is the only way character and soul depth and internal strength are developed.
Recognizing what I'd done, this last peck of trouble Peter got himself into, I stood aside. And, oh, it has been so painful to watch him these past four years -- learning how to solve his own problems -- a process I should have allowed to begin years ago. Often I feared for his emotional health. But, he is finding his way through. He is getting his "game" back. And, most importantly, he is doing the work by himself. I will always be there as a safety net. I think everyone has to believe they have this fall back, even if it's never asked to be used.
Listening to him this afternoon I can tell that heh is different. It's apparent he has become a little wiser having learned from past mistakes. This is good.
A new month is beginning. March. My Cherokee calendar says this is the "Month of the Windy Moon." The featured "Herb" Wild Onions relieve dizzy spells, aid digestive process & lower blood pressure."
Love to Everyone.
Jody
Sunday, February 18, 2007
coded gates
Why is it called "The Holler With No Name?" It all started out as a joke between friends -- Cherokee friends. there's "Pumkin Holler," Skunk Holler," and "Flat Creek Holler," just to give you a few examples. These are places where the People live. There're hard to find though. No doubt about that. More than likely you'd miss the turn off driving along a highway or a twisty, dusty road. They are private and protected by their own gates. Much like the locked wrought iron gates of today that sit on their sturdy wheels, locked and not to be opened until given the secret code by one of the big house owners protected by the tall iron rolling fence. It keep out the "Others." But, they can still look between the bars to see what they are missing.
The Holler's are different. You can't see inside. You can't even find the gate as mainly it is just a thicket, intertwined with a mixture of overgrown native trees, bushes, and vines. But, no one would ever accuse the hollers of not being protected.
How the joke started was Les would talk about his Pumkin Holler and I listened to John one day tell a story about his "Miller Flats Holler." Later in the storytelling, for the first time ever, I wondered why our family holler had no name. Were we so poor we couldn't even afford a name? There evolved the joke.
No name perhaps. But, the place where we grew up, the place on #10 highway that cannot be found unless you know the key to unlock it's hiding place, opens the gate to a world of riches. They are not material, I'll grant you that. Rather, a treasury of childhood memories. I wouldn't trade for any of those things locked behind the iron gates of code for my memory holler on #10.
The Holler's are different. You can't see inside. You can't even find the gate as mainly it is just a thicket, intertwined with a mixture of overgrown native trees, bushes, and vines. But, no one would ever accuse the hollers of not being protected.
How the joke started was Les would talk about his Pumkin Holler and I listened to John one day tell a story about his "Miller Flats Holler." Later in the storytelling, for the first time ever, I wondered why our family holler had no name. Were we so poor we couldn't even afford a name? There evolved the joke.
No name perhaps. But, the place where we grew up, the place on #10 highway that cannot be found unless you know the key to unlock it's hiding place, opens the gate to a world of riches. They are not material, I'll grant you that. Rather, a treasury of childhood memories. I wouldn't trade for any of those things locked behind the iron gates of code for my memory holler on #10.
Thursday, February 08, 2007
mixed blood identity and agency
Well, Betty Jo, I don't have the answer either -- where the energy comes from. Why Karen and I can do all of the things we do. I've finally decided it is either a miracle or a touch of mental illness. I can't speak for sister Karen, only myself, but, in these later years of life, I've always had an image of a ladder in front of me and I want to see how many rungs I can climb. Hearing the word, "No," or being told "You can't do that, " or "Why are you doing that?" "You're too old to do that," is just like waving a red flag in front of me. It is a "Go" signal.
Often, the picture of Elmer, the bull, in the backyard hollow, getting a look at the red gown mother had penned to the clothes line comes to mind. As the family story goes, when he got that good look and with whatever his purpose in mind, he bore down, went on the attack and got his mission accomplished. I always think of Elmer, by the sight of the red gown, was told "No." And, he would have none of it. He was just climbing another rung of his ladder.
It is rare a book disappoints me. However, I found this to be the case when reading Daniel Levinson's, The Seasons of a Woman's Life. The life stages of development he discusses in the book, I've been through. I want a model - a blueprint for what comes next in the here and now. Turning to life past sixty years of age, the what to do and how it's going to be is missing in The Seasons. I'm in brand new territory, forming my own new identities. The process has not been without problems.
First it was "the runner." Then along came the "grad student." How many time have I heard from men and women I've known for years -- "How are your knees holding up?" "What do you do that for?" "It's not good for people to run so far at your age!" I had pictures of myself being the lone lobster in the barrel trying to crawl out and the other lobsters reaching up to pull me back in. No encouragement. Only negativism. generally, I could flip my thoughts into a positive frame. But, occasionally, lack of support just gets you down. Doubt creeps in.
I climbed the ladder of age-group running. First 3.2 miles. Then 6.2 miles. Then the half-marathon. Finally, the scariest of all, the full marathon. So far, I've completed five. In the over all scheme of a runner's life, that's not that many, but, oh my goodness, the number of rungs I've climbed up my ladder have been so rewarding. I didn't read a thing about this in the book. It was just something I wanted to see if I could do. But, why aren't people more encouraging? What do they consider "climbing up the ladder" of life, instead of crawling back down such strange behavior.
It is not as if I were "Little Miss Goodie Two Shoes." I smoke and run. I've dragged myself out of bed of early mornings to run after one too many glasses wine the night before. There was no shining halo over my head the last time I looked in a mirror. Maybe these are all addiction behaviors. Maybe they are methods of trying to sneak around corners to hide from death. Personally, I don't think so. It's just a drive to see what's out there inside the self. What more can I do? How many more's can I be? Whenever I look up, I see more rungs. What do they hold? It is a mystery.
Being a late-age graduate student is a whole other story. While the people in my age group are still in a discouraging mode adding, "Why are you doing that?" "Your wasting your time?" "Nobody is ever going to hire you at your age."
Surprisingly, I have found a common characteristic between "the runner" and the "grad student." The younger agers seem to show admiration and respect. Initially, I can see the questions in their eyes. But, given my persistence, their silent questioning turns to invitations. My running partners are younger than my children. My younger graduate colleagues ask me to meet them for "thought bouncing" at Starbucks.
So, Betty Jo, I'm still searching for the answer. I've got a feeling though. I think it's going to be found somewhere in the complexity of mixed-blood identity which has resulted in a high dose of agency.
Often, the picture of Elmer, the bull, in the backyard hollow, getting a look at the red gown mother had penned to the clothes line comes to mind. As the family story goes, when he got that good look and with whatever his purpose in mind, he bore down, went on the attack and got his mission accomplished. I always think of Elmer, by the sight of the red gown, was told "No." And, he would have none of it. He was just climbing another rung of his ladder.
It is rare a book disappoints me. However, I found this to be the case when reading Daniel Levinson's, The Seasons of a Woman's Life. The life stages of development he discusses in the book, I've been through. I want a model - a blueprint for what comes next in the here and now. Turning to life past sixty years of age, the what to do and how it's going to be is missing in The Seasons. I'm in brand new territory, forming my own new identities. The process has not been without problems.
First it was "the runner." Then along came the "grad student." How many time have I heard from men and women I've known for years -- "How are your knees holding up?" "What do you do that for?" "It's not good for people to run so far at your age!" I had pictures of myself being the lone lobster in the barrel trying to crawl out and the other lobsters reaching up to pull me back in. No encouragement. Only negativism. generally, I could flip my thoughts into a positive frame. But, occasionally, lack of support just gets you down. Doubt creeps in.
I climbed the ladder of age-group running. First 3.2 miles. Then 6.2 miles. Then the half-marathon. Finally, the scariest of all, the full marathon. So far, I've completed five. In the over all scheme of a runner's life, that's not that many, but, oh my goodness, the number of rungs I've climbed up my ladder have been so rewarding. I didn't read a thing about this in the book. It was just something I wanted to see if I could do. But, why aren't people more encouraging? What do they consider "climbing up the ladder" of life, instead of crawling back down such strange behavior.
It is not as if I were "Little Miss Goodie Two Shoes." I smoke and run. I've dragged myself out of bed of early mornings to run after one too many glasses wine the night before. There was no shining halo over my head the last time I looked in a mirror. Maybe these are all addiction behaviors. Maybe they are methods of trying to sneak around corners to hide from death. Personally, I don't think so. It's just a drive to see what's out there inside the self. What more can I do? How many more's can I be? Whenever I look up, I see more rungs. What do they hold? It is a mystery.
Being a late-age graduate student is a whole other story. While the people in my age group are still in a discouraging mode adding, "Why are you doing that?" "Your wasting your time?" "Nobody is ever going to hire you at your age."
Surprisingly, I have found a common characteristic between "the runner" and the "grad student." The younger agers seem to show admiration and respect. Initially, I can see the questions in their eyes. But, given my persistence, their silent questioning turns to invitations. My running partners are younger than my children. My younger graduate colleagues ask me to meet them for "thought bouncing" at Starbucks.
So, Betty Jo, I'm still searching for the answer. I've got a feeling though. I think it's going to be found somewhere in the complexity of mixed-blood identity which has resulted in a high dose of agency.
Sunday, January 21, 2007
The Ballet of the Birds
Morning Thoughts. Thoughts at Noon. Late afternoon thinking: Ballet of the Birds
Long time personal beliefs:
1. A new day is always a wonder because you never know what's going to happen when you get up of a morning.
2. Never make assumptions and judgments based on what you think is going on in my mind. More than likely, you are way off the mark.
3. Belief number two is applied to every person. There are too many worldviews in operation - different perspectives - complexity of "The Rule of Diversity."
President Bush dominated my dreams last night. He flitted in and out of several vignettes. I awakened remembering only the last one. G. W. and Laura were being introduced before walking onto an auditorium stage to make an opening statement, which would start the regional finals of a ballet competition. I was part of a group of parents with children participating in the competition.
The seating arrangement called for the contestant spectators to be separated. The director of our group asked us to sit in a single row, starting at the top of the auditorium and ending at the bottom seats closet to the stage -- forming a long single line. I couldn't find a way to be part of the determined seating map as every empty seat I found was "being saved." So, I jumped the aisle into a different seating section.
After I found a seat, I ran back up the steps to wait in the stage wings for G. W. to appear. I was curious to see what he would wear as he'd been to so many events during the day, I wondered how he would have time to change into proper dress for the ballet.
I was surprised. He walked onto the stage with Laura wearing a red and white sports shirt. He looked like he'd just come from a barbeque. On his way to the microphone, he began his famous hand wave -- one of his symbolic actions for the public and the camera. I wondered if these "G. W. friendlies" disappeared in private.
I could see the Velcro straps of a black protective flak jacket. He and Laura turned their heads to the side where I was standing and I could see checkered bandana's covering half of their faces. Only their eyes were showing. They took them off, looked at the crowd and smiled. I wondered what the joke was?
Later in the day, an email arrived from iced in Columbia, MO. One of my sister's colleagues, along with her husband had been stuck in their house over the weekend because of "two inches of ice coating everything and frigid temperatures." They were, however, thankful to have the basics of electricity and food. Bored with the enforced hibernation, they pulled up a couple of chairs in front of their kitchen windows and entertained themselves by watching the birds in their backyard. The subject of the movie in play was bird's trying to get to food.
Since their birdfeeders were all iced-up, Peggy and her husband had scattered seeds on the ice for quick and easy frozen meals. What they didn't figure on was when the birds flew in for a food-landing, they slid all over the place. Peggy said it "looked lik a birdie ski resort." My imagination pictured a bird ballet. According to Peggy, the birds soon figured out how to choreograph their timing and moves to slide gracefully in to successfully feed on the seeds.
The connectivity in a day never ceases to amaze me. It begins drawing the circle and ends with its powerful closure. Today, it was the three B's: Bush, the birds, and the ballet.
Long time personal beliefs:
1. A new day is always a wonder because you never know what's going to happen when you get up of a morning.
2. Never make assumptions and judgments based on what you think is going on in my mind. More than likely, you are way off the mark.
3. Belief number two is applied to every person. There are too many worldviews in operation - different perspectives - complexity of "The Rule of Diversity."
President Bush dominated my dreams last night. He flitted in and out of several vignettes. I awakened remembering only the last one. G. W. and Laura were being introduced before walking onto an auditorium stage to make an opening statement, which would start the regional finals of a ballet competition. I was part of a group of parents with children participating in the competition.
The seating arrangement called for the contestant spectators to be separated. The director of our group asked us to sit in a single row, starting at the top of the auditorium and ending at the bottom seats closet to the stage -- forming a long single line. I couldn't find a way to be part of the determined seating map as every empty seat I found was "being saved." So, I jumped the aisle into a different seating section.
After I found a seat, I ran back up the steps to wait in the stage wings for G. W. to appear. I was curious to see what he would wear as he'd been to so many events during the day, I wondered how he would have time to change into proper dress for the ballet.
I was surprised. He walked onto the stage with Laura wearing a red and white sports shirt. He looked like he'd just come from a barbeque. On his way to the microphone, he began his famous hand wave -- one of his symbolic actions for the public and the camera. I wondered if these "G. W. friendlies" disappeared in private.
I could see the Velcro straps of a black protective flak jacket. He and Laura turned their heads to the side where I was standing and I could see checkered bandana's covering half of their faces. Only their eyes were showing. They took them off, looked at the crowd and smiled. I wondered what the joke was?
Later in the day, an email arrived from iced in Columbia, MO. One of my sister's colleagues, along with her husband had been stuck in their house over the weekend because of "two inches of ice coating everything and frigid temperatures." They were, however, thankful to have the basics of electricity and food. Bored with the enforced hibernation, they pulled up a couple of chairs in front of their kitchen windows and entertained themselves by watching the birds in their backyard. The subject of the movie in play was bird's trying to get to food.
Since their birdfeeders were all iced-up, Peggy and her husband had scattered seeds on the ice for quick and easy frozen meals. What they didn't figure on was when the birds flew in for a food-landing, they slid all over the place. Peggy said it "looked lik a birdie ski resort." My imagination pictured a bird ballet. According to Peggy, the birds soon figured out how to choreograph their timing and moves to slide gracefully in to successfully feed on the seeds.
The connectivity in a day never ceases to amaze me. It begins drawing the circle and ends with its powerful closure. Today, it was the three B's: Bush, the birds, and the ballet.
Friday, January 19, 2007
elementary epistomology and ontology
January 19, 2007 - Friday -- Mother Letter #5
(written 1-17-Wednesday)
Stir craziness is taking over. The city has been iced in for three days. I've not budged from the house since Monday. The physical inactivity has started to affect me. Hyperness and a pervasive feeling of restless has taken over. Up, down. Up, down. It's hard to sit still. Jumping jacks have provided intermittent relief. In my first venture outside, I slipped and almost fell. Every time since then, I've bundled up as a caution. In case I did slip and fall, at least I'd be warm laying on the ground waiting for rescue.
Last evening, tired of serious reading, finding nothing of interest on T.V., and bored with videos, I crawled into bed with my latest "grocery-store-tranquilizer-mystery-paperback-novel." The sleep-charm worked. I was asleep within fifteen minutes; both glasses and bedside lamp still on. I know this because I woke up thirty minutes later. And, I know this, because for some reason I looked at my watch. It seemed important at the time. Was it the dream that awakened me?
I could see myself standing in a sterile room in the middle of a complex grid of lazerbeams emitting white light. The beams were running parallel and perpendicular to each other, almost in perfect squares. The horizontal lines had hatch marks. Instinctively, I knew I needed to be still. I was watching myself like a hall-monitor. My back was to me in the dream as I was facing a large, secure door. It was then I awakened, wondered why it was so light, and the dream faded. But, as all my dreams go, I knew what I saw before the image faded.
Mid-morning, I thought about the dream again and compared its similarity to my almost every morning ritual of watching the sun start its journey over the horizon. First it alerts the clouds and they signal the coming of the new day with expressions of color. This sight is fleeting. One second the cloud-color-mixes of the morning are there, and in the next second the exact artful vision is gone. But, I know what I saw. This early morning experience is like the dream. How I see the sunrises and my dreams are esthetically mine and mine alone. It is in how I see them that I tell you about them.
(written 1-17-Wednesday)
Stir craziness is taking over. The city has been iced in for three days. I've not budged from the house since Monday. The physical inactivity has started to affect me. Hyperness and a pervasive feeling of restless has taken over. Up, down. Up, down. It's hard to sit still. Jumping jacks have provided intermittent relief. In my first venture outside, I slipped and almost fell. Every time since then, I've bundled up as a caution. In case I did slip and fall, at least I'd be warm laying on the ground waiting for rescue.
Last evening, tired of serious reading, finding nothing of interest on T.V., and bored with videos, I crawled into bed with my latest "grocery-store-tranquilizer-mystery-paperback-novel." The sleep-charm worked. I was asleep within fifteen minutes; both glasses and bedside lamp still on. I know this because I woke up thirty minutes later. And, I know this, because for some reason I looked at my watch. It seemed important at the time. Was it the dream that awakened me?
I could see myself standing in a sterile room in the middle of a complex grid of lazerbeams emitting white light. The beams were running parallel and perpendicular to each other, almost in perfect squares. The horizontal lines had hatch marks. Instinctively, I knew I needed to be still. I was watching myself like a hall-monitor. My back was to me in the dream as I was facing a large, secure door. It was then I awakened, wondered why it was so light, and the dream faded. But, as all my dreams go, I knew what I saw before the image faded.
Mid-morning, I thought about the dream again and compared its similarity to my almost every morning ritual of watching the sun start its journey over the horizon. First it alerts the clouds and they signal the coming of the new day with expressions of color. This sight is fleeting. One second the cloud-color-mixes of the morning are there, and in the next second the exact artful vision is gone. But, I know what I saw. This early morning experience is like the dream. How I see the sunrises and my dreams are esthetically mine and mine alone. It is in how I see them that I tell you about them.
Saturday, January 13, 2007
Thoughts on Words and Nature
4th Mother Letter of 2007. It is the 13th of January. Wintry day in Austin
Dear Mother,
Lean over and bend your ear close to the paper. I want to whisper something to you. i've had no headaches in over a week. Hallelujah! If they've ended, this will be a record. The 2nd shortest Cluster time - ever.
Ever since using the word, omphaloskepsis, in your 2nd Mother Letter, Brother-in-Law Dan and I have been parleying back and forth on word meanings. In a recent email he suggested that in this technologically, every-changing, fast-paced world we are living in, "We are in danger of losing the ability to connect with our past and our people who lived in those times" by corrupting meanings of many old words and re-arranging meanings to suit modern demand and fashion. If this is the case, "It is possible that the language we use to convey our thoughts may not carry the ideas originally intended by those people from our past who generated the ideas." As an example, Dan dug through his old files and shared an expression sent to him at one time by his brother, Ernest -- one that with the passage of time just "slipped-slided" into a current idiom.
"Many years ago in Scotland, a new game was invented. It was ruled that Gentlemen
Only could play the game. Ladies Forbidden. Thus, the word GOLF entered into the
English language."
Among all the little points unfolding in this story, there is also, one of synchronicity. Wednesday morning on my early drive down Mesa to go meet Judy and Laura for our early run, rounding the first corner from the house, I slowed to let a squirrel cross the street. Usually, It's deer. This morning, a lone squirrel had the right-of-way. A couple of hours and couple of cups of coffee later, I remembered the second part of Dan's email and his story of the squirrel. That we'd have two instances of meaningful squirrel stories so close together is the wonder of synchronicity.
Brother-in-Law Dan, is very proud of the deck he added onto his and Karen's Columbia home. He calls it their, three-seasons room. It's outfitted with indoor-outdoor carpeting and has eight, fairly sizable windows opening on the front and sides of this covered porch to bring closer to them the beauty of their treed, woods-like, backyard. Deck project finished, here came the winter storms their part of the country withstood this past year.
While scraping up and sweeping out almost a foot of snow that had blown in through the open windows, Dan mentioned that during a couple of work breaks, he noticed a squirrel running down one of the large oak trees in the backyard. Curious, he stood and patiently watched. The squirrel ran down the tree until it was almost six feet from the ground and then took a diving jump right into the middle of a snow pile leaving a hole of about three inches in diameter. "About 30 seconds later, the squirrel popped its head up out of the hole and, in fits and starts, made a 360 degree check of its surroundings. Then back in the hole the squirrel went. After it repeated these various maneuvers 4 times, the squirrel re-emerged with an acron in its mouth."
Dan told me that it was at this point he got hit with the "duh" bolt of memory. "Growing up, I remembered watching squirrels find acorns in the winter, no matter how cold or wet the weather happened to be." However, he'd never had the experience of watching squirrels high-dive from trees into banks of snow to food hunt as the part of Oklahoma he grew up in didn't see snow too often. Then, right behind his first memory jog, quickly came another thought and then another.
First Dan thought, "those squirrels will probably be finding acorns or whatever passes for food eons after humans become a piece of archeology." Second thought coming to Dan and shared with me -- "Maybe being viewed as "Squirrelly" is not such a bad thing. Maybe I should not have been so upset with the fellow who once arrogantly told me that my ancestors must have lived in trees. If the squirrels can survive, perhaps my people really do have a chance."
Patience and observing nature really do provide opportunity for profound lessons. Getting a chance look at the survival techniques of the winter squirrel, Dan's follow-through on his curiousness, synchronized nicely with how many would dub his time spent as eccentric or "Squirrelly." Lessons from the animals can take racist words and spin them into hope.
(Squirrel story provided by Dan Cockrell, Master deck-builder and Professor Emeritus, University of Missouri-Columbia)
Dear Mother,
Lean over and bend your ear close to the paper. I want to whisper something to you. i've had no headaches in over a week. Hallelujah! If they've ended, this will be a record. The 2nd shortest Cluster time - ever.
Ever since using the word, omphaloskepsis, in your 2nd Mother Letter, Brother-in-Law Dan and I have been parleying back and forth on word meanings. In a recent email he suggested that in this technologically, every-changing, fast-paced world we are living in, "We are in danger of losing the ability to connect with our past and our people who lived in those times" by corrupting meanings of many old words and re-arranging meanings to suit modern demand and fashion. If this is the case, "It is possible that the language we use to convey our thoughts may not carry the ideas originally intended by those people from our past who generated the ideas." As an example, Dan dug through his old files and shared an expression sent to him at one time by his brother, Ernest -- one that with the passage of time just "slipped-slided" into a current idiom.
"Many years ago in Scotland, a new game was invented. It was ruled that Gentlemen
Only could play the game. Ladies Forbidden. Thus, the word GOLF entered into the
English language."
Among all the little points unfolding in this story, there is also, one of synchronicity. Wednesday morning on my early drive down Mesa to go meet Judy and Laura for our early run, rounding the first corner from the house, I slowed to let a squirrel cross the street. Usually, It's deer. This morning, a lone squirrel had the right-of-way. A couple of hours and couple of cups of coffee later, I remembered the second part of Dan's email and his story of the squirrel. That we'd have two instances of meaningful squirrel stories so close together is the wonder of synchronicity.
Brother-in-Law Dan, is very proud of the deck he added onto his and Karen's Columbia home. He calls it their, three-seasons room. It's outfitted with indoor-outdoor carpeting and has eight, fairly sizable windows opening on the front and sides of this covered porch to bring closer to them the beauty of their treed, woods-like, backyard. Deck project finished, here came the winter storms their part of the country withstood this past year.
While scraping up and sweeping out almost a foot of snow that had blown in through the open windows, Dan mentioned that during a couple of work breaks, he noticed a squirrel running down one of the large oak trees in the backyard. Curious, he stood and patiently watched. The squirrel ran down the tree until it was almost six feet from the ground and then took a diving jump right into the middle of a snow pile leaving a hole of about three inches in diameter. "About 30 seconds later, the squirrel popped its head up out of the hole and, in fits and starts, made a 360 degree check of its surroundings. Then back in the hole the squirrel went. After it repeated these various maneuvers 4 times, the squirrel re-emerged with an acron in its mouth."
Dan told me that it was at this point he got hit with the "duh" bolt of memory. "Growing up, I remembered watching squirrels find acorns in the winter, no matter how cold or wet the weather happened to be." However, he'd never had the experience of watching squirrels high-dive from trees into banks of snow to food hunt as the part of Oklahoma he grew up in didn't see snow too often. Then, right behind his first memory jog, quickly came another thought and then another.
First Dan thought, "those squirrels will probably be finding acorns or whatever passes for food eons after humans become a piece of archeology." Second thought coming to Dan and shared with me -- "Maybe being viewed as "Squirrelly" is not such a bad thing. Maybe I should not have been so upset with the fellow who once arrogantly told me that my ancestors must have lived in trees. If the squirrels can survive, perhaps my people really do have a chance."
Patience and observing nature really do provide opportunity for profound lessons. Getting a chance look at the survival techniques of the winter squirrel, Dan's follow-through on his curiousness, synchronized nicely with how many would dub his time spent as eccentric or "Squirrelly." Lessons from the animals can take racist words and spin them into hope.
(Squirrel story provided by Dan Cockrell, Master deck-builder and Professor Emeritus, University of Missouri-Columbia)
Saturday, January 06, 2007
3rd mother letter of 2007 - finding holes in the fence
Dear Mother,
Do you remember -- I think it was a couple of years ago -- when I was driving a loop around Tulsa, lost as usual, trying to find Matt's house for the family Thanksgiving gathering and the two pieces of metal flew off of a car passing me at a high rate of speed and they hit my old Camry in the middle of the driver's door. It all happened so fast. I thought I'd been shot at by a speeding motorist. Since then, I've been asked many times what caused those two large dents in the door, followed by the next question: "Why don't you have them fixed? My response has always been the same. "No way. Those two dents in the car door keep me reminded of the time I was almost killed in Tulsa, Oklahoma." It's a pretty good living story.
When I was running the neighborhood Christmas morning, tripped, and fell face forward on the street, skinning the palms of my hands, left knee and ripping a hole in my favorite running pants, the Tulsa time of two years ago reappeared. People now want to know, "Why are you wearing running pants with a hole in the knee? Why don't you go buy a new pair?" Well, "No way." The new hole in the pants reminds me of the fall, the pain of it all, and feeling alive, Another pretty good living story.
Over the years, with every inch of separation I've made from No. 10 highway in Tahlequah and then, 133 N. E. in Bartlesville, it seems that as the distance increases it matches the inability of people to understand the way I think.
It's like being out exploring on a Saturday morning and finding yourself standing at the forefront of a large meadow with a fence stretching across the whole expanse, blocked from going forward, straight ahead, to find out what is in the far distance. Sometimes you are lucky enough to find a small hole in the fence to get through and sometimes, you've just got to buck up and walk around the whole dang thing to get where you are going. It may take a little longer, but you can get there.
The farther away I've gotten from Indian Country, the fewer holes I've found in the thinking of folks to maneuver through. The time it takes to walk around the whole dang outside of the Indian-Country-mind can get pretty tiring at times.
Friday, January 5th
Here's a good early morning story for you -- driving down Mesa this morning, by the light of a full moon, on my way to hook up with Judy and Laura for the early morning run, I slowed, as I could see in the distance flashing lights from police cars.
Getting to the scene of the "accident,' I crept by three police cars trying to get a good look at what was causing all the commotion. What I saw didn't make any sense at the time. There seemed to be a golf cart surrounded by three "blue and whites." all of a sudden one of the police cars, lights flashing, sped off.
Almost a mile down the street, I could see flashing lights again. Passing by, there was a repeat of my earlier vision -- a golf cart, sitting half in the street, half on the curb.
When I got to the Hitt's house, I asked Judy and Laura if they minded running back to the first police car to find out what was going on and I could check out my eye-sight. Off we went. Everything was still in place. The police car and the second spotted golf cart. It really was a golf cart!! The policeman told us that a group of teenagers had stolen several carts from a tennis club, located about four miles away. So far, they had caught two of the teenagers. The others ran. Well, actually, according to the policeman, they all ran, but there were two slow ones.
I mentioned to the policman that they would probably use "the full moon" defense. But, he told me he thought that was a myth and didn't believe people acted out a little more strangely under the light of a full moon.
Saturday Morning -- January 6, 2007
Rare opportunity missed this day. No alarm clock needed last night. I could have slept as long as I wanted. Instead, "up with the chickens." My last dream remembered was chauffeuring around the Queen of England. No joke! Thoughtfully, she gave me pretty earrings to wear so that I would be dressed in a proper manner. HA!
Being mindful of the full moon again -- times of stormy weather and earthquakes. I love my 2007 Cherokee Heritage calendar. January is the "Month of the Cold Moon," and it features the herb, Mullein, suggesting its leaves be used to make a tea for congestion.
Well, daylight has finally appeared. I think I'm going to go get out of my jammies and locate the place on the street that caused me to fall Christmas morning and give it a good talking to. Then I'm going to walk the neighborhood looking for holes in the fences. There was no workout this morning as Emil went to San Antonio for a training seminar.
Love,
Jody
Do you remember -- I think it was a couple of years ago -- when I was driving a loop around Tulsa, lost as usual, trying to find Matt's house for the family Thanksgiving gathering and the two pieces of metal flew off of a car passing me at a high rate of speed and they hit my old Camry in the middle of the driver's door. It all happened so fast. I thought I'd been shot at by a speeding motorist. Since then, I've been asked many times what caused those two large dents in the door, followed by the next question: "Why don't you have them fixed? My response has always been the same. "No way. Those two dents in the car door keep me reminded of the time I was almost killed in Tulsa, Oklahoma." It's a pretty good living story.
When I was running the neighborhood Christmas morning, tripped, and fell face forward on the street, skinning the palms of my hands, left knee and ripping a hole in my favorite running pants, the Tulsa time of two years ago reappeared. People now want to know, "Why are you wearing running pants with a hole in the knee? Why don't you go buy a new pair?" Well, "No way." The new hole in the pants reminds me of the fall, the pain of it all, and feeling alive, Another pretty good living story.
Over the years, with every inch of separation I've made from No. 10 highway in Tahlequah and then, 133 N. E. in Bartlesville, it seems that as the distance increases it matches the inability of people to understand the way I think.
It's like being out exploring on a Saturday morning and finding yourself standing at the forefront of a large meadow with a fence stretching across the whole expanse, blocked from going forward, straight ahead, to find out what is in the far distance. Sometimes you are lucky enough to find a small hole in the fence to get through and sometimes, you've just got to buck up and walk around the whole dang thing to get where you are going. It may take a little longer, but you can get there.
The farther away I've gotten from Indian Country, the fewer holes I've found in the thinking of folks to maneuver through. The time it takes to walk around the whole dang outside of the Indian-Country-mind can get pretty tiring at times.
Friday, January 5th
Here's a good early morning story for you -- driving down Mesa this morning, by the light of a full moon, on my way to hook up with Judy and Laura for the early morning run, I slowed, as I could see in the distance flashing lights from police cars.
Getting to the scene of the "accident,' I crept by three police cars trying to get a good look at what was causing all the commotion. What I saw didn't make any sense at the time. There seemed to be a golf cart surrounded by three "blue and whites." all of a sudden one of the police cars, lights flashing, sped off.
Almost a mile down the street, I could see flashing lights again. Passing by, there was a repeat of my earlier vision -- a golf cart, sitting half in the street, half on the curb.
When I got to the Hitt's house, I asked Judy and Laura if they minded running back to the first police car to find out what was going on and I could check out my eye-sight. Off we went. Everything was still in place. The police car and the second spotted golf cart. It really was a golf cart!! The policeman told us that a group of teenagers had stolen several carts from a tennis club, located about four miles away. So far, they had caught two of the teenagers. The others ran. Well, actually, according to the policeman, they all ran, but there were two slow ones.
I mentioned to the policman that they would probably use "the full moon" defense. But, he told me he thought that was a myth and didn't believe people acted out a little more strangely under the light of a full moon.
Saturday Morning -- January 6, 2007
Rare opportunity missed this day. No alarm clock needed last night. I could have slept as long as I wanted. Instead, "up with the chickens." My last dream remembered was chauffeuring around the Queen of England. No joke! Thoughtfully, she gave me pretty earrings to wear so that I would be dressed in a proper manner. HA!
Being mindful of the full moon again -- times of stormy weather and earthquakes. I love my 2007 Cherokee Heritage calendar. January is the "Month of the Cold Moon," and it features the herb, Mullein, suggesting its leaves be used to make a tea for congestion.
Well, daylight has finally appeared. I think I'm going to go get out of my jammies and locate the place on the street that caused me to fall Christmas morning and give it a good talking to. Then I'm going to walk the neighborhood looking for holes in the fences. There was no workout this morning as Emil went to San Antonio for a training seminar.
Love,
Jody
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