This Strange Desire: On Materialism & Image

Day 3 of 365, October 9, 2009

It’s obvious to anyone who looks at me that I care about clothes.  Aesthetics are important to me.  But more than that, let’s face it, I have thing for clothing.  Shoes.  Bags.  Scarfs.  Coats ….Oh, and my favorite in the fall: hats!!  I collect brooches. When I am particularly self-aware it’s a little sickening. It is materialistic.  But I just enjoy the hunt and enjoy creating a look.

I am also sometimes guilty of prejudging a person based on their way of dressing; their hair, glasses and shoes do say a lot about a person, I have always thought.  But now I’m seeing that it says something more about me.

It is hard to face this superficial response in myself, but at the very least I thought it was an internal issue sort of between me and my maker.  And not so obvious to others.  I was wrong! (More on this later.)

Beyond that, I struggle with addictive, compulsive behaviors so I have been known to go gonzo at thrift stores.  I love deals. It is the missionary kid in me who just beams in pride at finding a name brand jacket for $3.50 at the Goodwill.  But then I find shoes that match, and five more  jackets, all name brands and I buy them all.  This has caused stress to our finances and consternation in my marriage.  I should go on record to say that I have the most understanding and forgiving husband, although he has his own little issue with guitars.  Don’t we all have something? And I digress.

For me it’s clothes.  And I got to thinking about how much time, energy and money I spend thinking about this thing, which can only be summed up as IMAGE.  Ew!!  It leaves a bad taste in my mouth and it is hard to admit, sadly, how much I consider these things. But what really got me thinking is something that happened with my daughter, Emma, who is eleven in her first year of middle school.

Getting ready for soccer she declares she “can’t go” because she can’t show up at Dock later (church group) sweaty and gross!  Of course I begin to wax eloquent about how she knows that’s not what’s important. It’s her personality that will make her friends and it’s her character that will keep them … and she shouts over me from the stairs, saying something she doesn’t even believe (I hope!)

“How – you – look – is – everything!

That – is – how – people – decide – if – you’re – worth – talking – to!”

What have I done?  It has gone too far.

I heard an advertisement recently saying “Just because times are tight doesn’t mean you should have to stop wearing designer labels!” 

As I sit on the stairs, looking at my daughter I face the superficiality that I have lived, colliding with the values that I want my daughter to have.

And I came face-to-face with the fact that my need for and desire for self-expression was having a poor impact on my daughter.  And as I had already been facing it, which is how god seems to work in my life, I ready myself to pledge  to face this consumerism, materialism and image-focus in my life, by refusing to shop for clothes for myself for 365 days.  (I actually started two days ago, so I have 363 day left.)

I am rejecting the United States economic system that says consumption as ‘patriotic’ and the messages that we constantly hear that  image is what makes a person good, attractive and interesting.  I face  my own hypocrisy, while hopefully being an example to my daughter that she is more than the Old Navy skinny jeans and Converse tennies that she wears.  I am more than my Calvin Kleins and Danskos.

As a 43-year-old mother of four, hausfrau, I have very few things in my life that differentiate me from others.  I live in the suburbs, until recently I drove a soccer mom van for eight years.  But surely my house, my car, my clothing do not define me.

I believe that intellectually, but I am not living that way.  As an aside, it took long enough but thankfully I recognized the car thing before I bought myself a cute little JEEP and opted for the Honda Accord.  (I’ve longed for that JEEP since I was 16,  but that teenage dream dies here.)

I remember a  young New York socialite I met at an Urbana convention, who was so confronted by her own materialism & consumerism in contrast with the needs of the world’s poor, that she pledged to not buy clothes for a whole year. Of course at the time I thought she was nuts and felt a little jealous because I could never do that!

But, as I sat there staring up at my daughter on those stairs, I knew that’s what I would do.  I can do it.  I will.

I like challenges and so for one year I will see what it’s like to not cave to trends of fashion or consumerism.  I will use what I have.  Borrow if need be.  Get by with what’s in my closet.  Thankfully, I already own a lot of clothes and accessories.  (And I will always take donations from friends.)   There will be times when a special event will come up and I will find this hard: like Tom’s work trip to the Bahamas.   Remind me then what I have said here and we’ll see how it goes!

For now, who knows what I’ll do with all the unspent money.  A donation to my church’s Advent Conspiracy Offering, for sure. Around Christmas time, last year, they encouraged us to give up one gift and give it to the poor raising over $100,000.   It was very cool.   But kids grow quickly as well.  Irregardless of the money I wonder what this will teach me about my fragile sense of self?  Of course, I will blog (maybe once a week) on what I am learning, or reflecting on, people’s reactions, my own issues.

And, if by now you’ve decided that I am crazy but you agree with the idea of doing something you just don’t buy into a whole year, you are in luck.  November 27th is International Buy Nothing Day here in North America and the next day elsewhere. Buy nothing for one day.  It will send a message, make you think, give perspective.

Although nominated five times, Mohandas Gandhi never won the Nobel Peace Prize.  He once said: “A nation’s culture resides in the hearts and in the soul of its people.” and he also said: “Be the change you want to see in the world.”

Children are always absorbing Culture, Priorities and Values from us and I capitalize them intentionally.  Many time much more so than our words, our actions show them how to live.  Thankfully, it’s not too late.  No so suddenly, I know that my desire is to live honorably and to teach my beautiful girl something good, lasting and though difficult will profoundly change both of our lives.

See this for my 2nd entry on My Year Without New Clothes.

Why are we here?: On Purpose, Artistic Expression & Fear

I’ve got a problem and my mother summed it up correctly:  “Something’s got you stuck.”

As I sat in her living room yesterday, even my body spoke of the heavy, languid place I am in.  Slouching, holding my head which by the end of the day had become a migraine with nausea and halos, I was sinking; mired in body and spirit.

Earlier this week, my shrink really pissed me off.  I’m sure he did it purposefully and that makes him good.  As I see him monthly, this schedule makes it obvious that I’m stuck, afraid to move on with my photography.

For months, and months, I’ve been allowing everything under the sun, every good thing, to get in the way.  I found myself saying to him, “I know, I know!  I don’t want to become my mother!  In my 50’s, 60’s, and 70’s resenting and regretting all the “sacrifices” I made for everyone else.”  I don’t think she regrets them completely, actually.  Nor is she bitter, amazingly.  But I watched as she gave up so many of her aspirations and dreams for others, mostly my father.

Why am I stuck? …  What is it that I fear or is it even fear?

I am a lover of words (a wordie).  And I will travel down every rabbit trail of language’s meaning, fascinated by each manifestation.  It makes me interesting in a Bible Study group, and fairly annoying I think as a blogger, but just look at this list on words related to fear.

“Fear, as a noun, denotes the agitation and anxiety caused by the presence or imminence of danger.

Fear is the most general term: “Fear is the parent of cruelty” (J.A. Froude).

Fright is sudden, usually momentary, great fear.

Dread is strong fear, especially of what one is powerless to avoid.

Terror is intense, overpowering fear.

Horror is a combination of fear and aversion or repugnance.

Panic is sudden frantic fear, often groundless.

Alarm is fright aroused by the first realization of danger.

Dismay robs one of courage or the power to act effectively.

Consternation is often paralyzing, characterized by confusion and helplessness.

Trepidation is dread characteristically marked by trembling or hesitancy. (www.education.yahoo.com)

Or is it something else entirely, inertia?  Don’t worry, enough about words.

Kafka was wrong when he said: “It is not necessary that you leave the house. Remain at your table and listen. Do not even listen, only wait. Do not even wait, be wholly still and alone. The world will present itself to you for its unmasking, it can do no other, in ecstasy it will writhe at your feet. ”

It’s definitely lined with excuses whatever it is that is keeping me from doing something, anything with my photography.

I don’t have time to have an opinion on all the things I have an opinion on. I don’t have time to express all the things I want to express.  I don’t have time to learn all the things I want to learn, to create all I want to create,  to do all I want to do  …..  choices, blessed choices!

I think THIS is the midlife crisis I have been colliding into!  I can hear that big clock ticking ….  this is the funk I am in.  It is a little bit fear but it’s mostly inertia, dismay and consternation all rolled into one and I cannot visualize what I want for myself so I cannot go after it.

What does it mean to be successful at my photography?  The business aspect, say the bottom-line?  The artistic expression? The public accolades?

And so, as I put sarcastically to a friend yesterday, “I have been trying to know as little as possible about how to take pictures, and expect hardly anything as an outcome.”  I am sooo funny.  Sooo pathetic more like it.

What makes what I do worthwhile? Is it simply because I make it and I like it?? Or do others need to value it to make it of value? How do I determine what is worth pursuing artistically? Is it about listening to others cues or simply allowing my inner vision to grow and the world can stuff it?

Rosanne Cash said in an NPR interview that she isn’t a performer if she doesn’t get out there and perform. The music cannot stay private.

And yet, so much of art is how you market it, market yourself, the glossy package of your website, studio, groups you join.  If that’s the case I’m in trouble: My office is in my junky basement, my gear is okay, and I have no slick studio. I haven’t gotten around to making a website or …. all the other  elements of “Making your photography Business a Success.”   So what? How much of it is perception and how much reality.

And if you have some ability you can take dynamic, compelling images no matter what your gear.  That I really do believe.

I think what’s more important is what’s the message?  What’s the story? Does your art have to have a message and story to be ‘good.’  I lean that way and then can think of tons of art that is simply pleasing to look at, esoteric, full of mood, just makes me feel good ….

Here’s a question for you:  If you don’t know what the “rules” of art are (e.g. no classical training, art school etc. ) and you break them, can you make good art?  And who decides?  Should art have outcomes?  I don’t know.  And, I don’t know how or when I will be out of this stupid funk. And I’m starting to feel some fright!

The good news, it’s not depression (and if you know my story at all you know that is major).  It really is not turning into that, but rather, more of a Why am I here?  What are my days for?  How do I serve others?  Can I serve with my artistic talent?  If so, how?  Do I have to be paid money, written up in the New York Times, recieve critical acclaim in order to prove myself.  And who is it that I’m trying to prove myself to, besides my father who’s dead.  To whom do I owe ultimate justification of my exsistance?  If god real, what is really expected of me as an artist?  Starting from the belief that god is real, how does that change my actions, deeds, what I create.

My kingdom for a magic eight ball that actually worked…

It’s raining and I am reading Kierkegaard.

It’s raining and I am reading Kierkegaard.  That’s a good combination, the gloomy weather and honest thoughts.  As I sip my coffee and write, I do it amidst the bustle of children preparing for their day.  My coffee has grown cold, but let me tell you I am just warming up!

I have sat among others in conversation about Søren Kierkegaard and his thinking, but like many other areas in my life I have let others’ interpretations suffice and he had very little impact.

This is all so ironic, considering that he put into words an ache inside me that I haven’t known how to express. This understanding didn’t become as real until I read him for myself! Like so many areas of life, I am discovering that I am unique.  I have thoughts and ideas that are different, sometimes hugely different, from others.  But my self-discovery has been so long in coming that it is more than a little embarrassing.

In An Introduction to Kierkegaard, it says: “Kierkegaard aims to strip you, the reader, naked at two in the morning, to sit you in front of a mirror and force you to think about your life.”

Rest assured I am fully dressed, and it’s daytime, but my soul feels echoes of relief at being understood, even as I am reading the words of someone writing 100 years ago!  How I have anguished!  Certainly that is how this blog came about and anyone who takes the time to read my poetry knows it is true of my poetry.

Kierkegaard demands self-examination in a way that makes me jump up and howl “Yes!”  Not in self-absorption, or self-centeredness, but in a quest for maximum understanding, which makes so much sense to me! He confronts our innermost person, who is being lost in today’s (American) culture.  Hear me out.

“They use their abilities, amass wealth, carry out worldly enterprises, make prudent calculations, etc. and perhaps are mentioned in history, but they are not themselves.  In a spiritual sense they have no self, no self for whose sake they could venture everything.” (CUP 64-5)

This lack of being an individual leads to despair.  Many never acknowledge this.  Too often I do and feel like a total nutcase.  In the daily, humdrum of life “We convince ourselves that life is ‘happy’, that there is meaning and purpose to our lives, when often this is not the case.  We throw ourselves into activity of various kinds which is subconsciously designed to prevent us having to think deeply about ourselves at all.”  (Introduction to Kierkegaard.)

He doesn’t consider despair a negative.  Kierkegaard believed that the pain of despair can help us to seek something deeper, which comes before a person can take charge of their life, “beginning the long, painful, slow walk of becoming an individual.”

This, for me, is the most important point:

“In his ignorance of his own despair a person is furthest from being conscious of himself as spirit.  But precisely this — not being conscious of oneself as spirit — is despair, that is to say spiritlessness . . . the despairer is in the same situation as the consumptive; he feels best, considers himself to be healthiest, can appear to others to be in the pink of condition, just when the illness is at its most critical.” (CUP 75)

Kierkegaard is challenging those of us who have the outward appearance of happiness, to slow down, to be still, to look at ourselves differently.  Then perhaps we will see that it is a facade.  This doesn’t come easily and for me it took a complete change of career paths from a really driven, accomplished Mission leader … striving, proving, achieving… to housfrau and mommy.  Whoa did I have a crisis of purpose and fall flat on my face both physically and emotionally.  A crisis in my soul.  I was completely flattened by the fact that I had no understanding of my life’s greatest meaning. (And many Christians I know will now start flinching at this heretic thinking.  Read on.)

When I was working I wasn’t told you’re doing too much, I was simply given more to do.  The more I did, the more I was asked to do, until, when I left my job was split into three full-time jobs.  Why is this important, because I had become a machine.  When I was sad and confused about how to next spend my time and energies, I was given lists of activities and encouraged in to mommy-hood.  Really I just simply wanted some space, to think about these bigger issues of purpose, a sabbatical of sorts.  I now know that I would not have quit working if I could have sorted out these things, while procreating and all that entails.  (I wonder how many women go through this?)

When I did go home, suddenly I fell into the despair of questioning my purpose and discovering the masks I had constructed, feeling the despair of the seemingly commonplace, everyday life I was now living.  And so I began a long eight year path of becoming ruthlessly honest about what is true and false in my life.

Why do we seek the placid, safe and guarded sameness I have anguished?  I questioned and lamented my superficiality and missed the safety of the pursuit of work.  I was left with myself and I didn’t like it.  We work, we eat, we exercise, we shop, we acquire things and experiences, we pursue a hobby, become good at certain skills, we seek knowledge of various kinds, we become addicted to good and bad things, if we are very lucky we love, and we create beautiful things … and yet, still, we find ourselves awake at 2 in the morning.  The moment returns, or was it ever gone, and what then?

The greatest question is what does it mean to be human, not in some grand philosophical sense, but in how we choose to live and how to die.   The word ‘philosophy’ means ‘love of wisdom.’ And wisdom my father always said can only be gained through experience.  And I would add, thought.

For the first time in my life, with all pretense stripped away, I had an obligation to face my life and let wisdom begin to change the way lived.   Otherwise, life is just passing the time having moments of meaning. I should be able to figure out how to live out my life with justice and truth, with meaning.  My life can come  to mean something more than what I do and create.

For Kierkegaard said “I also know that in Greece a thinker was not a stunted existing person who produced works of art, but he himself was an existing work of art.” (CUP 303)

What does it mean to say you love? What does it mean to be a self? As I was reading him for the first time I started to get excited.  And if you are still with me after 1000+ words, I think you are excited as well!!!!!   Kierkegaard argues that most people are not selves at all.  Being an individual is difficult and it is something that few people attempt.  Instead, we put ourselves together in such a way that we are acceptable to others.  He calls it a copy.  We put on a mask.

I had certainly worn a mask for most of my life and with the ending of my work, or my purpose, I fell into a desolate place, a sinkhole which was ultimately deep depression.  It was like a loss of an arm it was so painful and it echoed on and on, I was lost .

And everyone continued to move through life as if it were nothing.   I should be able to do this change of career, or purpose and not fall apart.  So many other people do but for me it was my time of reckoning.  And I am grateful for it now that I am on the other side of the raging river.  I have crossed over and read with joy a description of what I went through.  Sure, I’m just at the beginning of reading this great thinker, philosopher and theologin.  But I’m psyched!

Who do you trust? Really.

Jacob 001There comes a time in one’s life when you must not only ask yourself hard questions but be willing to answer them. The question, if I am willing to ask it, is do I trust people?  Who do I trust?  And why?

We have come upon a touch of adversity, of late.  It feels disheartening as frustrating &  challenging things keep happening.  I said adversity but not real trials.  We are employed, still have our home, have a healthy family, we can feed our family, we have health insurance and even dental insurance.  In the big things, we are certainly okay.

But still, life is hard right now and my reflex is to scream WHY?!  to the ‘universe’ that keeps on going, no matter what hardship I have had.  Tomorrow quickly becomes today and I can’t ‘get off’ this ride.  This ride is my today.

It’s funny as a mother (or father, but mothering is what I do) you are thrust into situations where you need an advanced seminar in something (today emergency dentistry, Saturday it was sick kittens, last week eldercare … ) and you have to trust the experts that you have already surrounded yourself with.

My son Jacob broke/shattered/chipped his front teeth in the bathtub last night.  I was in a meeting about something that I am very excited about (utilizing artists in our church.  a potential artist’s blog.  a potential wall of photography I might create.  amazing. challenging.  fun.  my blood is pumping!) and after I get out of the building, my cell tells me I missed three calls and I get updated on what happened.

Our dentist is young and lacks history and experience.  And after getting it repaired this morning, I am feeling a bit unsure as to whether the dentist was functioning on the level I want for MY SON!Jacob 004 My baby has shattered his two front teeth. If you look closely you can see that his teeth look like ice that has cracked.

I must get a second opinion.   Meanwhile, I can’t order the mouthguard for myself from my dentist, because it turns out even though and dentist and my Primary doc told me it’s TMJ & I clentch my jaw, it’s medical not dental.  I have to get approval through health insurance or I’ll pay $680 our of pocket.

I must get my 2nd cat, Darling, to the Vet to make sure she hasn’t caught whatever Gizmo had and what finally killed her.  And I have to get back over to Emergency Vetenarians for Gizmo’s remains because the boys want to bury her.

The boys need hair repair (they both got BAD haircuts during the summer) and they have school pictures tomorrow.

Emma has to create a timeline from the year of her birth, to now, providing events that occured each year including sports, politics, and three other categories I can’t remember at this moment.  That’s due Thursday, with dinner at my mom’s and soccer practice in between.  The good news there is that she seems to have gotten herself to school on time!

All that shared to say, I don’t have time to find an expert in emergency dentistry and yet, these are his adult teeth and . .  .  not badI absolutely have to do this.

Does anyone have a great, experienced, wise dentist?  Meanwhile, I’m doing some light reading:

To efficiently determine the extent of injury and correctly
diagnose injuries to the teeth, periodontium, and associated
structures, a systematic approach to the traumatized child is
essential.22,23 Assessment includes a thorough history, visual and
radiographic examination, and additional tests such as palpation,
percussion, and mobility evaluation. Intraoral radiography
is useful for the evaluation of dentoalveolar trauma. If the area
of concern extends beyond the dentoalveolar complex, extraoral
imaging may be indicated. Treatment planning takes into
consideration the patient’s health status and developmental
status as well as extent of injuries. Advanced behavior guidance
techniques or an appropriate referral may be necessary to ensure
that proper diagnosis and care are given.

Guideline on Management of Acute Dental Trauma, from the American Academy of Pediatric Dentistry.

At 43, I am …


Originally uploaded by M e l o d y

I am feeling my age!  And I am middle aged people. But I happy to be 43, no matter how I feel physically, which is squishy, and tired, and showing signs of blase-body (Yes, I made that up)!!! I’ve been waking up very early in the morning and can’t get back to sleep. I don’t enjoy sleep with the verve of my youth where I actually RELISHED sleep and would have said it was one of my favorite activities. Sleep is now an activity I do in order to replenish myself. That feels odd.  And OLD.

I read this and just

loved how it made me feel:

‘Gather, girl, the roses.’

Not a bad approach to life.  A year ago I began to be re-acquainted with an old friend.  We sat down to talk about my thoughts about being 42 and he told me I was hard on myself.  He’s passed on, this year.  I want to remember Pete and the figure of truth telling that he was for me as well as recognize that none of us know how many days we have on this earth so whatever it is that you long for, do it now, seize the moment!

I’m not getting any younger! I’m going to have some fun! I want to date Tom! And do things just because they seem fun! Not watch my kids act like kids, but join in!!

While 42:

  • I remained sober!
  • I quit smoking!!
  • I quit sleeping medication!!!
  • I wrote a lot of poetry and more, which is all found on this blog.
  • I took thousands of photographs.
  • I forgave.
  • I sought forgiveness.
  • I learned the concept of service as a form of recovery.
  • And started going to AA meetings.
  • My children turned 21, 11, 10 and eight and Tom 48.

My father has been dead almost six years but I have yet to “bury” him.

  • I’d like to bury my dad this year.
  • And take my kids to England & Scotland.
  • I plan to seek peace, in my relationships, through my service to others, any way I can.
  • And keep short accounts with people.
  • Reach out to others not expect them to reach for me.
  • I’d like to photograph more carefully.  And learn from others.
  • And exhibit a project.
  • Set up my studio.
  • Eat more like a vegetarian and study natural health remedies.
  • Work out daily, for my mental health.

Lastly, I’m thinking of taking some seminary courses with the possibility of some degree. Tom asked me the other night what are the major or minor things that I did not do because I was strangled by my relationship with my dad.

I didn’t study when, what, and where I wanted and I’m going to work on that this year.

This is going to get some tweaking over the next few days, but those are my musings on turning 43.

Here’s what I wrote about turning 42.

Storing September

DSC_1867 copyMy Mother gave me a book of poetry by Elizabeth B. Rooney and I was reminded of it today, with fall on its way.

Storing September
by Elizabeth B. Rooney
You ask me what I did today.
I could pretend and say,
“I don’t remember.”
But, no, I’ll tell you what I did today —
I stored September.
Sat in the sun and let the sun sink in,
Let all the warmth of it caress my skin.
When winter comes, my skin will still remember
The day I stored September.
And then my eyes —
I filled them with the deepest, bluest skies
And all the traceries of wasps and butterflies.
When winter comes, my eyes will still remember
The day they stored September.
And there was cricket song to fill my ears!
And the taste of grapes
And the deep purple of them!
And asters, like small clumps of sky…
You know how much I love them.
That’s what I did today
And I know why.
Just simply for the love of it,
I stored September.

Be strong.

Be strong, little marshmallow. 

-seen on a bumper sticker


I am often wary after having a prolific week of writing.  Cautious.  A few have said that what I express is too sharp, especially toward my parents.  I should consider keeping it to myself.  And I do wonder about that.  I do.  I am concerned.

I do spend quite a lot of time considering the idea of making my journey private.  And at the moment when my doubt is most profound, if I had an easy OFF button, I would turn it off.

The doubters, they don’t make it easy.

My father used to say “Don’t say anything at all, if you can’t say something nice.”  He was a man of contradictions, that’s certain.  It was one of his MANY ways of controlling us.  And yet, perhaps this medium is too open, or my story too raw, or my experiences too recent?

******************

My father is dead, but my mother lives and I want to respect her life experience.  She’s 72 years old and was so misunderstood and alone much of the time, while my father traveled the world and had many friends and acquaintances.  I only learned recently that he wouldn’t let her share things about their life together, or even her own experiences, not even with her own friends.  He would punish her later (after she confessed of telling).  I won’t give specifics here, because that’s her story not mine.  I am only learning of much of it now, as she very slowly opens herself.

But I grew up in that environment of fear, control and subjugation and I am resolved that I will not be afraid to speak my mind and tell my story.  He is dead and he cannot make me pay.

My parents suffered for their isolation; they were private, lonely, solitary people.  My father blabbed a few times in books and shared some of their stories, many we kids had never even been told.  To this day, my mother remains a private, inward, fearful person.  I know she longs for connections, but she no longer knows how to achieve it.

But let me say this: She is a beautiful, strong person inside, in that really small place where God has kept her safe and whole.

I believe that.  Whether she will have time to bring that person to life, I do not know.  I have told her I would be willing to help her tell her story.  Give her a chance to have a voice, for once.  We will see.

But each  word I write, about my own experiences,  is breaking the generational bondage of shame, isolation, fear and confinement, of emotional LIMBO.

And for each person who is slightly dismayed by my frankness, several more seem to be guided toward some place of truth in their own hearts and for me that is a good thing.

I cannot talk about this whole process without somehow connecting it to my faith, which is something I do not write about that often, at least I do not in an obvious way.

My faith experience is forever fragile and many aspects of it I cannot share, for fear of being misunderstood. My faith. I choose it daily. I don’t know if you will understand that. But I must choose, because, I CAN CHOOSE. (If you were NOT ever given choices as a child, as a young adult, and on, then you would understand that being able to finally do so seems like THE SINGLE MOST IMPORTANT piece of your existence.)

But more than that today I understand the immensity of what Jesus did in dieing.  For me.  Even if I were the only person that needed redemption. I am complete because of Jesus. I am whole.

Hold on!!! Am I kidding you?  The issue here is that I am so rotten and messed up.  How can I say I am complete??  That’s just it.  Jesus completes me.  That’s my hope. That’s my faith. That’s the choosing.

I am not whole, obviously.  I’m feeble and impoverished.   I am often misguided, extremely confused,  greatly lacking in wisdom, seeking comfort in things that do not satisfy, running away (fleeing) from intimacy,  fashioning my life after fiction, believing in empty ideas and myths. So why don’t I just go slit my wrists or drink myself into a death stupor?  I mean, that would be the obvious response.

Yes, I am the quintessential sinner, in need of grace, which I receive with disbelief and gratitude.  I know that God is good and I am not.  But God is shaping my life into something worthwhile.  Giving me reasons greater than myself, for choosing life.

As I look out at the beauty surrounding me:the autumn flowers, the changing leaves, red luscious tomatoes in my garden, my beautiful family — this life I have — is a reminder of God’s goodness and I am comforted.  For today.  And because of that hope, I write.  I believe that the writing does something positive, even when the words contain anguish.  I have hope for something good.

Be strong little marshmallow.  Be strong.


Splintered Truth


…

Originally uploaded by M e l o d y

This is not the end.

It is just another day.

A bitter clutching.

Somehow she will love, enough.

And will continue to speak truth.

Their voices are her voices

which hold power for her, only

if she listens

to the clutch of their ancient lies.

Murky in message, mighty in corruption.

She will not surrender to their splintered truths.

This is just another day

to hold on to her children’s laughter,

to their questions, to their need.

These she grabs on to fiercely

and holds on another day;

telling herself the truth found in wanting

[laughter, questions, need]

more than ancient lies and madness.

She is strong.

As she speaks there is found a certainty

in the granules of this goodness, pure and sweet.

Anxiety is love’s greatest killer.


“


Originally uploaded by M e l o d y

Anxiety is love’s greatest killer. It makes others feel as you might when a drowning man holds on to you. You want to save him, but you know he will strangle you with his panic.

— Anais Nin

regrets

I have many regrets in my life, strongest of which is I am sorry that I became a mother. I may not wreck my children’s lives (or I may, the verdict is out) but they deserve a stronger person, a better example, different genes than mine, a greater chance for happiness & joy.

I’m sorry that I didn’t reach out to my sister’s kids when they were small.  Oh, I have excuses: working full-time, newly married, new step-mom, three little ones in four years. But I didn’t and I can never fix that.  I should have and to Michal and Josh, I owe an apology.

I’m sorry that I gave in to addiction. So it’s a disease and all, but don’t some people manage it better? I wanted to escape. I became a drunk.  To my children and my husband, most of all, I am so sorry.

I’m sorry that I never confronted my father while he was living about his abusive anger, control, retaliation, and cruelty. I was too afraid. I lived every moment in the thralls of that fear, but there were a few times when I almost had the courage. I didn’t.  He is dead and to my sisters, I am so sorry.  We all deserved better.  To mom, who took it on the cheek emotionally speaking, you’re still here and that’s saying something.

I’m sorry for all the sarcasm that I threw at people over the years. It’s wicked and wrong. I am glad to have mostly overcome this.  To my sisters, certain friends I will not name, Tom and even at times my children.  Especially Molly.

I have specific regrets,Molly, for not being the step-mom you deserved.  I was jealous, weak, and petty about your mom and for that I am ashamed.

I regret never trying anything when I was young. I was living in a straight-jacket of fear and need to please my parents. If I do anything now people smirk. I should know better. That’s just it. I don’t know better.

I really should never have tried to love, because I’m fairly incapable of it. Having never received unconditional love growing up, there’s a canyon of need and grief, and no matter how much I try to love others, I’m bereft of the skills I am certain one needs to truly love back. My best attempt is with Tom and 2nd with my children, and I’m sorely lacking. I know the actions but inside I am frozen-hearted.

I try to love others. But I am just hanging on. If I let go, to reach out to others, won’t I fall?

this epic grief

this Epic Grief

September 13, 2009


Minutes tick.  Limbs twitch.  Covers are tangled & awry.  I think I am almost under, when I realize that I have been awake for hours.

It is too late.  Sleep eludes me.

In the darkness I lay back again.  And again.  And  again.

My mind full of  shadows; ripples of awareness & memory.  Weariness.  Need. Needing anything besides my irrational, wild, anxious thoughts. Have I always felt so lonely?  Have I always had this epic grief?

It seems as if I was born lonely, afraid, ashamed. distrusting.  My heart in pieces.   One of my strongest childhood memories.

But hold on.  Pain must have a beginning.

Was it there before I was?  There in the hearts of my mother and father?

Was it as real to them? The waking dream.  The dreamless sleep.  A quiet pulse, ever present.

Did they pass this madness on to me, through blood and tears of a generational grief?

I am sleepless and crazy with sadness that in times past I would have gladly drowned with alcohol, or any other intoxicant.

But dry, I am left with this epic grief.

Days and years. Years and days of working at sobriety.

Because dry, without the work, I am simply left amongst my dreams.

Left

with this epic grief.


Writing poetry helps me feel something to its extreme.  To go as far as the madness allows and still remain sane.  And then — somehow — come back to a place of semi-sanity.  It helps me to write.  And I hope that it helps someone else as well.  I think that is why I share though some would say “A cry for help.” Ha, ha.  That is so.

Random Sadness (a poem)


God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks to us in our conscience, but shouts in our pains: It is His megaphone to rouse a deaf world.     C.S. Lewis

Random sadness cannot be shaken

or filled up with things that may have worked before

food or drink,

distractions of children,

hard work,

general busyness,

exercise,

or even photography.

Random sadness, following me

like a weight on my neck and shoulders.

Sleep, my usual solace only brings bad dreams.

I cannot run from this

random sadness

which will be my constant companion today.

Melody Hanson
1 Nov 08

We are all falling.

So much beauty [in the world].
And so much pain.
Often it is easier to see the atrophy of humankind, on our planet and in our lives.

Today I am blessed by someone passing along this poem by Rainer Maria Rilke.

Autumn

The leaves are falling, falling as if from far up,
as if orchards were dying high in space.
Each leaf falls as if it were motioning “no.”

And tonight the heavy earth is falling
away from all other stars in the loneliness.

We’re all falling. This hand here is falling.
And look at the other one. It’s in them all.

And yet there is Someone, whose hands
infinitely calm, holding up all this falling.

I have never read that before today. It is perfect in its description of the almost inevitable atrophy or collapse of life and I can’t help but think our efforts to fight it are so vain. And the beautiful way that he talks about our Creator. I liked it a lot.

Thank you to my friend.

Thank you to the Someone who is holding it all together.