Archives for posts with tag: sensitivity

“Come what may, time and the hour run through the roughest day. Hamlet

Intentions to write, interspersed with velvet chats with Nancy, my host as I recuperate from both break and fracture in my hip. Memoir. That word nags me as other voices wanted me to write of my life. Bill said, “You must,” but I am stopped by this daunting task. I write and reveal myself for others, not as one with all the answers. At times I am filled with certitude, and at others don’t know which end is up. I don’t want solipsistic scratch marks on the page which indicate navel watching, intense absorption of my inner landscape. I am very much like someone on the Good Ship Lollipop or someone who bobs along the ocean of despair in a rubber boat. Hardship and joy seem to be my drink of choice.

I have been given to great sensitivity in my life started by being a 4 pound baby with dendrites tightening and then just plain social issues, born into America, facing WW II, and the like; division in the country, and me a mewling child.

Lord knows what happened to yesterday. I think that was snack, exercise and sleep day, plus caught up on reading; today I have been up since 8.30; this last hour looking at my blog; got encouraging comments from online writer. I need to get back to blogging, don’t have a clue how. Gotta put the word out there; I need help, tutorial help on getting over my past 3 year disappearance and start jawing with other kindred souls.

My fingers and blood cells slow down when I think write memoir. This seems too grand a thing when my life, compared with so many others in the Baha’i world and elsewhere. I am now older, old enough to fracture a hip and make it of concern, and I need to just put things down. We are in the dark heart of humanity’s age, a gift for a writer who is able to record these times.

When I was young, I pushed myself out of the children’s section of the West Roxbury Library on Centre Street, and furtively slid past endless biographies in the adult section. Now, I some of us are like people from the previous ages,, whose lives now noted by simple name on the spine of a biography: Jane Addams, Etty Hillesum, and the like. I think of myself as in training to be a hero; not heroine, just a simple 4 letter word which translates to one who lives and faces life with a willingness to try the tough side of things, to trod paths which are open, and to toss fear behind my back. I have done this on a lot of levels. When I see someone who has tremendous qualities, like loving, I think I want that. This is how I evolve, plus studying, reading, and just plain inhaling the fumes of oneness, brotherhood, and I know we are on the path to a wondrous future. I also know we are in the dark heart of humanity’s age, and much is to be asked of us. We cannot go on as a corrupt nation, although many sincere and willing to help type of people are pure hearted.

I write for the future generations, and I live for the past, the present and future generations. I am a brick builder, one brick at a time, building that dome of safety, metaphorically of course, of the Baha’i Teachings, the oneness of humankind, the promise of no prejudice, and we are in a cesspool of skin color privilege and hatred, nay dungeon like Baha’u’llah’s prison cell when he was in 200 pound chains in Tehran’s underground prison, no way out, vermin, filth. “The Ancient Beauty hath consented to be bound with chains that mankind may be released from its bondage…” where he had his vision.

Basically our society is going bonkers, and this bonkers tugs in qualities such as disregard, extreme coarseness, and a one-dimensional life – like living on a flat earth.
This is the age when all is breaking up, where the immigrants’ home is the end of a gun barrel, or a muddy ground on which to place oneself to rest just for a moment. This is the age of sweeping transition where the old shibboleths, like dragons holding on to their last bad breath moments, have to weaken and let go. As dark as it is and as brutal as men whose “necks are stretched out in malice,” are things will be different. We have much suffering ahead, and gradually we will become an enlightened civilization. Right now the extremes are so upon us.

These conditions, like personal tests, are really a gift for the soul grows through suffering. That is not to say one should go hair shirt shopping, which is definitely out of vogue. But do a lot of us live on Pinocchio’s Island, larking and lurching for the next pleasurable fix so we can avoid the pain and joy of actual living in the grit? This writer thinks the mystical path is filled with grit and action, not necessarily climbing to a remote cave and seeking a wise smelly old person’s advice, but I am sure there are some cave dwellers in history’s past who are very wise. It does not take a Harvard degree to be wise if one dips into the Teachings of all of the religions, not the man-made artifice or dogma but the original teachings.

Shades of the Golden Rule. And that’s why I am trying to add as an image a cover of a new Baha’i magazine recently published that stills my heart. I am stunned with the simple circle designed so abstractly and splendiferously; I will say no more.

My two doggies, for whom I am an aunt, lie sidewise like fallen bookends; as they age, they sleep more. Coco, the brown lab is like Nureyev of grace and stretch and limb beauty; breathtaking when she arches those furry brown Labrador legs into the air, and arches her back; Bubbles, on the other hand, is our gal Bubbles, given to barks that are relentless; a caramel, golden, thick furred babe with a full figure not held in by any corset. She reminds me of Wojohoitz on Barney Miller and I don’t have a clue how to spell Wojo’s name.

So here I sit; up at 8.30; sh

ould walk and do physical therapy; but needed to figure out how to get back to my blog; that’s where my thought’s energy likes to hang out; it’s like slinging hash, no critical writer observing my method, my use of show and tell and image and moment, just plain jawing with my brothahs and sistahs in the world; oh joy I am back; I must pray to be able to load this properly; I have ten drafts sitting somewhere and that evidences my complete inability to launch into published form; then I have to learn how to become more au courant and spread these words down trotting trails to similar and dissimilar minds.

 

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Public domain image, royalty free stock photo from www.public-domain-image.com

In view of the recent sufferings and the accompanying feelings of oneness I would like to offer the quote below from the Baha’i Writings, revealed by Baha’u’llah (whose name means the Glory of God) with hopes it will lighten hearts that are heavy. esther

CXXX: Be generous in prosperity, and thankful in…

Be generous in prosperity, and thankful in adversity. Be worthy of the trust of thy neighbor, and look upon him with a bright and friendly face. Be a treasure to the poor, an admonisher to the rich, an answerer of the cry of the needy, a preserver of the sanctity of thy pledge. Be fair in thy judgment, and guarded in thy speech. Be unjust to no man, and show all meekness to all men. Be as a lamp unto them that walk in darkness, a joy to the sorrowful, a sea for the thirsty, a haven for the distressed, an upholder and defender of the victim of oppression. Let integrity and uprightness distinguish all thine acts. Be a home for the stranger, a balm to the suffering, a tower of strength for the fugitive. Be eyes to the blind, and a guiding light unto the feet of the erring. Be an ornament to the countenance of truth, a crown to the brow of fidelity, a pillar of the temple of righteousness, a breath of life to the body of mankind, an ensign of the hosts of justice, a luminary above the horizon of virtue, a dew to the soil of the human heart, an ark on the ocean of knowledge, a sun in the heaven of bounty, a gem on the diadem of wisdom, a shining light in the firmament of thy generation, a fruit upon the tree of humility.

I just spent one hour trying to get a Wordle on to my blog, my next adventure.
AM GOING WORD FISHING THROUGH DECEMBER 12, and have to wean myself off Facebook, my Blog, others blogs. I’m teaching 4 classes at moment; subject to change. I started a novel during Nano Wrimo month, and an opportunity to work on it further calls me. I’ll miss everyone, but it has to be done.

<Wordfishing at the Casbar, Old Town words, rainer maria rilke, pug dogs, Boston, whitey bulgher, lost loves, cubicle despair, the many lives of Baby Cakes Nelson, life reviews, Ross Dress For Less, destiny smeshtiny, let go, unemployed, Bubba, Bumpa, pug dogs, forces of light and darkness, 4 pound baby, oneness, being a Virgo, twin, pain, health, relationships, aaargh relationships, hot tears, successful candidates, prey, cabby hats, FISHINGFORWORDS

gotta get to this

Monday Discovery: Esther Bradley-DeTally.

an odyseey harrowing and yet incredible

a journey of illness, misdiagnosis, conundrums and courage

Maria McCutchen, a stay-at-home mother with two young children and a tight schedule, couldn’t find the dairy section of her local supermarket one day.  After the usual questions women ask themselves, about stress, being over tired, or I’m imagining this, she asked her husband one night, “Squeeze my head,” and he does.

Her head ached, and her head also felt like a water balloon pumped full of water, a sense of building pressure.  He wrapped his hands around her head, and he squeezed.  Her thoughts became more clear, and she felt better.  He stopped and a feeling of flood water filled her skull, and her brain fog returned.

She consulted a mild, quiet and pleasant doctor.  He will be the first of many.  She answered the questions, and then follows a routine she will learn by heart:  “Stick your tongue out, smile, hold your hands out in front of you like you’re carrying a pizza and close your eyes.”  Ah, and she also walked across the floor of his miniscule office. Long story short, after an MRI, and a call the very next day, “We see something,” the doctor’s voice matter-of-fact, offering no more or no less says, “I need you to come in.”

She had a cisterna magna, a posterior fossa arachnoid cyst. But the doctor was not concerned, words such as “benign” and “unremarkable” floated over her head.  Moments later, a handshake, and a “You’re fine,” because you see most people are born with type of cyst and they don’t cause problems.  She returned home wondering, what if I’m the exception?  No time for that.  Her husband lost his job.  Their insurance will run out.

Fast forward to  a harrowing pain-filled drive to live in New Mexico, episodic endurance of brain tests done incorrectly, dismissal of her symptoms, suspicion by doctors and blatant repudiation of her illness.  Lace that in with family concern, trying to raise 2 kids, keep a family together, and obliterating pain, agony, nausea, you name it, but then, she finally finds a doctor in Arizona.  He will recommend brain surgery.  the tests before, during and after are trauma filled and painful, and there will be trouble in River City after her brain surgery.  But still she reassured herself that she’s in the hands of a good neurosurgeon specialist in neurology in Arizona.  She must, however, return to New Mexico.  More happened.

I sat down after 7 o’clock last night to read this book.  I got up at 12.30 noting, “I’m up too late again,” but I had finished the book.  I didn’t move.  I sat on my black leather couch in our small pool house turning page after page.

The unsaid around her struggles reveals a very courageous, loving, gutsy woman in extreme pain, with great times of hopeless and yet a warrior spirit.  That makes a noble being in my book.

Her account is well written.  I think this book should go viral.  Yeah, I just broadened my blog base, and here I am using trendy terms, go viral, but the bloggers and FBers out there will know.

It’s All in Your Head – Maria McCutchen.  Copyright (c), Tate Publishing, LLC.

http://www.creativewritenow.com

280 pages – $15.99 (paperback)
$9.99 (digital download)

from You Carry the Heavy Stuff, Lulu.com/Amazon, the author’s garage….. ISBN 978-0-557-20933-0-essays, poetry, observations from a twin’s dying to cubicle despair in a corporate world with voices of buoyant pathos, mystical reverence – you catch my drift

Why do I write?  Like now, when the dishes sit orphaned in the kitchen sink because I, the washer, am typing, sharing, breathing, living, putting off the inevitable, because once a long time ago, I was so hurt, I couldn’t breathe.  I carried that hurt with me forever, until I found out that sensitivity is the price and the prize for being able to write, for being able to read people, to Braille the unsaid.  I write to a lady in prison, who said “I liked a phrase you wrote, “The language of God is a tear running down someone’s cheek.”

I write because I read, insatiably, gobbling, inhaling, filling myself with the human condition; splat on the floor some days, like a big old squishy bug, flattened, dead, its body swept up by old straws on a broom; and then I write to show the magic of St. Theresa’s Snow Queen Altar when I was young, and how everything looked like a wedding cake, and I write to tell how when I was younger, and so needy I could have impaled myself on a stake wide and big, sort of like a meta-letter holder, except the stake would run through my insatiably needy heart, and a note on my back would read “loves too much,” and that was before the book Women Who Love Too Much.

I write because I have gone beyond Medieval Posts puncturing my despair and loneliness and have decided Men Who Love too Much is here too.  Maybe we all love too much, and I write because maybe none of us love too much, for we are told by images in advertising, that we should be thin, jaded in the eyes, like the look of models for Vogue or whatever, who probably could shoot up heroin on their lunch hours, and because despair is trendy and nihilism and materialism and not giving a damn might be the language of the hour.  But then there is the lonely, little, big, young, old, trembling, brassy, you-catch-my-drift-writer who writes because he or she must, and words have a visceral effect upon her, him, the dog, the surrounding room.  I write of hopes for the world, and a good ham sandwich or description thereof on a sour dough roll, with slabs of mayo, and a bed of lettuce, and curled pink ham,  ready to go into someone’s mouth which is opened to the size of half a ladder, is  a good thing, a good description.

What this nation needs is a good ham sandwich and a Pepsi without the aspartame and some down to honest to goodness honesty that is the natural condition to communicate, to be real, to be afraid of bugs in knotty pine walls when the walls come alive at night; to watch an elderly blind woman, clutch the corners of her walker, take a breath and remain a sweet sweet spirit, knowing that her condition, her tests are the divinely calibrated kind, even though trucks have run over her emotionally, and I write to tell of the anonymous amongst us, the bravery, the small acts of courage, kindness in this nation where the world is narcissistically checking its derriere in the mirror, and no one or precious few are listening to the “midnight sighing of the poor,” and where we must have immense courage and speak up; talk, yeah, walk the talk, be it; speak up; tell future generations who we were, wanted to be, became anyhow and our hopes for the future; because someday we will all be sensitive, spiritually inclined, aware of our oneness,  and otherness will go on a back shelf like Twinkies, no longer approved of by the American Heart Association, and writing will be celebrated by hoots and hollers and a piping or two from a medieval horn or Siberian throat, and the arts will have a way of grabbing our soul’s innards and carrying us through the day.  These are some of the reasons I write, but there are others, but today is Wednesday and those are my Wednesday’s writing reasons.

The truly creative mind in any field is no more than this: A human creature born abnormally, inhumanly sensitive. To him… a touch is a blow, a sound is a noise, a misfortune is a tragedy, a joy is an ecstasy, a friend is a lover, a lover is a god, and failure is death. Add to this cruelly delicate organism the overpowering necessity to create, create, create — so that without the creating of music or poetry or books or buildings or something
of meaning, his very breath is cut off from him. He must create, must pour out creation. By some strange, unknown, inward urgency he is not really alive unless he is creating.

-Pearl S. Buck, novelist, Nobel laureate (1892-1973)