Now that the holiday season is wrapping up, Canadians will have more time to devote to one of their favorite pastimes - complaining about the weather. It seems that we are a nation of people with strong views on the subject, and we all have preferences as to what constitutes the ideal seasonal temperature. Surprisingly, many cling tenaciously to the opinion that winter is a season to be endured rather than enjoyed, and view snow as inherently evil. I disagree.
One of the things I love about living in Ontario is that it's a corner of the world that has four very distinct seasons. I enjoy them all, including winter. I love snow too - and yes, I have spent more than my share of hours with a shovel! (And I shoveled in northern Ontario, where the snow fall is much more impressive than it is in my current locale.) My peeve about the weather is the fact that our seasons get scrambled a lot more often than they used to. They refuse to behave in an orderly fashion. I hate seeing rain in winter, and an unseasonably mild day in December will inevitably put me into a tailspin. (I believe weather will always equalize somehow, and crazy warm winter days will likely result in snowstorms in May.)
I know that worrying about weather is a futile exercise. There's really nothing that any of us can do to change the course of the clouds or the direction of the winds. Snow will fall whether or not your back hurts and rain will fall regardless of whether you're carrying an umbrella. We all need to practice gracefully accepting those things about our climate that annoy us. There is so much more to life than the weather.
What would happen if we took all the energy that we put into griping about the cold and the snow and channeled it into warming hearts (including our own!)? What if we encouraged those flash frozen ideologies we have to defrost a bit? Could we generate enough heat to bring on our own "January Thaw"? I'm not talking about changing the weather - I've already ceded that we have no control over that, but there are things we can each do to improve our own internal climate. Maybe we could toss out a few of our freeze dried attitudes and habits and create more space for something fresher and more appetizing. (We all have them - those thoughts that require nothing more that a few watery drops of irritation to suddenly morph into instant, but rather unsavory, fare for the spirit.)
Most minds host unsubstantiated biases and prejudices that (like ill-mannered guests) crowd the facilities and make too much noise. Part of the process of attaining wisdom is learning to accept that we can be wrong sometimes. It's okay to not have all of the answers. We can't be taught if we never open our minds to new ideas or different opinions. Most of us are far too willing to share our own rhetoric without giving anyone else a chance to talk. This year I'll aim to improve my listening skills. I'm convinced that we'd all be a whole lot less ignorant if we took more time to listen - not only to others, but to our hearts, our consciences and the world around us.
If we could each keep our own emotional thermostat at a reasonable temperature, (warm enough to facilitate a genuine sunshiny smile, cool enough to let logic be the prevailing wind), then we might be able to initiate global warming of the best possible kind!
This new year I resolve to expend less energy worrying about things that I can't control, and a whole lot more effort on improving things that I can. I plan to concentrate on balancing my inner barometer with a cooler head and a warmer heart. I intend to freeze out ignorant, self-defeating thoughts and behaviors, and warm up to new friends, new experiences and a better outlook on life. I'm going to use all my inner "snow" to build complex fortresses that are guarded by fearsome snowball wielding snowman-guards who won't allow any negativity past them. My inner rain will nourish inspiration and happiness. Inner clouds will be fleeting; blue skies and sunshine will be probable in every forecast.
Happiness isn't dependent on weather, but on whether you are willing to accept what you can't change and improve your life in areas that lie within your control.
Mind Freeze:
As snow disguises frozen ground
beneath midwinter's gloom,
a man may hide from reason sound
and by this seal his doom.
Both thought and seed can still survive
although they dormant lie -
but winter is meant to arrive
and minds should ice decry.
Though it appears that many curse
a season that brings snow,
I somehow think that it's far worse
to bury what you know.
A foolish man will weed out thought
then freeze it o'er with frost -
refusing to be schooled or taught
until all reason's lost.
We have o'er seasons no control,
each passes in its turn -
but it's the purpose of each soul
to nourish thought and learn.
Therefore regret not winter days
and snow that comes to cleanse.
Mourn he who chooses senseless ways
and ignorance befriends.
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg (February '08)
Tuesday 31 December 2013
Thursday 19 December 2013
Small Change (Or Giving What Matters Most) - By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
I have always loved Christmas, but I find that as I age the yuletide season becomes more bittersweet. With every passing year I become increasingly aware of how much more I have than many around me. Not too long ago a small donation or two to the Salvation Army's kettle was enough to assuage my pangs of social conscience. I was giving, right? Wasn't that enough?
The uncomfortable fact that my small cash donations are definitely not enough can no longer be denied. I need to step up to the plate and make some changes. I need to think less and do more. That doesn't mean I'll be offering the entire contents of my piggy bank to a worthwhile charity. I know that I need to give a whole lot more than money.
Christmas is a season of joy - a season of love and giving. Nothing satisfies me more than the feeling that I'm making the people I love happy. That's why I go into my annual baking frenzy. I love sharing my treats with any appreciative audience. A tin of goodies from my kitchen is a gift from my heart, and for my heart. A smile of genuine appreciation makes my day - a smack of the lips and I'm euphoric. Like far too many people in the world I'm a praise junkie in search of a fix.
As I've become more aware of my own need for positive feedback I've begun to look for opportunities to give compliments to others. I'm beginning to understand that giving praise is as rewarding as receiving it. It feels good to see people stand taller when their talents are acknowledged.
Like many I tend to think that giving means spending money, but the best gifts to give are those that have little (if any) monetary value. What does it cost me to share a plate of brownies? I can afford a few baking ingredients and the forty minutes it takes from the time I grab the recipe 'til the pan gets pulled from the oven. Compliments are free, so they fit nicely into my budget.
If I want to know what else to give, perhaps I should examine what things I really want.
My deepest desires can be fulfilled without any cash transactions occurring. (I think that's true for most of us.) I want acceptance. I want appreciation. I want to enjoy strong friendships and that feeling of connection that only comes from spending time with people I enjoy. I want to feel that I'm part of a supportive community - surrounded by people who will help if and when I need their assistance. I want to feel needed. I want smiles and hugs daily. I want to hear words like "thank you" and "I love you" and "I'm sorry". I want fun, and I want challenge. I want to feel the satisfaction that comes from making my best effort.
I want the very things that I've sometimes been reluctant to give. In one of my favorite Christmas carols, ("In the Bleak Midwinter"), a question is posed, and then answered.
"What can I give him, poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd, I would give a lamb.
If I were a Wise Man, I would do my part.
Yet what I can I give him: give my heart."
What we each need to do is concentrate on giving our heart. This requires true sacrifice as we refuse to skimp on gifts that cost more in terms of time and effort than money. I've struggled for days to come up with a poem on this theme, and here it is.
Small Change (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg - December 18, 2013)
This season so joyful can also be bleak
for souls who are lonely or needy or weak.
Aware of the many whose lives are far worse,
I pause near a kettle and fish in my purse.
My coins clatter loudly, I wish I'd shared more -
the fact that pot's empty is hard to ignore.
'Neath din of the shoppers I know it seems strange
that my ears are filled with the sound of small change.
The bell-ringer thanks me - says, "Have a great day!"
And heavy in heart I start walking away.
My pondering mind is now vexed by this thought -
I ought to be filling mankind's empty pot.
I know that just giving my wallet's scant bills
cannot be sufficient to cure the world's ills.
My disordered thoughts I begin to arrange;
humanity needs so much more than spare change!
The homeless need shelter, the hungry need food,
and I, (so complacent!) need new attitude.
The lonely need friendship; a hug or a smile -
or someone to sit down and visit a while.
Small deeds make a difference in everyone's life.
It lies in my power to lessen some strife.
Through kindnesses daily there's much I can give
if I make a small change each day that I live.
This season of good will I vow that I'll start
to give more than small change in gifts from the heart.
May each one of you enjoy giving and receiving those gifts that cost little and mean most.
Merry Christmas!
Love, Sharon
The uncomfortable fact that my small cash donations are definitely not enough can no longer be denied. I need to step up to the plate and make some changes. I need to think less and do more. That doesn't mean I'll be offering the entire contents of my piggy bank to a worthwhile charity. I know that I need to give a whole lot more than money.
Christmas is a season of joy - a season of love and giving. Nothing satisfies me more than the feeling that I'm making the people I love happy. That's why I go into my annual baking frenzy. I love sharing my treats with any appreciative audience. A tin of goodies from my kitchen is a gift from my heart, and for my heart. A smile of genuine appreciation makes my day - a smack of the lips and I'm euphoric. Like far too many people in the world I'm a praise junkie in search of a fix.
As I've become more aware of my own need for positive feedback I've begun to look for opportunities to give compliments to others. I'm beginning to understand that giving praise is as rewarding as receiving it. It feels good to see people stand taller when their talents are acknowledged.
Like many I tend to think that giving means spending money, but the best gifts to give are those that have little (if any) monetary value. What does it cost me to share a plate of brownies? I can afford a few baking ingredients and the forty minutes it takes from the time I grab the recipe 'til the pan gets pulled from the oven. Compliments are free, so they fit nicely into my budget.
If I want to know what else to give, perhaps I should examine what things I really want.
My deepest desires can be fulfilled without any cash transactions occurring. (I think that's true for most of us.) I want acceptance. I want appreciation. I want to enjoy strong friendships and that feeling of connection that only comes from spending time with people I enjoy. I want to feel that I'm part of a supportive community - surrounded by people who will help if and when I need their assistance. I want to feel needed. I want smiles and hugs daily. I want to hear words like "thank you" and "I love you" and "I'm sorry". I want fun, and I want challenge. I want to feel the satisfaction that comes from making my best effort.
I want the very things that I've sometimes been reluctant to give. In one of my favorite Christmas carols, ("In the Bleak Midwinter"), a question is posed, and then answered.
"What can I give him, poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd, I would give a lamb.
If I were a Wise Man, I would do my part.
Yet what I can I give him: give my heart."
What we each need to do is concentrate on giving our heart. This requires true sacrifice as we refuse to skimp on gifts that cost more in terms of time and effort than money. I've struggled for days to come up with a poem on this theme, and here it is.
Small Change (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg - December 18, 2013)
This season so joyful can also be bleak
for souls who are lonely or needy or weak.
Aware of the many whose lives are far worse,
I pause near a kettle and fish in my purse.
My coins clatter loudly, I wish I'd shared more -
the fact that pot's empty is hard to ignore.
'Neath din of the shoppers I know it seems strange
that my ears are filled with the sound of small change.
The bell-ringer thanks me - says, "Have a great day!"
And heavy in heart I start walking away.
My pondering mind is now vexed by this thought -
I ought to be filling mankind's empty pot.
I know that just giving my wallet's scant bills
cannot be sufficient to cure the world's ills.
My disordered thoughts I begin to arrange;
humanity needs so much more than spare change!
The homeless need shelter, the hungry need food,
and I, (so complacent!) need new attitude.
The lonely need friendship; a hug or a smile -
or someone to sit down and visit a while.
Small deeds make a difference in everyone's life.
It lies in my power to lessen some strife.
Through kindnesses daily there's much I can give
if I make a small change each day that I live.
This season of good will I vow that I'll start
to give more than small change in gifts from the heart.
May each one of you enjoy giving and receiving those gifts that cost little and mean most.
Merry Christmas!
Love, Sharon
Friday 29 November 2013
The Rhyming Muse Reviews Derrick Shirley's book, "The 400 Pound Male Stripper"
Thinking in Ink (for Derrick Shirley)
The good, the bad and ugly
in self I must embrace -
the extra pounds on body
and scars upon my face.
The darkest depths of my soul
I try to hide from sight -
the very things my writing
has often brought to light.
My bleakest and most hopeless
were days to coincide
with those times my pen stayed capped -
words bottled up inside.
You see, I know when ink flows,
with every written line -
my past life is deciphered;
my future is designed.
Conversations with myself
emerge upon the page.
Thoughts I didn't want to think
must now my brain engage.
Through scratched out words and scribbles
I have found eloquence
when the needed words appeared
to make my world make sense.
My flaws seem less important
when thoughts translate to ink.
As pen glides over paper
more lofty thoughts I think.
And as pen gains momentum
I see myself anew -
embracing imperfections
and moving forward too.
(By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, November 25, 2013)
On the very first pages his book, "The 400 Pound Male Stripper", Derrick Shirley talks about the scripts we each live and how we can each reshape our own story by putting pen to paper and "thinking in ink". This was a central theme to the book, and it resonated with me because in one way or another, ink has played a big part in life. I've been keeping journals (or "diaries" as I referred to them in youth) since the age of eleven. Those first attempts to "write my life" were scribbled in the unused portions of old school notebooks, and filled with pages describing grade school crushes and hanging out with friends. At times I vented in them, complaining bitterly about some perceived injustice I'd experienced. The eighteen volumes on my shelf provide a running commentary on what my life was through all of its stages, but they don't tell the whole story very well.
I have always battled self-esteem issues. I grew up feeling that I was constantly falling short - I wasn't pretty enough or smart enough or good enough. I was the wallflower sitting on the bench, hoping someone would save me from the pack of desperate girls who went unasked. Derrick's book brought back a lot of those feelings. I have never felt any conflict about my race or heritage, but nevertheless I know what it feels like to look in the mirror and feel anger and distaste - to want to be someone other than who you are.
My "aha moment" as far using my pen to change the script my life had always followed came a few years ago when I decided to begin this poetry blog. Finding out that I was brave enough to "put myself out there" spurred me on to greater literary efforts. I put pen to paper and wrote the book I'd always threatened to write. (It has never been published, so don't go looking for it! I don't know if it ever will be.) The act of completing it was enough to begin to change the way I felt about myself. I could find the discipline to write for blocks of several hours four or five times a week. I could make sense out of the chaos in my brain to put a whole story down on paper. My "not good enough" mentality took a turn in the right direction, becoming first a hesitant "maybe?" and then an almost full-on "I can!".
So I understand the message that we can reshape our lives with pens and paper. Derrick's story proves that. Once he found an outlet for his thoughts and frustrations through writing he physically reshaped himself by "stripping off" almost half his body weight. He found peace with himself, got his degree, found love. He re-wrote his script and now plays a role that he loves. He loves the person he's become and the life he lives.
One story that he told in the book struck me particularly because of its profound circularity - he was hurt by someone and then years later turned around and hurt someone else exactly the same way. I could relate to that part too.
All of us, at times, find ourselves looking at life from varying perspectives. It's similar to the difference between standing outside peeking into windows, or being inside looking out. The landscape of life changes, depending on what side of the glass it's seen from. I was uncoordinated as child, and I had a dead zone in my brain when it came to understanding sports. I was the last kid picked for any team. You'd think that the ego crushing resulting from those experiences would have made me empathetic enough to not hurt others in a similar fashion. But I have mocked those who are not good at doing the things that come easily to me. I am capable of cruelty. We all are.
Sometimes we think that the perspective we're seeing is the right one. We believe that we have found the optimal spot from which to observe the world - we alone view it to its best advantage. We ardently believe that the particular window we're looking out of makes us impervious to the criticisms of others - like a bigot who thinks he can scream racial slurs at an innocent bystander through the safety of his car window...
Both Sides of the Window (For Derrick Shirley)
On one side of a pane of glass
a nasty, racist guy
observes a boy he cruises past
with hatred in his eye.
Through a swiftly unrolled window
words shoot out as though from gun -
astonished by the names he's called,
the youth stands silent - stunned.
This prejudice is crystal clear -
like glass in window panes;
the boy would like to hurl retort
but prudently refrains.
On both sides of my window pane
such scenes I've acted out.
I've been both insulted party
and the one to rudely shout.
I have been a perpetrator
without an alibi
and I've led interrogations
wanting only to know why.
I've stood behind a mirrored wall -
an unrepentant punk,
and been arresting officer -
a little power drunk.
In every role I'm visible
whether I'm wrong or right.
I hide behind transparent wall
where I am in plain sight.
(By Sharon Flood Keasenberg, November 26, 2013)
I never thought I would see myself in a book called "The 400 Pound Stripper", but I did. I loved Derrick's story because I could relate to it - I saw flashes of me while I read. When the book first arrived in my mailbox, I sat and read it straight through. Then I got up off my nice comfy couch and walked around for three days thinking lots of not-so-comfortable thoughts. He made me analyze, and stew and ruminate on my own life and how to continue that transformation - the one that ink (and computer keyboard) started. Finally I sat down and re-read it, pen in hand, making notes and underlining. (My volume is now filled with both "think" and "ink".)
So thank you, Derrick, for making me think. Thanks to your story I dreamed a few nights back about reams of paper and boxes of pens, and then got up and wrote. Thank you for reminding me that we all progress at our own pace, navigating according to the terrain we see on our current side of the glass. And thank you for reminding me that I can re-write, change, "strip" off the old tired scripts that weigh me down and emerge transformed - worthy of love. When I see that message in my own print I am empowered by an increased ability to love myself.
What greater message could there be in any book?
The good, the bad and ugly
in self I must embrace -
the extra pounds on body
and scars upon my face.
The darkest depths of my soul
I try to hide from sight -
the very things my writing
has often brought to light.
My bleakest and most hopeless
were days to coincide
with those times my pen stayed capped -
words bottled up inside.
You see, I know when ink flows,
with every written line -
my past life is deciphered;
my future is designed.
Conversations with myself
emerge upon the page.
Thoughts I didn't want to think
must now my brain engage.
Through scratched out words and scribbles
I have found eloquence
when the needed words appeared
to make my world make sense.
My flaws seem less important
when thoughts translate to ink.
As pen glides over paper
more lofty thoughts I think.
And as pen gains momentum
I see myself anew -
embracing imperfections
and moving forward too.
(By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, November 25, 2013)
On the very first pages his book, "The 400 Pound Male Stripper", Derrick Shirley talks about the scripts we each live and how we can each reshape our own story by putting pen to paper and "thinking in ink". This was a central theme to the book, and it resonated with me because in one way or another, ink has played a big part in life. I've been keeping journals (or "diaries" as I referred to them in youth) since the age of eleven. Those first attempts to "write my life" were scribbled in the unused portions of old school notebooks, and filled with pages describing grade school crushes and hanging out with friends. At times I vented in them, complaining bitterly about some perceived injustice I'd experienced. The eighteen volumes on my shelf provide a running commentary on what my life was through all of its stages, but they don't tell the whole story very well.
I have always battled self-esteem issues. I grew up feeling that I was constantly falling short - I wasn't pretty enough or smart enough or good enough. I was the wallflower sitting on the bench, hoping someone would save me from the pack of desperate girls who went unasked. Derrick's book brought back a lot of those feelings. I have never felt any conflict about my race or heritage, but nevertheless I know what it feels like to look in the mirror and feel anger and distaste - to want to be someone other than who you are.
My "aha moment" as far using my pen to change the script my life had always followed came a few years ago when I decided to begin this poetry blog. Finding out that I was brave enough to "put myself out there" spurred me on to greater literary efforts. I put pen to paper and wrote the book I'd always threatened to write. (It has never been published, so don't go looking for it! I don't know if it ever will be.) The act of completing it was enough to begin to change the way I felt about myself. I could find the discipline to write for blocks of several hours four or five times a week. I could make sense out of the chaos in my brain to put a whole story down on paper. My "not good enough" mentality took a turn in the right direction, becoming first a hesitant "maybe?" and then an almost full-on "I can!".
So I understand the message that we can reshape our lives with pens and paper. Derrick's story proves that. Once he found an outlet for his thoughts and frustrations through writing he physically reshaped himself by "stripping off" almost half his body weight. He found peace with himself, got his degree, found love. He re-wrote his script and now plays a role that he loves. He loves the person he's become and the life he lives.
One story that he told in the book struck me particularly because of its profound circularity - he was hurt by someone and then years later turned around and hurt someone else exactly the same way. I could relate to that part too.
All of us, at times, find ourselves looking at life from varying perspectives. It's similar to the difference between standing outside peeking into windows, or being inside looking out. The landscape of life changes, depending on what side of the glass it's seen from. I was uncoordinated as child, and I had a dead zone in my brain when it came to understanding sports. I was the last kid picked for any team. You'd think that the ego crushing resulting from those experiences would have made me empathetic enough to not hurt others in a similar fashion. But I have mocked those who are not good at doing the things that come easily to me. I am capable of cruelty. We all are.
Sometimes we think that the perspective we're seeing is the right one. We believe that we have found the optimal spot from which to observe the world - we alone view it to its best advantage. We ardently believe that the particular window we're looking out of makes us impervious to the criticisms of others - like a bigot who thinks he can scream racial slurs at an innocent bystander through the safety of his car window...
Both Sides of the Window (For Derrick Shirley)
On one side of a pane of glass
a nasty, racist guy
observes a boy he cruises past
with hatred in his eye.
Through a swiftly unrolled window
words shoot out as though from gun -
astonished by the names he's called,
the youth stands silent - stunned.
This prejudice is crystal clear -
like glass in window panes;
the boy would like to hurl retort
but prudently refrains.
On both sides of my window pane
such scenes I've acted out.
I've been both insulted party
and the one to rudely shout.
I have been a perpetrator
without an alibi
and I've led interrogations
wanting only to know why.
I've stood behind a mirrored wall -
an unrepentant punk,
and been arresting officer -
a little power drunk.
In every role I'm visible
whether I'm wrong or right.
I hide behind transparent wall
where I am in plain sight.
(By Sharon Flood Keasenberg, November 26, 2013)
I never thought I would see myself in a book called "The 400 Pound Stripper", but I did. I loved Derrick's story because I could relate to it - I saw flashes of me while I read. When the book first arrived in my mailbox, I sat and read it straight through. Then I got up off my nice comfy couch and walked around for three days thinking lots of not-so-comfortable thoughts. He made me analyze, and stew and ruminate on my own life and how to continue that transformation - the one that ink (and computer keyboard) started. Finally I sat down and re-read it, pen in hand, making notes and underlining. (My volume is now filled with both "think" and "ink".)
So thank you, Derrick, for making me think. Thanks to your story I dreamed a few nights back about reams of paper and boxes of pens, and then got up and wrote. Thank you for reminding me that we all progress at our own pace, navigating according to the terrain we see on our current side of the glass. And thank you for reminding me that I can re-write, change, "strip" off the old tired scripts that weigh me down and emerge transformed - worthy of love. When I see that message in my own print I am empowered by an increased ability to love myself.
What greater message could there be in any book?
Thursday 14 November 2013
The Ballad of Horace - (Or How Truth that's Stranger than Fiction Deserves to be Immortalized!) By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Today I'm going to share the poem that I had the most fun writing! I hope it at least brings a smile to my readers, because immodest as it may sound this is one I laughed out loud while writing. (Luckily the store was quiet that day - and yes - for those of you about to criticize me for slacking at work, the store was spotless, the shelves faced up and inventory had been taken and called in before I took pen in hand.)
Inspiration for this ode came to me thus. About six years ago my sibs and I were gathered at my sister's house for a family get-together. (I'm guessing a visit from my Mother, who was still living in Sault Ste. Marie at the time prompted my sister to invite us all over.) Anyhow, there we were after supper hanging around the living room visiting when my mother asked me to share a poem or two. (Like most moms, mine is the biggest fan of my literary endeavors.) So I read and my siblings politely heard me out. After my reading my mother suddenly said:
"You girls get your poetic leanings from my side of the family, you know!"
She was referring to myself and my oldest sister, who is a poet of the non-rhyming variety. We must've both looked a bit surprised by this statement, because - well, my mothers siblings are nice people, but while several of them are musical, nary a soul in that connection could be suspected of being poetically inclined.
My mother went on to tell us the story of her cousin, a poet who established quite a reputation among his kin in the rural area of Dayton Ontario. As it turns out, he made a name for himself because he was known to rather unceremoniously arrive on his relatives' door steps expecting to stay for a few days to regale them with his rather horrific poetry!
She told us he hailed from some spot nearby known as Hungry Hollow, whose residents were notoriously inbred, and went on to say that when she was young a visit from this cousin was an event to be dreaded. However, none of his kin dared risk the social stigma that would accompany showing any lack of hospitality toward a visitor.
Now a poet with less faith in a mother's sincere admiration might have taken umbrage from the telling of this tale, but as it was I wasn't piqued in the slightest - nor was my sister. Instead we were intrigued by the tale of the roaming poet of the North Shore (that's the north shore of Lake Huron, by the way) who came from a place so small that even we, (with our mother who hailed from Dayton and Silverburg and our father who hailed from Cockburn Island), had never heard of it!
Yes, my mother laid down fertile soil for my poetic mind that day. I would write a poem to commemorate this purveyor of bad verse!! I could just see my grandparents trying to issue a hearty welcome to the troubadour, while inwardly praying that he'd go off and pester someone else! (Obviously I tweaked names and fictionalized this visit, so as to spare my relatives any pain when the tale becomes famous!) The lines began to percolate as I sat there, and within 48 hours I had penned an epic!
So without further ado, here it is...
The Ballad of Horace (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, November 2007)
Horace hailed from Hungry Hollow -
barely tall as he was wide;
a meandering route he'd follow
roaming o'er the countryside.
He believed he was poetic
(though of talent, he had none),
all his efforts were pathetic -
kin, on seeing him, would run.
Cousins would shout with insistence,
"To the barn we all must flee!",
as his girth, seen in the distance
bobbed along quite merrily.
"Oh my goodness, here comes Horace!",
moaned their frazzled mom inside,
"How I hoped he would ignore us,
but there's nowhere I can hide."
(This she said with resignation
as she braced to open door - )
"He reeks so of desperation
and his verse is such a bore!
It's a shame that he's related -
such a nephew must I own?"
At this thought she hesitated,
then repented with a groan.
"Hungry Hollow folk are inbred,
but to shun would be a sin,
so he must be welcomed and fed -
we can choose friends, but not kin.
I will smile while verse he's sharing
and try to attentive be -
I'll be blessed if I'm forbearing,
he is family to me."
Thus the door was quickly flung wide,
Horace beamed upon the stair
and he was invited inside
for she couldn't leave him there.
Soon her dear spouse from the fields came
hoping for five minutes rest
and espying Horace felt shame
at how much the sight distressed.
Horace sighed with great contentment
as he warmed before the fire,
quite immune to their resentment
and oblivious to ire.
"With which verse shall I reward them
for such hospitality?
They're deserving of my best gem - "
Ran his thoughts, jovially.
Aunt and uncle sat there waiting,
dreading their impending doom
'til his ode exasperating
filled the confines of the room.
He recited with expression -
spewed the passion of his soul...
while they held in check agression
and maintained shaky control.
Oh - it seemed he droned forever!
Minutes felt to them like years!
But to yawn - no no - not ever!
(Though they both were bored to tears.)
Horace saw their eyes a-glisten -
thrilled to note how each was moved.
With such rapture they did listen!
Surely this his talent proved!
After poem reached cresendo
he refused offer of meal
and insisted that he must go
with almost religious zeal.
His refusal was quite stunning -
they'd been granted a reprieve!
As he hastened away running,
gratefully they watched him leave.
"I don't suppose it's his fault
he's not quite right in the head,
I've heard this can be the result
when close relatives are wed.
His IQ probably should rise -
perhaps by more than dozens -
a crazy kid is no surprise
when parents are first cousins!"
'Twas this his aunt and uncle mused
as they watched the boy depart.
His inbred heritage excused
complete ignorance of art.
But Horace, joyful, walked on air.
He'd achieved his heart's desire!
He sped to others where he'd share
poetry to souls inspire!
He bounced along in portly glee
with his spectacles askew -
another mile, or two or three...
and he'd induce tears anew!
Inspiration for this ode came to me thus. About six years ago my sibs and I were gathered at my sister's house for a family get-together. (I'm guessing a visit from my Mother, who was still living in Sault Ste. Marie at the time prompted my sister to invite us all over.) Anyhow, there we were after supper hanging around the living room visiting when my mother asked me to share a poem or two. (Like most moms, mine is the biggest fan of my literary endeavors.) So I read and my siblings politely heard me out. After my reading my mother suddenly said:
"You girls get your poetic leanings from my side of the family, you know!"
She was referring to myself and my oldest sister, who is a poet of the non-rhyming variety. We must've both looked a bit surprised by this statement, because - well, my mothers siblings are nice people, but while several of them are musical, nary a soul in that connection could be suspected of being poetically inclined.
My mother went on to tell us the story of her cousin, a poet who established quite a reputation among his kin in the rural area of Dayton Ontario. As it turns out, he made a name for himself because he was known to rather unceremoniously arrive on his relatives' door steps expecting to stay for a few days to regale them with his rather horrific poetry!
She told us he hailed from some spot nearby known as Hungry Hollow, whose residents were notoriously inbred, and went on to say that when she was young a visit from this cousin was an event to be dreaded. However, none of his kin dared risk the social stigma that would accompany showing any lack of hospitality toward a visitor.
Now a poet with less faith in a mother's sincere admiration might have taken umbrage from the telling of this tale, but as it was I wasn't piqued in the slightest - nor was my sister. Instead we were intrigued by the tale of the roaming poet of the North Shore (that's the north shore of Lake Huron, by the way) who came from a place so small that even we, (with our mother who hailed from Dayton and Silverburg and our father who hailed from Cockburn Island), had never heard of it!
Yes, my mother laid down fertile soil for my poetic mind that day. I would write a poem to commemorate this purveyor of bad verse!! I could just see my grandparents trying to issue a hearty welcome to the troubadour, while inwardly praying that he'd go off and pester someone else! (Obviously I tweaked names and fictionalized this visit, so as to spare my relatives any pain when the tale becomes famous!) The lines began to percolate as I sat there, and within 48 hours I had penned an epic!
So without further ado, here it is...
The Ballad of Horace (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, November 2007)
Horace hailed from Hungry Hollow -
barely tall as he was wide;
a meandering route he'd follow
roaming o'er the countryside.
He believed he was poetic
(though of talent, he had none),
all his efforts were pathetic -
kin, on seeing him, would run.
Cousins would shout with insistence,
"To the barn we all must flee!",
as his girth, seen in the distance
bobbed along quite merrily.
"Oh my goodness, here comes Horace!",
moaned their frazzled mom inside,
"How I hoped he would ignore us,
but there's nowhere I can hide."
(This she said with resignation
as she braced to open door - )
"He reeks so of desperation
and his verse is such a bore!
It's a shame that he's related -
such a nephew must I own?"
At this thought she hesitated,
then repented with a groan.
"Hungry Hollow folk are inbred,
but to shun would be a sin,
so he must be welcomed and fed -
we can choose friends, but not kin.
I will smile while verse he's sharing
and try to attentive be -
I'll be blessed if I'm forbearing,
he is family to me."
Thus the door was quickly flung wide,
Horace beamed upon the stair
and he was invited inside
for she couldn't leave him there.
Soon her dear spouse from the fields came
hoping for five minutes rest
and espying Horace felt shame
at how much the sight distressed.
Horace sighed with great contentment
as he warmed before the fire,
quite immune to their resentment
and oblivious to ire.
"With which verse shall I reward them
for such hospitality?
They're deserving of my best gem - "
Ran his thoughts, jovially.
Aunt and uncle sat there waiting,
dreading their impending doom
'til his ode exasperating
filled the confines of the room.
He recited with expression -
spewed the passion of his soul...
while they held in check agression
and maintained shaky control.
Oh - it seemed he droned forever!
Minutes felt to them like years!
But to yawn - no no - not ever!
(Though they both were bored to tears.)
Horace saw their eyes a-glisten -
thrilled to note how each was moved.
With such rapture they did listen!
Surely this his talent proved!
After poem reached cresendo
he refused offer of meal
and insisted that he must go
with almost religious zeal.
His refusal was quite stunning -
they'd been granted a reprieve!
As he hastened away running,
gratefully they watched him leave.
"I don't suppose it's his fault
he's not quite right in the head,
I've heard this can be the result
when close relatives are wed.
His IQ probably should rise -
perhaps by more than dozens -
a crazy kid is no surprise
when parents are first cousins!"
'Twas this his aunt and uncle mused
as they watched the boy depart.
His inbred heritage excused
complete ignorance of art.
But Horace, joyful, walked on air.
He'd achieved his heart's desire!
He sped to others where he'd share
poetry to souls inspire!
He bounced along in portly glee
with his spectacles askew -
another mile, or two or three...
and he'd induce tears anew!
Tuesday 29 October 2013
Leaving Las Vegas...(Literally and Figuratively) - By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
I just returned from my first trip to Vegas. The fact that I'm even writing that sentence still surprises me. Las Vegas isn't a place I ever felt a great urge to visit - I don't gamble, I don't drink and I couldn't care less about "night life". I'm usually in bed by 10:30 and asleep an hour later. But when my husband decided to attend a three day conference there he invited me to come along for the ride and I accepted. I like to see new places, and I like to spend time with my husband, and the trip gave me opportunity to do both.
I also knew that the trip would allow me to do some "people watching" in a completely new setting. I was engaging in a sociological study - observing the reactions others had to "The Strip" while monitoring my own.
One of the very first things to strike me about the Vegas Strip is the sheer over-burdening of the senses that confronts the unsuspecting visitor. I knew there would be bright lights, but it never occurred to me that there would be so much noise and chaos. Music is piped in everywhere - the casinos, the shopping concourses and often on the streets. The casinos have a steady din of machines that make noise and people conversing and fuzzy music under all of it. People on the street call out to you constantly - wanting to know if you want tickets for a show or are willing to view time share opportunities or want "an escort". The casinos are smelly too - trying to disguise years of tobacco use in stale air with cloying scents of a floral or fruity nature. Vegas, my friends, engages in an unceasing assault on the senses, from the moment you arrive to the moment you leave.
Places like Vegas are designed to put all of your senses on high alert so that you won't be tempted to engage your brain. (Who would be tempted to drop wads of cash on gambling and alcohol if they took the time to think about how much they were spending?) The message Vegas sends out is clear - don't trouble your mind with pesky thoughts, just eat, drink and gamble! Give your brain a rest, but keep that wallet-reaching hand well exercised!
I began to miss my quiet contemplative moments quickly. The bright lights and constant buzz of the place became jarring to me, and by the end of my fourth day I was anxious to get home. (By the end of my fifth day I was downright cranky and jaded to boot.)
I know that for the tired and stressed this brain switch off experience may be exactly what the doctor ordered up as a dream vacation. Honestly, I can understand the short-term appeal of such a getaway. What saddens me is that there seems to be a subset of our culture who thrive on this sort of atmosphere. They want to turn off consciousness as often as possible. "Peace and quiet" are not appealing concepts to this crowd, who don't want to be burdened with deep thoughts or contemplation. Instead they are constantly rushing off in search of another thrill, another drink, another sexual exploit to satisfy their cravings. These are the people who have what I'll dub "the Vegas mindset"- bring on the lights and the noise, I don't want to think. They live their lives as empty vessels, waiting for some exciting new gratification to momentary fill them up. Silence and solitude scare them.
"Be still, and know that I am God."
We've all heard that phrase, but it could just as easily be "Be still and know that life is good." Life is not meant to be lived at breakneck pace, under neon lights and among jostling hoards. Life is not meant to be one sensory overload experience after another, but a series of small, important and often, (but not always) gratifying sensations and moments. Life is meant to be filled with pondering and questioning and periods of boredom and frustration that make us yearn for something meaningful. God may not enter the equation at all, but I believe we can never really know ourselves without submitting to periods of solitude and sometimes uncomfortable inner scrutiny.
When we stifle our minds and refuse to give them opportunities to work out our conscious and subconscious concerns there are negative consequences. While our thoughts define us, those things we refuse to think about may define us more. Much of what we need most in our lives is found in those moments of quiet and stillness when we let our subconscious thoughts off leash and examine what we fill our minds and hearts with.
Subconscious: (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, November '07)
Feelings we'd prefer kept in -
born in sorrow, anger; sin,
unbeknownst to us sneak out
as resentment, fear and doubt.
Much that we would never say
manifests another way.
Untold secrets that we keep
haunt our dreams, if we find sleep.
Stirrings that we can't explain,
buried somewhere in the brain
unacknowledged, still compel -
motivating to excel
or perhaps abandon cause
as they magnify our flaws.
In our quest for self control
we ignore depths of the soul -
questions we have locked inside,
where our fears and wishes hide.
Answers that we haven't sought,
buried in subconscious thought
come to light from deepest shade,
when we ponder unafraid.
My urging to all is to not be afraid of those quiet, ponderous and even boring moments. Through those lulls we are invigorated and able to become attuned to the depths of our own souls, the answers to our questions and the GPS instructions that lead us on our individual quests. "Be still, and know..." Let your mind fill in the rest.
Still: (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, June '06)
Still learning what's important
with every passing year -
still striving to overcome
all my irrational fear.
Still looking for some answers
to demystify the heart;
still hoping to find wisdom
that I might in turn impart.
Still of belief that charity
should be compelling force -
still urging all to action
while adhering us on course.
Still following my conscience,
but struggling with my will -
still contemplating wonders
as I'm learning to be still.
I also knew that the trip would allow me to do some "people watching" in a completely new setting. I was engaging in a sociological study - observing the reactions others had to "The Strip" while monitoring my own.
One of the very first things to strike me about the Vegas Strip is the sheer over-burdening of the senses that confronts the unsuspecting visitor. I knew there would be bright lights, but it never occurred to me that there would be so much noise and chaos. Music is piped in everywhere - the casinos, the shopping concourses and often on the streets. The casinos have a steady din of machines that make noise and people conversing and fuzzy music under all of it. People on the street call out to you constantly - wanting to know if you want tickets for a show or are willing to view time share opportunities or want "an escort". The casinos are smelly too - trying to disguise years of tobacco use in stale air with cloying scents of a floral or fruity nature. Vegas, my friends, engages in an unceasing assault on the senses, from the moment you arrive to the moment you leave.
Places like Vegas are designed to put all of your senses on high alert so that you won't be tempted to engage your brain. (Who would be tempted to drop wads of cash on gambling and alcohol if they took the time to think about how much they were spending?) The message Vegas sends out is clear - don't trouble your mind with pesky thoughts, just eat, drink and gamble! Give your brain a rest, but keep that wallet-reaching hand well exercised!
I began to miss my quiet contemplative moments quickly. The bright lights and constant buzz of the place became jarring to me, and by the end of my fourth day I was anxious to get home. (By the end of my fifth day I was downright cranky and jaded to boot.)
I know that for the tired and stressed this brain switch off experience may be exactly what the doctor ordered up as a dream vacation. Honestly, I can understand the short-term appeal of such a getaway. What saddens me is that there seems to be a subset of our culture who thrive on this sort of atmosphere. They want to turn off consciousness as often as possible. "Peace and quiet" are not appealing concepts to this crowd, who don't want to be burdened with deep thoughts or contemplation. Instead they are constantly rushing off in search of another thrill, another drink, another sexual exploit to satisfy their cravings. These are the people who have what I'll dub "the Vegas mindset"- bring on the lights and the noise, I don't want to think. They live their lives as empty vessels, waiting for some exciting new gratification to momentary fill them up. Silence and solitude scare them.
"Be still, and know that I am God."
We've all heard that phrase, but it could just as easily be "Be still and know that life is good." Life is not meant to be lived at breakneck pace, under neon lights and among jostling hoards. Life is not meant to be one sensory overload experience after another, but a series of small, important and often, (but not always) gratifying sensations and moments. Life is meant to be filled with pondering and questioning and periods of boredom and frustration that make us yearn for something meaningful. God may not enter the equation at all, but I believe we can never really know ourselves without submitting to periods of solitude and sometimes uncomfortable inner scrutiny.
When we stifle our minds and refuse to give them opportunities to work out our conscious and subconscious concerns there are negative consequences. While our thoughts define us, those things we refuse to think about may define us more. Much of what we need most in our lives is found in those moments of quiet and stillness when we let our subconscious thoughts off leash and examine what we fill our minds and hearts with.
Subconscious: (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, November '07)
Feelings we'd prefer kept in -
born in sorrow, anger; sin,
unbeknownst to us sneak out
as resentment, fear and doubt.
Much that we would never say
manifests another way.
Untold secrets that we keep
haunt our dreams, if we find sleep.
Stirrings that we can't explain,
buried somewhere in the brain
unacknowledged, still compel -
motivating to excel
or perhaps abandon cause
as they magnify our flaws.
In our quest for self control
we ignore depths of the soul -
questions we have locked inside,
where our fears and wishes hide.
Answers that we haven't sought,
buried in subconscious thought
come to light from deepest shade,
when we ponder unafraid.
My urging to all is to not be afraid of those quiet, ponderous and even boring moments. Through those lulls we are invigorated and able to become attuned to the depths of our own souls, the answers to our questions and the GPS instructions that lead us on our individual quests. "Be still, and know..." Let your mind fill in the rest.
Still: (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, June '06)
Still learning what's important
with every passing year -
still striving to overcome
all my irrational fear.
Still looking for some answers
to demystify the heart;
still hoping to find wisdom
that I might in turn impart.
Still of belief that charity
should be compelling force -
still urging all to action
while adhering us on course.
Still following my conscience,
but struggling with my will -
still contemplating wonders
as I'm learning to be still.
Monday 7 October 2013
Finding My Voice! (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg)
My last post does have a title, and this post exists for the sole purpose of directing you to that post, which is in fact called "Finding My Voice". And because I'm not afraid to use my voice I'll complain once more about how blogspot never lets you change anything in the title line once you've hit "Post". If (like me) you make the mistake of prematurely hitting that button before you've titled your post, your post is destined to go untitled unless you get creative. So scroll down and enjoy reading!
Finding My Voice (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg)
My Voice: (Sharon Flood Kasenberg - January '07)
Somewhere between my head and heart
it seems I've found my voice -
a way to express love and fear,
share sorrows and rejoice.
I'm attempting to find balance
between feelings and thought
as cool logic tempers passions
that tend to run too hot,
my heart softens the sharp edges
of reasonableness;
with efficacious empathy
I might find words to bless.
Can I use love and intellect -
avail myself of each;
use words to stir both heart and mind -
to nourish and to teach?
The same voice that always whispered
is dictating in rhyme
attempts to meld my brain and soul
in strictly metered time.
Though the cadence must be measured
I'll generously share
the contents of my head and heart
for readers to compare.
Can you discern where my thoughts end
and where my heart begins?
As each attempts to rule the day
my voice decides who wins.
When I first began to share these poetic musings I was afraid that nobody would care enough to read them. I felt exposed - tossing my thoughts and feelings off like sweaty laundry to stand naked. I worried that I was throwing the contents of my mind and heart into some void in cyberspace, to a faceless anonymous alien audience who might not ever respond.
I wondered whether this blogging experience would be encouraging or demoralizing. Initially it often felt like an exercise in futility, especially when my husband admitted that he didn't read my posts! I persevered, becoming more assertive by putting each new post on his Facebook wall where he was bound to see it (eventually). I also began to send out posts to friends, thinking that some of them might be curious enough about what I had to say to click on the link. I want to thank each of you who have taken a few moments here and there to read and offer comments and encouragement. (You'll never know how much it thrills me when you tell me you enjoy what I write, much less tell me I should post more often!)
Blogspot allows me to see how many people have viewed each post, and while my ego isn't healthy enough to allow me to credit every person who stumbles upon this blog with actually reading it, I am gratified to know my posts are at least seen. But I'm grounded enough to know that the numbers will never be true indicators of how well I "vocalize".
I've always written, but until seven years ago almost every word I wrote was for my eyes only. (Except for the play I wrote and directed in grade two, and any diary entries that I thought had enough comedic value to read to friends.) My "Rhyming Muse" has made me more confident about sharing verse and prose. Rhyme snobs still exist (they always will), but I think I've been able to show a few people that complicated ideas can be conveyed in simple rhyming couplets. I believe that demonstrating literary acumen shouldn't require complicated sentence structures and a dictionary for translation. In my opinion, good writing is easy enough to understand, but sufficiently complex to make you ponder.
It took many years of searching before I found a voice and the courage to speak up. Some will listen, others will ignore what I have to say. What is important to me is that I continue to speak regardless of who hears, and that some who hear will respond.
If what I write ever makes you smile - if it makes you think or want to exercise your own creativity then I have succeeded. My satisfaction doesn't depend on how much my poems are seen. I care more about whether my efforts have affected those who have read them. When you turn my "vocalizing" into a conversation or a thought to ponder I have no doubt that my voice is being heard.
Poetic Justice: (Sharon Flood Kasenberg - September '07)
If chaos in my mind intrudes,
corrupting calm and peaceful moods
I find a haven writing verse -
it helps the threatening clouds disperse.
Perhaps it is my therapy -
for through combining words I see
solutions in what I create
and weakness when I hesitate.
When my fragmented thoughts cohere
so that on paper words appear
it seems forces beyond this earth
took fetal thoughts and gave them birth.
Completed lines leave me consoled -
but only rarely I behold
poetic justice meted out
when in my verse I have no doubt.
Somewhere between my head and heart
it seems I've found my voice -
a way to express love and fear,
share sorrows and rejoice.
I'm attempting to find balance
between feelings and thought
as cool logic tempers passions
that tend to run too hot,
my heart softens the sharp edges
of reasonableness;
with efficacious empathy
I might find words to bless.
Can I use love and intellect -
avail myself of each;
use words to stir both heart and mind -
to nourish and to teach?
The same voice that always whispered
is dictating in rhyme
attempts to meld my brain and soul
in strictly metered time.
Though the cadence must be measured
I'll generously share
the contents of my head and heart
for readers to compare.
Can you discern where my thoughts end
and where my heart begins?
As each attempts to rule the day
my voice decides who wins.
When I first began to share these poetic musings I was afraid that nobody would care enough to read them. I felt exposed - tossing my thoughts and feelings off like sweaty laundry to stand naked. I worried that I was throwing the contents of my mind and heart into some void in cyberspace, to a faceless anonymous alien audience who might not ever respond.
I wondered whether this blogging experience would be encouraging or demoralizing. Initially it often felt like an exercise in futility, especially when my husband admitted that he didn't read my posts! I persevered, becoming more assertive by putting each new post on his Facebook wall where he was bound to see it (eventually). I also began to send out posts to friends, thinking that some of them might be curious enough about what I had to say to click on the link. I want to thank each of you who have taken a few moments here and there to read and offer comments and encouragement. (You'll never know how much it thrills me when you tell me you enjoy what I write, much less tell me I should post more often!)
Blogspot allows me to see how many people have viewed each post, and while my ego isn't healthy enough to allow me to credit every person who stumbles upon this blog with actually reading it, I am gratified to know my posts are at least seen. But I'm grounded enough to know that the numbers will never be true indicators of how well I "vocalize".
I've always written, but until seven years ago almost every word I wrote was for my eyes only. (Except for the play I wrote and directed in grade two, and any diary entries that I thought had enough comedic value to read to friends.) My "Rhyming Muse" has made me more confident about sharing verse and prose. Rhyme snobs still exist (they always will), but I think I've been able to show a few people that complicated ideas can be conveyed in simple rhyming couplets. I believe that demonstrating literary acumen shouldn't require complicated sentence structures and a dictionary for translation. In my opinion, good writing is easy enough to understand, but sufficiently complex to make you ponder.
It took many years of searching before I found a voice and the courage to speak up. Some will listen, others will ignore what I have to say. What is important to me is that I continue to speak regardless of who hears, and that some who hear will respond.
If what I write ever makes you smile - if it makes you think or want to exercise your own creativity then I have succeeded. My satisfaction doesn't depend on how much my poems are seen. I care more about whether my efforts have affected those who have read them. When you turn my "vocalizing" into a conversation or a thought to ponder I have no doubt that my voice is being heard.
Poetic Justice: (Sharon Flood Kasenberg - September '07)
If chaos in my mind intrudes,
corrupting calm and peaceful moods
I find a haven writing verse -
it helps the threatening clouds disperse.
Perhaps it is my therapy -
for through combining words I see
solutions in what I create
and weakness when I hesitate.
When my fragmented thoughts cohere
so that on paper words appear
it seems forces beyond this earth
took fetal thoughts and gave them birth.
Completed lines leave me consoled -
but only rarely I behold
poetic justice meted out
when in my verse I have no doubt.
Monday 16 September 2013
My "Long and Winding Ode" to the "Soundtracks" of Our Lives...
The Long and Winding Ode: (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, May 5, 2007)
What if dear Lovely Rita wed Bungalow Bill
and they rented a flat from the Fool on the Hill?
Before Father McKenzie their vows would be said,
with the Hendersons all there to witness them wed -
as Rocky Raccoon (and his very worst rival)
offered the readings from Gideon's bible.
Oh their service (I'm certain) would be very nice -
and then Eleanor Rigby would pelt them with rice!
The reception to follow would last through the day -
thanks to Sergeant Pepper a great band would play.
And as newlyweds slip off to their honeymoon
Mr. Kite would protest they were leaving too soon;
but not kind Mother Mary who'd say, "Let It Be"
"They're anxious to be off, as we all can see!"
At last Anna would catch the bouquet that was tossed -
and the Walrus go reeling home, thoroughly sauced!
Just yesterday I returned from a twelve day whirlwind trip to Europe - my first ever. I visited three countries and five cities while I was there, and saw everything from Roman ruins to glorious cathedrals that were centuries in the making, but nothing I saw moved me to tears - until I saw four guys singing on a stage. We decided to see a show while in London, and when my husband read off the various titles I liked the sound of "Let it Be". (I thought I was going to see a play about the Beatles, and had no idea that I was going to see a tribute band.) So indeed these four weren't even who they pretended to be, but that didn't matter. They were singing my life's story. (And they sang it well, with great background lighting that evoked the mood of each represented musical era, and convincing costumes that made me feel like I was there - at a concert that never happened and at this point never could.)
I grew up with Paul, John, George and Ringo. They may not have been the kids I played hide and seek with in the neighbourhood, but they were in my house every day. My grandmother once reported that the first time she ever heard me singing a recognizable song it was "She Loves You (Yeah Yeah Yeah)" by none other than the Fab Four. I have memories of my oldest sister and her love-bead clad friends sitting on cushions on the floor in the rec room, listening to the Beatles while burning incense. I remember my sister Wendy and I singing Beatles songs while we did dishes and sneaking downstairs to the basement to listen to our older sisters' Beatle albums on their portable record player when they weren't home.
My two oldest sisters were big Beatles fans. They even had a fan club as adolescents and collected Beatles bubble gum cards in a home-made album with a cardboard cover. My sister Colleen kept the minutes of these meetings in an old school notebook, since she was the oldest and most organized of the group. Her and Linda saved up their babysitting money to buy the records that influenced the musical tastes of their younger siblings, and practiced their vocal harmonies while they did dishes. (They sounded a lot better than Wendy and I ever did!)
My "Beatlemania" has persisted. I brought my husband (who amazingly had little exposure to their music prior to meeting me) to an appreciation of the Beatles, and raised two sons who are fans. (Sam loves their "sound" and technical proficiency, while Dan - like me - just loves their songs.) I have great memories of Todd and the boys and I singing in the car to Beatles discs on car trips, and of Dan playing his guitar and singing "Blackbird" and "Let it Be." As a person who writes poems, I can say that when I listen to "Yesterday", "Eleanor Rigby" or "Let it Be" I am moved by those lyrics. I can relate to the characters John and Paul wrote about and the feelings the songs evoke. I don't listen to these songs wishing that I could do justice to them with my voice, (I'll never be much of a singer) but I can't listen without thinking how much I would love to be able to write that kind of poetry.
When asked as a teenager what my favorite musical group was my answer would often be accompanied by a groan from the questioner, as well as a request to get with the times and name someone "current". But at that concert on Thursday night I felt totally vindicated, as I sat in an audience of all ages who were clapping and yelling along with the guys pretending to be Paul, John, George and Ringo.
I guess I shouldn't really be surprised that although I saw incredible sights while I traveled it was something I heard that finally brought me to tears. Music can do that. Every life has its own sound track, and the music of the lads from Liverpool makes up a significant portion of mine.
As you read the poem below, think about the soundtrack of your life, and be grateful for the music that enriches you!
Soundtrack: (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, May 5 - 7, 2007)
Have you ever thought about the soundtrack of your life?
What song did you first dance to as new husband and wife?
What songs you heard in childhood bring memories to you
of holidays together and all those family "do's" ?
I'm sure that through your teenage years you found a special song
that you took as your anthem - you sang it loud and strong.
And surely there were ballads you heard at every dance
that kept you ever hopeful of finding some romance.
When finally you found it, was any music heard?
(I'm sure if it was playing you still know every word.)
When you had your own children, what music did you share?
What lullabies consoled them - assured them you were there?
What hymns elate your spirit and stir your weary soul?
Do you prefer new country, or maybe rock and roll?
What music plays inside you and always makes you smile?
What songs stop you in your tracks to listen for a while?
What music motivates you and keeps you on your feet
when you are exhausted, but there's more to complete?
When you need to be cheered up because you're feeling blue
what's the song you'd likely choose to sit and listen to?
The music's in the background, but still reaches the brain -
we can't sing all the lyrics, but still know the refrain.
It calms, woos and excites us with sentiments it shares;
memories it brings to mind can catch us unawares.
So much that we've forgotten is suddenly brought back
by a few bars of music - a song from our sound track.
What if dear Lovely Rita wed Bungalow Bill
and they rented a flat from the Fool on the Hill?
Before Father McKenzie their vows would be said,
with the Hendersons all there to witness them wed -
as Rocky Raccoon (and his very worst rival)
offered the readings from Gideon's bible.
Oh their service (I'm certain) would be very nice -
and then Eleanor Rigby would pelt them with rice!
The reception to follow would last through the day -
thanks to Sergeant Pepper a great band would play.
And as newlyweds slip off to their honeymoon
Mr. Kite would protest they were leaving too soon;
but not kind Mother Mary who'd say, "Let It Be"
"They're anxious to be off, as we all can see!"
At last Anna would catch the bouquet that was tossed -
and the Walrus go reeling home, thoroughly sauced!
Just yesterday I returned from a twelve day whirlwind trip to Europe - my first ever. I visited three countries and five cities while I was there, and saw everything from Roman ruins to glorious cathedrals that were centuries in the making, but nothing I saw moved me to tears - until I saw four guys singing on a stage. We decided to see a show while in London, and when my husband read off the various titles I liked the sound of "Let it Be". (I thought I was going to see a play about the Beatles, and had no idea that I was going to see a tribute band.) So indeed these four weren't even who they pretended to be, but that didn't matter. They were singing my life's story. (And they sang it well, with great background lighting that evoked the mood of each represented musical era, and convincing costumes that made me feel like I was there - at a concert that never happened and at this point never could.)
I grew up with Paul, John, George and Ringo. They may not have been the kids I played hide and seek with in the neighbourhood, but they were in my house every day. My grandmother once reported that the first time she ever heard me singing a recognizable song it was "She Loves You (Yeah Yeah Yeah)" by none other than the Fab Four. I have memories of my oldest sister and her love-bead clad friends sitting on cushions on the floor in the rec room, listening to the Beatles while burning incense. I remember my sister Wendy and I singing Beatles songs while we did dishes and sneaking downstairs to the basement to listen to our older sisters' Beatle albums on their portable record player when they weren't home.
My two oldest sisters were big Beatles fans. They even had a fan club as adolescents and collected Beatles bubble gum cards in a home-made album with a cardboard cover. My sister Colleen kept the minutes of these meetings in an old school notebook, since she was the oldest and most organized of the group. Her and Linda saved up their babysitting money to buy the records that influenced the musical tastes of their younger siblings, and practiced their vocal harmonies while they did dishes. (They sounded a lot better than Wendy and I ever did!)
My "Beatlemania" has persisted. I brought my husband (who amazingly had little exposure to their music prior to meeting me) to an appreciation of the Beatles, and raised two sons who are fans. (Sam loves their "sound" and technical proficiency, while Dan - like me - just loves their songs.) I have great memories of Todd and the boys and I singing in the car to Beatles discs on car trips, and of Dan playing his guitar and singing "Blackbird" and "Let it Be." As a person who writes poems, I can say that when I listen to "Yesterday", "Eleanor Rigby" or "Let it Be" I am moved by those lyrics. I can relate to the characters John and Paul wrote about and the feelings the songs evoke. I don't listen to these songs wishing that I could do justice to them with my voice, (I'll never be much of a singer) but I can't listen without thinking how much I would love to be able to write that kind of poetry.
When asked as a teenager what my favorite musical group was my answer would often be accompanied by a groan from the questioner, as well as a request to get with the times and name someone "current". But at that concert on Thursday night I felt totally vindicated, as I sat in an audience of all ages who were clapping and yelling along with the guys pretending to be Paul, John, George and Ringo.
I guess I shouldn't really be surprised that although I saw incredible sights while I traveled it was something I heard that finally brought me to tears. Music can do that. Every life has its own sound track, and the music of the lads from Liverpool makes up a significant portion of mine.
As you read the poem below, think about the soundtrack of your life, and be grateful for the music that enriches you!
Soundtrack: (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, May 5 - 7, 2007)
Have you ever thought about the soundtrack of your life?
What song did you first dance to as new husband and wife?
What songs you heard in childhood bring memories to you
of holidays together and all those family "do's" ?
I'm sure that through your teenage years you found a special song
that you took as your anthem - you sang it loud and strong.
And surely there were ballads you heard at every dance
that kept you ever hopeful of finding some romance.
When finally you found it, was any music heard?
(I'm sure if it was playing you still know every word.)
When you had your own children, what music did you share?
What lullabies consoled them - assured them you were there?
What hymns elate your spirit and stir your weary soul?
Do you prefer new country, or maybe rock and roll?
What music plays inside you and always makes you smile?
What songs stop you in your tracks to listen for a while?
What music motivates you and keeps you on your feet
when you are exhausted, but there's more to complete?
When you need to be cheered up because you're feeling blue
what's the song you'd likely choose to sit and listen to?
The music's in the background, but still reaches the brain -
we can't sing all the lyrics, but still know the refrain.
It calms, woos and excites us with sentiments it shares;
memories it brings to mind can catch us unawares.
So much that we've forgotten is suddenly brought back
by a few bars of music - a song from our sound track.
Monday 26 August 2013
Love is? (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg)
Cardiology:
How can we solve life's mysteries
if we never make a start
to attempt investigation
into matters of the heart?
There's so much we don't understand
and so much we must forgive
in the hearts of those around us
through the lifetimes that we live.
Likewise we'll make apologies
on this journey here below
as we're always navigating
into waters we don't know.
We gauge feelings swirling 'round us
and emotions of our own
while we're trying to descipher
what is sensed but never shown -
like coral reefs that lie beneath
stormy oceans of the heart
where no daring cartographer
has been brave enough to chart.
However vast our knowledge is
of this planet or deep space,
the heart remains a mystery -
an obscure and complex place.
Though science gives us formulas
to determine speed and mass
we continue to ask questions
not addressed in any class.
We'll never learn to calculate
even just the smallest part
of the infinite equation
that defines the human heart.
(By Sharon Flood Kasenberg - March 2007)
Love is a mystery. Like Joni Mitchell, I've experienced both sides of love - the pain that comes from unrequited love, and the joy of love that's returned. I've observed even more about love - seen it used manipulatively - given capriciously and withdrawn in pique. I've seen relationships end that I thought would endure forever, and seen couples survive who I thought were doomed before they began. Through it all I've learned that love always has lessons to teach us, no matter how old or experienced we may think we are.
I've come to the conclusion that finding love is fortunate, and keeping it alive is miraculous. Yesterday I celebrated my 25th Wedding Anniversary. One of my friends commented that it was good to see somebody manage to make a marriage last this long, and now that I've been married for a quarter of a century I think I'm qualified to say that marriage isn't easy. Our early years were the hardest, since we had to learn to adjust to life with each other, often in poverty, and then with two babies that arrived in rapid succession. We got used to each other - learned to adapt to each others' foibles and compensate for each others' weaknesses - but at no point did it become effortless. We didn't really expect it to, and maybe that's why we've lasted.
Love needs to be fed - and it's voracious. I think a lot of people assume that as passion settles the relationship can survive on a subsistence diet, when in reality that's the point at which love needs the most nourishment. Both parties need to feed the relationship so that both are fed. Each party will get back what they put in if they are equally committed to making the necessary effort. Sadly, that isn't always the case. It can be far too easy to grow careless with another person's heart.
Many people glamorize the concept of love, seeing it as an ongoing parade of showy speeches, bouquets of roses and passionate embraces when it actually looks a whole lot more like helping with dishes, putting out the garbage and rubbing smelly feet. Love is made up of arguments and negotiations and seemingly insignificant kindnesses all rolled into a decidedly mundane ball. Love is appreciating what you've got and overlooking what shouldn't matter. Love is learning how to trust completely, and knowing when to check your ego at the door and be humble enough to accept a bit of criticism.
I'm grateful that I've enjoyed the miracle of lasting love. It's something I've learned to never take for granted. I hope that someday my sons will be as blessed in their marriages as Todd and I have been in ours. I hope that we've shown them not just how love can be, but how it should be.
Love Can:
Love can be used to conquer,
or better yet to soothe -
can calm a raging tempest
or make a rough road smooth.
Love isn't a condition,
it is an attitude -
a voluntary effort
we make with gratitude.
It is the stuff of romance -
foundation for our dreams;
in rawest, purest essence
much more than what it seems.
Love has the strength to uplift,
but still it can destroy -
can seed wanton destruction
or the sublimest joy.
In countless variations
it's manifest through years -
agony and ecstasy
expressed in smiles and tears.
It can be irrational
to love without return -
confounded by rejection,
our hollow hearts still yearn.
While I can't prove this theory
I always have supposed
that hearts are often empty
because they are kept closed.
Conversely when we give love
the more love we attract -
although this math makes no sense,
it seems to be a fact.
From unexpected sources
it will accumulate
and grow in intensity
as we reciprocate.
Love wields unearthly power -
more than most can conceive;
Love comforts deepest sorrows
when in it we believe.
(By Sharon Flood Kasenberg - Sept. 2007)
How can we solve life's mysteries
if we never make a start
to attempt investigation
into matters of the heart?
There's so much we don't understand
and so much we must forgive
in the hearts of those around us
through the lifetimes that we live.
Likewise we'll make apologies
on this journey here below
as we're always navigating
into waters we don't know.
We gauge feelings swirling 'round us
and emotions of our own
while we're trying to descipher
what is sensed but never shown -
like coral reefs that lie beneath
stormy oceans of the heart
where no daring cartographer
has been brave enough to chart.
However vast our knowledge is
of this planet or deep space,
the heart remains a mystery -
an obscure and complex place.
Though science gives us formulas
to determine speed and mass
we continue to ask questions
not addressed in any class.
We'll never learn to calculate
even just the smallest part
of the infinite equation
that defines the human heart.
(By Sharon Flood Kasenberg - March 2007)
Love is a mystery. Like Joni Mitchell, I've experienced both sides of love - the pain that comes from unrequited love, and the joy of love that's returned. I've observed even more about love - seen it used manipulatively - given capriciously and withdrawn in pique. I've seen relationships end that I thought would endure forever, and seen couples survive who I thought were doomed before they began. Through it all I've learned that love always has lessons to teach us, no matter how old or experienced we may think we are.
I've come to the conclusion that finding love is fortunate, and keeping it alive is miraculous. Yesterday I celebrated my 25th Wedding Anniversary. One of my friends commented that it was good to see somebody manage to make a marriage last this long, and now that I've been married for a quarter of a century I think I'm qualified to say that marriage isn't easy. Our early years were the hardest, since we had to learn to adjust to life with each other, often in poverty, and then with two babies that arrived in rapid succession. We got used to each other - learned to adapt to each others' foibles and compensate for each others' weaknesses - but at no point did it become effortless. We didn't really expect it to, and maybe that's why we've lasted.
Love needs to be fed - and it's voracious. I think a lot of people assume that as passion settles the relationship can survive on a subsistence diet, when in reality that's the point at which love needs the most nourishment. Both parties need to feed the relationship so that both are fed. Each party will get back what they put in if they are equally committed to making the necessary effort. Sadly, that isn't always the case. It can be far too easy to grow careless with another person's heart.
Many people glamorize the concept of love, seeing it as an ongoing parade of showy speeches, bouquets of roses and passionate embraces when it actually looks a whole lot more like helping with dishes, putting out the garbage and rubbing smelly feet. Love is made up of arguments and negotiations and seemingly insignificant kindnesses all rolled into a decidedly mundane ball. Love is appreciating what you've got and overlooking what shouldn't matter. Love is learning how to trust completely, and knowing when to check your ego at the door and be humble enough to accept a bit of criticism.
I'm grateful that I've enjoyed the miracle of lasting love. It's something I've learned to never take for granted. I hope that someday my sons will be as blessed in their marriages as Todd and I have been in ours. I hope that we've shown them not just how love can be, but how it should be.
Love Can:
Love can be used to conquer,
or better yet to soothe -
can calm a raging tempest
or make a rough road smooth.
Love isn't a condition,
it is an attitude -
a voluntary effort
we make with gratitude.
It is the stuff of romance -
foundation for our dreams;
in rawest, purest essence
much more than what it seems.
Love has the strength to uplift,
but still it can destroy -
can seed wanton destruction
or the sublimest joy.
In countless variations
it's manifest through years -
agony and ecstasy
expressed in smiles and tears.
It can be irrational
to love without return -
confounded by rejection,
our hollow hearts still yearn.
While I can't prove this theory
I always have supposed
that hearts are often empty
because they are kept closed.
Conversely when we give love
the more love we attract -
although this math makes no sense,
it seems to be a fact.
From unexpected sources
it will accumulate
and grow in intensity
as we reciprocate.
Love wields unearthly power -
more than most can conceive;
Love comforts deepest sorrows
when in it we believe.
(By Sharon Flood Kasenberg - Sept. 2007)
Monday 12 August 2013
The Amazingly Incredible and Sometimes Regretable Power of Words By Sharon Flood Kasenberg - August 12, 2013
Words:
Give me the words
to write a poem -
it's such a small request.
Just give me words
and I will use them -
I will do my best.
Give me the words
to show compassion -
put me to the test.
Just give me words
and I will use them.
Love will do the rest.
Give me the words
to calm my spirit -
silence my unrest.
A few small words
to bless and comfort
when I am distressed.
I pray for words
I know their power -
they are my daily quest.
Thank-you for words
that I am given -
through these words I'm blessed.
(By Sharon Flood Kasenberg - April '07)
Nothing makes you more appreciative for the words you find than those times when you just can't find the words at all.
This past week I've been struggling to find words. I've felt an urge to write on a particular subject, but every time I sit down and make an attempt I just can't seem to get where I want to. What I've written seems forced and trite. I feel frustrated, but that's alright. I know from past experience that when the right words come to me it will be a serendipitous experience - inspiration will hit and words will flow.
As I've pondered my writer's block of late I've thought a lot about the power of words. I've been really really thankful for those times when words came to me easily - when the poetry and prose flowed from my brain so quickly that I rushed to find pen and paper before those words were lost.
I love words, and of that love a healthy respect has been born. There have been many times in my life when I badly wanted to have the right words to say - soothing words, loving words - words that went beyond being merely "appropriate". When those words managed to cross my tongue I knew they were exactly right, and they benefited both the speaker and the listener. Sadly, I didn't always "find" those words. Far too often I stuttered and stammered. The words that came out were muddled and altogether clumsy and wrong.
Too many times to count over the years I've used words in the worst ways possible - in anger, in criticism and in haste. I've tossed out words carelessly and wanted to snatch them back, but once spoken they couldn't be unsaid. I've likewise had words hurled at me like molotov cocktails - igniting flaming responses and doing maximum damage to anyone unfortunate enough to be in the vicinity; words that lodged like shrapnel in the soul. These words injured and caused lasting pain.
I've written a lot of poems that talk about the power of words and the importance of fully engaging the brain before the mouth, but this one is my favorite.
Eating My Words (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg - August '09)
I never really want to sup
on words spoken in haste -
for careless phrases offered up
are bitter to the taste.
Those things I didn't mean to say
when uttered without care -
return again another way
as most unsavory fare.
They're bound to cross my lips once more,
and dine on them I must -
'though swallowing them is a chore -
they go down dry as dust.
Unappetizing it may be
but truly I have earned
the feast that's spread in front of me
of syllables that burned.
So as I sit again to feed
on words I'm forced to eat -
I face this fact - it seems I need
to speak some words more sweet!
Give me the words
to write a poem -
it's such a small request.
Just give me words
and I will use them -
I will do my best.
Give me the words
to show compassion -
put me to the test.
Just give me words
and I will use them.
Love will do the rest.
Give me the words
to calm my spirit -
silence my unrest.
A few small words
to bless and comfort
when I am distressed.
I pray for words
I know their power -
they are my daily quest.
Thank-you for words
that I am given -
through these words I'm blessed.
(By Sharon Flood Kasenberg - April '07)
Nothing makes you more appreciative for the words you find than those times when you just can't find the words at all.
This past week I've been struggling to find words. I've felt an urge to write on a particular subject, but every time I sit down and make an attempt I just can't seem to get where I want to. What I've written seems forced and trite. I feel frustrated, but that's alright. I know from past experience that when the right words come to me it will be a serendipitous experience - inspiration will hit and words will flow.
As I've pondered my writer's block of late I've thought a lot about the power of words. I've been really really thankful for those times when words came to me easily - when the poetry and prose flowed from my brain so quickly that I rushed to find pen and paper before those words were lost.
I love words, and of that love a healthy respect has been born. There have been many times in my life when I badly wanted to have the right words to say - soothing words, loving words - words that went beyond being merely "appropriate". When those words managed to cross my tongue I knew they were exactly right, and they benefited both the speaker and the listener. Sadly, I didn't always "find" those words. Far too often I stuttered and stammered. The words that came out were muddled and altogether clumsy and wrong.
Too many times to count over the years I've used words in the worst ways possible - in anger, in criticism and in haste. I've tossed out words carelessly and wanted to snatch them back, but once spoken they couldn't be unsaid. I've likewise had words hurled at me like molotov cocktails - igniting flaming responses and doing maximum damage to anyone unfortunate enough to be in the vicinity; words that lodged like shrapnel in the soul. These words injured and caused lasting pain.
I've written a lot of poems that talk about the power of words and the importance of fully engaging the brain before the mouth, but this one is my favorite.
Eating My Words (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg - August '09)
I never really want to sup
on words spoken in haste -
for careless phrases offered up
are bitter to the taste.
Those things I didn't mean to say
when uttered without care -
return again another way
as most unsavory fare.
They're bound to cross my lips once more,
and dine on them I must -
'though swallowing them is a chore -
they go down dry as dust.
Unappetizing it may be
but truly I have earned
the feast that's spread in front of me
of syllables that burned.
So as I sit again to feed
on words I'm forced to eat -
I face this fact - it seems I need
to speak some words more sweet!
Thursday 25 July 2013
Behold the Weed! By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
When we moved into this house almost ten years ago I found myself excited about a yard, for the first time ever. Our house sits on a circle, and our backyard is shallow but wide. The yard slopes to the rear, and so we have twelve foot ceilings in the basement and full walk outs from the basement into a strange little walled patio area with a corner fireplace. All along the back fence were perennial beds, and placed at the center point of the back fence was a fountain. Sounds nice, right? It looked nice too, but the first spring we lived here it became obvious that this yard had its deficiencies. The fireplace area was a bit crumbly and probably not safe to use, although it still looked nice. The fountain didn't work. The perennials spread like weeds, and the WEEDS really spread like weeds.
For eight years I added plants and moved plants and thinned out plants. And I weeded - endlessly. Some years it looked pretty nice out there, but other years I chose plants that didn't work, or I didn't water enough or the weeds just grew faster than I could pull them up. Last year the yard looked dismal. I was in and out of town all summer long and Todd was too busy to pull weeds. We had a serious summer drought, and the lawn and the plants all turned brown. Only the cinch bugs and the weeds flourished. We decided it was time to take action and reconfigure the backyard completely - less lawn, more plants (and plants of our choosing!), and to our way of thinking less watering and weeding.
The new yard is spectacular, but we're learning that it is as much work as it ever was. In fact, I think it's more work. I've never weeded as much in my life as I have this past month. We have bylaws in this town, and the landscapers couldn't spray before they laid down all that fresh sod and mulch, so anything with roots deeper than the six or eight inches they removed when they dug up the old lawn and beds remained. We see fewer dandelions and prickly things, but somewhere along the line someone planted some sort of Morning Glory-type plant that creeps along underground (from roots somewhere in China) and sends out shoots all over the fresh new sod and up through mulch that is a foot deep in places. The tenacity of this stuff astounds me. I routinely spend an hour out there yanking up every bit that I see, only to go outside the next day to find fresh vines of four or five inches. I pull every bit in sight, and when I get up to go inside I find more. I could almost swear it grows before my eyes, and that if I left it alone it would bury everything within a week!
Today while I was weeding I thought about weeds, and how they relate to life.
First of all, remember how Todd and I had dreams of less work in the new yard? The truth is, I'm not good at doing nothing - especially when I'm outdoors. So while I may like the idea of lazing in our lovely yard, I can't sit for more than fifteen minutes without wanting to jump up and yank up a few weeds or deadhead my spent flowers. I like knowing that I'm keeping the garden beautiful. We may dream of weed-free gardens and trouble-free lives, but those "weeds" and trials give us purpose. We may enjoy our leisure, but we need to feel useful.
Then, there's the way that "weeds" are so often a metaphor for things we don't want in our lives. They are the bad habits that seem so deeply rooted that they seem to grow back faster for all of our efforts to uproot them. They are like the negative relationships in our lives that we have trouble extricating ourselves from, and like the negative messages we hear and heed daily - even though they choke our growth as surely as that "mourning inglorious" stuff is choking the roots of my lavender.
Without a doubt, many of us seem to spend a disproportionate amount of our lives "weeding" - and sadly it is a necessity. It is unfair that the talents we have and the positive traits we'd like to nurture require so much effort to establish "roots", while those negative traits and influences in our lives live on no matter how often we douse them in vinegar (like those ever-present weeds in the lawn) - but it's a sad reality that we all need to live with. The "garden of life" requires constant weeding and watering to bear fruit.
Still, if we look at weeds in terms of their sheer stubborn "sticktoitiveness" we have to afford them some grudging admiration. If I was more "weed-like" I certainly would have more accomplishments and skills to my credit. I mean, those weeds just plain don't listen when I tell them where they shouldn't grow! If my talents were anything like that persistent they'd thrive no matter how much discouragement they felt.
Thus, in this post I pay homage to the lowly weed - bane of my existence, but still to be admired.
Behold the Weed! (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg - June 2, 2007)
A weed's a plant that grows where it should not,
and uninvited, propagates - a lot!
It roots itself with great tenacity -
determined to stay where it shouldn't be.
But what is planted, on the other hand,
puts rather timid roots into the land -
and although chosen for a certain spot,
is temperamental and seems prone to rot.
Thus I have come to grudgingly admire
a myriad of plants I don't desire.
They're certainly unwanted, but hold fast -
and seed themselves so they'll forever last.
It seems our good intentions would succeed -
if we were as committed as the weed!
For eight years I added plants and moved plants and thinned out plants. And I weeded - endlessly. Some years it looked pretty nice out there, but other years I chose plants that didn't work, or I didn't water enough or the weeds just grew faster than I could pull them up. Last year the yard looked dismal. I was in and out of town all summer long and Todd was too busy to pull weeds. We had a serious summer drought, and the lawn and the plants all turned brown. Only the cinch bugs and the weeds flourished. We decided it was time to take action and reconfigure the backyard completely - less lawn, more plants (and plants of our choosing!), and to our way of thinking less watering and weeding.
The new yard is spectacular, but we're learning that it is as much work as it ever was. In fact, I think it's more work. I've never weeded as much in my life as I have this past month. We have bylaws in this town, and the landscapers couldn't spray before they laid down all that fresh sod and mulch, so anything with roots deeper than the six or eight inches they removed when they dug up the old lawn and beds remained. We see fewer dandelions and prickly things, but somewhere along the line someone planted some sort of Morning Glory-type plant that creeps along underground (from roots somewhere in China) and sends out shoots all over the fresh new sod and up through mulch that is a foot deep in places. The tenacity of this stuff astounds me. I routinely spend an hour out there yanking up every bit that I see, only to go outside the next day to find fresh vines of four or five inches. I pull every bit in sight, and when I get up to go inside I find more. I could almost swear it grows before my eyes, and that if I left it alone it would bury everything within a week!
Today while I was weeding I thought about weeds, and how they relate to life.
First of all, remember how Todd and I had dreams of less work in the new yard? The truth is, I'm not good at doing nothing - especially when I'm outdoors. So while I may like the idea of lazing in our lovely yard, I can't sit for more than fifteen minutes without wanting to jump up and yank up a few weeds or deadhead my spent flowers. I like knowing that I'm keeping the garden beautiful. We may dream of weed-free gardens and trouble-free lives, but those "weeds" and trials give us purpose. We may enjoy our leisure, but we need to feel useful.
Then, there's the way that "weeds" are so often a metaphor for things we don't want in our lives. They are the bad habits that seem so deeply rooted that they seem to grow back faster for all of our efforts to uproot them. They are like the negative relationships in our lives that we have trouble extricating ourselves from, and like the negative messages we hear and heed daily - even though they choke our growth as surely as that "mourning inglorious" stuff is choking the roots of my lavender.
Without a doubt, many of us seem to spend a disproportionate amount of our lives "weeding" - and sadly it is a necessity. It is unfair that the talents we have and the positive traits we'd like to nurture require so much effort to establish "roots", while those negative traits and influences in our lives live on no matter how often we douse them in vinegar (like those ever-present weeds in the lawn) - but it's a sad reality that we all need to live with. The "garden of life" requires constant weeding and watering to bear fruit.
Still, if we look at weeds in terms of their sheer stubborn "sticktoitiveness" we have to afford them some grudging admiration. If I was more "weed-like" I certainly would have more accomplishments and skills to my credit. I mean, those weeds just plain don't listen when I tell them where they shouldn't grow! If my talents were anything like that persistent they'd thrive no matter how much discouragement they felt.
Thus, in this post I pay homage to the lowly weed - bane of my existence, but still to be admired.
Behold the Weed! (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg - June 2, 2007)
A weed's a plant that grows where it should not,
and uninvited, propagates - a lot!
It roots itself with great tenacity -
determined to stay where it shouldn't be.
But what is planted, on the other hand,
puts rather timid roots into the land -
and although chosen for a certain spot,
is temperamental and seems prone to rot.
Thus I have come to grudgingly admire
a myriad of plants I don't desire.
They're certainly unwanted, but hold fast -
and seed themselves so they'll forever last.
It seems our good intentions would succeed -
if we were as committed as the weed!
Wednesday 10 July 2013
How Do I Loathe Thee, Virgin Mobile? (Let Me Count the Ways!) - By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Usually in my blog posts I try to leave my readers with a positive message. Today, in spite of my ranting I will tell you one positive thing, which is that I am positive that I've received pretty miserable service from Virgin Mobile. I'm also positive that some of their corporate practices don't meet the standards of a mature and discriminating customer. Having given two positive messages for those reading to take to heart, I'm now going to tell you about the negative experiences I've endured as a virgin customer.
I know I didn't capitalize "virgin", and that's because right off the bat I want to make the admission that I'm new to this whole cell phone thing. About a year and a half ago I finally broke down and bought my first. I was spending a lot of time out of town at that point, and going mobile seemed like a necessary evil if I wanted to stay in regular contact with my husband (which I did).
My cell phone doesn't get used a lot anymore - maybe once a week. Less than a dozen people have my number. I don't use it as a camera, or to surf the net, and I don't text. I got the most basic, pared down plan out there - supposedly less than $40.00/month. Which brings me to my first complaint.
1) Why is my bill always so high? For a while it was high because when I bought a replacement phone the guy in the Virgin booth assured me he'd cancel my former phone plan, but he apparently didn't. That accounts for FOUR months of obscenely high bills, but not the ones that have arrived since my husband and I BOTH gave them a reaming out that should've made their ears bleed. Still, I'd love to hear why after missing a payment (or even TWO) my bill at the end of May was supposedly more than $150.00 and this latest bill is more than $90.00. Frankly, it just doesn't add up. Then, (of course) there is the way they nag you about paying bills. What ever happened to the good old days when a bill arrived in the mail and you had a month to pay it? Here's an example of the impatience of these collectors. I got a bill while my internet was down - (I think it was dated the 6th) - and on the 8th I got a call asking where my payment was! But that wasn't all, and I'll get to the rest of that conversation later...
2) Why do I hear from Virgin Mobile so often? Every time I use my cell phone I have fresh messages and texts on my phone. (These texts don't ever get picked up. I don't text, remember? It's not part of my plan, and I feel no need to listen to any more advertising propaganda than I'm already subjected to.) As for the phone messages, Virgin is ONLY my cell phone carrier - not my husband, child, mother or best friend. While I can't speak for the rest of the world, I can say, from the bottom of my heart, that I just plain don't want constant interaction with my cell phone carrier. And ahh - what a "treat" those interactions are, a sentiment I will expound upon in my next several points:
3) I understand that Richard Branson (like so many other billionaires out there) seems to think that it's a necessity to outsource work to Asia rather than employ North Americans. (That's a whole other rant that I won't go into now.) What bothers me is that these people don't know how to communicate effectively in English, which as far as I know is still the primary language of commerce on this continent. I shouldn't have to repeat (or to ask "service" people to repeat) things a half dozen times before we (sort of) understand each other. I know my last name may be difficult for foreign tongues, but my first name is pretty straight forward. Something close would be nice.
4) Likewise, it would be nice if these "service" people understood North American culture, even slightly. For example, the polite way to begin a conversation is with the word hello. If you want to formally address a married woman you call her Mrs something, in my case Mrs. Kasenberg. If you're in doubt about a woman's marital status use Ms (pronounced Mizz) or use her first name. When you call me Miss Sharon, my memory hearkens waaay back to the days of Gunsmoke, and "Miss Kitty" (who likely wasn't virginal). I'm not a saloon girl, I'm a domestic goddess!
5) Professional behavior doesn't entail the use of the opening phrase "Hey there!" in an exaggerated Aussie drawl by a perky "valley girl" wannabe. Some of us remember when Moon Unit Zappa began that whole shtick in the early 80's. Even when it was "new and fresh" it got irritating fast. Forget trying to be "hip" and just aim for polite and professional.
6) Why does Virgin keep nagging me after my bill is paid? They claim to have no record of payment, but if 48 hours after the thing has been paid they either don't have the payment recorded, or their people can't manage to access that information than they've reached a whole new sub-standard.
7) What's with the long pause full of dead air when I answer my phone? I say hello and give it ten seconds, and any caller who can't reply in that space of time is history - period.
8) What makes Virgin Mobile think I should "hold" for them when they called me? I'm used to the endless waits when I need to call them, but it's just not going to fly when they call my house, or my cell and expect me to "hold" - especially when they can't even bother to identify themselves first.
9) (This one really sticks in my craw.) Why, when they call to nag me less than 36 hours after they send the bill, do they have the gall to ask me how I intend to pay? I'll pay however I choose to pay, and they should jolly well be grateful to get paid at all when by my calculations they've over charged me by about six months worth of fees. Next time they ask that question I'll give this answer:
"I intend to pay you by pony express, and in nickels. I'm strapping the saddle bags onto Petunia as we speak! (Giddy-up, girl!) You should get your payment in three or four weeks. Have a nice day!"
10) Finally, that name really bothers me. A name like "Virgin" just doesn't suit a company that spends so much time in solicitation and is greedy and sloppy to boot. I'm fed up with dealing with you, Ricky. I'm off to find a better plan, something less expensive for the occasional user. I still hold out hope that better customer service isn't just a pipe dream these days.
Thus ends the prosaic part of this post, but I wouldn't be The Rhyming Muse if I didn't leave you a poetic offering, so here goes:
How Do I Loathe Thee, Virgin Mobile? (Let Me Count the Ways!)
In spite of what you claim to be,
I question your "virginity" -
solicitations never end,
you're driving me around the bend!
A dozen texts you leave for me,
and on my plan texts are NOT free.
As for the messages you leave,
(almost daily, I believe)
I truly wish that you would chill -
your frequency is overkill.
You're not my spouse or my best friend,
but all those messages you send
from Aussie with annoying voice
(not vocal "talent" of my choice) -
"Hey There!" not what I like to hear
when I put telephone to ear.
A greeting somewhat more refined
is preferable, to my mind.
And for the record (so you know)
the proper greeting is "Hello"
and it seems strange you must be told
when YOU call ME I will not "hold"!
I don't respond well to dead air -
ten seconds pass...guess no one's there -
and so hang up is what I do,
it might sound crazy, but it's true.
As for my name, it would suffice
if you came close just once or twice -
so call me "Sharon" if you must,
but this Miss Sharon won't, I trust
be anymore address to me -
it irritates me thoroughly.
But not as much as how you bill -
your lack of patience makes me ill.
The bill is sent to my email,
and very shortly, without fail
you call to say I'm overdue -
which doesn't sound exactly true.
But then again, when you owe me -
like for the month or two or THREE
I paid account you said was closed
no restitution was proposed.
Yet some of us have honour still -
I said I'd pay you and I will.
I'll pay you like I always do
and pray that soon we will be through.
You see, I seek a better plan -
It's obvious I'm not a fan.
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg - July 9, 2013
I know I didn't capitalize "virgin", and that's because right off the bat I want to make the admission that I'm new to this whole cell phone thing. About a year and a half ago I finally broke down and bought my first. I was spending a lot of time out of town at that point, and going mobile seemed like a necessary evil if I wanted to stay in regular contact with my husband (which I did).
My cell phone doesn't get used a lot anymore - maybe once a week. Less than a dozen people have my number. I don't use it as a camera, or to surf the net, and I don't text. I got the most basic, pared down plan out there - supposedly less than $40.00/month. Which brings me to my first complaint.
1) Why is my bill always so high? For a while it was high because when I bought a replacement phone the guy in the Virgin booth assured me he'd cancel my former phone plan, but he apparently didn't. That accounts for FOUR months of obscenely high bills, but not the ones that have arrived since my husband and I BOTH gave them a reaming out that should've made their ears bleed. Still, I'd love to hear why after missing a payment (or even TWO) my bill at the end of May was supposedly more than $150.00 and this latest bill is more than $90.00. Frankly, it just doesn't add up. Then, (of course) there is the way they nag you about paying bills. What ever happened to the good old days when a bill arrived in the mail and you had a month to pay it? Here's an example of the impatience of these collectors. I got a bill while my internet was down - (I think it was dated the 6th) - and on the 8th I got a call asking where my payment was! But that wasn't all, and I'll get to the rest of that conversation later...
2) Why do I hear from Virgin Mobile so often? Every time I use my cell phone I have fresh messages and texts on my phone. (These texts don't ever get picked up. I don't text, remember? It's not part of my plan, and I feel no need to listen to any more advertising propaganda than I'm already subjected to.) As for the phone messages, Virgin is ONLY my cell phone carrier - not my husband, child, mother or best friend. While I can't speak for the rest of the world, I can say, from the bottom of my heart, that I just plain don't want constant interaction with my cell phone carrier. And ahh - what a "treat" those interactions are, a sentiment I will expound upon in my next several points:
3) I understand that Richard Branson (like so many other billionaires out there) seems to think that it's a necessity to outsource work to Asia rather than employ North Americans. (That's a whole other rant that I won't go into now.) What bothers me is that these people don't know how to communicate effectively in English, which as far as I know is still the primary language of commerce on this continent. I shouldn't have to repeat (or to ask "service" people to repeat) things a half dozen times before we (sort of) understand each other. I know my last name may be difficult for foreign tongues, but my first name is pretty straight forward. Something close would be nice.
4) Likewise, it would be nice if these "service" people understood North American culture, even slightly. For example, the polite way to begin a conversation is with the word hello. If you want to formally address a married woman you call her Mrs something, in my case Mrs. Kasenberg. If you're in doubt about a woman's marital status use Ms (pronounced Mizz) or use her first name. When you call me Miss Sharon, my memory hearkens waaay back to the days of Gunsmoke, and "Miss Kitty" (who likely wasn't virginal). I'm not a saloon girl, I'm a domestic goddess!
5) Professional behavior doesn't entail the use of the opening phrase "Hey there!" in an exaggerated Aussie drawl by a perky "valley girl" wannabe. Some of us remember when Moon Unit Zappa began that whole shtick in the early 80's. Even when it was "new and fresh" it got irritating fast. Forget trying to be "hip" and just aim for polite and professional.
6) Why does Virgin keep nagging me after my bill is paid? They claim to have no record of payment, but if 48 hours after the thing has been paid they either don't have the payment recorded, or their people can't manage to access that information than they've reached a whole new sub-standard.
7) What's with the long pause full of dead air when I answer my phone? I say hello and give it ten seconds, and any caller who can't reply in that space of time is history - period.
8) What makes Virgin Mobile think I should "hold" for them when they called me? I'm used to the endless waits when I need to call them, but it's just not going to fly when they call my house, or my cell and expect me to "hold" - especially when they can't even bother to identify themselves first.
9) (This one really sticks in my craw.) Why, when they call to nag me less than 36 hours after they send the bill, do they have the gall to ask me how I intend to pay? I'll pay however I choose to pay, and they should jolly well be grateful to get paid at all when by my calculations they've over charged me by about six months worth of fees. Next time they ask that question I'll give this answer:
"I intend to pay you by pony express, and in nickels. I'm strapping the saddle bags onto Petunia as we speak! (Giddy-up, girl!) You should get your payment in three or four weeks. Have a nice day!"
10) Finally, that name really bothers me. A name like "Virgin" just doesn't suit a company that spends so much time in solicitation and is greedy and sloppy to boot. I'm fed up with dealing with you, Ricky. I'm off to find a better plan, something less expensive for the occasional user. I still hold out hope that better customer service isn't just a pipe dream these days.
Thus ends the prosaic part of this post, but I wouldn't be The Rhyming Muse if I didn't leave you a poetic offering, so here goes:
How Do I Loathe Thee, Virgin Mobile? (Let Me Count the Ways!)
In spite of what you claim to be,
I question your "virginity" -
solicitations never end,
you're driving me around the bend!
A dozen texts you leave for me,
and on my plan texts are NOT free.
As for the messages you leave,
(almost daily, I believe)
I truly wish that you would chill -
your frequency is overkill.
You're not my spouse or my best friend,
but all those messages you send
from Aussie with annoying voice
(not vocal "talent" of my choice) -
"Hey There!" not what I like to hear
when I put telephone to ear.
A greeting somewhat more refined
is preferable, to my mind.
And for the record (so you know)
the proper greeting is "Hello"
and it seems strange you must be told
when YOU call ME I will not "hold"!
I don't respond well to dead air -
ten seconds pass...guess no one's there -
and so hang up is what I do,
it might sound crazy, but it's true.
As for my name, it would suffice
if you came close just once or twice -
so call me "Sharon" if you must,
but this Miss Sharon won't, I trust
be anymore address to me -
it irritates me thoroughly.
But not as much as how you bill -
your lack of patience makes me ill.
The bill is sent to my email,
and very shortly, without fail
you call to say I'm overdue -
which doesn't sound exactly true.
But then again, when you owe me -
like for the month or two or THREE
I paid account you said was closed
no restitution was proposed.
Yet some of us have honour still -
I said I'd pay you and I will.
I'll pay you like I always do
and pray that soon we will be through.
You see, I seek a better plan -
It's obvious I'm not a fan.
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg - July 9, 2013
Monday 17 June 2013
Television Land - It Used to Be a Nice Place to Visit! By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
In my last post I talked about how technology has changed the dating world. This post will discuss how technology has changed the face of what used to be a major source of entertainment for a lot of us - namely television.
Our television was a big deal when I was growing up. The first TV set that I can recall gracing our household was a persnickety old black and white set in a square wooden box that sat directly on the floor. It was supposed to count as a piece of furniture, but besides frustrating us daily with horizontal lines running through often fuzzy screens it is safe to say that it made kind of a negative design statement decor wise. Nevertheless, I doubt that an entire day ever passed without multiple members of our somewhat numerous household sitting down and trying to watch something on it.
My earliest memories of television include watching shows like Captain Kangaroo and Mr. Dress-Up in the mornings while my mother got my older siblings out the door to school. (In fact, I was such a "fan" of the latter that my grandmother walked me over to the neighborhood Stedman's when he put in an appearance there, and I received my one and only celebrity autographed picture on that memorable afternoon.)
In the evenings after supper the television was always on, but most of the shows we watched don't stand out in memory. What I DO recall is the Saturday night television schedule. (That was my parent's square dancing night, and my older sisters quickly discovered that the television, in unison with a big bowl of popcorn, was an effective babysitting strategy) My oldest sister made the popcorn and hogged the bowl somewhat shamelessly. The rest of us fought for the spot on the sofa beside her while we watched Green Acres and Petticoat Junction and The Honeymooners IF we were good and thus rewarded by staying up that late.
I think I was four years old before I saw a colour television, and I was about ten when we got one. My parents must have been feeling flush because that's about the same time we got cablevision and were able to watch more than two channels. With so many new options the Saturday line-up changed too. My oldest sisters were out with friends most weekends by this point, and we four youngest Floods relied on the change my father left for "Saturday Night Treats" instead of going the popcorn route.
Television in the 70's was pretty hokey by today's standards. I know this because over the past few years my husband and I have watched several seasons of Cannon, Welcome Back Kotter, Barnaby Jones, and even the (totally cringe-worthy!) first season of Fantasy Island. For the most part, the plots were pretty thin and the acting was less than stellar, but there was still a strangely addictive quality to some of those shows that is often lacking in what passes for a sitcom today. (With the exception of Big Bang there doesn't seem to be much in that category worth watching.)
Television in the 80's is hard for me to comment on, since I went half of that decade without a television and only caught my favorite programs from that era almost a decade later as reruns. (Try telling that to your kids! Mine were quite shocked that I survived such an ordeal, but in reality I didn't feel like I was missing that much. Occasionally I walked down the road to visit my great Aunt Nell, and she'd invite me to watch All My Children with her, but otherwise I was pretty blissfully ignorant where TV was concerned.)
In the early 90's I was busy being a newlywed and a new mom and the shiny new TV my father-in-law got us as a wedding present was mostly useful as background noise and a tenuous connection to the outside world while I was busy folding diapers. The nights I walked the floors with teething babies I first began to get "caught up" on all of the 80's sitcoms that I'd missed. Otherwise that decade was filled with every incarnation of Star Trek, and some really decent series like Coach, Murphy Brown, Everybody Loves Raymond, and (my personal favorite) Picket Fences.
Sadly, television began to change with the new millennium. Suddenly we saw the rise of "Reality Shows" which soon began to dominate the airwaves. The technology that had become so prevalent in our homes seemed to awaken the voyeur in many, who now felt the urge to tune in to what was happening in the living rooms of celebrities like Ozzy Osbourne and Gene Simmons, or to watch "real" families with very different dynamics and problems than ours. (Jon and Kate, The Little People, Sister Wives, 17 - or 18 or 19 - Kids and Counting.) Why are these shows so fascinating to the masses?
I can't offer an explanation because I don't know. All I can say is that the more "reality shows" I see previews for, the less faith I have in television's ability to entertain me. For several years my TV diet consisted of little but HGTV. It seemed that there wasn't much on offer besides "reality" (LOL!) that didn't feature vampires, gore, violence and crime investigation. (CSI - Miami, LA, who knows where else?) We have discovered some good television after the fact - (as in a season or two in), such as Alias, Chuck, Firefly, Eli Stone, Six Feet Under and more currently Castle, Eureka and Nikita. All of these are series that we've purchased on disc and enjoyed immensely. Somehow going through ALL the channels offered and trying to find anything worth watching on television this past decade has become too much like work. There are simply too many channels that mostly duplicate each other in terms of content and (ahem) - quality.
We are drowning in choices, but starving for good entertainment, in this bogger's humble opinion. Which leads to my poetic offering on the subject...
On Going Digital:
When I was five some folks I knew
included Captain Kangaroo
The Friendly Giant and Jerome -
they visited me in my home.
Old Friends they were, though never seen
except upon the TV screen.
Our television - black and white -
was entertainment day and night.
It made us laugh and sometimes cry
or heave a sentimental sigh.
On Saturdays we were content -
we all knew how the line-up went,
while popcorn bowl passed hand to hand
we toured through television land -
Green Acres to Gilligan's Isle -
and every journey seemed worthwhile.
Those "sitcoms" made in days of yore
appear in reruns evermore;
we seek them for relief, you see
from what is dubbed "reality" -
(like "housewives" surgically cloned,
all bleached and waxed and siliconed.)
No teenaged vampires call to me -
I'd rather watch HGTV!
I can watch news or endless sports
or judges sitting in their courts -
I can watch weather all day through -
so tell me - Why do I feel blue?
The answer? Digital TV!
Too much to choose, not much to see!
Our television was a big deal when I was growing up. The first TV set that I can recall gracing our household was a persnickety old black and white set in a square wooden box that sat directly on the floor. It was supposed to count as a piece of furniture, but besides frustrating us daily with horizontal lines running through often fuzzy screens it is safe to say that it made kind of a negative design statement decor wise. Nevertheless, I doubt that an entire day ever passed without multiple members of our somewhat numerous household sitting down and trying to watch something on it.
My earliest memories of television include watching shows like Captain Kangaroo and Mr. Dress-Up in the mornings while my mother got my older siblings out the door to school. (In fact, I was such a "fan" of the latter that my grandmother walked me over to the neighborhood Stedman's when he put in an appearance there, and I received my one and only celebrity autographed picture on that memorable afternoon.)
In the evenings after supper the television was always on, but most of the shows we watched don't stand out in memory. What I DO recall is the Saturday night television schedule. (That was my parent's square dancing night, and my older sisters quickly discovered that the television, in unison with a big bowl of popcorn, was an effective babysitting strategy) My oldest sister made the popcorn and hogged the bowl somewhat shamelessly. The rest of us fought for the spot on the sofa beside her while we watched Green Acres and Petticoat Junction and The Honeymooners IF we were good and thus rewarded by staying up that late.
I think I was four years old before I saw a colour television, and I was about ten when we got one. My parents must have been feeling flush because that's about the same time we got cablevision and were able to watch more than two channels. With so many new options the Saturday line-up changed too. My oldest sisters were out with friends most weekends by this point, and we four youngest Floods relied on the change my father left for "Saturday Night Treats" instead of going the popcorn route.
Television in the 70's was pretty hokey by today's standards. I know this because over the past few years my husband and I have watched several seasons of Cannon, Welcome Back Kotter, Barnaby Jones, and even the (totally cringe-worthy!) first season of Fantasy Island. For the most part, the plots were pretty thin and the acting was less than stellar, but there was still a strangely addictive quality to some of those shows that is often lacking in what passes for a sitcom today. (With the exception of Big Bang there doesn't seem to be much in that category worth watching.)
Television in the 80's is hard for me to comment on, since I went half of that decade without a television and only caught my favorite programs from that era almost a decade later as reruns. (Try telling that to your kids! Mine were quite shocked that I survived such an ordeal, but in reality I didn't feel like I was missing that much. Occasionally I walked down the road to visit my great Aunt Nell, and she'd invite me to watch All My Children with her, but otherwise I was pretty blissfully ignorant where TV was concerned.)
In the early 90's I was busy being a newlywed and a new mom and the shiny new TV my father-in-law got us as a wedding present was mostly useful as background noise and a tenuous connection to the outside world while I was busy folding diapers. The nights I walked the floors with teething babies I first began to get "caught up" on all of the 80's sitcoms that I'd missed. Otherwise that decade was filled with every incarnation of Star Trek, and some really decent series like Coach, Murphy Brown, Everybody Loves Raymond, and (my personal favorite) Picket Fences.
Sadly, television began to change with the new millennium. Suddenly we saw the rise of "Reality Shows" which soon began to dominate the airwaves. The technology that had become so prevalent in our homes seemed to awaken the voyeur in many, who now felt the urge to tune in to what was happening in the living rooms of celebrities like Ozzy Osbourne and Gene Simmons, or to watch "real" families with very different dynamics and problems than ours. (Jon and Kate, The Little People, Sister Wives, 17 - or 18 or 19 - Kids and Counting.) Why are these shows so fascinating to the masses?
I can't offer an explanation because I don't know. All I can say is that the more "reality shows" I see previews for, the less faith I have in television's ability to entertain me. For several years my TV diet consisted of little but HGTV. It seemed that there wasn't much on offer besides "reality" (LOL!) that didn't feature vampires, gore, violence and crime investigation. (CSI - Miami, LA, who knows where else?) We have discovered some good television after the fact - (as in a season or two in), such as Alias, Chuck, Firefly, Eli Stone, Six Feet Under and more currently Castle, Eureka and Nikita. All of these are series that we've purchased on disc and enjoyed immensely. Somehow going through ALL the channels offered and trying to find anything worth watching on television this past decade has become too much like work. There are simply too many channels that mostly duplicate each other in terms of content and (ahem) - quality.
We are drowning in choices, but starving for good entertainment, in this bogger's humble opinion. Which leads to my poetic offering on the subject...
On Going Digital:
When I was five some folks I knew
included Captain Kangaroo
The Friendly Giant and Jerome -
they visited me in my home.
Old Friends they were, though never seen
except upon the TV screen.
Our television - black and white -
was entertainment day and night.
It made us laugh and sometimes cry
or heave a sentimental sigh.
On Saturdays we were content -
we all knew how the line-up went,
while popcorn bowl passed hand to hand
we toured through television land -
Green Acres to Gilligan's Isle -
and every journey seemed worthwhile.
Those "sitcoms" made in days of yore
appear in reruns evermore;
we seek them for relief, you see
from what is dubbed "reality" -
(like "housewives" surgically cloned,
all bleached and waxed and siliconed.)
No teenaged vampires call to me -
I'd rather watch HGTV!
I can watch news or endless sports
or judges sitting in their courts -
I can watch weather all day through -
so tell me - Why do I feel blue?
The answer? Digital TV!
Too much to choose, not much to see!
Thursday 30 May 2013
De-bating E-dating (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg)
Whenever I talk to single friends who are trying to navigate the modern dating scene I'm grateful that my dating years are far FAR behind me and that they occurred in a simpler era. Mind you, I'm the first to admit that my dating experience was limited. I was never the teenager who had a date lined up every second night, or even every weekend. No, I was the girl who (for the most part) warmed the wallflower bench and held out hope that sooner or later the right guy would show up and see something in me that warranted investigation.
A few did just that before the "keeper" came along. Two fairly lengthy relationships, interspersed with a lone date here or there and those short-term "things" that one never knows how to label in retrospect. I married at 26, which by LDS (Mormon) standards is (or at least in those days was) heading toward "Old Maid" territory. There were times when I wondered if the right man would ever come along. I guess what I'm trying to say is that it didn't matter that it took a while - I was young, and time was one thing I had to spare.
Life was different then. People were less wary of each other and more sociable. If a friend "set you up" you felt you could take their word that the person was okay - not a secret pervert or an escapee from the asylum. He probably wouldn't try to rob or rape you.
You met people, waaaay back then, at school and at parties and dances and clubs (if you were daring enough to do that scene) and for most of us that worked just fine. Then you dated for quite a while before "getting physical" - that's just how it was.
Obviously the world is a different place. People have grown wary, and with good reason. During my dating years (from the late 70's to late 80's) AIDS was discovered, as well as a whole host of other nasty things that nobody had heard of before. Add that to the fact that sexual activity now starts a whole lot younger, and you begin to see why people feel that they need a biography and a medical screening from a potential partner before they can commence dating.
People are busier than ever before too. Those computers that became common fixtures in every office in the 80's soon became common fixtures in our homes too. Remember when we all thought that computers would give us a shorter work week? HA! Employers got wise to the fact that more work could be done faster and changed their expectations accordingly. Most people I know work longer days than ever before and bring work home with them too, where they remain tethered to the office by their faithful cell phone. Which leaves them feeling that they don't have much time to themselves, and if they're single, little time to pursue dating.
Furthermore, most of the "e-daters" I've met are over forty and dealing with being single again after acquiring a few kids and a mortgage along the way. They need to stay busy to meet their financial and parental commitments. They appreciate now, that time is limited. Those golden years are around the corner, and most want someone to spend them with.
The younger set still have the same options that I did, but for those dating in their 40's and beyond those opportunities for meeting members of the opposite sex have largely dried up. Finding dates online begins to look like a viable option. (I find it interesting that the very culprit responsible for the lack of sociability in our lives has become the "solution" to the problem of how to meet people.) But at the same time I get it - desperate times call for desperate measures, and by reading bios and engaging in a little "chat" and texting and a few phone calls you can root through those potential dating candidates faster, right?
Hmmm - a good question. I think that part of the problem now is that these sites offer so many potential "dates" that it can all be a bit overwhelming, especially once you factor into the equation the differences between how men and women think. Most women want romance and commitment and at least the possibility of love. They don't usually want sex until they're secure in the knowledge that they're in a committed relationship. Men, on the other hand, will often tell women on these sites that they want "something more" and while I'm sure some do, most are apt to want "things" to progress quickly. I remain convinced that men are more likely than women view sex as some sort of a relationship litmus test. For many men today, sex (probably on the third date) determines whether there will be a relationship.
Another problem with using technology to procure dates is knowing how much you can safely share. The sheer volume of information about all of us that floats in cyberspace is staggering. One too many shared facts can prove dangerous. With the click of a few buttons unscrupulous sorts with a bit of know how can quickly find out all kinds of things - like what income bracket you're in, how many kids you have and where you live. One friend told me that she never shares her real first name and profession for fear of being cyber-stalked. Small wonder that we hear about so many seniors (who are often shockingly naive about computer safe practices) being bilked out of their life-savings by these long-distance online-dating predators!
Now that I've given this some serious consideration let me demonstrate how I've poetically captured the "lighter side" of online dating. (Please note - these are fictional and highly exaggerated caricatures that show the "idealistic and romantic" views more often found in women, and the less than savory objectives of some men. She wants security and devotion, and he wants...!)
Profile: Single Woman (Hopeless Romantic) By Sharon Flood Kasenberg (January 2007)
I am a single woman, divorced a time or two -
I'm looking for my soul mate - a perfect man might do.
He needs to be romantic, and handsome as can be;
gainfully employed so he can take good care of me!
He needs to be attentive, agree with all I say,
and purchase gifts and flowers for every special day.
In return I'll cherish him - he'll never be alone!
And when we're not together, we'll speak by telephone!
He'll tell me I'm perfection, both beautiful and smart,
and profess he's never loved with so much of his heart.
Then like a dime store romance, he'll kiss me and I'll swoon.
He'll gaze at me in wonder and promise me the moon.
He'll love me with devotion that might freak some girls out,
but that's just what I deserve - of this there is no doubt.
And surely when he finds me our romance will ensue,
leading soon to wedded bliss and dreams that all come true!
Poor dear! Sadly, this might be the most promising response she'll get...
Profile: Single Man (Old Coot!) By Sharon Flood Kasenberg (January 2007)
I want to be your soul mate -
I'm looking for a wife.
I've no fear of commitment,
been married most my life.
Of course, I'm eighty-seven,
but I'm fit and active!
I hope to find a woman
slender and attractive.
Her age is not important
as long as she is spry
and wants to get romantic
with an experienced guy!
I've made a lot of money
(Which might sweeten the pot) -
I've outlived four homely wives;
I want one who is HOT!
No offense intended. And to my cyber-dating friends, happy hunting, and stay safe out there.
A few did just that before the "keeper" came along. Two fairly lengthy relationships, interspersed with a lone date here or there and those short-term "things" that one never knows how to label in retrospect. I married at 26, which by LDS (Mormon) standards is (or at least in those days was) heading toward "Old Maid" territory. There were times when I wondered if the right man would ever come along. I guess what I'm trying to say is that it didn't matter that it took a while - I was young, and time was one thing I had to spare.
Life was different then. People were less wary of each other and more sociable. If a friend "set you up" you felt you could take their word that the person was okay - not a secret pervert or an escapee from the asylum. He probably wouldn't try to rob or rape you.
You met people, waaaay back then, at school and at parties and dances and clubs (if you were daring enough to do that scene) and for most of us that worked just fine. Then you dated for quite a while before "getting physical" - that's just how it was.
Obviously the world is a different place. People have grown wary, and with good reason. During my dating years (from the late 70's to late 80's) AIDS was discovered, as well as a whole host of other nasty things that nobody had heard of before. Add that to the fact that sexual activity now starts a whole lot younger, and you begin to see why people feel that they need a biography and a medical screening from a potential partner before they can commence dating.
People are busier than ever before too. Those computers that became common fixtures in every office in the 80's soon became common fixtures in our homes too. Remember when we all thought that computers would give us a shorter work week? HA! Employers got wise to the fact that more work could be done faster and changed their expectations accordingly. Most people I know work longer days than ever before and bring work home with them too, where they remain tethered to the office by their faithful cell phone. Which leaves them feeling that they don't have much time to themselves, and if they're single, little time to pursue dating.
Furthermore, most of the "e-daters" I've met are over forty and dealing with being single again after acquiring a few kids and a mortgage along the way. They need to stay busy to meet their financial and parental commitments. They appreciate now, that time is limited. Those golden years are around the corner, and most want someone to spend them with.
The younger set still have the same options that I did, but for those dating in their 40's and beyond those opportunities for meeting members of the opposite sex have largely dried up. Finding dates online begins to look like a viable option. (I find it interesting that the very culprit responsible for the lack of sociability in our lives has become the "solution" to the problem of how to meet people.) But at the same time I get it - desperate times call for desperate measures, and by reading bios and engaging in a little "chat" and texting and a few phone calls you can root through those potential dating candidates faster, right?
Hmmm - a good question. I think that part of the problem now is that these sites offer so many potential "dates" that it can all be a bit overwhelming, especially once you factor into the equation the differences between how men and women think. Most women want romance and commitment and at least the possibility of love. They don't usually want sex until they're secure in the knowledge that they're in a committed relationship. Men, on the other hand, will often tell women on these sites that they want "something more" and while I'm sure some do, most are apt to want "things" to progress quickly. I remain convinced that men are more likely than women view sex as some sort of a relationship litmus test. For many men today, sex (probably on the third date) determines whether there will be a relationship.
Another problem with using technology to procure dates is knowing how much you can safely share. The sheer volume of information about all of us that floats in cyberspace is staggering. One too many shared facts can prove dangerous. With the click of a few buttons unscrupulous sorts with a bit of know how can quickly find out all kinds of things - like what income bracket you're in, how many kids you have and where you live. One friend told me that she never shares her real first name and profession for fear of being cyber-stalked. Small wonder that we hear about so many seniors (who are often shockingly naive about computer safe practices) being bilked out of their life-savings by these long-distance online-dating predators!
Now that I've given this some serious consideration let me demonstrate how I've poetically captured the "lighter side" of online dating. (Please note - these are fictional and highly exaggerated caricatures that show the "idealistic and romantic" views more often found in women, and the less than savory objectives of some men. She wants security and devotion, and he wants...!)
Profile: Single Woman (Hopeless Romantic) By Sharon Flood Kasenberg (January 2007)
I am a single woman, divorced a time or two -
I'm looking for my soul mate - a perfect man might do.
He needs to be romantic, and handsome as can be;
gainfully employed so he can take good care of me!
He needs to be attentive, agree with all I say,
and purchase gifts and flowers for every special day.
In return I'll cherish him - he'll never be alone!
And when we're not together, we'll speak by telephone!
He'll tell me I'm perfection, both beautiful and smart,
and profess he's never loved with so much of his heart.
Then like a dime store romance, he'll kiss me and I'll swoon.
He'll gaze at me in wonder and promise me the moon.
He'll love me with devotion that might freak some girls out,
but that's just what I deserve - of this there is no doubt.
And surely when he finds me our romance will ensue,
leading soon to wedded bliss and dreams that all come true!
Poor dear! Sadly, this might be the most promising response she'll get...
Profile: Single Man (Old Coot!) By Sharon Flood Kasenberg (January 2007)
I want to be your soul mate -
I'm looking for a wife.
I've no fear of commitment,
been married most my life.
Of course, I'm eighty-seven,
but I'm fit and active!
I hope to find a woman
slender and attractive.
Her age is not important
as long as she is spry
and wants to get romantic
with an experienced guy!
I've made a lot of money
(Which might sweeten the pot) -
I've outlived four homely wives;
I want one who is HOT!
No offense intended. And to my cyber-dating friends, happy hunting, and stay safe out there.
Thursday 9 May 2013
Motherhood, or Memories of My Orbit - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg
I am a mother of two sons - both grown, but coming and going from under our roof. As I've contemplated writing a new post on motherhood I've struggled. How can I sum up almost twenty-four years of being a mom in a few short paragraphs and poems?
I chose to stay home with my children. I didn't make that choice because I was wildly in love with kids because I wasn't. (I'm still not - and don't apologize for that. Children are just un-grown people, and therefore deserve to be judged on their individual merits like the rest of us. How many people that you know gush about how much they love "people"? So there you have it - children are small people; some I love, some I don't, and many I can take or leave.) I tried to teach my kids to be the more tolerable kind. But I digress...
I didn't choose to stay at home because I'm too stupid to get a job, or because I married an ogre who browbeat me into making that decision. I opted to stay home because I wanted to be home for every milestone in my sons' lives. I wanted them to know that I'd be there when they came home from school, there when they wanted to have friends over - just there - period.
My decision came with consequences. We were poor when the boys were small. They wore hand-me-downs and sometimes I did too. I don't think any of us are emotionally scarred as a result. I taught them to look for red stickers and to recognize the word "s-a-l-e" early on. They didn't get everything they wanted. Small gifts (usually a dinky car or a small book) came as rewards for good behavior. Larger gifts were bestowed as birthday or Christmas gifts. They survived my frugality.
We didn't buy them video games and limited television watching and computer use. We didn't program them with a zillion activities. Some may think this amounts to deprivation, but my younger son recently thanked me for limiting his childhood screen time, and said he planned to do the same with his kids!
I think my sons would tell you that I taught them to love books and learning. As an impatient young mother I learned that the boys would settle down quickly when a story was offered. (When I really craved peace and quiet I read until I started to get hoarse) I think they'd tell you that I encouraged their imaginations by giving them crayons and building blocks and by playing with them as often as I could. I think they'd tell you that I encouraged a love of walking, and a love of nature when I tried to identify trees and flowers and patiently stood by while they threw rocks into any body of water we encountered.
Perhaps most importantly, I like to think they'd give me credit for teaching them to love each other. My sons were born twelve months and three weeks apart. Sam was too young to feel jealousy, and I always stressed that Dan was his brother. As soon as Dan was old enough to understand I'd tell them both how important a brother was. They heard that b-word so often that as small boys they often referred to each other as "Brother" instead of calling each other by name. (It was endearing.) Likewise, when they did fight the most effective way to end the spat was to place them in separate rooms. Within two minutes I would hear plaintive cries of " I want my brother!!"
I have such amazing memories of their childhood years...which leads me to the first poem I want to share today -
Memory (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg)
A memory, dear to me
I held you on my knee -
Silently I watched you sleep,
snuggled close, breathing deep.
You, a sleeping child of three
in tender memory.
Seldom had I seen you so -
teary-eyed, full of woe -
so consumed by need of me,
my fretful child of three.
A young mother, could I know
the speed at which you'd grow
when I held you near to me
a sleeping child of three?
Now, and in memory -
my child, so dear to me.
My sons may be "grown up", but I hope they're still growing and that I still have a role to play in their growth. I hope that someday the rest of the world sees everything in each of them that I do - their decency, their kindness, their intelligence and wit. I hope each develops the talents he was born with and adds in a few more along the way. And no matter how far they go I hope they both know that I'm there.
Happy Mother's Day everyone, and my you all enjoy your individual "orbit" !
Two Sons: (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg July '06)
My planetary orbit
around two sons revolves -
my path parental duty
and all that it involves.
Maternal love encircles
as I my path pursue -
I hope it is apparent
in all I say and do.
My two sons illuminate
my planet's atmosphere.
They heat my world in winter
with laughter and good cheer.
(And my small seed of mother love
with light and warmth has grown -
expanding ever larger
when I have goodness sown.)
They sparkle in the night sky
far off among their peers
and when I see them shining
my soul is moved to tears.
Thus ever I'm encouraged
when circling in their light
to honor our creator
by shining just as bright.
My maternal prayer is this:
When they are fully grown
may their glow increase so it
lights worlds beyond my own.
I chose to stay home with my children. I didn't make that choice because I was wildly in love with kids because I wasn't. (I'm still not - and don't apologize for that. Children are just un-grown people, and therefore deserve to be judged on their individual merits like the rest of us. How many people that you know gush about how much they love "people"? So there you have it - children are small people; some I love, some I don't, and many I can take or leave.) I tried to teach my kids to be the more tolerable kind. But I digress...
I didn't choose to stay at home because I'm too stupid to get a job, or because I married an ogre who browbeat me into making that decision. I opted to stay home because I wanted to be home for every milestone in my sons' lives. I wanted them to know that I'd be there when they came home from school, there when they wanted to have friends over - just there - period.
My decision came with consequences. We were poor when the boys were small. They wore hand-me-downs and sometimes I did too. I don't think any of us are emotionally scarred as a result. I taught them to look for red stickers and to recognize the word "s-a-l-e" early on. They didn't get everything they wanted. Small gifts (usually a dinky car or a small book) came as rewards for good behavior. Larger gifts were bestowed as birthday or Christmas gifts. They survived my frugality.
We didn't buy them video games and limited television watching and computer use. We didn't program them with a zillion activities. Some may think this amounts to deprivation, but my younger son recently thanked me for limiting his childhood screen time, and said he planned to do the same with his kids!
I think my sons would tell you that I taught them to love books and learning. As an impatient young mother I learned that the boys would settle down quickly when a story was offered. (When I really craved peace and quiet I read until I started to get hoarse) I think they'd tell you that I encouraged their imaginations by giving them crayons and building blocks and by playing with them as often as I could. I think they'd tell you that I encouraged a love of walking, and a love of nature when I tried to identify trees and flowers and patiently stood by while they threw rocks into any body of water we encountered.
Perhaps most importantly, I like to think they'd give me credit for teaching them to love each other. My sons were born twelve months and three weeks apart. Sam was too young to feel jealousy, and I always stressed that Dan was his brother. As soon as Dan was old enough to understand I'd tell them both how important a brother was. They heard that b-word so often that as small boys they often referred to each other as "Brother" instead of calling each other by name. (It was endearing.) Likewise, when they did fight the most effective way to end the spat was to place them in separate rooms. Within two minutes I would hear plaintive cries of " I want my brother!!"
I have such amazing memories of their childhood years...which leads me to the first poem I want to share today -
Memory (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg)
A memory, dear to me
I held you on my knee -
Silently I watched you sleep,
snuggled close, breathing deep.
You, a sleeping child of three
in tender memory.
Seldom had I seen you so -
teary-eyed, full of woe -
so consumed by need of me,
my fretful child of three.
A young mother, could I know
the speed at which you'd grow
when I held you near to me
a sleeping child of three?
Now, and in memory -
my child, so dear to me.
My sons may be "grown up", but I hope they're still growing and that I still have a role to play in their growth. I hope that someday the rest of the world sees everything in each of them that I do - their decency, their kindness, their intelligence and wit. I hope each develops the talents he was born with and adds in a few more along the way. And no matter how far they go I hope they both know that I'm there.
Happy Mother's Day everyone, and my you all enjoy your individual "orbit" !
Two Sons: (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg July '06)
My planetary orbit
around two sons revolves -
my path parental duty
and all that it involves.
Maternal love encircles
as I my path pursue -
I hope it is apparent
in all I say and do.
My two sons illuminate
my planet's atmosphere.
They heat my world in winter
with laughter and good cheer.
(And my small seed of mother love
with light and warmth has grown -
expanding ever larger
when I have goodness sown.)
They sparkle in the night sky
far off among their peers
and when I see them shining
my soul is moved to tears.
Thus ever I'm encouraged
when circling in their light
to honor our creator
by shining just as bright.
My maternal prayer is this:
When they are fully grown
may their glow increase so it
lights worlds beyond my own.
Friday 19 April 2013
We Are All Broken - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg
A couple of years ago, when I was going through a period of feeling lost and frustrated with myself for what I perceived as a lack of purpose in my life - and complaining bitterly about my many, MANY failings and failures - my husband said something utterly profound.
"We are ALL broken."
A simple statement, completely true and far too often overlooked by far too many of us.
I am a very analytical person. I lead a life that I examine almost to death. I think anyone would be hard pressed to come up with a criticism of me that I haven't used on myself at least a dozen times. I also recognize that my analysis of others can sometimes be harsh when my critical viewpoint spills over onto those around me. I really don't need to have this pointed out to me. (Especially since I think one of the greatest ironies ever is that you can't easily accuse another person of being judgmental without looking...well - judgmental.) I AM a harsh critic of myself and those around me, and it is one of the many ways that I am broken.
We all have hairline cracks that nobody would dream we have, as well as those big gaping holes where we obviously need to be fixed, and those unsightly patches where we've begun the process of fixing ourselves, but are not yet securely "re-glued".
Often, the people in our lives who seem most "together" are the people who have dealt with all kinds of breakage over the course of their lives. Learning how to accept our cracks and fissures and put our broken bits back together is what demonstrates our resilience and our level of emotional maturity. However, we are often so caught up in dealing with our own broken-ness that we fail to acknowledge how much those around us are frantically trying to glue and patch themselves up too.
We are all broken - every single one of us. We are all shaped by experiences and hardships that knock off corners here and there and leave us with tiny cracks and chips that are sometimes impossible for anyone else to see.
Those people we put on pedestals have all had to deal with challenges and heartbreaks of their own. The perfectly coiffed and made-up beauty you envy? She may have endured a horrific childhood that she covers up with her layer of perfectly applied make-up and skillfully arranged hair; the business man who lives in the mansion you admire daily may have been beaten by an abusive parent or endured a childhood of poverty. That advice guru you admire may have had to find wisdom in order to deal with sexual or emotional abuse from an alcoholic parent.
It is easy to forget that we are not alone in our striving and our mad dash to fix ourselves so that we can make something of our lives - be somebody. We all want to be appreciated and to know somebody values our efforts and our contributions to the world. Everyone wants that - even the most obviously damaged among us. In fact, those are the people who need that kind of validation most. We forget that.
Mine seems to be a face that invites strangers (or near strangers) to tell me their stories, and I have heard enough over the years to convince me that most of us carry some pretty heavy emotional baggage around with us. For some, this builds muscle - for others it breaks spirits. What we need to remember is that muscles are, in fact, built by a process of continual breaking down and healing of the tissue. Allowing ourselves to experience breakage, and the healing it requires, is important to our growth.
I am learning to make peace with my breakage, to accept those cracks and chips as the inevitable damage that occurs from living. Some of it will get a bit of spackle, and some won't. I'm okay with that too. Some of my flaws will remain visible, even glaring at times. What I need to remember is that others have cracks that are deeper than mine, and that they have more to heal from. We all need to be generous in offering love and sympathy for the cracks we see in others, and hopefully, they'll then be more forgiving of our breakage too.
At the end of the day we're all just lucky to still be in one piece.
We Are All Broken - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg (Feb. 2013)
Hairline cracks and tiny fissures too small to be seen
in our minds and hearts and souls and everywhere between -
No one is impervious to all this wear and tear -
everybody will acquire some damage to repair.
Minds are bent and spirits numbed by misery and strain -
all the true survivors know they're bound to feel some pain.
We can't hide ourselves away in hopes that we'll stay whole -
no one can remain untouched or always in control.
What might be the outcome if we're dealt a crushing blow?
If our souls were somehow shattered, who would really know?
On the outside most seem strong, quite healthy, sane and fit,
but inside all are uncertain; broken bit by bit.
If nobody mattered to us feelings might be spared -
no emotion is invested when nothing is shared.
I've spun no cocoon where I can hide myself away -
Isolation cannot spare me, cracks appear each day.
There's no armour I can don to safely shield my heart;
all the cracks concealed therein may someday blow apart.
Still, I am consoled by knowing I am not alone -
every person in the world hides fractures of their own.
By the actions that undo us - choices badly made,
and the harm we caused when we our lack of grace displayed -
through experience left unshared and words we wish unspoken;
through misdeeds and sin and passion, we are all broken.
"We are ALL broken."
A simple statement, completely true and far too often overlooked by far too many of us.
I am a very analytical person. I lead a life that I examine almost to death. I think anyone would be hard pressed to come up with a criticism of me that I haven't used on myself at least a dozen times. I also recognize that my analysis of others can sometimes be harsh when my critical viewpoint spills over onto those around me. I really don't need to have this pointed out to me. (Especially since I think one of the greatest ironies ever is that you can't easily accuse another person of being judgmental without looking...well - judgmental.) I AM a harsh critic of myself and those around me, and it is one of the many ways that I am broken.
We all have hairline cracks that nobody would dream we have, as well as those big gaping holes where we obviously need to be fixed, and those unsightly patches where we've begun the process of fixing ourselves, but are not yet securely "re-glued".
Often, the people in our lives who seem most "together" are the people who have dealt with all kinds of breakage over the course of their lives. Learning how to accept our cracks and fissures and put our broken bits back together is what demonstrates our resilience and our level of emotional maturity. However, we are often so caught up in dealing with our own broken-ness that we fail to acknowledge how much those around us are frantically trying to glue and patch themselves up too.
We are all broken - every single one of us. We are all shaped by experiences and hardships that knock off corners here and there and leave us with tiny cracks and chips that are sometimes impossible for anyone else to see.
Those people we put on pedestals have all had to deal with challenges and heartbreaks of their own. The perfectly coiffed and made-up beauty you envy? She may have endured a horrific childhood that she covers up with her layer of perfectly applied make-up and skillfully arranged hair; the business man who lives in the mansion you admire daily may have been beaten by an abusive parent or endured a childhood of poverty. That advice guru you admire may have had to find wisdom in order to deal with sexual or emotional abuse from an alcoholic parent.
It is easy to forget that we are not alone in our striving and our mad dash to fix ourselves so that we can make something of our lives - be somebody. We all want to be appreciated and to know somebody values our efforts and our contributions to the world. Everyone wants that - even the most obviously damaged among us. In fact, those are the people who need that kind of validation most. We forget that.
Mine seems to be a face that invites strangers (or near strangers) to tell me their stories, and I have heard enough over the years to convince me that most of us carry some pretty heavy emotional baggage around with us. For some, this builds muscle - for others it breaks spirits. What we need to remember is that muscles are, in fact, built by a process of continual breaking down and healing of the tissue. Allowing ourselves to experience breakage, and the healing it requires, is important to our growth.
I am learning to make peace with my breakage, to accept those cracks and chips as the inevitable damage that occurs from living. Some of it will get a bit of spackle, and some won't. I'm okay with that too. Some of my flaws will remain visible, even glaring at times. What I need to remember is that others have cracks that are deeper than mine, and that they have more to heal from. We all need to be generous in offering love and sympathy for the cracks we see in others, and hopefully, they'll then be more forgiving of our breakage too.
At the end of the day we're all just lucky to still be in one piece.
We Are All Broken - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg (Feb. 2013)
Hairline cracks and tiny fissures too small to be seen
in our minds and hearts and souls and everywhere between -
No one is impervious to all this wear and tear -
everybody will acquire some damage to repair.
Minds are bent and spirits numbed by misery and strain -
all the true survivors know they're bound to feel some pain.
We can't hide ourselves away in hopes that we'll stay whole -
no one can remain untouched or always in control.
What might be the outcome if we're dealt a crushing blow?
If our souls were somehow shattered, who would really know?
On the outside most seem strong, quite healthy, sane and fit,
but inside all are uncertain; broken bit by bit.
If nobody mattered to us feelings might be spared -
no emotion is invested when nothing is shared.
I've spun no cocoon where I can hide myself away -
Isolation cannot spare me, cracks appear each day.
There's no armour I can don to safely shield my heart;
all the cracks concealed therein may someday blow apart.
Still, I am consoled by knowing I am not alone -
every person in the world hides fractures of their own.
By the actions that undo us - choices badly made,
and the harm we caused when we our lack of grace displayed -
through experience left unshared and words we wish unspoken;
through misdeeds and sin and passion, we are all broken.
Monday 25 March 2013
Chance - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Saturday as my husband and I drove through our ordinarily quiet and seemingly safe neighborhood we were surprised to see police vans and cruisers completely lining a small street two very short blocks behind our home. When my son and I saw even more police vehicles on the street yesterday I searched the news online to see what was happening, and discovered that a full fledged police investigation (the kind I enjoy watching unfold on Castle) is underway practically in my backyard. A woman is missing (as well as her couch) and "foul play is suspected" because of forensic evidence uncovered in her apartment. It's scary stuff.
It's easy to become a bit rattled when something terrible happens. One friend commiserated in response to a posting I made on facebook, and I quickly assured her that my neighborhood is a nice place to live, but added "bad things can happen in nice places", because they do, and they happen to nice people too.
About thirty years ago I read a book that made me think seriously about my attitude toward chance. God, pointed out the Rabbi Harold Kushner, (in his book "Why Bad Things Happen to Good People") does not operate like some cosmic vending machine. Every good thing we do does not function like a coin put into a vending machine which yields the desired treat. Sometimes evil people see unjustified rewards while kind, long suffering people experience nothing but misery. The crux of the matter is that life is not fair. The positive message in the book is that we can manage to be joyful anyway.
Joy, it seems, doesn't always result from having everything in life go our way. Joy also doesn't ensue because we are "in control" or because we have "all of the answers". Reading Kushner's book helped me to understand that peace was attainable in a world filled with randomness, because God, in giving everyone free will accepted that sometimes He had to stand back and let our existence unfold. I'm not saying that miracles don't happen, because I genuinely believe that they do. I guess my point is just that sometimes it's our turn to be touched by the miraculous, and sometimes it isn't. Tragedy is most often not a punishment, just as good fortune is most often not a reward.
God is not a gamester who plays out our lives like pieces on a chess board. I also don't believe that our lives are some foreordained jigsaw puzzle - destined to turn out in one specific way. Had that been God's intention he would not have given us the ability to choose.
Sometimes people of faith have trouble reconciling the role of chance in our lives, seemingly wanting to believe that our maker had so little faith in us that he handed us the proverbial jigsaw puzzle with each piece a perfect representation of every event in our lives. I grew aware of how prevalent this kind of thinking is (especially among the young) when I filled in teaching a Sunday school class of teenagers several years ago. I was shocked to note that they were so incredibly fatalistic, believing that their lives had been entirely mapped out in advance and that every tragedy that occurs is "God's will".
I argued against that point of view vehemently.
"So if I step off the curb as I walk home from Church today and I'm hit by a drunk diver and killed it's because God wants me to die?" I asked.
"Absolutely!" they all answered. "If you died it would be because God needed you and if it wasn't your time to die He would have intervened."
At that point I begged them all to spare me the platitudes of that sort if Todd or my sons died before me. I told them that I believed that an almighty God doesn't need our help in the hereafter. If anything, he needs our help here, where we walk and talk for all to see, but His existence is not always so immediately evident. I believe that I need my husband and my sons more here on this earth than a Heavenly Father could ever need them "on the other side". I don't think that this way of thinking proves me to be faithless, but that it in fact demonstrates just how much faith I actually possess. I don't need to believe that I have all of the answers and that every bit of agony I feel is tied up in "reason" to feel hopeful. I actually find it quite comforting to know just how much I don't know, and sanity saving to not be constantly searching for rational explanations in a world that sometimes simply doesn't make sense.
I believe that God, in His wisdom, made our ability to choose a Star Trek-ish "prime directive" that He himself tries not to interfere with, which is why sometimes He stands back and allows tragedies to occur. Sometimes the negative choices that others make will impact our lives negatively too. God doesn't take the life of a person killed by a drunk driver - the driver himself bears the responsibility for taking that life through his choices - first to over-indulge, and then to hop behind the wheel in that state.
So perhaps life is a whole lot more like a super-sized box of K'nex (which every parent of sons knows is the best building system ever!) than a boringly precise jigsaw puzzle. God gives us this wonderful gift of agency and says, "Do with it what you will." We get all the pieces, the wheels that turn and the motors and rotors and bars and connectors, and we get a book of pictures suggesting what can be created. However, ultimately we choose what we'll build.
I've thought about all of these things the past few days as the police have canvassed my neighborhood and searched for clues to clarify what happened to this missing woman. I had a passing negative thought that maybe my safe and pleasant neighborhood wasn't the greatest place to be anymore, but then I turned my own thoughts around and saw the positive aspects of the situation. First of all, I find myself feeling fortunate to live in an area where I don't see lines of police cars on an everyday basis. Secondly, I feel secure in the knowledge that while the police couldn't prevent the crime, they are doing everything they can to unravel this mystery and catch those responsible. I can accept that my neighborhood is a good place to be while still acknowledging the possibility that there are bad people around here at times, and that bad things will sometimes happen as a result of that.
Life is still good, even though there is always a chance that something scary might happen. And being me, I had to write a poem that explains the way I see this whole possibility that we need to embrace a certain amount of chance in our lives. After all, in life every single new day is a fresh chance to build something wonderful.
Chance: (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg - March 23, 2013)
Within the steps of every dance
there has to be some room for chance.
The best trained feet can sometimes twist -
the chance for failure must exist.
Is this a reason not to try,
this chance that we will fall, not fly?
Within the purest, best lived life
there's bound to be a bit of strife -
and earnest am I in belief
that most of us don't earn our grief;
most hardships are but happenstance -
misfortunes that occur by chance.
Life sadly isn't very fair -
and yet this fact should not impair,
for when fate is the most unjust
is when we find the need to trust.
Some randomness must be embraced
as part of living life with grace.
Some things will happen without cause,
crimes will occur in spite of laws
and somehow I have always known
I'm shaped by choices not my own
when things that other people do
reverberate in my life too.
So though perhaps I had to fall
I will be glad I danced at all,
for through missed steps and muscles burned
I faltered, but my strength returned -
and with each fall, I must surmise
I had another chance to rise.
It's easy to become a bit rattled when something terrible happens. One friend commiserated in response to a posting I made on facebook, and I quickly assured her that my neighborhood is a nice place to live, but added "bad things can happen in nice places", because they do, and they happen to nice people too.
About thirty years ago I read a book that made me think seriously about my attitude toward chance. God, pointed out the Rabbi Harold Kushner, (in his book "Why Bad Things Happen to Good People") does not operate like some cosmic vending machine. Every good thing we do does not function like a coin put into a vending machine which yields the desired treat. Sometimes evil people see unjustified rewards while kind, long suffering people experience nothing but misery. The crux of the matter is that life is not fair. The positive message in the book is that we can manage to be joyful anyway.
Joy, it seems, doesn't always result from having everything in life go our way. Joy also doesn't ensue because we are "in control" or because we have "all of the answers". Reading Kushner's book helped me to understand that peace was attainable in a world filled with randomness, because God, in giving everyone free will accepted that sometimes He had to stand back and let our existence unfold. I'm not saying that miracles don't happen, because I genuinely believe that they do. I guess my point is just that sometimes it's our turn to be touched by the miraculous, and sometimes it isn't. Tragedy is most often not a punishment, just as good fortune is most often not a reward.
God is not a gamester who plays out our lives like pieces on a chess board. I also don't believe that our lives are some foreordained jigsaw puzzle - destined to turn out in one specific way. Had that been God's intention he would not have given us the ability to choose.
Sometimes people of faith have trouble reconciling the role of chance in our lives, seemingly wanting to believe that our maker had so little faith in us that he handed us the proverbial jigsaw puzzle with each piece a perfect representation of every event in our lives. I grew aware of how prevalent this kind of thinking is (especially among the young) when I filled in teaching a Sunday school class of teenagers several years ago. I was shocked to note that they were so incredibly fatalistic, believing that their lives had been entirely mapped out in advance and that every tragedy that occurs is "God's will".
I argued against that point of view vehemently.
"So if I step off the curb as I walk home from Church today and I'm hit by a drunk diver and killed it's because God wants me to die?" I asked.
"Absolutely!" they all answered. "If you died it would be because God needed you and if it wasn't your time to die He would have intervened."
At that point I begged them all to spare me the platitudes of that sort if Todd or my sons died before me. I told them that I believed that an almighty God doesn't need our help in the hereafter. If anything, he needs our help here, where we walk and talk for all to see, but His existence is not always so immediately evident. I believe that I need my husband and my sons more here on this earth than a Heavenly Father could ever need them "on the other side". I don't think that this way of thinking proves me to be faithless, but that it in fact demonstrates just how much faith I actually possess. I don't need to believe that I have all of the answers and that every bit of agony I feel is tied up in "reason" to feel hopeful. I actually find it quite comforting to know just how much I don't know, and sanity saving to not be constantly searching for rational explanations in a world that sometimes simply doesn't make sense.
I believe that God, in His wisdom, made our ability to choose a Star Trek-ish "prime directive" that He himself tries not to interfere with, which is why sometimes He stands back and allows tragedies to occur. Sometimes the negative choices that others make will impact our lives negatively too. God doesn't take the life of a person killed by a drunk driver - the driver himself bears the responsibility for taking that life through his choices - first to over-indulge, and then to hop behind the wheel in that state.
So perhaps life is a whole lot more like a super-sized box of K'nex (which every parent of sons knows is the best building system ever!) than a boringly precise jigsaw puzzle. God gives us this wonderful gift of agency and says, "Do with it what you will." We get all the pieces, the wheels that turn and the motors and rotors and bars and connectors, and we get a book of pictures suggesting what can be created. However, ultimately we choose what we'll build.
I've thought about all of these things the past few days as the police have canvassed my neighborhood and searched for clues to clarify what happened to this missing woman. I had a passing negative thought that maybe my safe and pleasant neighborhood wasn't the greatest place to be anymore, but then I turned my own thoughts around and saw the positive aspects of the situation. First of all, I find myself feeling fortunate to live in an area where I don't see lines of police cars on an everyday basis. Secondly, I feel secure in the knowledge that while the police couldn't prevent the crime, they are doing everything they can to unravel this mystery and catch those responsible. I can accept that my neighborhood is a good place to be while still acknowledging the possibility that there are bad people around here at times, and that bad things will sometimes happen as a result of that.
Life is still good, even though there is always a chance that something scary might happen. And being me, I had to write a poem that explains the way I see this whole possibility that we need to embrace a certain amount of chance in our lives. After all, in life every single new day is a fresh chance to build something wonderful.
Chance: (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg - March 23, 2013)
Within the steps of every dance
there has to be some room for chance.
The best trained feet can sometimes twist -
the chance for failure must exist.
Is this a reason not to try,
this chance that we will fall, not fly?
Within the purest, best lived life
there's bound to be a bit of strife -
and earnest am I in belief
that most of us don't earn our grief;
most hardships are but happenstance -
misfortunes that occur by chance.
Life sadly isn't very fair -
and yet this fact should not impair,
for when fate is the most unjust
is when we find the need to trust.
Some randomness must be embraced
as part of living life with grace.
Some things will happen without cause,
crimes will occur in spite of laws
and somehow I have always known
I'm shaped by choices not my own
when things that other people do
reverberate in my life too.
So though perhaps I had to fall
I will be glad I danced at all,
for through missed steps and muscles burned
I faltered, but my strength returned -
and with each fall, I must surmise
I had another chance to rise.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)