Last night as we were getting ready for bed, my husband thanked me for a lovely Christmas. Not that most of our Christmases haven't been great, but yesterday had a certain calmness about it - in spite of the fact that I'd slept miserably the night before. I didn't whine about being tired, but I did preempt any criticism that might come my way by warning my menfolk that I'd been awake since 4:00 am.
"Just for today, everything I do is awesome" I told them."I'm really tired, but I'll do my best."
And I did - and everything was great.
It's been a less frenzied holiday season than usual since I retired "Holiday Dreams Sharon". There's been no mad dash to meet self-imposed deadlines. The cards went out later than usual, and I shrugged it off. When I couldn't find the scotch tape to wrap gifts, I used a roll of painter's tape. On Christmas Eve when my rolls came out of the oven a little darker than they could've been, I let it go. I'm still breaking in the new oven, and forget sometimes that it runs hotter than my last. No big deal.
Instead of racing through my holiday checklist, I opted to pace myself. Every day I assessed my schedule to determine what I could realistically accomplish. If I had to miss a trip to the gym to finish up some task, it wasn't the end of the world. When I got off my treadmill I cooled down by watching my favorite home show and wrapping gifts. I made cookie dough earlier in the day and put batches in the oven while I was cooking supper. I made small changes in my habits, and bigger changes occurred in my attitude. Gradually I found myself doing more that I wanted to do, and less that I felt I had to do. I was more serene - and happier.
I took every chance I could find to admire Christmas lights and I went caroling. I decorated my house once - no fine tuning of the Christmas trees or moving stuff around. It was fine as it was.
On Christmas Day I didn't complain about being stuck in the kitchen, because I didn't consign myself to the role of scullery maid for a solid block of the day. We ate breakfast, then put in the turkey. We opened gifts. My mom and I played Rummikub and perused new books while my husband and sons watched television. The veggies got peeled, the salad got made. Treats got arranged on a platter for dessert. A chore was done here and there in the midst of our relaxing. I took it all in stride without stressing over the potatos getting a bit cool while we waited for the obstinate bird to cook. I reminded myself that there was no hard and fast time that supper had to be on the table.
I paced myself. I consulted no checklists, and everything was great largely because I didn't expect one single thing to be perfect.
A few weeks before Christmas, when the idea of "listing" was very much on my mind, I found a poem I'd started to write a few years back...
My List: By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, (January 2010)
I view my list of things to do
with much less than delight -
in fact it leaves me feeling blue
and makes my muscles tight.
Sometimes it seems that what gets done
is only what I must -
more complicated tasks I'll shun
until list gathers dust.
When my surroundings grow unkempt
and chaos rules the day
I'll once more make a brave attempt
to clear debris away.
Still other times, consumed by guilt
I'll formulate a plan -
then get to work and go full tilt
to finish all I can.
Yet even then it seems that list
is never quite complete.
I'm bound to note some item missed
and slump in self defeat.
...and that's where the poem fizzled out, with me being annoyed with myself for not doing everything I thought I needed to do. I had left more room on the page, expecting more inspiration to come to bring said poem to some satisfactory conclusion. But instead it stopped right there - an unfinished poem about list items that never get checked off. A sad and dreary little ode that, like "Holiday Dreams Sharon" needed to be given a happier twist.
I've come to realize that nobody has higher expectations of me than me. My husband and sons are usually pretty happy with my efforts. I don't get a lot of complaints about the quality of meals I serve or the state of the house. My time is pretty flexible - I get to choose what I do when. Nobody berates me when I don't accomplish everything I've put on my checklist for that day, or that week, or even that year - except me.
And nobody can change that behavior but me. So a few weeks ago, after I'd decided to re-brand my holiday persona, I found that poem and finished it like this:
But then I cut myself some slack -
that list is just a guide;
suggestions to keep me on track -
I'll take it all in stride.
And if today I need some fun
because I'm overtaxed,
tomorrow more things will get done
when I feel more relaxed.
As January nears, many of us will be setting goals for 2015. I'm sure I will make a few lists of my own, but I will keep in mind that these jottings are "just a guide" - some suggestions to myself about what I might want to work on. Nothing is written in stone, and the vast majority of "to-do" items on any list I write don't have to be completed by a set date. Probably most of your goals have some flexibility too, so cut yourself some slack. Strive for a realistic pace.
This will be the year I remember that everyone navigates the world differently, and that I too will need to adjust my gait on a daily basis. Some days I'll run, and others I'll rest.
Stride: By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Some trudge, some tramp, some toddle,
some tread at plodding pace -
and there are some who dawdle
while others always race.
Some stroll or strut or sidle -
some saunter and some stalk;
still others just stand idle,
preferring not to walk.
Some limp, shuffle or hobble -
their movement isn't swift;
and some from drink may wobble -
may teeter or may drift.
Some march like they're on parade,
goose-stepping to a beat;
others gad and promenade
and flutter on their feet.
Some adopt an easy gait,
some set off at a clip -
not content to sit and wait
'til someone cracks the whip.
Perambulations vary.
At times we leap and bound,
but there are days we tarry;
we loll and laze around.
As we step our way through life
we must adjust our speed -
circumnavigate the strife
and pause to beauty heed.
Jogging, dashing, making haste;
always in a hurry.
So much energy we waste
when like mice we scurry.
En route to a distant place
we'll falter, slip and slide -
and lament our lack of grace
until we hit our stride.
Life isn't a race, or a series of mazes we need to run ratlike through in order to win a prize. Our days are a series of events - some requiring a speed and others testing our endurance. Some days very little will be required of us except our presence. I vow I will aim to be more present in my life; to live each moment more mindfully and to pay more attention to "here and now", and to who is here, now. I'm not going to beat myself up for walking a leg or two of what seems like an epic marathon, for not making the best time or winning a big trophy. I'm not going to worry about who is faster or has better form.
I'm learning the importance of pacing myself, and this just might be the year I hit my stride.
Friday, 26 December 2014
Thursday, 11 December 2014
Alcoholic "Christmas Cheer"? - Not Here! by Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Candy is Dandy, Thanks!
If liquor is quicker
it still makes you sicker
and candy won't judgment impair -
for those who go drinking
do not do much thinking
'til they're too hungover to care.
For me candy's dandy
and I keep some handy
to give sagging spirits a lift.
It might make me rounder
but my mind stays sounder
and rational thought is a gift.
I won't take up boozin' -
it's not of my choosin',
I like knowing what I did when.
And if I act crazy
but mind is not hazy
I'll likely NOT do so again.
You might think I'm hasty,
but sugar is tasty
while liquor offendeth the tongue -
and I like to know
when I'm ready to go
I'll leave with the person I brung!
While I don't mean to trash
our old friend Ogden Nash,
I'd rather a good sugar buzz.
Choc'late's serotonin
will not leave me groanin'
and I'll always know where I was.
Now I'm done explaining
my views on abstaining -
I clearly don't sit on the fence.
This poem is ending
without more amending -
my reasons? They're just common sense!
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg (June 2007)
I don't drink - never have and never will. Alcohol smells gross and makes people act stupid, which I manage well enough when I'm stone cold sober. It gives people headaches and makes them sick, and I hate feeling crummy. It is expensive and caloric, and I'm a weight-watching cheapskate.
That's all the explaining I should ever have to do on the subject. But in a society - and especially in a season - where so many can't grasp the simple fact that celebrating does not equal alcohol, and that "a little Christmas Cheer" doesn't have to mean a good stiff drink, I often find myself having to offer explanations for the stand I take.
Many oversimplify my choice. They assume that because I grew up in a home where drinking was "against our religion" that I simply chose blind obedience to a church edict. I won't deny that it was easier for me to refrain from drinking in my teens because my parents didn't drink, but really there was enough rebellion in my soul that if I'd ever been tempted to drink I probably would have. I simply never felt the slightest urge to take even a sip, and my own childhood observations had a whole lot to do with that lack of desire.
Our next door neighbour was an alcoholic - a sloppy, "fall-down-comatose-and-get-carried-home" kind of alcoholic. I have vivid memories of playing in the yard with my older brother and a bunch of other kids and seeing a taxi pull up. The driver got out and asked my brother to help him carry this man into his house. (This happened more than once.) I remember thinking that if too much alcohol could do that to a person, I could happily live without it. That same neighbour fell on the ice multiple times trying to stagger home from "The Rosie" (a bar around the corner from my house). A few times concerned passers-by spotted him collapsed on the sidewalk and dragged him home. Once, someone pounded on our door and asked my parents to assist with this chore. "Marvin" (I'll call him) suffered head injuries after one bad fall. He lost his driver's license, barely kept a job, and died alone in his house, surrounded by beer cans. A concerned co-worker found him after he hadn't shown up at work in several days. His life was a perfect example to me of how not to live, and I knew I'd never fall into that kind of lifestyle if I never took a drink.
As a child, when I attended social events with my parents where alcohol was being served, I saw people behaving crudely and saying stupid things. It wasn't behavior I wanted to emulate.
When I was a teenager, I couldn't walk past the pool hall or bars on Gore St. without some tipsy Lothario giving me a leer and a "Hey Bay-beee!" (I'd often choose to walk blocks out of my way rather than pass the places where those buffoons loitered out front.) Throughout high school, I saw kids get wasted and act like idiots. I heard them talking about their drunken antics over the weekend and the hangovers that followed. I saw kids barfing into toilets at school dances and witnessed drunken brawls that nobody could explain afterward. None of these things managed to convince me that I was missing a thing by not drinking.
The funny thing is, all through my youth I was warned about peer pressure, and how other kids would try to make me drink (or smoke or try drugs), and I never experienced it at all. My friends accepted my choice to not drink and always had pop on hand to offer me. My friends could handle having an abstainer in their midst. Nobody ever twisted my arm or even offered a second time once I told them I didn't drink.
Since I've been an adult that's changed. I've been chided and treated as an oddity. I've had people try to "talk me into seeing reason" on the subject - asking "How is having a drink or two going to make any difference?" I've wondered why these adults are so much less mature and tolerant than the kids I hung around in high school, who were quick to understand that my most basic reason for not drinking has always been this - I simply don't want to. I've had to dispose of alcohol that came in "Christmas bonus" packages from my husband's employers, in spite of the fact that he's never had a drink either. (And in the politically correct time that we live in, I've wondered at the lack of wisdom shown in "gifting" people with booze when they could have a preexisting medical condition that makes drinking unwise, or have a family member battling alcoholism within their home.)
I've had people ask for a drink in my home, or ask if they could "bring their own". Both requests offend me. Am I really such bad company that a social lubricant is required to ease our interaction? Or are you simply so socially inept and alcohol-dependent that you don't know how to have fun without it? Can't you manage to abstain for a few hours while visiting the home of an abstainer?
You may try to brush off your request for a drink as a joke, but I'm not laughing. Nobody in this house thinks your request is funny. You have no idea how alcoholism has shaped our lives as we've seen its effects on someone close to us.
Over the years I've done a bit of research on alcohol, and learned enough to be absolutely convinced that abstinence was the best choice for me. Did you know that children of alcoholics are four times more likely to become alcoholics themselves? (My husband and I both have alcoholics in our family trees, so we shared this statistic with our sons at an early age.)
Did you know that recent studies have shown that a single drink can render you unfit to drive if you're over the age of fifty-five? (Google it.)
Do you ever read news stories about drunk drivers - and how many lives are lost because people hopped behind the wheel when they thought they were okay to drive home?
Do you know how many lives and families are destroyed by alcohol?
Do you know how much alcohol-related illnesses and accidents cost our health care system?
Do you still need to ask me why I choose not to drink?
I'm not going to criticize you or tell you I think you're morally or intellectually inferior because you enjoy a social drink now and then. I know many very fine people who don't share my views on the use of alcohol. What you choose to do within your house is your business, as is your choice of beverage when you eat out or go to a bar. As long as your drinking doesn't affect me in any way I can live with it. Just don't offer me a ride when you've been drinking, don't belittle me for not drinking, don't assume I'll find your drinking antics amusing, and don't ever expect me to offer you alcohol.
If you're looking for a bit of Christmas cheer I have plenty to offer. I'll pull out a platter of cookies and put on some awesome Christmas music. We'll laugh together and enjoy good conversation. If you want to be sipping a drink while we do this we'll meet up at a restaurant.
But if your definition of "Christmas Cheer" is an alcoholic beverage, you won't find it here.
If liquor is quicker
it still makes you sicker
and candy won't judgment impair -
for those who go drinking
do not do much thinking
'til they're too hungover to care.
For me candy's dandy
and I keep some handy
to give sagging spirits a lift.
It might make me rounder
but my mind stays sounder
and rational thought is a gift.
I won't take up boozin' -
it's not of my choosin',
I like knowing what I did when.
And if I act crazy
but mind is not hazy
I'll likely NOT do so again.
You might think I'm hasty,
but sugar is tasty
while liquor offendeth the tongue -
and I like to know
when I'm ready to go
I'll leave with the person I brung!
While I don't mean to trash
our old friend Ogden Nash,
I'd rather a good sugar buzz.
Choc'late's serotonin
will not leave me groanin'
and I'll always know where I was.
Now I'm done explaining
my views on abstaining -
I clearly don't sit on the fence.
This poem is ending
without more amending -
my reasons? They're just common sense!
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg (June 2007)
I don't drink - never have and never will. Alcohol smells gross and makes people act stupid, which I manage well enough when I'm stone cold sober. It gives people headaches and makes them sick, and I hate feeling crummy. It is expensive and caloric, and I'm a weight-watching cheapskate.
That's all the explaining I should ever have to do on the subject. But in a society - and especially in a season - where so many can't grasp the simple fact that celebrating does not equal alcohol, and that "a little Christmas Cheer" doesn't have to mean a good stiff drink, I often find myself having to offer explanations for the stand I take.
Many oversimplify my choice. They assume that because I grew up in a home where drinking was "against our religion" that I simply chose blind obedience to a church edict. I won't deny that it was easier for me to refrain from drinking in my teens because my parents didn't drink, but really there was enough rebellion in my soul that if I'd ever been tempted to drink I probably would have. I simply never felt the slightest urge to take even a sip, and my own childhood observations had a whole lot to do with that lack of desire.
Our next door neighbour was an alcoholic - a sloppy, "fall-down-comatose-and-get-carried-home" kind of alcoholic. I have vivid memories of playing in the yard with my older brother and a bunch of other kids and seeing a taxi pull up. The driver got out and asked my brother to help him carry this man into his house. (This happened more than once.) I remember thinking that if too much alcohol could do that to a person, I could happily live without it. That same neighbour fell on the ice multiple times trying to stagger home from "The Rosie" (a bar around the corner from my house). A few times concerned passers-by spotted him collapsed on the sidewalk and dragged him home. Once, someone pounded on our door and asked my parents to assist with this chore. "Marvin" (I'll call him) suffered head injuries after one bad fall. He lost his driver's license, barely kept a job, and died alone in his house, surrounded by beer cans. A concerned co-worker found him after he hadn't shown up at work in several days. His life was a perfect example to me of how not to live, and I knew I'd never fall into that kind of lifestyle if I never took a drink.
As a child, when I attended social events with my parents where alcohol was being served, I saw people behaving crudely and saying stupid things. It wasn't behavior I wanted to emulate.
When I was a teenager, I couldn't walk past the pool hall or bars on Gore St. without some tipsy Lothario giving me a leer and a "Hey Bay-beee!" (I'd often choose to walk blocks out of my way rather than pass the places where those buffoons loitered out front.) Throughout high school, I saw kids get wasted and act like idiots. I heard them talking about their drunken antics over the weekend and the hangovers that followed. I saw kids barfing into toilets at school dances and witnessed drunken brawls that nobody could explain afterward. None of these things managed to convince me that I was missing a thing by not drinking.
The funny thing is, all through my youth I was warned about peer pressure, and how other kids would try to make me drink (or smoke or try drugs), and I never experienced it at all. My friends accepted my choice to not drink and always had pop on hand to offer me. My friends could handle having an abstainer in their midst. Nobody ever twisted my arm or even offered a second time once I told them I didn't drink.
Since I've been an adult that's changed. I've been chided and treated as an oddity. I've had people try to "talk me into seeing reason" on the subject - asking "How is having a drink or two going to make any difference?" I've wondered why these adults are so much less mature and tolerant than the kids I hung around in high school, who were quick to understand that my most basic reason for not drinking has always been this - I simply don't want to. I've had to dispose of alcohol that came in "Christmas bonus" packages from my husband's employers, in spite of the fact that he's never had a drink either. (And in the politically correct time that we live in, I've wondered at the lack of wisdom shown in "gifting" people with booze when they could have a preexisting medical condition that makes drinking unwise, or have a family member battling alcoholism within their home.)
I've had people ask for a drink in my home, or ask if they could "bring their own". Both requests offend me. Am I really such bad company that a social lubricant is required to ease our interaction? Or are you simply so socially inept and alcohol-dependent that you don't know how to have fun without it? Can't you manage to abstain for a few hours while visiting the home of an abstainer?
You may try to brush off your request for a drink as a joke, but I'm not laughing. Nobody in this house thinks your request is funny. You have no idea how alcoholism has shaped our lives as we've seen its effects on someone close to us.
Over the years I've done a bit of research on alcohol, and learned enough to be absolutely convinced that abstinence was the best choice for me. Did you know that children of alcoholics are four times more likely to become alcoholics themselves? (My husband and I both have alcoholics in our family trees, so we shared this statistic with our sons at an early age.)
Did you know that recent studies have shown that a single drink can render you unfit to drive if you're over the age of fifty-five? (Google it.)
Do you ever read news stories about drunk drivers - and how many lives are lost because people hopped behind the wheel when they thought they were okay to drive home?
Do you know how many lives and families are destroyed by alcohol?
Do you know how much alcohol-related illnesses and accidents cost our health care system?
Do you still need to ask me why I choose not to drink?
I'm not going to criticize you or tell you I think you're morally or intellectually inferior because you enjoy a social drink now and then. I know many very fine people who don't share my views on the use of alcohol. What you choose to do within your house is your business, as is your choice of beverage when you eat out or go to a bar. As long as your drinking doesn't affect me in any way I can live with it. Just don't offer me a ride when you've been drinking, don't belittle me for not drinking, don't assume I'll find your drinking antics amusing, and don't ever expect me to offer you alcohol.
If you're looking for a bit of Christmas cheer I have plenty to offer. I'll pull out a platter of cookies and put on some awesome Christmas music. We'll laugh together and enjoy good conversation. If you want to be sipping a drink while we do this we'll meet up at a restaurant.
But if your definition of "Christmas Cheer" is an alcoholic beverage, you won't find it here.
Monday, 1 December 2014
Holiday Serendipity - Or How I'm Learning to Desist with Lists (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg)
Listing
Each year just as November's done
I sit with pad and pen -
prepared to make the perfect plan -
it's Listing Time again!
I start by listing all the lists
that I will need to make
to get me through 'til end of year
when I can take a break.
I make a list of what I'll need
so that I can prepare,
and itemize small chores to do
in moments that are spare.
I make a list of treats to bake
and how I'll tins disperse.
I make a list of who likes what
since tastes are quite diverse.
I make a list of cards to mail
and emails to send out.
(But somehow I'll forget someone,
of this I have no doubt.)
I make up lists of odds and ends;
of errands to be run.
I spend the season making lists
and miss out on the fun.
I make a list of things I want
to help the fam'ly shop -
by then I'm sick of making lists,
but don't know how to stop.
And once festivities commence
I'm listless, one could say -
and Christmas finds me all a-tilt
as I list through the day.
I check last items off last list
and heave a weary sigh.
My perfect plan somehow fell flat -
I have an inkling why.
That's why this year I'll take some risks
and leave more things to chance.
I'll formulate no perfect plan
and fly by seat of pants.
If I break down and write a list
it will look more like this:
- Give gifts of love (and worry less)
- Buy mistletoe and kiss!
- Admire the lights on moonlit walks,
- Enjoy the carols sung;
- Make time for silliness - and friends!
- and DON'T come all unstrung!
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg (November 30, 2014)
I love Christmas, but almost without fail my perfectionism around the season yields a minor meltdown. By mid-November that perfect plan is taking shape in my obsessive noggin. I have dates circled on my brain's calendar (the one that doesn't exist anywhere else - the one I know is utterly ridiculous in its optimism.) Rational me knows meeting these deadlines is impossible, but there's this other, more manic side of me that shows up around this time of year who I'll call "Holiday Dreams Sharon". She doesn't always see things terribly rationally. (She's kind of like those fluffed up holiday fashion dolls, but in her case it's not her proportions that are out of whack - just her expectations.)
"Holiday Dreams Sharon" comes with reams of paper and a full box of pens because she's always making lists. She also comes with an apron so that she won't get too mussed up when she bakes her countless tins of cookies. And she comes with kleenex boxes that are very useful when the imaginary circled dates come and go and her lists have too many unchecked items on them and her cookies burn or get dropped on the floor. I fear "Holiday Dreams Sharon" is a tad unstable, and next year she may be available with a new accessory - a wee bottle of Xanax. That is, if she doesn't get a complete redesign between now and then.
I think maybe "Holiday Dreams Sharon" needs to be re-branded. Maybe she should become just "Holiday Sharon", who comes with a tin of cookies and some dancing shoes. Maybe she should come with a down-filled jacket and a good set of walking boots for those chilly nights when she'll walk under the stars to admire the Christmas lights. Maybe she'll come with a sprig of mistletoe and a "come hither smile"? (Unlikely, as she'd have to figure out how to make "the smile" look like it suggests something other than slight craziness.) I'm just throwing out options and trying to make the point that "Holiday Dreams Sharon" could possibly benefit from a make-over.
This year "Holiday Sharon" is going to get a pull cord installed that says "Falalalalaaa" and "Hohoho" when she drops a tray of cookies instead of the kind of nasty words a nice doll shouldn't utter. She's going to conveniently forget to make endless lists. She's going to forgive herself for not sending a card to someone, or for sending all of her cards out late, and for over- (or under-) cooking the turkey and for sitting in a chair listening to John Rutter's Christmas carols when she should be doing something "useful". She's going to laugh more, and let her picture be taken, even though the camera adds twenty pounds that are hard on her flagging self esteem. She's going to stop nagging. She's going to stop stressing over the minutia, and start celebrating the marvelous.
Perfect holidays are serendipitous. They don't happen because every item on your list has been checked off and your cookies are perfectly decorated. Perfect gifts are the ones that amaze you because you had no idea that something so lovely could be associated with you in someone's mind. They are incredibly intuitive - the giver found something you absolutely love but never realized you wanted. Perfect gifts are practical and useful. They are frivolous and amusing. They are tangible, and intangible. Perfect gifts are phone calls you didn't expect, guests you wanted to see, but didn't invite and stars you forgot were so bright. Perfect gifts are hugs and kisses, and all the words that express appreciation and love.
Perfect gifts were never on your list at all.
Perfect days are full of unexpected wonder - you could never make them happen - they just do.
"Holiday Dreams Sharon" is about to be retired, before someone needs to add that bottle of Xanax to her accessory package. She's forgetting about deadlines and making shorter lists - and those only because her middle aged brain really does require a nudge or two. She's focusing more on hopes than dreams this year. She's hoping that she'll be kinder, happier and less inclined to grumble. She's hoping to be hospitable and helpful. She's hoping to become less rigid and more forgiving. She's hoping she manages to give some perfect gifts, and to be part of someone's perfect day.
Merry Christmas to all of you from Sharon and her gloriously imperfect muse. May you enjoy the peace that comes from hope and the goodwill that springs from true optimism. May you all enjoy a generous dose of serendipity and be part of someone's perfect day.
Each year just as November's done
I sit with pad and pen -
prepared to make the perfect plan -
it's Listing Time again!
I start by listing all the lists
that I will need to make
to get me through 'til end of year
when I can take a break.
I make a list of what I'll need
so that I can prepare,
and itemize small chores to do
in moments that are spare.
I make a list of treats to bake
and how I'll tins disperse.
I make a list of who likes what
since tastes are quite diverse.
I make a list of cards to mail
and emails to send out.
(But somehow I'll forget someone,
of this I have no doubt.)
I make up lists of odds and ends;
of errands to be run.
I spend the season making lists
and miss out on the fun.
I make a list of things I want
to help the fam'ly shop -
by then I'm sick of making lists,
but don't know how to stop.
And once festivities commence
I'm listless, one could say -
and Christmas finds me all a-tilt
as I list through the day.
I check last items off last list
and heave a weary sigh.
My perfect plan somehow fell flat -
I have an inkling why.
That's why this year I'll take some risks
and leave more things to chance.
I'll formulate no perfect plan
and fly by seat of pants.
If I break down and write a list
it will look more like this:
- Give gifts of love (and worry less)
- Buy mistletoe and kiss!
- Admire the lights on moonlit walks,
- Enjoy the carols sung;
- Make time for silliness - and friends!
- and DON'T come all unstrung!
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg (November 30, 2014)
I love Christmas, but almost without fail my perfectionism around the season yields a minor meltdown. By mid-November that perfect plan is taking shape in my obsessive noggin. I have dates circled on my brain's calendar (the one that doesn't exist anywhere else - the one I know is utterly ridiculous in its optimism.) Rational me knows meeting these deadlines is impossible, but there's this other, more manic side of me that shows up around this time of year who I'll call "Holiday Dreams Sharon". She doesn't always see things terribly rationally. (She's kind of like those fluffed up holiday fashion dolls, but in her case it's not her proportions that are out of whack - just her expectations.)
"Holiday Dreams Sharon" comes with reams of paper and a full box of pens because she's always making lists. She also comes with an apron so that she won't get too mussed up when she bakes her countless tins of cookies. And she comes with kleenex boxes that are very useful when the imaginary circled dates come and go and her lists have too many unchecked items on them and her cookies burn or get dropped on the floor. I fear "Holiday Dreams Sharon" is a tad unstable, and next year she may be available with a new accessory - a wee bottle of Xanax. That is, if she doesn't get a complete redesign between now and then.
I think maybe "Holiday Dreams Sharon" needs to be re-branded. Maybe she should become just "Holiday Sharon", who comes with a tin of cookies and some dancing shoes. Maybe she should come with a down-filled jacket and a good set of walking boots for those chilly nights when she'll walk under the stars to admire the Christmas lights. Maybe she'll come with a sprig of mistletoe and a "come hither smile"? (Unlikely, as she'd have to figure out how to make "the smile" look like it suggests something other than slight craziness.) I'm just throwing out options and trying to make the point that "Holiday Dreams Sharon" could possibly benefit from a make-over.
This year "Holiday Sharon" is going to get a pull cord installed that says "Falalalalaaa" and "Hohoho" when she drops a tray of cookies instead of the kind of nasty words a nice doll shouldn't utter. She's going to conveniently forget to make endless lists. She's going to forgive herself for not sending a card to someone, or for sending all of her cards out late, and for over- (or under-) cooking the turkey and for sitting in a chair listening to John Rutter's Christmas carols when she should be doing something "useful". She's going to laugh more, and let her picture be taken, even though the camera adds twenty pounds that are hard on her flagging self esteem. She's going to stop nagging. She's going to stop stressing over the minutia, and start celebrating the marvelous.
Perfect holidays are serendipitous. They don't happen because every item on your list has been checked off and your cookies are perfectly decorated. Perfect gifts are the ones that amaze you because you had no idea that something so lovely could be associated with you in someone's mind. They are incredibly intuitive - the giver found something you absolutely love but never realized you wanted. Perfect gifts are practical and useful. They are frivolous and amusing. They are tangible, and intangible. Perfect gifts are phone calls you didn't expect, guests you wanted to see, but didn't invite and stars you forgot were so bright. Perfect gifts are hugs and kisses, and all the words that express appreciation and love.
Perfect gifts were never on your list at all.
Perfect days are full of unexpected wonder - you could never make them happen - they just do.
"Holiday Dreams Sharon" is about to be retired, before someone needs to add that bottle of Xanax to her accessory package. She's forgetting about deadlines and making shorter lists - and those only because her middle aged brain really does require a nudge or two. She's focusing more on hopes than dreams this year. She's hoping that she'll be kinder, happier and less inclined to grumble. She's hoping to be hospitable and helpful. She's hoping to become less rigid and more forgiving. She's hoping she manages to give some perfect gifts, and to be part of someone's perfect day.
Merry Christmas to all of you from Sharon and her gloriously imperfect muse. May you enjoy the peace that comes from hope and the goodwill that springs from true optimism. May you all enjoy a generous dose of serendipity and be part of someone's perfect day.
Friday, 14 November 2014
The Party Called Life? It's A Gala Affair! By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
More years ago than seem possible I saw a movie about a high school kid who ditches school for a day and has an adventure with his friends.
"Life moves pretty fast." says Ferris Bueller, "If you don't stop and look around once in while, you could miss it."
I was in my mid-twenties then, single (often dateless in fact) and impatient for the next phase of my life to begin. My life was still moving fairly slowly, but even then there were days when I was shocked to be waking up and going to work, as opposed to going to high school - or even public school.
I've lived half a lifetime since Ferris said those words, and every year goes faster than the last. At this time of year (the lull between Halloween and Christmas preparations) I tend to reflect and reminisce. As the leaves fall I'm drawn back to early spring when I was so excited to see the trees in bud. Where did those months go? Yesterday I covered up a few flowers in my garden and helped my son hang the Christmas lights, all the while amazed that another year passed so quickly.
Thus, last night as I spent a wakeful hour trying not to wake the house I came upon an unfinished poem that hit just the right note with me and quickly completed it.
A Gala Affair
Nobody remembers
the entrance they make
to the party that starts
as first breath they take.
Without any trimmings
you naked arrive
to much celebration -
you're here! You're alive!
Your mother's exhausted,
your father's relieved;
your very best entrance
has now been achieved.
The party continues
as milestones are met
and photos are taken
so none will forget
when first steps were taken
or first day of school,
or first date you went on -
you thought you looked cool!
First grade school - then high school -
is finished - and then
you move somewhere else
and begin school again.
Your studies are over -
now life has begun -
the rest of this party
is nothing but fun!
Or that's what you think
as new ventures you dare -
this party called life
is a gala affair!
With photos all flashing
you walk down the aisle
and as guest of honour
you're wearing a smile.
You settle in nicely
to marital bliss -
no party has ever
been more fun than this!
Soon filled with excitement
you'll let people know
a new guest arriving
just might steal the show.
Now you'll aim the cam'ra
as photos are shot.
New party has started -
new milestones are caught.
No longer the star you'll
now take a backseat
to newer arrivals
but hey - life is sweet!
Once guest book is filled up
the bash is full swing
and this party called life
is a fabulous thing.
This party is lively;
this party moves fast.
And most of us just want
the party to last.
As children move on to
pursue their own dreams
your party starts getting
less rowdy, it seems.
But all celebrations
don't need to be loud;
you stand on the sidelines
both happy and proud.
Soon the gala affair
becomes party for two,
the venue is smaller,
but party you do.
You know life can still be
a gala affair
where sometimes old timers
will stir from the chair.
You may not look pretty,
the young folks may stare
as you get to your feet at
this gala affair.
The party ends sooner
than most of us think.
You make that grand entrance;
you're gone in a blink.
So you, in your dentures
and I, in my wig
will take to the dance floor
and dance a last jig.
We may not be graceful
but still we'll have fun,
and keep celebrating
'til party is done.
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg (November 14, 2014)
Life does move fast, but every new day brings fresh opportunities - it isn't over until it's over. Until then we should continue to grow, to laugh, to learn, and to join in the celebration of life.
And maybe even dance a jig or two.
"Life moves pretty fast." says Ferris Bueller, "If you don't stop and look around once in while, you could miss it."
I was in my mid-twenties then, single (often dateless in fact) and impatient for the next phase of my life to begin. My life was still moving fairly slowly, but even then there were days when I was shocked to be waking up and going to work, as opposed to going to high school - or even public school.
I've lived half a lifetime since Ferris said those words, and every year goes faster than the last. At this time of year (the lull between Halloween and Christmas preparations) I tend to reflect and reminisce. As the leaves fall I'm drawn back to early spring when I was so excited to see the trees in bud. Where did those months go? Yesterday I covered up a few flowers in my garden and helped my son hang the Christmas lights, all the while amazed that another year passed so quickly.
Thus, last night as I spent a wakeful hour trying not to wake the house I came upon an unfinished poem that hit just the right note with me and quickly completed it.
A Gala Affair
Nobody remembers
the entrance they make
to the party that starts
as first breath they take.
Without any trimmings
you naked arrive
to much celebration -
you're here! You're alive!
Your mother's exhausted,
your father's relieved;
your very best entrance
has now been achieved.
The party continues
as milestones are met
and photos are taken
so none will forget
when first steps were taken
or first day of school,
or first date you went on -
you thought you looked cool!
First grade school - then high school -
is finished - and then
you move somewhere else
and begin school again.
Your studies are over -
now life has begun -
the rest of this party
is nothing but fun!
Or that's what you think
as new ventures you dare -
this party called life
is a gala affair!
With photos all flashing
you walk down the aisle
and as guest of honour
you're wearing a smile.
You settle in nicely
to marital bliss -
no party has ever
been more fun than this!
Soon filled with excitement
you'll let people know
a new guest arriving
just might steal the show.
Now you'll aim the cam'ra
as photos are shot.
New party has started -
new milestones are caught.
No longer the star you'll
now take a backseat
to newer arrivals
but hey - life is sweet!
Once guest book is filled up
the bash is full swing
and this party called life
is a fabulous thing.
This party is lively;
this party moves fast.
And most of us just want
the party to last.
As children move on to
pursue their own dreams
your party starts getting
less rowdy, it seems.
But all celebrations
don't need to be loud;
you stand on the sidelines
both happy and proud.
Soon the gala affair
becomes party for two,
the venue is smaller,
but party you do.
You know life can still be
a gala affair
where sometimes old timers
will stir from the chair.
You may not look pretty,
the young folks may stare
as you get to your feet at
this gala affair.
The party ends sooner
than most of us think.
You make that grand entrance;
you're gone in a blink.
So you, in your dentures
and I, in my wig
will take to the dance floor
and dance a last jig.
We may not be graceful
but still we'll have fun,
and keep celebrating
'til party is done.
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg (November 14, 2014)
Life does move fast, but every new day brings fresh opportunities - it isn't over until it's over. Until then we should continue to grow, to laugh, to learn, and to join in the celebration of life.
And maybe even dance a jig or two.
Thursday, 30 October 2014
Addressing Grave Concerns - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Addressing Grave Concerns:
Your project isn't finished yet
I must apologize -
it would be finished, you can bet
but for Mother's demise.
For good departure time she failed
to anyone consult,
but nonetheless death has prevailed
and this is the result.
It's obvious her time of death
was most inopportune -
I hear she took her parting breath
a little bit past noon.
Had she postponed 'til end of day
as I would have preferred,
my inbox would be cleared away;
work would not be deferred.
To finish up I did my best
at her visitation,
and almost cleared away the rest
during the cremation.
By her graveside I multitasked
but sadly all was lost
when for my clump of dirt they asked
and Blackberry I tossed.
It landed in her open grave
and was retrieved, but then
because I hadn't yet hit "save"
I had to start again.
Despite the inconvenience
that I have put you through,
dare I beg you for lenience
and hope I'll trust accrue?
I promise I will do my best
to see all deadlines met -
my mother has been laid to rest,
and Dad's not dying yet.
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, October 5, 2007
In 2007 my mother-in-law had a lot of health issues and was in and out of the hospital for months on end. At one point we were summoned to the hospital and advised to say our good-byes. (Advice that was a bit premature since she lived several more years.) It was a rough time for my husband, who was constantly working - at his office by day and at home most evenings in order to satisfy the demands of a slightly tyrannical boss. After getting that call from her doctor he cryptically mentioned that it really was not a good time for her to die - and thus a poem was born.
My poem would be more darkly amusing if the scenario wasn't as common as it is - far too many people experience the crazily careening whirligig of a ride referred to as "work-life balance" and feel overwhelmed. Research suggests that about one third of North Americans feel overloaded by work and family responsibilities, and that at the end of 2013, about 70% hadn't taken all of their vacation time. Sick days, however, are on the rise, as are depression and mental illness - no surprise in a world where more than half of the people surveyed routinely brought work home with them and reported that they felt that they had to be available to their employer 24/7.
Everywhere I go I see people who seem to be busy, tired and rushed. Studies I've read indicate that over the last twenty years, due to advances in technology, productivity in the workplace has increased by more than 80% on average in Canada, but stress has risen significantly too. If you glance back at my introductory poem you'll see that a few words stand out in bold print. That's because I think that three things weigh down the "work" side of the see-saw and leave "life" in midair. These three things are the notion that we should all multitask, our collective obsession with telephones and the endless, unrealistic deadlines of the workplace.
The Myth Of Multitasking
Nobody does one thing at a time anymore - at least nobody seems to but me, and since I'm a Luddite I barely count. My idea of multitasking is dusting while listening to music, or vacuuming the house during commercials. I might try to carry on a conversation while I'm making supper, but too often food and dialogue both suffer. In a multitasking world I'm resigned to being a serial tasker who can barely manage one thing at a time.
When my children were young I was able to sort of watch them and be otherwise productive, but that's my point exactly. Most of us can sort of do two or three things at once, but only the deluded are convinced that multiple things can be done well simultaneously. Parents today are estimated to spend twice as much time multitasking as they did thirty years ago, which might partially account for the number of unhappy kids I see in the grocery store being largely ignored while the adults in their lives chat and/or text on their phones while tossing food into the cart.
Today I witnessed what could have been an epic fail on the multitasking front in a shopping mall. I was somewhat startled to see a very small child (not more than two) sitting on a large coin powered horse ride with no adult nearby. The ride stopped, and the tyke decided that he wanted off, which was problematic because his legs were about four times shorter than the distance to the ground. I made a mad dash to catch him, but luckily he managed to right himself just as I reached him. I stood guard nearby, and when I saw an older woman come out of the nearest store I commented that I was worried about the child's safety since I'd seen him almost fall.
"Oh, he's fine," she assured me breezily, as she collected the lad saying, "Nana is ready to go home now, so say good-bye to Horsey."
I couldn't believe what I'd witnessed - a loving grandma who had so carelessly left such a small child unattended (and on a moving ride four feet from a cement floor) in a public place! But obviously she thought she'd come up with a clever way to amuse her grandson and get a little shopping done at the same time. And if a babysitting grandma feels the pressure to multitask, you can bet that employees feel doubly pushed to prove their efficiency by doing many things at once. After all...
There are Deadlines to be Met.
Employers often have unrealistic expectations - like wanting you to respond to the email they send you (at three in the morning) before your work day starts. (I've heard stories.) Statistically the work week is shorter than it used to be, but most Canadians report that they work longer days than ever before. Almost two thirds of the Canadians surveyed reported working 45 hours a week or more, compared to the thirty percent who put in that many hours two decades ago. And in spite of the long hours worked, most only get paid for the 36.6 hours they spend in the work place.
All of the unpaid overtime takes it's toll on family life - in the decade between 1995 and 2005 time spent with family dropped by an average of 45 minutes per day, and if you don't count hours spent watching television together it continues to drop. (More on that in a bit.) Parents use the money they saved for the vacations they didn't take to send their children to summer camp, which decreases family time by that much more. They "outsource" child care because they have too much work to do to meet impossible deadlines. There is evidence that parents spend more time in the physical presence of their children than ever before, but less time actually interacting with them. Hmmm - now what could be responsible for that gap? My theory is technology.
Telephones (and Computers and Televisions)
I've already mentioned how a lot of employees feel pressure to take calls from the office in the evenings and on weekends, but besides tethering many to the workplace, telephones have been able to replace all kinds of gadgetry. What other device can be used as a flashlight, a level, a calorie tracker and a GPS? The sad thing is, the smarter phones get the stupider people get about phones. People drive and text, they cross streets and text, they eat and text; they sit in meetings and text. Most North Americans leave their phones beside their beds, and check them immediately before they go to sleep and immediately after waking. Telephone use is responsible for one third of the more than six hours that Canadians spend during their scant leisure hours on electronic devices. The report I read broke it down like this:
Each day, on average, Canadians play with their phones 124 minutes, watch television 104 minutes, use a PC or laptop 97 minutes, and use a tablet for 51 minutes.The average Canadian child spends about eight hours daily with electronic devices, and fewer than four hours with his or her parents - some of which is spent simultaneously viewing the same or different screens, which doesn't exactly qualify as "quality time."
Perhaps some of the facts and estimates I've mentioned are the reasons why only 23% of Canadians feel that they're highly satisfied with their lives. They're spending all of their see-saw time on the ground at work while their unused vacation days hover out of reach and their children get driven off to day camp with the nanny.
I have grave concerns about the way so many have bought into the notion that doing more things all at once (in a half-baked way) is better than concentrating on doing one thing at a time. I find it disturbing that work life continues to crowd out family life because of the technological advances that should be shortening our work days. Go ahead and blame it on the deadlines and the unrealistic expectations placed on you, but somewhere deep inside you know where the problem really lies.
In the End We All Choose
Yup - you read that right. Everyone can set limits - and where employment is concerned everyone should. You can choose to not take calls after work or on your days off. You can choose to turn off your screens and shut off your telephones and engage with your spouse and kids. My gravest concern is that so few are making good choices. Somewhere out there, men and women are multitasking their way through the momentous occasions of life - the beginnings and endings and the celebrations. Some parent is missing a child's first step or a parent's last breath while they check their email or catch up with the lives of acquaintances on Facebook.
Remember, life is short - and on our deathbeds we're not likely to look back and wish we'd spent more time at the office, or on the phone with the boss. Put down thy phone and talk - engage with the world around you and the people you love most.
And with that I'm signing off. I think I'll go visit my mother.
Your project isn't finished yet
I must apologize -
it would be finished, you can bet
but for Mother's demise.
For good departure time she failed
to anyone consult,
but nonetheless death has prevailed
and this is the result.
It's obvious her time of death
was most inopportune -
I hear she took her parting breath
a little bit past noon.
Had she postponed 'til end of day
as I would have preferred,
my inbox would be cleared away;
work would not be deferred.
To finish up I did my best
at her visitation,
and almost cleared away the rest
during the cremation.
By her graveside I multitasked
but sadly all was lost
when for my clump of dirt they asked
and Blackberry I tossed.
It landed in her open grave
and was retrieved, but then
because I hadn't yet hit "save"
I had to start again.
Despite the inconvenience
that I have put you through,
dare I beg you for lenience
and hope I'll trust accrue?
I promise I will do my best
to see all deadlines met -
my mother has been laid to rest,
and Dad's not dying yet.
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, October 5, 2007
In 2007 my mother-in-law had a lot of health issues and was in and out of the hospital for months on end. At one point we were summoned to the hospital and advised to say our good-byes. (Advice that was a bit premature since she lived several more years.) It was a rough time for my husband, who was constantly working - at his office by day and at home most evenings in order to satisfy the demands of a slightly tyrannical boss. After getting that call from her doctor he cryptically mentioned that it really was not a good time for her to die - and thus a poem was born.
My poem would be more darkly amusing if the scenario wasn't as common as it is - far too many people experience the crazily careening whirligig of a ride referred to as "work-life balance" and feel overwhelmed. Research suggests that about one third of North Americans feel overloaded by work and family responsibilities, and that at the end of 2013, about 70% hadn't taken all of their vacation time. Sick days, however, are on the rise, as are depression and mental illness - no surprise in a world where more than half of the people surveyed routinely brought work home with them and reported that they felt that they had to be available to their employer 24/7.
Everywhere I go I see people who seem to be busy, tired and rushed. Studies I've read indicate that over the last twenty years, due to advances in technology, productivity in the workplace has increased by more than 80% on average in Canada, but stress has risen significantly too. If you glance back at my introductory poem you'll see that a few words stand out in bold print. That's because I think that three things weigh down the "work" side of the see-saw and leave "life" in midair. These three things are the notion that we should all multitask, our collective obsession with telephones and the endless, unrealistic deadlines of the workplace.
The Myth Of Multitasking
Nobody does one thing at a time anymore - at least nobody seems to but me, and since I'm a Luddite I barely count. My idea of multitasking is dusting while listening to music, or vacuuming the house during commercials. I might try to carry on a conversation while I'm making supper, but too often food and dialogue both suffer. In a multitasking world I'm resigned to being a serial tasker who can barely manage one thing at a time.
When my children were young I was able to sort of watch them and be otherwise productive, but that's my point exactly. Most of us can sort of do two or three things at once, but only the deluded are convinced that multiple things can be done well simultaneously. Parents today are estimated to spend twice as much time multitasking as they did thirty years ago, which might partially account for the number of unhappy kids I see in the grocery store being largely ignored while the adults in their lives chat and/or text on their phones while tossing food into the cart.
Today I witnessed what could have been an epic fail on the multitasking front in a shopping mall. I was somewhat startled to see a very small child (not more than two) sitting on a large coin powered horse ride with no adult nearby. The ride stopped, and the tyke decided that he wanted off, which was problematic because his legs were about four times shorter than the distance to the ground. I made a mad dash to catch him, but luckily he managed to right himself just as I reached him. I stood guard nearby, and when I saw an older woman come out of the nearest store I commented that I was worried about the child's safety since I'd seen him almost fall.
"Oh, he's fine," she assured me breezily, as she collected the lad saying, "Nana is ready to go home now, so say good-bye to Horsey."
I couldn't believe what I'd witnessed - a loving grandma who had so carelessly left such a small child unattended (and on a moving ride four feet from a cement floor) in a public place! But obviously she thought she'd come up with a clever way to amuse her grandson and get a little shopping done at the same time. And if a babysitting grandma feels the pressure to multitask, you can bet that employees feel doubly pushed to prove their efficiency by doing many things at once. After all...
There are Deadlines to be Met.
Employers often have unrealistic expectations - like wanting you to respond to the email they send you (at three in the morning) before your work day starts. (I've heard stories.) Statistically the work week is shorter than it used to be, but most Canadians report that they work longer days than ever before. Almost two thirds of the Canadians surveyed reported working 45 hours a week or more, compared to the thirty percent who put in that many hours two decades ago. And in spite of the long hours worked, most only get paid for the 36.6 hours they spend in the work place.
All of the unpaid overtime takes it's toll on family life - in the decade between 1995 and 2005 time spent with family dropped by an average of 45 minutes per day, and if you don't count hours spent watching television together it continues to drop. (More on that in a bit.) Parents use the money they saved for the vacations they didn't take to send their children to summer camp, which decreases family time by that much more. They "outsource" child care because they have too much work to do to meet impossible deadlines. There is evidence that parents spend more time in the physical presence of their children than ever before, but less time actually interacting with them. Hmmm - now what could be responsible for that gap? My theory is technology.
Telephones (and Computers and Televisions)
I've already mentioned how a lot of employees feel pressure to take calls from the office in the evenings and on weekends, but besides tethering many to the workplace, telephones have been able to replace all kinds of gadgetry. What other device can be used as a flashlight, a level, a calorie tracker and a GPS? The sad thing is, the smarter phones get the stupider people get about phones. People drive and text, they cross streets and text, they eat and text; they sit in meetings and text. Most North Americans leave their phones beside their beds, and check them immediately before they go to sleep and immediately after waking. Telephone use is responsible for one third of the more than six hours that Canadians spend during their scant leisure hours on electronic devices. The report I read broke it down like this:
Each day, on average, Canadians play with their phones 124 minutes, watch television 104 minutes, use a PC or laptop 97 minutes, and use a tablet for 51 minutes.The average Canadian child spends about eight hours daily with electronic devices, and fewer than four hours with his or her parents - some of which is spent simultaneously viewing the same or different screens, which doesn't exactly qualify as "quality time."
Perhaps some of the facts and estimates I've mentioned are the reasons why only 23% of Canadians feel that they're highly satisfied with their lives. They're spending all of their see-saw time on the ground at work while their unused vacation days hover out of reach and their children get driven off to day camp with the nanny.
I have grave concerns about the way so many have bought into the notion that doing more things all at once (in a half-baked way) is better than concentrating on doing one thing at a time. I find it disturbing that work life continues to crowd out family life because of the technological advances that should be shortening our work days. Go ahead and blame it on the deadlines and the unrealistic expectations placed on you, but somewhere deep inside you know where the problem really lies.
In the End We All Choose
Yup - you read that right. Everyone can set limits - and where employment is concerned everyone should. You can choose to not take calls after work or on your days off. You can choose to turn off your screens and shut off your telephones and engage with your spouse and kids. My gravest concern is that so few are making good choices. Somewhere out there, men and women are multitasking their way through the momentous occasions of life - the beginnings and endings and the celebrations. Some parent is missing a child's first step or a parent's last breath while they check their email or catch up with the lives of acquaintances on Facebook.
Remember, life is short - and on our deathbeds we're not likely to look back and wish we'd spent more time at the office, or on the phone with the boss. Put down thy phone and talk - engage with the world around you and the people you love most.
And with that I'm signing off. I think I'll go visit my mother.
Thursday, 16 October 2014
A Glimmer of Hope at the End of the Day - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg
At End of Day
Contrary to early reports
the evening finds me out of sorts -
my brain feels overtaxed;
my body's not relaxed.
The notion may seem radical
but mind is on sabbatical,
it functions in low gear
although it isn't here.
Still I insist that I am fine -
I know it's better not to whine
since everything's okay
in spite of wasted day.
But none the less I'm overtired
and grateful that no thought's required -
no notions for my brain
to grasp or to retain.
Now I'm prepared to merely sit
and rest my weary bones a bit
so turn on the TV
and I'll stare mindlessly.
Once it is time for me to sleep
I'll utter prayer for slumber deep
to clear my garbled mind;
leave hopeless day behind.
Tomorrow I'll face life anew,
perhaps my problems will be few -
my morning dose of hope
will tell me I can cope.
Each new dawn finds me more content
than I am when the day is spent,
the hours go by too fast -
I wish mornings would last.
Too often come those afternoons
when optimism's gone too soon,
intentions will derail
as hopelessness prevails.
Should I not feel at end of day
that I've improved the world some way -
or just myself perhaps?
Instead - I just collapse.
Perhaps in dreams I'll solace find.
I'll wake in sync with humankind
and in the hopeful dawn
find strength to carry on
beyond the morn and afternoon,
and feel as eve'ning comes too soon,
though energy has waned
some hope is still retained.
by Sharon Flood Kasenberg (finished October, 2014)
Consider the power of hope.
"Hope is often the only thing between man and the abyss"
- Dale Archer, (MD, psychiatrist and author)
Most days I wake up feeling hopeful. I greet the day groggily, but gladly - fairly certain that today I'll find the answers to at least some of yesterday's conundrums. But too often things happen to derail my happy little locomotive in its uphill climb. The sky is grey, the family isn't cooperative; I feel fat. I can't find the tools I need, or the right ingredients, to make hope hover magically throughout my entire day. And so it goes - poof - in an instant.
Heaven knows, I want hope to be magical. I wake up with all kinds of hope, looking for shiny unicorns, but it drains too quickly when the wicked witch appears instead. My anger bubbles over as I begin to listen to the ever present negative chorus in my head. Hope dissipates when I repeat all of the time wasting habits that kept me from solving yesterday's problems yesterday. Some say that's the definition of insanity, but I amend that by stating that's only the case when you honestly expect a better outcome from the same old tired routines. I'm sane enough to know better, but sometimes just too lethargic to do better. Sometimes maintaining a hopeful attitude feels like work. And so I ignore my saner instincts and go with delusion (which is almost magic - right?). Sadly it never lasts - and by end of day I feel hopelessly mired in guilt and self loathing. Another day has been wasted - nothing has improved, and riddles go unsolved. I'm hopelessly paralyzed by self doubt and not sure where to even begin fixing everything that seems messed up in my corner of the universe.
On those days I cede empowerment to hopelessness. Having cracked open my thick skull to admit the voice of delusion into the mix, I up my ante and cede my ears to the rest of the hopeless chorus. I allow myself to be serenaded by the siren songs of failure. I wallow in the abyss of hopeless misery, and when that gets old I welcome my old nemesis - anger. I rant and rave.
"Hope shapes your methods of traversing your current situation"
- Mary C. Lamia, PhD, psychologist
The last day I raged at the world - via the ears of my long suffering spouse - he asked me a good question - one that took hold in my head.
"What one thing are you going to do differently tomorrow?"
Finally, the voice of reason could be heard over the din! One. Thing. Differently. Three words reminded me that I don't need to shake up my entire routine to be more productive. I don't need to give up my morning rituals to maintain hope a little longer the day after the meltdown. What I really need to do is make one small change. Hope is kind of like that small flickering flame on those nice fast food commercials that are aired at Christmas time. It doesn't take much to extinguish it, but it doesn't take much to keep it lit either. I don't need to open windows and invite the winds of frustration, laziness or any other rampant negativity to blow out my candle of hope.
If I can manage to keep that flicker going my days are more productive and I'm happier.
In the last of his Christmas eve sermons, Marin Luther King had every reason to abandon hope and relinquish his dream of better days to come. From all appearances, times were getting worse - racial intolerance had resulted in a church bombing in Birmingham, Alabama. Poverty in the US was continuing to climb while war raged on in Vietnam. And still he refused to stop believing in his dream, and told his listeners that they must continue to cling to hope.
"If you lose hope, somehow you lose that vitality that keeps life moving, you lose that courage to be, that quality that helps you go in spite of all. And so today I still have a dream."
-Martin Luther King
Hope springs eternal - if we let it. Will I still have bad days? I can hope not, even if I know I will. The abyss will always be present and the absence of hope will too often lure each of us to its edge. But that flicker of hope is only a match strike away from becoming a beacon to lead us away from the abyss. The voice of hope can still drown out the most negative chorus. Small stirrings of hope can still save us from those miserable days when everything seems most dismal.
Every small change for the better invites hope, and hope is powerful stuff. At the end of your worst days, if you have nothing but a glimmer of hope for a better day tomorrow - you have enough.
Contrary to early reports
the evening finds me out of sorts -
my brain feels overtaxed;
my body's not relaxed.
The notion may seem radical
but mind is on sabbatical,
it functions in low gear
although it isn't here.
Still I insist that I am fine -
I know it's better not to whine
since everything's okay
in spite of wasted day.
But none the less I'm overtired
and grateful that no thought's required -
no notions for my brain
to grasp or to retain.
Now I'm prepared to merely sit
and rest my weary bones a bit
so turn on the TV
and I'll stare mindlessly.
Once it is time for me to sleep
I'll utter prayer for slumber deep
to clear my garbled mind;
leave hopeless day behind.
Tomorrow I'll face life anew,
perhaps my problems will be few -
my morning dose of hope
will tell me I can cope.
Each new dawn finds me more content
than I am when the day is spent,
the hours go by too fast -
I wish mornings would last.
Too often come those afternoons
when optimism's gone too soon,
intentions will derail
as hopelessness prevails.
Should I not feel at end of day
that I've improved the world some way -
or just myself perhaps?
Instead - I just collapse.
Perhaps in dreams I'll solace find.
I'll wake in sync with humankind
and in the hopeful dawn
find strength to carry on
beyond the morn and afternoon,
and feel as eve'ning comes too soon,
though energy has waned
some hope is still retained.
by Sharon Flood Kasenberg (finished October, 2014)
Consider the power of hope.
"Hope is often the only thing between man and the abyss"
- Dale Archer, (MD, psychiatrist and author)
Most days I wake up feeling hopeful. I greet the day groggily, but gladly - fairly certain that today I'll find the answers to at least some of yesterday's conundrums. But too often things happen to derail my happy little locomotive in its uphill climb. The sky is grey, the family isn't cooperative; I feel fat. I can't find the tools I need, or the right ingredients, to make hope hover magically throughout my entire day. And so it goes - poof - in an instant.
Heaven knows, I want hope to be magical. I wake up with all kinds of hope, looking for shiny unicorns, but it drains too quickly when the wicked witch appears instead. My anger bubbles over as I begin to listen to the ever present negative chorus in my head. Hope dissipates when I repeat all of the time wasting habits that kept me from solving yesterday's problems yesterday. Some say that's the definition of insanity, but I amend that by stating that's only the case when you honestly expect a better outcome from the same old tired routines. I'm sane enough to know better, but sometimes just too lethargic to do better. Sometimes maintaining a hopeful attitude feels like work. And so I ignore my saner instincts and go with delusion (which is almost magic - right?). Sadly it never lasts - and by end of day I feel hopelessly mired in guilt and self loathing. Another day has been wasted - nothing has improved, and riddles go unsolved. I'm hopelessly paralyzed by self doubt and not sure where to even begin fixing everything that seems messed up in my corner of the universe.
On those days I cede empowerment to hopelessness. Having cracked open my thick skull to admit the voice of delusion into the mix, I up my ante and cede my ears to the rest of the hopeless chorus. I allow myself to be serenaded by the siren songs of failure. I wallow in the abyss of hopeless misery, and when that gets old I welcome my old nemesis - anger. I rant and rave.
"Hope shapes your methods of traversing your current situation"
- Mary C. Lamia, PhD, psychologist
The last day I raged at the world - via the ears of my long suffering spouse - he asked me a good question - one that took hold in my head.
"What one thing are you going to do differently tomorrow?"
Finally, the voice of reason could be heard over the din! One. Thing. Differently. Three words reminded me that I don't need to shake up my entire routine to be more productive. I don't need to give up my morning rituals to maintain hope a little longer the day after the meltdown. What I really need to do is make one small change. Hope is kind of like that small flickering flame on those nice fast food commercials that are aired at Christmas time. It doesn't take much to extinguish it, but it doesn't take much to keep it lit either. I don't need to open windows and invite the winds of frustration, laziness or any other rampant negativity to blow out my candle of hope.
If I can manage to keep that flicker going my days are more productive and I'm happier.
In the last of his Christmas eve sermons, Marin Luther King had every reason to abandon hope and relinquish his dream of better days to come. From all appearances, times were getting worse - racial intolerance had resulted in a church bombing in Birmingham, Alabama. Poverty in the US was continuing to climb while war raged on in Vietnam. And still he refused to stop believing in his dream, and told his listeners that they must continue to cling to hope.
"If you lose hope, somehow you lose that vitality that keeps life moving, you lose that courage to be, that quality that helps you go in spite of all. And so today I still have a dream."
-Martin Luther King
Hope springs eternal - if we let it. Will I still have bad days? I can hope not, even if I know I will. The abyss will always be present and the absence of hope will too often lure each of us to its edge. But that flicker of hope is only a match strike away from becoming a beacon to lead us away from the abyss. The voice of hope can still drown out the most negative chorus. Small stirrings of hope can still save us from those miserable days when everything seems most dismal.
Every small change for the better invites hope, and hope is powerful stuff. At the end of your worst days, if you have nothing but a glimmer of hope for a better day tomorrow - you have enough.
Thursday, 25 September 2014
Missing: A Few Middle Aged Brain Cells! By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Middle Aged Brain
A middle aged moment
is full of stark truth:
I'm not quite as sharp as
I was in my youth.
I stand in my kitchen -
hmmm - why am I here?
Just seconds ago it
seemed purpose was clear.
"Oh well - no big worry"
says middle aged brain,
"If reason's important
I'll find it again."
So middle aged body
just reaches for broom
intent on not wasting
a trip to this room,
and middle aged fingers
find paper and pen
and begin jotting notes
about what to do when.
I have to make lists now
and write myself notes,
which I find in pockets
of jackets and coats.
I list things to do and
I list things to buy -
sometimes they're obscure lists
made I don't know why.
My powers of recall
oft' put to the test,
I lose things too often.
It leaves me distressed.
It seems that I put things
in some "nice safe place" -
a secret location
mind's sure to erase.
Senility's lurking -
can things get much worse?
How many more brain cells
are bound to disperse?
Still, middle aged brain has
put pride on the shelf
and gratefully knows how
to laugh at itself.
I once told my mother,
"If you lose your mind
don't trust me to notice -
I'm not far behind!"
Oh middle aged brain, you
are not all that swift,
you concentrate badly,
and let yourself drift.
I thank you for giving
me reasons to smile.
I won't overtax you -
hang in there a while!
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, September 2014
It was another one of those days when the middle aged grey matter just wasn't up to snuff.
I had rescheduled my usual gym day in order to get my hair cut, so I got up and dressed and decided I should be productive until it was time to go. I ate breakfast, threw in some laundry and folded some clothes from the dryer. Then. as I was bringing a load of towels to the upstairs bathroom I noticed the dirty grout around the tub and remembered that I'd been meaning to give it a good scrub with the stuff that cleaned up the grout in the basement bathroom so nicely.
Back downstairs I went to get the grout cleaner so I could begin the task. Of course I couldn't just scrub grout without cleaning the window, and (of course) the dirt from the window and the grout both dripped into the tub and so I needed to clean it too. Then I noticed how slimy the shower curtain was, and pulled it off to toss into the washer. And the whole time I was scrubbing I had this niggling feeling that I was forgetting something.
As I rinsed out my sponge in the sink I caught sight of myself in the mirror and realized I hadn't even brushed my hair yet, so I headed toward the main floor powder room to grab my hairbrush - and as I pulled it through my hair I suddenly remembered that I'd scheduled a hair appointment that day - but when? I hunted down my purse to find the appointment slip, and consulted the nearest clock. Needless to say, in my attempt to not waste time before my hair cut I'd forgotten about the appointment altogether.
I felt really stupid when I called my hairdresser. Luckily she was understanding and able to re-scedule me for later in the day. We both wrote the missed appointment off as just another of those middle-aged brain freeze moments - the kind I've experienced all too often lately. One of my most humiliating had occurred about a week before.
After spending a week away as a family my first task was to clear all the dirty laundry out of our suitcases. I didn't pay any attention to the fact that there was laundry that hadn't been tackled before we'd left - an important detail in the story I'm about to relate.
A few days after we'd returned home I noticed that I couldn't find my favorite sports bra. So I dug out my old one and wore it on the treadmill. But the next day I noticed that another bra seemed to be missing. Again I figured it would show up. Two days later I hoped to head out to the gym, but realized that not only were three of my bras now missing (a big deal, since I currently have six), but two of my workout tops were missing as well!
I proceeded to hunt for my missing attire - searched all my drawers, looked under my bed and behind the washer and dryer - I even checked the laundry baskets I'd sent upstairs full of my sons' clean laundry. Finally I asked my older son if he'd seen any stray bras kicking around.
"What exactly are you accusing me of, Mom?" he deadpanned.
I explained that I was missing some bras and workout tops and he assured me they hadn't ended up in any of his drawers. I rechecked all the places I'd already looked, and feeling frustrated, called my husband at work to vent. I told him I had looked everywhere I could think of, and was getting a bit paranoid - was some lunatic sneaking into our house and making off with my underwear and workout clothes? I mean, wouldn't he be a bit freaked out if half his underwear suddenly went missing?
He agreed it seemed odd, and suggested a few places to look - all of which I'd already covered.
"I'll help you look when I get home," he told me. "Sometimes when things disappear it just takes another person who's not already frustrated to locate them."
I put my missing attire out of my mind and busied myself with other tasks. And when I opened my husband's closet a few hours later to put something away I noticed the basket of laundry on the floor - all of the items I hadn't bothered to wash before we went away - including thee bras and two workout tops.
When I called my husband to tell him I'd found the missing items I was laughing so hard he couldn't understand me. We were both a bit amazed by the fact that neither of us had thought of the most obvious place to look.
"Please tell me you didn't tell anyone in the office about my missing laundry!" I begged him when he got home.
"Too late" he laughed. "Now they're all calling you The Bra Hunter."
It might take me a while to live that one down - at least until my middle aged brain has another misfire.
Which means we'll all forget that incident soon enough.
A middle aged moment
is full of stark truth:
I'm not quite as sharp as
I was in my youth.
I stand in my kitchen -
hmmm - why am I here?
Just seconds ago it
seemed purpose was clear.
"Oh well - no big worry"
says middle aged brain,
"If reason's important
I'll find it again."
So middle aged body
just reaches for broom
intent on not wasting
a trip to this room,
and middle aged fingers
find paper and pen
and begin jotting notes
about what to do when.
I have to make lists now
and write myself notes,
which I find in pockets
of jackets and coats.
I list things to do and
I list things to buy -
sometimes they're obscure lists
made I don't know why.
My powers of recall
oft' put to the test,
I lose things too often.
It leaves me distressed.
It seems that I put things
in some "nice safe place" -
a secret location
mind's sure to erase.
Senility's lurking -
can things get much worse?
How many more brain cells
are bound to disperse?
Still, middle aged brain has
put pride on the shelf
and gratefully knows how
to laugh at itself.
I once told my mother,
"If you lose your mind
don't trust me to notice -
I'm not far behind!"
Oh middle aged brain, you
are not all that swift,
you concentrate badly,
and let yourself drift.
I thank you for giving
me reasons to smile.
I won't overtax you -
hang in there a while!
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, September 2014
It was another one of those days when the middle aged grey matter just wasn't up to snuff.
I had rescheduled my usual gym day in order to get my hair cut, so I got up and dressed and decided I should be productive until it was time to go. I ate breakfast, threw in some laundry and folded some clothes from the dryer. Then. as I was bringing a load of towels to the upstairs bathroom I noticed the dirty grout around the tub and remembered that I'd been meaning to give it a good scrub with the stuff that cleaned up the grout in the basement bathroom so nicely.
Back downstairs I went to get the grout cleaner so I could begin the task. Of course I couldn't just scrub grout without cleaning the window, and (of course) the dirt from the window and the grout both dripped into the tub and so I needed to clean it too. Then I noticed how slimy the shower curtain was, and pulled it off to toss into the washer. And the whole time I was scrubbing I had this niggling feeling that I was forgetting something.
As I rinsed out my sponge in the sink I caught sight of myself in the mirror and realized I hadn't even brushed my hair yet, so I headed toward the main floor powder room to grab my hairbrush - and as I pulled it through my hair I suddenly remembered that I'd scheduled a hair appointment that day - but when? I hunted down my purse to find the appointment slip, and consulted the nearest clock. Needless to say, in my attempt to not waste time before my hair cut I'd forgotten about the appointment altogether.
I felt really stupid when I called my hairdresser. Luckily she was understanding and able to re-scedule me for later in the day. We both wrote the missed appointment off as just another of those middle-aged brain freeze moments - the kind I've experienced all too often lately. One of my most humiliating had occurred about a week before.
After spending a week away as a family my first task was to clear all the dirty laundry out of our suitcases. I didn't pay any attention to the fact that there was laundry that hadn't been tackled before we'd left - an important detail in the story I'm about to relate.
A few days after we'd returned home I noticed that I couldn't find my favorite sports bra. So I dug out my old one and wore it on the treadmill. But the next day I noticed that another bra seemed to be missing. Again I figured it would show up. Two days later I hoped to head out to the gym, but realized that not only were three of my bras now missing (a big deal, since I currently have six), but two of my workout tops were missing as well!
I proceeded to hunt for my missing attire - searched all my drawers, looked under my bed and behind the washer and dryer - I even checked the laundry baskets I'd sent upstairs full of my sons' clean laundry. Finally I asked my older son if he'd seen any stray bras kicking around.
"What exactly are you accusing me of, Mom?" he deadpanned.
I explained that I was missing some bras and workout tops and he assured me they hadn't ended up in any of his drawers. I rechecked all the places I'd already looked, and feeling frustrated, called my husband at work to vent. I told him I had looked everywhere I could think of, and was getting a bit paranoid - was some lunatic sneaking into our house and making off with my underwear and workout clothes? I mean, wouldn't he be a bit freaked out if half his underwear suddenly went missing?
He agreed it seemed odd, and suggested a few places to look - all of which I'd already covered.
"I'll help you look when I get home," he told me. "Sometimes when things disappear it just takes another person who's not already frustrated to locate them."
I put my missing attire out of my mind and busied myself with other tasks. And when I opened my husband's closet a few hours later to put something away I noticed the basket of laundry on the floor - all of the items I hadn't bothered to wash before we went away - including thee bras and two workout tops.
When I called my husband to tell him I'd found the missing items I was laughing so hard he couldn't understand me. We were both a bit amazed by the fact that neither of us had thought of the most obvious place to look.
"Please tell me you didn't tell anyone in the office about my missing laundry!" I begged him when he got home.
"Too late" he laughed. "Now they're all calling you The Bra Hunter."
It might take me a while to live that one down - at least until my middle aged brain has another misfire.
Which means we'll all forget that incident soon enough.
Monday, 8 September 2014
Beyond the Boundaries: A Look at Ists and Isms - By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
ISTS:
The pessimist sees every flaw
and therefore always doubts;
the anarchist's disdain for law
will keep him on the outs.
The optimist is so upbeat
that he tends to annoy
for he will not admit defeat
and greets each day with joy.
The realists are pragmatic
and see things as they are,
but extremists are fanatic
and take things way too far.
The elitist thinks he's better
than just the average guy,
he's an A-list jet-setter
who hopes to heaven buy.
Revisionists, those editors,
delete what lacks appeal -
and terrorists are predators
with missionary zeal.
A narcissist is self-obsessed
with love enough for one,
and a defeatist is distressed
before the day's half done.
Hedonists think that pleasure
is all we should pursue;
perfectionists are never pleased
with anything they do.
The pacifist believes that peace
should come at any cost -
the pugilist will never cease
to fight, though rounds he's lost.
Theologists keep seeking God,
believing He is there;
while atheists are under-awed
and haven't got a prayer.
I can't be an apologist
for all humanity.
I think perhaps we'd co-exist
a bit more peacefully
if we spent time emphasizing
the common traits we share -
and we practiced empathizing
and demonstrating care.
But we tout our ists and isms
and let them us define -
although they induce schisms,
you have "yours" and I "mine".
I'm aiming to be humanist
in my philosophy -
to be more strict economist
with own theosophy.
In striving for indemnity
we're learning to transcend
our ist and ism enmity;
we're learning how to bend.
And though opinions I may air
through criticisms here,
I'm hoping you'll my viewpoint share -
one truth, to me, seems clear.
In spite of our diversity
we really ought to find
a little equanimity
with all of humankind.
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, August 30, 2014
Human beings are a mass of contradictions. We pay lip service to political correctness while our behaviors too often indicate that we are anything but tolerant. We wave our political and religious views like red flags before us, inciting the irritation and wrath of those who hold other beliefs and opinions. We actively push our philosophies in public venues in hopes of winning over those around us. We are all ridiculously wrong headed about being right.
There was a time, and not so very long ago, when it was considered bad form to discuss religion or politics in social settings. The rationale for this was that social settings provided opportunities to be sociable - to pass the time pleasantly interacting with one another. That can be difficult to do when people become aggressive about imposing their "ists and isms" on a captive audience.
I blog about a wide variety of topics. I like to share my opinions and observations with anyone who wants to read them. However, two subjects I refuse to tackle are religion and politics. My views on those subjects are my own, and not about to become part of the public domain and thus subject to the scrutiny and criticism of the masses. I don't want to be defined by theological beliefs or political leanings. In truth, I hold to a personal set of religious beliefs that are mine alone, and I've voted across the board. Age has granted me experience and opportunities to see that we are all unique individuals. We do not necessarily believe everything the person in the next pew does, even if we do sit in a common congregation. We may not join the political party of the candidate we voted for. We may not wish to define ourselves with an ist or an ism. We may not want to limit others' impressions of ourselves through broadcasting particular religious or political affiliations. Perhaps there are many others who, like myself, just want others to get to know us as individuals before first impressions are muddied by sharing more divisive opinions.
I've come to believe that the world is full of hot buttons just waiting to be pushed. A lot of those buttons can be found on Facebook. Status updates have changed a lot over the past half dozen years. What started with people sharing tidbits about their daily routines has morphed into a somewhat nasty, free-for-all forum where many rather forcefully impose their ideologies, while implying that those whose ideas do not mesh with theirs are simply too stupid to understand "the facts". And lets face it, those "facts" are in a constant state of flux. Google has become adept at tracking our online exchanges and searches, and will now offer each of us the tailor-made "evidence" of our superior intellect and discernment (just Google "filter bubble" for an education). While I can handle people sharing information about a cause that matters to them, I grow increasingly irritated by those who expect me to "like", "share", "re-post" or (worst of all) sign a petition to forward their cause. I don't like the assumption implied that I feel the same way they do - or that I would share their passion for the cause if I was as smart as they are. Furthermore, I feel that I'm being put on the spot - I'm being measured, and may ultimately be found wanting.
You see, I'm only too well aware that (for many people) sharing opinions isn't enough - they want to know others feel the same way. And sometimes they don't. These people want to convince those around them to embrace the "truth" as they see it. And most times they won't. To those people I offer three little words - get over it. I've been learning this lesson the hard way most of my life - it is a fact that nobody really needs to agree with me. Those who refuse to see things the way I do are every bit as entitled to their opinions as I am to mine They are still (mostly) good people, and we don't need to see eye to eye to care about each other.
I have grown tired of seeing people hide behind their ists and isms - tired of witnessing, and experiencing, the insularity that results when we expect to spend our days surrounded by those who echo back our own dogma. In fact, I'm pretty tired of dogma - period. I think a lot, I believe some things, but I've come to the conclusion that I really don't know much at all - and I'm fine with that. It is oddly liberating to admit to ignorance. I don't want to waste my days arguing with those of you who think you've worked out the answers to everything. I'd rather spend my time on social media being sociable. (I know that sounds like a tall order, but I believe it's possible.) And when I actually see you face to face I'd prefer to spend those precious hours focusing our conversation on what we have in common, rather than on those things about which we disagree. Whatever divisive views we may hold, we can, and should, still be able to find commonalities - we should at least be able to disagree agreeably and get along.
We really don't need to believe alike, or think alike, to love alike.
So if I'm going to be defined as an ist, let me be a pragmatist who believes it just makes more sense to accept, and even try to love, those who view the world differently. Let me be a humanist who has faith in others and their ability to find common ground, for the common good. If I must be defined by an ism - if I need to enroll in a school of thought - I'll choose optimism. Some of you would choose differently, and that's okay.
Feel free to disagree, but I think it just makes sense to maintain hope that we can move beyond the self-imposed boundaries of ist and ism.
The pessimist sees every flaw
and therefore always doubts;
the anarchist's disdain for law
will keep him on the outs.
The optimist is so upbeat
that he tends to annoy
for he will not admit defeat
and greets each day with joy.
The realists are pragmatic
and see things as they are,
but extremists are fanatic
and take things way too far.
The elitist thinks he's better
than just the average guy,
he's an A-list jet-setter
who hopes to heaven buy.
Revisionists, those editors,
delete what lacks appeal -
and terrorists are predators
with missionary zeal.
A narcissist is self-obsessed
with love enough for one,
and a defeatist is distressed
before the day's half done.
Hedonists think that pleasure
is all we should pursue;
perfectionists are never pleased
with anything they do.
The pacifist believes that peace
should come at any cost -
the pugilist will never cease
to fight, though rounds he's lost.
Theologists keep seeking God,
believing He is there;
while atheists are under-awed
and haven't got a prayer.
I can't be an apologist
for all humanity.
I think perhaps we'd co-exist
a bit more peacefully
if we spent time emphasizing
the common traits we share -
and we practiced empathizing
and demonstrating care.
But we tout our ists and isms
and let them us define -
although they induce schisms,
you have "yours" and I "mine".
I'm aiming to be humanist
in my philosophy -
to be more strict economist
with own theosophy.
In striving for indemnity
we're learning to transcend
our ist and ism enmity;
we're learning how to bend.
And though opinions I may air
through criticisms here,
I'm hoping you'll my viewpoint share -
one truth, to me, seems clear.
In spite of our diversity
we really ought to find
a little equanimity
with all of humankind.
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, August 30, 2014
Human beings are a mass of contradictions. We pay lip service to political correctness while our behaviors too often indicate that we are anything but tolerant. We wave our political and religious views like red flags before us, inciting the irritation and wrath of those who hold other beliefs and opinions. We actively push our philosophies in public venues in hopes of winning over those around us. We are all ridiculously wrong headed about being right.
There was a time, and not so very long ago, when it was considered bad form to discuss religion or politics in social settings. The rationale for this was that social settings provided opportunities to be sociable - to pass the time pleasantly interacting with one another. That can be difficult to do when people become aggressive about imposing their "ists and isms" on a captive audience.
I blog about a wide variety of topics. I like to share my opinions and observations with anyone who wants to read them. However, two subjects I refuse to tackle are religion and politics. My views on those subjects are my own, and not about to become part of the public domain and thus subject to the scrutiny and criticism of the masses. I don't want to be defined by theological beliefs or political leanings. In truth, I hold to a personal set of religious beliefs that are mine alone, and I've voted across the board. Age has granted me experience and opportunities to see that we are all unique individuals. We do not necessarily believe everything the person in the next pew does, even if we do sit in a common congregation. We may not join the political party of the candidate we voted for. We may not wish to define ourselves with an ist or an ism. We may not want to limit others' impressions of ourselves through broadcasting particular religious or political affiliations. Perhaps there are many others who, like myself, just want others to get to know us as individuals before first impressions are muddied by sharing more divisive opinions.
I've come to believe that the world is full of hot buttons just waiting to be pushed. A lot of those buttons can be found on Facebook. Status updates have changed a lot over the past half dozen years. What started with people sharing tidbits about their daily routines has morphed into a somewhat nasty, free-for-all forum where many rather forcefully impose their ideologies, while implying that those whose ideas do not mesh with theirs are simply too stupid to understand "the facts". And lets face it, those "facts" are in a constant state of flux. Google has become adept at tracking our online exchanges and searches, and will now offer each of us the tailor-made "evidence" of our superior intellect and discernment (just Google "filter bubble" for an education). While I can handle people sharing information about a cause that matters to them, I grow increasingly irritated by those who expect me to "like", "share", "re-post" or (worst of all) sign a petition to forward their cause. I don't like the assumption implied that I feel the same way they do - or that I would share their passion for the cause if I was as smart as they are. Furthermore, I feel that I'm being put on the spot - I'm being measured, and may ultimately be found wanting.
You see, I'm only too well aware that (for many people) sharing opinions isn't enough - they want to know others feel the same way. And sometimes they don't. These people want to convince those around them to embrace the "truth" as they see it. And most times they won't. To those people I offer three little words - get over it. I've been learning this lesson the hard way most of my life - it is a fact that nobody really needs to agree with me. Those who refuse to see things the way I do are every bit as entitled to their opinions as I am to mine They are still (mostly) good people, and we don't need to see eye to eye to care about each other.
I have grown tired of seeing people hide behind their ists and isms - tired of witnessing, and experiencing, the insularity that results when we expect to spend our days surrounded by those who echo back our own dogma. In fact, I'm pretty tired of dogma - period. I think a lot, I believe some things, but I've come to the conclusion that I really don't know much at all - and I'm fine with that. It is oddly liberating to admit to ignorance. I don't want to waste my days arguing with those of you who think you've worked out the answers to everything. I'd rather spend my time on social media being sociable. (I know that sounds like a tall order, but I believe it's possible.) And when I actually see you face to face I'd prefer to spend those precious hours focusing our conversation on what we have in common, rather than on those things about which we disagree. Whatever divisive views we may hold, we can, and should, still be able to find commonalities - we should at least be able to disagree agreeably and get along.
We really don't need to believe alike, or think alike, to love alike.
So if I'm going to be defined as an ist, let me be a pragmatist who believes it just makes more sense to accept, and even try to love, those who view the world differently. Let me be a humanist who has faith in others and their ability to find common ground, for the common good. If I must be defined by an ism - if I need to enroll in a school of thought - I'll choose optimism. Some of you would choose differently, and that's okay.
Feel free to disagree, but I think it just makes sense to maintain hope that we can move beyond the self-imposed boundaries of ist and ism.
Sunday, 24 August 2014
Don't Say it With Flowers! By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Don't Say It With Flowers!
My attitude's pragmatic
where romance is concerned -
I'm not a "love fanatic"
but through the years I've learned
that there's a certain sweetness
in tears and laughter shared;
a feeling of completeness
in knowing I am paired.
The rituals of dating
seemed complex in my youth,
thus I'm now educating
by sharing gems of truth:
No girl with sense supposes
when he ceases to spend
on candlelight and roses
her happiness will end.
Love isn't tabulated
in flowers that are sent.
Blossoms are over-rated
and reek of sentiment.
Affection lasts far longer
than flowers in a vase,
and love will just grow stronger
once you've embraced his flaws.
Infatuation passes,
it isn't meant to last.
You'll shed rose-coloured glasses
once that first thrill has passed.
Then you'll dispel old notions -
ignorance isn't bliss,
and negative emotions
don't vanish with a kiss.
If somehow you've concluded
your mate will always please,
then you, friend, are deluded
love has no guarantees.
Flies land in ev'ry ointment,
love isn't always grand.
There will be disappointment
when things don't go as planned.
Romance? It will come and go
like waves upon the shore -
ignore "the ebb", enjoy "the flow"
and you'll enjoy life more.
Flowers? They may come - or not.
They're pretty for a while.
But in time they'll fade and rot
and land on compost pile.
So when it comes to flowers
this moral may be learned -
cherish instead the hours
love's given and returned.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, August 2014
Tomorrow is my 26th Anniversary, and I'm not expecting flowers. It isn't that I don't like flowers - because I do. I'm just happier enjoying them in my garden. It isn't that my husband is a cheapskate, because he's not. He just knows that I'm not all that excited by floral arrangements. The scent is too cloying, the flowers fade too quickly and the pragmatic side of me has a hard time receiving expensive bouquets that are bound to end up in the trash.
I know women who brag about all of the flowers their spouses bring them. I'm not envious - in fact I think that a lot of thoughtless (or perhaps lazy) husbands use flowers as a very handy, unimaginative gift to mark every single occasion. Bring home a nice bouquet for the little woman and you're off the hook. Give your favorite flower shop all the significant dates, into their data base they go, and you, my friend, will never be in the doghouse for missing an anniversary or birthday again - right?
Well, I suppose that works fine if your wife isn't all that bright and hasn't picked up on how easy flowers are as a fallback gift - one that says, "I thought about you for the three minutes it took me to order a bouquet online from my chair today!" (Or maybe she crossed your mind for the thirty seconds that you panicked in the check out line, realizing that today was her birthday - before you spotted the grocery store solution to the dilemma.) I guess it's also okay if she really loves flowers and prefers them above any other gift you could ever give her. And while all you "romantic" guys may accuse me of being terribly unsentimental, I'm finding it hard to believe that there are many women out there who never want anything but flowers.
No - there will be no bouquets tomorrow, and I'm fine with that. We will celebrate as we do most years, with a quiet meal out at a nice restaurant - a meal I don't have to cook! (More of a thrill to my practical soul than flowers any day.) There have, of course, been years that we celebrated with more fanfare - on our tenth anniversary I got a ring and a weekend on the shores of Lake Michegan. Last year we celebrated 25 years with a trip to Europe, which I'm not looking to top any time soon. This year a meal out will be fine.
My husband has given me some great gifts over the years. One memorable Christmas when my sons were young he gave me gift certificates to a spa. It was bliss - quiet moments of pampering without a child in sight! He's also given me jewelry and clothing and lingerie - and miraculously I've liked most of it. The lingerie even fit! (I was pretty astounded by that last part, but when I marveled at that fact he shrugged it off by telling me he just looked at the sizes on the items I had.) Nice thoughtful gifts every now and then are wonderful, and I appreciate the many he's given me.
In the end, it isn't the flowers that matter. A good marriage isn't determined by how lavishly occasions were celebrated, or whatever tangible gifts were received.
The best marriages are counted in hugs and kisses and good memories of days spent together. They come wrapped up in good and bad shared experiences - laughter and tears. The best spouse is the one who is ready with a hand to hold, a shoulder to cry on, a listening ear, an appreciative eye, and yes, even a figurative - (lest someone seize the opportunity of accusing me of promoting domestic violence!) - foot ready to give you a kick in the pants if you need it.
Stop counting - and buying - bouquets. There are so many things that cost less, and matter more.
My attitude's pragmatic
where romance is concerned -
I'm not a "love fanatic"
but through the years I've learned
that there's a certain sweetness
in tears and laughter shared;
a feeling of completeness
in knowing I am paired.
The rituals of dating
seemed complex in my youth,
thus I'm now educating
by sharing gems of truth:
No girl with sense supposes
when he ceases to spend
on candlelight and roses
her happiness will end.
Love isn't tabulated
in flowers that are sent.
Blossoms are over-rated
and reek of sentiment.
Affection lasts far longer
than flowers in a vase,
and love will just grow stronger
once you've embraced his flaws.
Infatuation passes,
it isn't meant to last.
You'll shed rose-coloured glasses
once that first thrill has passed.
Then you'll dispel old notions -
ignorance isn't bliss,
and negative emotions
don't vanish with a kiss.
If somehow you've concluded
your mate will always please,
then you, friend, are deluded
love has no guarantees.
Flies land in ev'ry ointment,
love isn't always grand.
There will be disappointment
when things don't go as planned.
Romance? It will come and go
like waves upon the shore -
ignore "the ebb", enjoy "the flow"
and you'll enjoy life more.
Flowers? They may come - or not.
They're pretty for a while.
But in time they'll fade and rot
and land on compost pile.
So when it comes to flowers
this moral may be learned -
cherish instead the hours
love's given and returned.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, August 2014
Tomorrow is my 26th Anniversary, and I'm not expecting flowers. It isn't that I don't like flowers - because I do. I'm just happier enjoying them in my garden. It isn't that my husband is a cheapskate, because he's not. He just knows that I'm not all that excited by floral arrangements. The scent is too cloying, the flowers fade too quickly and the pragmatic side of me has a hard time receiving expensive bouquets that are bound to end up in the trash.
I know women who brag about all of the flowers their spouses bring them. I'm not envious - in fact I think that a lot of thoughtless (or perhaps lazy) husbands use flowers as a very handy, unimaginative gift to mark every single occasion. Bring home a nice bouquet for the little woman and you're off the hook. Give your favorite flower shop all the significant dates, into their data base they go, and you, my friend, will never be in the doghouse for missing an anniversary or birthday again - right?
Well, I suppose that works fine if your wife isn't all that bright and hasn't picked up on how easy flowers are as a fallback gift - one that says, "I thought about you for the three minutes it took me to order a bouquet online from my chair today!" (Or maybe she crossed your mind for the thirty seconds that you panicked in the check out line, realizing that today was her birthday - before you spotted the grocery store solution to the dilemma.) I guess it's also okay if she really loves flowers and prefers them above any other gift you could ever give her. And while all you "romantic" guys may accuse me of being terribly unsentimental, I'm finding it hard to believe that there are many women out there who never want anything but flowers.
No - there will be no bouquets tomorrow, and I'm fine with that. We will celebrate as we do most years, with a quiet meal out at a nice restaurant - a meal I don't have to cook! (More of a thrill to my practical soul than flowers any day.) There have, of course, been years that we celebrated with more fanfare - on our tenth anniversary I got a ring and a weekend on the shores of Lake Michegan. Last year we celebrated 25 years with a trip to Europe, which I'm not looking to top any time soon. This year a meal out will be fine.
My husband has given me some great gifts over the years. One memorable Christmas when my sons were young he gave me gift certificates to a spa. It was bliss - quiet moments of pampering without a child in sight! He's also given me jewelry and clothing and lingerie - and miraculously I've liked most of it. The lingerie even fit! (I was pretty astounded by that last part, but when I marveled at that fact he shrugged it off by telling me he just looked at the sizes on the items I had.) Nice thoughtful gifts every now and then are wonderful, and I appreciate the many he's given me.
In the end, it isn't the flowers that matter. A good marriage isn't determined by how lavishly occasions were celebrated, or whatever tangible gifts were received.
The best marriages are counted in hugs and kisses and good memories of days spent together. They come wrapped up in good and bad shared experiences - laughter and tears. The best spouse is the one who is ready with a hand to hold, a shoulder to cry on, a listening ear, an appreciative eye, and yes, even a figurative - (lest someone seize the opportunity of accusing me of promoting domestic violence!) - foot ready to give you a kick in the pants if you need it.
Stop counting - and buying - bouquets. There are so many things that cost less, and matter more.
Friday, 8 August 2014
Prescription: Nature! - By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
The Green Cure:
Along a busy street I plod
where dirt and dust have left me parched -
teased to my left with wooded lands
'til path appears 'neath branches arched.
So under leafy canopy
I follow this meand'ring trail
into the solitude of green
where urban sounds cease to prevail.
And suddenly I feel refreshed!
The forest acts as healing balm,
as scent of greenery gone wild
repaints my day in shades of calm.
Oasis in my desert, this -
a haven made of chlorophyll
where nature slakes thirst of my soul,
inviting me to drink my fill.
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, May 22, 2010
In Victorian novels those of weak physical constitution were often told they needed to "take the air" in the mountains or by the seaside. When I read about these "prescriptions for nature" in my youth, I thought it was quackery - or perhaps merely a good excuse for a tired Victorian-era doctor to get a hypochondriac off his case. But I was young then, and all too often in those days a visit to the family cottage interfered with some urban based pursuit - a trip to the mall or seeing a movie with friends.
And yet, even then there were times when I needed a dose of Lake Superior - times when my spinning mind was calmed by nothing except sitting on a rock and staring across the water at Maple Island. There were also times when a solitary walk down the camp road left my lethargic teenage self feeling oddly rejuvenated.
There is something both calming and restorative about being near a body of water or a glade of trees. I've discovered that a ramble through a park or a few minutes in a flower garden can have the same effect. When I learned about colour theory in college, it came as no surprise that blue and green were calming colors. Experience had already taught me that lakes and trees had a tranquilizing effect on jangled nerves.
I used to take my sons to a playground near a tiny lake when they were toddlers. The play equipment near our co-op bored them quickly, but they seemed content for quite a while when they could count ducks or toss pebbles into Minnow Lake. (The sound of small stones hitting water is calming - I think that's why so many people like to skip stones.) Wherever we lived, we always found "nature spots" - places near water or woods. During the Lively years (yes, Lively is the name of a town we used to live in), we used to go to Meat Bird Lake to swim or visit the playground, take walks in the woods behind the public school, or pick blueberries on the ski hill.
Now the boys are grown and I usually commune with nature on my own. I'm not complaining - I enjoy a little solitary time in my flower garden or on the conservation trails near my house. Sometimes on weekends, my husband and I drive into the countryside for a "Corn and Beans Tour", stopping here and there to mosey along Main Street in one of the small towns or hamlets en route. We hope to move to one of those charming villages someday, so we can take a short stroll and be "in the country" - and live in a place where we can hear the crickets and see the stars at night.
Nature cures - I'm certain of that now. I think we'd see fewer deaths from stress-related ailments and heart attacks if doctors went back to prescribing a dose of the sea shore or a trip to the mountains. Maybe there would be less depression in our society if psychiatrists prescribed fewer tranquilizers and more tranquil stays at a cottage or farm, drove their patients past fields of corn and beans, or took them walking on a forested trail. There is something completely soul-satisfying about breathing in the scent of trees as you walk through the woods - even if "the woods" in question is nothing but a swath of green space in the middle of a city.
Since cities are always "biggering", farmers fields and stands of trees seem to get pushed further back from our urban centers every year. People in these growing cities are becoming increasingly busy, busy;busy. They seldom get out of the city and under-utilize the parks and trails that are designated green spaces. They get stressed and cranky, honking their horns when you don't move fast enough. They sail on by with a one finger salute when you drive the speed limit. A good dose of nature could help cure so many of society's ills.
A visit to the mountains would perhaps cure narcissistic tendencies. (See those little bitty things waaay down there? Those are houses filled with people - like you. Mountain - Big. You? Not so much.) Claustrophobic? How about a trip to the desert or a secluded bit of coastline? Lonely or depressed? Perhaps you need to visit a petting zoo. Stressed out? I suggest sitting near a babbling brook or waterfall - or doing some birdwatching or even stopping to smell the flowers from time to time. Exhausted? You need a cabin near a small lake, preferably with a dock to sit on and a tin roof to make even rainy days relaxing.
I don't know if I've convinced you to write yourself a prescription for nature yet, but I'm tired of sitting here typing, sooo -
I'm off to "take the air".
Along a busy street I plod
where dirt and dust have left me parched -
teased to my left with wooded lands
'til path appears 'neath branches arched.
So under leafy canopy
I follow this meand'ring trail
into the solitude of green
where urban sounds cease to prevail.
And suddenly I feel refreshed!
The forest acts as healing balm,
as scent of greenery gone wild
repaints my day in shades of calm.
Oasis in my desert, this -
a haven made of chlorophyll
where nature slakes thirst of my soul,
inviting me to drink my fill.
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, May 22, 2010
In Victorian novels those of weak physical constitution were often told they needed to "take the air" in the mountains or by the seaside. When I read about these "prescriptions for nature" in my youth, I thought it was quackery - or perhaps merely a good excuse for a tired Victorian-era doctor to get a hypochondriac off his case. But I was young then, and all too often in those days a visit to the family cottage interfered with some urban based pursuit - a trip to the mall or seeing a movie with friends.
And yet, even then there were times when I needed a dose of Lake Superior - times when my spinning mind was calmed by nothing except sitting on a rock and staring across the water at Maple Island. There were also times when a solitary walk down the camp road left my lethargic teenage self feeling oddly rejuvenated.
There is something both calming and restorative about being near a body of water or a glade of trees. I've discovered that a ramble through a park or a few minutes in a flower garden can have the same effect. When I learned about colour theory in college, it came as no surprise that blue and green were calming colors. Experience had already taught me that lakes and trees had a tranquilizing effect on jangled nerves.
I used to take my sons to a playground near a tiny lake when they were toddlers. The play equipment near our co-op bored them quickly, but they seemed content for quite a while when they could count ducks or toss pebbles into Minnow Lake. (The sound of small stones hitting water is calming - I think that's why so many people like to skip stones.) Wherever we lived, we always found "nature spots" - places near water or woods. During the Lively years (yes, Lively is the name of a town we used to live in), we used to go to Meat Bird Lake to swim or visit the playground, take walks in the woods behind the public school, or pick blueberries on the ski hill.
Now the boys are grown and I usually commune with nature on my own. I'm not complaining - I enjoy a little solitary time in my flower garden or on the conservation trails near my house. Sometimes on weekends, my husband and I drive into the countryside for a "Corn and Beans Tour", stopping here and there to mosey along Main Street in one of the small towns or hamlets en route. We hope to move to one of those charming villages someday, so we can take a short stroll and be "in the country" - and live in a place where we can hear the crickets and see the stars at night.
Nature cures - I'm certain of that now. I think we'd see fewer deaths from stress-related ailments and heart attacks if doctors went back to prescribing a dose of the sea shore or a trip to the mountains. Maybe there would be less depression in our society if psychiatrists prescribed fewer tranquilizers and more tranquil stays at a cottage or farm, drove their patients past fields of corn and beans, or took them walking on a forested trail. There is something completely soul-satisfying about breathing in the scent of trees as you walk through the woods - even if "the woods" in question is nothing but a swath of green space in the middle of a city.
Since cities are always "biggering", farmers fields and stands of trees seem to get pushed further back from our urban centers every year. People in these growing cities are becoming increasingly busy, busy;busy. They seldom get out of the city and under-utilize the parks and trails that are designated green spaces. They get stressed and cranky, honking their horns when you don't move fast enough. They sail on by with a one finger salute when you drive the speed limit. A good dose of nature could help cure so many of society's ills.
A visit to the mountains would perhaps cure narcissistic tendencies. (See those little bitty things waaay down there? Those are houses filled with people - like you. Mountain - Big. You? Not so much.) Claustrophobic? How about a trip to the desert or a secluded bit of coastline? Lonely or depressed? Perhaps you need to visit a petting zoo. Stressed out? I suggest sitting near a babbling brook or waterfall - or doing some birdwatching or even stopping to smell the flowers from time to time. Exhausted? You need a cabin near a small lake, preferably with a dock to sit on and a tin roof to make even rainy days relaxing.
I don't know if I've convinced you to write yourself a prescription for nature yet, but I'm tired of sitting here typing, sooo -
I'm off to "take the air".
Sunday, 27 July 2014
Am I A Little Bit Country?
The "Battle of the Bands" actually originated in my family's living room sometime in the late sixties.
My parents were raised on a steady diet of Country Music, and generally seemed to think that anything written after 1960, or by anyone not wearing a cowboy hat, was punishment for the eardrums. Their children had different ideas, from the oldest daughters who were hooked the first time they watched The Beatles on Ed Sullivan, to the youngest son who grooved on hair metal and arena rock. We all loved to listen to music, but much to their chagrin our tastes didn't reflect theirs.
"Turn that racket down!" was my parents' usual response to whatever their kids played on the family stereo. Much eye-rolling, snickering and scattering to bedrooms ensued when our parents hiked up their tunes.
They remained ever hopeful that we'd acquire a taste for their music and exposed us to it frequently. This felt like a unique form of torture, akin to my mother's insistence that someday we'd thank her for using onions so liberally. I remember them forcing us to sit and watch Lawrence Welk ("an'a one, an'a two..."), Hee Haw and the Tommy Hunter Show. They must've thought they'd turned a corner when my second oldest sister bought a John Denver album in 1975, but the next week she bought an album by Alice Cooper and they sunk back into despair.
"See - That's good music!" my father would state clearly and emphatically, when Tommy sang about wanting to ramble. (I suspect he thought we were all slightly brain-addled from all the rock music we'd listened to.) "It's not like that garbage you guys blare."
I was always slightly offended that my "garbage" was lumped in alongside everyone else's. I wasn't the one who listened to Bob Dylan or Rush, for goodness sake! Voices that could scrape paint just didn't cut it for me, no matter how poetic the lyrics. In truth, we siblings all had different musical tastes too, and only stood as a united front in our mutual disdain for the "Country and Western" music our parents adored. I once had an eerily deja vu moment when my oldest sister told me to turn down my Moody Blues album, which she referred to as "that crap", while she was on the phone. Mind you, she was talking to her boyfriend, so her judgment may have been temporarily impaired.
I have to admit that I enjoyed the experience of being what I'll call an occasional country music "tourist" - I got a kick out of attending family functions where bands played songs that I'd never heard of, let alone actually heard, anywhere else. Thus I have fond memories of tunes like "Won't You Come Home Bill Bailey?" and "I'm Proud to Be An Okie From Muskogee". Not everyone from my generation could make that claim. But obviously not everyone from my generation grew up hearing their off-tune father belt out "The Wabash Cannonball" on a regular basis.
A lot of the country music popular in the 70's tickled my funny bone - there was so much melodrama in those songs. Inevitably somebody had "done somebody wrong", but morals abounded and lessons were learned. Heck, Tammy Wynette endlessly whined about how important it was to "Stand By Your Man" until her D-I-V-O-R-C-E become final. Loretta warned all those wicked women off her Doo in tunes like "Woman of the World" (leave my world alone!) and "You Ain't Woman Enough" (to take my man!) It was the kind of music I loved to hate. (Or maybe hated to love - it's hard to distinguish between the two. If you've never listened to square dance music played on the wrong speed, you're really missing something.) For a while I had a morbid fascination with Tom T. Hall's "I Like Beer", which I first heard when I was going through some break-up angst. I suspect I was happy enough to drown my sorrows vicariously through good ole Tom. I still catch myself singing it from time to time, in spite of the fact that I remain a complete abstainer. (Well, it is a catchy little number.)
As reluctant as I am to admit it, I've always kind of admired the way country artists put it all out there - from that first euphoric glimpse of love, to the betrayal, then finally the movin' on. I'm sure Taylor Swift got her inspiration for tattle tale songs about past relationships from these people, but their songs were a lot more fun. I get a kick out the antics they sing about - catching the cheater in the act, getting even, maybe even offing the truly offensive jerk like in the Dixie Chicks "Good-bye Earl", which proves that as silly as most of these songs are, this is a genre that isn't afraid to be just a wee bit dark at times.
Now I can unabashedly enjoy almost all kinds of music. Once my husband and I listened to a whole disc that our older son left laying around, by some band called Swordsmen of Bagels, or something like that. I wanted to be a cool parent and tell him that I totally enjoyed it, but I really didn't. So I can't say I've reached the summit of musical tolerance, but I'm trying. (For a while - years back - I even used to exercise in the mornings to CMT, but not until after the rest of the family had departed for work and school. I didn't want my menfolk to worry.) I routinely listen to music that is on the verge of "country" - or at least "New Country", and at this point I don't care who knows it. Sometimes I even feel reminiscent and get a hankering to hear the stuff my parents loved. (I listened to Hank Snow's "Wreck of the Old '97" just before I sat down to wrote this post. My father would have approved.)
Even as a youth I'd listen to those good 'ole "hurtin' songs" and think how much fun it would be to write one. (Don't we all have a "s/he done me wrong" story to tell?) However, it took me a whole lot of years to act on the impulse.
It was after hearing Toby Keith's "How Do You Like Me Now?", a song that resonated with the cranky, crabby "here's to spittin' in yore eye" attitude that often prevails in me, that I sat down and finally attempted my own version of a dose of country heartbreak. Obviously "The Dawg Gone Blues" is not autobiographical. (Regardless of what those Facebook quizzes tell me, I am a woman.) But I could clearly envision the big ole lunk-head who'd have exactly this sort of story to tell. (I think maybe Toby could do it justice.)
The morals in this song are three-fold:
1) Make sure the woman of your dreams likes your dog
2) Buy a new mattress before you burn the old one
3) Get a pre-nup before you visit the judge and move her into your trailer!
So here goes - my first (and best) of two attempts to write about the cheatin' heart-breakers who inspire so much country music. (No dogs will be injured in the making of the music video : )
The Dawg Gone Blues
I woke up one morning
alone in our big bed -
don't know why but suddenly
I felt a sense of dread.
I showered and ate breakfast
then whistled for old Fred -
and found out to my horror
my faithful friend was dead.
Chorus:
Why'd you hafta break my heart
and leave me on my own?
Picture how upset I got
that you had up and flown.
You was quite a looker -
wish you had a kinder clone!
I wish that when you left me,
you'd left my dawg alone!
You emptied out my wallet
and bankrupted my heart,
then you went and shot my dawg
with a poisoned dart.
And killin' this man's best friend -
that was the cruelest part.
Now I'm mighty glad yore gone
'cause yore a mean ole tart.
Chorus
The first day I was busy -
yore letters I did shred,
and then I put myself to work
and dug a hole for Fred.
I finished burning up yore stuff,
but was still seeing red -
and I knew what I had to do
was fumigate the bed.
Chorus
The mattress was a sizzlin'
when I let out a groan -
Now I'd be sleepin' bedless,
as well as all alone.
You dynamited this ole heart -
replaced it with a stone,
because you was the Queen bee
and I was just a drone.
Chorus
Looking back I see it now,
I wasn't very smart.
You used me and abused me
and trashed my trustin' heart.
I think I've wisened up some
since we've been apart -
ain't never signed a pre-nup yet
but I'm about to start!
Chorus
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, February 2006
If anyone happens to run into Toby, tell him I have a song that has his name all over it, and he can record it and pay me big royalties -
- As long as my name is all under it!
My parents were raised on a steady diet of Country Music, and generally seemed to think that anything written after 1960, or by anyone not wearing a cowboy hat, was punishment for the eardrums. Their children had different ideas, from the oldest daughters who were hooked the first time they watched The Beatles on Ed Sullivan, to the youngest son who grooved on hair metal and arena rock. We all loved to listen to music, but much to their chagrin our tastes didn't reflect theirs.
"Turn that racket down!" was my parents' usual response to whatever their kids played on the family stereo. Much eye-rolling, snickering and scattering to bedrooms ensued when our parents hiked up their tunes.
They remained ever hopeful that we'd acquire a taste for their music and exposed us to it frequently. This felt like a unique form of torture, akin to my mother's insistence that someday we'd thank her for using onions so liberally. I remember them forcing us to sit and watch Lawrence Welk ("an'a one, an'a two..."), Hee Haw and the Tommy Hunter Show. They must've thought they'd turned a corner when my second oldest sister bought a John Denver album in 1975, but the next week she bought an album by Alice Cooper and they sunk back into despair.
"See - That's good music!" my father would state clearly and emphatically, when Tommy sang about wanting to ramble. (I suspect he thought we were all slightly brain-addled from all the rock music we'd listened to.) "It's not like that garbage you guys blare."
I was always slightly offended that my "garbage" was lumped in alongside everyone else's. I wasn't the one who listened to Bob Dylan or Rush, for goodness sake! Voices that could scrape paint just didn't cut it for me, no matter how poetic the lyrics. In truth, we siblings all had different musical tastes too, and only stood as a united front in our mutual disdain for the "Country and Western" music our parents adored. I once had an eerily deja vu moment when my oldest sister told me to turn down my Moody Blues album, which she referred to as "that crap", while she was on the phone. Mind you, she was talking to her boyfriend, so her judgment may have been temporarily impaired.
I have to admit that I enjoyed the experience of being what I'll call an occasional country music "tourist" - I got a kick out of attending family functions where bands played songs that I'd never heard of, let alone actually heard, anywhere else. Thus I have fond memories of tunes like "Won't You Come Home Bill Bailey?" and "I'm Proud to Be An Okie From Muskogee". Not everyone from my generation could make that claim. But obviously not everyone from my generation grew up hearing their off-tune father belt out "The Wabash Cannonball" on a regular basis.
A lot of the country music popular in the 70's tickled my funny bone - there was so much melodrama in those songs. Inevitably somebody had "done somebody wrong", but morals abounded and lessons were learned. Heck, Tammy Wynette endlessly whined about how important it was to "Stand By Your Man" until her D-I-V-O-R-C-E become final. Loretta warned all those wicked women off her Doo in tunes like "Woman of the World" (leave my world alone!) and "You Ain't Woman Enough" (to take my man!) It was the kind of music I loved to hate. (Or maybe hated to love - it's hard to distinguish between the two. If you've never listened to square dance music played on the wrong speed, you're really missing something.) For a while I had a morbid fascination with Tom T. Hall's "I Like Beer", which I first heard when I was going through some break-up angst. I suspect I was happy enough to drown my sorrows vicariously through good ole Tom. I still catch myself singing it from time to time, in spite of the fact that I remain a complete abstainer. (Well, it is a catchy little number.)
As reluctant as I am to admit it, I've always kind of admired the way country artists put it all out there - from that first euphoric glimpse of love, to the betrayal, then finally the movin' on. I'm sure Taylor Swift got her inspiration for tattle tale songs about past relationships from these people, but their songs were a lot more fun. I get a kick out the antics they sing about - catching the cheater in the act, getting even, maybe even offing the truly offensive jerk like in the Dixie Chicks "Good-bye Earl", which proves that as silly as most of these songs are, this is a genre that isn't afraid to be just a wee bit dark at times.
Now I can unabashedly enjoy almost all kinds of music. Once my husband and I listened to a whole disc that our older son left laying around, by some band called Swordsmen of Bagels, or something like that. I wanted to be a cool parent and tell him that I totally enjoyed it, but I really didn't. So I can't say I've reached the summit of musical tolerance, but I'm trying. (For a while - years back - I even used to exercise in the mornings to CMT, but not until after the rest of the family had departed for work and school. I didn't want my menfolk to worry.) I routinely listen to music that is on the verge of "country" - or at least "New Country", and at this point I don't care who knows it. Sometimes I even feel reminiscent and get a hankering to hear the stuff my parents loved. (I listened to Hank Snow's "Wreck of the Old '97" just before I sat down to wrote this post. My father would have approved.)
Even as a youth I'd listen to those good 'ole "hurtin' songs" and think how much fun it would be to write one. (Don't we all have a "s/he done me wrong" story to tell?) However, it took me a whole lot of years to act on the impulse.
It was after hearing Toby Keith's "How Do You Like Me Now?", a song that resonated with the cranky, crabby "here's to spittin' in yore eye" attitude that often prevails in me, that I sat down and finally attempted my own version of a dose of country heartbreak. Obviously "The Dawg Gone Blues" is not autobiographical. (Regardless of what those Facebook quizzes tell me, I am a woman.) But I could clearly envision the big ole lunk-head who'd have exactly this sort of story to tell. (I think maybe Toby could do it justice.)
The morals in this song are three-fold:
1) Make sure the woman of your dreams likes your dog
2) Buy a new mattress before you burn the old one
3) Get a pre-nup before you visit the judge and move her into your trailer!
So here goes - my first (and best) of two attempts to write about the cheatin' heart-breakers who inspire so much country music. (No dogs will be injured in the making of the music video : )
The Dawg Gone Blues
I woke up one morning
alone in our big bed -
don't know why but suddenly
I felt a sense of dread.
I showered and ate breakfast
then whistled for old Fred -
and found out to my horror
my faithful friend was dead.
Chorus:
Why'd you hafta break my heart
and leave me on my own?
Picture how upset I got
that you had up and flown.
You was quite a looker -
wish you had a kinder clone!
I wish that when you left me,
you'd left my dawg alone!
You emptied out my wallet
and bankrupted my heart,
then you went and shot my dawg
with a poisoned dart.
And killin' this man's best friend -
that was the cruelest part.
Now I'm mighty glad yore gone
'cause yore a mean ole tart.
Chorus
The first day I was busy -
yore letters I did shred,
and then I put myself to work
and dug a hole for Fred.
I finished burning up yore stuff,
but was still seeing red -
and I knew what I had to do
was fumigate the bed.
Chorus
The mattress was a sizzlin'
when I let out a groan -
Now I'd be sleepin' bedless,
as well as all alone.
You dynamited this ole heart -
replaced it with a stone,
because you was the Queen bee
and I was just a drone.
Chorus
Looking back I see it now,
I wasn't very smart.
You used me and abused me
and trashed my trustin' heart.
I think I've wisened up some
since we've been apart -
ain't never signed a pre-nup yet
but I'm about to start!
Chorus
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, February 2006
If anyone happens to run into Toby, tell him I have a song that has his name all over it, and he can record it and pay me big royalties -
- As long as my name is all under it!
Monday, 14 July 2014
Let's Talk About the Things I Hate (But Only For A While)
Let's Talk About the Things I Hate ( But Only For A While)
Let's talk about the things I hate -
the little things that aggravate,
those items that stick in my craw
and at my innards gnaw and gnaw.
I don't like snow that falls in spring
or early birds that loudly sing
or ANY birds that swoop or poop
or build their nests near my front stoop.
All bees or bugs that sting or bite
elicit in me no delight.
On drivers I have much to say -
those who don't cede the right of way
to people who pedestriate,
but make those self-same people wait -
those drivers should be made to pay
by walking an entire day!
I hate to wait within long lines,
I can't abide a child who whines,
I can't stand grimy floors or dirt
or girls who gossip, tease or flirt.
I don't much care to cough and choke
when others share their toxic smoke,
or make loud noise when I'm abed -
that kind of thing makes me see red!
I think sausage disgusting stuff -
of sappy songs I've had enough;
I'm likewise sick of guts and gore
and nauseating vampire lore.
I don't like vermin, rust or mould,
and all leftovers leave me cold.
I'm sick of people who are rude
and those who think that I'm a prude.
And while I speak of things that tire,
to pen this verse I've lost desire -
too many things leave me annoyed;
My time could be better employed!
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, November 2012
Sadly, the poem doesn't provide anything close to a comprehensive list of things that annoy me. I gripe about politics, lawlessness, ignorance and downright stupidity on a daily basis. Not a week goes by without complaints about garden pests, weeds, bad cooking (usually my own), bratty kids, misbehaving technology, cell phones or lousy service of one kind or another. Occasionally I vary my usual repertoire of complaints by carping about something like uncooperative weather or a bothersome task I have to complete. (You don't want to be around me if I have any sewing or mending to do!)
I hate to admit it, but I'm a crank. If there was a support group called "Crankaholics Anonymous", I'd join it, but I'm sure I'd whine endlessly about all of those steps, and making restitution to all of the victims of my grumbling tongue would would be a time-consuming exercise. I wish I could blame my tendency to complain on menopause or age, but I honestly can't. I've always been a bit cantankerous. I have strong opinions on a whole lot of subjects, and little tolerance for those who can't see the logic in feeling the way I do.
I come by it honestly - my father was a world class grumbler. That's no excuse really, but it can't be denied that what I've coined "the Flood disposition" isn't always pretty - and sadly every one of my siblings inherited the crabby gene to some extent. However, I feel compelled to make the admission that I seem to be the one most plagued by the ability to find things to complain about.
As a keen observer of humanity, and a somewhat sensitive soul who thinks deeply about what I see in the world around me, I'm prone to let everything affect me too much. Sometimes the beauty in nature makes me weep, and being witness to small acts of kindness thrills me to the core. But far too often I find myself angry, frustrated and completely befuddled by the ridiculous behaviors that seem so rampant in humanity. I ruminate on the selfishness and thoughtlessness I see, and I complain. And then I think of all the times I've misbehaved or handled situations badly and I feel crankier than ever.
I spend way too much time complaining about stupidity, and not nearly enough time utilizing my brain cells to make the world a more enlightened and intelligent, love-filled place.
I spend too much time griping about the injustices that exist, and not enough time thinking about how to make society fairer.
I spend too much time carping on about my lengthy list of pet peeves, and not nearly enough time tabulating the wonders of the world around me, the beauty, safety and peace I enjoy, and the love that surrounds me daily. I don't make enough effort to look for everything that works, satisfies, or is right.
Today I saw a posted challenge on Facebook - to go twenty-four hours without complaining. The first thing I thought was, "Wow - would that ever be hard!" Even the thought of not complaining gives me cause to gripe!
I honestly believe that there's a time and a place to complain. If I get bad service I should (as kindly as I possibly can) draw attention to the problem. Nothing can get fixed if people are unaware of the negative issues. When in a position of responsibility, I should correct those for whom I have responsibility - my job is to teach and instruct. Sometimes criticism of a behavior needs to be accompanied by a complaint to someone, about someone else. I can gripe with the best of the crabs out there, but criticism is hard.
I don't like doing that hard part. Complaining comes easily, but I fear I've never mastered the constructive part of criticism. I never liked having to tell my kids they were misbehaving or putting on my stern face for kids I babysat, but I did it anyhow. I feel envious of those who have mastered the art of complaining nicely, and know how to offer constructive criticism so kindly that it always sounds like a compliment on whomever it's bestowed. Then again, because I make myself do the hard kind of complaining - the corrective parenting type for example, even though I don't think I'm good at it - my threshold of patience for those who don't offer what I view as necessary complaints or criticisms is further lowered.
Thus I constantly need to remind myself that it isn't my job to tell the rest of the world what they should or shouldn't be doing. I tell myself to grow a thicker skin and not let myself be so infuriatingly bothered by what others are saying or doing - or not saying or doing.
I'm trying harder these days to focus on the things I love and enjoy, and when faced with too many unappealing scenarios on any given day, to attend to those things that I can control.
I need to accept that there are things that all the complaining in the world can't change. I need to find courage to act, rather than just grumbling about those things that I can and should be trying to change. And above all I need to find the wisdom to know the difference between the two and stop myself from being cranky about things I can't (or won't) do anything to change.
Grumbling really doesn't make me feel better most of the time. Instead of getting those complaints off my chest, I often feel as though I'm wearing one of those weighted vests. Sometimes my hands hurt from being clenched so often. My brow wears permanent furrows. I irritate my long suffering spouse and watch my kids roll their eyes way too often. I know I need to learn how to "let it go" - but acknowledge the OCD-ish part of my personality that makes that challenging. I know I would be more peaceful and serene if I zipped my lip more often - did a whole lot less mindless grumbling and a whole lot more mindful thinking about how to cure some of the ills I see.
To recap:
- Accept that I can't change everything
- Be brave enough to try to change something
- Be wise enough to know what merits a complaint
- Be kind enough to my fellowmen to stop the futile grumbling.
Twenty-four hours is a long time. But perhaps if I chose a sunshiny, low stress kind of day I could pull it off? (I wonder if I'd go into complaint withdrawal?)
If I ever manage to make it that long I'll let you know.
Let's talk about the things I hate -
the little things that aggravate,
those items that stick in my craw
and at my innards gnaw and gnaw.
I don't like snow that falls in spring
or early birds that loudly sing
or ANY birds that swoop or poop
or build their nests near my front stoop.
All bees or bugs that sting or bite
elicit in me no delight.
On drivers I have much to say -
those who don't cede the right of way
to people who pedestriate,
but make those self-same people wait -
those drivers should be made to pay
by walking an entire day!
I hate to wait within long lines,
I can't abide a child who whines,
I can't stand grimy floors or dirt
or girls who gossip, tease or flirt.
I don't much care to cough and choke
when others share their toxic smoke,
or make loud noise when I'm abed -
that kind of thing makes me see red!
I think sausage disgusting stuff -
of sappy songs I've had enough;
I'm likewise sick of guts and gore
and nauseating vampire lore.
I don't like vermin, rust or mould,
and all leftovers leave me cold.
I'm sick of people who are rude
and those who think that I'm a prude.
And while I speak of things that tire,
to pen this verse I've lost desire -
too many things leave me annoyed;
My time could be better employed!
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, November 2012
Sadly, the poem doesn't provide anything close to a comprehensive list of things that annoy me. I gripe about politics, lawlessness, ignorance and downright stupidity on a daily basis. Not a week goes by without complaints about garden pests, weeds, bad cooking (usually my own), bratty kids, misbehaving technology, cell phones or lousy service of one kind or another. Occasionally I vary my usual repertoire of complaints by carping about something like uncooperative weather or a bothersome task I have to complete. (You don't want to be around me if I have any sewing or mending to do!)
I hate to admit it, but I'm a crank. If there was a support group called "Crankaholics Anonymous", I'd join it, but I'm sure I'd whine endlessly about all of those steps, and making restitution to all of the victims of my grumbling tongue would would be a time-consuming exercise. I wish I could blame my tendency to complain on menopause or age, but I honestly can't. I've always been a bit cantankerous. I have strong opinions on a whole lot of subjects, and little tolerance for those who can't see the logic in feeling the way I do.
I come by it honestly - my father was a world class grumbler. That's no excuse really, but it can't be denied that what I've coined "the Flood disposition" isn't always pretty - and sadly every one of my siblings inherited the crabby gene to some extent. However, I feel compelled to make the admission that I seem to be the one most plagued by the ability to find things to complain about.
As a keen observer of humanity, and a somewhat sensitive soul who thinks deeply about what I see in the world around me, I'm prone to let everything affect me too much. Sometimes the beauty in nature makes me weep, and being witness to small acts of kindness thrills me to the core. But far too often I find myself angry, frustrated and completely befuddled by the ridiculous behaviors that seem so rampant in humanity. I ruminate on the selfishness and thoughtlessness I see, and I complain. And then I think of all the times I've misbehaved or handled situations badly and I feel crankier than ever.
I spend way too much time complaining about stupidity, and not nearly enough time utilizing my brain cells to make the world a more enlightened and intelligent, love-filled place.
I spend too much time griping about the injustices that exist, and not enough time thinking about how to make society fairer.
I spend too much time carping on about my lengthy list of pet peeves, and not nearly enough time tabulating the wonders of the world around me, the beauty, safety and peace I enjoy, and the love that surrounds me daily. I don't make enough effort to look for everything that works, satisfies, or is right.
Today I saw a posted challenge on Facebook - to go twenty-four hours without complaining. The first thing I thought was, "Wow - would that ever be hard!" Even the thought of not complaining gives me cause to gripe!
I honestly believe that there's a time and a place to complain. If I get bad service I should (as kindly as I possibly can) draw attention to the problem. Nothing can get fixed if people are unaware of the negative issues. When in a position of responsibility, I should correct those for whom I have responsibility - my job is to teach and instruct. Sometimes criticism of a behavior needs to be accompanied by a complaint to someone, about someone else. I can gripe with the best of the crabs out there, but criticism is hard.
I don't like doing that hard part. Complaining comes easily, but I fear I've never mastered the constructive part of criticism. I never liked having to tell my kids they were misbehaving or putting on my stern face for kids I babysat, but I did it anyhow. I feel envious of those who have mastered the art of complaining nicely, and know how to offer constructive criticism so kindly that it always sounds like a compliment on whomever it's bestowed. Then again, because I make myself do the hard kind of complaining - the corrective parenting type for example, even though I don't think I'm good at it - my threshold of patience for those who don't offer what I view as necessary complaints or criticisms is further lowered.
Thus I constantly need to remind myself that it isn't my job to tell the rest of the world what they should or shouldn't be doing. I tell myself to grow a thicker skin and not let myself be so infuriatingly bothered by what others are saying or doing - or not saying or doing.
I'm trying harder these days to focus on the things I love and enjoy, and when faced with too many unappealing scenarios on any given day, to attend to those things that I can control.
I need to accept that there are things that all the complaining in the world can't change. I need to find courage to act, rather than just grumbling about those things that I can and should be trying to change. And above all I need to find the wisdom to know the difference between the two and stop myself from being cranky about things I can't (or won't) do anything to change.
Grumbling really doesn't make me feel better most of the time. Instead of getting those complaints off my chest, I often feel as though I'm wearing one of those weighted vests. Sometimes my hands hurt from being clenched so often. My brow wears permanent furrows. I irritate my long suffering spouse and watch my kids roll their eyes way too often. I know I need to learn how to "let it go" - but acknowledge the OCD-ish part of my personality that makes that challenging. I know I would be more peaceful and serene if I zipped my lip more often - did a whole lot less mindless grumbling and a whole lot more mindful thinking about how to cure some of the ills I see.
To recap:
- Accept that I can't change everything
- Be brave enough to try to change something
- Be wise enough to know what merits a complaint
- Be kind enough to my fellowmen to stop the futile grumbling.
Twenty-four hours is a long time. But perhaps if I chose a sunshiny, low stress kind of day I could pull it off? (I wonder if I'd go into complaint withdrawal?)
If I ever manage to make it that long I'll let you know.
Monday, 30 June 2014
Home Again - By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Home Town:
Reconciling past and present
I revisit my hometown -
all is different, yet familiar
in the scenery around.
I scan faces to catch glimpses
of someone I might've known,
but it's hard to tell for certain
now that everyone has grown.
Buildings that seemed vast and looming
are now curiously small -
I'm amused, abashed and saddened
by the things that I recall.
I have knowledge, years and mileage
that divide me from this place
but at times I still feel drawn here -
there are things time can't erase.
From my memories I'm molded.
as I face today's concerns,
to the past I am beholden -
through experience one learns.
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg - September '08
Thirty-three years, two townhouses, two basement bedrooms, three houses and eleven apartments ago I moved out of my family home in Sault Ste. Marie. It was a smallish house for nine people - especially when the fact that my grandmother occupied the entire second story except for one bedroom is considered. Crowded or not I had a happy childhood there.
Even the yard of that house holds countless memories. It was huge by urban standards, and because we had a playhouse and a swing (which my father built out of a downed hydro pole), we were a destination location for most of the neighborhood kids. My brother built two pairs of stilts the summer I was thirteen, and we traversed that yard from considerable heights for several weeks, until we each got brave enough to demonstrate our skills on the sidewalk. We played games and had picnics in that yard. Once some friends of my sister, who had a band, entertained a group of neighborhood kids by performing in our backyard - a free mini concert for the neighborhood.
My childhood home evokes a lot of mental images - my mother rolling out a pie crust on the kitchen table, my grandmother doing crossword puzzles in her rocking chair; my father asleep on the couch. In my mind's eye I can see siblings reading and arguing and passing the popcorn bowl lap to lap while watching television. I remember the day my baby brother came home for the first time, bringing the sibling count to six. I remember shedding tears as each of my older sisters, and my older brother left home. That house saw a lot of beginnings and endings of one sort or another. It was a place that hosted parties populated by people of all ages. Our friends were always welcome there. It was a place that was filled with smells - cinnamon rolls, Sunday roasts and burnt toast. (My grandmother didn't think it qualified as toast unless a little singed.) Home was the sound of records playing on the stereo, the sound of my father singing off-key, feet running up and down the stairs - and doors slamming when our frequent squabbles began to get out of hand.
When I left my family home I knew I'd never live there again. My first apartment, an attic I shared in East London, became my first home away from home. Visits to the Soo were infrequent on my starving student budget, and although I missed friends and family there I was intent on building my own little nest. The first time I returned after a visit with my parents I ran up the rickety back steps, opened the door, and hollered to my room-mate, "I'm home!" - and I knew I was.
Home, I've learned, is a fluid concept. We carry it with us through all of our comings and goings. Home is made of memories of sounds and smells and snapshots that exist only in the brain. Home is made of experiences we collect along the way, wherever we happen to be living at the time. Home is where we unwind - where we take our deepest thoughts out for careful examination, and take out our frustrations so that we can be on our best behaviour elsewhere. Home is shelter from the storm - a safe haven in an often perilous world. Home is where we hang our hats, let down our hair and put up our feet. Our truest selves emerge when we are at home.
Every place I've ever lived, no matter how humble, played a part in my development. Every one of those places holds memories. The nasty townhouse with the sloping floors was where we brought our second son home, where my eldest learned the word "brother" and my youngest took his first steps. Home is a backdrop for growth. While my sons learned to walk and talk in those modest surroundings, I learned how to become a mother. While we lived in our last house, my husband and sons learned to swim in the above ground pool in its backyard. Those afternoons and evenings in the water, combined with the squeaky screen door and huge two sided fireplace inside, gave that house a perpetually cottage-y feeling that helped us feel cozily cocooned during an unhappy period in our family's history.
I find it difficult to visit my old homes. For many years, trips to the Soo were disconcerting. I slipped into my "former self" with too much ease. It always felt like I was putting on a comfortable old pair of jeans, only to realize that the seat was out. I felt oddly exposed on those visits - like any progress I might've made along the way had suddenly evaporated. I magically morphed back into an earlier incarnation of myself, and I didn't want to be her at all.
I've learned that all of my old homes are haunted by her - the Ghost of Sharon Past. She is still out there, walking on stilts in a front yard in Sault Ste Marie, looking out the window of that scuzzy townhouse in London - waiting for the rain to stop so she can put her boys in the wagon and escape those walls for a bit. She still proudly sweeps the hard wood floors in a house in Lively, and still splashes in a pool somewhere in St. Lazare. I've seen her walking the streets of East London - sometimes pushing a baby buggy. Although she is always in my head, I must admit that the sightings discombobulate me a bit.
The metaphysical sightings are bad enough, but the things my physical eyes behold when I drive past former homes are plenty disturbing on their own. New owners of my husband and I's first house painted the foundation and front walk poo green (ugh!), and new owners of our second home "de-cottaged" a house that oozed country charm by painting all the woodwork white and installing stainless steel appliances. (I saw the listing when I was scouting my old neighborhood on mls.ca and I almost cried.) I've learned that I don't like to see my former homes change, and that it feels like a personal affront when my mark on a place has been erased.
Perhaps I always knew that I would have an issue with looking at old homes through my change-resistant eyes. When I was eighteen years old my English teacher challenged us to each write a poem that imitated the style of a famous Canadian poet. I don't remember who I was trying to emulate, but this is what I wrote:
Revisitation:
This is my house.
I was born here.
Why then, do these new inhabitants
gaze at me through windows tightly closed?
Are they afraid of the past -
of times we spent within these walls
where our smiles
and our tears
penetrated plaster and wood
and retreated to cracks and corners
where they yet remain?
(They must lack security,
living on borrowed ground -
but do they even know?)
This house will never be theirs
no matter how long they dwell within it,
for so do we.
Look what they've done! Character cannot
be changed from the surface.
THEY'VE COVERED MY STRIPES WITH
FLOWERS!
LOOK WHAT THEY'VE DONE! -
But it doesn't matter, I guess - or it shouldn't.
They live here now - and I somewhere else -
almost.
By Sharon Flood, October 1980
I thought of this poem a few nights ago as I was ruminating on the content of this blog post. I dug it out and read it to my husband.
"Wow", he said, "you sounded angry!"
"Kind of foreshadows the future, right? Remember the look on my face when we drove past the house in Lively?" I replied.
I told him how I wrote the poem while trying to imagine what it would feel like to look inside the only house I'd ever lived in up until that point, and see how it had changed. Younger me somehow knew I'd have a problem with the redecorating involved.
She was right - I might be able to do a drive by, but taking a tour to see all the changes wouldn't be a good idea. Even though I had yet to leave my first, she knew that I would be sentimental about my homes. Four years ago my husband drove me past my childhood home for the first time since my mother had sold it almost a decade before.
"Let's drive past the old house" my husband suggested.
"No thanks, I don't want to" I answered.
"I think you should - we don't know how long it'll be until we come back to the Soo. Aren't you curious?"
I was a bit curious, but mostly I was afraid of all the ghosts I might see. In spite of my lack of enthusiasm we rolled slowly past the house. I had a lump in my throat, and yes, a few tears escaped in spite of my best efforts at self control.
And there she was - still walking on stilts to try out new perspectives.
"Hop in" I invited her, opening my mind just a crack. "Lets go home."
Reconciling past and present
I revisit my hometown -
all is different, yet familiar
in the scenery around.
I scan faces to catch glimpses
of someone I might've known,
but it's hard to tell for certain
now that everyone has grown.
Buildings that seemed vast and looming
are now curiously small -
I'm amused, abashed and saddened
by the things that I recall.
I have knowledge, years and mileage
that divide me from this place
but at times I still feel drawn here -
there are things time can't erase.
From my memories I'm molded.
as I face today's concerns,
to the past I am beholden -
through experience one learns.
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg - September '08
Thirty-three years, two townhouses, two basement bedrooms, three houses and eleven apartments ago I moved out of my family home in Sault Ste. Marie. It was a smallish house for nine people - especially when the fact that my grandmother occupied the entire second story except for one bedroom is considered. Crowded or not I had a happy childhood there.
Even the yard of that house holds countless memories. It was huge by urban standards, and because we had a playhouse and a swing (which my father built out of a downed hydro pole), we were a destination location for most of the neighborhood kids. My brother built two pairs of stilts the summer I was thirteen, and we traversed that yard from considerable heights for several weeks, until we each got brave enough to demonstrate our skills on the sidewalk. We played games and had picnics in that yard. Once some friends of my sister, who had a band, entertained a group of neighborhood kids by performing in our backyard - a free mini concert for the neighborhood.
My childhood home evokes a lot of mental images - my mother rolling out a pie crust on the kitchen table, my grandmother doing crossword puzzles in her rocking chair; my father asleep on the couch. In my mind's eye I can see siblings reading and arguing and passing the popcorn bowl lap to lap while watching television. I remember the day my baby brother came home for the first time, bringing the sibling count to six. I remember shedding tears as each of my older sisters, and my older brother left home. That house saw a lot of beginnings and endings of one sort or another. It was a place that hosted parties populated by people of all ages. Our friends were always welcome there. It was a place that was filled with smells - cinnamon rolls, Sunday roasts and burnt toast. (My grandmother didn't think it qualified as toast unless a little singed.) Home was the sound of records playing on the stereo, the sound of my father singing off-key, feet running up and down the stairs - and doors slamming when our frequent squabbles began to get out of hand.
When I left my family home I knew I'd never live there again. My first apartment, an attic I shared in East London, became my first home away from home. Visits to the Soo were infrequent on my starving student budget, and although I missed friends and family there I was intent on building my own little nest. The first time I returned after a visit with my parents I ran up the rickety back steps, opened the door, and hollered to my room-mate, "I'm home!" - and I knew I was.
Home, I've learned, is a fluid concept. We carry it with us through all of our comings and goings. Home is made of memories of sounds and smells and snapshots that exist only in the brain. Home is made of experiences we collect along the way, wherever we happen to be living at the time. Home is where we unwind - where we take our deepest thoughts out for careful examination, and take out our frustrations so that we can be on our best behaviour elsewhere. Home is shelter from the storm - a safe haven in an often perilous world. Home is where we hang our hats, let down our hair and put up our feet. Our truest selves emerge when we are at home.
Every place I've ever lived, no matter how humble, played a part in my development. Every one of those places holds memories. The nasty townhouse with the sloping floors was where we brought our second son home, where my eldest learned the word "brother" and my youngest took his first steps. Home is a backdrop for growth. While my sons learned to walk and talk in those modest surroundings, I learned how to become a mother. While we lived in our last house, my husband and sons learned to swim in the above ground pool in its backyard. Those afternoons and evenings in the water, combined with the squeaky screen door and huge two sided fireplace inside, gave that house a perpetually cottage-y feeling that helped us feel cozily cocooned during an unhappy period in our family's history.
I find it difficult to visit my old homes. For many years, trips to the Soo were disconcerting. I slipped into my "former self" with too much ease. It always felt like I was putting on a comfortable old pair of jeans, only to realize that the seat was out. I felt oddly exposed on those visits - like any progress I might've made along the way had suddenly evaporated. I magically morphed back into an earlier incarnation of myself, and I didn't want to be her at all.
I've learned that all of my old homes are haunted by her - the Ghost of Sharon Past. She is still out there, walking on stilts in a front yard in Sault Ste Marie, looking out the window of that scuzzy townhouse in London - waiting for the rain to stop so she can put her boys in the wagon and escape those walls for a bit. She still proudly sweeps the hard wood floors in a house in Lively, and still splashes in a pool somewhere in St. Lazare. I've seen her walking the streets of East London - sometimes pushing a baby buggy. Although she is always in my head, I must admit that the sightings discombobulate me a bit.
The metaphysical sightings are bad enough, but the things my physical eyes behold when I drive past former homes are plenty disturbing on their own. New owners of my husband and I's first house painted the foundation and front walk poo green (ugh!), and new owners of our second home "de-cottaged" a house that oozed country charm by painting all the woodwork white and installing stainless steel appliances. (I saw the listing when I was scouting my old neighborhood on mls.ca and I almost cried.) I've learned that I don't like to see my former homes change, and that it feels like a personal affront when my mark on a place has been erased.
Perhaps I always knew that I would have an issue with looking at old homes through my change-resistant eyes. When I was eighteen years old my English teacher challenged us to each write a poem that imitated the style of a famous Canadian poet. I don't remember who I was trying to emulate, but this is what I wrote:
Revisitation:
This is my house.
I was born here.
Why then, do these new inhabitants
gaze at me through windows tightly closed?
Are they afraid of the past -
of times we spent within these walls
where our smiles
and our tears
penetrated plaster and wood
and retreated to cracks and corners
where they yet remain?
(They must lack security,
living on borrowed ground -
but do they even know?)
This house will never be theirs
no matter how long they dwell within it,
for so do we.
Look what they've done! Character cannot
be changed from the surface.
THEY'VE COVERED MY STRIPES WITH
FLOWERS!
LOOK WHAT THEY'VE DONE! -
But it doesn't matter, I guess - or it shouldn't.
They live here now - and I somewhere else -
almost.
By Sharon Flood, October 1980
I thought of this poem a few nights ago as I was ruminating on the content of this blog post. I dug it out and read it to my husband.
"Wow", he said, "you sounded angry!"
"Kind of foreshadows the future, right? Remember the look on my face when we drove past the house in Lively?" I replied.
I told him how I wrote the poem while trying to imagine what it would feel like to look inside the only house I'd ever lived in up until that point, and see how it had changed. Younger me somehow knew I'd have a problem with the redecorating involved.
She was right - I might be able to do a drive by, but taking a tour to see all the changes wouldn't be a good idea. Even though I had yet to leave my first, she knew that I would be sentimental about my homes. Four years ago my husband drove me past my childhood home for the first time since my mother had sold it almost a decade before.
"Let's drive past the old house" my husband suggested.
"No thanks, I don't want to" I answered.
"I think you should - we don't know how long it'll be until we come back to the Soo. Aren't you curious?"
I was a bit curious, but mostly I was afraid of all the ghosts I might see. In spite of my lack of enthusiasm we rolled slowly past the house. I had a lump in my throat, and yes, a few tears escaped in spite of my best efforts at self control.
And there she was - still walking on stilts to try out new perspectives.
"Hop in" I invited her, opening my mind just a crack. "Lets go home."
Thursday, 5 June 2014
Just Another Message in a Bottle - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Message: (Yes, In A Bottle!)
I was walking at the shoreline
plucking pebbles from the beach
when I saw a bottle bobbing
in the waves just out of reach,
so I waded to retrieve it
then removed the scroll inside -
read the message in confusion;
understanding was denied.
When I brought it to my father
hoping he would comprehend
all the numbers written on it
he said, "It appears our friend
sent coordinates to show us
where he cast this from his boat
and was curious to find out
just how far that it might float."
Sent a note with my location
so the sender could learn more
and could chart the distance traveled
before bottle washed to shore.
Never thought much more about it
'til the day I wrote this tale,
now I contemplate the message
and how far it had to sail.
Life's a message in a bottle,
it's a lesson in a book;
life is out there all around you
if you'll only take a look.
Life's the message we are sending
and the one that is returned,
each experience we're given
brings another lesson learned.
It was not what I expected -
no dramatic SOS.
I was kind of disappointed
as a child I must confess.
Now I've grown to understand the
way humanity behaves,
cryptic notes are sent in bottles
to be carried by the waves.
When my loneliness compels me
I reach out to the unknown -
I am living, breathing, moving -
tell me I am not alone.
My coordinates keep changing,
but I'll tell you where I've been,
then perhaps you'll come exploring
and you'll see what I have seen.
I'm the author stuffing bottles
and the reader who replies,
sending data to the unknown
when the notion might arise.
I'm invested in connecting
with the another who discerns
what intentions forged the message
by the feedback he returns.
Life's a message in a bottle
we don't always understand
and the lessons we are learning
aren't the ones that we had planned.
We are scrolls rolled up in bottles
then cast out upon a wave -
bound for diverse destinations
from the womb until the grave.
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg (March 2008)
Many years ago I did find a message in a cigar tin on the shores of Lake Superior, and like the child in my poem brought the note to my father to decipher. Then I sent off a short note to the enclosed address as requested. Needless to say I never got a reply. I can only surmise that the sender got as much information as he'd requested - he learned how far his message went, and didn't really care about who had received it.
Our lives are filled with bottled missives - cryptic messages sent out into cyberspace, by ourselves and others, some hard to decipher. Facebook appeals to the Drama Queen in each of us. Who hasn't sent out an "I feel crappy today and I want the whole world to know it!" status - or one that is deliberately obscure - a baited hook waiting for sympathetic takers. Often we are motivated solely by our own need for attention. We don't care who responds, as long as somebody does. Like the mariner who bottles a message up and casts it overboard, we are primarily concerned with "how far" the message will go, how may people will hit the "like" button or respond. Why is that?
Here's my theory:
We are lonely.
Social media allows us to pretend we're not. (See how many people responded? I'm no loser!) But truthfully, in an age where many people care more about the number of their Facebook friends than having meaningful conversations with any of them - and where many spend more time fiddling with their cell phones than attending to those they're with - we are all losers.
Sting touched on a very similar theme in his song Message in a Bottle.
"Just a castaway
an island lost at sea
Another lonely day
with no one here but me."
Later in the song, the conclusion is made that he's "not alone in being alone - a hundred billion castaways, looking for a home."
I live a fairly insular life. I like my days to be quietly spent enjoying my solitary pursuits - reading, writing, gardening, baking; taking long walks. But I experience moments of poignant clarity when I realize how much more gratifying my life would be if I invited more friends over to enjoy my garden, or shared more home-made cookies with this Oreo-laden world. I should be showing someone else the beautiful trail I just explored, or discussing the latest book I loved with some other avid reader. Like the rest of humanity I get far too caught up in my own "busy-ness". Sometimes weeks go by before I realize I haven't had an outing, or more shocking still, a conversation, with anyone other than my spouse, my kids or my mother in quite a while.
When struck by this realization I feel lonely. It's partly my own fault. I'm reserved and a bit socially awkward. Getting to know new people doesn't come easily, thus it's easier to let the other person ask questions. As uncomfortable as it makes me to admit it, I know that this behavior might make me seem disinterested in others when in fact I'm usually quite curious. Unfamiliar social territory has been made more difficult to navigate by the fact that I often become careless about interacting with my siblings and closest friends. They are busier than I am and probably don't have time to talk or get together, is what I tell myself to excuse my failure to do my share of reaching out.
The part that I'm not responsible for is purely circumstantial. I've moved around, and those who have never moved to another city simply don't realize how difficult it is to establish new friendships in middle age. My kids are grown, so I have no involvement with their friends' parents at this stage of life. The other factor is that while I'm not alone in being alone, I think I might be in the minority when it comes to admitting that I'm lonely at times.
A lot of people see their mobile devices as a great source of connection. I don't. (Which is why I seldom carry my cell phone - but that's a whole other post.) Even telephone conversations require too much effort for most, and have been substituted with a series of text massages. We are a socially lazy generation - too easily lured into the social media trap where we have limited and mostly banal interactions with the masses instead of genuine (face to face!) interactions with people we actually know and claim to care about.
Some protest too strenuously that their lives are filled with socializing. They'll tell you that they eat lunch with "friends" every work day when in fact they merely share lunch with co-workers, which isn't the same at all. Or they'll tell you all about some church assignment or club they belong to that essentially forces them to sit in meetings and on committees with those whose company they'll enjoy for the period of time that they share common responsibilities. This kind of enforced interaction is no substitute for honest-to-goodness "come over to my house and hang out" sociability.
I am one of those castaways looking for a home, a community. That's why I make repeated efforts to tell the world how I feel, where I am and where I hope to go. But unlike a true narcissist, I hold out hope that I'll get responses and make connections. Every post is another message, and my computer is the vessel I use to send it out on the waves - I still believe that the media, in and of itself, is not the message.
"I am living, breathing, moving - tell me I am not alone."
Recently I had a Facebook friend announce that he would soon be deactivating his account. He said that while he enjoyed his online interactions, he wanted more experiences and less entertainment. I can relate to his sentiments. I've often wondered if I sent out an invitation for a night of "real time face time" at my home to forty or fifty people who I know well (or would like to get to know better), how many would take me up on the offer? How many would fore-go a night of texting with the many or scrolling their news feed in favor of mingling with the few? How many would be willing to sever their cell phone connection for an hour or two - or better yet leave their phone at home? (Those would be the rules - no mobile devices - after all I do have a land line in case of emergencies.)
Are you one of the hundred billion bottles looking for a home? Are you ready to send out an SOS?
I think I am.
I was walking at the shoreline
plucking pebbles from the beach
when I saw a bottle bobbing
in the waves just out of reach,
so I waded to retrieve it
then removed the scroll inside -
read the message in confusion;
understanding was denied.
When I brought it to my father
hoping he would comprehend
all the numbers written on it
he said, "It appears our friend
sent coordinates to show us
where he cast this from his boat
and was curious to find out
just how far that it might float."
Sent a note with my location
so the sender could learn more
and could chart the distance traveled
before bottle washed to shore.
Never thought much more about it
'til the day I wrote this tale,
now I contemplate the message
and how far it had to sail.
Life's a message in a bottle,
it's a lesson in a book;
life is out there all around you
if you'll only take a look.
Life's the message we are sending
and the one that is returned,
each experience we're given
brings another lesson learned.
It was not what I expected -
no dramatic SOS.
I was kind of disappointed
as a child I must confess.
Now I've grown to understand the
way humanity behaves,
cryptic notes are sent in bottles
to be carried by the waves.
When my loneliness compels me
I reach out to the unknown -
I am living, breathing, moving -
tell me I am not alone.
My coordinates keep changing,
but I'll tell you where I've been,
then perhaps you'll come exploring
and you'll see what I have seen.
I'm the author stuffing bottles
and the reader who replies,
sending data to the unknown
when the notion might arise.
I'm invested in connecting
with the another who discerns
what intentions forged the message
by the feedback he returns.
Life's a message in a bottle
we don't always understand
and the lessons we are learning
aren't the ones that we had planned.
We are scrolls rolled up in bottles
then cast out upon a wave -
bound for diverse destinations
from the womb until the grave.
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg (March 2008)
Many years ago I did find a message in a cigar tin on the shores of Lake Superior, and like the child in my poem brought the note to my father to decipher. Then I sent off a short note to the enclosed address as requested. Needless to say I never got a reply. I can only surmise that the sender got as much information as he'd requested - he learned how far his message went, and didn't really care about who had received it.
Our lives are filled with bottled missives - cryptic messages sent out into cyberspace, by ourselves and others, some hard to decipher. Facebook appeals to the Drama Queen in each of us. Who hasn't sent out an "I feel crappy today and I want the whole world to know it!" status - or one that is deliberately obscure - a baited hook waiting for sympathetic takers. Often we are motivated solely by our own need for attention. We don't care who responds, as long as somebody does. Like the mariner who bottles a message up and casts it overboard, we are primarily concerned with "how far" the message will go, how may people will hit the "like" button or respond. Why is that?
Here's my theory:
We are lonely.
Social media allows us to pretend we're not. (See how many people responded? I'm no loser!) But truthfully, in an age where many people care more about the number of their Facebook friends than having meaningful conversations with any of them - and where many spend more time fiddling with their cell phones than attending to those they're with - we are all losers.
Sting touched on a very similar theme in his song Message in a Bottle.
"Just a castaway
an island lost at sea
Another lonely day
with no one here but me."
Later in the song, the conclusion is made that he's "not alone in being alone - a hundred billion castaways, looking for a home."
I live a fairly insular life. I like my days to be quietly spent enjoying my solitary pursuits - reading, writing, gardening, baking; taking long walks. But I experience moments of poignant clarity when I realize how much more gratifying my life would be if I invited more friends over to enjoy my garden, or shared more home-made cookies with this Oreo-laden world. I should be showing someone else the beautiful trail I just explored, or discussing the latest book I loved with some other avid reader. Like the rest of humanity I get far too caught up in my own "busy-ness". Sometimes weeks go by before I realize I haven't had an outing, or more shocking still, a conversation, with anyone other than my spouse, my kids or my mother in quite a while.
When struck by this realization I feel lonely. It's partly my own fault. I'm reserved and a bit socially awkward. Getting to know new people doesn't come easily, thus it's easier to let the other person ask questions. As uncomfortable as it makes me to admit it, I know that this behavior might make me seem disinterested in others when in fact I'm usually quite curious. Unfamiliar social territory has been made more difficult to navigate by the fact that I often become careless about interacting with my siblings and closest friends. They are busier than I am and probably don't have time to talk or get together, is what I tell myself to excuse my failure to do my share of reaching out.
The part that I'm not responsible for is purely circumstantial. I've moved around, and those who have never moved to another city simply don't realize how difficult it is to establish new friendships in middle age. My kids are grown, so I have no involvement with their friends' parents at this stage of life. The other factor is that while I'm not alone in being alone, I think I might be in the minority when it comes to admitting that I'm lonely at times.
A lot of people see their mobile devices as a great source of connection. I don't. (Which is why I seldom carry my cell phone - but that's a whole other post.) Even telephone conversations require too much effort for most, and have been substituted with a series of text massages. We are a socially lazy generation - too easily lured into the social media trap where we have limited and mostly banal interactions with the masses instead of genuine (face to face!) interactions with people we actually know and claim to care about.
Some protest too strenuously that their lives are filled with socializing. They'll tell you that they eat lunch with "friends" every work day when in fact they merely share lunch with co-workers, which isn't the same at all. Or they'll tell you all about some church assignment or club they belong to that essentially forces them to sit in meetings and on committees with those whose company they'll enjoy for the period of time that they share common responsibilities. This kind of enforced interaction is no substitute for honest-to-goodness "come over to my house and hang out" sociability.
I am one of those castaways looking for a home, a community. That's why I make repeated efforts to tell the world how I feel, where I am and where I hope to go. But unlike a true narcissist, I hold out hope that I'll get responses and make connections. Every post is another message, and my computer is the vessel I use to send it out on the waves - I still believe that the media, in and of itself, is not the message.
"I am living, breathing, moving - tell me I am not alone."
Recently I had a Facebook friend announce that he would soon be deactivating his account. He said that while he enjoyed his online interactions, he wanted more experiences and less entertainment. I can relate to his sentiments. I've often wondered if I sent out an invitation for a night of "real time face time" at my home to forty or fifty people who I know well (or would like to get to know better), how many would take me up on the offer? How many would fore-go a night of texting with the many or scrolling their news feed in favor of mingling with the few? How many would be willing to sever their cell phone connection for an hour or two - or better yet leave their phone at home? (Those would be the rules - no mobile devices - after all I do have a land line in case of emergencies.)
Are you one of the hundred billion bottles looking for a home? Are you ready to send out an SOS?
I think I am.
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