Passports!
I love to travel, but it isn't as easy as it used to be. Gone are the days when you pulled out your birth certificate at the border or used your driver's license as identification. Now a passport is the only identification that will get you anywhere. You can't smile in a passport photo, and so you need to get used to the fact that you will be henceforth identified, everywhere you ever go, by that miserable unflattering picture that manages to add about thirty pounds to your face. (The possibility that your passport photo could end up on the news should be good incentive to behave anywhere!)
Passport Picture (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, August 2007)
Found a resort?
Get a passport!
Travel far and wide.
Show a photo
no one would know
back where you reside.
There is no sin
like a big grin
on a passport pic;
you can look mad
you can look sad
or you can look sick.
When you are posed
with your lips closed
it's a trial run.
Happy faces
had their places
when travel was fun.
Cleared for Boarding!
Air travel used to be so glamorous! Remember seeing those old photos of people hopping on early passenger planes, all dressed to the nines and wearing bright smiles of anticipation?
Things have changed. Now we don't bother to dress up, because lines are long, leg space is limited and we want to be comfortable. Smiling in an airport is a thing of the past. (We need to look something like those dour passport pictures we had to have taken to get us this far in the first place, right?) We all look worried - can't help it. We worry that looking worried will make us look more suspicious at the security gate, and worrying about worrying makes us look really worried. We ask ourselves questions - did I take every miniscule tube of cosmetics out of my carry on and put it in a baggy, or have I somehow made an error that will make it necessary to have my bag searched? Are my pockets completely empty? Will I set off alarms with my under-wire bra?
In a German airport I was briskly (but very thoroughly) patted down by a large blond woman who could've wrestled your average cage fighter to the ground with one hand tied behind her back. ( I later complained that she hadn't even bought me dinner : ) In an American airport I recently had my hands swabbed twice within ten minutes. (What is in that hand cream?) Recently I had my bag searched because I forgot (in my rush to get "expedited" onto flight that was two minutes past departure time) to remove my water bottle - yup, my bad. Amazingly enough the security people didn't question the fact that it was only water and a hurried mistake on my part, and I actually made that flight. (Whew!)
Once aboard you can wiggle and squiggle all you want, but chances are the noisy kid in the seat behind you or the person in the next seat who hogs your legroom or any of a dozen other possible complaints might make you wonder why you didn't book off an extra day or two and make this a road trip.
But road trips have their challenges too.
Welcome to the USA!
When road trips take you over the border, you can never really relax until get through customs. You may have a brief and pleasant encounter with a customs officer (which is usually the case), or you may have the misfortune of landing the guy who has had a bad day or is just plain mean-spirited...
At the Border: (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, February 2010)
From mundane toiling we grew tired
and so some travel we desired -
we dug out passports, planned the route,
packed up the car and headed out.
Once at the border we were irked
by border guard who smugly smirked
and noting our son out of work
proceeded to be quite a jerk.
"Not working, huh - and out of school?
you'd best not take me for a fool,
and in deep trouble you will be
if by a roadside I should see
you selling fruit or hocking wares -
don't lie to me son - no one dares!"
Then with a small turn of the head
addressing husband now, he said,
"And you Sir - are you out of work?"
He heard response, then said with smirk
"Consulting? Let me be explicit -
No work here shall you solicit!"
His attitude did patience tax
our aim was simply to relax.
(His"land of opportunity"
held very small appeal to me,
and though I try not to be snide
I'm happier where I reside.)
We sought only to nerves unfray
in climate where the palm trees sway.
Work wasn't what we'd tried to find,
but what we'd hoped to leave behind!
Yes, nothing beats the customs officer who within the space of five minutes manages to insult every person in the car. My husband and son were accused of wanting to take 'Merican jobs, and in spite of the fact that the Canadian economy was considerably healthier at the time, it was assumed that we were looking to leave our son behind to work at McDonald's or a fruit stand - simply because he didn't have a job to return to. This insulted son ("If I wanted a crappy job I could find one more easily in Canada right now!", he remarked later) and parents in one fell swipe. I guess we just looked like lousy parents who'd dump their kid off on some American roadside to fend for himself!
"What guarantee do I have you'll be bringing this young man home with you?" we were asked suspiciously.
Blood boiling I managed to maintain my composure as I answered him.
"Respectfully Sir, none but the fact that he is our son, and we love him - and would miss him."
Then he turned to my mother, and asked about her dog and whether his shots were up to date. She handed him Buddy's paperwork through the window. He wanted a closer look at the dog, but the window was broken and wouldn't roll down farther. My mother offered to open the door.
He jumped back as she reached for the door handle and told her (well, barked at her, really!) to keep the door shut because he had no wish to be bitten by her dog. (I guess my mother just looked like the sort of mean old woman who would sic her vicious bichon frise on him!)
Fun stuff - I repeat - if crossing the border is on your agenda, don't plan to relax until you get past the guy in the booth! Once you've cleared the border you're ripe for the next set of travel challenges.
Navigate Your Destination!
Navigate what, you ask? Everything, that's what! Navigate unfamiliar streets, unfamiliar customs, unfamiliar languages and dialects. (Yes - this applies even if you're only going to the United States.)
Once you've survived the harrowing ordeals involved in boarding an airplane or crossing a border you can afford to let your guard down (a bit!) and begin relaxing. But somehow you need to navigate your way into not looking like a complete idiot now that you've reached your destination. And that can be hard.
We travel to see things that are new and different, but then get frustrated because we don't know where we're going or what we're doing. What a map labels as a shopping center might be a mini mart with a bank and a gas station alongside. Go with the flow.
The subways will confound you - keep a clear head. Navigate your way through the frustrations that go along with figuring out what to do when you're not sure where you are.
Navigate your way through those local customs and foods with grace. In some states when you order something that says it comes with gravy they will serve up nasty gloopy white flour and water paste. Strange as it sounds, this is what the locals call gravy. If you're not sure what gravy means in that particular locality, ask. Navigate your way through the menu before you order!
Acquaint yourself with the language, or at the very least be understanding of the fact that everyone doesn't speak English - or not the same English you speak. We once had an encounter at a Tennessee hotel that felt like something out of an old comedy routine, and all because we couldn't understand the hotel clerk and he couldn't understand us.
Chatanooga: (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, March 2010)
In Chatanooga, at hotel
a wee old man answered the bell -
No "Chatanooga Choo Choo" here -
he might've chugged, but oh my dear
he obviously didn't "choo"
his teeth, I fear, were far too few!
This man of very ancient days
and graced with very southern ways
seemed most perplexed by what we said
and scratched his sparsely covered head.
And we were equally confused
by how the language he abused.
"Whose gotta pay-et?" questioned he
and we discerned - not easily -
translation was for this remark,
"who owns the beast that I hear bark?"
The English language varies so -
it changes everywhere you go.
Nation to nation, state to state
it takes some talent to translate
exactly what the natives mean
in many regions where I've been.
And curious as it may be,
the accent, they think, comes from me!
So I surmise I might sound odd
to those whose language seems most flawed.
Does "Chatanooga" chug along
laughing at how I sound so wrong?
Yup! I bet you any money
he thinks Canadians sound funny!
So wherever your travels take you, try to relax. Learn to navigate smoothly through the maze of new roads, customs, languages, and yes, even accents that await you there. Navigate your way to the coolest, craziest most different places you could hope to see wherever you are. Revel in the differences. Taste the local cuisine, see the landmarks; explore the back lanes and unbeaten paths.
And when you've had your fill and taken your photos; when you've made sense of the roads and the language and the mindset of the locals, navigate your way back home again.
Wednesday, 12 February 2014
Friday, 24 January 2014
What I've Learned about Friendship Since THAT Book Hit Me in The Head! (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg)
"How to Win Friends..."
I'm sure I must've irked or bossed
the thrower 'ere the book was tossed -
a famous tome by Carnegie
a boy named "Hurley" hurled at me.
Although the thrower was irate,
as I recall his aim was great.
It hit me squarely on the head
and Mr. Hurley laughed and fled.
He'd left no scar that I could show,
but bruised my twelve year old ego,
and glancing at the book he'd tossed,
my sense of humour wasn't lost.
"How to Win Friends and Influence -"
obtained an adverse consequence.
I still laugh at the irony
of how that book was thrown at me,
and when I muse on that attack
I'm glad it was the paperback!
-Sharon Flood Kasenberg (Feb. 27, 2007)
What I've Learned about Friendship Since THAT Book Hit Me In the Head:
Without a doubt that cosh on the head reminded me that I could be difficult at times - still am. I'm opinionated and temperamental. I'm a bit of an introvert and far too analytical, which might be why I find it slightly disheartening that in spite of all the upbeat and encouraging posts I've shared over these last few years, the one that's received the most views is titled "Confession: I Don't Like Everyone!"
That worries me (a bit) because I actually do like most people and don't want to be viewed as a negative or antisocial individual. Generally speaking I feel goodwill toward all, and I know I've been blessed with some amazing friends who are able to look past my red-headed disposition and my social quirks to find "a keeper". I'm loyal, affectionate and (doggone it!) I'm mostly fun to be around.
I was twelve when that famous tome was lobbed at my head. We were cleaning off bookshelves in my grade six classroom, five of us, when I said something that irritated one of my peers. So he threw the book in his hand at me. I laughed uproariously when I saw the title on his chosen missile, but even then I had a niggling feeling that something was amiss - "How to Win Friends and Influence People" just didn't sound quite right to me.
Even then I felt that true friends are not won but earned. Years after it bounced off my noggin I read the book with my sons. Carnegie was, without a doubt, a man who understood how to get along with people. It's a great book for people looking to build a customer base, but not (in my opinion) the ultimate guide to making friends. Therefore I was selective in heeding Carnegie's wisdom, choosing to disregard a few things that struck me as being slightly smarmy used car salesmen type "techniques". Nobody appreciates being condescended to, and most people possess enough firing neurons to know when you're putting on an act to"win them over."
Experience has taught me that the way to make friends is to be the best version of you - shine your own light. Don't ever pretend to be something you're not. Once when I was young and frustrated by the fact that a much bubblier girl in my social circle seemed to capture a lot more attention, I decided to try to be like her. Another friend caught on quickly to what I was attempting and nipped it in the bud by asking why I would pretend to be an airhead. ("It doesn't look good on you at all!", he told me in his forthright way.) It was yet another book to the head moment, reminding me of the importance of "keeping it real."
I've learned to keep my expectations real too. Making friends with the coolest kid in school or the best looking/most popular person in the office building might not happen, but when you're in the habit of being polite and kind you'll attract the attention of those who appreciate what you have to offer. Not everyone you meet will groove on you the second they meet you, and that's fine. Many of the people I feel closest to didn't impress me much at a glance. I'm grateful that wasn't all I gave them. As I got to know those who initially seemed intimidating, or felt I had nothing in common with, I was often delighted by the fact that I had completely misread them. Sometimes it's wonderful to be wrong!
I hesitate to say it, but I've learned there's a possibility that those who you'd like to befriend will never groove on you. That's okay too! Give yourself permission to be rejected from time to time. There are people you love better from a distance, so it stands to reason that there are those who will love you best from afar. This shouldn't be a newsflash. If you haven't yet learned to appreciate everyone you meet, you can't complain too much about the fact that you won't be everyone's cup of tea.
I've learned that we find, and are found by, the people we need in our lives. Friendships come in all varieties - from casual friends we "just hang with" to the "soul mates" we encounter who we recognize in a flash as being kindred spirits - people we can share almost anything with. Most of us are lucky enough to form a few truly great friendships over the course of a lifetime. You may see these people infrequently, but conversation always flows. You just "get" each other.
Yes, I've learned a few things about friendship over the years, but I'd be remiss if I didn't tell you how much I still need to work on.
Life can sometimes get in the way of making and maintaining contact with friends. We get busy with kids and jobs. We move around. (I've changed cities seven times since I left my hometown.) We change, and changing lives reflect changes in friendships. There have been times when I got lazy about keeping in touch with people and letting them know I care, and times when I felt a bit neglected too.
I've learned how easy it can be to throw a pity party and wait around for other people to make a big fuss over me. There's a lot of fear associated with reaching out first, which doesn't make a lot of sense because it seems to me that none of us are ever alone in feeling lonely. Anyone feeling a lack of sociability in life is probably not being very sociable. I'm learning that I need to do my share of the reaching.
I've learned that people have differing ideas about what friendship connections do and don't look like in this technology driven world. I'm pretty certain that all of my Facebook friends aren't people who actually love me (some don't even really know me). Nevertheless I've seen people get really upset about being "un-friended" by people who play very small parts in their lives. I worry that a lot of people give online interactions inflated importance, and care more about creating a virtual persona than spending quality time engaging with friends in real life. It's easier than having to schedule time to get together, and nobody has to bother getting dressed, cleaning the house or combing their hair.
I try to use technology to stay close to friends who live far away, or to reconnect with old friends. When I do reach out to someone I've reconnected with online I'm often confused. How much contact is enough? Will a long, newsy message in their inbox scare them off? Is a phone call too invasive? Does this person care a fig about ever actually seeing me? Do people really want to visit anymore, or is hospitality a dying art? I know I certainly don't entertain as often as my parents did.
I had an experience recently that made me see just how rusty my hostessing skills have become.
A friend I hadn't seen in a dozen years came to visit, and I was thrilled! I baked cookies just before she came, brought she and her husband each a plate and they each ate a cookie. I meant to put the rest of the cookies out within reach, but got so caught up in the conversation that I forgot to. (I was actually kind of freaked out by the fact that after all of these years she was sitting in my house - sad but true.) I didn't even think to offer them a glass of water until they were about to leave - and then primarily because with all the yakking I'd done I was a bit thirsty. (Did I mention that I'm a bit spaced out occasionally...and that it can take me a while to "process" what happens around me?)
I shamefully recounted this tale to my mother and she tsk-tsked loudly. She had certainly set a better example for me than that! I apologized to my friend profusely via email - I'd realized after the fact (I explained to her) that I'd missed a zillion social cues...
"Social cues - LOL?" she responded in her emailed reply. "Whatever do you mean, Sheldon?"
I laughed my head off, just like I did all those years ago when the book beaned me. She knew exactly how to make me see the point in a humorous way - no judgement or criticism, but she wasn't entirely letting me off the hook either. We still got each other.
And I was reminded of one more thing I've learned. Sometimes I still need a good thump on the head!
I'm sure I must've irked or bossed
the thrower 'ere the book was tossed -
a famous tome by Carnegie
a boy named "Hurley" hurled at me.
Although the thrower was irate,
as I recall his aim was great.
It hit me squarely on the head
and Mr. Hurley laughed and fled.
He'd left no scar that I could show,
but bruised my twelve year old ego,
and glancing at the book he'd tossed,
my sense of humour wasn't lost.
"How to Win Friends and Influence -"
obtained an adverse consequence.
I still laugh at the irony
of how that book was thrown at me,
and when I muse on that attack
I'm glad it was the paperback!
-Sharon Flood Kasenberg (Feb. 27, 2007)
What I've Learned about Friendship Since THAT Book Hit Me In the Head:
Without a doubt that cosh on the head reminded me that I could be difficult at times - still am. I'm opinionated and temperamental. I'm a bit of an introvert and far too analytical, which might be why I find it slightly disheartening that in spite of all the upbeat and encouraging posts I've shared over these last few years, the one that's received the most views is titled "Confession: I Don't Like Everyone!"
That worries me (a bit) because I actually do like most people and don't want to be viewed as a negative or antisocial individual. Generally speaking I feel goodwill toward all, and I know I've been blessed with some amazing friends who are able to look past my red-headed disposition and my social quirks to find "a keeper". I'm loyal, affectionate and (doggone it!) I'm mostly fun to be around.
I was twelve when that famous tome was lobbed at my head. We were cleaning off bookshelves in my grade six classroom, five of us, when I said something that irritated one of my peers. So he threw the book in his hand at me. I laughed uproariously when I saw the title on his chosen missile, but even then I had a niggling feeling that something was amiss - "How to Win Friends and Influence People" just didn't sound quite right to me.
Even then I felt that true friends are not won but earned. Years after it bounced off my noggin I read the book with my sons. Carnegie was, without a doubt, a man who understood how to get along with people. It's a great book for people looking to build a customer base, but not (in my opinion) the ultimate guide to making friends. Therefore I was selective in heeding Carnegie's wisdom, choosing to disregard a few things that struck me as being slightly smarmy used car salesmen type "techniques". Nobody appreciates being condescended to, and most people possess enough firing neurons to know when you're putting on an act to"win them over."
Experience has taught me that the way to make friends is to be the best version of you - shine your own light. Don't ever pretend to be something you're not. Once when I was young and frustrated by the fact that a much bubblier girl in my social circle seemed to capture a lot more attention, I decided to try to be like her. Another friend caught on quickly to what I was attempting and nipped it in the bud by asking why I would pretend to be an airhead. ("It doesn't look good on you at all!", he told me in his forthright way.) It was yet another book to the head moment, reminding me of the importance of "keeping it real."
I've learned to keep my expectations real too. Making friends with the coolest kid in school or the best looking/most popular person in the office building might not happen, but when you're in the habit of being polite and kind you'll attract the attention of those who appreciate what you have to offer. Not everyone you meet will groove on you the second they meet you, and that's fine. Many of the people I feel closest to didn't impress me much at a glance. I'm grateful that wasn't all I gave them. As I got to know those who initially seemed intimidating, or felt I had nothing in common with, I was often delighted by the fact that I had completely misread them. Sometimes it's wonderful to be wrong!
I hesitate to say it, but I've learned there's a possibility that those who you'd like to befriend will never groove on you. That's okay too! Give yourself permission to be rejected from time to time. There are people you love better from a distance, so it stands to reason that there are those who will love you best from afar. This shouldn't be a newsflash. If you haven't yet learned to appreciate everyone you meet, you can't complain too much about the fact that you won't be everyone's cup of tea.
I've learned that we find, and are found by, the people we need in our lives. Friendships come in all varieties - from casual friends we "just hang with" to the "soul mates" we encounter who we recognize in a flash as being kindred spirits - people we can share almost anything with. Most of us are lucky enough to form a few truly great friendships over the course of a lifetime. You may see these people infrequently, but conversation always flows. You just "get" each other.
Yes, I've learned a few things about friendship over the years, but I'd be remiss if I didn't tell you how much I still need to work on.
Life can sometimes get in the way of making and maintaining contact with friends. We get busy with kids and jobs. We move around. (I've changed cities seven times since I left my hometown.) We change, and changing lives reflect changes in friendships. There have been times when I got lazy about keeping in touch with people and letting them know I care, and times when I felt a bit neglected too.
I've learned how easy it can be to throw a pity party and wait around for other people to make a big fuss over me. There's a lot of fear associated with reaching out first, which doesn't make a lot of sense because it seems to me that none of us are ever alone in feeling lonely. Anyone feeling a lack of sociability in life is probably not being very sociable. I'm learning that I need to do my share of the reaching.
I've learned that people have differing ideas about what friendship connections do and don't look like in this technology driven world. I'm pretty certain that all of my Facebook friends aren't people who actually love me (some don't even really know me). Nevertheless I've seen people get really upset about being "un-friended" by people who play very small parts in their lives. I worry that a lot of people give online interactions inflated importance, and care more about creating a virtual persona than spending quality time engaging with friends in real life. It's easier than having to schedule time to get together, and nobody has to bother getting dressed, cleaning the house or combing their hair.
I try to use technology to stay close to friends who live far away, or to reconnect with old friends. When I do reach out to someone I've reconnected with online I'm often confused. How much contact is enough? Will a long, newsy message in their inbox scare them off? Is a phone call too invasive? Does this person care a fig about ever actually seeing me? Do people really want to visit anymore, or is hospitality a dying art? I know I certainly don't entertain as often as my parents did.
I had an experience recently that made me see just how rusty my hostessing skills have become.
A friend I hadn't seen in a dozen years came to visit, and I was thrilled! I baked cookies just before she came, brought she and her husband each a plate and they each ate a cookie. I meant to put the rest of the cookies out within reach, but got so caught up in the conversation that I forgot to. (I was actually kind of freaked out by the fact that after all of these years she was sitting in my house - sad but true.) I didn't even think to offer them a glass of water until they were about to leave - and then primarily because with all the yakking I'd done I was a bit thirsty. (Did I mention that I'm a bit spaced out occasionally...and that it can take me a while to "process" what happens around me?)
I shamefully recounted this tale to my mother and she tsk-tsked loudly. She had certainly set a better example for me than that! I apologized to my friend profusely via email - I'd realized after the fact (I explained to her) that I'd missed a zillion social cues...
"Social cues - LOL?" she responded in her emailed reply. "Whatever do you mean, Sheldon?"
I laughed my head off, just like I did all those years ago when the book beaned me. She knew exactly how to make me see the point in a humorous way - no judgement or criticism, but she wasn't entirely letting me off the hook either. We still got each other.
And I was reminded of one more thing I've learned. Sometimes I still need a good thump on the head!
Tuesday, 14 January 2014
Progress: A Sharp Right Turn Before Stalledandstuck (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg)
"Stalledandstuck" (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg - April 5, 2010)
I am the Queen of Stalledandstuck -
mired to my armpits in the muck.
My throne, unnoticed most the time,
is buried deeply in the slime
and if I ever wore a crown
it's long since gone, it's settled down
into this murky great abyss -
a kingdom built on quicksand, this.
I tell myself I would break free
if there was somewhere else to be -
there are worse places to be in,
and mud feels good upon my skin.
Each day I spend in spa like state;
there's not much here to aggravate.
Nobody crowds me in my muck,
although a few point out I'm stuck.
(I always have a good excuse
for why my limbs are still not loose.)
Oft times I can sense some disdain -
some question why I here remain
and even try to pull me out,
but I am mired by fear and doubt.
It's so much easier to choose
to stay within familiar ooze.
(And if I left, what would I wear?
My mud-gown's not in style out there!)
What would I do upon dry land?
Nobody seems to understand!
Here people notice what I say;
I issue edicts every day.
I'm really quite important here,
but elsewhere I might disappear.
About two weeks into any given new year I often begin to hear the constant thud of discarded resolutions hitting the ground around me. Why is it so easy to be inspired on New Year's Eve, and so common to be more than half way down the well beaten track to the town of "Stalledandstuck" before two weeks are past?
Ahhh - perhaps it's the attraction of Stalledandstuck itself!
It's such a cozy and comfortable little place to make a pit stop on the road to Discouragement, or for the really ambitiously self-defeating, The Highway to Hell, which as most of you know is paved with the good intentions that people drop en route and stomp down into a hard packed surface as they march onward toward their own personal purgatory.
This is a town that embodies the ultimate comfort zone. Here you will never have to face your vulnerabilities because rejection isn't even possible! Everything here is ordered and precise - no scary surprises and no messy challenges interrupt your days of relaxation and leisure. Oh sure, you have a few tasks to perform, but you've been doing these same things for so long that they're no trouble at all. You carry out these necessary chores in your sleep and with robotic efficiency, then accept the applause graciously, pat yourself on the back and sink into yet another blissful mud-bath.
The best hotel in the realm is run by a persuasive innkeeper named Fear. He's quick to assure you that your stay should be a long one. After all, anyplace else you could ever go would ultimately prove to be filled with risk - scary thought! But here you will be carefully tended and soooo safe! Aren't you lucky to always have one of his best rooms waiting for you?
His next door neighbour is always ready to greet you with a big fat slice of pie. Her name is Comparison, but you can call her Miss C. Stick with her, and she'll comfort you with the notion that it is much better to never try. You'll never be the best, and good is never good enough. There's really no reason to put yourself through the ordeal of trying to accomplish anything. Accomplishment is hard work, and satisfaction is highly over-rated. (Besides, contentment is for cows, and the only goal worth setting is the goal to be The Best.)
"And you're just not a contender", she assures you, "So enjoy your time with Mr. Fear, and your meals are all on me!"
Miss C feeds everyone really well, focusing on making sure each hotel guest gets his or her just desserts. Soon you'll grow quite fat on Self Defeat Cake and the ever present Humble Pie. If you want she'll expand her offerings to include Chip on Your Shoulder Cookies. (They're a local favorite!)
Mr Fear doesn't want you to be bored - not ever! He offers a full range of seminars at his hotel with catchy titles like "Feeling Overwhelmed is the Ultimate Excuse", "How to Succeed at Not Succeeding" and "The Ten Best Tips for Squelching Motivation." His seminars are HUGELY successful and his speakers constantly address "sold out" audiences.
He offers an exercise class too. It's called Mind Spinning. The Instructor is so deliciously de-motivating with his constant mantras of "Breathe out ambition, breathe in defeat. Breathe out organization and breathe in chaos." He's dedicated to his mission of encouraging all to embrace lassitude and only work the anxious and overwhelmed muscles. (I'm no expert at physiology, but I believe those muscle groups are located in the vicinity of the gluteus maximus.) He ends every work out the same way.
"Remember folks. Lethargy is the ultimate goal. Avoid thought, and above all, avoid Action. The only successful failure is the guy who never tried."
I know all of this because I used to spend a lot of time in Stalledandstuck, where I was consistently treated like royalty. But somewhere along the line I caught a small case of determination, and I'm thinking this is the year that I need to hold fast to my resolutional baggage and hightail it somewhere else. I need a change of scenery.
There are towns in the opposite direction - they say that there's a great big shining city called Success! at the end of that road. The turn off veers gently to the right a few miles down the Road of Good Intentions (long before it becomes the Highway to Hell). You won't get even half-way to Stalledandstuck before you see that bend in the road, if you're looking for it. A slight change in course, and a neon bright banner waves overhead - "Welcome to Progress!"
Progress (I've heard) is a less comfortable town than my old standby. Nobody is apt to make a huge fuss over you there, because everyone is too busy. All the citizens there are transients on their way to places farther down the highway and closer to Success! Everyone there seems happy, intent on their own goals and fairly non-obtrusive. The busiest hostel is run by a guy named Persevere. It's a bit of a rustic place, but Mr. P makes sure everyone gets what they need. He sends out reminders to his guests when they forget to pick up day planners or get moving in a timely fashion, desiring that all remain motivated. His concierge desk in the lobby always has a line up in front of it, which isn't horribly convenient, but as the advice doled out there is so helpful to those trying to plan itineraries, nobody seems to mind the wait.
Apparently all kinds of motivational speakers do the circuit in Progress, and seminars and workshops have titles like "Hang in There!", "Plan, Organize and DO" and "Working all of the Bugs out of Your Faulty System". Everything is very "hands on", hard work is encouraged and spa treatments are granted as a reward for effort - what a concept!
So I've bought a new map and planned my route. I have all my good intentions packed for the long arduous trip to Success! Does anyone care to join me? I'm barely on the road, just coming up to that first bend...
Is that a banner I see just around the corner?
I am the Queen of Stalledandstuck -
mired to my armpits in the muck.
My throne, unnoticed most the time,
is buried deeply in the slime
and if I ever wore a crown
it's long since gone, it's settled down
into this murky great abyss -
a kingdom built on quicksand, this.
I tell myself I would break free
if there was somewhere else to be -
there are worse places to be in,
and mud feels good upon my skin.
Each day I spend in spa like state;
there's not much here to aggravate.
Nobody crowds me in my muck,
although a few point out I'm stuck.
(I always have a good excuse
for why my limbs are still not loose.)
Oft times I can sense some disdain -
some question why I here remain
and even try to pull me out,
but I am mired by fear and doubt.
It's so much easier to choose
to stay within familiar ooze.
(And if I left, what would I wear?
My mud-gown's not in style out there!)
What would I do upon dry land?
Nobody seems to understand!
Here people notice what I say;
I issue edicts every day.
I'm really quite important here,
but elsewhere I might disappear.
About two weeks into any given new year I often begin to hear the constant thud of discarded resolutions hitting the ground around me. Why is it so easy to be inspired on New Year's Eve, and so common to be more than half way down the well beaten track to the town of "Stalledandstuck" before two weeks are past?
Ahhh - perhaps it's the attraction of Stalledandstuck itself!
It's such a cozy and comfortable little place to make a pit stop on the road to Discouragement, or for the really ambitiously self-defeating, The Highway to Hell, which as most of you know is paved with the good intentions that people drop en route and stomp down into a hard packed surface as they march onward toward their own personal purgatory.
This is a town that embodies the ultimate comfort zone. Here you will never have to face your vulnerabilities because rejection isn't even possible! Everything here is ordered and precise - no scary surprises and no messy challenges interrupt your days of relaxation and leisure. Oh sure, you have a few tasks to perform, but you've been doing these same things for so long that they're no trouble at all. You carry out these necessary chores in your sleep and with robotic efficiency, then accept the applause graciously, pat yourself on the back and sink into yet another blissful mud-bath.
The best hotel in the realm is run by a persuasive innkeeper named Fear. He's quick to assure you that your stay should be a long one. After all, anyplace else you could ever go would ultimately prove to be filled with risk - scary thought! But here you will be carefully tended and soooo safe! Aren't you lucky to always have one of his best rooms waiting for you?
His next door neighbour is always ready to greet you with a big fat slice of pie. Her name is Comparison, but you can call her Miss C. Stick with her, and she'll comfort you with the notion that it is much better to never try. You'll never be the best, and good is never good enough. There's really no reason to put yourself through the ordeal of trying to accomplish anything. Accomplishment is hard work, and satisfaction is highly over-rated. (Besides, contentment is for cows, and the only goal worth setting is the goal to be The Best.)
"And you're just not a contender", she assures you, "So enjoy your time with Mr. Fear, and your meals are all on me!"
Miss C feeds everyone really well, focusing on making sure each hotel guest gets his or her just desserts. Soon you'll grow quite fat on Self Defeat Cake and the ever present Humble Pie. If you want she'll expand her offerings to include Chip on Your Shoulder Cookies. (They're a local favorite!)
Mr Fear doesn't want you to be bored - not ever! He offers a full range of seminars at his hotel with catchy titles like "Feeling Overwhelmed is the Ultimate Excuse", "How to Succeed at Not Succeeding" and "The Ten Best Tips for Squelching Motivation." His seminars are HUGELY successful and his speakers constantly address "sold out" audiences.
He offers an exercise class too. It's called Mind Spinning. The Instructor is so deliciously de-motivating with his constant mantras of "Breathe out ambition, breathe in defeat. Breathe out organization and breathe in chaos." He's dedicated to his mission of encouraging all to embrace lassitude and only work the anxious and overwhelmed muscles. (I'm no expert at physiology, but I believe those muscle groups are located in the vicinity of the gluteus maximus.) He ends every work out the same way.
"Remember folks. Lethargy is the ultimate goal. Avoid thought, and above all, avoid Action. The only successful failure is the guy who never tried."
I know all of this because I used to spend a lot of time in Stalledandstuck, where I was consistently treated like royalty. But somewhere along the line I caught a small case of determination, and I'm thinking this is the year that I need to hold fast to my resolutional baggage and hightail it somewhere else. I need a change of scenery.
There are towns in the opposite direction - they say that there's a great big shining city called Success! at the end of that road. The turn off veers gently to the right a few miles down the Road of Good Intentions (long before it becomes the Highway to Hell). You won't get even half-way to Stalledandstuck before you see that bend in the road, if you're looking for it. A slight change in course, and a neon bright banner waves overhead - "Welcome to Progress!"
Progress (I've heard) is a less comfortable town than my old standby. Nobody is apt to make a huge fuss over you there, because everyone is too busy. All the citizens there are transients on their way to places farther down the highway and closer to Success! Everyone there seems happy, intent on their own goals and fairly non-obtrusive. The busiest hostel is run by a guy named Persevere. It's a bit of a rustic place, but Mr. P makes sure everyone gets what they need. He sends out reminders to his guests when they forget to pick up day planners or get moving in a timely fashion, desiring that all remain motivated. His concierge desk in the lobby always has a line up in front of it, which isn't horribly convenient, but as the advice doled out there is so helpful to those trying to plan itineraries, nobody seems to mind the wait.
Apparently all kinds of motivational speakers do the circuit in Progress, and seminars and workshops have titles like "Hang in There!", "Plan, Organize and DO" and "Working all of the Bugs out of Your Faulty System". Everything is very "hands on", hard work is encouraged and spa treatments are granted as a reward for effort - what a concept!
So I've bought a new map and planned my route. I have all my good intentions packed for the long arduous trip to Success! Does anyone care to join me? I'm barely on the road, just coming up to that first bend...
Is that a banner I see just around the corner?
Tuesday, 31 December 2013
New Year's Inspiration: Eliminate Mind Freeze and Generate Your Own January Thaw! (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg)
Now that the holiday season is wrapping up, Canadians will have more time to devote to one of their favorite pastimes - complaining about the weather. It seems that we are a nation of people with strong views on the subject, and we all have preferences as to what constitutes the ideal seasonal temperature. Surprisingly, many cling tenaciously to the opinion that winter is a season to be endured rather than enjoyed, and view snow as inherently evil. I disagree.
One of the things I love about living in Ontario is that it's a corner of the world that has four very distinct seasons. I enjoy them all, including winter. I love snow too - and yes, I have spent more than my share of hours with a shovel! (And I shoveled in northern Ontario, where the snow fall is much more impressive than it is in my current locale.) My peeve about the weather is the fact that our seasons get scrambled a lot more often than they used to. They refuse to behave in an orderly fashion. I hate seeing rain in winter, and an unseasonably mild day in December will inevitably put me into a tailspin. (I believe weather will always equalize somehow, and crazy warm winter days will likely result in snowstorms in May.)
I know that worrying about weather is a futile exercise. There's really nothing that any of us can do to change the course of the clouds or the direction of the winds. Snow will fall whether or not your back hurts and rain will fall regardless of whether you're carrying an umbrella. We all need to practice gracefully accepting those things about our climate that annoy us. There is so much more to life than the weather.
What would happen if we took all the energy that we put into griping about the cold and the snow and channeled it into warming hearts (including our own!)? What if we encouraged those flash frozen ideologies we have to defrost a bit? Could we generate enough heat to bring on our own "January Thaw"? I'm not talking about changing the weather - I've already ceded that we have no control over that, but there are things we can each do to improve our own internal climate. Maybe we could toss out a few of our freeze dried attitudes and habits and create more space for something fresher and more appetizing. (We all have them - those thoughts that require nothing more that a few watery drops of irritation to suddenly morph into instant, but rather unsavory, fare for the spirit.)
Most minds host unsubstantiated biases and prejudices that (like ill-mannered guests) crowd the facilities and make too much noise. Part of the process of attaining wisdom is learning to accept that we can be wrong sometimes. It's okay to not have all of the answers. We can't be taught if we never open our minds to new ideas or different opinions. Most of us are far too willing to share our own rhetoric without giving anyone else a chance to talk. This year I'll aim to improve my listening skills. I'm convinced that we'd all be a whole lot less ignorant if we took more time to listen - not only to others, but to our hearts, our consciences and the world around us.
If we could each keep our own emotional thermostat at a reasonable temperature, (warm enough to facilitate a genuine sunshiny smile, cool enough to let logic be the prevailing wind), then we might be able to initiate global warming of the best possible kind!
This new year I resolve to expend less energy worrying about things that I can't control, and a whole lot more effort on improving things that I can. I plan to concentrate on balancing my inner barometer with a cooler head and a warmer heart. I intend to freeze out ignorant, self-defeating thoughts and behaviors, and warm up to new friends, new experiences and a better outlook on life. I'm going to use all my inner "snow" to build complex fortresses that are guarded by fearsome snowball wielding snowman-guards who won't allow any negativity past them. My inner rain will nourish inspiration and happiness. Inner clouds will be fleeting; blue skies and sunshine will be probable in every forecast.
Happiness isn't dependent on weather, but on whether you are willing to accept what you can't change and improve your life in areas that lie within your control.
Mind Freeze:
As snow disguises frozen ground
beneath midwinter's gloom,
a man may hide from reason sound
and by this seal his doom.
Both thought and seed can still survive
although they dormant lie -
but winter is meant to arrive
and minds should ice decry.
Though it appears that many curse
a season that brings snow,
I somehow think that it's far worse
to bury what you know.
A foolish man will weed out thought
then freeze it o'er with frost -
refusing to be schooled or taught
until all reason's lost.
We have o'er seasons no control,
each passes in its turn -
but it's the purpose of each soul
to nourish thought and learn.
Therefore regret not winter days
and snow that comes to cleanse.
Mourn he who chooses senseless ways
and ignorance befriends.
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg (February '08)
One of the things I love about living in Ontario is that it's a corner of the world that has four very distinct seasons. I enjoy them all, including winter. I love snow too - and yes, I have spent more than my share of hours with a shovel! (And I shoveled in northern Ontario, where the snow fall is much more impressive than it is in my current locale.) My peeve about the weather is the fact that our seasons get scrambled a lot more often than they used to. They refuse to behave in an orderly fashion. I hate seeing rain in winter, and an unseasonably mild day in December will inevitably put me into a tailspin. (I believe weather will always equalize somehow, and crazy warm winter days will likely result in snowstorms in May.)
I know that worrying about weather is a futile exercise. There's really nothing that any of us can do to change the course of the clouds or the direction of the winds. Snow will fall whether or not your back hurts and rain will fall regardless of whether you're carrying an umbrella. We all need to practice gracefully accepting those things about our climate that annoy us. There is so much more to life than the weather.
What would happen if we took all the energy that we put into griping about the cold and the snow and channeled it into warming hearts (including our own!)? What if we encouraged those flash frozen ideologies we have to defrost a bit? Could we generate enough heat to bring on our own "January Thaw"? I'm not talking about changing the weather - I've already ceded that we have no control over that, but there are things we can each do to improve our own internal climate. Maybe we could toss out a few of our freeze dried attitudes and habits and create more space for something fresher and more appetizing. (We all have them - those thoughts that require nothing more that a few watery drops of irritation to suddenly morph into instant, but rather unsavory, fare for the spirit.)
Most minds host unsubstantiated biases and prejudices that (like ill-mannered guests) crowd the facilities and make too much noise. Part of the process of attaining wisdom is learning to accept that we can be wrong sometimes. It's okay to not have all of the answers. We can't be taught if we never open our minds to new ideas or different opinions. Most of us are far too willing to share our own rhetoric without giving anyone else a chance to talk. This year I'll aim to improve my listening skills. I'm convinced that we'd all be a whole lot less ignorant if we took more time to listen - not only to others, but to our hearts, our consciences and the world around us.
If we could each keep our own emotional thermostat at a reasonable temperature, (warm enough to facilitate a genuine sunshiny smile, cool enough to let logic be the prevailing wind), then we might be able to initiate global warming of the best possible kind!
This new year I resolve to expend less energy worrying about things that I can't control, and a whole lot more effort on improving things that I can. I plan to concentrate on balancing my inner barometer with a cooler head and a warmer heart. I intend to freeze out ignorant, self-defeating thoughts and behaviors, and warm up to new friends, new experiences and a better outlook on life. I'm going to use all my inner "snow" to build complex fortresses that are guarded by fearsome snowball wielding snowman-guards who won't allow any negativity past them. My inner rain will nourish inspiration and happiness. Inner clouds will be fleeting; blue skies and sunshine will be probable in every forecast.
Happiness isn't dependent on weather, but on whether you are willing to accept what you can't change and improve your life in areas that lie within your control.
Mind Freeze:
As snow disguises frozen ground
beneath midwinter's gloom,
a man may hide from reason sound
and by this seal his doom.
Both thought and seed can still survive
although they dormant lie -
but winter is meant to arrive
and minds should ice decry.
Though it appears that many curse
a season that brings snow,
I somehow think that it's far worse
to bury what you know.
A foolish man will weed out thought
then freeze it o'er with frost -
refusing to be schooled or taught
until all reason's lost.
We have o'er seasons no control,
each passes in its turn -
but it's the purpose of each soul
to nourish thought and learn.
Therefore regret not winter days
and snow that comes to cleanse.
Mourn he who chooses senseless ways
and ignorance befriends.
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg (February '08)
Thursday, 19 December 2013
Small Change (Or Giving What Matters Most) - By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
I have always loved Christmas, but I find that as I age the yuletide season becomes more bittersweet. With every passing year I become increasingly aware of how much more I have than many around me. Not too long ago a small donation or two to the Salvation Army's kettle was enough to assuage my pangs of social conscience. I was giving, right? Wasn't that enough?
The uncomfortable fact that my small cash donations are definitely not enough can no longer be denied. I need to step up to the plate and make some changes. I need to think less and do more. That doesn't mean I'll be offering the entire contents of my piggy bank to a worthwhile charity. I know that I need to give a whole lot more than money.
Christmas is a season of joy - a season of love and giving. Nothing satisfies me more than the feeling that I'm making the people I love happy. That's why I go into my annual baking frenzy. I love sharing my treats with any appreciative audience. A tin of goodies from my kitchen is a gift from my heart, and for my heart. A smile of genuine appreciation makes my day - a smack of the lips and I'm euphoric. Like far too many people in the world I'm a praise junkie in search of a fix.
As I've become more aware of my own need for positive feedback I've begun to look for opportunities to give compliments to others. I'm beginning to understand that giving praise is as rewarding as receiving it. It feels good to see people stand taller when their talents are acknowledged.
Like many I tend to think that giving means spending money, but the best gifts to give are those that have little (if any) monetary value. What does it cost me to share a plate of brownies? I can afford a few baking ingredients and the forty minutes it takes from the time I grab the recipe 'til the pan gets pulled from the oven. Compliments are free, so they fit nicely into my budget.
If I want to know what else to give, perhaps I should examine what things I really want.
My deepest desires can be fulfilled without any cash transactions occurring. (I think that's true for most of us.) I want acceptance. I want appreciation. I want to enjoy strong friendships and that feeling of connection that only comes from spending time with people I enjoy. I want to feel that I'm part of a supportive community - surrounded by people who will help if and when I need their assistance. I want to feel needed. I want smiles and hugs daily. I want to hear words like "thank you" and "I love you" and "I'm sorry". I want fun, and I want challenge. I want to feel the satisfaction that comes from making my best effort.
I want the very things that I've sometimes been reluctant to give. In one of my favorite Christmas carols, ("In the Bleak Midwinter"), a question is posed, and then answered.
"What can I give him, poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd, I would give a lamb.
If I were a Wise Man, I would do my part.
Yet what I can I give him: give my heart."
What we each need to do is concentrate on giving our heart. This requires true sacrifice as we refuse to skimp on gifts that cost more in terms of time and effort than money. I've struggled for days to come up with a poem on this theme, and here it is.
Small Change (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg - December 18, 2013)
This season so joyful can also be bleak
for souls who are lonely or needy or weak.
Aware of the many whose lives are far worse,
I pause near a kettle and fish in my purse.
My coins clatter loudly, I wish I'd shared more -
the fact that pot's empty is hard to ignore.
'Neath din of the shoppers I know it seems strange
that my ears are filled with the sound of small change.
The bell-ringer thanks me - says, "Have a great day!"
And heavy in heart I start walking away.
My pondering mind is now vexed by this thought -
I ought to be filling mankind's empty pot.
I know that just giving my wallet's scant bills
cannot be sufficient to cure the world's ills.
My disordered thoughts I begin to arrange;
humanity needs so much more than spare change!
The homeless need shelter, the hungry need food,
and I, (so complacent!) need new attitude.
The lonely need friendship; a hug or a smile -
or someone to sit down and visit a while.
Small deeds make a difference in everyone's life.
It lies in my power to lessen some strife.
Through kindnesses daily there's much I can give
if I make a small change each day that I live.
This season of good will I vow that I'll start
to give more than small change in gifts from the heart.
May each one of you enjoy giving and receiving those gifts that cost little and mean most.
Merry Christmas!
Love, Sharon
The uncomfortable fact that my small cash donations are definitely not enough can no longer be denied. I need to step up to the plate and make some changes. I need to think less and do more. That doesn't mean I'll be offering the entire contents of my piggy bank to a worthwhile charity. I know that I need to give a whole lot more than money.
Christmas is a season of joy - a season of love and giving. Nothing satisfies me more than the feeling that I'm making the people I love happy. That's why I go into my annual baking frenzy. I love sharing my treats with any appreciative audience. A tin of goodies from my kitchen is a gift from my heart, and for my heart. A smile of genuine appreciation makes my day - a smack of the lips and I'm euphoric. Like far too many people in the world I'm a praise junkie in search of a fix.
As I've become more aware of my own need for positive feedback I've begun to look for opportunities to give compliments to others. I'm beginning to understand that giving praise is as rewarding as receiving it. It feels good to see people stand taller when their talents are acknowledged.
Like many I tend to think that giving means spending money, but the best gifts to give are those that have little (if any) monetary value. What does it cost me to share a plate of brownies? I can afford a few baking ingredients and the forty minutes it takes from the time I grab the recipe 'til the pan gets pulled from the oven. Compliments are free, so they fit nicely into my budget.
If I want to know what else to give, perhaps I should examine what things I really want.
My deepest desires can be fulfilled without any cash transactions occurring. (I think that's true for most of us.) I want acceptance. I want appreciation. I want to enjoy strong friendships and that feeling of connection that only comes from spending time with people I enjoy. I want to feel that I'm part of a supportive community - surrounded by people who will help if and when I need their assistance. I want to feel needed. I want smiles and hugs daily. I want to hear words like "thank you" and "I love you" and "I'm sorry". I want fun, and I want challenge. I want to feel the satisfaction that comes from making my best effort.
I want the very things that I've sometimes been reluctant to give. In one of my favorite Christmas carols, ("In the Bleak Midwinter"), a question is posed, and then answered.
"What can I give him, poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd, I would give a lamb.
If I were a Wise Man, I would do my part.
Yet what I can I give him: give my heart."
What we each need to do is concentrate on giving our heart. This requires true sacrifice as we refuse to skimp on gifts that cost more in terms of time and effort than money. I've struggled for days to come up with a poem on this theme, and here it is.
Small Change (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg - December 18, 2013)
This season so joyful can also be bleak
for souls who are lonely or needy or weak.
Aware of the many whose lives are far worse,
I pause near a kettle and fish in my purse.
My coins clatter loudly, I wish I'd shared more -
the fact that pot's empty is hard to ignore.
'Neath din of the shoppers I know it seems strange
that my ears are filled with the sound of small change.
The bell-ringer thanks me - says, "Have a great day!"
And heavy in heart I start walking away.
My pondering mind is now vexed by this thought -
I ought to be filling mankind's empty pot.
I know that just giving my wallet's scant bills
cannot be sufficient to cure the world's ills.
My disordered thoughts I begin to arrange;
humanity needs so much more than spare change!
The homeless need shelter, the hungry need food,
and I, (so complacent!) need new attitude.
The lonely need friendship; a hug or a smile -
or someone to sit down and visit a while.
Small deeds make a difference in everyone's life.
It lies in my power to lessen some strife.
Through kindnesses daily there's much I can give
if I make a small change each day that I live.
This season of good will I vow that I'll start
to give more than small change in gifts from the heart.
May each one of you enjoy giving and receiving those gifts that cost little and mean most.
Merry Christmas!
Love, Sharon
Friday, 29 November 2013
The Rhyming Muse Reviews Derrick Shirley's book, "The 400 Pound Male Stripper"
Thinking in Ink (for Derrick Shirley)
The good, the bad and ugly
in self I must embrace -
the extra pounds on body
and scars upon my face.
The darkest depths of my soul
I try to hide from sight -
the very things my writing
has often brought to light.
My bleakest and most hopeless
were days to coincide
with those times my pen stayed capped -
words bottled up inside.
You see, I know when ink flows,
with every written line -
my past life is deciphered;
my future is designed.
Conversations with myself
emerge upon the page.
Thoughts I didn't want to think
must now my brain engage.
Through scratched out words and scribbles
I have found eloquence
when the needed words appeared
to make my world make sense.
My flaws seem less important
when thoughts translate to ink.
As pen glides over paper
more lofty thoughts I think.
And as pen gains momentum
I see myself anew -
embracing imperfections
and moving forward too.
(By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, November 25, 2013)
On the very first pages his book, "The 400 Pound Male Stripper", Derrick Shirley talks about the scripts we each live and how we can each reshape our own story by putting pen to paper and "thinking in ink". This was a central theme to the book, and it resonated with me because in one way or another, ink has played a big part in life. I've been keeping journals (or "diaries" as I referred to them in youth) since the age of eleven. Those first attempts to "write my life" were scribbled in the unused portions of old school notebooks, and filled with pages describing grade school crushes and hanging out with friends. At times I vented in them, complaining bitterly about some perceived injustice I'd experienced. The eighteen volumes on my shelf provide a running commentary on what my life was through all of its stages, but they don't tell the whole story very well.
I have always battled self-esteem issues. I grew up feeling that I was constantly falling short - I wasn't pretty enough or smart enough or good enough. I was the wallflower sitting on the bench, hoping someone would save me from the pack of desperate girls who went unasked. Derrick's book brought back a lot of those feelings. I have never felt any conflict about my race or heritage, but nevertheless I know what it feels like to look in the mirror and feel anger and distaste - to want to be someone other than who you are.
My "aha moment" as far using my pen to change the script my life had always followed came a few years ago when I decided to begin this poetry blog. Finding out that I was brave enough to "put myself out there" spurred me on to greater literary efforts. I put pen to paper and wrote the book I'd always threatened to write. (It has never been published, so don't go looking for it! I don't know if it ever will be.) The act of completing it was enough to begin to change the way I felt about myself. I could find the discipline to write for blocks of several hours four or five times a week. I could make sense out of the chaos in my brain to put a whole story down on paper. My "not good enough" mentality took a turn in the right direction, becoming first a hesitant "maybe?" and then an almost full-on "I can!".
So I understand the message that we can reshape our lives with pens and paper. Derrick's story proves that. Once he found an outlet for his thoughts and frustrations through writing he physically reshaped himself by "stripping off" almost half his body weight. He found peace with himself, got his degree, found love. He re-wrote his script and now plays a role that he loves. He loves the person he's become and the life he lives.
One story that he told in the book struck me particularly because of its profound circularity - he was hurt by someone and then years later turned around and hurt someone else exactly the same way. I could relate to that part too.
All of us, at times, find ourselves looking at life from varying perspectives. It's similar to the difference between standing outside peeking into windows, or being inside looking out. The landscape of life changes, depending on what side of the glass it's seen from. I was uncoordinated as child, and I had a dead zone in my brain when it came to understanding sports. I was the last kid picked for any team. You'd think that the ego crushing resulting from those experiences would have made me empathetic enough to not hurt others in a similar fashion. But I have mocked those who are not good at doing the things that come easily to me. I am capable of cruelty. We all are.
Sometimes we think that the perspective we're seeing is the right one. We believe that we have found the optimal spot from which to observe the world - we alone view it to its best advantage. We ardently believe that the particular window we're looking out of makes us impervious to the criticisms of others - like a bigot who thinks he can scream racial slurs at an innocent bystander through the safety of his car window...
Both Sides of the Window (For Derrick Shirley)
On one side of a pane of glass
a nasty, racist guy
observes a boy he cruises past
with hatred in his eye.
Through a swiftly unrolled window
words shoot out as though from gun -
astonished by the names he's called,
the youth stands silent - stunned.
This prejudice is crystal clear -
like glass in window panes;
the boy would like to hurl retort
but prudently refrains.
On both sides of my window pane
such scenes I've acted out.
I've been both insulted party
and the one to rudely shout.
I have been a perpetrator
without an alibi
and I've led interrogations
wanting only to know why.
I've stood behind a mirrored wall -
an unrepentant punk,
and been arresting officer -
a little power drunk.
In every role I'm visible
whether I'm wrong or right.
I hide behind transparent wall
where I am in plain sight.
(By Sharon Flood Keasenberg, November 26, 2013)
I never thought I would see myself in a book called "The 400 Pound Stripper", but I did. I loved Derrick's story because I could relate to it - I saw flashes of me while I read. When the book first arrived in my mailbox, I sat and read it straight through. Then I got up off my nice comfy couch and walked around for three days thinking lots of not-so-comfortable thoughts. He made me analyze, and stew and ruminate on my own life and how to continue that transformation - the one that ink (and computer keyboard) started. Finally I sat down and re-read it, pen in hand, making notes and underlining. (My volume is now filled with both "think" and "ink".)
So thank you, Derrick, for making me think. Thanks to your story I dreamed a few nights back about reams of paper and boxes of pens, and then got up and wrote. Thank you for reminding me that we all progress at our own pace, navigating according to the terrain we see on our current side of the glass. And thank you for reminding me that I can re-write, change, "strip" off the old tired scripts that weigh me down and emerge transformed - worthy of love. When I see that message in my own print I am empowered by an increased ability to love myself.
What greater message could there be in any book?
The good, the bad and ugly
in self I must embrace -
the extra pounds on body
and scars upon my face.
The darkest depths of my soul
I try to hide from sight -
the very things my writing
has often brought to light.
My bleakest and most hopeless
were days to coincide
with those times my pen stayed capped -
words bottled up inside.
You see, I know when ink flows,
with every written line -
my past life is deciphered;
my future is designed.
Conversations with myself
emerge upon the page.
Thoughts I didn't want to think
must now my brain engage.
Through scratched out words and scribbles
I have found eloquence
when the needed words appeared
to make my world make sense.
My flaws seem less important
when thoughts translate to ink.
As pen glides over paper
more lofty thoughts I think.
And as pen gains momentum
I see myself anew -
embracing imperfections
and moving forward too.
(By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, November 25, 2013)
On the very first pages his book, "The 400 Pound Male Stripper", Derrick Shirley talks about the scripts we each live and how we can each reshape our own story by putting pen to paper and "thinking in ink". This was a central theme to the book, and it resonated with me because in one way or another, ink has played a big part in life. I've been keeping journals (or "diaries" as I referred to them in youth) since the age of eleven. Those first attempts to "write my life" were scribbled in the unused portions of old school notebooks, and filled with pages describing grade school crushes and hanging out with friends. At times I vented in them, complaining bitterly about some perceived injustice I'd experienced. The eighteen volumes on my shelf provide a running commentary on what my life was through all of its stages, but they don't tell the whole story very well.
I have always battled self-esteem issues. I grew up feeling that I was constantly falling short - I wasn't pretty enough or smart enough or good enough. I was the wallflower sitting on the bench, hoping someone would save me from the pack of desperate girls who went unasked. Derrick's book brought back a lot of those feelings. I have never felt any conflict about my race or heritage, but nevertheless I know what it feels like to look in the mirror and feel anger and distaste - to want to be someone other than who you are.
My "aha moment" as far using my pen to change the script my life had always followed came a few years ago when I decided to begin this poetry blog. Finding out that I was brave enough to "put myself out there" spurred me on to greater literary efforts. I put pen to paper and wrote the book I'd always threatened to write. (It has never been published, so don't go looking for it! I don't know if it ever will be.) The act of completing it was enough to begin to change the way I felt about myself. I could find the discipline to write for blocks of several hours four or five times a week. I could make sense out of the chaos in my brain to put a whole story down on paper. My "not good enough" mentality took a turn in the right direction, becoming first a hesitant "maybe?" and then an almost full-on "I can!".
So I understand the message that we can reshape our lives with pens and paper. Derrick's story proves that. Once he found an outlet for his thoughts and frustrations through writing he physically reshaped himself by "stripping off" almost half his body weight. He found peace with himself, got his degree, found love. He re-wrote his script and now plays a role that he loves. He loves the person he's become and the life he lives.
One story that he told in the book struck me particularly because of its profound circularity - he was hurt by someone and then years later turned around and hurt someone else exactly the same way. I could relate to that part too.
All of us, at times, find ourselves looking at life from varying perspectives. It's similar to the difference between standing outside peeking into windows, or being inside looking out. The landscape of life changes, depending on what side of the glass it's seen from. I was uncoordinated as child, and I had a dead zone in my brain when it came to understanding sports. I was the last kid picked for any team. You'd think that the ego crushing resulting from those experiences would have made me empathetic enough to not hurt others in a similar fashion. But I have mocked those who are not good at doing the things that come easily to me. I am capable of cruelty. We all are.
Sometimes we think that the perspective we're seeing is the right one. We believe that we have found the optimal spot from which to observe the world - we alone view it to its best advantage. We ardently believe that the particular window we're looking out of makes us impervious to the criticisms of others - like a bigot who thinks he can scream racial slurs at an innocent bystander through the safety of his car window...
Both Sides of the Window (For Derrick Shirley)
On one side of a pane of glass
a nasty, racist guy
observes a boy he cruises past
with hatred in his eye.
Through a swiftly unrolled window
words shoot out as though from gun -
astonished by the names he's called,
the youth stands silent - stunned.
This prejudice is crystal clear -
like glass in window panes;
the boy would like to hurl retort
but prudently refrains.
On both sides of my window pane
such scenes I've acted out.
I've been both insulted party
and the one to rudely shout.
I have been a perpetrator
without an alibi
and I've led interrogations
wanting only to know why.
I've stood behind a mirrored wall -
an unrepentant punk,
and been arresting officer -
a little power drunk.
In every role I'm visible
whether I'm wrong or right.
I hide behind transparent wall
where I am in plain sight.
(By Sharon Flood Keasenberg, November 26, 2013)
I never thought I would see myself in a book called "The 400 Pound Stripper", but I did. I loved Derrick's story because I could relate to it - I saw flashes of me while I read. When the book first arrived in my mailbox, I sat and read it straight through. Then I got up off my nice comfy couch and walked around for three days thinking lots of not-so-comfortable thoughts. He made me analyze, and stew and ruminate on my own life and how to continue that transformation - the one that ink (and computer keyboard) started. Finally I sat down and re-read it, pen in hand, making notes and underlining. (My volume is now filled with both "think" and "ink".)
So thank you, Derrick, for making me think. Thanks to your story I dreamed a few nights back about reams of paper and boxes of pens, and then got up and wrote. Thank you for reminding me that we all progress at our own pace, navigating according to the terrain we see on our current side of the glass. And thank you for reminding me that I can re-write, change, "strip" off the old tired scripts that weigh me down and emerge transformed - worthy of love. When I see that message in my own print I am empowered by an increased ability to love myself.
What greater message could there be in any book?
Thursday, 14 November 2013
The Ballad of Horace - (Or How Truth that's Stranger than Fiction Deserves to be Immortalized!) By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Today I'm going to share the poem that I had the most fun writing! I hope it at least brings a smile to my readers, because immodest as it may sound this is one I laughed out loud while writing. (Luckily the store was quiet that day - and yes - for those of you about to criticize me for slacking at work, the store was spotless, the shelves faced up and inventory had been taken and called in before I took pen in hand.)
Inspiration for this ode came to me thus. About six years ago my sibs and I were gathered at my sister's house for a family get-together. (I'm guessing a visit from my Mother, who was still living in Sault Ste. Marie at the time prompted my sister to invite us all over.) Anyhow, there we were after supper hanging around the living room visiting when my mother asked me to share a poem or two. (Like most moms, mine is the biggest fan of my literary endeavors.) So I read and my siblings politely heard me out. After my reading my mother suddenly said:
"You girls get your poetic leanings from my side of the family, you know!"
She was referring to myself and my oldest sister, who is a poet of the non-rhyming variety. We must've both looked a bit surprised by this statement, because - well, my mothers siblings are nice people, but while several of them are musical, nary a soul in that connection could be suspected of being poetically inclined.
My mother went on to tell us the story of her cousin, a poet who established quite a reputation among his kin in the rural area of Dayton Ontario. As it turns out, he made a name for himself because he was known to rather unceremoniously arrive on his relatives' door steps expecting to stay for a few days to regale them with his rather horrific poetry!
She told us he hailed from some spot nearby known as Hungry Hollow, whose residents were notoriously inbred, and went on to say that when she was young a visit from this cousin was an event to be dreaded. However, none of his kin dared risk the social stigma that would accompany showing any lack of hospitality toward a visitor.
Now a poet with less faith in a mother's sincere admiration might have taken umbrage from the telling of this tale, but as it was I wasn't piqued in the slightest - nor was my sister. Instead we were intrigued by the tale of the roaming poet of the North Shore (that's the north shore of Lake Huron, by the way) who came from a place so small that even we, (with our mother who hailed from Dayton and Silverburg and our father who hailed from Cockburn Island), had never heard of it!
Yes, my mother laid down fertile soil for my poetic mind that day. I would write a poem to commemorate this purveyor of bad verse!! I could just see my grandparents trying to issue a hearty welcome to the troubadour, while inwardly praying that he'd go off and pester someone else! (Obviously I tweaked names and fictionalized this visit, so as to spare my relatives any pain when the tale becomes famous!) The lines began to percolate as I sat there, and within 48 hours I had penned an epic!
So without further ado, here it is...
The Ballad of Horace (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, November 2007)
Horace hailed from Hungry Hollow -
barely tall as he was wide;
a meandering route he'd follow
roaming o'er the countryside.
He believed he was poetic
(though of talent, he had none),
all his efforts were pathetic -
kin, on seeing him, would run.
Cousins would shout with insistence,
"To the barn we all must flee!",
as his girth, seen in the distance
bobbed along quite merrily.
"Oh my goodness, here comes Horace!",
moaned their frazzled mom inside,
"How I hoped he would ignore us,
but there's nowhere I can hide."
(This she said with resignation
as she braced to open door - )
"He reeks so of desperation
and his verse is such a bore!
It's a shame that he's related -
such a nephew must I own?"
At this thought she hesitated,
then repented with a groan.
"Hungry Hollow folk are inbred,
but to shun would be a sin,
so he must be welcomed and fed -
we can choose friends, but not kin.
I will smile while verse he's sharing
and try to attentive be -
I'll be blessed if I'm forbearing,
he is family to me."
Thus the door was quickly flung wide,
Horace beamed upon the stair
and he was invited inside
for she couldn't leave him there.
Soon her dear spouse from the fields came
hoping for five minutes rest
and espying Horace felt shame
at how much the sight distressed.
Horace sighed with great contentment
as he warmed before the fire,
quite immune to their resentment
and oblivious to ire.
"With which verse shall I reward them
for such hospitality?
They're deserving of my best gem - "
Ran his thoughts, jovially.
Aunt and uncle sat there waiting,
dreading their impending doom
'til his ode exasperating
filled the confines of the room.
He recited with expression -
spewed the passion of his soul...
while they held in check agression
and maintained shaky control.
Oh - it seemed he droned forever!
Minutes felt to them like years!
But to yawn - no no - not ever!
(Though they both were bored to tears.)
Horace saw their eyes a-glisten -
thrilled to note how each was moved.
With such rapture they did listen!
Surely this his talent proved!
After poem reached cresendo
he refused offer of meal
and insisted that he must go
with almost religious zeal.
His refusal was quite stunning -
they'd been granted a reprieve!
As he hastened away running,
gratefully they watched him leave.
"I don't suppose it's his fault
he's not quite right in the head,
I've heard this can be the result
when close relatives are wed.
His IQ probably should rise -
perhaps by more than dozens -
a crazy kid is no surprise
when parents are first cousins!"
'Twas this his aunt and uncle mused
as they watched the boy depart.
His inbred heritage excused
complete ignorance of art.
But Horace, joyful, walked on air.
He'd achieved his heart's desire!
He sped to others where he'd share
poetry to souls inspire!
He bounced along in portly glee
with his spectacles askew -
another mile, or two or three...
and he'd induce tears anew!
Inspiration for this ode came to me thus. About six years ago my sibs and I were gathered at my sister's house for a family get-together. (I'm guessing a visit from my Mother, who was still living in Sault Ste. Marie at the time prompted my sister to invite us all over.) Anyhow, there we were after supper hanging around the living room visiting when my mother asked me to share a poem or two. (Like most moms, mine is the biggest fan of my literary endeavors.) So I read and my siblings politely heard me out. After my reading my mother suddenly said:
"You girls get your poetic leanings from my side of the family, you know!"
She was referring to myself and my oldest sister, who is a poet of the non-rhyming variety. We must've both looked a bit surprised by this statement, because - well, my mothers siblings are nice people, but while several of them are musical, nary a soul in that connection could be suspected of being poetically inclined.
My mother went on to tell us the story of her cousin, a poet who established quite a reputation among his kin in the rural area of Dayton Ontario. As it turns out, he made a name for himself because he was known to rather unceremoniously arrive on his relatives' door steps expecting to stay for a few days to regale them with his rather horrific poetry!
She told us he hailed from some spot nearby known as Hungry Hollow, whose residents were notoriously inbred, and went on to say that when she was young a visit from this cousin was an event to be dreaded. However, none of his kin dared risk the social stigma that would accompany showing any lack of hospitality toward a visitor.
Now a poet with less faith in a mother's sincere admiration might have taken umbrage from the telling of this tale, but as it was I wasn't piqued in the slightest - nor was my sister. Instead we were intrigued by the tale of the roaming poet of the North Shore (that's the north shore of Lake Huron, by the way) who came from a place so small that even we, (with our mother who hailed from Dayton and Silverburg and our father who hailed from Cockburn Island), had never heard of it!
Yes, my mother laid down fertile soil for my poetic mind that day. I would write a poem to commemorate this purveyor of bad verse!! I could just see my grandparents trying to issue a hearty welcome to the troubadour, while inwardly praying that he'd go off and pester someone else! (Obviously I tweaked names and fictionalized this visit, so as to spare my relatives any pain when the tale becomes famous!) The lines began to percolate as I sat there, and within 48 hours I had penned an epic!
So without further ado, here it is...
The Ballad of Horace (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, November 2007)
Horace hailed from Hungry Hollow -
barely tall as he was wide;
a meandering route he'd follow
roaming o'er the countryside.
He believed he was poetic
(though of talent, he had none),
all his efforts were pathetic -
kin, on seeing him, would run.
Cousins would shout with insistence,
"To the barn we all must flee!",
as his girth, seen in the distance
bobbed along quite merrily.
"Oh my goodness, here comes Horace!",
moaned their frazzled mom inside,
"How I hoped he would ignore us,
but there's nowhere I can hide."
(This she said with resignation
as she braced to open door - )
"He reeks so of desperation
and his verse is such a bore!
It's a shame that he's related -
such a nephew must I own?"
At this thought she hesitated,
then repented with a groan.
"Hungry Hollow folk are inbred,
but to shun would be a sin,
so he must be welcomed and fed -
we can choose friends, but not kin.
I will smile while verse he's sharing
and try to attentive be -
I'll be blessed if I'm forbearing,
he is family to me."
Thus the door was quickly flung wide,
Horace beamed upon the stair
and he was invited inside
for she couldn't leave him there.
Soon her dear spouse from the fields came
hoping for five minutes rest
and espying Horace felt shame
at how much the sight distressed.
Horace sighed with great contentment
as he warmed before the fire,
quite immune to their resentment
and oblivious to ire.
"With which verse shall I reward them
for such hospitality?
They're deserving of my best gem - "
Ran his thoughts, jovially.
Aunt and uncle sat there waiting,
dreading their impending doom
'til his ode exasperating
filled the confines of the room.
He recited with expression -
spewed the passion of his soul...
while they held in check agression
and maintained shaky control.
Oh - it seemed he droned forever!
Minutes felt to them like years!
But to yawn - no no - not ever!
(Though they both were bored to tears.)
Horace saw their eyes a-glisten -
thrilled to note how each was moved.
With such rapture they did listen!
Surely this his talent proved!
After poem reached cresendo
he refused offer of meal
and insisted that he must go
with almost religious zeal.
His refusal was quite stunning -
they'd been granted a reprieve!
As he hastened away running,
gratefully they watched him leave.
"I don't suppose it's his fault
he's not quite right in the head,
I've heard this can be the result
when close relatives are wed.
His IQ probably should rise -
perhaps by more than dozens -
a crazy kid is no surprise
when parents are first cousins!"
'Twas this his aunt and uncle mused
as they watched the boy depart.
His inbred heritage excused
complete ignorance of art.
But Horace, joyful, walked on air.
He'd achieved his heart's desire!
He sped to others where he'd share
poetry to souls inspire!
He bounced along in portly glee
with his spectacles askew -
another mile, or two or three...
and he'd induce tears anew!
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