Astounded:
Astounded - oh yes, I'm astounded
by how life is often perceived.
Entitlement leaves me dumbfounded -
such selfishness leaves me agrieved.
Societal greed is inflating -
it seems that few wants go unmet,
and yet gratitude is abating -
good fortune we often forget.
Ungrounded - I tell you, ungrounded -
philosophies prevalent now.
Astounded - I'm truly astounded
by how the horse follows the plow!
Priorities don't seem to matter -
we teach neither life skills nor truth
to children who keep getting fatter -
indulgently sated in youth.
Surrounded - it seems I'm surrounded
by those who think I'm over-wrought.
Unfounded - my gripes aren't unfounded -
I've given this plenty of thought.
The great expectations implanted
in children's naive little hearts
are sooner or later recanted
when their disillusionment starts.
Confounded - I'm often confounded -
befuddled by much I have seen.
No matter how much I've expounded,
but few seem to grasp what I mean.
In failing to learn moderation,
we'll fatten but we'll never grow -
until at last in aggravation
we learn that we'll reap what we sow.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg (December 2012)
Everything is not awesome.
Recently I went to see the Lego Movie with my husband, and as I heard the song those Lego Land dwellers were constantly exposed to on their radios I thought of how so many of us are telling ourselves, and everyone else in cyberspace, "Everything is awesome!"
But everything isn't. It can't be, because if everything really was awesome, nothing would be awesome.
Life requires contrasts - none of us would know what
happiness was if we never experienced a bit of misery. We shouldn't pressure ourselves to feel continually happy.
Mood-wise, we spend much of our time in the neutral
zone. We aim to live on an even keel - our days filled with fluctuating feelings tipped on waves of experience and observation that elate or sadden us.
The world we live in is complicated. All of the gadgets we posses to "simplify" our lives have yet to make us happier or alleviate loneliness and suffering. I would argue that our technologically-dependent and media driven culture has seriously reduced the basic level of civility in our society. Proverbs 6:16-19 outlines "seven deadly sins" - negative behaviors that we see far too much of these days. Modern technology has brought the prevalence of these "sins" to the forefront of our lives. The fishbowl of social media that so many of us swim in has encouraged us toward negative behaviors that stem from "the deadly seven" - a state of affairs that is decidedly less than awesome.
1) Lust has always been a part of life, but never before has it been so overt and unapologetic. Dating sites send spam to our in boxes and advertise on Facebook. Some offer "discreet" services aimed toward those who want more adventure than their committed relationships seem to offer. I have to wonder how many people (who would otherwise reconsider any impulse to cheat) are lured in by these opportunities that seem so risk free. How many more have indulged in a little "harmless" online flirtation that soon got out of control? We are constantly invited to behave badly, to ogle others and to be provocative ourselves. The message that sex sells is evidenced everywhere in the way advertisers exploit humans as nothing more than fleshpots to sell everything from convenience foods to motor oil. It seems to me that most of humanity is desperately craving intimacy, but settling for sex, and not in small doses either...
2) Gluttony is commonplace in our society. Entertainment isn't very entertaining without food, and eating often stands alone as entertainment. Nearly one third of the Canadian population is categorized as obese. We eat badly, we eat too much and we eat too often. But food is only one of the many ways that we over-indulge. I've already mentioned sex, but there's also smoking, alcohol and recreational drug use to consider. When it comes to the things that we want, we're insatiable.We can't deny our children either - they're not as little as they used to be. Statistics show that childhood obesity is rapidly reaching epidemic proportions and our children's generation is less healthy than we are. Our first world mentality leaves us perpetually hungry, no matter how much we indulge ourselves.
3) Our Greed often appears limitless. Like the creature in the Dr. Seuss tale The Lorax, most go through life "figgering on biggering" - always aspiring for more and better stuff. Media discourages contentment with what we have by constantly asking us, "Why settle for less?" Your winnings from Lotto 6-49 can finance your retirement and assuage your conscience for wasting your money on pie in the sky get rich quick dreams - after all, lotto funds go to charities. So you can feel good about giving while you dream about the big pay-out. Children are trained to be greedy too - parents offer them every opportunity available, lessons of every sort and membership in any club that takes their fancy. (They need to be well rounded, right?) They also need to "wear the right clothes" and have everything their peers do. Thus entitlement is bred into our young. (Newsflash - Kids don't need the best stuff. They need to be taught the best habits, and to be guided by the best principles.)
4) Envy is almost inevitable when everyone shows photos demonstrating how awesome their lives are. "Friends" post pictures of exotic vacations, new vehicles, glamorous attire, and gosh - we want that.
What never gets posted though, are the precarious bank account balances
and the overdue notices from creditors of those who are living beyond
their means. Likewise we don't usually hear about how much the more
prudent scrimped and saved to make these purchases. Nothing ever comes as easily as we think it does, and every purchase has hidden costs.
5) Vanity can be summed up in one word - selfies. We all like to look good and present our best face to the world, but there's something beyond narcissistic in the behavior of those who decide to post fifteen shots online just because they look "soooo cute today!" About fifty percent of teenaged girls and thirty percent of teenaged boys resort to unhealthy methods in their attempts to be slim. Surgical procedures that used to be reserved for the rich and famous are now sought by the masses - all in pursuit of beauty and eternal youth. Models are gaunt, and any female celebrity who dares to be bigger than a size six is photoshopped to appear more svelte. Can there be any doubt that our society cares far too much about faces and bodies, and too little about hearts and minds?
6) Sloth is a word we seldom hear, in spite of the fact that ease is what most aspire to. Work has become the nastiest four letter word - especially if manual labour is involved. Most do the bare minimum during work hours, counting every minute until they can go home and "relax" (which usually involves hours in front of one screen or another). Again, we pass on our negative attitudes to the next generation, many of whom would rather not have jobs than accept "demeaning" employment as food servers or sales clerks. In our relentless pursuit of fun, we are depriving ourselves of the satisfaction that comes from seeing the results of hard work.
7) Wrath just might be the most justifiable of the seven sins. (I'm feeling a certain amount of it as I type this post.) Too many are impatient, anti-social and ill-mannered, and it really irritates the rest of us! Kidding aside, those who spend much time pondering the state of the first world can't help but feel a bit angry about the way society is evolving - or perhaps devolving. There is so much free flowing frustration around us all of the time - road rage, impatience over the length of the check out line, bad manners. We sleep too little, indulge too much, covet those things we feel entitled to and obsess over our looks - which leaves us with a lot of inner emptiness that is far too easily filled with anger.
How can we reverse the incivility in a world where the "deadly seven" are so prominently featured on big and small screens everywhere, and spill over into real life? Everything is not awesome, but in spite of all of the allegations I've made, I believe that more and more individuals are beginning to see how much is awry and care enough to begin making things better.
Alliterate Allegations
With ignorant indulgence
we churlishly converse -
we're morally malignant,
but manner-wise we're worse.
Civilities are ceasing -
pleasantries not prolonged;
ignorance is increasing -
so righteously we're wronged.
Society is shallow -
repugnantly replete;
such credence in the callow
and shunning of the sweet.
With spirits seldom sated -
(they do not dare to dine)
and conscience constipated,
we decency decline.
We fixate on our faces.
Perfection is preferred.
As wrinkling erases,
what dates us is deferred.
Our blemishes are banished -
we're not allowed to age -
'til vanity has vanished
we'll rant, resist and rage.
Elation is elusive,
and reasoning is rare.
We're aberrant, abusive
and too confused to care.
Information inundates,
but wisdom seems to wane.
Intellect intoxicates,
but from sense we abstain.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, April 23, 2010
Society is slipping, but we can change the world. If we remember how to find satisfaction in hard work and dwell less on chasing the fleeting feelings of happiness and fun, we might rediscover contentment and maybe even wonder. If we can be honest with ourselves about our flaws, feelings and frustrations we might begin transforming society into something better. If we can learn to look past appearances, to covet less and take action more often, we will begin the process of re-seeding - sowing healthier seeds so that we can all enjoy the fruits of a more abundant harvest.
Dr. Seuss ends his cautionary tale The Lorax with these words:
"Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot,
nothing is going to get better. It's not."
Everything is not awesome. Everything is not apt to become awesome either, but there are a lot of people beginning to care enough to improve their own corner of the world. A little more self control and increased effort to be considerate and mannerly would be a great place to start. With every random act of kindness and compassion a little more sand is laid down. Every generous word and deed matters. If we can learn to appreciate simple pleasures and worry less about appearances and "biggering", and teach the next generation to do the same, we will up our world's awesome quotient:
Thus it appears I can assume
that for improvement all have room
and I could boost civility
through small improvements made in me.
With this thought I can comprehend
the small behaviors I must mend
to be less guilty of the crimes
that typify these ruder times.
More often I will think to thank -
I'll fight the urge to be a crank.
When needs of others I respect
then changes I'll perhaps detect
as all that is improved in me
sends ripples through humanity.
(Excerpt from "Civility" - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg, 2013)
Everything isn't awesome - yet.
Wednesday, 16 April 2014
Friday, 4 April 2014
The Magazine Years - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg
The Magazine Years
I still recollect them - the magazine years -
I wiped dirty bottoms, I wiped away tears
(sometimes tears were theirs and sometimes they were mine -
sometimes in a salty pool all would combine!)
I longed to read novels - escape for a bit,
but kids kept me busy - I couldn't just quit.
No time for a sit down to read and relax -
this is no bid for sympathy, merely the facts.
For toddler and infant desires went on hold
as kisses were doled out and stories were told.
I read about oceans, sea creatures and whales,
morality tales where good always prevails;
I read about rockets and planets and stars
and alien creatures and visits to Mars.
I read Dr. Seuss and I read Robert Munsch.
Our story time, daily, was right after lunch.
I'd read 'til their eyelids grew heavy with sleep
and once they were dozing reward I could reap.
To read just one chapter - too much of a tease!
But in time allotted I knew I could squeeze
perusal of Chatelaine or Woman's Day -
whatever back issue just happened my way.
I read bits and pieces while both were asleep -
it helped me unwind and my sanity keep.
I read lots of books, but I read none for me!
(The self sacrifice didn't come easily.)
And yet books saved us all - as we'd snuggle and read
a day's worth of stresses would somehow recede.
I'd see small wiggling bodies relax and grow still
while eyes scanned the pictures and minds drank their fill.
I'll never regret any books that I missed
in those long ago days when each booboo was kissed.
My patience was thin then; peace always my quest -
but hours spent reading left all of us blessed.
Magazines? Merely candy! Those books were the feast!
Of this fact I never had notion the least.
My children grew up to read books on their own -
now in peaceful bedroom I read all alone.
My hours to read, all I'll ever require
and access to any book I could desire -
but I can admit that as older age nears,
there are times I yearn for those magazine years.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg (March 23, 2014)
When I was a young mother nobody owned hand-held devices. Our telephones (our lifelines to maternal support!) were all firmly attached to the wall. Sometimes we acquired an extra ten or fifteen feet of leeway via a longer jack cord, but without a doubt our ability to keep an eye on the children and talk to friends simultaneously was curtailed. (Somewhere in Sudbury, under more than two decades of paint, lies evidence that my sons didn't take kindly to being left to draw by themselves while I gabbed with a friend.) I might have bought myself a few extra minutes of adult conversation if I'd chosen to turn on the television for them, but I didn't.
In those days there was a lot of debate about how much television kids should watch. I aligned myself firmly with those who refused to resort to using the television as a babysitter. As a mother of sons less than thirteen months apart, I can't say I never turned on the television for fifteen minutes when I needed to make a phone call or get supper on the table, but those short spurts were infrequent. Luckily, because I felt the way I did my sons had little interest in watching TV until they were beyond their toddler years. As preschoolers, if they wanted to watch television they asked for permission. They watched that one show and the set got turned off, usually without much complaining from them. I distracted them because I didn't want them to develop too much affinity for television watching.
Instead, I wanted them to love books, and taking walks - to see beauty in nature and love learning, which required a lot more effort on my part than plunking them down in front of a screen. More than twenty years later I can say that taking some extra trouble to keep them well entertained was worthwhile.
Let me state for the record that I didn't find the daily tasks involved in mothering incredibly gratifying. I had lived on my own for several years before marrying and was used to doing what I wanted when I wanted. In my single days I loved to read and take long solitary walks - but I knew that would have to change when I had children.
As a teenager I had a lot of exposure to children. I worked with them at church and babysat to earn money. I came to the conclusion that I wasn't a "kid person". (Children, in my opinion, are merely small people - I like or dislike them on an individual basis.) Luckily I'd had enough positive experiences to know I wanted to have children someday. I'd also had sufficient child related difficulties to know that kids were a whole lot of work. Perhaps my mixed feelings about children in general kept me from having unrealistic expectations about how glamorous motherhood would be. Likewise my lack of patience kept me from raising horrific brats. I still think that I did the world a favor by having a low threshold for screeching and temper tantrums.
I mothered based on own childhood experiences, trying to give them more of the things I enjoyed and felt I'd wanted more of and trying to avoid making the "mistakes" my parents made. (A wise choice, since I discovered along the way that there are always fresh mistakes one can - and will - make entirely under one's own steam.)
And steam I did. I often felt frustrated by the fact that I had to put their needs before my own. I craved adult company, I yearned to read books all afternoon, to take walks alone, to talk on the phone uninterrupted and do a bit of cross-stitch in daylight from time to time. None of those things happened very often, and I can't say I accepted that fact graciously. On one memorable day when my oldest was a toddler and my youngest still a babe in arms, I decided that I'd work on my latest stitching project while the baby napped and the tot toddled. HA! Naturally that didn't go so well, and in an angry snit I put all my stitching stuff into a large tupperware box, snapped the lid on tight and hurled it down the basement stairs. (The noise woke the baby - of course.) When my husband came home from work he noticed my stitchery box at the bottom of the stairs and helpfully brought it up to me.
I ranted at him about how I could never enjoy pursuing my hobbies with the boys underfoot. I felt like I was being selfish even as the words left my mouth. My husband pragmatically reminded me that my self denial was temporary - in a year or two they'd be less needy and I'd have more time to myself. I knew he was right, but that "year or two" felt like an eternity at the time.
For the next few years I tried to be stoic as I showed them how to build with blocks and play with each other - and read to them for hours on end. I read (yes, mostly magazines) and stitched when I could - in short bursts while they napped and when they fell asleep at night. I took long walks when my husband worked from home on the odd day or took pity on me and sent me out the door for an hour by myself - which frankly felt like heaven at the time.
It wasn't an easy time in my life. It wasn't always fun and I often felt very shortchanged on immediate gratification. However, the time I invested in my sons in those first few years paid off in the next few. By the time they were three and four they could play together happily for long stretches of time with a lot less input from me. We could go on outings together easily - and we did. It was a common sight in my neighbourhood - me pulling one or both boys in their red wagon. We frequented playgrounds in the Minnow Lake area. We hosted and went on play dates. And of course, every couple of weeks we caught the bus to the Library in the New Sudbury Shopping Center and all got fresh books to read.
There was a brief rough patch when my older son went off to junior kindergarten without his brother. The first few days were teary, and I was not thrilled about having to acknowledge that I'd need to spend more time with the younger son to compensate for the loss of his playmate. However, we soon established a new routine - which included more walks and outings than ever before since traveling with one son was so much easier than with two.
Memory:
A memory, dear to me
I held you on my knee -
silently I watched you sleep,
snuggled close; breathing deep.
You, a sleeping child of three
in tender memory.
Seldom had I seen you so -
teary eyed, full of woe -
so consumed by need of me -
my fretful child of three.
A young mother, could I know
the speed at which you'd grow,
when I held you near to me
a sleeping child of three?
Now, and in memory -
my child, so dear to me.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg (April 2006)
I wish I could tell you that I loved every minute of my sons' young lives, but I didn't. All I can say with complete honesty is that I have never regretted the sacrifices I made - the books I didn't get to read or the gabfests with friends that I seldom got to indulge in. I don't look back and wish I'd done a million things differently - only that I'd done those same things more gracefully. I wish I had tried harder to find joy in doing the mundane things that took up so many hours of the average day then. I wish I could have really grasped how little time I was sacrificing to my children in the grand scheme of things. I wish I would have immersed myself more in wonder - spent more time saying "Oh wow!" than "Oh no!" or "Woe is me!"
Time goes by so quickly. Their school years pass in a blur, and suddenly they're as tall as you - then taller. Their childhood is nothing more than a series of memories for each of you. I chose to limit the memories I have of them sitting in front of the television or watching movies on the VCR. I chose to give them memories of time with me, time outdoors, and time spent reading together.
I think I chose well.
I still recollect them - the magazine years -
I wiped dirty bottoms, I wiped away tears
(sometimes tears were theirs and sometimes they were mine -
sometimes in a salty pool all would combine!)
I longed to read novels - escape for a bit,
but kids kept me busy - I couldn't just quit.
No time for a sit down to read and relax -
this is no bid for sympathy, merely the facts.
For toddler and infant desires went on hold
as kisses were doled out and stories were told.
I read about oceans, sea creatures and whales,
morality tales where good always prevails;
I read about rockets and planets and stars
and alien creatures and visits to Mars.
I read Dr. Seuss and I read Robert Munsch.
Our story time, daily, was right after lunch.
I'd read 'til their eyelids grew heavy with sleep
and once they were dozing reward I could reap.
To read just one chapter - too much of a tease!
But in time allotted I knew I could squeeze
perusal of Chatelaine or Woman's Day -
whatever back issue just happened my way.
I read bits and pieces while both were asleep -
it helped me unwind and my sanity keep.
I read lots of books, but I read none for me!
(The self sacrifice didn't come easily.)
And yet books saved us all - as we'd snuggle and read
a day's worth of stresses would somehow recede.
I'd see small wiggling bodies relax and grow still
while eyes scanned the pictures and minds drank their fill.
I'll never regret any books that I missed
in those long ago days when each booboo was kissed.
My patience was thin then; peace always my quest -
but hours spent reading left all of us blessed.
Magazines? Merely candy! Those books were the feast!
Of this fact I never had notion the least.
My children grew up to read books on their own -
now in peaceful bedroom I read all alone.
My hours to read, all I'll ever require
and access to any book I could desire -
but I can admit that as older age nears,
there are times I yearn for those magazine years.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg (March 23, 2014)
When I was a young mother nobody owned hand-held devices. Our telephones (our lifelines to maternal support!) were all firmly attached to the wall. Sometimes we acquired an extra ten or fifteen feet of leeway via a longer jack cord, but without a doubt our ability to keep an eye on the children and talk to friends simultaneously was curtailed. (Somewhere in Sudbury, under more than two decades of paint, lies evidence that my sons didn't take kindly to being left to draw by themselves while I gabbed with a friend.) I might have bought myself a few extra minutes of adult conversation if I'd chosen to turn on the television for them, but I didn't.
In those days there was a lot of debate about how much television kids should watch. I aligned myself firmly with those who refused to resort to using the television as a babysitter. As a mother of sons less than thirteen months apart, I can't say I never turned on the television for fifteen minutes when I needed to make a phone call or get supper on the table, but those short spurts were infrequent. Luckily, because I felt the way I did my sons had little interest in watching TV until they were beyond their toddler years. As preschoolers, if they wanted to watch television they asked for permission. They watched that one show and the set got turned off, usually without much complaining from them. I distracted them because I didn't want them to develop too much affinity for television watching.
Instead, I wanted them to love books, and taking walks - to see beauty in nature and love learning, which required a lot more effort on my part than plunking them down in front of a screen. More than twenty years later I can say that taking some extra trouble to keep them well entertained was worthwhile.
Let me state for the record that I didn't find the daily tasks involved in mothering incredibly gratifying. I had lived on my own for several years before marrying and was used to doing what I wanted when I wanted. In my single days I loved to read and take long solitary walks - but I knew that would have to change when I had children.
As a teenager I had a lot of exposure to children. I worked with them at church and babysat to earn money. I came to the conclusion that I wasn't a "kid person". (Children, in my opinion, are merely small people - I like or dislike them on an individual basis.) Luckily I'd had enough positive experiences to know I wanted to have children someday. I'd also had sufficient child related difficulties to know that kids were a whole lot of work. Perhaps my mixed feelings about children in general kept me from having unrealistic expectations about how glamorous motherhood would be. Likewise my lack of patience kept me from raising horrific brats. I still think that I did the world a favor by having a low threshold for screeching and temper tantrums.
I mothered based on own childhood experiences, trying to give them more of the things I enjoyed and felt I'd wanted more of and trying to avoid making the "mistakes" my parents made. (A wise choice, since I discovered along the way that there are always fresh mistakes one can - and will - make entirely under one's own steam.)
And steam I did. I often felt frustrated by the fact that I had to put their needs before my own. I craved adult company, I yearned to read books all afternoon, to take walks alone, to talk on the phone uninterrupted and do a bit of cross-stitch in daylight from time to time. None of those things happened very often, and I can't say I accepted that fact graciously. On one memorable day when my oldest was a toddler and my youngest still a babe in arms, I decided that I'd work on my latest stitching project while the baby napped and the tot toddled. HA! Naturally that didn't go so well, and in an angry snit I put all my stitching stuff into a large tupperware box, snapped the lid on tight and hurled it down the basement stairs. (The noise woke the baby - of course.) When my husband came home from work he noticed my stitchery box at the bottom of the stairs and helpfully brought it up to me.
I ranted at him about how I could never enjoy pursuing my hobbies with the boys underfoot. I felt like I was being selfish even as the words left my mouth. My husband pragmatically reminded me that my self denial was temporary - in a year or two they'd be less needy and I'd have more time to myself. I knew he was right, but that "year or two" felt like an eternity at the time.
For the next few years I tried to be stoic as I showed them how to build with blocks and play with each other - and read to them for hours on end. I read (yes, mostly magazines) and stitched when I could - in short bursts while they napped and when they fell asleep at night. I took long walks when my husband worked from home on the odd day or took pity on me and sent me out the door for an hour by myself - which frankly felt like heaven at the time.
It wasn't an easy time in my life. It wasn't always fun and I often felt very shortchanged on immediate gratification. However, the time I invested in my sons in those first few years paid off in the next few. By the time they were three and four they could play together happily for long stretches of time with a lot less input from me. We could go on outings together easily - and we did. It was a common sight in my neighbourhood - me pulling one or both boys in their red wagon. We frequented playgrounds in the Minnow Lake area. We hosted and went on play dates. And of course, every couple of weeks we caught the bus to the Library in the New Sudbury Shopping Center and all got fresh books to read.
There was a brief rough patch when my older son went off to junior kindergarten without his brother. The first few days were teary, and I was not thrilled about having to acknowledge that I'd need to spend more time with the younger son to compensate for the loss of his playmate. However, we soon established a new routine - which included more walks and outings than ever before since traveling with one son was so much easier than with two.
Memory:
A memory, dear to me
I held you on my knee -
silently I watched you sleep,
snuggled close; breathing deep.
You, a sleeping child of three
in tender memory.
Seldom had I seen you so -
teary eyed, full of woe -
so consumed by need of me -
my fretful child of three.
A young mother, could I know
the speed at which you'd grow,
when I held you near to me
a sleeping child of three?
Now, and in memory -
my child, so dear to me.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg (April 2006)
I wish I could tell you that I loved every minute of my sons' young lives, but I didn't. All I can say with complete honesty is that I have never regretted the sacrifices I made - the books I didn't get to read or the gabfests with friends that I seldom got to indulge in. I don't look back and wish I'd done a million things differently - only that I'd done those same things more gracefully. I wish I had tried harder to find joy in doing the mundane things that took up so many hours of the average day then. I wish I could have really grasped how little time I was sacrificing to my children in the grand scheme of things. I wish I would have immersed myself more in wonder - spent more time saying "Oh wow!" than "Oh no!" or "Woe is me!"
Time goes by so quickly. Their school years pass in a blur, and suddenly they're as tall as you - then taller. Their childhood is nothing more than a series of memories for each of you. I chose to limit the memories I have of them sitting in front of the television or watching movies on the VCR. I chose to give them memories of time with me, time outdoors, and time spent reading together.
I think I chose well.
Tuesday, 25 March 2014
Below the Assumptions -by Sharon Flood Kasenberg
What Lies Beneath?
All through the seasons' ebb and flow,
'neath spring's damp earth and winter's snow -
what's buried deep we never know.
What dormant life awaits below?
Within the heart of friend or foe
what tiny seedlings sprout and grow?
Within my heart what do I sow?
What deeper feelings lie below?
Through waking hours, and hours of sleep,
through joyous times and times we weep;
from secrets shared and those we keep
some scattered seed will settle deep.
Will spring growth make me smile or weep?
What new sprouts from the ground will creep?
We're never certain what we'll reap
from tiny seeds implanted deep.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg (January 2006)
A few weeks back I was startled by two stories I saw online - two very different stories, but with some common elements.
The first story was told in the form of a short video. A young man told how he'd been shot as a teenager by another youth - a boy he'd known for ten years and considered a friend. He had been asked to drive his "friend" to visit relatives who lived in a very bad section of Detroit. Knowing that the area was dangerous he was reluctant, but when the other boy asked repeatedly and promised to pay him generously for the ride he decided to drive him there.
His every instinct told him he shouldn't go, but his head told him not to be silly. It was daylight, his car was running well and had plenty of gas in the tank. He'd drop his friend and turn around promptly for home - he'd be fine.
Of course the scenario didn't play out that way at all. He pulled around behind a house as requested by his "friend", and when he got out of the car to accept the promised cash he was shot three times, pistol whipped and left for dead. His wallet was stolen, as was his car. Through sheer determination (and perhaps divine intervention) he was able to struggle to his feet and make it to the street where he found help.
As shocking as this story is, it ended as well as it could. The shooter (who as it turns out had been told he must kill someone as part of a gang initiation) was caught after bragging about his actions to an acquaintance. The victim recovered quite well from his injuries and was able to make a statement at the sentencing of his assailant. At the end of the video he says he is grateful every day to just be alive.
The second story was written by a young woman who attended a charity event with her grandmother many years ago when her aged relative tripped and cut her leg badly on the sharp edge of a wheelchair ramp. Robert Downey Jr., who was also attending this charity event, came to their assistance. (He was young then - and a bit of a bad boy.) He staunched the woman's bleeding with his suit jacket, called an ambulance and kept both ladies calm until it arrived. Shocked by the accident, and in awe of the way a big star had come to the rescue, she forgot to thank him. But she never forgot his kindness and often hoped she's get the chance to express her gratitude.
Many years later - indeed after Mr. Downey had been through rehab and cleaned up his act after his younger, wilder years - she saw him dining alone in an LA restaurant. She was reluctant to interrupt his meal, but felt the urge to use this perfect opportunity to thank him. She asked him if he remembered the incident years before - he did and asked about her grandmother's recovery. She told him how sorry she was that she'd never thanked him for his kindness that day - indicating that never before that day, or since, had she received such an act of kindness from a stranger. She reported that he was touched and replied, "You don't know how much I needed to hear that today."
Two different stories with very different outcomes, but both loaded with assumptions.
We often assume that we know those around us - when we don't. We assume that those we've rubbed shoulders with have our best interests at heart, and that those who are richer and more "important" than us, don't. And the truth is that all human beings are complicated and unpredictable - for the most part we go through life having no clue what is in anybody's heart but our own. We make snap judgements based our senses - what eyes see and ears hear. We do this without knowing what the other person is experiencing inside. We make all kinds of assumptions about who people are and how they live and what they think - all based on flimsy evidential experiences and observations. We think, we think; we think so much. But when it comes to the depths of others' souls, we know so little.
Our ignorance of the content of hearts around us makes it almost impossible to accurately assess the motives of others. This inability can leave us susceptible to disappointment when we give too much credit to some people - that's the downside. The upside of this ignorance is that we get to be amazed by the unexpected examples of goodness, charity and compassion that we witness and experience. Thus we are continually surprised by the kindness of strangers - and the betrayal of those we had assumed were friends.
My message isn't that we should wary of everyone - living in a state of constant paranoia benefits nobody. I'm also not suggesting that we ignore facts, logic or common sense - on the contrary I believe that for the most part the world would be a much saner and happier place if we all took more time to think things through rationally.
Notice, though, that I stipulated that we need to give logic the upper hand for the most part. There are exceptions because like most things, logic has its limitations. There are times when logic will steer us wrong, simply because our universe is unpredictable, as are our hearts. There are moments in every life where all of the logical arguments for or against any decision simply don't feel right. What I am trying to tell you is to listen deeply to your heart - because it's the heart you should know best. Pay attention to that deep "gut feeling" when you suddenly sense danger, and you feel those hairs stand up on the back of your neck. Listen to your heart when your choice is between looking silly by taking a risk, or walking away from a chance to do something that matters to you. Listen to your heart when not listening could cost you years of wondering "what if", or of regret for letting that opportunity pass you by.
Listen to the depths of your heart when you deal with others. Don't let your head tell you that the small kindness you feel an urge to perform "doesn't matter", that the uneasiness you feel around a person is "ridiculous" or that the person you feel the urge to talk to "doesn't want to be bothered".
Heads make assumptions about people based on their status. Heads say that famous people are all spoiled and selfish and don't pay attention to the problems faced by "ordinary" people. Heads will tell you that your feelings are silly, and that your decisions should all be logical.
Those who related both stories had inner dialogue to work through. The first ignored his instincts and allowed his brain to make the choice based on facts. It was daylight. His car was in good repair and full of gas. He thought he'd be safe, but he wasn't. In the second story the woman faced a dilemma - approach a famous man (and risk being seen as a pest), or ignore an opportunity to express gratitude. She weighed her options decided to risk being seen as an annoyance, and in the end she wasn't. It's probably safe to say that she made the famous man feel really good that day, because rather than asking something of him ("will you pose for a picture with me?" or "can I get your autograph?"), she gave him something - a compliment, and an opportunity to see his own depths. Perhaps for a minute he wasn't a movie star, but just another guy who was having a bad day and needed to be reminded of his capacity for kindness.
We are given brains and should use them, but too often brains assume, based on logic. Hearts feel, they sense things, they rely on intuition that often defies logic. When it seems there's a conflict between the two, dig deeper and listen to the very core of your heart. It knows.
All through the seasons' ebb and flow,
'neath spring's damp earth and winter's snow -
what's buried deep we never know.
What dormant life awaits below?
Within the heart of friend or foe
what tiny seedlings sprout and grow?
Within my heart what do I sow?
What deeper feelings lie below?
Through waking hours, and hours of sleep,
through joyous times and times we weep;
from secrets shared and those we keep
some scattered seed will settle deep.
Will spring growth make me smile or weep?
What new sprouts from the ground will creep?
We're never certain what we'll reap
from tiny seeds implanted deep.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg (January 2006)
A few weeks back I was startled by two stories I saw online - two very different stories, but with some common elements.
The first story was told in the form of a short video. A young man told how he'd been shot as a teenager by another youth - a boy he'd known for ten years and considered a friend. He had been asked to drive his "friend" to visit relatives who lived in a very bad section of Detroit. Knowing that the area was dangerous he was reluctant, but when the other boy asked repeatedly and promised to pay him generously for the ride he decided to drive him there.
His every instinct told him he shouldn't go, but his head told him not to be silly. It was daylight, his car was running well and had plenty of gas in the tank. He'd drop his friend and turn around promptly for home - he'd be fine.
Of course the scenario didn't play out that way at all. He pulled around behind a house as requested by his "friend", and when he got out of the car to accept the promised cash he was shot three times, pistol whipped and left for dead. His wallet was stolen, as was his car. Through sheer determination (and perhaps divine intervention) he was able to struggle to his feet and make it to the street where he found help.
As shocking as this story is, it ended as well as it could. The shooter (who as it turns out had been told he must kill someone as part of a gang initiation) was caught after bragging about his actions to an acquaintance. The victim recovered quite well from his injuries and was able to make a statement at the sentencing of his assailant. At the end of the video he says he is grateful every day to just be alive.
The second story was written by a young woman who attended a charity event with her grandmother many years ago when her aged relative tripped and cut her leg badly on the sharp edge of a wheelchair ramp. Robert Downey Jr., who was also attending this charity event, came to their assistance. (He was young then - and a bit of a bad boy.) He staunched the woman's bleeding with his suit jacket, called an ambulance and kept both ladies calm until it arrived. Shocked by the accident, and in awe of the way a big star had come to the rescue, she forgot to thank him. But she never forgot his kindness and often hoped she's get the chance to express her gratitude.
Many years later - indeed after Mr. Downey had been through rehab and cleaned up his act after his younger, wilder years - she saw him dining alone in an LA restaurant. She was reluctant to interrupt his meal, but felt the urge to use this perfect opportunity to thank him. She asked him if he remembered the incident years before - he did and asked about her grandmother's recovery. She told him how sorry she was that she'd never thanked him for his kindness that day - indicating that never before that day, or since, had she received such an act of kindness from a stranger. She reported that he was touched and replied, "You don't know how much I needed to hear that today."
Two different stories with very different outcomes, but both loaded with assumptions.
We often assume that we know those around us - when we don't. We assume that those we've rubbed shoulders with have our best interests at heart, and that those who are richer and more "important" than us, don't. And the truth is that all human beings are complicated and unpredictable - for the most part we go through life having no clue what is in anybody's heart but our own. We make snap judgements based our senses - what eyes see and ears hear. We do this without knowing what the other person is experiencing inside. We make all kinds of assumptions about who people are and how they live and what they think - all based on flimsy evidential experiences and observations. We think, we think; we think so much. But when it comes to the depths of others' souls, we know so little.
Our ignorance of the content of hearts around us makes it almost impossible to accurately assess the motives of others. This inability can leave us susceptible to disappointment when we give too much credit to some people - that's the downside. The upside of this ignorance is that we get to be amazed by the unexpected examples of goodness, charity and compassion that we witness and experience. Thus we are continually surprised by the kindness of strangers - and the betrayal of those we had assumed were friends.
My message isn't that we should wary of everyone - living in a state of constant paranoia benefits nobody. I'm also not suggesting that we ignore facts, logic or common sense - on the contrary I believe that for the most part the world would be a much saner and happier place if we all took more time to think things through rationally.
Notice, though, that I stipulated that we need to give logic the upper hand for the most part. There are exceptions because like most things, logic has its limitations. There are times when logic will steer us wrong, simply because our universe is unpredictable, as are our hearts. There are moments in every life where all of the logical arguments for or against any decision simply don't feel right. What I am trying to tell you is to listen deeply to your heart - because it's the heart you should know best. Pay attention to that deep "gut feeling" when you suddenly sense danger, and you feel those hairs stand up on the back of your neck. Listen to your heart when your choice is between looking silly by taking a risk, or walking away from a chance to do something that matters to you. Listen to your heart when not listening could cost you years of wondering "what if", or of regret for letting that opportunity pass you by.
Listen to the depths of your heart when you deal with others. Don't let your head tell you that the small kindness you feel an urge to perform "doesn't matter", that the uneasiness you feel around a person is "ridiculous" or that the person you feel the urge to talk to "doesn't want to be bothered".
Heads make assumptions about people based on their status. Heads say that famous people are all spoiled and selfish and don't pay attention to the problems faced by "ordinary" people. Heads will tell you that your feelings are silly, and that your decisions should all be logical.
Those who related both stories had inner dialogue to work through. The first ignored his instincts and allowed his brain to make the choice based on facts. It was daylight. His car was in good repair and full of gas. He thought he'd be safe, but he wasn't. In the second story the woman faced a dilemma - approach a famous man (and risk being seen as a pest), or ignore an opportunity to express gratitude. She weighed her options decided to risk being seen as an annoyance, and in the end she wasn't. It's probably safe to say that she made the famous man feel really good that day, because rather than asking something of him ("will you pose for a picture with me?" or "can I get your autograph?"), she gave him something - a compliment, and an opportunity to see his own depths. Perhaps for a minute he wasn't a movie star, but just another guy who was having a bad day and needed to be reminded of his capacity for kindness.
We are given brains and should use them, but too often brains assume, based on logic. Hearts feel, they sense things, they rely on intuition that often defies logic. When it seems there's a conflict between the two, dig deeper and listen to the very core of your heart. It knows.
Thursday, 13 March 2014
The Poet's Plight, and Why This Poet is a Poetry Critic - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg
The poet, whether bad or good,
is tortured and misunderstood.
He writes - and not because he wants,
he writes because not writing haunts.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, March 13th, 2014
A poet's life isn't easy. Not everyone appreciates my efforts - in fact it's safe to say that most people don't. If my only motivation for writing poetry was to win others' approval I would've stopped a long time ago - or perhaps never started in the first place. But as is the case with many creative people I don't write because I "feel like it", but because I need to write. Like the poet Robert Frost, I am of the belief that "Poetry is a condition, not a profession."
Bob Dylan (not much of a singer, but a pretty impressive poet) identifies himself as a poet first. He says (and I paraphrase) that if you think you're a poet, then you're a poet. By his definition I qualify, just like all the other people out there who scribble down bits and pieces on scrap paper and in designated notebooks. I've written hundreds of poems in the past ten years - a lot of them are quite bad - and only published a few. I write because it gratifies me to write. Poetry spills from the places I overflow and fills up the spaces where I'm empty.
Poetry is a hard sell. When I tell people I write a blog, the conversation often goes something like this:
Them: "What kind of blog do you write?"
Me: "It's a poetry blog called "The Rhyming Muse.""
Them: "Oh." *eyes glaze over* "I don't like poetry, but good luck."
I've lost them on two counts. First of all, poetry, in general, is viewed as a painfully boring art form that you had to study briefly in high school. Other than that forced exposure, few people have had much experience with reading poetry since childhood, when most appreciated the genius of Dr. Seuss and Shel Silverstein. And yet many adults cringe at the mere thought of rhyming poetry. It's seen as childish and silly. Maybe that's because anyone who admits to liking it secretly fears they will be judged as harshly by the literati as those of us who write it.
Let me tell you, unequivocally, that I don't read a whole lot of poetry. That's because (I think) a lot of what passes for poetry in the world today is terrible. Those in the "free verse" camp have largely thrown out the baby with the bathwater. In attempting to write without the constraints of rhythm and rhyme, they've managed to lose the essence of what makes a poem a poem. Poetry should be lyrical, whether or not it rhymes; it should be thought provoking and able to create lush imagery with sparse but carefully chosen words.
I seldom read rhyming verse either - partly because I don't want to unwittingly plagiarize other poets' efforts, and partly because there is so much bad rhyme out there. Rhymers dig their own poetic graves when they don't know when to quit and rhyme just for the sake of rhyming. A good rhyming poem is like a jigsaw puzzle - all of the words fit together neatly and none are forced into place to "make a rhyme". If a poem doesn't flow smoothly, it won't "feel right" to the reader, and all art is about eliciting emotion.
John Keats said, "Poetry should strike the reader as a wording of his own thoughts, and appear almost a remembrance."
Amen Mr. Keats! When people can relate to poems, they like them - and if you've never read a poem you can relate to it seems likely that you haven't read enough poetry. Poetry is like music - different types appeal to different people. Our musical tastes vary, depending on our mood at the time. Some days we appreciate one style or artist over another, but most of us wouldn't ever say that we "just don't like music." Google "poetry" and you'll see that there are as many different forms of poetry as there are genres of music, and chances are you will like one of them.
A modern poet, Adrian Mitchell, spoke truth when he said, "Most people ignore most poetry because most poetry ignores most people."
I wrote a lot of free verse in my youth, and at the time considered myself a passable poet. I could still write without rhyming, if I wanted to, but I've changed a lot over the years. In my twenties I worried about whether I was seen as intelligent and sophisticated. Now I don't care as much about others' perceptions. I know who I am, and I know what I enjoy writing, which for the past decade has been poetry within a strict format. I write "hard rhyme" (the ends of the words sound the same) and with lines that are carefully metered. I think a simple (and yes, some would say unsophisticated) style is melodious, easy to remember and, in my opinion, easy to understand and therefore relate to. As long as poetry is viewed as the literary domain of intellectuals, it will go largely unread and unappreciated. I consider myself woman of reasonable intellect, but I "don't get" a lot of the poetry I see published in journals. That's because so much published poetry is pseudo intellectual gibberish that most of humanity can't relate to. And what we can't understand or connect with, we can't enjoy.
I've written poems both ways now,
free verse and rhyme, but still somehow -
it's rhyme and rhythm I adore,
although most will my verse ignore.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, March 11th, 2014
I actually wrote a whole poem to Joni's "tune" about why I like to write in rhyme, but I'm still working the bugs out of it. You see, that's one of the frustrations of being a poet - we write and rewrite constantly. Recently I read a quote that basically said that no poem is ever complete - just abandoned. Eventually we poets move on to some other topic that inspires. Months later I tend to return to earlier attempts, dust them off, clean them up - then once again forget them as some new idea catches my fancy. I can live with this state of constant revisiting and revision. What's really hard to deal with are those periods without jottings and endless editing - what I call a creative slump.
Creative Slump
Each soul at times will suffer discontent -
while questioning if efforts were misspent -
especially when labours were not blessed,
or doubts were planted deep within the breast.
All will, in moments, woefully lament
and curse ill fortune that does not relent.
But still we know all suffer such a time -
a poet goes a season without rhyme;
and mountaineers regardless of intent
may still be forced to pause in mid ascent.
Although they must be halted in their quest,
they'll quickly reach the summit after rest.
Artistic peoples' tortures don't relent
when their creative slurry won't cement.
A poet will feel punished, have no doubt
when words come scarce as raindrops in a drought.
Poetic souls will wasted days resent
when inspiration isn't imminent,
because when hearts are not in words expressed
there's neither taste to food nor peace in rest.
Thus all must work at fostering content,
and cherish inspiration when it's sent;
its absence we feel like a bitter curse -
and with it we can conquer universe.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, March 11th-13th, 2011.
So, to summarize, being a poet is a thankless job. The pay is non-existent. To quote yet another poet, Robert Graves, "There is no money in poetry, but then there's no poetry in money either!" I'll never make my million selling books of poetry. I do what I do because I feed on the creative energy that getting a poem into a passable unfinished state gives me. I groove on the feeling of ink flowing through my pen when that too often elusive inspiration comes knocking on my brain's door. I write for me, but I can't help hoping that somebody, somewhere and sometime will read something I've written and say,
"I get that! I know exactly what she means!"
That's when the poetic payoff comes - because the only thing better than thinking yourself a poet is having somebody else acknowledge you as one.
is tortured and misunderstood.
He writes - and not because he wants,
he writes because not writing haunts.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, March 13th, 2014
A poet's life isn't easy. Not everyone appreciates my efforts - in fact it's safe to say that most people don't. If my only motivation for writing poetry was to win others' approval I would've stopped a long time ago - or perhaps never started in the first place. But as is the case with many creative people I don't write because I "feel like it", but because I need to write. Like the poet Robert Frost, I am of the belief that "Poetry is a condition, not a profession."
Bob Dylan (not much of a singer, but a pretty impressive poet) identifies himself as a poet first. He says (and I paraphrase) that if you think you're a poet, then you're a poet. By his definition I qualify, just like all the other people out there who scribble down bits and pieces on scrap paper and in designated notebooks. I've written hundreds of poems in the past ten years - a lot of them are quite bad - and only published a few. I write because it gratifies me to write. Poetry spills from the places I overflow and fills up the spaces where I'm empty.
Poetry is a hard sell. When I tell people I write a blog, the conversation often goes something like this:
Them: "What kind of blog do you write?"
Me: "It's a poetry blog called "The Rhyming Muse.""
Them: "Oh." *eyes glaze over* "I don't like poetry, but good luck."
I've lost them on two counts. First of all, poetry, in general, is viewed as a painfully boring art form that you had to study briefly in high school. Other than that forced exposure, few people have had much experience with reading poetry since childhood, when most appreciated the genius of Dr. Seuss and Shel Silverstein. And yet many adults cringe at the mere thought of rhyming poetry. It's seen as childish and silly. Maybe that's because anyone who admits to liking it secretly fears they will be judged as harshly by the literati as those of us who write it.
Let me tell you, unequivocally, that I don't read a whole lot of poetry. That's because (I think) a lot of what passes for poetry in the world today is terrible. Those in the "free verse" camp have largely thrown out the baby with the bathwater. In attempting to write without the constraints of rhythm and rhyme, they've managed to lose the essence of what makes a poem a poem. Poetry should be lyrical, whether or not it rhymes; it should be thought provoking and able to create lush imagery with sparse but carefully chosen words.
I seldom read rhyming verse either - partly because I don't want to unwittingly plagiarize other poets' efforts, and partly because there is so much bad rhyme out there. Rhymers dig their own poetic graves when they don't know when to quit and rhyme just for the sake of rhyming. A good rhyming poem is like a jigsaw puzzle - all of the words fit together neatly and none are forced into place to "make a rhyme". If a poem doesn't flow smoothly, it won't "feel right" to the reader, and all art is about eliciting emotion.
John Keats said, "Poetry should strike the reader as a wording of his own thoughts, and appear almost a remembrance."
Amen Mr. Keats! When people can relate to poems, they like them - and if you've never read a poem you can relate to it seems likely that you haven't read enough poetry. Poetry is like music - different types appeal to different people. Our musical tastes vary, depending on our mood at the time. Some days we appreciate one style or artist over another, but most of us wouldn't ever say that we "just don't like music." Google "poetry" and you'll see that there are as many different forms of poetry as there are genres of music, and chances are you will like one of them.
A modern poet, Adrian Mitchell, spoke truth when he said, "Most people ignore most poetry because most poetry ignores most people."
I wrote a lot of free verse in my youth, and at the time considered myself a passable poet. I could still write without rhyming, if I wanted to, but I've changed a lot over the years. In my twenties I worried about whether I was seen as intelligent and sophisticated. Now I don't care as much about others' perceptions. I know who I am, and I know what I enjoy writing, which for the past decade has been poetry within a strict format. I write "hard rhyme" (the ends of the words sound the same) and with lines that are carefully metered. I think a simple (and yes, some would say unsophisticated) style is melodious, easy to remember and, in my opinion, easy to understand and therefore relate to. As long as poetry is viewed as the literary domain of intellectuals, it will go largely unread and unappreciated. I consider myself woman of reasonable intellect, but I "don't get" a lot of the poetry I see published in journals. That's because so much published poetry is pseudo intellectual gibberish that most of humanity can't relate to. And what we can't understand or connect with, we can't enjoy.
I've written poems both ways now,
free verse and rhyme, but still somehow -
it's rhyme and rhythm I adore,
although most will my verse ignore.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, March 11th, 2014
I actually wrote a whole poem to Joni's "tune" about why I like to write in rhyme, but I'm still working the bugs out of it. You see, that's one of the frustrations of being a poet - we write and rewrite constantly. Recently I read a quote that basically said that no poem is ever complete - just abandoned. Eventually we poets move on to some other topic that inspires. Months later I tend to return to earlier attempts, dust them off, clean them up - then once again forget them as some new idea catches my fancy. I can live with this state of constant revisiting and revision. What's really hard to deal with are those periods without jottings and endless editing - what I call a creative slump.
Creative Slump
Each soul at times will suffer discontent -
while questioning if efforts were misspent -
especially when labours were not blessed,
or doubts were planted deep within the breast.
All will, in moments, woefully lament
and curse ill fortune that does not relent.
But still we know all suffer such a time -
a poet goes a season without rhyme;
and mountaineers regardless of intent
may still be forced to pause in mid ascent.
Although they must be halted in their quest,
they'll quickly reach the summit after rest.
Artistic peoples' tortures don't relent
when their creative slurry won't cement.
A poet will feel punished, have no doubt
when words come scarce as raindrops in a drought.
Poetic souls will wasted days resent
when inspiration isn't imminent,
because when hearts are not in words expressed
there's neither taste to food nor peace in rest.
Thus all must work at fostering content,
and cherish inspiration when it's sent;
its absence we feel like a bitter curse -
and with it we can conquer universe.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, March 11th-13th, 2011.
So, to summarize, being a poet is a thankless job. The pay is non-existent. To quote yet another poet, Robert Graves, "There is no money in poetry, but then there's no poetry in money either!" I'll never make my million selling books of poetry. I do what I do because I feed on the creative energy that getting a poem into a passable unfinished state gives me. I groove on the feeling of ink flowing through my pen when that too often elusive inspiration comes knocking on my brain's door. I write for me, but I can't help hoping that somebody, somewhere and sometime will read something I've written and say,
"I get that! I know exactly what she means!"
That's when the poetic payoff comes - because the only thing better than thinking yourself a poet is having somebody else acknowledge you as one.
Friday, 28 February 2014
Dream On (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg)
Dreams:
In the nocturnal realm of dreams
nothing is ever as it seems -
I have no wings, but somehow fly
and never think to question why.
In dreams I'm not afraid to drive,
but at no point do I arrive.
The dream me freezes when I'm tense,
when past and present make no sense -
how can I be adult and child?
I'm turned to stone while thoughts run wild.
But on occasion, with delight
I can awake with fresh insight
when deep in my subconscious mind
a gem of truth is left behind
and words I'd otherwise not hear
in slumber were so very clear.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, December '06
Sigmund Freud believed that dreams reflected unfulfilled and repressed longings. Carl Jung felt that dreams more accurately reflect our wakeful hours, and represent our brains' attempts to work through the issues and problems we grapple with day to day. More recent researchers believe that our dreams are made up of random flashes of visual (and often subconscious) memory that our waking minds try to make sense of by building a story around.
My theories about dreams are a combination of all of the above. I've always been fascinated by the subject - I look forward to dreaming each night because my nocturnal visions are so fascinating - sometimes terrifying, but usually enlightening. Each morning as I wake up I try to remember what I dreamed the night before. Like Jung, I believe that my dreams have a lot to tell me.
My brain, like many others, plays its fair share of reruns on the big screen of the slumber land cinema. My repertoire includes the standard fare of "bad dream" themes - being naked, being chased, endlessly falling into an abyss, and writing exams that I'm not prepared for. These common dream themes have broadly accepted interpretations. Nakedness symbolizes a desire to hide something or feelings of vulnerability. Falling represents feeling out of control in the face of insecurities and possible failure. Being chased means we're likely running away from a problem, and those exam dreams? When we have those we're probably feeling pressured, scrutinized or challenged by problems we may have neglected. On the other hand, dreams of flying usually signify that you're feeling "in control" of your life and are seeing things from a newer, broader perspective.
In addition to those dreams, I've had many dreams about being back in high school or even elementary school. In the high school dreams I'm often standing at my locker trying to remember my combination, which is pretty odd because though I've long since lost the lock I can still remember that the magic numbers were 13 - 42 - 17. When I go back to my public school the dreams tend to rapidly become lucid dreams that I gain control over. One minute I'm at my desk being yelled at by my least favorite teacher, and the next I begin to realize that my desk feels awfully small and hey - wait a minute - you can't yell at me anymore because I'm all grown up and in fact my KIDS are grown up too! (That's usually when I wake up feeling oddly elated at the prospect of having to be a responsible adult.)
I think that a lot of our dreams reflect our desire to get "unstuck" - to break free of the fears and insecurities that bog us down.
Stuck:
I am wandering in circles
through a landscape cold and bleak -
I am feeling quite abandoned
and my courage has grown weak -
there's something I'm in search of,
but I'm not sure where to seek
and I need someone to help me
but it seems that I can't speak.
I am stuck here in this nighmare
in this freeze frame of the mind
delving into my subconscious
fearful of what I may find.
Everything seems menacing,
though nothing's well defined -
won't someone help me wake up
so I'll leave this dream behind?
Here I am, stuck again
in a nightmare.
Now I'm standing at my locker
combination lock in hand -
what I'm doing back in high school
I can never understand -
but when told to find the numbers
brain refuses the command,
and the fires of frustration
have been dangerously fanned.
I think this can't get any worse,
but a crowd has gathered near -
they're taunting me and pointing
and the reason becomes clear.
In the hallway of my high school
I stand naked and they jeer -
I'm exposed before the masses,
some just laugh and others leer.
Wake me up, I am stuck
in a nightmare.
There is someone close behind me,
he's a hunter in pursuit -
a quick glance gives confirmation
he's a huge and fearsome brute.
I don't know why he chases me,
explanations don't exist -
and though I try to elude him
he'll relentlessly persist.
I can feel my limbs grow leaden
'til I barely move at all,
then I'm tripping in slow motion -
endlessly I fall and fall.
As I spiral into blackness
sound distorts and time suspends -
conscious thought recalls a rumour
about how such dreams can end.
So I shake as I wake
from a nightmare.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, April '07
In some of my dreams the message is clearly spelled out within the dream itself. My college room-mate died several years ago, and she often shows up in my dreams - especially when I'm feeling stressed. The dreams are all different, but similar. I'm back in our old apartment and really happy to see her there. But things have changed - sometimes she's living there with her husband and I know I don't belong there. Sometimes she's in the process of moving out, or moving another room-mate in. Sometimes she comes right out and tells me that my life has moved on and I need to stop revisiting the past. Regardless of how these dreams unfold I wake up feeling conflicted - happy that I "saw" her and full of bittersweet emotions about my past - but I always have a strong conviction that I'm where I'm supposed to be and need to keep moving forward.
Another thing I often dream about is finding secret rooms in the houses I've lived in. One of my sisters is an avid dream interpreter, and she says that she thinks these dreams represent untapped potential in our lives, and our ability to pleasantly surprise ourselves with unexpected successes. I love having those dreams and exploring what every new room has to show me!
Dreams are the images that we see in sleep that help us make sense of our past and present lives. However, "dreams" is a word also used as a synonym for aspirations and hopes. Like the flyer in the dream world, we can use our nightly journeys into the unexplored parts of our mind to give us a broader perspective - to define those fears and insecurities that keep us rooted in the land of Stalledandstuck. (And why would we want to stay there when life is so full of unexplored delights?)
I believe we dream at night so that we can continue to dream by day - to expand horizons - to aspire, to hope; to "fly".
Dream on.
In the nocturnal realm of dreams
nothing is ever as it seems -
I have no wings, but somehow fly
and never think to question why.
In dreams I'm not afraid to drive,
but at no point do I arrive.
The dream me freezes when I'm tense,
when past and present make no sense -
how can I be adult and child?
I'm turned to stone while thoughts run wild.
But on occasion, with delight
I can awake with fresh insight
when deep in my subconscious mind
a gem of truth is left behind
and words I'd otherwise not hear
in slumber were so very clear.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, December '06
Sigmund Freud believed that dreams reflected unfulfilled and repressed longings. Carl Jung felt that dreams more accurately reflect our wakeful hours, and represent our brains' attempts to work through the issues and problems we grapple with day to day. More recent researchers believe that our dreams are made up of random flashes of visual (and often subconscious) memory that our waking minds try to make sense of by building a story around.
My theories about dreams are a combination of all of the above. I've always been fascinated by the subject - I look forward to dreaming each night because my nocturnal visions are so fascinating - sometimes terrifying, but usually enlightening. Each morning as I wake up I try to remember what I dreamed the night before. Like Jung, I believe that my dreams have a lot to tell me.
My brain, like many others, plays its fair share of reruns on the big screen of the slumber land cinema. My repertoire includes the standard fare of "bad dream" themes - being naked, being chased, endlessly falling into an abyss, and writing exams that I'm not prepared for. These common dream themes have broadly accepted interpretations. Nakedness symbolizes a desire to hide something or feelings of vulnerability. Falling represents feeling out of control in the face of insecurities and possible failure. Being chased means we're likely running away from a problem, and those exam dreams? When we have those we're probably feeling pressured, scrutinized or challenged by problems we may have neglected. On the other hand, dreams of flying usually signify that you're feeling "in control" of your life and are seeing things from a newer, broader perspective.
In addition to those dreams, I've had many dreams about being back in high school or even elementary school. In the high school dreams I'm often standing at my locker trying to remember my combination, which is pretty odd because though I've long since lost the lock I can still remember that the magic numbers were 13 - 42 - 17. When I go back to my public school the dreams tend to rapidly become lucid dreams that I gain control over. One minute I'm at my desk being yelled at by my least favorite teacher, and the next I begin to realize that my desk feels awfully small and hey - wait a minute - you can't yell at me anymore because I'm all grown up and in fact my KIDS are grown up too! (That's usually when I wake up feeling oddly elated at the prospect of having to be a responsible adult.)
I think that a lot of our dreams reflect our desire to get "unstuck" - to break free of the fears and insecurities that bog us down.
Stuck:
I am wandering in circles
through a landscape cold and bleak -
I am feeling quite abandoned
and my courage has grown weak -
there's something I'm in search of,
but I'm not sure where to seek
and I need someone to help me
but it seems that I can't speak.
I am stuck here in this nighmare
in this freeze frame of the mind
delving into my subconscious
fearful of what I may find.
Everything seems menacing,
though nothing's well defined -
won't someone help me wake up
so I'll leave this dream behind?
Here I am, stuck again
in a nightmare.
Now I'm standing at my locker
combination lock in hand -
what I'm doing back in high school
I can never understand -
but when told to find the numbers
brain refuses the command,
and the fires of frustration
have been dangerously fanned.
I think this can't get any worse,
but a crowd has gathered near -
they're taunting me and pointing
and the reason becomes clear.
In the hallway of my high school
I stand naked and they jeer -
I'm exposed before the masses,
some just laugh and others leer.
Wake me up, I am stuck
in a nightmare.
There is someone close behind me,
he's a hunter in pursuit -
a quick glance gives confirmation
he's a huge and fearsome brute.
I don't know why he chases me,
explanations don't exist -
and though I try to elude him
he'll relentlessly persist.
I can feel my limbs grow leaden
'til I barely move at all,
then I'm tripping in slow motion -
endlessly I fall and fall.
As I spiral into blackness
sound distorts and time suspends -
conscious thought recalls a rumour
about how such dreams can end.
So I shake as I wake
from a nightmare.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, April '07
In some of my dreams the message is clearly spelled out within the dream itself. My college room-mate died several years ago, and she often shows up in my dreams - especially when I'm feeling stressed. The dreams are all different, but similar. I'm back in our old apartment and really happy to see her there. But things have changed - sometimes she's living there with her husband and I know I don't belong there. Sometimes she's in the process of moving out, or moving another room-mate in. Sometimes she comes right out and tells me that my life has moved on and I need to stop revisiting the past. Regardless of how these dreams unfold I wake up feeling conflicted - happy that I "saw" her and full of bittersweet emotions about my past - but I always have a strong conviction that I'm where I'm supposed to be and need to keep moving forward.
Another thing I often dream about is finding secret rooms in the houses I've lived in. One of my sisters is an avid dream interpreter, and she says that she thinks these dreams represent untapped potential in our lives, and our ability to pleasantly surprise ourselves with unexpected successes. I love having those dreams and exploring what every new room has to show me!
Dreams are the images that we see in sleep that help us make sense of our past and present lives. However, "dreams" is a word also used as a synonym for aspirations and hopes. Like the flyer in the dream world, we can use our nightly journeys into the unexplored parts of our mind to give us a broader perspective - to define those fears and insecurities that keep us rooted in the land of Stalledandstuck. (And why would we want to stay there when life is so full of unexplored delights?)
I believe we dream at night so that we can continue to dream by day - to expand horizons - to aspire, to hope; to "fly".
Dream on.
Friday, 14 February 2014
Finding a Fortune by Exploring the Heart - By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
The Fortunate Ones
It may seem that fortune favors
the maid with fairest face -
the man seen as most fortunate
might always win the race.
Still more may count as fortunate
the man who owns the most,
or he for whom adventure
offers deeds of which he'll boast.
Yet souls that fortune smiles upon
are few and far between,
and most of what's bestowed on them
is by the eye unseen.
Abundance is not measured by
the treasures we can hold -
it isn't meted out in coin
or stocks and bonds - or gold.
Wealth beyond comprehension can't
with human hands be touched,
and all the things we buy and sell
will ne'er amount to much.
Those who have the deepest pockets
may know real poverty -
with hearts and souls both starving for
what they will never see.
And all the goods they buy and sell
will never compensate
for that elusive craving that
they never seem to sate.
The fortunate are self content -
they're grateful and they're kind,
because they're good to other men
they're filled with peace of mind.
The riches of nobility -
a fleeting glimpse of fame
that follows someone with the luck
to master any game -
these never hold more value than
love given and returned
or virtues one embodies through
the wisdom one has earned.
(By Sharon Flood Kasenberg - March 2010)
I vowed that this February I would not write a blog post about love - but then I went to a funeral that made me consider anew all the ways that love shapes the fortunes of a lifetime.
The funeral was for my husband's aunt. I'd only met her four times, but on each of those occasions she impressed me as being kind, generous, fun - a person who loved deeply and was richly blessed with love in return. All of these impressions were verified yesterday by the things I heard others say about her. The Rabbi spoke of her loving marriage, and how exceptional it was that two so kind and gentle souls found each other. Theirs could have been a difficult union to forge - she grew up Anglican and he was Jewish. But they married, she converted, and I'm convinced she threw her heart into that decision. Theirs was a marriage to envy, and their children maintain that they never argued or spoke unkindly to each other. What a wonderful, true life love story!
I heard people say things like, "There wasn't a mean bone in her body" and "She was a person that everyone liked." People often say similar things at funerals, but this was different - people meant what they said. How many of us will be fortunate enough to have the same said so sincerely of us?
I heard people describe her a a favorite aunt, as an incredible mother and "a woman who could sell anything." She was a working mother in the days when they were rare, and she loved her job. She also loved socializing with friends and playing cards and bingo. The fact that she loved her children and grandchildren was evident.
This was a woman who loved life. So life loved her back.
My husband and I had to leave after going to the graveside. He would've liked to spend more time with his cousins - to sit Shivah with them, hear the stories they would share, and to console them in some small way with the knowledge that she'd touched his life too. (Although somehow I think they had no doubt of that.) But we had a long drive ahead of us, and before that a plan to honor her in an unusual way.
Before we hit the highway we stopped for pizza. It was "Aunt Betty" who had introduced my husband to his favorite food as a child, and he felt it was only fitting that we eat pizza for supper in her honour. While we ate he told me stories about his aunts and cousins and we shared our thoughts on the service and the day. Todd drove us home in the dark with the smell of "Windsor Pizza" (yes, that does need to be capitalized, because there's no pizza in the world like it!) - wafting from the back of the van. We thought about how happy our sons would be to see that we'd remembered them with this treat on this particular day.
I listened to Sting sing about "the Last Ship" sailing, and I thought about the life voyages we all take - the vessels we sail, the ports we visit and the passengers we sail with. I thought about all the people who travel rougher seas than me and how blessed I am to know what love feels like - to have family and friends who I love and am loved by in return. (Even if there are few at this point who are likely to remember me as kindly as Aunt Betty.)
We sail our ships, charting varied courses and largely navigating by heart - with the heart. Our mortality ticks by in heartbeats. If we're lucky we share some of Betty's fortune - we enjoy happy marriages and have children who love us. Some will be blessed with a gift for friendship, or with jobs that are enjoyable and fulfilling. Others will slog through their days - fighting the tide and sailing daily on churning water - constantly pining to be on dry land. They will find little happiness because their hearts were never invested in the lives they led.
I was once told that "the heart is nothing but a pump". Technically that's true, but try downplaying the role of a "mere pump" to a farmer who lived a hundred or more years ago and was faced with the task of watering acres of land with water hauled from a well one bucket at a time. The "pump" made it easier for him to keep his fields lush and green. The pump made it easier for his family to drink abundant fresh water, for daily chores to be done; for his home to be clean. Our hearts absolutely keep us alive, but true fortunes are built according to how attuned we are to the inner self - the heart - and how well we utilize those "pumps".
Do we understand "what makes us tick"? Can we recognize what we are passionate about and how we can use those passions to fuel a rewarding life? Do we look deeply into our own hearts and try to make sense of the emotions we feel, and use those emotions to change our fortunes, and our world for the better? Do we consider the hearts of those around us, and how they have been shaped for good and ill, through experience? Do our hearts just tick away time, or are those pumps primed and ready to help us nourish the world?
However many questions there are, I remain convinced that "Love is the answer". We can argue religion and politics and ideologies until the cows come home to that well watered field, but in the end what we all need even more than open minds are open hearts.
We should all try harder to open our hearts to the possibilities in life. Open them to love, to family, to friends, to strangers and to every good thing that fills us with hope, amazement and excitement. Perhaps if we do, we will be fortunate enough to be remembered with love, and to have made our fortune like Aunt Betty.
On that note I leave you with a (repeat) poetic offering.
Cardiology:
How can we solve life's mysteries
if we never even start
to attempt investigation
into matters of the heart?
There's much we'll never understand
and much more we must forgive
in the hearts of those around us
through the time we have to live.
Likewise, we'll make apologies
on each journey that we go
as we're always navigating
into waters we don't know.
We'll gauge feelings that swirl 'round us
and emotions of our own
all while trying to discipher
what is sensed, but seldom shown;
like coral reefs that lie beneath
stormy oceans of the heart
where no daring cartographer
has been brave enough to chart.
However vast our knowledge grows
of this planet or deep space,
the heart remains a mystery -
an obscure and complex place.
Though science gives us formulas
to determine speed and mass
we continue to ask questions
not addressed in any class.
We'll never learn to calculate
even just the smallest part
of the infinite equation
that defines the human heart.
(By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, March 2007)
It may seem that fortune favors
the maid with fairest face -
the man seen as most fortunate
might always win the race.
Still more may count as fortunate
the man who owns the most,
or he for whom adventure
offers deeds of which he'll boast.
Yet souls that fortune smiles upon
are few and far between,
and most of what's bestowed on them
is by the eye unseen.
Abundance is not measured by
the treasures we can hold -
it isn't meted out in coin
or stocks and bonds - or gold.
Wealth beyond comprehension can't
with human hands be touched,
and all the things we buy and sell
will ne'er amount to much.
Those who have the deepest pockets
may know real poverty -
with hearts and souls both starving for
what they will never see.
And all the goods they buy and sell
will never compensate
for that elusive craving that
they never seem to sate.
The fortunate are self content -
they're grateful and they're kind,
because they're good to other men
they're filled with peace of mind.
The riches of nobility -
a fleeting glimpse of fame
that follows someone with the luck
to master any game -
these never hold more value than
love given and returned
or virtues one embodies through
the wisdom one has earned.
(By Sharon Flood Kasenberg - March 2010)
I vowed that this February I would not write a blog post about love - but then I went to a funeral that made me consider anew all the ways that love shapes the fortunes of a lifetime.
The funeral was for my husband's aunt. I'd only met her four times, but on each of those occasions she impressed me as being kind, generous, fun - a person who loved deeply and was richly blessed with love in return. All of these impressions were verified yesterday by the things I heard others say about her. The Rabbi spoke of her loving marriage, and how exceptional it was that two so kind and gentle souls found each other. Theirs could have been a difficult union to forge - she grew up Anglican and he was Jewish. But they married, she converted, and I'm convinced she threw her heart into that decision. Theirs was a marriage to envy, and their children maintain that they never argued or spoke unkindly to each other. What a wonderful, true life love story!
I heard people say things like, "There wasn't a mean bone in her body" and "She was a person that everyone liked." People often say similar things at funerals, but this was different - people meant what they said. How many of us will be fortunate enough to have the same said so sincerely of us?
I heard people describe her a a favorite aunt, as an incredible mother and "a woman who could sell anything." She was a working mother in the days when they were rare, and she loved her job. She also loved socializing with friends and playing cards and bingo. The fact that she loved her children and grandchildren was evident.
This was a woman who loved life. So life loved her back.
My husband and I had to leave after going to the graveside. He would've liked to spend more time with his cousins - to sit Shivah with them, hear the stories they would share, and to console them in some small way with the knowledge that she'd touched his life too. (Although somehow I think they had no doubt of that.) But we had a long drive ahead of us, and before that a plan to honor her in an unusual way.
Before we hit the highway we stopped for pizza. It was "Aunt Betty" who had introduced my husband to his favorite food as a child, and he felt it was only fitting that we eat pizza for supper in her honour. While we ate he told me stories about his aunts and cousins and we shared our thoughts on the service and the day. Todd drove us home in the dark with the smell of "Windsor Pizza" (yes, that does need to be capitalized, because there's no pizza in the world like it!) - wafting from the back of the van. We thought about how happy our sons would be to see that we'd remembered them with this treat on this particular day.
I listened to Sting sing about "the Last Ship" sailing, and I thought about the life voyages we all take - the vessels we sail, the ports we visit and the passengers we sail with. I thought about all the people who travel rougher seas than me and how blessed I am to know what love feels like - to have family and friends who I love and am loved by in return. (Even if there are few at this point who are likely to remember me as kindly as Aunt Betty.)
We sail our ships, charting varied courses and largely navigating by heart - with the heart. Our mortality ticks by in heartbeats. If we're lucky we share some of Betty's fortune - we enjoy happy marriages and have children who love us. Some will be blessed with a gift for friendship, or with jobs that are enjoyable and fulfilling. Others will slog through their days - fighting the tide and sailing daily on churning water - constantly pining to be on dry land. They will find little happiness because their hearts were never invested in the lives they led.
I was once told that "the heart is nothing but a pump". Technically that's true, but try downplaying the role of a "mere pump" to a farmer who lived a hundred or more years ago and was faced with the task of watering acres of land with water hauled from a well one bucket at a time. The "pump" made it easier for him to keep his fields lush and green. The pump made it easier for his family to drink abundant fresh water, for daily chores to be done; for his home to be clean. Our hearts absolutely keep us alive, but true fortunes are built according to how attuned we are to the inner self - the heart - and how well we utilize those "pumps".
Do we understand "what makes us tick"? Can we recognize what we are passionate about and how we can use those passions to fuel a rewarding life? Do we look deeply into our own hearts and try to make sense of the emotions we feel, and use those emotions to change our fortunes, and our world for the better? Do we consider the hearts of those around us, and how they have been shaped for good and ill, through experience? Do our hearts just tick away time, or are those pumps primed and ready to help us nourish the world?
However many questions there are, I remain convinced that "Love is the answer". We can argue religion and politics and ideologies until the cows come home to that well watered field, but in the end what we all need even more than open minds are open hearts.
We should all try harder to open our hearts to the possibilities in life. Open them to love, to family, to friends, to strangers and to every good thing that fills us with hope, amazement and excitement. Perhaps if we do, we will be fortunate enough to be remembered with love, and to have made our fortune like Aunt Betty.
On that note I leave you with a (repeat) poetic offering.
Cardiology:
How can we solve life's mysteries
if we never even start
to attempt investigation
into matters of the heart?
There's much we'll never understand
and much more we must forgive
in the hearts of those around us
through the time we have to live.
Likewise, we'll make apologies
on each journey that we go
as we're always navigating
into waters we don't know.
We'll gauge feelings that swirl 'round us
and emotions of our own
all while trying to discipher
what is sensed, but seldom shown;
like coral reefs that lie beneath
stormy oceans of the heart
where no daring cartographer
has been brave enough to chart.
However vast our knowledge grows
of this planet or deep space,
the heart remains a mystery -
an obscure and complex place.
Though science gives us formulas
to determine speed and mass
we continue to ask questions
not addressed in any class.
We'll never learn to calculate
even just the smallest part
of the infinite equation
that defines the human heart.
(By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, March 2007)
Wednesday, 12 February 2014
Navigating the Trials of Travel - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg
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.
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.
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