The Green Cure:
Along a busy street I plod
where dirt and dust have left me parched -
teased to my left with wooded lands
'til path appears 'neath branches arched.
So under leafy canopy
I follow this meand'ring trail
into the solitude of green
where urban sounds cease to prevail.
And suddenly I feel refreshed!
The forest acts as healing balm,
as scent of greenery gone wild
repaints my day in shades of calm.
Oasis in my desert, this -
a haven made of chlorophyll
where nature slakes thirst of my soul,
inviting me to drink my fill.
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, May 22, 2010
In Victorian novels those of weak physical constitution were often told they needed to "take the air" in the mountains or by the seaside. When I read about these "prescriptions for nature" in my youth, I thought it was quackery - or perhaps merely a good excuse for a tired Victorian-era doctor to get a hypochondriac off his case. But I was young then, and all too often in those days a visit to the family cottage interfered with some urban based pursuit - a trip to the mall or seeing a movie with friends.
And yet, even then there were times when I needed a dose of Lake Superior - times when my spinning mind was calmed by nothing except sitting on a rock and staring across the water at Maple Island. There were also times when a solitary walk down the camp road left my lethargic teenage self feeling oddly rejuvenated.
There is something both calming and restorative about being near a body of water or a glade of trees. I've discovered that a ramble through a park or a few minutes in a flower garden can have the same effect. When I learned about colour theory in college, it came as no surprise that blue and green were calming colors. Experience had already taught me that lakes and trees had a tranquilizing effect on jangled nerves.
I used to take my sons to a playground near a tiny lake when they were toddlers. The play equipment near our co-op bored them quickly, but they seemed content for quite a while when they could count ducks or toss pebbles into Minnow Lake. (The sound of small stones hitting water is calming - I think that's why so many people like to skip stones.) Wherever we lived, we always found "nature spots" - places near water or woods. During the Lively years (yes, Lively is the name of a town we used to live in), we used to go to Meat Bird Lake to swim or visit the playground, take walks in the woods behind the public school, or pick blueberries on the ski hill.
Now the boys are grown and I usually commune with nature on my own. I'm not complaining - I enjoy a little solitary time in my flower garden or on the conservation trails near my house. Sometimes on weekends, my husband and I drive into the countryside for a "Corn and Beans Tour", stopping here and there to mosey along Main Street in one of the small towns or hamlets en route. We hope to move to one of those charming villages someday, so we can take a short stroll and be "in the country" - and live in a place where we can hear the crickets and see the stars at night.
Nature cures - I'm certain of that now. I think we'd see fewer deaths from stress-related ailments and heart attacks if doctors went back to prescribing a dose of the sea shore or a trip to the mountains. Maybe there would be less depression in our society if psychiatrists prescribed fewer tranquilizers and more tranquil stays at a cottage or farm, drove their patients past fields of corn and beans, or took them walking on a forested trail. There is something completely soul-satisfying about breathing in the scent of trees as you walk through the woods - even if "the woods" in question is nothing but a swath of green space in the middle of a city.
Since cities are always "biggering", farmers fields and stands of trees seem to get pushed further back from our urban centers every year. People in these growing cities are becoming increasingly busy, busy;busy. They seldom get out of the city and under-utilize the parks and trails that are designated green spaces. They get stressed and cranky, honking their horns when you don't move fast enough. They sail on by with a one finger salute when you drive the speed limit. A good dose of nature could help cure so many of society's ills.
A visit to the mountains would perhaps cure narcissistic tendencies. (See those little bitty things waaay down there? Those are houses filled with people - like you. Mountain - Big. You? Not so much.) Claustrophobic? How about a trip to the desert or a secluded bit of coastline? Lonely or depressed? Perhaps you need to visit a petting zoo. Stressed out? I suggest sitting near a babbling brook or waterfall - or doing some birdwatching or even stopping to smell the flowers from time to time. Exhausted? You need a cabin near a small lake, preferably with a dock to sit on and a tin roof to make even rainy days relaxing.
I don't know if I've convinced you to write yourself a prescription for nature yet, but I'm tired of sitting here typing, sooo -
I'm off to "take the air".
Friday, 8 August 2014
Sunday, 27 July 2014
Am I A Little Bit Country?
The "Battle of the Bands" actually originated in my family's living room sometime in the late sixties.
My parents were raised on a steady diet of Country Music, and generally seemed to think that anything written after 1960, or by anyone not wearing a cowboy hat, was punishment for the eardrums. Their children had different ideas, from the oldest daughters who were hooked the first time they watched The Beatles on Ed Sullivan, to the youngest son who grooved on hair metal and arena rock. We all loved to listen to music, but much to their chagrin our tastes didn't reflect theirs.
"Turn that racket down!" was my parents' usual response to whatever their kids played on the family stereo. Much eye-rolling, snickering and scattering to bedrooms ensued when our parents hiked up their tunes.
They remained ever hopeful that we'd acquire a taste for their music and exposed us to it frequently. This felt like a unique form of torture, akin to my mother's insistence that someday we'd thank her for using onions so liberally. I remember them forcing us to sit and watch Lawrence Welk ("an'a one, an'a two..."), Hee Haw and the Tommy Hunter Show. They must've thought they'd turned a corner when my second oldest sister bought a John Denver album in 1975, but the next week she bought an album by Alice Cooper and they sunk back into despair.
"See - That's good music!" my father would state clearly and emphatically, when Tommy sang about wanting to ramble. (I suspect he thought we were all slightly brain-addled from all the rock music we'd listened to.) "It's not like that garbage you guys blare."
I was always slightly offended that my "garbage" was lumped in alongside everyone else's. I wasn't the one who listened to Bob Dylan or Rush, for goodness sake! Voices that could scrape paint just didn't cut it for me, no matter how poetic the lyrics. In truth, we siblings all had different musical tastes too, and only stood as a united front in our mutual disdain for the "Country and Western" music our parents adored. I once had an eerily deja vu moment when my oldest sister told me to turn down my Moody Blues album, which she referred to as "that crap", while she was on the phone. Mind you, she was talking to her boyfriend, so her judgment may have been temporarily impaired.
I have to admit that I enjoyed the experience of being what I'll call an occasional country music "tourist" - I got a kick out of attending family functions where bands played songs that I'd never heard of, let alone actually heard, anywhere else. Thus I have fond memories of tunes like "Won't You Come Home Bill Bailey?" and "I'm Proud to Be An Okie From Muskogee". Not everyone from my generation could make that claim. But obviously not everyone from my generation grew up hearing their off-tune father belt out "The Wabash Cannonball" on a regular basis.
A lot of the country music popular in the 70's tickled my funny bone - there was so much melodrama in those songs. Inevitably somebody had "done somebody wrong", but morals abounded and lessons were learned. Heck, Tammy Wynette endlessly whined about how important it was to "Stand By Your Man" until her D-I-V-O-R-C-E become final. Loretta warned all those wicked women off her Doo in tunes like "Woman of the World" (leave my world alone!) and "You Ain't Woman Enough" (to take my man!) It was the kind of music I loved to hate. (Or maybe hated to love - it's hard to distinguish between the two. If you've never listened to square dance music played on the wrong speed, you're really missing something.) For a while I had a morbid fascination with Tom T. Hall's "I Like Beer", which I first heard when I was going through some break-up angst. I suspect I was happy enough to drown my sorrows vicariously through good ole Tom. I still catch myself singing it from time to time, in spite of the fact that I remain a complete abstainer. (Well, it is a catchy little number.)
As reluctant as I am to admit it, I've always kind of admired the way country artists put it all out there - from that first euphoric glimpse of love, to the betrayal, then finally the movin' on. I'm sure Taylor Swift got her inspiration for tattle tale songs about past relationships from these people, but their songs were a lot more fun. I get a kick out the antics they sing about - catching the cheater in the act, getting even, maybe even offing the truly offensive jerk like in the Dixie Chicks "Good-bye Earl", which proves that as silly as most of these songs are, this is a genre that isn't afraid to be just a wee bit dark at times.
Now I can unabashedly enjoy almost all kinds of music. Once my husband and I listened to a whole disc that our older son left laying around, by some band called Swordsmen of Bagels, or something like that. I wanted to be a cool parent and tell him that I totally enjoyed it, but I really didn't. So I can't say I've reached the summit of musical tolerance, but I'm trying. (For a while - years back - I even used to exercise in the mornings to CMT, but not until after the rest of the family had departed for work and school. I didn't want my menfolk to worry.) I routinely listen to music that is on the verge of "country" - or at least "New Country", and at this point I don't care who knows it. Sometimes I even feel reminiscent and get a hankering to hear the stuff my parents loved. (I listened to Hank Snow's "Wreck of the Old '97" just before I sat down to wrote this post. My father would have approved.)
Even as a youth I'd listen to those good 'ole "hurtin' songs" and think how much fun it would be to write one. (Don't we all have a "s/he done me wrong" story to tell?) However, it took me a whole lot of years to act on the impulse.
It was after hearing Toby Keith's "How Do You Like Me Now?", a song that resonated with the cranky, crabby "here's to spittin' in yore eye" attitude that often prevails in me, that I sat down and finally attempted my own version of a dose of country heartbreak. Obviously "The Dawg Gone Blues" is not autobiographical. (Regardless of what those Facebook quizzes tell me, I am a woman.) But I could clearly envision the big ole lunk-head who'd have exactly this sort of story to tell. (I think maybe Toby could do it justice.)
The morals in this song are three-fold:
1) Make sure the woman of your dreams likes your dog
2) Buy a new mattress before you burn the old one
3) Get a pre-nup before you visit the judge and move her into your trailer!
So here goes - my first (and best) of two attempts to write about the cheatin' heart-breakers who inspire so much country music. (No dogs will be injured in the making of the music video : )
The Dawg Gone Blues
I woke up one morning
alone in our big bed -
don't know why but suddenly
I felt a sense of dread.
I showered and ate breakfast
then whistled for old Fred -
and found out to my horror
my faithful friend was dead.
Chorus:
Why'd you hafta break my heart
and leave me on my own?
Picture how upset I got
that you had up and flown.
You was quite a looker -
wish you had a kinder clone!
I wish that when you left me,
you'd left my dawg alone!
You emptied out my wallet
and bankrupted my heart,
then you went and shot my dawg
with a poisoned dart.
And killin' this man's best friend -
that was the cruelest part.
Now I'm mighty glad yore gone
'cause yore a mean ole tart.
Chorus
The first day I was busy -
yore letters I did shred,
and then I put myself to work
and dug a hole for Fred.
I finished burning up yore stuff,
but was still seeing red -
and I knew what I had to do
was fumigate the bed.
Chorus
The mattress was a sizzlin'
when I let out a groan -
Now I'd be sleepin' bedless,
as well as all alone.
You dynamited this ole heart -
replaced it with a stone,
because you was the Queen bee
and I was just a drone.
Chorus
Looking back I see it now,
I wasn't very smart.
You used me and abused me
and trashed my trustin' heart.
I think I've wisened up some
since we've been apart -
ain't never signed a pre-nup yet
but I'm about to start!
Chorus
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, February 2006
If anyone happens to run into Toby, tell him I have a song that has his name all over it, and he can record it and pay me big royalties -
- As long as my name is all under it!
My parents were raised on a steady diet of Country Music, and generally seemed to think that anything written after 1960, or by anyone not wearing a cowboy hat, was punishment for the eardrums. Their children had different ideas, from the oldest daughters who were hooked the first time they watched The Beatles on Ed Sullivan, to the youngest son who grooved on hair metal and arena rock. We all loved to listen to music, but much to their chagrin our tastes didn't reflect theirs.
"Turn that racket down!" was my parents' usual response to whatever their kids played on the family stereo. Much eye-rolling, snickering and scattering to bedrooms ensued when our parents hiked up their tunes.
They remained ever hopeful that we'd acquire a taste for their music and exposed us to it frequently. This felt like a unique form of torture, akin to my mother's insistence that someday we'd thank her for using onions so liberally. I remember them forcing us to sit and watch Lawrence Welk ("an'a one, an'a two..."), Hee Haw and the Tommy Hunter Show. They must've thought they'd turned a corner when my second oldest sister bought a John Denver album in 1975, but the next week she bought an album by Alice Cooper and they sunk back into despair.
"See - That's good music!" my father would state clearly and emphatically, when Tommy sang about wanting to ramble. (I suspect he thought we were all slightly brain-addled from all the rock music we'd listened to.) "It's not like that garbage you guys blare."
I was always slightly offended that my "garbage" was lumped in alongside everyone else's. I wasn't the one who listened to Bob Dylan or Rush, for goodness sake! Voices that could scrape paint just didn't cut it for me, no matter how poetic the lyrics. In truth, we siblings all had different musical tastes too, and only stood as a united front in our mutual disdain for the "Country and Western" music our parents adored. I once had an eerily deja vu moment when my oldest sister told me to turn down my Moody Blues album, which she referred to as "that crap", while she was on the phone. Mind you, she was talking to her boyfriend, so her judgment may have been temporarily impaired.
I have to admit that I enjoyed the experience of being what I'll call an occasional country music "tourist" - I got a kick out of attending family functions where bands played songs that I'd never heard of, let alone actually heard, anywhere else. Thus I have fond memories of tunes like "Won't You Come Home Bill Bailey?" and "I'm Proud to Be An Okie From Muskogee". Not everyone from my generation could make that claim. But obviously not everyone from my generation grew up hearing their off-tune father belt out "The Wabash Cannonball" on a regular basis.
A lot of the country music popular in the 70's tickled my funny bone - there was so much melodrama in those songs. Inevitably somebody had "done somebody wrong", but morals abounded and lessons were learned. Heck, Tammy Wynette endlessly whined about how important it was to "Stand By Your Man" until her D-I-V-O-R-C-E become final. Loretta warned all those wicked women off her Doo in tunes like "Woman of the World" (leave my world alone!) and "You Ain't Woman Enough" (to take my man!) It was the kind of music I loved to hate. (Or maybe hated to love - it's hard to distinguish between the two. If you've never listened to square dance music played on the wrong speed, you're really missing something.) For a while I had a morbid fascination with Tom T. Hall's "I Like Beer", which I first heard when I was going through some break-up angst. I suspect I was happy enough to drown my sorrows vicariously through good ole Tom. I still catch myself singing it from time to time, in spite of the fact that I remain a complete abstainer. (Well, it is a catchy little number.)
As reluctant as I am to admit it, I've always kind of admired the way country artists put it all out there - from that first euphoric glimpse of love, to the betrayal, then finally the movin' on. I'm sure Taylor Swift got her inspiration for tattle tale songs about past relationships from these people, but their songs were a lot more fun. I get a kick out the antics they sing about - catching the cheater in the act, getting even, maybe even offing the truly offensive jerk like in the Dixie Chicks "Good-bye Earl", which proves that as silly as most of these songs are, this is a genre that isn't afraid to be just a wee bit dark at times.
Now I can unabashedly enjoy almost all kinds of music. Once my husband and I listened to a whole disc that our older son left laying around, by some band called Swordsmen of Bagels, or something like that. I wanted to be a cool parent and tell him that I totally enjoyed it, but I really didn't. So I can't say I've reached the summit of musical tolerance, but I'm trying. (For a while - years back - I even used to exercise in the mornings to CMT, but not until after the rest of the family had departed for work and school. I didn't want my menfolk to worry.) I routinely listen to music that is on the verge of "country" - or at least "New Country", and at this point I don't care who knows it. Sometimes I even feel reminiscent and get a hankering to hear the stuff my parents loved. (I listened to Hank Snow's "Wreck of the Old '97" just before I sat down to wrote this post. My father would have approved.)
Even as a youth I'd listen to those good 'ole "hurtin' songs" and think how much fun it would be to write one. (Don't we all have a "s/he done me wrong" story to tell?) However, it took me a whole lot of years to act on the impulse.
It was after hearing Toby Keith's "How Do You Like Me Now?", a song that resonated with the cranky, crabby "here's to spittin' in yore eye" attitude that often prevails in me, that I sat down and finally attempted my own version of a dose of country heartbreak. Obviously "The Dawg Gone Blues" is not autobiographical. (Regardless of what those Facebook quizzes tell me, I am a woman.) But I could clearly envision the big ole lunk-head who'd have exactly this sort of story to tell. (I think maybe Toby could do it justice.)
The morals in this song are three-fold:
1) Make sure the woman of your dreams likes your dog
2) Buy a new mattress before you burn the old one
3) Get a pre-nup before you visit the judge and move her into your trailer!
So here goes - my first (and best) of two attempts to write about the cheatin' heart-breakers who inspire so much country music. (No dogs will be injured in the making of the music video : )
The Dawg Gone Blues
I woke up one morning
alone in our big bed -
don't know why but suddenly
I felt a sense of dread.
I showered and ate breakfast
then whistled for old Fred -
and found out to my horror
my faithful friend was dead.
Chorus:
Why'd you hafta break my heart
and leave me on my own?
Picture how upset I got
that you had up and flown.
You was quite a looker -
wish you had a kinder clone!
I wish that when you left me,
you'd left my dawg alone!
You emptied out my wallet
and bankrupted my heart,
then you went and shot my dawg
with a poisoned dart.
And killin' this man's best friend -
that was the cruelest part.
Now I'm mighty glad yore gone
'cause yore a mean ole tart.
Chorus
The first day I was busy -
yore letters I did shred,
and then I put myself to work
and dug a hole for Fred.
I finished burning up yore stuff,
but was still seeing red -
and I knew what I had to do
was fumigate the bed.
Chorus
The mattress was a sizzlin'
when I let out a groan -
Now I'd be sleepin' bedless,
as well as all alone.
You dynamited this ole heart -
replaced it with a stone,
because you was the Queen bee
and I was just a drone.
Chorus
Looking back I see it now,
I wasn't very smart.
You used me and abused me
and trashed my trustin' heart.
I think I've wisened up some
since we've been apart -
ain't never signed a pre-nup yet
but I'm about to start!
Chorus
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, February 2006
If anyone happens to run into Toby, tell him I have a song that has his name all over it, and he can record it and pay me big royalties -
- As long as my name is all under it!
Monday, 14 July 2014
Let's Talk About the Things I Hate (But Only For A While)
Let's Talk About the Things I Hate ( But Only For A While)
Let's talk about the things I hate -
the little things that aggravate,
those items that stick in my craw
and at my innards gnaw and gnaw.
I don't like snow that falls in spring
or early birds that loudly sing
or ANY birds that swoop or poop
or build their nests near my front stoop.
All bees or bugs that sting or bite
elicit in me no delight.
On drivers I have much to say -
those who don't cede the right of way
to people who pedestriate,
but make those self-same people wait -
those drivers should be made to pay
by walking an entire day!
I hate to wait within long lines,
I can't abide a child who whines,
I can't stand grimy floors or dirt
or girls who gossip, tease or flirt.
I don't much care to cough and choke
when others share their toxic smoke,
or make loud noise when I'm abed -
that kind of thing makes me see red!
I think sausage disgusting stuff -
of sappy songs I've had enough;
I'm likewise sick of guts and gore
and nauseating vampire lore.
I don't like vermin, rust or mould,
and all leftovers leave me cold.
I'm sick of people who are rude
and those who think that I'm a prude.
And while I speak of things that tire,
to pen this verse I've lost desire -
too many things leave me annoyed;
My time could be better employed!
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, November 2012
Sadly, the poem doesn't provide anything close to a comprehensive list of things that annoy me. I gripe about politics, lawlessness, ignorance and downright stupidity on a daily basis. Not a week goes by without complaints about garden pests, weeds, bad cooking (usually my own), bratty kids, misbehaving technology, cell phones or lousy service of one kind or another. Occasionally I vary my usual repertoire of complaints by carping about something like uncooperative weather or a bothersome task I have to complete. (You don't want to be around me if I have any sewing or mending to do!)
I hate to admit it, but I'm a crank. If there was a support group called "Crankaholics Anonymous", I'd join it, but I'm sure I'd whine endlessly about all of those steps, and making restitution to all of the victims of my grumbling tongue would would be a time-consuming exercise. I wish I could blame my tendency to complain on menopause or age, but I honestly can't. I've always been a bit cantankerous. I have strong opinions on a whole lot of subjects, and little tolerance for those who can't see the logic in feeling the way I do.
I come by it honestly - my father was a world class grumbler. That's no excuse really, but it can't be denied that what I've coined "the Flood disposition" isn't always pretty - and sadly every one of my siblings inherited the crabby gene to some extent. However, I feel compelled to make the admission that I seem to be the one most plagued by the ability to find things to complain about.
As a keen observer of humanity, and a somewhat sensitive soul who thinks deeply about what I see in the world around me, I'm prone to let everything affect me too much. Sometimes the beauty in nature makes me weep, and being witness to small acts of kindness thrills me to the core. But far too often I find myself angry, frustrated and completely befuddled by the ridiculous behaviors that seem so rampant in humanity. I ruminate on the selfishness and thoughtlessness I see, and I complain. And then I think of all the times I've misbehaved or handled situations badly and I feel crankier than ever.
I spend way too much time complaining about stupidity, and not nearly enough time utilizing my brain cells to make the world a more enlightened and intelligent, love-filled place.
I spend too much time griping about the injustices that exist, and not enough time thinking about how to make society fairer.
I spend too much time carping on about my lengthy list of pet peeves, and not nearly enough time tabulating the wonders of the world around me, the beauty, safety and peace I enjoy, and the love that surrounds me daily. I don't make enough effort to look for everything that works, satisfies, or is right.
Today I saw a posted challenge on Facebook - to go twenty-four hours without complaining. The first thing I thought was, "Wow - would that ever be hard!" Even the thought of not complaining gives me cause to gripe!
I honestly believe that there's a time and a place to complain. If I get bad service I should (as kindly as I possibly can) draw attention to the problem. Nothing can get fixed if people are unaware of the negative issues. When in a position of responsibility, I should correct those for whom I have responsibility - my job is to teach and instruct. Sometimes criticism of a behavior needs to be accompanied by a complaint to someone, about someone else. I can gripe with the best of the crabs out there, but criticism is hard.
I don't like doing that hard part. Complaining comes easily, but I fear I've never mastered the constructive part of criticism. I never liked having to tell my kids they were misbehaving or putting on my stern face for kids I babysat, but I did it anyhow. I feel envious of those who have mastered the art of complaining nicely, and know how to offer constructive criticism so kindly that it always sounds like a compliment on whomever it's bestowed. Then again, because I make myself do the hard kind of complaining - the corrective parenting type for example, even though I don't think I'm good at it - my threshold of patience for those who don't offer what I view as necessary complaints or criticisms is further lowered.
Thus I constantly need to remind myself that it isn't my job to tell the rest of the world what they should or shouldn't be doing. I tell myself to grow a thicker skin and not let myself be so infuriatingly bothered by what others are saying or doing - or not saying or doing.
I'm trying harder these days to focus on the things I love and enjoy, and when faced with too many unappealing scenarios on any given day, to attend to those things that I can control.
I need to accept that there are things that all the complaining in the world can't change. I need to find courage to act, rather than just grumbling about those things that I can and should be trying to change. And above all I need to find the wisdom to know the difference between the two and stop myself from being cranky about things I can't (or won't) do anything to change.
Grumbling really doesn't make me feel better most of the time. Instead of getting those complaints off my chest, I often feel as though I'm wearing one of those weighted vests. Sometimes my hands hurt from being clenched so often. My brow wears permanent furrows. I irritate my long suffering spouse and watch my kids roll their eyes way too often. I know I need to learn how to "let it go" - but acknowledge the OCD-ish part of my personality that makes that challenging. I know I would be more peaceful and serene if I zipped my lip more often - did a whole lot less mindless grumbling and a whole lot more mindful thinking about how to cure some of the ills I see.
To recap:
- Accept that I can't change everything
- Be brave enough to try to change something
- Be wise enough to know what merits a complaint
- Be kind enough to my fellowmen to stop the futile grumbling.
Twenty-four hours is a long time. But perhaps if I chose a sunshiny, low stress kind of day I could pull it off? (I wonder if I'd go into complaint withdrawal?)
If I ever manage to make it that long I'll let you know.
Let's talk about the things I hate -
the little things that aggravate,
those items that stick in my craw
and at my innards gnaw and gnaw.
I don't like snow that falls in spring
or early birds that loudly sing
or ANY birds that swoop or poop
or build their nests near my front stoop.
All bees or bugs that sting or bite
elicit in me no delight.
On drivers I have much to say -
those who don't cede the right of way
to people who pedestriate,
but make those self-same people wait -
those drivers should be made to pay
by walking an entire day!
I hate to wait within long lines,
I can't abide a child who whines,
I can't stand grimy floors or dirt
or girls who gossip, tease or flirt.
I don't much care to cough and choke
when others share their toxic smoke,
or make loud noise when I'm abed -
that kind of thing makes me see red!
I think sausage disgusting stuff -
of sappy songs I've had enough;
I'm likewise sick of guts and gore
and nauseating vampire lore.
I don't like vermin, rust or mould,
and all leftovers leave me cold.
I'm sick of people who are rude
and those who think that I'm a prude.
And while I speak of things that tire,
to pen this verse I've lost desire -
too many things leave me annoyed;
My time could be better employed!
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, November 2012
Sadly, the poem doesn't provide anything close to a comprehensive list of things that annoy me. I gripe about politics, lawlessness, ignorance and downright stupidity on a daily basis. Not a week goes by without complaints about garden pests, weeds, bad cooking (usually my own), bratty kids, misbehaving technology, cell phones or lousy service of one kind or another. Occasionally I vary my usual repertoire of complaints by carping about something like uncooperative weather or a bothersome task I have to complete. (You don't want to be around me if I have any sewing or mending to do!)
I hate to admit it, but I'm a crank. If there was a support group called "Crankaholics Anonymous", I'd join it, but I'm sure I'd whine endlessly about all of those steps, and making restitution to all of the victims of my grumbling tongue would would be a time-consuming exercise. I wish I could blame my tendency to complain on menopause or age, but I honestly can't. I've always been a bit cantankerous. I have strong opinions on a whole lot of subjects, and little tolerance for those who can't see the logic in feeling the way I do.
I come by it honestly - my father was a world class grumbler. That's no excuse really, but it can't be denied that what I've coined "the Flood disposition" isn't always pretty - and sadly every one of my siblings inherited the crabby gene to some extent. However, I feel compelled to make the admission that I seem to be the one most plagued by the ability to find things to complain about.
As a keen observer of humanity, and a somewhat sensitive soul who thinks deeply about what I see in the world around me, I'm prone to let everything affect me too much. Sometimes the beauty in nature makes me weep, and being witness to small acts of kindness thrills me to the core. But far too often I find myself angry, frustrated and completely befuddled by the ridiculous behaviors that seem so rampant in humanity. I ruminate on the selfishness and thoughtlessness I see, and I complain. And then I think of all the times I've misbehaved or handled situations badly and I feel crankier than ever.
I spend way too much time complaining about stupidity, and not nearly enough time utilizing my brain cells to make the world a more enlightened and intelligent, love-filled place.
I spend too much time griping about the injustices that exist, and not enough time thinking about how to make society fairer.
I spend too much time carping on about my lengthy list of pet peeves, and not nearly enough time tabulating the wonders of the world around me, the beauty, safety and peace I enjoy, and the love that surrounds me daily. I don't make enough effort to look for everything that works, satisfies, or is right.
Today I saw a posted challenge on Facebook - to go twenty-four hours without complaining. The first thing I thought was, "Wow - would that ever be hard!" Even the thought of not complaining gives me cause to gripe!
I honestly believe that there's a time and a place to complain. If I get bad service I should (as kindly as I possibly can) draw attention to the problem. Nothing can get fixed if people are unaware of the negative issues. When in a position of responsibility, I should correct those for whom I have responsibility - my job is to teach and instruct. Sometimes criticism of a behavior needs to be accompanied by a complaint to someone, about someone else. I can gripe with the best of the crabs out there, but criticism is hard.
I don't like doing that hard part. Complaining comes easily, but I fear I've never mastered the constructive part of criticism. I never liked having to tell my kids they were misbehaving or putting on my stern face for kids I babysat, but I did it anyhow. I feel envious of those who have mastered the art of complaining nicely, and know how to offer constructive criticism so kindly that it always sounds like a compliment on whomever it's bestowed. Then again, because I make myself do the hard kind of complaining - the corrective parenting type for example, even though I don't think I'm good at it - my threshold of patience for those who don't offer what I view as necessary complaints or criticisms is further lowered.
Thus I constantly need to remind myself that it isn't my job to tell the rest of the world what they should or shouldn't be doing. I tell myself to grow a thicker skin and not let myself be so infuriatingly bothered by what others are saying or doing - or not saying or doing.
I'm trying harder these days to focus on the things I love and enjoy, and when faced with too many unappealing scenarios on any given day, to attend to those things that I can control.
I need to accept that there are things that all the complaining in the world can't change. I need to find courage to act, rather than just grumbling about those things that I can and should be trying to change. And above all I need to find the wisdom to know the difference between the two and stop myself from being cranky about things I can't (or won't) do anything to change.
Grumbling really doesn't make me feel better most of the time. Instead of getting those complaints off my chest, I often feel as though I'm wearing one of those weighted vests. Sometimes my hands hurt from being clenched so often. My brow wears permanent furrows. I irritate my long suffering spouse and watch my kids roll their eyes way too often. I know I need to learn how to "let it go" - but acknowledge the OCD-ish part of my personality that makes that challenging. I know I would be more peaceful and serene if I zipped my lip more often - did a whole lot less mindless grumbling and a whole lot more mindful thinking about how to cure some of the ills I see.
To recap:
- Accept that I can't change everything
- Be brave enough to try to change something
- Be wise enough to know what merits a complaint
- Be kind enough to my fellowmen to stop the futile grumbling.
Twenty-four hours is a long time. But perhaps if I chose a sunshiny, low stress kind of day I could pull it off? (I wonder if I'd go into complaint withdrawal?)
If I ever manage to make it that long I'll let you know.
Monday, 30 June 2014
Home Again - By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Home Town:
Reconciling past and present
I revisit my hometown -
all is different, yet familiar
in the scenery around.
I scan faces to catch glimpses
of someone I might've known,
but it's hard to tell for certain
now that everyone has grown.
Buildings that seemed vast and looming
are now curiously small -
I'm amused, abashed and saddened
by the things that I recall.
I have knowledge, years and mileage
that divide me from this place
but at times I still feel drawn here -
there are things time can't erase.
From my memories I'm molded.
as I face today's concerns,
to the past I am beholden -
through experience one learns.
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg - September '08
Thirty-three years, two townhouses, two basement bedrooms, three houses and eleven apartments ago I moved out of my family home in Sault Ste. Marie. It was a smallish house for nine people - especially when the fact that my grandmother occupied the entire second story except for one bedroom is considered. Crowded or not I had a happy childhood there.
Even the yard of that house holds countless memories. It was huge by urban standards, and because we had a playhouse and a swing (which my father built out of a downed hydro pole), we were a destination location for most of the neighborhood kids. My brother built two pairs of stilts the summer I was thirteen, and we traversed that yard from considerable heights for several weeks, until we each got brave enough to demonstrate our skills on the sidewalk. We played games and had picnics in that yard. Once some friends of my sister, who had a band, entertained a group of neighborhood kids by performing in our backyard - a free mini concert for the neighborhood.
My childhood home evokes a lot of mental images - my mother rolling out a pie crust on the kitchen table, my grandmother doing crossword puzzles in her rocking chair; my father asleep on the couch. In my mind's eye I can see siblings reading and arguing and passing the popcorn bowl lap to lap while watching television. I remember the day my baby brother came home for the first time, bringing the sibling count to six. I remember shedding tears as each of my older sisters, and my older brother left home. That house saw a lot of beginnings and endings of one sort or another. It was a place that hosted parties populated by people of all ages. Our friends were always welcome there. It was a place that was filled with smells - cinnamon rolls, Sunday roasts and burnt toast. (My grandmother didn't think it qualified as toast unless a little singed.) Home was the sound of records playing on the stereo, the sound of my father singing off-key, feet running up and down the stairs - and doors slamming when our frequent squabbles began to get out of hand.
When I left my family home I knew I'd never live there again. My first apartment, an attic I shared in East London, became my first home away from home. Visits to the Soo were infrequent on my starving student budget, and although I missed friends and family there I was intent on building my own little nest. The first time I returned after a visit with my parents I ran up the rickety back steps, opened the door, and hollered to my room-mate, "I'm home!" - and I knew I was.
Home, I've learned, is a fluid concept. We carry it with us through all of our comings and goings. Home is made of memories of sounds and smells and snapshots that exist only in the brain. Home is made of experiences we collect along the way, wherever we happen to be living at the time. Home is where we unwind - where we take our deepest thoughts out for careful examination, and take out our frustrations so that we can be on our best behaviour elsewhere. Home is shelter from the storm - a safe haven in an often perilous world. Home is where we hang our hats, let down our hair and put up our feet. Our truest selves emerge when we are at home.
Every place I've ever lived, no matter how humble, played a part in my development. Every one of those places holds memories. The nasty townhouse with the sloping floors was where we brought our second son home, where my eldest learned the word "brother" and my youngest took his first steps. Home is a backdrop for growth. While my sons learned to walk and talk in those modest surroundings, I learned how to become a mother. While we lived in our last house, my husband and sons learned to swim in the above ground pool in its backyard. Those afternoons and evenings in the water, combined with the squeaky screen door and huge two sided fireplace inside, gave that house a perpetually cottage-y feeling that helped us feel cozily cocooned during an unhappy period in our family's history.
I find it difficult to visit my old homes. For many years, trips to the Soo were disconcerting. I slipped into my "former self" with too much ease. It always felt like I was putting on a comfortable old pair of jeans, only to realize that the seat was out. I felt oddly exposed on those visits - like any progress I might've made along the way had suddenly evaporated. I magically morphed back into an earlier incarnation of myself, and I didn't want to be her at all.
I've learned that all of my old homes are haunted by her - the Ghost of Sharon Past. She is still out there, walking on stilts in a front yard in Sault Ste Marie, looking out the window of that scuzzy townhouse in London - waiting for the rain to stop so she can put her boys in the wagon and escape those walls for a bit. She still proudly sweeps the hard wood floors in a house in Lively, and still splashes in a pool somewhere in St. Lazare. I've seen her walking the streets of East London - sometimes pushing a baby buggy. Although she is always in my head, I must admit that the sightings discombobulate me a bit.
The metaphysical sightings are bad enough, but the things my physical eyes behold when I drive past former homes are plenty disturbing on their own. New owners of my husband and I's first house painted the foundation and front walk poo green (ugh!), and new owners of our second home "de-cottaged" a house that oozed country charm by painting all the woodwork white and installing stainless steel appliances. (I saw the listing when I was scouting my old neighborhood on mls.ca and I almost cried.) I've learned that I don't like to see my former homes change, and that it feels like a personal affront when my mark on a place has been erased.
Perhaps I always knew that I would have an issue with looking at old homes through my change-resistant eyes. When I was eighteen years old my English teacher challenged us to each write a poem that imitated the style of a famous Canadian poet. I don't remember who I was trying to emulate, but this is what I wrote:
Revisitation:
This is my house.
I was born here.
Why then, do these new inhabitants
gaze at me through windows tightly closed?
Are they afraid of the past -
of times we spent within these walls
where our smiles
and our tears
penetrated plaster and wood
and retreated to cracks and corners
where they yet remain?
(They must lack security,
living on borrowed ground -
but do they even know?)
This house will never be theirs
no matter how long they dwell within it,
for so do we.
Look what they've done! Character cannot
be changed from the surface.
THEY'VE COVERED MY STRIPES WITH
FLOWERS!
LOOK WHAT THEY'VE DONE! -
But it doesn't matter, I guess - or it shouldn't.
They live here now - and I somewhere else -
almost.
By Sharon Flood, October 1980
I thought of this poem a few nights ago as I was ruminating on the content of this blog post. I dug it out and read it to my husband.
"Wow", he said, "you sounded angry!"
"Kind of foreshadows the future, right? Remember the look on my face when we drove past the house in Lively?" I replied.
I told him how I wrote the poem while trying to imagine what it would feel like to look inside the only house I'd ever lived in up until that point, and see how it had changed. Younger me somehow knew I'd have a problem with the redecorating involved.
She was right - I might be able to do a drive by, but taking a tour to see all the changes wouldn't be a good idea. Even though I had yet to leave my first, she knew that I would be sentimental about my homes. Four years ago my husband drove me past my childhood home for the first time since my mother had sold it almost a decade before.
"Let's drive past the old house" my husband suggested.
"No thanks, I don't want to" I answered.
"I think you should - we don't know how long it'll be until we come back to the Soo. Aren't you curious?"
I was a bit curious, but mostly I was afraid of all the ghosts I might see. In spite of my lack of enthusiasm we rolled slowly past the house. I had a lump in my throat, and yes, a few tears escaped in spite of my best efforts at self control.
And there she was - still walking on stilts to try out new perspectives.
"Hop in" I invited her, opening my mind just a crack. "Lets go home."
Reconciling past and present
I revisit my hometown -
all is different, yet familiar
in the scenery around.
I scan faces to catch glimpses
of someone I might've known,
but it's hard to tell for certain
now that everyone has grown.
Buildings that seemed vast and looming
are now curiously small -
I'm amused, abashed and saddened
by the things that I recall.
I have knowledge, years and mileage
that divide me from this place
but at times I still feel drawn here -
there are things time can't erase.
From my memories I'm molded.
as I face today's concerns,
to the past I am beholden -
through experience one learns.
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg - September '08
Thirty-three years, two townhouses, two basement bedrooms, three houses and eleven apartments ago I moved out of my family home in Sault Ste. Marie. It was a smallish house for nine people - especially when the fact that my grandmother occupied the entire second story except for one bedroom is considered. Crowded or not I had a happy childhood there.
Even the yard of that house holds countless memories. It was huge by urban standards, and because we had a playhouse and a swing (which my father built out of a downed hydro pole), we were a destination location for most of the neighborhood kids. My brother built two pairs of stilts the summer I was thirteen, and we traversed that yard from considerable heights for several weeks, until we each got brave enough to demonstrate our skills on the sidewalk. We played games and had picnics in that yard. Once some friends of my sister, who had a band, entertained a group of neighborhood kids by performing in our backyard - a free mini concert for the neighborhood.
My childhood home evokes a lot of mental images - my mother rolling out a pie crust on the kitchen table, my grandmother doing crossword puzzles in her rocking chair; my father asleep on the couch. In my mind's eye I can see siblings reading and arguing and passing the popcorn bowl lap to lap while watching television. I remember the day my baby brother came home for the first time, bringing the sibling count to six. I remember shedding tears as each of my older sisters, and my older brother left home. That house saw a lot of beginnings and endings of one sort or another. It was a place that hosted parties populated by people of all ages. Our friends were always welcome there. It was a place that was filled with smells - cinnamon rolls, Sunday roasts and burnt toast. (My grandmother didn't think it qualified as toast unless a little singed.) Home was the sound of records playing on the stereo, the sound of my father singing off-key, feet running up and down the stairs - and doors slamming when our frequent squabbles began to get out of hand.
When I left my family home I knew I'd never live there again. My first apartment, an attic I shared in East London, became my first home away from home. Visits to the Soo were infrequent on my starving student budget, and although I missed friends and family there I was intent on building my own little nest. The first time I returned after a visit with my parents I ran up the rickety back steps, opened the door, and hollered to my room-mate, "I'm home!" - and I knew I was.
Home, I've learned, is a fluid concept. We carry it with us through all of our comings and goings. Home is made of memories of sounds and smells and snapshots that exist only in the brain. Home is made of experiences we collect along the way, wherever we happen to be living at the time. Home is where we unwind - where we take our deepest thoughts out for careful examination, and take out our frustrations so that we can be on our best behaviour elsewhere. Home is shelter from the storm - a safe haven in an often perilous world. Home is where we hang our hats, let down our hair and put up our feet. Our truest selves emerge when we are at home.
Every place I've ever lived, no matter how humble, played a part in my development. Every one of those places holds memories. The nasty townhouse with the sloping floors was where we brought our second son home, where my eldest learned the word "brother" and my youngest took his first steps. Home is a backdrop for growth. While my sons learned to walk and talk in those modest surroundings, I learned how to become a mother. While we lived in our last house, my husband and sons learned to swim in the above ground pool in its backyard. Those afternoons and evenings in the water, combined with the squeaky screen door and huge two sided fireplace inside, gave that house a perpetually cottage-y feeling that helped us feel cozily cocooned during an unhappy period in our family's history.
I find it difficult to visit my old homes. For many years, trips to the Soo were disconcerting. I slipped into my "former self" with too much ease. It always felt like I was putting on a comfortable old pair of jeans, only to realize that the seat was out. I felt oddly exposed on those visits - like any progress I might've made along the way had suddenly evaporated. I magically morphed back into an earlier incarnation of myself, and I didn't want to be her at all.
I've learned that all of my old homes are haunted by her - the Ghost of Sharon Past. She is still out there, walking on stilts in a front yard in Sault Ste Marie, looking out the window of that scuzzy townhouse in London - waiting for the rain to stop so she can put her boys in the wagon and escape those walls for a bit. She still proudly sweeps the hard wood floors in a house in Lively, and still splashes in a pool somewhere in St. Lazare. I've seen her walking the streets of East London - sometimes pushing a baby buggy. Although she is always in my head, I must admit that the sightings discombobulate me a bit.
The metaphysical sightings are bad enough, but the things my physical eyes behold when I drive past former homes are plenty disturbing on their own. New owners of my husband and I's first house painted the foundation and front walk poo green (ugh!), and new owners of our second home "de-cottaged" a house that oozed country charm by painting all the woodwork white and installing stainless steel appliances. (I saw the listing when I was scouting my old neighborhood on mls.ca and I almost cried.) I've learned that I don't like to see my former homes change, and that it feels like a personal affront when my mark on a place has been erased.
Perhaps I always knew that I would have an issue with looking at old homes through my change-resistant eyes. When I was eighteen years old my English teacher challenged us to each write a poem that imitated the style of a famous Canadian poet. I don't remember who I was trying to emulate, but this is what I wrote:
Revisitation:
This is my house.
I was born here.
Why then, do these new inhabitants
gaze at me through windows tightly closed?
Are they afraid of the past -
of times we spent within these walls
where our smiles
and our tears
penetrated plaster and wood
and retreated to cracks and corners
where they yet remain?
(They must lack security,
living on borrowed ground -
but do they even know?)
This house will never be theirs
no matter how long they dwell within it,
for so do we.
Look what they've done! Character cannot
be changed from the surface.
THEY'VE COVERED MY STRIPES WITH
FLOWERS!
LOOK WHAT THEY'VE DONE! -
But it doesn't matter, I guess - or it shouldn't.
They live here now - and I somewhere else -
almost.
By Sharon Flood, October 1980
I thought of this poem a few nights ago as I was ruminating on the content of this blog post. I dug it out and read it to my husband.
"Wow", he said, "you sounded angry!"
"Kind of foreshadows the future, right? Remember the look on my face when we drove past the house in Lively?" I replied.
I told him how I wrote the poem while trying to imagine what it would feel like to look inside the only house I'd ever lived in up until that point, and see how it had changed. Younger me somehow knew I'd have a problem with the redecorating involved.
She was right - I might be able to do a drive by, but taking a tour to see all the changes wouldn't be a good idea. Even though I had yet to leave my first, she knew that I would be sentimental about my homes. Four years ago my husband drove me past my childhood home for the first time since my mother had sold it almost a decade before.
"Let's drive past the old house" my husband suggested.
"No thanks, I don't want to" I answered.
"I think you should - we don't know how long it'll be until we come back to the Soo. Aren't you curious?"
I was a bit curious, but mostly I was afraid of all the ghosts I might see. In spite of my lack of enthusiasm we rolled slowly past the house. I had a lump in my throat, and yes, a few tears escaped in spite of my best efforts at self control.
And there she was - still walking on stilts to try out new perspectives.
"Hop in" I invited her, opening my mind just a crack. "Lets go home."
Thursday, 5 June 2014
Just Another Message in a Bottle - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Message: (Yes, In A Bottle!)
I was walking at the shoreline
plucking pebbles from the beach
when I saw a bottle bobbing
in the waves just out of reach,
so I waded to retrieve it
then removed the scroll inside -
read the message in confusion;
understanding was denied.
When I brought it to my father
hoping he would comprehend
all the numbers written on it
he said, "It appears our friend
sent coordinates to show us
where he cast this from his boat
and was curious to find out
just how far that it might float."
Sent a note with my location
so the sender could learn more
and could chart the distance traveled
before bottle washed to shore.
Never thought much more about it
'til the day I wrote this tale,
now I contemplate the message
and how far it had to sail.
Life's a message in a bottle,
it's a lesson in a book;
life is out there all around you
if you'll only take a look.
Life's the message we are sending
and the one that is returned,
each experience we're given
brings another lesson learned.
It was not what I expected -
no dramatic SOS.
I was kind of disappointed
as a child I must confess.
Now I've grown to understand the
way humanity behaves,
cryptic notes are sent in bottles
to be carried by the waves.
When my loneliness compels me
I reach out to the unknown -
I am living, breathing, moving -
tell me I am not alone.
My coordinates keep changing,
but I'll tell you where I've been,
then perhaps you'll come exploring
and you'll see what I have seen.
I'm the author stuffing bottles
and the reader who replies,
sending data to the unknown
when the notion might arise.
I'm invested in connecting
with the another who discerns
what intentions forged the message
by the feedback he returns.
Life's a message in a bottle
we don't always understand
and the lessons we are learning
aren't the ones that we had planned.
We are scrolls rolled up in bottles
then cast out upon a wave -
bound for diverse destinations
from the womb until the grave.
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg (March 2008)
Many years ago I did find a message in a cigar tin on the shores of Lake Superior, and like the child in my poem brought the note to my father to decipher. Then I sent off a short note to the enclosed address as requested. Needless to say I never got a reply. I can only surmise that the sender got as much information as he'd requested - he learned how far his message went, and didn't really care about who had received it.
Our lives are filled with bottled missives - cryptic messages sent out into cyberspace, by ourselves and others, some hard to decipher. Facebook appeals to the Drama Queen in each of us. Who hasn't sent out an "I feel crappy today and I want the whole world to know it!" status - or one that is deliberately obscure - a baited hook waiting for sympathetic takers. Often we are motivated solely by our own need for attention. We don't care who responds, as long as somebody does. Like the mariner who bottles a message up and casts it overboard, we are primarily concerned with "how far" the message will go, how may people will hit the "like" button or respond. Why is that?
Here's my theory:
We are lonely.
Social media allows us to pretend we're not. (See how many people responded? I'm no loser!) But truthfully, in an age where many people care more about the number of their Facebook friends than having meaningful conversations with any of them - and where many spend more time fiddling with their cell phones than attending to those they're with - we are all losers.
Sting touched on a very similar theme in his song Message in a Bottle.
"Just a castaway
an island lost at sea
Another lonely day
with no one here but me."
Later in the song, the conclusion is made that he's "not alone in being alone - a hundred billion castaways, looking for a home."
I live a fairly insular life. I like my days to be quietly spent enjoying my solitary pursuits - reading, writing, gardening, baking; taking long walks. But I experience moments of poignant clarity when I realize how much more gratifying my life would be if I invited more friends over to enjoy my garden, or shared more home-made cookies with this Oreo-laden world. I should be showing someone else the beautiful trail I just explored, or discussing the latest book I loved with some other avid reader. Like the rest of humanity I get far too caught up in my own "busy-ness". Sometimes weeks go by before I realize I haven't had an outing, or more shocking still, a conversation, with anyone other than my spouse, my kids or my mother in quite a while.
When struck by this realization I feel lonely. It's partly my own fault. I'm reserved and a bit socially awkward. Getting to know new people doesn't come easily, thus it's easier to let the other person ask questions. As uncomfortable as it makes me to admit it, I know that this behavior might make me seem disinterested in others when in fact I'm usually quite curious. Unfamiliar social territory has been made more difficult to navigate by the fact that I often become careless about interacting with my siblings and closest friends. They are busier than I am and probably don't have time to talk or get together, is what I tell myself to excuse my failure to do my share of reaching out.
The part that I'm not responsible for is purely circumstantial. I've moved around, and those who have never moved to another city simply don't realize how difficult it is to establish new friendships in middle age. My kids are grown, so I have no involvement with their friends' parents at this stage of life. The other factor is that while I'm not alone in being alone, I think I might be in the minority when it comes to admitting that I'm lonely at times.
A lot of people see their mobile devices as a great source of connection. I don't. (Which is why I seldom carry my cell phone - but that's a whole other post.) Even telephone conversations require too much effort for most, and have been substituted with a series of text massages. We are a socially lazy generation - too easily lured into the social media trap where we have limited and mostly banal interactions with the masses instead of genuine (face to face!) interactions with people we actually know and claim to care about.
Some protest too strenuously that their lives are filled with socializing. They'll tell you that they eat lunch with "friends" every work day when in fact they merely share lunch with co-workers, which isn't the same at all. Or they'll tell you all about some church assignment or club they belong to that essentially forces them to sit in meetings and on committees with those whose company they'll enjoy for the period of time that they share common responsibilities. This kind of enforced interaction is no substitute for honest-to-goodness "come over to my house and hang out" sociability.
I am one of those castaways looking for a home, a community. That's why I make repeated efforts to tell the world how I feel, where I am and where I hope to go. But unlike a true narcissist, I hold out hope that I'll get responses and make connections. Every post is another message, and my computer is the vessel I use to send it out on the waves - I still believe that the media, in and of itself, is not the message.
"I am living, breathing, moving - tell me I am not alone."
Recently I had a Facebook friend announce that he would soon be deactivating his account. He said that while he enjoyed his online interactions, he wanted more experiences and less entertainment. I can relate to his sentiments. I've often wondered if I sent out an invitation for a night of "real time face time" at my home to forty or fifty people who I know well (or would like to get to know better), how many would take me up on the offer? How many would fore-go a night of texting with the many or scrolling their news feed in favor of mingling with the few? How many would be willing to sever their cell phone connection for an hour or two - or better yet leave their phone at home? (Those would be the rules - no mobile devices - after all I do have a land line in case of emergencies.)
Are you one of the hundred billion bottles looking for a home? Are you ready to send out an SOS?
I think I am.
I was walking at the shoreline
plucking pebbles from the beach
when I saw a bottle bobbing
in the waves just out of reach,
so I waded to retrieve it
then removed the scroll inside -
read the message in confusion;
understanding was denied.
When I brought it to my father
hoping he would comprehend
all the numbers written on it
he said, "It appears our friend
sent coordinates to show us
where he cast this from his boat
and was curious to find out
just how far that it might float."
Sent a note with my location
so the sender could learn more
and could chart the distance traveled
before bottle washed to shore.
Never thought much more about it
'til the day I wrote this tale,
now I contemplate the message
and how far it had to sail.
Life's a message in a bottle,
it's a lesson in a book;
life is out there all around you
if you'll only take a look.
Life's the message we are sending
and the one that is returned,
each experience we're given
brings another lesson learned.
It was not what I expected -
no dramatic SOS.
I was kind of disappointed
as a child I must confess.
Now I've grown to understand the
way humanity behaves,
cryptic notes are sent in bottles
to be carried by the waves.
When my loneliness compels me
I reach out to the unknown -
I am living, breathing, moving -
tell me I am not alone.
My coordinates keep changing,
but I'll tell you where I've been,
then perhaps you'll come exploring
and you'll see what I have seen.
I'm the author stuffing bottles
and the reader who replies,
sending data to the unknown
when the notion might arise.
I'm invested in connecting
with the another who discerns
what intentions forged the message
by the feedback he returns.
Life's a message in a bottle
we don't always understand
and the lessons we are learning
aren't the ones that we had planned.
We are scrolls rolled up in bottles
then cast out upon a wave -
bound for diverse destinations
from the womb until the grave.
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg (March 2008)
Many years ago I did find a message in a cigar tin on the shores of Lake Superior, and like the child in my poem brought the note to my father to decipher. Then I sent off a short note to the enclosed address as requested. Needless to say I never got a reply. I can only surmise that the sender got as much information as he'd requested - he learned how far his message went, and didn't really care about who had received it.
Our lives are filled with bottled missives - cryptic messages sent out into cyberspace, by ourselves and others, some hard to decipher. Facebook appeals to the Drama Queen in each of us. Who hasn't sent out an "I feel crappy today and I want the whole world to know it!" status - or one that is deliberately obscure - a baited hook waiting for sympathetic takers. Often we are motivated solely by our own need for attention. We don't care who responds, as long as somebody does. Like the mariner who bottles a message up and casts it overboard, we are primarily concerned with "how far" the message will go, how may people will hit the "like" button or respond. Why is that?
Here's my theory:
We are lonely.
Social media allows us to pretend we're not. (See how many people responded? I'm no loser!) But truthfully, in an age where many people care more about the number of their Facebook friends than having meaningful conversations with any of them - and where many spend more time fiddling with their cell phones than attending to those they're with - we are all losers.
Sting touched on a very similar theme in his song Message in a Bottle.
"Just a castaway
an island lost at sea
Another lonely day
with no one here but me."
Later in the song, the conclusion is made that he's "not alone in being alone - a hundred billion castaways, looking for a home."
I live a fairly insular life. I like my days to be quietly spent enjoying my solitary pursuits - reading, writing, gardening, baking; taking long walks. But I experience moments of poignant clarity when I realize how much more gratifying my life would be if I invited more friends over to enjoy my garden, or shared more home-made cookies with this Oreo-laden world. I should be showing someone else the beautiful trail I just explored, or discussing the latest book I loved with some other avid reader. Like the rest of humanity I get far too caught up in my own "busy-ness". Sometimes weeks go by before I realize I haven't had an outing, or more shocking still, a conversation, with anyone other than my spouse, my kids or my mother in quite a while.
When struck by this realization I feel lonely. It's partly my own fault. I'm reserved and a bit socially awkward. Getting to know new people doesn't come easily, thus it's easier to let the other person ask questions. As uncomfortable as it makes me to admit it, I know that this behavior might make me seem disinterested in others when in fact I'm usually quite curious. Unfamiliar social territory has been made more difficult to navigate by the fact that I often become careless about interacting with my siblings and closest friends. They are busier than I am and probably don't have time to talk or get together, is what I tell myself to excuse my failure to do my share of reaching out.
The part that I'm not responsible for is purely circumstantial. I've moved around, and those who have never moved to another city simply don't realize how difficult it is to establish new friendships in middle age. My kids are grown, so I have no involvement with their friends' parents at this stage of life. The other factor is that while I'm not alone in being alone, I think I might be in the minority when it comes to admitting that I'm lonely at times.
A lot of people see their mobile devices as a great source of connection. I don't. (Which is why I seldom carry my cell phone - but that's a whole other post.) Even telephone conversations require too much effort for most, and have been substituted with a series of text massages. We are a socially lazy generation - too easily lured into the social media trap where we have limited and mostly banal interactions with the masses instead of genuine (face to face!) interactions with people we actually know and claim to care about.
Some protest too strenuously that their lives are filled with socializing. They'll tell you that they eat lunch with "friends" every work day when in fact they merely share lunch with co-workers, which isn't the same at all. Or they'll tell you all about some church assignment or club they belong to that essentially forces them to sit in meetings and on committees with those whose company they'll enjoy for the period of time that they share common responsibilities. This kind of enforced interaction is no substitute for honest-to-goodness "come over to my house and hang out" sociability.
I am one of those castaways looking for a home, a community. That's why I make repeated efforts to tell the world how I feel, where I am and where I hope to go. But unlike a true narcissist, I hold out hope that I'll get responses and make connections. Every post is another message, and my computer is the vessel I use to send it out on the waves - I still believe that the media, in and of itself, is not the message.
"I am living, breathing, moving - tell me I am not alone."
Recently I had a Facebook friend announce that he would soon be deactivating his account. He said that while he enjoyed his online interactions, he wanted more experiences and less entertainment. I can relate to his sentiments. I've often wondered if I sent out an invitation for a night of "real time face time" at my home to forty or fifty people who I know well (or would like to get to know better), how many would take me up on the offer? How many would fore-go a night of texting with the many or scrolling their news feed in favor of mingling with the few? How many would be willing to sever their cell phone connection for an hour or two - or better yet leave their phone at home? (Those would be the rules - no mobile devices - after all I do have a land line in case of emergencies.)
Are you one of the hundred billion bottles looking for a home? Are you ready to send out an SOS?
I think I am.
Monday, 12 May 2014
Burning Bridges - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Burning Bridges
"Don't burn your bridges" some men say
but in each life there comes a day
when flame is lit and match is tossed
the moment that the bridge is crossed.
You watch the flames engulf and burn
and know you're glad you can't return -
to barren isle, of life bereft -
a place you should have sooner left -
where soul was shackled by remorse
for every hour you stayed the course.
When toxic gasses choked your breath
as fresh ideas were put to death,
you marveled at how some could thrive
on watching struggles to survive
in stagnant , rancid atmospheres
where joy in living disappears.
From such a prison one must flee
and once escaped and safely free,
set fire to the bridge behind -
and in the act find peace of mind.
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg (November 3, 2008)
At one time or another, each of us will face the uncomfortable truth that we're "in a bad place." While I'm pretty stoic about trying to make the most of whatever life throws at me, there have been times when I've been forced to see the wisdom in moving myself out of easy target range. We don't usually need to be miserable where we are - but conversely we don't need to stay where we are if a change will improve our lives.
There are some levels of toxicity that none of us should allow ourselves to remain exposed to, but humans are a stubborn species, so it can take a while for that truth to sink in. We decide what to do, who to marry, where to live, what ideologies to embrace...and if our decisions don't seem to pan out the way we thought they would we're quick to blame ourselves for not trying hard enough. We beat ourselves up as we dig in and do everything in our power to prove that our choices were good ones - even if they weren't - or if our situations changed sufficiently that what began as a good decision has morphed into a source of misery.
To expand on the plant analogy used in last post (Bloom Where You Stand), I might plant a lovely patch of impatiens under a shady tree in my yard and enjoy their blooms immensely, but if that tree comes down and I still insist on planting the same shade loving variety in a spot that now gets full sunlight I'm going to disappointed. The choice that used to be so sensible is no longer viable.
The good news is that we are not plants. It isn't easy, but we can uproot ourselves - physically move away from those "pests and weeds" that make blooming difficult or even impossible. We can move into a new neighbourhood, move out of a toxic relationship, retrain our brains to embrace new thoughts or leave a job that sucks every ounce of joy out of life.
About six years ago I was fired from a job. Don't feel too sorry for me - it was a short retail stint. I was promised more hours than the other hires because I had more experience with the products being sold, so now it seems logical that mine would be the first neck on the chopping block. On paper, the job seemed like it would be a great fit for me, but from the beginning it felt wrong.
The owner expected a slavish devotion to her "vision" that I just couldn't muster. I was chastised for making conversation with co-workers while we put out stock in the empty store. There was no place to sit down and take a break, no place to eat a brown bag lunch (except seated on the cement floor in the manager's office), and there were three different "bosses" to answer to, all with conflicting opinions about what should be done when. The day I asked for an early shift on my son's birthday (two weeks in advance) I received a guilt trip from the owner, who whined that she'd barely seen her own children in weeks. I knew then and there that I'd never last as her employee. (She obviously resented my ability to work in family time, and sooner or later I would have pointed out that her schedule was her choice - she owned the store!) Nevertheless I was determined to stick it out until a better opportunity came along.
My ego took a horrible beating when I was fired - even though I'd hated the job. Four days later my husband came home and announced that he'd lost his job too. (In his case he'd been in a horrible employment situation for a couple of years, and his job had hung in the balance for several months, so the firing wasn't unexpected.) As soon as I heard this news I sat down and wrote "Burning Bridges" in less than twenty minutes. My husband posted the poem on his Facebook page and got a string of comments from friends - of the "Amen!" variety. Most of these comments came from those who had left bad relationships of one sort or another.
It was a poem that most could relate to, since many had experienced feeling doggedly determined to stay in an unhappy situation, and upon making the decision to flee oppression, knew the cathartic power of striking a match or two. These people understood how easy it can be to go back to what is familiar - even when that choice offers nothing but despair.
A couple days later my husband and I decided that our lungs had inhaled enough soot, and with those bridges still aflame behind us we set off on a road trip to Boston to clear our heads and decide what came next. Todd accepted short term employment until he could start up his own business. I decided that the small amount of money I could bring in working retail wasn't worth the frustrations that came along with the experience - the hours on my feet, and the interactions with unreasonable employers and customers. Home life would be happier with me putting regularly scheduled meals on the table again - and I would be too. We knew we'd have to tighten our belts for a while, but for the first time in ages we both felt free.
Some bridges need to burn.
"Don't burn your bridges" some men say
but in each life there comes a day
when flame is lit and match is tossed
the moment that the bridge is crossed.
You watch the flames engulf and burn
and know you're glad you can't return -
to barren isle, of life bereft -
a place you should have sooner left -
where soul was shackled by remorse
for every hour you stayed the course.
When toxic gasses choked your breath
as fresh ideas were put to death,
you marveled at how some could thrive
on watching struggles to survive
in stagnant , rancid atmospheres
where joy in living disappears.
From such a prison one must flee
and once escaped and safely free,
set fire to the bridge behind -
and in the act find peace of mind.
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg (November 3, 2008)
At one time or another, each of us will face the uncomfortable truth that we're "in a bad place." While I'm pretty stoic about trying to make the most of whatever life throws at me, there have been times when I've been forced to see the wisdom in moving myself out of easy target range. We don't usually need to be miserable where we are - but conversely we don't need to stay where we are if a change will improve our lives.
There are some levels of toxicity that none of us should allow ourselves to remain exposed to, but humans are a stubborn species, so it can take a while for that truth to sink in. We decide what to do, who to marry, where to live, what ideologies to embrace...and if our decisions don't seem to pan out the way we thought they would we're quick to blame ourselves for not trying hard enough. We beat ourselves up as we dig in and do everything in our power to prove that our choices were good ones - even if they weren't - or if our situations changed sufficiently that what began as a good decision has morphed into a source of misery.
To expand on the plant analogy used in last post (Bloom Where You Stand), I might plant a lovely patch of impatiens under a shady tree in my yard and enjoy their blooms immensely, but if that tree comes down and I still insist on planting the same shade loving variety in a spot that now gets full sunlight I'm going to disappointed. The choice that used to be so sensible is no longer viable.
The good news is that we are not plants. It isn't easy, but we can uproot ourselves - physically move away from those "pests and weeds" that make blooming difficult or even impossible. We can move into a new neighbourhood, move out of a toxic relationship, retrain our brains to embrace new thoughts or leave a job that sucks every ounce of joy out of life.
About six years ago I was fired from a job. Don't feel too sorry for me - it was a short retail stint. I was promised more hours than the other hires because I had more experience with the products being sold, so now it seems logical that mine would be the first neck on the chopping block. On paper, the job seemed like it would be a great fit for me, but from the beginning it felt wrong.
The owner expected a slavish devotion to her "vision" that I just couldn't muster. I was chastised for making conversation with co-workers while we put out stock in the empty store. There was no place to sit down and take a break, no place to eat a brown bag lunch (except seated on the cement floor in the manager's office), and there were three different "bosses" to answer to, all with conflicting opinions about what should be done when. The day I asked for an early shift on my son's birthday (two weeks in advance) I received a guilt trip from the owner, who whined that she'd barely seen her own children in weeks. I knew then and there that I'd never last as her employee. (She obviously resented my ability to work in family time, and sooner or later I would have pointed out that her schedule was her choice - she owned the store!) Nevertheless I was determined to stick it out until a better opportunity came along.
My ego took a horrible beating when I was fired - even though I'd hated the job. Four days later my husband came home and announced that he'd lost his job too. (In his case he'd been in a horrible employment situation for a couple of years, and his job had hung in the balance for several months, so the firing wasn't unexpected.) As soon as I heard this news I sat down and wrote "Burning Bridges" in less than twenty minutes. My husband posted the poem on his Facebook page and got a string of comments from friends - of the "Amen!" variety. Most of these comments came from those who had left bad relationships of one sort or another.
It was a poem that most could relate to, since many had experienced feeling doggedly determined to stay in an unhappy situation, and upon making the decision to flee oppression, knew the cathartic power of striking a match or two. These people understood how easy it can be to go back to what is familiar - even when that choice offers nothing but despair.
A couple days later my husband and I decided that our lungs had inhaled enough soot, and with those bridges still aflame behind us we set off on a road trip to Boston to clear our heads and decide what came next. Todd accepted short term employment until he could start up his own business. I decided that the small amount of money I could bring in working retail wasn't worth the frustrations that came along with the experience - the hours on my feet, and the interactions with unreasonable employers and customers. Home life would be happier with me putting regularly scheduled meals on the table again - and I would be too. We knew we'd have to tighten our belts for a while, but for the first time in ages we both felt free.
Some bridges need to burn.
Friday, 2 May 2014
Blooming Where We Stand - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Spring is finally making a slow and cautious approach and I'm anxiously watching the garden to assess how many of the new plants we put in last year are still thriving. It seems that every year, due to carelessness or ignorance on my part there are a few casualties. There are a lot of factors that can account for a plant's inability to thrive - soil conditions, inadequate light or water, pests, weeds; improper fertilization - any deviation from the prescribed care of the plant can result in stunted growth, wilting leaves or dead plants. Gardening is tricky, and in spite of my efforts the learning comes slowly.
As I contemplate what's required to help my plants blossom, I have to acknowledge how much more care is required to help our fellow human beings thrive and bloom. Sad as it sounds, it seems that most of us don't bear blossoms as often as we should. Our growth factors are not so dissimilar from those of plants - we need water and food to sustain us, we need warmth and light (or perhaps enlightenment). We need to try to avoid the "pests and weeds" that endanger our growth, which vary with each human specimen.
In my case, "weeds" tend to be harsh, unkind people - the ones who spill vitriol the second you express an opinion contrary to their own, or offer an iota of well meaning advice. (Sometimes it seems I'm alone in feeling that friendship isn't defined by solidarity of beliefs or ideologies.) When I'm around those who can only accept me when I nod in agreement and echo back their own dogma I feel as choked as a flower in a field of thistles. "Pests" that gnaw at me are my flaws - a sharp temper, impatience; frustration that leads to discouragement - an aphid that sucks the emotional sap out of a lot of us. We may blame our lack of blossoms on the fact that nobody seems to appreciate our efforts, but buds are more apt to open when we learn to appreciate our own contributions. Many of the tasks that fill our days get little applause - especially those related to parenting. (Keep this in mind - Mother's Day is around the corner!) Those deeds that get the least acknowledgement now are often the very things that will be praised most later on.
One growth factor that I haven't mentioned yet is location. Some plants are downright persnickety about where they'll grow. At my last home the front garden was sandy and shaded. I quickly discovered that few plants could thrive there. On the advice of a neighbour I planted hostas and impatiens, and finally achieved success. Too often people blame their unhappiness on their current situation. They tell themselves that they'd bloom like crazy if they were only somewhere else. It's easy to try to grow hothouse roses in the desert, and then wonder why they never flower.
Often those "planted" in inhospitable soil have risen above such ills as poverty,violence and physical limitations to make incredible contributions to society. (Perhaps the "bloomers" are content to be hostas, impatiens, or even lowly cacti, who bear flowers in sand and shade.) Certainly we are an adaptable species, able to survive hardships and even overcome them*. We all have buds - potential to bloom- so why aren't we producing blossoms?
Today I leave you with a poem about a cactus who learned to appreciate her worth when she noticed how much she contributed to the desert around her.
Bloom Where You Stand (by Sharon Flood Kasenberg, April '06)
A young cactus in the desert
surveyed the landscape drear,
and sniffing with disdain she asked -
"Why was I planted here?
I'm covered in horrid prickles -
a common shade of green -
not that it really matters much,
out here I won't be seen!"
She grew beneath the desert sun -
became a lofty plant,
though sun beat harshly down on her
and rain was very scant.
Her boredom was acutely felt,
her life was full of woe -
she never understood that she
was planted where she'd grow.
One day she happened to look down
and notice something new.
In the coolness of her shadow
a tiny cactus grew!
Its existence gave her purpose -
she felt parental pride,
and when it asked why it was there,
in answer she replied:
"I didn't understand my worth
until I saw you there -
you helped me see why I exist
and what I have to share.
I've come to see things differently
and comprehend at last
just how much life is nurtured in
the shadow that I cast.
Travelers rest within my shade
when their poor hides are baked.
They tap into the juice I yield
and find their thirst is slaked.
Birds nest within my shadow so
their eggs don't end up poached!
You too will learn your usefulness",
she heartily reproached.
Though my tale has been quite lenghthy
it isn't finished yet -
in their season rains descended,
the arid soil grew wet.
Our cactus friend was soon adorned
in blossoms bright and bold,
and stories of her loveliness
both far and wide were told.
She perceived a different desert
when she was thus arrayed -
the beauty she embodied now
was everywhere displayed.
We must strive to heed the lessons
the cactus came to learn -
when we through trials or circumstance
for greener pastures yearn.
When life seems bleak and desert dry -
our purpose not defined -
we need to look beyond ourselves
to see how we're designed.
We each have capabilities,
talents that we can share,
and if we try to nurture them
we'll bloom most anywhere!
Our confidence will be increased;
our faithfulness expand -
when we learn to trust the sower,
we'll blossom where we stand.
*Turn those buds to the sunlight and bloom on! If the soil we are in is no longer able to sustain growth we can transplant ourselves. (Nobody needs to be a lonely petunia in an onion patch.) Stay tuned - that's a whole other post!
As I contemplate what's required to help my plants blossom, I have to acknowledge how much more care is required to help our fellow human beings thrive and bloom. Sad as it sounds, it seems that most of us don't bear blossoms as often as we should. Our growth factors are not so dissimilar from those of plants - we need water and food to sustain us, we need warmth and light (or perhaps enlightenment). We need to try to avoid the "pests and weeds" that endanger our growth, which vary with each human specimen.
In my case, "weeds" tend to be harsh, unkind people - the ones who spill vitriol the second you express an opinion contrary to their own, or offer an iota of well meaning advice. (Sometimes it seems I'm alone in feeling that friendship isn't defined by solidarity of beliefs or ideologies.) When I'm around those who can only accept me when I nod in agreement and echo back their own dogma I feel as choked as a flower in a field of thistles. "Pests" that gnaw at me are my flaws - a sharp temper, impatience; frustration that leads to discouragement - an aphid that sucks the emotional sap out of a lot of us. We may blame our lack of blossoms on the fact that nobody seems to appreciate our efforts, but buds are more apt to open when we learn to appreciate our own contributions. Many of the tasks that fill our days get little applause - especially those related to parenting. (Keep this in mind - Mother's Day is around the corner!) Those deeds that get the least acknowledgement now are often the very things that will be praised most later on.
One growth factor that I haven't mentioned yet is location. Some plants are downright persnickety about where they'll grow. At my last home the front garden was sandy and shaded. I quickly discovered that few plants could thrive there. On the advice of a neighbour I planted hostas and impatiens, and finally achieved success. Too often people blame their unhappiness on their current situation. They tell themselves that they'd bloom like crazy if they were only somewhere else. It's easy to try to grow hothouse roses in the desert, and then wonder why they never flower.
Often those "planted" in inhospitable soil have risen above such ills as poverty,violence and physical limitations to make incredible contributions to society. (Perhaps the "bloomers" are content to be hostas, impatiens, or even lowly cacti, who bear flowers in sand and shade.) Certainly we are an adaptable species, able to survive hardships and even overcome them*. We all have buds - potential to bloom- so why aren't we producing blossoms?
Today I leave you with a poem about a cactus who learned to appreciate her worth when she noticed how much she contributed to the desert around her.
Bloom Where You Stand (by Sharon Flood Kasenberg, April '06)
A young cactus in the desert
surveyed the landscape drear,
and sniffing with disdain she asked -
"Why was I planted here?
I'm covered in horrid prickles -
a common shade of green -
not that it really matters much,
out here I won't be seen!"
She grew beneath the desert sun -
became a lofty plant,
though sun beat harshly down on her
and rain was very scant.
Her boredom was acutely felt,
her life was full of woe -
she never understood that she
was planted where she'd grow.
One day she happened to look down
and notice something new.
In the coolness of her shadow
a tiny cactus grew!
Its existence gave her purpose -
she felt parental pride,
and when it asked why it was there,
in answer she replied:
"I didn't understand my worth
until I saw you there -
you helped me see why I exist
and what I have to share.
I've come to see things differently
and comprehend at last
just how much life is nurtured in
the shadow that I cast.
Travelers rest within my shade
when their poor hides are baked.
They tap into the juice I yield
and find their thirst is slaked.
Birds nest within my shadow so
their eggs don't end up poached!
You too will learn your usefulness",
she heartily reproached.
Though my tale has been quite lenghthy
it isn't finished yet -
in their season rains descended,
the arid soil grew wet.
Our cactus friend was soon adorned
in blossoms bright and bold,
and stories of her loveliness
both far and wide were told.
She perceived a different desert
when she was thus arrayed -
the beauty she embodied now
was everywhere displayed.
We must strive to heed the lessons
the cactus came to learn -
when we through trials or circumstance
for greener pastures yearn.
When life seems bleak and desert dry -
our purpose not defined -
we need to look beyond ourselves
to see how we're designed.
We each have capabilities,
talents that we can share,
and if we try to nurture them
we'll bloom most anywhere!
Our confidence will be increased;
our faithfulness expand -
when we learn to trust the sower,
we'll blossom where we stand.
*Turn those buds to the sunlight and bloom on! If the soil we are in is no longer able to sustain growth we can transplant ourselves. (Nobody needs to be a lonely petunia in an onion patch.) Stay tuned - that's a whole other post!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)