I Dreamed - I Woke
I dreamed last night of sunshine bright,
and rain that stayed away -
my heart was light, I felt alright
and found some words to say.
I dreamed about a life without
much worry on my mind;
with no self doubt words would come out
and cares I'd leave behind.
I woke to know it wasn't so -
no epic would I pen -
that words might flow, but even so
they'd surely cease again.
I woke to feel something more real;
when expectations high -
crush under heel, I wish that zeal
could grant me wings to fly!
I woke today, and said, "No way -
it's just too much, too soon,
and it's okay, by light of day
to not expect the moon."
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, November 28, 2019
When I was younger I used to enjoy a television sketch on Mad TV called "Lowered Expectations". It was a spoof on "personal ads", which were the paper based forerunner of online dating sites. (Yeah - I know that's proof that I'm old!) Youthful and naive, I wondered why anyone would ever consider using a dating service that urged people to keep their expectations low - it seemed like such a preposterous idea at the time!
Now I get it.
We live in an era where we are always pushed to aim high - to be successful in every endeavor, and dating is no exception. Don't the unattached among us "deserve" to be with the hottest companions, just by virtue of putting a nicely edited photo up on a dating site? Then, (of course!) they will swipe on other carefully edited and staged - and perhaps outright ancient or "borrowed" - photos, and decide, based on looks and a few texting sessions, whether they have met "a match". Needless to say, pairings based on such shallow criteria might yield a good romp or two, but seldom have the same staying power as people who opt to dig a little deeper to find some common ground before declaring "couplehood."
Perhaps these "singletons" would be better off if they were willing to lower their expectations in the looks department, and raise them in other areas.
We are inundated with messages from that if we aren't constantly moving forward we must be lagging behind. There is no respect for the idea of a pause from time to time. "Just do something - anything - but don't you dare stand still! Keep your chin up, aim for the top spot, and don't question yourself!"
We are told that we should be good at everything - and if we aren't it's because we aren't trying hard enough.
We are surrounded by well meaning cheerleaders, who feed us a steady stream of catchy slogans telling us that we should always be upbeat and optimistic, because "Happiness is a choice."
We are urged to be productive all the time, and told that our achievements determine our success.
"Do, or do not" - said a well meaning Yoda to his young apprentice - "there is no try". Our lofty expectations were forged in the fire of good intentions. As much as Yoda was an admirable mentor, he seemed to miss the point that making and attempt - or"trying"- to accomplish something is forward movement in and of itself. Truthfully, we are all blissfully ignorant about what we need to do next a whole lot of the time, and I've concluded that my own failed attempts - my "tries" - often initiated a change of course that put me on the right path of "doing". There is no shame in trying - and perhaps failing. Where would all of the innovators be if they didn't take a stab at something new or "try" to do the same old thing in a brand new way?
I'll tell you where - nowhere. They'd be paralyzed by the fear of being a "trier", and not a "doer" like so many of us who were raised to think that making an attempt didn't count as legitimate effort. It's a whole lot easier to know what you ought to do when you've figured out - through trial and error - what isn't going to work.
The irony is that "trying" is both a hiss and a byword, and a club to beat us over the head with. We really are expected to be in a constant state of self improvement, home improvement, attitude improvement, intellectual improvement - you name it. The tools are all readily available to us online. What can't we learn from our vast menu of online improvement entrees? YouTube videos, Pinterest suggestions, Facebook news feed - they all serve up a feast for the soul who seeks betterment.
If you aren't improving, you really aren't "trying" hard enough.
If only life was as easy as all of the pop psychologists have told us it should be! The truth, as I see it, is that life is full of times when we should stop frantically pushing forward and pause to assess where we are. We don't need to produce endlessly, or to always be looking for ways to acquire more. Sometimes we can be satisfied with less, and there is no shame in choosing to simplify life and slow our constant quest for more and better things, more exciting experiences, and more acclaim from the masses - especially from online "followers" who may not have any idea how carefully constructed our Facebook facades may be.
We are not our online profiles. We are not our best photographs, poems, or most liked status updates. We can't measure our success by how many online "likes" we get on any given day. We are not our best stories, our medals or trophies, our pretty houses or gardens.
A few of our expectations need to change.
Every selfie posted on social media must conceal our flaws, and all of our family photos are meticulously staged. We post pictures of our culinary masterpieces but neglect to put up the pictures of the burnt offerings we feed our families. We proudly boast of our children's achievements, but forget to mention that they repeated fourth year twice to get those stellar grades, or that while "Johnny" was heading off to Harvard, "Jimmy" was doing a stint in reform school - or even "just" attending community college.
The expectations parents have placed on their children to all get a university education need to be altered. Every teenager isn't suited for university, and shouldn't be pushed in that direction in an era when tradesmen are desperately in need of apprentices. We need retail clerks, factory workers, farmers and firemen, and in a society where most households can only stay afloat on two incomes, both people might as well be doing something they can stand doing.
The idea that happiness is an expectation needs to be altered. We are allowed to feel discouraged sometimes, to feel uncertainty occasionally, and to not be eternally optimistic and full of giddy excitement and happiness. Our ancestors didn't go through life expecting everything to be "fun", or expecting to be perpetually happy. They worked long hard days and were thrilled when they had a rare opportunity to enjoy some form of simple, social entertainment. (As in honest to goodness face-to-face interaction with other hardworking folk.) They tried to get along with each other, regardless of who voted what way or went to which church. They were smart enough to understand that they might need each other someday, so they tried not to alienate their neighbours. They understood the value of genuine human connection.
When we send out the message that all should "choose to be happy", we disenfranchise the grieving, the physically suffering, the depressed, the mentally ill, and the impoverished. We tell them their pain doesn't matter, and that they should forge on without complaint. We spread this gospel of chronic, toxic optimism in the name of "being positive" but more often than not we simply don't want to acknowledge that there are those who simply have little to be happy about, or who are so deeply entrenched in one sort of misery or another that happiness seems like a far off goal, if in fact they can envision any degree of happiness at all.
The notion that some simply don't "choose" to be happy seems like a classic case of victim blaming.
How can we alter expectations that have grown to epic proportions - cut them down to a manageable size?
I have a few suggestions. (You knew I would, right?)
Slow down and enjoy the journey you are on without being constantly focused on some "destination". Don't be afraid to explore when you are faced with detours, or to stop and enjoy the scenery when there are roadblocks.
Forego Facebook for face-time. Remember - it is FACEbook, not Thoughtbook, Truthbook or Heartbook, and nobody can really get to know you by reading your posts, looking at your pictures or laughing at your memes. Re-engage with friends, family, nature, art, live music, board games, foolishness, adventure and occasionally boredom. Yeah - it's okay to be idle from time to time - to watch the clouds, to close your eyes and daydream.
Spend some time in solitude. Read books. Keep a journal. Meditate. Spend time alone with your thoughts. Spend time identifying and accepting your feelings - even the negative ones. Maybe even especially the negative ones. You are allowed to feel what you feel, and you can't be expected to "deal with" issues you are afraid to acknowledge. Feelings aren't bad, but when we push them down they push back, urging us to make rash decisions, to self-medicate, or to behave badly, injuring ourselves and those around us.
When we learn to alter our expectations - to lower some of them, and elevate others - we will accept ourselves, our neighbours, our lives, our problems and our opportunities in a more satisfying, unifying and healthy way.
I'm expecting my expectations to change. Are you?
Friday, 29 November 2019
Tuesday, 8 October 2019
In the Shadows - By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Shadowland
Into the shadowlands I strayed -
where hope does not exist -
where into gray bright colours fade
and all joy is dismissed.
Its borders unmarked, unguarded -
crossed ere I was aware,
and optimism departed
to leave me in despair.
Departing this engulfing gloom
is not an easy chore;
all obstacles appear to loom
more threat'ning than before.
It takes a lot of time to heal
from damage to the soul
that starts when you begin to feel
the shadows take control.
There is a darkened, shady place
that lurks in many hearts
not oft' discerned behind a face
unchanged while hope departs.
Depression fills the soul with shame
until you understand
that only hope's transcendent flame
can light the Shadowland.
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, August 2006
Hope is waning.
This is the only conclusion I can come to when I question the collective misery that seems to be spreading across the face of the planet. You can accuse me of being melodramatic if you wish, and you can tell me you feel fine about the state of the world - that's your prerogative. I simply don't feel the same, and I think I speak for a whole lot of people when I say that.
The way I see it, most of the world seems to be dysthymic at best, and rapidly headed into severe depression. We know things aren't right, and some of us have begun trying to figure out what things are amiss. Others seem unhappy, but place blame everywhere but where it belongs.
Conspiracy theories abound, and denial of real issues runs rampant.
It's hard to see clearly when you keep to the shadows, and indeed it would appear that some might prefer to live in the dark, while the rest of us scramble for candles and flashlights - anything that might shed a little light - and help us find our way out of the shadows.
The world wasn't always so dark and gloomy. It has historically gone through periods of more, and less, illumination. They didn't call one era "the Dark Ages" for nothing. Oh, I know that how dark those days were depends on what aspects of that time period - and what segments of society - you're considering, but there are some undeniably "dark" facts that greatly contributed to why those times were thus labeled.
It appears that as the Roman Empire began to collapse, those the Romans had conquered, or attempted to conquer, became increasingly determined to stomp out anything perceived as "Roman", and this included scientific advances, medical advances and the development of a legal system. The Feudal system came into full swing. Peasants did all the hard labour and saw few rewards while they were taxed at the whim of any neighbouring "Lord" who decided to invade the area. The serfs ate a very scarce diet that was nutrient poor, and drank filthy water. Most had a life expectancy of about thirty, and lived their short lives without any hope of acquiring education, or improving their lot in life in any significant way. Life for the poor was short, dismal and dangerous.
Lets talk about "hope" for a minute. As a concept, it gets a lot of bad press these days. Too often "hope" is equated with a kind of toxic optimism that can leave us all feeling worse. The message that we always need to "be positive" adds a layer of guilt to our despair - one more burden that most of us would prefer to avoid. "Hope" seems like a cheery way to turn a mountain of complicated issues into an irritating molehill that can be leveled with the back of a shovel.
I'm trying hard not to waste my own energy on capital H Hope, and instead look for a few small glimmers of positivity in a world that seems to reward negativity in all of its varied forms. In a world where Google serves us up "facts" to support our every cockamamie theory, I hope I've gained enough humility to embrace my ignorance and accept that I don't have all of the answers even part of the time. In a society where most seem to care more about looking connected than fostering genuine connections with humanity, I hope I can be brave enough to reach out to others in meaningful ways. On social media, where arguments grow increasingly anti-social and civility is scarce, I hope to be able to engage politely.
Small h hope is built when we are willing to make any small change to improve the world around us. One day, when I was feeling quite down I had a video chat with a friend, who proclaimed that I looked "fancy". When you feel dysthymic, hope comes in small packages. It might look like taking a shower and putting on a dab of make-up, even if you aren't leaving the house. It might be demonstrated by leaving the safety of your cocoon and taking a stroll - maybe even planting a smile on your face and waving at a neighbour. It might be something as small as leaving a message online, or making a telephone call to a friend.
Hope might come in small packages, but I've learned that it's hard to carry alone. When we feel stuck in the shadows we need people around us. We need friendships to sustain us, people we trust to tell us to keep moving when every step forward seems to be in slow motion. We need outlets for our unruly emotions and anxieties. We need ears to hear our complaints, and help us transform our endless carping into some kind of action. We need the empathy of peers, and the encouragement of a supportive network. We need community.
For subsistence farmers in the Dark Ages, any degree of hope was pretty well non-existent.
More recent periods in history have given rise to a predominant "middle class", and with that rise, to opportunities that favour more than just the wealthiest among us. Over the past century we've seen incredible advances in science, technology and industry. We've seen women get the right to vote, human rights activism, less bigotry, increased availability of medicine, better sanitation, better education, and more awareness of the plights suffered by the less fortunate.
We've seen enough advancement and enlightenment to give most of us cause to hope that the world was headed in a positive direction.
Many of us wonder how it all got so bad, so fast. Were we not vigilant enough? Did we grow accustomed - maybe even entitled - to the privileges we enjoy?
Sadly, ignorance and greed can halt a lot of advancement fairly quickly, even when it comes from a vocal minority screaming its denial of what most of us view as positive progress.
"Send the immigrants home!"
"I don't mind people of other races, but I don't want them in my neighbourhood..."
"Kids today are so spoiled. They deserve to be poor."
"Low income housing? Who needs it? I'm just happy I can make a killing on my house when I decide to sell!"
"Climate change? Ha, what a joke!"
"Women will let you do anything when you're rich...grab 'em...kiss 'em..."
Does any of this sound familiar?
Dictators take charge and influence the hard-hearted. If the economy seems good, their efforts are praised by those who think any penny they can save on their tax bill is more important than helping the poor, the environment or the mentally ill. The Rain Forests burn while modern day Neros fiddle. Immigrant children fill cages while the First Lady visits their compounds in a jacket emblazoned with the words, "I don't really care." What baffles me is the fact that whole groups of modern day society see no problem with any of this.
Some of us grow increasingly disheartened - hopeless at times. We thought things were looking up! We thought we had seen some proof that most people could see beyond their own noses and actually wanted a world with less economic disparity, more respect for the rights of humanity, more equality between the sexes and well... more kindness and tolerance toward all people. Not just the ones on our pay scale, or the ones who look most like us.
As someone who has battled a little dysthymia over the years, I have come to this conclusion. The flat zones - the shadows - of our emotional and mental state aren't fun. Many might go for months or years with very little variation from a baseline of "Meh". However, the darkest shades of misery often occur when one begins to see a little progress. We fall a bit harder once we've climbed a bit higher. The sad days are more challenging when we've spent some time smiling again.
If we're brave enough to climb, we need to use the buddy system....
The Climb
Making good time, close to the top
onward we climb, then - briefly stop.
Quick glance below shows progress made,
so, on we go, though steep the grade.
No guarantee that we won't fall -
what we can't see can trip us all.
If we should slide from near the top
we can't decide how hard we'll drop.
Thus we accept, when we depart,
we'll be adept - climbing's an art.
There's risk we'll fall with ev'ry climb;
consider all factors each time -
each path we choose, what's in our pack,
where time we'll lose; who has our back.
Climb with a friend, carry some rope -
hand them the end and there is hope
that if you trip close to the top
the rope they grip controls the drop.
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, October 8, 2019
Where there are climbs, there will inevitably be falls. How much they hurt us depends on how much resilience we've built, and most of us need a bit of support if we're going to head uphill again.
Just as a fall from six steps up tends to hurt us more than a stumble on the first or second step, it is harder for us to see in the dark when we've spent some time in the sun. Our eyes search the unaccustomed shadows for a tiny glint of hope to navigate by. Our bones cries out for some sunshine, and our brains program us to feel fear and anxiety over what might be waiting to trip us up.
We are frightened and exhausted; tired of hunting for light sources in a world that seems intent on cutting the cord to every lamp we turn on.
We are confused and disheartened by those who prefer to live in the dark.
We need hope the same way a junkie craves the next fix. It is the only thing that can light up a world full of shadows.
Take my hand and we'll feel our way out of the abyss. Chances of finding that small, elusive bundle of hope are increased when we work together.
Into the shadowlands I strayed -
where hope does not exist -
where into gray bright colours fade
and all joy is dismissed.
Its borders unmarked, unguarded -
crossed ere I was aware,
and optimism departed
to leave me in despair.
Departing this engulfing gloom
is not an easy chore;
all obstacles appear to loom
more threat'ning than before.
It takes a lot of time to heal
from damage to the soul
that starts when you begin to feel
the shadows take control.
There is a darkened, shady place
that lurks in many hearts
not oft' discerned behind a face
unchanged while hope departs.
Depression fills the soul with shame
until you understand
that only hope's transcendent flame
can light the Shadowland.
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, August 2006
Hope is waning.
This is the only conclusion I can come to when I question the collective misery that seems to be spreading across the face of the planet. You can accuse me of being melodramatic if you wish, and you can tell me you feel fine about the state of the world - that's your prerogative. I simply don't feel the same, and I think I speak for a whole lot of people when I say that.
The way I see it, most of the world seems to be dysthymic at best, and rapidly headed into severe depression. We know things aren't right, and some of us have begun trying to figure out what things are amiss. Others seem unhappy, but place blame everywhere but where it belongs.
Conspiracy theories abound, and denial of real issues runs rampant.
It's hard to see clearly when you keep to the shadows, and indeed it would appear that some might prefer to live in the dark, while the rest of us scramble for candles and flashlights - anything that might shed a little light - and help us find our way out of the shadows.
The world wasn't always so dark and gloomy. It has historically gone through periods of more, and less, illumination. They didn't call one era "the Dark Ages" for nothing. Oh, I know that how dark those days were depends on what aspects of that time period - and what segments of society - you're considering, but there are some undeniably "dark" facts that greatly contributed to why those times were thus labeled.
It appears that as the Roman Empire began to collapse, those the Romans had conquered, or attempted to conquer, became increasingly determined to stomp out anything perceived as "Roman", and this included scientific advances, medical advances and the development of a legal system. The Feudal system came into full swing. Peasants did all the hard labour and saw few rewards while they were taxed at the whim of any neighbouring "Lord" who decided to invade the area. The serfs ate a very scarce diet that was nutrient poor, and drank filthy water. Most had a life expectancy of about thirty, and lived their short lives without any hope of acquiring education, or improving their lot in life in any significant way. Life for the poor was short, dismal and dangerous.
Lets talk about "hope" for a minute. As a concept, it gets a lot of bad press these days. Too often "hope" is equated with a kind of toxic optimism that can leave us all feeling worse. The message that we always need to "be positive" adds a layer of guilt to our despair - one more burden that most of us would prefer to avoid. "Hope" seems like a cheery way to turn a mountain of complicated issues into an irritating molehill that can be leveled with the back of a shovel.
I'm trying hard not to waste my own energy on capital H Hope, and instead look for a few small glimmers of positivity in a world that seems to reward negativity in all of its varied forms. In a world where Google serves us up "facts" to support our every cockamamie theory, I hope I've gained enough humility to embrace my ignorance and accept that I don't have all of the answers even part of the time. In a society where most seem to care more about looking connected than fostering genuine connections with humanity, I hope I can be brave enough to reach out to others in meaningful ways. On social media, where arguments grow increasingly anti-social and civility is scarce, I hope to be able to engage politely.
Small h hope is built when we are willing to make any small change to improve the world around us. One day, when I was feeling quite down I had a video chat with a friend, who proclaimed that I looked "fancy". When you feel dysthymic, hope comes in small packages. It might look like taking a shower and putting on a dab of make-up, even if you aren't leaving the house. It might be demonstrated by leaving the safety of your cocoon and taking a stroll - maybe even planting a smile on your face and waving at a neighbour. It might be something as small as leaving a message online, or making a telephone call to a friend.
Hope might come in small packages, but I've learned that it's hard to carry alone. When we feel stuck in the shadows we need people around us. We need friendships to sustain us, people we trust to tell us to keep moving when every step forward seems to be in slow motion. We need outlets for our unruly emotions and anxieties. We need ears to hear our complaints, and help us transform our endless carping into some kind of action. We need the empathy of peers, and the encouragement of a supportive network. We need community.
For subsistence farmers in the Dark Ages, any degree of hope was pretty well non-existent.
More recent periods in history have given rise to a predominant "middle class", and with that rise, to opportunities that favour more than just the wealthiest among us. Over the past century we've seen incredible advances in science, technology and industry. We've seen women get the right to vote, human rights activism, less bigotry, increased availability of medicine, better sanitation, better education, and more awareness of the plights suffered by the less fortunate.
We've seen enough advancement and enlightenment to give most of us cause to hope that the world was headed in a positive direction.
Many of us wonder how it all got so bad, so fast. Were we not vigilant enough? Did we grow accustomed - maybe even entitled - to the privileges we enjoy?
Sadly, ignorance and greed can halt a lot of advancement fairly quickly, even when it comes from a vocal minority screaming its denial of what most of us view as positive progress.
"Send the immigrants home!"
"I don't mind people of other races, but I don't want them in my neighbourhood..."
"Kids today are so spoiled. They deserve to be poor."
"Low income housing? Who needs it? I'm just happy I can make a killing on my house when I decide to sell!"
"Climate change? Ha, what a joke!"
"Women will let you do anything when you're rich...grab 'em...kiss 'em..."
Does any of this sound familiar?
Dictators take charge and influence the hard-hearted. If the economy seems good, their efforts are praised by those who think any penny they can save on their tax bill is more important than helping the poor, the environment or the mentally ill. The Rain Forests burn while modern day Neros fiddle. Immigrant children fill cages while the First Lady visits their compounds in a jacket emblazoned with the words, "I don't really care." What baffles me is the fact that whole groups of modern day society see no problem with any of this.
Some of us grow increasingly disheartened - hopeless at times. We thought things were looking up! We thought we had seen some proof that most people could see beyond their own noses and actually wanted a world with less economic disparity, more respect for the rights of humanity, more equality between the sexes and well... more kindness and tolerance toward all people. Not just the ones on our pay scale, or the ones who look most like us.
As someone who has battled a little dysthymia over the years, I have come to this conclusion. The flat zones - the shadows - of our emotional and mental state aren't fun. Many might go for months or years with very little variation from a baseline of "Meh". However, the darkest shades of misery often occur when one begins to see a little progress. We fall a bit harder once we've climbed a bit higher. The sad days are more challenging when we've spent some time smiling again.
If we're brave enough to climb, we need to use the buddy system....
The Climb
Making good time, close to the top
onward we climb, then - briefly stop.
Quick glance below shows progress made,
so, on we go, though steep the grade.
No guarantee that we won't fall -
what we can't see can trip us all.
If we should slide from near the top
we can't decide how hard we'll drop.
Thus we accept, when we depart,
we'll be adept - climbing's an art.
There's risk we'll fall with ev'ry climb;
consider all factors each time -
each path we choose, what's in our pack,
where time we'll lose; who has our back.
Climb with a friend, carry some rope -
hand them the end and there is hope
that if you trip close to the top
the rope they grip controls the drop.
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, October 8, 2019
Where there are climbs, there will inevitably be falls. How much they hurt us depends on how much resilience we've built, and most of us need a bit of support if we're going to head uphill again.
Just as a fall from six steps up tends to hurt us more than a stumble on the first or second step, it is harder for us to see in the dark when we've spent some time in the sun. Our eyes search the unaccustomed shadows for a tiny glint of hope to navigate by. Our bones cries out for some sunshine, and our brains program us to feel fear and anxiety over what might be waiting to trip us up.
We are frightened and exhausted; tired of hunting for light sources in a world that seems intent on cutting the cord to every lamp we turn on.
We are confused and disheartened by those who prefer to live in the dark.
We need hope the same way a junkie craves the next fix. It is the only thing that can light up a world full of shadows.
Take my hand and we'll feel our way out of the abyss. Chances of finding that small, elusive bundle of hope are increased when we work together.
Friday, 13 September 2019
Not Fashion, but Passion to Make the Heart Sing - By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Divine Connection
Give me art from your heart,
that's what you need to bring -
not fashion, but passion,
to make my heart sing.
To my ear, loud and clear,
play the notes; sing or hum.
With your soul take control
of guitar that you strum.
Be astute with your flute -
make me shiver and swoon;
grab charcoal - set a goal -
try to capture the moon.
Lose control, bare your soul
on a canvas in oil;
set a mood - attitude -
with the words you uncoil.
Line by line with divine
gifts of art find a way
to create - generate -
a connection today.
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, Sept 6, 2019
Sometimes, when my mind seems to be processing everything in an endless loop, I ask friends to suggest poetry topics to me.
"Write a poem on the banalization of art", one suggested recently.
When I asked for a bit of clarification, he talked about how art has become "something secondary - like music in the background", and suggested I could tackle the difference between what is really art and what sells commercially as art.
It seemed like a difficult topic for a poem, and indeed I have yet to write one that covers all of those points. As an exercise in moving my thoughts out of the groove they were relentlessly carving through the granite in my soul, my question was a success. For the past week, I have wandered around wondering why society has become drawn to those things that "sell" versus taking the time to search out originality in all types of art, and why it is that we so often relegate art to the background of our lives.
The first thought that inspired a poem is that what is most often missing - in both artistic creation, and artistic appreciation - is passion.
Technological advances have created a climate where we are all impatient. We want everything immediately, and we will often compromise quality to produce, or to acquire, something now. Art is often just another mass-produced commodity - something we buy at a big box store to cover an empty spot on the wall, and "tie the decor scheme together". Do we feel passionately about the print we bought from the sale rack at Home Sense? Probably not, but if it seems "tasteful enough", looks nice against our wall colour, and makes our new throw cushions "pop", we will probably consider it a good buy.
The thrifty among us may take our frugality a step further and attend a painting class, or merely comb through Pinterest boards to learn how to turn our leftover latex, or newly acquired acrylics, into home grown "art". Sadly, few of us will let any originality, let alone passion, emerge onto our newly purchased pristine white canvasses, and will instead opt to carefully follow instructions to copy a project that a whole lot of other people have already done to death.
I don't mean to sound overly critical. My house boasts its share of mass produced art, and I too once painted a stenciled sign for my front entrance. Social media platforms like Pinterest can teach us "how to", but most of us are afraid to take the instruction we receive in a fresh direction, and instead opt for the safe route. Our decor may not be unique, but keeping things homogeneous will save us from the would be critics who might not like what we would produce if we unleashed our originality and went crazy, right?
Most of us don't take the time to visit a lot of art galleries, museums and exhibits to learn about art. We don't study classic literature or poetry. We don't listen to symphonies, or attend concerts, where we hear a broad range of musical instruments played by musicians who practiced playing for thousands of hours before they ever took to the stage.
I'm a fine one to talk - for years I barely listened to any music at home, and settled for the radio or whatever disc my husband put in when we were in the car. I sometimes listened to music online, but my selections had become pretty predictable.
In April I got an iPad, and suddenly began receiving daily YouTube recommendations. At first, most of them were instructional videos on how to play the guitar. (I later found out that the magical Google type powers in cyberspace thought I was a fledgling guitar player, thanks to the fact that one of our former international students used to watch instructional guitar videos on my computer.) Well, curious soul that I am, I watched some of those videos and discovered a fondness for classical guitar, and thanks to some shares from friends I now get a wide variety of recommendations daily - some classical, some rock, some Bossa Nova, some folk...and I listen to them all. I'm discovering all kinds of music that I never considered before, and it has been a wonderful adventure.
I've discovered that a little soft music in the background is soothing, but that I am happiest when I take some time each day to "just listen" - to immerse myself in whatever genre of music fits the mood I'm in that day. I don't care if the featured artist was ever a commercial success. I don't search online to find out how many albums or discs they sold. I simply listen and enjoy.
As a poet who writes almost exclusively in metered rhyme, I am painfully aware of the fact that my chosen genre isn't wildly popular at the moment. I once had a well meaning friend tell me I should consider writing cards for Hallmark, and while I knew it was intended as a compliment, I felt more unappreciated and misunderstood than ever. It is hard to be a creator when you feel that what you produce isn't "popular", and I understand why a lot of artists - painters, photographers, musicians, writers and poets, give up on creating with passion and settle for giving people what they're willing to buy.
It is easy to understand how artists and art appreciators - or art acquirers - might learn to compromise what they would prefer to create - or what they would like to buy, listen to, or read - in favour of what meets the current standards of popular or trendy. At times, we're all a little afraid to move out of the narrow, fashionable comfort zone and wait for that empty space - on the wall, or in our art-starved souls - to be filled by something that unexpectedly, and inexplicably, makes our hearts sing. It can be a long wait to find music that will strike the perfect chord, or read lines that make us want to shout "Hallelujah, Amen!"
It takes courage to wear your heart on your sleeve, and patience and persistence to keep it there long enough to generate a connection between creator, creation and consumer.
I understand that there will always be a place for background music and art that matches the couch. Still, I think we can't afford to let go of our creative adventurousness altogether. Our souls cry out for a little awe, and occasionally we need to look beyond our old stand-bys and favourites; to listen to an unusual YouTube recommendation or ask our friends what they have been listening to. We need to stroll through a local "Art in the Park" and see some original creations - and maybe support one of those artists by purchasing something "one of a kind". We need to visit a library and search out something that isn't on Oprah's Book Club list or isn't a New York Times bestseller.
We might even need to consider reading a post or two written by a crazy blogger/poet who insists on writing in rhyme.
Only through exploration will we find creative expression that gives us a taste of divine wonder.
Give me art from your heart,
that's what you need to bring -
not fashion, but passion,
to make my heart sing.
To my ear, loud and clear,
play the notes; sing or hum.
With your soul take control
of guitar that you strum.
Be astute with your flute -
make me shiver and swoon;
grab charcoal - set a goal -
try to capture the moon.
Lose control, bare your soul
on a canvas in oil;
set a mood - attitude -
with the words you uncoil.
Line by line with divine
gifts of art find a way
to create - generate -
a connection today.
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, Sept 6, 2019
Sometimes, when my mind seems to be processing everything in an endless loop, I ask friends to suggest poetry topics to me.
"Write a poem on the banalization of art", one suggested recently.
When I asked for a bit of clarification, he talked about how art has become "something secondary - like music in the background", and suggested I could tackle the difference between what is really art and what sells commercially as art.
It seemed like a difficult topic for a poem, and indeed I have yet to write one that covers all of those points. As an exercise in moving my thoughts out of the groove they were relentlessly carving through the granite in my soul, my question was a success. For the past week, I have wandered around wondering why society has become drawn to those things that "sell" versus taking the time to search out originality in all types of art, and why it is that we so often relegate art to the background of our lives.
The first thought that inspired a poem is that what is most often missing - in both artistic creation, and artistic appreciation - is passion.
Technological advances have created a climate where we are all impatient. We want everything immediately, and we will often compromise quality to produce, or to acquire, something now. Art is often just another mass-produced commodity - something we buy at a big box store to cover an empty spot on the wall, and "tie the decor scheme together". Do we feel passionately about the print we bought from the sale rack at Home Sense? Probably not, but if it seems "tasteful enough", looks nice against our wall colour, and makes our new throw cushions "pop", we will probably consider it a good buy.
The thrifty among us may take our frugality a step further and attend a painting class, or merely comb through Pinterest boards to learn how to turn our leftover latex, or newly acquired acrylics, into home grown "art". Sadly, few of us will let any originality, let alone passion, emerge onto our newly purchased pristine white canvasses, and will instead opt to carefully follow instructions to copy a project that a whole lot of other people have already done to death.
I don't mean to sound overly critical. My house boasts its share of mass produced art, and I too once painted a stenciled sign for my front entrance. Social media platforms like Pinterest can teach us "how to", but most of us are afraid to take the instruction we receive in a fresh direction, and instead opt for the safe route. Our decor may not be unique, but keeping things homogeneous will save us from the would be critics who might not like what we would produce if we unleashed our originality and went crazy, right?
Most of us don't take the time to visit a lot of art galleries, museums and exhibits to learn about art. We don't study classic literature or poetry. We don't listen to symphonies, or attend concerts, where we hear a broad range of musical instruments played by musicians who practiced playing for thousands of hours before they ever took to the stage.
I'm a fine one to talk - for years I barely listened to any music at home, and settled for the radio or whatever disc my husband put in when we were in the car. I sometimes listened to music online, but my selections had become pretty predictable.
In April I got an iPad, and suddenly began receiving daily YouTube recommendations. At first, most of them were instructional videos on how to play the guitar. (I later found out that the magical Google type powers in cyberspace thought I was a fledgling guitar player, thanks to the fact that one of our former international students used to watch instructional guitar videos on my computer.) Well, curious soul that I am, I watched some of those videos and discovered a fondness for classical guitar, and thanks to some shares from friends I now get a wide variety of recommendations daily - some classical, some rock, some Bossa Nova, some folk...and I listen to them all. I'm discovering all kinds of music that I never considered before, and it has been a wonderful adventure.
I've discovered that a little soft music in the background is soothing, but that I am happiest when I take some time each day to "just listen" - to immerse myself in whatever genre of music fits the mood I'm in that day. I don't care if the featured artist was ever a commercial success. I don't search online to find out how many albums or discs they sold. I simply listen and enjoy.
As a poet who writes almost exclusively in metered rhyme, I am painfully aware of the fact that my chosen genre isn't wildly popular at the moment. I once had a well meaning friend tell me I should consider writing cards for Hallmark, and while I knew it was intended as a compliment, I felt more unappreciated and misunderstood than ever. It is hard to be a creator when you feel that what you produce isn't "popular", and I understand why a lot of artists - painters, photographers, musicians, writers and poets, give up on creating with passion and settle for giving people what they're willing to buy.
It is easy to understand how artists and art appreciators - or art acquirers - might learn to compromise what they would prefer to create - or what they would like to buy, listen to, or read - in favour of what meets the current standards of popular or trendy. At times, we're all a little afraid to move out of the narrow, fashionable comfort zone and wait for that empty space - on the wall, or in our art-starved souls - to be filled by something that unexpectedly, and inexplicably, makes our hearts sing. It can be a long wait to find music that will strike the perfect chord, or read lines that make us want to shout "Hallelujah, Amen!"
It takes courage to wear your heart on your sleeve, and patience and persistence to keep it there long enough to generate a connection between creator, creation and consumer.
I understand that there will always be a place for background music and art that matches the couch. Still, I think we can't afford to let go of our creative adventurousness altogether. Our souls cry out for a little awe, and occasionally we need to look beyond our old stand-bys and favourites; to listen to an unusual YouTube recommendation or ask our friends what they have been listening to. We need to stroll through a local "Art in the Park" and see some original creations - and maybe support one of those artists by purchasing something "one of a kind". We need to visit a library and search out something that isn't on Oprah's Book Club list or isn't a New York Times bestseller.
We might even need to consider reading a post or two written by a crazy blogger/poet who insists on writing in rhyme.
Only through exploration will we find creative expression that gives us a taste of divine wonder.
Friday, 16 August 2019
One Goofball Analyzes Humour - By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Goofball
Let there not be any doubt -
proudly I proclaim -
inner goofball will come out,
and I feel no shame.
Case is clear - open and shut -
witnesses avow,
it's a fact that I'm a nut,
please don't save me now!
Let me be a happy fool,
sharing the inane,
not afraid to be uncool;
risking your disdain.
No desire to be aloof
holds my imp at bay.
I was born to be a goof -
I think that's okay.
I don't want to stress about
how I am perceived,
thus I'll let my goofball out -
sorry if you're grieved.
Humour is a saving grace -
when my days are done
may you all say I embraced
the art of having fun.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, (Undated: found in the unfinished files)
"I don't trust anyone who doesn't laugh"
- Maya Angelou
For several days I've been mulling over a subject for another blog post. I read over the bits and pieces of unfinished jottings I keep on file, and even finished a few verses, but nothing hit the spot...until this morning when I rolled out of bed and wrote a lengthy and rather impressive ode to underwear in fifteen minutes flat! That's when I remembered the poem I start this post with, and suddenly my topic was clear...
Sometimes I actually do a bit of slapdash "research" before I write a blog post. I might google a few points or go on Wikipedia. I might even spend a few hours chasing down articles and reading them.
This time you are just getting my thoughts, and a few quotes. Why, you ask? Welllll...I tried typing "things that are universally funny" into my search engine, and most of what came up didn't strike me as all that amusing.
"Comedy is the art of making people laugh without making them puke"
-Steve Martin
Here, for example, is a list of the top ten things that make Americans laugh:
1) Things our kids say. Okay. This one I agree with. My husband and I still laugh about the time our older son, at about age three, walked into a room full of our assembled guests and solemnly asked, "Are Mom and Dad going to put the boys to bed early tonight and have sex?"
Decades later he still amuses. Yesterday he walked into the room where his father was working.
"Huh -" he said. "I didn't think you were home. I didn't hear you Skyping, farting or cursing!"
2) Sitcoms. This one is harder, because it really depends on which sitcoms you're talking about. Some make me laugh, some...not so much.
3) Memes and Animal Videos. Hmmmm...tough sell. Some memes are pretty funny, but generally I think that memes are overused. Double ditto for animal videos. I could happily live without ever seeing another dancing pet, but to each their own. I laugh at about one meme or animal video in ten. Maybe I'm just too fussy?
4) Reality TV. What? Really??? I can think of few things less likely to make me laugh than the ridiculously "unscripted" world of "reality" programs out there. Just NO.
5) Dad jokes. Why is Dad regarded as funnier than Mom? I asked my husband this question, and he looked at me in disbelief.
"Dads are men," he deadpanned. "And men just naturally do more stupid things than women."
Touche.
6) Knock knock jokes. Yup, they were hilarious when I was six.
7) People mispronouncing words. Here's my take on this one: If a person is a humble sort who makes an honest mistake when pronouncing a word, it is unkind to laugh. However, if the person in question is say...Donald Trump - then go ahead and guff it up! Covfefe!
8) Bad photos of people. My rule: If the person in the picture posted it acknowledging it as a funny photo, giggle all you want. If the photo was posted by someone else, with consent, giggle. If the photo was posted without consent, it was probably posted with the intent to humiliate the person depicted, which is mean, not funny.
9) Puns. Clever wordplay always gets two thumbs up!
10) Watching someone trip and fall. Exercise caution before laughing. Most of us know that it looks funny when we trip, but... Therefore, if the person stands up quickly, laughing heartily, feel free to join in, but there's nothing more unfunny than being caught laughing at a person who is thoroughly embarrassed and perhaps hurt.
The only conclusions I came to from this bit of "research" is that humour is extremely subjective, and that maybe my sense of humour is more sophisticated than I thought, in spite of how amused I can be by the subject of underwear.
"Imagination was given to man to compensate for what he is not; a sense of humour to console him for what he is."
- Francis Bacon
Not to mention what the world is, Francis!
I think laughing is important. Most of us don't do enough of it. Even when I'm feeling quite blue, I can generally manage at least a token snicker once or twice a day, because really - life is pretty ridiculous a whole lot of the time - and even though it often seems like there isn't much to laugh about, the inanities of life tend to collide with my funny bone and temporarily knock me out of the misery zone. I'm grateful for this ability to see a bit of nonsense in a world full of serious problems.
I have become quite interested in Brazil after hosting three students from there. I have interesting and animated messenger conversations with them about the difficulties youth face in that country. In an article I read recently about the problems surrounding post-secondary education in that country - problems created by years of bad leadership - I found the following joke:
God and the angels were admiring God's handiwork after the creation of the world. As they began looking over Brazil, at the beautiful beaches and lush tropical vegetation, the angels began to protest.
"It's too beautiful! Too much like Paradise on earth!" they complained. To which God replied with a chuckle, "Ha! Just wait until you see the losers who will get to run the place!"
I shared this with two of my Brazilian sons, and both found it funny.
"Hah!" responded one. "That is so true it's sad!"
"The first step toward enlightenment is to lighten up on yourself"
-Bashar
I have no idea who Bashar is - or was - but I've come to understand the importance of not always taking myself too seriously. When I was younger, I was often uncertain how I should respond to certain brands of humour. Now that I've given myself permission to unleash my inner goofball, I care a lot less about how I'll be perceived. If I think it's funny, I'll laugh - it's that simple. I might even laugh too long and too loud, and I really don't care whether the people around me are as tickled as I am or not. Spare me from the buzz killing person who feels the urge to say, "it really wasn't that funny, Sharon!"
Honestly, unless the joke was really inappropriate, I'd never say that to anyone else.
I don't think a sense of humour has to be particularly highbrow. Laughter shouldn't be overly complicated. I can laugh at anything I deem amusing, and my standards aren't always that lofty. I like to laugh, and I enjoy watching other people laugh - even when I think the joke is a bit lame.
The world isn't quite as fun as it should be these days, and if life is a theme park ride it has become a rickety old wooden roller coaster that seems destined for imminent collapse. We need things to laugh at more than ever.
As long as your laughter doesn't come at anyone's expense, feel free to guffaw.
Micheal J Fox, a guy who has suffered a few setbacks in life, has this to say -
"I think the scariest person in the world is the person with no sense of humour."
Amen, Michael. This goofball couldn't agree more!
Let there not be any doubt -
proudly I proclaim -
inner goofball will come out,
and I feel no shame.
Case is clear - open and shut -
witnesses avow,
it's a fact that I'm a nut,
please don't save me now!
Let me be a happy fool,
sharing the inane,
not afraid to be uncool;
risking your disdain.
No desire to be aloof
holds my imp at bay.
I was born to be a goof -
I think that's okay.
I don't want to stress about
how I am perceived,
thus I'll let my goofball out -
sorry if you're grieved.
Humour is a saving grace -
when my days are done
may you all say I embraced
the art of having fun.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, (Undated: found in the unfinished files)
"I don't trust anyone who doesn't laugh"
- Maya Angelou
For several days I've been mulling over a subject for another blog post. I read over the bits and pieces of unfinished jottings I keep on file, and even finished a few verses, but nothing hit the spot...until this morning when I rolled out of bed and wrote a lengthy and rather impressive ode to underwear in fifteen minutes flat! That's when I remembered the poem I start this post with, and suddenly my topic was clear...
Sometimes I actually do a bit of slapdash "research" before I write a blog post. I might google a few points or go on Wikipedia. I might even spend a few hours chasing down articles and reading them.
This time you are just getting my thoughts, and a few quotes. Why, you ask? Welllll...I tried typing "things that are universally funny" into my search engine, and most of what came up didn't strike me as all that amusing.
"Comedy is the art of making people laugh without making them puke"
-Steve Martin
Here, for example, is a list of the top ten things that make Americans laugh:
1) Things our kids say. Okay. This one I agree with. My husband and I still laugh about the time our older son, at about age three, walked into a room full of our assembled guests and solemnly asked, "Are Mom and Dad going to put the boys to bed early tonight and have sex?"
Decades later he still amuses. Yesterday he walked into the room where his father was working.
"Huh -" he said. "I didn't think you were home. I didn't hear you Skyping, farting or cursing!"
2) Sitcoms. This one is harder, because it really depends on which sitcoms you're talking about. Some make me laugh, some...not so much.
3) Memes and Animal Videos. Hmmmm...tough sell. Some memes are pretty funny, but generally I think that memes are overused. Double ditto for animal videos. I could happily live without ever seeing another dancing pet, but to each their own. I laugh at about one meme or animal video in ten. Maybe I'm just too fussy?
4) Reality TV. What? Really??? I can think of few things less likely to make me laugh than the ridiculously "unscripted" world of "reality" programs out there. Just NO.
5) Dad jokes. Why is Dad regarded as funnier than Mom? I asked my husband this question, and he looked at me in disbelief.
"Dads are men," he deadpanned. "And men just naturally do more stupid things than women."
Touche.
6) Knock knock jokes. Yup, they were hilarious when I was six.
7) People mispronouncing words. Here's my take on this one: If a person is a humble sort who makes an honest mistake when pronouncing a word, it is unkind to laugh. However, if the person in question is say...Donald Trump - then go ahead and guff it up! Covfefe!
8) Bad photos of people. My rule: If the person in the picture posted it acknowledging it as a funny photo, giggle all you want. If the photo was posted by someone else, with consent, giggle. If the photo was posted without consent, it was probably posted with the intent to humiliate the person depicted, which is mean, not funny.
9) Puns. Clever wordplay always gets two thumbs up!
10) Watching someone trip and fall. Exercise caution before laughing. Most of us know that it looks funny when we trip, but... Therefore, if the person stands up quickly, laughing heartily, feel free to join in, but there's nothing more unfunny than being caught laughing at a person who is thoroughly embarrassed and perhaps hurt.
The only conclusions I came to from this bit of "research" is that humour is extremely subjective, and that maybe my sense of humour is more sophisticated than I thought, in spite of how amused I can be by the subject of underwear.
"Imagination was given to man to compensate for what he is not; a sense of humour to console him for what he is."
- Francis Bacon
Not to mention what the world is, Francis!
I think laughing is important. Most of us don't do enough of it. Even when I'm feeling quite blue, I can generally manage at least a token snicker once or twice a day, because really - life is pretty ridiculous a whole lot of the time - and even though it often seems like there isn't much to laugh about, the inanities of life tend to collide with my funny bone and temporarily knock me out of the misery zone. I'm grateful for this ability to see a bit of nonsense in a world full of serious problems.
I have become quite interested in Brazil after hosting three students from there. I have interesting and animated messenger conversations with them about the difficulties youth face in that country. In an article I read recently about the problems surrounding post-secondary education in that country - problems created by years of bad leadership - I found the following joke:
God and the angels were admiring God's handiwork after the creation of the world. As they began looking over Brazil, at the beautiful beaches and lush tropical vegetation, the angels began to protest.
"It's too beautiful! Too much like Paradise on earth!" they complained. To which God replied with a chuckle, "Ha! Just wait until you see the losers who will get to run the place!"
I shared this with two of my Brazilian sons, and both found it funny.
"Hah!" responded one. "That is so true it's sad!"
"The first step toward enlightenment is to lighten up on yourself"
-Bashar
I have no idea who Bashar is - or was - but I've come to understand the importance of not always taking myself too seriously. When I was younger, I was often uncertain how I should respond to certain brands of humour. Now that I've given myself permission to unleash my inner goofball, I care a lot less about how I'll be perceived. If I think it's funny, I'll laugh - it's that simple. I might even laugh too long and too loud, and I really don't care whether the people around me are as tickled as I am or not. Spare me from the buzz killing person who feels the urge to say, "it really wasn't that funny, Sharon!"
Honestly, unless the joke was really inappropriate, I'd never say that to anyone else.
I don't think a sense of humour has to be particularly highbrow. Laughter shouldn't be overly complicated. I can laugh at anything I deem amusing, and my standards aren't always that lofty. I like to laugh, and I enjoy watching other people laugh - even when I think the joke is a bit lame.
The world isn't quite as fun as it should be these days, and if life is a theme park ride it has become a rickety old wooden roller coaster that seems destined for imminent collapse. We need things to laugh at more than ever.
As long as your laughter doesn't come at anyone's expense, feel free to guffaw.
Micheal J Fox, a guy who has suffered a few setbacks in life, has this to say -
"I think the scariest person in the world is the person with no sense of humour."
Amen, Michael. This goofball couldn't agree more!
Thursday, 25 July 2019
Growing Up With Grandma - By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Grandma
Under her dining room table
Wendy and I would play house.
When my cat brought me an off'fring,
Grandma would deal with the mouse.
Spiders she'd kill in my bedroom;
with homework she would assist -
when I had something to finish,
it was her aid I'd enlist.
There, at her dining room table,
I read aloud without fear,
while she sat near in her rocker
lending a listening ear.
Most her time spent in that corner -
there in her old rocking chair -
reading or doing the crosswords;
knitting the mittens we'd wear.
Wasn't a Gram who baked cookies -
just Christmas cake once a year -
her breakfast, toast and black coffee,
those scorched smells in memory clear.
She got riled when we were "saucy";
threatening with her paint stick -
offered her bed after nightmares;
ginger tea when we were sick.
When I was small we'd go walking.
She held my hand on the street.
Later, I repaid protection
as steadiness left her feet.
Everything changed when we lost her.
There was an echo upstairs.
Memories clung to the rooms there -
I saw her at tables; in chairs.
Hers, a huge role in my childhood -
proud of my efforts to learn
she'd hear the stories I'd written
and offer pages to turn.
She kept me honest and humble;
looks weren't important because -
quoting a favorite adage -
"Pretty is as pretty does."
Not quite a typical grandma -
without a doubt she had quirks -
but, looking back on my childhood,
her presence was one of the perks.
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, July 23, 2019
If my paternal grandmother was still alive she'd be celebrating a birthday in a day or two, turning one hundred and twenty three.
I grew up in a multi-generational household. When my father built the house I grew up in, the entire second floor was intended to be an apartment for his mother - two bedrooms, a kitchen, living room and a half bath. (She used the bathtub downstairs, like the rest of us.) By the time my parents had their fourth child - finally a son! - the second bedroom upstairs was called into service for their three daughters to sleep in. As their fifth child, I shared the second main floor bedroom with my older brother until we were five and seven. At that point my mother was expecting her sixth child, and my parents decided to build an additional bedroom in the basement for my two oldest sisters, and move me upstairs with my next oldest sister. The baby - my younger brother - would share a room with my older brother for as long as it was feasible.
Thus, at the age of almost six I was promoted to life upstairs in Grandma's territory. I had always spent a lot of time with Grandma - she babysat me during the day when my mother worked - but once my bedroom was upstairs I probably spent 75% of my time either in my room or in her living room.
My grandmother was a former schoolteacher. She wasn't the sort of person to make a huge fuss over children, and she might not have been the most popular teacher around, but I'm guessing she was probably an effective educator. If my experience with her was anything to go by, she enjoyed watching children learn. From a very early age she encouraged my imagination. She and I used to play "Hide and Go Seek" - but with a twist. Always a fairly sedentary soul she didn't often leave her rocking chair in the corner, so we pretended we were two inches tall, and imagined where, in her living room, we would hide. I often chose a spot in her china cabinet, which was full of teacups and decorative "knick knacks" that two inch me could hide in or behind. I cheated like crazy, often changing imaginary locations when she guessed my location too soon. She probably knew this, but seemed happy enough to keep on knitting while guessing where I was.
When I started school my grandmother always took an avid interest in what I was learning. I usually did my homework at her dining room table, which was pushed into a corner in her her living room. She didn't own a television, so it was quiet up there, except for those rare occasions when she'd turn on her radio. As an added bonus, she was always happy to help me if I couldn't sound out a word or needed help with a math problem. As I got older, I tested every assignment on her. She helped me practice oral assignments, and proof read my book reports and projects. I always loved to write stories, and Grandma usually heard them first.
I always thought of my other grandmother - my mother's mother - as being more of a quintessential "grandmother". She was an incredible cook and baker. She kept an immaculate house and always had fresh preserves to share. Grandma wasn't like that. Her apartment was always covered in a fine layer of dust, she didn't bake - except for an annual Christmas cake when I was small - and her meals were so simple, and scanty - that by the time I was in my early teens my parents were inviting her to eat supper with us almost every evening. (My mom actually worried that she was malnourished.) It is safe to say that Grandma Flood was not well versed in the domestic arts!
She read a lot, in her later years mostly Harlequin romances, which she called her "stories". She did crossword puzzles endlessly, and played countless games of solitaire. She knitted a lot of mittens and slippers. The gifts she gave her grandchildren reflected her interests - books, and mitts and/or slippers were the usual Christmas gifts, and for birthdays a few dollars inside a card. She encouraged my love of reading; I couldn't sit and read on her couch without her asking me what book I was reading and whether I was enjoying it. When I laughed out loud she always wanted me to read her the funny part.
I think there are valuable lessons learned from growing up in a household that includes grandparents.
My grandmother wasn't a social butterfly, but she welcomed company. Her older sister, Lila, was a frequent guest, and her brother Melvin - who snored like a mating moose - spent a lot of time at our house in her later years. I learned to be very comfortable around older people, which I think is an advantage to living with the elderly when you are young. I valued my grandmother's wisdom - true, there were eye rolling moments when she said something that demonstrated outmoded attitudes - but I respected the fact that she had gained some valuable knowledge and experience over the course of her life. As she got older, and I witnessed the decline of her health, I learned that aging takes its toll. I witnessed "episodes" of senility - days when she pulled her pantyhose up over her dress and acted strangely. I learned the importance of looking out for the elderly when she needed me to take her by the arm when we walked to the store. She taught me a level of caring that too few youth experience today.
A few months before my eighteenth birthday my grandmother had a stroke. I was the one who found her, sprawled half in and half out of the rocking chair in the corner.
"Help, me - move me!" she slurred through a down turned mouth. I ran next door, and our neighbours came to help make her comfortable while we waited for an ambulance. My parents came home from church, and I helped make phone calls to my older siblings. I took my turn sitting beside her bed until she died. As far as I know, those words she said to me were the last she spoke coherently.
Her death taught me about grief. The hole left behind when someone you love - someone who has played a huge role in your life - is suddenly gone. Through losing her I learned valuable lessons about compassion, lessons that most of my peers had yet to learn.
My grandmother helped me in many ways in my youth. Her presence in my life taught me valuable lessons about family, education, learning and loving. Remembering her life, and the way it impacted mine, moves me constantly. Remembering how she always wanted a goodnight kiss motivated me to be sure my husband and sons never went to sleep without one. Remembering how she loved to see me read, I bought my children books. Remembering how frail she became has motivated me to try to live an active, healthy life. Growing old is inevitable, if we live long enough, but eating well and moving more as we age will help the process be more gradual and pleasant.
I often wonder what she would have thought of my husband, or my sons. She's been gone from my life more than twice as long as she was in it, but she is a constant presence in it still.
Happy Birthday, Grandma! Thank you for being a good teacher.
Under her dining room table
Wendy and I would play house.
When my cat brought me an off'fring,
Grandma would deal with the mouse.
Spiders she'd kill in my bedroom;
with homework she would assist -
when I had something to finish,
it was her aid I'd enlist.
There, at her dining room table,
I read aloud without fear,
while she sat near in her rocker
lending a listening ear.
Most her time spent in that corner -
there in her old rocking chair -
reading or doing the crosswords;
knitting the mittens we'd wear.
Wasn't a Gram who baked cookies -
just Christmas cake once a year -
her breakfast, toast and black coffee,
those scorched smells in memory clear.
She got riled when we were "saucy";
threatening with her paint stick -
offered her bed after nightmares;
ginger tea when we were sick.
When I was small we'd go walking.
She held my hand on the street.
Later, I repaid protection
as steadiness left her feet.
Everything changed when we lost her.
There was an echo upstairs.
Memories clung to the rooms there -
I saw her at tables; in chairs.
Hers, a huge role in my childhood -
proud of my efforts to learn
she'd hear the stories I'd written
and offer pages to turn.
She kept me honest and humble;
looks weren't important because -
quoting a favorite adage -
"Pretty is as pretty does."
Not quite a typical grandma -
without a doubt she had quirks -
but, looking back on my childhood,
her presence was one of the perks.
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, July 23, 2019
If my paternal grandmother was still alive she'd be celebrating a birthday in a day or two, turning one hundred and twenty three.
I grew up in a multi-generational household. When my father built the house I grew up in, the entire second floor was intended to be an apartment for his mother - two bedrooms, a kitchen, living room and a half bath. (She used the bathtub downstairs, like the rest of us.) By the time my parents had their fourth child - finally a son! - the second bedroom upstairs was called into service for their three daughters to sleep in. As their fifth child, I shared the second main floor bedroom with my older brother until we were five and seven. At that point my mother was expecting her sixth child, and my parents decided to build an additional bedroom in the basement for my two oldest sisters, and move me upstairs with my next oldest sister. The baby - my younger brother - would share a room with my older brother for as long as it was feasible.
Thus, at the age of almost six I was promoted to life upstairs in Grandma's territory. I had always spent a lot of time with Grandma - she babysat me during the day when my mother worked - but once my bedroom was upstairs I probably spent 75% of my time either in my room or in her living room.
My grandmother was a former schoolteacher. She wasn't the sort of person to make a huge fuss over children, and she might not have been the most popular teacher around, but I'm guessing she was probably an effective educator. If my experience with her was anything to go by, she enjoyed watching children learn. From a very early age she encouraged my imagination. She and I used to play "Hide and Go Seek" - but with a twist. Always a fairly sedentary soul she didn't often leave her rocking chair in the corner, so we pretended we were two inches tall, and imagined where, in her living room, we would hide. I often chose a spot in her china cabinet, which was full of teacups and decorative "knick knacks" that two inch me could hide in or behind. I cheated like crazy, often changing imaginary locations when she guessed my location too soon. She probably knew this, but seemed happy enough to keep on knitting while guessing where I was.
When I started school my grandmother always took an avid interest in what I was learning. I usually did my homework at her dining room table, which was pushed into a corner in her her living room. She didn't own a television, so it was quiet up there, except for those rare occasions when she'd turn on her radio. As an added bonus, she was always happy to help me if I couldn't sound out a word or needed help with a math problem. As I got older, I tested every assignment on her. She helped me practice oral assignments, and proof read my book reports and projects. I always loved to write stories, and Grandma usually heard them first.
I always thought of my other grandmother - my mother's mother - as being more of a quintessential "grandmother". She was an incredible cook and baker. She kept an immaculate house and always had fresh preserves to share. Grandma wasn't like that. Her apartment was always covered in a fine layer of dust, she didn't bake - except for an annual Christmas cake when I was small - and her meals were so simple, and scanty - that by the time I was in my early teens my parents were inviting her to eat supper with us almost every evening. (My mom actually worried that she was malnourished.) It is safe to say that Grandma Flood was not well versed in the domestic arts!
She read a lot, in her later years mostly Harlequin romances, which she called her "stories". She did crossword puzzles endlessly, and played countless games of solitaire. She knitted a lot of mittens and slippers. The gifts she gave her grandchildren reflected her interests - books, and mitts and/or slippers were the usual Christmas gifts, and for birthdays a few dollars inside a card. She encouraged my love of reading; I couldn't sit and read on her couch without her asking me what book I was reading and whether I was enjoying it. When I laughed out loud she always wanted me to read her the funny part.
I think there are valuable lessons learned from growing up in a household that includes grandparents.
My grandmother wasn't a social butterfly, but she welcomed company. Her older sister, Lila, was a frequent guest, and her brother Melvin - who snored like a mating moose - spent a lot of time at our house in her later years. I learned to be very comfortable around older people, which I think is an advantage to living with the elderly when you are young. I valued my grandmother's wisdom - true, there were eye rolling moments when she said something that demonstrated outmoded attitudes - but I respected the fact that she had gained some valuable knowledge and experience over the course of her life. As she got older, and I witnessed the decline of her health, I learned that aging takes its toll. I witnessed "episodes" of senility - days when she pulled her pantyhose up over her dress and acted strangely. I learned the importance of looking out for the elderly when she needed me to take her by the arm when we walked to the store. She taught me a level of caring that too few youth experience today.
A few months before my eighteenth birthday my grandmother had a stroke. I was the one who found her, sprawled half in and half out of the rocking chair in the corner.
"Help, me - move me!" she slurred through a down turned mouth. I ran next door, and our neighbours came to help make her comfortable while we waited for an ambulance. My parents came home from church, and I helped make phone calls to my older siblings. I took my turn sitting beside her bed until she died. As far as I know, those words she said to me were the last she spoke coherently.
Her death taught me about grief. The hole left behind when someone you love - someone who has played a huge role in your life - is suddenly gone. Through losing her I learned valuable lessons about compassion, lessons that most of my peers had yet to learn.
My grandmother helped me in many ways in my youth. Her presence in my life taught me valuable lessons about family, education, learning and loving. Remembering her life, and the way it impacted mine, moves me constantly. Remembering how she always wanted a goodnight kiss motivated me to be sure my husband and sons never went to sleep without one. Remembering how she loved to see me read, I bought my children books. Remembering how frail she became has motivated me to try to live an active, healthy life. Growing old is inevitable, if we live long enough, but eating well and moving more as we age will help the process be more gradual and pleasant.
I often wonder what she would have thought of my husband, or my sons. She's been gone from my life more than twice as long as she was in it, but she is a constant presence in it still.
Happy Birthday, Grandma! Thank you for being a good teacher.
Monday, 8 July 2019
Let's Hear it for the Boys! By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
For My Boys:
We say hello as strangers;
we say goodbye as friends.
What's established in between -
it never really ends.
I know I'm not your parent
and that you'll have to leave,
but to me you're important
and when you go I'll grieve.
My house feels far too empty -
I miss your presence here;
and though goodbyes are painful,
I hope that this is clear:
I'm glad I got to know you
and though you've gone away,
I hope to reassure you
that in my heart you'll stay.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, July 7, 2019
Almost two years ago my husband and I embarked on a new adventure when we agreed to become host parents to international students attending the local high school.
My husband had heard a presentation given by the local exchange program coordinator, and one of her then-current students, and was quite enthusiastic about the two of us hosting students. I, on the other hand, required some convincing. I was worried about privacy concerns, and a bit daunted by the idea of opening my home to strangers. I'm also not much of a cook, and I worried about keeping teenagers decently fed.
I'm glad that I was able to move past my concerns and agreed to become a host parent, because the experience has enriched my life immensely.
The first student we had came to us mid-semester. He wasn't a good fit with his first host family, and when he came to our home it was clear to me that he was lonely. He really wanted some time and attention from us so that he could improve his English skills before he returned to Brazil. He was sweet and smart, and grateful for everything we could do for him and everything we gave him. He kept me company when my husband as busy, and became adept at playing my favourite games. I soon I realized that I really liked having this boy around - I enjoyed his laughter and his thirst for knowledge. He complimented my iffy cooking skills and made me feel useful. I never imagined the wave of grief I'd feel when he left...
Our second student wasn't a good fit with our family's culture. She went on to another home after six weeks, leaving me feeling that I had completely failed as a host mother. It took a while for me to be able to assess the situation with clarity, and accept that we simply wouldn't hit it off with every student. That situation also helped us set some parameters as host parents. Since I spend more time with the students than my husband does, and because I have two sons of my own, and no daughters, I decided I was more comfortable hosting boys.
I'm not going to tell you that I got over that second experience quickly, but I'm convinced that having her go elsewhere was the best decision for all concerned. Four months after she left our home, we were offered the opportunity to host a boy from Italy for ten months. Because I felt I had "failed" with my last student I took some convincing, but decided to try it again - and I'm so glad I did! Our Italian son was a joy from the moment he arrived with his ready smile, cheerful disposition and generous nature. After he'd lived with us for about a week, I was already so heartened by the experience that when asked if we'd be willing to host another student from Brazil, I said yes without hesitation.
I hoped that my two students would become friends, and they surpassed my expectations in that way, and a whole lot of other ways too. At a time in my life when I was feeling a bit blue and a more than bit aimless, they cheered me up and gave me purpose. They ate my mediocre meals without complaining, and let me know that they loved my desserts. We had long conversations and laughed together like lunatics. They took my unsolicited advice stoically, and even offered a bit of their own on occasion. They taught me that friendships can cross generations - and I've since learned that they can cross continents too.
At the end of the first semester, our Brazilian student went home. I cried for days. He and I had become great friends, in part because his English skills were already so good when he arrived that there were no linguistic barriers to overcome. I pulled myself together and welcomed another Brazilian student into our home eight days after his departure.
Our third Brazilian student was harder for me to get to know, but he came to me for help with his English, and it was very gratifying to see how quickly he began to master the language. He proved to be smart, determined, and helpful. When I went to visit my son for a week, both boys assisted my husband with meals and housework, and when I came home they let me know they had missed me.
Our students become family to us; they share our meals and are part of our holiday and family celebrations. We don't just house them and feed them - we enjoy them. We listen to them and try to build their self esteem. When our second Brazilian student arrived, I explained to him and his Italian "brother" that I admired their courage - I knew it had to be hard for them to come to Canada from so far away - to immerse themselves in a foreign language and culture, and to live with strangers.
"But - " I added, "it's hard for us too. We invite you to live with us without knowing who you are or whether we'll all get along. We just hope it all works out."
For our family, hosting has worked out wonderfully. Our older son lives with us, and though he is more than a decade older than our students, he becomes friends with them, and misses them when they leave. My younger son, married and living far away, always asks how things are going with our students. My mother buys them Christmas presents, and hugs them when she has her last visit with them before they leave.
Let me tell you - those departures are hard! We said goodbye to our third Brazilian eleven days ago, and to our Italian student eight days ago. I'd be lying if I told you it wasn't a teary week. My mother asked me how I could keep hosting when it is so hard to watch them go. I told her that I couldn't consider not doing this again when I now have additional sons on two continents!
I hope we will be able to open our home to more boys in the autumn. Our lives are happier because of the friendships we have built - and I'd love to see this hosting tradition continue. Every message I get from "my boys" fills my heart with gratitude for the opportunity I had to be a their "mom" for a short period of time, and their friend for the rest of my days; every video chat reminds me that the goodbyes are never final.
We are all part of each others' lives now, no matter how far apart we are.
We say hello as strangers;
we say goodbye as friends.
What's established in between -
it never really ends.
I know I'm not your parent
and that you'll have to leave,
but to me you're important
and when you go I'll grieve.
My house feels far too empty -
I miss your presence here;
and though goodbyes are painful,
I hope that this is clear:
I'm glad I got to know you
and though you've gone away,
I hope to reassure you
that in my heart you'll stay.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, July 7, 2019
Almost two years ago my husband and I embarked on a new adventure when we agreed to become host parents to international students attending the local high school.
My husband had heard a presentation given by the local exchange program coordinator, and one of her then-current students, and was quite enthusiastic about the two of us hosting students. I, on the other hand, required some convincing. I was worried about privacy concerns, and a bit daunted by the idea of opening my home to strangers. I'm also not much of a cook, and I worried about keeping teenagers decently fed.
I'm glad that I was able to move past my concerns and agreed to become a host parent, because the experience has enriched my life immensely.
The first student we had came to us mid-semester. He wasn't a good fit with his first host family, and when he came to our home it was clear to me that he was lonely. He really wanted some time and attention from us so that he could improve his English skills before he returned to Brazil. He was sweet and smart, and grateful for everything we could do for him and everything we gave him. He kept me company when my husband as busy, and became adept at playing my favourite games. I soon I realized that I really liked having this boy around - I enjoyed his laughter and his thirst for knowledge. He complimented my iffy cooking skills and made me feel useful. I never imagined the wave of grief I'd feel when he left...
Our second student wasn't a good fit with our family's culture. She went on to another home after six weeks, leaving me feeling that I had completely failed as a host mother. It took a while for me to be able to assess the situation with clarity, and accept that we simply wouldn't hit it off with every student. That situation also helped us set some parameters as host parents. Since I spend more time with the students than my husband does, and because I have two sons of my own, and no daughters, I decided I was more comfortable hosting boys.
I'm not going to tell you that I got over that second experience quickly, but I'm convinced that having her go elsewhere was the best decision for all concerned. Four months after she left our home, we were offered the opportunity to host a boy from Italy for ten months. Because I felt I had "failed" with my last student I took some convincing, but decided to try it again - and I'm so glad I did! Our Italian son was a joy from the moment he arrived with his ready smile, cheerful disposition and generous nature. After he'd lived with us for about a week, I was already so heartened by the experience that when asked if we'd be willing to host another student from Brazil, I said yes without hesitation.
I hoped that my two students would become friends, and they surpassed my expectations in that way, and a whole lot of other ways too. At a time in my life when I was feeling a bit blue and a more than bit aimless, they cheered me up and gave me purpose. They ate my mediocre meals without complaining, and let me know that they loved my desserts. We had long conversations and laughed together like lunatics. They took my unsolicited advice stoically, and even offered a bit of their own on occasion. They taught me that friendships can cross generations - and I've since learned that they can cross continents too.
At the end of the first semester, our Brazilian student went home. I cried for days. He and I had become great friends, in part because his English skills were already so good when he arrived that there were no linguistic barriers to overcome. I pulled myself together and welcomed another Brazilian student into our home eight days after his departure.
Our third Brazilian student was harder for me to get to know, but he came to me for help with his English, and it was very gratifying to see how quickly he began to master the language. He proved to be smart, determined, and helpful. When I went to visit my son for a week, both boys assisted my husband with meals and housework, and when I came home they let me know they had missed me.
Our students become family to us; they share our meals and are part of our holiday and family celebrations. We don't just house them and feed them - we enjoy them. We listen to them and try to build their self esteem. When our second Brazilian student arrived, I explained to him and his Italian "brother" that I admired their courage - I knew it had to be hard for them to come to Canada from so far away - to immerse themselves in a foreign language and culture, and to live with strangers.
"But - " I added, "it's hard for us too. We invite you to live with us without knowing who you are or whether we'll all get along. We just hope it all works out."
For our family, hosting has worked out wonderfully. Our older son lives with us, and though he is more than a decade older than our students, he becomes friends with them, and misses them when they leave. My younger son, married and living far away, always asks how things are going with our students. My mother buys them Christmas presents, and hugs them when she has her last visit with them before they leave.
Let me tell you - those departures are hard! We said goodbye to our third Brazilian eleven days ago, and to our Italian student eight days ago. I'd be lying if I told you it wasn't a teary week. My mother asked me how I could keep hosting when it is so hard to watch them go. I told her that I couldn't consider not doing this again when I now have additional sons on two continents!
I hope we will be able to open our home to more boys in the autumn. Our lives are happier because of the friendships we have built - and I'd love to see this hosting tradition continue. Every message I get from "my boys" fills my heart with gratitude for the opportunity I had to be a their "mom" for a short period of time, and their friend for the rest of my days; every video chat reminds me that the goodbyes are never final.
We are all part of each others' lives now, no matter how far apart we are.
Monday, 24 June 2019
Can You See Me? By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Invisible Woman
Invisible woman
seen just as "the wife";
can't anyone see that
she lives her own life?
She keeps a low profile -
at least, so it seems -
so nobody's really
aware of her dreams.
A part of the background;
appendage on arm,
and if you ignore her
you mean her no harm.
Just try to remember
her life is her own
and there's much more to her
than ever is shown.
Her life in the shadows
can often demean.
Invisible women
deserve to be seen.
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, June 24, 2019
For the past six months I've been asked one question repeatedly. This question comes from people who've known me forever - and thus should know better than to ask it - and from people who met me two minutes before posing the question. This question has become almost the only question most people ask me these days, and for that reason it has grown increasingly difficult to answer it gracefully...
"How do you like being the Mayor's wife?"
It's kind of a loaded question, especially given the fact that it is inevitably asked in public, and with an upward lilt in the questioners voice that makes it clear that they expect me to respond with excitement - and unfortunately for them, enthusiasm for that particular title is really hard for me to muster.
Let me clarify, for the record, that generally speaking I like being married to my husband. That's why we were married for thirty years before he was voted Mayor of North Perth. When you ask how I enjoy being married to "the mayor", you are implying that I should somehow enjoy my marriage so much more than I used to, because now he's "important", and I, by extension as "his wife", am more important than I was too.
I don't see it that way at all. My husband is no more important to me than he was before he was elected, and I am definitely no more important than I ever was. To me he is still Todd, and if you want to know the truth, he is just a busier and more stressed out version of the man he's always been.
I'm not Hilary Clinton - I didn't hit the campaign trail tirelessly to ensure he'd win - because it didn't matter that much to me whether he did or not. His victory was due to his hard work, and I had very little to do with it.
Please don't ever refer to me as "The First Lady of North Perth". I don't like titles at all, and have never even liked being called "Mrs. Kasenberg".
I am Sharon.
Let me tell you why I feel so adamantly opposed to being identified as "the mayor's wife".
In my younger days, as a new wife and mother, I chose to stay home with my children. This decision entailed some financial sacrifice, and some sacrifice of self-hood. I became one of a legion of invisible women; a housewife. A "stay at home mom". People assumed I stayed home because I wasn't smart enough to get a job. Attending work functions with my husband was an excruciating chore. I dressed up as well as I could, stood at his side, and was introduced to people who didn't even bother to engage me in small talk once they realized I was "just a mom".
For most of my life I belonged to a very patriarchal faith. It took me many years, within that organization, to be known as more than my husband's wife, or my sons' mother. Finally, after a few decades, I became known as a woman who possessed a few skills of my own - I could speak well, I could teach classes, I was a good baker and a writer of poetry. When I left that faith, I went through a period of intense self re-discovery, and I began to really forge my own identity.
I embraced my Sharon-ness.
Just when I was starting to feel that Sharon was finally being seen as her own person, an entity seen beyond the context of wife and mother, my husband became mayor. And once again I was relegated to "wife of" status.
I am proud of my husband's accomplishments, but his position as mayor has as little to do with me as his position at any of his other jobs has.
It might seem glamorous to be the mayor, or by extension the mayor's wife, but it isn't. If I were Melania Trump, with an incredible figure, make-up artists at my disposal, and designers all vying for me to wear their labels, I might get a whole lot more excited about being able to attend a gala every now and then, but none of those things apply to me. I have body issues, and like countless other fifty-something ladies, I try on everything in my closet before I go out, in hopes that I'll hit on something that doesn't magnify every imperfection. And putting on make-up is pretty hard when you need to wear your reading glasses to see what you're doing. I just don't love feeling like I'm on display, and hobnobbing with "important" people and making small talk isn't my cuppa tea. I'm an introvert who would always prefer to stick with a small group of trusted friends.
I know there are plenty of women who think they would totally groove on a title that I don't appreciate. They think it would be fun to be recognized, but miss the fact that with recognition there comes a lack of privacy. It gets frustrating to have people stop to chat up, or worse - complain to - your husband when you're trying to buy groceries or enjoy a social evening together. They might think that as wives they will get to influence decisions, but much of what is discussed in chambers can't even be shared. What I hear most as wife are his frustrations. I hear about all the things he'd like to do, but can't. I hear about the people who complain and sometimes harass him, and sometimes I even get to answer the home phone when people decide - erroneously I might add - that their complaints with the municipality will be handled faster if they go "straight to the top". (Obviously it's much more efficient to have the mayor make three or four calls to take care of your complaint than it is for you to just call the proper department directly, right?)
Here's the truth of the matter. My husband was more fun to be married to before he became mayor. He wasn't as busy, and we had more time to relax together. He wasn't as tired and stressed. I worried about his health and state of mind less when he was "just" my husband.
I'm not going to tell you that he doesn't enjoy a lot of his duties as mayor - he does enjoy a lot of "the job", and I'm happy about that.
But for Sharon, being seen as an appendage at social events is not fun. Being alone a lot of the time is not fun. Worrying that I'll say or do the wrong thing while being recognized as "the wife of..." is stressful.
I am not a pale reflection of my spouse. I was my own person for more than twenty-five years before I became anyone's wife. I was the wife of Todd for more than three decades before he became a mayor. I don't ask to be held up as a role model, and I resent becoming invisible again.
So, when "the question" is on the tip of your tongue, fight the urge to ask it. There are so many better ways to initiate a conversation with me than by asking me how I feel to be "the wife of..."
I don't like feeling invisible. Tell me you can see me.
Invisible woman
seen just as "the wife";
can't anyone see that
she lives her own life?
She keeps a low profile -
at least, so it seems -
so nobody's really
aware of her dreams.
A part of the background;
appendage on arm,
and if you ignore her
you mean her no harm.
Just try to remember
her life is her own
and there's much more to her
than ever is shown.
Her life in the shadows
can often demean.
Invisible women
deserve to be seen.
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, June 24, 2019
For the past six months I've been asked one question repeatedly. This question comes from people who've known me forever - and thus should know better than to ask it - and from people who met me two minutes before posing the question. This question has become almost the only question most people ask me these days, and for that reason it has grown increasingly difficult to answer it gracefully...
"How do you like being the Mayor's wife?"
It's kind of a loaded question, especially given the fact that it is inevitably asked in public, and with an upward lilt in the questioners voice that makes it clear that they expect me to respond with excitement - and unfortunately for them, enthusiasm for that particular title is really hard for me to muster.
Let me clarify, for the record, that generally speaking I like being married to my husband. That's why we were married for thirty years before he was voted Mayor of North Perth. When you ask how I enjoy being married to "the mayor", you are implying that I should somehow enjoy my marriage so much more than I used to, because now he's "important", and I, by extension as "his wife", am more important than I was too.
I don't see it that way at all. My husband is no more important to me than he was before he was elected, and I am definitely no more important than I ever was. To me he is still Todd, and if you want to know the truth, he is just a busier and more stressed out version of the man he's always been.
I'm not Hilary Clinton - I didn't hit the campaign trail tirelessly to ensure he'd win - because it didn't matter that much to me whether he did or not. His victory was due to his hard work, and I had very little to do with it.
Please don't ever refer to me as "The First Lady of North Perth". I don't like titles at all, and have never even liked being called "Mrs. Kasenberg".
I am Sharon.
Let me tell you why I feel so adamantly opposed to being identified as "the mayor's wife".
In my younger days, as a new wife and mother, I chose to stay home with my children. This decision entailed some financial sacrifice, and some sacrifice of self-hood. I became one of a legion of invisible women; a housewife. A "stay at home mom". People assumed I stayed home because I wasn't smart enough to get a job. Attending work functions with my husband was an excruciating chore. I dressed up as well as I could, stood at his side, and was introduced to people who didn't even bother to engage me in small talk once they realized I was "just a mom".
For most of my life I belonged to a very patriarchal faith. It took me many years, within that organization, to be known as more than my husband's wife, or my sons' mother. Finally, after a few decades, I became known as a woman who possessed a few skills of my own - I could speak well, I could teach classes, I was a good baker and a writer of poetry. When I left that faith, I went through a period of intense self re-discovery, and I began to really forge my own identity.
I embraced my Sharon-ness.
Just when I was starting to feel that Sharon was finally being seen as her own person, an entity seen beyond the context of wife and mother, my husband became mayor. And once again I was relegated to "wife of" status.
I am proud of my husband's accomplishments, but his position as mayor has as little to do with me as his position at any of his other jobs has.
It might seem glamorous to be the mayor, or by extension the mayor's wife, but it isn't. If I were Melania Trump, with an incredible figure, make-up artists at my disposal, and designers all vying for me to wear their labels, I might get a whole lot more excited about being able to attend a gala every now and then, but none of those things apply to me. I have body issues, and like countless other fifty-something ladies, I try on everything in my closet before I go out, in hopes that I'll hit on something that doesn't magnify every imperfection. And putting on make-up is pretty hard when you need to wear your reading glasses to see what you're doing. I just don't love feeling like I'm on display, and hobnobbing with "important" people and making small talk isn't my cuppa tea. I'm an introvert who would always prefer to stick with a small group of trusted friends.
I know there are plenty of women who think they would totally groove on a title that I don't appreciate. They think it would be fun to be recognized, but miss the fact that with recognition there comes a lack of privacy. It gets frustrating to have people stop to chat up, or worse - complain to - your husband when you're trying to buy groceries or enjoy a social evening together. They might think that as wives they will get to influence decisions, but much of what is discussed in chambers can't even be shared. What I hear most as wife are his frustrations. I hear about all the things he'd like to do, but can't. I hear about the people who complain and sometimes harass him, and sometimes I even get to answer the home phone when people decide - erroneously I might add - that their complaints with the municipality will be handled faster if they go "straight to the top". (Obviously it's much more efficient to have the mayor make three or four calls to take care of your complaint than it is for you to just call the proper department directly, right?)
Here's the truth of the matter. My husband was more fun to be married to before he became mayor. He wasn't as busy, and we had more time to relax together. He wasn't as tired and stressed. I worried about his health and state of mind less when he was "just" my husband.
I'm not going to tell you that he doesn't enjoy a lot of his duties as mayor - he does enjoy a lot of "the job", and I'm happy about that.
But for Sharon, being seen as an appendage at social events is not fun. Being alone a lot of the time is not fun. Worrying that I'll say or do the wrong thing while being recognized as "the wife of..." is stressful.
I am not a pale reflection of my spouse. I was my own person for more than twenty-five years before I became anyone's wife. I was the wife of Todd for more than three decades before he became a mayor. I don't ask to be held up as a role model, and I resent becoming invisible again.
So, when "the question" is on the tip of your tongue, fight the urge to ask it. There are so many better ways to initiate a conversation with me than by asking me how I feel to be "the wife of..."
I don't like feeling invisible. Tell me you can see me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)