I just returned from my first trip to Vegas. The fact that I'm even writing that sentence still surprises me. Las Vegas isn't a place I ever felt a great urge to visit - I don't gamble, I don't drink and I couldn't care less about "night life". I'm usually in bed by 10:30 and asleep an hour later. But when my husband decided to attend a three day conference there he invited me to come along for the ride and I accepted. I like to see new places, and I like to spend time with my husband, and the trip gave me opportunity to do both.
I also knew that the trip would allow me to do some "people watching" in a completely new setting. I was engaging in a sociological study - observing the reactions others had to "The Strip" while monitoring my own.
One of the very first things to strike me about the Vegas Strip is the sheer over-burdening of the senses that confronts the unsuspecting visitor. I knew there would be bright lights, but it never occurred to me that there would be so much noise and chaos. Music is piped in everywhere - the casinos, the shopping concourses and often on the streets. The casinos have a steady din of machines that make noise and people conversing and fuzzy music under all of it. People on the street call out to you constantly - wanting to know if you want tickets for a show or are willing to view time share opportunities or want "an escort". The casinos are smelly too - trying to disguise years of tobacco use in stale air with cloying scents of a floral or fruity nature. Vegas, my friends, engages in an unceasing assault on the senses, from the moment you arrive to the moment you leave.
Places like Vegas are designed to put all of your senses on high alert so that you won't be tempted to engage your brain. (Who would be tempted to drop wads of cash on gambling and alcohol if they took the time to think about how much they were spending?) The message Vegas sends out is clear - don't trouble your mind with pesky thoughts, just eat, drink and gamble! Give your brain a rest, but keep that wallet-reaching hand well exercised!
I began to miss my quiet contemplative moments quickly. The bright lights and constant buzz of the place became jarring to me, and by the end of my fourth day I was anxious to get home. (By the end of my fifth day I was downright cranky and jaded to boot.)
I know that for the tired and stressed this brain switch off experience may be exactly what the doctor ordered up as a dream vacation. Honestly, I can understand the short-term appeal of such a getaway. What saddens me is that there seems to be a subset of our culture who thrive on this sort of atmosphere. They want to turn off consciousness as often as possible. "Peace and quiet" are not appealing concepts to this crowd, who don't want to be burdened with deep thoughts or contemplation. Instead they are constantly rushing off in search of another thrill, another drink, another sexual exploit to satisfy their cravings. These are the people who have what I'll dub "the Vegas mindset"- bring on the lights and the noise, I don't want to think. They live their lives as empty vessels, waiting for some exciting new gratification to momentary fill them up. Silence and solitude scare them.
"Be still, and know that I am God."
We've all heard that phrase, but it could just as easily be "Be still and know that life is good." Life is not meant to be lived at breakneck pace, under neon lights and among jostling hoards. Life is not meant to be one sensory overload experience after another, but a series of small, important and often, (but not always) gratifying sensations and moments. Life is meant to be filled with pondering and questioning and periods of boredom and frustration that make us yearn for something meaningful. God may not enter the equation at all, but I believe we can never really know ourselves without submitting to periods of solitude and sometimes uncomfortable inner scrutiny.
When we stifle our minds and refuse to give them opportunities to work out our conscious and subconscious concerns there are negative consequences. While our thoughts define us, those things we refuse to think about may define us more. Much of what we need most in our lives is found in those moments of quiet and stillness when we let our subconscious thoughts off leash and examine what we fill our minds and hearts with.
Subconscious: (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, November '07)
Feelings we'd prefer kept in -
born in sorrow, anger; sin,
unbeknownst to us sneak out
as resentment, fear and doubt.
Much that we would never say
manifests another way.
Untold secrets that we keep
haunt our dreams, if we find sleep.
Stirrings that we can't explain,
buried somewhere in the brain
unacknowledged, still compel -
motivating to excel
or perhaps abandon cause
as they magnify our flaws.
In our quest for self control
we ignore depths of the soul -
questions we have locked inside,
where our fears and wishes hide.
Answers that we haven't sought,
buried in subconscious thought
come to light from deepest shade,
when we ponder unafraid.
My urging to all is to not be afraid of those quiet, ponderous and even boring moments. Through those lulls we are invigorated and able to become attuned to the depths of our own souls, the answers to our questions and the GPS instructions that lead us on our individual quests. "Be still, and know..." Let your mind fill in the rest.
Still: (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, June '06)
Still learning what's important
with every passing year -
still striving to overcome
all my irrational fear.
Still looking for some answers
to demystify the heart;
still hoping to find wisdom
that I might in turn impart.
Still of belief that charity
should be compelling force -
still urging all to action
while adhering us on course.
Still following my conscience,
but struggling with my will -
still contemplating wonders
as I'm learning to be still.
Tuesday, 29 October 2013
Monday, 7 October 2013
Finding My Voice! (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg)
My last post does have a title, and this post exists for the sole purpose of directing you to that post, which is in fact called "Finding My Voice". And because I'm not afraid to use my voice I'll complain once more about how blogspot never lets you change anything in the title line once you've hit "Post". If (like me) you make the mistake of prematurely hitting that button before you've titled your post, your post is destined to go untitled unless you get creative. So scroll down and enjoy reading!
Finding My Voice (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg)
My Voice: (Sharon Flood Kasenberg - January '07)
Somewhere between my head and heart
it seems I've found my voice -
a way to express love and fear,
share sorrows and rejoice.
I'm attempting to find balance
between feelings and thought
as cool logic tempers passions
that tend to run too hot,
my heart softens the sharp edges
of reasonableness;
with efficacious empathy
I might find words to bless.
Can I use love and intellect -
avail myself of each;
use words to stir both heart and mind -
to nourish and to teach?
The same voice that always whispered
is dictating in rhyme
attempts to meld my brain and soul
in strictly metered time.
Though the cadence must be measured
I'll generously share
the contents of my head and heart
for readers to compare.
Can you discern where my thoughts end
and where my heart begins?
As each attempts to rule the day
my voice decides who wins.
When I first began to share these poetic musings I was afraid that nobody would care enough to read them. I felt exposed - tossing my thoughts and feelings off like sweaty laundry to stand naked. I worried that I was throwing the contents of my mind and heart into some void in cyberspace, to a faceless anonymous alien audience who might not ever respond.
I wondered whether this blogging experience would be encouraging or demoralizing. Initially it often felt like an exercise in futility, especially when my husband admitted that he didn't read my posts! I persevered, becoming more assertive by putting each new post on his Facebook wall where he was bound to see it (eventually). I also began to send out posts to friends, thinking that some of them might be curious enough about what I had to say to click on the link. I want to thank each of you who have taken a few moments here and there to read and offer comments and encouragement. (You'll never know how much it thrills me when you tell me you enjoy what I write, much less tell me I should post more often!)
Blogspot allows me to see how many people have viewed each post, and while my ego isn't healthy enough to allow me to credit every person who stumbles upon this blog with actually reading it, I am gratified to know my posts are at least seen. But I'm grounded enough to know that the numbers will never be true indicators of how well I "vocalize".
I've always written, but until seven years ago almost every word I wrote was for my eyes only. (Except for the play I wrote and directed in grade two, and any diary entries that I thought had enough comedic value to read to friends.) My "Rhyming Muse" has made me more confident about sharing verse and prose. Rhyme snobs still exist (they always will), but I think I've been able to show a few people that complicated ideas can be conveyed in simple rhyming couplets. I believe that demonstrating literary acumen shouldn't require complicated sentence structures and a dictionary for translation. In my opinion, good writing is easy enough to understand, but sufficiently complex to make you ponder.
It took many years of searching before I found a voice and the courage to speak up. Some will listen, others will ignore what I have to say. What is important to me is that I continue to speak regardless of who hears, and that some who hear will respond.
If what I write ever makes you smile - if it makes you think or want to exercise your own creativity then I have succeeded. My satisfaction doesn't depend on how much my poems are seen. I care more about whether my efforts have affected those who have read them. When you turn my "vocalizing" into a conversation or a thought to ponder I have no doubt that my voice is being heard.
Poetic Justice: (Sharon Flood Kasenberg - September '07)
If chaos in my mind intrudes,
corrupting calm and peaceful moods
I find a haven writing verse -
it helps the threatening clouds disperse.
Perhaps it is my therapy -
for through combining words I see
solutions in what I create
and weakness when I hesitate.
When my fragmented thoughts cohere
so that on paper words appear
it seems forces beyond this earth
took fetal thoughts and gave them birth.
Completed lines leave me consoled -
but only rarely I behold
poetic justice meted out
when in my verse I have no doubt.
Somewhere between my head and heart
it seems I've found my voice -
a way to express love and fear,
share sorrows and rejoice.
I'm attempting to find balance
between feelings and thought
as cool logic tempers passions
that tend to run too hot,
my heart softens the sharp edges
of reasonableness;
with efficacious empathy
I might find words to bless.
Can I use love and intellect -
avail myself of each;
use words to stir both heart and mind -
to nourish and to teach?
The same voice that always whispered
is dictating in rhyme
attempts to meld my brain and soul
in strictly metered time.
Though the cadence must be measured
I'll generously share
the contents of my head and heart
for readers to compare.
Can you discern where my thoughts end
and where my heart begins?
As each attempts to rule the day
my voice decides who wins.
When I first began to share these poetic musings I was afraid that nobody would care enough to read them. I felt exposed - tossing my thoughts and feelings off like sweaty laundry to stand naked. I worried that I was throwing the contents of my mind and heart into some void in cyberspace, to a faceless anonymous alien audience who might not ever respond.
I wondered whether this blogging experience would be encouraging or demoralizing. Initially it often felt like an exercise in futility, especially when my husband admitted that he didn't read my posts! I persevered, becoming more assertive by putting each new post on his Facebook wall where he was bound to see it (eventually). I also began to send out posts to friends, thinking that some of them might be curious enough about what I had to say to click on the link. I want to thank each of you who have taken a few moments here and there to read and offer comments and encouragement. (You'll never know how much it thrills me when you tell me you enjoy what I write, much less tell me I should post more often!)
Blogspot allows me to see how many people have viewed each post, and while my ego isn't healthy enough to allow me to credit every person who stumbles upon this blog with actually reading it, I am gratified to know my posts are at least seen. But I'm grounded enough to know that the numbers will never be true indicators of how well I "vocalize".
I've always written, but until seven years ago almost every word I wrote was for my eyes only. (Except for the play I wrote and directed in grade two, and any diary entries that I thought had enough comedic value to read to friends.) My "Rhyming Muse" has made me more confident about sharing verse and prose. Rhyme snobs still exist (they always will), but I think I've been able to show a few people that complicated ideas can be conveyed in simple rhyming couplets. I believe that demonstrating literary acumen shouldn't require complicated sentence structures and a dictionary for translation. In my opinion, good writing is easy enough to understand, but sufficiently complex to make you ponder.
It took many years of searching before I found a voice and the courage to speak up. Some will listen, others will ignore what I have to say. What is important to me is that I continue to speak regardless of who hears, and that some who hear will respond.
If what I write ever makes you smile - if it makes you think or want to exercise your own creativity then I have succeeded. My satisfaction doesn't depend on how much my poems are seen. I care more about whether my efforts have affected those who have read them. When you turn my "vocalizing" into a conversation or a thought to ponder I have no doubt that my voice is being heard.
Poetic Justice: (Sharon Flood Kasenberg - September '07)
If chaos in my mind intrudes,
corrupting calm and peaceful moods
I find a haven writing verse -
it helps the threatening clouds disperse.
Perhaps it is my therapy -
for through combining words I see
solutions in what I create
and weakness when I hesitate.
When my fragmented thoughts cohere
so that on paper words appear
it seems forces beyond this earth
took fetal thoughts and gave them birth.
Completed lines leave me consoled -
but only rarely I behold
poetic justice meted out
when in my verse I have no doubt.
Monday, 16 September 2013
My "Long and Winding Ode" to the "Soundtracks" of Our Lives...
The Long and Winding Ode: (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, May 5, 2007)
What if dear Lovely Rita wed Bungalow Bill
and they rented a flat from the Fool on the Hill?
Before Father McKenzie their vows would be said,
with the Hendersons all there to witness them wed -
as Rocky Raccoon (and his very worst rival)
offered the readings from Gideon's bible.
Oh their service (I'm certain) would be very nice -
and then Eleanor Rigby would pelt them with rice!
The reception to follow would last through the day -
thanks to Sergeant Pepper a great band would play.
And as newlyweds slip off to their honeymoon
Mr. Kite would protest they were leaving too soon;
but not kind Mother Mary who'd say, "Let It Be"
"They're anxious to be off, as we all can see!"
At last Anna would catch the bouquet that was tossed -
and the Walrus go reeling home, thoroughly sauced!
Just yesterday I returned from a twelve day whirlwind trip to Europe - my first ever. I visited three countries and five cities while I was there, and saw everything from Roman ruins to glorious cathedrals that were centuries in the making, but nothing I saw moved me to tears - until I saw four guys singing on a stage. We decided to see a show while in London, and when my husband read off the various titles I liked the sound of "Let it Be". (I thought I was going to see a play about the Beatles, and had no idea that I was going to see a tribute band.) So indeed these four weren't even who they pretended to be, but that didn't matter. They were singing my life's story. (And they sang it well, with great background lighting that evoked the mood of each represented musical era, and convincing costumes that made me feel like I was there - at a concert that never happened and at this point never could.)
I grew up with Paul, John, George and Ringo. They may not have been the kids I played hide and seek with in the neighbourhood, but they were in my house every day. My grandmother once reported that the first time she ever heard me singing a recognizable song it was "She Loves You (Yeah Yeah Yeah)" by none other than the Fab Four. I have memories of my oldest sister and her love-bead clad friends sitting on cushions on the floor in the rec room, listening to the Beatles while burning incense. I remember my sister Wendy and I singing Beatles songs while we did dishes and sneaking downstairs to the basement to listen to our older sisters' Beatle albums on their portable record player when they weren't home.
My two oldest sisters were big Beatles fans. They even had a fan club as adolescents and collected Beatles bubble gum cards in a home-made album with a cardboard cover. My sister Colleen kept the minutes of these meetings in an old school notebook, since she was the oldest and most organized of the group. Her and Linda saved up their babysitting money to buy the records that influenced the musical tastes of their younger siblings, and practiced their vocal harmonies while they did dishes. (They sounded a lot better than Wendy and I ever did!)
My "Beatlemania" has persisted. I brought my husband (who amazingly had little exposure to their music prior to meeting me) to an appreciation of the Beatles, and raised two sons who are fans. (Sam loves their "sound" and technical proficiency, while Dan - like me - just loves their songs.) I have great memories of Todd and the boys and I singing in the car to Beatles discs on car trips, and of Dan playing his guitar and singing "Blackbird" and "Let it Be." As a person who writes poems, I can say that when I listen to "Yesterday", "Eleanor Rigby" or "Let it Be" I am moved by those lyrics. I can relate to the characters John and Paul wrote about and the feelings the songs evoke. I don't listen to these songs wishing that I could do justice to them with my voice, (I'll never be much of a singer) but I can't listen without thinking how much I would love to be able to write that kind of poetry.
When asked as a teenager what my favorite musical group was my answer would often be accompanied by a groan from the questioner, as well as a request to get with the times and name someone "current". But at that concert on Thursday night I felt totally vindicated, as I sat in an audience of all ages who were clapping and yelling along with the guys pretending to be Paul, John, George and Ringo.
I guess I shouldn't really be surprised that although I saw incredible sights while I traveled it was something I heard that finally brought me to tears. Music can do that. Every life has its own sound track, and the music of the lads from Liverpool makes up a significant portion of mine.
As you read the poem below, think about the soundtrack of your life, and be grateful for the music that enriches you!
Soundtrack: (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, May 5 - 7, 2007)
Have you ever thought about the soundtrack of your life?
What song did you first dance to as new husband and wife?
What songs you heard in childhood bring memories to you
of holidays together and all those family "do's" ?
I'm sure that through your teenage years you found a special song
that you took as your anthem - you sang it loud and strong.
And surely there were ballads you heard at every dance
that kept you ever hopeful of finding some romance.
When finally you found it, was any music heard?
(I'm sure if it was playing you still know every word.)
When you had your own children, what music did you share?
What lullabies consoled them - assured them you were there?
What hymns elate your spirit and stir your weary soul?
Do you prefer new country, or maybe rock and roll?
What music plays inside you and always makes you smile?
What songs stop you in your tracks to listen for a while?
What music motivates you and keeps you on your feet
when you are exhausted, but there's more to complete?
When you need to be cheered up because you're feeling blue
what's the song you'd likely choose to sit and listen to?
The music's in the background, but still reaches the brain -
we can't sing all the lyrics, but still know the refrain.
It calms, woos and excites us with sentiments it shares;
memories it brings to mind can catch us unawares.
So much that we've forgotten is suddenly brought back
by a few bars of music - a song from our sound track.
What if dear Lovely Rita wed Bungalow Bill
and they rented a flat from the Fool on the Hill?
Before Father McKenzie their vows would be said,
with the Hendersons all there to witness them wed -
as Rocky Raccoon (and his very worst rival)
offered the readings from Gideon's bible.
Oh their service (I'm certain) would be very nice -
and then Eleanor Rigby would pelt them with rice!
The reception to follow would last through the day -
thanks to Sergeant Pepper a great band would play.
And as newlyweds slip off to their honeymoon
Mr. Kite would protest they were leaving too soon;
but not kind Mother Mary who'd say, "Let It Be"
"They're anxious to be off, as we all can see!"
At last Anna would catch the bouquet that was tossed -
and the Walrus go reeling home, thoroughly sauced!
Just yesterday I returned from a twelve day whirlwind trip to Europe - my first ever. I visited three countries and five cities while I was there, and saw everything from Roman ruins to glorious cathedrals that were centuries in the making, but nothing I saw moved me to tears - until I saw four guys singing on a stage. We decided to see a show while in London, and when my husband read off the various titles I liked the sound of "Let it Be". (I thought I was going to see a play about the Beatles, and had no idea that I was going to see a tribute band.) So indeed these four weren't even who they pretended to be, but that didn't matter. They were singing my life's story. (And they sang it well, with great background lighting that evoked the mood of each represented musical era, and convincing costumes that made me feel like I was there - at a concert that never happened and at this point never could.)
I grew up with Paul, John, George and Ringo. They may not have been the kids I played hide and seek with in the neighbourhood, but they were in my house every day. My grandmother once reported that the first time she ever heard me singing a recognizable song it was "She Loves You (Yeah Yeah Yeah)" by none other than the Fab Four. I have memories of my oldest sister and her love-bead clad friends sitting on cushions on the floor in the rec room, listening to the Beatles while burning incense. I remember my sister Wendy and I singing Beatles songs while we did dishes and sneaking downstairs to the basement to listen to our older sisters' Beatle albums on their portable record player when they weren't home.
My two oldest sisters were big Beatles fans. They even had a fan club as adolescents and collected Beatles bubble gum cards in a home-made album with a cardboard cover. My sister Colleen kept the minutes of these meetings in an old school notebook, since she was the oldest and most organized of the group. Her and Linda saved up their babysitting money to buy the records that influenced the musical tastes of their younger siblings, and practiced their vocal harmonies while they did dishes. (They sounded a lot better than Wendy and I ever did!)
My "Beatlemania" has persisted. I brought my husband (who amazingly had little exposure to their music prior to meeting me) to an appreciation of the Beatles, and raised two sons who are fans. (Sam loves their "sound" and technical proficiency, while Dan - like me - just loves their songs.) I have great memories of Todd and the boys and I singing in the car to Beatles discs on car trips, and of Dan playing his guitar and singing "Blackbird" and "Let it Be." As a person who writes poems, I can say that when I listen to "Yesterday", "Eleanor Rigby" or "Let it Be" I am moved by those lyrics. I can relate to the characters John and Paul wrote about and the feelings the songs evoke. I don't listen to these songs wishing that I could do justice to them with my voice, (I'll never be much of a singer) but I can't listen without thinking how much I would love to be able to write that kind of poetry.
When asked as a teenager what my favorite musical group was my answer would often be accompanied by a groan from the questioner, as well as a request to get with the times and name someone "current". But at that concert on Thursday night I felt totally vindicated, as I sat in an audience of all ages who were clapping and yelling along with the guys pretending to be Paul, John, George and Ringo.
I guess I shouldn't really be surprised that although I saw incredible sights while I traveled it was something I heard that finally brought me to tears. Music can do that. Every life has its own sound track, and the music of the lads from Liverpool makes up a significant portion of mine.
As you read the poem below, think about the soundtrack of your life, and be grateful for the music that enriches you!
Soundtrack: (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, May 5 - 7, 2007)
Have you ever thought about the soundtrack of your life?
What song did you first dance to as new husband and wife?
What songs you heard in childhood bring memories to you
of holidays together and all those family "do's" ?
I'm sure that through your teenage years you found a special song
that you took as your anthem - you sang it loud and strong.
And surely there were ballads you heard at every dance
that kept you ever hopeful of finding some romance.
When finally you found it, was any music heard?
(I'm sure if it was playing you still know every word.)
When you had your own children, what music did you share?
What lullabies consoled them - assured them you were there?
What hymns elate your spirit and stir your weary soul?
Do you prefer new country, or maybe rock and roll?
What music plays inside you and always makes you smile?
What songs stop you in your tracks to listen for a while?
What music motivates you and keeps you on your feet
when you are exhausted, but there's more to complete?
When you need to be cheered up because you're feeling blue
what's the song you'd likely choose to sit and listen to?
The music's in the background, but still reaches the brain -
we can't sing all the lyrics, but still know the refrain.
It calms, woos and excites us with sentiments it shares;
memories it brings to mind can catch us unawares.
So much that we've forgotten is suddenly brought back
by a few bars of music - a song from our sound track.
Monday, 26 August 2013
Love is? (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg)
Cardiology:
How can we solve life's mysteries
if we never make a start
to attempt investigation
into matters of the heart?
There's so much we don't understand
and so much we must forgive
in the hearts of those around us
through the lifetimes that we live.
Likewise we'll make apologies
on this journey here below
as we're always navigating
into waters we don't know.
We gauge feelings swirling 'round us
and emotions of our own
while we're trying to descipher
what is sensed but never shown -
like coral reefs that lie beneath
stormy oceans of the heart
where no daring cartographer
has been brave enough to chart.
However vast our knowledge is
of this planet or deep space,
the heart remains a mystery -
an obscure and complex place.
Though science gives us formulas
to determine speed and mass
we continue to ask questions
not addressed in any class.
We'll never learn to calculate
even just the smallest part
of the infinite equation
that defines the human heart.
(By Sharon Flood Kasenberg - March 2007)
Love is a mystery. Like Joni Mitchell, I've experienced both sides of love - the pain that comes from unrequited love, and the joy of love that's returned. I've observed even more about love - seen it used manipulatively - given capriciously and withdrawn in pique. I've seen relationships end that I thought would endure forever, and seen couples survive who I thought were doomed before they began. Through it all I've learned that love always has lessons to teach us, no matter how old or experienced we may think we are.
I've come to the conclusion that finding love is fortunate, and keeping it alive is miraculous. Yesterday I celebrated my 25th Wedding Anniversary. One of my friends commented that it was good to see somebody manage to make a marriage last this long, and now that I've been married for a quarter of a century I think I'm qualified to say that marriage isn't easy. Our early years were the hardest, since we had to learn to adjust to life with each other, often in poverty, and then with two babies that arrived in rapid succession. We got used to each other - learned to adapt to each others' foibles and compensate for each others' weaknesses - but at no point did it become effortless. We didn't really expect it to, and maybe that's why we've lasted.
Love needs to be fed - and it's voracious. I think a lot of people assume that as passion settles the relationship can survive on a subsistence diet, when in reality that's the point at which love needs the most nourishment. Both parties need to feed the relationship so that both are fed. Each party will get back what they put in if they are equally committed to making the necessary effort. Sadly, that isn't always the case. It can be far too easy to grow careless with another person's heart.
Many people glamorize the concept of love, seeing it as an ongoing parade of showy speeches, bouquets of roses and passionate embraces when it actually looks a whole lot more like helping with dishes, putting out the garbage and rubbing smelly feet. Love is made up of arguments and negotiations and seemingly insignificant kindnesses all rolled into a decidedly mundane ball. Love is appreciating what you've got and overlooking what shouldn't matter. Love is learning how to trust completely, and knowing when to check your ego at the door and be humble enough to accept a bit of criticism.
I'm grateful that I've enjoyed the miracle of lasting love. It's something I've learned to never take for granted. I hope that someday my sons will be as blessed in their marriages as Todd and I have been in ours. I hope that we've shown them not just how love can be, but how it should be.
Love Can:
Love can be used to conquer,
or better yet to soothe -
can calm a raging tempest
or make a rough road smooth.
Love isn't a condition,
it is an attitude -
a voluntary effort
we make with gratitude.
It is the stuff of romance -
foundation for our dreams;
in rawest, purest essence
much more than what it seems.
Love has the strength to uplift,
but still it can destroy -
can seed wanton destruction
or the sublimest joy.
In countless variations
it's manifest through years -
agony and ecstasy
expressed in smiles and tears.
It can be irrational
to love without return -
confounded by rejection,
our hollow hearts still yearn.
While I can't prove this theory
I always have supposed
that hearts are often empty
because they are kept closed.
Conversely when we give love
the more love we attract -
although this math makes no sense,
it seems to be a fact.
From unexpected sources
it will accumulate
and grow in intensity
as we reciprocate.
Love wields unearthly power -
more than most can conceive;
Love comforts deepest sorrows
when in it we believe.
(By Sharon Flood Kasenberg - Sept. 2007)
How can we solve life's mysteries
if we never make a start
to attempt investigation
into matters of the heart?
There's so much we don't understand
and so much we must forgive
in the hearts of those around us
through the lifetimes that we live.
Likewise we'll make apologies
on this journey here below
as we're always navigating
into waters we don't know.
We gauge feelings swirling 'round us
and emotions of our own
while we're trying to descipher
what is sensed but never shown -
like coral reefs that lie beneath
stormy oceans of the heart
where no daring cartographer
has been brave enough to chart.
However vast our knowledge is
of this planet or deep space,
the heart remains a mystery -
an obscure and complex place.
Though science gives us formulas
to determine speed and mass
we continue to ask questions
not addressed in any class.
We'll never learn to calculate
even just the smallest part
of the infinite equation
that defines the human heart.
(By Sharon Flood Kasenberg - March 2007)
Love is a mystery. Like Joni Mitchell, I've experienced both sides of love - the pain that comes from unrequited love, and the joy of love that's returned. I've observed even more about love - seen it used manipulatively - given capriciously and withdrawn in pique. I've seen relationships end that I thought would endure forever, and seen couples survive who I thought were doomed before they began. Through it all I've learned that love always has lessons to teach us, no matter how old or experienced we may think we are.
I've come to the conclusion that finding love is fortunate, and keeping it alive is miraculous. Yesterday I celebrated my 25th Wedding Anniversary. One of my friends commented that it was good to see somebody manage to make a marriage last this long, and now that I've been married for a quarter of a century I think I'm qualified to say that marriage isn't easy. Our early years were the hardest, since we had to learn to adjust to life with each other, often in poverty, and then with two babies that arrived in rapid succession. We got used to each other - learned to adapt to each others' foibles and compensate for each others' weaknesses - but at no point did it become effortless. We didn't really expect it to, and maybe that's why we've lasted.
Love needs to be fed - and it's voracious. I think a lot of people assume that as passion settles the relationship can survive on a subsistence diet, when in reality that's the point at which love needs the most nourishment. Both parties need to feed the relationship so that both are fed. Each party will get back what they put in if they are equally committed to making the necessary effort. Sadly, that isn't always the case. It can be far too easy to grow careless with another person's heart.
Many people glamorize the concept of love, seeing it as an ongoing parade of showy speeches, bouquets of roses and passionate embraces when it actually looks a whole lot more like helping with dishes, putting out the garbage and rubbing smelly feet. Love is made up of arguments and negotiations and seemingly insignificant kindnesses all rolled into a decidedly mundane ball. Love is appreciating what you've got and overlooking what shouldn't matter. Love is learning how to trust completely, and knowing when to check your ego at the door and be humble enough to accept a bit of criticism.
I'm grateful that I've enjoyed the miracle of lasting love. It's something I've learned to never take for granted. I hope that someday my sons will be as blessed in their marriages as Todd and I have been in ours. I hope that we've shown them not just how love can be, but how it should be.
Love Can:
Love can be used to conquer,
or better yet to soothe -
can calm a raging tempest
or make a rough road smooth.
Love isn't a condition,
it is an attitude -
a voluntary effort
we make with gratitude.
It is the stuff of romance -
foundation for our dreams;
in rawest, purest essence
much more than what it seems.
Love has the strength to uplift,
but still it can destroy -
can seed wanton destruction
or the sublimest joy.
In countless variations
it's manifest through years -
agony and ecstasy
expressed in smiles and tears.
It can be irrational
to love without return -
confounded by rejection,
our hollow hearts still yearn.
While I can't prove this theory
I always have supposed
that hearts are often empty
because they are kept closed.
Conversely when we give love
the more love we attract -
although this math makes no sense,
it seems to be a fact.
From unexpected sources
it will accumulate
and grow in intensity
as we reciprocate.
Love wields unearthly power -
more than most can conceive;
Love comforts deepest sorrows
when in it we believe.
(By Sharon Flood Kasenberg - Sept. 2007)
Monday, 12 August 2013
The Amazingly Incredible and Sometimes Regretable Power of Words By Sharon Flood Kasenberg - August 12, 2013
Words:
Give me the words
to write a poem -
it's such a small request.
Just give me words
and I will use them -
I will do my best.
Give me the words
to show compassion -
put me to the test.
Just give me words
and I will use them.
Love will do the rest.
Give me the words
to calm my spirit -
silence my unrest.
A few small words
to bless and comfort
when I am distressed.
I pray for words
I know their power -
they are my daily quest.
Thank-you for words
that I am given -
through these words I'm blessed.
(By Sharon Flood Kasenberg - April '07)
Nothing makes you more appreciative for the words you find than those times when you just can't find the words at all.
This past week I've been struggling to find words. I've felt an urge to write on a particular subject, but every time I sit down and make an attempt I just can't seem to get where I want to. What I've written seems forced and trite. I feel frustrated, but that's alright. I know from past experience that when the right words come to me it will be a serendipitous experience - inspiration will hit and words will flow.
As I've pondered my writer's block of late I've thought a lot about the power of words. I've been really really thankful for those times when words came to me easily - when the poetry and prose flowed from my brain so quickly that I rushed to find pen and paper before those words were lost.
I love words, and of that love a healthy respect has been born. There have been many times in my life when I badly wanted to have the right words to say - soothing words, loving words - words that went beyond being merely "appropriate". When those words managed to cross my tongue I knew they were exactly right, and they benefited both the speaker and the listener. Sadly, I didn't always "find" those words. Far too often I stuttered and stammered. The words that came out were muddled and altogether clumsy and wrong.
Too many times to count over the years I've used words in the worst ways possible - in anger, in criticism and in haste. I've tossed out words carelessly and wanted to snatch them back, but once spoken they couldn't be unsaid. I've likewise had words hurled at me like molotov cocktails - igniting flaming responses and doing maximum damage to anyone unfortunate enough to be in the vicinity; words that lodged like shrapnel in the soul. These words injured and caused lasting pain.
I've written a lot of poems that talk about the power of words and the importance of fully engaging the brain before the mouth, but this one is my favorite.
Eating My Words (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg - August '09)
I never really want to sup
on words spoken in haste -
for careless phrases offered up
are bitter to the taste.
Those things I didn't mean to say
when uttered without care -
return again another way
as most unsavory fare.
They're bound to cross my lips once more,
and dine on them I must -
'though swallowing them is a chore -
they go down dry as dust.
Unappetizing it may be
but truly I have earned
the feast that's spread in front of me
of syllables that burned.
So as I sit again to feed
on words I'm forced to eat -
I face this fact - it seems I need
to speak some words more sweet!
Give me the words
to write a poem -
it's such a small request.
Just give me words
and I will use them -
I will do my best.
Give me the words
to show compassion -
put me to the test.
Just give me words
and I will use them.
Love will do the rest.
Give me the words
to calm my spirit -
silence my unrest.
A few small words
to bless and comfort
when I am distressed.
I pray for words
I know their power -
they are my daily quest.
Thank-you for words
that I am given -
through these words I'm blessed.
(By Sharon Flood Kasenberg - April '07)
Nothing makes you more appreciative for the words you find than those times when you just can't find the words at all.
This past week I've been struggling to find words. I've felt an urge to write on a particular subject, but every time I sit down and make an attempt I just can't seem to get where I want to. What I've written seems forced and trite. I feel frustrated, but that's alright. I know from past experience that when the right words come to me it will be a serendipitous experience - inspiration will hit and words will flow.
As I've pondered my writer's block of late I've thought a lot about the power of words. I've been really really thankful for those times when words came to me easily - when the poetry and prose flowed from my brain so quickly that I rushed to find pen and paper before those words were lost.
I love words, and of that love a healthy respect has been born. There have been many times in my life when I badly wanted to have the right words to say - soothing words, loving words - words that went beyond being merely "appropriate". When those words managed to cross my tongue I knew they were exactly right, and they benefited both the speaker and the listener. Sadly, I didn't always "find" those words. Far too often I stuttered and stammered. The words that came out were muddled and altogether clumsy and wrong.
Too many times to count over the years I've used words in the worst ways possible - in anger, in criticism and in haste. I've tossed out words carelessly and wanted to snatch them back, but once spoken they couldn't be unsaid. I've likewise had words hurled at me like molotov cocktails - igniting flaming responses and doing maximum damage to anyone unfortunate enough to be in the vicinity; words that lodged like shrapnel in the soul. These words injured and caused lasting pain.
I've written a lot of poems that talk about the power of words and the importance of fully engaging the brain before the mouth, but this one is my favorite.
Eating My Words (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg - August '09)
I never really want to sup
on words spoken in haste -
for careless phrases offered up
are bitter to the taste.
Those things I didn't mean to say
when uttered without care -
return again another way
as most unsavory fare.
They're bound to cross my lips once more,
and dine on them I must -
'though swallowing them is a chore -
they go down dry as dust.
Unappetizing it may be
but truly I have earned
the feast that's spread in front of me
of syllables that burned.
So as I sit again to feed
on words I'm forced to eat -
I face this fact - it seems I need
to speak some words more sweet!
Thursday, 25 July 2013
Behold the Weed! By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
When we moved into this house almost ten years ago I found myself excited about a yard, for the first time ever. Our house sits on a circle, and our backyard is shallow but wide. The yard slopes to the rear, and so we have twelve foot ceilings in the basement and full walk outs from the basement into a strange little walled patio area with a corner fireplace. All along the back fence were perennial beds, and placed at the center point of the back fence was a fountain. Sounds nice, right? It looked nice too, but the first spring we lived here it became obvious that this yard had its deficiencies. The fireplace area was a bit crumbly and probably not safe to use, although it still looked nice. The fountain didn't work. The perennials spread like weeds, and the WEEDS really spread like weeds.
For eight years I added plants and moved plants and thinned out plants. And I weeded - endlessly. Some years it looked pretty nice out there, but other years I chose plants that didn't work, or I didn't water enough or the weeds just grew faster than I could pull them up. Last year the yard looked dismal. I was in and out of town all summer long and Todd was too busy to pull weeds. We had a serious summer drought, and the lawn and the plants all turned brown. Only the cinch bugs and the weeds flourished. We decided it was time to take action and reconfigure the backyard completely - less lawn, more plants (and plants of our choosing!), and to our way of thinking less watering and weeding.
The new yard is spectacular, but we're learning that it is as much work as it ever was. In fact, I think it's more work. I've never weeded as much in my life as I have this past month. We have bylaws in this town, and the landscapers couldn't spray before they laid down all that fresh sod and mulch, so anything with roots deeper than the six or eight inches they removed when they dug up the old lawn and beds remained. We see fewer dandelions and prickly things, but somewhere along the line someone planted some sort of Morning Glory-type plant that creeps along underground (from roots somewhere in China) and sends out shoots all over the fresh new sod and up through mulch that is a foot deep in places. The tenacity of this stuff astounds me. I routinely spend an hour out there yanking up every bit that I see, only to go outside the next day to find fresh vines of four or five inches. I pull every bit in sight, and when I get up to go inside I find more. I could almost swear it grows before my eyes, and that if I left it alone it would bury everything within a week!
Today while I was weeding I thought about weeds, and how they relate to life.
First of all, remember how Todd and I had dreams of less work in the new yard? The truth is, I'm not good at doing nothing - especially when I'm outdoors. So while I may like the idea of lazing in our lovely yard, I can't sit for more than fifteen minutes without wanting to jump up and yank up a few weeds or deadhead my spent flowers. I like knowing that I'm keeping the garden beautiful. We may dream of weed-free gardens and trouble-free lives, but those "weeds" and trials give us purpose. We may enjoy our leisure, but we need to feel useful.
Then, there's the way that "weeds" are so often a metaphor for things we don't want in our lives. They are the bad habits that seem so deeply rooted that they seem to grow back faster for all of our efforts to uproot them. They are like the negative relationships in our lives that we have trouble extricating ourselves from, and like the negative messages we hear and heed daily - even though they choke our growth as surely as that "mourning inglorious" stuff is choking the roots of my lavender.
Without a doubt, many of us seem to spend a disproportionate amount of our lives "weeding" - and sadly it is a necessity. It is unfair that the talents we have and the positive traits we'd like to nurture require so much effort to establish "roots", while those negative traits and influences in our lives live on no matter how often we douse them in vinegar (like those ever-present weeds in the lawn) - but it's a sad reality that we all need to live with. The "garden of life" requires constant weeding and watering to bear fruit.
Still, if we look at weeds in terms of their sheer stubborn "sticktoitiveness" we have to afford them some grudging admiration. If I was more "weed-like" I certainly would have more accomplishments and skills to my credit. I mean, those weeds just plain don't listen when I tell them where they shouldn't grow! If my talents were anything like that persistent they'd thrive no matter how much discouragement they felt.
Thus, in this post I pay homage to the lowly weed - bane of my existence, but still to be admired.
Behold the Weed! (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg - June 2, 2007)
A weed's a plant that grows where it should not,
and uninvited, propagates - a lot!
It roots itself with great tenacity -
determined to stay where it shouldn't be.
But what is planted, on the other hand,
puts rather timid roots into the land -
and although chosen for a certain spot,
is temperamental and seems prone to rot.
Thus I have come to grudgingly admire
a myriad of plants I don't desire.
They're certainly unwanted, but hold fast -
and seed themselves so they'll forever last.
It seems our good intentions would succeed -
if we were as committed as the weed!
For eight years I added plants and moved plants and thinned out plants. And I weeded - endlessly. Some years it looked pretty nice out there, but other years I chose plants that didn't work, or I didn't water enough or the weeds just grew faster than I could pull them up. Last year the yard looked dismal. I was in and out of town all summer long and Todd was too busy to pull weeds. We had a serious summer drought, and the lawn and the plants all turned brown. Only the cinch bugs and the weeds flourished. We decided it was time to take action and reconfigure the backyard completely - less lawn, more plants (and plants of our choosing!), and to our way of thinking less watering and weeding.
The new yard is spectacular, but we're learning that it is as much work as it ever was. In fact, I think it's more work. I've never weeded as much in my life as I have this past month. We have bylaws in this town, and the landscapers couldn't spray before they laid down all that fresh sod and mulch, so anything with roots deeper than the six or eight inches they removed when they dug up the old lawn and beds remained. We see fewer dandelions and prickly things, but somewhere along the line someone planted some sort of Morning Glory-type plant that creeps along underground (from roots somewhere in China) and sends out shoots all over the fresh new sod and up through mulch that is a foot deep in places. The tenacity of this stuff astounds me. I routinely spend an hour out there yanking up every bit that I see, only to go outside the next day to find fresh vines of four or five inches. I pull every bit in sight, and when I get up to go inside I find more. I could almost swear it grows before my eyes, and that if I left it alone it would bury everything within a week!
Today while I was weeding I thought about weeds, and how they relate to life.
First of all, remember how Todd and I had dreams of less work in the new yard? The truth is, I'm not good at doing nothing - especially when I'm outdoors. So while I may like the idea of lazing in our lovely yard, I can't sit for more than fifteen minutes without wanting to jump up and yank up a few weeds or deadhead my spent flowers. I like knowing that I'm keeping the garden beautiful. We may dream of weed-free gardens and trouble-free lives, but those "weeds" and trials give us purpose. We may enjoy our leisure, but we need to feel useful.
Then, there's the way that "weeds" are so often a metaphor for things we don't want in our lives. They are the bad habits that seem so deeply rooted that they seem to grow back faster for all of our efforts to uproot them. They are like the negative relationships in our lives that we have trouble extricating ourselves from, and like the negative messages we hear and heed daily - even though they choke our growth as surely as that "mourning inglorious" stuff is choking the roots of my lavender.
Without a doubt, many of us seem to spend a disproportionate amount of our lives "weeding" - and sadly it is a necessity. It is unfair that the talents we have and the positive traits we'd like to nurture require so much effort to establish "roots", while those negative traits and influences in our lives live on no matter how often we douse them in vinegar (like those ever-present weeds in the lawn) - but it's a sad reality that we all need to live with. The "garden of life" requires constant weeding and watering to bear fruit.
Still, if we look at weeds in terms of their sheer stubborn "sticktoitiveness" we have to afford them some grudging admiration. If I was more "weed-like" I certainly would have more accomplishments and skills to my credit. I mean, those weeds just plain don't listen when I tell them where they shouldn't grow! If my talents were anything like that persistent they'd thrive no matter how much discouragement they felt.
Thus, in this post I pay homage to the lowly weed - bane of my existence, but still to be admired.
Behold the Weed! (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg - June 2, 2007)
A weed's a plant that grows where it should not,
and uninvited, propagates - a lot!
It roots itself with great tenacity -
determined to stay where it shouldn't be.
But what is planted, on the other hand,
puts rather timid roots into the land -
and although chosen for a certain spot,
is temperamental and seems prone to rot.
Thus I have come to grudgingly admire
a myriad of plants I don't desire.
They're certainly unwanted, but hold fast -
and seed themselves so they'll forever last.
It seems our good intentions would succeed -
if we were as committed as the weed!
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