Yesterday, Today, Tomorrow:
History lessons are hard to ignore -
it's hard to not dwell on what happened before,
but yesterday's folly's forgotten today.
All is forgiven; just choose a new way.
The past is behind you, it's time to move on.
Tomorrow's not here yet and yesterday's gone.
Youthful and foolish, you took a wrong turn.
Don't get discouraged - it's your day to learn.
The side trips and detours not planned on your route
have left you confused and have filled you with doubt -
but the plans you once made - they were not etched in stone,
and you'll cherish excursions you took on your own.
Today is the day you will struggle and fight -
you'll make some mistakes, but you'll get some things right.
Today you will reach - and perhaps you will fall,
but even with bruises you'll learn to stand tall.
Tomorrow you'll look back through much kinder eyes
forgiving the folly and choices less wise.
Tomorrow comes quickly, and when youth is gone,
with wisdom and mercy you'll see where you shone.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg - (from the unfinished files - completed March 2016)
Several weeks ago I posted an update on Facebook wherein I asked if anyone else ever wondered if they were even more insufferable in youth than they thought they were. Several people hit the like button, and a few made comments. Oddly, those who commented were people I have only good memories of - people who didn't seem insufferable to me in the slightest.
I've wondered a lot over the years about how I was perceived in my youth. I wasn't a rebel in any conventional sense. (Even in my youthful opinion, rules were important.) I was seldom overtly disrespectful or mean spirited, but there was often a tinge of resentful defiance in my choices. By my own admission, I was often guilty of demonstrating a negative attitude. I wasn't very comfortable in my own skin, and I tried very hard (waaay too hard!) to mask the fact. Sometimes I suspect that presented myself as a confusing mess of a portrait - a Picasso trying to pass as a Renoir.
I know I was a silly girl at times. Sometimes I wasted way too much time thinking about silly things and sometimes I engaged in petty squabbles with other silly young people. Sometimes I laughed at other people's oddities, ignoring the fact that I had plenty of my own. Other times, I laughed too hard at my own lame jokes - I was prone to nervous giggles, especially when I felt that I was facing those who dismissed me as nothing but a silly girl.
The truth is, I wasn't always silly. There were plenty of times when I laughed simply because it was a safer choice than crying. Actually, I was a very sensitive and serious girl who continually battled with self esteem issues. I never felt that I was pretty enough, good enough or smart enough. I compared myself to everyone I met, and most of the time I felt that my own light dimmed in comparison. I didn't like myself much a lot of the time, and it's hard to face life with a positive outlook when you harbour so much self doubt.
I was the girl who felt oddly detached at social functions, watching everyone around me have fun and wondering why playing the social butterfly was such a stretch for me. I was an introvert who tried too hard to be what I wasn't. I really wanted people to like me.
As I've aged I've tried to look back on my young self with more compassion. Now I can see things about younger me that I admire. I can see how shy, introverted people often felt at ease with me, and how many people felt that I was a safe person to share confidences with. Now I'm proud of the fact that the socially awkward "nerdy" guys always knew I'd talk to them and dance with them. I'm heartened that my younger self never worried about whether my friends all had slim bodies, perfect hair or awesome fashion sense. I'm grateful that my silliness never gave way to that kind of shallowness. (I once had an acquaintance chastise me for having (as she put it) "homely" friends. Even at the time her attitude astounded me, but thirty years later I'm still grateful that I used that as an opportunity to remind her that the most important part of anyone isn't the part that we see, and told her how much I admired the very fine people I was fortunate to call friends.)
Once I encountered a friend from my youth who told me she'd always remembered me as being kind. I hope that that compliment still fits, because I think it's the best praise I've ever received.
I'm trying harder to be kind to myself - the person I am now, and the person I was then. None of us are perfect. We all say and do stupid things and make bad choices from time to time. It's easier to be critical than it is to praise - and for many of us that's doubly true when it comes to ourselves. I don't beat myself up anymore for being silly when I was young, or for trying too hard to fit into the mold that I thought defined popularity and desirability. I've forgiven youthful me for being a little standoffish at times and giving in to jealousy more often than I should have. I've learned a lot - and I'm learning a lot now.
I still laugh too hard sometimes, but my outbursts of maniacal laughter have become balanced more often by free flowing tears. I'm not quite as afraid of looking vulnerable as I used to be. The emotions I express now are a lot more about satisfying me than they are about anyone or anything else. You don't need to get the joke or laugh when I do - you just need to respect my need to laugh. You don't need to share my tears, or even understand why I cry. Understanding and relating can be over-rated. You only need to let me feel whatever I feel. After all, I don't always feel the same way "young me" did, but I've found a way to love her anyway.
If you are still young - which to me means under thirty - and you're reading this post, take heart. Life really does get easier when you begin to accept the person you are, as opposed to trying to force yourself to be something else. Embrace the fact that you'll make a lot of mistakes over the next while - and that's okay. Be grateful for the fact that most of your big falls will be behind you before your bones get too brittle to mend well. Keep your eyes open when detours take you off the route you've planned, or you might miss some of the best scenery out there. Conversely, you may also miss some of the biggest perils - either way it's best to be alert. Try to like yourself now, in all your imperfect glory. You're probably a lot better at most things than you give yourself credit for. Believe me when I tell you that you'll improve with age - if that's what you want to do.
If you're roughly at the same stage in life as me, and you're reading this post - I hope you've reached a place where you can look back on your earlier incarnations generously. Sometimes you probably were insufferable, but you certainly weren't alone in making ignorant mistakes and demonstrating a few youthful quirks and foibles while you were finding yourself. You probably feel, as I do, that you wasted a lot of time on silly and mundane concerns when you were young and energetic - don't sweat it. Just keep igniting whatever bit of spark you still have in your soul, because by now you've probably got a decent grasp on what candles need to be lit. I hope you are kind to yourself, and that you give yourself permission to feel what you feel. Now that you've become aware of how quickly the days pass, try harder to live every moment more fully - and more joyfully. Spend more time in the present than revisiting the past or planning for the future.
If you're older than me, I hope you read this and think, "Ha - does she ever have a lot to learn!" Because if you're thinking that, it's proof to me that every day gives me another chance to get it right and grow wiser. It's comforting to know that I'm nowhere near my maximum potential yet.
Be kind to yourself, whatever stage of life you're in. Chances are, you're better and stronger than you were yesterday, and that bodes well for tomorrow.
Friday, 18 March 2016
Sunday, 28 February 2016
You Don't Deserve This - By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
January, 17, 2010:
To claim this earthquake consequence
seems most devoid of common sense -
I can't believe that God would kill
a people who've done little ill.
Where hurricanes and earthquakes slay
the people don't deserve to pay
while other nations, more corrupt
see no disasters there erupt.
But smugness might occur, it's true
when horrors are not rained on you,
and to your small, judgmental mind
there's cause to what befalls mankind.
And yes, at times it seems that fate
sends misery to those who hate,
but in this case, it must be said,
so many of the hopeless dead
were likewise without hope in life -
impoverished and born to strife.
They battled hunger and disease,
and you, one who enjoys such ease,
can blithely say they earned their plight?
Your heart, and reckoning aren't right.
God did not cause their land to quake.
Your ignorance makes my heart ache.
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
I remember my outrage when a man in my church congregation stood up and said that the devastating earthquake in Haiti was just another sign of the times, and that God was making good on his promise to cleanse the earth of wickedness before Jesus returned. I wanted to stand up and shout, "How dare you stand there in your nice suit, surrounded by your healthy family and even imply that the people of Haiti deserved this fate!"
I wanted to smack him up the side of the head. But then I looked around, and when I noticed how few had been paying attention to his words, it dawned on me, all at once, that perhaps it isn't so much the rhetoric of fools that is so damaging to society today, but the complacency of those who should be paying attention, and aren't.
So instead of giving in to my anger, I turned over my printed meeting program, grabbed a pencil out of my purse and wrote a poem. Perhaps the pen (or in this case, pencil) really is mightier than the sword. As I wrote I began to feel better - my anger at his words began to abate, and I actually began to feel sorry for him - the speaker of the thoughtless, stupid words that had so enraged me - and thus the last two lines appeared in my printing, almost of their own volition.
Compassion is a difficult concept to grasp, and an even more complicated practice to master.
Blame, on the other hand, is easy. It's easy to think, when a forty year, three pack-a-day smoker dies of cancer, "Well, he kinda deserved it." We might've really liked the guy, but we can explain away his death, and even justify it to ourselves, as the death that he deserved - a suitable consequence for a bad choice he made in life.
We can even take our smugness to the next level, and console ourselves that we'll never suffer a similar fate - after all, our choices were better and therefore we'll die painlessly, in our sleep, at the age of ninety-five.
But what happens to all of our Calvinistic reasoning when the unthinkable happens and we find out that sometimes we all can fall victim to disease, circumstance and tragedy? Some, I know, will continue in their relentless pursuit of a "reasonable" explanation. Some might remember small things that they did or said and begin to tell themselves that they actually did deserve to get sick, or be raped, or have their house burned down. Maybe they wore a skirt that incited the attack...maybe they cared too much about their nice house and had to be "brought down a peg or two." Maybe their eating habits were just too unhealthy....
"Yup," they'll say, "if this is happening to me then I must deserve it somehow".
Others will bypass the idea of reasonable culpability and try to find a measure of comfort in the notion that if it doesn't kill them it will make them stronger. They'll concentrate on what they "need to learn" from this horrific experience, and in the process continue to subtly blame themselves - the victims.
I'm going to counter some of this negative thinking by reiterating two of my firmest beliefs:
1) Life isn't fair.
2) We learn when we want to learn.
Harold Kushner made me begin to question my naive notions about life being fair when I first read his book When Bad Things Happen to Good People in my late-twenties. I know I've mentioned this book before, but as far as I'm concerned, it should be mandatory reading for all in the entitled first world. To sum it up, people do not always get what they deserve out of life. There isn't, as Kushner put it, "a cosmic vending machine" that rewards us with blessings for every good deed, good choice, or act of kindness that we perform. God cannot give us free will, and then intervene every single time another person's choice has negative consequences for us. And we can't expect that just because we were good and nice most of our lives the universe will reward us with a bill of good health and a hefty bank account. A lot of what happens occurs randomly - there is no real reason why it happened now, or to us. It just did.
S--t happens.
It's understandable that as rational beings we want to find ways to explain away both the bad things, and the good things, that happen to us. We want to believe that our affluence is a reward for hard work and good living, and that if our trials aren't actually deserved somehow, then at least they'll teach us invaluable lessons. "Some good must come out of this," we try to convince ourselves.
But let's go back to Haiti. Did those people deserve lives of poverty? Do poor Haitian children deserve to eat "dirt cookies" while North American children waste nutritional food in favour of gorging on Oreos? Did they deserve to have their humble homes decimated by an earthquake? I refuse to try and rationalize it - or to accept that it was part of an advance plan made by a loving deity.
What lessons did they learn from watching their loved ones die? In a climate where people live in poverty and see the ravages of disease daily, I think they probably understood the value in treasuring those they held dear. What did they learn from suddenly having no shelter? They already knew that the sun is hot - that's why they built roofs to provide shade. They learned that they needed stronger houses (which likely wasn't news to them). How useful is that knowledge anyway, when they don't have the means to build with bricks and steel?
No - I don't believe this sort of tragedy teaches anything new to those who suffer through it, and I don't believe any God would find such a cruel way to reinforce knowledge already gained.
What about the sexual assault victims that we read about right now - prominent in the news because the accused offenders are charismatic celebrities? Do you believe these women"deserved" to be drugged and raped, beaten and choked? Do they deserve to hear that they wanted the "attention" they got, or to daily face ridicule by those who claim that they're (at best) media whores looking to grab five minutes of fame by dragging the reputations of famous men through the muck?
What invaluable lessons will any of these victims learn from the misery they've experienced? Sadly, with the victim blaming mentality that pervades our legal system, they'll only have their preexisting knowledge reinforced, namely that it would have been easier to not speak up, and to leave their attacker free to prey on others.
It is true, that we often emerge stronger for having suffered along the way, but it's simplistic, and a bit self-defeating, to hold to the notion that growth is impossible without misery. I believe that it isn't the tragic circumstance itself that shapes us, but the humility we gain by knowing that such things can happen to us. We learn and grow when we work our way through difficulties because we, in our humbled state, want to learn.
And this is where I'm going to say something that might shock a few people. We don't need horrible things to happen in our lives in order to be humble enough to accept the notion that we might still have huge lessons to learn. We don't actually need to touch the burner ourselves to understand how much it hurt our brother when he touched it. (And we cried when he did, because we didn't like to see him hurt.)
I once had a friend tell me I didn't know much about life. After all, I'd always been a Goody Two-shoes type who'd never tried anything. From where she was standing, my life looked pretty free of traumatic experiences and tragedies. And I won't deny that she was right - in many ways I've been fortunate. But, I explained to her, I had a lot of people in my life, including her, who had suffered through all kinds of experiences and tragedies. I didn't need to stick my hand in the fire to know it was hot - I saw the scars it left on her. We don't all have to learn through personal experience. It isn't necessarily the misery we personally experience that helps us become better people, but our refusal to stand by complacently and tell ourselves that we'll never walk in their shoes; we're better than they are, and thus more entitled to rewards in life by virtue of our stellar choices.
I believe that character isn't built based on what we've suffered, but on whether we learned to show compassion to those whose suffering we witnessed. We don't need to go to jail to learn compassion for criminals - we just need to be humble enough to admit that had the circumstances in our own lives varied slightly, we could be the one on the other side of the bars. When we can see ourselves as the flawed beings we are, we can see just how much more we have to learn. And when we embrace our ignorance we can look to the universe and say, "Teach me. I'm ready to learn now. Don't let me live life so complacently that it takes a disaster to teach me humanity."
We can become humble enough to want to learn even when our lives are running smoothly and there doesn't seem to be a disaster in sight.
I think it all starts with compassion. When we can accept that horrible things just happen, without wasting our energy trying to find ways to reason these miseries into some kind of justification, we free up more of our energy to feel empathy, and when we feel empathy we'll help each other learn and grow by simply being there to support each other, long before the misery starts.
Next time you see somebody suffering, abandon the search for reasonable explanations. Stifle any desire you might have to assess how deserving of this fate they may be. Reject all of the pat platitudes about how much they'll learn and grow from the tragedy they face. If you want to say something to comfort, you might start with four simple words:
You don't deserve this.
To claim this earthquake consequence
seems most devoid of common sense -
I can't believe that God would kill
a people who've done little ill.
Where hurricanes and earthquakes slay
the people don't deserve to pay
while other nations, more corrupt
see no disasters there erupt.
But smugness might occur, it's true
when horrors are not rained on you,
and to your small, judgmental mind
there's cause to what befalls mankind.
And yes, at times it seems that fate
sends misery to those who hate,
but in this case, it must be said,
so many of the hopeless dead
were likewise without hope in life -
impoverished and born to strife.
They battled hunger and disease,
and you, one who enjoys such ease,
can blithely say they earned their plight?
Your heart, and reckoning aren't right.
God did not cause their land to quake.
Your ignorance makes my heart ache.
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
I remember my outrage when a man in my church congregation stood up and said that the devastating earthquake in Haiti was just another sign of the times, and that God was making good on his promise to cleanse the earth of wickedness before Jesus returned. I wanted to stand up and shout, "How dare you stand there in your nice suit, surrounded by your healthy family and even imply that the people of Haiti deserved this fate!"
I wanted to smack him up the side of the head. But then I looked around, and when I noticed how few had been paying attention to his words, it dawned on me, all at once, that perhaps it isn't so much the rhetoric of fools that is so damaging to society today, but the complacency of those who should be paying attention, and aren't.
So instead of giving in to my anger, I turned over my printed meeting program, grabbed a pencil out of my purse and wrote a poem. Perhaps the pen (or in this case, pencil) really is mightier than the sword. As I wrote I began to feel better - my anger at his words began to abate, and I actually began to feel sorry for him - the speaker of the thoughtless, stupid words that had so enraged me - and thus the last two lines appeared in my printing, almost of their own volition.
Compassion is a difficult concept to grasp, and an even more complicated practice to master.
Blame, on the other hand, is easy. It's easy to think, when a forty year, three pack-a-day smoker dies of cancer, "Well, he kinda deserved it." We might've really liked the guy, but we can explain away his death, and even justify it to ourselves, as the death that he deserved - a suitable consequence for a bad choice he made in life.
We can even take our smugness to the next level, and console ourselves that we'll never suffer a similar fate - after all, our choices were better and therefore we'll die painlessly, in our sleep, at the age of ninety-five.
But what happens to all of our Calvinistic reasoning when the unthinkable happens and we find out that sometimes we all can fall victim to disease, circumstance and tragedy? Some, I know, will continue in their relentless pursuit of a "reasonable" explanation. Some might remember small things that they did or said and begin to tell themselves that they actually did deserve to get sick, or be raped, or have their house burned down. Maybe they wore a skirt that incited the attack...maybe they cared too much about their nice house and had to be "brought down a peg or two." Maybe their eating habits were just too unhealthy....
"Yup," they'll say, "if this is happening to me then I must deserve it somehow".
Others will bypass the idea of reasonable culpability and try to find a measure of comfort in the notion that if it doesn't kill them it will make them stronger. They'll concentrate on what they "need to learn" from this horrific experience, and in the process continue to subtly blame themselves - the victims.
I'm going to counter some of this negative thinking by reiterating two of my firmest beliefs:
1) Life isn't fair.
2) We learn when we want to learn.
Harold Kushner made me begin to question my naive notions about life being fair when I first read his book When Bad Things Happen to Good People in my late-twenties. I know I've mentioned this book before, but as far as I'm concerned, it should be mandatory reading for all in the entitled first world. To sum it up, people do not always get what they deserve out of life. There isn't, as Kushner put it, "a cosmic vending machine" that rewards us with blessings for every good deed, good choice, or act of kindness that we perform. God cannot give us free will, and then intervene every single time another person's choice has negative consequences for us. And we can't expect that just because we were good and nice most of our lives the universe will reward us with a bill of good health and a hefty bank account. A lot of what happens occurs randomly - there is no real reason why it happened now, or to us. It just did.
S--t happens.
It's understandable that as rational beings we want to find ways to explain away both the bad things, and the good things, that happen to us. We want to believe that our affluence is a reward for hard work and good living, and that if our trials aren't actually deserved somehow, then at least they'll teach us invaluable lessons. "Some good must come out of this," we try to convince ourselves.
But let's go back to Haiti. Did those people deserve lives of poverty? Do poor Haitian children deserve to eat "dirt cookies" while North American children waste nutritional food in favour of gorging on Oreos? Did they deserve to have their humble homes decimated by an earthquake? I refuse to try and rationalize it - or to accept that it was part of an advance plan made by a loving deity.
What lessons did they learn from watching their loved ones die? In a climate where people live in poverty and see the ravages of disease daily, I think they probably understood the value in treasuring those they held dear. What did they learn from suddenly having no shelter? They already knew that the sun is hot - that's why they built roofs to provide shade. They learned that they needed stronger houses (which likely wasn't news to them). How useful is that knowledge anyway, when they don't have the means to build with bricks and steel?
No - I don't believe this sort of tragedy teaches anything new to those who suffer through it, and I don't believe any God would find such a cruel way to reinforce knowledge already gained.
What about the sexual assault victims that we read about right now - prominent in the news because the accused offenders are charismatic celebrities? Do you believe these women"deserved" to be drugged and raped, beaten and choked? Do they deserve to hear that they wanted the "attention" they got, or to daily face ridicule by those who claim that they're (at best) media whores looking to grab five minutes of fame by dragging the reputations of famous men through the muck?
What invaluable lessons will any of these victims learn from the misery they've experienced? Sadly, with the victim blaming mentality that pervades our legal system, they'll only have their preexisting knowledge reinforced, namely that it would have been easier to not speak up, and to leave their attacker free to prey on others.
It is true, that we often emerge stronger for having suffered along the way, but it's simplistic, and a bit self-defeating, to hold to the notion that growth is impossible without misery. I believe that it isn't the tragic circumstance itself that shapes us, but the humility we gain by knowing that such things can happen to us. We learn and grow when we work our way through difficulties because we, in our humbled state, want to learn.
And this is where I'm going to say something that might shock a few people. We don't need horrible things to happen in our lives in order to be humble enough to accept the notion that we might still have huge lessons to learn. We don't actually need to touch the burner ourselves to understand how much it hurt our brother when he touched it. (And we cried when he did, because we didn't like to see him hurt.)
I once had a friend tell me I didn't know much about life. After all, I'd always been a Goody Two-shoes type who'd never tried anything. From where she was standing, my life looked pretty free of traumatic experiences and tragedies. And I won't deny that she was right - in many ways I've been fortunate. But, I explained to her, I had a lot of people in my life, including her, who had suffered through all kinds of experiences and tragedies. I didn't need to stick my hand in the fire to know it was hot - I saw the scars it left on her. We don't all have to learn through personal experience. It isn't necessarily the misery we personally experience that helps us become better people, but our refusal to stand by complacently and tell ourselves that we'll never walk in their shoes; we're better than they are, and thus more entitled to rewards in life by virtue of our stellar choices.
I believe that character isn't built based on what we've suffered, but on whether we learned to show compassion to those whose suffering we witnessed. We don't need to go to jail to learn compassion for criminals - we just need to be humble enough to admit that had the circumstances in our own lives varied slightly, we could be the one on the other side of the bars. When we can see ourselves as the flawed beings we are, we can see just how much more we have to learn. And when we embrace our ignorance we can look to the universe and say, "Teach me. I'm ready to learn now. Don't let me live life so complacently that it takes a disaster to teach me humanity."
We can become humble enough to want to learn even when our lives are running smoothly and there doesn't seem to be a disaster in sight.
I think it all starts with compassion. When we can accept that horrible things just happen, without wasting our energy trying to find ways to reason these miseries into some kind of justification, we free up more of our energy to feel empathy, and when we feel empathy we'll help each other learn and grow by simply being there to support each other, long before the misery starts.
Next time you see somebody suffering, abandon the search for reasonable explanations. Stifle any desire you might have to assess how deserving of this fate they may be. Reject all of the pat platitudes about how much they'll learn and grow from the tragedy they face. If you want to say something to comfort, you might start with four simple words:
You don't deserve this.
Saturday, 13 February 2016
Flowery Speeches - and What that Floral Arrangement Might Be Saying - By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Sunday is Valentine's Day, and florists everywhere will be swamped with orders for red roses. Don't get me wrong - I think roses are pretty, and red is my favorite colour. It's just that red roses are somewhat trite. Men propose with red roses, they buy red roses for anniversaries and birthdays and graduations and...
That's okay - after all red roses symbolize love and enduring passion, so they have multiple expressive applications. However, there are other colours of roses out there - as well as a myriad of other flowers in the world, and they all have different meanings.
An avid cross stitcher in my youth, I once made a sampler that incorporated Victorian meanings of various flowers, and the subject has interested me since. While researching this subject pre-post, I found this lovely little verse (not my own) which describes the Victorian fascination with floral symbolism.
There is a language little known
Lovers claim it as their own.
Its symbols smile upon the land,
Wrought by nature's wonderous hand;
And in their silent beauty speak
Of life and joy to those who seek
For Love Divine and sunny hours
In the language of the flowers.
- The Language of Flowers, London, 1875
I wrote my own poem about this complex floral code a few years ago. (I've included a "key" at the end of this post that shows what each of the italicized flowers signified.) As you'll see, choosing the perfect bouquet took a little more planning in the Victorian era.
Flowery Speeches:
First came the daisies
that spoke of affection,
then a few pansies
showed thoughtful reflection.
snowdrops and bluebells
then came bound together
in hopes I'd be constant
through fair and foul weather.
Tulips soon followed,
his feelings declaring -
and then red roses,
for he was quite daring.
"Clover!" I pleaded,
"I'm modest and meek -
a bit of alyssum
is more what I seek.
White lilacs would help,
for your making me blush!
Red roses already?
Slow down! What's the rush?"
Then came the hyacinths,
he knew, I am sure -
just how much discomfort
I'd had to endure.
I sent back a poppy -
just to console him -
without the right bouquet
his chances would be slim.
While daisies are surely
a good place to start,
'tis violets and primrose
that win a girl's heart.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, June, 2010
A Rose is not a Rose!
Indeed those Victorian suitors had to think out their floral gifts carefully. This secret "language of flowers" proved that you couldn't send just any old rose to get a positive response from the object of your desire. A rose in full bloom meant one thing (mature love) and a rosebud meant another (youthful love). Even giving a gift of rose leaves held a secret message - "you may hope". The colour of the rose(s) sent was especially important. (This was equally true of other flowers too.) The floral colour code for roses was something like this:
- Red symbolized romantic love and enduring passion.
- White represented humility, purity and innocence.
- Yellow meant jealousy in Victorian times (but savvy modern florists have declared the new meaning to be friendship.) After all, who'd want to proclaim their jealousy, or belief that their beloved is jealous? Sounds like a really bad idea to me. So good for you, florists, for the clever re-branding.
- Pale Pink symbolized grace and gentleness, while darker hues were used to convey gratitude and appreciation.
- Orange roses represented enthusiasm and desire. (Only a daring suitor would've sent these!)
- Purple represented enchantment and love at first sight.
Beware of the Following!
The (little bit) of research into the subject I've done seems to indicate that yellow flowers didn't tend to come with very complimentary meanings. Yellow lilies meant falsehood and giddiness. Yellow carnations symbolized rejection. Marigolds meant cruelty, grief and jealousy. Yellow chrysanthemums represented slighted love, and as with roses, a yellow hyacinth signified jealousy. And while we now see daffodils as cheerful spring flowers, they used to represent egotism, vanity and lies.
Receiving a striped carnation from your lover was never a good sign, as it meant "I can't be with you." (Another woman? His parents don't approve? Or did he merely mean he wasn't going to show up for tonight's planned social event? Those Victorian ladies would have to do a bit of sleuthing to figure out exactly what message was intended when that flower was given at that particular time.)
A posy of orange lilies was pretty insulting - they represented hate, disdain and pride. A bouquet of burdock meant he found you "inopportune" or boring, while a gift of hydrangeas meant he was indifferent, or found you cold or vain. Getting petunias wasn't a good thing either - they signified resentment. As for stink weed, I found no references to it, but I'm guessing it would send a fairly clear message to the recipient.
Might I Suggest...?
Okay - so it's Valentine's Day (or your anniversary or his/her birthday or - insert floral gift-giving occasion here) and you want to send flowers, but I've convinced you that roses are a bit overdone. What do you do? Here are a few creative suggestions:
Camellias mean steadfastness and excellence. (And they're pretty like roses, but more underused.)
Peonies (which are hard to kill in gardens around here, and thus easily and cheaply obtained in season) symbolize healing, a happy life and a happy marriage.
Tulips tend to mean the same things as the corresponding colour of roses these days - except that pinks represent happiness and confidence, and purple tulips mean you see her/him as "your queen/king."
Freesias signify trust.
Irises represent faith, wisdom, value and friendship.
Go to a garden store and pick up some arbutus as a romantic gesture (it means, "I love only thee"), or a clematis, which shows you admire his/her creativity and liveliness. Plant some geraniums together to represent the hardships you've surpassed - or some ferns or purple lilacs as a precautionary measure - both signify protection.
I know if you're thinking of Valentine's Day arrangements a lot of these suggestions may not be readily available, and if you live in a cold climate you can't get out and do any planting today. Still, you can begin planning a garden that holds special significance for both of you. (A lot of trees, herbs and even edibles have symbolic meanings too.) Study the language of flowers and decide what plants you might like to put on your windowsill or plant in the spring.
Feeling really creative? Skip the flowers and give a bouquet of bamboo (strength and loyalty), cat tails (peace and prosperity) and moss (maternal love and charity).
Or forget about bouquets of any kind, and just share some nice garlicky spaghetti together. Garlic represents courage and strength - two qualities that are needed in abundance in any lasting relationship.
(I wonder what the cocoa bean represents? Now I crave chocolate.) Forget the flowers altogether and buy your significant other some Lindor.
Happy Valentine's Day!
P. S - Here's the "key" to my poem.
Daisies - innocence, purity; affection
Pansies - thoughtfulness; reflection
Snowdrops - hope
Bluebells - constancy
Tulips - declared love
Red Roses - enduring or passionate love
Clover - "Think of me"
Alyssum - worth beyond beauty
Lilacs (white) - modesty; youthful innocence
Purple Hyacinths - "I'm sorry"; "Please forgive me"
Poppies (white) - consolation (Red or orange poppies represent peace, eternal sleep and remembrance)
Violets - faithfulness
Primrose - Lasting love, "I can't live without you."
That's okay - after all red roses symbolize love and enduring passion, so they have multiple expressive applications. However, there are other colours of roses out there - as well as a myriad of other flowers in the world, and they all have different meanings.
An avid cross stitcher in my youth, I once made a sampler that incorporated Victorian meanings of various flowers, and the subject has interested me since. While researching this subject pre-post, I found this lovely little verse (not my own) which describes the Victorian fascination with floral symbolism.
There is a language little known
Lovers claim it as their own.
Its symbols smile upon the land,
Wrought by nature's wonderous hand;
And in their silent beauty speak
Of life and joy to those who seek
For Love Divine and sunny hours
In the language of the flowers.
- The Language of Flowers, London, 1875
I wrote my own poem about this complex floral code a few years ago. (I've included a "key" at the end of this post that shows what each of the italicized flowers signified.) As you'll see, choosing the perfect bouquet took a little more planning in the Victorian era.
Flowery Speeches:
First came the daisies
that spoke of affection,
then a few pansies
showed thoughtful reflection.
snowdrops and bluebells
then came bound together
in hopes I'd be constant
through fair and foul weather.
Tulips soon followed,
his feelings declaring -
and then red roses,
for he was quite daring.
"Clover!" I pleaded,
"I'm modest and meek -
a bit of alyssum
is more what I seek.
White lilacs would help,
for your making me blush!
Red roses already?
Slow down! What's the rush?"
Then came the hyacinths,
he knew, I am sure -
just how much discomfort
I'd had to endure.
I sent back a poppy -
just to console him -
without the right bouquet
his chances would be slim.
While daisies are surely
a good place to start,
'tis violets and primrose
that win a girl's heart.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, June, 2010
A Rose is not a Rose!
Indeed those Victorian suitors had to think out their floral gifts carefully. This secret "language of flowers" proved that you couldn't send just any old rose to get a positive response from the object of your desire. A rose in full bloom meant one thing (mature love) and a rosebud meant another (youthful love). Even giving a gift of rose leaves held a secret message - "you may hope". The colour of the rose(s) sent was especially important. (This was equally true of other flowers too.) The floral colour code for roses was something like this:
- Red symbolized romantic love and enduring passion.
- White represented humility, purity and innocence.
- Yellow meant jealousy in Victorian times (but savvy modern florists have declared the new meaning to be friendship.) After all, who'd want to proclaim their jealousy, or belief that their beloved is jealous? Sounds like a really bad idea to me. So good for you, florists, for the clever re-branding.
- Pale Pink symbolized grace and gentleness, while darker hues were used to convey gratitude and appreciation.
- Orange roses represented enthusiasm and desire. (Only a daring suitor would've sent these!)
- Purple represented enchantment and love at first sight.
Beware of the Following!
The (little bit) of research into the subject I've done seems to indicate that yellow flowers didn't tend to come with very complimentary meanings. Yellow lilies meant falsehood and giddiness. Yellow carnations symbolized rejection. Marigolds meant cruelty, grief and jealousy. Yellow chrysanthemums represented slighted love, and as with roses, a yellow hyacinth signified jealousy. And while we now see daffodils as cheerful spring flowers, they used to represent egotism, vanity and lies.
Receiving a striped carnation from your lover was never a good sign, as it meant "I can't be with you." (Another woman? His parents don't approve? Or did he merely mean he wasn't going to show up for tonight's planned social event? Those Victorian ladies would have to do a bit of sleuthing to figure out exactly what message was intended when that flower was given at that particular time.)
A posy of orange lilies was pretty insulting - they represented hate, disdain and pride. A bouquet of burdock meant he found you "inopportune" or boring, while a gift of hydrangeas meant he was indifferent, or found you cold or vain. Getting petunias wasn't a good thing either - they signified resentment. As for stink weed, I found no references to it, but I'm guessing it would send a fairly clear message to the recipient.
Might I Suggest...?
Okay - so it's Valentine's Day (or your anniversary or his/her birthday or - insert floral gift-giving occasion here) and you want to send flowers, but I've convinced you that roses are a bit overdone. What do you do? Here are a few creative suggestions:
Camellias mean steadfastness and excellence. (And they're pretty like roses, but more underused.)
Peonies (which are hard to kill in gardens around here, and thus easily and cheaply obtained in season) symbolize healing, a happy life and a happy marriage.
Tulips tend to mean the same things as the corresponding colour of roses these days - except that pinks represent happiness and confidence, and purple tulips mean you see her/him as "your queen/king."
Freesias signify trust.
Irises represent faith, wisdom, value and friendship.
Go to a garden store and pick up some arbutus as a romantic gesture (it means, "I love only thee"), or a clematis, which shows you admire his/her creativity and liveliness. Plant some geraniums together to represent the hardships you've surpassed - or some ferns or purple lilacs as a precautionary measure - both signify protection.
I know if you're thinking of Valentine's Day arrangements a lot of these suggestions may not be readily available, and if you live in a cold climate you can't get out and do any planting today. Still, you can begin planning a garden that holds special significance for both of you. (A lot of trees, herbs and even edibles have symbolic meanings too.) Study the language of flowers and decide what plants you might like to put on your windowsill or plant in the spring.
Feeling really creative? Skip the flowers and give a bouquet of bamboo (strength and loyalty), cat tails (peace and prosperity) and moss (maternal love and charity).
Or forget about bouquets of any kind, and just share some nice garlicky spaghetti together. Garlic represents courage and strength - two qualities that are needed in abundance in any lasting relationship.
(I wonder what the cocoa bean represents? Now I crave chocolate.) Forget the flowers altogether and buy your significant other some Lindor.
Happy Valentine's Day!
P. S - Here's the "key" to my poem.
Daisies - innocence, purity; affection
Pansies - thoughtfulness; reflection
Snowdrops - hope
Bluebells - constancy
Tulips - declared love
Red Roses - enduring or passionate love
Clover - "Think of me"
Alyssum - worth beyond beauty
Lilacs (white) - modesty; youthful innocence
Purple Hyacinths - "I'm sorry"; "Please forgive me"
Poppies (white) - consolation (Red or orange poppies represent peace, eternal sleep and remembrance)
Violets - faithfulness
Primrose - Lasting love, "I can't live without you."
Tuesday, 2 February 2016
Don't be a Dunce: Think Twice, Write Once - By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Think Before You Ink!
Unless you have a cupboard
secured by lock and key
to hide away your private notes
where no one else can see,
chances are the words you pen
at some point will be read -
maybe not while you're alive,
but likely once you're dead.
Thus I'll offer some advice
before you take up quill -
there are things you ought not write;
some thoughts you shouldn't spill.
Don't write about your sex life
or document your lies.
Don't keep a list of all your sins
or people you despise.
Don't write hate mail to in-laws
or to celebrities.
(Or anything that makes your shrink
feel very ill at ease.)
Don't write about the laws you broke
(or those you'd like to break)
or punishment you might invoke -
consider what's at stake!
Try to maintain dignity,
the whole world need not know
the nasty places where you've let
your darkest musings go.
Think about who's apt to read
before too much is shared;
your privacy can't be regained
once private thoughts are bared.
So, before you write the tale
for everyone to see
consider how it might be viewed
by all posterity.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, January 27th, 2016
It was an email that sent Martha to prison a dozen years ago, and a few files that made Tricky Dick face impeachment about three decades earlier. Evidence that the written word can come back to haunt us is everywhere. Being careful about what I wrote was a concept that suddenly hit home for me when I was sixteen and entered my bedroom to see my older sister and her boyfriend reading my diary. Thankfully, it was one I'd written a few years earlier. By then even I knew that my adolescent self had written with a certain campy, melodramatic flair. One quote, in particular, that had said sister and boyfriend in stitches was, "I love him, I LOVE him, I LOVE HIM! But only as a friend!!!"
I'd be lying if I said I wasn't affronted by their perusal of my diary, but there was a praise seeking part of me that was highly gratified by the fact that they at least had the good sense to laugh in the right places. Besides, between the ages of eleven and thirteen I really didn't do anything too shameful, so nothing too damning would be brought to light by their reading of it. Still, the experience reminded me that I lived in a household with seven other people, and it taught me to be careful about expressing private thoughts in even a personal venue, because you just never knew who might read them someday.
I've got about twenty volumes of journals on my shelf that document my life pretty thoroughly, and yet there are thoughts and feelings and experiences that I've been careful about not fleshing out with any great detail within those books. I know that might make them a tad less interesting if my sons (or future grandchildren) ever decide to read them when I've gone, but it will save them a bit of embarrassment and perhaps keep my reputation intact.
I can't claim that I never wrote about those things, because I did. I just learned that it was even more cathartic to write those more "colourful" descriptions and musings on scrap paper - spew out the negativity, write the more questionable details - and then tear it all to shreds. My journals aren't exactly sanitized, and there will be some squirming if they're read, but I think my literary regurgitation elsewhere calmed them to the point where they'd at least get a PG rating, and I can live with that.
Technology has made journal writing (the old fashioned way, with pens and paper) practically obsolete. Now people express themselves, document their lives, and communicate with friends (and strangers) online. Some people write blogs that serve as a window into their lives and thoughts, and some record their lives in status updates and photographs posted on Facebook. I'm dismayed by how many of these postings demonstrate a lack of discernment on the part of the postee. Sometimes I cringe at the personal and private nature of things that many share without a moment's hesitation. At other times I marvel that some are so foolish that they risk their livelihood with unflattering postings about employers, while others post photographs that indicate crimes and indiscretions. Occasionally I notice postings that look like a cry for help from those apparently sinking under the weight of emotions that they don't know where else to share. How did we get to the point where too many people scream for attention online and deny the existence of problems and issues in real life?
I think that the concept of privacy has been weirdly misconstrued in our world. Those who show a lack of prudence by taking nude photos of themselves see nothing wrong with their actions, but are quick to cry foul when anyone exploits those images for gain. (To use a gun analogy, they've supplied the ammunition, but don't want anyone to actually shoot.) And that's part of the problem - privacy laws in our country are skewed toward the protection of assets, rather than preserving the honest to goodness privacy of any individual. I have to wonder how many people actually have a firm grasp on what is personal anymore. Have concepts like dignity become completely outmoded? Why does it seem so difficult for many to comprehend that the words (and images) they share can have far-reaching effects on their lives - and on the lives of those around them? The future is determined by the thoughts and feelings we express today.
Why does anyone need to know who we sleep with, what parties we go to, or where we are every hour of the day? Should we be so quick to share the details of the last spat we had with a friend or family member with the five hundred "friends" we have on Facebook? Should we be tweeting about the end of our relationship before we've had time to digest why it failed? Why do we need validation for every word we say and every choice we make? I'm no psychologist, but I've thought about this a lot and will share my theory. (I know some will disagree, and that's okay.)
I think we seek attention from seemingly anonymous audiences online because we've all become increasingly disconnected from the people closest to us. We've lost, or at the very least, we're losing the ability to communicate on a deep and personal level. It's harder to look someone in the eye and watch real, human emotional responses than it is to read the banal replies that show up in our news feed and count the emoticons that are posted when nobody knows how to find the right words to relieve our pain and frustration. We would rather strip naked for the world, (or at least all of our "followers") than confront our own fears and failures, and rationally do the work required to solve the problems in our lives and mend our damaged relationships. In short, we're all becoming afraid of intimacy, so we connect in very broad, impersonal ways. We text, we tweet; we update that status. We dump our immediate feelings on a voyeuristic audience, and we forget that fifteen minutes later we might feel very differently. We vent in haste, and if we repent at all, it's at leisure.
I'm not sure why so many people seem to forget that once something has been read, the reader can't unread it. Perhaps the immediacy of this technological age has made many less capable of discriminating between what should be shared and what shouldn't, and what they think or feel in the moment is broadcast before they've had that second thought. Perhaps the narcissism that's run rampant in the "selfie generation" has increased the need for immediate gratification - attention from the masses. We're kind of like my sixteen year old self - we know that we're allowing a violation of our privacy, but at the same time we want to see if the audience we're exposing our innermost feelings to will at least have the grace to laugh and cry in the right places - even if we have regrets later about allowing other people to read our personal thoughts.
I know that writing our thoughts and feelings down can be a very freeing and healing experience, but for the love of all that's good and sacred, just listen to one piece of advice from someone who's been writing things down from the time that computers occupied city blocks and printed out punch cards. Take time to consider your thoughts long and hard. Examine them from every angle, and consider who is apt to read them. Weigh your current mood - will you feel the same way an hour from now? Tomorrow? Next week? Is there any chance that you'll regret airing this message in the future? Once you've stopped to consider all of these factors and decided that what you have to say really matters (to you, at least), then, (and only then), you can write it, type it or tweet it.
Once it's "out there" - recorded in that journal for posterity - or (especially) in cyberspace for all to see, there's no taking it back. You can erase it, and you can delete it, but in the five seconds between when you posted it or hit that send button there's a really good chance that somebody - probably the worst person possible - has read what you tried to take back.
Remember this simple adage:
Don't be a dunce.
Think twice - write once.
Unless you have a cupboard
secured by lock and key
to hide away your private notes
where no one else can see,
chances are the words you pen
at some point will be read -
maybe not while you're alive,
but likely once you're dead.
Thus I'll offer some advice
before you take up quill -
there are things you ought not write;
some thoughts you shouldn't spill.
Don't write about your sex life
or document your lies.
Don't keep a list of all your sins
or people you despise.
Don't write hate mail to in-laws
or to celebrities.
(Or anything that makes your shrink
feel very ill at ease.)
Don't write about the laws you broke
(or those you'd like to break)
or punishment you might invoke -
consider what's at stake!
Try to maintain dignity,
the whole world need not know
the nasty places where you've let
your darkest musings go.
Think about who's apt to read
before too much is shared;
your privacy can't be regained
once private thoughts are bared.
So, before you write the tale
for everyone to see
consider how it might be viewed
by all posterity.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, January 27th, 2016
It was an email that sent Martha to prison a dozen years ago, and a few files that made Tricky Dick face impeachment about three decades earlier. Evidence that the written word can come back to haunt us is everywhere. Being careful about what I wrote was a concept that suddenly hit home for me when I was sixteen and entered my bedroom to see my older sister and her boyfriend reading my diary. Thankfully, it was one I'd written a few years earlier. By then even I knew that my adolescent self had written with a certain campy, melodramatic flair. One quote, in particular, that had said sister and boyfriend in stitches was, "I love him, I LOVE him, I LOVE HIM! But only as a friend!!!"
I'd be lying if I said I wasn't affronted by their perusal of my diary, but there was a praise seeking part of me that was highly gratified by the fact that they at least had the good sense to laugh in the right places. Besides, between the ages of eleven and thirteen I really didn't do anything too shameful, so nothing too damning would be brought to light by their reading of it. Still, the experience reminded me that I lived in a household with seven other people, and it taught me to be careful about expressing private thoughts in even a personal venue, because you just never knew who might read them someday.
I've got about twenty volumes of journals on my shelf that document my life pretty thoroughly, and yet there are thoughts and feelings and experiences that I've been careful about not fleshing out with any great detail within those books. I know that might make them a tad less interesting if my sons (or future grandchildren) ever decide to read them when I've gone, but it will save them a bit of embarrassment and perhaps keep my reputation intact.
I can't claim that I never wrote about those things, because I did. I just learned that it was even more cathartic to write those more "colourful" descriptions and musings on scrap paper - spew out the negativity, write the more questionable details - and then tear it all to shreds. My journals aren't exactly sanitized, and there will be some squirming if they're read, but I think my literary regurgitation elsewhere calmed them to the point where they'd at least get a PG rating, and I can live with that.
Technology has made journal writing (the old fashioned way, with pens and paper) practically obsolete. Now people express themselves, document their lives, and communicate with friends (and strangers) online. Some people write blogs that serve as a window into their lives and thoughts, and some record their lives in status updates and photographs posted on Facebook. I'm dismayed by how many of these postings demonstrate a lack of discernment on the part of the postee. Sometimes I cringe at the personal and private nature of things that many share without a moment's hesitation. At other times I marvel that some are so foolish that they risk their livelihood with unflattering postings about employers, while others post photographs that indicate crimes and indiscretions. Occasionally I notice postings that look like a cry for help from those apparently sinking under the weight of emotions that they don't know where else to share. How did we get to the point where too many people scream for attention online and deny the existence of problems and issues in real life?
I think that the concept of privacy has been weirdly misconstrued in our world. Those who show a lack of prudence by taking nude photos of themselves see nothing wrong with their actions, but are quick to cry foul when anyone exploits those images for gain. (To use a gun analogy, they've supplied the ammunition, but don't want anyone to actually shoot.) And that's part of the problem - privacy laws in our country are skewed toward the protection of assets, rather than preserving the honest to goodness privacy of any individual. I have to wonder how many people actually have a firm grasp on what is personal anymore. Have concepts like dignity become completely outmoded? Why does it seem so difficult for many to comprehend that the words (and images) they share can have far-reaching effects on their lives - and on the lives of those around them? The future is determined by the thoughts and feelings we express today.
Why does anyone need to know who we sleep with, what parties we go to, or where we are every hour of the day? Should we be so quick to share the details of the last spat we had with a friend or family member with the five hundred "friends" we have on Facebook? Should we be tweeting about the end of our relationship before we've had time to digest why it failed? Why do we need validation for every word we say and every choice we make? I'm no psychologist, but I've thought about this a lot and will share my theory. (I know some will disagree, and that's okay.)
I think we seek attention from seemingly anonymous audiences online because we've all become increasingly disconnected from the people closest to us. We've lost, or at the very least, we're losing the ability to communicate on a deep and personal level. It's harder to look someone in the eye and watch real, human emotional responses than it is to read the banal replies that show up in our news feed and count the emoticons that are posted when nobody knows how to find the right words to relieve our pain and frustration. We would rather strip naked for the world, (or at least all of our "followers") than confront our own fears and failures, and rationally do the work required to solve the problems in our lives and mend our damaged relationships. In short, we're all becoming afraid of intimacy, so we connect in very broad, impersonal ways. We text, we tweet; we update that status. We dump our immediate feelings on a voyeuristic audience, and we forget that fifteen minutes later we might feel very differently. We vent in haste, and if we repent at all, it's at leisure.
I'm not sure why so many people seem to forget that once something has been read, the reader can't unread it. Perhaps the immediacy of this technological age has made many less capable of discriminating between what should be shared and what shouldn't, and what they think or feel in the moment is broadcast before they've had that second thought. Perhaps the narcissism that's run rampant in the "selfie generation" has increased the need for immediate gratification - attention from the masses. We're kind of like my sixteen year old self - we know that we're allowing a violation of our privacy, but at the same time we want to see if the audience we're exposing our innermost feelings to will at least have the grace to laugh and cry in the right places - even if we have regrets later about allowing other people to read our personal thoughts.
I know that writing our thoughts and feelings down can be a very freeing and healing experience, but for the love of all that's good and sacred, just listen to one piece of advice from someone who's been writing things down from the time that computers occupied city blocks and printed out punch cards. Take time to consider your thoughts long and hard. Examine them from every angle, and consider who is apt to read them. Weigh your current mood - will you feel the same way an hour from now? Tomorrow? Next week? Is there any chance that you'll regret airing this message in the future? Once you've stopped to consider all of these factors and decided that what you have to say really matters (to you, at least), then, (and only then), you can write it, type it or tweet it.
Once it's "out there" - recorded in that journal for posterity - or (especially) in cyberspace for all to see, there's no taking it back. You can erase it, and you can delete it, but in the five seconds between when you posted it or hit that send button there's a really good chance that somebody - probably the worst person possible - has read what you tried to take back.
Remember this simple adage:
Don't be a dunce.
Think twice - write once.
Wednesday, 13 January 2016
What Inspires Me? Read and See! by Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Inspiration:
To all the sources that desire
to tell me what ought to inspire,
thoughts on this subject I'll now bare:
There's inspiration everywhere.
No searching really is required;
much I observe leaves me inspired.
When I desire my soul to lift
I think this thought - life is a gift.
To know life is a fragile thing
does great appreciation bring.
So note the flowers and the trees,
the winter snow; the fresh spring breeze.
Where beauty fills the earth and sky
can inspiration we deny?
When stagnant heart needs to be stirred
it can be moved by loving word,
or kindly deed, or tender thought,
or seeing battles bravely fought.
My inspiration comes from life -
from victories and daily strife,
from books and music, movies - art.
All of these things can touch my heart.
Here is some truth: what I select
as inspiration, you'll reject,
and something that holds you in thrall
may motivate me not at all.
Thus all must inspiration choose -
observe and ponder. Question; muse.
I'll trust my heart, embrace my doubt
because to me life's all about
what we embrace - or we let go -
as we let inspiration flow.
My heart and soul, my brain and mind
uplifting images will find,
for courage, kindness, love and mirth
are plentiful upon this earth -
as are deep thoughts that brain excite
and stirrings that fill with delight.
Sounds that elate; views that amaze -
these will inspire me all my days.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, January 13, 2016
Inspiration is a funny thing - it can be capricious, even unreliable.
When I was trying to plan a wedding reception for an absentee bride and groom, my (soon to be) daughter-in-law suggested I join Pinterest so that we could share ideas about colour schemes and decorations. It was a helpful exercise under the circumstances, and it's safe to say that both of us were sometimes "inspired" by the images that we each saw and pinned.
But here's the thing - Pinterest hounded me for months about what should inspire the plans for a reception that happened waaay back in June. This was a bit annoying since reception ideas had become completely irrelevant. Furthermore, somewhere along the way the "suggestions" they began to offer me lost all resemblance to the items that either my daughter-in-law or I had pinned - and for some reason that really bugged me. So I finally deleted my reception boards, but left up the others that I'd created. Now they have turned their attention to sharing any crazy thing that they think might be of interest - which I find highly presumptuous. I mean really, Pinterest, you and I never bonded in a meaningful way - we're just not tight enough that I welcome your constant input.
"Here's your daily inspiration!" Pinterest boldly tells me, as though they have absolutely no doubt that I'm completely incapable of finding any sort of inspiration on my own - ever. A Facebook friend also recently invited me to "Like" an Inspiration Page, so somehow word seems to have gotten out that my life isn't very (ahem) inspirational. Let me set the record straight. In truth, I am rather easily inspired - I'm never at a loss for things to think about, talk about, mull over, and write about. I have an optimistic outlook on life most of the time, and can find positive and uplifting images and messages daily, without even actively seeking them out.
Without further ado, here are a few of my observations about inspiration.
You Just Never Know What Might Inspire You...
Inspirations change over the course of a lifetime. In fact, something that really motivated you today might elicit a "meh" tomorrow. The things that really uplift and energize you will always be the things that speak to your current interests and passions, as well as your current circumstances. Certainly each of us will have life-long passionate feelings about some subjects or activities, but many of the things that seem vital one day will take a much lower priority the next. Inspiration comes in a variety of "flavours" - what you crave today might not fit the bill at all tomorrow, and that's okay because...
If You Keep Your Eyes and Heart Open, Inspiration Will Probably Find YOU!
Here's a paradox that I've discovered - when you spend too much time looking for something it stays lost, but as soon as you decide you've devoted enough time to the search, it shows up. Inspiration usually shows up in my life when I'm not actively looking for it. Too often I've let myself feel like a failure because I didn't feel inspired when I thought I should be. There were times when people around me were thrilled, while I felt flat. Sometimes people with good intentions came across all Pinteresty and told me that one thing or another would definitely inspire me - and when it didn't I felt like I was to blame somehow. Other times I ignored the well meant advice of others, and just concentrated on being kind, observant and open-minded enough that if I felt an inspirational nudge I'd recognize it. Not surprisingly that's when it often showed up. I think that's because the best things in life always seem to happen when we're doing as opposed to waiting.
Inspiration is subjective - Follow Your OWN Passion.
You and I can both love music, but the music that thrills me to the core might put you to sleep - or just not sound that good to you. We've all had the experience where we're talking about a book or movie that we adored - and maybe felt was life changing - then somebody has the nerve to tell us that they didn't enjoy it at all. I've seen others visibly deflate when they meet this kind of "position opposition". But who are they to dictate what you love? Different things speak to different souls, and that's a wonderful thing. The world would be a very boring place to most of us if we all had to feign excitement over the things that inspire a few of us.
Relax - Inspiration Can't Be Forced.
I've already alluded to this, but I can't emphasize it enough. Higher thoughts and "Aha Moments" don't come just because we want them too. We can't force ourselves to feel inspired, especially if we believe (like I do) that inspirations are unpredictable and can change as often as we do. Our best ideas and most uplifting thoughts usually seem to hit us out of the blue when we least expect them. So take a walk to clear your head, or kick back with your favorite book, because when you feel most happy and relaxed is when you're most apt to experience an epiphany.
Finally, here's one last bit of advice about inspiration -
Never Presume to Know What Will Inspire Someone Else!
Most people would like to feel that they've inspired a person or two over the course of their lives. I think that's actually a noble (if slightly self serving) goal. There's nothing wrong with wanting to feel that we've helped some despondent or floundering soul find fresh meaning in life, or that we've uplifted those around us more often than not. It's pretty gratifying to have someone tell you that something you said or did motivated them to change their lives for the better. But none of us get to decide whose life will ultimately benefit from our example or greater wisdom. Those who are the recipients of inspiration always get to choose their sources.
I write these posts because I'm always hopeful that somebody will relate to what I've written and feel less alone. Still, no matter how good my intentions are, if I presume that I can supply the magic words or advice that will "inspire" someone else, I'm giving ego the upper hand. Just as inspiration can never be forced, our opinions about what others should be inspired by can never be forced on them.
Thus I write my thoughts knowing full well that most will never choose to read them - and of the few who do, even fewer will respond with a resounding "Amen!" Writing is my own manifestation of personal inspiration. I've given myself permission to not be agreed with all the time, let alone inspire every person who reads every single time. I write these posts because expressing myself in verse and prose edifies me - it fills my need for self-expression. Any positive reactions I get are just icing on the cake.
So stop trying to gauge the level of inspiration of those around you, and focus on finding those areas in your life that feed your own soul. Open your eyes to the wonders around you and fill your heart with every good thing that stirs you to the core and prompts you to live a life that is filled with meaning, goodness and love. Then you'll believe me when I say this again -
Inspiration is everywhere.
To all the sources that desire
to tell me what ought to inspire,
thoughts on this subject I'll now bare:
There's inspiration everywhere.
No searching really is required;
much I observe leaves me inspired.
When I desire my soul to lift
I think this thought - life is a gift.
To know life is a fragile thing
does great appreciation bring.
So note the flowers and the trees,
the winter snow; the fresh spring breeze.
Where beauty fills the earth and sky
can inspiration we deny?
When stagnant heart needs to be stirred
it can be moved by loving word,
or kindly deed, or tender thought,
or seeing battles bravely fought.
My inspiration comes from life -
from victories and daily strife,
from books and music, movies - art.
All of these things can touch my heart.
Here is some truth: what I select
as inspiration, you'll reject,
and something that holds you in thrall
may motivate me not at all.
Thus all must inspiration choose -
observe and ponder. Question; muse.
I'll trust my heart, embrace my doubt
because to me life's all about
what we embrace - or we let go -
as we let inspiration flow.
My heart and soul, my brain and mind
uplifting images will find,
for courage, kindness, love and mirth
are plentiful upon this earth -
as are deep thoughts that brain excite
and stirrings that fill with delight.
Sounds that elate; views that amaze -
these will inspire me all my days.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, January 13, 2016
Inspiration is a funny thing - it can be capricious, even unreliable.
When I was trying to plan a wedding reception for an absentee bride and groom, my (soon to be) daughter-in-law suggested I join Pinterest so that we could share ideas about colour schemes and decorations. It was a helpful exercise under the circumstances, and it's safe to say that both of us were sometimes "inspired" by the images that we each saw and pinned.
But here's the thing - Pinterest hounded me for months about what should inspire the plans for a reception that happened waaay back in June. This was a bit annoying since reception ideas had become completely irrelevant. Furthermore, somewhere along the way the "suggestions" they began to offer me lost all resemblance to the items that either my daughter-in-law or I had pinned - and for some reason that really bugged me. So I finally deleted my reception boards, but left up the others that I'd created. Now they have turned their attention to sharing any crazy thing that they think might be of interest - which I find highly presumptuous. I mean really, Pinterest, you and I never bonded in a meaningful way - we're just not tight enough that I welcome your constant input.
"Here's your daily inspiration!" Pinterest boldly tells me, as though they have absolutely no doubt that I'm completely incapable of finding any sort of inspiration on my own - ever. A Facebook friend also recently invited me to "Like" an Inspiration Page, so somehow word seems to have gotten out that my life isn't very (ahem) inspirational. Let me set the record straight. In truth, I am rather easily inspired - I'm never at a loss for things to think about, talk about, mull over, and write about. I have an optimistic outlook on life most of the time, and can find positive and uplifting images and messages daily, without even actively seeking them out.
Without further ado, here are a few of my observations about inspiration.
You Just Never Know What Might Inspire You...
Inspirations change over the course of a lifetime. In fact, something that really motivated you today might elicit a "meh" tomorrow. The things that really uplift and energize you will always be the things that speak to your current interests and passions, as well as your current circumstances. Certainly each of us will have life-long passionate feelings about some subjects or activities, but many of the things that seem vital one day will take a much lower priority the next. Inspiration comes in a variety of "flavours" - what you crave today might not fit the bill at all tomorrow, and that's okay because...
If You Keep Your Eyes and Heart Open, Inspiration Will Probably Find YOU!
Here's a paradox that I've discovered - when you spend too much time looking for something it stays lost, but as soon as you decide you've devoted enough time to the search, it shows up. Inspiration usually shows up in my life when I'm not actively looking for it. Too often I've let myself feel like a failure because I didn't feel inspired when I thought I should be. There were times when people around me were thrilled, while I felt flat. Sometimes people with good intentions came across all Pinteresty and told me that one thing or another would definitely inspire me - and when it didn't I felt like I was to blame somehow. Other times I ignored the well meant advice of others, and just concentrated on being kind, observant and open-minded enough that if I felt an inspirational nudge I'd recognize it. Not surprisingly that's when it often showed up. I think that's because the best things in life always seem to happen when we're doing as opposed to waiting.
Inspiration is subjective - Follow Your OWN Passion.
You and I can both love music, but the music that thrills me to the core might put you to sleep - or just not sound that good to you. We've all had the experience where we're talking about a book or movie that we adored - and maybe felt was life changing - then somebody has the nerve to tell us that they didn't enjoy it at all. I've seen others visibly deflate when they meet this kind of "position opposition". But who are they to dictate what you love? Different things speak to different souls, and that's a wonderful thing. The world would be a very boring place to most of us if we all had to feign excitement over the things that inspire a few of us.
Relax - Inspiration Can't Be Forced.
I've already alluded to this, but I can't emphasize it enough. Higher thoughts and "Aha Moments" don't come just because we want them too. We can't force ourselves to feel inspired, especially if we believe (like I do) that inspirations are unpredictable and can change as often as we do. Our best ideas and most uplifting thoughts usually seem to hit us out of the blue when we least expect them. So take a walk to clear your head, or kick back with your favorite book, because when you feel most happy and relaxed is when you're most apt to experience an epiphany.
Finally, here's one last bit of advice about inspiration -
Never Presume to Know What Will Inspire Someone Else!
Most people would like to feel that they've inspired a person or two over the course of their lives. I think that's actually a noble (if slightly self serving) goal. There's nothing wrong with wanting to feel that we've helped some despondent or floundering soul find fresh meaning in life, or that we've uplifted those around us more often than not. It's pretty gratifying to have someone tell you that something you said or did motivated them to change their lives for the better. But none of us get to decide whose life will ultimately benefit from our example or greater wisdom. Those who are the recipients of inspiration always get to choose their sources.
I write these posts because I'm always hopeful that somebody will relate to what I've written and feel less alone. Still, no matter how good my intentions are, if I presume that I can supply the magic words or advice that will "inspire" someone else, I'm giving ego the upper hand. Just as inspiration can never be forced, our opinions about what others should be inspired by can never be forced on them.
Thus I write my thoughts knowing full well that most will never choose to read them - and of the few who do, even fewer will respond with a resounding "Amen!" Writing is my own manifestation of personal inspiration. I've given myself permission to not be agreed with all the time, let alone inspire every person who reads every single time. I write these posts because expressing myself in verse and prose edifies me - it fills my need for self-expression. Any positive reactions I get are just icing on the cake.
So stop trying to gauge the level of inspiration of those around you, and focus on finding those areas in your life that feed your own soul. Open your eyes to the wonders around you and fill your heart with every good thing that stirs you to the core and prompts you to live a life that is filled with meaning, goodness and love. Then you'll believe me when I say this again -
Inspiration is everywhere.
Sunday, 27 December 2015
Lighten Up! - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg
The Season of the Child
You thought you'd aged - but oh, forsooth,
you never had to cede your youth
or live your life wound up so tight
that you could seldom feel delight.
So as the days grow dark and drear
just lighten up - be of good cheer!
Light up your face - put on a smile.
Lighten your load; relax a while.
Go take a walk, admire the lights
and count the stars on moonlit nights.
Enlighten self and be less blind,
and see you never left behind
that impish, awe-filled inner child,
and for this season she'll run wild.
She'll help you bake, and decorate!
(And no - her taste is not sedate.)
Pipe cleaner stars adorn the tree,
bright coloured lights glow merrily
and hand cut snowflakes windows grace -
there's cheerful chaos everyplace.
You thought you'd aged? Well - no, not quite.
Your inner child showed you the light
and from her laughing mouth came sound
of words that turned your Yuletide 'round
when in poetic, childish verse
she helped your darkening thoughts disperse.
"Just lighten up!" you heard her scold,
"It's Christmastime - don't act so old!
Come play with me", she said, and smiled.
"Embrace the season of the child."
by Sharon Flood Kasenberg, December 14th, 2015
In last year's Christmas post you met my former alter ego. "Holiday Dreams Sharon" was a bit hard to contend with at times. She was moody and intense and a bit obsessive about "Making Christmas Happen". (And that's exactly the way she saw that phrase in her head - a capitalized edict - the first subtitle in extensive inner tome - the one entitled "How Christmas NEEDS to Be.") I don't want to slam her, because "Holiday Dreams Sharon" did a pretty good job of making a nice Christmas. She just didn't always succeed in her efforts to have a nice Christmas. She was too concerned with the details to see the entire picture clearly, and I'm glad to report that my efforts to re-brand that particular doll have been largely successful.
This year, as the holidays got underway, we were knee deep in a kitchen renovation, so for the sake of my sanity I avoided any marathon baking efforts, and made a few less items. Because my days were less harried and my evenings were more free I had time to join my son on evening walks. Enjoying Christmas lights is something we've always had in common. When my boys were toddlers, I'd bundle them onto a toboggan and pull them around the neighbourhood to enjoy the lights. When they got older, we'd walk together in the evenings. But sometime before we moved to the big city of Kitchener the walks stopped. They were older and preferred to spend time with friends, and after being repeatedly warned off walking alone I ceased taking evening walks - and I missed them. I missed the hush and stillness of walks in moonlight - especially at Christmastime.
And so, this year I began joining my now grown son on his evening ambles. He'd preface these outings by stating that it was more about the two of us getting some exercise - especially on the wet, gray, dreary days that kept us inside too often through a bleak December. However, the facts disputed that claim:
- We'd both offer commentary on virtually every light display we saw;
- We'd stop to watch the projectors shift their patterns on residential canvasses; and
- We couldn't pass by any of those colour-changing lights without stopping to watch them run through their entire repertoire before moving on.
(We probably made a few neighbours nervously worry about strangers who appeared to be "casing the joint" - we're sorry about that.)
One night I turned to him and thanked him for hanging onto some of the same bits of "inner child" that I had; I told him how nice it is to walk with someone else who smiles every time they see a chipmunk (or bunny) and who, like me, gets a kick out of Christmas lights. We agreed that too many people don't take enough time to walk, let alone observe what they walk past, and lamented the little things they rush past and miss.
He helped me cover our windows in home-made snowflakes (a family tradition) - real six-sided ones as opposed to the pretty, but inaccurate paper doilies that people call snowflakes and stick in their windows. (Okay - so I'm still a little anal retentive about a few things, and in my defense I've given more than one "How to Make a Snowflake" tutorial in my time.) My husband and mother helped the two of us get our Christmas trees up and trimmed. Christmas baking got done, and an abbreviated list of cards sent out - late. The world didn't end.
About a week before Christmas I began shopping, and it was finished, including stocking stuffers, in three quick trips. Christmas Eve found me reading a book while husband and son frantically wrapped their gifts. (Well, not that frantically - since we don't buy all that much and reuse the same gift bags and tags year after year.) I will candidly admit to feeling a bit smug about being well finished with all of my wrapping by that point. I'd never experienced such a peaceful Christmas Eve, and I relished that quiet time.
By ten thirty, I was toddling off to bed, book in hand, and I decided that I may as well save a bit on the energy bill and unplug all the Christmas lights. After all, I'd be the first one up and could plug them all in again before the others woke. (Background information: family tradition states that the lights can be left on, all night, on one night alone - Christmas Eve.) But not ten minutes later, my oldest son came down the stairs from his lair, and the Christmas tree lights got plugged in again. Then I heard the front door open and saw the exterior lights came back on before he fled to his sanctuary once more.
Snickering to myself I went into the bedroom and told my husband what had transpired - and the next day relished telling the tale to younger son and his wife when we Skyped. Yes, we all had a chuckle at older son's dogmatic attitude toward maintaining a time-honoured tradition - and I called him on his previous attempts to downplay his love of Christmas lights. Now in his mid-twenties, he's been "outed" as a light lover. Much teasing ensued...
But since then I've decided that my son was onto something when he plugged in those lights again. He was honouring his inner child by upholding family tradition. Without saying a word, his actions clearly said, "For this one night, let there be light!" (And to heck with the hydro bill!) And the more I think about it, the more onboard I am with that train of thought.
The older we get, the more staid we're apt to become. That goofy kid inside most of us shows up less and less often. In our quest to be mature and responsible we unplug our "lights" too often. We're more concerned with the energy that a good frolic might expend, and we play less. We joke less; smile less. We stress about every nickel and dime problem that comes along, and we miss taking time to admire what I'll call "The Great Light Show of Humanity" - the truly "Greatest Show on Earth!" - let alone perform in it. We are often far too miserly with all types of light and leavening.
This year I lightened up considerably. My husband remarked that he'd never seen me exhibit less "holiday stress", and I enjoyed watching Christmas Day unfold, meandering where it would without my constant direction. I'm lighter, but still on my way toward genuine enlightenment. I'm thinking it's likely that I'll see consistent improvement from here on in. Inner child's impishness is making her presence felt more often these days, and as a result my world is a brighter place.
My advice to you as the holiday season ends is simple - lighten up! If your imp made an appearance over Christmas, don't be too quick to pack it up with the Christmas ornaments. Go into the new year with a lighter step and a lighter load...
And just lighten up!
You thought you'd aged - but oh, forsooth,
you never had to cede your youth
or live your life wound up so tight
that you could seldom feel delight.
So as the days grow dark and drear
just lighten up - be of good cheer!
Light up your face - put on a smile.
Lighten your load; relax a while.
Go take a walk, admire the lights
and count the stars on moonlit nights.
Enlighten self and be less blind,
and see you never left behind
that impish, awe-filled inner child,
and for this season she'll run wild.
She'll help you bake, and decorate!
(And no - her taste is not sedate.)
Pipe cleaner stars adorn the tree,
bright coloured lights glow merrily
and hand cut snowflakes windows grace -
there's cheerful chaos everyplace.
You thought you'd aged? Well - no, not quite.
Your inner child showed you the light
and from her laughing mouth came sound
of words that turned your Yuletide 'round
when in poetic, childish verse
she helped your darkening thoughts disperse.
"Just lighten up!" you heard her scold,
"It's Christmastime - don't act so old!
Come play with me", she said, and smiled.
"Embrace the season of the child."
by Sharon Flood Kasenberg, December 14th, 2015
In last year's Christmas post you met my former alter ego. "Holiday Dreams Sharon" was a bit hard to contend with at times. She was moody and intense and a bit obsessive about "Making Christmas Happen". (And that's exactly the way she saw that phrase in her head - a capitalized edict - the first subtitle in extensive inner tome - the one entitled "How Christmas NEEDS to Be.") I don't want to slam her, because "Holiday Dreams Sharon" did a pretty good job of making a nice Christmas. She just didn't always succeed in her efforts to have a nice Christmas. She was too concerned with the details to see the entire picture clearly, and I'm glad to report that my efforts to re-brand that particular doll have been largely successful.
This year, as the holidays got underway, we were knee deep in a kitchen renovation, so for the sake of my sanity I avoided any marathon baking efforts, and made a few less items. Because my days were less harried and my evenings were more free I had time to join my son on evening walks. Enjoying Christmas lights is something we've always had in common. When my boys were toddlers, I'd bundle them onto a toboggan and pull them around the neighbourhood to enjoy the lights. When they got older, we'd walk together in the evenings. But sometime before we moved to the big city of Kitchener the walks stopped. They were older and preferred to spend time with friends, and after being repeatedly warned off walking alone I ceased taking evening walks - and I missed them. I missed the hush and stillness of walks in moonlight - especially at Christmastime.
And so, this year I began joining my now grown son on his evening ambles. He'd preface these outings by stating that it was more about the two of us getting some exercise - especially on the wet, gray, dreary days that kept us inside too often through a bleak December. However, the facts disputed that claim:
- We'd both offer commentary on virtually every light display we saw;
- We'd stop to watch the projectors shift their patterns on residential canvasses; and
- We couldn't pass by any of those colour-changing lights without stopping to watch them run through their entire repertoire before moving on.
(We probably made a few neighbours nervously worry about strangers who appeared to be "casing the joint" - we're sorry about that.)
One night I turned to him and thanked him for hanging onto some of the same bits of "inner child" that I had; I told him how nice it is to walk with someone else who smiles every time they see a chipmunk (or bunny) and who, like me, gets a kick out of Christmas lights. We agreed that too many people don't take enough time to walk, let alone observe what they walk past, and lamented the little things they rush past and miss.
He helped me cover our windows in home-made snowflakes (a family tradition) - real six-sided ones as opposed to the pretty, but inaccurate paper doilies that people call snowflakes and stick in their windows. (Okay - so I'm still a little anal retentive about a few things, and in my defense I've given more than one "How to Make a Snowflake" tutorial in my time.) My husband and mother helped the two of us get our Christmas trees up and trimmed. Christmas baking got done, and an abbreviated list of cards sent out - late. The world didn't end.
About a week before Christmas I began shopping, and it was finished, including stocking stuffers, in three quick trips. Christmas Eve found me reading a book while husband and son frantically wrapped their gifts. (Well, not that frantically - since we don't buy all that much and reuse the same gift bags and tags year after year.) I will candidly admit to feeling a bit smug about being well finished with all of my wrapping by that point. I'd never experienced such a peaceful Christmas Eve, and I relished that quiet time.
By ten thirty, I was toddling off to bed, book in hand, and I decided that I may as well save a bit on the energy bill and unplug all the Christmas lights. After all, I'd be the first one up and could plug them all in again before the others woke. (Background information: family tradition states that the lights can be left on, all night, on one night alone - Christmas Eve.) But not ten minutes later, my oldest son came down the stairs from his lair, and the Christmas tree lights got plugged in again. Then I heard the front door open and saw the exterior lights came back on before he fled to his sanctuary once more.
Snickering to myself I went into the bedroom and told my husband what had transpired - and the next day relished telling the tale to younger son and his wife when we Skyped. Yes, we all had a chuckle at older son's dogmatic attitude toward maintaining a time-honoured tradition - and I called him on his previous attempts to downplay his love of Christmas lights. Now in his mid-twenties, he's been "outed" as a light lover. Much teasing ensued...
But since then I've decided that my son was onto something when he plugged in those lights again. He was honouring his inner child by upholding family tradition. Without saying a word, his actions clearly said, "For this one night, let there be light!" (And to heck with the hydro bill!) And the more I think about it, the more onboard I am with that train of thought.
The older we get, the more staid we're apt to become. That goofy kid inside most of us shows up less and less often. In our quest to be mature and responsible we unplug our "lights" too often. We're more concerned with the energy that a good frolic might expend, and we play less. We joke less; smile less. We stress about every nickel and dime problem that comes along, and we miss taking time to admire what I'll call "The Great Light Show of Humanity" - the truly "Greatest Show on Earth!" - let alone perform in it. We are often far too miserly with all types of light and leavening.
This year I lightened up considerably. My husband remarked that he'd never seen me exhibit less "holiday stress", and I enjoyed watching Christmas Day unfold, meandering where it would without my constant direction. I'm lighter, but still on my way toward genuine enlightenment. I'm thinking it's likely that I'll see consistent improvement from here on in. Inner child's impishness is making her presence felt more often these days, and as a result my world is a brighter place.
My advice to you as the holiday season ends is simple - lighten up! If your imp made an appearance over Christmas, don't be too quick to pack it up with the Christmas ornaments. Go into the new year with a lighter step and a lighter load...
And just lighten up!
Tuesday, 8 December 2015
The Elf, and Me, and My Memory Tree - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Green Elf
A tattered little green elf
hangs from my Christmas tree
and invokes my childhood self
and Tom - at two or three.
While shopping with our mother,
some task called her away -
"Stay with your little brother
for just a sec, okay?
I think perhaps we could use
an ornament or two,
so first let your brother choose
and then pick one for you."
She rushed off to do her chore,
and Tom's hand I did take
lest some trinket in the store
his little hands should break.
All the baubles on the shelf
we studiously eyed;
Tom chose the little green elf,
but I could not decide.
At last I chose a reindeer
just as our mom returned -
on her face it was clear
that her trust I had earned.
She must've known I'd be fine,
and would do as she asked,
thus I learned at eight or nine
I could rise to the task.
She had so seldom left me
to watch Tom on my own -
I did my duty bravely
by tending him alone.
On that day, so long ago
I held my brother's hand,
but it took me years to know
and really understand
how caring for another
enables us to grow;
when we tend to each other,
great happiness we know.
So though Green Elf's in tatters
he still hangs on my tree,
reminding me what matters
is love - and family.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, May '08
The story is true. It was Christmastime, and my mother had taken my younger brother and I to Stedman's Department Store so she could make some holiday purchases. It all unfolded more or less as I told the story in the poem, though I can't clearly remember her exact words, and I'm betting they didn't rhyme. She didn't go far, in fact, as I recall she was within sight of us the whole time. (I wanted to clarify that, just in case anyone out there tried to accuse my mom of negligence.) She was probably gone less than five minutes too, but to a child who was so wary of strangers that I once started crying because my mother wandered four feet from me in a store, and as a result I tugged on some strange lady's coat instead of hers, it was a big deal to be separated from her. Those few minutes seemed like a long time.
The fact that I was left with my brother made me feel brave - or maybe it just brought out my always pragmatic nature. I mean, who wants to deal with a crying little brother when you're stressed out yourself? The right course of action seemed obvious - do as I was asked, keep Tom amused, and trust that my mother wasn't about to abandon us in Stedman's.
Well, it turns out Mom loved us enough to claim us again, and I learned that she trusted me enough to know I'd follow her instructions. Plus, we got a cool green elf and an odd little plastic reindeer to hang on the Christmas tree!
Fast forward a few decades...
I'm married now, and we've got a little four foot Christmas tree that we usually set up on a table. But we didn't bother with it the year before because my oldest son was a toddler, and with a newborn in the house I just didn't have time to keep him away from a tree. It's just a cheap little tree I bought at Canadian Tire when I was single - sparse of branches, and with more than a passing resemblance to Charlie Brown's famous tree, but I like it, and missed seeing it the year before. This year my sons are two and one, and I dig it out and decorate it with two toddlers in tow. They are fascinated with the shiny balls and lights, and dance around the living room yelling, "Pretty! Pretty!!"
I'm getting irritated the first time they knock it over, and I'm ready to pack it all up again when they upend it a second time. My husband comes home to crying kids and a frustrated wife sweeping up broken ornaments, and packing up the ones that survived. Through my own sniffles I tell him we'll have to wait another year or two to put up a tree, but (ever a problem solver) he comes up with a better plan.
We leave one small strand of lights wound tightly around the tree, and we sternly tell the boys that if they touch it again we'll take the lights away. Todd buys a few unbreakable ornaments and I find some candy canes, cut some circular pictures out of old Christmas cards and make a tinfoil star for the top of the tree.The Christmas tree is saved, the boys are happy, and I'm grateful that we brainstormed a solution - and pretty thrilled every time I see the boys standing in awe beside the lit tree.
Years pass. My sons love the tree, and we continue to use many of those unbreakable ornaments, although I gradually add more fragile items into the mix too. The tinfoil star is finally replaced with an exact replica, because it reminds me that love finds a way - even when everything seems to be crashing down around me.
Fast forward another eight or nine years. My father died the year before, and my mother decides to sell our family home. Her first year in an apartment, she opts to put up a small tree rather than bother with the six footer that her and Dad had bought after I left home. (I think she also feels a little sorry for us - we continue to put up that four foot tree, and she figures that left to our own devices our boys will be forever deprived of a larger one.) Anyhow, she gives us her six foot tree and a big bag full of decorations that my family used when I was young...
...and there he is - Green Elf! I get a bit teary when I see him, and tell my husband and sons about the day my brother adopted him.
The green elf has been a big part of our Christmases since then. We usually hang him from the cheap dollar store star that adorns the big tree. The boys have an affectionate nickname for him that I won't share, since it's a bit rude. He's usually one of the first things we put on our tree. The plastic reindeer goes on the tree every year too. Some might think it's tacky, but it also reminds me of the day I first looked out for my brother in the wider world. The reindeer also serves as a reminder that we're all a bit like a timid deer at some points in life - little Bambi's who look for a friend to help us cope with whatever tragedies and trials befall us.
Whenever my younger brother visits us at Christmastime he looks for Green Elf. He doesn't remember the day he chose it at Stedman's - I had to tell him the story the first year he visited our house and saw it on Mom and Dad's old tree. I asked him once if he wanted the elf, since he chose it, but he told me to keep it. So I will. (But I might bequeath it to him in my will - if my sons don't lay claim to it first!)
The elf reminds me of all my stories of Christmases past - of years of plenty and years of financial hardship. He reminds me of my childhood home and the smell of turkey cooking when we woke up on Christmas morning. He reminds me of Christmas Eve variety shows with my brothers and sisters, of Christmas Day parties at our house, of baking with my mom and sisters and listening to my parents' favorite Perry Como Christmas album. He reminds me of the mittens and slippers my grandmother knit us every year as gifts. He reminds me of all the love, laughter, friends and family activities that were always a part of my childhood Christmases.
He also reminds me of all the Christmases he's now shared with a second generation; of me getting up before my boys to turn on the Christmas tree lights, of the boys excitedly peeking into their stockings and eagerly anticipating cinnamon buns for breakfast, and later unwrapping their gifts. When I look at that raggedy little green guy swinging from a star, I know that Christmas is a time of wonder, awe and love - whether you're the parent or the child.
Someday, when both my sons have left home, I'll remember how, as tall teenagers, my sons would take turns reaching up to hang Green Elf from that star, where he could watch over all of us -
And all my Christmas memories will come rushing back.
A tattered little green elf
hangs from my Christmas tree
and invokes my childhood self
and Tom - at two or three.
While shopping with our mother,
some task called her away -
"Stay with your little brother
for just a sec, okay?
I think perhaps we could use
an ornament or two,
so first let your brother choose
and then pick one for you."
She rushed off to do her chore,
and Tom's hand I did take
lest some trinket in the store
his little hands should break.
All the baubles on the shelf
we studiously eyed;
Tom chose the little green elf,
but I could not decide.
At last I chose a reindeer
just as our mom returned -
on her face it was clear
that her trust I had earned.
She must've known I'd be fine,
and would do as she asked,
thus I learned at eight or nine
I could rise to the task.
She had so seldom left me
to watch Tom on my own -
I did my duty bravely
by tending him alone.
On that day, so long ago
I held my brother's hand,
but it took me years to know
and really understand
how caring for another
enables us to grow;
when we tend to each other,
great happiness we know.
So though Green Elf's in tatters
he still hangs on my tree,
reminding me what matters
is love - and family.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, May '08
The story is true. It was Christmastime, and my mother had taken my younger brother and I to Stedman's Department Store so she could make some holiday purchases. It all unfolded more or less as I told the story in the poem, though I can't clearly remember her exact words, and I'm betting they didn't rhyme. She didn't go far, in fact, as I recall she was within sight of us the whole time. (I wanted to clarify that, just in case anyone out there tried to accuse my mom of negligence.) She was probably gone less than five minutes too, but to a child who was so wary of strangers that I once started crying because my mother wandered four feet from me in a store, and as a result I tugged on some strange lady's coat instead of hers, it was a big deal to be separated from her. Those few minutes seemed like a long time.
The fact that I was left with my brother made me feel brave - or maybe it just brought out my always pragmatic nature. I mean, who wants to deal with a crying little brother when you're stressed out yourself? The right course of action seemed obvious - do as I was asked, keep Tom amused, and trust that my mother wasn't about to abandon us in Stedman's.
Well, it turns out Mom loved us enough to claim us again, and I learned that she trusted me enough to know I'd follow her instructions. Plus, we got a cool green elf and an odd little plastic reindeer to hang on the Christmas tree!
Fast forward a few decades...
I'm married now, and we've got a little four foot Christmas tree that we usually set up on a table. But we didn't bother with it the year before because my oldest son was a toddler, and with a newborn in the house I just didn't have time to keep him away from a tree. It's just a cheap little tree I bought at Canadian Tire when I was single - sparse of branches, and with more than a passing resemblance to Charlie Brown's famous tree, but I like it, and missed seeing it the year before. This year my sons are two and one, and I dig it out and decorate it with two toddlers in tow. They are fascinated with the shiny balls and lights, and dance around the living room yelling, "Pretty! Pretty!!"
I'm getting irritated the first time they knock it over, and I'm ready to pack it all up again when they upend it a second time. My husband comes home to crying kids and a frustrated wife sweeping up broken ornaments, and packing up the ones that survived. Through my own sniffles I tell him we'll have to wait another year or two to put up a tree, but (ever a problem solver) he comes up with a better plan.
We leave one small strand of lights wound tightly around the tree, and we sternly tell the boys that if they touch it again we'll take the lights away. Todd buys a few unbreakable ornaments and I find some candy canes, cut some circular pictures out of old Christmas cards and make a tinfoil star for the top of the tree.The Christmas tree is saved, the boys are happy, and I'm grateful that we brainstormed a solution - and pretty thrilled every time I see the boys standing in awe beside the lit tree.
Years pass. My sons love the tree, and we continue to use many of those unbreakable ornaments, although I gradually add more fragile items into the mix too. The tinfoil star is finally replaced with an exact replica, because it reminds me that love finds a way - even when everything seems to be crashing down around me.
Fast forward another eight or nine years. My father died the year before, and my mother decides to sell our family home. Her first year in an apartment, she opts to put up a small tree rather than bother with the six footer that her and Dad had bought after I left home. (I think she also feels a little sorry for us - we continue to put up that four foot tree, and she figures that left to our own devices our boys will be forever deprived of a larger one.) Anyhow, she gives us her six foot tree and a big bag full of decorations that my family used when I was young...
...and there he is - Green Elf! I get a bit teary when I see him, and tell my husband and sons about the day my brother adopted him.
The green elf has been a big part of our Christmases since then. We usually hang him from the cheap dollar store star that adorns the big tree. The boys have an affectionate nickname for him that I won't share, since it's a bit rude. He's usually one of the first things we put on our tree. The plastic reindeer goes on the tree every year too. Some might think it's tacky, but it also reminds me of the day I first looked out for my brother in the wider world. The reindeer also serves as a reminder that we're all a bit like a timid deer at some points in life - little Bambi's who look for a friend to help us cope with whatever tragedies and trials befall us.
Whenever my younger brother visits us at Christmastime he looks for Green Elf. He doesn't remember the day he chose it at Stedman's - I had to tell him the story the first year he visited our house and saw it on Mom and Dad's old tree. I asked him once if he wanted the elf, since he chose it, but he told me to keep it. So I will. (But I might bequeath it to him in my will - if my sons don't lay claim to it first!)
The elf reminds me of all my stories of Christmases past - of years of plenty and years of financial hardship. He reminds me of my childhood home and the smell of turkey cooking when we woke up on Christmas morning. He reminds me of Christmas Eve variety shows with my brothers and sisters, of Christmas Day parties at our house, of baking with my mom and sisters and listening to my parents' favorite Perry Como Christmas album. He reminds me of the mittens and slippers my grandmother knit us every year as gifts. He reminds me of all the love, laughter, friends and family activities that were always a part of my childhood Christmases.
He also reminds me of all the Christmases he's now shared with a second generation; of me getting up before my boys to turn on the Christmas tree lights, of the boys excitedly peeking into their stockings and eagerly anticipating cinnamon buns for breakfast, and later unwrapping their gifts. When I look at that raggedy little green guy swinging from a star, I know that Christmas is a time of wonder, awe and love - whether you're the parent or the child.
Someday, when both my sons have left home, I'll remember how, as tall teenagers, my sons would take turns reaching up to hang Green Elf from that star, where he could watch over all of us -
And all my Christmas memories will come rushing back.
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