Olive Branch:
Oh sweet salvation of the soul
that brought me to this place,
remind me of the years I've fought
to see myself with grace.
Remind me that the risks I take
in offering to love
are worth the effort and the pain -
send forth a gentle dove.
When it returns perhaps I'll see
a twig - an olive branch -
some proof that once the tears abate
it's safe to take a chance.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, March 11, 2018
Sometimes people are too hurt to not hurt in return. I've learned that lesson over the years, when I've tried to befriend people too wounded to trust or accept love. It would be easy to stop making the effort if I didn't have such a highly developed conscience.
You see, I know I've been lucky. For all of my social dysfunction at times, my temper, and my lack of filters when it comes to expressing sometimes unpopular opinions, I love and am loved. I have a family who cares about me, and a few trusted friends who have my back when times are hard. I know a lot of people have far less, and so I'm willing to risk being hurt when the occasional person comes into my life who can't accept my friendship, my concern or my love.
I recently read an interview between a woman who had been abused and her abuser. It shook me to the core, but at the same time it inspired me. At one point the woman tells her abuser that no matter how much he hurt her she'd rather be in her position than his - unable to truly comprehend how much damage he did, and too arrogant in his belief that he didn't need to fully repent of his sins, or seek help to conquer his abusive behavior.
I understand what she was saying because to a far lesser extent I've experienced those feelings too. As often as I've had my hand bitten by those who I attempted to "feed" with a bit of TLC, I feel sorrier for the people who bit me than the fact that my hand (and heart!) needed a bit of bandaging after the encounter.
I'm going to be very frank now - and there may be some who feel that this level of honesty isn't warranted, but I want you (as readers) to understand a vital part of my history. The family I grew up in wasn't perfect, but I never encountered mental illness until I left home. In my twenties, I encountered people who had some serious issues - and a few of them bit me. At that time I was just really hurt, ignorant as I was of the kind of underlying problems that prompt some people to lash out at others.
At the age of 26 I got married, and try as I might I just couldn't seem to win my mother-in-law's love. Nothing I ever did was good enough - I didn't deserve her son, and I didn't deserve to raise her grandsons. For years I'd feel sick every time we visited her. I made it all about me - why couldn't she find it in her heart to love me? I was a good person and I truly loved her son and our children! Why couldn't I win her approval? There were times I thought that I hated her because her disapproval and constant criticism hurt me so much.
It took me years to begin to understand that she suffered from mental illness. And it took decades for me to learn to forgive her, and to understand that what I experienced from her wasn't really her, but a manifestation of problems and issues that began long before I ever met her.
I am ashamed to admit that it took me years to begin to love her.
Now with that experience behind me, I've learned to try harder to be accepting, but part of accepting is knowing when I simply can't be the person to offer help or friendship. Sometimes I'll encounter people who are too damaged to accept my best efforts on their behalf, and I'll just have to admit that there's nothing more I can do.
But despite suffering inevitable bites and heartaches, I'm not ready to stop caring. Once my heart stops hurting for me, it continues to hurt for them. I know I'd rather be hurt by having my clumsy efforts to befriend rejected than suffer the pain they suffer.
I know this: Sooner or later I'll risk a further dose of heartbreak when I open my heart to another vulnerable soul. I couldn't live with myself if I didn't.
Tuesday, 20 March 2018
Thursday, 8 March 2018
Go Ahead and Cry - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Handkerchief
Here's my hanky, dearie -
use it if you will.
I am well accustomed
to tears women spill.
Eyes so very pretty
ought not be so wet;
what's so very awful
that it makes you fret?
Are you not delighted
with your role in life?
Cleaner, cook or consort,
daughter, sister; wife?
Handkerchief I hand back -
tears run down my face.
I don't need to mop up -
tears do not disgrace.
Tears of great frustration,
tears expressing pain;
tears of fear and sorrow.
Tears that fall like rain.
Even if you want to
you can't read my tears.
I was born to sorrow;
I lived there for years.
While you conquered nations,
cleared the land of trees,
and thought you provided
us with lives of ease -
our hands rocked the cradle,
and they planted seeds.
Women offered comfort.
Women met your needs.
See me as your equal -
matched in mind and skill.
Man - here is your hanky.
Use it - if you will.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, March 8, 2018
This morning my husband and I had a heart to heart talk about a person we both feel concern for. We both shed tears as we discussed what a difficult predicament this person is in - tears of compassion for this person's pain, and frustration because there's not a lot we can do to alleviate it. And as we faced each other with tears leaking out of our eyes I thought about how far we'd each come.
When we married I was the only crier - and my tears made me feel weak and ashamed. I hated feeling that I couldn't neatly contain my emotions. Both he and I had encountered manipulative criers along the way, and I realize that those people influenced the way we both saw tears. So he didn't cry at all, and I felt like a failure every time I dropped a tear.
I never wanted to be seen as someone willing to turn on the waterworks in order to make people do what I wanted, or make them feel sorry for me. I never cried to prove that I was spiritual or sensitive - I just cried because I had to - and I hated every tear I shed.
Today I logged into Facebook to note that it was International Women's Day - and it struck me that this morning's tears symbolize the way my husband and I have each grown - and might be an analogy for the way men and women in general have evolved.
Women can look back on their "journey of tears" with pride and acceptance. In most of the world we're treated as equals. We can choose the lives we want to live - decide whether we marry, and how we want to spend our lives. We can choose to have children or not have children. We can choose where we work, how we dress, and who we vote for.
There are still men who view women with a level of condescension, but thankfully they're fewer. The Me Too movement has made many men rethink the way they look at - and respond to - women. I won't say we've made it free and clear into the realm of true equality - but we're getting there. If we, as women, have passed you the hanky, it isn't because we've stopped crying ourselves. We're just acknowledging that now it's time for men and women to cry together. You've stood by, dry eyed, while encouraging us to mop up our tears with your borrowed handkerchiefs for too long. Use it yourself and we'll both feel better.
When I look back on my own life, I can be grateful that I was free to make my own decisions. Whatever his flaws as a man, my father wanted education for his daughters as well as his sons, and my biggest regret in life is that I didn't believe in myself sufficiently to pursue the educational path that would've suited me best. The reasons behind some of my choices might have been flawed, but I can't deny that I made my own choices.
I've been lucky. I wanted to stay home with my children, unlike many in the religious culture I was raised in, who felt there was no other option available to them. I was fortunate that my husband always saw me as an equal partner in our relationship. There were no heavy-handed tactics or "listen to me because I'm the man" speeches in our home. He made the money and we decided how it would be spent. I looked after our sons during the day, but once he came through the door his first priority was being a father. We were both parents. We had clear divisions of labour, and while I didn't always relish tending kids and keeping house, it was tolerable because it was the life I chose.
I shed a lot of tears while raising my sons - tears of frustration when I couldn't make their lives easier, and fearful tears that I wasn't always up to the task of constantly nurturing with wisdom and patience. I cried when I felt people looking at me with disdain because I was only a housewife. I cried covert tears of self-doubt because I wasn't living my chosen life effortlessly and flawlessly. It took years for me to accept myself as someone who was allowed to cry, and more years still before my husband stopped passing me the figurative hanky and found the courage to shed a few tears of his own.
Remember this - tears don't make you weak. Women sailed on rivers of tears to find a place where they could make the choices that many of us take for granted. Men will sail on that same river until their own tears strengthen the current enough to move us on to a still better place - a place where casting couches don't exist and women are truly seen as more than a sum of their parts, a place where nobody feels shamed for shedding tears of compassion.
Go ahead and cry.
Here's my hanky, dearie -
use it if you will.
I am well accustomed
to tears women spill.
Eyes so very pretty
ought not be so wet;
what's so very awful
that it makes you fret?
Are you not delighted
with your role in life?
Cleaner, cook or consort,
daughter, sister; wife?
Handkerchief I hand back -
tears run down my face.
I don't need to mop up -
tears do not disgrace.
Tears of great frustration,
tears expressing pain;
tears of fear and sorrow.
Tears that fall like rain.
Even if you want to
you can't read my tears.
I was born to sorrow;
I lived there for years.
While you conquered nations,
cleared the land of trees,
and thought you provided
us with lives of ease -
our hands rocked the cradle,
and they planted seeds.
Women offered comfort.
Women met your needs.
See me as your equal -
matched in mind and skill.
Man - here is your hanky.
Use it - if you will.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, March 8, 2018
This morning my husband and I had a heart to heart talk about a person we both feel concern for. We both shed tears as we discussed what a difficult predicament this person is in - tears of compassion for this person's pain, and frustration because there's not a lot we can do to alleviate it. And as we faced each other with tears leaking out of our eyes I thought about how far we'd each come.
When we married I was the only crier - and my tears made me feel weak and ashamed. I hated feeling that I couldn't neatly contain my emotions. Both he and I had encountered manipulative criers along the way, and I realize that those people influenced the way we both saw tears. So he didn't cry at all, and I felt like a failure every time I dropped a tear.
I never wanted to be seen as someone willing to turn on the waterworks in order to make people do what I wanted, or make them feel sorry for me. I never cried to prove that I was spiritual or sensitive - I just cried because I had to - and I hated every tear I shed.
Today I logged into Facebook to note that it was International Women's Day - and it struck me that this morning's tears symbolize the way my husband and I have each grown - and might be an analogy for the way men and women in general have evolved.
Women can look back on their "journey of tears" with pride and acceptance. In most of the world we're treated as equals. We can choose the lives we want to live - decide whether we marry, and how we want to spend our lives. We can choose to have children or not have children. We can choose where we work, how we dress, and who we vote for.
There are still men who view women with a level of condescension, but thankfully they're fewer. The Me Too movement has made many men rethink the way they look at - and respond to - women. I won't say we've made it free and clear into the realm of true equality - but we're getting there. If we, as women, have passed you the hanky, it isn't because we've stopped crying ourselves. We're just acknowledging that now it's time for men and women to cry together. You've stood by, dry eyed, while encouraging us to mop up our tears with your borrowed handkerchiefs for too long. Use it yourself and we'll both feel better.
When I look back on my own life, I can be grateful that I was free to make my own decisions. Whatever his flaws as a man, my father wanted education for his daughters as well as his sons, and my biggest regret in life is that I didn't believe in myself sufficiently to pursue the educational path that would've suited me best. The reasons behind some of my choices might have been flawed, but I can't deny that I made my own choices.
I've been lucky. I wanted to stay home with my children, unlike many in the religious culture I was raised in, who felt there was no other option available to them. I was fortunate that my husband always saw me as an equal partner in our relationship. There were no heavy-handed tactics or "listen to me because I'm the man" speeches in our home. He made the money and we decided how it would be spent. I looked after our sons during the day, but once he came through the door his first priority was being a father. We were both parents. We had clear divisions of labour, and while I didn't always relish tending kids and keeping house, it was tolerable because it was the life I chose.
I shed a lot of tears while raising my sons - tears of frustration when I couldn't make their lives easier, and fearful tears that I wasn't always up to the task of constantly nurturing with wisdom and patience. I cried when I felt people looking at me with disdain because I was only a housewife. I cried covert tears of self-doubt because I wasn't living my chosen life effortlessly and flawlessly. It took years for me to accept myself as someone who was allowed to cry, and more years still before my husband stopped passing me the figurative hanky and found the courage to shed a few tears of his own.
Remember this - tears don't make you weak. Women sailed on rivers of tears to find a place where they could make the choices that many of us take for granted. Men will sail on that same river until their own tears strengthen the current enough to move us on to a still better place - a place where casting couches don't exist and women are truly seen as more than a sum of their parts, a place where nobody feels shamed for shedding tears of compassion.
Go ahead and cry.
Thursday, 22 February 2018
In Praise of "Inspirational Resource Material" By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
The Unfinished File
Half written poems in a file -
unfinished thoughts within -
there to consult once in a while
when inspiration's thin.
I return to odes once started,
and neurons re-ignite;
from efforts once halfhearted
I can gain fresh insight.
A single word might catch my eye
to percolate a thought
that makes my pen 'cross paper fly
until the verse is caught.
Thus scribbled bits I jot in haste -
disjointed lines of rhyme -
will very seldom go to waste;
they all evolve in time.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, February 21, 2018
I've come to the conclusion that most creative people - writers, poets, artists, crafters and makers of all kinds - are a bit hard on themselves. Prone to what's dubbed "artistic temperament" we're apt to feel considerable frustration when a project that we once started with great enthusiasm and high hopes just...fizzles out...
We all have that file, or that corner, or that room - the place we store our half finished creative endeavors. I used to stash away those scraps of paper, the ones that held a few lines of poetry, in furtive haste -and largely forget about them. Always a bit hard on myself, I saw those unfinished verses as a testament to my failure - failure to stay on task and see things through to completion.
While I was packing up my old house - before my big move to a small town - I found what I secretly thought of as my file of shame. And because packing was miserable work - that I needed a momentary reprieve from - I gave the contents a quick perusal.
To my amazement I was pretty excited about what I found. There was definitely food for thought among those pages, and I vowed I'd keep that file handy in the future and revisit it more often. I don't think of it as my file of failure anymore; no - now it's been re-categorized as "Inspirational Resource Material".
I keep that file in my kitchen - on the shelf with my cookbooks. It seems like the perfect spot. After all, when my tongue craves a new meal I consult those cookbooks, and if I find a recipe that appeals to me I amass the ingredients and try it out. Sometimes I re-work the recipe considerably in order to accommodate the palates of the household - and the food allergies of the husband! The completed recipe might not be what its creator intended it to be, but (generally speaking) I often manage to turn it into a reasonably good addition to my culinary repertoire.
Now my unfinished poetry file serves the same purpose as those cookbooks. I flip through it whenever my brain can't quite get a new idea off the ground. Sometimes I find exactly what I'm craving among my scattered scribblings and execute the poem exactly as I originally intended it to be. (That doesn't happen often, so when it does I feel like I've accomplished quite a creative feat and give myself a mental high five.) I've come to the conclusion that my mind just got ahead of me when that poem was started - the verse needed a bit more time to rattle around in my subconscious before it could find its way to paper.
More often, I find an old idea - or even a word or two - that triggers a whole new poem. I play around with "the ingredients" - the thoughts, ideas, or phrases - on the scrap of paper I've selected until I find a combination that suits my literary palate. And Voila! Out of the confusion of the half formed thoughts and random rhymes in my file a new poem comes to life!
So - this blog post is a big shout out to all the makers who leave things half-made. Be kind to yourself, my creative friends. Your unfinished projects are not failures! They shouldn't be kept to remind you of what you couldn't finish, but to inspire you to consider what you will finish later. Once the creative dust has settled and your brain has had a chance to work out the kinks that left you snafu-ed during that first attempt, you will be able to turn those bits into something that satisfies your creative cravings - take encouragement from a poet who has re-constructed some pretty strange lines into verses that I'm now happy with - and even proud of!
Keep those unfinished efforts handy, and re-visit them often. One day you'll surprise yourself by putting it all together - perhaps as you'd originally intended, and perhaps in some bold new way that you haven't even dreamed of - yet.
Art emerges when it's ready.
Half written poems in a file -
unfinished thoughts within -
there to consult once in a while
when inspiration's thin.
I return to odes once started,
and neurons re-ignite;
from efforts once halfhearted
I can gain fresh insight.
A single word might catch my eye
to percolate a thought
that makes my pen 'cross paper fly
until the verse is caught.
Thus scribbled bits I jot in haste -
disjointed lines of rhyme -
will very seldom go to waste;
they all evolve in time.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, February 21, 2018
I've come to the conclusion that most creative people - writers, poets, artists, crafters and makers of all kinds - are a bit hard on themselves. Prone to what's dubbed "artistic temperament" we're apt to feel considerable frustration when a project that we once started with great enthusiasm and high hopes just...fizzles out...
We all have that file, or that corner, or that room - the place we store our half finished creative endeavors. I used to stash away those scraps of paper, the ones that held a few lines of poetry, in furtive haste -and largely forget about them. Always a bit hard on myself, I saw those unfinished verses as a testament to my failure - failure to stay on task and see things through to completion.
While I was packing up my old house - before my big move to a small town - I found what I secretly thought of as my file of shame. And because packing was miserable work - that I needed a momentary reprieve from - I gave the contents a quick perusal.
To my amazement I was pretty excited about what I found. There was definitely food for thought among those pages, and I vowed I'd keep that file handy in the future and revisit it more often. I don't think of it as my file of failure anymore; no - now it's been re-categorized as "Inspirational Resource Material".
I keep that file in my kitchen - on the shelf with my cookbooks. It seems like the perfect spot. After all, when my tongue craves a new meal I consult those cookbooks, and if I find a recipe that appeals to me I amass the ingredients and try it out. Sometimes I re-work the recipe considerably in order to accommodate the palates of the household - and the food allergies of the husband! The completed recipe might not be what its creator intended it to be, but (generally speaking) I often manage to turn it into a reasonably good addition to my culinary repertoire.
Now my unfinished poetry file serves the same purpose as those cookbooks. I flip through it whenever my brain can't quite get a new idea off the ground. Sometimes I find exactly what I'm craving among my scattered scribblings and execute the poem exactly as I originally intended it to be. (That doesn't happen often, so when it does I feel like I've accomplished quite a creative feat and give myself a mental high five.) I've come to the conclusion that my mind just got ahead of me when that poem was started - the verse needed a bit more time to rattle around in my subconscious before it could find its way to paper.
More often, I find an old idea - or even a word or two - that triggers a whole new poem. I play around with "the ingredients" - the thoughts, ideas, or phrases - on the scrap of paper I've selected until I find a combination that suits my literary palate. And Voila! Out of the confusion of the half formed thoughts and random rhymes in my file a new poem comes to life!
So - this blog post is a big shout out to all the makers who leave things half-made. Be kind to yourself, my creative friends. Your unfinished projects are not failures! They shouldn't be kept to remind you of what you couldn't finish, but to inspire you to consider what you will finish later. Once the creative dust has settled and your brain has had a chance to work out the kinks that left you snafu-ed during that first attempt, you will be able to turn those bits into something that satisfies your creative cravings - take encouragement from a poet who has re-constructed some pretty strange lines into verses that I'm now happy with - and even proud of!
Keep those unfinished efforts handy, and re-visit them often. One day you'll surprise yourself by putting it all together - perhaps as you'd originally intended, and perhaps in some bold new way that you haven't even dreamed of - yet.
Art emerges when it's ready.
Friday, 2 February 2018
Pieces of Heart - By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Pieces of My Heart
If my heart's in pieces that's okay -
wouldn't want it any other way.
A heart that stays unbroken
will not ever be complete;
those pieces are the tokens
of each win and each defeat -
and for every portion that you cede,
you'll amass some pieces that you need.
Hearts strong and compassionate are built -
bits are pieced together like a quilt.
Portions doled out, cut to size,
others offered in return
'til a pattern is devised,
as you bind up seams you'll learn;
without all the pieces that you gain
just the drabbest colours would remain.
Can't regret the pieces that I lost.
Nothing worthwhile comes without a cost.
And though I've known rejection
when some offered bits were spurned -
now in my recollection
it took time before I learned:
Don't force a piece where it doesn't belong;
take care before the pattern turns out wrong.
So although I know I'll never find
remnants of my heart left far behind -
I know I'm more than content
with the new bits I've received;
now I know when love is spent
there is greater love achieved.
And I've learned I simply have to dare
to scatter my heart's pieces everywhere.
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, June 2008
My heart has been fragmented for a long time, and I've lost quite a few pieces along the way. I'm not complaining though - others have shared pieces of their hearts to fill in the gaps.
Hearts swell, expand, and shatter regularly. When you find your soul-mate, you learn all about "loaves and fishes". You scrape together every bit of love you have to offer, and miraculously realize that your heart is fuller than ever before. When you hold your newborn child, your heart is so full it bursts - and your heart pieces scatter all over the place. But with every toothless smile they give, and with every stroke of a downy head you give, you discover you have more than you ever gave away. Every little bit of shared heart is magical.
I lost another little piece a few days back when I had to say good-bye to the Brazilian exchange student who lived with us for a few short months. I really didn't think it would be so difficult to give him a quick hug and put him on a bus bound for the airport - but man... I am amazed by how quickly people can find their way into my heart these days.
I am consoled by knowing that a bit of my heart lives on in a village in Brazil - and that a wonderful boy left a piece of his heart here too. It's Karma in the sweetest sense - what we give comes back to us. My heart is like a starfish - if I lose a piece here and there it will always grow back.
This isn't the first piece I've lost. I have bits of my heart scattered all over North America. A big chunk is in Alberta with the two siblings who live there. Another sizable portion is scattered across Southern Ontario with two more siblings and my mother. Still another bit lives in the Ottawa area - and a really hefty piece of my heart lives in Boston with my son and daughter in law. I function very well without those pieces because each of those people have given me some of their heart in return.
I have no regrets about the pieces of heart I lost years ago. Friends I've long since lost touch with still matter because of the experiences we shared. Ex-boyfriends enriched my life long after those relationships fizzled. They all gave me pieces of heart, and introduced me to parts of myself that I hadn't recognized previously; parts of myself that I've learned to love. Old friends who've died live on in my heart, and somewhere out there in the ether every ounce of love I gave them lives on. My long departed friends left big chunks of heart with me too. Those friendships left me forever changed for the better.
Over the years I've told a few people that I didn't intend to ever stop caring - and I didn't - because there was simply no need to. I knew I would always be able to spare a little corner of my heart, even after giving over most of that real estate to my husband, family and close friends.
The way I see it, life is too short to try to take back any of the scant amounts of love we manage to give to others. People change, relationships end, or evolve, and the nature of love changes - but there's no need to undermine memories or deny genuine feelings once felt. We can learn to hold on to good, loving feelings even after acknowledging that a relationship simply wasn't meant to be. I've been evicted from a heart or two when friendships ended - but I've never been the one to tell a friend I no longer care about them or don't want to see them again. It's natural that sometimes friendships wane, but I see no reason to summarily dismiss people from my life. The rejection hurts, but my heart is big enough to spare a dollop of kindness and wish them well.
I'm learning how gratifying it is to scatter bits of my heart farther afield. I no longer feel inclined to concentrate on loving people who are related to me, or look like me, or hold to the same ideologies that I do. I won't say that I love without conditions, but I have a shorter list of criteria than I used to. Loving others hasn't become automatic, but the process of learning to give and accept love has grown swifter. My tendency is still to proceed with caution, but at least I'm moving in the right direction.
Age and maturity grant us increasing ability to love generously. We begin to understand that the exchanges aren't always equitable. Sometimes we'll give more; sometimes we'll get more. Sometimes we'll give and give and get nothing in return. When we were younger, we wasted a lot more time complaining about who gave or received more, but age grants us enough grace to spend less time quibbling. We learn to see that small scraps and bits can be useful to bind up the seams of our lives. Nothing we give - or get - is ever wasted.
The fabric of our hearts continues to increase no matter how many bits we share. The pattern grows brighter and more intricate as we integrate every new bit we're given into an ever-evolving design. And the pieces we scatter become part of other quilts and tapestries. They add warmth, texture and colour to every life they touch.
So if I offer you a scrap or two, take it. And if you have a bit to share in return I'll find a place for it. Maybe someday we'll all have little pieces of our hearts scattered all over the world...
Can you imagine how beautiful the world would be if we sewed them all together?
If my heart's in pieces that's okay -
wouldn't want it any other way.
A heart that stays unbroken
will not ever be complete;
those pieces are the tokens
of each win and each defeat -
and for every portion that you cede,
you'll amass some pieces that you need.
Hearts strong and compassionate are built -
bits are pieced together like a quilt.
Portions doled out, cut to size,
others offered in return
'til a pattern is devised,
as you bind up seams you'll learn;
without all the pieces that you gain
just the drabbest colours would remain.
Can't regret the pieces that I lost.
Nothing worthwhile comes without a cost.
And though I've known rejection
when some offered bits were spurned -
now in my recollection
it took time before I learned:
Don't force a piece where it doesn't belong;
take care before the pattern turns out wrong.
So although I know I'll never find
remnants of my heart left far behind -
I know I'm more than content
with the new bits I've received;
now I know when love is spent
there is greater love achieved.
And I've learned I simply have to dare
to scatter my heart's pieces everywhere.
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, June 2008
My heart has been fragmented for a long time, and I've lost quite a few pieces along the way. I'm not complaining though - others have shared pieces of their hearts to fill in the gaps.
Hearts swell, expand, and shatter regularly. When you find your soul-mate, you learn all about "loaves and fishes". You scrape together every bit of love you have to offer, and miraculously realize that your heart is fuller than ever before. When you hold your newborn child, your heart is so full it bursts - and your heart pieces scatter all over the place. But with every toothless smile they give, and with every stroke of a downy head you give, you discover you have more than you ever gave away. Every little bit of shared heart is magical.
I lost another little piece a few days back when I had to say good-bye to the Brazilian exchange student who lived with us for a few short months. I really didn't think it would be so difficult to give him a quick hug and put him on a bus bound for the airport - but man... I am amazed by how quickly people can find their way into my heart these days.
I am consoled by knowing that a bit of my heart lives on in a village in Brazil - and that a wonderful boy left a piece of his heart here too. It's Karma in the sweetest sense - what we give comes back to us. My heart is like a starfish - if I lose a piece here and there it will always grow back.
This isn't the first piece I've lost. I have bits of my heart scattered all over North America. A big chunk is in Alberta with the two siblings who live there. Another sizable portion is scattered across Southern Ontario with two more siblings and my mother. Still another bit lives in the Ottawa area - and a really hefty piece of my heart lives in Boston with my son and daughter in law. I function very well without those pieces because each of those people have given me some of their heart in return.
I have no regrets about the pieces of heart I lost years ago. Friends I've long since lost touch with still matter because of the experiences we shared. Ex-boyfriends enriched my life long after those relationships fizzled. They all gave me pieces of heart, and introduced me to parts of myself that I hadn't recognized previously; parts of myself that I've learned to love. Old friends who've died live on in my heart, and somewhere out there in the ether every ounce of love I gave them lives on. My long departed friends left big chunks of heart with me too. Those friendships left me forever changed for the better.
Over the years I've told a few people that I didn't intend to ever stop caring - and I didn't - because there was simply no need to. I knew I would always be able to spare a little corner of my heart, even after giving over most of that real estate to my husband, family and close friends.
The way I see it, life is too short to try to take back any of the scant amounts of love we manage to give to others. People change, relationships end, or evolve, and the nature of love changes - but there's no need to undermine memories or deny genuine feelings once felt. We can learn to hold on to good, loving feelings even after acknowledging that a relationship simply wasn't meant to be. I've been evicted from a heart or two when friendships ended - but I've never been the one to tell a friend I no longer care about them or don't want to see them again. It's natural that sometimes friendships wane, but I see no reason to summarily dismiss people from my life. The rejection hurts, but my heart is big enough to spare a dollop of kindness and wish them well.
I'm learning how gratifying it is to scatter bits of my heart farther afield. I no longer feel inclined to concentrate on loving people who are related to me, or look like me, or hold to the same ideologies that I do. I won't say that I love without conditions, but I have a shorter list of criteria than I used to. Loving others hasn't become automatic, but the process of learning to give and accept love has grown swifter. My tendency is still to proceed with caution, but at least I'm moving in the right direction.
Age and maturity grant us increasing ability to love generously. We begin to understand that the exchanges aren't always equitable. Sometimes we'll give more; sometimes we'll get more. Sometimes we'll give and give and get nothing in return. When we were younger, we wasted a lot more time complaining about who gave or received more, but age grants us enough grace to spend less time quibbling. We learn to see that small scraps and bits can be useful to bind up the seams of our lives. Nothing we give - or get - is ever wasted.
The fabric of our hearts continues to increase no matter how many bits we share. The pattern grows brighter and more intricate as we integrate every new bit we're given into an ever-evolving design. And the pieces we scatter become part of other quilts and tapestries. They add warmth, texture and colour to every life they touch.
So if I offer you a scrap or two, take it. And if you have a bit to share in return I'll find a place for it. Maybe someday we'll all have little pieces of our hearts scattered all over the world...
Can you imagine how beautiful the world would be if we sewed them all together?
Wednesday, 17 January 2018
In Praise of "Quiet" - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg
In Praise of Quiet:
Oh Introvert,
you won't exert
exub'rance of
an extrovert.
You'll try and fail -
'side them you'll pale -
until you on
own strengths prevail.
Use what you've got;
delve into thought.
For quiet wisdom
you'll be sought.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, Jan. 12, 2018
In a recent conversation with some of my family, I described myself as an introvert. One of my sisters seemed incredulous, and perhaps rightly so. Her experience with me, as a family member, tells a different story. I'm not "shy" around family - in fact I'm pretty outspoken around most people I'm familiar with. I'm not afraid to talk about most things online - so how can I be an introvert?
Webster's dictionary defines the word introvert as "someone more interested in their own mental or emotional processes than in outside events etc." To paraphrase this, introverts spend a whole lot of time in their own heads. Introverts thrive on plenty of solitude. They do their best work alone, in peace and quiet. They prefer one on one conversations to spending time in large groups. They often feel anxious about attending social events and physically/emotionally drained afterwards. That doesn't mean they don't want to go, but it does mean that their definition of a great party is one where they found a few friends to spend the evening chatting with. They'd just rather not have to circulate all night long.
I recently finished reading Quiet (The Power of Introverts in a World that Can't Stop Talking) by Susan Cain. A quiz early in the book confirmed what I've always suspected about myself - I am an introvert! (I scored 14 out of 16 on this quiz - which is "based on Characteristics of introversion often accepted by contemporary researchers.")
Susan builds a strong case for the theory that North American society values extroversion over introversion. Think back to your own experiences and you'll see clear examples of times where you were rewarded for "being sociable" - or at least appearing to be sociable - and times when you were shamed for being too shy, cautious or solitary. It shouldn't be so surprising that many of us, as introverts, learned to become adept at hiding in plain sight. Appearing more extroverted than we are becomes a survival tactic. Let me elaborate:
How many times in school did you have to do "group work", give presentations to a group, answer questions in front of a group, and so on? Can you see that many of these situations are intimidating to quiet (or less socially confident) children and advantageous to those who are more extroverted? I did well in school, and as a result I had confidence when it came to answering questions - but I hated having to work in groups larger than three. I just wanted to go do my own work in peace and quiet - to focus all my energy on one task without a million distractions. Introverts work very effectively when they're allowed to process things at their own pace and prioritize time for themselves - and by themselves. Introverts aren't wild about group efforts and collaborations. They have their own ideas about how projects need to be completed, and just want to get on with it. Having to listen to a whole lot of extroverts work through their thoughts verbally sounds like a waste of time to us.
But sadly the prevailing attitudes in North America don't often play to the needs of the quiet, and quiet-loving, souls among us, and educators seem to be increasingly relying on group interaction within their classrooms.
I remember one scenario from my high school days that demonstrates exactly the sort of school experience that can make classroom learning miserable for an introvert. In my grade nine math class, I didn't know a soul. Strike one - I felt anxious just going to class. I soon discovered that for the first time ever I was completely confused by the subject material - which was a huge blow to my usually academically confident self - strike two. Because of those first two points, I was terrified to raise my hand and ask questions - and when I finally got up the nerve to do so, I encountered my worst feelings of inadequacy yet. You see, my teacher's solution to "helping" students who didn't understand was to send them up to the blackboard to "try and solve the problem themselves". I didn't even know where to begin solving those equations, and publicly demonstrating my ignorance was a resounding strike three for my ability to become mathematically proficient. After a couple rounds of public humiliation, I gave up and accepted failing grades - for the first time in my life. What's really sad about this experience is that I'm certain there were kids in that class who were more intimidated by that "helping" process than I ever was!
The upside of that experience was that I began to learn empathy for those who were more withdrawn than I was. As I began to look around for the kids who were obviously suffering more social discomfort than I was, I gained confidence - and found friends I could relate to. I learned that others, who seemed far shier than I was, were comfortable sharing their experiences and frustrations with me.
Navigating education was nothing compared to my early experiences with dating. An extrovert has no problem speaking up and demonstrating interest. An introvert, on the other hand, needs to know with absolute certainty that the other party "likes" them before they'll give anything away. Because they spend so much time with their own thoughts, introverts are a lot more likely to second-guess themselves during social interactions. Here's a classic example from my own youth:
I was at a wedding reception and a guy I had a huge crush on asked me to dance. But I was uncertain that he'd asked me to dance because he hadn't asked me by name. So I hesitated - I mean - could he really have asked me to dance? In my moment of hesitation/disbelief a far more extroverted and popular girl seated next to me jumped up and said, "Sure - I'll dance with you!" Friends seated with me were certain that the invitation had been intended for me, and could see how crestfallen I was to have missed the opportunity. Forty years later, I still wish I'd done what the other girl did - simply jumped up and danced with him. But older, wiser, and still introverted me can't help but remember that he never asked again.
Let me tell you - I'm convinced that introverts suffer a lot of heartbreak before they find someone who's willing to take them as they are. While I love having a husband I can talk to, I'm even more appreciative of the fact that we can enjoy comfortable silences together.
Perhaps the only thing more challenging for an introvert than finding a trusted romantic partner is finding employment. Every manager wants to hire the proverbial "People Person" - whether or not sociability weighs heavily into the person's ability to do the job. Employers ask questions that are skewed toward extroverts. They want future hires to prove that they're charismatic. They want proof they can play to the crowd and sway others to their way of thinking, and whether their ideas merit being adopted by others is often a secondary concern. In spite of the fact that "slow and steady wins the race", North American employers consistently show a marked preference for hares over tortoises.
Many introverts learn to fake it in order to be hired. Some continue to put on an act at work, and essentially live double lives. Their "work persona" seems bubbly and energetic, but at home they are quiet, subdued and energized by their solitary pursuits. Other introverts are lucky enough to find employment that they feel passionately about - and a passionate introvert doesn't need to pretend. No matter how "shy" they may be, chances are they'll have areas of interest that they feel so strongly about that they could talk about them for hours with anyone who shares that interest - or expresses curiosity about it. Some passionate introverts learn to excel at making speeches and public presentations simply because they feel so strongly about their cause, or their area of expertise.
Remember this - people often differ from what we perceive them to be. All introverts don't manifest as "shy". Many, like me, learn to speak up for themselves. Many more of us are confident sharing our ideas in written form. We learn to let out some of the thoughts that keep us looking inward, and by sharing them become more outwardly focused. Reaching out to share our unique gifts with others increases our confidence - and helps us locate the other quiet, deep-thinking uni-taskers around us.
So here's to all the introverts out there - the ones who have fully embraced their "quiet" and the ones who push themselves far into the fray on a daily basis. We are important. We have plenty to offer in a noisy world. Some will see our meticulous efforts as plodding, and our desire to be alone as anti-social, but others will see who we really are - and love us. They'll appreciate our ability to listen and analyze the facts before offering a thoughtful response. They'll appreciate our more cautious nature, and the creative solutions our busy, observant brains dream up. They'll value the close relationships we offer them, over being part of an extrovert's large entourage. Some will ask us to dance again - and again...
In this chaotic world, it's often the quieter powers employed by the inwardly-focused that keep those around them grounded and comfortable.
Oh Introvert,
you won't exert
exub'rance of
an extrovert.
You'll try and fail -
'side them you'll pale -
until you on
own strengths prevail.
Use what you've got;
delve into thought.
For quiet wisdom
you'll be sought.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, Jan. 12, 2018
In a recent conversation with some of my family, I described myself as an introvert. One of my sisters seemed incredulous, and perhaps rightly so. Her experience with me, as a family member, tells a different story. I'm not "shy" around family - in fact I'm pretty outspoken around most people I'm familiar with. I'm not afraid to talk about most things online - so how can I be an introvert?
Webster's dictionary defines the word introvert as "someone more interested in their own mental or emotional processes than in outside events etc." To paraphrase this, introverts spend a whole lot of time in their own heads. Introverts thrive on plenty of solitude. They do their best work alone, in peace and quiet. They prefer one on one conversations to spending time in large groups. They often feel anxious about attending social events and physically/emotionally drained afterwards. That doesn't mean they don't want to go, but it does mean that their definition of a great party is one where they found a few friends to spend the evening chatting with. They'd just rather not have to circulate all night long.
I recently finished reading Quiet (The Power of Introverts in a World that Can't Stop Talking) by Susan Cain. A quiz early in the book confirmed what I've always suspected about myself - I am an introvert! (I scored 14 out of 16 on this quiz - which is "based on Characteristics of introversion often accepted by contemporary researchers.")
Susan builds a strong case for the theory that North American society values extroversion over introversion. Think back to your own experiences and you'll see clear examples of times where you were rewarded for "being sociable" - or at least appearing to be sociable - and times when you were shamed for being too shy, cautious or solitary. It shouldn't be so surprising that many of us, as introverts, learned to become adept at hiding in plain sight. Appearing more extroverted than we are becomes a survival tactic. Let me elaborate:
How many times in school did you have to do "group work", give presentations to a group, answer questions in front of a group, and so on? Can you see that many of these situations are intimidating to quiet (or less socially confident) children and advantageous to those who are more extroverted? I did well in school, and as a result I had confidence when it came to answering questions - but I hated having to work in groups larger than three. I just wanted to go do my own work in peace and quiet - to focus all my energy on one task without a million distractions. Introverts work very effectively when they're allowed to process things at their own pace and prioritize time for themselves - and by themselves. Introverts aren't wild about group efforts and collaborations. They have their own ideas about how projects need to be completed, and just want to get on with it. Having to listen to a whole lot of extroverts work through their thoughts verbally sounds like a waste of time to us.
But sadly the prevailing attitudes in North America don't often play to the needs of the quiet, and quiet-loving, souls among us, and educators seem to be increasingly relying on group interaction within their classrooms.
I remember one scenario from my high school days that demonstrates exactly the sort of school experience that can make classroom learning miserable for an introvert. In my grade nine math class, I didn't know a soul. Strike one - I felt anxious just going to class. I soon discovered that for the first time ever I was completely confused by the subject material - which was a huge blow to my usually academically confident self - strike two. Because of those first two points, I was terrified to raise my hand and ask questions - and when I finally got up the nerve to do so, I encountered my worst feelings of inadequacy yet. You see, my teacher's solution to "helping" students who didn't understand was to send them up to the blackboard to "try and solve the problem themselves". I didn't even know where to begin solving those equations, and publicly demonstrating my ignorance was a resounding strike three for my ability to become mathematically proficient. After a couple rounds of public humiliation, I gave up and accepted failing grades - for the first time in my life. What's really sad about this experience is that I'm certain there were kids in that class who were more intimidated by that "helping" process than I ever was!
The upside of that experience was that I began to learn empathy for those who were more withdrawn than I was. As I began to look around for the kids who were obviously suffering more social discomfort than I was, I gained confidence - and found friends I could relate to. I learned that others, who seemed far shier than I was, were comfortable sharing their experiences and frustrations with me.
Navigating education was nothing compared to my early experiences with dating. An extrovert has no problem speaking up and demonstrating interest. An introvert, on the other hand, needs to know with absolute certainty that the other party "likes" them before they'll give anything away. Because they spend so much time with their own thoughts, introverts are a lot more likely to second-guess themselves during social interactions. Here's a classic example from my own youth:
I was at a wedding reception and a guy I had a huge crush on asked me to dance. But I was uncertain that he'd asked me to dance because he hadn't asked me by name. So I hesitated - I mean - could he really have asked me to dance? In my moment of hesitation/disbelief a far more extroverted and popular girl seated next to me jumped up and said, "Sure - I'll dance with you!" Friends seated with me were certain that the invitation had been intended for me, and could see how crestfallen I was to have missed the opportunity. Forty years later, I still wish I'd done what the other girl did - simply jumped up and danced with him. But older, wiser, and still introverted me can't help but remember that he never asked again.
Let me tell you - I'm convinced that introverts suffer a lot of heartbreak before they find someone who's willing to take them as they are. While I love having a husband I can talk to, I'm even more appreciative of the fact that we can enjoy comfortable silences together.
Perhaps the only thing more challenging for an introvert than finding a trusted romantic partner is finding employment. Every manager wants to hire the proverbial "People Person" - whether or not sociability weighs heavily into the person's ability to do the job. Employers ask questions that are skewed toward extroverts. They want future hires to prove that they're charismatic. They want proof they can play to the crowd and sway others to their way of thinking, and whether their ideas merit being adopted by others is often a secondary concern. In spite of the fact that "slow and steady wins the race", North American employers consistently show a marked preference for hares over tortoises.
Many introverts learn to fake it in order to be hired. Some continue to put on an act at work, and essentially live double lives. Their "work persona" seems bubbly and energetic, but at home they are quiet, subdued and energized by their solitary pursuits. Other introverts are lucky enough to find employment that they feel passionately about - and a passionate introvert doesn't need to pretend. No matter how "shy" they may be, chances are they'll have areas of interest that they feel so strongly about that they could talk about them for hours with anyone who shares that interest - or expresses curiosity about it. Some passionate introverts learn to excel at making speeches and public presentations simply because they feel so strongly about their cause, or their area of expertise.
Remember this - people often differ from what we perceive them to be. All introverts don't manifest as "shy". Many, like me, learn to speak up for themselves. Many more of us are confident sharing our ideas in written form. We learn to let out some of the thoughts that keep us looking inward, and by sharing them become more outwardly focused. Reaching out to share our unique gifts with others increases our confidence - and helps us locate the other quiet, deep-thinking uni-taskers around us.
So here's to all the introverts out there - the ones who have fully embraced their "quiet" and the ones who push themselves far into the fray on a daily basis. We are important. We have plenty to offer in a noisy world. Some will see our meticulous efforts as plodding, and our desire to be alone as anti-social, but others will see who we really are - and love us. They'll appreciate our ability to listen and analyze the facts before offering a thoughtful response. They'll appreciate our more cautious nature, and the creative solutions our busy, observant brains dream up. They'll value the close relationships we offer them, over being part of an extrovert's large entourage. Some will ask us to dance again - and again...
In this chaotic world, it's often the quieter powers employed by the inwardly-focused that keep those around them grounded and comfortable.
Thursday, 4 January 2018
Resolute! By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Resolute:
This I resolve:
I will evolve.
I'll problem solve,
and not dissolve.
I'll be aware,
and swear I'll dare
to really care
how others fare.
I'll try to plant
and not to rant;
to words decant
without a slant.
I won't impute
or fuel dispute -
I'll be astute.
I'm resolute.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, January 3, 2018
It's the same every year. As soon as the holidays begin wrapping up everyone begins talking about resolutions. I'll admit that I begin to think about what I want to accomplish over the next year of my life too, but I've stopped being so focused on the goals themselves.
Let me explain. I used to go at this beginning of the year stuff with great gusto - writing a series of journal entries that broke down all of my yearly goals into tiny increments of improvement in a wide variety of categories. It was overkill, and I found that setting too many precise goals left me feeling overburdened before January was finished. And that is what prompted me to spend so much of my time lazing in the town of Stalledandstuck, instead of moving on to that great intermediate town of Progress - that was en route to the even bigger and more exciting place called Success. (See my earlier post, "Progress: A Sharp Right Turn before Stalledandstuck")
Now, contrary to the advice I've always been given, which is to set "specific" goals, I'm back to looking for general improvements in my life. The poem above lists a few of the areas where I could stand to see a little progress in my life.
1) I can be far too rigid. My fallback mode is to play the role of "old dog" - not too quick to pick up new tricks. My sister recently had her grandson point out to her that she wasn't old - just "her number" was. I need to remember that. The "number" is getting up there, and I can forget that it doesn't need to dictate how I live, or how I have fun. On New Year's Eve my son, daughter-in-law and exchange student invited me to go tobogganing with them. My first instinct was to say no - "Bah humbug!" said my brain, "You're too old for that kind of foolishness!" Thankfully I took some time to weigh out my decision. The hill was small. I had no preexisting injuries to worry about; no arthritis, no sore back. I had plenty of warm clothes to wear. In short, I had no significant reason to say no, so I went. Maybe I'm evolving beyond the point where I let "the number" hold me back. That gives me hope that I can evolve to move beyond a few other hang-ups too.
2) I stress too much over little things. When I'm overtired every tiny issue or setback in my life seems huge. I complain too much and spend too little time thinking my way through the problems at hand. A negative cycle can occur, wherein I end up angry, frustrated with myself, and finally embarrassed by the fact that I lost my cool somehow - gave in to tears or anger instead of working things through rationally. This year I'll work harder at not letting myself "dissolve" when I'm overtired and over-wrought. I'll try to remember to give myself a "time out" before I get to my breaking point.
3) Sometimes I'm just not as observant as I should be. I can get caught up in my own little world and not notice where I might be of service to others. At other times, I can see where I might be helpful, but I don't offer aid because I'm afraid I'll cause offense or my offer will simply be refused. (Offers refused or ignored can seriously look like rejection to me...but I'm learning that I shouldn't see it that way. People often need to know they can trust you before they'll accept your help.) I'm trying harder to trust my kinder impulses and let others know that I'm thinking of them - and I care.
4) I'm trying to become less inclined to push my opinions on others, but that's a tough slog. The urge to rant on and on (and on!) is ever present. I constantly need to remind myself that I don't need to engage in every debate, let alone win. If I can say - or write - one thought that plants a small seed of inquiry in another mind it really is enough. I don't need to let my biases show constantly. In fact, I'm learning that if I try to hide them a bit more often I learn how to listen better and forge more trusting relationships with those who see things differently.
5) I will continue making efforts to be kinder. This point goes along with the above paragraph. Sometimes it's just too darned easy to spew out a biased opinion. I forget to keep my wits about me and weigh out my commentary before I speak, which is often a counterproductive strategy.
No - this year instead of making all kinds of resolutions I am simply aiming to be more resolute. I will aim to not become sidetracked - in whatever goals I make along the way - by difficulties or opposition I encounter, or by risks I perceive. I'll do a few more things that take me out of my comfort zone - which is slowly expanding. I won't back down every time some task seems too challenging. I'll read harder books, take on new projects, and I'll learn some new things.
This I resolve:
I will evolve.
This I resolve:
I will evolve.
I'll problem solve,
and not dissolve.
I'll be aware,
and swear I'll dare
to really care
how others fare.
I'll try to plant
and not to rant;
to words decant
without a slant.
I won't impute
or fuel dispute -
I'll be astute.
I'm resolute.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, January 3, 2018
It's the same every year. As soon as the holidays begin wrapping up everyone begins talking about resolutions. I'll admit that I begin to think about what I want to accomplish over the next year of my life too, but I've stopped being so focused on the goals themselves.
Let me explain. I used to go at this beginning of the year stuff with great gusto - writing a series of journal entries that broke down all of my yearly goals into tiny increments of improvement in a wide variety of categories. It was overkill, and I found that setting too many precise goals left me feeling overburdened before January was finished. And that is what prompted me to spend so much of my time lazing in the town of Stalledandstuck, instead of moving on to that great intermediate town of Progress - that was en route to the even bigger and more exciting place called Success. (See my earlier post, "Progress: A Sharp Right Turn before Stalledandstuck")
Now, contrary to the advice I've always been given, which is to set "specific" goals, I'm back to looking for general improvements in my life. The poem above lists a few of the areas where I could stand to see a little progress in my life.
1) I can be far too rigid. My fallback mode is to play the role of "old dog" - not too quick to pick up new tricks. My sister recently had her grandson point out to her that she wasn't old - just "her number" was. I need to remember that. The "number" is getting up there, and I can forget that it doesn't need to dictate how I live, or how I have fun. On New Year's Eve my son, daughter-in-law and exchange student invited me to go tobogganing with them. My first instinct was to say no - "Bah humbug!" said my brain, "You're too old for that kind of foolishness!" Thankfully I took some time to weigh out my decision. The hill was small. I had no preexisting injuries to worry about; no arthritis, no sore back. I had plenty of warm clothes to wear. In short, I had no significant reason to say no, so I went. Maybe I'm evolving beyond the point where I let "the number" hold me back. That gives me hope that I can evolve to move beyond a few other hang-ups too.
2) I stress too much over little things. When I'm overtired every tiny issue or setback in my life seems huge. I complain too much and spend too little time thinking my way through the problems at hand. A negative cycle can occur, wherein I end up angry, frustrated with myself, and finally embarrassed by the fact that I lost my cool somehow - gave in to tears or anger instead of working things through rationally. This year I'll work harder at not letting myself "dissolve" when I'm overtired and over-wrought. I'll try to remember to give myself a "time out" before I get to my breaking point.
3) Sometimes I'm just not as observant as I should be. I can get caught up in my own little world and not notice where I might be of service to others. At other times, I can see where I might be helpful, but I don't offer aid because I'm afraid I'll cause offense or my offer will simply be refused. (Offers refused or ignored can seriously look like rejection to me...but I'm learning that I shouldn't see it that way. People often need to know they can trust you before they'll accept your help.) I'm trying harder to trust my kinder impulses and let others know that I'm thinking of them - and I care.
4) I'm trying to become less inclined to push my opinions on others, but that's a tough slog. The urge to rant on and on (and on!) is ever present. I constantly need to remind myself that I don't need to engage in every debate, let alone win. If I can say - or write - one thought that plants a small seed of inquiry in another mind it really is enough. I don't need to let my biases show constantly. In fact, I'm learning that if I try to hide them a bit more often I learn how to listen better and forge more trusting relationships with those who see things differently.
5) I will continue making efforts to be kinder. This point goes along with the above paragraph. Sometimes it's just too darned easy to spew out a biased opinion. I forget to keep my wits about me and weigh out my commentary before I speak, which is often a counterproductive strategy.
No - this year instead of making all kinds of resolutions I am simply aiming to be more resolute. I will aim to not become sidetracked - in whatever goals I make along the way - by difficulties or opposition I encounter, or by risks I perceive. I'll do a few more things that take me out of my comfort zone - which is slowly expanding. I won't back down every time some task seems too challenging. I'll read harder books, take on new projects, and I'll learn some new things.
This I resolve:
I will evolve.
Tuesday, 19 December 2017
Making Christmas - By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Making Christmas:
I looked out my window,
and what do you know?
A nasty grey drizzle
had melted my snow!
And rain in December,
it just isn't right -
It clouds o'er my Christmas
and stifles delight.
"But I will be happy",
I said to myself.
The mood of the weather
I'll put on the shelf.
I'll turn on the tree lights
and get down to work.
I've got things to finish,
there's no time to shirk!"
So I frosted cookies
then popped up some corn.
I got plenty done before
it was mid-morn.
Then old friend stopped by
with some cookies on plate.
I felt pretty good then -
in fact, I felt great!
Before long another
appeared at my door -
this one bearing presents -
what could I ask more?
On grey drizzly day when
the weather is bleak,
and for Christmas spirit
so wearied I seek -
I turned on my lights and
though skies never cleared,
The grey in my heart - well,
it just disappeared!
I kept making Christmas
for my family,
and others showed up who
made Christmas for me!
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, December 19, 2017
It's not often that I post twice in the space of a week, but when inspiration hits, why not?
Christmas has been very busy this year. It seemed to sneak up on me. Until yesterday I still thought it was two weeks away - seriously. So yesterday was a very harried day as I rushed to finish up the Christmas baking. Today I woke up feeling more like I had a decent grip on this whole Christmas thing - and then I looked out the window.
Nothing douses my Christmas spirit faster than a rainy day in December. I get gloomy at the mere thought that we might have a green Christmas. I'm a northern girl - born and bred in Sault Ste. Marie - and Christmas is just plain supposed to be white. And not "a skiff of snow white", but a full fledged grab your skates and/or toboggan white.
So I will admit that the clouds and drizzle made my holiday spirit go fizzle...
But there were things to do and I had no time to mope, so I turned on my indoor Christmas lights and got down to work. I frosted cookies. I watered my plants. I put together a couple of cookie tins for friends. I started making caramel popcorn (a favourite stocking stuffer in our household) - and then, there was a knock on my door.
Our realtor came by with cookies. He's an interesting guy, our realtor. He moonlights as a part-time pastry chef, and makes lovely European delicacies that he sometimes sells to restaurants. (He's that good.) He's also a really nice guy, so a visit from him is always pleasant. He came in and we had a brief visit. I gave him a tour of the house, and he admitted that if there's a house he's sold that he wishes he could've bought himself, this one is it.
Well, the cookies made me pretty happy, but knowing how much he likes my house reminded me just how much I like my house - which made me happier still.
He'd barely left when a friend stuck her head in my front door and called out to me. She came bearing gifts - one for me, and one for our exchange student. They were really sweet, thoughtful gifts - and like the Grinch I could feel my heart getting two sizes bigger.
You see, "Holiday Dreams Sharon" still makes the odd appearance. She tells me I put in all kinds of time cleaning and preparing and "making Christmas happen." She whispers in my ear, "they don't really appreciate all the time you put into this!"
Oh, I know she's wrong. I know it when my grown sons still ask (with a look of avid hope) if I'm making their favourite treat this year. I know it when the one who lives here happily helps trim the tree - and his brother says, "Save some ornaments for me to hang!" I know it when our exchange student casts longing glances as yet another container of goodies is put in the fridge. I know it when my husband salivates as I run through my repertoire of daily baking tasks, or looks around our house and says, "She sure does dress up nicely for Christmas!"
But in spite of all the affirmation that I get from my menfolk, sometimes I get weary - like I did this morning. And at times like that nothing can boost spirits more than having a friend (or two!) stop by and chat. The gifts and cookies were bonus. The real gift is knowing that I'm being thought of. The real gift is being reminded that I have a really great place to live. The real gift is knowing I'm loved.
The real gift is knowing that what comes around, really does go around. The Christmas that I'm busy making for others is elsewhere being made for me.
Merry Christmas (again!) from the Rhyming Muse, and may you all "make Christmas" in the best way you can for those you love and care for.
I looked out my window,
and what do you know?
A nasty grey drizzle
had melted my snow!
And rain in December,
it just isn't right -
It clouds o'er my Christmas
and stifles delight.
"But I will be happy",
I said to myself.
The mood of the weather
I'll put on the shelf.
I'll turn on the tree lights
and get down to work.
I've got things to finish,
there's no time to shirk!"
So I frosted cookies
then popped up some corn.
I got plenty done before
it was mid-morn.
Then old friend stopped by
with some cookies on plate.
I felt pretty good then -
in fact, I felt great!
Before long another
appeared at my door -
this one bearing presents -
what could I ask more?
On grey drizzly day when
the weather is bleak,
and for Christmas spirit
so wearied I seek -
I turned on my lights and
though skies never cleared,
The grey in my heart - well,
it just disappeared!
I kept making Christmas
for my family,
and others showed up who
made Christmas for me!
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, December 19, 2017
It's not often that I post twice in the space of a week, but when inspiration hits, why not?
Christmas has been very busy this year. It seemed to sneak up on me. Until yesterday I still thought it was two weeks away - seriously. So yesterday was a very harried day as I rushed to finish up the Christmas baking. Today I woke up feeling more like I had a decent grip on this whole Christmas thing - and then I looked out the window.
Nothing douses my Christmas spirit faster than a rainy day in December. I get gloomy at the mere thought that we might have a green Christmas. I'm a northern girl - born and bred in Sault Ste. Marie - and Christmas is just plain supposed to be white. And not "a skiff of snow white", but a full fledged grab your skates and/or toboggan white.
So I will admit that the clouds and drizzle made my holiday spirit go fizzle...
But there were things to do and I had no time to mope, so I turned on my indoor Christmas lights and got down to work. I frosted cookies. I watered my plants. I put together a couple of cookie tins for friends. I started making caramel popcorn (a favourite stocking stuffer in our household) - and then, there was a knock on my door.
Our realtor came by with cookies. He's an interesting guy, our realtor. He moonlights as a part-time pastry chef, and makes lovely European delicacies that he sometimes sells to restaurants. (He's that good.) He's also a really nice guy, so a visit from him is always pleasant. He came in and we had a brief visit. I gave him a tour of the house, and he admitted that if there's a house he's sold that he wishes he could've bought himself, this one is it.
Well, the cookies made me pretty happy, but knowing how much he likes my house reminded me just how much I like my house - which made me happier still.
He'd barely left when a friend stuck her head in my front door and called out to me. She came bearing gifts - one for me, and one for our exchange student. They were really sweet, thoughtful gifts - and like the Grinch I could feel my heart getting two sizes bigger.
You see, "Holiday Dreams Sharon" still makes the odd appearance. She tells me I put in all kinds of time cleaning and preparing and "making Christmas happen." She whispers in my ear, "they don't really appreciate all the time you put into this!"
Oh, I know she's wrong. I know it when my grown sons still ask (with a look of avid hope) if I'm making their favourite treat this year. I know it when the one who lives here happily helps trim the tree - and his brother says, "Save some ornaments for me to hang!" I know it when our exchange student casts longing glances as yet another container of goodies is put in the fridge. I know it when my husband salivates as I run through my repertoire of daily baking tasks, or looks around our house and says, "She sure does dress up nicely for Christmas!"
But in spite of all the affirmation that I get from my menfolk, sometimes I get weary - like I did this morning. And at times like that nothing can boost spirits more than having a friend (or two!) stop by and chat. The gifts and cookies were bonus. The real gift is knowing that I'm being thought of. The real gift is being reminded that I have a really great place to live. The real gift is knowing I'm loved.
The real gift is knowing that what comes around, really does go around. The Christmas that I'm busy making for others is elsewhere being made for me.
Merry Christmas (again!) from the Rhyming Muse, and may you all "make Christmas" in the best way you can for those you love and care for.
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