Tag: life (Page 3 of 13)
i’m not a mall person. oh, i’ve spent my fair share of time in malls, mind you, but now i just prefer galleries and arts and craft fairs and etsy. there was a time when malls stimulated me, now they just overwhelm me.
but today we were in the car all day, so we check into the hotel, drop our bags, then stretch our legs by walking straight over to the mall to grab a bite of supper.
i’d forgotten how much i enjoy watching people and looking at the store windows. every shopper represents a bundle of stories. every worker bee: stories. every mannequin: stories. stories, stories, stories. everywhere i look: stories . . .
i look at the girl in the carrot-colored high-heeled boots and the teensy, little ole’ bitty tighty-tight-tight shorts and say, “sugar, tell me you didn’t dress yourself. ahem, i mean, tell me about your outfit.”
to the perky young blonde woman sitting at the table next to me i say, “honey bunny, i just love your pocketbook. do you carry it every day or just for special occasions? was it a gift you bought for yourself?” and i close with “where’d you get it and does it come in blue?”
to the young man with the baggy sweatshirt and the crayola hair and matching crocs while restaging the window display, i watch a while then beg him (because i don’t have all night) “what’s the story you’re telling here? what path led you to this as a career?”
to the woman sweeping the floor and wiping down tables, the woman whose face is a story in and of itself, i pat the chair beside me. “come, sit,” i beckon. “tell me your story. tell me three if you can spare them.”
i find a few perfect gifts for special people, and as i pay and chat with the delightful young woman who works there, a man comes in and barely comes to a stop before saying, “excuse me. can you show me where the roof leaked?” to him i said, “well, well, well. i see SOMEbody failed kindergarten. do you see me standing here?” and when he nods yes, i say, “well, in case you didn’t notice, i am a customer. a customer currently in the process of giving this young woman money to pay for my purchases. money that she will later use to pay her rent and from which you will pay the roofer. now you need to learn to wait your turn, but tell me: why are you in such a galdern hurry?”
okay, truthfully: i say these things . . . but only on the inside.
one day, though. one day i’m gonna’ do some mall walking with a side of mall talking. i’m gonna’ invite and encourage people to tell me their stories ’cause i know they’ve got ’em. and i know i want to hear them. i really, really do.
oh, except . . . remember the maintenance man? well, unless he’s learned a thing or four about manners by the next time we run into each other, i can pretty much guarantee you that in his case, i’m gonna’ talk more than i listen. his mother would want me to.
i saunter and skip
through
nature’s crayon box containing at least 64 colors,
occasionally stumbling
into a hole
where the turning
sharpens
my perception,
my empathy,
my compassion.
(and maybe, just maybe
the turning
twists my ankle, too
but that’s far too specific
and not nearly
poetic enough to be the point.)
i quit praying because
prayer represented a lack of self-reliance,
a neediness,
an inability to take care of my self and my own.
i quit praying because
i was told how to pray
and when to pray
and where to pray.
i quit praying because
i wanted to do it myself
in my own way
to my own spirit of surprises
with my eyes wide open.
well, guess what: i’ve taken up prayer again.
and even though my prayers may not
look like yours
or sound like yours
or be directed to the same god or direction as yours,
they are still prayers.
my prayers.
and on any given day
they sound like laughter
and feel like slow cloth
and taste like mom’s cubed steak
and smell like gardenias
and look like this:
because sometimes
prayers deserve pretty paper
and to be written in blood
and sealed with a big, fat, juicy kiss.
okay, here’s the thing . . .
you know how they say that when somebody just annoys the everloving stuffing out of you that you oughta’ take a good, long look at yourself cause they’re really just holding a mirror up for you? that whatever it is in them that rubs your fur the wrong way is actually something you need to work on in yourself?
well, i say: bunk.
maybe that’s true sometimes, but hey people, let’s face it: sometimes you’re just dealing with (and probably trying hard not to) a jerk. a not-so-nice person. someone who pollutes your space.
or, if this’ll make you feel better, let’s put it this way: it’s not always about you. sometimes it’s about them.
and sometimes they’re a pure, unadulterated jerk.
that is all.
carry on.
over at her place, my darling julie daley asks: “I wonder, when did I put someone else in charge of me? When did I give someone else the key to my feral self, my wild unfettered creativity? When did I hand over the rights of my body, my soul, my power?”
if i had a nickel for every time i’ve asked myself that question . . .
i’ve handed over my body, my soul, my power in a million ways – some small and insidious, some of epic proportions. i once handed over my body (that’s one of the epic proportion episodes i mention), and that handing over saved my life. it saved it and it wrecked it. if you know what i mean.
and once i handed over my soul. at least that’s what being in an abusive relationships felt like, even though i was too young know it was such a dangerous, soul-sucking place until i’d been isolated and brainwashed and threatened into a mute paralysis. it was a long time ago, but there’s still sticky residue in the deep, dark crevices. some things you just don’t forget. for example, on occasion i can still see his lips curled back over his teeth and hear him hissing things like “you are the ugliest, stupidest girl i know.” and “if you break up with me, who on earth do you think will date you?” just your every day run-of-the-mill confidence-building terms of endearment – at least from guys like him – punctuated with the occasional slap or punch.
and my power? oh my goodness. how many times, in how many ways have i handed over my power? there’s simply not enough bandwidth to do this question justice. from being reprimanded for asking too many questions and consequently ceasing to question, to being scolded for getting too uppity and consequently becoming fluent in making my ideas become somebody else’s ideas so they would be accepted. the ideas, i mean.
julie also mentions that i have authority issues. (she knows me well). i do have authority issues, and it’s something i own flat-out and without apology. it’s big, and so we’ll come back to that later.
what i’m working on right now is finding the balancing – placing the fulcrum, if you will. on one side is accepting the fact that things happened to me without my consent. on the other side is acknowledging and accepting that i was too young and not strong enough to prevent, change, or avoid them.
for the longest time, i shoved all these things onto the highest shelf in my closet and like miz scarlett, stuffed my fingers in my ears and sang “fiddle-dee-dee.” but now i’m dusting them off, weaving them into the cloth that is my life, and taking back my power. all of it. in all it’s “nature that is wild, unfettered, feral, and unpredictability.” (yep, julie daley again)
and how am i doing that?
what’s really working for me is making time in my daylight hours for writing, stitching, and walking – doing these important creative things without great fanfare or apologizing because something else has to wait for my attention.
and
no longer allowing other people to measure my worth. (in other words, i’ve finally left junior high.)
and, most importantly of all:
asking this one simple question: “what would the feminine jeanne do?” there are parts of me that have been obviously waiting to hear those words because without exception, once the question is asked, the answers come immediately, succinctly, and assuredly.
and they always make me smile in their simplicity and rightness.
For a time, I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
Wendell Berry
(via Julie Daley)
i got my feelings hurt yesterday by things said and not said. by things done and not done. and as i write that true statement, i feel small and wretched and ashamed. voices hiss from the dark corners and crevices a cacophony of remonstrations and admonitions: “unwanted equals unworthy” and “you can’t control what others do and say, only your reaction and response – when will you ever learn that?” and, in a chiding, condescending, nasal voice “only petty, ego-driven people get their feelings hurt.” a softer voice whispers “sometimes you do hurt, and there’s nothing wrong with that. feel it. stay with it till it passes, as it most assuredly will.”
it’s all too much.
this morning i don my new earrings – the ones that said “seek” and “grace” when i ordered them and now (because i asked with a pretty please) say “seeking” and “grace”. three little letters – ing – turn the outward message of a personal adornment inward, creating tiny little sticky notes to remind me of who and how i want to be. and just like that, i resume my search for the delicate balance between graciously overlooking and graciously honoring myself, trying to find where to put the fulcrum this time to maintain the delicate balance and not squash relationships or my sense of worthiness in the process.
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integrity
This work by Jeanne Hewell-Chambers is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Based on a work at http://www.TheBarefootHeart.com.
here ‘n there