I have this exercise I do every morning (most mornings, anyway) where I sit down and write three pages freehand. Anyone familiar with The Artist's Way by Julia Cameron will recognize the exercise at once, but for those who aren't, this isn't a diary, it's not capital A art, it's just a brain dump...blah, blah, blah basically to just get it all out. I don't keep the pages for long once I've written them; they may hang around for several months and then I recycle them. For that reason, I have no desire to fill up a pretty, expensive journal with these jottings; I try to use scraps, random left over paper, paper already printed on one side, that kind of thing. I've done a lot of scrounging through the house to find paper to use and recently I found a stack of old college notebooks. Being the frugal sort, I had ripped out all my class notes and recycled them (I can't imagine I'll need my notes from Stage Lighting or Neurophysiology from 20 years ago any time soon,) but I couldn't bring myself to throw away the leftover blank pages. And look! It's paid off because now I can use them for my morning pages!
One morning as I was opening my notebook to begin writing, the pages fell open to the very last page and there was a 20-year-old list of things to do left over from college. I am a big fan of to do lists. I write them all the time, and, when I am anxious about something, I write them in a frenzy, adding everything I can possibly imagine needing to do for the next several years. I remember reading somewhere that a to do list can make you feel capable and productive because you can write a list that goes, "Wake up, Brush teeth, Write novel" and feel really good about yourself because you have accomplished two out of three. And we all know that ain't bad. This particular list made me laugh because, out of 18 items, I had crossed off two–laundry and Dance History reading. I laughed partly because those are always two of my favorite things to cross off lists–laundry and reading; laundry because it does not take much effort to gather clothes, throw them in the washer and go do something else for half an hour, but gosh you end up with nice fresh clothes. And reading because reading is easy for me no matter what the topic is. I imagine I probably did them both at the same time, spending a pleasant couple of hours on a Saturday morning. I also laughed ruefully imagining the young woman I was then, stressed out and trying to be healthy (weights, find out pool hours), take care of social obligations (write to parents, Jenna's present), do my homework (Dance History reading, unit write-ups, write seminar paper, Phys Psych lab write-ups, Phys Psych research and rough draft, dance journal), get an on campus job (call about non-print resource center), take care of everyday life (laundry, clean, driver's license) and figure out what to do after I graduate (Career Development Office, letters and forms.*)(*Yes, these were the real items off that 20-year-old list.) Clearly I failed miserably (16 items to go...), yet twenty years later here I am, still alive and functioning, healthy and happy despite not having crossed off those other 16 items. But I still make those same lists, with items that feel urgent now, and they still don't all get done. Twenty years from now will I find one of these and wonder why I bothered?
I was thinking about these things today as I washed dishes because my partner had the day off work and was home with me. I did not have the day off work, but I work at home. Sometimes this creates a little problem. Today I was feeling an anxiety that I recognize, one that is common to me and that I have fought with for all of these years. I know that I have to work and I have to earn an income and this is important. I also know that I have to take advantage of the time I have with the people I love, that time with them is a gift I will never get back, and this is important as well.
What does this have to do with a sense of direction, with getting lost? Only this: I use my to do lists to direct myself, to build a path, but where exactly am I trying to arrive? Thinking about college I remember a particular day in the fall, my first year. My house had organized an apple-picking expedition but I had a long list of things to do. My friends talked me out of my tree with gentle voices and no direct eye contact, lulling me out the door and into the car where it was too late for me to turn back. We picked bags and bags of apples, all kinds of apples. There was no hope of us ever eating all the apples we picked but we couldn't stop. The air was crisp and the trees were beautiful. We brought our apples home, jealously guarding our bags and bags of apples from each other, and the kitchen staff let us make caramel apples in the kitchen. We ate apples until we were sick of them.
And I was relaxed and happy, enjoying my friends, and full of apples and full of my very own self. I don't have the slightest idea what I needed to do, and didn't do, that day. But I remember the apples and the air and the leaves and the friends. I know through my life there have been other times when I have chosen the apples. And times when I have chosen the list. The lists may keep me honest but the apples bring me joy.
I have to remember that the lists are my way to pretend I have some say in my life, some control over what happens, and the direction I take. Once the list is written though I can't let it march me around like a drill sergeant, putting me through my paces. Because I don't think I've ever had "Go pick apples and cherish your friends" written on any list, except on the one in my heart.
copyright 2008 J. Autumn Needles
Showing posts with label memory. Show all posts
Showing posts with label memory. Show all posts
Monday, November 10, 2008
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Opportunities
I had a wonderful geometry teacher in high school. He would dress up in crazy costumes, and sing little math ditties for us, and though I loved math already, I loved it more that year. We were tested or quizzed every Thursday but they were never called tests. No, Mr. Rhoades always called them opportunities.
Earlier this week I was thinking that I needed to write another entry, and probably this time on getting lost, rather than yoga or meditation. I took myself back to a couple of times that I was lost and walked myself back through the experience.
The first memory was of being in Venice. I was in Venice kind of by mistake, having gotten on the wrong train car; the train split sometime in the night and here I was in Venice. I had intended to get there sometime but had planned to spend a little time. Instead, I now had to make the choice to either spend only one day in Venice, then board another train, or do something different and watch my later travel plans unravel. Since I was planning to meet up with another traveller in a particular place at a particular time one week from now, with no way to contact her and change our plans (these were the days before cell phones), I decided to make a short visit to Venice.
I wandered happily through the little streets and alleys, over bridges and around corners, map in hand. I found everything I wanted to see and then needed to make my way back to the station as the fog rolled in and dusk came over the city. As I began to pick my way back to the train, I realized that the map was of no use; many street names and bridges were missing and soon I was hopelessly lost. Finally, as I started to panic, I found the station–almost 3 hours early for my train but too afraid to venture back out again and risk losing myself in the mist.
My second memory is from much later in life. I had taken a bus to an area somewhat familiar to me for a meeting. I found the building and the meeting, we met, we finished, and I strode out the door into the night with my head full of what we had talked about and eager to catch the bus and get home. Unfortunately, it was a different door from the one I had walked in, and on a different side of the building. When I strode out into the night, I strode out in the wrong direction. A few blocks later, I began to wonder what was going on because the area wasn't looking familiar to me. I wasn't exactly sure what had gone wrong, so instead of immediately going back in the direction I had come from, I turned a corner and walked a little in that direction. That wasn't right either and, now worried because it was dark and I didn't want to miss my bus and there was no one to ask because it was a residential neighborhood, I finally managed to work my way back to the building, figure out what had happened, and retrace my steps along the correct route and find the bus stop.
In both cases, what I was really struck by as I ruefully relived the experiences, was the tremendous flow and sequence of emotions that ran through me each time in quick succession. In Venice I was annoyed at myself for being on the wrong train, then accepting, good-humored and decisive, then pleased and relaxed, curious and engrossed, then complacent followed quickly by anxious, confused and worried, a little frightened, then thrilled and relieved when I found the station, but then kind of irked that I had to wait so long and discouraged, and finally just plain bored. After my meeting, I was feeling competent and absorbed, then anxious and confused, a little frightened again and annoyed with myself, relieved when I found the building again and ashamed this time of my incompetence, and finally just very happy to be on the bus on the way home.
And now I'm right back to yoga again. Well, you knew it had to happen. Part of yoga practice is self-study, and I realized that getting lost had provided me with many opportunities for that practice. Because in each case, nothing was really happening, nothing was really changing, but my mental and emotional state was in constant, chaotic flux based on how I was perceiving my experience. I can't even really look back at those memories and label them as "good" or "bad" because I can see that they are just experiences, value-neutral, just stuff that happened, stuff I did, choices I made, and not even terribly interesting as story material. Except that the memories are strong. Probably because I remember them for what they were: opportunities.
copyright 2007 J. Autumn Needles
Earlier this week I was thinking that I needed to write another entry, and probably this time on getting lost, rather than yoga or meditation. I took myself back to a couple of times that I was lost and walked myself back through the experience.
The first memory was of being in Venice. I was in Venice kind of by mistake, having gotten on the wrong train car; the train split sometime in the night and here I was in Venice. I had intended to get there sometime but had planned to spend a little time. Instead, I now had to make the choice to either spend only one day in Venice, then board another train, or do something different and watch my later travel plans unravel. Since I was planning to meet up with another traveller in a particular place at a particular time one week from now, with no way to contact her and change our plans (these were the days before cell phones), I decided to make a short visit to Venice.
I wandered happily through the little streets and alleys, over bridges and around corners, map in hand. I found everything I wanted to see and then needed to make my way back to the station as the fog rolled in and dusk came over the city. As I began to pick my way back to the train, I realized that the map was of no use; many street names and bridges were missing and soon I was hopelessly lost. Finally, as I started to panic, I found the station–almost 3 hours early for my train but too afraid to venture back out again and risk losing myself in the mist.
My second memory is from much later in life. I had taken a bus to an area somewhat familiar to me for a meeting. I found the building and the meeting, we met, we finished, and I strode out the door into the night with my head full of what we had talked about and eager to catch the bus and get home. Unfortunately, it was a different door from the one I had walked in, and on a different side of the building. When I strode out into the night, I strode out in the wrong direction. A few blocks later, I began to wonder what was going on because the area wasn't looking familiar to me. I wasn't exactly sure what had gone wrong, so instead of immediately going back in the direction I had come from, I turned a corner and walked a little in that direction. That wasn't right either and, now worried because it was dark and I didn't want to miss my bus and there was no one to ask because it was a residential neighborhood, I finally managed to work my way back to the building, figure out what had happened, and retrace my steps along the correct route and find the bus stop.
In both cases, what I was really struck by as I ruefully relived the experiences, was the tremendous flow and sequence of emotions that ran through me each time in quick succession. In Venice I was annoyed at myself for being on the wrong train, then accepting, good-humored and decisive, then pleased and relaxed, curious and engrossed, then complacent followed quickly by anxious, confused and worried, a little frightened, then thrilled and relieved when I found the station, but then kind of irked that I had to wait so long and discouraged, and finally just plain bored. After my meeting, I was feeling competent and absorbed, then anxious and confused, a little frightened again and annoyed with myself, relieved when I found the building again and ashamed this time of my incompetence, and finally just very happy to be on the bus on the way home.
And now I'm right back to yoga again. Well, you knew it had to happen. Part of yoga practice is self-study, and I realized that getting lost had provided me with many opportunities for that practice. Because in each case, nothing was really happening, nothing was really changing, but my mental and emotional state was in constant, chaotic flux based on how I was perceiving my experience. I can't even really look back at those memories and label them as "good" or "bad" because I can see that they are just experiences, value-neutral, just stuff that happened, stuff I did, choices I made, and not even terribly interesting as story material. Except that the memories are strong. Probably because I remember them for what they were: opportunities.
copyright 2007 J. Autumn Needles
Friday, July 6, 2007
What do you want?
When I was a kid we went to a local shoe store that had a real retired fire truck inside. The shoe store was only kids' shoes and the fire truck was for our entertainment while we waited for our siblings to finish fitting or for our mothers to finish paying. We all coveted that fire truck and we all believed that the best possible place to play was in the driver's seat holding the wheel.
In all of our trips to that store over the years I don't ever remember sitting in that seat. Oh, I loved that fire engine, but I'm not sure if I ever really touched it. I remember being up close and looking at it and longing for it–it was BIG, it was RED, it was BEAUTIFUL– but I don't know if I ever actually played on it.
I haven't thought about that truck in years, but I have been thinking recently about desire and poof! the truck appeared in my memory, still BIG and RED and BEAUTIFUL. Sigh. I also remember doing a photo shoot in high school with some firefighters and their truck. Honestly, I don't think I cared one way or the other about the firefighters, but their truck!! Well... I think for me doing that photo shoot fulfilled a long held desire for the truck of my childhood and for the opportunity I lost back then.
My last post was about keeping a promise to myself; this one is about desire denied. Not denied by outside forces: no, that truck was there in that store specifically to be played on by children. I denied myself. And when I consider the reasons I can come up with all kinds of things: there were too many other kids, I didn't really want to anyway, I was too old and mature for that, we didn't really have time, I'd do it another time. But I think the truth was, I was scared of the unknown and, even at that age, I had developed the belief that desire was bad and that having it was wrong and speaking it was even worse.
What do you want? What is your desire? Speak it at least to yourself, climb up on that truck and ride off in the direction of the blaze.
copyright 2007 J. Autumn Needles
In all of our trips to that store over the years I don't ever remember sitting in that seat. Oh, I loved that fire engine, but I'm not sure if I ever really touched it. I remember being up close and looking at it and longing for it–it was BIG, it was RED, it was BEAUTIFUL– but I don't know if I ever actually played on it.
I haven't thought about that truck in years, but I have been thinking recently about desire and poof! the truck appeared in my memory, still BIG and RED and BEAUTIFUL. Sigh. I also remember doing a photo shoot in high school with some firefighters and their truck. Honestly, I don't think I cared one way or the other about the firefighters, but their truck!! Well... I think for me doing that photo shoot fulfilled a long held desire for the truck of my childhood and for the opportunity I lost back then.
My last post was about keeping a promise to myself; this one is about desire denied. Not denied by outside forces: no, that truck was there in that store specifically to be played on by children. I denied myself. And when I consider the reasons I can come up with all kinds of things: there were too many other kids, I didn't really want to anyway, I was too old and mature for that, we didn't really have time, I'd do it another time. But I think the truth was, I was scared of the unknown and, even at that age, I had developed the belief that desire was bad and that having it was wrong and speaking it was even worse.
What do you want? What is your desire? Speak it at least to yourself, climb up on that truck and ride off in the direction of the blaze.
copyright 2007 J. Autumn Needles
Tuesday, March 6, 2007
Not Getting Lost
I think of myself as someone who's absolutely hopeless with direction and orientation when left to my own devices. And yet I've been thinking back lately to a different sort of person than I remember being. This is a story I've often told for its comic effect, and I tell it well, but it's a story with deep roots and wide branches.
When I was in first grade I left class to go to the bathroom. Now this in itself was HUGE. I was horribly shy and humiliated by having to admit to bodily functions. My solution to this problem was to just hold it all day. However, on this particular day I left class and went to the bathroom. When I returned, the class was gone–the teacher, the students–everyone! Just gone. As an adult I can think of many ways to approach this problem: go looking for them, ask the principal, sit down and cry...all very reasonable choices. However, another aspect to my personality as a child was an inability to admit to not knowing something. This was not ego; this was fear. I believed that I inhabited a world of people who all somehow knew everything about everything. And everyone had this amazing knowledge except me. Now, I knew I was smart. Don't get me wrong. But it seemed to me that everyone somehow mysteriously held all this information that was required to get by in the world and I was missing something. I was defective. I thought I needed to hide this truth about myself so that I would look like everyone else. And eventually I figured that since I was a smart girl I'd learn everything I was missing by observation and deduction and in the meantime I just needed to fake it and look the part. No one would ever have to know my secret.
Given my beliefs and my rules for living, my choice was crystal clear. I left school and walked home.
Home was about 5 blocks away from school and both my parents worked. I really didn't have a clear picture of the magnitude of this decision until much later in life when I worked with first graders and saw how tiny they were. At the time, my only concerns were getting in trouble and having people find out my secret. I was absolutely sick with worry over this. I had no idea that it was actually the teacher and the school administration who could get in trouble for this. I found out later that the class had just gone next door to another classroom to watch a film and the teacher had forgotten about me.
Like I said I usually tell this as a funny anecdote about my childhood. But when I think about it, I'm filled with sorrow for the little girl who was so frightened, who allowed her fear to determine everything about her, and yet whose inner strength and courage shone through despite that and who, by succumbing to one fear, overcame another and found her way home.
copyright 2007 J. Autumn Needles
When I was in first grade I left class to go to the bathroom. Now this in itself was HUGE. I was horribly shy and humiliated by having to admit to bodily functions. My solution to this problem was to just hold it all day. However, on this particular day I left class and went to the bathroom. When I returned, the class was gone–the teacher, the students–everyone! Just gone. As an adult I can think of many ways to approach this problem: go looking for them, ask the principal, sit down and cry...all very reasonable choices. However, another aspect to my personality as a child was an inability to admit to not knowing something. This was not ego; this was fear. I believed that I inhabited a world of people who all somehow knew everything about everything. And everyone had this amazing knowledge except me. Now, I knew I was smart. Don't get me wrong. But it seemed to me that everyone somehow mysteriously held all this information that was required to get by in the world and I was missing something. I was defective. I thought I needed to hide this truth about myself so that I would look like everyone else. And eventually I figured that since I was a smart girl I'd learn everything I was missing by observation and deduction and in the meantime I just needed to fake it and look the part. No one would ever have to know my secret.
Given my beliefs and my rules for living, my choice was crystal clear. I left school and walked home.
Home was about 5 blocks away from school and both my parents worked. I really didn't have a clear picture of the magnitude of this decision until much later in life when I worked with first graders and saw how tiny they were. At the time, my only concerns were getting in trouble and having people find out my secret. I was absolutely sick with worry over this. I had no idea that it was actually the teacher and the school administration who could get in trouble for this. I found out later that the class had just gone next door to another classroom to watch a film and the teacher had forgotten about me.
Like I said I usually tell this as a funny anecdote about my childhood. But when I think about it, I'm filled with sorrow for the little girl who was so frightened, who allowed her fear to determine everything about her, and yet whose inner strength and courage shone through despite that and who, by succumbing to one fear, overcame another and found her way home.
copyright 2007 J. Autumn Needles
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
True Story
What I realize as I write these posts is that I am really telling the same story over and over again. It's me trying to remind myself of something, something important. Here is the story again.
I have a memory of being in Austria. I approached my travel abroad in very characteristic fashion. I read, I researched, I packed carefully, and I knew before I went what my experience would be because I had it planned. I used Let's Go Europe (1987) as my bible for travel. I would tear out the sections on the countries I would visit and figure out what to see. I took my Austria section with me to Salzburg.
Now, if I think very carefully back to that time and work at it, I can remember visiting lots of beautiful old buildings with my Austria section in hand and a map. I would follow the directions in my guide put together with the map and find myself at some building somewhere. I was never quite sure that I was really and truly where I thought I was, because all of the buildings were old and beautiful and they all kind of looked the same. I didn't speak the language and I couldn't afford to take a tour in English and I couldn't for the life of me figure out how to get IN to the buildings. Were they closed for the day? Was I at the wrong place? I kept feeling like something was supposed to be happening. I was supposed to be having a revelatory experience and instead I was wandering aimlessly looking at pretty buildings and wondering what on earth they were for. I even splurged on a piece of torte that the city was famous for and it was dry and nasty.
This is what I remember if I work at it: aimlessness, frustration, confusion, self-criticism, disappointment.
This is what I remember if I don't work at it: magic, beauty, wonder, belonging.
When I let my memory drift back to that time, here is the story that comes to me: I walked one day down a street. I can't remember what I was trying to find, but what I saw was an old beautiful building with several big trees in front. The trees had something in them, something shining and colorful, so I went closer to have a look. The trees were filled with chimes and bells and streamers tied into the branches, and, when the wind blew, the trees would ring out and the streamers would flutter. The building was open and people were going in and out so I went in, too. I walked in and it was some sort of children's fair/fundraiser for something. I wandered through and saw craft booths for kids to make masks or crowns, cardboard mazes to go through, bake sales. I went to a bake sale table and bought a bag of what I thought were shortbread cookies. It turned out that they were lemon and I hate lemon. But I munched on them anyway and wandered and listened to people talking in a language I didn't know. And then I walked out into a beautiful day, eating my lemon cookies and listening to the trees chime and ring out into the air.
I always smile when I think of Salzburg. Which story is true?
copyright 2007 J. Autumn Needles
I have a memory of being in Austria. I approached my travel abroad in very characteristic fashion. I read, I researched, I packed carefully, and I knew before I went what my experience would be because I had it planned. I used Let's Go Europe (1987) as my bible for travel. I would tear out the sections on the countries I would visit and figure out what to see. I took my Austria section with me to Salzburg.
Now, if I think very carefully back to that time and work at it, I can remember visiting lots of beautiful old buildings with my Austria section in hand and a map. I would follow the directions in my guide put together with the map and find myself at some building somewhere. I was never quite sure that I was really and truly where I thought I was, because all of the buildings were old and beautiful and they all kind of looked the same. I didn't speak the language and I couldn't afford to take a tour in English and I couldn't for the life of me figure out how to get IN to the buildings. Were they closed for the day? Was I at the wrong place? I kept feeling like something was supposed to be happening. I was supposed to be having a revelatory experience and instead I was wandering aimlessly looking at pretty buildings and wondering what on earth they were for. I even splurged on a piece of torte that the city was famous for and it was dry and nasty.
This is what I remember if I work at it: aimlessness, frustration, confusion, self-criticism, disappointment.
This is what I remember if I don't work at it: magic, beauty, wonder, belonging.
When I let my memory drift back to that time, here is the story that comes to me: I walked one day down a street. I can't remember what I was trying to find, but what I saw was an old beautiful building with several big trees in front. The trees had something in them, something shining and colorful, so I went closer to have a look. The trees were filled with chimes and bells and streamers tied into the branches, and, when the wind blew, the trees would ring out and the streamers would flutter. The building was open and people were going in and out so I went in, too. I walked in and it was some sort of children's fair/fundraiser for something. I wandered through and saw craft booths for kids to make masks or crowns, cardboard mazes to go through, bake sales. I went to a bake sale table and bought a bag of what I thought were shortbread cookies. It turned out that they were lemon and I hate lemon. But I munched on them anyway and wandered and listened to people talking in a language I didn't know. And then I walked out into a beautiful day, eating my lemon cookies and listening to the trees chime and ring out into the air.
I always smile when I think of Salzburg. Which story is true?
copyright 2007 J. Autumn Needles
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
