Repost: To Pull Out Our Brain

“If only we could pull out our brain and use only our eyes” Pablo Picasso.

I sometimes have the tendency to over analyze.

Ok, I often have the tendency to over analyze and question and stew which ultimately leads me to doubt my interpretation and second guess my response.

At times it’s exhausting.

And I wonder,

wouldn’t it be wonderfully freeing to once in a while absorb information simply at face value.

It is what it is.

To view it as a manifestation of truth with no assembly necessary. To see something just to see it. To see someone just to see him or her.

To observe without elucidation or analysis.

To experience without intention.

Sometimes this is easy. Immersing myself in nature. Sitting on a beach looking out over the great expanse of the ocean. Inhaling deeply the salty air and listening to the lapping of the water.

Or

driving through the mountains the white peaks, the small trickles of melted water relenting to gravitational force and winding their way down the mountain side.

Watching fields of golden wheat dance in the wind.

No interpretation needed.

Each

just

is.

It’s unfortunate such experiences don’t happen as often as they should. The life we create for ourselves, especially in adulthood, is crammed full of exterior stimulus of the electronic nature. Constant bombardment of information that needs to be processed and either stored or dismissed. Evaluation required.

Maybe we all have the eyes of an artist we just need to “pull out our brain” in order to use them.

The Vernacular of My Childhood Goes Kaput

Reblogged from Knickknackery and Notions:

Along with teaching high school I am also “blessed” with teaching a ninth grade English class.  Although most days they suck the life force out of me,  I enjoy them immensely and will miss them terribly at the end of the year. They do keep me on my toes and they do stupefy me sometimes when it comes to opening that little door into their reality.

Read more… 261 more words

A Day to Reboot

It was the kind of day where

I woke up too tired to notice I put on two different coloured socks

Left my attendance book at home

and Drank what I thought was weirdly weak tea out of my travel mug… all day, until I cam home, emptied out the mug and realized I was merely drinking hot water.

There is a funny line between being tired and being exhausted.

When you’re merely tired anxiety can get the best of you. You grump and curse that it is too painful to move let alone think. And the must mundane tasks, like changing out of your work clothes seems as insurmountable as climbing a mountain.

But

when you are beyond exhaustion you shift into a “devil may care” mind set and find amusement in your foibles of the day. You are too tired to get angry or upset. Too tired even to laugh.

So

you just drift through the day in a state of nonchalance because that’s all that you can muster.

You go with the flow not because fighting is futile, but rather because the little bumps of the day don’t see to matter.

It’s not a place of insensitive indifference you’ve slipped into,

no,

it’s just that you seem to be rebooting and the goings on around seem irrelevant until you’re done.

Now I just need one night for my “reboot” to be complete.

The thought of flannel brings a smile my face and I will be crawling into bed before the sun sets.

When You've Got Bangs Like a Boy

Reblogged from Knickknackery and Notions:

When you’ve got bangs like a boy, and you’re a girl, the world can be a cruel place.

When I was little my mother liked my hair short.  VERY short.  Once she even tried to give us uber-tight Toni perms so that the short cut could be curled

and we’d sport little afros.

Thankfully she only got to the littlest sister before changing course.

Read more… 228 more words

The Carrot at the End of the Stick

Reblogged from Knickknackery and Notions:

The carrot at the end of the stick.  Why is it that little “treats” or indulgences we promise ourselves always make mundane or overwhelming tasks more manageable?

When I was a kid I took piano lessons.  I didn’t like practicing AT ALL.  When I couldn’t sneak into the kitchen without my mother catching me and moving the timer on the stove ahead a few minutes, I’d sneak into the freezer and steal a cookie.

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To Wake Up To White

Old man winter came

in the middle of the night

and danced his jig leaving a blanket of snow.

I left work, coat draped over my arm smelling spring in the air.

I crawled into bed thinking of spring

Six hours later,

snow,

heavy and sticky

perfect for building snowmen.

And I never saw one flake fall from the sky.

The snow just seemed to appear like magic.

And I feel as though I’ve missed out on something.

A grand event happened outside my window

and I hadn’t a clue.

I was too busy sleeping.

I wonder how often this has happened

where something curious,

or perplexing

or breathtakingly beautiful

has happened in my immediate vicinity,

and I was too involved in my own little world

to notice.

Until it was over.

And I was witness to the effect

and not the causation.

Corpora vs Spiritus

Reblogged from Knickknackery and Notions:

“The day of the corpora is the night for the spiritus.  When the bodies cease their labour the spirits in man begin their work.  The waking of the body is the sleep of the spirit and the spirit’s sleep a waking for the body.”  (Paracelsus cited in Lawrence Durrell’s “Justine”)

Well, this explains why I’m so tired some mornings.  My body may be at rest but my spirit is partying it up with the other spirits!

Read more… 227 more words

Reposting Tectonic Shifts in Reality

I met my neighbor today in our underground parking garage. Looking lost and alone without his wife. The two of them are the cutest little senior couple: the same height, always walking at the same pace. They always stop and talk, veering towards me in the parking lot or the foyer or the hallway of the building. Remembering my name and asking about my work. But today his wife wasn’t with him. He was alone.

And he give me a hug, something he’s never done before. And he told me that “this living alone thing is more difficult” than he thought it would be, and that he’s “ not a very good cook”.

And I wondered what has happened to his wife? Has she died since the last time I saw him? Is she sick?

But I was too afraid to ask.

He looked sad and unsettled but I couldn’t tell if he wanted to talk about something that may be the most personal thing in the world and if the parkade was an appropriate place to mourn.

But I hugged him again before we parted promising myself that I’ll find out the truth behind his sadness and perhaps inviting him over for an afternoon tea.

We are surrounded by people whose realities are dramatically shifting. These people drift in and out of the parameters of our day seemingly in a constant state

but the reality is

tectonic shifts are happening.

These emotional shifts are happening in the lives of people we work with, people who live in our neighborhoods, people we meet in parkades. How often do we take the time to notice? To validate the importance of what it is they’re going through by acknowledging their existence.

Through a smile,

a conversation,

or even a hug.

“Comfort is the only thing our civilization can give us.” Oscar Wilde

 

The Day I Bought a Turnip

The other day I bought a turnip.

A purple one.

For no apparent reason other than it reminded me of my childhood.

When it was summer, and my sisters and I were all sweaty and stinky and in want of a snack, my mother would quite often bar us from the house and send us scavenging to the garden.  In the garden we would find a veritable smorgasbord of vegetables. Often, we would stand in the middle of the pea patch and chow on fresh peas, fighting each other for the plumpest pods. The dogs would serve as furry garburators eagerly munching on the empty shells.

Next, we would wander over to the rows of carrots, pull up a few roots and casually wash them with the garden hose. We’d top off our afternoon snack with a visit to the raspberry batch.

But once in awhile we’d pull a turnip and hand it over to mother (through the screen door) and then wait patiently on the front step while she peeled it with a paring knife.

I LOVED raw purple turnips. Crispy and tart and exotic compared to the familiar fare of carrots and peas. Some years mom would plant kohlrabi, which soon became a fast favourite.  And it was fun to say, “koh – l-ra- bi.   Like cucumber and rabies,” I’d think in my little kid imagination.

Unfortunately my purple turnip purchase the other day, turned out to be slightly disappointing. The memory surrounding it far more satisfying than it’s taste. It did garner some attention at the staff lunchroom table as I attempted to peel it using a dull carving knife and proceeded to explain my choice of veggie that day.

But although its taste was bland and it’s texture dry, it did remind me of summer and childhood…something that is always an amusing thing to do.

So amusing in fact that

I think this week I’ll buy a box of Wagon Wheels and put one in my lunch every day of the week as my mother would do for me every day for school from grades two to six.

Maybe I still am skilled enough to eat all of the chocolate off first,

then peel the marshmallow off the cookie and eat it next

saving the graham cookie for last.

When Did I Start Loving Magenta?

Reblogged from Knickknackery and Notions:

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When did I start loving magenta?  And tourmaline?  And azure blue?

Such vibrant colours seeping in attitude just from their hue.  I’m usually a fan of black, brown and grey. Insisting there are, in fact, varying shades of black.  Midnight black, velvet-black, gothic black.

Subtle.

Nondescript.

Making me invisible.

But now things have changed.  There’s been a shift.  A slow but defined migration towards brilliancy and boldness.

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