THE SOCKS

I have been wrapping Christmas gifts. Yes, I got an early start this year, and I am thrilled to see the hefty pile of gifts all neatly wrapped. It was while I was sitting on the floor among the presents, scissors, and tape that the following "incident" came to mind.

This is a true and personal story.

Once upon a time there lived a very poor boy. His parents were loving ones, but wages in his father's line of work were quite meager. They had no extra pennies for even the little extra pleasures most people were able to buy. It mattered not to the young boy. He was happy.

One particular Christmas, his family gathered together with two sets of aunts and uncles for a celebration. Also there was his cousin, who was his age. Gifts were distributed. The poor boy opened his gift from the wealthy aunt and uncle. Inside the package was a pair of socks. One pair. The boy was pleased to have new ones, and he expressed a sincere thank you. Next, it was his cousin's turn to open his gift from this same aunt and uncle. His gift? A typewriter.

Socks versus a typewriter. The boy wondered why his aunt and uncle would give gifts of such disparity. Had he displeased them in some way? Did they love him less than his cousin? While it did not make sense to him and he lacked understanding, he refused to let his wonderings taint his Christmas Day.

The young boy grew into the finest of men. He married and had children and grandchildren. And he always...ALWAYS...made certain that all the gifts he gave were of equal value. He had never forgotten the feelings he experienced from that Christmas of long ago, and he made a point of seeing to it that no one else would ever feel the same way because of his actions. Fairness was one of the hallmarks of this good man, and his fairness extended far beyond only the giving of presents to others.

Now, I am sure there are those who read that story and thought, "Hey, the kid was dirt poor and could use the socks. He should be grateful he got any gift at all." Ah, but he was grateful. But if that is your take on it, then I suggest you put yourself, your child, or grandchild in that very same situation. The giving of a typewriter to a cousin while YOUR loved one receives one pair of socks is a slap in the face. No matter how thankful one is, the disparity between those two gifts is bound to cause hurt when the presents are dispensed in a group situation. Of course, that was the intention. It was many years later that the boy found out that the rich aunt and uncle were snobs. They looked down on the boy's parents because of their lack of money. And it manifested itself, in one way, in the giving of a lone pair of socks to a child. I think I almost feel sorrier for the wealthy aunt and uncle than I do for the young boy.

Life does not always seem fair. We all know that. The only thing we can do is to think about the consequences of what we do. The effect we have on others. We do have the power to be fair in many ways. And in being so, we can make life just a bit kinder for others. A bit easier. A lot nicer. That is the gift all of us should be giving.

"I've always felt that when I do something in the name of fairness, it's not just for me--it's for everybody." ~Janet Peckinpaugh

UNDERSTAND

"Run your fingers through my soul. For once, just once, feel exactly what I feel, believe what I believe, perceive as I perceive, look, experience, examine, and for once, just once…understand." ~Sara Ohotto

During the course of my time on AOL, I have varied the quotations I have used on my member profile. Each one has held a special significance that I can relate to easily. Not all of them pertain specifically to me or my life experiences, but the messages are powerful or are take-your-breath-away beautiful ones.

The quotation listed above is one I used for a very long time before I moved on to a new one. I recently edited my member profile and once again restored this beauty of a quote to it. Sometimes I think it should have been written by me, but I am incapable of writing with such passion and perfect expression.

How many times have all of us wished that others could climb into our beings and understand what it is like to be us? I know rare is the day that I do not wish for that to be possible.

Very, very few people have a solid grasp of who and how I am. People who can nod with at least a partial understanding of what makes me the person I am. No one, save my late father, has ever been able to see my complexities and commonalties and come away with a deeper appreciation of all that comprises me. People guess. People assume. They let their biases color their views. But, in doing so, they come no closer to discovering the me who is very real.

At times, I want to scream out in frustration. All I ask is to be recognized as who I genuinely am, not who someone wants me to be or expects me to be or thinks me to be.

I want to be able to read something that stuns me with its magnificence and have others understand why it has astounded me. To know firsthand why it has affected me so deeply.

I want my feelings to be felt and absorbed by others. Let them know the intensity of my pain and joy and love.

I want my beliefs to creep into others, so they can have a true understanding of all that has gone into the formation of those beliefs. The small and large bits of life coming together to create the philosophy by which I exist.

And, oh, for others to experience all I have would be grand. Yes, the oft enchanted life I have lived has been colorful and blessed, but it has not been without its hardships. There are many events that have shaped the woman I have become.

It would be sheer madness to wish for everyone to be exactly like me. Who wants a world filled with people of like minds? There would be no diversity to stir and inspire this melting pot of human beings.

No, all I want is but a few moments of people running their fingers through my soul and coming away with knowledge of who I am and why I am.

IMPERFECT FOLLOWER~Self-Portrait Challenge, October, Week 4

I do not like a lot of rules. I do not follow them all the time, either. It would be fair to say that I am prone to intentionally flout them at times. If someone tells me I cannot do something, it pretty much guarantees that I will immediately want to do it or consider doing it. I am a bit of a brat that way. More than anything or anybody else, my conscience is my guide. I prefer to follow it, and I trust it.

Granted, my brattiness plays a role in many of the rules I choose to disobey. If I see no harm to anyone or to myself, then I will do as I please...not as I am told. No arbitrarily set rules created by those who are not in a position to make them will be followed by me. That is a "take it to the bank" promise from me.

Yes, I have gone through a red light AFTER stopping and seeing no traffic or cars anywhere within eyesight. And, yes, there was a police officer in hiding who pulled me over for it. It was late at nite, I was tired, and I simply wanted to get home. I pointed out to the officer that I was very careful and treated the red light more like a stop sign due to my desire to be on my way to my bed. He acknowledged that he saw me stop and look in all directions before proceeding. He also told me I would be quite a bit closer to home had I just waited for the light to turn green and not had to deal with him. I told him he was right. He then sent me on my way. Nope, I did not get a ticket. Now, I do not do that often. But I cannot say in all honesty that I would never do it again.

Having spent years at hospitals visiting my father, I began to resent the difficulty sometimes encountered finding a parking space. It is bad enough that patients' families get bilked having to pay to park to visit an ill loved one. Compound insult to injury by making me hike six miles from where I am forced to park, and I seethe. So, I began to park in the doctors' parking lots. It drove my mother nuts when she was with me. She fretted about my car getting towed. Eh. There was a decal on my front window that was an Emeritus sticker, and I figured that would pretty much cause my vehicle to be overlooked by the greedy ticket writers on the premises. It worked. Not once was I ticketed during the many, many, many times I did that. AND I got to park steps away from the front door of the hospital.

I am all for rules that provide for the safety and welfare of everybody. I really am. But, every once in a while, some of the rules are just begging to be broken, and I am the gal to do it. And I can and will and do.

So, my picture for this month's Self-Portrait Challenge does not really suit the theme. My written words do, but the photograph does not. I am breaking the "rule" for this challenge. I am posting one of my all-time favorite pictures of me as a child. It captures my personality. Completely! And, well, my personality is imperfect, but it is mine. Like it or not, it is who I am. Besides, I was a cute little brat back then. ::grin::


(October's Self-Portrait Challenge weekly theme is: "Look beyond the surface of your life, dig into your imperfect self and reveal it to us. I want to see the down and dirty you, the messy, gross and ugly you, the side of yourself that you always try to hide, give us some insight into your dreadful secrets. This can be your physical self or your personal space or within your wider life. Be not afraid!")

MARBLES

Yep, I have lost my marbles. I feel sure they have been scattered all over the place and rolled into dark recesses everywhere I have been, never to be found again. Years and years of losing them here and there.

That thought crossed my mind yet again today as I was once again playing "gotcha last" with my daughter. This is an ongoing game we play. Need I tell you that my daughter is 20? We play this game at the oddest times. And both of us are relentless in our desire to win. I swear, I will be on my death bed unable to lift my eyelids, let alone a hand, and my daughter will be proclaiming victory after she touches me. The final words I will probably hear before dying are, "Gotcha last!"

Then there was the day I decided I would not pronounce any "L's" or "R's" correctly. It began out of nowhere when the hubster and I were running errands. All of a sudden I began to say things such as, "Wooks wike we awe gonna have wain today." The hubby turned to "wook" ::grin:: at me with a priceless face. I, in my newly developed mode of speech, told him I now planned to go the entire day talking like that. He thinks I am weird. He is right.

One of my sisters and I talk on the telephone regularly. And we talk for way too long. It drives me nuts, and it shoots a hefty chunk of my day (two hours seems to be about the average length the conversations last, and we only live several miles from each other). But I love it anyway. My thing with her is that when I hear our phone announce the caller~we have those computerized phones that talk and tell you who is calling~is to answer the phone but not speak. I will sit there in total silence until she finally says something. Usually she calls me a word that starts with a "B." Ha! Like that is going to hurt my feelings!

I sing campy versions of Happy Birthday to friends and family.

I moon my kids...and my mother.

I sometimes stuff a portion of a Kleenex in a nostril and leave it hanging from there while asking my children to give me a kiss.

During my father's illness, my marbles really started to disappear. I did many things in an attempt to keep him smiling. One of which was to enlarge a photo of myself and write "Daddy's favorite daughter" across the bottom of it, and then tape it to the ceiling above his bed...right next to the Sports Illustrated swimsuit centerfold that I superimposed Mom's face onto.

I whisper things into my children's ears while we are in church. Things to make them laugh when they should not be. I do not laugh, but they do. Hubby glares at me.

When I am in the mood to discuss politics with this fascinating male family friend who is more than three decades older than I am, I tell him I will nibble on his ear if we can change our current topic of conversation to politics. (He, by the way, is currently in the process of having a book published. I will be pimping it here big time when all is finalized!)

There are countless other marble-less things I do on a frequent basis. Enough so to say that it has been a long time since I had any marbles at all. But, yanno what? I like being this way. So, if you happen to locate my marbles, just keep them. ::smile::

"I've lost my marbles." ~Toodles, from the movie Hook

IMPERFECT SPEAKER~Self-Portrait Challenge, October, Week 3

Anyone who looks at me in my real world sees a confident and exuberant woman who is easily able to converse with anybody and everybody. I think I carry myself well, and I am genuinely delighted when I can make people smile or laugh and gab to me.

But lurking beneath that overtly outgoing and sometimes outspoken exterior is someone who is positively terrified of public speaking. It sends me into a minor panic if I think I will find myself in a situation requiring me to speak before a group of people, however large or small.

Because of my dreaded fear, I have successfully gotten myself out of being a PTO president, a guest on two television news shows, speaking at an awards presentation, and the chairman of a local children's hospital benefit group (although I chaired the annual bazaar for our group, because minimal public speaking was involved), among various other functions.

I hid my reason for turning down those requests to all except the school principal. He was stunned to learn that I trembled even thinking about addressing a group of people. He pointed out that I had always offerred suggestions, cracked jokes, added needed information, etc., at PTO meetings, so he was puzzled by my fear.

And that is the problem. I do very well voicing my opinion when I feel it is necessary. I take risks (as far as potentially embarrassing myself) by making jokes to large or small crowds of people. Maybe the critical difference is that I speak when I choose to, not when the time is chosen FOR me.

In high school when speech class was a required course, I was a mess leading up to my turn to stand before my peers and speak. Yet, I got an A in that class. One speech I recall as if it happened but yesterday. Our assignment was to present a persuasion speech about any topic we wished. We were being graded on many different aspects, not solely the content of the speech. The teacher had a legal-sized grading sheet she was using to check off whether or not we met each requirement. I gave my speech, complete with the feeling that I was going to be sick. After it was over, the teacher handed me that long form. No check marks were on it. All that was written diagonally across the entire page was, "A+...WOW."

I have given telephone interviews without batting an eye. Ah, but over the phone is so very much easier. My throat does not clutch while I speak during those times. I have written speeches for others to read. And they do. My words are not a problem. I am the problem. I am so afraid. I just hide the fear from others. And I do not think I can ever get past my fear. I know I CAN do it, but I do not want to. No, I do not want to.

(October's Self-Portrait Challenge theme is: "Look beyond the surface of your life, dig into your imperfect self and reveal it to us. I want to see the down and dirty you, the messy, gross and ugly you, the side of yourself that you always try to hide, give us some insight into your dreadful secrets. This can be your physical self or your personal space or within your wider life. Be not afraid!")

THE JARS

A trip to the beach. Small souvenirs stored in jars. Kept displayed on a shelf, a dresser top, or a table. Little reminders of some moments in time. Your moments.

Guests to your home might take notice of your souvenirs and say nothing. Or they may question what particular beach you visited. Your response would probably be a simple one, and the conversation would change to another topic.

Alone, gazing at the little sand-filled glass jars, your mind tumbles into the past. Clearly seeing vivid images of waves crashing onto the shore, bringing with them little treasures for you to scoop up. Gently touching the wide variety of shells, taking in their texture with a lone finger. Hearing the oddly comforting sounds of the power and fury of the ocean. Smelling the unmistakable sea air wafting in the breeze that licks at your face. Feeling your feet sink into the grains of sand and wiggling your toes to revel in the tickle they create. The tip of your tongue slipping across your lips to moisten them after a day spent being kissed by the sun, tasting a hint of salt. A sense of calm surrounding your very being, pulling you into an oasis of blue.

Yes, just shells in jars to others. To you, mementos of a time that can be forever recalled within the beauty of your mind.

"Women need real moments of solitude and self-reflection to balance out how much of ourselves we give away." ~Barbara De Angelis

BABY STEPS

It is on a seemingly constant basis that I must remind myself to take small steps. I tend to want to run, run, runnnnn in an effort to keep pace with my mind and its rapid-fire ideas and thoughts. And when I run that fast, I am bound to stumble and fall...and fail.

In all areas of my life, I throw myself into whatever I am doing. What I do not always take into consideration is that there are times when I am not particularly prepared to tackle the task at hand. Maybe I am setting myself up to fail. Who knows?

I am not an artist. I pretend to be one. I like how I feel while I am painting. I like music playing in the background while I wield my brushes and paints. And I try to run. Fast like the wind. Sometimes I am lucky, and I create a painting that pleases me a great deal. Other times, I shake my head and file the painting inside my giant "WTF is this" folder.

I sprinted into acrylics painting after having taken watercolor classes. Surely I could handle that medium, even though they are two VASTLY different ones. Never mind that I have not attended any classes or workshops to learn how to use acrylics. Eh, I never was all that great paying attention in classes anyway. I blindly ran with the thick paint and canvas~neither of which is used for watercolors.

I realize now I do need to get some sort of acrylics paint instruction. Preferably a one-day workshop. It did not take me too long to determine that while I was working on this swan painting. Surprisingly, the picture is just 4" x 5", but more time-consuming than I have spent on larger paintings...be they pastels, acrylics, or watercolors. Maybe it is because smaller ones are more tedious.

Although I got frustrated painting this, I still got pleasure from it. Odd, isn't it? And I do like it. I just do not love it. I call it Serenity. Mmhmm. Swans bring to mind a beautiful gracefulness, and a secluded pond with lush foliage and sprinklings of blossoms is my idea of pure serenity. A place I would like to be.

Sometimes I take photos of a painting as it progresses. I did that with this one. A record of baby steps to remind me that I must not always run.

"Life is a series of steps. Things are done gradually. Once in a while there is a giant step, but most of the time we are taking small, seemingly insignificant steps on the stairway of life." ~Ralph Ransom

IMPERFECT OBSERVER~Self-Portrait Challenge, October, Week 2

In contrast to my previous week's SPC entry, this one is lighter. Yay. Sometimes I can take myself far too seriously. Not this time, though!

I am a bona fide gaper. I love to stare at people. In my mind, I guess what their occupations might be and if they look like they are happy. I note how they walk, any obvious or even subtle mannerisms, their clothing, neatness level, their physique, their hands, and I decide if they are attractive or unattractive. I am judging books by their covers, in a way. Sometimes those covers are gorgeous.

Because odd lighting inside buildings can occasionally trigger a migraine, I tend to wear my sunglasses not only outdoors, but also when indoors in places with funky lights. Although the lenses appear quite dark, there is virtually no color distortion when looking through them. They just take away the glare that drives me nuts. That said, I can get away with staring and staring and staring at people. They cannot see my eyes well at all. I am a stealth gaper hiding behind my sunglasses.

The problem? There are two. I dislike the fact that I am essentially judging people based solely on appearance. Even though it is fairly harmless and means nothing to them because they would never know what I was thinking, the fact that not always positive thoughts run through my mind bothers me. The plus side is that I am totally aware that appearances can be, and often are, very deceiving. The other problem is that I sometimes get so caught up in perusing an individual that I do not realize my intent stare has not gone unnoticed. It just happened to me at the grocery store the other day. Hot dude standing at the end of the aisle, and I was approaching that area. I gave him the definite up and down eyeing him without moving my head at all, and he could not see my eyes. All was well, right? Nope. My mistake was that I wanted just one more peek at him. And after I passed him, I turned around. He had also turned around. Busted.

A job with the CIA would obviously not be well-suited for me.

Usually my hubby selects the picture I post for the SPC, but he could not decide between these two. I liked the black and white; he liked both. So, I am posting two.

October's Self-Portrait Challenge theme is: Look beyond the surface of your life, dig into your imperfect self and reveal it to us. I want to see the down and dirty you, the messy, gross and ugly you, the side of yourself that you always try to hide, give us some insight into your dreadful secrets. This can be your physical self or your personal space or within your wider life. Be not afraid!

Z IS FOR...

...ZERO! Yep, this entry is about nothing. Zero. Zip. Zilch. Nada. I had forgotten that I never got around to completing my alphabetical entries, having left off at Y. Now, I am finished with that whole concept. Go me!

I just might be posting a regular entry soon. Okaaaaaaay, Mary? ::smooch:: As long as you expect nothing profound, I can oblige you. My muse is still in absentia, but it is taunting me by giving me fleeting glimpses of it before it runs off again. Pffft.

"The best measure of a man's honesty isn't his income tax return. It's the zero adjust on his bathroom scale." ~Arthur C. Clarke

IMPERFECT SOLITUDE~Self-Portrait Challenge, October Week 1

October's Self-Portrait Challenge theme is: "Look beyond the surface of your life, dig into your imperfect self and reveal it to us. I want to see the down and dirty you, the messy, gross and ugly you, the side of yourself that you always try to hide, give us some insight into your dreadful secrets. This can be your physical self or your personal space or within your wider life. Be not afraid!"

Imperfection? I suppose I could come up with quite a list detailing the many ways in which I am imperfect; however, not each "flaw" is one I try or even wish to hide. And as with most things, imperfection is so very subjective.

This self-portrait depicts what I consider to be my most significant imperfection. It is ugly only in that it pushes people away from me at a time when their wishes are to comfort me. I will not allow them to do so. I grow distant. I want no words of sympathy or understanding spoken to me, nor do I want to be physically touched by them. Should they do either, I would dissolve into tears. Perhaps wracking sobs. I cannot let anyone see me like that. And THAT is what I hide from them.

Example. My father passed away while we were in the room with him. I knew it was coming. We all did. His legs had grown mottled that day. A sure indicator that death was at hand. I turned away from my mother and sisters so that I was facing the corner. My eyes had welled up, and I did not want them to see me in tears. After regaining my composure, I tried to be stoic. After Daddy took his final breath, I leaned down and pulled up his lifeless body so that I could give him a hug and just hold him for a bit longer. Then, I laid him back down and with trembling fingers, I gently slid closed his eyelids. I told my family I would go get the nurses. I did not sob. I did not cry. I gave hugs. I gave words of support. But I let no one hug me. I phoned my husband to let him know of Daddy's passing. No crying from me while I spoke. I came home a couple of hours later, and I would not allow my husband to hug or hold me. No one was to touch me. I wanted to be alone. They understood, because they know me all too well. And yet I saw a flicker of pain on their faces when I kept them at arm's length.

Yes, tears flow at unexpected times, and I sometimes get "caught" by family and friends. But, that is rare. I fight fiercely within myself to be the one who keeps up the spirits of others, and what good would I be to anyone if I was huddled in a corner while keening?

It is ugly and maybe even hurtful that I possess this trait. I shut out those who love me during my times of pain or stress. I will gladly help them through rocky times...even those very ones that also send me reeling, but I refuse their offers to reciprocate.

I need to work on freeing myself of feeling somehow inadequate if I show the darker, sadder side of my being.

(This pose is like the angel I use as my icon on this blog. I have always been strangely attracted to this almost hauntingly sad image. And I have given instructions to my family that she is to be carved on my headstone after I die.)

BREAK

My muse appears to have run off with Dot (see YO-YO entry regarding her); both leaving me in the lurch. With their absences, I am reduced to a quiet woman without a creative bone in her body. My paintings reflect it, and my unusual semi-silence on the keyboard is further proof of it.

Also, I am very far behind reading the journals of others, and I feel terrible about it. I cannot seem to get in a good block of time so I can catch up on the words of those people for whom I have great admiration and respect.

I do not recall ever taking a break from blogging, except when I have gone out of town. I do believe the time is right for me to step away from this blog. It is pointless to write merely to fulfill some self-imposed rule that I post entries at least two to three times a week. I see no sense in that. I will, however, continue to enter my weekly posts for the Self-Portrait Challenge, unless my lack of creativity makes that an impossibility, too.

Perhaps if I no longer have my own journal to tend to, I will be able to make the rounds to those wonderful blogs and read what is going on in those worlds. I would like that very much. There is truly something about the people whose journals are saved in my favorites that makes me feel balanced. I gain new insights and perspectives, which I believe is a vital part of life...looking at everything through the eyes of others. Be it in my real world or this virtual one.

I also need to work through some things, and I am hopeful I can do just that within a short period of time. I could be back to posting regularly in a week or a month. We shall see.

Finding myself in a museless place is not where I was meant to be. And I have no intention of staying there for a long time.

Be well.