Another fragmentary post from August of 2012.
Ever since my life-changing Rhapsody in Blue experience, I've been trying to replicate it by carefully listening to all kinds of classical music. Though I have definitely enjoyed the new exposure, I have not had that same pure transfer of a concrete thought the way I did with RiB.
So last night I listened to RiB again, beginning to end, for the first time since that fateful even. Would the effect still be the same? I was almost nervous to listen.
Yes. The effect was even intensified the second time around.
Why was this piece different? Are there any others like it? I've been pondering, and here is what I have come up with:
1) Gershwin is pure genius. Shall I name my next son George?
Saturday, December 7, 2013
To do is to be, to be is to do, do be do be do
This is a fragment of a post I started writing more than a year ago. I know it's very incomplete, and I can't remember all the conceptual links that tied all these things together (that which came together "while I was cleaning the bathrooms"). I still find it fascinating enough to post. I believe it is addressing how I became an introvert after being married, and how it went from healthy introversion to unhealthy introversion. I'm not 100% sure how the title relates, but wondering is evocative if nothing else.
That was the quote on one of my favorite t-shirts in high school. I haven't thought about that shirt in ages, and here I am quoting it.
I went to a dinner party the other night, and sat next to a very affable and engaging couple who we had never met. I had a wonderful time and we laughed and had stimulating conversation until we regretfully looked at the clock and headed home to pay the babysitter.
All of these things came together today while I was cleaning the bathrooms.
But something subtle and sneaky and sad happened in the following years. When did I go from seeking the peace that comes from space and self-reflection and begin merely avoiding the anxiety of wondering what others were thinking of me? When did I go from seeking something wholesome and positive to merely avoiding my own self-inflicted anxieties? And how on earth did I manage to convince myself all along that they were the same thing? I lost part of my self when I did so. I lost the part of me that takes simple joy in coming to know another individual. How strange that I simply traded being afraid to be by myself for being afraid of being around others. I suppose it's not such a far leap. Both are rooted in an unhealthy dependence on others for my sense of worth.
That was the quote on one of my favorite t-shirts in high school. I haven't thought about that shirt in ages, and here I am quoting it.
I went to a dinner party the other night, and sat next to a very affable and engaging couple who we had never met. I had a wonderful time and we laughed and had stimulating conversation until we regretfully looked at the clock and headed home to pay the babysitter.
All of these things came together today while I was cleaning the bathrooms.
But something subtle and sneaky and sad happened in the following years. When did I go from seeking the peace that comes from space and self-reflection and begin merely avoiding the anxiety of wondering what others were thinking of me? When did I go from seeking something wholesome and positive to merely avoiding my own self-inflicted anxieties? And how on earth did I manage to convince myself all along that they were the same thing? I lost part of my self when I did so. I lost the part of me that takes simple joy in coming to know another individual. How strange that I simply traded being afraid to be by myself for being afraid of being around others. I suppose it's not such a far leap. Both are rooted in an unhealthy dependence on others for my sense of worth.
Blessed are the poor in memory, for they shall inherit...and blog
Oct 15, 2013
Sometimes my eyes and my heart see so much beauty in this world it wants to overflow from my brain and come out of my hands: typed, painted or otherwise documented, imprinted on a page and in my muscle memory.
It's at these times that I become frustrated by my limitations. Limitations of time, limitations of memory, limitations of ability that I hope will all someday be erased. Some people can't imagine heaven without food or animals. I can't imagine heaven without these limitations gone.
These are the things that I'm aching to imprint. There is more both in quality and quantity, but I have to be satisfied with what is. For tonight, it's enough.
First, my children. How can a mother express the love and awe she has for her children's beautiful bodies? To think that I am even partially responsible for that perfect, glowing skin, those long strong legs, those chubby baby thighs, that dimpled hand, those thickly laying eyelashes. On the one hand they're commonplace, with me day in and day out, but in between brushing off mud, scrubbing away paint, bandaging up scrapes and hosing off the last meal, occasionally I am completely taken aback by their breathtaking beauty.
Someday, though I may never have my babies back as they now are, I will be able to touch and hear and see them in my memory, not dimmed, dulled or altered as it now is, but the product of a perfect, resurrected mind. For me, this knowledge adds another layer of gratitude for the gift of the resurrection.
I was remembering the other day the way that Rylan would growl, "Mess!!", low and menacing, every time he spread abroad his toys. He was about Anders' age when he would do that. To remember made me laugh, and then I told Rylan and Evie, who were delighted by this evidence of his babyhood. Rylan has waxed old on me overnight. He is in love with his kindergarten teacher and a classmate named Ava (Who me? Jealous?!?) and insisted this year on being a ghost for Halloween and making his own costume. He's been refusing to read books outside of what he's assigned for school simply because he says that's all he can read (trust me, I know better, he reads everything else from the cereal boxes to the street signs with no problem), but today I walked in and found him reading a book to Evie with no stumbling or hesitation. When did he get big? Yet big he is. My heart breaks and subsequently swells every time I renew this realization.
Evie calls a PBJ a "Peaner and Jelly Sandwich". She also substitutes "I don't wait for" for "I can't wait for" (as in, "I don't wait to eat our vegetables from our garden!", uttered today) and has invented the contraction "amn't" in place of "I'm not". I've never written any of these down, but she's been doing them for years. She just turned four, as she's very proud to tell any and every one. One of her favorite things to do is to collect pet bugs from the backyard. Some of her favorite recurring names for them include "Kathy" and "Coco", and I had to permanently ban the use of tupperware for potato bug homes, because we were starting to run low. She is earnestly striving to prove to me that she is responsible enough to own a dog by caring for "Cootie", a hissing cockroach gifted to her by my disobedient father. I keep telling her I'm not sure if or when we're going to get a dog, but she's undeterred from talking about it constantly. That, and a pet iguana. She must have a smidge of her mother in her.
Trevor and I are absolutely gaga for Anders these days. His round, cherubic little person tots from one episode in his little life to the next, emptying cupboards and wreaking havoc on everything he encounters. We are absolutely ruined for him ourselves. He looks like me, which is so incredibly satisfying, and when Trevor is holding him and I see his little blonde head against Trevor's dark, I melt. He is quieter than our other babies, but incredibly expressive. His flirty smiles and scowls alike delight me. I just can't get enough of that baby; I'm head over heels.
How do I explain that this mess of facts to me means beauty? Even the cockroach?!? I want to remember, and I am not known for my memory. So I am drawn back to my blog.
Speak That I May See Thee.
In a year, if I am struggling with depression, I can read this and remember. I can see both them and myself as we truly are-- the way I see them now.
Sometimes my eyes and my heart see so much beauty in this world it wants to overflow from my brain and come out of my hands: typed, painted or otherwise documented, imprinted on a page and in my muscle memory.
It's at these times that I become frustrated by my limitations. Limitations of time, limitations of memory, limitations of ability that I hope will all someday be erased. Some people can't imagine heaven without food or animals. I can't imagine heaven without these limitations gone.
These are the things that I'm aching to imprint. There is more both in quality and quantity, but I have to be satisfied with what is. For tonight, it's enough.
First, my children. How can a mother express the love and awe she has for her children's beautiful bodies? To think that I am even partially responsible for that perfect, glowing skin, those long strong legs, those chubby baby thighs, that dimpled hand, those thickly laying eyelashes. On the one hand they're commonplace, with me day in and day out, but in between brushing off mud, scrubbing away paint, bandaging up scrapes and hosing off the last meal, occasionally I am completely taken aback by their breathtaking beauty.
Someday, though I may never have my babies back as they now are, I will be able to touch and hear and see them in my memory, not dimmed, dulled or altered as it now is, but the product of a perfect, resurrected mind. For me, this knowledge adds another layer of gratitude for the gift of the resurrection.
I was remembering the other day the way that Rylan would growl, "Mess!!", low and menacing, every time he spread abroad his toys. He was about Anders' age when he would do that. To remember made me laugh, and then I told Rylan and Evie, who were delighted by this evidence of his babyhood. Rylan has waxed old on me overnight. He is in love with his kindergarten teacher and a classmate named Ava (Who me? Jealous?!?) and insisted this year on being a ghost for Halloween and making his own costume. He's been refusing to read books outside of what he's assigned for school simply because he says that's all he can read (trust me, I know better, he reads everything else from the cereal boxes to the street signs with no problem), but today I walked in and found him reading a book to Evie with no stumbling or hesitation. When did he get big? Yet big he is. My heart breaks and subsequently swells every time I renew this realization.
Evie calls a PBJ a "Peaner and Jelly Sandwich". She also substitutes "I don't wait for" for "I can't wait for" (as in, "I don't wait to eat our vegetables from our garden!", uttered today) and has invented the contraction "amn't" in place of "I'm not". I've never written any of these down, but she's been doing them for years. She just turned four, as she's very proud to tell any and every one. One of her favorite things to do is to collect pet bugs from the backyard. Some of her favorite recurring names for them include "Kathy" and "Coco", and I had to permanently ban the use of tupperware for potato bug homes, because we were starting to run low. She is earnestly striving to prove to me that she is responsible enough to own a dog by caring for "Cootie", a hissing cockroach gifted to her by my disobedient father. I keep telling her I'm not sure if or when we're going to get a dog, but she's undeterred from talking about it constantly. That, and a pet iguana. She must have a smidge of her mother in her.
Trevor and I are absolutely gaga for Anders these days. His round, cherubic little person tots from one episode in his little life to the next, emptying cupboards and wreaking havoc on everything he encounters. We are absolutely ruined for him ourselves. He looks like me, which is so incredibly satisfying, and when Trevor is holding him and I see his little blonde head against Trevor's dark, I melt. He is quieter than our other babies, but incredibly expressive. His flirty smiles and scowls alike delight me. I just can't get enough of that baby; I'm head over heels.
How do I explain that this mess of facts to me means beauty? Even the cockroach?!? I want to remember, and I am not known for my memory. So I am drawn back to my blog.
Speak That I May See Thee.
In a year, if I am struggling with depression, I can read this and remember. I can see both them and myself as we truly are-- the way I see them now.
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