PRIVATE AND PERSONAL

While bumbling about on the Internet, looking for some sorely needed blogging inspiration, I stumbled on a blogging rule -- Don’t write anything that you wouldn’t say out loud.

What a bunch of crapola! I’ve been blogging now since 2003 and 80% of what I’ve told you I would never consider speaking out loud. At least not in a social conversation at my kitchen table or any other oral interactive venue. And the reason I wouldn’t is because so much of what I reflect on and explore is too intimate. Not as in sexually intimate, not as in real life drama intimate, or as in vulgarly intimate. No, none of that.

Intimate in the sense that if what I so often write, were to be openly spoken, in a regular neighbor-to-neighbor conversation, I would be strait-jacketed, locked up, and the key ground into powder. I guess the closest allegory to what I mean that might help the reader to understand is that what I say to you on my blog is too often similar in content to a seriously spoken tale of alien abduction.

That does not mean what I write are bold-faced lies. They are not. The happening is true, and so is my reflective exploration of that happening. But the reflective part is often so far out of left-field that it does sound like someone who not only could tell a tale of abduction but quite possibly might still be in that abductive stage without consciousness of it.

Now that I’ve got you thoroughly confused, this is what I am really trying to say.

Society, in general, now consider themselves so uninhibited, so out there, so with it, so conscious of all things to do with the intimacy of sexual relations, preferences, mind workings, etc. etc. We proudly feel we are modern, fact-based, uninhibited by Victorian rules, or naivety or the once held honour and magnetism of ‘innocence’ in the form of the blushing cheek or quivering lip.

We speak vulgarity without flinching. Movie characters engage in flippant, snippy, and cheeky language with children and peers that for the sake of common civility, I can’t believe could be so casually spoken.

Even commercials. There’s the commercial for a gravy mix where the hostess snips at a guest in the kitchen about when she’s going to bring in the gravy. Meanwhile she is simply taking a wee taste. And the one for a business that is not on line, ends up with some smart ass telling the ‘proprietress’ for a lack of a better term, that if she does not have her business on line, she doesn’t exist. And when she courteously asks, “Are you leaving now?“, his snippy response is “Was I ever here?“

Somebody should slap those kind of unnecessarily brusque individuals.

But, oh yes, we are there. So accomplished in our tolerance, and understanding, and intimacy that discussion of it all, exposure of it all, knows no bounds.

But intimacy has become so intertwined with things of a sexual nature, we have forgotten the real meaning - i.e. personal considerations within a quiet and private atmosphere. It is not, as so many tend to think just about sex, crotch shaving, and arm-pit hair. Somehow the true and real meaning of ‘intimacy’ has fallen by the wayside.

We no longer contemplate or consider the spiritual intimacy we had and shared before God died. And it matters not to me whether he died or not. That point of intimacy still exists but is never discussed at least not at the raw spiritual level. And by that I mean, it is never discussed by laymen, only those trained to think along a specific formula within a specific trench.

I want an intimate exposure of how people feel within themselves when dealing with broken relationships, health issues, old age, and great loss. I don’t want the language of programming. I want the real raw stuff. The casting about in a raw mind for a raw solution, and a raw sense of comfort.

The most and deepest intimacy of their souls. But seems to me we have cremated and discarded it as we tend to do with anything too puzzling, unpleasant, enigmatic, or mystifying for a fact-based scientific mind.

In today’s society, running through the public square buck-naked is easier than having to reflect on the intimacy of the soul, the spirit, and the moral fibre and all these other things we were born with, rather than taught, buried subterranean-deep within all the over-wraps of modern sophistication.

Can you not share with me the deepest intimacy of what you believed before you believed what you believe now?

[Despite the blogging rule of ‘not writing anything you wouldn’t say out loud’, that is a an utter falsehood. Blogs are exactly meant for writing what you cannot speak.]

Snow Mass

Snow and snow, and more snow.

Wraps wisps around obliques, thick leggings around verticals, and re-shelves narrow latitudes until they become fortress walls. Superimposes every inanimate representation till the essence within becomes a ‘higher form’ through the magnification of obesity.

Mortal man stumbles about inelegantly in multi-layered muffs and earthly frame. Up to the hips in a stupefying and terrifying abundance of snow.

Warm the air by sucking it in. Let imagination run wild. Mentally paint the landscape green and yellow. And even then, you will find no flavor of August in this day. Only a random arrangement of winter matter.

More, and more—tumbling, drifting, floating, and falling, into covers of instability. Snow-weaves of batting that like memory-foam-mattresses leave only imaginative outlines of what lies beneath.

‘Higher forms’ of a spiritual nature of what once was. Icons of holiness. With the crystal whiteness of altar cloths, lace, and silver chalices in place.

Listen. Do you not hear it? The Hymn of wintry solitude sung earnestly and soundlessly?
That song of consequent stillness, that sanctifies January. Its remembrance, and longer endurance.
Repeated utterance of the refrain and second verse, same as the first.

This is a January celebration of Vigil Mass on a white altar.
Vigil, as in waiting, and expecting more, and still more.

The Leaving

Damned shroud, ‘Out!
Out! Out!’ I say.
And take with you your misty splay.

Out, out damp mist and evil shroud
Cast from heaven’s celestial cloud.
Get off my field and garden arbor
Go to swamp or to the harbor.

Take your white bone-chilling mass
Get it off my garden grass
There are no granite headstones here
No companions of your certain peers
No witches, ghouls or chilly bones
No silent mold or mossy stones.

Go weave your mist in ornate gates,
Thread your ribbons through steel grates,
Roll up your batting; be gone from here
Fold your pack of troubling fear.
Take your leave – full and complete,
Take with you, your winding sheet.
Go to quiet fields of stone,
Just leave my yard and field alone.

’Cause here, my life is pleasant play
Sufficiency in each new day
And so you MUST be on your way.
A friend is coming for the day.

He shoots a sharp gold keen-edged spike
You’ll quick be gone; without a fight!
Oh, happy charm and quiet grace
Sun, has nicely cleaned the place.

A Refurbished Relationship - (Part III)

WHAT WAS OLD DOG THINKING?

Now normally I am calm and rational. I have no patience with the immaturity of drama queen’s and those that over-react at every little circumstance. But I have just had a roller-coaster ride that has left me exhausted and completely depleted.

Before Hub can spit out anything beyond, “I’m visiting…”, I am in tears and off on a tangent. And what I have to say is exceedingly angry and out-of-character as well. As out of character, as Old Dog choosing to stay home.

“Hub, I am so f---ing annoyed with you.’ I scream into the phone. ‘Do you know how worried I have been?” I slam down the phone before Hub can respond.

Immediately the phone is ringing again. It is Hub calling back of course, but I am too disturbed to answer it. Six jangling rings – then silence.

Now I find myself contemplating my day. I can’t stay angry. Not when I’m so flooded with relief that Hub is okay. Not when I am so achingly grateful to God, fate, destiny, and all the other forces of heaven and earth that the bad omens that earlier were niggling my mind were nothing more than my own wild imaginings.

For certain, Hub is in shock. I never talk to him that way. I don’t slam down phones in his ear. I don’t refuse to answer his calls. But I am glad I did. I think now he will finally remember to take his phone. But is that so good?

I’m not sure it is. If he had had his phone with him today, I would not have had these hours of crystal and emotionally-charged enlightenment of how much he means to me in every way.

NEXT POST: is the conclusion -- "Hub Returns" and "Final Thoughts"

Love on Demand – Part V (Conclusion)

Finding Sensibility

Discussions with a neighbor lady with a broken heart in a pre-arranged marriage have validated what I already believe – I cannot give love on demand. So how can I save my sinful soul without going down the path of a loveless and pre-arranged union with God?

With or without a love relationship with God, I can’t deny that I have always been awe-struck at nature’s perfection and at the creator of it. But despite that, I have not found a path to loving God. From the stories told to me by the lady down the road, I understand that it is impossible to give love on demand because that kind of love is too false to be soul-saving. Serving a God of truth by a brazen lie is so not right.

But my problem is even bigger than that. How can I make myself love someone who so often seems to turn deaf ears on my prayers? Yet, admittedly, at other times, responds at lightning speed with a wealth of blessings, quite unexpected?

It remains puzzling to me that somehow, though not until some time later, in all this storm-tossed sea of doubt, somewhere along the way, without conscious endeavor, my subconscious mind was coddled, and warmed, and seduced into a positive belief that told my conscious mind, “You have not pressed me or overrode my authority. You have not forced me with insubordination. And so now, it’s okay to believe. I’ll go along with it.”

But that is me, and so as I consider these things, I realize it is not fair for me to judge others. And it is also unfair for me to expect everyone to love God because it is the better thing to do. Or because I am sure he exists. Of course it isn’t fair. Not with love being a helpless condition over which we have no control.

It takes more than conscious willingness. It appears there are no conscious arguments or convictions good enough, or even strong enough, when it comes to love, to force the sub-conscious into agreement. Surely even the Job in the Old Testament, who endured so much sorrow, must have consciously wanted to reject God, but his sub-conscious mind exerted its own authority and would not let him.

And so even young couples who contemplate marriage, carefully taking into account all practical considerations, and faithfully attending marriage counseling, are in fact jumping into a pre-arranged marriage, if the sub-conscious mind objects. You see long courtships are not just an old-fashioned notion. They are necessary for feelings of love to be honest exchanges rather than superficial notions.

So, isn’t it silly for preachers to compare heaven to hell to force a kind of pre-arranged union? To demand that we find redemption through a pre-determined subset? And, in the same way that it is unfair for me to judge the atheist, or the agnostic, isn’t it equally silly for these same, whose subconscious mind is not yet ready for God-love to scoff at religion as being nothing more than evidence of human weakness and a keen imagination?

In conclusion, I think there will always be those who make a pretense of religion and God-love, but if they are honest with themselves, it seems to me that regardless of how hot hell burns, if the sub-conscious mind does not give in to such a notion and provide unanimous agreement and support, loving God is not possible until the soul eventually whispers to the head – “this is truth and it is time”.

Love on Demand - Part IV

Finding an Answer

I am afraid. The minister says I must love God or be eternally damned. But I don’t know how to give love on demand. Physically, I can choose to do anything I want to do. I can completely ignore the authoritarian control of my subconscious mind. But not emotionally. So, the dilemma of turning love off or on, is the dilemma that I seek to resolve.

Then I remembered. I remembered stories told to me by a lady who lived just up the road and who immigrated to Canada shortly after she was married. Often she told me stories of the ‘old country’. And in these stories it became apparent to me that although outwardly she seemed no different than other neighbors, in her home, all was not well.

Her stories were so sad. Each time she spoke to me of her youth and her marriage, she wept with heartbreaking pain. And at the root of that pain was the story about how she had been so wrongly convinced by others that she could give love on demand.

And her dilemma seemed pretty much like my own. There was even the same interplay of redemption or destruction – only her choice was a different kind of heaven and hell. Her choice, if one can call it that, was to find security through a pre-arranged marriage (love on demand), or face a lifetime of loneliness as a forgotten spinster.

Unfortunately she thought she could give love on demand. And so she married and in her conscious mind she told herself she loved the man chosen for her. But her subconscious mind held fast in disagreement.

So that tells me I am right. The administrator of the sincerity of love is not the head. It is the heart. And because her heart could not be coerced into agreement, her soul remained in agony.

So without all the complexities I have written here, I still figured out, as a child, that it is not possible to give love on demand. And there would be no sensibility in me trying. So here I am, headed straight to hell, because I cannot love God or give him love on demand to save my wretched soul.

NEXT POST: The Conclusion of this story – Finding Sensibility

Love on Demand - Part II & III

Scare Tactics – Part II

Now initially I thought you had to be a person of excess to be a sinner. My mother extricated herself from sinners and all of those that she avoided lived lives of excess. Too much smoking, drinking, eating, womanizing, lazing around, or talking dirty.

So what had I to fear? I had no excesses. I was too woefully thin, too woefully shy, too woefully poor, too woefully frightened, to be excessive in anything. Too limited in every way to be a sinner. But now I’m sitting here in the front of the church with the graduated pews and the preacher has his beady little eyes focused straight on me and he is telling me I was born a sinner. Born a sinner? What the h…?

And if that wasn’t enough now he’s telling me that if I reject God, I may look around me and feel out of favor now, but it is going to get a whole lot worse. The bottom line is the only way I can expect to have blessing in this life, and escape from hell’s burning flames in the next, is to love God with all my heart and soul and mind.

Oh, but just hang on a minute here. I have a problem with that. I can say ‘I love God’ but if I don’t sincerely love him, that is the worst kind of lie. And I cannot give love on demand. I just cannot. I am not responsible for who I love. It is out of my control. And I absolutely cannot love someone because I am told I must – whether that someone be mortal or immortal, all powerful, or weak as a newborn kitten.

I have a subconscious mind and it forms commitments and purpose quite removed from what I wish or want or will. My subconscious mind made me love my parents without me choosing to, wishing to, or wanting to. So love is not an option that I can decide to choose or decline. It runs much deeper than that.

So it seems to me one can’t seek redemption through fear and still retain the fitness and propriety, some call it ‘grace’, that must accompany that conversion. Cause God is all-knowing. He knows more than what we tell him. So it goes without saying that he knows if we want him in our lives to simply curb our fears or because we truly love him.

So what to do? How to save myself? There is no sensibility in the minister demanding that I love God cause no matter how the preacher man has motivated my conscious mind with fear and panic, love controls reside in caves and tunnels buried much deeper than that.
________________

At the Root of the Fray – Part III

So you see the problem. Never in my lifetime, as a child, or even as an adult, has my subconscious mind allowed me to give love on demand. Even yet, I cannot affectionately accept notions because of social or political pressures.

And because this is true, though not generally examined or understood, there are those who say I am opinionated and close-minded. Some even may suggest that I am bigoted. But what my critics fail to understand is that allowances must be made for my subconscious mind – that little piece in my heart or head, I know not which, that houses my conscience, my soul, my love, and my spiritual convictions, over which I have no control.

And so, because of the conflict in my head with the other, there have always been popular social concepts that in no way affect me personally, but yet my subconscious mind refuses to accept them. And on the other hand, there have always been other abstractions that directly affect me, and even though in my conscious mind, I am theoretically convinced, my subconscious mind chooses to remain obstinate.

For example, I know global warming will eventually have dire effects but I can’t get my subconscious mind to accept that it is happening. Obviously, though many think otherwise, there is no straightforward correlation between the conscious and the subconscious mind.

So I sat in church that Sunday morning, wondering how to find a solution to an impossible dilemma. And then I did what kids always do. I searched within the context of my own limited knowledge for a solution. And surprise, surprise. Suddenly it occurred to me that I had some exposure to the validity or invalidity of the expectation that one can offer – love on demand.

NEXT POST – Finding an answer.

Love on Demand & Pre-Arranged Unions

Ruled by the Sub-Conscious Mind (Part I)

There was something rather unusual about the church I went to when I was a child. When new pews were installed, the front pew was small, but as you moved down the aisle the pews got larger and larger.

My mother told me how this happened. She told me that when the pews were built, the builder used the pattern of the first pew to cut a second and the pattern of a second to cut a third. He didn’t even notice what was happening until all the pews were built. And that is when he realized that each successive pew was bigger than the previous. And so, it only made sense to line them up in order. From smallest to largest.

But what I found most surprising about the graduating seat size was how the congregation reacted. Seat-size seemed to dictate to the subconscious mind of the congregation where they should sit.

I watched them each Sunday wandering down the aisle and sorting themselves according to their particular breadth and depth and length. I also watched the small lady and the large lady that were such good friends that they always sat together, debating at length over where they should sit without easy or quick compromise. And with the installation of the new pews, they no longer sat together.

It was evident that some people entered the church with a mind to sit in the front, but though this may have been their intent, their sub-conscious mind overruled, and without even thinking about it, they moved to the seat that offered, for them, the best fit and comfort.

I tell you this little story to offer just one weak example how subconscious thinking can alter a conscious choice.

NEXT POST: "Scare Tactics" - more serious situations arise that are over-ruled by the tremendous power and authority of the subconscious mind.
…to be continued…

My Holy Grail

(with apologies to Dan Brown, author of “The DaVinci Code”)

When I retired suddenly and unexpectedly from work after a long career, I was sent a parting gift a few weeks later. It wasn’t a gold watch, or a pin. Instead it was a rather heavy, ornately carved, velvet-lined redwood box with inlaid filigree around the lid. It was in truth, a beautiful thing. And in the center of the lid was a raised ornate frame with a photo of the facility I worked at mounted under glass. And that photo was the only clue as to what the box should contain. And since ‘retirement’ is right up there with the other milestones of life – birth, graduation, marriage, and death, I could only surmise that this miniature casket should contain a keystone of articles related to the turning point and distance of my career.

So what should I put in it? My application letter and a copy of the working covenant I signed my name to so many years ago? My stapler, my pen, that bloody alarm clock that whined and wailed all those years and roused me from sweet slumber? None of that seemed worthy of such a fine treasure house. Or should I put a copy of my unorthodox resignation letter? Written with such unexpected suddenness that I was as surprised at what I wrote as the recipients of that letter.

The letter I sent to the President (with a cc to my Supervisor), after spending a morning at the office covertly stashing all my personal stuff in a box hidden under my desk, read as follows:

“This e-mail is just to let you know that at lunch time I am leaving and I won’t be back. I am sick to death of the acts of political corruption, rather than a mandate to clients, that rule this establishment. I will no longer be a part of it. I know the rules but I don’t care about the consequences of leaving without notice. I don’t know how I’ll feel once I walk out those doors. But I am fairly certain I will feel a whole lot better than I am feeling right now.”

Or maybe I should stash the response that came directly from the President.

“Roberta, this is so not like you. I am well aware how valuable and reliable worker you are. Why don’t you take a couple days at home to think about this? Contact Human Resources and then go and see your doctor. You may just need to take some stress leave. I know arrangements can be made for you to take as long as you need.”

My response, sent from my at-home computer, “If I am sick in the head, I am too sick to recognize my sickness. You have enough abusers of sick days, stress leaves, and long-term disability that you don’t need any more. I will not even consider stress leave. I am done. If you require a formal letter of resignation, this is it. Print off this exchange and put it in the file.”

I guess I sure had a pickle up my a-- that day. It’s that pickle I should put in the box, but I guess it got flushed. Oh well. Probably the best thing to put in the box is an ecclesiastical manifest of the dramatic disclosure of facts, not known or realized, until the day I walked out. And so this is my manifest.

This is Book of REVELATION of Roberta Smith, to show all things sent and signified by her retirement.

Chapter I, Verse 1.
“And the vision that came to me were the things I had forgotten. I forgot I would not be alone if I quit work. I forgot I had a Hub with a sense of humor that delighted in my presence. I forgot that the world doesn’t have to spin like an out-of-control merry-go-round every hour of every day. I forgot that I have creative hands and a severely damaged imagination that perhaps can be resurrected. I forgot there are other challenges in life to give me worthy purpose, sensibility, and accomplishment. I forgot that contentment comes from liking the person I am. And most of all I forgot that life is for living.”

That is what I will put in the box. It’s no Ark of the Covenant, but for me…it’s my Holy Grail.