Sometimes I experience the sensation of expansiveness. It happens most often just as I am waking up or drifting off. The best thing about this sensation is its optimism. This sensation tells me everything is as it should be. It's all good.
I can describe it is as a pot boiling over. I'm the pot and my spirit is the liquid inside the pot that expands until it can't be contained and starts to run over the edge. When your kitchen pots are boiling over it's a sign that you're doing something wrong. When your spirit wants to expand beyond the container of your body, it's a sign you are doing everything right. Just let it go.
I'm not sure if the sense of expansiveness is just my spirit letting loose with its bad self, or whether it is my portion of spirit joining with the mother spirit. Whenever it happens I get a glimpse of the person I can be, that I truly am, without the shackles of my ego, fears, values and social mores. The real me is playful, fearless, loving and curious. The real me really loves you. Even if you are being a bit of an asshole, I love you. The real me can see the real you inside of there. The real me knows the real you is being contained in this moment by all of your ego, fears, values and social mores. The real me wants to hug you or wink at you or tease you or give you whatever you need right now to let you know that everything is as it should be. You are all good. The real me trusts that when the situation is reversed, you will also love me. Imagine if the real me and the real you busted out at the same time? How great would that be?
The real me would like to invite the real you out to play.
Chicken out
Showing posts with label serious. Show all posts
Showing posts with label serious. Show all posts
Thursday, September 18, 2014
Saturday, November 30, 2013
Paper or Shoes
In the town where I was raised there were two main industries, paper and shoes. In most families one or both parents worked in either the paper mills or the shoe factories. Kids grew up and often followed in their parents footsteps; paper or shoes.
Our family was a shoe family. My father was an engineer for Bass shoe, founded by George Bass in 1876. He started out on the factory floor and worked his way up. His job was to analyze the labor required to make a shoe, and then determine how much, per piece, a worker should be paid for their particular contribution. This kind of work was called "piece work", and allowed better, more experienced workers to earn more because they had harder jobs and/or were more productive. It was a non-unionized system that paid workers according to their productivity and skill.
Bass Shoe was sold to Chesebrough-Ponds in 1978. They were famous for Vaseline, Ponds Cold Creams and other beauty products. Why they wanted a shoe factory I couldn't say, but things continued to roll along fairly smoothly. In 1981, President Reagan lifted the quotas on imported shoes and cheaper shoes from overseas became available. American shoe companies, in order to compete, began moving their production overseas. The companies that maintained factories in the US cut jobs and payroll. My father lost his job in 1987 after Philips-Van Heusen purchased the company and again slashed jobs and payroll. Bass closed their last Maine factory in 1998, letting go of its final 350 workers. Over the course of 18 years, about 1,200 people employed by this one company lost their jobs. You can still buy Bass shoes, but they are not made in the US.
The paper mills have fared better but there have been union strikes, cuts and closings. In short, my old hometown is not the insulated community it used to be. We are not special. The same thing has happened all across the country.
I bring these things up because it is a big shopping weekend and today is Shop Local Saturday. While it might not be practical to purchase only American-made products, it is possible to shop locally for one day and benefit your local community. Go on. Get out there. Buy something already.
Chicken out
Wednesday, October 2, 2013
Chicken Dilemma. What Would You Do?
I know the government is in the middle of a crisis, but can we talk about me? I need your advice.
Three young men in my town were recently arrested for breaking into cars and vandalizing public property. All are legal adults and were booked on felony charges
Three young men in my town were recently arrested for breaking into cars and vandalizing public property. All are legal adults and were booked on felony charges
My dilemma is that I know one of the three and am trying to decide the best way to help him. I'll call him "J" to protect his privacy. He grew up in the neighborhood, was a good friend to my eldest son, and spent a lot of Saturday nights sleeping over at our house.
I won't bore you with every detail of his background, but suffice it to say that the one person who loved and nurtured him got very sick and died. Her illness and subsequent death sent his life into a tail spin. He moved away for a time, but came back once he turned 18. His situation has been precarious. He has little support, emotionally or financially, and is, most likely, suffering from depression. It's hard to tell. A lot of his emotions are trapped on the inside and his affect is flatter than a six-month-old glass of coke.
After a rough start, he seemed to be on the right track, earning a GED in record time, participating in a work program, and eventually transitioning into a part-time job. His goals were to get his license, save some money, and join the military. He was living with another family that I do not know, but he seemed grateful to have a place to stay. He came over several times a week, for awhile, and I would feed him, encourage him and try to get him to talk. When I remember the meme of the kitten hanging on to a ledge by the nails, with the caption, "Hang In There, Baby", I think of J.
I asked my son, after the neighborhood gossip made it around to our house, what he thought J was thinking to put himself in that situation. My son's response, effectively, was that he would never put himself in a position to fall out of favor within a peer group. That makes sense, I guess, when you consider what it means to be alone. Most of us prefer the pack. It's the way we are made.
I texted and called J when I found out about his situation. I wasn't sure what I could do, but I did want to make myself available to him. When he didn't respond, I did a search online, which confirmed that he was still being held at the intake center.
I could probably scrape together enough bail money to get him out of jail. I'm aware that it is money I would most likely never see again, and I could live with that. My dilemma is that helping with his release would only solve his most immediate problem. If released, he will need a place to live, a job, and emotional support, as well as practical support. My husband is not willing to bring him into our home and I respect that. I also feel I do not have the tools, time or resources necessary to help him find his footing, and there does not seem to be anyone else in his life who is willing to take on that role. Without some hefty support from somewhere, he will most likely end up back in prison, possibly worse off for my assistance.
If I bail him out, am I hurting more than I'm helping? Are there services and people within the system who can help him more than I can outside of the system. Is the system set up to rehabilitate young adults who are not hardened criminals, or does it just process every criminal the same way?
If I bail him out, am I hurting more than I'm helping? Are there services and people within the system who can help him more than I can outside of the system. Is the system set up to rehabilitate young adults who are not hardened criminals, or does it just process every criminal the same way?
What would you do? Is there anyone out there who has experience with these sorts of cases and can speak to what is likely to happen to him next or how I can best support him? I am not comfortable with the notion of no action, but I'd like to proceed cautiously.
I am a Chicken, after all. Thank you for reading. I will be resuming my usual nonsense after this short reality break.
Chicken out
I am a Chicken, after all. Thank you for reading. I will be resuming my usual nonsense after this short reality break.
Chicken out
Monday, August 26, 2013
Writing Practice
He checked the space where he had twice come across the she-cub, traversing a half mile around the area, until he was satisfied he was alone and would be able to move about freely. The cub had complicated his scouting trips. He knew she was of the pack but was not yet sure who she was He did not know if she was able to call to him from the other plane, or whether their meetings had been accidental. The cub was a mystery he would deal with later. Later tonight he would be expected to report on any findings in his area. He needed to know what the perimeter was holding back, and how dangerous it was. The other scouts in the pack would report on their lands.
He stopped, thirty feet from the wood line, and sat back on his haunches. He growled low in his throat, a warning to anything close by. For awhile, nothing happened. He was early. He lay down low in the cool grass and waited for something to disturb the stillness.
He felt it first. Its energy came seeping from between the trees but did not cross the line onto the reservation. Instead, it pooled in one area and then spread out horizontally before moving up above the tree line, as though it were smoke hitting a glass wall and traveling in all directions, looking for an outlet. He could not see it well, but there was a visible ripple in the air periodically that indicated its presence. He didn't need to see it to know it was there, however. His skin was crawling with the feel of it. He backed up a bit, slowly, and slowed his breath to avoid the chemical scent in the air. There was a vibration in the ground now, a thrumming, steadily growing in intensity. He and the cub had felt it the other night, as well, but they had been further back-at least 50 yards more than he was tonight.
He sensed movement in the woods. Three deer suddenly broke into the clearing, moving fast, as though being chased. As they hit the line that separated Indian land from the rest of the great state of Maine, they slowed, as though the air had become suddenly thicker and harder to move through. They appeared to be pushing against it, unaware, as they should have been, of a predator close by. The buck among them attempted to use his antlers to pierce the invisible shield keeping them back. He backed off, lowered his head, and charged. He slowed, although clearly he was straining to move forward, and was pushed back as though something much bigger had caught him by the antlers and force-walked him backwards.. He shook his head, backed up, and tried again with the same result. He hesitated, then turned left and ran along the tree line, the does following him. A black bear was next, throwing itself against the barrier repeatedly, before following the path of the deer. He now could see hundreds of smaller animals doing the same thing. In the sky, birds came swooping in with the same result. It was as though a rubberized net was catching them gently, absorbing their motion, and forcing them back to the forest.
The wolf followed after the bear, keeping on his side of the tree line. On the other side, the animals seemed unaware of him. Was it because they could not see him, or because, in their panic, they didn't notice him? He hoped there might be a place, an opening, where they could slip through. The reservation should have been open to them, as it always had been. The charms were not meant to keep out wildlife. If they were being prevented from crossing the line, he suspected they were somehow infected by whatever was being kept out. In that case, any life on his side of the barrier would be safe but, he wondered, would they be able to cross the perimeter to the other side, where they might be endangered? He briefly thought of testing the border himself. He decided against the risk. If something happened and he couldn't get home, he wouldn't be able to warn the others. He would come back, on his own plane, and explore during the day to see what, if any, damage had been wrought. He tracked the bear for several miles before losing the scent. The deer were also gone. They had either all moved back into the woods or something had happened to them.
He stopped to rest for a moment, keeping a wary eye toward the woods. He needed to warn his pack, and then he needed to find his daughter. If he had to drag her kicking and screaming, she was coming home. Frankly, he never gave a thought to the old legends. They were the stories he had been raised on-a part of a heritage he took for granted, never questioning their truth or origin. He no longer felt he had the luxury of indifference. He rose and trotted in the direction he had come, crossing into the fog and becoming part of it, just as the sun started its ascent on the day.
Bryce slowed his walk to match Janie's pace. He was on the verge of being late to school again, but he couldn't bring himself to rush her, knowing that she hadn't been sleeping well for the past several nights. On the other hand, he couldn't be late too many more times before the school spoke to his Mom about his tardiness. If that happened, he knew, they would revert back to their old schedule of getting up an hour earlier every day in order to ride into school with his Mom, a nurse for the Franklin County school system . He had convinced his Mom last August that he was old enough now, and responsible enough, to get himself to school, dropping Janie off first with Mrs. Johnson, who would put Janie on the elementary bus with her own girls., and then walking the half mile to the middle school with the other kids in the neighborhood. Here it was, only late September, and he was already in danger of letting her down.
"Bryce, look" Janie said, pointing at something in the grass to the right of the sidewalk. "What is that?"
"It's a grasshopper, Janie." Bryce said, stepping off the sidewalk to get a closer look. As he stepped into the grass he felt a crunch underfoot and lifted his foot quickly, looking down to see what it was he had stepped on. It was another grasshopper, several in fact. The grass was littered with them. Why were they only in the grass? Bryce stepped quickly back to the sidewalk and turned to stop Janie from following him. He needn't have worried. She was standing stiffly in the middle of the sidewalk looking intently at something. She nodded her head, turned to Bryce, and muttered something that sounded to Bryce like the Abenacki word for "back" before collapsing on the sidewalk.
"Janie! Janie, can you hear me? Janie? Come on, Shorty, wake up!" Bryce smoothed her bangs from her face and patted her cheeks. Her skin was pale but he could tell she was breathing. He didn't think he would be able to carry her far and he didn't want to drag her into the grass with all the dead insects. Reaching around in his back pack, he found his water bottle and dragged it out. He took off his sweatshirt and wet the sleeve with the cold water, then rung it out, and pressed it lightly against Janie's forehead. It was working. She was coming to. She opened her eyes, groggy at first. She looked up at Bryce, her eyes filling with tears.
"We have to go home. We have to get away before they get here. Gran said. She said we have to go right now."
He stopped, thirty feet from the wood line, and sat back on his haunches. He growled low in his throat, a warning to anything close by. For awhile, nothing happened. He was early. He lay down low in the cool grass and waited for something to disturb the stillness.
He felt it first. Its energy came seeping from between the trees but did not cross the line onto the reservation. Instead, it pooled in one area and then spread out horizontally before moving up above the tree line, as though it were smoke hitting a glass wall and traveling in all directions, looking for an outlet. He could not see it well, but there was a visible ripple in the air periodically that indicated its presence. He didn't need to see it to know it was there, however. His skin was crawling with the feel of it. He backed up a bit, slowly, and slowed his breath to avoid the chemical scent in the air. There was a vibration in the ground now, a thrumming, steadily growing in intensity. He and the cub had felt it the other night, as well, but they had been further back-at least 50 yards more than he was tonight.
He sensed movement in the woods. Three deer suddenly broke into the clearing, moving fast, as though being chased. As they hit the line that separated Indian land from the rest of the great state of Maine, they slowed, as though the air had become suddenly thicker and harder to move through. They appeared to be pushing against it, unaware, as they should have been, of a predator close by. The buck among them attempted to use his antlers to pierce the invisible shield keeping them back. He backed off, lowered his head, and charged. He slowed, although clearly he was straining to move forward, and was pushed back as though something much bigger had caught him by the antlers and force-walked him backwards.. He shook his head, backed up, and tried again with the same result. He hesitated, then turned left and ran along the tree line, the does following him. A black bear was next, throwing itself against the barrier repeatedly, before following the path of the deer. He now could see hundreds of smaller animals doing the same thing. In the sky, birds came swooping in with the same result. It was as though a rubberized net was catching them gently, absorbing their motion, and forcing them back to the forest.
The wolf followed after the bear, keeping on his side of the tree line. On the other side, the animals seemed unaware of him. Was it because they could not see him, or because, in their panic, they didn't notice him? He hoped there might be a place, an opening, where they could slip through. The reservation should have been open to them, as it always had been. The charms were not meant to keep out wildlife. If they were being prevented from crossing the line, he suspected they were somehow infected by whatever was being kept out. In that case, any life on his side of the barrier would be safe but, he wondered, would they be able to cross the perimeter to the other side, where they might be endangered? He briefly thought of testing the border himself. He decided against the risk. If something happened and he couldn't get home, he wouldn't be able to warn the others. He would come back, on his own plane, and explore during the day to see what, if any, damage had been wrought. He tracked the bear for several miles before losing the scent. The deer were also gone. They had either all moved back into the woods or something had happened to them.
He stopped to rest for a moment, keeping a wary eye toward the woods. He needed to warn his pack, and then he needed to find his daughter. If he had to drag her kicking and screaming, she was coming home. Frankly, he never gave a thought to the old legends. They were the stories he had been raised on-a part of a heritage he took for granted, never questioning their truth or origin. He no longer felt he had the luxury of indifference. He rose and trotted in the direction he had come, crossing into the fog and becoming part of it, just as the sun started its ascent on the day.
Bryce slowed his walk to match Janie's pace. He was on the verge of being late to school again, but he couldn't bring himself to rush her, knowing that she hadn't been sleeping well for the past several nights. On the other hand, he couldn't be late too many more times before the school spoke to his Mom about his tardiness. If that happened, he knew, they would revert back to their old schedule of getting up an hour earlier every day in order to ride into school with his Mom, a nurse for the Franklin County school system . He had convinced his Mom last August that he was old enough now, and responsible enough, to get himself to school, dropping Janie off first with Mrs. Johnson, who would put Janie on the elementary bus with her own girls., and then walking the half mile to the middle school with the other kids in the neighborhood. Here it was, only late September, and he was already in danger of letting her down.
"Bryce, look" Janie said, pointing at something in the grass to the right of the sidewalk. "What is that?"
"It's a grasshopper, Janie." Bryce said, stepping off the sidewalk to get a closer look. As he stepped into the grass he felt a crunch underfoot and lifted his foot quickly, looking down to see what it was he had stepped on. It was another grasshopper, several in fact. The grass was littered with them. Why were they only in the grass? Bryce stepped quickly back to the sidewalk and turned to stop Janie from following him. He needn't have worried. She was standing stiffly in the middle of the sidewalk looking intently at something. She nodded her head, turned to Bryce, and muttered something that sounded to Bryce like the Abenacki word for "back" before collapsing on the sidewalk.
"Janie! Janie, can you hear me? Janie? Come on, Shorty, wake up!" Bryce smoothed her bangs from her face and patted her cheeks. Her skin was pale but he could tell she was breathing. He didn't think he would be able to carry her far and he didn't want to drag her into the grass with all the dead insects. Reaching around in his back pack, he found his water bottle and dragged it out. He took off his sweatshirt and wet the sleeve with the cold water, then rung it out, and pressed it lightly against Janie's forehead. It was working. She was coming to. She opened her eyes, groggy at first. She looked up at Bryce, her eyes filling with tears.
"We have to go home. We have to get away before they get here. Gran said. She said we have to go right now."
Tuesday, August 13, 2013
Chicken...The Hobo of the Internet
Hi World,
I checked in with an old internet friend's blog recently and she wrote to me, "Chicken, where the hell have you been for the last 15 months?"
She has never been one to mince words. It was a fair question.
I wrote back and filled her in on all the real life stuff happening here at the Chicken coop. We commiserated on how hard it can be to maintain a blog while balancing work, family, and the unexpected challenges life throws in our path. She said something that sounded like advice and felt like forgiveness: It helps to remind yourself that you aren't blogging for anyone but you. Sometimes life intervenes and that's ok.
We all get into blogging for different reasons. In my case, it was a creative outlet where I could -hopefully-improve my writing skills, as well as a space where I could be silly in a way my children would never understand. Making friends and becoming part of an online community were unexpected blessings.
When blogging is your hobby but it starts to feel like a job, you might feel like quitting. You might take a break until blogging feels like playing again. That's what I did. That's what I do.
If I offended anyone by disappearing without warning, I apologize. If you thought maybe I died, I apologize. I didn't. I'm right here. I still suck at good-byes, mostly because it never really occurs to me that I might not be back. I know I will be back when the spirit moves me. It took a really long time, this time around, for the words to start flowing again.
Consider me the hobo of the internet. You never know when I might catch a ride on a train passing through your blog. Please know that when I spot your blog, I'll hop off that train and check out what you're doing. I'll leave you ridiculous and flattering comments because, despite my prolonged absence, I do care.
Do not feed me, though. That's how you end up with hobo chickens living in your back yard.
Mrs. P, thanks for the words of encouragement.
Chicken out
I've been one poor correspondent and I've been too, too hard to find, but it doesn't mean you ain't been on my mind.
-Sister Golden Hair Surprise/America
I checked in with an old internet friend's blog recently and she wrote to me, "Chicken, where the hell have you been for the last 15 months?"
She has never been one to mince words. It was a fair question.
I wrote back and filled her in on all the real life stuff happening here at the Chicken coop. We commiserated on how hard it can be to maintain a blog while balancing work, family, and the unexpected challenges life throws in our path. She said something that sounded like advice and felt like forgiveness: It helps to remind yourself that you aren't blogging for anyone but you. Sometimes life intervenes and that's ok.
We all get into blogging for different reasons. In my case, it was a creative outlet where I could -hopefully-improve my writing skills, as well as a space where I could be silly in a way my children would never understand. Making friends and becoming part of an online community were unexpected blessings.
When blogging is your hobby but it starts to feel like a job, you might feel like quitting. You might take a break until blogging feels like playing again. That's what I did. That's what I do.
If I offended anyone by disappearing without warning, I apologize. If you thought maybe I died, I apologize. I didn't. I'm right here. I still suck at good-byes, mostly because it never really occurs to me that I might not be back. I know I will be back when the spirit moves me. It took a really long time, this time around, for the words to start flowing again.
Consider me the hobo of the internet. You never know when I might catch a ride on a train passing through your blog. Please know that when I spot your blog, I'll hop off that train and check out what you're doing. I'll leave you ridiculous and flattering comments because, despite my prolonged absence, I do care.
Do not feed me, though. That's how you end up with hobo chickens living in your back yard.
Mrs. P, thanks for the words of encouragement.
 |
| Blog like there's no one reading |
Chicken out
I've been one poor correspondent and I've been too, too hard to find, but it doesn't mean you ain't been on my mind.
-Sister Golden Hair Surprise/America
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