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The last time I met with Carl he invited me to consider what creates my psychological identity. He suggested I consider it in terms of percentages or a pie chart and ask myself, “What percentage of my identity comes from relationships? From career?”
I was intending this post to be an active exploration of that, but as I come closer to actually doing so I’m encountering some resistence. Suddenly I am more aware of a slight headache, of my waning interest in blogging in general, of the books tempting me from my nighstand . . . Could it be that I am experiencing avoidance?
Ok, ok, I’m pushing through it. Identity, identity. . . where do I derive my psychological identity . . . ?
The first thing that comes to mind is, “From being nice.”
Now, that’s a little ironic because, honestly, I’m not all that nice all that much of the time. But I know how to be when I want to be and I actually am fairly often, so we’ll go with that. I’m nice.
I’m going to put “nice” in the Relationship and Image wedges of my pie, overlapping. Relationship, because being nice usually involves another person; and Image because . . . well, I suppose I like to be perceived as nice (I am getting entirely sick of this word). Kind of scary, huh? I’m letting it out that my niceness may not always be 100% selfless, which I find frankly frightening to consider and scare. Moving on to the next identity statement to surface:
I am a Naropa graduate.
This goes under Achievements and . . . what, Status? I’m aware that I egoically believe that by attending and graduating from Naropa I moved into a different bracket than someone who didn’t necessarily choose a contemplative education.
Maybe I’m exposing a little more than necessary to the world here (watch, I’m about to do a great job of changing the subject and avoiding further identity exploration).
It’s the holiday season and people keep telling me I’m easy to buy presents for. I think that’s “nice” and all, but I’m also beginning to wonder about my transparency and how I feel about it.
I think in the past I’ve prided myself on being completely open and available for all to see and share in. But it appears that may be changing, which excites me–and has made blogging more difficult. How can I write about personal observation, growth and insight without giving away the whole cow (horse? Gold? What the frig is that you give away . . . ? The show! No . . .)?
I’ll keep mulling that over and in the meantime, we’ll have to be satisfied with an identity pie consisting of two pieces, Nice and Naropa, Relationships and Achievements. May I truly get to the rest of it another day.
Well, well, well. Am I ever out of the bloop (that’s “blogging loop.” Just made it up now).
It all began when the internet went down at our house. Then my family and I attended the four day workshop that kept me “out of the office.” After that I just decided to give myself a break from the blog. I thought I might come back refreshed.
Refreshed is one way to put it. Apathetic would be another.
Oh, that’s terrible. Actually, I realized the other day while feeling rather disenchanted with my new job that blogging helped me maintain a good attitude. I’m generally careful about filtering negativity in thought, word and action; and it’s especially easy to do so when I get the chance to share my musings with the world AND go back and edit.
However, there’s a “problem” with blogging as well–which I’ll get back to just as soon as I explain the quotes around problem. . .
At beginning of the RLOP (you’ll recall: REAL Life Optimization Program) workshop we were instructed to list at least five problems causing us distress in our lives and then rate the stress level caused by each on a scale of 1-100 over the course of the four days. The idea was to see how the levels were affected by the program.
Near the end of the workshop, a suggestion was provided that there is a difference between a problem and a condition: a condition is something ongoing and basically incurable, like diabetes, whereas a problem generally has a solution.
As it turned out, many of our “problems” turned out not to be; and the distinction offered a brand new perspective to many. Just some food for thought for all of you . . .
Getting back to the condition then with blogging is that I have begun to feel a little more protective of the interesting events in my life. Or perhaps it is that I am fearful of what will happen if I am to share them. . .
. . . judgment, disdain, fear, discomfort, embarrassment, disgust . . . My parents read this, for Pete’s sake; and my Christian friends, Pagan friends, my coworkers, ex-boyfriends–potentially my future boyfriends! (Oops, better make that singular . . .). Havoc could surely be wreaked if I let all my new secrets out of the bag.c
I realize I’m not giving any of these so called “friends” much opportunity to really accept me, am I? My apologies, beloved ones.
I had a tarot reading today that would suggest I share my truth and let the illusory friends slip away. . . which is the only peek of a secret I’ll let lump through the sides of said bag for now. Time will tell what else will shake out.
Until then.
I’m typing at the Snowcrest Internet Cafe today because the internet is still down at our house. If only they’d had broadband in the park, I would have stayed there to blog after the delectable picnic lunch Mom, Dad and I shared.
As usual, I didn’t know what would drip out of my fingers onto the keys once I sat down to type on this particular Tuesday. Stumped, I said to my folks in the car on the way here, “If I’m not careful, all I’ll write about is having my period and being hormonal.” Mom laughed and told me that would make a good opening line. It probably would have, better than the in between line I just used it as . . . especially because new inspiration struck pretty immediately after I got here, making that whole awkward topic rather irrelevant . . .
(Or did it?) When I arrived, I paid for my coffee and made my way back to the restroom. Snowcrest Internet Cafe is located right in the middle of main street and like many of the businesses in the area, it shares a hallway, bathroom and additional entrances with some neighboring shops.
When I exited the cafe proper and entered the shared hallway, I was suddenly struck by the funky details of it. Directly across from the cafe door is a hair salon I can’t imagine anyone ever remembering exists–other than the bathroom-using Snowcrest customers, that is, who are gifted with a full view of the salon’s interior thanks to indoor windows covering the whole north wall. A woman with dye smeared across her forehead smiled at me quirkily from the hairdresser’s chair as I entered the hall.
As for the hallway itself, green shag carpet adorns the floor with a decorative drip stain running the entire length of it. Plywood shelves collapsing under the weight of Highlights and hair magazines line the multicolored sponge-painted wall opposite the Mane Event. No, that’s not a dog grooming business. It’s the salon I mentioned previously . . .
I felt like I was in some foreign town as I pushed the door open to the florescent lighted bathroom; and that’s when I encountered a new twist on the idea of wherever you go, there you are.
I’m somebody who loves to travel, partially because I like to experience little nooks and crannies of faraway places. What I’m not sure I realized until this afternoon is that there are lots of curious corners even this town of 5,000 I’ve spent most of my life living in. Not to mention the slew (I use the word loosely) of opportunities to study psychology, practice my Spanish and (you know I have to say it) even to dance salsa!
Don’t get me wrong, I am by no means implying that traveling or moving elsewhere at certain times in life is not necessary. Not even close. Instead, I’m exploring my options as I find myself still living in three-stoplight Mt. Shasta. I’m looking to give life a little flair, or to acknowledge the flair that’s already there. As it turns out, it’s not all that hard to do. And I didn’t even have to go into describing all the ecstactic dancing I did last night. Maybe tomorrow.
It’s Halloween and I’m feeling resentful.
Most people around are excited about dressing up and having places to go. But I do that every weekend! Must I tonight?
Actually, it’s the knowledge that darling little kiddies will be arriving at the house I’m housesitting any moment calling out for tricks or treats and I will have nothing to offer. Nothing tangible anyway. . .
My ego is jumping back and forth with solutions: Go to my parents’ house and hide; run out and buy some candy; ignore any ringing doorbells; open the door with a smile but tell the niños I’m candy-less . . . Does this sound like I’m in the midst of choosing whether to fight or fly? I’d rather just sit here and listen to Spanish guitar music than do either. Bah humbug, I know . . .
Halloween has never been a big holiday for me. I had some really cute costumes before I was old enough to pick them out myself; then for some reason, in 6th grade I decided to be a “black and orange girl”. Really. I wore some combination of black and orange clothing and painted each half of my face one of the colors. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but now kind of makes me sad . . .
I was a gypsy one year, in San Francisco. That was fun, feeling beautiful, exotic and vagrant. In high school, my sweetheart and I dressed up in pillows and these ridiculous chubby cheeked masks and actually went trick or treating. That was fun, too. The only other time I remember being particularly excited was the year I was a cheerleader, but the excitement was much less about dressing up as a cheerleader than it was actually being a cheerleader; I’d been accepted to the squad not long before and was wearing my own uniform.
Maybe I don’t love Halloween because as a Two, I already employ the masterful skill of shape-shifting on a regular basis. I have a hard enough time putting on the real me to waste any putting on some other guy’s face.
All humbugs aside, I did decide to dress up as Shirley Temple this Halloween. I a-d-o-r-e-d her when I was wee and insisted quite fiercely that certain people call me Curly Top. I don’t know what it was about Shirley that I envied so . . . her button nose and perfect curls couldn’t have stolen my heart at that age, could they? No, I think it was her consistently playing the poor orphaned child who always manages to find love in the arms of a beautiful stranger in the end. This probably has something to do with my unloveability complex, too. If only I could be like Shirley . . . .
Anyway, I appreciate the opportunity to vent. Writing served one of its many therapeutic benefits on this shining fall evening (the kiddies will be happy it’s so warm out!) and I, now at 5:05 p.m. feel ready and willing enough to go out and buy candy (if there’s any left at the store), blush (for my soon to be rosy cheeks!) and dinner (because I love to eat and no one’s here to make me any :p).
Have fun ya’ll. Do report back on any spectacular costumes you create or encounter, if you’re so inclined. XO
Deep breath.
I think everything good starts and ends and exists within a breath.
“As long as you’re breathing, there is more right with you than wrong.”
That’s a quote from the guided meditation c.d. that accompanies The Mindful Way Through Depression: Freeing Yourself from Chronic Unhappiness, a book co-authored by John Kabat Zinn and others.
I found both the book and c.d. hugely helpful last June when I was fresh off of antidepressants and struggling a bit with franticness and fear. Listening to the c.d. is good when all you want to do is lie in the fetal position. You can still breath there, and that’s all we ever absolutely need to do.
Of the two of us, my brother bears the bigger burden of depression. I can pinpoint a few years of my life when I experienced prolonged phases of despair, but it hasn’t been my norm. Ty has had to work a lot harder for happy.
I didn’t expect to write about this today . . . you never know what might come up while you’re breathing . . .
We spoke today and he told me this weekend was one of the hardest he has ever experienced. He’s doing better though, taking good care of himself in every way he knows how.
As for the rest of us, the many, many people who love and have been touched by Tyler. . . I think the best we can do is send an outpouring of love his way and stay attentive to timing. It’s a big temptation to jump right in and try to be Ms. Fixit right away. Especially as an ET2, I often feel like I have the perfect suggestion for anyone hurting. Sometimes I’m on the right track and what I have to say might be of great benefit; but unless the moment is right, I promise you that perfect suggestion will fall on deaf ears.
As Ty told me about all the steps he’s been taking to stay strong–no caffeine, no alcohol, exercise consistently, meditate daily, and others–I did feel compelled to remind him go easy on himself when he skips a morning meditation or misses a dose of fish oil. I wrote a little bit about my experience of overdoing in an early post, Human Doings, inspired by talking with my brother the same day.
The post begins with a poem; the first line of which is, “You don’t have to be good.”
I don’t want you to be good, Ty. I just want you to be.
* * *
One of my favorite feel-better-even-while-you-cry songs came on as I typed this post, right after Billy Joel’s “Sadness and Euphoria” and in time with me typing the words, “you never know what might come up while you’re breathing.” It’s “Heart of Life” by John Mayer and it goes like this (<—–click there to listen, Mom!):
I hate to see you cry,
lying there in that position.
There are things you need to hear,
so turn off your tears and listen:
Pain throws your heart to the ground
Love turns the whole thing around.
No, it won’t all go away, it should.
But I know the heart of life is good.
I dedicate this post to you, brother. And even though John Mayer says, “turn off your tears,” I say, just keep being you, however you may be. We’ll love you no matter what that looks like. Love and hugs, your Seester.
27 October 2009; 9 p.m.
Helloo-oo everybody. I am without internet again. It’s bazaar how much it affects my blogging when I know you all won’t be reading my post within minutes. For all my talk yesterday about writing for myself, I sure derive a lot of inspiration from the prospect of posting the latest happenings for the world to see immediately. Something to do with instant gratification, I guess.
This evening’s latest is that I’ve stayed up well past the witching hour for the last four consecutive nights and my eyes are burning from lack of sleep. My mind is also moving muchhh slowwwer, so I can only hope this post will be coherent (there’s the upside to no internet! I’ll get to proof and post this tomorrow when I can think straight again).
I’ve only had this little sleep and stayed this positive a few other times in my life. One in particular comes to mind. It’s also relevant to my doings as of late, because it involves salsa dancing and sultry latin men 
At the ripe young age of 18, my dad gifted me with an opportunity to go to Cozumel, a small and spectacular island just a boat ride away from Cancun. He came along, as did Mom for the second portion of our ten day trip; and my fabulous friend Nichole met us there as well. Not your typical 18 year old circumstance for letting loose in Mexico, but I still managed to have a smashing good time . . .
We stayed at a small bed & breakfast (or is it “cama y desayuna”. . .) located closer to the center of town than the majority of touristed hotels on the main strip. The personality of the American woman running the B&B left something to be desired, but beyond that, Amigos was a perfect accommodation for us: comfortable, practical and magical.
People living in Mexico don’t necessarily place much emphasis on curb appeal, but often what you find once you’re off the streets is a pleasant surprise. Amigos B&B is no exception. Entering the luscious grounds requires unlocking an enormous squeaking gate with a clumsy key. Once within the courtyard, the sweet scent of hibiscus fills the air, and fresh mangos, papayas and starfruit color the soft, moist ground. We ate these fresh fruits each morning for breakfast when, no matter how early we rose, the humidity already covered the skin like a warm washcloth.
After breakfast, most days we would spent hours snorkeling in some of the clearest, bluest, most colorfully populated waters in the world. We even went for a recreational scuba dive, “recreational” being an option for anyone not scuba certified that wants to sink just up to 50 feet below the smooth surface of the sea. But whilst the mornings and afternoons were lusciously relaxing, it was the nights in Cozumel I ended up living for.
There are two clubs, Carlos & Charlie’s and Senor Frog’s, on the oceanfront of Cozumel that cater directly to people coming in off of cruise ships, These chain establishments are as unoriginal as the premise they operate on: to give mostly American tourists the time of their lives while leaving them under the impression they are truly experiencing Mexico. Yet even as I am turning my nose up at them, I was beyond delighted by repeated opportunities to jive in a crowd of, yes, tourists, but also local foxes prowling the dance floors.
I’ll tell you that it didn’t take much of being bumped and grinded by stumbling vacationers to realize that engaging the foxy locals was the better way to have a good time. These men had moves, patience and an affinity for American women.
On the second night out with Nichole, one particular fox caught my eye, then my hand. He wasn’t particularly a physical Don Juan, but he was a real live Latin dancer with the patience to lead me and teach me the subtleties of the dance. “No, no, no” Antonio would scold with his chin tipped down and his eyes trained on mine, “You must use your salsa eyes!” Then, with a toss of his bleach highlighted blond hair we’d be off again.
Nichole was considerably less enthralled by the scene (apparently, her idea of a good time isn’t dancing in conga lines past men pouring diluted margarita from jugs into open mouths night after night); but my faithful friend still escorted me to Senor Frog’s every single night of her trip. Only once did she fail to follow one my fancies, much to my father’s dismay. After leaving the club at 2 a.m. Nichole returned to the B&B and I opted to ride away with Antonio on his scooter (Dad wasn’t dismayed until 4 a.m. when I eventually returned home). I ended up all alone with Antonio in the painted school bus where he lived, smoking Mexican marijuana and listening to him serenade me on the guitar with his own rendition of Pink Floyd’s “Wish You Were Here.”
I suppose I was lucky nothing terrible happened–especially considering that after spending further benign evenings with seemingly respectful Antonio, he eventually revealed his intention to experience the ease of an American girl like me and yet never really pushed his agenda. But risque as I suppose it all was, I also consider myself incredibly lucky to have had such an experience to enhance and color me and my life; and I don’t regret it! On the night Nichole chose to return to the hotel and I declared I was going off into the wind with my Antonio, I felt like I was on to something. Even though I realized the risks involved to some extent, I wasn’t scared sitting in that strange old bus with a lanky Latino strumming his guitar and trying in vain to help me relax into the rhythm of a coffee can drum he placed in front of me. I was exhilarated!
Alright, maybe you wise ones are thinking I made a series of crazy, stupid decisions (probably because my frontal lobe wasn’t developed. We can use this excuse for at least another 13 months) and should be counting my blessings. I am, honestly! Just for a broader set of reasons. . .
Anyway, the premise of this post was to share a story about staying up even when my physical condition should well have been down which is only be possible because at such times I am led, and fed, by something greater. Man can not live by bread alone!
And as much as I hate to admit it, I don’t think woman can live on only dancing, either. I had better get this body to sleep! Buenas noches.
It has come to my attention that having a focused intention for my blog would behoove us all greatly. Today I’d like to write about just that.
I’ll start at the beginning (even if to say so is redundant). My initial inspiration for starting a blog was both special and rather unoriginal. I decided to treat myself to the luxury of a matinée one late summer afternoon. So I took a quiet walk down to Mt Shasta Cinemas and bought myself a ticket for Julie and Julia.
For the most part, I enjoyed the movie; but there was also this whiney little voice inside of me (probably my ET4 heart point, otherwise known as a “soul child”) that was actually quite jealous of Julie and Julia alike. “Why should Julie get to do what she loves and then have a book published and a bit fat feature film made starring Meryl Streep?” it demanded. “When will I be loved?”
Lurking there, just behind the jealousy and whinging, was also sadness and a feeling of disconnect from my own path. It had been more than a year since graduating from Naropa, yet still I was “transitioning and integrating” (my words, spoken so many times) and not feeling like I had made any real progress. Somehow, watching Julie and Julia up on that screen touched this tender area of my being and as the credits rolled at the end of the film, I stayed in my seat and wept. (I’m laughing now. I knew there was a reason I named this blog Carry Kleenex, Carry On).
As I walked home, the urge to create a blog of my own crept up inside of me and gradually grew. What’s amazing is that it didn’t dwindle. I wrote my first blog within a week of seeing the movie and the love affair hasn’t fizzled yet. Yes, it’s only been a month, but a month is a long time to do something consistently, first of all, and secondly, I’ve heard that it takes 30 days to establish any habit, good or bad. Given that, consider Cocoa (:acronym CKCO shortened and cute-end) established!
When I actually sat down to write my first post, it all seemed to flow naturally. I came up with the topic and title relatively easily, thanks to a little help from my mom. I even think my initial intention was fairly clear from the start, with the original subtitle: An attempt to redirect my musings to an audience that’s interested. (I’ve since altered that heading slightly, changing “attempt” to “intent” because of the importance I believe the concept of intention to bear; I’ll elaborate on both in a minute).
I am a person who analyzes life and my own behavior on a regular basis. While I find such a quality endearing, it’s easy for me to make the leap and realize that such is not likely the case for every person I encounter. But, I thought, there must be somebody out there who would enjoy and perhaps even benefit from hearing my thoughts on life. So I decided to share them, realizing I might also get some of that particular energy out of my system and into an environment where it would at least have the potential to thrive.
My hope was not so much to entertain or enlighten as to simply offer my thoughts and myself and allow them the chance to be received. I also realized, on some level, that by writing things down I would have an opportunity to get to know Tessa better. I don’t know if it sounds weird that I needed to get to know me, but I honestly did and I do . . .
The point is that, yes, I am writing this blog for people to read it; but my primary intention remains to stay focused on Spirit, both mine and the great one and to see what pours forth. This becomes increasingly challenging as hits to the site and comments on it increase–and not just comments, but comments, filled with integrity and heart. Seeing such things makes it really tempting to try and lure more loveliness into the light, but I realize that the reason this whole process is actually working at all is because I’m not doing it for anyone else. I think that’s an important thing to remember for anyone following a passion, that if you’re not doing it to fulfill you, you probably won’t be fulfilled.
In any case, the reason I changed the word “attempt” to “intent” was to further focus the direction of this offering of mine. I believe in the power of the spoken (or in this case, written) word and I felt that by using the word “attempt,” I was weakening my . . . I hesitate to say “resolve” because to me that feels rigid and closed. So, I was weakening the strength of my . . . well, intention to make a genuine and positive change in my life and to pursue a passion.
Writing daily and opening myself wider than I have been to a even broader range of observation has truly enhanced my life and increased my happiness. The birth of this blog was a genuinely “beautiful dawn.”
I encourage you to listen to the sweet and profound song entitled as such and to pay attention to the lyrics as you do so. I’ve been playing it on my guitar and singing along, and it brings me joy that I want to share. I hope you’ll be inspired.
Learning how to cry is the hardest part
There’s only one way to mend a broken heart.
~Beautiful Dawn, The Wailin Jenny’s
Uh oh. Only 20 minutes to write this time. In 22 I need to eat dinner, then jet out the door to my new-w-w JOB! Which I am officially hired for, by the way. Tonight I’m on for four some hours of register training with Sean. Phew.
I’m squeezing in this blog post because I was asked if I forgot to blog last night. I was just that touched that I decided to alter my plan to fully recharge my battery and only half refuel for the sake of keeping ya’ll informed (well, Mom informed. She’s the one who asked :} ). So now I’m lying on my back in the ever so elegant “legs up the wall” position, typing with Mom’s laptop perched atop my belly, leaning against my thighs. Now that’s what I call dedication!
Dad is cooking spaghetti in the background. Probably, since he’s rushing around to get it done while I still have time to eat it, I should be helping. Or at least keeping him company with some pleasant chitchat. But after a day of training my replacement at the gallery and a night of being trained ahead of me, I feel I must eek out my energy wisely.
And again I find myself worrying that I’m going to bore my reader by going on about the same topics. How to reconcile this dilemma? Anyone?
Oh well, here I go about dancing again: I found a restaurant an hour and fifteen minutes away that has a Salsa band and dancing on Saturday nights! I used to drive an hour every weekend for church; now instead I’m off in high heels to wiggle in the dark to Latin beats . . . and I somehow don’t think God would mind. You see, when I dance I truly connect to deeper parts of my being and to the Divine, and that’s about the point, in’t it?
Joseph Villaseñor and I will be going to Tabú, the blessed restaurant, together this weekend. Last Saturday we had a rather in depth conversation about the nature of our relationship (status: dance partners in crime). We discussed jealousy, commitment and the potential that having a basically platonic yet spicy partnership could have for our fun on the floor. I also promised Joe there would be little danger of me getting mad at anything he might do–other than leave me sitting in the wings at Tabú if the ratio of male to female dancers turns out to be typical. My hopes are set higher!
He and I concluded with a promise to maintain direct and open lines of communication; and I’d say that’s a good policy to apply to all relationships, be they muy picante or not.
Adios, mis amores!
New blog goal: To get my writing time down to 30 minutes or less for nights when I’m either exhausted or in danger of it in the morning.
Start time tonight? 9:46 p.m. Bedtime last night? 3:45 a.m. Blog time remaining? 29 minutes and counting. . .
Last night was dance night again, hallelujah! In celebration (and recovery) today, I suggested to Mom that we rent either the original Dirty Dancing, the remake: Havana Nights, or Shall We Dance.
She and I walked to the video store, Mom in a t-shirt and me decked out for snow in a hat, sweatshirt and wrist-warmers. We oohed and ahhed at the turning leaves; golds and yellows, pinks and reds and brilliant oranges. We tried collectively to remember what it is that affects the vibrancy of the colors each fall and got as far as “I think it has something to do with an early frost. . .”
With Savannah in tow we passed by Berryvale’s glass doors. “You might be working there soon!” said Mom. Royce waved from inside.
Shortly thereafter we entered Couch Critics (otherwise known as “Potatoes”) to a chorus of barking dogs leaping against the inside of a white truck parked out front. Mom whispered to me, “There’s that smell in here again! Patchouli and body odor and weeds!” I told her she would like today’s previous blog.
Perusing the selection, of the movies I’d mentioned we came across “Shall We Dance” first; but with one look at Richard Gere’s smirk and silver hair and then J-Lo (no further explanation necessary) we put it down and moved quickly on to rent Havana Nights.
Although the film was mediocre as anticipated (contrary to the review on the cover, it did not hold a battery-operated candle to the original), we had fun ogling the young Latino lead, Javier; and I got lost in a daydream of the next time I will get to go dancing again.
The only drawback is that now, after watching Javier and Katie jive and gyrate amidst clumps of sweaty Cubanos, my stakes for ultimate dancing satisfaction are getting higher. Rick and Peggy’s Open Floor dance classes are splendid, sure, but how can they compare to that Cubano calor? (translation: heat).
I guess for now, at the ripe young age of 23 and fresh out of recovery (from heartbreak, that is), hormones are ruling the scene and I’m liking the looks of that Dirty Dancing. Now, if only I can find myself a partner with passion, moves, and a back like Patrick Swayze (bless his soul!), I’ll be on my own way to Heaven.
It’s 10:14 and I even had time to edit! Thank you and good night.
Slee-eepy.
Maybe I ought to start blogging earlier in the day? Maybe before dinner time. Sometimes I feel like I need a pre-dinner activity, ’cause otherwise I get anxious to dine. Yes, I have a slightly over-exaggerated love affair with food. . . I’m o.k. with it.
Lots of topics for blogging crossed my mind over the course of this day. Namely: Processes, Oneness and Resurfacing Romances. I think we both agree that I’ve been philosophical and even practical in my writings a lot lately. Therefore, I choose the frivolous topic tonight: Resurfacing Romances. How delicious! Not to mention, in my current state of eyes half open, I think I might be most coherent on a topic that doesn’t require much intellectual delving. Hm. . .
Oops, totally off topic: I love the freedom of a blog. I actually got the idea that I might have a knack for/enjoy writing one based on the feedback I get on my e-mails, which are typically relatively unfiltered and chock full of parenthetical statements, self-analysis and reflection, and emoticons. People seem to like reading them. Some say it’s like talking me; they feel a sense of closeness. Others are amused. Still others appreciate my honesty, regardless of relevance of it to their respective lives. What nice friends I have!
So, I was inspired to take the approach to a broader audience. And you know, it feels like 100% the right thing to do.
I cringe to bring Dan Brown up for the second blog in a row, but then I suppose it’s good for my ego to express something that feels embarrassing. Especially for an image type as I am on the enneagram. Actually, it’s probably my ET4 heart point that deems the depth of Dan Brown’s writings insufficient. . .
Anyway, Dan Brown. In the final pages of the new book (for those of you who like to “go in fresh,” Dad, I promise I am not going to ruin the end) there is a discussion between two characters about the power of the multiplied synchronized mind (“multiplied, synchronized mind” meaning many minds coming together with a similar or identical thought). Not only are “two minds better than one,” one character explains to the other, “they are exponentially better” (which, by the way is right on track with the tale of the 100th Monkey Effect).
Brown goes on to write the two into a discussion about the way modern technology–specifically the internet–has made connecting minds possible like never before (As an aside, some Christians use this fact as one of many prophetic signs that Christ’s return is fast approaching).
That said, one very real reason I am pleased to be blogging is that in my humble, human, hardly mid-twenty year old glory, I know I have been privy to some exquisite ideas and information; now I’m beginning to participate in spreading and sharing them more actively, in my own clumsy way.
Thanks for bearing with me. I think I’ll try writing before this post-bedtime hour tomorrow. And maybe I’ll actually get to the frivolously romantic topic I tempted you with at the beginning of tonight’s post
