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Two concepts have been catching my attention lately that I just saw to link this morning: anger and discipline.
I mentioned in the post Emotional Catharsis something about enjoying and indulging in emotions other than anger–and at this point I should probably use the term “hot” anger and take the time to distinguish it from “cold.”
It’s fairly simple, really. Of course, both will feel different to everyone, but essentially hot anger results in yelling, fighting, and aggressiveness. Outrage is an excellent synonym for this kind of anger. Cold anger, on the other hand, usually manifests as glowering or even being expressionless, and ignoring someone out of anger–giving someone the “cold” shoulder.
I was going to say I could accept cold anger more than hot, but I realize now that I was confusing containing or controlling anger with cold anger. In reality, cold anger can be just as cutting as hot.
Anyway, I saw the detrimental effects of hot–and undisciplined–anger this morning walking the two little dogs I am sitting for. One is part Jack Russel terrier and blatantly aggressive towards other dogs. I was warned of this by his owner, obviously, but I was still shaken when, as we were strolling along peacefully in the autumn a.m., he suddenly howled and leapt all over a gate with a dog behind it. First of all, I’m used to taking care of bigger, better behaved kanines– mostly labradors–and secondly, I was raised in a family where mistakes and punishments were nearly always handled with a calm and somber conversation (“Tessa, we need to have a talk. . .”). Needless to say, angry outbursts of any kind (or any species, apparently) are not anything I’m accustomed to.
Lesson #1 learned, I shortened Teddy’s leash considerably and we walked on. I mulled over the experience and held the lesson begrudgingly in my awareness. I didn’t like this having to be on the constant alert to the behavior of this dog. Although not such a terribly big deal, it became a little bigger when we passed the empty lot across the street from my parents’ house. Our yellow lab, Savannah, was doing her morning exploration of the property with her nose to the ground and her whole backend wagging in delight. It was all I could do not to call “Bonsie!” and watch her do her best impression of a gallop across the grass to greet me. But, knowing I had an unfriendly-to-other-dogs dog in tow, I was forced to let the opportunity quietly pass.
My anti-anger button was pushed again moments later. I was looking forward to taking one of my favorite shortcuts in town down a single car country lane lined with autumn hues, old farmhouses and an exceptional view of the mountain. But as we turned left to take the path, I had a sense that we would be unable to. Sure enough, down at the end of the road I could just make out the wiggling body of another little dog. We detoured instead.
Cradling my own frustration so as not to let it grow out of proportion, I recalled the words of Teddy’s owner. “I could probably train him not to act out this way, but I don’t have the . . . it just hasn’t happened.” Rethinking the conversation helped me realize that we all have a choice to literally train ourselves not to act in certain ways. “Training the mind” is a frequently used phrase in regard to meditation. Thus I made the connection between anger and discipline.
I considered that perhaps it isn’t anger, per se, that I have the problem with, but rather undisciplined anger. Undisciplined sadness, too, which when allowed to spiral out of control can lead to people actually taking their own lives.
Of course, discipline is it’s own double edged sword that I’d like to explore in some depth. Another day.
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.
Today’s blogging challenge is going to be to not focus so much on what somebody else might want to read as on what I want to write. This is actually the challenge of everyday, paired with the fact that as an image type I am A) concerned with keeping up a good rapport with my audience and B) not always sure of what I actually desire, being conditioned as I am to tuning into the needs of others . . .
It was Tessa I tuned into, though, when I decided to go ahead and tell my Arts Council boss I was applying for a job in Santa Barbara. Everyone around me was saying, “In this economy? Are you crazy? You can’t just go around telling your employer that you’re looking for other work. It’s not smart.”
Despite it, my conscience and I were adamant about being honest. If nothing else, lying just isn’t worth the trouble and energy! So, I told Lauri the whole truth: a fantastic opportunity had come up, I was driving to SB to pursue it; I might be leaving the Council soon but promise to give plenty of notice if I do. Of course, as you may already know, I didn’t get the job and I did receive my two weeks notice a few days ago.
So, everyone was right, huh. By looking out for the other guy and not for myself, I got the short end of the stick. Lesson learned! Or was it . . .
The very day I was given my notice (I wish I could just type “fired;” it’s so much more succinct) my friend Royce came by to visit and told me they might be looking for bakers at Berryvale.
Getting its name from one of Mt. Shasta City’s prior christenings, Berryvale is a local alternative grocery store with a culture all its own. It smells of herbs and patchuli, and more often than not there are small clumps of people (who also smell like herbs and patchuli, and sometimes herb) gathered in it’s vicinity. Inside, although you’ll almost certainly encounter dreadlocks, you’re equally likely to find logo-t’s and bike shorts. If there is such a thing as an intentional grocery store, Berryvale is it. They even provide metal rings for looping leashes and a stationary bowl of water out front for dogs waiting while their people shop.
Royce has worked at “Berry” for about a year now. He’s a checker, re-stocker and occasional dishwasher. He’s also a schmoozer, and the people there love him. So, when they needed a baker some months ago and he gave me a wholehearted recommendation, it seemed I was a shoe in.
As fate had it, I slowly let the Berryvale ball drop and got lined up with work at the Siskiyou Arts Council. Now here we are, six months later with Berryvale needing bakers and me needing a job. . .
Hearing the news, I recognized this as an opportunity to pick up the ball I had dropped in April and grip it tightly. I promised myself I would be diligent about returning to Berryvale on a regular basis until they hired me.
I made my first trip in on Thursday morning. The head baker Emily wasn’t there that day, but an Art History teacher of mine was (do you like the irony? The Arts Council, for me, History!) and he sent a whole new ball rolling down the aisle of my imagination. But that’s a story for another day.
I returned to Berryvale on Friday, this time catching Emily in the back room. I was prepared to go into great detail about my passion for baking and desire to join the Berryvale team. But, thanks to my loyal friend Royce, she began talking about scheduling and training before I hardly had a chance to say word!
One of the owners joined our conversation halfway through it. “This is Tessa!” Emily said, introducing me. Belinda nodded and handed me an application. “Just fill out the basics,” she suggested, “name, phone number, etc . . . You can include your previous employer if you want, but don’t worry about phone numbers there. I won’t be calling anyone.” And she disappeared into the back.
I floated out of the store, giving Royce a bear hug and a thank you on the way out. . .
If this experience hasn’t convinced me to follow my thread of truth and have faith, I don’t know what will.
As Mom would say, it’s “D.R.O!”
D.R.O.: an acronym meaning Divine Right Order.
. . . O.k., what to blog about tonight?
I considered dogs. . . I took two, plus myself and Mom, for a walk this afternoon and reaped sustainable joy from the experience . . . I considered the archetypal journey I went on today . . . but then again, maybe I should steer clear of that because of the potential woo-woo element. . . like it’s time for me to re-establish (or just EStablish, drop the “re”) myself as a legitimate thinker. . .
Or maybe I should blog about blogging?
I have a couple of questions for any seasoned blog readers–or newbies, for that matter. I value a beginner’s mind like any good Almost-Buddhist would.
For one, how does one appropriately blog about other people in their lives without crossing privacy boundaries? Do I need to get permission from every person I mention?
My approach to this problem so far has been to use the method I employ in attempt not to gossip: I try to only say things about other people that I wouldn’t mind them hearing, whether from me directly or through the gold ol’ grapevine. But now there’s a whole new element to the situation, in that these posts are actually intended to reach a large audience (come on, let me dream big). So, I suppose in the case of blogging I have to take my rationale a step further and not only ask myself the question, “Would Aunt Judy mind if she heard me say this?” but also, “Do I think Aunt Judy would mind if lots of other people heard me say this, too?”
For the record, I do have an Aunt Judy. I was not, however, trying to make any specific reference to her. “Judy” just felt like an appropriate name to follow “aunt.”
I also have an Aunt Sue. At my big brother Tyler’s wedding this summer, Aunt Sue helped with a lot of the preparations and decorations. So did a lot of other people, namely friends of my brother and his betrothed, and they all started to refer to our Aunt Sue as Aunt Sue. O.k., so maybe it doesn’t seem funny; but when I mostly call her Pue (which is logical because we call her son Nic, Pic) and Ty calls her Pue-berry, Aunt Sue sounds just plain funny!
Anyway, it’s a struggle, the whole question of what’s appropriate to write about other people and what isn’t. I’ve tried other filters besides the one I mentioned above. For example . . . you won’t believe this, I spaced out and cannot remember a singe other tactic! Well, besides “the Three Gatekeepers,” which feels soo involved to try and explain right now. . . but I will anyhow.
The idea is something like this: Before letting a statement about another person pass between your lips, first make sure it answers “Yes” to the questions of the three gatekeepers. With a “Yes,” your intended statement may proceed, with a “No,” turn it around and keep it to yourself (it’s kind of an extension on the old adage, “If you don’t have anything nice to say . . .”)
The first gatekeeper will ask of your statement, “Is it true?” If the answer if yes, your statement may walk on to the second keeper, who will ask, “Is it kind?” Again, if yes, your statement may proceed to the last and final gatekeeper, who will ask, “Is it necessary?”
A lovely sentiment, isn’t it? My mother came across that one in an Eknath Easwaran book called Words to Live By (I highly recommend this book as bathroom reading–meaning no disrespect to Mr. Easwaran, of course!). But just to play the devil’s advocate (well, actually “just” to speak as myself . . .) I have a couple of problems with this idealistic concept. First of all, being the lowly beings most of us still are, I believe that occasional venting to only the most trusted members of our circles can, in fact, be necessary! Even if the venting isn’t necessarily kind . . . but this kind of logic wouldn’t get me past the first gatekeeper. Do you see my dilemma?
The other problem this idealism poses is . . . would writing still be interesting if it were devoid of absolutely everything unkind?
This feels to me a bit like the question of whether good humor has to be at someone’s expense. I’ve answered “no” to this inquiry for years. I mean, consider Mitch Hedberg. Come on!
I suppose Easwaren does have a point. . . Is it true; Is it kind; Is it Necessary? . . .
Necessary’s going to be a tough one though. If I start following that guideline too closely, ya’ll may not have any blog of mine at all to read anymore . . .
OMG, 6 views today and they weren’t my mother; I just asked her. Woohoo and thank you all!
We just arrived home from yet another of Mom’s birthday celebrations this evening. It was dinner with Terry and Happ, Mona and Bruce, Mom, Dad and myself. For a few of these birthday gatherings I had a date to bring along, but tonight we’re back to the good ol’ norm: three wise couples and . . . me. I tolerated it in good taste anyhow, comforting myself by sitting prettily in my green dress between Savannah and Shasta, the dogs. . .
Today is Sunday. I spent the early morning sipping coffee and making my Slovakian grandmother’s award winning pastry, “cheesies,” for dessert at the party. The experience was lovely and nostaligic, bittersweet only in that the gooey bites of deliciousness are prepared with premade Pillsbury dinner roll dough and therefore gave me no opportunity to show off my baking skills. Alas, I tolerated the convenience and popped the golden puffs in the oven with expectant glee anyway.
I spent most of the afternoon trying not to eat the cheesies. Thankfully, my friend Amy came over later and “Mmm’d” and ate some for me and then kept me good company. We talked about school and shopping and food and God.
The last fellow I dated nicknamed Amy “Bible Amy” for her love of the good Word. Although I think his intention in coining the nickname might have been slightly less than pure, it really is fitting. Amy is a “Good Christian” in every of the phrase. She does just what Jesus would and doesn’t what he wouldn’t; she’s never judged me even though I used to babble church like a brook in the Garden of Eden and now I burble enneagram instead and have nothing to say about church anymore because I haven’t been going . . .
For nearly an entire year I was infatuated with a church called Bethel. Each week, I drove 60 miles there and back, and sometimes attended three two-plus hour services in one day! But the year before that, it was the Buddhist Abbey that had my heart. I guess if I had to categorize myself, I’d say I was a Buddhist-Christian-Yogini . . .
. . . which is a musing I will have to indulge another day. For now, as first the Abbey’s and now Bethel’s tugs on me wane, I am simply grateful to be gifted again with the quiet pleasures of Sunday mornings unplanned.
Consider this the first post in a category I’m going to call “The Daily Epiphany.”
I suddenly find myself agonizingly tired, but I’m dedicated to you and baby blog, so I type on . . .
Yesterday I mentioned a portion of conversation between my mom and me in which I was “forcefully proclaiming my latest revelations.” Although I didn’t feel the need to elaborate on said revelations then nor do I now, I did feel it important to allude to such epiphanies because they are a staple of my life.
Today’s epiphany–and I’ll try to keep it concise because otherwise we’ll both be at risk for sleep–relates to the disconnect between head and heart that countless love songs have been written about. Only, here the context is slightly different.
To give you a brief bit of background, I was once again discussing my future and how to find it, this time with my friend and mentor, Carl M. (suggested mental note: Carl is also the founder of a local Enneagram Institute). In his infinite wisdom, Carl suggested that I try the following: “Consider your heart as your compass, your belly as your engine, and your head as your navigational system.” In other words, your heart points you to where you want to go, your belly sustains you while you’re getting there, and your head figures out the means to the end and deals with any bumps along the way.
As Carl was explaining, I was nodding emphatically and taking this new perspective to heart. Unfortunately, it didn’t make it to head until today when I found myself repeatedly using my heart not only as my compass, but also as my navigational system! But then, if I’d gotten it then, I wouldn’t have this epiphany to explain now. . .
Anyway, to give you an example, this morning the needle of my heart pointed me to a coffee shop for a beverage and relaxation on the patio with our family dog Savannah at my feet. A fine idea!
Now, had I allowed the authority to transfer over to my head at this point I might have remembered that we are in the middle of an uncharacteristic Autumn heat wave and that walking two miles in long jeans with a thick furred pooch in tow might not be the best means of travel on this particular day.
Alas, I listened not to my navigational brain (a GPS system apparently requiring heavy manual engagement in its earlier stages of use) and as a result arrived at Seven Sons hot, sweaty, and swearing.
The trend played out repeatedly today–which I’m thankful for, mind you, because it gave me the opportunity to epiph (new word!) all over the place and consider my heart-focused tendencies not only in day to day mundane experiences, but on a grander scale as well. I wondered, am I at risk for deciding my future based entirely on my heart’s desires with no input from my head? Have I acted and made decisions doing so in the past?
Already having rambled on about this to lucky Mom earlier this evening, such questions have been confirmed. She kindly brought up the still sore subject of my last boyfriend and the way my head told me from day one we weren’t a good match, but I still chose to navigate with my heart . . .
Oh, how I’ve been such a heartfelt fool, dancing days away in a golden field of dreams.
But as they say, “noticing is the first step” . . .
