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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.
Today was an exceptionally cozy day. Mom and I reorganized the upstairs living area to incorporate and decorate the sweet little Christmas tree Dad and I brought home earlier in the week.
While we steadied the trunk and strung the lights, we sang loudly along to the melismas of Handel’s Messiah (believe me, you are very sorry you missed this performance!) and then Pandora Christmas radio. It was all quite like the movies, our trimming the tree, except for me occasionally utterly phrases like, “These lights look shitty.” Sorry, Ma.
She’s used to my not-quite-Hollywood behavior, at least. One year Ty and I stayed up into the wee hours of the night decorating our silver tip tree with countless strands of carefully placed white lights. When Mom awoke to the surprise the next morning she oohed and cooed and called us her “little elves” (name inspired in part by the red button up union suits we both wore; union suits: onesies for adults with functional back flaps, if you know what I mean). It became one of her favorite Christmas memories until she learned we’d smoked a smidge of “weeds” while executing the labor of love. Again, sorry Ma . . .
Another year, Tyler and I were in his room on Christmas Eve wrapping presents and again poofin’ a little toof. Dad knocked on the door and we tried to gently deter him by explaining, “No Dad, don’t come in. We’re wrapping!” But, Dad being Dad turned the knob oh so slowly, easing the door open; then with his eyes squeezed shut poked just his head into the room. After a few seconds Dad’s nose began to twitch like a rabbit’s and he asked innocently, “What’s that smell?”
As I recall, Christmases were relatively devoid of such scandal during my adolescence; but delve into the single digits and you’ll find little Tessa creeping into the closet, behind the couch and into closed paper bags. I snooped all over our house every year and repeatedly ruined surprises for myself. Once, I found an awesome Spirograph set which I oddly never received (karma . . . ?) and when I was about 11, I found two Boxcar Children books my brother bought for me. For some reason discovering that gift early has always caused a little twinge in my heart. I think I may have changed my ways after that.
Unfortunately, my ways-changing didn’t happen in time to salvage the candy ornament Ty made in third grade. At four years old I neatly crawled under the tree, retrieved the sparkling rainbow swirl dangling dangerously low on a limb and took it back to my bedroom where I ate it under my bed.
Ahh, confession never felt so sweet. Merry holiday season, everyone!
It should be easy to write on days when my designated topic is obvious. Yet the contrary appears to be true, especially with a full tummy and tryptophan brain.
There’s a bizarre squeaking noise coming through the floor. Maybe I ought to blog about that instead of gratitude?
Today is Thanksgiving, or Turkey Day as some (rather annoyingly) like to call it. I always enjoy the holiday a reasonable amount, although I also consider every day a day to give thanks. Still, it’s lovely to take time out together to show gratitude for what we’re thankful–and consume mass quantities of glorious food! (If “Turkey Day” is the equivalent of “x-mas”, food is equivalent to presents in holiday meanings’ misinterpretations).
For some years now my parents have been invited over to a good friend’s house to spend the holiday, since all of our extended family lives elsewhere; and for the past two I’ve had the privilege of going with them. At Terry and Happ’s we are spoiled with exquisite versions of traditional favorites, always including hors de vours to satisfy a king, stuffing to die for and three kinds of cranberry sauce (authentic, canned and DELICIOUS mixed with creaminess and pretzels). Terry spends a great deal of time on every tiny detail and the result is a spectacular spread with a beautifully decorated table to lay it down upon. Then a group of loving, happy, warmhearted people converge around it and we dine graciously together.
At this particular Thanksgiving celebration there is an added tradition of playing a game. Usually it’s Cranium, but tonight we took a stab at Mad Gab, a game in which players read nonsense sentences that eventually sound enough like common catchphrases that other players are able to guess them.
The game playing is always a highlight, especially, it seems, for the women. Every year we split into male vs. female teams, and every year the game persists with the women shrieking in unison, laughing uproariously and clutching one another, while the men mostly sit and watch the women, semi-amused.
Could this have something to do with freedom of expression in sexual stereotypes? Or female bonding being more easily faciliated? Do women just care more about winning silly board games?
I’m not sure of the cause of the phenomenon. I do know that every time we play I have great fun and laugh my flippen fanny off (and hopefully two pieces of pie). It is downright delightful and tonight I am thankful for that.
Grace
Thanks & blessings be
to the Sun & the Earth
for this bread & this wine,
this fruit, this meat, this salt,
this food;
thanks be & blessing to them
who prepare it, who serve it;
thanks & blessings to them
who share it
(& also the absent & the dead).
Thanks & Blessing to them who bring it
(may they not want),
to them who plant & tend it,
harvest & gather it
(may they not want);
thanks & blessing to them who work
& blessing to them who cannot;
may they not want – for their hunger
sours the wine & robs
the taste from the salt.
Thanks be for the sustenance & strength
for our dance & work of justice, of peace.
—-Rafael Jesus Gonzalez
Halloween turned out to be great fun, of course–although I did end up sneaking away to the privacy of my parents’ home to avoid the trick or treaters I wasn’t prepared for.
At around 8 o’clock my friend Natalie came over to curl my hair and help me take the final step into becoming Curly Top (no one recognized me in anyway and one person’s response to my ‘costume’ was, “You just look like a cuter version of Tessa.” Way to go, me!). Two hours, many ringlets and a cardboard lollypop later, Space Cat and Curly Top exited the premises. Destination: the Wayside Bar and Grill.
At the Wayside I enjoyed one Maker’s Mark whiskey on the rocks (Natalie’s choice) and a good six shimmying songs on the dance floor. I’ve noticed that salsa seems to flavor all my steps these days. I’d probably sway my hips all over the place even to electronica. But despite my ability to tune out leering goblins and other less creatively dressed men and to season hip hop with salsa, the party was not the fun filled environment I had been hoping for.
So, I ventured on to a party at the Coopers. The Coopers are a family of about eight children. Sophie, Chloe, CeeCee, Will, younger boy whose name I can’t remember–that’s five and I know I’m forgetting a few . . . Anyway, they’re a very eclectic and conscious crowd with an amazing old house right downtown (and directly across the street from Berryvale, as a matter of fact); and their party was the talk of the town.
And with good reason. The Coopers had held a decorating party on Thursday evening during which what was most likely a den area had been transformed into a strobe-lit, cobwebed cocktail lounge. When I arrived, a group of people stood chatting out in the cool autumn air and absorbing the glow of the fire from the pit nearby. Inside, a bar, snack tables and couches framed a dance floor pulsating with the beats of one of two hired DJs. I was first greeted with the festive scene, then by the shocked faces of three old friends.
I don’t fully understand the charade, but whenever a certain group of friends from high school and I reunite, there is a whole lot of show and surprise. Then, of course, the hugging. Oh. And for the record, these are male friends.
After allowing an appropriate period of time for reconciliation, I worked my way onto the dance floor and slid right into the groove. The boys danced along with and without me. Everyone seemed to be having a smashing good time.
I stayed until just before 3 a.m., when one friend, Clifford asked for a ride home. Seeing his tired eyes and watching him wilt before me, I gave Cliff the ride gladly, grateful for a chance to put my most recent EnneaThought for the Day into action: Today, try this recommendation: If you develop your great capacity to care about others, you will never go far wrong—in fact, you will do a great deal of good in life.
On our way to his house, the topic of music came up. “Do you play the guitar?” Cliff asked me.
“Yeah! I can actually say now that, yes, I do.” I smiled.
“Me too!” said Cliff with enthusiasm. He proceeded to tell me about a song he had written for his mom for Mother’s Day, then asked if I wanted to come inside and hear it.
For any of you who are thinking, “There she is again in the middle of the night with a strange man who is about to get her all alone inside his empty house!” (or bus, as the case may be), it wasn’t like that. I promise.
We went inside and he shared his song and I shared my songs and he shared another one and I shared my blog. And it was there that I got the idea for this post, which it has taken all this time to really get to . . . :
I’ve been noticing that the more I open up my gifts to the world–music, writing, laughter, love–the more other people respond by opening theirs. In the past year I have been privileged enough to hear numerous original songs–some debuts to the audience of one, see countless works of original art, be danced all across smooth floors and be graced by conversation after conversation steeped in original thought.
People are so cool when you open up and get to know them. And I think it’s in doing both–the opening and the getting . . . –that the true riches spill forth.
Blessings and Thank You’s all around. Peace, ya’ll.
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
