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Self-Trust and The Need to Acknowledge Our Creativity

At some point, modern thought leaders had to listen to and value their own creativity to form their theories and opinions that were outside their culturally acceptable boxes. They had to weave what they knew with what they felt and go beyond the conformity edict from their schooling. And thus we had the Civil Rights movement, Jung’s counter theories to Freud’s, and Sandra Lee’s Semi-Homemade food revolution.

When we acknowledge how we feel about our world around us and share it, we find a comfort and a trust within ourselves and in this experience, we are rewarded with praise and wonder. This is a basic premise for our existence and the magic of creativity.Self-Trust and The Need to Acknowledge Our Creativity on Shalavee.com

Yet the outright fear I see in people’s faces when I mention the idea of allowing themselves to be creative is alarming. The general population is not supported in being true to themselves. Instead, they are told that if they do as they are told, stand in line, fit in, and prepare for the worse, they will live safe lives. Somehow safe became happy. And so we sell our individuality down the river for a promise of security.

But fitting in feels like crap. It’s in the company of the people you know you belong with that you feel most at home regardless of whether you are related to them. Your values are the same, you see each other as you truly are, and you call them community.Self-Trust and The Need to Acknowledge Our Creativity on Shalavee.com

The world isn’t a community and it does not support individuality. Sure, unique creative people are rewarded with movie and music contracts to entertain the masses but they still had to prove their creativity and uniqueness beforehand. They had to strike someone as profitable too. We ironically crave to see it and are equally terrified by it.

What happens when we express our true selves and become vulnerable? We fear that we will be rejected even outcast. It seems a sort of death. But creating has no bearing on our daily survival right? But then again, how can I ever trust people who like my false offering of myself? I mistrust those who do not know the true me and if I am not allowing for the true me to be seen, I will stay alone and suspicious of the world I long to belong to.Self-Trust and The Need to Acknowledge Our Creativity on Shalavee.com

We are pack animals. Being alone only serves to make us nuttier. Perfectionism is only about us and keeps us from connecting with others. And connecting with others is where we truly live. Where we can find hope is in our collective humanity when we hear others telling the same stories we could tell of fear and loneliness and our experience with human drama.

When we do not practice our own individuality, we feel disoriented and disconnected from ourselves and there is no reflection of us in the world. This causes us strife and anxiety. Our purpose here is unclear and we just end up surviving and grieving what we don’t understand is our birthright to give ourselves. Not allowing ourselves to be creative and instead to search for ourselves by shopping in a discount store leaves us with a feeling of crazed hopelessness.

So where are the psychological statistics that support this need to shift our educational practices? Where are the warnings that tell us we are not what we buy! Nowhere because they aren’t profitable. And people do as they know. So I guess the change is up to the people. In fact, it’s always been up to each of us.Self-Trust and The Need to Acknowledge Our Creativity on Shalavee.com

We can not possibly make any lasting differences in our world if we don’t prioritize our mental health first. And a society that considers anxieties and low self-esteem as a norm seems pretty powerless to make any changes. We need to start by trusting ourselves. If that takes a few anti-anxiety meds, group meetings, and some really ugly artwork, so be it.

Once you see what you can break free of, you can never truly see things the same way again. And your hope and self-trust spreads as you reach your hand out to help the next person see a little light in their dark world. Hope is a gift you give yourself and one you can eventually help to give your world. It is my hope that just one person today has a perspective shift on their need to create and thus find out who they are in their world and what they need to shift to support this change.

And If you enjoyed what you read, subscribe, via the subscription box in the sidebar, to my thrice weekly posts via your email box. And visit me on Instagram to see my daily pictures, friend me or like my page on Facebook. Or come find me on Twitter or Pinterest  too. I am always practicing Intentional In-touchness so chat at me please. I live for conversations.

And, as always, Thanks to you for your visit.

Kindergarten Homework

With our enthusiastic “Go get’em” faces on, we waved our son onto the number 14 bus bound for Kindergarten. Maybe September allergies made my husband’s eyes water or maybe it was his relief that our child survived being stuck at home with me for the past 5 years. I contained my giddiness as I snapped that fateful picture of him waving back from the bus steps. We were each about to learn what going to school and developing new systems meant to us.Kindergarten Homework

The little guy loved school. Early in the year, I paid a visit to him and his 17 pint-sized classmates in their new classroom. I wanted to meet his teacher and to gather context for my son’s random, and sometimes jarring, disclosures of daily happenings. I’d been told she ran her classroom as smoothly as a Barney episode and I agreed after seeing her in action. She was generous with her praise and commendably judicious with a spastic group of five-year-olds. I felt my heart burst for all their sweetness and hardships. I wanted to wipe the pizza sauce off their faces and tie all their dirty untied shoelaces. And then I had to leave. Better her than me.Kindergarten Homework on Shalavee.com

Why was I surprised when the ridiculous quantity of paper began to flood our house? We got monthly activity schedules and cafeteria menus earnestly printed on green and pink papers followed by the “homework” sheets for the math and reading “clubs”. After a twenty-year hiatus, I had “homework” because it would take a herculean effort for my five-year-old son to list ten books we read in any given month plus their authors. Instead, he drew pictures for two books he liked. His reward was tattoos and bookmarks. I was rewarded with the return of these same drawings caught up in the paper river flowing from his “Dolphin” folder.

I absolutely loved my son’s drawings of primitive smiling suns and the stick people who suddenly had on pants because one of his bossy girlfriends proclaimed them necessary, although his stick figures soon returned to their original nakedness. And, of course, I liked the pictures where I was a part of the action. Sadly, only five percent of the rest of the book bag busyness consisted of these. Instead, I got glued, cut, colored, and constructed things of all sorts randomly based on holidays or nursery rhymes. Paper dolls tenuously perched on Popsicle sticks, sticker books, cereal cemented to construction paper, and drawings from his classmates. These barged into our home and tumbled out of his green backpack onto the kitchen table, sofa, and floor. And each and every loving one of these papers was suddenly and forever my responsibility.  

If I had kept every one of these suckers, in twenty years I’d have ended up on one of those hoarding shows, walking between mountains of papers and being buried alive under them. And, left up to my son, each little scrap of paper he’d ever put pen, crayon, scissors, or marker to was precious enough to keep forever. So, I smiled and nodded as I placed everything in the basket on top of the refrigerator, the paper avalanche repository. I had a secret stealth plan called The Purge, the goal of which was to land all the papers worth keeping into an out-of-sight place in an orderly fashion because the opposite of an overwhelming landslide is doable chunks.Kindergarten Homework on Shalavee.com

The three-step Purge system started with the placement of the papers in the basket atop the fridge. I then stealthily moved them to a drawer upstairs and, after being sorted essential from non, they would go into a portfolio in a closet. My theory was that if you were to mark the start and end of the monthly paper ocean with a ribbon marker in the basket, after a week I feel pretty sure the child would have forgotten about that hunk of stuff between the markers. There’s an official month of paper stuff to sort then. But out of sight means out of mind; I couldn’t let the child become an obstacle to The Purge.

Only when I was alone in the house, did I attempt to ruthlessly sort and cull this mess for the essence of my child. Parental wisdom must fight that guilty voice. One drawing of trees and kitties and a page of E’s are great but twenty of them are not. Into a paper recycle bag went the extras plus that which does not at all show the talents and charms of my child. I felt guilt-free when I pitched the gigantic paper penny, nothing against my man Abraham. And while I may have been kind and offered my in-laws the opportunity to take from the bag any art they may have liked, then Hi Ho Hi Ho off to the grey recycling container it went.

The final step was to create the holder for everything I’d culled. For his daycare artwork, I’d made a giant cardboard pita pocket portfolio and taped up the edges. It worked out nicely. Poster-board would work with packing tape seams. Certain well-known crafty people have made these attractive with fabric covered foam core and ribbon ties. I saved the pretty for later after I’ve mastered the simple de-clutter. This was the trench-work for the kindergarten homework clutter attack and it was all about biting off only as much as I could chew.Kindergarten Homework on Shalavee.com

I visited his classroom again that year. His lovely teacher and I spoke about educational mandates. All the busy work is still proof to the parents and legislators that the children are learning. And conversely, the clubs’ homework proves the parents are working with and reading to their children. She said if she had her way, there would be two recesses for her kindergartners (and 7 years later she would finally get that when she taught my daughter in Pre-K). Maybe there are too many cooks in the educational kitchen substantiating the price of their ingredients, but they’ll never pay this magnificent teacher enough. In fact, she’d been saving his “special” work from his year in a scrapbook she gave us parents at the end of the year. Why was I doing any of this when she’d had it covered? 

None the wiser for his mother’s devious deeds, my busy-brained boy continued to be overly stimulated as he dumped out his paper laden book bag. One day in March, he came home excitedly talking about Rosa Parks and Harriet “Tubb-s-man”. Apparently, he’d learned a lot about civil unrest and the Underground Railroad for black history month. They sang freedom songs, made paper buses, and discussed the mistreatment of the slaves. I was a little thrown by the sudden candidness of the subject and I commenced with a serious “discussion” about the ramifications of slavery and the inherent rights of all human beings to their freedom. After a long thoughtful silence, he said “Hey, I’ve got an idea. Let’s play slaves!” Nothing new there.

(This piece of creative non-fiction was one of the very first as I began to write on-line and Published on Divine Caroline, a writing site that gave me reason to write. I then began this blog a year later but never republished it here. This Kindergarten Homework’s grand edited revival.)

And If you enjoyed what you read, subscribe, via the subscription box in the sidebar, to my thrice weekly posts via your email box. And visit me on Instagram to see my daily pictures, friend me or like my page on Facebook. Or come find me on Twitter or Pinterest  too. I am always practicing Intentional In-touchness so chat at me please. I live for conversations.

And, as always, Thanks to you for your visit.

 

A Few Moments of Thought in the Bathroom

Our house is over one hundred years old. When you use the front upstairs bathroom in the middle of the house over the front door, you hear it groaning. I assume it’s the pipes but why they groan, I won’t know until the day something ruptures.

I’m in there to dye my very white hair roots. When we moved here I was dying my slightly gray and very short hair red. I’m totally gray now and have gone long and dark. As I’m doing the haphazard job I usually do to drown my head in chemicals, intermittently wiping my face and shirt where I’ve splattered hair dye, I see a bug flying around me. I swing at him and continue in the mirror and then I see something crawling on the sink.

So first I think how completely creepy it is for anything to be flying and then suddenly crawling like another beast completely. I consider squashing it because it’s freaked me out. And then I think about the times I’ve scolded my daughter for randomly offing offending ants on the front porch while saving pill bugs to torture. And I leave him alone.A Few Moments of Thought in the Bathroom on Shalavee.com

Hair dye has twenty minutes to cook. I sit down to work on something and think, why not just this exact piece of writing. Because so much mundane thoughts are exactly the place where people spend their thought time in. They do not spend their majority of time in their prettiest pictures or most smoothed over words but in random vitreous brain floater thoughts that float through barely noticed, shadows of fears and worries of life and love.

Seven more minutes to wait until I officially become a little younger. I pull back my skin on cheeks to remember what I looked like without these jowls twenty years ago. When I met Mark. Genetics gave me these jowls and this prematurely white hair. And it’s doling out still more surprises every year.Good thing my skin ages well.

I set my mind to not panic or apply it to how I’m a horrid aging person. I vow instead to follow the breadcrumbs of health and self-care. To make the next appointment necessary and the next and the next and follow through with taking every little pill and walk every mile. That is the only thing to be done. That and choosing to not squash a bug every once in a while.

And If you enjoyed what you read, subscribe, via the subscription box in the sidebar, to my thrice weekly posts via your email box. And visit me on Instagram to see my daily pictures, friend me or like my page on Facebook. Or come find me on Twitter or Pinterest  too. I am always practicing Intentional In-touchness so chat at me please. I live for conversations.

And, as always, Thanks to you for your visit.

My Face Revisited : The Story of My Journey Onto Facebook

When I forget what I’ve been up and how much I appreciate my writing, I end up reading something and remembering.

I felt very privileged to have written this piece entitled My Face for the Talbotspy.org here. In honor of its three-year anniversary, I’m republishing it on my blog. Enjoy the fun read.

If you met me at a party, you’d notice my laugh is the loudest. I’m extremely social. Yet this fun time Charlotte has had a whole lotta nada for the social networking. I figured Twittling and My-facing were perfect ways of busily avoiding intimacy like the plague. I wanted no part of that universe made of desperate ego maniacs with short attention spans. The over reaction gave away the doubt beneath.

Like so many people of a certain age, I defensively declared I had no need for this Facebook phenomenon. Perhaps this was a knee jerk reaction to new-fangled technology making me feel stupid. Both fear of the unknown or of assimilation by the Borg are still fears. I have heard many fearful declarations to this specific anti-alliance. And sometimes we encounter our destiny on the way to avoiding it.

I was writing and publishing articles online and chose to rise to a new terrifying challenge of creating my blog. I fully understood I needed to socially network for this cause. And I was anxious. This was the ego-maniacal unnecessary and unacceptable activity. And my precious privacy was hard-earned. But I was seduced by the ability to pontificate to an enraptured audience. My ego “liked” this. Therein lay the carrot.

I asked my (very popular on Facebook) friend to convince me to join Facebook. She said flatly, “Three years from now, Social networking will be a given and this conversation would be ludicrous.” Just do it. Everybody’s doing it. She reassured me no one could see or speak with me there without my permission. Vampires need an invitation to come in.

So my angst and I joined the Facebook extravaganza on Friday May 20th, 2011, at around 2PM. I was typing away about my fab self in my profile when, Wham! , I get a friend request… from an ex-boyfriend?  One of these search buttons must be for all the people you’ve schtooped.  I don’t hate this guy but I had no plans to ‘party hardy’ ever again in a tavern of his choice. I rode out the panic and nausea and you know what I did then? I “friended” him. Because that was what this exercise in mass marketing and conquering fears was all about.

I returned to the FB flame on Saturday, finally found the link back in my spam folder, and, Wham! , it happened again. My all-time biggest crush ever from long ago and far away was requesting my friendship. My present husband was the long awaited exception to this boy who gave me hope when I wanted to give up on men altogether. I felt guilty for even reading the benign message from crush-man. In a ten minute span, I went from stunned to giddy to devastated. Of course he was married and had two beautiful children. I shut the computer down. Either these Facebook people were a specific kind of crazy or I was missing something.

I queried fellow members about the true meaning of the Facebook “friend”. Die hard FBers were bewildered by my bewilderment. It was a true friend who said she too had been freaked out initially when she joined. Now it’s her nighttime ritual. She kindly added that, in an ideal world, I would be allowed my fantasy crush forever. So it’s still me, I thought. I endeavored to try again and to pursue this friend-making thing with zeal.

After a month, crush-man became a human being. As his real life continually popped up on my news feed, I was able to release him from my heart to his happiness. Simultaneously and slowly, I sent “friend requests” to people from schools, social gatherings, neighborhoods, and workplaces of my past and present. As I connected with more people, I began to see my real deal.

This precious privacy I’d clung to and coddled was also known as isolation with a capital ‘I’.  I‘d chosen to hide my life, ashamed for growing old and fat because, you know, I was the only one getting old and fat. Who’s crazy enough to deliver themselves on a silver platter for the judgment of the free world? Apparently me.

I had worried about dredging up past resentments with this reconnection with people from my past. Instead, I found myself cheered by them. Our lives connected in unexpected ways. I caught important news I would have missed, like the birth of one friend’s twins and the loss of a beloved old cat for another. Snail mail cards went out immediately. I saw that Facebook is friendship “light”, a safe way of sharing without having to invest much. Showing up outside of this medium is how you solidify the “real” friendships.

As similar pieces of a larger machine, we need to connect to fellow human beings. I recognized how it’s not always about me as the interconnected web of humanity was scrolling up my screen. This online community cleverly coaxes people out of dark corners, away from the whisper of past shames, to a place where they are empowered to speak and be heard. I was blown away by the hope this deceivingly simplistic medium brought into my life.

Gratefully, I reconnected with the used-to-be-me, one person at a time in a memory lane parade of where I’ve been and who I’ve become. I missed the girl these people seemed to still think well of, or at least didn’t dislike. Today, I’m still timid at requesting the friendships of complete strangers but I’m gaining courage. Remember, I have a baby blog I have to feed.

When the next ex-boyfriend found me, I was ready. I asked why he had friended me and he professed he wanted to see if I was doing well. I sensed he also wanted to show me how well he was doing. Maybe, when they put my name in that search box, my ex-boyfriends sought the closure and self-forgiveness I had yet to seek. Or maybe I was a good schtooper. I am good with either possibility.

My Writing : Q & A

I was offered up an opportunity by All The Everydays blogger Jean a chance to muse my writing process. A writing prompt of the most publicly introspective kind.  Although I’m a writer, I don’t write about my writing process or purpose or motivation. I may write about what I’m thinking about, what I’m passionate about, what I’m mulling over, or what I just went through. So here goes. I’m a bit interested to hear my own answers.

What am I working on?

I am a willy-nilly writer. I write on whatever subject topic interests me. Until it doesn’t anymore. There’s more than a few pieces that languish in the nether regions of my computer because I lost interest in them. And there’s lists of post topics that seemed like a good idea when I thought of them.

I am working on organizing an Eastern Shore of Maryland bloggers meet-up so that we may exchange ideas and gain the support of other human beings who sit at computer screens a lot. I am also working on a project called 50 Asks which is a round about way of gathering courage and momentum to submit my writing to the bigger world. I need to find more guest posting opportunities. As for current writing pieces, I’m always thinking about something. Sorting out the bigger subjects worthy of bigger places to be published from the smaller ones.

How does my work differ from others of its genre?

There are more than a few of us who are genre escapees. We hate labels. Except we still happen to be mothers, creatives, and writers who have blogs. I can call myself a lifestyle blogger. I am definitely a personal essayist. I’m a blogger who started my blog to gain practice writing. I’ve been writing privately in journals since I was 12 when my English teacher Mrs. Johnson had our class start journaling. The next year, in 8th grade, Mrs. Park said I should think about doing more creative writing. 30 years later, I started to do more creative writing.

Why do I write what I do?

My writing topics range from rogue squirrels and farty butts to why disciplining your children is a great thing. I am a recovering neurotic and victim to my self-discovery more often than not. But of late, I write because I’m curious to know what I might find when I do so. It’s cathartic and good for me as a bowl of flax Wheaties. I like myself when I do it.

How does your writing process work?

First, I get an idea. Then this can go several different ways. I may write it out longhand on a lined tablet while watching the children play at McDonald’s. I may sit down and pour out my first thoughts into a text document that will live on my computer desktop. Or I may write the idea down in my journal or a scrap piece of paper which hopefully ends up near the computer or a list of things to do. Or I may forget to do any of these things for days until the idea melts away or hopefully reappears.

I am a dual creative. I love words and pictures. I value my success in both mediums and have striven really hard to get better at both. I believe I’m succeeding. Find me on Instagram and see if you think I’m doing OK ? 

Three bloggers that I love…

If you like to read my stuff, let me suggest you read :

That Curious Love Of Green –  Like me, Jane is always working to create a balance between her creativity and her love for her role as Mammy. She lives in Ballinamore, Co Leitrim in the North West of Ireland.

A Chesapeake Journal Kathy lives here on the MD Shore a county to my south. She’s my gal and her brief picture posts are very reflective of the relaxed life of living in this unique Chesapeake Bay region in the small communities on the peninsula.

Destination Here & Now – Marg and I are both Hogans. She lives in Bathurst NSW Australia. Her photography is amazing and her posts weave words with these stunning pictures often in a dreamy poetic fashion.

Thanks to Jean for her flattery and inclusion. I really did enjoy the challenge. And I hope you take a moment to follow the links to her blog or my other friends blogs. Thanks so much for visiting.

If you enjoyed what you read, subscribe, via the subscription box in the sidebar, to my thrice weekly posts via your email box. And visit me on Instagram to see my daily pictures, friend me or like my page on Facebook. Or come find me on Twitter or Pinterest too. I am always practicing Intentional Intouchness so chat at me please. I live for conversations.

And, as always, Thanks to you for your visit. 

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