From Awe to Hierarchy?

Shoveling snow for six hours one day and three and a half the next. And Yes. I counted. Every shovelful. Counted and thought about a friend who used to bemoan his fate by fake-complaining about his ‘aching begonias’ while he pranced around on lumber piles and sucked on cigarettes when we were still so cool. And we were almost twenty and I could hoist eighty pound bundles of roof shingles and skedaddle up a ladder while I was flirting and sparring simultaneously with the guys on the job. It’s way more fun to remember how strong I was then than it is to mentally stay here in current time because now, today, this very minute, my real ‘begonias’ are aching. And it stinks. The hours and the shovelfuls and the sore muscles and damn it, the aging of it all, certainly set the stage for feeling small, insignificant (dare I say weak, needy, and unbelievably weepy) and all probably because I’d been behaving like some mad cave woman as the snow fairly leapt off my shovel and landed perfectly on an enormous towering ice bank. Unfortunately, it’s some hours later now and I’ve devolved into that groveling woman who’s not twenty anymore.

It does, however, give rise to a philosophical rant that leads me right to the same flaws in our world I was exploring from the peak of my physical prowess almost thirty-five years ago. What is it about our species that makes us want to be on top? And from this exultant place, instead of wanting to share it, why do we place others way down at the bottom? I mean, if you think about it, it’s pretty whacked that any of us would have the idea that we somehow belong over and above everyone and everything else.

Just walk in the woods or shovel snow for multiple hours and the relative size of us is enough to inspire. And I somehow doubt that when prehistoric mammals -- our ancestors -- experienced awe, they had any intention of locking their descendants into a destructive relational construct (i.e.: set of beliefs) simply by lifting their heads. It’s just too hard to believe that the uncomplicated act of looking up, arching the neck, tipping the scalp, feeling a ponytail brush a shoulder blade (perhaps during an early morning foray with a young one who just couldn’t ‘hold it’ until dawn) could take our species from the knee-buckling, breath-taking gasp at a perfect moon in a still black sky (perhaps enhanced by the cold’s condensation of an exhale) to a hierarchy that informs everything we’ve become.

At some point, somebody (come on. It had to have been a white male.) probably thought that because they had the biggest club, they were that much closer to the moon. As far as I can see, all other humans, animals, and even the planet we live on, have been relegated to somewhere down below. Why couldn’t we have all just stayed where our feet are?

Hierarchy, as a core structure for our social world (our parenting, our written form, our educational systems, our government, etc.) precludes equality. By implication, when one thing is seen as above another, the lower in the construct is seen as less. What if people could foster, nurture and rejoice in alternate shapes and forms?

When my big brother was about five he had a fascination with a rock. He loved to throw it straight up in the air and watch it turn and tumble as it fell. He did this over and over, even when a certain percentage of the time, the rock hit him square on his face.

Does admiring something above our heads have to lead to a desire for power? What might our lives be like if simple awe, was just simply, awe?

Social Networking

I’m not so sure about this technological social networking foray of mine.

I watched from the sidelines for a long time. Everyone seemed to be singing praises for virtual land. The benefits were flouted while I watched people’s fingers peg away in some asymmetric tapping rhythm that’s not familiar to me. I’d find myself drifting off with the beat of it. People were talking to me, and to whoever was on the other end of what they were sending. All at the same time! I consider myself a pro at doing chores while I’m on the phone but it’s not the same. Dancing a newly washed floor dry with rags rubber-banded to slippers doesn’t use the same part of my brain as talking. But multiple conversations? It’s so … well I’m trying to figure out what it is. Sometimes I think it is the rhythm of fingers on keys that calls to me. It’s a sheer audio of movement you can barely hear and yet it evokes the feet of Gumby and Pokey which somehow softens the insides of my ear drums. I suppose it could be nostalgia but I actually think that hearing in the perfect register makes my world hum better.

Embarking has been amazing though. Lets face it. The web is the perfect locale for someone who’s compelled to go forward while simultaneously obsessed with deconstructing every nuance of every angle that could possibly be connected to every miniscule detail about where it is they’re going. And again, I’m not trying to narrow things down. I’m just attempting to craft a voice, find a cadence, sing out like a ‘Polly Anna’ scamper, and ultimately have a conversation with the world.

It’s a challenge though. You see, I’m a woman that has a routine. There. I’ve said it. I do. I like to follow some set of something. At least when I first wake up in the morning. And this itself is a phenomenal fact, given that I’m super independent. But I do. Like to follow something. I used to wish I had a hero. When I was younger I wanted to be like all kinds of different people. I planned to be a Florence Nightingale to the sad. A Dr. Albert Schweitzer to the ignored. Some kind of Heidi of the heart. A lover of goats. The artist who’d bring beauty to blind people. A sculptor of any material. I used to lay on my bed and plan how I’d be the one who’d take a mountain of bird-poop and bring such magnificence to its’ description that the sheer irrepressible beauty of it would be indisputable. Now though, I’ve simplified. Age does that to a woman. I just need to make sure I take my shower before I start my day. That’s the extent of my routine.

But I’m blowing it. Since I’ve started this reaching out to the Netherlands of virtual-ity, with only my fingers on this twelve-inch keyboard, I find myself sitting here, grabbing and typing my thoughts before I’ve even washed the sleep grit out of my eyes.

It’s just that there are so many questions. So many things to ponder. So I’ve decided to jump right in and do something about it. As soon as I figure this out, I’ll go take my shower and be right back on track.

I’ve typed and deleted, deleted and typed. I could take up drumming with all this non-melodic practice but instead, I’ve decided to start a column. A ‘Dear Abby’ of sorts. I’m excited. I’ve had lots of years to develop a repertoire of voices, a veritable chorus of perspectives. A column seems a great use for it all. A written give-and-take will allow all-of-you to ask all-of-me, any of the myriad questions that seem important. And nothing will be lost. Because they’ll be a multitude of you. And this techno-writing medium allows for the full extent of me. I’ll listen to my fingers as they make music on the keys.

I just realized that I’ll need a pen name. Any good columnist knows this. A ‘Ms. Something’ that evokes an omnipotent Mommy.

So here’s my plan. First I'll choose the name. Then I’ll take my shower. This way, by the time I come back, the questions will be waiting. Here. Right on my screen. And then the many me’s will type their answers. This could be a rest-of-my life kind of routine. If I can answer all the inquiries, maybe the Don Quixote wannabe of me will finally be satisfied. I do want real questions. But if interactions are low, I can long for conversation enough to do it on my own.

I need a name though. All suggestions welcome. I’ve tried on ‘Dear Andrea’ but it’s just too singularly impaired. That’s the problem with the ‘Dear Abby’s’ or ‘Miss Manners’ of the advice world. I read those columns and I can’t help but wonder whether they’re freshly showered before they respond. It’s true you know. Without some sort of routine, things can fall apart. And then there’s the fact that people’s perspectives are enhanced by all sorts of odd variables. Did you ever wonder just who ‘Dear Abby’ is? And what about ‘Dr. Ruth’? Even Dr. Phil has to be a real man sometimes. I don’t begrudge advisors their humanity. I realize it’s important. I just want to be sure there’s a place of reflection going on, before their words become my guiding light. So if my column is going to fly, the name people write to needs to sound reliable, many dimensioned and at least occasionally wise. Anyone could do it. I think you just have to sort of bounce around inside, until you find the part of self that holds an answer or perspective on whatever’s the issue of the moment. We all have this. Parts of self. It’s something about our species. A way of being fallible in our conscious mortality while being wise in our limitless potential. So the name has got to be encompassing. Not too egotistical. And certainly not unduly biased. Rigidity would guarantee a lack of readership and wishy-washy would disappoint. I need a name that’ll cover all the bases, without presuming anything that could be construed as offensive. I feel like I’m fighting the cosmos here. I want something elegant. I wish for something sale-able. Denying this aspect would be like hocking a loogie out a pickup truck window on a high wind day. They just blow right back in behind your head and land on the rear facing window where they slowly, in full view, ooze their way down. I hope I find something on Google. I’ll look up ‘multitude’, ‘many faceted’, ‘conglomerate’, and maybe ‘conundrum’. The thing is, to feel confident in the replies, people have to like whom they’re addressing and each of these names has flaws.

I’ve got some ideas. Right now ‘Ms. Possibility’ sounds good to me. And ‘Ms. Multi-Genre’ has sort of a nice ring. I like ‘Ms. Everything-Counts’, even though it’s kind of long. It’s a challenge to find something that says it all and still holds a syncopated cadence. The truth counts here too. I can’t have a name that implies anything dishonest because lying begets a kind of denial that’ll make me want to quit this job and I don’t want to stop before I’ve all-the-way started. How about ‘Ms. Borscht’? I like soups. Stews are my specialty, particularly when they make exquisite flavor out of an odd mix of apparently disparate ingredients. ‘Ms. Mambo’ keeps flashing in my brain. Mambo. Hmmm. It brings to mind all sorts of places and foods that carry a multitude of perspectives. This could be good. Mambo reminds me of the ‘Jambo’ (hello in Kenya) from when I spoke at a U.N. conference in 1981. The goat stew I choked down to be polite in St. Kitts in 1978, the dance I dance when I’m belonging, and the generally large, swaying body size I feel when I’ve overeaten. I’ve just looked it up and it seems right:

☆ mambo (mäm′bō) noun pl. mambos -·bos
a rhythmic musical form, of Caribbean origin, in 4/4 syncopated time and with a heavy accent on the second and fourth beats

1. musicians' slang term equivalent to “riff” (emphasis mine)
2. intransitive verb to dance the mambo

Riff sounds good. Almost like a jam of thoughts. Drawing on every possible frame of reference I possess. Because when I start getting letters, ruminations, questions, and musings of many sorts, I plan to reach into the abyss of every possible identity I’ve ever touched and bring that to the page.

Relationship Manifesto

I have this inexorable urge to try again to explain myself. And to explain perhaps, the core - the volcano if you will - of conviction and drive that fuel my questions and my life.

There are all kinds of reasons to live what I call an ‘un-examined life’. Our culture is full of the resultant damage. It is - without question - easier, socially acceptable and generally ‘what’s done’. Many of us choose to live without questioning the underbelly, the meaning, or the point of origination that fuels our actions.

I do not choose this life.

[choose meaning to pick out
or select from a number of alternatives]

When the choice is made to not look - not see, not ask hard questions, not have difficult conversations – it seems to me a life posture that moves one inevitably towards the experience of having been ‘done to’ rather than ‘doing’. It places us safely in the seatbelt on the passenger side. Here, even if the scenery is lovely, the driver gets to choose the left turns. Riding through life like this allows us to pretend we hold exactly zero culpability for anything. And like the ‘litterbug’ we used to sing about in grade school, it portends an utter lack of responsibility to future generations.

I am beginning to think, though, that what I’ve always thought might not actually be correct. I’ve just assumed that all people are able to engage in introspection and conversation regarding life’s questions. I’ve held tightly to the notion that when people don’t, it’s simply because they do not want to. I call this a ‘won’t’. I’m thinking now though that it’s possible that some people simply cannot. If this is true then the not-engaging is a ‘can’t’. And if not questioning and not interacting is a ‘can’t’ then it would mean that these peoples’ ability to see, to understand, to meet me where I am and exchange ideas and talk, just plain isn’t there. It would mean that it isn’t teachable, coax-able or possible to bring about by pleading, anger or even the most succinct trying.

If it’s truly ‘can’t’ and not ‘won’t’, it seems a loving act for both people to recognize the disappointing fact of it. And if being seen, met, and understood in this way is truly, life sustaining-ly important, then it seems an act of generosity to name it for what it is and let it go.

Maybe this all has to do with where we dwell inside ourselves. Some people need to be able to recognize a familiarity of soul in order to walk a lifetime with a partner. And maybe for these people, living an examined life alone, is less lonely, feels more true, than living an un-examined life together.

I do not want to have to beg for understanding. I do not want to have to beg for someone to ask me questions. And I do not want to have to beg for interactive communication.

I want a person who has their own set of hopes for a relationship. A person that is willing to search for and communicate and define what it is they want, in all the ways that wants can change through the course of a life story.

It could be that the scars we build in response to our life-story wounds actually form a crust of scar tissue that strangles the heart, unless, in adulthood, we question and explore their efficacy. How we accept and make meaning out of the people we’ve become, in response to our life stories, sets the stage for a future.

I want a relationship to be what I’ve hoped a relationship can be:

One where the person I love is driven to self exploration – to looking at the full 50% that is theirs in any interaction – to be looking to struggle and engage with the hidden guts of a matter, regardless of how hard this may be in the moment.

I want the person I love to be a person who cares deeply about words, about stories – to want to dissect and discuss ideas, hopes, books, thoughts about life, mortality and ways of living.

I want the person I love to be a person who wants to communicate.

I want the person I love to be a person who loves having conversations and asking questions so that two people can journey in their heads and hearts, farther and past where either of them might have gone on their own.

I want the person I love to be a person who is interested in thinking things that feel like they’ve never been thought of before.

I want the person I love to be a person who wants to have conversations where each person’s perspective is considered and sometimes alters the way things continue to be thought of, instead of the original conceptions being the only things that stick.

I want the person I love to be a person who is driven to create, and who honors my drive as a ‘maker’, and to have it all deeply matter to both of us.

I want the person I love to be a person who wants to learn and/or who intuitively understands the creative process. I want to spend my time with someone who understands what it means and feels like to live it. And to in fact, love that creative process with all its quirks and idiosyncrasies.

I want a rest-of-my-life relationship with someone who shares a similar sensibility about the world and about one’s individual life. I want someone who doesn’t feel like life just happens to them. One who tries - wherever and however it is possible - to put their mark and their carefully examined choices onto the paths they walk.

I want to love someone who thinks to the positive first. One who, despite the stories life may have netted, tenaciously treasures being a person who trusts and believes in the good of people.

In summary, this relationship manifesto states that I want to dwell in, communicate from and share the moist fertile loam of the non-material.