MIRROR IMAGING AND PAYING ATTENTION TO WHAT IT MEANS

I like to think that I have a really good rapport with M. I have been pleased that he listens to my suggestions and we talk over issues at work and look for resolutions, but what I enjoy about our relationship the most is the fact that he is a mirror.

What do I mean about a mirror? I had heard how other people can "mirror" your actions by their own way of being, but I had never been able to... really see it before. Perhaps I am explaining this poorly, but in reading on, you will be able to get the picture. In other words, by some negative action of theirs, you can better understand a similar action within yourself and therefore work at changing that pattern.

I have anger issues and anyone who has ever worked with me definitely knows that. It starts out as frustration and evolves into anger when I cannot get the issue resolved. (After all, I believe that everyone should have the same work ethics as I do and when they don't perform to my standards... let's say that I get quite put out.) I have spent years trying to come to terms with this and there has been much guilt when I have taken my anger out on unsuspecting persons... although in my mind at the time, they deserved it, no one deserves it.

Yesterday I go into work to find a total disaster area. It looked like a hurricane blew through. There were boxes tipped over with books falling onto the floor (Bargain area,) there were packing peanuts all over the floor around the returns desk and dumped between the trash bucket and desk (my work space,) and a large double sided, four shelf cart left in front of the receiving door, full of books and heavy to move. There was a v-cart which had had books on it, but half of them had been knocked to the floor. Trash buckets were full and the cardboard container was stacked higher than I am tall. The floor was littered with trash as people empty boxes or bring things back and just leave the trash laying around for someone else to take care of. Instead of being stacked, boxes were spread out taking up floor space.

I started cleaning and stacking and emptying trash. I swept the floor and neatened the room getting it ready for the day's delivery. There are some areas, some people's sections, that I am tired of cleaning up. I left that area alone thinking that if he wants to work in a pig pen, let him. (Periodically, I get tired of looking at that mess and clean it up. It's close to my work space and I feel that reflects on me.) I received some kids stuff and took out the trash when the door was unlocked.

I told M, with a laughed, that it was a good thing that I come in first and get the place relatively neat before he shows up. He would have had a fit to come in to that. (Maybe I ought to take a Monday off once in a while so he can see what Monday mornings are like.) He proceeded to give me the speech on remaining calm and not letting that upset me. He told me that he doesn't let this type of stuff bother him anymore, that he remains calm and cool.

I was laughing to myself. All the time he is patronizing me, I am remembering the guy who throws a temper tantrum at least every other day. Here's the guy who swears and kicks things and throws boxes and he's telling me how calm he is? Yeah, right.

The Lesson? What is really neat is that I recognize that mirror-imaging. He is showing me how I act and although I am not physical (I don't throw boxes or kick things... as much as I'd like to sometimes,) there is still that "wanting to" in me. I know I consciously project how unhappy I am with this work situation. M shows me what the anger looks like to other people. It also shows me that as often as I think I remain calm and cool, I don't in certain instances and I am sure that M feels the same. He remembers times when he is calm as I remember times that I am at peace.

We are both getting better, though. He is much more calm than he used to be when we first started working together. Perhaps we are learning from one another. I know I am better, or at least, I have a faster recovery rate and I do not stay angry as long. The despair does not linger, though there are days when I wonder why I am still there. (I know why... there are benefits.) There are days when I just want to sit and cry when I see what is left from the day before. (More lessons in humility to be learned... or maybe acceptance is a better word.)

I am recognizing in myself certain... patterns... that I'd like to improve on. Frustrations with others behaviors... it seems I can accept them for who they are until they "invade" my personal space. There is something within me that "fights" the... ????... of having to serve people or being a servant or taking care of someone or waiting on someone. (This is a biggie for me and I am not even close to handling it yet.)

But I am better, I promise, and I am getting better all the time. Maybe this is what this life journey is all about.

What do you think?

The following was written by my friend, Taylore. I love what she says here. We have all built our lives around what has been dictated to us. Even I, in trying to fight the norm, have built who I am around these views. Wow, reading this really makes me think... and cringe... and wonder why we do it.


have you ever read The Beauty Myth? I don't agree w/ all of it.. but it points out some interesting things about the way "beauty" is portrayed in advertising.. she talks a lot about the irony of the fact that women who are emaciated, unhealthy, probably not ovulating and unable to bear children due to their frame are projected as the "ideal" for the female...gaunt, weak, and easily overpowered. Lots of advertising has successfully convinced healthy women they must alter their bodies in a clearly unhealthy way in order to be 'perfect.' At a time when women are living longer, able to be more active, are attaining more and more power, they are at the same time putting their bodies in physical danger by cutting and invading them forbreast implants, liposuction, face lifts etc...starving their bodies.. and this somehow dignifies us, allows us to feel we are more desired and acceptable to society?? I try to remind myself of that when I start to feel 'victimized' by society's ideals.. inreality, I'm no victim.. It's my job to makedecisions/self-evaluations that aren't influenced by the mass media's RETARDED ploys to makeme buy more products. Blah. have you ever read The Beauty Myth? I don't agree w/ all of it.. but it points out some interesting things about the way "beauty" is portrayed in advertising.. she talks a lot about the irony of the fact that women who are emaciated, unhealthy, probably not ovulating and unable to bear children due to their frame are projected as the "ideal" for the female...gaunt, weak, and easily overpowered. Lots of advertising has successfully convinced healthy women they must alter their bodies in a clearly unhealthy way in order to be 'perfect.' At a time when women are living longer, able to be more active, are attaining more and more power, they are at the same time putting their bodies in physical danger by cutting and invading them forbreast implants, liposuction, face lifts etc...starving their bodies.. and this somehow dignifies us, allows us to feel we are more desired and acceptable to society?? I try to remind myself of that when I start to feel 'victimized' by society's ideals.. inreality, I'm no victim.. It's my job to makedecisions/self-evaluations that aren't influenced by the mass media's RETARDED ploys to makeme buy more products. Blah.

FIFTEEN

There were fifteen of them that day

fifteen who poked and prodded

fifteen, who at various intervals,

came and asked questions

for which I had no answers

There were fifteen that night

roaming the corridors

coming to look

fifteen who spent hours

watching and waiting

for heaven knows what

I kept quiet through it all

the endless poking

the meaningless comments

the looks that reminded me

of that time on the bus...

well, I won't go there...

For fifteen days and nights

my mind wandered the darkness

while my body lay in listless state

for fifteen weeks

that felt like fifteen months

I walked the border between this world

and that

Sometimes I don't know where my writings come from. Earlier I had watched a tv program, Inside the Actor's Studio with Jodie Foster. She talked about the movie Accused in which she played a rape victim. I never saw the movie, but watching Jodie talk about it, I could easily get caught up in her emotion. It was a hard role for her and she still feels the effect.

At first, with my writing, the "picture" in my head was of a gang rape, but the end "picture" was of being in the hospital. Did Jodie's talk trigger something in me? I certainly have not had that experience. When the poem was done, I thought that it had morphed into something different, but now I am not so sure. The mind does funny things. Could the "I" in my poem have been a victim and the mind confused doctors, nurses, and the assailants? And what happens to that woman during the time of healing... can she ever be fully healed when the minutes turn to hours and the hours to days... and weeks... and months? Can she ever again feel safe?

I don't know where I came up with the number fifteen. It just kind of stuck in my head and felt right. Perhaps, as I was not writing about a personal experience, I could not interject one as I tried to do with the bus experience. I could not put one of my memories into someone else's story. So, where did the story come from?

This poem, FIFTEEN, started with one line, "There were fifteen of them that day." A picture formed in my mind. I did not know where it would go. I simply picked up pen and paper and began to write. The "picture" blurred. I could not see faces. The words came to write the poem and I was just a witness.

Tell me a little about your writing practices. Do you spend hours working on a piece? Do you have to think hard or do ideas just come to? Where do your ideas come from?

AND IT CAME TO BE...

Husband too often gone
loneliness ate at her sides
it ate at her heart and her lungs
til she thought she'd explode
from the emptiness

So she went out into the night
her heartache-wrapped cloak pulled tight
and she walked the streets
and she sought in the bars
and roamed the forests and meadows
til exhaustion caused her to collapse
under a huge pine

Out of the dreaming dark he came
shadow and mist aswirling
and for a short time
he held her and comforted her
and chased the loneliness away

In the dawn she awoke alone
fog and mist evaporating in the sun
yet this day she felt different
something stirred within her
something growing in her womb
and she knew she'd never
be alone again

But neighbors talked
and whispered behind closed doors
mother and her special child
were never...quite...
accepted...

THE MOMENT OF POSSIBILITY

In this time, this moment

I ooze possibility

Oh, Spirit

Let me manifest

these desires

Let my hands

mold the ideas like clay

Let the form be created

as passion flows

like a roaring river

In this time, this moment

I ooze possibilty

Oh, Spirit

Let me fill

to the brim

til the floodgates crash open

and words tumble

over eachother

in their hurry

to get to the page

Let the ink in my pen

run as smooth as my thoughts

In this time, this moment

I ooze possiblity

Oh, Spirit

Let no excuse surface

to dam these gushing waters

Let my entire being cascade

with the joy of creativity

Oh, Spirit

Let me remain open

til the last drop

is wrung

from my soul.

---S.Wolfe '06

With what would you flow?

How do you feel your creative juices?

Tell us what you would mold in your hands?

Sometimes it is important to look back on our younger years. Talk about these questions as you will, share what ever you wish.

THE CHILD YOU ONCE WAS

• What was your mother's name? What did she do?
• Who was your father and what did he do?
• Tell us about your siblings.
• What about other key relatives in your early years?
• Talk about a couple of events that stand out in your childhood.

We are all artists, are we not, in one way or another? I am definitely a jack of all trades. This is one of the paintings that I have done on slate. It is an image of getting together to share stories of the heart. Let's talk about art...

Art... my earliest remembrances are of Gail and I making our own paper dolls and the clothing to dress them in. I also remember my mother spending hours coloring with us. I learned early on to color carefully and stay in the lines.

My next artful memories are of elementary school where I would draw pictures from anatomy books and science books...can't remember why...

Then there were the junior and high school years where I took art classes. Of course, I was NEVER as good as everyone else. It made me realize, though, that it was important for me to find my own style and that I wasn't happy doing it like everyone else.

In my senior year (taken a year after my first son was born because I dropped out to have him and then returned,) I took a creative writing class. This is when I first got the real inkling that I could do any sort of writing. Later, after the first divorce, I took night courses in creative writing at Northern Essex, which got me into journalling. (I look back on those journals now and they are full of unhappiness and how I wished I was dead.)

Later, I discovered poetry was a wonderful tool to unburden my soul. My mother was very disappointed. She wanted me to be a "REAL" artist and found my poetry sad and didn't like it because it didn't rhyme. I disagreed. I felt so good after I wrote a poem. It was a tremendous release, an unbaring of the soul. Sometimes, the written word helped me to unravel some of the chaos that banged around inside my head.

What I love about free style poetry is that is doesn't matter if it doesn't rhyme or is not metered. Punctuation and grammar do not matter, nor does spelling. For me, it's about an outpouring of the soul. Put pen to the paper and let the poems write themselves. Yes! They will say when they are done and THEN you can go back and edit.

Of course, I dabbled in other arts. I still paint once in a while, I've made some jewelry, knitted scarves, and I play around with photography. I also play Native American flute which I absolutely love... oh, and I drum.

I don't have to be perfect. If I had to be, I'd never do anything, would I. Would you?

Talk to me about your art(s.) What makes you feel most alive.

WHAT MAKES US TICK? WHAT MAKES ME TICK?

Ticks? Ihate ticks! I used to spend a lot of time walking the trails of Odiorne or the Urban Forestry Center, but ticks are just so gross. I stay out of the woods now and that is sad.

Tick, tick, tick... the clock is ticking, my heart is beating... time passes and there is much that I would do. Life is one big adventure story and I love to explore. There is a burning desire inside me to share these stories and not just MY stories, but I want to hear your stories also.

Life isn't only about the physical escapades we go on, but the journeys within, too, and how those experiences shape the way we think. What you tell me may set me off on another lark and what I say may send you somewhere else. I find it interesting to delve fully into these experiences.

Eric A often uses the phrase "so exciting" to describe some menial work task, but for me, life itself is exciting... the bad times along with the good. I even look at how his irritating wording can send me on a trip into discovering why certain attitudes and situations set me off.

Oh yes, life is an adventure ride, that emotional roller coaster that is hair-raising and heart stopping. As much as I want to believe I can be calm, cool, and collected, I know I am not. I think everyone has seen me at my most... unfriendly moments... yet, many have also been around me when I am warm and loving. Do I have an answer as to why I am so up and down? No, because I change, can change, from moment to moment.

Tick,tick, tick... time is running out as it does for all of us eventually. Does it matter if I have not reached my goals? Does it matter if I am not successful? What do those words mean anyway?

Oh, there are so many things I want to do and so many excuses for not doing them. How do I choose just one in any given moment? (Well, I usually do, as most of you know, the one chosen is almost always writing.)

So what makes me tick? Doing this type of stuff, of course. "I write to live, live to write." But it's not as much fun to do it alone. Iwant to know things. I want to know if I am affected by such and such, how are you affected by it? What do you feel, when I am feeling so? I want to talk about this stuff. It gives me a more all around view, than just my own little narrowness (yeah, like I am narrow, ha ha.)

And so, my friends, who would write and explore...
WHAT MAKES YOU TICK?