Posts Tagged ‘blog challenge’

Intention – I’ve Been Intending to Write About This


2010
06.15


Before we start: I’ve realized that some folks are unaware of some of the features of a blog.  Whenever something is underlined, and putting your cursor on it shows it to be a live link, you can click and go right to whatever is being referenced.  Then just back arrow to go back to the blog post, or if it opens a new window, click back on the blog window.  Also, you can click on any photo to make it bigger and use the back arrow to get back to the blog.  With photos, keep in mind that the resolution has to be reduced to post, at least in Word Press, which is what I use, so you may not see the quality of photo you might expect.  The bigger you make a low-resolution photo, the grainier it will be.

"Jewels of Intention" by Michelle Oravitz

Intention on a personal level: Another quality on Coach Dian’s blog challenge is intention.  We all understand intent – the specific purpose for whatever it is we’re doing, and the end result of that purpose – what we hope to accomplish.   We don’t give it much thought usually.  We know in a vague sort of way that we need to do the laundry or water the plants, go to the market or call someone.  Then as we progress through the day, we either do or don’t do those things.

I think many of us are now thinking of intention differently, more fully.  We are thinking of actually acting with intent – not sleepwalking through something.  If we go through the day with intention, we have to think about what we’re doing.  It gets a bit muddled with purpose, or even something like being responsible.  What’s the difference and why does it matter?

Take, for example, visiting my parents.  That’s something I usually don’t look forward to these days.  But I do it.  I don’t have to technically, but of course, as a responsible daughter, I do.  My purpose for doing it isn’t often well thought out – I just know I’m going to, and if it ends up I don’t make it today, there’s always tomorrow.  To a degree.

What if I approached my visits with intention? Knowing it’s an important part of the day for my parents, and giving them the time it takes to have a comfortable conversation, I could relax during the visit and stay present.  After all, they spent a lot of time raising me – now I’m “raising” them.  Strange things happen when you relax and stay present – you may learn something,  internalize and remember the story that’s being told for the hundredth time, actually have a good time.

So that’s the difference then.  Visit perfunctorily, or visit with intention.  Either way, I’m going to do it.  It brings the concept of intention to a new level, rendering the dictionary definition sterile.

The artist who did the installation at burning man, asking us to consider different attributes and how actualizing those attributes would make America better, is having an effect on many of us, and we never heard of him and never went to Burning Man (although I’d like to).  Such is the power of art.  Because this person asked how we would pledge our allegiance to something, what it might mean for the world, we’re thinking about it.

I think one effect of people truly acting with intention is unexpected: the end of multi-tasking.  Yes, I know we are never going to not multi-task, especially women, because we can do it so well.  But if we telephone someone with intention, knowing we are going to set a lunch date, or just catch up, we’ll really concentrate on it.  I always find it unnerving to talk to someone and hear pots clattering in the background.  I know that person is putting an equal importance on doing the dishes – but not intentionally.  With the concept of intention, we could have a meaningful conversation and actually remember what we talked about.

I Skype with my friend William.  If we’re doing it on video, he concentrates on the conversation.  Kind of has to or he’ll appear very rude.  And basically I’ll say, let’s talk later when you can concentrate.  But if we’re Skyping without video, I know that he’ll be talking to me, perhaps someone else on Skype, there may be a Facebook chat going, and he’ll be responding to text messages, and looking up something on the internet.  If we were conversing with intention, it would go faster (there wouldn’t be huge gaps in response time), meaning trains of thought wouldn’t be broken and we might actually consider what the other is speaking about.

What this multi-tasking may be doing to young people as far as attention span, quality of work, and ultimately quality of life, is a whole other subject.

On a larger scale: If we all improved our intention personally, pledged our allegiance to living with intention, we would have a more focused, meaningful world.  We’d improve our quality of life.  More and more people think, however, that if enough people collectively focus on the same thing, change could be made to occur, perhaps even physical change.  Pooh, you say, that’s ridiculous.  Maybe it is, but I can’t say that with certainly because I just don’t know.  I’m willing to entertain any thought to improve our planet. -  they do stuff like that on Star Trek, pretty much my Bible.  We’ve only touched a small part of our minds.

Tomorrow I’m going to watch two world cup soccer games, write some fundraising letters for the Fannie Lou Hamer Statue Fund, refine my list of what I need to do, and start doing some of it.  I’m going to make a turkey meatloaf for dinner, finish off the marinated beets I made earlier this week, and have a gigantic salad (I have so much lettuce to use.).

Soccer is a good example of intention, because you can’t watch a World Cup game meaningfully unless you sit down with undivided attention.  You have to understand what you are going to do and do it entirely, or there’s no use.  You’ll miss it all.  Try it.

These are just my thoughts, off the top of my head, without reading anything about intention first except the definition.  I may have it wrong, but I don’t think so.  And writing this is a good reminder for me to act with intention – I’ve been trying to make it something I internalize this year, with varying degrees of success.


Do I know myself? Sometimes. Do you know who I am?


2010
06.02


One of my Twitter friends, whollyjeanne (you’ll find her at the barefoot heart on my links on the sidebar), included me in a tweet from Coach Dian. It’s one of those challenge things.  Dian came across this installation from a Burning Man festival, and the moment I clicked on the link and saw this piece, I knew I was in.  Without even reading about it, you sense the mission statement.

The challenge is to take the twelve topics the installation explores, with a thirteenth added by Dian, and write about them during the month of June.  So you know what? I’m going to.  And I’m going to start with self-awareness.

Sounds so obvious – self-awareness.  We’re with ourselves 24/7.  But I’ve been feeling a little lost lately as to who I am, and since I’m 63 years old, you’d think I’d have a handle on this by now.  But I’m retired – I’m not anchored by a job or a routine, and I’ve done several lifetimes of community and volunteer work and I don’t want to do that anymore.  I’ve been in charge of enough  people and jobs  and I don’t want to go to one more committee meeting or be in charge of anything other than a dinner party ever again. I’ve become schedule-averse.  I’ve become an artist.

Solving this whole conundrum of why I lose myself  started with a realization about my mother.  Regular readers know my mom is in and out of dementia in various stages, which seem to be tied to my father’s level of alertness.  That doesn’t surprise me.  They’ve been married over 65 years and they are so intricately intertwined that one can’t exist without the other.  (Do you know, my sister went over there the other day and our parents were on the coach holding hands?  They do that frequently.)

Family is the obvious place to begin to define self-awareness – who we are.  Frida Kahlo’s painting My Grandparents, My Parents, and I is a good start on the journey. Knowing where you came from helps you know who you are, and artists are ever looking inward.

I don’t think I really know who my mom is deep down.  I used to tell her what a mystery she was to me.  Now I understand, and the explanation is the same as to why visitors say, “There’s nothing wrong with your mom.  She seems fine to me.”  It’s because my mom’s public self was the only self we saw.  Years and years of good manners and routine actions have enabled her to appear normal.  She knows the questions you should ask visitors, what kinds of greetings to give, how to comment generally on the weather, how to inquire as to health and family.  As a mother, she was outwardly-focused in giving us stability so we didn’t see what was inside her.

This question of self-awareness is timely because just days ago, I understood that I do what my mom did – in groups, at events, with friends even, I jump into a public self and I disappear.  I carry an inner tension that I’ve not actually recognized before now. There are very few people with whom I am completely relaxed.  Well, maybe that’s not true.  Perhaps “relaxed” is the wrong word.  Because it’s the social situations, the groups, in which I disappear.  For whatever reason, it’s with young people that I feel most like myself.  (I guess that’s one reason I was a good seventh-grade teacher.)

Somehow, getting older and I hope wiser, I’ve become passive.  Things don’t bother me, I don’t get all fussed at other people, I just try to understand.  I find it hard to imagine why anyone would be interested in me, yet I write reams of my deepest self on this blog for the whole world to read.  And you know what?  Proving my theory a bit about not knowing a parent, I printed out six months of my blog and gave it to my dad to read. He needs things to do; his 92-year-old body doesn’t cooperate in allowing him to be as physically active as he was.  His reaction? He told me he’s learning a whole lot he didn’t know about his daughter.  So maybe I’ve been my public self with my family even.

Getting back to the passivity, while it’s nice to move forward on an even keel, something needs to fill the places that used to be jammed with everyday, garden-variety tensions, turmoil, and trivial matters.  I fear I am becoming, or perhaps have already become, boring.  I don’t want to be boring.  But the reflective me has disappeared also.  That is not a good thing, according to Plato (amazing how Plato pops up all the time), who says the unexamined life is not worth living.

Pushing myself to explore self-awareness will help my real, authentic self to re-emerge, but only if I keep the door unlocked. To do that, I have to remain self-aware.  It’s just a giant circle after all, like the tee pee in the art installation.  I think I know who I am; I just have to be me.  That’s what I’m going to work on.  Just being me.  I may find, just be being myself, that I don’t know myself so well after all.

What a hornet’s nest this self-awareness has stirred up!  Then again, I could just go with Oscar Wilde, who said “Only the shallow know themselves,” and “The final mystery is oneself.”

Note: I’m unable to attribute the image of the eye – I found it on an autism blog with no identifying information.


Best of 2009 – What article did I read that blew me away?


2009
12.03

Death.  Dying.  If we’re lucky, it happens later rather than sooner.  As a 63-year-old, I watch my parents age and put myself in their shoes.  My children will become me, watching me age and putting themselves in my shoes.  It’s been of sufficient interest? consternation? to me that I wrote an essay about it, Stuck in the Middle.  Today’s question asks, “What article did I read that blew me away?”

Last year, one article captured me.  In fact it just about screamed my name.  Waiting for death, alone and unafraid, by Thomas Curwen, L.A. Times, 2/28/09.  We are all “waiting” for death, but some of us are closer than others.  Perhaps because I’m watching my parents, at 86 and 91, either suffering from Alzheimers or waiting for death, this article resonated.

SchneidmanEdwin

Edwin Schneidman

It’s about Edwin Shneidman who, at age 90, is at home attended by caretakers around the clock.  Shneidman has spent his entire career with death as co-founder and co-director of the Los Angeles Suicide Prevention Center, chief of the National Institutes of Mental Health’s center for Studies of Suicide Prevention, and professor of thanatology at UCLA. He himself almost died two years ago from high blood pressure. Curwen: He expected everything to go dark, and when they pulled into the bay of the UCLA Medical Center, he started to cry, knowing that the doctors would save him. I understand.

Here are the passages I underlined, so they resonated at the time and still do.  These are the author’s words: Today will be the same as yesterday, the same as tomorrow, every day a waiting and a hoping for a good death, a death without suffering.  This is my father’s life at 91.  He’s tired.  He might have gone by now but for worry about my mother.  This is what life is like.  We want him to go now, both of them, before they succomb to full-time care and the indignities that come with helplessness.

Shneidman says people ask him often what the end is like and he answers: You’re driving down a road in the desert, and the engine suddenly stops, no Pep Boys, no Auto Club to help.  Whether the road continues is of no consequence.  It has ended for you.

He also says, and this statement grabbed me by the throat and wouldn’t let go: No one has to die, he is fond of saying; it will be done for you.  It’s living, however, that takes effort – to weather the sleeplessness and worry, the relinquishing of pride, the dependency upon strangers, the plea for respect and the struggle to remember.

My sisters and I watch my parents, my dad especially because my mom pretty much isn’t processing, struggling with this, and we struggle right along with them. We care about their dignity, respect, and dependency; the struggle to remember feels like a physical struggle and we’re in the ring.  We wrestle with it. We care about our own dignity when we are their ages, and we feel trepidation whenever Mom doesn’t remember.  Which is always.

But Shneidman redeems that struggle when he explains his philosophy of life. Because he believes life isn’t contingent upon a god or upon prayers. There is no heaven, there is no hell. Happiness lies in the here and now and the satisfaction of living a good life without religion or myths to guide you.  He takes nothing away from others’ beliefs.  He just prefers Moby Dick to the Bible.

He just explained my philosophy, especially in the sentence starting with “happiness.” If we’ve fulfilled that, we can only trust those we love to respect us in all the indignities that occur with old age.

And then this poignant, powerful passage.  Poignant especially because when my mother-in-law died several years ago and we were cleaning out her things, I looked at her pile of chipped, broken collectibles – that had so much meaning in her life – and thought, wow, does that sum up a life? It was a sobering thought.  So to the passage: In death, things become mere things – the statue of Venus in the backyard, the gyotaku print in the kitchen, the Melville-inspired shadow boxes – no longer animated by memory, the story of their provenance.  It is as if their atoms loosen and dissipate.

You can find the whole article here.

You can find Shneidman’s obituary here.