The Soul Of My Boots

I held my first “real” job during the summer of 1978 in Jackson County, Oregon working for the Youth Conservation Corps which at that time was managed through our local Bureau of Land Management office.Definition of “real” to me at fifteen years old included the following characteristics: an application and interview, a dress code, a commute to work, an absolute starting time and a regular quitting time, Monday-Friday, rain or shine and a proper paycheck (though  minimum wage at that time was $2.65 an hour - so however proper it might have been, is arguable).

In a nutshell, YCC is  a National Parks Service program employing youth between 15 and 18 years old to do everything from clear invasive species, to build and repair trails, to upkeep park’s facilities like playgrounds and picnic areas, to piling and burning slash, to helping demolish old buildings. That particular summer, our main project was building the Sterling Creek trail outside of historic Jacksonville (picture scrub oak and madrone, and very dry soil conditions in the traditional 100+ degree July weather of Southern Oregon). I used tools with names like pulaski, mattock, McLeod, grub hoe, council tool and the ever popular pick axe. Almost all of them involved swinging with a fair degree of momentum and upper arm and shoulder strength, and yes - I was pretty continuously sore that entire summer.

Everyday at 5 am I would drag my grumpy teenaged butt out of bed, make a behemoth sack lunch, fill my canteen, dress in the required gear (long denim pants, long sleeved denim shirt bearing the proud green and white YCC patch, over the ankle leather boots, 3/4 length leather work gloves and a bright yellow hard hat) and walk down to the corner convenience store to be picked up by one of our crew leaders with whom I commuted from Ashland into Medford. We’d arrive at the Medford armory by 6:30 to get our daily assignments and be loaded into pale green BLM vans and on our way by 7 AM. We’d be returned eight hours later - filthy, stinking, red faced, dehydrated, famished and $21.20 richer.

Let me get one thing very clear here. I was not a soft girlie girl at fifteen. I was an athlete, a tom boy of the highest order, a wizened treehouse builder and explorer of all things dirty, muddy and imbedded in poison oak, a seasoned weed puller and gardening assistant to my parents and an avid camper. If anyone could make it in YCC, it was me. Right. After two weeks I was completely ready to throw in the towel - or trowel - or whatever. I had never worked so physically hard in my entire life. Never. Never. Never. And never mind that the 5 am thing was killing me, too! Had it not been for my boyfriend Joe’s dad, I surely would have quit. But he sat me down one evening while I was whining about the work and gave me the most wonderful and positively delivered version of the “Once a quitter always a quitter” speech that I could have ever asked for. He helped me change my mind, and I then became my own agent in changing my life.

Had I quit, in the ensuing eight weeks I would have missed out on learning to build a cross buck fence (a part of which still stands around one end of Hyatt Lake, and I can look at with pride even after 32 years). I would have missed the day we were rewarded by a trip to Crater Lake and the exhilaration I felt while running off the dock at Wizard Island and flying into the icy cold, crystal clear, aqua-colored ancient waters. I would have missed standing with my cohorts by the Sterling Creek sign that declared it was build by the YCC. I would have missed being tapped by a supervisor to spend an entire day in the field with a wildlife biologist doing bird counts and especially, tracking down and locating endangered owls in the Cascade Mountains. I would have missed the comedy of peeling off my jeans each afternoon with my gloves still on so I wouldn’t get poison oak from my britches - and the look of respect that my father gave me as I would tell him about my day. I would have missed discovering an essential part of myself - that self that doesn't just work until it’s hard, but works past the point of “hard” to “accomplished.”

Any what, pray-tell, does any of this have to do with Boot Week in the studio? Well, I was thinking last night about boots I have worn and the life I have experienced while decked out in this particular form of footwear. I kept trying to figure out, which pair of my boots do I “love” the most (aka - which life experience in boots has left an indelible mark?), when I realized - the pair I love the most are the boots I wore that long hot dust-covered summer working for YCC. When it was over, I couldn’t part with them, you see. First of all, after three months of wickedly hard wear and tear, I had worn them to a slipper comfort-like cured quality, and anyone who has ever tried to break in boots will tell you, that’s a beautiful thing for one’s feet. But mostly, they stayed with me as worn leather trophies of a job well done and my literal symbols of the proverb  “walk my talk.”

Two years ago, my elder daughter found them in a box and asked if she could wear them for hiking and service work at school. I took them out, rubbed the cracks smooth with beeswax, and passed them over to her with pride.

Boot Size: Men's 12

 

Surely she had to have plopped down on the linoleum to make the final negotiation involved not only in getting into, but pulling herself upright in Papa’s boots. I can still hear the scream of glee.

See how her tiny, clipped nail polished fingertips - like those of a gymnast who has mastered a complicated maneuver - are held in ready, with the finishing gestures of fragile balance. It’s a long way back down to the floor, when one is perched in boots that are too tall and too big - when soft small toes, slipping and grasping, are trying to decode the depths of a well worn instep.

Fall 1998

Sarah Grace, 3 years

Footsize: Child's 10

Boot size: Men's 12 

Decibel level: 101.2

Boot Collage

In honor of Boot Week here in the studio, which is already a departure from the norm (whatever that really is), I thought I'd put together an interesting collage on boots and stomp it on down into one blog. Hope you enjoy stepping out in a new direction today.


1) You can read a nice little definition on the boot through wikipedia - as well as see a photo of one damn fine pair that were custom made for and worn by my very favorite President of the United States of America, Harry S. Truman. I'm guessing that Harry didn't call his boots "shit kickers," but perhaps they were called his manure footwear? And I wonder if Bess liked them?


2) Function vs Fashion When Buying Cowboy Boots. A short video (1:20) from Dustin at Expert Village. He starts by outlining how to get your best and most functional boots, or as he puts it "fashion verses whatever else you need." Wait! We need something else? I'm confused. Did you know that a functional boot has something called a spur lift? It's true. And you need to avoid the waffle soles on your boots unless, according to Dustin, "you like being drug around for a couple of hours." (I'm pretty sure he's referring to something to do with horses here.)


3) Speaking of spurs. Apparently there are over 16 types of them and entire websites devoted to their exploration. Personally, I'm more intrigued by something referred to as a jinglebob, although I'm not sure what it's exact function is or what it's relation is to boots. For those of you more interested in spurs than boots, you can even buy the book Cowboy Spurs and Their Makers to flame your new passion. But I digress.....


4) These are a series of some of the more outrageous looking boots I could find on the internet. I'm sure you can find many, many examples - as shoes of all types can certainly be considered art forms - depending on the creator, the wearer and the admirer. Be sure to check these images out:
KISS rocker Gene Simmon's Boots
Very Scary Go Go Boots from Japan
Some skin tight thigh high platform heeled boots that are - well, impressive
And such exotics as Cut Python Cowboy Boots


5) You can take a quiz to discover what kind of boots you are in no less than five questions. Yes, I took the quiz. It said I am high heeled boots and a bunch of other stuff about flirting, flaunting and fascinating behavior. Funny thing is, I don't own any high heeled boots. I'm more a manure footwear kind of a gal.


6) Boots are not just found on feet...
See definitions: boot ^{: 1}  (bt)n.

1. Protective footgear, as of leather or rubber, covering the foot and part or all of the leg.

2. A protective covering, especially a sheath to enclose the base of a floor-mounted gear shift lever in a car or truck.

3. Chiefly British An automobile trunk.

4. a. A kick.

b. Slang An unceremonious dismissal, as from a job. Used with the.

c. Slang A swift, pleasurable feeling; a thrill.

6. Computer Science The process of starting or restarting a computer.


7) And finally, for those of you who doubt that great dancing can occur with one's boots on, here's a spicy little clip from The Best Little Whorehouse In Texas. (You may need to verify your age to view this clip, but it's well worth the extra clicks). After 1:55 (and a few naked butt shots) there's some fine boot-shod dancing!

Well, that's enough of this silliness for one day. It's looking like rubber, rain or maybe even snow boot weather out there. Whatever you choose, enjoy!

"Her Sturdy Brown Boots " ~ the poem

(~ a continuation of Boot Week in Martha Phelps Studio;

this is the companion piece to Monday's sketch)

As boots go, no one would dispute the simple truth
that hers were intriguing.

Relics of some off season
consignment store
discovery, this footwear was uncommon,
well-crafted and possessing ginger-
flavored attitude that winked as it
walked.

What with the carefully
stitched strips of pale blue leather,
hand tooled designs of
paisley,
sunbeams, teardrops,
and perfectly inlaid freckles of delicate
red and orange peering out from sturdy
buttery
brown calfskin...

...what with the tough ringing clip
that followed each step as she crossed a street,
yet with soles worn smooth from dancing many nights

...what with just-so heels
which lent an advantage for the occasional tall kiss.
Indeed,

they were not only perfect in winter 
with comfy blue jeans
or a short
skirt and tights,

but in summer -
they polished off a backless dress,
and charmingly invited glimpses
of bare brown knees
that peeked not-too-shyly, from 
between
the fall of the dress’s hem

and the rise of the boot's rim.

No, there would be no
wrangling this truth. 


As boots go, her tried and traveled pair
had panache,
wit for wearing
places to go, and were indeed

intriguing.

Boot Week at the Studio

"...with soles that were smooth from dancing many nights and heels that gave her an advantage for an occasional tall kiss - they were not only perfect for..." 

(to be continued)

"Her sturdy brown boots" 

a colored pencil and pastel sketch

Reid David Honeywell | LIVESTRONG Action

Reid David Honeywell | LIVESTRONG Action

An Einstein Photo Journal

  

OUT OF CLUTTER,

FIND SIMPLICITY.

FROM DISCORD,

FIND HARMONY.

IN THE MIDDLE OF DIFFICULTY

LIES OPPORTUNITY.

~ Albert Einstein

The Hippocratic Oath of Parenting

Okay. So the truth is, I am a horribly flawed parent. I get exasperated by my youngest’s unwillingness to wear anything other than brown or....darker brown, and down right angry at her nightly resistance to going to bed. I frequently guilt-trip my middle kid about the cost of violin lessons vs the amount of practice time I judge to be lacking, and I’ve been known to tell my eldest that he’s acting like an ass when his choices don’t meet my approval.

Every day - in many ways - I fall down on the ice rink of parenting. I slip into officious bossiness when the conditions of the ice aren’t up to snuff. I flounder ungracefully on the blade’s edge between attempting to control and offering to guide, and am sometimes more absorbed in my own needs than those of the skaters I brought here to coach.

Someone asked me after my son’s cancer diagnosis whether I now found myself wishing I had made any different parenting choices or - to put it plainly - whether or not I was wrestling with any regrets in my relationship with my boy?

While considering one’s regrets can be a daily activity (or obsession), this has not been a pastime of mine in the parenting realm despite my plethora of flaws. Oh sure, there have been moments I’d like to have done things differently (done a bit more deep breathing, counted to a hundred - fourteen more times, put myself in “time out”), but for the most part, I’ve stayed out of contrition’s ruts on my metaphorical rink. And as I’m sure even those of you who have never known cancer personally can guess, I am now a hundred times more committed to living life fully and with as few regrets as possible -- especially where my kids are concerned.

In our humanness and varying degrees of personal evolution, and for those of us who are parents - where so much is trial and error -  a certain amount of “small stuff” remorse is inevitable. But here’s the crucial piece: Regrets are not the result of a “shit happens” experience like leukemia. Regrets are the progeny of choices poorly made that cannot be undone.

Wait. What? True this: Many regrets are in fact, the result of choices.

Examples of serious, real life and harmful parenting choices include: deliberately and knowingly using one’s child as a pawn in a failing marriage; teaching your children to be fearful or intolerant of those who are different than or don’t agree with you; fostering judgment and meanness by example; teaching children to act like and become victims rather than embrace and practice honesty; modeling running away rather than accepting responsibility; teaching your child to throw away relationships like broken cars rather than invest in the healing process. The list goes on.

So how as parents, can we make decisions that will reduce potential long range damage to our kids caused by regret? We can try to keep one particular phrase of Hippocrates’s famous oath in our hearts and minds at all times - even and perhaps most especially when - we, the parents, may be the very perpetrators of the injury. The phrase is:“I will keep them from harm and injustice.”

As a parent who has learned the hard way what it feels like when the power to keep your child safe from harm has been taken out of your hands, trust me on this one. If you have the opportunity, intelligence, compassion, good sense, love and CHOICE to keep your child as safe, whole and happy as you possibly can, do it. Don’t be selfish; don't wait. Do it. Now. There's no excuse not to, and you won’t regret it.

See It All

this is not a time to close your eyes 

even though there is a sameness
to the ocean, the horizon,
the cirrus clouds

and the birds in flight
through the spectrum of green
and light-filled blue. 

this time,
try to see it all. 

begin to notice the long joyful glide,

that the pelican makes,
just above the sea's rolling
breath,
and the echoing shiver of your own belly’s undulating sigh. 

begin to notice the delicate determined
curl of each wave
repeating, repeating, repeating to embrace
the shore,
and that one perfect moment
when it hangs - balanced
like a glassy transparent tunnel,
before curving within and
breaking onto the beach. 

notice the pliant fine sand, the softness of
your skin and the tender renderings
they both long to be 


breathe in the air, the warmth, the sadness
that momentarily suspends itself
and then drifts away 


pay heed the love that

dilates your face and then

reflects off the whole of you,

and life, and the morning sunlight on the water


this is not a time to close your eyes, no beautiful one,


this time,
try to see it all.

Martha Lee Phelps
March 09~February 2010

Words & Art

Childhood’s Retreat

It’s in the perilous boughs of the tree   

out of blue sky    the wind   

sings loudest surrounding me.

And solitude,   a wild solitude

’s reveald,   fearfully,   high     I’d climb   

into the shaking uncertainties,

part out of longing,   part     daring my self,

part to see that

widening of the world,   part

to find my own, my secret

hiding sense and place, where from afar   

all voices and scenes come back

—the barking of a dog,   autumnal burnings,

far calls,   close calls—   the boy I was

calls out to me

here the man where I am   “Look!

I’ve been where you

most fear to be." 

 

"my boy's amazing flight and other golden adventures" 

multimedia by Martha Lee Phelps

"Childhood's Retreat" by Robert Duncan

Tales That Defy Words

For years I have entertained the notion that our bodies tell stories. Whether through muscle memory, external markings, physiological changes, or real or imagined impulses on the surface of our skin, I believe that the whole of our physical selves are living art-forms.

William Emerson, Ph.D., one of the founders, teachers and practitioners of Pre and Perinatal Psychology might actually claim that our bodies begin to hold stories right from the moment of conception. Given that birth is considered one of the single most traumatic experiences we as humans endure, it’s at least a reasonable thing to consider that our bodies begin composing their stories from our entrance nine months later.

Then as time and life progress, more dimensions unfold in our human sculptures known as “me.” The battle scars of childhood - earned for good or naught - tree climbing wounds, broken bones, harms inflicted, as well as the feel of a familiar and safe embrace, the sensation of laughter in the belly, a hand held -  all chisel our surface.

While teaching children’s art, I’ve discovered that kids are particularly good at expressing and creating whole self portraits. In one project, each body part is represented by either an experience that has actually occurred - or that the young artist imagines will transpire some day. 

Legs become paintings of places they have been or hope to visit; arms turn into images of skills already practiced or desiring to learn; the heart depicts what is loved; the belly shows symbols of strength and power, and the head becomes a mural of what the future may hold. It’s a favorite lesson to teach because the artistic elements of real self and portrayed self merge together so naturally and become tangible art.

But what of the deeper, multi-chaptered stories in our bodies? What of the years of arthritis in my mother that has gradually changed the very structure of her gentle capable hands - robbing her of knitting and gardening and holding things securely - and leaving her to contend with true pain and lessons of patience and surrender? What of the knowing in an Olympian athlete’s muscles, after years of training and sculpting, that overrides the mind and challenges him forward to push the edge of physical potential? What of the impression that cancer has made in my son - the mutated cells that spiraled through his strong vibrant bone marrow and then the medicine, the poison, that was administered to slaughter those cells? What of the feel of the strings against a violinist’s fingertips, the first taste each summer of sweet melon, the feel of rising tears, or your beloved’s touch?

All these things - and so much more - make each of us beautiful, extraordinary, tragic, unique and priceless living art-forms. We are novels of tales that defy words and sculpting made of the truest stuff of life. I’ll leave you with these opening lyrics from Brandi Carlile’s haunting song, The Story, and ask - What story lies within your body?

All of these lines across my face

Tell you the story of who I am

So many stories of where I’ve been

And how I got to where I am

But these stories don’t mean anything

When you’ve got no one to tell them to

It’s true, I was made for you.

Roses

“This is love: to fly toward a secret sky,
to cause a hundred veils to fall each moment.
First, to let go of life.
In the end, to take a step without feet;
to regard this world as invisible,
and to disregard what appears to be the self.” ~ Rumi

It feels only fitting to round out my pre-Valentines week of blog posts with a mildly evocative poem about...love? passion? sensuality? heart connection? (you decide). My currently single (and very romantic-in-spirit) teenaged daughter has been declaring repeatedly the past several days that "Valentines Day is stupid." It may be that. My own single cynic self can relate to her sentiment. Commercially speaking, however; someone struck on a damn fine idea. 

But the stuff of love, passion, sensuality and heart connection - no, these feelings and experiences are far, far from stupid. 

Take Rumi, for example. Jalāl ad-Dīn Muḥammad Rūmī was a 13th century poet, theologian and Sufi mystic. His poetry has been considered some of the greatest mystical and spiritual poetry ever written. Rumi writes as the lover of God. His poems can be read merely as love poems, but they must also be considered as symbolic of the relationship of man to the divine.

And then there's Chilean, Pablo Neruda, the poet, diplomat and political figure who was once referred to as the greatest poet of the 20th century in any language. While some of his works are about political and social issues in South America, he is most dearly known for his love poetry. If you haven't yet purchased a gift for your Valentine, I highly recommend Neruda's Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair. (Note: Best read aloud in a private setting.....) In my experience, Neruda's words come closest to capturing that exquisite and deep soul place that we all have such a hard time articulating about matters of the heart.

"I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where, 

I love you simply, without problems or pride:
I love you in this way because I don't know any other way of loving

but this, in which there is no I or you,
so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand,
so intimate that when I fall asleep it is your eyes that close." 

~ Neruda

So in the spirit of something far, far deeper than Hallmark could ever imagine, and with the utmost respect and gratitude for all of the humble writers of love throughout the ages, here is my small token ~

roses

When she leaned into

the roses, 

her face poised

at the edge of a deep red blossom,

he watched her mouth

(wanting to run his tongue

along the inside rim

of her damp lower lip)

which was slightly

parted, like the petals

before her, 

as if tasting

their perfume.

(to linger there

savoring each 

warm

flavor

in delicious prequel)

and so perfect was

the flower’s essence,

it lingered 

underneath her eyes

when she looked into his gaze

(of lovemaking.)

~ May you find your beloved within yourself. See you Monday ~ m.l.p.

The Sanctuary of God

Ahead on the desert path, your voice reaches back  
as if from hundreds of miles away, 

as if from the home of deep stillness,
from the concave
belly of ancient earth,
where life's rhythmic pulse quietly drums. 

I watch you in the lavender frozen afternoon light.
The braided limbs of a Juniper are rising behind you in a perfectly carved wingspan in angelic silhouette 
unfolding from your very being, 

and the vision is powerful but fragile.
It is contrasting, like the tree itself, 

for even among the sinewy and contorted wooden twists of
brown gold and blood sharp needles,
the crevices are laced with delicate threads of snow and glimmering ice particles. 

Small, here,
with this wild landsea swelling around us,
all lungs and hearts rising and falling,
we are briefly fused to one another by warm
gauze-like breath which escapes our lips into the cold air. 

Tender and momentarily-tangible bits of soul, they
linger before our eyes. Then vanish. 

Turning toward the steep slope, 

we cross that place where once the thick
fawn-colored dust of summer held your boot track
for days on end,
for ant to quietly explore and coyote to pause over. 

Now, but now - we travel atop deep drifting snow, gleaming
whiteness that reaches toward the mesa
where raven is the season’s
only witness to our quiet passing,
and the long snowshoe patterns we’re leaving behind 

will be wind-swept in gracious concealment by nightfall. 

Upon the ascent, you turn to face me; we are
exposed against the pale rounded breasts of winter; 

we are surprised and fleeting guests in the sanctuary of God.
We are small grateful offerings on a high alter and also,
to each other.

Bowing down 
into the wind, we begin the descent toward home.

~ m.l.p. February 2010

Visual Inspiration

Fall in love
or fall in hate.

Get inspired or be depressed.

Ace a test
or flunk a class.

Make babies
or make art.

  

Speak the truth
or lie and cheat.

 

Dance on tables or sit in the corner.

Life is divine chaos.

Embrace it.

Forgive yourself.

Breathe.

 
And enjoy the ride...

* * * 

Fall in love or fall in hate.

Get inspired or be depressed.

Ace a test or flunk a class.

Make babies or make art.

Speak the truth or lie and cheat.

Dance on tables or sit in the corner.
Life is divine chaos. Embrace it.
Forgive yourself. Breathe.
And enjoy the ride...

~ Solbeam

All photos by Martha L. Phelps 

Today's post is dedicated to my extraordinary friend,
Peter Way Cotton.
You've been enjoying the ride for seventy incredible years now - always dancing with the chaos, ever embracing the wonder, loving the world of vast possibilities and falling in love with life!
Happy Birthday, dear one.

Cuppa Love

From the Abundance Blog at Marelisa Online, come 101 prompts for a writer’s journal jar. There are many fantastic starts and ideas here, including the 100 Things I Love exercise - which has a strong appeal to the list maker in me who thrives first by making the list and next, by crossing things off of it! In this week of reflections on Love - both profound and trivial - today I’m sharing one of the items from my personal 100 Things list. It’s a small daily thing, but it is because it is small and daily that I admit and consent to “loving” my cup of coffee.

100 Things/Item#52:
Espresso, very hot water and a tiche of milk - otherwise known as an Americano. I know that the espresso shot has been perfectly pulled if there’s a reddish caramel-colored layer of smooth dense holy grail-like substance called crema - on top of the drink before I add in my milk. You could dub a well made Americano either “coffee with a kick” - or “a lazy espresso,” but for me it’s the perfect balance of smooth, bitter, rich, full and sharp. 



The “Fresh Roasted-Perfectly Ground-Brewed Just Right” coffee snob culture came to me over twenty years ago when Starbucks was still simply selling beans to brew at home to Seattlites and no one had ever heard of or maybe even imagined drive through huts pumping out gallons of hot caffeinated, whip cream drowned drinks to the masses. In 1983, with a brand new bachelor’s degree in my hip pocket, I worked at Cuppa Joe, a small business in Ashland. Joe's was locally roasting and selling fresh coffee beans to discerning gourmets and offering 12 oz cups for fifty cents from a thermos in the shop. It was there that I developed my taste for coffee. Back then I could actually taste the difference between beans grown in different hemispheres. It's a science and an art, truly.



These days, I only require one decent cup of the dark stuff per day. While I’ve been fervently working for over a decade at creating the perfect cup of french press in my own kitchen, you can often find me down the street at the Rogue Valley Roasting Company bowing down to the shop owner, Dustin Way’s espresso pulling finesse. 



Besides the Roasting Company’s Americano earning a spot on my less-than-legendary list of 100 Loved Things, I love that when I walk through the shop’s heavy swinging door, someone greets me by name. I love that Dustin and his co-owner (and Mom!), Cindy - are local Ashlanders. I love that my kids can walk in there alone without people looking at them cross-eyed because they’re kids and sometimes press their faces against the ice cream case and leave smudges on the glass. I love that even when there’s a line of high school kids backed up out the door during lunch break, no one gets snippy. I love that the employees are treated well, respect each other and care about the customers. I love the safe familiarity - which on days when things are crazy in my life - can pull me back to center. 



That’s a lot of love over something as small as a cuppa coffee. I’d like to order one of those to go, please.

No Proof Required

Happy Monday...and week leading up to Valentine's Day. Valentines may be a lot of hooey to some (probably not Hallmark Cards), but it does offer a great excuse, which I may take advantage of these next few days,  to write a bit about Love....

Conveying Love “is when you reveal yourself nakedly and honestly, at any given moment, for no other purpose than as a gift of what's alive in you. Not to blame, criticize, or punish. Just ‘Here I am, and here is what I would like.’ This is my vulnerability at this moment. To me, that is a way of manifesting love, “ says peace teacher Marshall Rosenberg.

On it’s veneer, one assumes that any expression of love is nonviolent, yet the Nonviolent Communication method (NVCM) created by Rosenberg suggests that simply saying the words “I love you” doesn’t necessarily create connection or harmony. In fact, “I love you”  is viewed as often a rote, and at its worst, manipulative phrase rather than an expression of true gratitude.

As in “To Do Or Not To Do” where I explored the verb-like qualities of responsibility and compassion, I agree with Rosenberg’s stance that Love isn’t merely a feeling. Love is an action, and a truly nonviolent expression of Love is something we manifest, something we do, something we have. It involves giving of ourselves in a certain way that is a truthful, caring and positively intended expression of what's alive in us in that moment.

So merely saying “I love you” can miss the mark - due to the senders’ intention (when the words are said in perfunctory fashion or they are expressed with expectations) or due to the receiver’s ears (wanting “proof” or attempting to assign some sort of measurement “how much do you love me?” rather than joyfully receiving it).

When Love is an action, it is a gift of your Self to an Other with no ulterior  purpose other than to reveal what's present or alive in your Self because of something that that Other did which made life more wonderful.

So, what might such an exchange of Love look like?

Years ago when I was a junior high school English teacher, I started each class by reading aloud. I believed that, even at the ripe old age of thirteen, kids deserved the nurturing act of being read to, especially since many never received this kind of attention at home. The practice was one of devotion toward my students, and I read with enthusiasm to rapt listeners.

One day, unbeknownst to me, a fellow teacher stood just outside the classroom door observing me perched on the reading stool and watching the engaged expressions of the young audience. Later, my friend came to me and said, “I want you to know that when I watch and listen to you reading to your students, you are beautiful to me. I am inspired by what's happening between your and your students, and it feels wonderful!”  

Wow! I had never heard - nor felt - the words “I love you” spoken more powerfully in my life. 

Over the years, when the infamous “three little words” have fallen short of some invisible emotional mark - due either to the speaker’s (lack of) intent or my own inability to receive, I’ve longingly recalled the profound heart connection I felt with my friend - not only that day, but ever after - for the gift they shared. They weren’t complimenting or praising my appearance or teaching style, they were acknowledging “I see you and feel your passion, and I like the way my heart feels as a result.” 

Rosenberg says that in order to joyfully give and receive, we need to make three things clear when we express love or gratitude: 1) What specific action I want to celebrate in you that made life more wonderful. 2) How I feel now as I recall this action. 3) What needs of mine were fulfilled.

Expression of Love in this fashion frees us from the burden of proving our feelings and requiring proof in return, removes the emotional obligations in which we often tangle ourselves, and offers us opportunities to truthfully express how we are and what we need.

So here’s an early "Valentine" to my kids ~

Dear Reid, Gracie and Scout, When you reach out to me - inviting me to play; gently poking holes in my endless worries; eating countless experimental meals; patiently waiting “just one minute” for the tenth time; sharing your grand schemes, do-able dreams, biggest fears, quirky stories and silly jokes; revealing when you don’t understand and shining out when you do; looking me in the eye and speaking your truths -- I am awed and honored by your generosity. You teach me every day to never stop reaching out to others, to keep reaching in to the heart and to remember to reach up in faith.

How will you manifest Love today?

Putting It To The Page

The other day a friend who was checking in with me about how life is in our house revealed that when she reads the emails and blogs about my son, she often finds herself weeping. I was moved by her honesty and feel honored that my words have touched another person in such an intimate way. She asked me, "When you're writing about your boy, don't you just sit there and cry the whole time?" 

The truth is, I don't sit and cry. The discipline of writing grants me access to powerful experiences while allowing me to suspend many of the internal emotional touch points that might invoke my own tears. It’s a good thing, really. Because if I were to recapitulate some of the more painful incidents over and over - it would undeniably cause some psychological harm. I write, in part, to heal what has been hurt - not to soak in it.

Do other writers, like surgeons who practice keeping an emotional distance from their patients, also occasionally stand at arms length from their subject matter once they start to compose? I try to imagine the great Chilean poet and Nobel Prize recipient, Pablo Neruda, writing the words from his exquisite love Sonnet XLV:

"don't leave me, even for an hour, because
then the little drops of anguish will all run together,
the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift

into me, choking my lost heart."

These words summon feelings of physical passion and manifest despair. Did Neruda relive that torment as he composed? Or did he reach into his heart's memory and call forth the vital essence - but take care not to reopen an old wound?
 

Clearly, to share about our lives - the joys and sorrows, the celebrations and the losses - we hold the initial event in our hearts and minds. The longer a story lies in wait within us, it is shaped and (perhaps) tempered by reflection and time. But when the moment comes to tell the tale, the poem, the song -- to actually put it to the page - the call is not to personally re-live, but to convey it with such acuity that others can also feel, understand and in many ways share the experience. Thus, we become connected in ways we might not otherwise have been, and we learn, grow, empathize, feel a little more seen and hopefully, a little less alone. 

It’s a good thing, really.

Thanks for following. Have a peaceful weekend ~ mlp

“I've learned that people will forget what you said,
people will forget what you did,
but people will never forget how you made them feel.”

Maya Angelou

Words & Art

Has the moon been up there
All these nights

And I never noticed?

A whole week with my nose

To the ground, to the grind.

And the beloved faithfully
Returning each evening
As the moon.

Where have I been?
Who has abandoned whom?
Gregory Orr

Multimedia (Ink, pencil, pastel & collage) 16"x20"
Available for purchase. 

 

"Moon" from How Beautiful the Beloved © Gregory Orr