Journal Entry 3 - Reflect on the myths you were brought up with and discuss which of these you would want to pass on.
1/29/13
Myths I grew up with...well, I was raised Christian (Southern Baptist to be precise) but, I don't recall a time when I was vesting in the existence of a fire and brimstone vision of hell - or a gated community heaven for that matter. In fact, my participation in religious studies often made even our pastor squirm. I was baptized when I was eight years old; look back, I know I did so not because I truly understood the connotations - rather because it was simply what was expected. I still remember walking into the basin under a dimly back lit cross and feeling the pressure of the water but not the temperature because it was so very close to the temperature of my own body. I was a curious child - in every sense of the word.
Even at that early age, I had serious doubts and questions to match. I remember tyring to reconcile what I knew of science and what I knew of the bible. I decided that maybe a day for me was not the same as a day for God. Maybe Gods' day lasted a millennium. If that were the case, maybe things on Earth developed more slowly than our concept of six days. Besides, if God made the sun and the moon after the first day, how could he know how much time had passed? I was a curious child - in every sense of the word.
I remember being very perplexed about the story of Noah and his ark. Logic dictated to me that there was no way Noah only took two of every animal - otherwise, animals would have to reproduce with their own parents and siblings to expand their population and that was just weird. And being the avid reader I was, I had some notion as to the sheer numbers of species in the world and it didn't seem possible that he could have build a boat big enough for two of EVERY animal (except unicorns because they were too busy frolicking to get on board...). And how convenient that he lived close enough to every animal to collect them all (like Pokemon). And didn't Noah live in/near a desert? Where did he get all the wood for his boat? I was a curious child - in every sense of the word.
The greatest misstep I ever took in the time I was forced to go to Sunday school (in a dress no less - I can't tell you of my red hot fury when years later, my mother allowed my sister to attend in JEANS!) was in fifth grade. I'm not entirely sure how we came about to the comment I made but, I remarked to the class that I thought missionaries were committing cultural genocide. My fellow students were hung up on the meaning of the word genocide, vacant expressions plastered across their faces. My Sunday school teacher sat across from me aghast at my audacity, vocabulary - or both. I was a curious child - in every sense of the word.
My mother recounts that while Santa Clause, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy were all mainstays at their respective events, she never had to tell me that they weren't real. She said I just kind of knew somehow. They were fun and fanciful and I played along but I never thought that any of them were actual beings. Maybe it was because Santa Clause had handwriting so very like my mothers' own distinct penmanship. As for what myths I would carry on...I don't think there are any. There are a handful of traditions (like the paper chains we'd make to count down the last couple of weeks before some really exciting event) and values (like never lying to your kids) but, myths - nah. Those can stay right were they belong: in the past and in story books.
Wednesday, January 30, 2013
Saturday, January 26, 2013
Sophie's World - Chapter Two - The Top Hat
Journal Entry 2 - Sophie's World - Chapter Two - The Top Hat
1/26/13
I have always felt somewhat separate from my contemporaries - as though I experience life in a way distinct from how those around me. Once, when I was nine, I was riding my bike with my brother to the park when I encountered the most intoxicating scent. Instead of just continuing on to my destination, I stopped and spent nearly 20 minutes trying to locate the source of the fragrance. My brother left me there in his impatience to play. I ventured into yard after yard of strangers, inhaling the air deeply, following my senses until I came to a single deep green bush heavy with crisp, white blossoms. The sweet, enchanting perfume danced in my head and set my heart aflutter. It was the first time I had ever experienced a gardenia and now, whenever I get the chance (time to spare or not), I will stop and bury my nose into the embrace of that heady memory.
I have always been fascinated by the world. I cannot imagine existing in another way. To me, a life without wonder is a life without color, without breath. The first time my fiance' and I made the trip from Arizona (where I had recently moved) to California (to visit his parents), he lamented the drive as boring, sightless, uninteresting, desolate. His disparaging remarks did little to sate my excitement for the journey. As we left the mountains, venturing into the desert, I was struck by how differently we see the world - he and I. Far as the eye could see was earth dotted with outcroppings of life failing desperately in their attempts to touch the sky. It was so unlike the land of emerald forests where I grew up. In the desert, nothing stretched higher than a foot or so from the dust. The lack of water crusted the land, scarring the surface like the peeling of sun burnt skin. It was anything but desolate though. Every so often, there was the burst of color from a spiked, sun scorched bush bearing a single spear soaring from the center, set ablaze by a mass of dark orange flowers at the tip. I looked for those with anticipation to take in as much detail as I could because we passed far too quickly for me to commit their shape and color to memory in a single glance.
About two and a half hours out of the mountains of Prescott, on the left hand side of the road if you're traveling west is the remnants of an old Volkswagen. It has been eaten away by the elements - its rust ravaged shell baking in the sun. I imagine you would incur a significant burn should you risk tetanus and touch the corpse. Its' driver side door is missing and the tires have long since been scavenged - as with any other removable or remotely usable part. Its' not right next to the road - rather several dozens of feet into the desert. Other than the ruin of time, there does not seem to be any visible damage to the skeleton of this dead bug. Perhaps it died of old age?
I think about that car often. How did it get there? It's miles from anything of note just basting in the heat. Why has it been left there for so long that if you were to move it, it would likely collapse under its' own weight? How did whoever was operating it manage to escape the wilderness? That car will remain a mystery to me until it is nothing more than iron-tinged dust on the wind. I can only hope that it will be the same to someone else.
It has been thirty years that I've lived this way, high on the experiences, sights, sounds, and smells around me. At this rate, I don't think I'm ever coming down. May the wonder never cease. As a teenager, I wrote a poem that included a line that reflects this sentiment most succinctly: I wonder if our naivety keeps us from divinity; we see mundane in everything and fail to see the beauty.
1/26/13
I have always felt somewhat separate from my contemporaries - as though I experience life in a way distinct from how those around me. Once, when I was nine, I was riding my bike with my brother to the park when I encountered the most intoxicating scent. Instead of just continuing on to my destination, I stopped and spent nearly 20 minutes trying to locate the source of the fragrance. My brother left me there in his impatience to play. I ventured into yard after yard of strangers, inhaling the air deeply, following my senses until I came to a single deep green bush heavy with crisp, white blossoms. The sweet, enchanting perfume danced in my head and set my heart aflutter. It was the first time I had ever experienced a gardenia and now, whenever I get the chance (time to spare or not), I will stop and bury my nose into the embrace of that heady memory.
I have always been fascinated by the world. I cannot imagine existing in another way. To me, a life without wonder is a life without color, without breath. The first time my fiance' and I made the trip from Arizona (where I had recently moved) to California (to visit his parents), he lamented the drive as boring, sightless, uninteresting, desolate. His disparaging remarks did little to sate my excitement for the journey. As we left the mountains, venturing into the desert, I was struck by how differently we see the world - he and I. Far as the eye could see was earth dotted with outcroppings of life failing desperately in their attempts to touch the sky. It was so unlike the land of emerald forests where I grew up. In the desert, nothing stretched higher than a foot or so from the dust. The lack of water crusted the land, scarring the surface like the peeling of sun burnt skin. It was anything but desolate though. Every so often, there was the burst of color from a spiked, sun scorched bush bearing a single spear soaring from the center, set ablaze by a mass of dark orange flowers at the tip. I looked for those with anticipation to take in as much detail as I could because we passed far too quickly for me to commit their shape and color to memory in a single glance.
About two and a half hours out of the mountains of Prescott, on the left hand side of the road if you're traveling west is the remnants of an old Volkswagen. It has been eaten away by the elements - its rust ravaged shell baking in the sun. I imagine you would incur a significant burn should you risk tetanus and touch the corpse. Its' driver side door is missing and the tires have long since been scavenged - as with any other removable or remotely usable part. Its' not right next to the road - rather several dozens of feet into the desert. Other than the ruin of time, there does not seem to be any visible damage to the skeleton of this dead bug. Perhaps it died of old age?
I think about that car often. How did it get there? It's miles from anything of note just basting in the heat. Why has it been left there for so long that if you were to move it, it would likely collapse under its' own weight? How did whoever was operating it manage to escape the wilderness? That car will remain a mystery to me until it is nothing more than iron-tinged dust on the wind. I can only hope that it will be the same to someone else.
It has been thirty years that I've lived this way, high on the experiences, sights, sounds, and smells around me. At this rate, I don't think I'm ever coming down. May the wonder never cease. As a teenager, I wrote a poem that included a line that reflects this sentiment most succinctly: I wonder if our naivety keeps us from divinity; we see mundane in everything and fail to see the beauty.
Who are you?
Philosophy 112 - A Journey
This semester, I've the pleasure of taking a philosophy course with the locally acclaimed instructor, Tom Donovan. I'm thrilled to have the opportunity. As part of the course work, we are required to keep a journal in which we will write our reactions to the readings and questions posed in class. Each class session, we will have approximately 10 minutes to respond to an assigned query. Additionally, Donovan encourages us to revisit our journals at least twice during the week. I've decided to share my journal entries semi-openly as a matter of reflection and a practice in openness.
Journal Entry 1 - Who are you?
1/24/13
Well, let's get spacey. I am everything and nothing. I am the briefest of moments and exist eternally. Matter cannot be created nor destroyed. I am you. We are all made of stardust. You are me. We all connected - at our most fundamental, microscopic level, we are one. I am the product of generations upon generations of procreation. I am the pink lady my mother ordered at the bar the night she met my father. I am the sum of all my decisions and the ripples of the decisions of those around me, but I am greater than the sum of my parts. I exist now, and in the moment I was born and every moment in between into infinite time. There are things that I was born to do, but they are not who I am. I could just as easily cast them off to waste my time as I could to accept them. These callings to do not define me. Who I am is the will to persevere. I am a teacher, a healer, an artist and a friend.
What defines me are my experiences: all the things I have done, the people I have loved, the people I have lost, the mistakes I've made, the lessons I've learned. All these intangibles are what create the kaleidoscope that is me. It is an image that is constantly shifting. With each new day, I have the opportunity to become someone new - to try on a new frame of mind. That that I want to but, the choice is there. Who am I?
People cannot be summed up by a collection of adjectives; "I am smart, funny, pretty, strong, etc". I could tell you that I was once a waitress. I could tell you I was once a nanny. I could tell you that I was once someones mother. I could tell you I was once someones wife. But these don't necessarily give you an answer as to who I am. I once knew a circus clown who hated children. Her occupations would indicate otherwise, but she loathed them.
I believe that the truth of a person is much more complex. I am different things to different people. To my fiance', I am the purveyor of tasty food and the "best person" he has ever met. To my friends, I am a confidante; the pinnacle of professionalism. I am a source of support - someone they can lean on if they're in trouble. To my parents, I was once the 'black sheep' now turned 'golden child'. To my late spouse, I was many things. To him, I was a liar (now recovering). To him I was the source of more joy and more pain than any other person had ever been To him I was a saint and a whore - all because of a perceived transgression (because the nature of our relationship didn't lend itself to the concept of ownership). I have been so many things.
I am a hug that brightens the day; I am a random act of kindness; I am the reed that bends in the wind. But, most of all, I think I AM the journey - answering this question. I don't think anyone CAN answer this question - not definitively, if for no other reason than the answer will always be in flux. Who I am now is not the same person as who I was when I was thirteen years old, loosing my virginity behind a Catholic church. And who I am now is not who I will be when I am 60, 70, 80 years old. But, who I am is all of these things because that 80 year old woman is me and will still be that thirteen year old girl and I will still be the 'black sheep' no matter how long I exist as the 'golden child'.
This semester, I've the pleasure of taking a philosophy course with the locally acclaimed instructor, Tom Donovan. I'm thrilled to have the opportunity. As part of the course work, we are required to keep a journal in which we will write our reactions to the readings and questions posed in class. Each class session, we will have approximately 10 minutes to respond to an assigned query. Additionally, Donovan encourages us to revisit our journals at least twice during the week. I've decided to share my journal entries semi-openly as a matter of reflection and a practice in openness.
Journal Entry 1 - Who are you?
1/24/13
Well, let's get spacey. I am everything and nothing. I am the briefest of moments and exist eternally. Matter cannot be created nor destroyed. I am you. We are all made of stardust. You are me. We all connected - at our most fundamental, microscopic level, we are one. I am the product of generations upon generations of procreation. I am the pink lady my mother ordered at the bar the night she met my father. I am the sum of all my decisions and the ripples of the decisions of those around me, but I am greater than the sum of my parts. I exist now, and in the moment I was born and every moment in between into infinite time. There are things that I was born to do, but they are not who I am. I could just as easily cast them off to waste my time as I could to accept them. These callings to do not define me. Who I am is the will to persevere. I am a teacher, a healer, an artist and a friend.
What defines me are my experiences: all the things I have done, the people I have loved, the people I have lost, the mistakes I've made, the lessons I've learned. All these intangibles are what create the kaleidoscope that is me. It is an image that is constantly shifting. With each new day, I have the opportunity to become someone new - to try on a new frame of mind. That that I want to but, the choice is there. Who am I?
People cannot be summed up by a collection of adjectives; "I am smart, funny, pretty, strong, etc". I could tell you that I was once a waitress. I could tell you I was once a nanny. I could tell you that I was once someones mother. I could tell you I was once someones wife. But these don't necessarily give you an answer as to who I am. I once knew a circus clown who hated children. Her occupations would indicate otherwise, but she loathed them.
I believe that the truth of a person is much more complex. I am different things to different people. To my fiance', I am the purveyor of tasty food and the "best person" he has ever met. To my friends, I am a confidante; the pinnacle of professionalism. I am a source of support - someone they can lean on if they're in trouble. To my parents, I was once the 'black sheep' now turned 'golden child'. To my late spouse, I was many things. To him, I was a liar (now recovering). To him I was the source of more joy and more pain than any other person had ever been To him I was a saint and a whore - all because of a perceived transgression (because the nature of our relationship didn't lend itself to the concept of ownership). I have been so many things.
I am a hug that brightens the day; I am a random act of kindness; I am the reed that bends in the wind. But, most of all, I think I AM the journey - answering this question. I don't think anyone CAN answer this question - not definitively, if for no other reason than the answer will always be in flux. Who I am now is not the same person as who I was when I was thirteen years old, loosing my virginity behind a Catholic church. And who I am now is not who I will be when I am 60, 70, 80 years old. But, who I am is all of these things because that 80 year old woman is me and will still be that thirteen year old girl and I will still be the 'black sheep' no matter how long I exist as the 'golden child'.
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