Book List

I'm going to read as many of these books as I can: http://www.stumbleupon.com/su/2QuCDt/en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_100_Best_Books_of_All_Time

It's not that I'm all the time lonely because I'm not. There are just fleeting moments. Flashes of longing that come and go but leave a trace of ache and tenderness that I wish would go away. But I don't know that I'm so tough. And I don't know that I really want to be--it's that fully felt emotional tendency I have that makes me feel all the more human, deeply impressed by the poignancy of what it means to be human: to love and hurt and be hurt and love again and live and die within the perimeters of such a temporary existence.

Now that the first year of this master's program is up, it's becoming easier to breathe again and feel more like myself. That also means I have more time to think for myself, which could, if unchecked, lead to dangerous ruminations of memory. And I don't want that. So, with all of my intention and will and optimism, I will read, ponder, peruse, enjoy, cherish and revel in the time I have for whatever I want to do with my sparse schedule. Here's the top ten (in no particular order):

1. Flea markets/thrifting/vintage shop road trips
2. Reading "the best books of all time"
3. Drinking beer on the deck
4. Cookouts and potlucks
5. Yoga
6. Long morning walks with Georgia
7. Long bike rides
8. Coffee and the paper or crafts or letter-writing
9. Shows
10. Visiting the people I love

I'm so grateful for the support of those people in #10. The crafts and letters and treasures will be for them. I just love a healthy dose of altruism and summer feelgood vibes.

Kahlil Gibran

You were born to be together, and together you shall be forevermore.
You shall be together when the wings of death scatter your days.
Ay, you shall be together even in your silent memory.
But let there be spaces in your togetherness,
And let the winds of the heaven dance between you.
Love one another, but make not a bondage of love.
Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls.
Fill each other's cup, but drink not from one cup.
Give one another of your bread, but eat not of the same loaf.
Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each of you be alone,
Even as the strings of a lute are alone, though they quiver with the same music.
Give your hearts, but not into each other's keeping,
For only the hand of life can contain your hearts.
And stand together, yet not too near together,
For the pillars of the temple stand apart,
And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in shadow.

Rumi

The Guest House

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice.
meet them at the door laughing and invite them in.

Be grateful for whatever comes.
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

-- Jelaluddin Rumi,
translation by Coleman Barks


The last stanza is how I want to see and live my life more and more and more.

family

A thought piqued my curiosity of family systems theory. I was reflecting on my Uncle Finkle's life and funeral this morning. There is a lot I feel I missed out on in understanding my uncle and Delaware relatives, even things I don't know about my mom. Pondering this, I began wondering about his life and the lives of his siblings, and how these things became a little more transparent at his funeral as my mom, her mother, and brothers sat in the front pew of church, each with their own grief, silent Jones stoicism, and way of interacting, which, I imagine, could have been reflected over fifty years ago at Pop's funeral in the same church.

But first, Uncle Finkle.

When I was little, visiting Grammy in Delaware consisted of visits to "the station" where Finkle worked, and well, lived, really, so that my mom and dad would have a chance to catch up with him. Finkle would come out of the office, grizzled and smiling with his watery blue eyes lighting up behind a tangled, grey-streaked beard. And then, always, he'd tell a joke and pass around the drinks. Usually, there were a few other guys around, grease stained, smelling like smoke and engine oil, always with a Budweiser in hand and cigarette between the fingers. These memories I have of my uncle, juxtaposed against my white bread childhood, breathe character into my upbringing. This visceral impression is the only one I have of him, leaving me wishing I had learned more about him past the beard and the drinks and the bad jokes.

We visited the station one last time on our trip to Delaware in March after Finkle's funeral. It was here, in this archive of papers, logs, car parts, a broken refrigerator, pictures, trophies, dog stuff, shoes, books...it was here, under the image of booze and cigarettes and shabby appearances that I caught a glimpse of my uncle as he really was, throwing my childhood impressions off balance and igniting a sincere desire to breathe in and memorize the message and context of his personhood. All of these parts of his life scattered around the station left behind a story of a man who knew much, took little, and gave to many during a life of what could be seen as struggle and hardship.

Phil wanted to be a veterinarian. When his grades weren't good enough he became a mechanic. He turned his ability to listen to the nuances of quiet animal communication and the grieving utterances of pet owners, into expert interpretation of the whispering of an engine and muddled clues from non-car people. My Uncle Bob and the men who frequented the station (especially at happy hour) swear he knew everything about cars. And I'm sure he did. He knew a lot about a lot of other things, too, evidenced by the stacks of Time Life books, encyclopedias, manuals, and newspaper clippings we found the morning after the funeral, each page and surface, marked with ghostly grease prints. In the corner, tucked away gently with a pair of clean socks, was a pair of Sunday shoes. Phil had recently worn those shoes to a funeral for someone in the community, as he had every time he found an obituary for someone familiar. Sometimes, he would leave work a few times a day to honor the losses. A good day, he said, was not finding an obit and not having to wear those shoes. This, I thought, this is why we feel his loss.

Phil didn't charge enough for his services. He barely made enough to cover the bills and faced debt from 30 years ago when the EPA fined him heavily for underground gas tanks that had been leaking before he bought the station from another owner. But he didn't complain. He didn't worry. Instead, he worked long hours, drank heavily, and lived life as he saw fit. Although he grew up in a middle class family, it always seemed that Uncle Finkle was most happy in a blue collar setting, working for himself with his dog at his side and people around try a new joke on. Visiting the station years ago, I was always a little afraid of my uncle because I didn't understand why he lived the way he did--it contrasted too much with my father's corporate work, but then, I think my dad always envied Phil for that. Now, however, I can see there is much to be said for doing the work you love and being an expert at it. If only we could all strive for so much.

My thoughts turn to the funeral. There we were sitting in church, listening to the preacher lament with us, as we felt the presence of someone missing. The pews were filled, people stood in back, honoring a man who touched their lives. None of my family knew them, but they were the family Finkle left behind for our Jones reunions. Maybe it was being back in church after so long, but I couldn't help thinking how much these people I saw with drawn wrinkled faces, wearing their best jeans and mismatched suits, bearing the evidence of hard living or struggle, were the people Jesus talked most about loving. Finkle loved. Without condition. And it was obvious at this standing room only event. This recognition added to my feeling of wishing to know Finkle more and laid a certain weight in my chest of the fact that I too often do not love unconditionally. If I couldn't get past the beer and cigarettes and grease-stained image of my uncle, what does that mean for my interaction with the people I know nothing about? Lesson noted.

As I sat there, I noticed how I had never seen my mom's nuclear family sitting together in formation much how I would have imagined them sitting in the back of a station wagon on a family road trip circa 1960. And it seemed, in a way, that for the moment the "kids," who I only knew as adults with their children and grandchildren and lives separate and apart from my own family's, were kids again. My grandmother, much shorter with her curved osteoporosis spine, cropped white hair, and chiseled 91 year-old features was still the matriarch of the six who sat beside her now. These adults now kids taking the roles they had always known: the oldest, the most stoic and responsible; the next-to-oldest, the caregiver, the nurturing son who keeps everyone together; the twins, known as the jokers (who took Phil into their private twin world); and the youngest, the only girl who remembers sharing a room with Finkle because he obliged when she complained that everyone else got to share a room with a sibling and she felt left out. The women wept, the sons spoke, and all of us looked into the past-turned-present of what the Jones clan is.

Ironically, the funeral for my mom's father, who passed away nearly 50 years ago, was at this church. A large, framed portrait of him, which comes to all family functions, sat next to a poignant picture of Phil kneeling against the one working bay door at the station. Each man looked keenly into the audience, and we stared back looking for meaning. The morning of Phil's thirteenth birthday, as he bounded down the stairs in celebration, was the same his father died. Phil took it in stride the same as he did with all things.

I feel as though I could elaborate on so much more. But that's the jist of this morning's reflections.Uncle Finkle's life and funeral got me started thinking about family--what it means, what happens to families, and how we are the way we are with them. It's common for families to fall back into the dynamics of the growing-up years. Adult children who return home for holidays become the kids again and parents take the charge of the parent role. In a way, this role playing generates homeostasis within the family--anything unfamiliar or new can be too much work, too disconcerting. When the holiday is over, the kids become adults and the parents empty-nesters with their own lives and agendas. Equilibrium returns in a new context. This concept is what family systems theory explains. But, clearly, it's more than theory, it's life and all of us experience it. I suppose it's the meaning we take from these experiences that counts the most.

edwardestlin cummings

present life is wrapped in these two poems:

III

Spring is like a perhaps hand
(which comes carefully
out of Nowhere)arranging
a window,into which people look(while
people stare
arranging and changing placing
carefully there a strange
thing and a known thing here)and

changing everything carefully

spring is like a perhaps
Hand in a window
(carefully to
and fro moving New and
Old things,while
people stare carefully
moving a perhaps
fraction of flower here placing
an inch of air there)and

without breaking anything.

i carry your heart with me

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

time

It's just time: these years of limbo, waiting for a job, waiting for school, projecting future plans three years ahead and writing them on paper as if they might suddenly become reality once the ink dried and no waiting was necessary for the career plans to develop or a counseling practice or studio to take shape.

Sometimes, thinking about these visions in comparison to others--the "I'll just get some hourly job" hurumph--it seems as if they are merely figments, bits of writing on a calendar to be torn up, blown away by my own hot air or the gusts of a changing attitude instead of real, serious, very substantial and meaningful dreams upon which I base my current plans that will take me away from limbo. Oh, a girl loves to be rescued.

But through all of these thoughts and dreams, time is the only real plaything--real or imagined. There is no guarantee of three years from now, no counseling practice or studio or hourly job. There is no limbo, even. There is only time--now. And then, it's a matter of acceptance.

it's in the stars

When KATE was born, the Sun was in the Sign Cancer, the Healer. KATE has a powerful imagination, combined with a remarkable ability to tune into someone's deepest self and to make people feel safe around her. KATE longs to be treated with as much profound sensitivity and nurturing as can give. KATE wants security, roots, and ample room--inner or outer--to let that imagination flow. If a relationship doesn't feel safe, she may retreat into a Cancerian shell. A great intimate art for KATE, one on which the health of her adult relationships depends, involves learning to insist that her needs and feelings are just as important as the partner's, rather than hiding behind co-dependent invisibility.