The New Year always makes me giddy. Maybe it’s the lingering buzz from the holiday season. Maybe it’s the symbolic nature of starting afresh. A wiping of the slate proffered up by the God’s as it were.  Maybe it’s just the opportunity coughexcusecough to continue the celebration.  Perhaps, and most likely in my case, it’s that damn chant that’s always running through my head. “Seeing is not believing. Believing is seeing.” I always have high expectations for the New Year and I am seldom disappointed.

So, this year began with an (so far) extremely mild winter which makes this scribbler extremely happy. It was foretold though, by yours truly. When we bought our home, we had been living in the city. We had no need of large tires, heavy snow shovels or plugged in machinations for moving snow. Hence the double dose of cabin fever we suffered when we got snowed in, not once but twice. Red spots and all. We learned our lesson. I do not look good in cabin fever. So, we bought a snow shovel and traded in our teeny, tiny car for one with enough clearance to not rub bellies with 3 inches of snow.  So there you have it. We are now prepared for snow and ice. And it’s 60 degrees in January.  (She says with a huge smile on her face. No red spots, none at all)

I have been counting my blessings and tweaking my resolutions. I get to go to some phenomenal training this week. I was chosen along with 9 others to go and I’m so excited I can hardly stand it. I got a great teaching schedule for February. My friend got a badly needed NEW LIVER! (The world is good. The world is very good.) Mr. Scribbler and I managed to survive the holidays with our new healthy lifestyles still intact and continue to grow stronger both in health and will. I have a brand new and amazing management team at work that promises to continue our growth there as well. 

We had there a group of people from all over who found each other. A writers/bloggers/vloggers group who participated in conversations spawned by one video or blog or comment inspiring another to engage. Many of us became good friends in spite of the troubles and have remained in contact elsewhere in the blogosphere. We regaled each other with humor, support, advice, feedback and friendship. Many of us were by nature, observers.

That’s one of the things that makes blogging so delicious. Those of us who prefer to stand back, can jump in, converse, contribute when we feel so inspired, and then step back and allow the conversation to continue from a distance. I can, for example, read a blog or watch a video at 2:00 a.m., comment and go do something else. I always return with enthusiasm to see if my comments had been addressed or what others had contributed. Long distance friendship is much more accommodating to reticent communicators than phones or lunch dates.

Participating in a conversation via a blog is like texting or calling when you know the recipient of your intended blathering won’t be near enough to the phone to interrupt your busy day with *gasp* a conversation. Which, incidentally, is like being caught in the undertow when a live and breathing being answers in place of the expected recording of Mae West or Elvis requesting that you leave a message. I always lose my train of thought. I have actually had people think there was no one on the line and hang up before I gathered my wandering senses enough to respond. It has been suggested that the difference between my ability to form a coherent thought when I’m expecting a machine and my ability to communicate via a key board is akin to the great abyss.

Speaking of which, I found this in my perusing for some worthwhile, or at least entertaining blogs to read:

“The Church of the Great Abyss was founded by our Mother Tiamat at 9.00 pm on the 26th. of October (according to the Rev. James Lightfoot, a notable Hebraist) in the year 4004 BC (if you accept the calculations of Bishop Ussher).”

Who knew? While I wasn’t particularly inspired to read more about “The Church” I did put some thought to “the year 4004 BC”. You never know what will ignite your imagination. I ended up spending an inordinate amount of time reading about the cultivation of rice in Southeast Asia and maize in Mexico, the wheel and Mesopotamia and particularly interesting to this blogger, the earliest writing systems, Sumerian cuneiform and Vinca Symbols. (Although many contend the Vinca symbols, while conveying messages weren’t REALLY writing because they didn’t actually encode language. After all these millennia, the devil is still in the details.

 Isn’t the blogosphere glorious?

There was a time when all I had to do to find some fabulous blog to read was turn on my machine and go to my favorite web site. There would appear, almost magically, all sorts of conversations, discussions, observations and the like. Some, I would read and ponder a bit. Others, I would comment on or praise for the profound thoughts or creative bent.  There was never a shortage of delightful reads or inspiration.

I don’t know what happened but the current changed. Perhaps the stars misaligned. Or maybe it was me. Whatever caused the shift in the blogosphere, I no longer easily find blogs that inspire me to participate or write. It isn’t that there aren’t millions to choose from. In fact, that may be part of the problem. An infinite number of choices often precludes finding what we are looking for no matter what we seek. Consider trying to choose paint for your walls when faced with and entire wall of paint chips.

My problem is, without interaction or feedback, it’s difficult for me to write. There is no dialogue. I still have words swimming around disrupting the cobwebs on my  brain, sporadically landing on the screen, on napkins at restaurants, on my hand. They don’t lead to anything. They are not edifying. They are not contributing. They are not culminating into something more than they were before I wrote them.

I have often said I write because I must. Audience or no, the words erupt and must be spoken…er…typed lest they crowd out everything else in my brain, preventing me from doing anything else until I set the thoughts free.  The discovery is, however, they will not burst forth. They will simply dry up and blow away until there is nothing left. What’s that phrase? “Use it or lose it.”? I never liked that phrase. Subconsciously, I must have known it’s deeper and more profound meaning. That this love of words and writing, this art form, this gift is not necessarily permanent or mine. That if I neglect or ignore the words, they can be taken from me.  That if I do not search for inspiration, I may not ever find it again. That if the dreaded case of writer’s block lasted too long, it might just get stuck like that.

Write on…

One Autumn day, right on the corner where the soil meets the porch, a dandelion had bloomed. I know it's just a weed. I know that people with lovely yards do not see any intrinsic value in them. But when I saw it, I had to get a photo. It was the brightest yellow, all the more dramatic against the dark brown earth beneath it. It was leaning slightly toward me as if it wanted to be noticed, not fearing destruction, but rather hoping for acceptance.

When I entered the house, I went about my normal routine of settling in and decided to grab the camera. Thinking I would just take a quick shot or two, in case what I saw in person would translate through the lens. I ended up spending quite a bit of time with that dandelion. Shooting from different angles, up close, far away, in color and black and white. We got to be good friends, that dandelion and I. I thought about how we sometimes miss the most marvelous things because we don't take the time to observe them properly. I thought about how I'd like to get some shots of it once it had turned to seed and then put the photos side by side. There is something lovely and comforting in the cycle of life, particularly when we look closely.

I got some lovely shots of my dandelion and I was quite excited when I ran back into the house to show my split apart my "garden photos". He enthusiastically agreed that it was indeed a magnificent garden. :-)

The next day, however, when I got home from work, it was dark but I noticed right away. My garden had been pillaged. My dandelion was gone. Apparently, our maintenance crew was prompt. While I appreciated the job they did immensely, and our community was always lovely, I miss my little dandelion garden.

That others don't appreciate how lovely and delicate they are is not a surprise to me. That others see them as a blight on an otherwise immaculate lawn, is understandable. But what other dandelions do we miss because we fail to look closely? Are there people, things, circumstances that, upon closer examination, will reveal themselves to be more than they appear? And, furthermore, are they different because we see them differently? Or are they as they have always been and we are what has changed?

I miss my dandelion garden.

Other times, I stare relentlessly at a blank screen like I’m in a blinking contest. I always blink first. The words just are not there. They do not flow. They do not congeal into productive thought patterns. They do not grace me with their presence at all. It doesn’t matter how long I stare at the screen.

Generally, when that happens, I try to find something to inspire. Or prod. Lately, I have been making jewelry and playing with my camera. While neither of those activities have goaded a decent blog out of me, I have considered the time well spent.

On one occasion, while having a particularly long battle with writer's block, I went out into the back yard and took some shots of the weeds. I like weeds. Actually, it’s the wild flowers that I like. One year, I bought my mother, who is by all accounts the hardest person on the planet to buy for, a wall hanging. I think it was acrylics on an old piece of wood. Across the top it said “Grow where you’re planted.” Below, was a very simple buy lovely garden of wildflowers.

When I gave this piece to my mother I was quite pleased with myself for about a minute and a half. Until she sat it down on the floor, said she’d find a place for it and forgot about it. Ultimately, it ended up on the wall above the commode in the extra bathroom. That was as good a place as any I thought.

Not long after it had taken it’s rightful spot in the throne room, I caught my daughter looking it over quite closely. I stood there waiting to see what her 10 year old appraisal would be. She turned, looked at me and said, “My teacher said weeds are just flowers growing where people don’t want them to grow.”

I’m not sure if that meant she liked the painting or if she meant that weeds in the bathroom were appropriate.

I didn’t ask.

You are not better. You are not stronger. You are not more courageous. I will not be beaten down by your declarations of my inadequacies, as you spew your thoughts like prophecies from the mountain tops. I am onto your game. By pointing out my perceived weaknesses, you hope to draw attention away from your own. You do not look more intelligent by your condescending tone. Your insurgent attitude does not inspire my cooperation. I do not feel guilty for thinking differently, possessing my own opinions, or disagreeing with you and I don't need you to tell me what's wrong with my thinking.

Your criticisms are not constructive, your opinions are not objective, and your motives are not altruistic. You do not share your opinions with me to make me a better person. You do it, simply, to make you feel better about yourself. You do not point out my flaws to help me see; you do it to tear me down. You do it to prevent me from telling your secrets. By declaring me weak and unworthy, you hope to extinguish my integrity. You attempt to destroy me to protect your secrets. You want me to recognize your superiority, your brilliance, your mercy. You do it because you stand taller by standing on the backs of others. You mistake my kindness for weakness. You mistake my silence for compliance.

Your need to control and manipulate overpowers any love, respect or admiration you may feel. Your need to be recognized, honored, and heard, goes beyond reason. You want to be lord and master over everyone and everything, and you are willing to crush any obstacle preventing your ascent. You covet what you do not possess. You create chaos because you are incapable of inner peace. Strength in others threatens you. You demand that which you do not deserve and much more than are willing to give. You are manipulative, unkind, and dark hearted and I owe you nothing. You have not earned my respect or my loyalty.

So, in spite of your efforts, hear this:

I will not be silenced.

I will not be trampled.

I will not watch you destroy others to build yourself up.

I will not be moved by your disingenuous ranting of the injustices against you.

I will not step aside and allow you to barrel through what I have built.

I will not feed your sense of entitlement.

I will not give you the respect you demand, I will give you the respect you have earned.

I will not allow you to manipulate me.I will not allow you to make me feel guilty.

And I will not be goaded into behaving as darkly as you do.

Condescension will not pin me to the ground, or cause me to cower to your criticisms.

I see through you now.

In elementary school, I got beaten up everyday. I still remember the girl that did it. I often imagine her and wonder where she is and how her life turned out. I hope she didn't end up living some dreadful, painful life of want due to the bad Karma she must have acquired for her cruelty. As I got older, I realized that she must have really felt awful about herself. She picked on me to feel better. I doubt it was a successful plan. There was another girl too. She never hit me. But her words hurt worse. I've searched for her from time to time since the advent of the www. She reminded me of a chihuahua. I would think about that when she was running her mouth. As she was spewing her hateful mantras toward me, I would picture a little yippy dog with little hair and bug eyes. It always made me laugh. To this day, whenever I see one of those dogs I think of her. It still makes me laugh although I feel a little bad about disparaging all those sweet little dogs.

It's important to point out here, that for every unkind, creepy kid, I knew far more who were kind, and well, normal.

There's a moral to this story. When someone hit me, I would not hit back. I would stand there and take it, but I would not raise a hand to my aggressor. I think I knew even then, though I didn't understand it at the time. I knew that I did not have it in me to inflict that kind of pain. I don't think that girl ever even bruised me. She hit as hard as she could, but other than the discomfort of a blow to the stomach, she didn't physically hurt me. It was my spirit she broke. I did not understand the need of some to hurt someone else. I was incapable of being unkind in that way because I knew how painful it was. I suspected that nothing I did would hurt as much as whatever it was that was already causing them pain.

As an adult, those concepts are much clearer to me now. Always wondering what is going on in the lives and minds of those who punish themselves by punishing others. The mystery is seldom revealed. As children, we often mistake kindness or apathy or even differences for weakness. I suppose we do that as adults as well. We don't beat them up anymore. Not physically. We withhold love, friendship, respect. We roll our eyes or discount their opinions, assume those we see as weaklings to be wrong or incapable of contributing. Unfortunately for us as well as our victims, we most likely missed opportunities to see within.

What I didn't understand as a child was that pretty much, everyone else felt the same way. In my later years, that would evolve into quite a relief. I wanted to be normal, whatever that was. As it turned out, I was. Finally, I recognize the weakness of those who would belittle another in attempts of self edification.

I still don't hit back.