I have a faint memory of myself as a child, perhaps four years old. I had been crying, and I stood in my parents' bedroom, looking at myself in the full length mirror on the inside of Mum's cupboard. In the midst of my tears, I was intensely interested in what I looked like when I was crying. At the snot running down my face. As if it somehow made it more real to be able to see it. Look, that is me. And I am crying.
Flash forward circa 2009. I am a 39 year old woman on Christmas holidays and I am feeling somewhat sad. Life does not always script itself to fit into our holidays. Sometimes I am as wise as the sea, as intuitive as a psychic, as knowing as a crone. Embedded in the midst of that wisdom and surefootedness that four year old child still lives. It was she who took me into the bathroom earlier, where the light is best, over against the darkness of the rest of the house where the blinds are all drawn against the stark sunness blaring outside, to photodocument the tears running down my face.
I did have the perspective just before to find the space to laugh at myself, looking at photographs of me crying. I hope never, ever to lose that four year old. She still has the ability to give me a laugh even while the 39er is belting out her worn tunes of angst.
I think I will treasure those couple of photographs when I look back in years to come. There is such a harsh and sweet sadness about them. There is a place for such documentation. Looking at them makes my sadness more real to myself. And the more real it is to myself, the easier to let it go, to flow away on the breeze.
I was tempted to illustrate this post with one of the photos. After all, why not? I have just informed you that I have been crying today. If I have told you I have been crying, why not show you at the same time? But something shared publicly is something you lose privately. I love to share elements of my life in my writing, my art, my blog. I understand the fears some people have about that, but there is no fear in that for me (or at least not enough to stop me, though it sometimes makes my palms a little sweaty). And although sometimes I get it wrong and realise I have violated a flimsy boundary, it is a calculated risk. It pays off when people thank me for sharing deep darknesses. But there is also something honouring and boundary-building about things not shared in a world where privacy has largely absconded.
There is a saying that a real writer will sell their own mother's secrets for a good story, but I think that is simply untrue. There are 140 different amazing stories about asparagus if you are willing to sit and ponder a little. And sure, ploughing the depths of myself as writing subject is a most healing way of making myself real. It is sort of like that four year old watching herself cry in the mirror. But both are after all reflections of real events. But to think that my life is up for grabs as blog illustrations, as art, violates my own boundaries. It is not up for grabs, it is my own right and my choice, but it is something that needs to be used with wisdom. To be too open is to deny the deepness of myself as a human being, the sacredness of that dark space, the necessity of letting things ferment, of pondering things in my heart, of keeping them close to me, of sharing them once at a time between me and somebody whose eyes I can look into while I share them.
I finished a short story last night. I will post it on my other blog when I have polished it up some more. In that story the protagonist, thinly disguised as myself, finds herself untethered out in the world. Her saving grace is place and people. Real places and real people. As are mine.
And you can see them all if you friend me on Facebook :)
Showing posts with label identity. Show all posts
Showing posts with label identity. Show all posts
Some of the Hawthorn supporters I sat near tonight were such a dismal pack of entitled little bastards that the evening was 20 times more hellish than it needed to have been.
My team got comprehensively beaten by our arch rival. It was never going to be a pleasant experience. But these dudes added a lovely patina of barely contained fury to my already rather dismal viewing experience.
Seriously, there's some blokes out there with real bad anger management problems. I understand why such a thing could be prevalent in today's society. I think men oftentimes feel lost, not exactly sure of how they should be behaving in a post-feminist society where women have somewhat found their voices in some ways. Sometimes it seems that men have been left feeling a bit emasculated. Maybe a bit like women have found their voices and men have lost theirs. Or at least had them stifled under waves of political correctness and lack of social cues on what is acceptable and what isn't. Sitting at the football is one of the few places where you get to yell and scream and vent your spleen and it's fine.
To an extent, though, surely. Because surely in the end, losing a game, playing like poos, being outcoached and outmuscled by the team you hate the most really doesn't entitle you to behave like petulant brats, does it? Some sort of perspective has to come into play at some point. In the end, you know that ultimately it's just a game, no matter how you doth love it, and it's only one game within a season, as thoroughly disappointing as the episode was. Your team has many injuries. And if they are playing a shocker, at some level you know that the players are not losing just to make your weekend start off all wubbly and wascally.
Several amongst the bunch of males surrounding me this evening called our team c***s. The guy next to me screamed his guts out the entire game and abused basically every single player on the team whose colour he was wearing. Some other dweeb threw away his scarf in a fit of childish rage at the end of the game.
I understand the whole anger thing. I was angry myself. But maybe some men need to consider why their self-identities are so flimsy that they can feel entitled to behave like a big tantrum bubby simply because their team has had a bad night at the office.
Their team, and identifying with and being part of that team, gives them that lovely little winning feeling. We all love that feeling. But if you need it too much, then the players, the individual people who are talented enough to be playing professional Aussie Rules, are lauded and loved and exalted but then ripped down when they don't perform to scratch. As if they are just wind-up robots that give you a nice feeling, like rats pressing down on the lever for more drugs, rather than living, breathing people.
And a living, breathing entity. A sporting club to which many people belong, or at least identify with. Part of that adherence involves loyalty, doesn't it? A willingness to stick with your team through "thick or thin"? To be willing to go with the losses as well as the wins, rather than smacking away the drug dealer when they don't give you your fix.
Some Hawthorn supporters need to lift their game even more than the playing list. The playing list has interrupted preseasons and half their backline missing. Some supporters behave like they have interrupted psychologies.
My team got comprehensively beaten by our arch rival. It was never going to be a pleasant experience. But these dudes added a lovely patina of barely contained fury to my already rather dismal viewing experience.
Seriously, there's some blokes out there with real bad anger management problems. I understand why such a thing could be prevalent in today's society. I think men oftentimes feel lost, not exactly sure of how they should be behaving in a post-feminist society where women have somewhat found their voices in some ways. Sometimes it seems that men have been left feeling a bit emasculated. Maybe a bit like women have found their voices and men have lost theirs. Or at least had them stifled under waves of political correctness and lack of social cues on what is acceptable and what isn't. Sitting at the football is one of the few places where you get to yell and scream and vent your spleen and it's fine.
To an extent, though, surely. Because surely in the end, losing a game, playing like poos, being outcoached and outmuscled by the team you hate the most really doesn't entitle you to behave like petulant brats, does it? Some sort of perspective has to come into play at some point. In the end, you know that ultimately it's just a game, no matter how you doth love it, and it's only one game within a season, as thoroughly disappointing as the episode was. Your team has many injuries. And if they are playing a shocker, at some level you know that the players are not losing just to make your weekend start off all wubbly and wascally.
Several amongst the bunch of males surrounding me this evening called our team c***s. The guy next to me screamed his guts out the entire game and abused basically every single player on the team whose colour he was wearing. Some other dweeb threw away his scarf in a fit of childish rage at the end of the game.
I understand the whole anger thing. I was angry myself. But maybe some men need to consider why their self-identities are so flimsy that they can feel entitled to behave like a big tantrum bubby simply because their team has had a bad night at the office.
Their team, and identifying with and being part of that team, gives them that lovely little winning feeling. We all love that feeling. But if you need it too much, then the players, the individual people who are talented enough to be playing professional Aussie Rules, are lauded and loved and exalted but then ripped down when they don't perform to scratch. As if they are just wind-up robots that give you a nice feeling, like rats pressing down on the lever for more drugs, rather than living, breathing people.
And a living, breathing entity. A sporting club to which many people belong, or at least identify with. Part of that adherence involves loyalty, doesn't it? A willingness to stick with your team through "thick or thin"? To be willing to go with the losses as well as the wins, rather than smacking away the drug dealer when they don't give you your fix.
Some Hawthorn supporters need to lift their game even more than the playing list. The playing list has interrupted preseasons and half their backline missing. Some supporters behave like they have interrupted psychologies.
Taking Barbara's lead to lighten up (introspection has it's place but goddamn it, it gets boring as batshit after a while ;) - and dammit if I'm not lightening up by focussing on myself and my identity. Who will save me from this body of death ;):
| You Are 35% Left Brained, 65% Right Brained |
 The left side of your brain controls verbal ability, attention to detail, and reasoning. Left brained people are good at communication and persuading others. If you're left brained, you are likely good at math and logic. Your left brain prefers dogs, reading, and quiet. The right side of your brain is all about creativity and flexibility. Daring and intuitive, right brained people see the world in their unique way. If you're right brained, you likely have a talent for creative writing and art. Your right brain prefers day dreaming, philosophy, and sports. |
How we all ever get anything done with all of these self-assessments to do is beyond me ;) The latest one I have done is a spiritual self-assessment called What Archetypes Are Calling You, which I first saw at Dangerous Christian's blog.
I scored:
Revolutionary. You are tired of playing by the rules. In fact, you may be ready to take this job/relationship/habit/way of thinking and shove it. Or, just find a way to express that wild child in you.
This all tends to resonate quite strongly with me, so I think it's quite close to the bone. In my more negative frame of mind, though, after doing this self-assessment I got thinking about how fun it is to do these, but I also reflected upon how drawn we are as a culture to being told in black and white what kind of person we are. Identity crises are a dime a dozen when you live in the West in the 21st century, seemingly. There's just not enough of us which gets reflected back to us unless it's been airbrushed first and resembles no one we know. Least of all ourselves. And those of us who call ourselves Christians or who follow Jesus are not immune to the identity crisis. In fact, the Church is in a state of analysis just as deep if not more deep than the prevailing culture. Kinda interesting, huh. Our identity crisis likely stems from our misappropriation of God crisis. Which seems to be undergoing a bit of a change itself.
This is an interesting time to be living in. I think there is a whole lot of change on the horizon. Can you feel it? Strap yourselves in, kids :)
Being disorientated is a good thing. It really is. Not that it's good at the time. At the time it's scary, frustrating, alienating, fearful. But what it leads to is always worth the pain. I like how Wayne Jacobsen says that being disillusioned is good because it means you had illusions that needed dissing. I think that is happening in spades in the Western Church. How lovely the approaching freedom smells :)
I scored:
Revolutionary. You are tired of playing by the rules. In fact, you may be ready to take this job/relationship/habit/way of thinking and shove it. Or, just find a way to express that wild child in you.
Magician. You have a strong desire to heal or transform people or situations. Now is the time to develop your power. Explore the art of changing your own consciousness in order to influence others. Be the future you want to see.
Creator. You have a strong need now to express your creativity and imaginative potential. Find an art form and practice getting good at it. You may not be Picasso, but you do have a vision. Now is the time to encapsulate it in tangible form.This all tends to resonate quite strongly with me, so I think it's quite close to the bone. In my more negative frame of mind, though, after doing this self-assessment I got thinking about how fun it is to do these, but I also reflected upon how drawn we are as a culture to being told in black and white what kind of person we are. Identity crises are a dime a dozen when you live in the West in the 21st century, seemingly. There's just not enough of us which gets reflected back to us unless it's been airbrushed first and resembles no one we know. Least of all ourselves. And those of us who call ourselves Christians or who follow Jesus are not immune to the identity crisis. In fact, the Church is in a state of analysis just as deep if not more deep than the prevailing culture. Kinda interesting, huh. Our identity crisis likely stems from our misappropriation of God crisis. Which seems to be undergoing a bit of a change itself.
This is an interesting time to be living in. I think there is a whole lot of change on the horizon. Can you feel it? Strap yourselves in, kids :)
Being disorientated is a good thing. It really is. Not that it's good at the time. At the time it's scary, frustrating, alienating, fearful. But what it leads to is always worth the pain. I like how Wayne Jacobsen says that being disillusioned is good because it means you had illusions that needed dissing. I think that is happening in spades in the Western Church. How lovely the approaching freedom smells :)
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