“Tears soften human edges.”
Florence Ondré
Showing posts with label coping. Show all posts
Showing posts with label coping. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Remembering In The Capitalistic Crunch
by Florence Ondré
When I'm down in the dumps
Thoughts jumbled in clumps
I am stopped in my tracks on the floor
When breaths come in gasps
While society rasps
Buy some fear and then purchase still more
These are times which confuse
And do rarely amuse
Still, there's something that's left to be learned
I do not have to lose
There are roads yet to choose
With good outcomes I've already earned
For my worth is within
As the world makes each spin
A given of good by design
Not some goal I achieve
Or a want or a need
It's just be-ing my spark of Divine.
When I'm down in the dumps
Thoughts jumbled in clumps
I am stopped in my tracks on the floor
When breaths come in gasps
While society rasps
Buy some fear and then purchase still more
These are times which confuse
And do rarely amuse
Still, there's something that's left to be learned
I do not have to lose
There are roads yet to choose
With good outcomes I've already earned
For my worth is within
As the world makes each spin
A given of good by design
Not some goal I achieve
Or a want or a need
It's just be-ing my spark of Divine.
Thursday, March 01, 2007
C-C-C Coping
by Florence Ondré
Since I've fractured my foot and had to stay off it totally for over 2 weeks now and am looking at more like 4 weeks of being third base, I've been put to the test of humility. Humble pie has raged with pride and being in the position of having to ask for help with every little thing has been alternately hard as sharp nails and soft as loving touch.
There is no other way to say it than sandpapering the soul is most of the middle ground of this accident added to my spine disability.
Raised on a steady diet of you-can-do-it-for-yourself and if-you-don't-do-for- yourself-no-one-else-will is still cemented in me like bedrock resisting the chisel.
As much as I know that in my disability, I am someone else's turn to grow in giving and my own opportunity to balance my energy of giving with receiving, I still chafe against not being able and feel like a burden.
When I need something and have to call for help, hearing a groan, moan or umph of air expelled confirms my worst suspicions that no matter how loved I am, I am a pain in someone's ass.
And the tenor of energy paving each tending to my task is as important as words which say, "I'm here for you. What do you need? How would you like that?" or "You're asking too much. You have to have it done your way. Why didn't you ask for that when I was in here the first time."
To me, anything smacking of those last three is the SST straight to hurt and anger.
Getting my needs met with a snarl or a diatribe of discussion of an array of choices of how else the need can be met other than what I asked for, just adds insult to injury.
All that goes through my brain is, "What? Am I speaking a foreign language here? I don't remember outsourcing to get a glass of water and an Advil!"
Today, I took yesterday's quote by Christopher Morley, “Heavy hearts, like heavy clouds in the sky, are best relieved by the letting of a little water,” and I cried- several times- because it is hard and it hurts to be disabled and lack of compassion in communication adds to that hurt.
I get it that everyone's needs will sometimes overlap and that sucks for the handicapped person in the can't-do situation.
That pushes me past hurt to say, "Screw it!" and try to do the very things that will injure me more...like hobbling in pain and winding up smacking my fractured foot on whatever piece of furniture snags me instead of asking for assistance.
Just for today, or I should say moments in this day, a song from a broadway show entitled "It sucks to be me!" is rambling around my brain.
Will I get past this?
Yes.
And I'll still communicate forthrightly as plainly and straightforwardly as I can. No. I'm not shutting up or shutting down or making myself smaller in any way-even though I feel shrunken into myself often in this process of healing and hampering.
I'll regain my sense of humor and positive attitude - after the pain of the project of showering like a flamingo on one foot; trying to be a magician getting the soles clean and cared for like an inflight contortionist.
But first, I'm gonna let the water out of the heavy clouds in my heart and cry.
Since I've fractured my foot and had to stay off it totally for over 2 weeks now and am looking at more like 4 weeks of being third base, I've been put to the test of humility. Humble pie has raged with pride and being in the position of having to ask for help with every little thing has been alternately hard as sharp nails and soft as loving touch.
There is no other way to say it than sandpapering the soul is most of the middle ground of this accident added to my spine disability.
Raised on a steady diet of you-can-do-it-for-yourself and if-you-don't-do-for- yourself-no-one-else-will is still cemented in me like bedrock resisting the chisel.
As much as I know that in my disability, I am someone else's turn to grow in giving and my own opportunity to balance my energy of giving with receiving, I still chafe against not being able and feel like a burden.
When I need something and have to call for help, hearing a groan, moan or umph of air expelled confirms my worst suspicions that no matter how loved I am, I am a pain in someone's ass.
And the tenor of energy paving each tending to my task is as important as words which say, "I'm here for you. What do you need? How would you like that?" or "You're asking too much. You have to have it done your way. Why didn't you ask for that when I was in here the first time."
To me, anything smacking of those last three is the SST straight to hurt and anger.
Getting my needs met with a snarl or a diatribe of discussion of an array of choices of how else the need can be met other than what I asked for, just adds insult to injury.
All that goes through my brain is, "What? Am I speaking a foreign language here? I don't remember outsourcing to get a glass of water and an Advil!"
Today, I took yesterday's quote by Christopher Morley, “Heavy hearts, like heavy clouds in the sky, are best relieved by the letting of a little water,” and I cried- several times- because it is hard and it hurts to be disabled and lack of compassion in communication adds to that hurt.
I get it that everyone's needs will sometimes overlap and that sucks for the handicapped person in the can't-do situation.
That pushes me past hurt to say, "Screw it!" and try to do the very things that will injure me more...like hobbling in pain and winding up smacking my fractured foot on whatever piece of furniture snags me instead of asking for assistance.
Just for today, or I should say moments in this day, a song from a broadway show entitled "It sucks to be me!" is rambling around my brain.
Will I get past this?
Yes.
And I'll still communicate forthrightly as plainly and straightforwardly as I can. No. I'm not shutting up or shutting down or making myself smaller in any way-even though I feel shrunken into myself often in this process of healing and hampering.
I'll regain my sense of humor and positive attitude - after the pain of the project of showering like a flamingo on one foot; trying to be a magician getting the soles clean and cared for like an inflight contortionist.
But first, I'm gonna let the water out of the heavy clouds in my heart and cry.
Friday, November 03, 2006
The Power Of Music and Friends
Remember the phrase, "been down so long it looks like up to me?"
Well, on that long elevator ride up from the depth of the doldrums, there are several tools for uplifting which rival the rising contrivance Otis made available to us dwellers of many levels.
Consumed with whatever present challenge currently puts our lights out; makes us feel like there's not much bright in tomorrow, feeds the mistaken, gerbil-cage-spinning thoughts that there will never be any way to rise through to some distant above.
Life after chemical contamination, added to physical and daily life challenges has constructed a new basement in the house of me.
It's no view from a bridge, I can tell you. Waist level looks like the Himalayas and a knee high breeze is enough to fell me.
Bed and couch grab me; suck me in with a siren call as the energy of coping flails and flags.
This is coming from a person who can find the proverbial pony in a room full of horse pocky or a ray of sunshine in a gunmetal grey overhead.
The season of change has lingered long and life’s menu is crowded with less than palate pleasing entrees of passings, crises, catastrophes, calamities, leaderless leadership, hell for health and weird weather.
A new book of grief is being written in the Akashic records like acid etchings on our hearts.
And yet when I can move myself off flattened to floor to peek in my toolkit, the lamp of hope glimmers, however dimming, enough to shed light on the bottom of the bag for me to see a friend or two, hear music, or glimpse an Angel waiting patiently for its moment to be of service.
Last night was one of those rare eves of enlightened moments, strung together like sparkling precious gems in moonlight of a black velvet sky.
My partner and I pushed past pain and frustration to get out the door to go meet our friend, Heide, in the city for dinner before seeing out of town friends perform a recital of classical music for piano and violin.
We were like trains converging from different tracks; she coming from work in Manhattan and us schlepping in hours of traffic from the suburbs to the city, yet all of us thinking a sigh, unbeknownst to the others, "I can get through it all. At least at the end of this day there will be lovely, soothing music."
Concerned with the pain of sitting too long with a spinal disc out of alignment, Tom was thinking an added, "At least there will be Thai food."
He dropped me off at the restaurant, a pleasant, simple aromatic space. Good sign. If you can smell the cooking pulling you in, disembodied on the waves of fragrant spices, you generally have a good inkling that there will be some pleasure, however fleeting, ameliorating the hammer on the anvil.
Heide was waiting, already at a table laid out with menus, water and welcoming energy.
Tom drove off to find his precious on-street parking to which his Angels guide him, mostly with a few turns around the block to whet his appetite for the reward of perfect space for patience.
It didn't take long for us to dive into hugs, catching up, in depth conversation that only comes with the deep connection of ageless family-of-choice; and Lemongrass Chicken, Tamarind Duck, Massaman Curry, fresh Basil Rolls and Curry Puff Pastry. Over aromatic tea, spirits lifted out of a seemingly bottomless basement of depression to the first and second floors of rays of relief.
Then off we cabbed to the concert.
My excitement at seeing and hearing the dear friends, who years ago came into my life through another mutual friend to accompany my singing at her San Francisco wedding, mounted as we entered the hall.
Added to that was my child-like delight at finally introducing them to my beloved, Tom, and sister in light, Heide, who only knew the pianist, Nancy, through G-Mail, our years-old, online circle of gratitude.
They'd come to know one another in the unique focus on expressing thanks each day and yet had not met face to face. I was giggly with glee at the prospect of connecting the dots of these Angels in my life.
Up the cubicle-with-floor-indicators rose another level.
Next there was meeting concert pianist, Gila Goldstein, President of the New York chapter of the American Liszt Society, who was bringing us all together in the completion of her task of arranging this concert.
Warm in e-mail and welcoming in person, she shone with a lilting light of her own as she introduced the evening's program.
Another half floor fell away with a glide.
In the next moment, there were my friends, suited and soft velvet, glammed up, sharing center stage only feet in front of me after so many years.
I could barely contain my elation.
“How could she be more glamorous or he sweeter faced with the passage of time?" I thought as she adjusted her seat, poised her hands over the ebony and ivory keys and he lifted bow to string for their opening volley of an earfest of magical proportions.
It took me practically the entire first selection to get through the joy and awe radiating through me on the round robin of musical notes and words spinning round my head, “These are my friends making this magnificent music!”
Glancing at Heide and Tom gave me smiling confirmation that they were well on the enjoyment elevator.
I gave myself over completely to the sensuous sounds of the rhythms, chords and melodious march of the music.
Jose Cueto, making a single, shaped box of wood sound like several sets of sensational strings and Nancy Roldan, flying across keys tinkling soft light and roaring waves to carry us to heights we’d forgotten possible; ascended our glass elevator to the Heavens. The César Franck Sonata in A major, allegretto ben moderato, brought us to heart overflowing, eye-brimming tears.
I breathed in the music like air.
Playing together and each taking solo turns, they wound an evening of joyous healing; uplifting energy to float us out of our seats, bodies and earthly cares; transporting us on the alae of the magic of music beyond dreaming.
Ground fell away, roof disappeared and a stunning recognition of profound gifts put to use obscured daily denseness and debilitation.
Aha! I realized in the afterglow of crescendo into echoes and applause to silence; in the hugs and hellos and later gathering at a nearby restaurant, sharing fellowship, food and fun; not only was I not out of tools, the ones in the bottom of the bag were far beyond fine.
I looked around the long table at the happy faces of old friends and new; each haloed in a pool of soft, golden light; 12 of us joined later by 1 to make a brilliant baker’s dozen; trading funny tales; exchanging enjoyment of work; talking music, art, life- and saw Angels on Earth.
Friendship, music, good conversation shared over robust bread dipped in rich olive oil, sparkling water and wine, laughter and the warm energy of being together; gifts shared. With the recognition of these, it is possible to lift out of down in the dark; to be balanced by light which constructs our escalator elite; our stairway to Heaven and metamorphoses a lift into a transcendevator.
With these illuminating implements, in the tiers of the skyscraper of us, it’s not that far from the basement to the penthouse.
On the power of music and the feathers of love of our Earth Angels whom we call friends, it is possible to soar with new wings.
For cds and further information on the concert piano and violin talents of Nancy Roldan and José Miguel Cuerto, please visit www.nancyroldan.com
For further information on the American Liszt Society, please visit http://www.americanlisztsociety.org
For further information on Gila Goldstein, please visit www.gilagoldstein.com
Well, on that long elevator ride up from the depth of the doldrums, there are several tools for uplifting which rival the rising contrivance Otis made available to us dwellers of many levels.
Consumed with whatever present challenge currently puts our lights out; makes us feel like there's not much bright in tomorrow, feeds the mistaken, gerbil-cage-spinning thoughts that there will never be any way to rise through to some distant above.
Life after chemical contamination, added to physical and daily life challenges has constructed a new basement in the house of me.
It's no view from a bridge, I can tell you. Waist level looks like the Himalayas and a knee high breeze is enough to fell me.
Bed and couch grab me; suck me in with a siren call as the energy of coping flails and flags.
This is coming from a person who can find the proverbial pony in a room full of horse pocky or a ray of sunshine in a gunmetal grey overhead.
The season of change has lingered long and life’s menu is crowded with less than palate pleasing entrees of passings, crises, catastrophes, calamities, leaderless leadership, hell for health and weird weather.
A new book of grief is being written in the Akashic records like acid etchings on our hearts.
And yet when I can move myself off flattened to floor to peek in my toolkit, the lamp of hope glimmers, however dimming, enough to shed light on the bottom of the bag for me to see a friend or two, hear music, or glimpse an Angel waiting patiently for its moment to be of service.
Last night was one of those rare eves of enlightened moments, strung together like sparkling precious gems in moonlight of a black velvet sky.
My partner and I pushed past pain and frustration to get out the door to go meet our friend, Heide, in the city for dinner before seeing out of town friends perform a recital of classical music for piano and violin.
We were like trains converging from different tracks; she coming from work in Manhattan and us schlepping in hours of traffic from the suburbs to the city, yet all of us thinking a sigh, unbeknownst to the others, "I can get through it all. At least at the end of this day there will be lovely, soothing music."
Concerned with the pain of sitting too long with a spinal disc out of alignment, Tom was thinking an added, "At least there will be Thai food."
He dropped me off at the restaurant, a pleasant, simple aromatic space. Good sign. If you can smell the cooking pulling you in, disembodied on the waves of fragrant spices, you generally have a good inkling that there will be some pleasure, however fleeting, ameliorating the hammer on the anvil.
Heide was waiting, already at a table laid out with menus, water and welcoming energy.
Tom drove off to find his precious on-street parking to which his Angels guide him, mostly with a few turns around the block to whet his appetite for the reward of perfect space for patience.
It didn't take long for us to dive into hugs, catching up, in depth conversation that only comes with the deep connection of ageless family-of-choice; and Lemongrass Chicken, Tamarind Duck, Massaman Curry, fresh Basil Rolls and Curry Puff Pastry. Over aromatic tea, spirits lifted out of a seemingly bottomless basement of depression to the first and second floors of rays of relief.
Then off we cabbed to the concert.
My excitement at seeing and hearing the dear friends, who years ago came into my life through another mutual friend to accompany my singing at her San Francisco wedding, mounted as we entered the hall.
Added to that was my child-like delight at finally introducing them to my beloved, Tom, and sister in light, Heide, who only knew the pianist, Nancy, through G-Mail, our years-old, online circle of gratitude.
They'd come to know one another in the unique focus on expressing thanks each day and yet had not met face to face. I was giggly with glee at the prospect of connecting the dots of these Angels in my life.
Up the cubicle-with-floor-indicators rose another level.
Next there was meeting concert pianist, Gila Goldstein, President of the New York chapter of the American Liszt Society, who was bringing us all together in the completion of her task of arranging this concert.
Warm in e-mail and welcoming in person, she shone with a lilting light of her own as she introduced the evening's program.
Another half floor fell away with a glide.
In the next moment, there were my friends, suited and soft velvet, glammed up, sharing center stage only feet in front of me after so many years.
I could barely contain my elation.
“How could she be more glamorous or he sweeter faced with the passage of time?" I thought as she adjusted her seat, poised her hands over the ebony and ivory keys and he lifted bow to string for their opening volley of an earfest of magical proportions.
It took me practically the entire first selection to get through the joy and awe radiating through me on the round robin of musical notes and words spinning round my head, “These are my friends making this magnificent music!”
Glancing at Heide and Tom gave me smiling confirmation that they were well on the enjoyment elevator.
I gave myself over completely to the sensuous sounds of the rhythms, chords and melodious march of the music.
Jose Cueto, making a single, shaped box of wood sound like several sets of sensational strings and Nancy Roldan, flying across keys tinkling soft light and roaring waves to carry us to heights we’d forgotten possible; ascended our glass elevator to the Heavens. The César Franck Sonata in A major, allegretto ben moderato, brought us to heart overflowing, eye-brimming tears.
I breathed in the music like air.
Playing together and each taking solo turns, they wound an evening of joyous healing; uplifting energy to float us out of our seats, bodies and earthly cares; transporting us on the alae of the magic of music beyond dreaming.
Ground fell away, roof disappeared and a stunning recognition of profound gifts put to use obscured daily denseness and debilitation.
Aha! I realized in the afterglow of crescendo into echoes and applause to silence; in the hugs and hellos and later gathering at a nearby restaurant, sharing fellowship, food and fun; not only was I not out of tools, the ones in the bottom of the bag were far beyond fine.
I looked around the long table at the happy faces of old friends and new; each haloed in a pool of soft, golden light; 12 of us joined later by 1 to make a brilliant baker’s dozen; trading funny tales; exchanging enjoyment of work; talking music, art, life- and saw Angels on Earth.
Friendship, music, good conversation shared over robust bread dipped in rich olive oil, sparkling water and wine, laughter and the warm energy of being together; gifts shared. With the recognition of these, it is possible to lift out of down in the dark; to be balanced by light which constructs our escalator elite; our stairway to Heaven and metamorphoses a lift into a transcendevator.
With these illuminating implements, in the tiers of the skyscraper of us, it’s not that far from the basement to the penthouse.
On the power of music and the feathers of love of our Earth Angels whom we call friends, it is possible to soar with new wings.
For cds and further information on the concert piano and violin talents of Nancy Roldan and José Miguel Cuerto, please visit www.nancyroldan.com
For further information on the American Liszt Society, please visit http://www.americanlisztsociety.org
For further information on Gila Goldstein, please visit www.gilagoldstein.com
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