From my journal, 1974.

This poem brings back memories. I recall typing it out as a homemade card for my dad for either his birthday or Father’s Day, weeks or months after I wrote it. Today I think a lot differently about perfection. Back then I secretly wanted perfect — perfect roses, perfect looks, perfect prospects, perfect romance. I envisioned a perfect future as an adult. A perfect home, a perfect family.

I’ve come to appreciate flaws, in nature and in people — in all the surprising ways things turn out. A perfect rose doesn’t exist, except in a hothouse, and I don’t want to live in a hothouse. No one has a perfect life. Such a life only exists in that trite phrase, happily ever after. Does anyone know what that means? Beauty? There are lots of unhappy beautiful people. Wealth? There are lots of unhappy wealthy people. A fairytale romance? We’ve seen where that got some real life princesses.

Today I find lopsided roses endearing. They’re more like me. I can identify. They’re more like everyone.

As for perfection in my work, in my actions, I’ve learned there are tradeoffs of time and energy and expected outcomes. I can negotiate with myself and decide when to stop and be content. There are points at which I know certain things are done. Maybe they’re perfect, maybe they’re not — but there’s no more to fix, adjust, edit, or tweak. It’s time to move along to the next thing. At that point the next thing becomes the now thing, and that’s most important.

But the sentiment expressed in the poem still applies, and I think a lot now, as I did when I struggled to decide what to do with my life, about one’s calling. We each have one, some purpose for being here. The thing is, it may remain a mystery all our lives, even as we fulfill it. Sometimes the really important things aren’t what we planned, sometimes we don’t even remember them, they’re just the after effects of our passage through others’ lives. The important things are more likely to happen behind us in positive ways if we’re kind than if we aren’t, if we appreciate others than if we don’t, if we’re forgiving rather than not. But we still may not know in this life what they were, how we made someone feel, or inspired them, or taught them.

I think we’re very lucky if we find a purpose we recognize and can be happy with, even if it doesn’t mean being a star, or rich, or having perfect teeth, or keeping one’s hair free of gray, or one’s hair altogether. I remember my mom once saying it would’ve been nice to have more money, but the most important thing one needed in abundance while raising kids was love. She left a lot of love in her wake.

Today I think that with all our flaws we’re glorious, spectacular. We shine, especially if we can accept our imperfections, even love them, and especially if we can love, forgive, and accept the flaws in others, and go on living each day as thoroughly, vibrantly, and full of wonder as possible.

Considering the peace that time has brought me, I wouldn’t be 18 again for anything.

But . . . if I had the body today that I was so dissatisfied with then, I’d be ecstatic. It’s true youth is wasted on the young. At least youthful bodies are. Damn it. (wink)

Copyright © 1974, 2007 Barbara W. Klaser

Dear Mr. Poe,

Thank you for the poetry, the stories, the mystery.

Happy Birthday.

Respectfully,
a fan

* * *

The Raven (excerpt)

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted – nevermore!

* * *

Israfel (excerpt)

If I could dwell
Where Israfel
Hath dwelt, and he where I,
He might not sing so wildly well
A mortal melody,
While a bolder note than this might swell
From my lyre within the sky.

* * *

Alone

From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were—I have not seen
As others saw—I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I lov’d, I loved alone.
Then—in my childhood—in the dawn
Of a most stormy life—was drawn
From ev’ry depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that ’round me roll’d
In its autumn tint of gold—
From the lightning in the sky
As it pass’d me flying by—
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.

(The above three poems were written by Edgar Allan Poe.)

Turtleheart asked in “Journaling Stuff” (link no longer active):

“Do you regularly keep any kind of personal journal, online or off? What works best for you?”

I started out journaling on looseleaf notebook paper, as a girl. Sometimes I bought colored paper or a spiral notebook for a change. Later I collected bound blank books to journal in, but I feel freer handwriting on plain lined yellow pads, because I don’t care if I scratch out or mess them up. (more…)

I’ve been keeping an eye on my greed recently, my attachment to the material world that pulls me in and makes me desire something.

We live in a world where one is considered just a little insane if one doesn’t value the material, the necessity for money that we call practicality. There are degrees of practicality, though. There’s survival. We do need to ensure we have what we need, and if we love our family and friends, we want to see their needs met as well. We value responsibility, honesty, the abililty to take on debt responsibly and pay what we owe.

But there’s a point beyond survival, making ends meet, and responsibility — even beyond having a pleasant, reasonably comfortable existence. There’s a point at which what one person desires and thinks he’s entitled to is more important to him than what others need. That’s the greed zone. It’s alarmingly easy to slide into.

I’ve always been one of those impractical types, an artsy, dreamy, non-money-oriented kind of person. Adult necessity forced me to seek money. It was simply a gross requirement forced on me by growing up. I never saw myself as greedy. Thrifty, perhaps, because my mom tended to consider waste of food or things or money a near-capital offense.

But I have other forms of greed besides a desire for money. I still want the things money can buy. A larger house, nicer clothes, a new car, a vacation, a new sofa, and so on and so forth. It’s just that the business world never appealed to me that much, even when I was part of it, so I tended to reject the notion of money. But things, oh how I love my things, and those things I don’t have that I’d like to have. This easily becomes an obsession, wanting things I don’t have and, once I have them, a kind of ennui or boredom sets in that leads to wanting the next things on my list. It’s a kind of hunger, never satisfied, and the more I feed it the more it grows.

But I’ve been recently working on distancing myself a little so I can look at this more objectively. I’m attempting to be more aware of my greed quotient these days, to find a balance between need and greed, and to turn those more lustful greedy desires into self-love, compassion, and creative action.

In this I feel like an infant. I have a long ways to go.

But think about it. Where do you draw the line between your need and your greed? And when you think you must have some thing, what is it you really long for? Will that thing really provide it? Do you need it, or do you want it, or is your desire for it a sign of a deeper hunger, maybe even a deeper boredom? Once you have it, will you grow tired of it and set it aside, or wish you hadn’t wasted hard-earned money or effort on obtaining it? Will it disappoint you with its unfulfilled promise? This applies to food, too, I’ve found. Will I wish I hadn’t eaten it?

My new, yet ancient, watch words: Be careful what you wish for.

I think there is a certain amount of unavoidable grief in every life that we simply have to learn to find ways to live with and still function. Not every illness is treatable, some of us have to put up with pain, and we inevitably lose some people we love. The older we get the more of this we endure. For me, a certain amount of spiritual and philosophical focus is the answer. A faith and surrender that allows me to see that this is simply how things are, and to make the best of it. I’m much more selective, as I near 50, about what I allow myself to dwell on. If I can’t change it, I refuse to worry about it. If I can do something, but not enough, I do what I can and leave the rest to a higher power. If I can do so intelligently, I write or talk about the things we can change and encourage others to do something. That communication increases my range as far as ability to do something. But it’s important to let go of the outcome, leave it to God/dess, and not be arrogrant enough to think that I can ever change everything, or even that I should be allowed to if I could.

We can respect others’ differences, and accept them, even love them unconditionally, without thinking we have to make everyone a bosom buddy. I believe we’re here to learn, and each is a work in progress, so I tend not to expect too much perfection of others. But I’m choosy about my close relationships. I have to feel that I can be absolutely myself and not be judged or have others try to mould and shape me to their ideals — mainly because I tend to be impressionable and want to please everyone, so I find myself in pretzel shapes trying to do so instead of taking care of my true needs. Limiting my close ties helps me avoid that.

A little blonde girl has shown up in my dreams repeatedly for years. I never connected all her appearances until recently when I began to read back through some dream journals and realized she’s been present in my dreams, off and on, for a such long time. I’m not even sure how far back, because my dream journals aren’t continuous but rather sporadic. Every now and then she shows up, always the same, a little blonde about four years old. Sometimes she takes an active part in the dream. Others she’s more of a bystander looking on, or a mysterious figure in the dream that I’m curious about. Some of the dreams she’s shown up in were premonitions. (I’ll have to share more about those in another post, another time.) I’ve wondered in the past if she were a child I’d have one day, or a project or concern that I needed to nurture along, maybe a more vulnerable aspect of myself, or perhaps even a spirit guide. Since I’m now past childbearing age, I know she’s not my own child-to-be

I got to thinking about her again this morning, and I decided to use the Faeries Oracle, by Brian Froud and Jessica Macbeth, to read about her. I drew three cards:

34 Sylvanius
13 Solus
19 The Sage

Then one more from the bottom as something hidden:

52 The Rarr

1) A part of me, the childlike, eager part always excited by new prospects, curious, dreaming how things will turn out. A part that often feels intimidated, a need to hide, sits behind the adult facade or mask the world sees.

2) A new development or turn in my life, something to nurture along and give my energy, imagination, attention, and effort.

3) A need to not control too tightly (the way adults do) but to allow something to mature at its own rate, to be patient rather than urgent, not to worry or force, but to nudge and contemplate it into something beautiful—through simplicity rather than complexity.

4) Energy—an energy that is quick, raw, sparkling, that arouses easily and is as soon dissipated. I need to earth myself, and take advantage of any wild energy burst while it’s here.

It’s amazing when you look more closely at your own back yard, how the place you consider ordinary can suddenly appear exotic and new. When we lived in a suburb of San Diego, my husband and I used to examine every insect, every bird, every weed we encountered in our yard. Once we saw what we thought was an earthworm, and on closer inspection it turned out to be a kind of salamander, with tiny legs and a face—all packaged up to seem to be an earthworm. What trick of adaptation caused it to take that form I’ll never know.

Seeing that reminded me to always look a little closer, to never assume I know any place, even my own back yard, as well as I could.

July’s New Moon is faded light within fading light. The year’s light fades after the solstice, the moon is dark. The new moon influences me to throw things out, physically, mentally, emotionally. If I don’t want something to grow, that is sometimes the only answer. I’m repulsed by consumerism, recently, as I take on new interests and leave others behind. I tire of being made to feel I must have something in order to do what I do properly or be one of the crowd, or in order to be beautiful enough or have a nice enough home.
(more…)

I haven’t been paying as much attention to the moon as I usually do. Then today I found myself having a bit of a down day, quiet, introspective, but with a very busy mind. I realized the moon is turning today—rather tomorrow—ending its waning and getting ready to grow in the sky. No wonder I’ve been in my own darker corners, cogitating and gestating ideas but not getting a whole lot done.

Do you track the moon through its phases and the signs of the zodiac? Do you celebrate the new or full moon, or both? How does the moon affect you? Are you aware of your inner tides?