I Dwell in Possibility

“We’re the ones who fuckin’ gave all y’all the freedom that you got!”

~ A white woman yelling at a group of African American protesters after the police shooting of an unarmed black man in Ferguson, Missouri.

I’m sorry to begin my review with such an ugly quote, but that’s where we’re at now.

Chinua Achebe’s masterful and hard-hitting novel, Things Fall Apart, takes us back to an earlier chapter, to life in the nine self-governing villages of Umuofia, Nigeria, before the arrival of the Europeans. There, a tightknit community flourished.

In prose that reads like oral story-telling, Achebe paints a vibrant and multifaceted portrait of a thriving and sophisticated society. These are a people of place. They belong to the land and are intimately connected to its patterns. They are a people rooted.

Their psychology is informed by the rhythms of the wild, natural environment. They worship Ani, the “great goddess of the earth without whose blessing our crops will not grow.” She is “the source of all fertility and the ultimate judge of all morality and conduct.”

Characterization is rich and varied. The people and their culture are portrayed with keen insight, sly wit and a straightforward simplicity, both at work and at play.

We witness a full-bodied society—the mundane and the profound, the intimacies and tensions of family life, the joy of a wedding feast, the solemnity of a funeral, the administration of justice, rituals, fears, kinship, superstitions, triumphs, friendships, levity, betrayal, kidding around, sorrow, shrewdness, tenderness, love, hate, lessons learned, humanness and much good humour.

The plot revolves around fierce-tempered, hard-working, ambitious Okonkwo and his large family, following them from adversity to adversity, for several years. The character study of Okonkwo is utterly absorbing, and I won’t say much more about it here, except: read the book.

About two-thirds of the way in, the Christian missionaries show up.

The story turns into a poignant, up-close-and-personal account of the devastation wrought by colonization. The indigenous community is at first blindsided, finding themselves subject to odd strangers who neither play fair nor respect their way of life. When soft steps and reason and threats of eternal damnation don’t work quickly enough, when the proud among them, like Okwonko, refuse to bow, the subjugators resort to force, with tragic consequences.

A heart-wrenching series of events unfolds. The sacred is destroyed. The people are cut at their roots. They are dispossessed of their ancestral lands, their autonomy, and who they are.

It’s a story that’s been replayed hundreds of times on American soil, and around the world. Its origins lie in the Doctrine of Discovery (1493), the document which awarded sovereignty over any pagan “uncivilized” land to the first Christian monarch who discovered it.

The era of colonization, characterized by patriarchy, competition and aggression, was thus ushered in. Under the whip-hand of the colonizers, more and more peoples suffered disconnection. Concurrently, the world over, industrialization, urbanization and the rise of commercialism eroded the connections that keep tightknit communities together.

But the story does not end here. It does not end with a woman in Missouri claiming her group is the holder and distributor of another people’s liberty. Backlash movements aimed at reclaiming stolen pride, and rights, as well as a sense of belonging to a place, continue to gain ground.

I like this quote from Dr. Sharon Blackie, from The Place of Belonging:

So many of us have no true sense of belonging to a place. Today, we live mostly in ways that are displaced from the land and from the nonhumans who share our places with us. And yet, from time to time throughout our lives we may catch a glimpse of a different way of being in the world: a way of enchantment and wildness and mystery.

And many believe - “The hope lies with the women.”

The Igbo people of Umuofia believed: A man belongs to his fatherland when things are good and sweet, and to his motherland when there is sorrow and bitterness … your mother is there to protect you … that is why we say the Mother is supreme.

This entire novel is told from the indigenous point of view, except for the final page, which switches to point of view of the colonizer. His thoughts are chilling. They will stay with me for a long time.

Please, read this book.

I welcome your comments about anything written above.

If a flamingo gets in your yard

If a flamingo gets in your yard, don’t shoo it away. There’s no need to fear. Cautiously approach, and take some time to really notice it. Pink is a comforting colour, after all. There’s an elegance in their long necks and long legs. Appreciate how it is formed. If there are two flamingos, even better. When the two of them get together, beak to beak, and breast and breast, they make a heart, and we all know what that means.

If a flamingo gets in your yard, take a moment to consider what those yellow eyes have seen. We all have our past, and this goes for flamingos, too. Creation is a mysterious process, and development is subject to chance. You have met the flamingo on the road of life, and whether the meeting will be meaningful is up to you. Do not bypass an opportunity.

If a flamingo gets in your yard, consider yourself fortunate. Flamingos can’t be everywhere all at once, and this one chose to come to your place. Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, they walked into yours. Wonders never cease! You just never know where they’ll turn up. They’ve even been spotted in Pennsylvania. So be prepared for the unexpected.

What would life be without surprise? A world without flamingos appearing out of the blue would be a poorer version of itself.

So, if a flamingo gets in your yard, learn the language. A squawk is not always a squawk. They may be saying, I hope I have made an impression.

Things that you can’t have just one of…

Top of everyone’s list is chips (crisps in the UK). That intoxicating mixture of fats and carbs gets me every time. I’m a kettle-chip lover, salt and vinegar. Not everyone likes the vinegar chips, but they are my favourite. And of course chocolate. I got a good supply of Lindt Lindor chocolates for Christmas. Can’t eat just one. Maybe some people can, but I bet it takes will power.

Cups of coffee. Gotta have three or four every morning. Recent research says this is true for 87% of coffee drinkers. Okay, I just made that statistic up. But I bet most coffee drinkers cannot stop at one cup.

Books. Do you remember reading your first book? Was there any way in hell you were going to stop there? And now, the reading high has you hooked. Reading is one of those more, more, more, endeavours.

Opinions. Gimme a topic, I’ll tell you what I think. From specific to general, or general to specific, makes no never-mind. I think, therefore I am.

Shoes. Normally, two are needed. And if you are like me, this also applies to pairs of shoes. My husband had maybe four pairs (Crocs, runners, dress brown, dress black) and I have about 40 pairs.

Underwear. No explanation needed. I hope.

Dollars. What can you buy for a dollar? Not much. You need lots and lots of dollars to live. Living costs money.

Goals. Long-term, short-term, personal, public, and just-for-fun. Goals are what keep us going.

Raindrops. A single raindrop would be a lonely thing! And you turn your face up to the sky, and every ping is like a spark of excitement on your skin. Thank goodness for the rain.

Fish in a tank. Well, you could, but that’s pretty cruel.

To all you lovely souls reading this, please add to the list!

Perfect Bananas

Can you imagine them? Without blemish or bruise or speckle, a uniform yellow colour, maybe a hint of green at the corners and stems.



Perfect bananas are rare. Not surprising, considering the long journey they make from where they grew to where they will meet their fate.

But I can really appreciate a perfect banana. It’s a thing of surreal beauty. Look at it, resplendent in its excellence. Slightly curved, like a knowing grin. Really something to look at. Kinda showing off.

It wears no experience. Is this how God intended it? Perhaps “handling” has gotten a bad name. The laying on of hands can sometimes benefit.

You may think of a banana as an inconsequential fruit. But they have played a role in my life. And not just for the potassium. As long as you know there are bananas, everything is okay.

But if all bananas were perfect? I’m not sure that’s the world I would want to live in. Somewhat artificial. And speckled bananas make the very best banana bread.

Thinking about expectations on bananas. Grow older, grow sweeter, grow softer. Too much pressure? Let’s just enjoy bananas as we find them. My husband liked them on the green side, I like them super-ripe. If there is one thing (but there were many) that we had in common, it was that we did not seek perfection in our bananas.

Concepts

A concept is whatever my mind can conjure. A mental picture. I have a concept of a cat. It is a four-legged, furry creature, purrs, smaller than a dog. I base that concept on observation. I have a concept of freedom. This requires a lot more input. Freedom is the absence of outside restraints. Freedom is the realization of who my most authentic self is. Freedom releases me. Freedom is valued.

Concepts are formed in different ways. The more abstract the concept, the more thinking goes into the mental representation. And concepts can change. The more I read about the concept of racism, the more I understand the harm it has done. Concepts can be shallow or deep. I have a vague idea about ancient Greek goddesses, but a robust understanding of the concept of family.

Concepts are not something from nothing. It’s the accumulation of all that I have encountered. I am aware of my environment. I am aware of what is not me. I form representations to make sense of my world. Sometimes, I represent with words. Words are concepts. The word cat is not the four-legged, furry creature that purrs but a representation of that particular creature.

My ability to form inferences depends upon my ability to form concepts. No concepts, no inferences. Must form the mental picture before I branch out to the next level of thinking, like a flower blooming. Significance grows from concepts. From my particular concept of my mother, I infer that she wants the best for me.

Concepts give flight to all our thoughts and beliefs. Concepts are how we see; thoughts and beliefs are how we respond. It’s a creative process. My concept of choices puts the power in my hands. My concept of adaptation gives me hope that bad times lead to good. My concept of myself tells me I will be okay, no matter what.

Random Thoughts on Intentions

Intentions are abstract things. The idea before execution. The starting point. Intentions are the necessary precursor to action. There can be no movement without first intention.

Intentions alone have no movement. They sit. Intentions do not count if they collapse in on themselves.

Intentions are always stated in the future tense. “I will…” or “I’m going to…” Intentions are an investment in the future.

Intentions require vision. You have to see something that does not yet exist. Intentions are planning.

Intentions are what you mean. The reasons you go forward. It’s why you do the things you do.

Intentions can be good or bad. This depends on who you are. Our entire emotional and psychological profile is tied up in our intentions.

Intentions can go wrong. Their expression is defined by our knowledge and our abilities. The most kind-hearted person can say the wrong thing.

Intentions can be frustrated by inside or outside forces. In the best-case scenarios, these limiting factors are overcome.

If you have no intentions, you have given up. A stasis sets in and you may end up in a rut.

Intentions followed through make us creators. Intention + motivation = results.

Hopes and dreams spring from intentions. Intention + passion + courage = hopes and dreams fulfilled.

Awakening

I don’t know where I came from, and I don’t know where I’m going when I die. But for this brief interlude, I am here. My body is my home. I have a sense of home in myself. Each day brings new learning. I awaken to being wrong, I awaken to being right, I awaken to dawning truths I had never considered.

In sleep, there are limits. Blind spots in our perception. How can you answer the question – What if? – if your senses are not on alert, if you are not fully awake? Did you even realize you were asleep? Or did you know what you were capable of?

I see the sun rising. I see the moon glowing. I hear the voices of those I love. I search inside and outside of myself. And the greatest awakening of all is finding out who I am. Where I am. How I fit in. I let ego go, eyes wide open. I awake to myself. And even though I know all the while that we are all dying, I am here now.

Instinct is my wake-up call. I align my learning with it. Energy comes from my centre. I am part of a sacred whole. My dreams become vividly alive, like the trees, and the water, and the sky. Awareness is the natural state of my capacities if only I have the courage to be open to it.

I know what I am. Nature’s marvel, a creator, a source. How shall I use my powers? Opportunity is my watchword. Sleep-walking misses the details. Open my eyes. No-one can help me but myself. I will live my life awake. I will not conform to any ill-fitting ideology. I need to see it all.

I will follow my own lead, awake. I know how to be me. Harmony ensues. The world is real. I am awake to its beauty. I connect myself to it. I am the reflection of all I love. The force that moves all things moves me, too. It moves me to a consciousness. I am aware of what is not me. And am grateful I get to share the space.

Figuring Out My Relationship with God

Don’t know what’s got into me but I want to go back to church. I used to go to mass every Sunday with my mother and it felt like going home sitting beside her in the pew in the same church in which I was baptized, confirmed and got married. But then Covid hit and we stopped going. And then we entered the worst part of my husband’s battle with MS which ended with his death in September of 2021, and my faith was shook up bad.

There was no God in what happened to him. He was a really good person, a really good person, who suffered senselessly. His cells malfunctioned and there was no supernatural explanation for it, no grand purpose, only the two of us trying to get through the days. Please don’t tell me it was because Adam and Eve disobeyed. I don’t need a fairy tale to delude me into believing my husband’s suffering had any meaning. It was meaningless. His cells just did not work.

In fact, the entire Bible to me is fiction. If there is a God, they sure didn’t speak to us through certain chosen humans. If there is a God, we are not their priority. They have a whole universe to keep in motion. We are a small, insignificant speck in the grand scheme of things, an organic wonder of chemistry subject to its environment.

Dogma be damned. But, but … I volunteered to go to mass with my mother on Easter Sunday. Sitting there, that feeling came back to me, that utter peace, that connection with the spiritual. A big draw for me was sitting beside my mother. And also the sense that you are part of something that is so much greater than you.

I sat in the pew, and asked in my head, “God, who are you?” And to Jesus, I asked, “Are you here?”

It’s just that I am left exposed to my spirituality. It begs attention.

I am not totally convinced that it is not all delusion. The brain is a powerful believer. It seeks comfort. My experience with my husband’s illness and his death confirm to me that God does not play a role in our lives. But what is this part in me that likes to sit in church for an hour on Sunday?

And so, yeah. My relationship with God. I couldn’t for a second imagine what he/she is. So what am I connecting with when I go to church? That part of me that represents the wonder of creation. And that wonder is found inside everything that exists. I don’t ask anything of God. And I do not believe he/she asks anything of me. But sometimes it’s just nice to sit in church and have people say, “Peace be with you.”

In Praise of Imperfection

Years ago, I read that, in some cultures, a vase that has been cracked and repaired is considered more beautiful than a perfect specimen. The imperfection tells a story of triumph. “I have suffered, but I have survived.” Battle scars are to be worn proudly. It’s the imperfection that adds depth to the piece.

Imperfection is a lot more interesting than perfection. Otherwise, what would we gossip about? But seriously, what is perfectionism but an attempt to protect yourself from judgement? Pshaw on that. Humans have warts. Expect perfection from everyone, including yourself, and you will surely end up disappointed. Better the peace of acceptance. Embrace the imperfections, and know that we are all in the same boat. Flaws are universal.

Imperfection made us who we are. It’s imperfection that produced the great diversity of life on this planet. Without mutations in the genetic material as it was passed down through the generations, we’d all still be like those first cells that assembled nearly four billion years ago. Thank goodness for all those mistakes in DNA! We are hardwired for error. Imperfection is our natural state.

Mistakes add so much to our lives. I never met a mistake I did not learn from. Sure, mistakes sometimes hurt. All part of the human experience. Without imperfection, we would never know the healing power of forgiveness. If you ever say to yourself, I fucked up, put your arms around yourself and give yourself as much compassion as you would a dearly loved friend. Laugh if you can. Make amends if it is warranted. And always give yourself a break!

As imperfect as it is, our best has to be good enough. After all, it’s the best we got. No-one can ask anymore from you. The only perfect thing in our existence is a newborn baby. Then we start to live, and all the messy stuff starts. Navigating the slings and arrows is not a precise science. But we make do with what we got, and it’s imperfection that pushes us to be even better.

Without imperfection, what would we have to write about? Perfection is boring, and unchallenging, and not of this world. There is nothing to be gained by it. Imperfection lends itself to understanding. It reveals the complexities of being human. It makes us tolerable and indeed, in the long run, draws us closer together in our shared deficiencies.

We love imperfect things. We feel a comfort in the familiarity.

We are born asking questions. My mother likes to tell the story of newborn me being placed in her arms for the very first time. The memory is engraved in her heart and in her mind, such a strong impression it made. The little bundle I was looked her right in the eye, asking, “Well, you’ve got me now. What are you going to do with me?”

And ever since, I have been asking, “What does this mean?”

Where do questions come from? A need to know and understand. Curiosity, surely. Riddle me this, riddle me that. The pull of the interesting. Taking the outside world in. Expanding your horizons. Existence is so exceptionally complex and bit by bit we seek to broaden our understanding of it. People are so complex. Let’s broaden our understanding of them, too. We want to make sense of the stupefying dynamics that surround and inhabit us. Any attempt to penetrate reality begins with questioning it.

We cannot simply “believe.” We need to question. In my case, I can’t even take the credit for it. It is an imperative of my brain. I am fully aware of my own thinking as something separate from me. My brain has its own agenda. It has its ways. Nothing to do with me. But I go along for the ride, and learn a thing or two while we soak it all in.

Oh, I don’t expect to ever get all the answers. But it’s an amazing trip, to this river, or this lake, or this mountain. Question-asking is powerful. It’s a certain buzz, to find out or assess something you didn’t know before. Understanding dawns brightly. Understanding is what a brain was made to do.

But I know people who don’t ask a lot of questions. They make statements. Their source of information comes from inside rather than outside. They know it all already. They operate on assumptions that they take for fact. It’s a kind of isolation. How can you develop connections to a world you never explore?

The questioner in me wants to understand them, too. Are they happy? Are they delusional? Does thinking pain them? What happened to their curiosity? What are they afraid of? Why can’t they see the other side?

Questions open doors; statements close them. Gotta let some breeze blow through.

Wishes

When I was about ten years old, I was stopped in the school hallway by a classmate. She asked me to make a wish and share it with her. I didn’t play along. I supplied no wish. “I know it won’t come true,” I said.

The first wish that had come to my mind was that a much-loved uncle who had recently died, very suddenly, had not died at all. But even at that age, I understood, that wishes had no power over what already was. The past cannot be re-written. Don’t waste your wishes there. Cast them out in what might still be.

The realm of wishes is the future. Wishes apply to what lies undiscovered before us. I don’t mean the fairy-tale variety of wish that requires magic. I don’t think I have ever believed in magic. I believe in cause and effect.

Wishes are hopes for the future, and we do have some control over how things play out for us there. But wishing doesn’t make it so. A wish by itself is no more than a formless breath of air. Buddha asked: If all good things were to be obtained by wishes, who here would lack them? Instead, he said, follow the path of right practice. It’s only by steering ourselves into an effectual headspace, with follow-up, that wishes might be granted.

This does require belief, but it’s belief in yourself and your capabilities. Consider the wishes in the D. Simone quote below. Every line implies a decision on our part.

“May Light always surround you;
Hope kindle and rebound you.
May your Hurts turn to Healing;
Your Heart embrace Feeling.
May Wounds become Wisdom;
Every Kindness a Prism.
May Laughter infect you;
Your Passion resurrect you.
May Goodness inspire
your Deepest Desires.
Through all that you Reach For,
May your arms Never Tire.”

― D. Simone

Wild Woman – A message to women

You know her. She lives inside of you. She is your instinct and intuition. She is the experiences and lessons of your ancestors encoded in your DNA. If you trust her, and let her live, you can be your authentic self. Hell with dogma. If you let her come to the surface, you will realize all your original gifts.

Folklore is rich in the psychology of women. For this reason, I encourage you to get a copy of and read Women Who Run With the Wolves, by Clarissa Pinkola Estés, Ph.D. Here’s the back-cover blurb:

Within every woman there lives a powerful force, filled with good instincts, passionate creativity, and ageless knowing. She is the Wild Woman, who represents the instinctual nature of women. But she is an endangered species. In WOMEN WHO RUN WITH THE WOLVES, Dr. Estés unfolds rich intercultural myths, fairy tales and stories, many from her own family, in order to help women reconnect with the fierce, healthy, visionary attributes of this instinctual nature. Through the stories and commentaries in this remarkable book, we retrieve, examine, love, and understand the Wild Woman and hold her against our deep psyches as one who is both magic and medicine. Dr. Estes has created a new lexicon for describing the female psyche. Fertile and life-giving, it is a psychology of women in the truest sense, a knowing of the soul.

So many of the stories and myths have convergent origins in different regions of the world. There’s truth there. And it is a more bottom-up than top-down approach. That’s especially what I like about it. If you want to know what’s going on, ask the people.

It might help you get in touch with yourself.

Symmetry

Our psychology seeks symmetry. Pattern and balance feel right. We want our forces to complement one another. Excesses and deficiencies make us lopsided. Irregularity and unpredictability get us off our game.

Sight brings us butterflies, flowers and snowflakes, and lovely human faces, all ordered and proportionate. The symmetry we see is appealing. As symmetrical beings, we fit well in a symmetrical world. The familiarity is comforting.

I can feel symmetry when I am moving, especially when I am weightless in the water. Treading water, moving my limbs in calming rhythms, I trace out a symmetry in which my entire being participates. My brain soaks in the full-body patterned motion and all thoughts become positive. My brain responds to the symmetry with pleasure.

We can hear symmetry in music. Give a listen to Bach’s Prelude in C Major (2:44 min) and enjoy the elegant symmetry. Soak it in.

The difficulty with fiction is that it must be written as if it were true.

This means the story must be believable when put up against what we already know. We create an imagined reality that must present as real.

Some parts are easier to make real than others. Plot, check. Setting, check. For me, the hardest thing to make real are the characters. People are so darn complicated!

Reality lies in consistency. I can’t have an ambitious Aries suddenly become a serene Taurus suddenly become an erratic Gemini, and so on it goes.

But beyond that, there are the bigger truths a story conveys.

They might be personal truths. We all have personal truths. These are relative. What one person sees as beautiful might be ugly to another. If you are going to convey a personal truth, you better be convincing.

I am not sure I believe in absolute truths beyond “the sky is blue.” Do truths exist that are true for all people, whether they know it is true or not? I can’t think of any.

Truth is human-made. We seek it out, and embrace what jibes with us. The etymology of this word—truth—connects truth to faith. If I can believe in it, it is true.

The best way to know truth is to try to express it. Dig deep, and find what settles in your soul like a babe in its mother’s arms. The knowledge of truth is powerful. It’s clarity.

Human motivation is created by wants and needs.

Want and need both signal a deficit, but want is beyond need. Need is core, bones and meat. Want is extra, frills and lace.

Frustrated wants bring on disappointment. Frustrated needs can harm body, mind and soul.

You can live without what you want, but not without what you need.

Wants and needs can feel the same in your body, a yearning that stretches to the limbs.

What we want does not always equal what we need, although either can be demanded and satisfied.

We look more favourably on people who say “I need” than on people who repeatedly say “I want.”

Sometimes we want things that we do not need and need things we do not want.

You can hate or love what you want. You can hate or love what you need.

Losses leave needs in their wake. Gains tend to turn on a want for more acquisition.

Needs and wants can be simple or complex. Opportunity increases the complexity.

It’s soul-enriching to put another’s needs above yours, especially when their happiness is what you want.

It’s good to know what you need, and good to know what you want, and good to go for it.

Doing what you want to do might make you happy, but doing what you need to do will make you fulfilled.

Sexual desire conflates want and need. The want feels like a need. Or is it—the need feels like a want?

Being self-sufficient decreases your vulnerability factor, but we all need love and connection. That is a basic need.

And stories. That is another basic need, right after food, water, shelter and love.