Because sometimes that's the best there is.
The boys are in Nantes at their grandparents' house. It's school vacation here (AGAIN!) and I've still got a lot of classes so my in-laws sweetly offered to take them for the week. Before I took them to Nantes, the boys had just enough time to make me laugh and make me wonder.
So, we were having breakfast and Boy1 was teasing his brother. I called for calm, it was way too early for anything else, and Boy2 did this thing. He held up two fingers, as if to say 2 or make a V, and then pointed them at his own eyes, and then at his brother's and then back to his own. Is that from a movie or something? Anyway, then he looked at me and said, "I've got my eye on him. Don't worry, Mama."
A couple of days later, I had a serious linguistic conversation with Boy1 about the difference between passer and dépasser, in reference to karate belts. I later learned he had had the same conversation with his father and with the karate teacher. The thing about Boy1 is that when he thinks he knows something, he cannot, for the time being at least - I'm hopeful this will change with time - open his mind to the possibility that he might not know all the story. Most of the time our linguistic discussions end with a standstill until an encyclopedia or a dictionary is consulted. And if it's about a French thing, I get the invariable, 'but you're not even French, Mama, how could you possibly know this?' At which point I smile instead of citing diplomas and years of residence. He's so sweet and smart (yes, I know, all parents think that) and also so very stubborn.
For the life of me, I cannot imagine how he came to be that way, stubborn, I mean.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
It needs a name
What do you call that? When you realize you know something, not a brain knowing, but a deeper knowing - a mitochondrial nod of recognition to a certainty you must have been carrying with you, unaware, for nearly ever. When every question finds an answer, every feeling a mirrored response, every impulse an outlet, every anything that rises up finding its counterpart, easily, effortlessly, within the limitless confines of joy?
I call it the door slamming open, not closed.
Vlan.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
How beautiful is that?
Remember the quality guy? Well, I have to say, he has simply been a wealth of information.
He introduced me to a new word last week - no, a concept.
Poka-yoke.
A funny sounding word. But what it does is very, very serious.
It's un système anti-con. An anti-dumbass system. Or in prettier language, a behavoir-shaping constraint for mistake-proofing.
Can you imagine? An anti-screw-up device. Something you can use to calibrate anything. Slip it into the system and you're sure, you're guaranteed it'll work.
Who wouldn't love one of those? Who wouldn't love a guarantee?
And don't get all superior on me and tell me how much we learn from our mistakes and all that. You wouldn't have to use it all the time. You could still make mistakes whenever your fancy dictated it.
He introduced me to a new word last week - no, a concept.
Poka-yoke.
A funny sounding word. But what it does is very, very serious.
It's un système anti-con. An anti-dumbass system. Or in prettier language, a behavoir-shaping constraint for mistake-proofing.
Can you imagine? An anti-screw-up device. Something you can use to calibrate anything. Slip it into the system and you're sure, you're guaranteed it'll work.
Who wouldn't love one of those? Who wouldn't love a guarantee?
And don't get all superior on me and tell me how much we learn from our mistakes and all that. You wouldn't have to use it all the time. You could still make mistakes whenever your fancy dictated it.
Friday, February 15, 2008
On being managed
When I was an undergrad, I took a seminar on Baudelaire, the poet. It was interesting, I learned a lot, and I had a wonderful teacher. PJ Lapaire, who became a good friend.
Anyway.
I also used Baudelaire, actually something he said, as the basis for the essay I wrote for my graduate school applications.
I'm totally paraphrasing here but it was something along the lines of - the stricter the form, the more creative you can be within the form. I wove a tale about creativity and freedom and linguistics and poetry and whatever else and it was either good or it wasn't but the rest of my application was because I got in.
Regardless.
My point is, my question is, where do you find freedom?
Is it in total liberty of movement, pushing the walls away and feeling all that limitless space?
Or is it in the cellar, where the salt stays and preserves during winter? There is freedom there for some, I think.
Or is it within a place that has limits, maybe an older place, a place that knows you well, that can manage you without breaking you and let you feel free, you are free there, without feeling chaotic?
What does that place look like? And what does it feel like when you take a breath there?
Anyway.
I also used Baudelaire, actually something he said, as the basis for the essay I wrote for my graduate school applications.
I'm totally paraphrasing here but it was something along the lines of - the stricter the form, the more creative you can be within the form. I wove a tale about creativity and freedom and linguistics and poetry and whatever else and it was either good or it wasn't but the rest of my application was because I got in.
Regardless.
My point is, my question is, where do you find freedom?
Is it in total liberty of movement, pushing the walls away and feeling all that limitless space?
Or is it in the cellar, where the salt stays and preserves during winter? There is freedom there for some, I think.
Or is it within a place that has limits, maybe an older place, a place that knows you well, that can manage you without breaking you and let you feel free, you are free there, without feeling chaotic?
What does that place look like? And what does it feel like when you take a breath there?
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
The politics of being raw
For someone who claims to like to think a lot, you didn't this time. Or if you did, if you were preparing for this for a long time, you certainly didn't realize it. You thought you were in it, going with the flow, or at least a flow. And whose if not your own? No one has imposed a flow on you, impossible.
Finally, despite the roles, you realize you are not an actor in all of this, there is no method. There is no protection, no one standing in front of you. Alone for once. Undone, tired of being done, raw, tired of serving yourself up as a prepared dish. Visceral - how does it feel to be ready to be coarse and base? You flip smooth off and get close to jagged.
Despite how good THAT feels, you acknowledge a loss. No tears fall though, why would they? The sadness, it simply seeps out of your skin. Not all bad though, it is possible now to follow your trail. We will find you.
Finally, despite the roles, you realize you are not an actor in all of this, there is no method. There is no protection, no one standing in front of you. Alone for once. Undone, tired of being done, raw, tired of serving yourself up as a prepared dish. Visceral - how does it feel to be ready to be coarse and base? You flip smooth off and get close to jagged.
Despite how good THAT feels, you acknowledge a loss. No tears fall though, why would they? The sadness, it simply seeps out of your skin. Not all bad though, it is possible now to follow your trail. We will find you.
On being rigged
Nearly every day, at around 6:00 pm, I put a dvd on for the boys and I go upstairs to do yoga. I used to have issues about letting them watch tv on school days, but I got over that quickly. Of course, being able to rationalize helps - the dvd is always in English and they need all the exposure to English they can get. Even Disney exposure.
Anyway, part of the routine deals with me going back downstairs at least 3 or 4 times to fix the stupid cord that goes between the dvd player and the tv. Don't tell me to change the cord, I already have, twice. It's a problem in the little slit things. I'm not a particularly mechanically inclined person, I wish I were. I can put together Ikea furniture, without swearing, and that's about it. I've never been great with my hands, I'm much better with my mouth. I often talk my way out of a situations I can't fix. But try talking to a prise péritel.
So yesterday evening, at the end of my going-up-and-down-the-stairs rope, I looked for a less stressful solution. After several tries, I found the perfect toy to wedge in between the tv and the hard part of the cord, holding it in exactly the right position. It's a cube, with monkeys on it, and it's perched, maintaining balance on just one point.
Which brings me to the real topic of this post and to the second person pronoun.
You've been rigged, haven't you? You probably even did the rigging yourself. But perhaps you forgot that rigging is a temporary solution. There is no permanence to it. And yet, the oddest thing happened. That ridiculous position you were in, perched, like those monkeys on that cube, balancing on a point, came to seem so normal. How on earth did you get used to that? How could you possibly have believed you had achieved any balance at all? You have edges, not just points. Use them.
Anyway, part of the routine deals with me going back downstairs at least 3 or 4 times to fix the stupid cord that goes between the dvd player and the tv. Don't tell me to change the cord, I already have, twice. It's a problem in the little slit things. I'm not a particularly mechanically inclined person, I wish I were. I can put together Ikea furniture, without swearing, and that's about it. I've never been great with my hands, I'm much better with my mouth. I often talk my way out of a situations I can't fix. But try talking to a prise péritel.
So yesterday evening, at the end of my going-up-and-down-the-stairs rope, I looked for a less stressful solution. After several tries, I found the perfect toy to wedge in between the tv and the hard part of the cord, holding it in exactly the right position. It's a cube, with monkeys on it, and it's perched, maintaining balance on just one point.
Which brings me to the real topic of this post and to the second person pronoun.
You've been rigged, haven't you? You probably even did the rigging yourself. But perhaps you forgot that rigging is a temporary solution. There is no permanence to it. And yet, the oddest thing happened. That ridiculous position you were in, perched, like those monkeys on that cube, balancing on a point, came to seem so normal. How on earth did you get used to that? How could you possibly have believed you had achieved any balance at all? You have edges, not just points. Use them.
Monday, February 11, 2008
Where soft meets hard
Remember when I flew over the mountains a few weeks ago? Fossils were not the only things I saw.
I also saw, amid the lower mountains, a rocky caldron filled with clouds as white as marshmallow fluff. The clouds rippled, literally, against the edges of the mountain. Silken whispers.
It occured to me then that I would not find truth in the wind but in that place where yielding meets resistance and wins, hands down, every time. Where giving up actually means getting. I think, today at least, that is where the truth lies. And you can't hear it or see it or even receive it, you can just brush up against it, and hope it leaves a mark.
I also saw, amid the lower mountains, a rocky caldron filled with clouds as white as marshmallow fluff. The clouds rippled, literally, against the edges of the mountain. Silken whispers.
It occured to me then that I would not find truth in the wind but in that place where yielding meets resistance and wins, hands down, every time. Where giving up actually means getting. I think, today at least, that is where the truth lies. And you can't hear it or see it or even receive it, you can just brush up against it, and hope it leaves a mark.
Or were you alone?
You speak, obviously, but they are not always your words. You take responsibility for them, you must, but still, they are not, organically, yours. Living in a second language requires being comfortable with borrowing and never owning.
Perhaps that is your difficulty. Words are your weapons, they always have been, and using weapons that are not your own is both too intimate and too approximate for your tastes.
You understand now that in order to live in that second language you have had to cross a border. But who saw you come here? Who bore witness to that border crossing in the dark?
Perhaps that is your difficulty. Words are your weapons, they always have been, and using weapons that are not your own is both too intimate and too approximate for your tastes.
You understand now that in order to live in that second language you have had to cross a border. But who saw you come here? Who bore witness to that border crossing in the dark?
Friday, February 08, 2008
Close your eyes
When you wake up, you are water. You flow silently, sweetly over stones, more river stones, and gather in quiet pools.
Later, during the day, undone, you swirl, pulled by forces unknown, or at least unseen, away from an order you understand. But your search for reassurances and solid ground, both orders you can understand, is futility's guru.
Finally, in the night, when you sleep, you are a wishing well, laden with silent, hopeful coins.
Later, during the day, undone, you swirl, pulled by forces unknown, or at least unseen, away from an order you understand. But your search for reassurances and solid ground, both orders you can understand, is futility's guru.
Finally, in the night, when you sleep, you are a wishing well, laden with silent, hopeful coins.
Thursday, February 07, 2008
The scent of it all
Quand tu fonces, la tête baissée (when you plow forward, head down), you don't always see the wall you're about to hit. And your breathing is probably as shallow as your understanding. It's not about thinking, it's about doing. Maybe doing so as not to think. Who knows?
But when you finally stop and lift your head and take a deep breath, it is the one deep breath you need more than anything. And you are surprised to detect the scent, as faint as the memory of a last kiss, of something new, something unfamiliar. It is neither the rose of desperate longing nor the sea salt of sadness nor even the air freshener of your own voluntary ignorance, but the amber of promise. And though you know it's miles and months away, what that amber might suggest, and you cannot possibly know what that promise holds, you smile.
As you make your way back down to the cellar you've recently made your home, you bring that promise with you. You've always loved amber - it is your scent.
But when you finally stop and lift your head and take a deep breath, it is the one deep breath you need more than anything. And you are surprised to detect the scent, as faint as the memory of a last kiss, of something new, something unfamiliar. It is neither the rose of desperate longing nor the sea salt of sadness nor even the air freshener of your own voluntary ignorance, but the amber of promise. And though you know it's miles and months away, what that amber might suggest, and you cannot possibly know what that promise holds, you smile.
As you make your way back down to the cellar you've recently made your home, you bring that promise with you. You've always loved amber - it is your scent.
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
In the trace
As you walk out of the very small room, you see a mirror, framed in river stones, calling out at you to have a look. And when you look into that mirror, which is nothing more than the reflection of your life, you see the brutalities you've inflicted and the violences you've committed.
Something new, you search not to deny, because despite the dust covering that mirror, you can still see the traces of what has happened. You do not seek excuses, there are none. Or reasons, do they matter? Or even redemption, you're not there yet. You take a deep breath and exhale, hard, sending a cloud of sparkling dust flying into the air. And as it settles you see, are relieved to see, the imprint of softness in the brutality and sweetness in the violence.
Nothing, despite your attempts to prove the contrary, will ever be exactly and only what it is. You receive it as the blessing, the kiss it is: there is no category for this.
Something new, you search not to deny, because despite the dust covering that mirror, you can still see the traces of what has happened. You do not seek excuses, there are none. Or reasons, do they matter? Or even redemption, you're not there yet. You take a deep breath and exhale, hard, sending a cloud of sparkling dust flying into the air. And as it settles you see, are relieved to see, the imprint of softness in the brutality and sweetness in the violence.
Nothing, despite your attempts to prove the contrary, will ever be exactly and only what it is. You receive it as the blessing, the kiss it is: there is no category for this.
Monday, February 04, 2008
Beyond reasonable authenticity
Yeah, about that.
I saw a man walking on the sidewalk this morning. He had that wraparound to-cover-the-baldness thing. You know what I'm talking about. And he, believe me, had taken it to a whole new place. A place that was definitely beyond all reasonable authenticity. It was LONG and the head under it was BALD. And that hair wrapped way around. And it was plastered to his head with some kind of product. He looked happy with it though. And really, isn't that what matters? Who ever said the inside was supposed to align with the outside and not the other way around? And why did you ever start to believe that?
But when you start to mess around with this stuff, when you question the pragmatics and the bright light with no shadow and the four corners of something that you finally realize is inherently round, what are you left with?
It would seem you are left with only one option. Temporary stillness and an attempt at quiet integrity.
Because, really, how could you possibly hope to direct the flow of what breaks the dam?
I saw a man walking on the sidewalk this morning. He had that wraparound to-cover-the-baldness thing. You know what I'm talking about. And he, believe me, had taken it to a whole new place. A place that was definitely beyond all reasonable authenticity. It was LONG and the head under it was BALD. And that hair wrapped way around. And it was plastered to his head with some kind of product. He looked happy with it though. And really, isn't that what matters? Who ever said the inside was supposed to align with the outside and not the other way around? And why did you ever start to believe that?
But when you start to mess around with this stuff, when you question the pragmatics and the bright light with no shadow and the four corners of something that you finally realize is inherently round, what are you left with?
It would seem you are left with only one option. Temporary stillness and an attempt at quiet integrity.
Because, really, how could you possibly hope to direct the flow of what breaks the dam?
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
On the nature of surprises
Some surprises are nice. Like the one you get when you eat my chocolate chunk meringues. You're expecting light, crispy meringue, which you definitely get, but you also get a mouthful of smooth chocolate that is totally unexpected and very, very nice.
Some surprises are odd. Like when I lifted the big, opaque bottle of laundry detergent the other day. It should have been nearly full, I had just bought it recently. And my brain was obviously operating under the assumption that it was, because my arm and the bottle went flying up. Don't ask me where all that detergent went, I have no idea. Anyway.
Some surprises are potentially dangerous. Like when I was carrying Boy2 (yes, I know, he's way too heavy for me to be doing that) down the stairs and my brain and legs were convinced there was one more step, and there wasn't. We didn't fall, just stumbled, surprised.
And some surprises aren't surprises at all, they're something else - cool sand running through your fingers. Like when you expect the very best to happen, and it does. Or when you see that something that should have been a surprise wasn't one at all - it was simply what you were looking for, asking for without even knowing it. Or when you imagine how good something is going to be, and you realize it'll be better. Or when you know you're exactly where you're supposed to be, despite the clamouring and chaos.
Hey, when was your last surprise? And was it nice, odd, potentially dangerous, or not a surprise after all?
Some surprises are odd. Like when I lifted the big, opaque bottle of laundry detergent the other day. It should have been nearly full, I had just bought it recently. And my brain was obviously operating under the assumption that it was, because my arm and the bottle went flying up. Don't ask me where all that detergent went, I have no idea. Anyway.
Some surprises are potentially dangerous. Like when I was carrying Boy2 (yes, I know, he's way too heavy for me to be doing that) down the stairs and my brain and legs were convinced there was one more step, and there wasn't. We didn't fall, just stumbled, surprised.
And some surprises aren't surprises at all, they're something else - cool sand running through your fingers. Like when you expect the very best to happen, and it does. Or when you see that something that should have been a surprise wasn't one at all - it was simply what you were looking for, asking for without even knowing it. Or when you imagine how good something is going to be, and you realize it'll be better. Or when you know you're exactly where you're supposed to be, despite the clamouring and chaos.
Hey, when was your last surprise? And was it nice, odd, potentially dangerous, or not a surprise after all?
Monday, January 28, 2008
Rub this and perspective that
I flew over mountains on friday.
There was snow, just some, on the tops and in patterns that looked like leaf rubbings or fossils of ancient and universe-sized birch and elm leaves. It was quite beautiful and surprising - I never really expect to see anything I like in an airplane, even if it's out the window.
I was going to Barcelona to see a friend, a very good friend, who I met in Wilmington, North Carolina, forever ago, when I was an undergraduate. Wilmington is one of those places, like Seattle, that left its mark on me like the snow on that mountain. Not covering me - just a rubbing, a trace, an imprint that changed me in ways that I may not have noticed until years later, decades even, after a change in perspective. I met people there who are still with me today, like this friend in Barcelona. People whose part to play in my life, whose importance, I felt instictively and instantly. I arrived when I was sixteen, still a girl, but convinced I was a woman. And I left at 21, still not a woman, but closer, and convinced, certain as I could only be in that pre-new-me way, that if I didn't leave then, I never would.
And Seattle was calling. I had so much to do. A dark side to acknowledge, years of graduate work to complete, shadow sisters to meet - Tanya and Meg who still come to me occasionally in my dreams to tell me things I must hear but won't if it's in my own voice - truths I cannot hear from myself. And the other sisters I met there, Lorraine and Julie, women who are still part of my daily life, despite the distance.
There was snow, just some, on the tops and in patterns that looked like leaf rubbings or fossils of ancient and universe-sized birch and elm leaves. It was quite beautiful and surprising - I never really expect to see anything I like in an airplane, even if it's out the window.
I was going to Barcelona to see a friend, a very good friend, who I met in Wilmington, North Carolina, forever ago, when I was an undergraduate. Wilmington is one of those places, like Seattle, that left its mark on me like the snow on that mountain. Not covering me - just a rubbing, a trace, an imprint that changed me in ways that I may not have noticed until years later, decades even, after a change in perspective. I met people there who are still with me today, like this friend in Barcelona. People whose part to play in my life, whose importance, I felt instictively and instantly. I arrived when I was sixteen, still a girl, but convinced I was a woman. And I left at 21, still not a woman, but closer, and convinced, certain as I could only be in that pre-new-me way, that if I didn't leave then, I never would.
And Seattle was calling. I had so much to do. A dark side to acknowledge, years of graduate work to complete, shadow sisters to meet - Tanya and Meg who still come to me occasionally in my dreams to tell me things I must hear but won't if it's in my own voice - truths I cannot hear from myself. And the other sisters I met there, Lorraine and Julie, women who are still part of my daily life, despite the distance.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Where are you in your cycle?
I have a client, I call him the quality guy. Not because of who he is but because he works in the Quality department of a large industrial company. And I help him with his business English. Cause I am all business.
Anyway, we met this week and had an interesting quality conversation. And I learned all about The Deming Cycle. Has anyone heard of this?
So what's my new cycle? Find freedom in structure. Find order in change. Find discipline in discovery. Find structure in freedom. Find change in order. Find discovery in discipline.
Wish me luck.
Anyway, we met this week and had an interesting quality conversation. And I learned all about The Deming Cycle. Has anyone heard of this?
The Deming cycle or PDSA cycle:
PLAN: plan ahead for change. Analyze and predict the results.
DO: execute the plan, taking small steps in controlled circumstances.
STUDY: (CHECK) , study the results.
ACT: take action to standardize or improve the process.
I must be honest. In my pre-new-me days, I would've been all over this thing. In those days when the clamouring was just a murmur and chaos was not my constant companion.So what's my new cycle? Find freedom in structure. Find order in change. Find discipline in discovery. Find structure in freedom. Find change in order. Find discovery in discipline.
Wish me luck.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Turn it off please
It drives me crazy when both of my kids talk to me at the same time. Parents, is it like that for all of you? I can't seem to filter one or the other out so I usually end up not listening to either one and telling them both to be quiet.
Ah, quiet.
I spent the weekend alone, in a very quiet, very empty house. It was great. Very peaceful. Very relaxing. Very unusual.
Of course, it wasn't as quiet as it could've been. The clamouring in my head was awfully loud and it actually gave me a headache on sunday. Which I cured with coffee and chocolate. Let me be clear: it cured the headache, not the clamouring. Anyone know a cure for clamouring? And don't say yoga, I'm already doing that. Daily.
Sunday morning I went for a walk along the river. It was windy. For a moment, I thought I heard the truth in the wind. It was just a whisper. So faint that it could have just been my own voice. I'll never know.
Ah, quiet.
I spent the weekend alone, in a very quiet, very empty house. It was great. Very peaceful. Very relaxing. Very unusual.
Of course, it wasn't as quiet as it could've been. The clamouring in my head was awfully loud and it actually gave me a headache on sunday. Which I cured with coffee and chocolate. Let me be clear: it cured the headache, not the clamouring. Anyone know a cure for clamouring? And don't say yoga, I'm already doing that. Daily.
Sunday morning I went for a walk along the river. It was windy. For a moment, I thought I heard the truth in the wind. It was just a whisper. So faint that it could have just been my own voice. I'll never know.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Sweetness
I'm going into business. Unofficially at first. Isn't that the best way anyway?
Because when something's official you have to master things and control things and be certain of things. And since I've recently become aware of the illusions that mastery and control and certainty can create and the problems that follow, I'm avoiding officiality (Is that a word? If not, despite my dislike for modals, it should be.) at all costs. For the love of everything that is right and true, make nothing official for me. Make it all about fluidity and flow and flexibility.
My new business activity? Making pastries and treats for a local tea and coffee drinking establishment. Because, in addition to spreading the Democrat love, I like to spread sweetness around.
Because when something's official you have to master things and control things and be certain of things. And since I've recently become aware of the illusions that mastery and control and certainty can create and the problems that follow, I'm avoiding officiality (Is that a word? If not, despite my dislike for modals, it should be.) at all costs. For the love of everything that is right and true, make nothing official for me. Make it all about fluidity and flow and flexibility.
My new business activity? Making pastries and treats for a local tea and coffee drinking establishment. Because, in addition to spreading the Democrat love, I like to spread sweetness around.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Through, not around
I know, I know. You're all getting really tired of me writing about stuff like this. What happened to the French stories? The food stories? The foot-in-mouth stories?
Well, I cannot say. I only know that I don't have any of those. My life isn't feeling very Frenchified as of late, or maybe I've been here for so long that I don't even notice when it is, and I haven't had much of an appetite lately so there goes the food thing, and my foot is nowhere near my mouth right now, it's firmly planted on floor. Well, the black high-heeled boot that is currently housing my foot is firmly planted on the floor.
So, this is all you're getting for now.
Chaos. Le Chaos. It should be enough to know that when you get to the other side of it, life will be good. That knowledge should be enough to make the chaos bearable. Should. I hate shoulds. Modal verbs, in general, suck.
So here's my question: How good are you at accepting the discomfort of chaos?
Well, I cannot say. I only know that I don't have any of those. My life isn't feeling very Frenchified as of late, or maybe I've been here for so long that I don't even notice when it is, and I haven't had much of an appetite lately so there goes the food thing, and my foot is nowhere near my mouth right now, it's firmly planted on floor. Well, the black high-heeled boot that is currently housing my foot is firmly planted on the floor.
So, this is all you're getting for now.
Chaos. Le Chaos. It should be enough to know that when you get to the other side of it, life will be good. That knowledge should be enough to make the chaos bearable. Should. I hate shoulds. Modal verbs, in general, suck.
So here's my question: How good are you at accepting the discomfort of chaos?
Sunday, January 13, 2008
On knowing and not knowing
Boy1 no longer believes in Santa Claus. And it's that girl that he kissed who told him. Décidément, celle là.
He told us before Christmas and seemed pretty matter-of-fact about the whole thing. And impressed by the thoughtfulness of parents in general.
But last night he admitted that knowing bothered him. And that before she told him, he knew but it hadn't been said out loud so he didn't really know. He knew in his gut what his mind didn't want to know. And when his classmate said it out loud, he could no longer go on not knowing.
So here's my question: What do you know in your gut that you don't want to know in your mind? And at which point does knowing become knowing?
He told us before Christmas and seemed pretty matter-of-fact about the whole thing. And impressed by the thoughtfulness of parents in general.
But last night he admitted that knowing bothered him. And that before she told him, he knew but it hadn't been said out loud so he didn't really know. He knew in his gut what his mind didn't want to know. And when his classmate said it out loud, he could no longer go on not knowing.
So here's my question: What do you know in your gut that you don't want to know in your mind? And at which point does knowing become knowing?
Thursday, January 10, 2008
List this
You know that perfect list? The one that's really clear and tells you exactly where you're going and what you have to do to get there and what's most important to you?
I've had to make a lot of lists lately. I've been a little (a lot) distracted lately, what with getting my ass kicked, ending my life-long relationship with the word never and becoming a really reserved, flexible, tolerant new me. So at work and at home I've had to make lists just to get through the day and accomplish the minimum necessary. They've even come in remarkably handy in other arenas as well. I'm sure someone out there is enjoying the benefits of my new-found list-making skills right now.
So here's my question for the day: What or who is at the top of your list?
I've had to make a lot of lists lately. I've been a little (a lot) distracted lately, what with getting my ass kicked, ending my life-long relationship with the word never and becoming a really reserved, flexible, tolerant new me. So at work and at home I've had to make lists just to get through the day and accomplish the minimum necessary. They've even come in remarkably handy in other arenas as well. I'm sure someone out there is enjoying the benefits of my new-found list-making skills right now.
So here's my question for the day: What or who is at the top of your list?
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