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| Testing Name: Ann Dixon Date: 2004-11-18 12:31:37 Link to this Comment: 11652 |
Testing
Ann
| The Stars Come Out at Night: A mythological Fairyt Name: Kathleen M Date: 2004-12-13 11:03:40 Link to this Comment: 11960 |
A long, long time ago, before the moon was born, a wild young girl named Nomiza lived with her family in the deep woods of the Place of the Two-Suns. Ever since Nomiza's father had been killed by a bear while gathering honey, her mother had to work very hard to care for the children. Nomiza's mother even worked during the sleeping time, which Nomiza's people called "dimmening," for that was what happened to their sky twice a day- it merely dimmed instead of growing dark, as our night sky does. Much of the time Nomiza's older brother and sister were in charge of her, which Nomiza thought very unfair given how tyrannical and stupid they both were. How Nomiza hated to listen to their orders! She hated to fetch wood, carry water and sweep the cottage. Nomiza loved to run silently through the woods, alone and free, looking for animal tracks and splashing in the brook. She loved to feel the air on her naked skin. She was becoming wise in the ways of the woods, for sometimes, when she was able to quiet her mind in the manner that Mother had taught her, she was able to hear what the plants were saying. During this ancient time, no person, no matter how learned, was considered wise until she was able to hear to the song of all living things. More than anything, Nomiza wanted to grow wise, like her mother Marian, and to know the song of all the living things.
Early one autumn morning Nomiza snuck out of the family cottage while the light was still dim. Soon the days would be growing colder, and it would be much harder for her to slip away. She was walking through a meadow, enjoying the feel of the long dewy grass slapping her legs, when she noticed an unusual stirring in the grass ahead. Nomiza remembered what her brother had told her about startling wild animals, and she began to sing the Spider's song quietly, hoping to alert the grass-shaker to her presence. Suddenly, a head poked up from the grass. The head was covered with dark matted hair, bristling with leaves and small twigs. "I have never seen such a creature. I should not turn my back on it," she thought. Nomiza stood staring, and watched in amazement as the creature used two hands to push some of the dark hair from its eyes. "Are you a person?" Nomiza asked, then waited, tapping her foot. "Stand on your legs and show yourself to me," she commanded. The matted head rose, and the voice that issued from it was smooth and sweet as honey.
"I am Phera, born of the woods," the dark form announced. Nomiza walked toward her, noticing the skins the young woman wore for clothing. Then she reached out a hand to stroke the dark hair. It felt coarse. Phera's large, deep eyes crackled, throwing off light and sparks that enchanted Nomiza. Phera reached to touch Nomiza's smooth hair, and then spoke in a musical voice. "Let us be friends," she suggested.
"Yes, let's," Nomiza agreed, her heart leaping like a fish on a line, and they set off to find breakfast.
After becoming friends with Phera, Nomiza was even less eager to help with the chores. She snuck away to play with Phera so often that finally, her busy, busy mother had to make time to speak to her about it. "You must help your brother and sister more, Nomiza. You must not hide from them and avoid doing your share. You are no longer a nursing child. You can no longer expect to be given everything, while doing nothing in return. Everyone who is grown must earn her own bread. And she must earn it every day."
"I know that I should help more, and without having to be asked. But Mother, I have made a friend in the woods, and I want to be with her day and dimmening. It is hard for me to sleep here under this roof knowing that's Phera's canopy is made of the sky."
"Who is this Phera?"
" She is a girl my age who lives in the woods, who says she is born of the woods. But I have seen her navel, so I think she must have born of a woman, like me. Not only can she hear the plants, Mother- I believe that they can hear her! I'm hoping that she will teach me some of her ways, but she is quite mysterious."
"Bring her to meet me, Nommie. I wish to speak with her."
But when Nomiza brought Phera to meet Mother, everything that could go wrong did go wrong. In her hurry to make everything perfect for Phera's visit, Nomiza set fire to her own skirt while making griddle cakes, and Mother was very cross about her carelessness. Worse yet, when Phera arrived at the cottage, she did not knock on the door, but instead called for Nomiza until Nomiza went to meet her at the edge of the clearing. Once Nomiza had Phera in the cabin, she became very aware of Phera's odor. Phera smelled of musk and wood-smoke and untanned hides, a bouquet that Nomiza found quite pleasant, but which was obviously giving her mother some trouble. Phera seemed to have forgotten how to speak while in Mother's presence, which caused Mother to heap question upon question. Nomiza hustled Phera out of the cabin as soon as courtesy would permit.
After this visit, Nomiza's mother forbade her to run in the woods with Phera. "You do not need any more wildness, my child. You are getting older, and it is time for you to begin thinking about the sort of future you might like to create."
"Phera is the only part of my future that matters to me!" Nomiza cried.
"And that is why you are no longer permitted to cavort with her," Mother said, wrinkling her nose.
"If you make me choose, you won't like what I choose," Nomiza warned her. Her mother responded by slapping her so hard her ears rang for the rest of the day.
The next day Nomiza stuffed a sack with several crocks of jam, a length of strong rope, a wineskin, a tin of salt and a thick blanket. She wrapped her knife and sharpening stone in an old cloak and tucked them into the sack. She considered for a moment and then added a half-dozen bleeding-time rags and her flute. She ran into the woods feeling free and scared and exhilarated, and began to look for Phera.
Nomiza finally found her by the brook, drinking water on her all fours like an animal. Vomit freckled the bank of the brook. "Are you ill?" Nomiza asked.
"I think that I am going to have a baby soon," Phera replied. "Look at my belly," she said, pulling aside her wrap. Her belly was round as the sun, and her navel poked out like a budding flower.
"I did not notice your belly growing!" Nomiza exclaimed.
"But I believe that your mother did, " Phera said sadly. "I don't know what to do about this. I don't know how to birth a baby. Or how to care for one."
"I know enough to find you something to soothe your belly," Nomiza said, and she set off.
While digging for ginger in the swampy part of the woods, Nomiza met a very friendly, very stout old woman who was also in the swamp to collect medicinals. The woman was short and bent over like a question mark, with a basket in one hand and a long, pointed digging stick in the other. "Child, what brings you here?" she asked.
"My friend is ill- I mean, I think my friend is going to have a baby. And I wanted to make her some ginger brew to soothe her belly. I should hurry back. I believe she is frightened."
"And where do you and your friend live?" the woman asked, setting down her basket and digging stick, and fingering the charm around her neck.
"In these woods," Nomiza replied.
"Perhaps the two of you could use some assistance," the old woman suggested. She pulled a piece raw honeycomb from her basket and began to suck on it. Nomiza stared at the comb, for she had not tasted honey since her father's death. " Sweets are a weakness of mine," the old woman said, shrugging. Nomiza stood stock-still, not daring to believe their good fortune. Here was the solution to their dilemma! The old woman mistook her silent stillness for suspicion. "I am Greensleeves," she said, offering her hand. " I have helped many a mother bear new life. It can be a tricky business sometimes, without someone there who knows how to help."
Nomiza invited Greensleeves to accompany her back to the bank where she had left Phera. Phera was sitting very still, eyes closed, throat humming. Nomiza noticed that she seemed to be listening to the plants intently, but she opened her eyes upon hearing Nomiza and Greensleeves approach. Greensleeves sat next to Phera on the bank and spoke softly to her. "The two of us are going for a walk," Phera announced. And with that, Nomiza was left alone.
When Phera returned from her walk with Greensleeves, she was carrying a small carved chest cradled in her arms. "I have taken care of everything," she said. "Greensleeves has given me the simples and charms to keep me well until the baby comes, and once the baby comes, Greensleeves is going to take him. She said that I am carrying a boy, and that he would be coming shortly, before the leaves fall from the trees." Phera's smile looked phony to Nomiza, and when had her eyes stopped throwing sparks? "I offered Greensleeves a blood oath," Phera said, holding one still-oozing finger aloft for Nomiza to see. "Or rather, it seemed that a blood oath was required of me."
"A blood oath? What is a blood oath?"
"I am not sure but I believe that it is very serious. It does not permit me to deviate from the course Greensleeves laid out for me. It is an exchange of sorts." At this, Nomiza shuddered without knowing why.
Weeks passed without event. The young women slept under the sky and ate the food they hunted and foraged. They lit fires, and told each other all their most secret secrets. They combed one another's hair with green twigs split by Nomiza's knife.
Greensleeves seemed to know that the baby was coming before the baby did. She appeared by Phera and Nomiza's dugout rather suddenly one dimmening, rubbing her hands together and stamping her feet. "He's coming, he coming and everything's ready for him," she said. She began singing the "Happy Birthday" song in a strange crazy voice, and Nomiza and Phera looked at one another in fright. "This is not an entirely festive occasion," Nomiza thought to herself. Phera doubled over with a sudden pain, and Nomiza huddled down next to her. "Take care of me," Phera begged her, and Nomiza promised her she would and held her hand. Quiet your mind, move away from your petty concerns, and listen to the plants, Nomiza told herself. Rather suddenly an urgent song filled her ears. Danger! Danger! everything seemed to be saying.
Nomiza saw Greensleeves approaching, carrying in her arms the carved chest, which now seemed to Nomiza to resemble a miniature coffin. Something terrible was happening to Greensleeves' face- it seemed to be melting and reforming itself as if it were made of wax. Greensleeve's desire was carving her face into an ugly map of shifting borders. Nomiza knew without meaning to know that she must act quickly. Without thinking, she leapt up and grabbed her old sack from home, still the repository of all her earthly belongings. Remembering the old woman's fondness for sweets, she uncapped her last pot of jam and set it and her wineskin on the ground at a distance from Phera, calling to Greensleeves to come and refresh herself. Greensleeves ran to the jam and hunched over it, gobbling with her hands, and Nomiza threw the heavy blanket over her head. She bound Greensleeve's arms to her body with the rope. Greensleeves shrieked and writhed, struggling against the rope that pinned her arms. It was clear that it would only take the old woman a moment or two to unloosen herself. Nomiza poured a circle of salt in thin line around the screaming, jittering monster that Greensleeves had become, speaking the words she remembered Mother telling her long ago. With a violent jerk, Greensleeves freed her arms from her sides and ripped the blanket from her head. Her face had mostly melted away; it now looked like a skull draped with shreds of bloody flesh. When she saw the circle of salt enclosing her, she doubled over again over again, then raised her face and howled like a dog. Greensleeves moved around the perimeter of the circle, but was not able to leave. Nomiza patted the tin of salt in her pocket and thanked her mother silently for one of her many good lessons.
Nomiza then went to attend to Phera, who was squatting against a tree and working very hard, as laboring mothers do. Time seemed to pass very quickly, and then at last, the moment was at hand. Baby Stellan was born, a slippery crying new life, and Nomiza held him in her hands for the first time. She wiped him with her cloak, held him to her for a moment, then laid him in Phera's waiting arms. Nomiza felt a horrible, deep new in sadness in her heart for the wretched Greensleeves. How terrible it must be to be so alone! At that very moment, a great thunderclap seemed to shake the earth, and an awful burning light shot from the heap of Greensleeves, straight into the low sun in the sky. "He was to have been mine," the heap shouted, and flames licked the blanket.
What happened next had never happened before in the history of their planet, and it has never happened since.
Terrible, blinding brightness leapt from the quivering Greensleeves and lit the sky. The dimmening sky flared into brilliant white and in a flash, Nomiza saw the old woman reduced to a scattering of cinders. There was a terrible smell like burnt cabbage and chicken livers, and then the sky went black.
Nomiza and Phera huddled underneath the tree, shaking, Phera holding baby Stellan to her breast. It was so dark it was as if they had closed their eyes. Nomiza could feel Phera's warmth, but could not see her face. She could not see anything. They were quiet with awe and fear at what they had wrought. Phera was cradling baby Stellan, and Nomiza sat behind them, supporting Phera like a living chair. Nomiza pulled her stained cloak over their heads and waited for the end to come. After a long while, Phera stopped shivering and said, firmly, "Well, let's see whatever there is to see," and she pulled the cloak off of their heads.
"Someone has speckled the sky with glowing lights," Nomiza breathed. "That is how your eyes look, Phera."
"Perhaps those sky lights were always there and we couldn't see them," Phera responded, snuggling Stellan more deeply to her body. "And behold that glowing stone in the sky."
"That doesn't look to me like a stone. It seems to have Mother's face. Perhaps she has been with us, protecting us."
"Perhaps. Or perhaps we are very stubborn and clever," Phera said, sounding sleepy.
Nomiza sat behind Phera and Stellan all the night through, playing her flute and watching over them both. She could not get enough of looking at a strange new world born of the moonlight. Worn through from all the new sights, and from all the new feelings in her heart, Nomiza yawned and stretched her arms up to the curiously pink colored sky. "Surely, our other sun will show itself to us again," she thought sleepily, and then she laid her head on the ground and fell fast asleep next to newborn Stellan and snoring Phera.
And sure enough, when she woke some time later, she found the sun pinned in the sky. But ever after that dimmening when Stellan was born, nighttime has come once a day to the Place of the Two-Suns, and the world has been born anew each day in the moonlight and starlight
.
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| Greensleeves' Lament Name: Kathleen M Date: 2004-12-13 11:14:56 Link to this Comment: 11961 |
Imagine a rosy bud of a girl gone as hairy
and stinking as a musk-ox . Imagine a girl with a voice
as sweet as lilacs and baby aspirin and there's no one
to talk to. Imagine a girl imagining her own future
and seeing absolutely nothing. Nothing.
This is the girl who was carrying my child.
Imagine a laughing raucous belch of a girl gone as lonely
as a cancer patient. Imagine a girl with a mind
like a search engine and there's nothing
to sift through. Imagine a girl imagining her own future
and seeing absolutely nothing. Nothing.
This is the girl who stole my baby from me.
Now when they tell this story
thieves have become heroes, and my face
has liquefied like the insides of a lava lamp.
In their story, there is nothing left of me but cinders. But
be reminded: promises were made, the tracks of my face
were carved by hot tears and I,
I have not gone anywhere. I am here.
How convenient it is for everyone
that my laboring sorrow pushed
the moon out into the sky.
How convenient it is for everyone
that I subdued myself enough
to prevent the world from imploding.
Why do people clap when building implode?
When witches are cast into the oven?
When another person's pain offers up a lesson and
makes a pretty story?
Imagine an invisible moon of a woman. Imagine a woman
with a Teflon womb and dried-out
cork of a heart. Imagine a woman with nothing left
to learn about sorrow but an eon to think on it.
I have not gone anywhere. I am here.
.
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| The Third Parent Name: Angela Joy Date: 2004-12-13 15:51:15 Link to this Comment: 11963 |
Once there was a princess who was born with three parents- a lovely mother, a wonderful father, and a third who was neither. The princess lived with her mother and father in a humble but charming little castle near the sea. The third parent lived inside the princess's head.
The princess did not realize the existence of this parent for quite some time. It had hidden itself deep in her psyche, biding its time, waiting for precisely the right moment. It fed on her secret fears and weaknesses and grew strong on them. It watched her true parents stealthily through the princess's innocent eyes, waiting for them to look away for just one moment. They seemed unlikely to do so, as the princess was greatly cherished and well cared-for. In the princess's ninth year, however, the moment arrived. It was not the true parents' fault. They were only human. Still, it was rather unfortunate.
The princess was, by nature, a blithe little soul. She loved to sing and dance and play in the courtyard with her younger brother and the royal pets. When not at play in the sun, she was equally happy retiring to her sunny yellow bedroom, where the curtains were laughing daisies and baby animals romped on the walls. There she would rest with a stack of books given her by the Old King, her father's father, and read contentedly for hours.
One day the young king and queen had to face a sad matter, and for just one moment their attention was turned from their daughter. The princess came into her room one day to find her mother weeping. When told the reason why, the princess wanted to weep too, but could not. In that moment when her deepest fear had been realized, the Third Parent reached its full strength.
"No crying," it said to her. "And no talking." It shooed the queen out of the little yellow room and, using the princess's own hands, locked the door behind her. There the princess remained as a prisoner to the Third Parent.
The animals on the wall ceased their romping. The daisies no longer laughed. The sun disappeared from the window and the air grew heavy and still.
Numbly, the princess crossed the darkened room to gaze into her mirror. She felt so cold and strange, she had to see if her appearance had altered. She looked hard at herself and saw no difference except for her eyes. There was something... She leaned closer to the glass and beheld the unpitying gaze of the third parent. Her eyes narrowed with hate as she gazed at herself. She wasn't sure what it was she hated, but it was vile and it was part of her. In a sudden passion she tore the lashes from her eyes, hoping to hurt whatever it was that stared out from them. It only hurt her. She could hear the Third Parent's mocking laughter as she turned from the mirror and sank down in a dark corner of her room.
"This is what you deserve," it said to her. "And there's no way out of it. This lock has no key." The princess believed the Third Parent because children often believe what they are told.
For days upon days the Third Parent worked to destroy the princess's joy. It was not too difficult. She was isolated from the people she loved, she could no longer see the sun, and all day she heard the cruel voice in her ears and saw the coldness in her own eyes. The princess could hardly stand against such adversity. She was only a child after all. Every day, all day the Third Parent feasted on the girl's sorrow and doubt, growing fat on it, confident that soon it would wear the princess down entirely. It grew terribly strong, for it had taken into its bloodstream all the power of a child's imagination. Over the years it had become expert at recognizing every thing that caused the princess to fear. It had savored her every nightmare, even the ones she didn't remember. It had lapped up her tears.
Yet it had not reckoned on something. It had made no allowances for the imagination of others.
One day, sitting listlessly in her corner, the princess happened to glance upon her long-neglected stack of books. The Third Parent was complacently snacking on the girl's fear of rats and failed to notice. Tentatively, the princess reached for one of the books: Anne of Green Gables. She looked at the pretty green cover with the red-haired girl on it, and a little smile formed on her lips.
The gluttonous Third Parent stopped chewing for a moment. What was the little brat doing, it wondered...
The princess opened the book and held it to her face. The ink and paper smelled good to her. The edges of the paper were like velvet on her fingers. She liked it. Her smile blossomed as she turned to the first page.
The Third Parent drew in a sharp breath, but a rat's tail got lodged in its throat and it began to choke. By the time it was able to breathe again and opened its mouth to scream at the princess, an iron gag clamped over its mouth. The princess had begun to read. While she read, the Third Parent could not speak.
After many hours, when the princess's eyes had grown tired, she put the book down and the Third Parent's gag fell off. It began to screech at her.
"You ugly, stupid, bad little girl!" it raged. "If you do that again, I'll make you sorry! Everything you do is a waste of time!"
The princess bit her lip and lowered her head sadly. Then she remembered that people had spoken to Anne Shirley that way, too, and she liked Anne. Suddenly she didn't feel quite so bad.
The princess was, in fact, not stupid. It didn't take her long to figure out that reading a book was a sure way to silence the cruel Third Parent. When she read, she forgot to be afraid of anything at all, which meant that the Third Parent went without supper on most evenings. Soon it was missing lunch and breakfast as well, only grabbing desperately at the merest scrap now and then, when the princess read a ghost story. It was hardly enough to live on.
As the princess pored over book after book, she knew only what she read. She could not hear the Third Parent's hungry groans. She could not hear that the daisies were starting to giggle again, very cautiously. She did not even hear her true parents trying to pick the lock outside.
One day the princess set down Little Women- the longest book she had ever read- with a contented sigh. For a fleeting moment, she waited for the Third Parent to say something cruel to her in its weak, wavering voice. Then she decided she simply didn't care what it said. At that moment, the Third Parent dried up and crumbled to dust, losing its form entirely. Bits of it remained inside the princess, but would never be solid again and hence could do little harm. The princess felt it disintegrate and ran joyfully to the mirror. Her eyes were innocent and clear and her eyelashes had grown back. As she smiled at herself, the door burst open and her parents, the King and Queen, gathered her into their arms.
From then on, the princess lived happily enough and impressed everyone with her expansive vocabulary. Though she was never quite the same carefree child again, her experience had made her more thoughtful and wise, which was not such a bad thing. She began to think of writing stories herself- it seemed a noble occupation. And just in case the evil Third Parent had any hope of returning, she kept on reading.
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| Further Inside "The Center" - Abilities vs. Disabi Name: Annabella Date: 2004-12-14 07:23:26 Link to this Comment: 11970 |
The Center for the Work in Barstow, CA, conceived and run by Byron Katie, was a place where people from all over the world could come and learn how to view life differently from before. Through the process of inquiry, also known as The Work, everyday folks could turn normally unpleasant experiences into opportunities, and painful ideas into insights. The result was a small culture, full of people who moved peacefully and joyously through their lives no matter what was going on around them. Tremendous flexibility to change with changing circumstances was a natural outcropping of this new way of thinking and viewing adversity.
People well versed in The Work could quickly ascertain what their circumstances were, and move in accordance with the reality of their situation. As the situation changed, their movements would change with it. From the outside it appeared that there was little continuity in what these people were doing, for plans would change at a moment's notice.
Katie would move faster than anyone I know. This process had the appearance of "Katie is not consistent." But in truth she was staying absolutely consistent, consistent with doing what was best at the given time with the changing circumstances. She "changed her mind" as fast as circumstances changed.
She would make plans and share them with the staff. Then it was the staff's job to bring them to fruition. But as a situation changed, Katie's plan would change with it, and the staff's actions would change accordingly.
An example that comes to mind, which illustrates this point, was when we had a mailing to get out. We had a list of hundreds of names of people interested in the Work, and Katie was to make an appearance somewhere. We were to send out the announcement of her date, time and location. We worked up the postcard style announcement, printed up hundreds of copies, printed out the address labels of recipients, and got the labels on the postcards and had nearly all of them stamped. This process took a few days with many volunteers helping out. When we were nearly all done with the project, word came down that her plans had changed. She was not going there after all.
We had about five people working on the project when we got the news. We were to throw away those postcards and start on something similar reflecting her new plans. The people responded in various ways. Those who were into doing The Work greeted the news with relish, realizing that if they experienced any resistance to switching direction midstream, it was an opportunity for them to find where they were attached to an outcome and release this attachment. In the process they would release themselves from painful ideas about how work should be done, and protocol that they thought Katie should follow with regards to the situation. In other words, it was an opportunity for them to move further down their paths toward peaceful, joy-filled experience of the physical world in which they lived.
Some of the people however were more attached to their ideas of how things should be done than they were to pursuing their path toward peace. These were people who wanted recognition for their service and were goal oriented rather than process oriented.
It was easy to tell who was who within the group. The process oriented moved easily and joyously into the next announcement, the goal oriented became upset, angry, and invested in proving that Katie had dissed them.
A large part of proving that someone has done you wrong is to find others, tell them your story of how you were done wrong and get them to agree with you. This proved a daunting task at The Center. As the angry helpers went up to someone to tell their story, the listener would let them finish, then start asking them the questions in the inquiry which would lead the storyteller toward truth. And the truth of the situation was that Katie's decision had nothing to do with them one way or the other. If Katie was saying anything about them at all it was an honoring of them because she was confident that the new assignment would be carried out. She was actually complimenting the helpers.
So those who wanted to prove that they were right found themselves in a difficult spot. Without anyone available to concur with their story, it was difficult for them to continue believing it themselves. If they valued their right-eous-ness more than happiness they had to leave. Not by any rule at The Center, but because in that environment it was impossible to hold on to the story.
Have you ever told a story about an event where you were wronged, and the listener wouldn't agree that you had been wronged? Perhaps they even presented other possibilities of what actually happened or why it took place the way it did. Could you keep your indignation intact while in their presence?
My experience has been that in that situation I had a choice. I could become angry at the listener for not agreeing with me, or I could face the fact that there was another possibility about my story, and that perhaps I hadn't been wronged. In the first scenario I would become upset and have to leave that person and look for someone who would concur with me, and probably say derogatory things about the first listener as well, making the story grow. In the second scenario I could listen to my friend and use their perspective to help me come to peace with that which was upsetting me; not by covering it with pink paint, but by really looking at it objectively. But either way, I could not stay in their presence and retain my indignation.
In this way, some of the people who came to The Center did indeed become "disabled." It was impossible to remain angry and remain at The Center. Those for whom being right was more important than learning new ways to view life didn't last long there.
It seemed that some of the brightest intellectuals were very likely to fall into this trap of anger in the face of alternatives. For one thing, these people were very used to being told they were right. They had wonderful powers of persuasion among people who could be persuaded. But among people active in The Work common methods of persuasion were totally impotent. Some people's entire identity is wrapped around being "the wise one" or the one who is "right." Those who chose not to disable their belief system left us right away.
Anger itself, and it's buddy fear, were disabled at The Center. For many people, anger is all they have known. When things go wrong they find someone else to blame for it. They are constantly being victimized by others. They tell stories about how bad the world is, and often lament over "the good ol' days" and the fact that they are gone.
At The Center these views of life were quickly disabled in people interested in ending their own suffering. Anger over childhood events and atrocities from the past up to the present moment, along with fears of future wrongdoings or pain were often dissolved in an hour or less if the subject was truly interested in finding a different way to live.
During this process entire belief systems were dismantled, sometimes immediately, leaving some participants at a complete loss as to how to operate in the world until they assembled a new belief system; for all of our actions are direct consequences of our viewpoint of the situation, and the viewpoint is the product of our belief system.
At The Center we were well aware of this period of disability of our guests, and we fully supported them during this time of disorientation. It was an honor and a privilege to serve these people in this way. For some people this time of disability only lasted a few minutes, some hours, some days. But invariably new belief systems formed quickly and effectively in the environs of The Work, and these people have consistently reported vastly improved quality of life as a result of the experience. And these changes have proven to be life-long.
Once, days after I lost the highest paying job I had ever had and was facing a time of unemployment, I was at church and heard the reverend say, "Sometimes God will take what you most treasure from you, and you will feel that a hole has been blown in your soul. But now you are at choice how you will fill this hole, with God or with mammon. This hole is your opportunity to fill your soul with that which you want. The bigger the hole, the bigger the blessing!" I stopped feeling sorry for myself at that moment.
This hole can be blown in your soul by the loss of many things, not the least of which is the loss of your old belief system. The Center for The Work was adept at helping people blow that hole in their own souls in order to disable themselves momentarily and allow themselves the opportunity to build a whole new experience of their life spanning childhood into present day and future imaginings.
| Broken Pieces - Revised Name: Patricia W Date: 2004-12-16 18:14:50 Link to this Comment: 11982 |
Broken Pieces - Revised
I was consumed with fear for most of my life. My fear was deep and wide. A dark chasm had such a grip upon my spirit that at times I could not breath. It had assumed a position of royal authority and took possession of my soul as its kingdom; relegating me to the lowly position of serf I served my master well without question. Until I turned 38 and I began to question what was my purpose in life. This question grew into a passion that in its desire conquered the power of fear. I wanted to know why I was so unhappy and discontented.
The outcome of this initial assessment was my being in perpetual fear. I realized fear had been more a companion than dictator. So much so that I was unable to discern its presence from within or without it was solid and secure in its oppressive hold. It took years to from the comfort of its discomfort, realizing how my decisions had been predicated upon my reaction to the fear of it, which pushed me towards it as I tried to work through the fear or from it, as it found it too overwhelming to handle.
My relationship with fear began as a child lonely in need of comfort; I reached for the emotion most constant. Just as other children feared the boogieman or monsters in the closet, fear introduced itself to me through the real and the tangible, by questioning my self worth. As a child I lost what is most precious to a child, the assurance that I was loved and wanted.
I was three years old when I had to confront the possibility that my daddy did not love me. Though I have come to understand more now as an adult, the child in me still has a tender spot for that lost relationship. It is a memory, which still retains its clarity 45 years later. Without closing my eyes I can feel the fading sunlight on my skin. I can smell concrete and tar which has baked in summer sun for months. I can hear the diesel engine of the approaching 'A' bus four blocks away as I wait patiently on the steps. A piece of paper covers the porch step to protect my dress from being "messed up". Every time I'd hear a bus approach, I turn to see it pass. My seat on the steps gives me a clear view of 33rd Street and the buses that pass by my block. I hold my breath with anticipation for the driver to apply his breaks, which means some one, could be getting off. It stops, I exhale and quickly smooth my dress and make sure the lace of my socks are lying perfectly on top of my Sunday dress shoes.
I had estimated with a child's mind the length of time it would take a 6' man to cover the distance from Berks Street and reach the corner of Monument Street. I'd see my daddy the moment he turned the corner. Then I'd jump up, run as fast as my legs could carry me and jump into his arms. My daddy always caught me in his arms and as his arms wrapped tighter around me I would deeply inhale his cologne. My daddy always smelled so-o-o good. I knew this was true because that's exactly what happened the last time my daddy had come home. Mommy never told me why he hadn't come home, but today he was coming home. Mommy had made sure I was clean and pretty. She had done my hair with ribbons.
The graying shadows of night were purple and the mosquitoes had started to bite. Mommy came to the front door and told me to come inside and she yelled at me when I refused to move because, "My daddy was comin' home!"
I sat on the porch until the streetlights had come one. The summer sun finally set and Mommy was at the door telling me to come inside. I didn't want to hear from her that daddy wasn't coming. I didn't want her to tell me why he didn't come and as the pain deepened I knew I'd never see my daddy again.
I don't know what I wanted or needed from my mother that day, but I know I didn't need her anger or want derision. I was frightened. That day fear showed me a way to protect myself with anger. It made me feel powerful when I was my most vulnerable. The anger bolstered the trembling child within.
When I look back now I realize fear had befriended my mother as well. That day fear took control of both of us and bartered silence for its protection. Truth had become too painful to bear and at the time unacceptable. It was a wall that had been created from pain and shame so intense that neither of us could admit to its existence. The wall became necessary. It made sure that as long as the wall existed my mother and I would never have to face the reflection of one another's pain. It became necessary for each of us to forget that day when hope died. We knew of each other's secret, the shame of having your love dismissed and realizing you have been discarded.
It was the shame from that realization that maintained the wall. The knowledge of the shame grew within and between us. The wall though opaque always had a clear reflection as a clear pool of water reflecting our soul's inner truth. We chose to live separately behind our wall fearful to deal with what the wall represented and how its creation through fear, pain, anger and shame had bound us in an emotional retardation.
I'm sorry to say that that wall remained between us until the day she died.
It's painful to admit that my mother and I were not able to face the truth of the wall. Nor were we able to forgive ourselves let alone one another. I see it clearly now and its not due to the wisdom of hindsight, it goes much deeper. It is so unfortunate that my mother and I spent our lives in fear, there was so much pain our spirits had become broken pieces making it impossible for love and forgiveness to exist.
I had become an emotional cripple; I was unable to see the world as full of wonders and possibilities. I did not get a thrill about exploring things outside of my experience or knowledge. I tended to rely upon my imaginary world of fantasy and make believe. I had total control there and the wall expanded and grew to surround me until it blocked out the world. It had a different effect upon my mother; she grew to be a woman who rigidly walked through the rest of her life in judgment and bitterness.
I was destined to the same fate, however the conception of my children also conceived the sweet taste of hope. I grew strong as my body grew with my developing child. My spirit still spoke and my heart stilled longed to love and I knew I would find love with this child. However it would be fear, fear that the broken pieces of my relationship with my mother would become a legacy I would blindly pass on to my daughters. My desire to express love to my daughters proved to be more powerful and I was finally able to confront my fear.
It took years and a lot of soul searching. I had to visit those places of darkness, pain and anger. I had to learn forgiveness. I had to learn to love my mother and father anyway. I had to learn to forgive myself. I have learned that it is dangerous to expect a life of perfection. I have discovered my errors and mistakes create a unique and colored mosaic whose colors are more often than not darkly muted, blending one with another with few lines of definition. I'm learning to see the beauty of its twisted palate.
There are many days when I am afraid and I have to struggle to keep from falling into old patterns, comfortable habits when I'm facing something new and challenging I feel my old companion's hand reaching out for me, tempting back to a place of isolation and distrust. Freedom elicits a special kind of joy and it changes my perception of the world and my place within can be seen through a different perspective. The valleys have become passages necessary to gain insight and wisdom and are rich for personal growth. I still worry and have to still the raging voice of doubt and let the whisper, "and this too will pass" be heard.
| Tacit Knowing and Education Name: Samantha M Date: 2004-12-18 15:24:49 Link to this Comment: 11999 |
How is tacit knowing or tacit knowledge utilized in the classroom? This has been my question since discovering the term coined by Michael Polanyi and reading the excerpt of The Tacit Dimension as presented to us in our bulk pack. In my previous essays, I reflected on my experiences in a second grade classroom and observations of students being able to or not being able to refer to the tacit dimension in the classroom. In rethinking through Polanyi's assertion that "we can know more than we can tell", I will review ways in which students (children and adults) use intuition and other forms of tacit knowing in the classroom. I will also speak to the detrimental effects of particular school reforms such as the No Child Left Behind Act, which diminish the student's ability to use tacit knowledge in the classroom.
What is tacit knowing/knowledge? It is something that is "implied or indicated but not actually expressed." It is what we already know by way of previous experience, or, habituation that has become second nature. This is not a far-fetched idea. If we go back to Plato's Republic, even he believed that humans have the capability to know the right thing to do because we were born with that information already in our minds. A life of study was a way to reflect on this knowledge and use it for the good of all.
Children respond to material in the classroom using tacit knowledge. All we learn in some way relies on us connecting it somehow to something we already know. Tacit knowledge requires a synthesis of previous experience into the inner workings of the mind and memory. Certainly, other educational theorists saw the importance of this in the classroom. Some ways children use tacit knowledge is in the different interactions between other children and to adults, crying in the classroom to signify pain, confusion, and anger, etc. John Dewey's Experience and Education speaks specifically to this concept. "Every experience is a moving force." I equate "tacit knowing" to having previous experiences. Regardless of our being conscious of the importance of an event, our mind holds on to that experience and becomes a knowledge that we can utilize in the future.
Can tacit knowing be utilized in the classroom? It is my opinion that it is becoming increasingly more difficult, particularly in public schools that must adhere to the strict testing of children for the sake of compliance to the No Child Left Behind Act, to rely on previous knowledge to help students learn in the classroom. Progressive teaching methods such as the theories espoused by Dewey or Paulo Freire are difficult to enact because of the time and energy needed to prepare students for standardized tests. Time, the much-needed commodity, is not available for deviation from scripted curricula. More and more, children are learning for testing, not for real comprehension. It is here that I assume tacit knowing to be dismissed.
One example I can point to is the dismantling of many art and music programs in schools. Music and art are prime examples of the use of tacit knowing. In art, what we cannot say about how we move our hands and combine color to form a beautiful image is precisely what makes us an artist. Practice makes us better, but it builds on what we already know. Music can be spoken of in the same way. Music and art are known to help students learn other subjects, yet they are usually the first programs to be cut.
The concept of tacit knowing is important to our understanding of how students learn and how we can rethink teaching strategies. So many important educational theorists have in some way or another referred to it in their concepts. From Dewey's experience and education to Freire's pedagogy to Eleanor Duckworth's having of wonderful ideas...It will be interesting to see how educators in public schools will circumvent the move from teaching to pass standardized tests to teaching to help students expand the knowledge they already know.
Works Cited:
Polanyi, Michael. The Tacit Dimension. Rpt. BMC Bulk Pack. Fall 2004. Garden City: Doubleday and Co.
Dewey, John. Experience and Education. 1938. New York. Touchstone. 1997.
Duckworth, Eleanor. The Having of Wonderful Ideas. New York: Columbia University. 1987
