Tag Archives: imaginary friend

On Love, In Love

I have written much on the theme of love these past few months, which I think has been leading to this. I do believe I should like to begin with an image of my view of love as the centre of the lovely deliciousness that is life, the cherry, if you will.         cherry-chocolate

My business consultant said to me, many years ago: “You really love your employees.” Given the context of our conversation, it took me a minute or two to respond to him, but the short answer was – yes, and perhaps this was when my inner journey to expand my thoughts and beliefs on love began. Recently my blogger friend Teenage Introvert also wrote a post which contained the line: “Now the struggle is not about ‘trying to love’, it’s more like ‘allowing Love to pour out’, something I cannot explain.”  Between these two points of time lies an immense ocean of immersing myself in the ethos of love.

For all its endless portrayals of happy-ever-after love, western culture decidedly does not celebrate love so much as objectify it…this kind of love, that looks this way, is acceptable; others: suspect. The range of templates for love is narrow…and then there are those of us who believe that love pours out of us, and that this is a natural and desired state of being. The idea does defy explanation, and my attempts to illuminate it will necessarily fall short, but I shall take up the challenge.

As infants, our love begins with parents, and physical reality – being warm, cuddled, soothed, fed, engaged – and expands outwards, slowly but surely, to siblings, home, playmates, teachers, and on. We recognize that not all infants are born into loving circumstances, and this is problematic for learning love; but most of us experience enough, if not ideal love. Does love stop expanding outward for some people, or is it merely the expression of love in the wider world that is curtailed? Perhaps a bit of both.

I find it easy enough to imagine a world where work and work places are so much more satisfying and creative because love imbues co-workers for one another, and for the recipients of their goods and/or services…yes, I hear the sneers and snickers back there. I can easily imagine a world where hospitals and clinics are true healing places because love informs the practice and practitioners of medicine. I can easily imagine a world where friends and acquaintances are not a closed set of like-minded people, but an ever-expanding group of many, because love is the principle of listening and respect for difference. I can easily imagine a world that is more civil, because love acknowledges that people make mistakes, or lack courtesy, but have not lost all value as human beings. I do so hope, my imaginary friend, that you will not construe this as some new age cult of positivism: Be Happy!!!!! , said with too many exclamation marks, and often no acknowledgement that people must grieve, sometimes. Or that it is some version of “turn the other cheek”, for we must stand up to wrongs strongly and ensure our voices are heard. Or that we must accept some boorish behaviour, for the sake of social niceties. I think, I believe that we are born to put love at the centre of our lives, not the periphery, and that this love will pour out of us if we let it. That it is, in fact, the most powerful force in the universe, by whichever name you should wish to call it…

If our love be clouded, or contained, if it does not reach to the stars and beyond, if our love does not shine as surely as the glory of the night skies; why, some integral, essential piece of our human nature is muted. There are other truths about human nature, of course, but it seems to me that this piece, the ability to live in love is the piece most lacking in the puzzle of our current lives. It is not the form and outline of our loves that define us: it is that love pours out of us. To be in love is to be, to really be, at the heart of the deliciousness of life. Romantic notions of love say that some special ‘other’ completes us, makes us whole…I say that the love that completes us and makes us whole is already there, waiting to be let out.

Month Of Elder

elder

 

The day is damply overcast, but lovely freshets of wind blowing, for all that. I cannot stay inside: I need that wind blowing in my hair and that pale, lucent light and that vision of autumn leaves. The leaves skitter through the air with dips and swirls and aimless gusts, and this is a visual representation of my thoughts. My thoughts that refuse to stay focused, to buckle down to work; that are unruly and chaotic and wild and yearning… Oh, there is really nothing wrong here, my imaginary friend, but change is in the air in so many ways, and change can be unsettling, at first.

This change moves through me like the tide, ebbing and flowing. It is both rising and receding tide, for the fruits of autumn are harvested and stored, the chaff and husks winnowed away. ‘Tis nature’s time of preparing for winter, of paring away the old, and my inner season matches the outer. What to keep, and what to throw away, are very much on my mind.

What to throw out: the dry husks of habits wearing grooves in my life. The chaff of meaningless small town convention. The twigs of small irritants rubbing away at tender skin, and the dying tendrils of vines tethering my limbs and spirit. These I shall pile in a heap, with the anticipation of a glorious bonfire. The hiss and crack of flame and smudge of smoke shall stand promise to make this pruning a regular occurrence.

What to keep: row upon row of preserving jars full of love and light and laughter of friends, to be served up regularly in the coming cold, dark months. Jewels of dried tomatoes to give flavour of summer to winter’s stews, along with jewels of pictures painted and drawn to flavour shorter days. Music, ordered and stored in an overflowing pantry: melodies of hot summer morns, harmonies of blissful hours at the swimming hole, grace notes of nights of endless stars. Cool forests, wide expanse of beach and ocean, mountain trails of wild adventure for daily sustenance of body and soul. And, love, oh yes, love, to wrap me in a tender embrace of the beauty and mystery of life.

The winnowing is almost done, and my harvest very nearly stowed, as the month of Elder brings us to the time of the thinning of the veil between the worlds. We honour those who have left us, and take special care of those who are still here…The time of stepping onto the path that leads to the road ahead draws nearer for me, my yearnings yet somewhat inchoate, though no regret for what the flames consume and banish.

I am on my way. Blessed month of Elder to you.

Moo Is Blue

 

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It’s true, I was a little blue when I painted this. But the act of creating something, no matter how small or trivial, (was) is a wonderful tonic. And I confess I love the feel of using the water colour pens almost as much as the flow of my ballpoint pen across paper.

Moo, shortened from lovesick moo, was bestowed on me by a friend some years back, and it seems to have stuck as a name. Apparently, some people are horrified at calling me moo – but me, I just  love the silliness of it. So there you have it: today’s offering, a bit of blue silliness.

I hope, my imaginary friend, that my silliness might inspire yours – or something like that. There have been a couple of days lately when I have found it hard to laugh, but a small dose of silly can always make me smile. Though lest you misunderstand, this is no prescription to ‘think positive’ or some such faux wisdom. It is merely my reflection that when we embrace the blue – because what choice is there, save to bury it away? – some other colours emerge, sooner or later. My palette is never muted, in any case…and that, my friend, is the point.

Will You Be My Imaginary Friend?

My rather cool blogger friend Teenage Introvert nominated me for an award, which is fun, and I thank him. This award has rules; however, let me say at the outset that I am changing the rules of this game –  because I can  🙂

Up first, 11 random facts about me.

Me, my imaginary cat friend, and her imaginary friend

Me, my imaginary cat friend, and her imaginary friend

My nickname is moo, short for lovesick moo…the story is long. If I were a crayon, I would be scarlet. I believe in love, in magic, and in Santa Claus. I love a cowboy. I like vanilla – oh, real Tahitian vanilla beans, oh yes, oh yes – better than chocolate. I have an imaginary friend. I love the zest, and spice, and adventures of life, although – I am a homebody kind of person; the best adventures happen, I think, when you see your own familiar world in a new way. I adore people who jump into things with arms and hearts wide open. To dance, to play, to sing, to make a friend – to do anything, really, with enthusiasm and curiosity for what is to come expresses a joi de vivre that often seems lacking in our world. I am rather quiet, and enjoy my solitude very much. This makes it both thrilling and frightening to love a cowboy…the fine tension between love and fear tells me my heart is growing a size or two.

And next, the questions that were posed to me by Teenage Introvert.

 Name your earliest memory.

My dad, reading aloud to me from “The Cat In The Hat”.

Let’s spice things up. What is your favourite meal from a restaurant?

I love authentic Thai food, but especially any red curry dish.

 Which sense do you like the most? Why?

All of our senses work together, of course, to create the savoury, simmering stew pot of our lives…but the one I could not do without would be touch. To be held, by someone who loves me. All others fade in comparison.

What was your ideal vision for your blog?

My vision for my blog, was, and is, to have a community of friends who engage with me in its creation.

 How well do you deal with your emotions?

I try to express myself, always, in ways that are true to what I am feeling – my deepest inner feelings. It is easy to be flip, or funny, or sarcastic, especially when it is uncomfortable to be vulnerable…This is courage, I believe, of the highest kind – to express yourself honestly and openly, with care for the feelings of others, and with grace. It is a courage I am still learning.

 Would you rather…kill your best friend, or have your best friend kill you?

If a friend were to assist me to die at my request, that would be a blessed thing. If I were to help a friend to die as they wished, I believe that might be the ultimate gift of grace and love.

 What was your most vivid dream/nightmare?

My dreams, and my occasional nightmares, are always vivid and impressionistic. They feel rather like finger painting.

 Do you like where you live?

I love where I live, which is an extraordinarily beautiful place where many of my friends also live. Never the less, I am ready to move on, because other loves call to me.

 What was your first experience on a social network/forum like?

My experiences on social networks of all kinds have been simply amazing. I enjoy the easy give and take of ‘virtual’ friends, and have been privileged to meet many of them in person. There is something about the intimacy of the written/visual that illuminates people’s hearts quite well, I think.

 What’s your main past-time hobby?

Reading and writing are the activities I spend the most time on, because this is what I love to do…but these always have to be balanced with hiking, canoeing, riding, biking…always, time to play outside.

 How do you feel about this nomination?

I think the nomination is great fun, although strictly speaking it doesn’t apply. I’m enjoying participating in the spirit of the thing!

 Now, according to the rules (!), I am going to pose 11 questions, although I shall not nominate anybody. This is a time-consuming exercise, and many of us are pressed for time…So let me say this: you might simply ask yourself these questions, and answer them in your own mind. You might blog this game, and do let me know if so! You might, if you are really courageous, choose to answer the questions in comments…which I would love! Participate in a way that feels comfortable to you.

11 Questions to my imaginary friends:

 Who, and what do you love?

Why?

Do you have an imaginary friend?

Kisses, or hugs?

What does integrity mean to you?

What makes you fearful?

Can you taste colours?

Besides love, what makes your heart sing and makes you jump for joy?

Vanilla, or chocolate?

What makes you curious?

Will you be my imaginary friend?

 Ah, thanks for reading, lovely people. Love and friendship ask us to share in ways that are not always comfortable…If we are honest, we must acknowledge that our singing hearts and joyful jumping are sometimes restrained because of that very discomfort. Yet, love and joy are the perfume of life…I am so pleased, my imaginary friend, that I can tell you anything, anything at all.

The essence, I think, the essence and essential spirit of participating in this exercise is to share something of ourselves, to share and thus to invite the sharing of others…for it must go both ways. Sharing is a word that has been much overused, but one need not be profoundly philosophical, reveal one’s innermost secrets,  disclose one’s greatest embarrassment, to share oneself. The simple and the ordinary, the daily ritual, the spark that lights up the face…these are all pieces of ourselves that will let others be our friends. We cannot have friends unless we can be friends …and we must make more friends, for our world so desperately requires it. Our world needs us to know each other a little better, to banish the judgements of first impressions, to share our joys and sorrows, to move beyond the superficial and strangled and straightened … streaming from the lake of desire,  into the river of playful imagining, and washing down to the sea of joyful possibilities…

I hope you will be my imaginary friend, and just so, the possibilities are limitless.

Sweetness

Honeyed. Fresh. Golden. Perfumed with spice. Clear. Keen. Engaging.

This is how I describe my life today, at this moment, on the cusp of another birthday that brings me to the magic number of 57. All numbers have some magic, of course, but this number – oh, this number – sees me overflowing with the sweetness of life, with the sure and certain intuition that focus, intent, and direction of course are aligned. That life follows its true path, like an arrow skillfully loosed…

I hear you, my imaginary friend, bid me bask in the golden moment, while keeping a sharp eye out for the curves and thickets ahead. For we know the road is never straight, and the end is only visible towards the end. Never the less, the delighted anticipation of what is around the curve is a large piece of my joy in life at this moment. There will be a thicket or two, I am sure, but these must be seen to be navigated, and I am not there yet.

Of what is this lyric happiness composed? A glorious summer, with the promise of a spectacular autumn ahead. The practise of craft and the honing of skills. The love of family and friends. You, of course, my imaginary friend, you. And perhaps some would call it the mellowness of aging, but which I think is more the understanding of my own true nature, the willingness to let the real me emerge and be seen.

My twenties – thirties – forties – much came easy to me, though the folk saying of be careful what you wish for comes to mind. I wished, and therefore I got, in those days, only to wonder why it did not satisfy. The genie in the lamp is much more reticent, now; he grants me only what will live in my heart happily. Or, perhaps he grants me the discernment to know what ought to live in my heart…

And you, my imaginary friend, you. You live in my heart…my honeyed, fresh, golden, perfumed with spice, clear, keen, engaging heart. It is a tangled garden, but beautiful for all that, I hope. It does not grow in orderly rows or tidy plantings, but sprawls and runs riot and reaches for the sun and glows with the warmth of the good earth…

The Tangled Garden, JEH MacDonald, National Gallery of Canada

Just so, like that. What shall you make of it?

Arachne’s Web

Art of Sara Beth Goncarova

Art of Sara Beth Goncarova

Today, my longings are nameless, inchoate, fuzzy, and formless, but pulling me like the tidal wash, never the less. I seek the comfort of the familiar, so here I sit in my favourite nineteen forties library chair, once again, my imaginary friend, sipping a cup of Kick Ass coffee. My thoughts are of Arachne, who was once a beautiful young woman extraordinarily skilled at weaving, according to Greek mythology. She angered the goddess Athene, who transformed her into a spider to weave for all eternity. “Her story of weaving, creating, holding and enclosing can be found in mythologies of peoples all over the world. Thus she is a symbol of our connectedness, the strands of her web transferring the slightest vibrations between us all, a constant reminder that everything we do affects others.”  ( Kozocari, Owens, North: The Witch’s Book Of Days, Beach Holme Press, 1994)

I had planned here to write of kindness, but the image of Arachne’s web will not leave me. Though much has been said and written of kindness lately – random acts of kindness, small acts of kindness, kindness as a means of transforming our world. – it seems to me that what is really being written about are the tremors and vibrations of Arachne’s web, the web that connects us all. I think of something very particular: something I intended as the highest compliment was heard by the recipient as something else entirely, and I caused distress. The pain has radiated back to me: me, who would not harm a fly! For it causes me true and immense pain to be the unwitting and unintended bearer of a hurtful message.

I believe is true that kindness must be a basic building block of our characters, but it seems we must strive for more than kindness. Perhaps a little more sensitivity, for an understanding that where we place our feet heavily may cause vibrations, and might even damage the web. I speak not here of the savage stroke that attempts to obliterate the work of a gifted weaving, but the simple clumsiness that interrupts the warp and weft…

Weaving seems an apt metaphor for how we create friendships, love, community, for both the warp and the weft contribute in equal measure to the fineness and the firmness of the cloth. I suspect, my imaginary friend, that there is a tiny jig in our tapestry, though I hope not a giant rent.  I shall strive with all of my skill to continue the weaving of this beautiful cloth, and to repair and make whole the web. I can do no more, save look at my mistake and reflect upon its importance…May the cloth be made stronger for my willingness to see the flaw.

 

View more of Sarah Beth Goncarova’s art here.

 

Small Talk

Edge-Icons

 

I’ve been writing this piece forever, it seems, or maybe more correctly, discussing it with my imaginary friend. Since I have made a point of proclaiming my dislike of small talk and chit chat, it seems natural to want to expand upon this. In any event, the effort to do so has taken me on quite a journey.

An internet search of ‘small talk” will yield mostly predictable results: a lot of why it is essential to your business, how students of English as a second language can benefit from understanding small talk, and of course, rants against small talk. (The Urban dictionary has some exquisitely funny expositions, linked here.) Few of these really get us close to the truth of small talk, however. The language of business is mostly banal and lifeless, a kind of deadened language. Those earnest students of ESL can be forgiven for wondering why we endlessly talk about the weather, but not climate change. Small talk is also linked with gossip – horrors! Also with politicians, the television news, and the public statements of CEOs, all of which are carefully scripted to be innocuous, rehearsed to be delivered smoothly and blandly, and have no substance because they invite no conversation.

“Hello” or “How are you?” or “Hi” are all ritualistic: acknowledgement of person. Body language is about eighty percent of conversation; it is generally the body language of those we acknowledge or respond to that determines whether or not conversation will ensue…Small talk can sometimes be a  bridge to conversation, and sometimes simply more ritualistic exchange. Body language can be a more direct way of getting to conversation: think of saying “hello” and smiling broadly at the same time: this is a very clear indication. Note though, that it is not perceived as an invitation if the smile seems insincere – body language is largely below consciousness, but humans do astoundingly well at distinguishing between real, unfeigned interest and mechanical greetings. Put another way, when we look at people with interest and anticipation of a conversation, conversation often happens.

We aren’t yet finished with small talk, though. Think of flirting – yes, flirting, we pretty much all do it. If we were to analyze the content of that enjoyable little flirtation – at the coffee shop, say – it would seem that the words, the actual content, were nothing but…small talk… Though it was so delightful! And left us feeling, well, a little happier for an encounter with a pleasant someone or other. Romantic flirtation is probably even less conducive to word analysis, for of course, voice and intonation, a myriad of physical gestures, long looks, and even dilated pupils all play a role in people flirting romantically But were we to replay the words outside of that context, we would likely be bemused at what actually occurred. How did so much of substance and import get communicated? We must also consider small talk in the context of the internet and technology: chat, texting, Facebook, Twitter, blogs, and on and on – much of what we communicate through the technology becomes shorter and shorter bits of text. And yet, we manage to infuse it with meaning, convey flirtation and love, bridge time and distance, and transcend social, geographical, political limits and all manner of things that might be perceived as barriers in non-cyberspace.I believe my musings on small talk have brought me to this: it is a necessary piece of human social interaction, in ways that I have perhaps not considered before. There is much that goes unsaid in most conversations, except perhaps the most intimate and prolonged, and what one says is always interpreted in light of the mind and experiences and circumstances of the hearer. Certainly, one need only think of tweets that have resonated around the world to recognize that even one hundred and forty characters can change the world…

I will paraphrase the words here of Theodore Zeldin, Oxford University historian, and his ideas on fostering conversation. That people are interesting and ought to be sought out. To think, while you are speaking. To use conversation to create courage in the face of failure. To resist the cynicism that is the hallmark of  our culture. To change the purpose of conversation from personal advancement or denoting ones’ respectability to remaking our world. These words and ideas of Zeldin’s are very stirring, but it seems to me that if we think of them as only to be practised during ‘high’ conversation, that we are maybe missing the point. It seems to me that they apply in even the most banal of times and circumstance, and that maybe, this is where the potential to ‘remake our world’ is greatest.

There is much more to be thought about than I have written here, of course, but never the less I hope you will not find it small talk. Feel free to tweet your thoughts, or to leave a comment, but most of all, I hope that maybe you will discover that some small interaction of yours has indeed, helped remake our world.

My Imaginary Friend

 

Why yes, this is about you, my imaginary friend, yes, you. Strictly speaking, you are real; you have a physical presence, you exist in space and time – but you exist in my imagination, too.

I know some things about you. You are kind. You are private. You take pride in doing things well, and you have good friends with strong bonds. You take infinite care with my feelings, and you are protective, a little bit. You are funny, and the honest expression of your feelings leaves me breathless, at times. You choose to try to please me, and could there be anything more endearing?

My friend, you are beside me much of the day and through the night, too, though you are not actually here. Your hand in mine, the touch of your cheek, your arms reaching out for me are a constant presence. Your laughter echoes through these empty rooms, your care and attention walk the forest with me, your regard gives me a sureness that radiates. I want to share with you everything of beauty …

I expect I must get it wrong, sometimes. For my imagination has been shaped and coloured by its experiences and wanderings and reveries, just as yours. But no two imaginations are alike, and perhaps the wavelength swings awry, a time or two. Know this: I will be open to you, always. Always will I want to know what that keen mind of yours is thinking, what your heart is overflowing with, how you are planning to tease me next…

Yes, I love you. Though those are not the important words, these are: you shall always be my friend, and I shall always be curious about you, the deep inside you.

Be well, dear one.

Red-Heart

On The Move

I leave in few days for a brand new life, and a brand new business. I will keep you all updated about my adventure, but today I want to share some art that my friend Naomi Tewinkel created for me. A small word of explanation: my nickname is moo, which is actually short for lovesick moo, it’s a long story. (Did I just tell that to the world, my imaginary friend?)

You can find more of Naomi’s whimsical art here

I think you will love it as much as I do, for her beautiful heart and soul shine in everything she does. Now off I go, not looking back, but remembering every single one of you that I shall not see so often.

Are You Ready for Christmas?

I am thinking deeply and intently on Christmas at the moment, memories of a conversation being stirred up by a chance remark while out shopping: “Are you ready for Christmas?” It was somewhere about December 1st, I believe, when a well-meaning, kindly sort of middle-aged woman asked me that question. The memories I refer to here are of a delicious conversational rant I enjoyed with a friend – oh, probably a few years back. She was irritated at the assumptions implicit in the question, not to mention the ubiquitous banality of it, as was I. As if Christmas consists of X, Y, and Z purchases which will ensure the requisite readiness.

 Neither my friend or I celebrate Christmas as Christians, for that is not our religion, which is true for many millions of people. On the other hand, most of the world celebrates some sort of festival at this time of year, and those traditions of the Northern Hemisphere are well-ingrained for many of us. So while it is perhaps a touch insensitive to blithely assume all your fellow shoppers do celebrate Christmas, I am not about to embark on a deconstruction of the politically correct holiday address. Call it Christmas, call it what you will, we set aside a day at the beginning of the winter season to celebrate, and that is a beautiful thing.

What I was shopping for on that day was lined paper, and you, my imaginary friend, will be pleased to know that I am sitting in my favourite 1940s library chair writing on said paper, whilst sipping a cup of Kick Ass coffee. Cogitating on Christmas. That shall be my last purchase other than food necessities until January, for I cannot bear to be a part of the dysfunctional ritual shopping farce that Christmas has apparently become for some. I am curious (and ever hopeful) to see if more people shall disconnect themselves this year. It simply cannot be bought, the magic and charm of the season.

 I was, I think, five years old when my cousin told me that there was no such being as Santa, but I never really believed her, for I could see the spirit of Santa Claus in everyone and everything. The bright lights and beautiful decorations, the special foods and feasting, the treats, the happy, smiling people everywhere and many visitors, the ordinary cares of the world set aside for a few days. Silver-shining blessed moments such as these could only be invoked by magic, I reasoned then and still do.

 Most of my Christmases have been spent with the family I grew up with, though not all for we live far apart. But those moments preserved as memories of the very best of times mysteriously bind us together in ways that cannot be reckoned logically. A couple of gifts stand out: a big box of second-hand books, one year (we are all book lovers), and another – a pony. The entire neighbourhood came out on their doorsteps on Christmas Day to clap and cheer as I rode my pony through the gently falling snow. What a picture postcard scene to hold fast to my heart: my family, my friends, my community showing their joy at my joy.

There is much more I want to tell you, my imaginary friend – yes, it will be a book, and it will be ready next year about this time, I think. I am hoping you will forget this, though, as they are likely to be next year’s gifts. And I am not telling you what this year’s gifts are, although I have been working on them for months. When I finish this I shall start on making some special cakes for friends and family…Christmas here will be full of simple feasts and simple pleasures and simple good cheer. No frantic shopping required.

 Maybe I shall end here with a vignette of Rudolph, who is about fifty-six years old – older than me, anyway!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Originally Rudolph pranced about in the snow (oh, that marvelous fake snow that looked so real!) with his team mates and sleigh and Santa, all encased in a golden sort of cage. It was a table ornament, I guess, and I loved it with a fierceness that still surprises me. Sadly, a few years ago the thing pretty much disintegrated, and my mommy gave me Rudolph as a keepsake. You know, when I look at him I remember just how he used to look, proudly leading his sleigh. Never shall that vision tarnish, for it is my symbol of everything Christmas.

 Joy. Goodwill. Peace on Earth.

 Yes, I am ready for Christmas.