Why Does Criticism Bother Us?

!!~~!! morning-fogBenjamin Disraeli once wrote, “How much easier it is to be critical than to be correct.” That thought was illustrated clearly to me a few days ago. Someone I know, but not particularly well, jokingly said something like “you drive me crazy with all your stuff about optimism, gratitude and hope for the future. I think you make a lot of it up.”

He saw the look on my face and think that’s why he followed up “Don’t worry about it. I’m just kidding.” It had never occurred to me that it was even possible to fake happiness successfully and I was a bit put off by the comment. My reply was along the lines “think whatever you want. Its your loss if you don’t believe in such things”.

The comment continued to take up more space in my thoughts than it should have for a couple of days. I found myself randomly quizzing my psyche asking if I was pretending or imagining the lightness of being that I feel most of the time. The response has been the same each time the questioning surfaced. What echoed back was, “you know it’s all true. You feel it too strongly deep down for it not to be the real.”

It’s idiotic how a random casual comment by another person can sporadically occupy a lot of room in a another person’s internal space. Now being past giving any credence to the comment, still I find a curiosity about why it bothered me at all.

On her website ( http://www.namastepublishing.com ) Constance Kellough shared her perspective.

Why does criticism bother us? And, the flip side of the coin—and possibly the most important question of all—why do we let what others say bother us to the point that we in turn criticize them? Have you ever considered that the two might actually be proportional? In other words, we are upset by criticism to the degree we ourselves are critical of ourselves, and often in turn of others.

Some years ago an Ohio State University study found that those who make disparaging comments about others often are tarred with the same brush. It’s the old adage that when we point the finger, there are three fingers pointing back at us. What this means is that a person who accuses another of being controlling is either controlling in themselves or, which is often the case, lacks self-control.

It’s our insecurity that causes us to resent others, criticize them, put them down. Sarah Grand put her finger on what criticism is all about: Our opinion of people depends less on what we see in them than on what they make us see in ourselves. When someone can criticize us and we can “let it in,” we are finally becoming mature. If the criticism is baseless, we can hear it, feel its intent, and evaluate it as nothing to do with us. There’s no emotional wash from it.

What do we mean by “no emotional wash?” Well, for a start it doesn’t make us feel attacked. We don’t become defensive, compelled to argue against what’s being said. We have no inclination to respond in any kind of protective way, just to appreciate the person and their concern.

Ms. Kellough’s comments ring true to me. What echoes in my thoughts is 1) what others say is frequently much more of a reflection of their state of being than the person they are criticizing and 2) Past pain and self-doubt can make a person more susceptible to swallowing anothers criticism.

Reflecting on what was said to me I concluded: the speaker lacks what they accused me of having too much of (optimism, gratitude and hope) and my old hurts, while healed, remain sensitive to being criticized. While the latter is much improved, I am grateful for the reminder. In spite of how much I have grown, I am still vulnerable and can give in to other’s false thinking about me, even if only for a short while.

Don’t criticize
what you can’t understand.
Bob Dylan

http://www.namastepublishing.com/blog/compassionate-eye/why-does-criticism-bother-us-so-much

When You Wish Upon a Star

Glow-in-the-Dark-Stars-1 copyLeft over from my past is a little white plastic star, the sort that absorbs light and then glows in the dark. It’s about an inch across and about a year ago I stuck it on my ceiling right above where I sleep in my bed. Some years ago I had a whole package of about 50 stars from big to small that filled the “sky” over my bed. Only by accident do I still have the one little star that remains and resides on my ceiling.

Many may think it foolish for a fully grown man to lie in bed approaching sleep looking up at a plastic star above. But I don’t care! It works for me. Even the one remaining star glowing in the night brings me comfort. It awakens a touch of a childlike feeling that anything is possible.

The little star glowing a soft green in the night has been the focal point for my imagination to wander about looking for something to take into my dreams that night. It has given me comfort to look up and find it there night after night; an unchanging constant. The wonder of a child often falls into my psyche laying there near slumber remembering good parts of my childhood with my brother. The future I hope for seems a little more possible when I am there comfortably looking up in the dark.

Wishing upon a star comes from Roman legend. The planet Venus is named for the Roman goddess of love and is always the brightest point in the sky. The Romans built temples to Venus, and since it was the first “star” that could be seen in the sky for much of the year, and always the brightest whether seen in the morning or the evening, it was an easy way to remember it as a prayer point. What is the #1 thing that people prayed to Venus for? Love, of course. The prayer evolved into a wish as people forgot the Goddess of Love and her origins, and the wish expanded into realms well outside the beginning point.

Indirectly my little glow in the dark star is shining with the same light those in the night sky radiate. The sun gave its energy to whatever is expended to make the electricity to light the lamp in my bedroom from where the little star gets its temporary glow. So the plastic star is my little slice of heaven to sleep beneath each night. For something so simple, I gain much. I am grateful for every piece of hope, fantasy and dream I have wished upon it.

When you wish upon a star
Makes no difference who you are
Anything your heart desires
Will come to you.
If your heart is in your dream
No request is too extreme
When you wish upon a star
As dreamers do.
Fate is kind
She brings to those who love
The sweet fulfillment of
Their secret longing.
Like a bolt out of the blue
Fate steps in and sees you through
When you wish upon a star
Your dreams come true.
From Disney’s “Pinocchio”
written by Leight Harline and Ned Washington

Reasons Why I Cannot Love You

beautiful leaf wallpaperThe following was written by Kat George a year and a half ago for thoughtcatalogue.com. It’s well crafted and hit me hard, right between the eyes!

Don’t get me wrong—I think you’re great. I like to eat dinner across from you, quickly glancing down at the fork idly fondling my food when you catch my eye. I like the coy smiles that pass between us, and the way that once we’re both drunk you become brave enough to hold my hand, and I become excited enough to hold it back. I like it when my phone vibrates in the night and it’s you saying something completely irrelevant, just so you could text me. I like that you like me; I like what we have.

But I can’t love you. I can’t love you because I couldn’t love the one before you, and I wont be able to love the one after you. It’s not because you’re not wonderful, or because you don’t deserve to be loved. It’s because you’ve melted into those other ones—you’re all the same. None of the dinners, the lazy days spent in bed cradling each other’s naked bodies, the little things you whisper to me, none of it is new. I’ve heard and done these things before, the motions are repetitive, and my responses are habitual. I can’t love you because we don’t have that special… thing… that makes every one of these practiced encounters seem brand new.

I can’t love you because I’m measuring you against a yard-stick from long ago, and you keep falling short. Every movement you make, every tiny word you utter, I pick up and hold towards the sun to see if you’ll turn transparent and I’ll see him inside your skin. When he’s not there—and he never is—I know I’ll never be able to love you. I haven’t and I can’t move on; it’s not your fault. I know I’m being entirely ridiculous, but when he haunts my sleep and I awaken in the morning only to see your resting eyes and your mouth agape on the pillow next to me, I feel disappointed, and I hate that I feel that way. I can’t love you because I’m entangled in the past, and I’m still not ready for the future.

I can’t love you because you adore me too much. Every time I wish for you to stop flattering me, to stop agreeing with me on every little thing, to stop f#cking doing every completely nonsensical thing I ask of you, it makes me feel sick, ungrateful and mean. You’re wonderful for thinking I’m wonderful, but I can’t love you because you don’t love me for my flaws—you love me in spite of them. You don’t see me, you don’t even want to see me, for what I am—the ugly, pungent parts of my guts. You can’t and don’t want to tear these parts out of me while I scream. I can’t love you because you won’t defy me, because you won’t fight me when I’m wrong. I can’t love you because you don’t stand eye to eye with me and challenge me, demand of me, to be a better person.

I can’t love you because it’s too hard and I’m too busy. I’m so busy all the time; I barely have time to see my friends, the people I know I’ll be 80 with, if we all (God/ universe/ Mother Nature willing) make it that far. I keep trying to convince myself that you’re just not right for me but half the problem is I simply don’t have the time for you, and I didn’t realize my mental process was making these ludicrous deductions until a friend casually pointed out that I was a New Yorker now, and that New York was what was ‘happening’ to me. And here I was thinking I was just holding out for Mr. Right. I can’t love you because logically or illogically, my brain doesn’t compute having you any higher on my list of priorities.

I can’t love you because I’m happy on my own. It’s been almost a year now, and I’ve healed from the destructive force of a previous relationship. I’ve learned how to enjoy my own company and laugh at my own jokes. I can’t love you because if I do you’ll be in my bed with me at night, or worse, I’ll be at yours without my things around me. I wont be able to sleep spread-eagled, to eat crispy fried bacon in my underpants, to make plans to go out whenever I want, or to make plans to stay in whenever I want. I can’t love you because, right now, I’m enjoying my ‘me’ time far too much—I’m like a pig in sh!t. I can’t love you because for the first time in my life, I’m being selfish.

I can’t love you because I’m scared. Because I’ve been broken-hearted and I know the pain of losing something I love all too well. I don’t have another heartbreak in me, and sometimes when I look at you I imagine myself as a younger girl and I know I would have ridden into the sunset with you, had you asked, even if you were entirely wrong for me. I can’t love you because I’m so tired of love; its commitments and risks. I can’t love you because I don’t know if you’re worth the commitment or the risk and I’m not willing to find out the hard way, although I sincerely hope that one day I will be. I can’t love you because I don’t want to, and sometimes I’m afraid that makes me a bad person. By Kat George http://thoughtcatalog.com/2011/reasons-why-i-cannot-love-you/

Change the reference points from “him” to “her” and just about every word here rings true for me personally, so much so it is unnerving. Such occurrences of unexpected introspection almost always bring me lasting insight. Thank you Kat!

I love you, with no beginning, no end…
Without fear. Without expectations.
Wanting nothing in return,
except that you allow me
to keep you here in my heart…
Coco J. Ginger

Enlivened My Dream All the More

couple in fogLast night a dream passed through my night where I was with another under an umbrella in the pouring rain trying to stay dry. The drops were coming down fast and hard so we tried running and seemed to just get more wet. In keeping that little clip of make believe alive in my head this morning I began to ask does one stay drier running in the rain or walking?

It came as a surprise, but this question has received some serious attention from the scientific community here and there. Even the syndicated Straight Dope columnist Cecil Adams and the producers of the television series Mythbusters have conducted their own studies on the debate. The general finding as to whether you’d get wetter if you run or walk in the rain appears to favor walking makes you the wettest. The hypothesis is if you don’t want to get soaked any more than is strictly necessary during a rainstorm, run as fast as you can. So the correct choice was made in my dream to run to end up a little less wet.

Apparently the decision whether to run or walk in the rain has more to do with time than volume of rainfall hitting you. Simply a runner will be out of the rain in less time than the walker, which means a person running should be exposed to less overall moisture. The walker might benefit slightly from not running into the raindrops ahead, but the added time in the rain would make him wetter overall.

Many people believe that rainy days are for staying indoors and waiting for the sun to shine again. Then there are those like me who love the rain, who adore walking in it and even cherish the damp feeling one gets by walking when showers are coming down.

There is something about rainfall that is therapeutic. I’ve shared happiness with drizzle and mingled my sadness with it too. Charlie Chaplin’s famous line “I love walking in the rain because nobody can see me crying” has found me outside getting welcomedly soaked during down times more often than I care to count. If you have not tried walking when it is raining to soothe a painful day, I highly recommend it. Once you step outside there can be a feeling that nature understands your sadness. Being in the rain has a way of cleansing the body and heart, washing away tears and providing hope.

A quote from Vivian Green goes “Life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass. It’s about learning to dance in the rain.” I can personally attest it’s absolutely true.

The rain is not just for when I feel sad. Being soaked brings out my happy child within because I am doing something “sensible adults” rarely do; getting wet simply for the fun of it. I also find rain and fog terribly romantic and inspirational. Few others are out if I go walking in rainy weather and I have the wet beautiful world more to myself. It’s an almost mystical feeling that is ancient and solid down to the spirit of my being.

If you avoid the rain and always try to stay dry you’re missing out! I am grateful to have enjoyed it so dearly my entire life. Hearing rainfall is truly one of the most loved things I know in nature. And yes, I even dream about being in the rain like last night. It was just a little touch that enlivened my dream all the more.

And when it rains on your parade,
look up rather than down.
Without the rain, there would be no rainbow.
Gilbert K. Chesterton

Joy Is Your Sorrow Unmasked

couple-dance-dancing-in the rain-136255

Be brave enough to be happy” read a stranger’s post on Pinterest. The quote plays perfectly in tune with my thoughts this morning.

Years ago skiing in Vail, I saw a sweatshirt inscribed with “No guts, no glory. No pain, no gain.” For the longest I kept those words mentally filed only under physical ability and achievement.

Time has tempered my thinking to know that courage and an openness to endure discomfort is most important with my feelings. The majority of my emotional weakness of old times is gone. Hurt goes no less deep when it comes, but I fully realize now that a willingness to openly accept the painful is what allows the full range of its mirror reflection, joy.

In the “Prophet” Kahlil Gibran wrote:
Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.
And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises
was oftentimes filled with your tears.
And how else can it be?
The deeper that sorrow carves into your being,
the more joy you can contain.
Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup
that was burned in the potter’s oven?
And is not the lute that soothes your spirit,
the very wood that was hollowed with knives?
When you are joyous, look deep into your heart
and you shall find it is only that
which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.
When you are sorrowful look again in your heart,
and you shall see that in truth you are weeping
for that which has been your delight.
Some of you say, “Joy is greater than sorrow,”
and others say, “Nay, sorrow is the greater.”
But I say unto you, they are inseparable.
Together they come, and when one sits,
alone with you at your board,
remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.
Verily you are suspended like scales
between your sorrow and your joy.

Occasions arise when I am overwhelmed with the sheer magnitude of my feelings. What a gift to be that passionately alive! Emotions long-buried awakened bring great pain paid back with interest, but also a full magnitude of joy that rides by its side.

I used to be so afraid,
Sometimes crippled;
Worry and anxiety held me back.
The fear remains, but
My courage is strong.
Good or bad,
joy or pain,
With open arms
I embrace the fullness of it all,
Knowing
The best life ever lived,
Was filled with great happiness
And lots of heartache and grief;
No life has ever been better.
To know the full joy
I openly accept pain that comes.
Whatever arrives in my path,
I welcome
With gratitude and anticipation.

There is enormous benefit to being well along into middle age before emotionally getting it together and finding balance. Feeling this much, this deeply can break some people, but it can also enliven a person’s being beyond what one might dare to imagine. There is a concentration of emotion within me focused like light through a magnifying glass that allows me to gratefully know the richness from side to side and top to bottom. With sadness on one mountain and joy on the other I live in the valley of hopes and dreams between.

What would you like to do?
Everything!
From the 1987 movie “Made In Heaven”

Love Letter to a Book

EBBWhen first coming into view, I knew I had to have you. You were taller than most and your slim profile caused you to stand out. Even on the surface you appeared to be different from the others. Your delicate manner only made me desire you all the more. Visible gold initials identifying you gave me a hint of what you might be about. My initial impression was rewarded. You were be far beyond my first thoughts. I could not resist taking take you home with me.

Had I not titled this piece as being about a book it would be easy to surmise I had been recently smitten by a chance meeting of a lovely woman. The “lady” I met is the most beautiful copy of “Sonnets to the Portuguese” I have ever seen found yesterday at my favorite used book store. The photo above is an engraving from the book.

The “Sonnets…” were love poems written by Elizabeth Barrett in 1845-1846 for Robert Browning while they were carrying on their mostly secret courtship. Initially she was hesitant to publish the poems, feeling that they were too personal. However, once married her husband insisted that they were the best sequence of English-language sonnets since Shakespeare’s time and urged her to publish them. To offer the couple some privacy, she decided that she would publish them as supposed translations of foreign sonnets eventually settling on “Portuguese” (after Robert’s nickname for Elizabeth of “my little Portuguese”).

The forty-third “Sonnet to the Portuguese” begins “How do I love thee? Let me count the ways…” and is one of the most famous poems in the world and has been very popular since first published in 1850. Last night looking through the book I was struck by a previously over looked “Sonnet” that has been added to my personal favorites; Number 20.

Beloved, my Beloved, when I think
That thou wast in the world a year ago,
What time I sate alone here in the snow
And saw no footprint, heard the silence sink
No moment at thy voice … but, link by link,
Went counting all my chains, as if that so
They never could fall off at any blow
Struck by thy possible hand … why, thus I drink
Of life’s great cup of wonder! Wonderful,
Never to feel thee thrill the day or night
With personal act or speech,—nor ever cull
Some prescience of thee with the blossoms white
Thou sawest growing! Atheists are as dull,
Who cannot guess God’s presence out of sight.

 OR A modernized version interpretation

My darling, my love, when I think
That you were in the world a year ago,
While I sat by myself, out here in the cold,
Seeing no sign of you, just silence;
I never heard your voice. I just went over all my reasons
For being always sad, cementing them
Till it seemed they could never lift, no matter
What you tried…But then I tasted joy,
All the joy that life could give!
I couldn’t see then, that I would ever experience
Thrills like this, brought on by you–your words,
Some sense of you I never saw before now!
I must be as dull as an unbeliever,
Who can’t feel that God is here, though He is out of sight.

I have a Nook, thanks to my son and love it. When I travel the little marvel saves me from having to carry the weight of books. However, there is nothing like the look, smell, texture and quality of a real book. I fear in time reading from a book will mostly be forgotten, but I hope there will be a few diehards who relish the full experience of a book as I do. I am grateful for the joy reading has always brought me and for my love of books, most especially, the poetry of Elizabeth Barrett Browning that moves me down to the core of my being.

Poetry is plucking at the heartstrings,
and making music with them.
   Dennis Gabor

To Know Without Knowing How

Country Valley with Storm CloudsWhile uncertain where the knowing comes from, my intuition is convinced 2013 will be a highly meaningful and eventful year for me; one filled with change, dreams moving closer and hopes coming true. One day in retrospect I will look back on this new year and realize what a pivotal time will have been.

How do I know that? Call it gut, hunch, sixth sense or whatever, I just know! After I faced the majority of my “childhood monsters” and gained dominion over them, I began with greater certainty to randomly know without knowing how I knew. This instinct is completely unpredictable and can’t be applied to any just subject or at any particular time. I have no control over the insights. They come when they come.

Being stubborn and bull-headed as I can be, simply believing my intuitive feelings was a struggle at first (and often still is). My mind will begin trying to figure out what it perceives my gut is telling me. Then my brain wants to think it has control of everything and puffs my ego up to try to take credit for what insight I am feeling. When logic makes no sense out of one of my “feelings” my mind then tries to label a hunch as fictional bull crap. Next comes denial that any sort of real intuition really exists. Then the sparring between thought and soul based feelings begins in earnest.

I have learned to tell my mind to “shut up” and it actually does what I ask sometimes. Once the noise in my head settles down a bit I can then begin to take in more clearly the intuitive feeling I am having. Personally I have discovered most of the time I am naturally pulled toward what I should do and repelled by what I shouldn’t do. All I have to do is get still enough to notice it.

It is my opinion we all have a sixth sense of sorts and if you ask me to explain it I can’t. Yet, my certainty is not harmed in the least by not knowing how it works. Science has no idea exactly how my brain really works either, but I know it exists. The same is true for the “knowings” that come to me.

The principle of my sixth sense was illustrated to me many times before I really began to believe in it. Hundreds of times I have gone to leave the house, picked something up to take with me and then put it down then repeated the up/down indecision several times. On occasions when I gave in to the hunch what I grabbed turned out to come in very useful. And when I refused to give in, often later I discovered why I should have brought it with me. And even when it didn’t, I have been left on frequently with the feeling that those few seconds of indecision may have kept me from a car accident or something of the sort.

Do I believe that everything is preordained destiny? No, I don’t. While at birth my path is set in motion to a degree by who my parents are, my physical attributes, nationality, level of intelligence and so on, my path is in majority that of my own choice. My belief is the moments of knowing without knowing spring up to help me make good choices and help me along the life as I choose it. Call it instinctive creativity, if you will, that can be applied to what I do and how I live. It’s no more mysterious than a moment of brilliance an artist has about the next piece of art they are going to create. Such impetus comes from the same inspirational well as my intuition.

Round and around in six paragraphs I have attempted to explain the inexplicable. To tell you how I know 2013 will personally be a remarkable year is beyond me, but my belief is unwavering. How in April 2011 I woke up to the certain knowing to begin and write this daily blog I can’t explain. To think I could be consistent enough to post every day for almost two years I would have argued to exhaustion was beyond me, but I have. From the same source comes my certainty about the coming year.

Sitting and waiting for things to happen is not how life works and certainly not how my intuition works. I have to do the work and heavy lifting. Choices must be made and decisions decided upon. Deep down I have a compass of guidance beyond rational thought. I won’t even bother to try to explain any further what I know with certainty. My gratitude overflows in knowing 2013 will be one of the best lived years of my life filled with abundant change, profound experiences and significant fulfillment beyond my current perceptions to grasp.

And above all, watch with glittering eyes
the whole world around you
because the greatest secrets are always hidden
in the most unlikely places.
Those who don’t believe in magic will never find it.
Roald Dahl

True Hope Is Made of This

2570539380102335886S425x425Q85Writing yesterday about a great love of long ago and mentioning losing her was the beginning of my demise into dysfunction has turned out to be an interesting piece of serendipity. The spiral that began back then is illustrated by what I was writing in the early to mid 90s. Purely by chance while looking for an old file, I came across these last night

WHY?

Why do I love those incapable of loving me as much in return?
Why do those who profess love to me hurt me so easily?
Why do those I love have to say “I’m sorry” so much?
Why can’t they just do different instead?

Why do I care if I live,
Since I care the most if I do.
I yearn for someone to make me live,
and want to be,
and give me a future to believe in.
Life without hope,
Without possibility,
Is such nothing.

Then, WHY am I?

IS, WHERE AND ARE?

Is there a woman who can love me as much as I love her?
Is there a woman who can believe in me as I do her?
Is there a woman who can support me as much as I do her?
Is there a woman who can help me as much as I do her.

Where is the woman who could hold me when I need to be held?
Where is the woman who can make my trouble go away?
Where is the woman that can give me strength?
Where is the woman who won’t doubt me?

Where is the woman who can love without demand
and know I would give all if she did?
Where is the woman?
Are you her?

Reading these was a pleasant wake up call to how far I have come, how much more peace is in my soul and how much better I understand love between a man and a woman. I no longer look for value and esteem outside myself as I once did. What a miracle! Gratitude washes over me as I write. I am highly thankful!

Though our hearts are not together,
Sweet fondness dreams of this:
I long to hear her laughter,
I long for just a kiss.
Though her eyes are elsewhere shining,
And warm embraces do I miss,
Yet passion’s song is mellow still,
For true hope is made of this.
“Absence” by Danny Rowden

Peacefulness Within

Christmas-Presents-dIt’s Christmas Eve and I feel genuinely happy for the second year in a row. Little outside of me has changed. I still have my share of issues, troubles and things to sort out. However, what is inside me has grown to be mostly mellow and calm. There is a peacefulness within that allows me to be more fully present in the moment than ever before. And that is the gift I am most grateful for.

Love Was Born at Christmas

It has been a lot of years since I can remember having the spirit of Christmas alive and frolicking within as I do this year. It could easily be true I have never been this happy at this time of year.  The little boy who lives inside me is enjoying reports of Santa’s progress in my direction.  The grownup within is dazzled by the feeling inside that sparkles and shines brightly like the lights of the season.  My eyes see Christmas. My ears hear the music.  My mouth tastes the food.  My nose smells the trees.  My touch feels bows and wrapping paper.  My heart is soft and childlike, yet touched deeply in mature ways.  Santa is coming.  Christ-mas is near.   

Eva K. Logue
A Christmas candle is a lovely thing;
It makes no noise at all,
But softly gives itself away;
While quite unselfish, it grows small.

Emily Matthews
From home to home, and heart to heart, from one place to another
The warmth and joy of Christmas, brings us closer to each other.

Christina Rossetti
Love came down at Christmas;
Love all lovely, love divine;
Love was born at Christmas,
Stars and angels gave the sign.

Phillips Brooks
The earth has grown old with its burden of care
But at Christmas it always is young,
The heart of the jewel burns lustrous and fair
And its soul full of music breaks the air,
When the song of angels is sung.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet the words repeat
Of peace on Earth, good will to men!

Helen Lowrie Marshall
The merry family gatherings –
The old, the very young;
The strangely lovely way they
Harmonize in carols sung.
For Christmas is tradition time
Traditions that recall
The precious memories down the years,
The sameness of them all.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox
When Christmas bells are swinging above the fields of snow,
We hear sweet voices ringing from lands of long ago,
And etched on vacant places
Are half-forgotten faces
Of friends we used to cherish,
And loves we used to know. 

Calvin Coolidge
Christmas is not a time nor a season, but a state of mind.
To cherish peace and goodwill, to be plenteous in mercy, is to have the real spirit of Christmas.

Augusta E. Rundel
Christmas… that magic blanket that wraps itself about us, that something so intangible that it is like a fragrance.
It may weave a spell of nostalgia. Christmas may be a day of feasting, or of prayer, but always it will be a day of remembrance — a day in which we think of everything we have ever loved.

If only for a day, the world will be just a little safer, a little more peaceful and life will arrive with a little more kindness.  Even the bad guys and criminals are not quite as busy on Christmas.  For every gift ever received I am grateful.  For every hardship and lack that taught to appreciate them I am even more thankful. Merry Christmas!

Were I a philosopher, I should write a philosophy of toys,
showing that no thing else in life need to be taken seriously,
and that Christmas Day in the company of children
is one of the few occasions on which men become entirely alive
Robert Lynd

Passage of Time

Christmas-Gifts-Christmas-Globes-Fresh-New-Hd-Wallpaper EDIT--Every year people sharing exchanges about how quickly Christmas has arrived again is a common as leaves on the ground. And there’s plenty of talk about how fast another year has evaporated. At this point in my life, it feels kind of like a year has been shortened to last four months with a each one representing a full season. Twelve months ago in early December, 2011 I posted a piece about rapidly passing time. As I continue my “stay-cation’ and general laziness within the richness of time off, I share it again.

If I had a dollar for every time I have exchanged a thought recently with someone about how fast times passes there’d be at least an extra hundred bucks in my pocket!  The shared lamenting is often about how close Christmas already is or how fast it seems to have crept up on us.  Or there is consternation about the speed 2011 has evaporated with.  This morning the passage of time popped in my head as a good subject to do a free-form journey in words to aid me getting to a point just out of reach at this moment.

Clocks are a fascination of mine which led me to take apart my parents windup alarm clock with a screwdriver when I was four years old.  I literally wanted to see “what made it tick”.  While there was no visual explanation for me to find inside the clock about its “ticking”, I did get to marvel at all those little parts which would not go back together.  Even my parents had no luck reassembling it and little ole me got into big trouble for my curiosity.

Old clocks have been an interest for years and at one point I possessed twenty-one antique seven-day mechanical wall and mantle clocks.  Once upon a time on each Saturday approximately one hour was spent winding them all each week and setting the correct time.  In my home there was quite a symphony of bells at the top of every hour.  As the days went by each week the onslaught of chiming began about five minutes before the hour until about five past as the slow runners were late to ring and the clocks running fast rang early.  It was quite a chore when the daylight savings time change came each fall and all the clocks had to be set back an hour.  Mechanical clock hands can not be moved backwards so I had to move the hands forward and let the clock chime on every hour and half hour before getting back around to the correct time.

Our awareness of time is so acute today, but it was not always so.  In a favorite book “The Discoverers”, Daniel J. Boorstin points out mechanical clocks did not even exist until late in the 14th century and fairly accurate ones did not come along until a hundred years later.  The first people known to consistently measure time were the Egyptians who divided the day into two 12-hour time periods using a sort of sun-dial.  This method of dividing each day was picked up by other civilizations and became standardized in Latin:  “ante meridiem” (A.M.”before midday”) and “post meridiem” (P.M., “after midday”).  The Egyptians along with the Greeks and Chinese also developed water clocks which were followed by hourglasses.  Candle clocks were used in Japan, England and Iraq and something called a timestick was used in India, Tibet and parts of Europe.

For century’s most people were concerned with the passage of a day and but not about the passing of an hour and certainly not of something as small as a minute.  Beginning about five hundred years ago the first widely dispersed time pieces were town or church clocks which chimed one time on the hour.  Some of the earliest were in France and we get the word “clock” from the French word “cloche” which means bell.  For several hundred years a single chime noted the passing of an hour because almost every one was illiterate and could not count.  So our awareness of time (or is it obsession?) is a more modern affliction.

Being one of those with great curiosity who asks “why” a lot I began in childhood to drive adults crazy with inquisitiveness.  Clearly in memory is asking a 5th grade teacher why our number system was based on 10 and yet we use a system of 60 to tell time (60 seconds to a minute, etc).  She got frustrated I think because she did not know the answer and shooed me away, so I looked it up.  What I found was the practice is carried over from the ancient Sumerians who used a number system based around the number 60.  Even today some scientists and mathematicians will tell you a number system based on 60 is a more “logical” way to count and measure.

So now that I have bored you with a synopsized history lesson about time, it would be easy to ask “why”.  Essentially writing this piece was a sort of meditation on the passage of time.  The most important ‘ah-ha” has been conscious awareness of time actually seems to make it pass more quickly.  When I can lose myself in something, as I did in writing this, time becomes largely irrelevant.  At such moments I am only aware of what I doing.  So that is the take-away I will gratefully head into my day with.  The more engaged in life I am, the less awareness I have about the passing of time.  Less awareness equals a feeling of having more time.  And with that thought it is time to jump head first into my day.

Clocks slay time…
time is dead as long as it is being clicked off by little wheels;
only when the clock stops does time come to life.
William Faulkner