Mental Mess

In my teens, my mother routinely sent me to my room with the hopes that I would tidy it up.

"Don't come out until everything's put away," she would say. 

Having always been a good little listener, I'd do just what she asked. That is, I would march up to my room and remain there all day.

Sometimes I truly meant to clean up. However, I never actually completed the task. I would turn on some good music,stumble across a cherished momento, and, before I knew it, I'd be sprawled on the floor staring at the ceiling. In somewhat of a daze, I would spend hours in my room doing practically nothing. Pondering everything, I would close my eyes, gaze through my window, or zone out as I listened to the sounds of the world.

I'm certain my frustrated mother saw this practice as evidence that I didn't do anything she said. She likely didn't understand how I could waste an entire day doing nothing, all the while not even noticing my cluttered space.

These moments struck me differently. I found them very peaceful. As I laid there, ignoring my mother's directions, I gained mental clarity. Though it may seem lazy and inattentive, I realize now that this behavior served a beneficial purpose. Absorbing the itch of the carpet, the warmth of the light, and the pittering of rain droplets hitting the house, helped to organize my mind. It was a tranquil non-activity that gave me opportunity to realize what I knew, discover what I didn't, acknowledge my feelings, and release my distress.

When my mom called me down for dinner in the evenings neither one of us ever realized that, though my room was still a chaotic eyesore, I had done exactly what she asked of me. I may have chosen a different target, but I did stayed up there until everything was put away.

I wish now, in this highly technological world of persistent noise and visual stimuli, that I had an authority figure to send me to my room without distraction. I would love to occasionally be forced to put down the information overload devices and be marched off to a quiet space. Maybe then I could finally begin to sort through the never-ending piles of disarray accumulating in my mind.

Mother

***The following is an excerpt from Raina's Story **** 

Sure, Raina thought to herself sardonically. I’m flying through the air inside a giant tree located in a completely different realm.

Feeling completely overwhelmed by her ever-increasing accumulation of questions, and having evidently fulfilled her lifetime quota of surprise, confusion, and fear combined, Raina forced herself to accept what she was experiencing.  She looked around in wonder as they whizzed past floor after floor of similar corridors.  She determined that this “Royal Cypress,” as Bartle had called it, must be at least 100 stories high. It’s like, the King of trees.

About 10 floors into their flight, Raina saw one of the corridor doors open. A beautiful auburn-haired woman stepped out with two small children in tow.  Two floors later, a man in a three-piece moss-colored suit jumped over the banister on his level, and soared diagonally downward. As they climbed higher and higher similarly dressed men began to appear walking hurriedly between doors, and fluttering across the vast diameter. The more men they saw the louder it became. Soon the space began to murmur with whispering tones akin to those Raina had heard from adults in hospital waiting rooms and courthouse hearings. There was an imperative yet clandestine quality to the sound.

Finally, one of the men caught sight of them.  He nodded at Bartle, and aimed a quizzical smirk in Raina’s direction. Not sure how to respond, she looked down at her feet.  Unprepared for the sight of a thousand feet below her, Raina gasped with surprise and jerked in Bartle’s arms. He squeezed her tighter.

“Careful Love,” he advised. “We’re nearly there.”

She felt their pace slowing, and looked to see a ceiling cover of brilliant needled leaves. Her body shifted as Bartle hovered horizontally. Raina tiled her head back down. Just ahead of her she saw a beautiful russet set of arched double doors chiseled with an ornate crown resting atop two folded wings. On either side, sat two incredibly life-like owl statues, each armed with purple shields and silver swords.

“Wow!” she breathed in as they touched ground.

“These,” Bartle gestured ahead, “are Mother’s quarters.”

To be continued...

Upright and Locked Position

When I was little, my brother and I went to visit our grandmother in Chicago. Man, was I excited for this trip! The mere idea of it was thrilling to me. I was going to travel to a big city and have an adventure without my parents. Aware that not many kids received such an opportunity, I knew just how special this was, and I'll be damned if I wasn't ready for it.

That is, until I had to say goodbye to my parents at the airport. I remember a knot forming in my chest as I hugged my mom and dad, but I tried to stay cool. My brother and I walked slowly down that strange metal corridor to board our plane, and the knot sent these obnoxious lumps into my throat. I closed my eyes and slowed my breathing as we entered the cabin. It wasn't until after we reached our seats, and I was staring out the window, that I recognized what was happening. My nose began to run, and I understood that I was one seat-belt demonstration away from a meltdown.

Completely confused by this realization, I tried to collect myself. Mentally, I went over the rational evidence to contradict my emotional state. I told myself there wasn't anything to cry about. I knew this was coming. I wanted to go on this trip.  I had even been excited for it.

When the plane began taxiing the runway, all my effort to remain calm flew out the window. My tears began to fall as I thought to myself, What if I can't do this? What if I'm not ready? What if something happens to us?

As the plane took off, I had a distinct change of heart. I didn't want to go on this trip anymore. I wanted the pilot to turn around. I wanted that plane to land. And, more than anything else, I wanted to run into my mom's arms and stay there forever. I didn't want to take this trip on my own. It was a stupid idea, and I didn't want to have this adventure anymore.

I wish I could say this was a one-time only, childish response, but I can't do that without lying. I have a similar emotional response every time a big decisions comes to fruition. Whenever I'm about to embark on a new adventure, I come back to this same feeling. I start by pretending to be brave. Then, a chest-knot turns to a throat-lump, and, with a runny nose, I begin to doubt my preparedness. Part of me toys with the idea of changing my mind at the last minute. I consider the possibility of turning around and running for the more familiar (yes, sometimes that still includes my mom). Then, I suck it up and face the facts.

Maybe it's immature, but I think I had it all figured out early on. Even as a little girl, I knew that my tickets had been purchased, my bags were packed, and once that plane was in the air, I was having this adventure whether I wanted it or not.

Being Seen

Image from Deathly Hallows found here

I used to know a kid who genuinely believed he was invisible. This superhuman impossibility was an easier explanation for his life than the truth.

Originally, his belief translated to some rather charming behaviors. After lining the kids up to come in from recess, we'd hear little footsteps followed by the dribbling of a basketball. One of us would run after him, and he'd stand there aghast.

"How'd you know I was here?!" He'd cry out.

Eventually, we adapted to his stealthy ways. Making sure to keep at least one eye on him at all times, we would call "I see you," whenever he covertly slipped away from the group. He'd typically respond with a confused "how?"

As his circumstances improved, he began to understand he was worth noticing. He would experiment by asserting his presence almost constantly. He'd loudly announce his activities, and boast about his prowess with the most menial of tasks. It was pretty typical to hear one of the assisting adults monotonously utter sentences such as "yeah, great job dumping your leftovers in the trash buddy," and "wow, you are really good at drawing lines."

However, with attention being relatively unfamiliar, this kid would draw so much to himself that he became uncomfortable. As a result, he fluctuated between slyly attempting to operate under the radar and boisterously rubbing his existence in your face. Not surprisingly, neither behavior got the poor guy what he wanted. He'd moan endlessly if you didn't notice him hang up his coat on the first try, and he'd be utterly disconsolate if you did see him hide his favorite book behind the TV. He couldn't win.

Only recently have I begun to understand what was at work here.

We often take attention for granted, but it's pretty important. Being noticed can contribute significantly to self-worth and self-perception. That being said, earning someone's attention can, at times, be rather difficult. There's only a limited supply, and deciding what to do with someone's interest in you can be a lot of pressure. To complicate matters, you can't control how another person sees you. You can control your actions, and use that to shift perception slightly. Although, ultimately the vantage point does not belong to you. Others will see what they want, and ignore the things they choose.

Perpetually Ever After

Image found here

I am a unique blend of hopeless romantic and complete realist. I don't believe in happily ever after, but I do believe in partnership, unity, and the next great adventure. I see life as a series of story arcs in which each resolution marks a new beginning.

Merging stories is not easy, and as such I think relationships are hard work. They require perpetual effort to achieve a satisfying result. However, I also believe committing to work with another person creates a powerful kind of love. Such a union provides the comfort and security that allows people to get through damn near anything.

Shouldshine

Image found here

It's sunny, and the Oregonian in me feels like I'm wasting it by sitting inside. My pale legs are literally glaring at me for choosing my couch over a blanket paired with a patch of itchy grass. My inner voice is screaming at me for not jumping on this opportunity to log some sun-time.

And, all I want to do is tell the me inside me to calm down. My pasty legs can stop being so judgmental, and my inner voice can just shut the hell up. I get it.

Here, in this particular patch of the Pacific Northwest, the sun does not have a consistently reliable presence. Therefore, ignoring a beautifully warm day like today seems somewhat neglectful. History might indicate that this behavior is even disrespectful to this kid.

And still, here I sit, giving my overly-adored couch a little extra appreciation. You know why? Because the Olympics are on, I feel like snuggling, and I have faith that the sun will return.

So, my chalk-colored legs can give it a rest. Even if I'm wrong about the weather, I know you can't store up sun-time and save it for a rainy day. It doesn't work like that. If that gaseous beast were to spontaneously disappear, I'm no worse-off than George Hamilton. I won't have forgotten what life in the light was like, and I regardless of the opportunity, I will not regret the one afternoon I took to do what I wanted.