tamarjacobson

Molly broke her leg.

There she was, after her usual outdoor visit to birds and chipmunks, on the rug, tail swinging back and forth. And then all of a sudden she was yowling, dragging a dangling back leg.

Off to the vet we scurried, hurried, and then onto the emergency surgical clinic almost thirty miles away. I left her there, in the hospital, drugged and woozy, and drove home to tell Ada the news. Ada did not seem too concerned. She climbed on the bed and cuddled close to my body, glad to have me all to herself.

The surgeon called to say the leg is badly fractured and will need plates and pins and all sorts of modern technological goodies. For a cat! Astronomical cost. But if I prefer they could just put her down. Put her down?

I cried all night until T. called. He’s in Australia and his day is my night before. He got my message from the conference secretary. "No putting Molly down whatever the cost, sweetheart," he said gently, kindly, voice wrapping around my shoulders with care and love.

(Inspired by Darth and GB)

Come to think of it, I might have slipped into "mentally living out of [my] own business." If I wrote my thoughts about this I would have to call up the dark side of my blog, and tell other people’s stories.

Yes, GB is here and we were talking and laughing with our bellies about the power of my blog especially as our conversation came out of the Sith. I guess you just had to be there.

And so there is not much I can say because so much that I am thinking and feeling relates to other people’s business. I just need to focus and get real. I mean, into reality.

A good friend sent me a short piece: Simply Meditate: Download simply_meditate.doc . So I think I will do that for awhile and reach for the light again.

Blogging just ain’t what it used to be.

I love dreams. Not because they contain messages from former lives, or predictions or omens of what might happen in the future. Rather, they are the vehicle through which my subconscious talks to me about myself right here and now. Reminding me of deep emotional memories stored away long ago, answering questions to problems I have been struggling with, or confronting fears in manageable, sometimes humorous ways. Dreams are like thrillers or detective stories challenging my brain as I unravel the symbols and clues provided to discover meanings for the stories I tell myself about me.

I remember last year going with Judy and Alan to Strindberg‘s A Dream Play, and adoring the fast, flowing absurdities that portrayed the very essence, the stuff of magical mysteries that make our dreams so fascinating, exciting, intriguing, terrifying, alarming, humorous, and vital for self-understanding.

Ah, last year seems like a long dream away.

This morning, very early, I awoke out of a vivid dream, remembering very few details. Something about a basket of cats and boiling heat. Stretching and yawning my way to the coffee machine I look out the large living room window. Mist is rising over the huge old trees after another stormy, wet night. There is a wild bird call that I cannot recognize as I stumble onto the enclosed sun porch. A couple of cats rubbing against my legs sleepily and I sigh. The air pushes out from somewhere deep in my body, relief released from my brain, and my eyes widen to the new morning light.

"Be careful what you wish for," escapes from my lips in a whisper and I almost turn around looking for who said that.

Wishes and dreams. There was a period of life about seventeen years long, when I was working and studying ten or twelve hour days, and wishing that I could have time alone to think, reflect, read and write. I yearned for such a luxury, which, in those days not long ago, seemed like a very basic necessity for mental and physical health.

This morning, after my basket of cats-boiling dream, on the misty porch through my deep, relief sigh, I became aware that my dream has been realized. For I have buckets of time. Hours and hours to spend alone reflecting, reading and writing. In fact, I have had it for over a year. Time for learning and knowing myself. No wonder I have been reluctant to reach out and make new friends. Each moment away from my home, the woods of the Wissahickon, or Molly and Ada has been excruciating. Indeed, it has been confusing for me as I am usually so gregarious and outgoing. The reality is that this is the first time in my life that I have time, space, and peace for me.

All the moments of sorrow and fear at leaving Buffalo, learning to be alone, missing and yearning the company and busy-ness of my work-a-holic life, have, in fact, been screening the very realization of a long-awaited dream.

Reality is here and now.

Excitedly, I realize it is not too late to embrace my dream with joy, and protect it with gratitude. In fact, I can’t wait to continue … as my choice … consciously, aware, intentionally …

Last night it rained so hard, for so long that at one point I began to think we were headed for The Flood. I lay awake thinking of all the things that would happen and how we would gather the cats to safety. The sound of drops storming onto the awning roof was strong, passionate, relentless. Then I got to thinking about coincidence, probability and fate. For example, was receiving the parking ticket right after I bought a huge piece of chocolate cake, yesterday, a sign? Punishment? A reminder to be good about eating right? Or simply because in Chestnut Hill the parking meter police are thorough?

And if a great flood was coming my way, was it directed solely at me or everyone? Are we all in this together? I mean are we ALL in this TOGETHER?

After awhile the constant, thunderous water began to soothe and rock my soul. I heard the cats sigh out loud, Molly at my feet, and Ada somewhere close by. I turned over, smiling to myself as I realized, "Well so what. What is … is," and went back to sleep.

Quote of the day:

Assumption, my dear Mitz, is the mother of all fxxck-ups. The Adventures of Priscilla Queen of the Desert

Yesterday there were a few links to Mining Nuggets. Always good for the stats and fun to watch as the graph rises steeply for a day in the life.

Two of the links mentioned me in ways that moved the cockles of my heart to be genuinely warmed and nourished. I felt gratitude to Ronni and Frank. No. Much more than that. I was deeply honored.

Well, and then there was a third link, an attack on my personal opinion. This is all … er … well and good. Isn’t that what a healthy democracy is all about? different personal opinions? Oh yes, and name-calling? You know, something about my being a "wing-nut" or something.

But then came the bigoted ignorance part: assumptions based on one sentence in my about page that mentions my life partner. Tsk, Tsk. Too bad. Too bad. Pity that there’s so much ignorance out there.

So many bent inferences, so little time.

Quote of the day:

Jay Rosen says that blogging is emotional, it’s about freedom… he calls blogs “the little first amendment machines.”  Listics: A Sandhill Joint

Emotional life drives: Social competency, academic achievement, spirituality, confidence levels, self-esteem, sleep, weight, addictions, ability for problem solving, attitude, values, beliefs, work ethic, world view, politics, religion, bias, health … relationships, relationships, relationships …

And yet in education it is avoided, ignored, denied, silenced, repressed, or overlooked.

Lately, the only thing I care about when I teach teachers, is how emotional life affects their interactions with young children. It is more important than reading, writing, curriculum, science, or math.

For emotional life affects everything, begins in the earliest of the earliest, emotional memories of our lives, and lasts until we die.

The Coreopsis has started blooming. Susan gave it to me the day she heard Charlie had died. I was standing in my back yard when all of a sudden, there she was in my driveway holding the tender flowering plant.

And all of a sudden, two days ago there she was again in the Philadelphia airport!

  Yes indeed. Susan came all the way especially and only to spend two full days just with me. Just like that!

I showed her my digs, including my newly-found beloved Longwood Gardens and even the Liberty Bell. All the loneliness vanished away as we talked and talked. I became animated and excited, passionate about my ideas again, as we shared our lives, feelings, thoughts, and beliefs, and, from time to time, fell into that kind of crazy laughter that only the old familiarity of souls remembers and understands. I had almost forgotten what it felt like to be cared for as Susan noticed, listened, and reacted to me whether it was opening doors wherever I went, or gently understanding when I became emotional about some news I had just received from a loved one. She reminded me about turning wishing for into anticipating and shared her love as wide openly as any friend has ever done.

Yesterday we sat on the porch together quietly watching in wonder as a goldfinch alighted on the bird bath and took a little sip before flying off like a flash of golden light into the trees.

This morning when I awoke it was strange to find no Susan and my old life back. But when I went outside, I noticed that two more bright, yellow flowers had opened up on the Coreopsis bush she gave me back in 2001.

Quote of the day:

Life is like an onion.
You peel it off one layer at a time;
And sometimes you weep.

-Carl Sandburg

100 Bloggers is having a carnival about personal growth. What a great idea for a celebration! Gee I wish I could be prolific about this. But then I think my whole blog is about growing … personally.

What I really want to say is this:

The more and more I grow, the more and more there is to learn.

(that’s all she wrote)

So many intriguing, artistic, poetic, humorous, dramatic, and haunting self-portraits out there! I have been trying to keep track:

Over at Brenda, Jean, Mary, Natalie, just to name a few …

I tried. Yes indeed. I sat by the mirror, pencil and paper in hand, sketching and erasing and then erasing so much more. Just could not get it to come out in a way I felt was presentable. Then I tried using pastel crayons for an artistic flair, phone and other digital cameras for dramatic reality. I tried holding the camera up high, to the side, behind and in front of me. Yoga came in handy as I squirmed, twisted, and contorted my body for this exercise.

Finally, I decided to give up the artistic flair part and just share a few pictures to portray my self …

This is me, Tamarika of Rhodes, squinting into the sunlight and trying to smile. Am completely and absolutely hopeless at smiling for the camera. I see a graying haired woman in her later fifties with dark rings under the eyes, lines and wrinkles that share life’s stories gloriously and unabashedly.

If I look closely, focus deeper into the soul I remember a me of a different period lurking behind those wrinkly eyes:

See. Some of you might remember this picture from my old Tamarika blog. Same curled up into the sun eyes. Not trying to smile here. Reflective though – wondering what life is all about, learning to be a single Mom, facing the shattered dream of life without Trimurthi and a "broken home" for my beautiful son.

This me lurks behind the eyes of the now me, forever haunting, niggling, shadowing.

But as I search for the self I am trying to portray in old pictures that lurk behind the me of now, I always return to what an old friend of the family used to call, "Baba Tamar."

  For she lies within my soul behind all those curled up, squinting eyes, wrinkles, and angst. I see her as the core, essence of Tamarika, and the potential of what I could be, might still be (sometimes am): playful, ecstatic, joyful, bright eyed, humorous, clear, and not afraid to smile for the camera! (Hey! and do you see what I see? Those chubby cheeks and jowls of then are returning to my face of now) I often return to this picture and remind myself of what lies within. As I gaze at it I feel stirrings of that little inner child and I become quite excited, and impish, and feel confident enough to conquer the world!