Consistency - the Sequel

consistency vs. passion

it scares me
to reek of complacency
Hear ye , Hear ye -
announcing
adherence to a pattern
shackles
rendering emotions useless

And yet, ardent passion
love of life
listening with one’s soul
has no obligation to commit

where does consistency live?
In the heart and not the mind?
In your soul but not in thoughts?

is human nature, by default,
inconsistent

is that so bad?

integrity might be a better goal ...
to have integrity sometimes means
being inconsistent
but you can still be
a
constant

**

"A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines. With consistency a great soul has simply nothing to do. He may as well concern himself with his shadow on the wall. Speak what you think now in hard words and tomorrow speak what tomorrow thinks in hard words again, though it contradict everything you said today. 'Ah, so you shall be sure to be misunderstood' -Is it so bad then to be misunderstood? Pythagoras was misunderstood, and Socrates, and Jesus, and Luther, and Copernicus, and Galileo, and Newton, and every pure and wise spirit that ever took flesh. To be great is to be misunderstood."

Ralph Waldo Emerson


(thanks to Quiche for stimulating this little round-about of a muse)

debt

consult the daytimer

plan the thinking
schedule the planning
planning the schedule

until you forget
that time
isn’t borrowed

Musings on Consistency - Part I

When I quit my job, I scheduled a week away in a cabin, on a lake, away from the city.

I had dreams of achieving Thoreau-like inspiration for my writing, but as anticipated, I spent the first few days sleeping a lot. However, I did get an hour or two of writing in each day. I was extra alert … aware that I might miss work or feel frustrated as I tried to re-integrate writing into my life .. but strangely … as I slowly fell into the new rhythms of my life, what surprised me most was the weather.

In the morning, it would be gorgeous – a shocking blue sky – followed by a violent thunderstorm, then brooding clouds in the afternoon and maybe mild weather, alternating sun and shade in the evening. It wasn’t always in this order mind you – but it was some strange combination of the three contrasting conditions.

At first, I attributed the strange weather to the lake. Perhaps, I was in the middle of some geo-thermal anomaly that made the lake a hotbed of weather dynamics.

But, as I moved into August, set up my business at home, and found more time to write at my own kitchen table, I realized that every day was simply inconsistent. At least, the weather was.

I’ve worked for many years in an office setting. Sometimes with a window and sometimes with just a picture of the outside world. Nevertheless, I had assumed if it was a sunny day – it was sunny and nothing else. I had forgotten that weather evolves, moves, creates.

Now that I have time, space and energy to really see outside my window – to see that weather is everything but a constant, I’m seeing that life is like that too.

Theresa's Final Gift

I've wandered
from your sheltering hands
to walk in unknown lands,
some full of shadows of many forms
and some with none at all

I've drifted
from the humility of love
gentle acceptance
lost in the swirl of apathy
suffering in scientific tyranny

I've tried
to return, a prodigal daughter
never too far, always listening
for an answer
for that spark of passion
that used to be our guide
leadership without vanity

But when I heard
your most precious daughter
lifted her fist against the sky
cursed the darkness
welcomed the darkest of your enemies
- doubt -

I knew
there always is a place for me
in this family

I looked for proof in light
when, of course,
you are found in darkness

Prince Edward Calls

Prince Edward Island, on the other hand, was a different experience altogether.

How is that? One shore seems so foreign. And another -- not so far away -- feels like home, though it's the first time I've ever laid eyes on it.

Perhaps it was the rolling hills of farmland. It was enough to remind me of my own province: the hay bales, the activity of fall harvest. But their land is not flat, so I could see the delightful patchwork of reds, oranges and yellows embedded in their thick greens. And yet, there was still enough of the clean blue sky for me to see, so my prairie senses would not be suffocated.

And the sea! Red cliffs dropped to the rolling waves, framed by hardy strands of pale green grass. Truly enchanted.

Yes, here, I could transplant myself for a year or two. I have already started to devise ways to return ...

Cape Breton Reflections

I could fall in love with this rugged land,
rough-hewn shores,
grace untouched by fashion

determination in each breathing leaf
shaped by the temperament of each wave that lands
over and over and over again

but as the moments stretch
diving into contented admiration
drowning in each sigh of satisfaction

the truth emerges
this is not my home
and this harbor offers me no shelter

i need not linger
so i throw it a silent kiss
turn my face into the fresh living wind
whisper a prayer of thanks
and move on

around noon, Newport, Rhode Island

15 little white sails popping up from the twinkling blue riveted my attention. A host of young teens were learning to sail in small vessels clearly built for one. They formed an armada of mini-sailboats and their captains efficiently moved within them.

The sea and winds must be their masters in a way the sun is mine. They must time everything according to her tides and currents and his gusts and gales. They seem aware with a set of senses I cannot imagine carrying ... being able to predict and capture the power of the wind in a sail, weaving in and out of their boat, ducking under their ever pivoting sail, the way a boxer incessantly dodges punches.

I -- who grew up land-locked -- who measures the seasons by lengths of days -- not by the temperature of the seas or the strength of the winds ... I wonder what it would be like to have the winds and waters as my master.

5:45 pm - 6:45 pm, Madison Square Gardens, NYC

Waiting for my cousin, I take the time to watch the people of this city.

This city of the world -- not just of North America, but one teeming with global flavour.

I find some things that meet my expectations: a man walking with a big fat pretzel, a woman on her cellphone complaining about her relationship without pausing for a breath in fifteen minutes, artists carrying sketchbooks, and of course, the tourists.

I'm in all the pictures now of Madison Square Gardens for that hour. I blink as the flashes go off. Not used to lights from cameras nearby, nor the lights from the large screen behind me. I keep looking at the sky, wondering if the dark clouds above bring lightning with them ... then laugh at my innocent assumptions.

There are some things that surprise me: a tall blond man carrying a surfboard, a short bald south-asian man who looks like some kind of guru, except his green pants seem too shiny, and about four men whom I am certain I would have married in another lifetime. (They were not drop dead gorgeous -- they just looked like they would have made good husbands).

At about six pm, women and their young children go by me in parades. The toddlers are in strollers or perching from a carrying sling in front of the speedy, effective parents. Others walk alongside their parents. I didn't know three year olds could walk so fast.

The streets are impeccably clean. Here, in this hub, there is a garbage can every ten paces. (I count the paces as people walk pas - yes, it is ten steps). And I witness two men come by with their garbage bags and dustpans, sweeping up the cigarette butts and cleaning out the garbage. Maybe more than usual smoking this week in NYC. I catch snippets of conversation about rates and markets.

But even more than cleanliness, I see what surprises me most. The reports are true. New Yorkers are polite. A man drops a newspaper, the person behind him picks it up, runs to catch up with him and offers the paper back. One of the street cleaners tries to sweep a napkin into his dustpan. The wind blows it out of his reach. He tries and the wind gusts again. Another reach, and the napkin still escapes. Finally a young man, with a guitar slung across his back,  steps on the napkin with his boot, picks it up and gently pushes it with his hand into the dustpan. Now, THAT's polite. It's hard to impress a Canadian with politeness, let me tell you.

A teen comes out of the subway, stops and does a couple of dance moves, oblivious to the people smiling around him. He opens one eye and grins. He knows he's watched. And then, three people saunter by, walking slow, with nowhere to go -- ah, they must be the tourists.