And So It Begins, Again

It was funny, really, and a bit embarrassing.

I was speaking at work about communication as a part of teamwork.  I realized last month when I was speaking of responsiveness and service that my audience has somehow become irrelevant; I’m speaking more to myself than them, anyway.

I think it’s what has helped me almost entirely get over the fear of public speaking.

This month, though, was communication.  Communication is so vital as a skill: it’s the basis of all relationships. Communication is, if nothing else, the art of relating.  That we needed to ensure that what we intended to communicate was exactly what we were actually communicating.  That having a sour-puss face and telling someone to “have a nice day” gave conflicting messages, and it required mindfulness, personal responsibility, and integrity to say what we mean–with all of our being–and mean what we say.

It just occurred to me that sarcasm and irony lacks integrity, and that’s a shame. I really do love me some sarcasm and irony.

I also said that teamwork is a management of relationships in order to achieve a common goal, that goal being service. Service is our primary purpose–our only purpose–as a mental health facility, and our job is to become excellent servants.

Did I mention I was talking to myself?

In Silence, Remember

A dear family friend passed away–the man who stood with me at my grandfather’s funeral.

Drama abounded–vulture-like relatives, hissing cats and pissing dogs.

It was so lovely. Really.

At the end of the funeral, after everyone, including my grandmother, had left, he stood beside me as we watched the casket go into the ground.  He tossed a tiny flag into the hole; I tied my Raidho necklace to the casket handle.

We didn’t speak, but then again, we didn’t have to.

It’s strange thinking about it now. I’ve been dragged into public speaking (not so bad, really, as it netted me a free trip to DC next month), and each month we have several presentations on different aspects of customer service. The first was responsiveness; for October, it will be communication.

My take on the whole communication thing is that you are your own message, just as Leonard Peltier said. And that  no matter who you’re with, what time it is, or what planet you’re on, you’re sending a message.  Be mindful of it and ensure that the message you’re conveying is actually the one you wish to send.

Waldo Emerson said it best, I think, when he said “Who you are speaks so loudly Ican’t hear what you’re saying.”

Sunday Something: Spiritual Constipation

On the topic of love, a fellow poster on a message board said

So I salute all of you who have found it. Fight for it and keep it strong and never let your doubts and fears spoil it. Let yourself be happy. You have the right to be. Let yourself be loved, for love is not something we choose, but something given to us as a gift beyond our control. Love is God.

And it haunted me all day. I read it early one Sunday morning, before I left for the day, and I wasn’t sure exactly why it hit me in the gut so hard.

And Dana Carvey’s in my head, all Church-Lady-fied, saying, “Because you needed to hear it, maybe?”

And I wrote– boy did I write– a response that was this. I know it’s incomplete; I know I’m still struggling, but here it is, as it was written at that time:

Down Home Dirty Blues

While Brahms and Mozart are the missionary position, all candle-lit, flower petal strewn tender sex, the blues bring floggers and handcuffs, analingus and head-down-in-a-pillow-to-keep-from-screaming sex. It’s sweaty and dirty and knocks you on your ass.
It’s the secret grope under the table, the husky and thick-with-promise words that are whispered in your ear while lost in a crowd.  It’s the grunt of ever-hunger, even the most acrobatic and sizzling session always leaves you wanting more.

Classical music, while gorgeous and stunning, begins in the head and, if lucky, ends in the heart. The blues, on the other hand, hits deep in the gut and slowly creeps, in tingle and snaps, throughout every single inch, every single cell. It is the powerhouse that shames the mitochondria.   It binds and frees,  transforming every cell and, in a most drunken Rumi manner, lifts one up in submission.  This deep down, dirty, sexy blues gets the feet popping and the kundalini rocking.

There should be an O note because blues, more than any other genre of music, just hits it.

And this is Mississippi’s contribution. If nothing else, we are the birthplace of that down and dirty blues.

I had the opportunity to see Buddy Guy play this weekend at The Shed’s 6th Ever ShedHed Blues Festival. There were other musicians, most notably Zora Young, Hubert Sumlin,  and Mudphonic, but make no mistake, Buddy Guy was the headliner.

Harmony in Motion

I was just reading a few of the unfinished drafts I had begun, and had a chuckle or two.  One of my favorite lines describing the process of home buying was this, “If it were possible to develop bipolar disorder from external events, home buying would increase sales for lithium about a billion percent.”

It’s been a long, long process.

It wasn’t until 1130 in the morning that I found out “fer sure” that I was closing that day. I had been told a couple of times that I’d be closing “fer sure” before then, but this was “fer sure, fer sure.”

About two hours later, it was officially “fer sure” when I signed the mountain of paperwork officially indebting me to the bank for the rest of my natural born life.  I have to admit, I squealed a few times, most notably when I discovered that the monthly payment was significantly less than had been estimated at pre-qual.

I signed it, and it was mine, and I felt this huge, heavy and yet comforting quilt-like thing fall over me, making me barely able to walk and talk. I was both buoyant and weighted down, somewhere between ecstasy and exhaustion.

The Harmony House

“Silence is the language of God, all else is poor translation.”  ~ Rumi

Many, many years ago, my bff Jim-Jim and I braved a hurricane warning to go to a Live concert in New Orleans. I had been fired from a waitressing job, which was no big blow except to my self-esteem as it was – and has been since – the only job that I’ve ever been fired from.  We took coffee, Sunkist, and Vienna sausages—typical hurricane fare ‘round these parts—and made our way.

It was the first time I had seen them in concert, and they were magnificent.   Single best performance I’ve ever seen with the possible exception of Tool in 2007.  I knew the singer was hot; I knew he had a smoking voice.  I knew the band knew how to rock, but until I heard their song “Waitress,” I had no idea that it was possible to find a group of soul mates in a four piece band.

I found out tonight that he still has that Vienna Sausage can.

Very sweet, but I hope to God he’s washed it out in the fourteen or so years since the concert.

“Has this sunk in yet?” he asked me, twirling about as we toured the house this evening.  ”You look like a girl for whom reality has not sunk in.”

T-Minus 40 hours and counting, assuming things go well tomorrow. Assuming the sky doesn’t cave in, I’ll be closing right about then.

Adventures in Reiki

I’m not sure what I expected. I’m sure I had some sense of expectancy, though, because I walked away with a feeling of fatigue (which I often link to disappointment or a crash, status-post emotional high) and a puzzled “WTF just happened?” look on my face.

First, our air conditioning was out. I wasn’t expecting that. It wasn’t so bad at 9:30, when we arrived, but by the time we finished, pretty close to 6 pm, you could have boiled eggs in our sweat.

I almost fell asleep — maybe even did fall asleep a couple of times. I didn’t expect that either. Between the caffeine withdrawal, the high temperatures, and the soothing music, I’m pretty sure I ended up with a bruise from my chin hitting my chest a time or three.

The minister recounted the history of Reiki, the proper pronunciation of it, the hand positions and the nature of God.

I was down with all that.

3 Minutes till Bedtime

…and I’m glowing.

Not in a pregnant-glow sort of way, or a luminescent-jelly-fish sort of way.

(Although now that I think about it, both of them may be suprisingly accurate)

One month till closing.

Reconnecting with old friends.

Reiki class on Saturday.

A column I’ve picked up will be posted later this week.  I’m writing under a pen name (cause, you know, this one is my *real* name) and I’d prefer if certain people, like my parents, wouldn’t know about it.

But it’s something I’m proud of, and I can’t wait to see how it turns out.

I overslept for work today and feel great about it.  It’s inspired me to go to bed relatively early (for me).

Life is good.

Even if I’m one minute over.

Happy Independence Day

I was going to write something witty, something incredibly relevant to connect the idea of freedom being costly, but a cost not of lives, but of giving up our chains.

Watching it, words failed me, and I realized I didn’t have to.  This video says more than I could ever hope to.

Let freedom ring.

Moving Bookshelves and Living Large

Having read a short book on organization over the weekend, I thought I’d get a jump on things. Get to work 15 minutes early and sit, with a cup of coffee, pondering my day, prioritizing my tasks, and getting a hell of a lot done.

The universe was laughing.

As I unlocked my office, my purse and my lunchbag and my ever-present bookbag full of house papers,  the door stuck. I couldn’t open it more than half a foot.  Peering around the door, I saw that my office looked to have been vandalized.

Not a work of vandals, but one of mystery. Once I had forced my door open, I discovered that my wall shelves had fallen, bounced off the corner wall breaking a hanging file, onto my desk to disturb my computer monitor and my printer, break another thing or two, and land on the floor, right where my chair had been.

It didn’t fall straight down. I have a bookshelf right below it, with junk scattered about.  No, no, the bookshelf was untouched.

Strange, that, the whole scene.  I stared at first, unbelieving.  You could see the path of destruction, and it had done the duck and weave far better than Muhammad Ali ever had.

So strange.

So I spent the entire shift reorganizing, throwing away stuff I didn’t need, delivering other stuff my people needed and I had no clue that I had.

Eight months at the job, and I finally feel like it’s my office, even if I had to leave my desk untouched.

“You must be living all sorts of right,” someone said to me. “As much as you’re at your desk, what are the chances it dropped when you weren’t around?”

That was a sobering thought, especially when it was pointed out to me that it landed exactly where I sat.

A charmed life.

It’s been exactly one week since I won the bid for the house.  Last week, I didn’t get anything done because I was gushing, gushing, gushing.

This week isn’t off to such a stellar start either.

I’m probably about 4 weeks out from moving in, and I’m ecstatic.

I can’t believe so much of what’s been going on, fabulous, fabulous.

Wait, there I go again, saying I can’t believe it.

Rephrase: I am so immeasurably blessed lately, and it keeps going and going.

I can’t wait to see what comes next.