Pop became Dad

I’m not quite sure when it happened.
When did Pop become Dad?

For years he wasn’t there.
And for years I didn’t like him. For years we battled.
For years he inspired colleagues and quashed his children.

Mom got sick. Pop took care of her.
I graduated high school and finished college. Mom faded.
My childhood home was sold as Mom and Pop downsized.
Pop made sure I had a room in their small apartment.
Pop provided some early career advice – and talked about his own career… in detail.
And time passed.

Dad was still there. Dad called. Mom passed. Dad sent cards and visited.
Dad continued.

It didn’t occur to me until now that he really did become a parent figure to me.
The only parent I had in my adult life. The only parent for 20 years.

The only one who had parent expectations.
The only one who never qualified his beliefs.
The only one who I talked to for sure every holiday.
The only one who called me after football games to celebrate or commiserate.

The one I came out to – who already knew.
He sent me a corsage to congratulate me for an award. His way of showing acceptance.
He came to my anniversary party because he thought being committed was a good thing.
Even when we disagreed, he tried to find a way to agree.

I don’t know when it happened, but now I miss him.
I miss his humor. I miss his childlike giggle and mischievous smile.
I miss his 12-year-old sense of humor.
I miss how he knew it embarrassed me when he’d flirt with the women-staff.
I miss how he knew it embarrassed my sisters more and made us both laugh.

I miss shared stories about quitting drinking, about AA meetings,
About AA wisdom and catch-phrases,
About how it changed our lives, our relationships, our view of ourselves,
Our view of God.
I remember when I quit drinking, and he was proud.
And after a couple years of sobriety - I had a moment of clarity and understanding about him, his flaws, his humanity.

I miss finding out things about him that I never knew.
Finding out he knew things that I thought he didn’t…
Sibling secrets that he knew all along.

I miss the rare times he’d let me in on his stories from World War II.

He really sucked at some things. Presents? No, he sent checks at Christmas.
The memo line said “Love, Dad”.
In an effort to make it NOT about money,
because Dad and money were an emotionally troublesome combo,
I bought a village building with each Christmas check.
And then I sent him pictures of the “town that Joe built.”
It’s lit up now… all decorated in the Christmas spirit,
with miniature skaters, vendors selling holly and hats, and Ebenezer scrooging.

Dad shaped my future in a million ways, only some that I understand.
He expected kindness, strength, success, intelligence, fairness, and, of course, social justice.
He learned about fatherly love late in life, and we figured out forgiveness together.

It’s Christmas Eve. And I miss my Dad. I didn’t realize until now how much I counted on him, listened to him, put up with him, laughed with him, and loved him.

It’s Christmas Eve. And I miss my Dad.

Lisa Hansknecht, December 24, 2009

Writer's Block

Yup - That's where I am: I'm stuck in writer's block. Well that's not the only thing. I also realized I've been so freaking serious on this blog thingy. I'm not that serious. Well sometimes I am. But sometimes I'm just goofy. Silly as silly can be. I giggle, laugh, howl with laughter at jokes, funny people and the life around me and at my own completely ridiculous sense of humor.

Yes... I laugh at myself. I'm ridiculous and absurd.

So, I decided to just let you know that I'm still here and still planning on writing. Yup... it's coming. That funny story or anecdote... it's on the tip of my tongue. Here it comes.

Any second now.

Something funny... coming soon.

Have you ever tried to plan hilarity? Comedians must have the toughest job.

Talking & Tasting

Talk talk talk talk.
Question and question and probe.

Mmm… from that first bite to the last.
Explore, relish, and savor the subtleties.
Discoveries in every mouthful.

Intrusive, maybe.
Honest caring, certainly.
Vicarious life through gossip, of course.

Bite into every morsel,
Nothing left on the plate.
Nothing left unchewed.
Taste, consider, and offer a critique.

Some leftfield remarks.
Some honest insights.
Some pearls of wisdom.
Professional and experiential consultation.

Feeling full.
Appetite satisfied.
Wiping the juice from her chin.

Delicious.
But overindulged.

Delicious.
But overindulged.

Moments

Sometimes I need to be reminded of poetry and music and moments of simple now.

But every once in a while, instead of having to remind myself, it just sneaks up on me. I catch myself reading poetry, listening to music, or hearing the sounds outside: lawn mowers, kids laughing and shouting, car doors opening and closing; or nighttime quiet: crickets, and muffled traffic, and a train whistle far away: long, long, short, long blows.

I enjoy the moment; it's simple and pure, very brief and in frequent, to be savored: a moment of peace, a moment of poetry and quiet bliss.

And when it's time to remind myself, when the moments are too long between, the two poems below are old friends, creating moments with me. The words transport me from wherever I am, however I am, whenever I am. I am there in the words - inside, cocooned and safe, warm and peaceful, happy, and content.

The words ring quietly in my ears as a reminder, as a prayer.

A Prayer in Spring - Robert Frost -
http://poetry.about.com/library/weekly/blfrostspring.htm

Here’s the beginning:
“Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers today;
And give us not to think so far away"

i thank YOU GOD for most this amazing day - ee cummings -
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/i-thank-you-god-for-most-this-amazing

Here’s the beginning:
“i thank You God for most this amazing day:
for the leaping greenly spirits of trees….”

If the moments are infrequent on their own, then prompt them, remind yourself, and create your moments.
Share - they'll come.

Rouse the sleeping dreamer

Rouse the sleeping dreamer

I am beginning to rouse the sleeping dreamer.
Music, art, fantasies of the most fantastic.
Feels good… my imagination, running away with me.
I am finding thought and word and voice again.
Giving, stretching, testing myself, and
Trying… to be healthy, be positive, be now,

Be more today than yesterday.
Enjoy the sun.
See the clouds as opportunities.
See the coming fall as colors and beginnings.
See the winter as such a wonderful time,
Of warmth and comfort, rest and renewal.
See the future but feel the now.
Swim in it.

Stir early in the morning, step outside and listen.

Listen.

Closed eyes, warm breeze, birds and buzz, leaf and fountain.

Now. Awake and sing out to the day.
Each moment – a step forward.
Each act a leap of faith, a test of courage,
Easier as leaping becomes the norm.

Rouse now.
See and feel.
Stir.
Sing.
Leap.

LEAP!

Ascend the day, climbing each moment.
Yes, I am roused.
Dreamer – living dream.

Thank you for art...

When I was a kid, my large family piled in a big blue van and hit the road each summer, towing our Apache pop-up camper across the United States and Canada. During these camping trips, we learned about nature and played in the dirt. But, more importantly, we visited and learned about the nearby destinations of each campground: bustling diverse cities, small historic communities, natural wonders, and famous landmarks. We saw people who thought differently than us, talked differently from us, dressed and lived differently from us, and maybe even looked different from us.

Mom and Dad pointed out historical markers, old forts, and note-worthy settings. We visited local festivals, art museums and galleries, science museums, aquariums, gardens and greenhouses, and zoos.

I saw art from the famous and not so famous. I saw art expressing calm and quiet moments of peace, and art that grew from protests and was deemed seditious or instigated turmoil. There was art that captured the simplest day-to-day tasks to art that captured historical moments of change and universal concepts. I saw art that captured moments in time which remind present and future generations of the good and bad of those moments: from joyous moments of childbirth and celebrations of life to the horrors of slavery and war.

And everywhere Mom and Dad made a point of teaching us about the artists and their different cultures, communities and histories. I learned what made different communities unique and special and sometimes what their best moments and worst moments were. But in learning all that, more importantly, I learned how much all people have in common.

That shaped me. I could never express my gratitude to my parents enough for giving me that. I learned so much. But today it occurred to me how much my love of art came from those experiences and how those experiences shape how I look at art.

Today, I went to a gallery walk and saw a couple different artists’ work. First I went to the opening of a 30-year retrospective of Roxanne Frith’s photography. Much of her work is in portraits. I love seeing inside the people in the photos, to their thoughts and feelings. It’s there; captured in the moment but seems to be more than just that moment. Then I went to another gallery and saw work by Janet Smith in encaustic wax, oil paint, raku fired stoneware, and some mixed media. Beautiful, full, with little hidden stories in each piece. There’s a richness of tone and texture and warmth; a contrast of strength and vulnerability.

Today, I remembered how Mom and Dad helped me to look at art and to appreciate it, but also to ask about the artist, the time, the period, and the influences. I crave the knowledge of the people, the history, and the cultures.

As I know the artists from today’s excursion, I feel incredibly lucky and like I have an incredible opportunity to continue down this road. As I know the artists, I can bug them. So now, poor Roxanne and Janet don’t know it yet… but I have so many questions for them. Oh Roxanne! Hey Janet! Let’s hook up some time soon. I’ll call you.

I still seek to know what’s behind the art as I think it is in art and through art that we can see ourselves and our common humanity. Thanks Mom and Dad and thanks to artists everywhere.

FREEDOM IS A CHOICE

Freedom is a choice
From worry,
For health,
For peace,
From anger,
From addiction or
at least from using,
For life,
For love.

Actively choose
Each day,
Each moment.

I choose.
I choose acceptance, health, peace, calm, sobriety, fun, friendship, love.

Freedom needs action.
Act, move, live, breathe, be real, laugh, be open, give.

Freedom is an active choice that must be made and made again.
Freedom is the present.
I choose.
I am free.

Close to freedom is hope.
Today, this moment, I choose to be free.
And tomorrow, the hope: I will choose again
and be free.

(July 24, 2009)

My Mother's Peace

I used to write poetry. But as a singer/songwriter, whenever I sit down with a poem idea in mind now, it almost always comes out as lyrics. There is a certain framing for songs and a different flow for poetry (or maybe those are the boxes inside me that I need to breakdown). For me at least, songs are more telling about something than showing something... in the folk genre. Well - anyway - this was a poem that flows more like a folk song.



My Mother's Peace



There is a peace that I know about.
I learned of it as a small child.
A peace that my mother showed me,
In moments ‘tween when I ran wild.

It’s a peace that she firmly believed in,
With a faith both strong and true.
She taught it to me by her actions,
And she hoped I’d pass it on too.

This peace is quite rare; it’s uncommon.
But my mom taught me what to look for.
She told me it wasn’t in headlines,
Or in fame, power, profits, or war.

It’s not something quiet inside you.
And to keep it, you give it away.
It’s the deeds that we do for others,
The simplest tasks we do every day.

It’s a smile to a total stranger.
It’s forgetting our own selfish greed.
It’s a hug we give someone to comfort.
It’s a helpful hand to someone in need.

Peace is in Just deeds we do.
She showed me every day.
Peace is the example we set,
For every child at play.

Peace is not a state of mind,
Nor some lofty high ideal.
Remember that peace is in action,
What YOU do is what keeps it real.

So I don’t keep my mother’s peace,
I give it all away.
“Shalom my peace in all you do.”
It is these words I pray.

Simply Sucks

I'm sure someone very spiritual and wise once said that, in order to find our way to understanding, caring, wisdom, compassion, contentment, bliss, and balance in life, we must experience every feeling and work through the tough times, decisions, choices, tests.

And that may very well be true. And it may be good for us. But sometimes it sucks during the process. It simply sucks. There must be another way.

Can't I just call it in? From a distance? Without the feeling part?

Oh wait... I did that for a couple years - alcohol worked great... until it didn't; and now it wouldn't and I don't want to go there again. Ok - so clearly not feeling the bad stuff through alcohol isn't the solution.

I could ignore the feelings and any stress they cause. Just think about other stuff. I could sing a happy song whenever times are tough. Just let the tough shit pile up and pretend it doesn't exist. Yeah, well, that would work right up until that old anxiety monster drops by or my body starts showing the stress and feelings some other way. Like a long balloon. Squeeze it at one end, it just builds the pressure at the other end. But the pressure doesn't go away. It keeps searching for an outlet until it explodes. Damn. Ok - so I can't just ignore it.

Well - what are the bad feelings about anyway? About second guessing if the decision is the right one? Ok so... how about if I just get a clear sign showing which is the RIGHT decision? If I knew for sure which was the right choice, then I could just do it and not feel bad. Oh wait... I knew quitting drinking was the right thing, but I still drank for a long time. And so many other times when I knew the right choice but chose another. Ok - so clearly just knowing the right decision isn't going to help.

So that means I have to feel it, and having surety that I'm making the right choice doesn't necessarily make feeling it any easier. So that means what? I actually just have to go through this shit. Really?

Ok - so now I suppose the spiritual and wise person would say it's all relative, the tough makes the good noticeable and enjoyable, it's the circle of life, it's the process that is the essence of life itself. Learning to cope... is that the lesson? Nope - I know how to cope - even if I don't like it.

Crying, grieving, sadness... all my favorite things.

Maybe I need to back up a step. I've made a huge assumption: that there is a positive in everything. I started with the assumption and advice of that wise person who said that these experiences are needed in order to find the way to understanding, contentment, bliss, and balance (or something like that).

You know what really sucks?! That wise and spiritual (and extremely annoying) imaginary person is probably right. Bastard. I just want to smack the smile right off his/her stupid face.
I'm sorry for anyone reading this and looking for answers, because I'm back to the beginning.

Sometimes the process sucks. Sometimes it just hurts - even if the right decision is made and even if we know we'll learn something from it. Yup - it just simply sucks. What do you think? Please - any insight is appreciated.


LMH

Drama-hood, down at the corner of Woe and Poor Me

The topic of balance just keeps coming up this week. Today in my head is a vague thought about the balance between our responsibility to help our fellow humans and our responsibility to ourselves.

I have a friend whose life is constant drama. Oh the dysfunction of her family. Oh the madness of her job. Oh the plight of the underprivileged with whom she works. Oh the hurt she suffered from boyfriends. Oh the health issues she has faced. Oh the indignities she has suffered from her always horrible bosses and co-workers at every job she's ever had. Oh today is a Wednesday and that's hard to spell.

Welcome to my drama-hood. Won't you sit and stay for a spell?

Once upon a time, this friend called me regularly to be the listening ear, the shoulder to cry on, the helping hand, to be the problem-solver, to be the only one who understood her. Over and over I helped until I realized that I was feeling responsible for her and was stressed by her unhappiness and my feeling of powerlessness b/c no matter how many problems we solved together, she was still unhappy. And then... then I realized that she thrived on and loved living with this drama. If it was a beautiful day she had a load of internal baggage to bring out and remind her how woeful her life was, stored and packed neatly inside her, ready to bring forth should a quiet moment arise.

Yup, at some point I realized that regardless of my efforts to help her and the times I even managed to fix her problems, the next day she had another one. An endless supply of issues that needed a friend like me. I was frustrated and driving myself crazy. I was making unhealthy decisions because I felt like I needed to drop everything to help her. My gosh, if I didn't help her, she was very clear about the catastrophic outcomes that would occur. And it's easy to buy into that because, hey, it's nice to feel like we're needed or like we are the hero.

My friend is a nice person with a big heart who means well. But it's been 15 years since I was the friend she called regularly when in need. She is still in need... every week... for some crisis... some drama. Years ago, I made a decision to separate myself from this friend and build some space. Now she has a new friend she calls.

I have friends that sometimes call me when they need help. But these are friends that don't live in the drama-hood. They live in a place where sometimes there is drama and sometimes the sun is shining. They don't create the drama, wallow in the drama, or keep the drama around for when things get too quiet. Sometimes I am available on the spot to help. Sometimes not. But I do what I can to offer a shoulder, a helping hand, a listening ear or some advice. I'm not the best friend in the world. But I'm not the worst either.

Is it wrong for me to separate myself from the first? Even if she creates the drama or wallows in it, isn't that a sign she needs help? Doesn't some of the drama actually happen to or around her? Hasn't she been wronged now and again? As a fellow human, shouldn't I continue to offer the helping hand? [I suppose now would be a good time to talk about being raised Catholic with certain views on guilt and responsibility... but perhaps later.]

I think I have learned the answer is that I am responsible for me. I don't mean that in a screw-the-world-I'm-only-looking-out-for-number-one way. I believe each of us needs to try to leave the world better, cleaner, and nicer than we found it. I try not to hurt, intentionally or otherwise, other people. I try to be there when a friend really does have a need. I strive to find the good even while knowing I am jaded about so many things. And please know that I know I'm not perfect and I f**k it up sometimes too.

There has been much drama in my life. I'm sure there is drama in yours. Drama is like shit; it happens. This isn't about avoiding drama... I did that for a long time, pickling myself in a bottle of Chardonnay. This is about facing the real dramas - the ones we don't create - facing those dramas as they arise, but then putting them away. And this is a lesson I am learning still. There are a few dramas in my past that were very real and from which I still suffer. But my focus is turning toward the peace and beauty of each present day. I have hope.

I will not live at the corner of Woe and Poor Me. Go around the corner from there and down a few blocks, turn left and you'll find me. I'm the one hanging out on the swing at Good Street Park. Feel free to join me. But read the sign at the gate: "This isn't a theatre, if you are writing a drama, try Off-Broadway."

My sister got me a refrigerator magnet with a very old quotation on it, and I think I'm starting to truly understand: "First keep the peace within yourself, then you can also bring peace to others." Thomas a Kempis, 1420. I'm nowhere near ready to bring it to others, but I'm beginning to believe there is peace in myself.

Cardboard does not cure cancer!

How many times do we hear something said and edit our comments or flat out stop expressing some comment? A friend talks about the hope they have in a relationship that doesn't seem healthy, productive, or likely to last. Someone says they found a way to make a million dollars from some get-rich-quick scheme and want you to join. A young family member says they are engaged to someone whom they've just met. An ill friend finds a "cure" for alcoholism or cancer - "No really... by eating more cardboard, I can control my drinking, and the cardboard also battles off any colon cancer cells." [Ok - well maybe that's just absurd, but then again, have you surfed the Internet lately. There's something for everyone.]

Balance.

When is expressing your opinion being helpful and honest and when is it being mean and cynical? There is a big difference between the intent of my actions and someone else's perception of that intent and reaction. I can't control how someone will perceive something. That doesn't mean I can't take a guess... "Gosh that dress makes you look heavy." Well - depending on the relationship with this person and the context, this could be either a very useful comment to help this person avoid embarrassment or it could be an insensitive crack. What's my intent? My intent is to let them know that the dress is not flattering and in fact makes them look heavier. Am I trying to word it in a way to control their reaction? To not hurt their feelings? Am I trying to word it to convey that my intent is honorable... helpful... kind? Is that trying to control them or just being clear and polite?

I can't control how others perceive things... though I try. [In fact, some would argue that's a big part of my job.] But when it's in an interpersonal relationship, it's unfair and unrealistic. How often do people think they are misunderstood, yet assume they not only understand another's viewpoint or emotions but by their action control the other's reaction?

This is something I know I must let go. That doesn't mean I give up the good intentions and sensitivity, but that I am honest. In the end, if I am honest then I am myself. I am not trying to censor myself. If my intentions are good, if I am honest, and if I am not unduly cruel, then over time, others' perceptions of me will recognize that trend. If they don't, do I really want to put forth the effort to try to change their perception? Isn't it better if I am just me and people see ME. Just ME of noble intent and honesty. No, I'm not always noble, nor honest with myself or others, though I try. But I can control only my actions and words - I can be kind but also, and more importantly, honest.

I try. I am. Me.

And I think that shirt looks great on you! Honest!

Music of Innisfree

I read a poem once and wished I could hear its music. I've been searching for it off and on ever since. I imagine it sounds like sunrise over a field. Not over a lake with waves crashing, seagulls squawking, and sand in my shoes with wind whipped hair. But a morning field.


The eastern sky is showing signs of pink and orange. The warmth of the morning rays just reach my face... ripe and warm and penetrating. Burning off the low hanging fog until it can only be seen in a few depressions in the field and in the shadows. I close my eyes and the trees edging the field shift quietly. There is no cracking of windy trees, but soft rustling. And I hear buzzing - there is a hive just out of view. And I hear birds... small and light and far away with a muffled tweet or trill or warble. I imagine this is the Music of Innisfree.