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Monthly Archives: January 2013

Let’s talk about… You and me

29 Tuesday Jan 2013

Posted by Alice Salles in Family & Friends, Living

≈ 2 Comments

butterfly-cycle1

I indulge in simple pleasures; I’m a woman of simple tastes.

I also like talking about things I live and often wonder and why should I not? I am the only one who’s constantly around and the only one I am stuck with until the end of my days. Tolerating myself and understanding whatever it is that I am is part of this relentless pursuit of self, which is often tricky and rather exasperating.

I am an egoist but haven’t visited a salon to have my hair done or nails polished in over ten years (I’m 28-years-old, if you were wondering).

Let’s talk about how I see the word egotistic. It means… self-centered. Self-seeking. Self-absorbed – When I was a little girl, I used to repeat something I heard from either my father or the TV (I hope I got it from my deceased father, I would hate to find out I got this line from watching He-man or the Brazilian version of Sesame Street), I would take a deep breath, push my chest forward and proudly utter “your limit ends where mine begins!” The crowd, i.e. preschoolers and astonished school staff members, did not find it amusing. They often disagreed and either continued to push me around or ignore me completely, which was exactly what I wanted them to do.

Or was it? It was.

Starving for attention is not healthy but craving for the right attention, is. I always had the attention I needed.

I was (and still am), differently from some other kids I used to know, the daughter of parents who loved me so much they made sure to remind me of how important I was to them and how capable I was. They pointed out frequently that, as soon as I started to understand what was it that I wanted to do or be, I would have all the support in the world. My father wisely added that even if I didn’t figure it out in a timely fashion, they would be right there, supporting me, regardless.

I find it odd to hear about some people I know who never got to hear this from their folks. The fact is that support is an interesting word, it can change your world by empowering you but only if you take it at a somewhat moral (for lack of a better term) level and leave the concept of support as a crutch behind, especially while discovering in reality what you truly are or may, in time, become. A butterfly doesn’t go from caterpillar into the beautiful insect it is with the help of fellow members of the Lepidoptera family, does it?

My father knew from the get-go that by showing me that there’s a wild world out there I shouldn’t be afraid of and letting me see it my way, I would have a better chance of being successful; on my own terms.

He knew I would respect the fellow man’s decision to be his own man because I was given the opportunity to be my own woman.

I cannot say this enough but, how wonderful would this world be were all fathers and mothers out there as likely to teach their children the importance of self-seeking as they taught me. But then again, we’re all different and I’m happy it is that way ~

THE MUSING OF AN OLD MAN FROM A SMALL TOWN (possible start for a novel?)

21 Monday Jan 2013

Posted by Aubrey Anne Dickinson in Family & Friends, Living

≈ 2 Comments

trinity

 

Because I am old, my stories may twist around one and another. Like weeds, they may entwine and grow to far greater heights than they were in actuality. Time has been pushed together for me and jumbled my history and the history of Wellington. But I will do my best.

Wellington. Wellington—it made us or we made it. Anyway it was home.

Our town was small then just as it is now but it had a subtle hum to it; it had life.  People were born. They were raised and grew to marry one and another and borne a new generation. There was gossip as there was laughter. We mixed, you see. We were muddled together-and even more—we cared.

When Old Widow Jenkins got lost on Main Street and began accusing that nameless orange cat that perused the dumpster behind The Well of stealing her heart and placing it into the cookie jar, we (any one of us) would kindly take her hand and lead her home. When the high school’s prom was held, all of the mothers would be there hanging streamers and you could guarantee that come football Friday, those foldout benches would be full. Saturdays the park was crowded of picnickers and on Sunday’s the church fought to squeeze in all of Wellington.

So yes, it was different. And I hope that one day you will know a home like that—in the meantime, I will give you mine. I will give you my stories. I will give you the Wellington that I knew.

 

 

A Flutter

16 Wednesday Jan 2013

Posted by Alisha Dickinson in Uncategorized

≈ 5 Comments

A tiny flutter, a flip, a fine tuned movement and I know that you are there.  You exist because we made you, because we held our breath and hoped that, someday, you would come.  Little did we know that you were simply waiting in the wings, coiled & ready to spring at the slightest nod from us.

We’ve seen your picture; a grainy, grey image, but already you have hints of my features.  Your chin is rounded, like mine, and there are the ever so slight shadows of those infamous Cherokee cheekbones which run thru my side of the family.  Your eyes look big and though the genetic odds are stacked against it, I secretly hope that they are blue.

You like music with a beat and applesauce, blueberry smoothies and the sound of Edgar’s voice.  Your not too keen on peanut butter or the alarm clock, which I fear is a trait you’ve already inherited from your aunt Aubrey.

These are things that I know and like your first crude photograph, these truths are blurry and soft around the edges but they are the evidence, however hazy, that you do exist.  Those other things, yet formed and too distant to know yet, we can soley dream about.  And as we wonder & muse over who you will be, we can only hope that you are as excited about this epic journey as we are and that you know, even deep within your bodily cocoon, that you are ours, little one, all ours.

Is it a sin if it’s an idea

11 Friday Jan 2013

Posted by Alice Salles in Whatever

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

ideas

white-rabbit-art-print-20-Corella-Design-on-etsySo I sat here and tried to write. Write about freedom. About the incredible people whose dedication has been inspiring me lately, about the ideas I’ve mastered over periods of listening, reading, debating and understanding.

I sat down with the sole intention of writing about concepts and philosophy. I decided I was going to write about the satisfaction I cherish over being able to never fool myself into thinking that, staying in the dark and hanging on to whatever ignorance I was never smitten with, was my way out of misery.

I sat down and stared at the white screen as I quietly waited for the right words to come to me.

Well, it didn’t happen. Ideas never translated plans into words and all I could possibly focus on was how sad I felt. I intellectualized my sadness, of course. I knew its cause, I knew exactly what led me to feel this way and why, as a human being, I’m vulnerable to this particular kind of pain. I understand the pain I feel and reason with it, however, it refuses to reason back. I am left behind, empty-handed, without assuming I have any rights to debate over what it is that I should do after feeling the way I do.

My pain has a name and because its name is cursed and its owner has left the building, the idea of him is all I have left. When an idea, not individuals, is all one has left to look up to, intellectualizing emotions is nothing short of extraordinary.

As I sat and contemplated how the belligerent feeling took over, I noticed my emotional actions could and should be forgiven.

I was, after all, crying for an idea and a good idea is as mighty as a mountain. It is the fabric I use to fashion my convictions which, like the skin that faithfully encases my body, is always ready to keep me together even through the most ferocious of rants. ~

Snowwomen and Snowmobiles

06 Sunday Jan 2013

Posted by Aubrey Anne Dickinson in Brother, Family & Friends, Living

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Tags

Christmas, holidays, sledding, snow, snowmen, snowmobiles, snowwomen

One month ago, I packed up my car; stuffed my cat, my brother, my sister with the baby in her belly and my brother in-law into my 4runner and headed due north. Washington called us home for the holidays.

20 some hours later we pulled into my home town exhausted and ready to slip into the sweet hibernation of family, snow, warm fires and Christmas traditions. And we did—or at least I did.

I made snow angels. We baked thumb-cookies and I made my sister her Tarte Tatain with a splash of brandy. We read poetry by the fire and spent my days sledding (wildly) down the driveway, the roof and steeper hills behind the house.  I went to Seattle to see an improv Christmas Carol. We watched the fish being tossed and drank heavenly coffee. I laughed a hell of a lot and curled up in all of it. Christmas just may be my favorite time of year.

Nearing the end of my month home I began to grow ancy for a proper snowmobile ride. My brothers have random sleds (snowmobiles) stashed all throughout their yards—some fast and flashy, others old and clunky. When I asked my brother Josh for the use of one of his sleds he quickly said yes (perhaps even a wee-bit excited for a long ride thru the mountains) and then promptly withdrew—hesitation and dubious ideas had already begun to flood his brain.

You see, a few years ago my little brother readily handed me over one of his newly acquired cast-off forest service sleds.  He loaned it to my proudly; “Here you go, Sissy,” he had said. “Have fun.”

I took the statement literally and had fun.

That afternoon my sister Anna and I rode down to the beach and spent hours constructing massive and elaborate snowmen—or rather snowladies as they both had boobs. It took us all afternoon and they loomed over us in all their snowy glory. They were beautiful.

And then we got back on our loaned snowmobiles and drove down the length of the beach and waited for the count: one…two…three! We were off. The old, clunky beasts that we drove carried us quickly to each of our snowwomen.

I don’t know if it made noise when we hit, but the force of the packed snow nearly knocked me off the seat. It also broke the headlight and the windshield.

When the machines stopped on the other side of what was (only minutes ago) our masterful snowwomen, Anna and I stumbled off, exalted that we were still alive and quite proud of ourselves—of our rowdiness and downright awesomeness. In that moment we could have moved mountains. But then we saw the headlights and the windshields.

So Josh’s hesitation this year seemed understandable. But we ended up riding my dads’ race sled so alas, no snowmen were built and destroyed this Christmas. snow1947_524044389073_7879_n

 

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