Just the other day someone gave me some good advice. I had asked for it. While this individual does not know me in real life, she understands my passion for the tarot. Through the tarot she was able to tell me what I most needed to hear: it is time to step outside of my comfort zone if I expect to grow.
For years I have been motoring along, doing what is right, what is expected, answering the ‘corporate call’, and being responsible. In spite of all the ‘good girl’ things I have managed to accomplish, what I am most proud of is my discovery of the passions in my life: poetry, stories, philosophy, art, and science. Magically, all of these things, (and more), are wrapped up in a wonderful package called the tarot. Used for self-exploration and insight, the tarot can offer a glimpse of what is possible, especially if one is willing to consider an alternate ending to the story.
The tarot is filled with pictures which represent archetypes and energies. When we call upon these energies, they can infuse our lives with color and purpose. The energy and power of Earth helps us stay grounded so we have a sense of stability and a place to begin. The energy of Air can bring in a breath of freshness to inspire us with new ideas and dreams as it sweeps out old thoughts and limitations we have outgrown. Sometimes wonderful things can happen when we combine energy. The energies of Fire and Water can combine to make steam, which can be very powerful. It can move us forward with passion and emotion as we use our gifts to create what has been lying dormant in our imagination.
So if you are enjoying your comfort zone, revel in it. If you are feeling it is time to step beyond this place, time to stretch yourself and grow, be prepared for some amazing things to happen. But don’t forget to look back every once in awhile just to admire the view and see how far you have come.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Friday, August 7, 2009
The Cracked Pot...
An elderly Chinese woman had two large pots, each hung on the ends of a pole which she carried across her neck. One of the pots had a crack in it while the other pot was perfect and always delivered a full portion of water. At the end of the long walks from the stream to the house, the cracked pot arrived only half full.
For a full two years this went on daily, with the woman bringing home only one and a half pots of water. Of course, the perfect pot was proud of its accomplishments. But the poor cracked pot was ashamed of its own imperfection, and miserable that it could only do half of what it had been made to do.
After two years of what it perceived to be bitter failure, it spoke to the woman one day by the stream. 'I am ashamed of myself, because this crack in my side causes water to leak out all the way back to your house.' The old woman smiled, 'Did you notice that there are flowers on your side of the path, but not on the other pot's side?' 'That's because I have always known about your flaw, so I planted flower seeds on your side of the path, and every day while we walk back, you water them.' 'For two years I have been able to pick these beautiful flowers to decorate the table. Without you being just the way you are, there would not be this beauty to grace the house.'
Each of us has our own unique flaw. But it's the cracks and flaws we each have that make our lives together so very interesting and rewarding. You've just got to take each person for what they are and look for the good in them.
~ A Chinese proverb
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Love does that...
All day long a little burro labours, sometimes with heavy loads on her back and sometimes just with worries about things that bother only burros. And worries, as we know, can be more exhausting than physical labour. Once in awhile a kind monk comes to her stable and brings a pear, but more than that, he looks into the burro’s eyes and touches her ears and for a few seconds the burro is free and even seems to laugh, because love does that. Love frees.
Author: Daniel Ladinsky, from “Love Poems from God”, published 2002.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Deviant art...
Late on night, while working in the morgue, as I was finishing up the last autopsy, I heard a groan.
This was the lead sentence for a short story assignment I completed in grade four. Instead of earning me a grade for my work which was completed on time, contained proper sentence structure, punctuation, and spelling, and was an original story idea, it earned me a trip to the principal’s office. I learned that day that he is not really your ‘pal’ as the teachers had told us when we were learning to spell the word principal. He decided that the best course of action for such an outlandish story was a trip to see the school-board psychiatrist. Apparently a young child should not be preoccupied with death. Who among us has not been fascinated by a dead bird found in the cemetery? Of course, when I expressed this I was told that "most kids don’t play in cemeteries”. Well, I did. The entire “inappropriate story” experience with the principal, the psychiatrist, and the horrified teacher was my first introduction to censorship at its finest.
Fast forward to grade seven. In art class we were studying ‘still life’ drawings. Our assignment was to draw a ‘still life’ and the entire class would have their pictures displayed in the glass cabinets in the main hall of the school for Parents Night. My interest in all things macabre had not waned, but I had managed to keep it in check for so many years. However, this assignment was begging for something unique. There are only so many bowls of oranges one can draw.
I set out to draw a still life. I drew a table, using proper perspective, with a flowered cloth draped across and falling artfully to the side, to show I could draw ‘folds’. I drew a vase slightly off center of the table. It was tall, slightly ovoid in shape, with a wide-brimmed mouth. In the vase I drew a variety of limbs. It was perhaps this that got me into trouble. For you see, my limbs were not dead or wooden, from some ancient tree.
My limbs were various arms, hands, legs, and feet. One arm extended up, and, bent at the elbow, the fingers pointed to the flowers on the table. It looked like a broken flower itself. My limbs were not bloody, gory, or otherwise shocking. My limbs were healthy, pink, tan, brown, and yellow. All nationalities of skin color were represented. Fingers and toes were softly splayed like the petals on flowers; the nail beds showed a healthy glow. After all, this was a drawing about life; my limbs were alive. They were just ‘still’ as in ‘not moving’. My limbs were arranged to look like a bouquet of flowers, that ubiquitous form from which I had drawn my inspiration.
Again, my creativity and curiosity earned me a trip to the psychologists office for another ‘assessment’. Mine was the only drawing not included in the show-case in the main hall of the school. Censored yet again, I went underground. I was still fascinated with all things odd. I wanted to push the boundaries and think outside the box. I was curious. I wanted to learn, to experiment, and to try new things. But, it seemed the adults around me were more interested in having me remain in the box. They thought my interests made me somehow ‘deviant’. I saw it as a healthy curiosity for someone who wanted to be a forensic pathologist.
This was the lead sentence for a short story assignment I completed in grade four. Instead of earning me a grade for my work which was completed on time, contained proper sentence structure, punctuation, and spelling, and was an original story idea, it earned me a trip to the principal’s office. I learned that day that he is not really your ‘pal’ as the teachers had told us when we were learning to spell the word principal. He decided that the best course of action for such an outlandish story was a trip to see the school-board psychiatrist. Apparently a young child should not be preoccupied with death. Who among us has not been fascinated by a dead bird found in the cemetery? Of course, when I expressed this I was told that "most kids don’t play in cemeteries”. Well, I did. The entire “inappropriate story” experience with the principal, the psychiatrist, and the horrified teacher was my first introduction to censorship at its finest.
Fast forward to grade seven. In art class we were studying ‘still life’ drawings. Our assignment was to draw a ‘still life’ and the entire class would have their pictures displayed in the glass cabinets in the main hall of the school for Parents Night. My interest in all things macabre had not waned, but I had managed to keep it in check for so many years. However, this assignment was begging for something unique. There are only so many bowls of oranges one can draw.
I set out to draw a still life. I drew a table, using proper perspective, with a flowered cloth draped across and falling artfully to the side, to show I could draw ‘folds’. I drew a vase slightly off center of the table. It was tall, slightly ovoid in shape, with a wide-brimmed mouth. In the vase I drew a variety of limbs. It was perhaps this that got me into trouble. For you see, my limbs were not dead or wooden, from some ancient tree.
My limbs were various arms, hands, legs, and feet. One arm extended up, and, bent at the elbow, the fingers pointed to the flowers on the table. It looked like a broken flower itself. My limbs were not bloody, gory, or otherwise shocking. My limbs were healthy, pink, tan, brown, and yellow. All nationalities of skin color were represented. Fingers and toes were softly splayed like the petals on flowers; the nail beds showed a healthy glow. After all, this was a drawing about life; my limbs were alive. They were just ‘still’ as in ‘not moving’. My limbs were arranged to look like a bouquet of flowers, that ubiquitous form from which I had drawn my inspiration.
Again, my creativity and curiosity earned me a trip to the psychologists office for another ‘assessment’. Mine was the only drawing not included in the show-case in the main hall of the school. Censored yet again, I went underground. I was still fascinated with all things odd. I wanted to push the boundaries and think outside the box. I was curious. I wanted to learn, to experiment, and to try new things. But, it seemed the adults around me were more interested in having me remain in the box. They thought my interests made me somehow ‘deviant’. I saw it as a healthy curiosity for someone who wanted to be a forensic pathologist.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
