Archive for the ‘Best Neighbor’ Category

Grab Your Pointy Hat

Attractive as the striped stockings and trendy ankle boots may be, the most appealing aspect of practicing your own witchcraft is the ever-expanding connection to Source energy.  Exploring the depths of your heart in order to reconnect with the Divine power that exists within each of us is a unique and individual journey of choice.  Whether you approach this endeavor with the company of others, in solitary, or not at all, is a conscious decision.  Regardless of how you define your level of connection to Divine energy, we are all magical beings.  The pointy hat is always optional.

Life is magic.  The essence of magic is simply the natural state of energy movement that creates change in your life.   By opening your heart and descending into the Source of your own energy, the memory of your true purpose unfolds and you rediscover who you are.  You remember that you are the deliberate creator of your own life experience.

It is the heart of our being that follows the pull of magic, and directs the movement of energy to bring that which you desire into your experience.  Defining the properties of manifestation cannot be explained, as there are no adequate words available in the realm of the heart.  It just happens.  That’s why we call it magic:)

Once you experience the creation of your own magic, the awareness of its essence, even in ordinary things, provides a sense of wonder and satisfaction in life.  You begin seeing connections between what you think, how you feel, and what is happening around you.  It seems as if you open your eyes to what you are creating for yourself, and your natural connection to Source expands.

The unmistakable aura that beams forth from one who has rediscovered the nature of their true essence is a lovely sight to behold.  I still smile when I recall an exchange that I had with one of the moms that I had the pleasure of knowing during my PTA years.  Sylvia was a gentle and kind soul, who preferred to avoid the cutthroat business of fund-raising and planning that seemed to define the bitchy character of many of the PTA board members of the time.  I admired her.

We had planned a school carnival, and I thought that it would be refreshing to offer some local fare, in addition to the routine hot dog, snow cone, and popcorn stands.  Since Sylvia’s sister Rosa lived two doors down from us at the time, I knew that Sylvia’s mom made tamales for their family on occasion.  I asked Sylvia if she would be willing to make tamales to sell at the school carnival.  Sylvia was hesitant, but thought that perhaps with the help of her sister Rosa, the three Alvarez women could prepare a sufficient amount to serve.

It had been quite the undertaking.  Sylvia reported that her mother had never prepared such a large amount of tamales at one time, and she and Rosa had not participated in the actual preparation of ingredients before.  The day before the carnival, Sylvia had become overwhelmed with the responsibility of providing tamales for public consumption.  Her mom and Rosa were ready to bow out completely.  Sylvia had to take over.

I was so busy myself on the morning of carnival day, I barely noticed when Sylvia had arrived with her large warming trays packed full of tamales.  What I did notice later, were the hoards of people gathered around her tamale stand.  There were carnival-goers eagerly waiting in line, smiling people carrying stacks of tamale filled containers away, and others standing off to the side eating tamales right off the plate that they were holding.  The tamales were the highlight of the carnival.  Sylvia was beaming.

When I finally had a chance to talk with her later, Sylvia relayed her experience.  In the midst of the anxiety she was feeling the day before, she stepped outside, sat on the front step for a moment, and took several deep breaths.

With a knowing smile, she said, “I closed my eyes, and shifted my intention.”

When she went back inside, she completed the preparation of all the ingredients.  Then she proceeded to fill, wrap, and stack hundreds of tamales.  Throughout the entire process, she said that she thought of nothing else but the love that she was putting in to each and every one that she made.

What an exquisite expression of energy movement from the heart.  And she didn’t even wear a pointy hat.

Small Town-opoly

Helga recently reminded me of the day when I officially removed my token from the Community Gossip board game.  One of our monthly PTA leadership meetings had just adjourned, and the two of us were exiting the conference room to head toward the front office.  We needed to log in our volunteer hours.  Helga and I walked side-by-side as we snaked our way around multiple single-file rivers of children.  Parading streams of students were being led through the school’s main corridor by a teacher holding a clip board.  It was lunch hour, and the shuffle of classes moving to and from the cafeteria was in full swing.  A sporadic symphony of small voices sprang forth from the tributaries of children that were flowing past us.

“Good morning, Mrs. Bean.  Good morning, Mrs. Dodge.”

Southern-bred offspring are well versed in their traditional greeting etiquette.  Most of these kids knew us in our homes as “Miss Jill” and “Miss Helga,” but it appeared that there was an amendment to this constitution that required children to use a formal address of “Mrs. Last Name” when aforementioned adult is met within an official educational environment.

As a former Yankee who had spent the majority of my life in and around a large metropolitan area, most of these traditional regulations were baffling to me.  One aspect of this new environment was familiar.  The procedure by which these rules were presented was much like the method used by the family dynasty in which I was raised.  Unspoken and expected to be understood, it is commonly known as the This-Is-The-Way-We-Do-Things Policy.  It reads something like this:

“If you want to be a part of our group, then you have to do things our way.  If you refuse to comply, or if you are a slow-learner, there will be no forgiveness, and your membership will be revoked.  In this event, you will be required to relinquish any welcoming gifts that we may have initially bestowed upon you, as we do not tolerate any instances in which you may be mistakenly identified as one of us.  In addition, we reserve the right to talk about you, and whisper criticisms amongst ourselves in your presence, once you have been deemed unworthy to join our group.”  I knew the drill.

In the few years since Durwood and I had become active participants in our interrelated PTA and Little League communities, I was getting the hang of most of the expected Southern Manners and Hospitality rules.  It was regarding the Small Town Personal Information Disclosure and Privilege Game in which I appeared to be in the slow-learner category.

Who knew what about who, that was not supposed to know what they knew about another, are supposed to tell you what they think about it, but only if you did not hear it from them, so that you will keep that in mind if you talk to another, or someone who already knows about it, but is not supposed to know.  It was mind-boggling.

I was the newly elected PTA vice-president, serving on a board full of life-long residents whose families have resided here for over a hundred years.  They had been playing a sanctioned game that I did not understand.  I was thirty-some years old, but I felt like the new kid in their high school.

Thankfully, I do not remember the specific details involved with the infraction I had committed during this particular PTA meeting.  Whatever I had said, not said, did, or did not do, had ruffled enough feathers to effectively rescind my invitation to become a member of this exclusive club.

Helga may have been a life-long resident in the community, but she was also my friend.  When the two of us finally arrived at the entrance to the school’s office, she placed her hand upon my shoulder to prevent me from continuing through the door.  With a most sincere expression, Helga confirmed my assessment of the current situation.

“I’m really sorry,” she said.  She lowered her voice, leaned her head toward mine, and spoke to me through her eyebrows. “It would appear that some of us believe that we are still in high school.”

“Or kindergarten,” I thought to myself.

As is typical of my approach to most things, I lack the patience and concern for preparatory instructions.  I have always preferred the ‘jumping in’ tactic over the ‘look-before-you-leap’ philosophy.  Any time that the Bean family has acquired a new board or card game, I limit my procedural review to the fundamentals of “getting started.”  My interest lies only in initial directives.  These may include how many cards to distribute, how to set up the game board and pieces, choosing a token, where to place it, or how to determine who rolls the dice first.  I will then hand the directions to someone else (usually Natalie), and start playing until I need to ask, “Now what?” (in which case, Natalie will have read the pertinent information by then).

Durwood, on the other hand, will insist on reading all of the directions before any participating family member is allowed to touch tokens, cards, or any other accompanying provisions that are included in a newly acquired game.  Once the appropriate set-up has been completed (according to the instructions that Durwood has read first to himself, and then out loud for the rest of us at least a dozen times), he will not validate any attempts at score-keeping until we have played at least one or two practice rounds.   Official play will be allowed to commence after we have exhibited some level of competence and understanding of the game that we are playing.

Had I followed Durwood’s procedure before officially placing my token on the Small Town PTA board game, I may have avoided many of the uncomfortable and confusing situations that I found myself to be in during those first few years of attempting to become an active member in our new community.

Helga, who remains a genuine friend of mine to this day, recalls this one particular PTA meeting as the dawning of her acute awareness of the ongoing game being played among the life-long members of our small town.  Her position on the game board has fluctuated over the years, as she has managed to control the nature of her contributed moves.  She is still looking for a way to get off the board completely, but short of moving out of town, this option remains unavailable to her.

Unlike Helga, I have had the option to remove my token from the Small Town Gossip game board and still remain a productive resident of my community.  My experience has provided me with a comprehensive and insightful education on how to enjoy my environment, enhance the lives of my children (who technically, are considered life-long residents!), and remain active WITHOUT having to participate in any silly games.

This particular region of the United States has experienced incredible growth since Durwood and I first moved here over twenty years ago.  Although we have moved in and out of several residences throughout those twenty years, we have remained in and around the Small Town that we call home.  Resistance to change and ‘newcomers’ appears to have relaxed considerably, but some traditional Small Town behavior remains intact.

“Looking out for your neighbor” is a valuable asset to living in any community.  Life-long residents of Small Town practice this time-honored tradition through various forms of communication.   When someone asks you “how things are going?” it is always advisable to consider the nature of the inquirer.  After twenty years of trial and error, it becomes easier to ascertain the difference between one who has genuine interest in your situation, or one who requires useful information to hold in trust (should the occasion arise when they will need to re-establish their ranking among the social network by disclosing your information to someone else).

When information extraction techniques are unavailable through direct communication, there is the time-honored practice of driving through town until you ’see’ useful information to gather.  Since Durwood and I have lived in what is considered the ‘outskirts’ of town for the past 4 years, I witness the execution of this particular method on a daily basis.  Every time that I end up traveling behind a camouflage adorned pick-up truck being driven by a baseball-capped driver, I can expect to drive at least five to ten miles under the speed limit.  This seems to be the appropriate speed necessary in order to give the driver enough time to turn their head and assess the current status of every residential property that we pass.  In the event that some poorly placed trees, bushes, or front gates might obstruct the comprehensive inventory of said property, I can expect to slow down another ten miles or so (if not come to a complete stop) in order for the driver in front of me to obtain a clearer view.  It is a tedious job, but thank the gods that someone is still doing it.

I love where I live.  I love our house and I love our property.  The schools are outstanding and the opportunities are plentiful.  There are good people here ( like Helga!) and our children enjoy a bounty of friends and experiences.  Now that my little sister Evie lives here with her family, life in Small Town is even more rewarding and fun.  Since Helga reminded me of the way things were when Durwood and I first arrived here, I realize that there are many things that will never change.  What a comfort to know that we can.

Neither A Borrower Nor A Lender Be

Does anyone ever return a borrowed book?  Chances are that the only time most people fulfill an obligation to return a book is when they have borrowed it from the library; and even then, accountability is often viewed in a rather casual manner.  Unless you are a college student who cannot afford the escalating overdue fines, the majority of the population does not live in fear of due dates imposed by their local library.

Most of us are familiar with the phenomenon that occurs when books are shared between friends and acquaintances.  The traditional definition of the word “borrow” seldom applies to these exchanges.  Any time that I have allowed someone to “borrow” a book, I have resigned myself to the possibility that I may never see it again.  On the rare occasions that I have actually had someone return a book to me, it is always, without exception, from a friend who is a devout follower of the same book religion that I practice.

I am always willing to share a good read, particularly since I have abandoned the unrealistic notion that I will read a novel a second time.  If I already know how the story turns out, what is the point?  The only reason to keep a book that I will never read again is to add it to a shelf full of other books I have read, while still clinging to the illusion that my collection serves to impress others (and myself) with the number of books that I have read.  In any case, I have become more relaxed when offering to pass along a good book that I am certain I will never want to look through again.

On the other hand, I have plenty of other books that I would have some difficulty parting with.  These include books that are of sentimental value, classics that I do intend to read more than once, or several others that I continue to use for reference.  My books are important to me.  I grant requests to lend them if the borrower meets one of two requirements: either they are a trusted friend who understands that I reserve the right to conduct an annoying and relentless campaign to have the book returned to me when they are finished using it, or they agree to hand over their first-born child after signing their name to a contract written in their own blood.  This second requirement is no longer necessary since I have learned that it is much easier to just say “no.”

Perhaps it is old age, but I no longer feel compelled to justify my reasons for declining to share certain personal possessions that I simply choose not to.  Books are one thing.  I think that we all have personal items, tangible and otherwise, that we assign varying levels of value to.  These values may very well be as individual as we are.

My cousin Candace once reminded me that “you don’t have to respond to every single request and inquiry that is made of you.”  Candace is wise.  We are also not required to make excuses when we choose not to respond to certain requests, either.  Although I value the energy that generosity cultivates within my spirit, I do not feel the love in being expected to share certain things with others that I have not offered to give.

Writing the above statement has stirred faint murmurs within that whisper judgmental words that I have heard over time, like “greedy” and “selfish.”  If I am still sorting out these concepts as an adult, I can realize the challenge that parents and care-givers face when guiding young minds in the virtue of generosity, while emphasizing the value in preservation of self.  When we force our children to share everything that they have with their siblings and playmates, we are essentially removing their innate ability to experience the joy in giving.

When Kat was young, we participated in a playgroup that was sponsored through our local church.  The group met once a week.  Since the church was not equipped to meet the needs of the large group of mothers and children, we decided to take turns hosting the meetings in our own homes.  Like most of my experience in volunteer organizations, it ended up being the same four moms who would offer their homes to a group of at least a dozen other moms,  including at least twice as many kids.  If you can imagine  over twenty children under the age of five years descending upon one household, you can grasp the toy-sharing issues that inevitably ensued.

Being the church group that we were, the concept of sharing was encouraged.  Little tempers often flared and less assertive hosts stood by to watch their possessions used, strewn about, or worse, become ‘accidentally’ broken.  I am describing a scenario that seems more chaotic than it actually was, but my most vivid recollection is that of those ‘crushed’ expressions on little faces that were told that they had to share their prized possessions with others.  Maybe they did not want to have someone else scribble in their favorite coloring book, undress their doll, or take down the duplo tower they spent time building.

When it was our turn to host the playgroup, I spent the day before letting Kat decide what she wanted to share with her guests.  I let her know that it was okay to choose toys that she preferred not to share.  We put those items away in her brother’s room (a stack of books among them….where does she get that from?) and decided that it was acceptable to inform her guests that the baby’s room was off-limits.  When our guests arrived the next day, parents and kids were respectful of our decision to keep Jim’s room private.  There were some who appeared more than happy to enforce the new rule with others among us who exhibited nosy tendencies or assumed their own air of privilege.  Private rooms that contained items that children chose not to share became the standard practice after that.

Kat was thrilled to share her toys, her room, and her home because she had the power to decide what she offered to others.  She discovered that her magna-doodle was broken once everyone had left, and I remember how easily she accepted it as a consequence of the choice that she had made in deciding to share it.  It was a four-year-old “shit happens” shoulder shrug, just a minor glitch compared to the joy she experienced in sharing the parts of her world that she wanted to.

I can see when Caroline is becoming overwhelmed with her little brother.  As babies tend to do,  Anson gets close enough to start grabbing everything within Cara’s current space of the playroom.   I tell Cara to choose what she is willing to share with him, and I let her know that it is perfectly acceptable to put anything else out of his reach.  Anson is seven months old, so it makes absolutely no difference to him whether he is biting and drooling all over Ariel or Cinderella’s head.  It is Caroline who beams with joy as she watches Anson “borrow” the doll that SHE decided to offer him.

Of course, there remains that one friend you may know who helps themselves to everything in your home, bullying their way through your DVD collection, your make-up basket, or perhaps even your books (gasp!).  Whether you have offered these things or not is of no consequence to them, since they would welcome you to help yourself to any of their things that you don’t want.

You could resort to hiding the items that you are not ready to loan, but what a pain that is.  This is when it is okay to just say “no.”  Whether they think that you are being stingy, or not, is none of your business.  Then again, there’s always the option of offering them a contract signed with their own blood…