What Makes Sense?

Recently I listened to a heated discussion.  One person retorted: That does not make sense!  I had to smile, not with disrespect for the other point of view but instead for the calamity of different experiences that allow people to emphatically believe that they are right.  I weary of those who pontificate without offering open thought and a listening ear to what may be another set of facts.

After listening to this persons diatribe, I calmly asked:  Did you choose your parents?  Who amongst us has picked the culture that we were born in to?  There is so much that we are unable to evaluate because we do not know.  We have not had the other experience.

I am finally finishing the book Catherine The Great by Robert K. Massie.  A fact that is poignant for me during this reading is that if a human was born a serf, you had no control over life.  Notta.  For example, if  born in late 1700's to a person who worked the mines then you belonged to the mining operation and were sold and traded as if you were a shovel.  That was it.

Yesterday, I enjoyed the movie Philomena and again realized the luck of birth.  Much of what happens is the luck or bad luck of time and place that a person is born into.  This is a movie, so I am not making a case for the storyline, I freely admit that I do not know the historical facts, but I am saying that often people are in situations that are a reality of birth.   In this movie a young Irish girl (1950's) was sent to a convent because she was pregnant out of wedlock. Her father dumped her there and never looked back.  After giving birth, she worked in servitude for four years to pay back her debt to the convent for housing her and her babe who was, according to the movie, taken from her and sold to an adopting American couple.

There was a line in the movie, although arrogant, that made me laugh.  The BBC journalist who was helping the elder Irish woman find her adult child remarked about the woman he was helping: “I’ve finally seen firsthand what a lifetime’s diet of Reader’s Digest, the Daily Mail and romantic fiction can do to a person’s brain.”  An insult.  I am ashamed to admit that I feel this way when someone is screaming their point to get it across to me as if I am dim witted because I cannot agree with them.  Do folks really think that raising the volume of their discourse makes their point clear?  Do they not realize that there ARE experts who argue on either side of most issues.  Why scream your point?

When I am trying to make sense, I frequently use the word "sense" as a noun indicating a personal awareness at a single moment in time.  I cannot make a claim that judges nor offers wise or reasonable advice to the understanding of another person.  More often in my writing, I may have a feeling that something is the case.  From that feeling,  I evaluate from my perspective. That's it ... a perspective.

 I have difficulty with people who state their opinion as if they are Moses (from the Biblical story) carving the Ten Commandments in stone.  In my recent political discussion, I could not help but ask: Have you considered that there are brilliant minds on both sides of this issue? And, there were no scholars present during this argumentative discussion.   I wonder why the other people taking part in this band wagon conversation could not appreciate that none of us know what we do not know.  There are negative reactions to forcing an edict on a group and that, quite frankly,  does not make sense.

New Year

I experience an emotional slump upon the end of work that I enjoyed and found mentally challenging.  A shadow darkens my existence and demands a respectful acknowledgement from me on what has been lost.  Lost in the sense of ended – effort completed.  I’ve been told that I should rejoice because “it” happened.  The cause of past joy, although gone, was worthy.  

Boo hiss.  

For me, disorder and chaos are always a part of finishing a life chapter.  Yes, of course, I am sensitive that history is integral to propel me forward as necessary as the prevailing conditions.  This does not make me feel better.  When I have enthusiastically offered full attention to a project that has stopped, the words:  j’ai fini (as the French would say) evoke a vacant dip in my psyche.  This let down is mild in comparison to the loss of a relationship, not even close, but is noteworthy to me because I have learned that I must encounter the  dull sensation of missing an activity that I enjoyed before I can move on to create.

When I was younger, and naive, I thought it was possible to organize life like colorful packages complete with a bow on top. I have found that I do not believe in closure.  Instead, at each ending, there is a sadness that aggravates me enough to push me to learn something new.  The past boxes are not neatly stacked but ruptured, spilling into the next moment, week and year. Nothing is pure.  All fresh endeavors become a complicated weave of rough, smooth and innovative textures making loss a prerequisite to joy and both emotions are important before having the energy to face what becomes new.

2014

Outside today in Michigan a light snow is covering the tree branches and rooftops.  The beauty of the whiteness conceals what is underneath with clean snow reminding me that this is a fresh moment, a new beginning, with no footprints, no action by me until I chose to put my fingertips to the keyboard to communicate.   

My work at the book store will be finished on January 5th.  The grad application to University of Michigan MFA program has been submitted along with writing samples and recommendations;  I will wait for an answer.  I am dedicating the winter months to finishing the rough draft of the novel I have been working on along with teaching a creative writing course in my local area.

How about you?  I send wishes of peace and love:  Happy New Year.