Fright

Project Blog It

I suppose it seems appropriate, or perhaps cliché, to write on fright on Halloween. So rather than focus on fright per say, I want to write about fear, something I’ve been thinking about for the past couple of days.

Fear, I think, is never actually fear of anything other than the unknown. There is no real direct object of fear. Insofar as something that we truly believe to cause fear in ourselves is not real, which is certainly open for debate. Instead, I think what we really fear is only the abstract idea of something we do not, or cannot know. It is the unknown that is the object of fear.

We fear death because we do not know what death means for us, or even for those closest to us. We think we know, but really we cannot know.

We might fear snakes or spiders, but really it’s not fear. Rather it’s a sense of creepiness and discomfort.

We might fear heights, but such a fear is more likely the fear of not knowing what it would be like to fall—the fear of not knowing what it’s like to not be in control of ourselves.

My fears derive from the unknown parts of who I am and who I will become. I was a certain kind of person at one time, and kind of person that I valued greatly. I have long hoped that that person will find a way of emerging again, but I do not know if that will happen, and that frightens me. This is not to say that I am unhappy with the person I am today. I am, in fact, very happy. At the same time, I do have ambitions and goals, and I worry that situations, circumstances, and freely made choices have worked against those goals. I do not know though, and therein lies the locus of my fear.

Happy Halloween, everybody.

Please check the blogs listed on the right for companion pieces to this week's prompt.

Next week's prompt: Treat.

Wishes

Project Blog It

A wish. A look to the future. Something more than a hope.

A wish is as often unrealistic as it is possible.

“I wish 5:00 would come.” “I wish I could fly.”

Whereas as a hope tends toward something that carries with it possibility.

“I hope it doesn’t rain.” “I hope she recovers quickly.”

Wishes are dreams, fantasies of a world we imagine. They are unlimited in their possibility and their impossibility, subject only to the limitations of our own imaginations.

“When you wish upon a star. . .” “Make a wish and blow.”

A wish, at best, marks a future possibility. At worst, it marks an impossibility free of time, existing now and always in its own inability to ever be realized.

I will never be able to fly without the aid of a mechanical device, and lots of money.

A wish is an escape from the here and now. Perhaps its benefit lies in its power to move us, if only in the moment it takes to construct the wish, from the place of our existence devoid of the object of the wish. It is idealism. It is the dream of something else, something better, something magical. It is the construction of a world, a situation, an experience as we wish it could be.

And though a wish is not a hope, the fact that we can make a wish indicates that we do have some hope for the future. And I think that’s a good thing.


Please check the blogs listed on the right for companion pieces to this week's prompt.

Next week's prompt: Fright.

Migration

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The Monarch butterflies are in the midst of their migration to northern Mexico for the winter. There, they'll stay until springtime, when they lay eggs and die. Those eggs become the butterflies that migrate north again where they too will lay eggs and die, completing a cycle across generations.

I am fortunate to live in an area of the country that sits along the Monarch's autumn migration path. In fact, the Monarchs are attracted to the Cypress trees outside of my office window. And given that I'm on the second floor, I'm treated to an amazing daily show of hundreds of butterflies fluttering by and roosting in the trees. It's truly a stunning sight, and one that I never fail to appreciate.

The Monarchs, on their long annual journey, give me pause to consider migration, the movement from one place or mode of being that is somehow marked (whether by political boundaries, climate, personal sense of self, or something else) to another, differently marked space. I've migrated a few times in my life. Not always by choice, and not always the result of good choices.

I wonder what it would be like to live the simple and directed life of a Monarch. Floating on currents, instinctively pulled across continents and then back again. Somewhere along the way leaving one's legacy and then passing out of the cycle of migration for good. Do Monarchs understand their beauty? Do they know how they fascinate us? A bit of wind and color drifting past my window. They remind me of childhood summers in the northern Midwest, the beginning and the end of their journey. There, the Monarchs marked the long days of mid-year. The orange of their wings glowing in the warm summer sun. Now, here in the Southwest, their migration marks the migration of the year itself, its own end coming closer with shorter and shorter days.

This movement of butterflies, the migration of the Monarchs, for a brief moment, shifts me out of my own inertia and stagnation to migrate with them, if only for a few seconds, before settling again into the mode of being the defines me now.


Please check the blogs listed on the right for companion pieces to this week's prompt.

Next week's prompt: Five wishes for yourself; Five wishes for the world.

Vote to Make a Difference

Project Blog It

I'm an idealist. I freely admit to being so. I do have faith in the American democratic process, and I proudly take part in it.

That said, I also freely admit that the American democratic process is flawed. Citizens don't vote. Large numbers of those who do vote do so blindly--in other words they pick candidates for reasons other than a thoughtful reflection on qualifications and position on the issues at hand.

I don't believe our process, or any process for that matter, can be perfect. Sure it can be better than it is now, but despite its flaws, it is a process that I embrace and take seriously. I proudly go to the polls on election day. When I vote, I actually do feel as if I am a part of something larger. I do feel civic pride and my own sense of patriotism.

I do believe that voting makes a difference, and I'm glad that voting is a legal, fundamental part of our system. But I also try to be realistic about it. It's all a matter of degree, like my comment about the American system being flawed and imperfect. Voting does make a difference, but it's usually a much smaller difference than we might hope for or expect. Politicians, especially those running for the highest offices, like to speak with soaring rhetoric about their great plans for our nation. In reality though, any plan will, almost necessarily, by subject to compromise. It's the way we all get things done, big and small. So voting, whether it be on the PTA or for President of the United States, does make a difference because we are voicing an opinion. And those opinions determine the kinds of policies and programs that we then debate, compromise on, and implement, often to only small degrees. But they still make a difference. The path to change is usually done in small steps, not larger leaps. And for me, at least for now, that's enough.


Please check the blogs listed on the right for companion pieces to this week's prompt.

Next week's prompt: Migration

Burning Up, Burning Out

Project Blog It

He rises, tired, in the dark. Tired before he's even begun the long day of using up energy that is already running at a deficit.

The burden of life, work, and responsibility carried in his slow steps in the early morning, he pads about the dark knowing each step, finding what he needs, without light, having done it the day before, and the day before that, and the day before that.

There is something peaceful about the quiet, early, dark mornings. Moving about in the stillness, long before the rest of the world rises, he finds a sense of ease. At these all too brief moments, the peace and stillness of the morning finds its way to his soul. It is that peacefulness that enables him to draw forth the strength to begin fully the long day ahead.

He moves about his day, running here and there. He fulfills his responsibilities, those he's agreed to willingly and those placed upon him, with faithfulness and dedication. Those responsibilities fill the day as the sun rises, erasing the dark that began his day, until it hides once again returning the world to stillness.

He ends his day as he began it, in the dark. He falls into bed, tired. Tired from a long day begun too early, filled with too much work and responsibility. Tired from a tired that had never really left, but was only hidden. To rest for a few hours, only to rise, tired, in the dark, to begin another day.


Please check the blogs listed on the right for companion pieces to this week's prompt.


Next week's prompt: If voting really made a difference, it would be illegal.