There is something so powerful in sharing life with others. Something profound in the simple act of sitting and listening and partaking in and understanding and not understanding and forming those deeper bonds which allow an unspoken trust between individuals. It takes time, but it is so worthwhile.
Hindsight is a wonderful thing indeed. In the past I’ve held irrational and debilitating fears about spending the time necessary to allow such relationships to form. I’ve (subconsciously?) not allowed myself to disclose too much of me. But vulnerability and admitting one does not have it all together is a base, and I believe necessary, human trait.
Anyway, at 24 I’m finally learning the beauty of facing some of these fears and just taking risks with myself. Hey, it’s just one little step in working out this life and my place in it, but it feels so good to be free of old weights and to see the affect of weightlessness.
I spent a large portion of my yesterday having to look for ‘nice’ clothes. Many of these clothes I would never choose to wear but for the fact that I am required to place on my body garments that are considered aesthetically appealing and of a suitable standard for the classroom.
I’m not certain if I have mentioned it before but I am in the final year of study to become a primary school teacher. My last eight weeks of rounds are looming and jeans, or anything slightly comfortable and well-worn, are strictly no-goers. Necklines have to be of a minimum depth and bare shoulders are strictly advised against. No we wouldn’t want to go harming the poor little souls with a bit of shoulder.
Instead we are required to find the money to purchase a wardrobe of neat, clean cut, office-appropriate wear that truly does not lend itself to getting down to the level of the children and encouraging them to explore their world.
There is a huge push for the role of teaching to be seen as a profession and I suppose the dress code is indicative of this. It just goes against many of the integral fibres within me to subtly give children the message that particular dress is unsuitable and that they are to conform to what the world says is ‘nice’ and appropriate. They get enough of this from the crap presented via all means of pop culture. It’s a sickness. I guess it is the uniform of the Western world over.
I came on line to ask a question. Or rather, to put to you, my unspecified reader, a proposal as to what is the most significant question you could ask. I emphasise the pronoun you here because our questions stem from the experiences and knowledge of our being. I know God. Therefore the way I approach this question matter will be indicative of such knowing. In fact, the question that underlies my question will be, what is the one thing that I would most like to ask God?
I think I’ve said enough. Maybe there’s too much wondering going on here and not enough asking. Gurzilla has also just posted on a similar vein of thought and has done so in a manner much more thrilling and thoughtful than this dull little lady. He suggests that all of our questions are weighted with significance. There’s truth in this. And perhaps the answers, or lack of answers we receive, are also equally central to this quest called life.
I love to think in vibrant motion, in terms of colour and rhythm and creation. To see the force behind the seed’s sprouting, the relationship between the eye’s retina and the spectrum of colour offered by a storm’s tinted sky, the intensity of emotion that you know is a response to a deep-rooted and selfless love for another. To take the reigns of something so wild, yet being certain of its place within you. To seek the essence of truth in all things. To be saturated in and guided on by that force. To live dynamically and poetically.
I say these things and fear that my words will translate as a romanticised gushing. That’s not where I intend to go. I am not a romantic in any sense of the idealised form. I believe that this life-filled thinking and living is something for all. Not that it should take on the shape of what I am learning to know as my own. No, your dance on the edge of the precipice will most probably model attributes foreign to my understanding. Your costume, your landscape, the places where your feet start and stop. This is your dance.
But do dance, even if it means learning one step at a time. Be bold. Share your unique strength and brilliance with others as they dance alongside you. Take time to dwell on what your story is and how you will relay this. Learn to wonder anew.
The art of listening is a funny thing. I believe we learn to use our voice and body to demand a response from our environment before we learn to listen to our surroundings and other individuals. I don’t spend a huge amount of time around baby humans, but it almost seems as though listening is something they have to adjust to. It is instinctual to cry when their immediate needs are not being met, but when do they come to know familiar voices and the meanings of specific tones?
I was speaking to a fella the other night at work who genuinely appeared interested in talking to me. It was at the end of the night and he and his mates were the only customers left at the bar. We had discovered we had a couple of shared passions and he continued to ask questions long after I had poured him his beer. The funny thing was that he really didn’t seem to be listening to me. He would ask a question, I would offer my response, then he’d reply with something somewhat irrelevant, as though he’d been having a conversation with himself. A few minutes after he’d returned to his mates sitting at their table he actually called out and asked me what we’d been talking about! Maybe the guy was tired, perhaps he’d had a bad day, I don’t know. But it just struck me as strange behaviour. Anyway, his question surprised me so much that I couldn’t elicit a response and just laughed at him out loud.
I appreciate a good listener. I love it when someone is able to truly hear what you are saying – even if things are not being captured by one’s words. I would even suggest that eyes are more useful than the ear when it comes to that sort of hearing.
Last night I went to the opening of a friend’s art exhibition, Land, Love and Memory. I would probably describe his works as minimalist abstract landscapes, although somebody also suggested ‘colourist’ because of his focus on bringing a single block of combined colour forward to convey the experience of a place and time. Anyway…the art was amazing, as was the very good quality free red wine.
In a room alongside his exhibit another artist was also launching his work. This guy’s stuff was titled Tales of Old Siam and it was as busy as my friend’s art was minimalist. Each painting was woven with layers of iconic imagery – traditional Buddha motives found their way into each canvas and seemingly random words sat crossed out upon a palate of primary colours. One piece in particular immediately grabbed my attention. It appeared to be telling the story of migration from Thailand to Australia and the many problems associated with language and residency application. It set the picture of a complete change of culture. I sensed hardship and loneliness.
Looking at these compositions reminded me of the beauty of storytelling. An ancient craft, yet one that emerges anew with each telling or retelling. Interwoven into the culture of a people. The history of humanity passed down from generations by word of mouth, visual or written texts, songs, etc.
I’m not a natural at telling a good story. In fact, I struggle to recall a movie I’ve watched the previous week. I need time to sit down (preferably with some ink and paper) and think over events/timeframes/spaces/places/etc. But I admire the ability to capture the attention of others by retelling things of the past (be they fictional or as true to reality as the memory allows).
I’ve always thought that our knowledge is just a compilation of our own experiences and I suppose in that sense, stories too become a part of our character’s make-up and context.
Filed under: communication
Walking down through the bustle of human forms I see something so familiar, yet miraculously unique to my eyes. The face of an individual. Eyes, the windows to a soul. Lips, the gateway to one’s lifebreath. Features common to all, yet distinct from any other. What blueprint allows such universal qualities, yet requires such disparity?
A combination of hairs, skin, iris and pupil, muscle tone, jaw, nostrils, lips, bone and blood can imprint itself on our mind and become so familiar to us as we relate to its workings and respond to its owner’s behaviour. We read a face, evaluate the gestures and react accordingly to the signals provided.
The human face intrigues me. A message-laden glance from one of our kind beckons me to create over any other thing. What hides behind this? What cannot be hidden?
I wonder about the messages I fail to pick up on as I read your words on this computer screen. How would I respond to you if you were sitting beside me speaking these exact words to me? What does the typeface not tell me? Technologies bring with them new ways of communicating with others. We can use our little emoticons (or the ‘LOL’ that for some strange reason makes me cringe big time) to attempt to relay some of the inner feeling we desire to share, yet I feel something is lost in such transactions. At the same time, maybe there are new layers of meaning that are expressed within these evolving means of interaction. 8)
notafigment.wordpress.com 