I have been reflecting a lot on “peak moments.” Peak moments are what psychologist, Abraham Maslow, defined as “mystical moments of insight and feelings that include joy, peace, wonder, and a sense of wholeness, selflessness, spontaneity, and relatedness to the world.” This is the type of thing I was recently trying to articulate with Jenn, the one who is involved in the Omega project with me. She and I were talking about those rare moments in life where you have a moment that is almost out-of-body, in the sense that it is when you take a step back and think, “This moment is life at its finest. Everything is so perfect that all I can do is breathe it in and try to remember everything.” She and I both experienced three of those moments together, although we did not realize this until reflecting on them later. I said that I felt it was those perfect split seconds in life that give us the energy and drive to keep going. I loved when she said that she felt those moments were the only times we are completely our entire authentic selves. I like that idea, because we talked about this in my religion and psychology class, how no one knows entirely who is their authentic self, because we are forced to wear so many masks and different personas for different situations. If my authentic self is me in those rare moments, then I like who I am, because I am a free spirit and happy.
The most recent peak moment I had was at Wheatland music festival dancing to African drums at night carelessly and child-like along with others from my writers group underneath the beautiful starry night sky. I felt child-like and carefree just jumping around giggling underneath the stars in a crowd of free-spirits while feeling the African rhythms send adrenaline through my body. I had several peak moments while the kids from Pine Ridge were here. The ones that stick out are a moment I shared with Drew, Jenn, and Chris Iron Hawk on the sand dune looking over lake Michigan, the car ride home from Grand Rapids with Enoch, Xylena, and Jenn while we danced to “Maneater” four times in addition to other silly pop songs, like “fergalicious,” and some Beyonce number. We taped Enoch up and had a good laugh. The most perfect of them all was when we decided to take a detour in Jackson to Cascade falls. The sun was setting and were supposed to be going straight back to Jon’s house so we didn’t have much time at all. We pulled into the park and Jenn put the car in park. She said, “You guys ready? One-two-three-GO!” We all unbuckled our seatbelts, opened the car doors, slammed them shut, and sprinted to the top of the hill where Cascade Falls is located. It is quite a large hill so we were out of breath very quickly and giggling the whole way up. When we reached the fence I could hear the water from the falls and it was just dark enough to see the lights changing color. It was beautiful and the four of us sat silently listening to the water and the sound of us all trying to catch our breath. I kept thinking how I didn’t want this moment to end. It was life at its finest, but all I could do was breathe and smile.
I don’t remember having any of those last year that wasn’t tainted by the pessimistic voice in my head. I feel very fortunate to have had several recently. In my class Maslow said how rare these moments, are but how one percent of the people (such as Mother Theresa, the saints, Einstein, and other great people) have these moments often and/or huge ones that change their lives and motivate them to greatness. He claims it is when a person has become self-actualized by fulfilling all of their needs he includes on his famous pyramid of needs. These moments are the same thing as religious experiences, but he claims they are purely natural phenomenons that are independent of religion. This gave me hope, because Maslow was not against religious experiences but he didn’t think they were necessary to be great, happy, and feel a sense of oneness. I feel like I am becoming much more self-actualized and spiritually comfortable. I have bad days like everyone else and forget any progress I’ve made, but I am doing really well spiritually. I am looking forward to a workshop I am going to this Thursday evening called “Centering and Positive Energies.” I am really into that kind of thing and it is hard to stay on track alone so I am hoping to find some positive encouragement. I get that a lot at home, but it is much harder to find here at school.
I e-mailed Jenn after this class where I learned about peak moments, and she thought this was exactly what we both had been trying to articulate and that is why she doesn’t like using lablels for them, and she said she didn’t think they have to be all that rare. She said, "With open eyes, there is so much to see and feel." It amazes me how she loves life. I think Jenn is pretty self-actualized herself. She is a great person to remind me that life isn’t a fairytale, but that doesn’t mean you can’t be happy and love life. I want to acquire wisdom and love life. I am learning…slowly, but learning.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Surprise
I got my lip pierced on Monday. This might surprise some, but it's something I always secretly wanted to do. The bright side is I can take it out whenever I decide I don't want it, and I have something fun and spontaneous to tell my kids. It didn't hurt much at all, which was a surprise. My roommate and her friend that went with me said I "took it like a champ." It happened so fast that I didn't even know what hit me to flinch or anything like that. It's a little sore today, but it's been relatively pain free except for when I wash it the soap burns it a little.
Monday, September 17, 2007
Sylvia's Death
By Anne Sexton
for Sylvia Plath
O Sylvia, Sylvia
with a dead box of stones and spoons,
with two children, two meteors
wandering loose in a tiny playroom,
with your mouth into the sheet,
into the roofbeam, into the dumb prayer,
(Sylvia, Sylvia
where did you go
after you wrote me
from Devonshire
about raising potatoes
and keeping bees?)
what did you stand by,
just how did you lie down into?
Thief--
how did you crawl into,
crawl down alone
into the death I wanted so badly and for so long,
the death we said we both outgrew,
the one we wore on our skinny breasts,
the one we talked of so often each time
we downed three extra dry martinis in Boston,
the death that talked of analysts and cures,
the death that talked like brides with plots,
the death we drank to,
the motives and the quiet deed?
(In Boston
the dying
ride in cabs,
yes death again,
that ride home
with OUR boy.)
O Sylvia, I remember the sleepy drummer
who beat on our eyes with an old story,
how we wanted to let him come
like a sadist or a New York fairy
to do his job,
a necessity, a window in a wall of a crib,
and since that time he waited
under our hear, our cupboard,
and I see now that we store him up
year after year, old suicides
and I know at the news of your death
a terrible taste for it, like salt,
(And me,
me too.
And now, Sylvia,
you again
with death again,
that ride home
with OUR boy.)
And I say only
with my arms stretched out into that stone place,
what is your death
but an old belonging,
a mole that fell out
of one of your poems?
(O friend,
while the moon's bad,
and the king's gone,
and the queen's at her wits end
the bar fly ought to sing!)
O tiny mother,
you too!
O funny duchess!
O blonde thing!
Febraury 17, 1963
for Sylvia Plath
O Sylvia, Sylvia
with a dead box of stones and spoons,
with two children, two meteors
wandering loose in a tiny playroom,
with your mouth into the sheet,
into the roofbeam, into the dumb prayer,
(Sylvia, Sylvia
where did you go
after you wrote me
from Devonshire
about raising potatoes
and keeping bees?)
what did you stand by,
just how did you lie down into?
Thief--
how did you crawl into,
crawl down alone
into the death I wanted so badly and for so long,
the death we said we both outgrew,
the one we wore on our skinny breasts,
the one we talked of so often each time
we downed three extra dry martinis in Boston,
the death that talked of analysts and cures,
the death that talked like brides with plots,
the death we drank to,
the motives and the quiet deed?
(In Boston
the dying
ride in cabs,
yes death again,
that ride home
with OUR boy.)
O Sylvia, I remember the sleepy drummer
who beat on our eyes with an old story,
how we wanted to let him come
like a sadist or a New York fairy
to do his job,
a necessity, a window in a wall of a crib,
and since that time he waited
under our hear, our cupboard,
and I see now that we store him up
year after year, old suicides
and I know at the news of your death
a terrible taste for it, like salt,
(And me,
me too.
And now, Sylvia,
you again
with death again,
that ride home
with OUR boy.)
And I say only
with my arms stretched out into that stone place,
what is your death
but an old belonging,
a mole that fell out
of one of your poems?
(O friend,
while the moon's bad,
and the king's gone,
and the queen's at her wits end
the bar fly ought to sing!)
O tiny mother,
you too!
O funny duchess!
O blonde thing!
Febraury 17, 1963
Crazy Poets
I have come to appreciate poetry in the past six months. I always liked writing it to some degree, but it has never been my strength. Trying to read poetry was even more difficult for me. After being introduced to poetry on the college level in my Intro to lit class last April, I am now learning about it on a deeper level in my Literary analysis classes. It is strange, because I am using the same book as my last literature class and reading many of the same poems, but they continue to get better with every read, because they are so complex. We can easily spend one class period on one poem (We have done it once or twice), but due to time restrictions we try to dabble in two to three poems per class. I am preparing to do a short paper on a poem and after rereading Sylvia Plath's mirror and hearing her friend, Anne Sexton mentioned in the movie I just watched, Running With Scissors, I decided to look up some information about both poets. I plan to pick one of their poems to do my paper on. I found this heartbreaking article from our on-line library. It totally changed my high-school ideas about these "boring poets" we had to learn about and try to write papers about. I am amazed at how all of the famous poets seem to be connected with other poets and were inspired by many of the same poets.
In high school we had to pick a modern poet to do a paper on. I chose James Wright. Lisa still makes fun of me, because I told her I didn't like nature poetry. I thought it was boring. I asked her to help me analyze some of Wright's poems that I liked, and she laughed and told me they were all about nature. I remember her telling me that her son chose to do his on Sylvia Plath, which concerned her because he was depressed. I asked why the concern and she explained Plath's dark poetry and eventual suicide. The name stuck with me. In my report I learned James Wright had an affair with Anne Sexton. Anne Sexton and Plath were close competitors and friends.
This article is focusing on a particular mental hospital in Boston. The hospital has inspired many forms of literature. The author of the book "Girl, Interrupted" gained her experiences at this hospital. Plath first entered the hospital in her senior year in college due to severe suicidal depression. She had struggled with depression on and off all through college, and after a couple attempts to kill herself they sent her for help. They gave Plath isulin shock treatment. It has a quote from her doctor talking about her depression in retrospect that says, "She was totally depressed, and she wasn't getting any better." They eventually decided on electroshock therapy, despite Plath already having some bad experiences with it that had caused one suicide attempt. After three shock treatments she was well enough to be released. Then the poor mental health of Robert Lowell and Ezra Pound. I remember Ezra Pound from my freshman year poetry anthlology. I can still recite the poem by memory, although I don't remember the title.
The article gets more and more heartbreaking as they begin to talk about Anne Sexton's depression, suicide attempts, and recovery that sounds so promising. She was teaching poetry at the mental hospital inspiring many mentally ill patients to write. One of the former patients said she was, "very pretty and very nervous." A former patient, Eleanor Morris', account of her suicide is painful even to read,
"Morris still remember being awakend by her clock radio on Saturday, October 5th, 1974. A newsreader announced that the poet Anne Sexton had died. 'It just said she had died, but I knew she had committed suicide, and I spent the whole moring crying[...] Morris still has an autographed book of hers called, "Live or Die," and Sexton signed it-- 'My derective is LIVE--to Ellie'."
When the article describes their friendship it mentions how competitive and similar they were. They both would drink martinis in Boston and reminisce about suicide attempts, and they saw themselves as "future suicides." Plath ended her life in 1963, inspiring Sexton's poem above, Sylvia's Death. Reading this poem and understanding that Sexton then committed suicide 11 years later, I can't believe I thought these were just boring poets at one point. The idea that they had to live with suicidal depression for the majority of their lives makes them heart-felt tragedies.
It just goes to show me that getting published and being so great as to be in a high-school English book does not make a life worth living. Nothng can do that for anyone. You have to do it yourself.
In high school we had to pick a modern poet to do a paper on. I chose James Wright. Lisa still makes fun of me, because I told her I didn't like nature poetry. I thought it was boring. I asked her to help me analyze some of Wright's poems that I liked, and she laughed and told me they were all about nature. I remember her telling me that her son chose to do his on Sylvia Plath, which concerned her because he was depressed. I asked why the concern and she explained Plath's dark poetry and eventual suicide. The name stuck with me. In my report I learned James Wright had an affair with Anne Sexton. Anne Sexton and Plath were close competitors and friends.
This article is focusing on a particular mental hospital in Boston. The hospital has inspired many forms of literature. The author of the book "Girl, Interrupted" gained her experiences at this hospital. Plath first entered the hospital in her senior year in college due to severe suicidal depression. She had struggled with depression on and off all through college, and after a couple attempts to kill herself they sent her for help. They gave Plath isulin shock treatment. It has a quote from her doctor talking about her depression in retrospect that says, "She was totally depressed, and she wasn't getting any better." They eventually decided on electroshock therapy, despite Plath already having some bad experiences with it that had caused one suicide attempt. After three shock treatments she was well enough to be released. Then the poor mental health of Robert Lowell and Ezra Pound. I remember Ezra Pound from my freshman year poetry anthlology. I can still recite the poem by memory, although I don't remember the title.
The article gets more and more heartbreaking as they begin to talk about Anne Sexton's depression, suicide attempts, and recovery that sounds so promising. She was teaching poetry at the mental hospital inspiring many mentally ill patients to write. One of the former patients said she was, "very pretty and very nervous." A former patient, Eleanor Morris', account of her suicide is painful even to read,
"Morris still remember being awakend by her clock radio on Saturday, October 5th, 1974. A newsreader announced that the poet Anne Sexton had died. 'It just said she had died, but I knew she had committed suicide, and I spent the whole moring crying[...] Morris still has an autographed book of hers called, "Live or Die," and Sexton signed it-- 'My derective is LIVE--to Ellie'."
When the article describes their friendship it mentions how competitive and similar they were. They both would drink martinis in Boston and reminisce about suicide attempts, and they saw themselves as "future suicides." Plath ended her life in 1963, inspiring Sexton's poem above, Sylvia's Death. Reading this poem and understanding that Sexton then committed suicide 11 years later, I can't believe I thought these were just boring poets at one point. The idea that they had to live with suicidal depression for the majority of their lives makes them heart-felt tragedies.
It just goes to show me that getting published and being so great as to be in a high-school English book does not make a life worth living. Nothng can do that for anyone. You have to do it yourself.
Monday, September 10, 2007
Happy Wheatland
I attended Wheatland music festival (my first overnight festival) this weekend. It was a fantastic experience. Everyone was so happy and with all of the great weather and music, the joy was contagious. The group I went with was wonderful. It was like a cute little family with a broad age range. I was the youngest of the group at nineteen and then the oldest in our group was in his fifties. The whole festival is amazing, because it unites people of so many different generations. There are kids activities with lots of free-spirited kids, and there are many free-spirited souls well over sixty. Then there are the people in between who are free spirits for the weekend, because they are allowed to be, but it is clear they are getting ready to go home to stress and be drained of their joy when everyone packs up sadly on Sunday, saying goodbye and “Happy Wheatland” for one last time. It was all a fun, but my favorite memory is from Friday night. It had just down poured for a moment so we were all wet and a little chilly, but the sky was perfectly clear with the exception of a few light clouds that looked like smoke making interesting designs in the sky. An African drum group was playing and it was moving. Lisa and Rebecca hollered for me to join them on the dance floor. I have no idea how to dance to African drumbeats, but no one cares at Wheatland. I joined them on the dance floor where we jumped and danced freely. I warmed up to the point where I was sweating and I would take moments to look up and catch my breath. It was one of those rare moments where I think to myself, “This is life at its finest. I’m happy to be alive.” I had several of those this summer and I am truly thankful for that, because I went without those split seconds for far too long. I think that is why we live, for those split seconds of perfection and joy. They are so energizing and it gives us the hope to keep going until the next one. That’s what life’s about.
At Wheatland I talked with Rebecca about how she likes Michigan (She moved here from Connecticut in January). She talked about struggling with meeting new people and finding happiness. When she was telling me this, I felt like she was describing my exact struggle with moving away to college. It just reminded me what a hard time I have understanding loneliness, because if everyone feels it, even when they are so loved, then how can we feel alone? It is so strange, because we are all so similar. I think it’s easy to forget that with all of the fronts and masks people have.
Today it’s raining and I feel melancholy. I think it is because I didn’t sleep much this weekend and I came back to a lot of homework today. I also have this theory that things always balance themselves out. Whenever I have a great day I have this fear of a bad day coming up. I need to change my thought process; because when I have a bad day I am much less apt to think, “I bet I’m going to have a great day tomorrow.” It seems one-sided of me. I also noticed today how judgmental I am of myself. Some of the people from the group involved with the South Dakota project pointed that out to me and I thought they were being too gentle with me, but it’s true I am so hard on myself. I still have that need to be a Saint that was burned in my head somewhere along the line, which only leads to disappointment on a regular basis. It’s really self-centered of me. No one thinks about me that much to be judging everything I say. The people who do have plenty of issues of their own, but yet I still let their negative judgments dictate how I judge myself. It’s all about guilt. Guilt. GUILT. It’s such a useless emotion that seems to represent everything wrong with my life. I suppose it is good that I can pinpoint the root of my struggles. That might be better than many, but I feel like I should be able to control it now that I am so aware of it, but awareness does not make it easier. I feel like I matured so much in my ability to stop and say, “Okay, I am feeling guilty. Is this a valid reason for feeling bad about myself? Did I do anything harmful or hurtful to anyone? “ I would say 90% of the time the answer is no. I am not saying that I don’t do things to feel guilty about, but I know I feel far too much guilt for trivial things. It just reminds me of my immaturity when I can’t control it. I talked with lisa about this frustration with not being able to control problems I am aware of. I commented on how I could see flaws in people older than me and know what they needed to change, but that didn’t stop me from going through the same struggles. Knowing about them didn’t help me avoid them or make them any easier. She claimed that’s what compassion is: hearing other people’s struggles and understanding it could or will be you if it hasn’t already been you. I thought that was a very insightful statement. I don’t know that my summary of it does it justice, but it was probably the best definition of compassion I have heard, and it is also a reminder of compassion I need to show myself.
I am glad it has cooled off so I am no longer sweating in minimal clothing in my dorm room avoiding my hot laptop at all costs. I hope to blog a little more regularly now, but it does get busy up here. I have my first meeting for the Amnesty International club branch here at school tonight. I think I will be meeting more socially aware people, maybe even making
At Wheatland I talked with Rebecca about how she likes Michigan (She moved here from Connecticut in January). She talked about struggling with meeting new people and finding happiness. When she was telling me this, I felt like she was describing my exact struggle with moving away to college. It just reminded me what a hard time I have understanding loneliness, because if everyone feels it, even when they are so loved, then how can we feel alone? It is so strange, because we are all so similar. I think it’s easy to forget that with all of the fronts and masks people have.
Today it’s raining and I feel melancholy. I think it is because I didn’t sleep much this weekend and I came back to a lot of homework today. I also have this theory that things always balance themselves out. Whenever I have a great day I have this fear of a bad day coming up. I need to change my thought process; because when I have a bad day I am much less apt to think, “I bet I’m going to have a great day tomorrow.” It seems one-sided of me. I also noticed today how judgmental I am of myself. Some of the people from the group involved with the South Dakota project pointed that out to me and I thought they were being too gentle with me, but it’s true I am so hard on myself. I still have that need to be a Saint that was burned in my head somewhere along the line, which only leads to disappointment on a regular basis. It’s really self-centered of me. No one thinks about me that much to be judging everything I say. The people who do have plenty of issues of their own, but yet I still let their negative judgments dictate how I judge myself. It’s all about guilt. Guilt. GUILT. It’s such a useless emotion that seems to represent everything wrong with my life. I suppose it is good that I can pinpoint the root of my struggles. That might be better than many, but I feel like I should be able to control it now that I am so aware of it, but awareness does not make it easier. I feel like I matured so much in my ability to stop and say, “Okay, I am feeling guilty. Is this a valid reason for feeling bad about myself? Did I do anything harmful or hurtful to anyone? “ I would say 90% of the time the answer is no. I am not saying that I don’t do things to feel guilty about, but I know I feel far too much guilt for trivial things. It just reminds me of my immaturity when I can’t control it. I talked with lisa about this frustration with not being able to control problems I am aware of. I commented on how I could see flaws in people older than me and know what they needed to change, but that didn’t stop me from going through the same struggles. Knowing about them didn’t help me avoid them or make them any easier. She claimed that’s what compassion is: hearing other people’s struggles and understanding it could or will be you if it hasn’t already been you. I thought that was a very insightful statement. I don’t know that my summary of it does it justice, but it was probably the best definition of compassion I have heard, and it is also a reminder of compassion I need to show myself.
I am glad it has cooled off so I am no longer sweating in minimal clothing in my dorm room avoiding my hot laptop at all costs. I hope to blog a little more regularly now, but it does get busy up here. I have my first meeting for the Amnesty International club branch here at school tonight. I think I will be meeting more socially aware people, maybe even making
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
Agh Kittens
This picture was taken at 7am Saturday morning (So I'm not looking my best) after this trouble maker decided to wake me up by walking on my face, gnawing on my ears, and snapping my bracelet. I would have been angry had she not been so cute.
P.S. My computer gets hot when I am on it too long and it has been far too hot to blog. I will get better when it cools off.
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