She said she felt better in Jarrow

There was a young lady from  Harrow
Whose hips were excessively narrow
So  her jeans were too wide
And such was her pride
She said she felt better in Jarrow

Another young lady was tall
As she  hardly slouched on the wall
She took her young man
For a stroll to Japan
Which makes little sense to us all

 

The more creative the person, he held, the more anxiety and guilt are potentially present.

Photo1069Rollo May’s The Meaning of Anxiety (public library), originally published in 1950:

We can understand Kierkegaard’s ideas on the relation between guilt and anxiety only by emphasizing that he is always speaking of anxiety in its relation to creativity. Because it is possible to create — creating one’s self, willing to be one’s self, as well as creating in all the innumerable daily activities (and these are two phases of the same process) — one has anxiety. One would have no anxiety if there were no possibility whatever. Now creating, actualizing one’s possibilities, always involves negative as well as positive aspects. It always involves destroying the status quo, destroying old patterns within oneself, progressively destroying what one has clung to from childhood on, and creating new and original forms and ways of living. If one does not do this, one is refusing to grow, refusing to avail himself of his possibilities; one is shirking his responsibility to himself. Hence refusal to actualize one’s possibilities brings guilt toward one’s self. But creating also means destroying the status quo of one’s environment, breaking the old forms; it means producing something new and original in human relations as well as in cultural forms (e.g., the creativity of the artist). Thus every experience of creativity has its potentiality of aggression or denial toward other persons in one’s environment or established patterns within one’s self. To put the matter figuratively, in every experience of creativity something in the past is killed that something new in the present may be born. Hence, for Kierkegaard, guilt feeling is always a concomitant of anxiety: both are aspects of experiencing and actualizing possibility. The more creative the person, he held, the more anxiety and guilt are potentially present.

For humans being chased by lions fierce

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How like a monster is my fear of pain
Expanding to fill all my heart and mind
Swelling like a  giant sponge   in the rain,
This fear begets  new  feelings more unkind.

For humans being chased by lions fierce,
Fear gives us the strength to  dash away.
But when by inner turmoil we are pierced
We cannot run  yet need  not be its prey.

Most strange ,we need to do   what we most fear;
Walk towards the pain with curious calm.
As else we may be maddened like King Lear
With no Cordelia to bring us balm.

To  feel in proper ratio to our   pain.
We need perception,grace and all their gains

Losing one’s self again

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Photo by Katherine

There are trends in society to encourage us to build our self-esteem and to value ourselves… to develop and achieve a place suited to our talents.. but what is best for me is when I lose myself in something.I was reading an old blog of a friend and was quite absorbed and went into a different state of mind..then I regretted I don’t manage to lose myself enough being a housewife and having much on my mind and being busy.

Sometimes it can happen when we love a person.Sometimes a wonderful landscape feels like home.. other times a sunset across the Irish sea from the cliffs of the Isle of Man where myriad butterflies swirl and float over flowers and rocks.

Modern life, the News, talk, excitement of the wrong sort seem to lock us into our self and frighten us so we forget the value of finding something in which to lose ourselves and grow as a result. Sitting by a river fishing,knitting ,sewing,a book, many things can elicit this response  And remember how horror filled was the self consciousness of adolescence and how good to forget one’s self being more comfortable and accepting of appearance and image..How to live like a wild flower for a time… and be happy not to be a rose but just a tiny wild geranium or a moderate  sized  gentle pink flower in a garden

Speaking of punctation

What would it be like if we had to use punctuation when speaking>
I say comma old girl comma.do you fancy a night out question mark
Yes comma she replied cheerfully full stop.Where shall we go question mark

Not very appealing, is it?
In oral communication, we use the tone of our voice, emphasis on certain words, our facial expressions etc to make what we say understandable.There is a big variation in how much affect our feeling we put into our voices too
How are you,dear?  can sound very caring or quite brusque.This is something we need to think about.We may not be getting across to the other that we are really interested to know how they are.
And as a listener [ which is a skill many of us lack] are we hearing what the other person is telling us or are we on automatic?~

She who chooses

The pink flowers of the honeysuckle rise
Like crocuses in springtime on the green
Like eager maidens wanting to   be seen
While sunshine glitters on their shapely thighs.

Too much sun has made them over-bold
They're at risk from their own desperate joy.
For all the rain and clouds made them annoyed
They must be fertilised or  die  before they’re old.

And this same sun makes me a melting splodge
A lick of  oil paint mixed and uncomposed.
Who was this artist; what did he propose?
And will this portrait in  my memory lodge?

As flowers will inevitably die
They do not lose by hurling up their joys.
But should we  women imitate their ploys?
For we might live in shame, amply supplied.

Each child of nature   feels the touch of sun.
Some stretch out in joy while others run.
Lest you might  vacillate  and never choose
She who  chooses has the least to lose .

The North Sea’s waves smack  rivers as they run

The violent torrent springs from mountain’s  flood
Thunders down the hillside  like a God
But in the flatter fields  its force  is less
It gently flows through meadows brown  cows  bless

It broadens , flanked by gracious water mills
Here industry  exerts its iron will
Polluted.  disturbed  Tees  just flounders by
Until it reaches its great estuary

Wide and sandy beaches to the South
Decorate this generous water-mouth
As shells and little fossils mix with stones
We find   peace and salty little bones

In its end, the wild stream  has quite gone
The North Sea’s waves smack  rivers overcome

We might find your invisible Hand

There was a young man with a stammer
Who was addicted to using bad grammar
So he learned what was right
Before he could write
With errors that struck like a hammer

And they say we should not begin “and”
But, pardon me, I think it’s grand
And furthermore
When we open a door
We might find your invisible Hand

Old sorrow’s brand

I found your wedding shirt among my clothes
I must have saved it from my sister’s hands
Remembering the dead is not on trend
Fear of  grief and this life’s startling blows
Your  last smile

Yet loss and death are not  such evil foes
Though on  our face they leave  old sorrow’s brand
And they can’t be controlled,  we understand
We learn how small we are, like worms  below
A wedding shirt

And so this knowledge’s to our heart’s bestowed
We can’t send loss to trash to be disposed
Our response  speals from our heart, by mind unplanned
We are naked as the East wind blows
A wedding dress