I have a gift.
Everybody does, actually. Everyone has a gift unique to them. Some little thing they do that's truly special. I knew someone who could tell the time without looking at a clock or watch to within 2-minutes accuracy. I used to test him because I thought it was incredible. I know someone with an ability to predict people's reactions years in advance to a creepy level of detail. Someone else I know has such kinesthetic awareness he's able to move through thick undergrowth in the dark without making hardly any noise. And still someone else I know walks so softly his very nickname is "Lightfoot". Everyone has a gift. Some people have two. My mom's is with plants, and cooking. My dad's is with the wilderness, and healing.
So what's my gift? I'm lucky. I have two.
First, and most well known, is my gift with animals. I'm able to understand them, and sometimes, even communicate back. I have dominated aggressive dogs, established territory against wandering mutts, made friends with hostile horses, won affection from wary cats, and made peace with wild animals like squirrels, deer, and rabbits. I have, in fact, managed to impress a man so ingrained with the knowledge of horses it's a part of his identity... by walking up to his ornery mare and her new foal, and getting them to snuffle me, steam up my glasses, and eat grass from my hands. I still hear the awe in his voice sometimes when I think back to it, as he turned to my dad and said, "Three months of feedin' that dang mare and she won't let me even near that foal." I didn't even think twice about it. I walked up in the proper way, communicating in body language - half-turned (non-aggressive), head lowered (unafraid), eyes hooded (not anxious). It's just how it's done.
The less-known gift is one I've recently discovered is actually something pretty special. I always thought this was just something everyone could do, but I seem to have a knack for it without even trying: finding things. Not places, mind you. I have a terrible LACK of an ability to navigate in anything other than the wilderness (and only that latter part because my father taught me how at a very young age). But things. Items. It doesn't seem to matter whether or not I've seen it recently. As long as I know what it looks like, I seem to be able to find it.
The weird thing is it only seems to work on items that don't belong to me. I'm forever misplacing my keys or cell phone. But if J can't find HIS phone, I think for a minute, and then tell him where it is. I don't know why I know it's there. But it usually is.
I wonder what gifts my other friends and family have. They may not realize it's a gift. They may simply do them or use them without thinking, like breathing or walking. Do you know yours?
May 18, 2011
April 09, 2011
Spring Hath Sprung
Last night, the rain washed the world clean again.
It started just before I went to sleep, and continued on sporadically throughout the night, a cold drizzle just enough to wet the thirst of the waiting earth and the new seedlings germinating within.
The air was exceptionally cold yesterday, a sharp chill contrasting the glowing warmth of the sunlight. In the shade I shivered as the breeze bit deep through my layers of clothes. In the sun I began to sweat and removed by jacket. In the car, baking in the light for most of the morning, I actually rolled the windows down to let the chilly wind cool me off... only to quickly roll them back up again seconds later because of just how chilly it was. This morning, the rain had gently dampened the air, which the sun was slowly trying to warm. Still quite cool, still uncomfortable in a t-shirt, but welcome clean fresh crisp air. I opened the windows to get a cross-breeze going as I began my morning routine.
The cat was being unusually affectionate, so I followed her to the balcony to let her enjoy what warm sun basted the plants in golden light. The edge of the balcony always gets quite wet when it rains, and I was wearing socks, so I didn't go to the railing, but rather folded my arms across my chest and admired the breathtaking view from a few feet back. Our vista spans the La Mesa valley, and the rolling mountains that enclose it like a tidy nest. (I am still getting used to calling them mountains, as my childhood insists they are just large hills.) The rain had washed the air so clear I could see the individual shrubs on the furthest mountainside, where shadows of clouds darkened the earth in shapeless patterns. The cars on the freeway interchange glinted as the sunlight hit them, probably washed clean from the welcome rains. Even the trees sparkled like diamonds with wet leaves as the morning breeze softly wove through their branches. The finches and hummingbirds argued and bragged in such sweet voices that - although I knew they weren't singing the beauty of the world like I was in that moment - I enjoyed it nonetheless.
It was, in fact, one of the most beautiful mornings I had enjoyed in quite some time. The sunlight warmed my feet and legs as I stood, breathing in the crisp air, soaking in the beauty that life had to offer.
My attention turned to my modest balcony garden, the plants having been watered by the rain, and checked to see if anything new had come up. The nasturtium had recently lost a blossom, but still proudly bobbed one orange head for all to see. Three new buds were days away from bursting open. I would have to be patient. I stooped to see if any of the seeds from expired blossoms were ready to drop, that I might harvest them and replant them.
And then it happened. Without warning or preface, it happened.
A ruby-throated hummingbird, his green plumage announcing his masculinity, boldly swooped into my little balcony, to take a look at the blossoming nasturtium as well.
I held my breath. Surly this little creature, delicate and fragile as he was, would see me move in a moment - or at least the cat, who I could not see in my peripheral vision - and dart away. But no - he hovered there, cautious but unrelenting, wings a complete blur, black eyes bright and shining. In fact, rather than dart away, he came closer.
Before I could fully grasp the situation, he was buzzing next to my head, not more than a foot away. Perhaps he thought I was some strange flower. Perhaps he was testing his boundaries. Perhaps he didn't even see me at all and wanted to check if there were new blossoms behind me. But no, he faced me, his tiny needle-like beak pointed at me, eyes fixed on my face, as though gaging whether or not I was friend or foe. His wings beat so fast they thrummed in my ears, with such force I could feel the sound. He bobbed this way, that way, never more than a few inches, staying very close by. Seconds ticked by like minutes. I have no idea how long we stayed like that, but it was no short time.
Eventually I suppose he grew bored with me, and flew back out, a few feet from the railing. He still looked at me, and bobbed a few more times, before the cat swished her tail and he found refuge in the tree across the way. He appeared completely unafraid, simply confident that he had established his territory.
I had to reengage my lungs. My heart pounded in my throat. What happened was truly magical, and I was still reeling from it.
Hummingbirds are little balls of energy. In the Medicine Wheel, they are heralds of Joy, tiny beings of light and air and happiness. I have held one in my hand once. They weigh almost nothing, as though they are made of thoughts and fairy dust, with a few feathers thrown over. I felt blessed to have touched such an elusive magical creature. It was something akin to touching a dragonscale or finding a stray hair of a unicorn. When I think about it, the imprint of the tiny beast is still felt on the palms of my hands. This is no mere bird.
And now, for a second time in my life, a hummingbird has swooped into my ordinary world, and touched it with gossamer breath from thrumming wings. Doubly blessed by a herald of Joy.
I wonder how Nana would have felt. She had an uncanny gift with the creatures. She lived in the same house for over forty years, and every day would stand by the kitchen window and watch them visit her feeder as she did dishes or cooked. If the feeder needed refilling, she would take it down and clean it out... while the impatient diners would flit just outside the window, chirruping insistently. "I know, I know," she would say, "you just be patient!" They were her friends. More than that, they were almost her totem animal... she had hummingbird paraphernalia all over her house: magnets, pictures, glass window-hangings, figurines, even her door-harp.
... I wonder if that little guy was sent by Nana. Maybe she told them all about her family. Maybe he recognized me from the stories she tells them. Maybe, maybe not. All I know is I have had a visitation today I will not soon forget.
It started just before I went to sleep, and continued on sporadically throughout the night, a cold drizzle just enough to wet the thirst of the waiting earth and the new seedlings germinating within.
The air was exceptionally cold yesterday, a sharp chill contrasting the glowing warmth of the sunlight. In the shade I shivered as the breeze bit deep through my layers of clothes. In the sun I began to sweat and removed by jacket. In the car, baking in the light for most of the morning, I actually rolled the windows down to let the chilly wind cool me off... only to quickly roll them back up again seconds later because of just how chilly it was. This morning, the rain had gently dampened the air, which the sun was slowly trying to warm. Still quite cool, still uncomfortable in a t-shirt, but welcome clean fresh crisp air. I opened the windows to get a cross-breeze going as I began my morning routine.
The cat was being unusually affectionate, so I followed her to the balcony to let her enjoy what warm sun basted the plants in golden light. The edge of the balcony always gets quite wet when it rains, and I was wearing socks, so I didn't go to the railing, but rather folded my arms across my chest and admired the breathtaking view from a few feet back. Our vista spans the La Mesa valley, and the rolling mountains that enclose it like a tidy nest. (I am still getting used to calling them mountains, as my childhood insists they are just large hills.) The rain had washed the air so clear I could see the individual shrubs on the furthest mountainside, where shadows of clouds darkened the earth in shapeless patterns. The cars on the freeway interchange glinted as the sunlight hit them, probably washed clean from the welcome rains. Even the trees sparkled like diamonds with wet leaves as the morning breeze softly wove through their branches. The finches and hummingbirds argued and bragged in such sweet voices that - although I knew they weren't singing the beauty of the world like I was in that moment - I enjoyed it nonetheless.
It was, in fact, one of the most beautiful mornings I had enjoyed in quite some time. The sunlight warmed my feet and legs as I stood, breathing in the crisp air, soaking in the beauty that life had to offer.
My attention turned to my modest balcony garden, the plants having been watered by the rain, and checked to see if anything new had come up. The nasturtium had recently lost a blossom, but still proudly bobbed one orange head for all to see. Three new buds were days away from bursting open. I would have to be patient. I stooped to see if any of the seeds from expired blossoms were ready to drop, that I might harvest them and replant them.
And then it happened. Without warning or preface, it happened.
A ruby-throated hummingbird, his green plumage announcing his masculinity, boldly swooped into my little balcony, to take a look at the blossoming nasturtium as well.
I held my breath. Surly this little creature, delicate and fragile as he was, would see me move in a moment - or at least the cat, who I could not see in my peripheral vision - and dart away. But no - he hovered there, cautious but unrelenting, wings a complete blur, black eyes bright and shining. In fact, rather than dart away, he came closer.
Before I could fully grasp the situation, he was buzzing next to my head, not more than a foot away. Perhaps he thought I was some strange flower. Perhaps he was testing his boundaries. Perhaps he didn't even see me at all and wanted to check if there were new blossoms behind me. But no, he faced me, his tiny needle-like beak pointed at me, eyes fixed on my face, as though gaging whether or not I was friend or foe. His wings beat so fast they thrummed in my ears, with such force I could feel the sound. He bobbed this way, that way, never more than a few inches, staying very close by. Seconds ticked by like minutes. I have no idea how long we stayed like that, but it was no short time.
Eventually I suppose he grew bored with me, and flew back out, a few feet from the railing. He still looked at me, and bobbed a few more times, before the cat swished her tail and he found refuge in the tree across the way. He appeared completely unafraid, simply confident that he had established his territory.
I had to reengage my lungs. My heart pounded in my throat. What happened was truly magical, and I was still reeling from it.
Hummingbirds are little balls of energy. In the Medicine Wheel, they are heralds of Joy, tiny beings of light and air and happiness. I have held one in my hand once. They weigh almost nothing, as though they are made of thoughts and fairy dust, with a few feathers thrown over. I felt blessed to have touched such an elusive magical creature. It was something akin to touching a dragonscale or finding a stray hair of a unicorn. When I think about it, the imprint of the tiny beast is still felt on the palms of my hands. This is no mere bird.
And now, for a second time in my life, a hummingbird has swooped into my ordinary world, and touched it with gossamer breath from thrumming wings. Doubly blessed by a herald of Joy.
I wonder how Nana would have felt. She had an uncanny gift with the creatures. She lived in the same house for over forty years, and every day would stand by the kitchen window and watch them visit her feeder as she did dishes or cooked. If the feeder needed refilling, she would take it down and clean it out... while the impatient diners would flit just outside the window, chirruping insistently. "I know, I know," she would say, "you just be patient!" They were her friends. More than that, they were almost her totem animal... she had hummingbird paraphernalia all over her house: magnets, pictures, glass window-hangings, figurines, even her door-harp.
... I wonder if that little guy was sent by Nana. Maybe she told them all about her family. Maybe he recognized me from the stories she tells them. Maybe, maybe not. All I know is I have had a visitation today I will not soon forget.
March 28, 2011
Militarism (In a Good Way)
This weekend, J and I went to the Zoo. I suggested we take a different route than usual, winding our way through the herpatology area and checking out some of the worlds more deadly reptiles to start off. We found ourselves in front of an ampitheater where people were gathering, obviously with purpose, and it looked very much as though a show were to begin any moment. Taking a chance, we took a seat.
Behind us was a "Warning - Condor Landing Zone", which suggested it might be an avian display... while the front of the stage was encircled by something resembling a well-kept moat, leaning toward the possibility of an aquatic show. While we bandied the possibilities back and forth, three desperate keepers tried their best to round up a stray mallard female and her three ducklings who - for all that they were wee and fluffy - were quite adept at evading capture. One keeper apologized for the delay in the show's beginning, explaining that it was crucial for the ducklings' safety that they NOT be in the water when the show began.
For all my animal expertise, I'd never seen a duckling dive to evade capture. These little guys were nimble!
But for all their fluffy maneuvers, one by one they were rounded up and stuffed gently - if unceremoniously - into the keepers' pockets. The show was cleared for takeoff, and we settled in to see what was in store for us.
A voice came over the loudspeaker, thanking us for joining the park on a lovely Sunday afternoon and welcoming us to this particular arena. Then the deep male voice said something I did not expect.
"Before we begin, we would like to ask all the service men and women to stand up and be recognized."
A few folks stood, one man I never would have placed as a military fellow in particular hefting a sleepy toddler, and the crowd applauded. Shyly at first, but it built once people saw that there were in fact servicemen and women standing. Cheers echoed from the faux-rock walls. J turned to me and said softly, "I love San Diego." I had to agree.
I love Northern California, don't get me wrong. I grew up there. It's my old stomping grounds. A part of me in imprinted on the land there and a part of it is indelibly cemented into me. But one thing lacking in almost every town and city I called home there was the support for the troops. Oh, Merced had its airshow from the old retired Air Force Base... but the crowds were mostly there from curiosity and the military families had long since moved away by the turn of the millennium. Dad used to have a bumber sticker that stated proudly "I Love Airplane Noise" with a picture of a B-52 - one of the frequent fliers over our town in the 80's. After the major closure of California bases, the skies were silent. The world moved on, without the military.
And then there were places like Santa Cruz and Berkeley, hostile to anything in a uniform. Even San Francisco, its roots deeply entrenched in Naval supremacy, had turned on its former natives and done everything it could to make military feel unwanted. Berkeley - for all its wonderful strangeness and tolerance of the abnormal - was openly intolerant of recruiting offices. It was an uncomfortable opposition that I found myself routinely confronted with in Santa Cruz. Outsiders were unwelcome, but a soldier was an outright enemy.
So to go from that to a city that not only accepts but treasures it military personnel is a dramatic shift. I find myself no longer afraid to be shouted down or spit on for wearing a shirt that says "Army Sister". I can wear it proudly. Hell, in a random bowling alley, an older gentleman asked me to pass on his thanks. And now, here, in this wide public setting, a moment was granted to honor those enlisted... something that had nothing to do with the parrots or sea lions who eventually graced the stage, and yet something that so fundamentally had everything to do with it.
Where would San Diego be without the Navy? The Marines? Once upon a time (and native San Diegans still recall this with pride) the place known to most of us only in the movie Top Gun really existed. And through the years, it remains strong here. From Coronado to Pendleton, the military is present and accounted for, a quiet but solid force that stands like an old sentinel oak on the edge of the cliff. Waiting. Watching. Stoic.
It was a welcome reminder that what I have is due to the dedication of the men and women who serve.
Here's to you.
Behind us was a "Warning - Condor Landing Zone", which suggested it might be an avian display... while the front of the stage was encircled by something resembling a well-kept moat, leaning toward the possibility of an aquatic show. While we bandied the possibilities back and forth, three desperate keepers tried their best to round up a stray mallard female and her three ducklings who - for all that they were wee and fluffy - were quite adept at evading capture. One keeper apologized for the delay in the show's beginning, explaining that it was crucial for the ducklings' safety that they NOT be in the water when the show began.
For all my animal expertise, I'd never seen a duckling dive to evade capture. These little guys were nimble!
But for all their fluffy maneuvers, one by one they were rounded up and stuffed gently - if unceremoniously - into the keepers' pockets. The show was cleared for takeoff, and we settled in to see what was in store for us.
A voice came over the loudspeaker, thanking us for joining the park on a lovely Sunday afternoon and welcoming us to this particular arena. Then the deep male voice said something I did not expect.
"Before we begin, we would like to ask all the service men and women to stand up and be recognized."
A few folks stood, one man I never would have placed as a military fellow in particular hefting a sleepy toddler, and the crowd applauded. Shyly at first, but it built once people saw that there were in fact servicemen and women standing. Cheers echoed from the faux-rock walls. J turned to me and said softly, "I love San Diego." I had to agree.
I love Northern California, don't get me wrong. I grew up there. It's my old stomping grounds. A part of me in imprinted on the land there and a part of it is indelibly cemented into me. But one thing lacking in almost every town and city I called home there was the support for the troops. Oh, Merced had its airshow from the old retired Air Force Base... but the crowds were mostly there from curiosity and the military families had long since moved away by the turn of the millennium. Dad used to have a bumber sticker that stated proudly "I Love Airplane Noise" with a picture of a B-52 - one of the frequent fliers over our town in the 80's. After the major closure of California bases, the skies were silent. The world moved on, without the military.
And then there were places like Santa Cruz and Berkeley, hostile to anything in a uniform. Even San Francisco, its roots deeply entrenched in Naval supremacy, had turned on its former natives and done everything it could to make military feel unwanted. Berkeley - for all its wonderful strangeness and tolerance of the abnormal - was openly intolerant of recruiting offices. It was an uncomfortable opposition that I found myself routinely confronted with in Santa Cruz. Outsiders were unwelcome, but a soldier was an outright enemy.
So to go from that to a city that not only accepts but treasures it military personnel is a dramatic shift. I find myself no longer afraid to be shouted down or spit on for wearing a shirt that says "Army Sister". I can wear it proudly. Hell, in a random bowling alley, an older gentleman asked me to pass on his thanks. And now, here, in this wide public setting, a moment was granted to honor those enlisted... something that had nothing to do with the parrots or sea lions who eventually graced the stage, and yet something that so fundamentally had everything to do with it.
Where would San Diego be without the Navy? The Marines? Once upon a time (and native San Diegans still recall this with pride) the place known to most of us only in the movie Top Gun really existed. And through the years, it remains strong here. From Coronado to Pendleton, the military is present and accounted for, a quiet but solid force that stands like an old sentinel oak on the edge of the cliff. Waiting. Watching. Stoic.
It was a welcome reminder that what I have is due to the dedication of the men and women who serve.
Here's to you.
March 20, 2011
First Day/Last Day
I had a dream last night that I could not consider a nightmare in the strictest sense, but definitely not the world's nicest.
I had, for some strange reason, been given one day to live.
It was due to an illness. I think. But it was most assuredly going to happen. Whether it would be when I slept, or from an accident, by the next morning I would be dead. I was afraid, but most of all, I wanted to do so much. Time raced by as I tried to beat the clock. I had people to see. Places to go. Goals to accomplish. I had so much I wanted to do before the hour struck midnight.
When I woke, I was relieved that I had yet another day to start again, to do everything I wished to do.
But... I haven't.
Each day, I wake up with a list of "to do", things I need to accomplish, steps toward bigger goals on occasion, but mostly?... mostly it's just stuff to get through another day. Bills. Groceries. Errands. Washing the car, taking out the dry cleaning, checking the mail. This? This is my life? And if I get hit by a car walking across the street? What will I have done to show for it? Each day I am given the gift of another chance, another shot at fully embracing the life I have. Sometimes, when I fall asleep next to my love, I wonder about the future, and whether one of us will outlive the other... and if am I truly showing him how much I love him daily. Does he know? More than that, have I treasured each moment with him, savoring this brief time I have to share?
I was part of a class once that covered a concept called First Day/Last Day. The idea was based on the adage "today is the first day of the rest of your life". It's true, most certainly. But what if something happened today and "the rest of your life" was just this sunrise, just this laugh, just this moment? Would it not be a good idea, then, to live life as though we KNEW we had no promises, that today might very well be our last chance? That today is the LAST day of the rest of our lives?
I can't help but wonder if the dream was a reminder. Not a prophecy, for Free Will by and large negates destiny, but perhaps a warning? A not-so-subtle backhand to remind me to treasure today, this Springtime, these blooming flowers, these bird songs, this sunset, this moonrise. Who is to say I will have another? No, I must embrace it now, with heart wide open, senses stretched to take it all in.
This is my life. I will live it.
I had, for some strange reason, been given one day to live.
It was due to an illness. I think. But it was most assuredly going to happen. Whether it would be when I slept, or from an accident, by the next morning I would be dead. I was afraid, but most of all, I wanted to do so much. Time raced by as I tried to beat the clock. I had people to see. Places to go. Goals to accomplish. I had so much I wanted to do before the hour struck midnight.
When I woke, I was relieved that I had yet another day to start again, to do everything I wished to do.
But... I haven't.
Each day, I wake up with a list of "to do", things I need to accomplish, steps toward bigger goals on occasion, but mostly?... mostly it's just stuff to get through another day. Bills. Groceries. Errands. Washing the car, taking out the dry cleaning, checking the mail. This? This is my life? And if I get hit by a car walking across the street? What will I have done to show for it? Each day I am given the gift of another chance, another shot at fully embracing the life I have. Sometimes, when I fall asleep next to my love, I wonder about the future, and whether one of us will outlive the other... and if am I truly showing him how much I love him daily. Does he know? More than that, have I treasured each moment with him, savoring this brief time I have to share?
I was part of a class once that covered a concept called First Day/Last Day. The idea was based on the adage "today is the first day of the rest of your life". It's true, most certainly. But what if something happened today and "the rest of your life" was just this sunrise, just this laugh, just this moment? Would it not be a good idea, then, to live life as though we KNEW we had no promises, that today might very well be our last chance? That today is the LAST day of the rest of our lives?
I can't help but wonder if the dream was a reminder. Not a prophecy, for Free Will by and large negates destiny, but perhaps a warning? A not-so-subtle backhand to remind me to treasure today, this Springtime, these blooming flowers, these bird songs, this sunset, this moonrise. Who is to say I will have another? No, I must embrace it now, with heart wide open, senses stretched to take it all in.
This is my life. I will live it.
February 27, 2011
Wordless
I made part of my New Year's Resolution to blog once a week. Every day I remember I'm coming up on when I should write something, and wonder what to write about. Sometimes I come up with great ideas. I think about the development of the idea, how to present it, whether or not people will say something about it.
And then I sit down to actually write... and nothing comes out.
I don't know why the words vanish, but they do. They evaporate like so much steam out of a hot shower. I sit down, open the web browser, click "New Post" and... nothing. My brain becomes as blank as the post window.
I hate it, not because it's frustrating writer's block, but because there is so much I want to say. A couple times a week I wish I had a voice recorder, so I could just talk out loud, get all the thoughts out of my head and into some media form, so that they aren't lost forever. I hate the fact that my memory acts like a highly selective steel trap, letting half a dozen wonderful things through it, then snapping hard on some random tidbit. I can remember what my sister-in-law had to eat at Denny's when we landed at 10PM the day before Thanksgiving two years ago. But I can't remember the awesome thing I planned on blogging about earlier in the day.
So here I sit, writing about nothing, hoping that you understand. Maybe next week I'll actually remember something interesting.
And then I sit down to actually write... and nothing comes out.
I don't know why the words vanish, but they do. They evaporate like so much steam out of a hot shower. I sit down, open the web browser, click "New Post" and... nothing. My brain becomes as blank as the post window.
I hate it, not because it's frustrating writer's block, but because there is so much I want to say. A couple times a week I wish I had a voice recorder, so I could just talk out loud, get all the thoughts out of my head and into some media form, so that they aren't lost forever. I hate the fact that my memory acts like a highly selective steel trap, letting half a dozen wonderful things through it, then snapping hard on some random tidbit. I can remember what my sister-in-law had to eat at Denny's when we landed at 10PM the day before Thanksgiving two years ago. But I can't remember the awesome thing I planned on blogging about earlier in the day.
So here I sit, writing about nothing, hoping that you understand. Maybe next week I'll actually remember something interesting.
February 20, 2011
What Tastes Blue?
Once, in college, my friends and I went to a little Chinese restaurant. It had one of those little quarter machines in front. You know the kind: they dispense candy, or bouncy balls, or temporary tattoos, or cheap little plastic toys. This one dispensed little tiny plastic ninjas, in all colors of the rainbow. One of my friends had a fascination for such things, and spent a handful of quarters to collect the whole rainbow, which she dubbed "The Skittle Ninjas".
She named them after flavors associated with their respective colors. Red was cherry, Orange... well, Orange. Green was Lime, Yellow was Lemon. Then she turned to us, lost in thought, and blurted "what tastes blue?"
At the time it was hilarious, and became an in-joke along with a half a dozen other misspoken phrases, like "the power cord was off wrong". Because "off wrong" so described "unplugged" somehow.
But now, almost ten years later, I wonder if she had something called synesthesia.
It's what happens when your brain looks at a word or a letter or a number and associates it with some other sensory input. Like, say, colors. Or sounds. Or even flavors or scents. Some even go so far as to associate attitudes and emotions with them. And I've got it.
Well, "got it" may not be the right way of saying it. It's not a disease or an affliction. It's just a thing. Like colorblindness, except I'm not lacking normal function, I just add things. My brain's wired a bit differently than the normal human being. It's just off wrong a little.
I realized this when I read up on it a little. The article was titled "Your Name Tastes Purple". And for some confounded reason, that title made absolute sense to me, even though the logical part of my brain insisted it was improper use of nouns and adjectives. Purple isn't a flavor. At least, it's not supposed to be. "Purple" is about what I associate with the "grape" popcicles you get in those variety packs. Whatever inspired someone to think that super-sweet syrupy flavor was anything like the taste of grapes, I shall never know. But even thought they call them "grape-flavored", I think everyone will agree they taste nothing like grapes. Not green, red, or any other kind.
But when I read on, I found myself nodding in agreement. The author was describing things incredibly similar to my own experiences. My senses cross over. I don't just hear sounds. I feel them sometimes. It's like when I read a book and visualize what they're describing. Electric guitar can inspire intense sensations of weightlessness. Drums make my feet thrum with the sensation of hitting the ground and make my palms itch as though I was running on all fours. Certain sounds feel the way I would imagine it would be to harden my fingers and drive them into concrete. It's not unpleasant. Just interesting. Some sounds feel like silk across my belly, some feel like dust in my nose and ears.
But more than sounds, it's numbers.
The number 1, for example. I see it as red. It's masculine, but mostly neutral. He likes to keep things tidy. He's a professional. The number 2? Well, 2 is blue, and male also, but more childlike. Sort of man-child, really, like a toned-down frat-boy. Number 3 is a selfish bitch, in a hard yellow. Another male figure, 4 is purple, quiet, usually a bearer of bad news and kind of scholarly. The outspoken one is 5, a hot-shot can-do-anything guy who loves the babes. He's brown. His lady, 6, is a bit on the prudish side, in a muted shade of lavender. She's curvy in all the right ways. Next up is green guy 7, a jokester who loves to laugh. Lady 8 in violet-blue tends to be kind of quiet, but is unafraid to put some of the littler number in their place. The REAL bitch in charge is 9, who bosses 6 and 3 around like little minions in her clique. She tends to show up in a mustard-tone. And 0? He doesn't talk. He's always black.
Letters do it to, although in gender and not color. A is male, B female, C male, D male, E female...
Colors make me think of scents and places. Feelings. Sensations. Certain shades of purple are cold, like a night sky, and smell like the air after it rains. Yellow feels like sunlight on my skin and smells like a warm room. Reds are dangerous and smell sharp. Orange is hiding something. White is prissy but she smells clean.
Read that last sentence again.
Is it any wonder I understood how a name can taste purple?
Browns taste like chocolate. Silver hurts my teeth, unless it's nicely polished. Otherwise it sounds like bad brakes. Fluffy textures feel nice when I touch them, but if they're a particular shade of green they make my front teeth feel like there's yarn in them, and I hate that sensation.
Another one of my friends told me that I see the world entirely different than anyone else he knew. I think he didn't know exactly how true that statement was. While I accept that I see the world in a highly different way already, I don't think he also meant in a fashion that included letters having gender or colors inspiring feels and flavors, much less numbers having attitudes.
It feels almost freeing to know that this is actually something normal in its own right, and harmless. Something documented, if not totally understood. Something that isn't as-a-result-of or a-symptom-of something else. It just is. All by itself. And it's okay.
Even if the word "synesthesia" tastes like wet static-y sawdust.
She named them after flavors associated with their respective colors. Red was cherry, Orange... well, Orange. Green was Lime, Yellow was Lemon. Then she turned to us, lost in thought, and blurted "what tastes blue?"
At the time it was hilarious, and became an in-joke along with a half a dozen other misspoken phrases, like "the power cord was off wrong". Because "off wrong" so described "unplugged" somehow.
But now, almost ten years later, I wonder if she had something called synesthesia.
It's what happens when your brain looks at a word or a letter or a number and associates it with some other sensory input. Like, say, colors. Or sounds. Or even flavors or scents. Some even go so far as to associate attitudes and emotions with them. And I've got it.
Well, "got it" may not be the right way of saying it. It's not a disease or an affliction. It's just a thing. Like colorblindness, except I'm not lacking normal function, I just add things. My brain's wired a bit differently than the normal human being. It's just off wrong a little.
I realized this when I read up on it a little. The article was titled "Your Name Tastes Purple". And for some confounded reason, that title made absolute sense to me, even though the logical part of my brain insisted it was improper use of nouns and adjectives. Purple isn't a flavor. At least, it's not supposed to be. "Purple" is about what I associate with the "grape" popcicles you get in those variety packs. Whatever inspired someone to think that super-sweet syrupy flavor was anything like the taste of grapes, I shall never know. But even thought they call them "grape-flavored", I think everyone will agree they taste nothing like grapes. Not green, red, or any other kind.
But when I read on, I found myself nodding in agreement. The author was describing things incredibly similar to my own experiences. My senses cross over. I don't just hear sounds. I feel them sometimes. It's like when I read a book and visualize what they're describing. Electric guitar can inspire intense sensations of weightlessness. Drums make my feet thrum with the sensation of hitting the ground and make my palms itch as though I was running on all fours. Certain sounds feel the way I would imagine it would be to harden my fingers and drive them into concrete. It's not unpleasant. Just interesting. Some sounds feel like silk across my belly, some feel like dust in my nose and ears.
But more than sounds, it's numbers.
The number 1, for example. I see it as red. It's masculine, but mostly neutral. He likes to keep things tidy. He's a professional. The number 2? Well, 2 is blue, and male also, but more childlike. Sort of man-child, really, like a toned-down frat-boy. Number 3 is a selfish bitch, in a hard yellow. Another male figure, 4 is purple, quiet, usually a bearer of bad news and kind of scholarly. The outspoken one is 5, a hot-shot can-do-anything guy who loves the babes. He's brown. His lady, 6, is a bit on the prudish side, in a muted shade of lavender. She's curvy in all the right ways. Next up is green guy 7, a jokester who loves to laugh. Lady 8 in violet-blue tends to be kind of quiet, but is unafraid to put some of the littler number in their place. The REAL bitch in charge is 9, who bosses 6 and 3 around like little minions in her clique. She tends to show up in a mustard-tone. And 0? He doesn't talk. He's always black.
Letters do it to, although in gender and not color. A is male, B female, C male, D male, E female...
Colors make me think of scents and places. Feelings. Sensations. Certain shades of purple are cold, like a night sky, and smell like the air after it rains. Yellow feels like sunlight on my skin and smells like a warm room. Reds are dangerous and smell sharp. Orange is hiding something. White is prissy but she smells clean.
Read that last sentence again.
Is it any wonder I understood how a name can taste purple?
Browns taste like chocolate. Silver hurts my teeth, unless it's nicely polished. Otherwise it sounds like bad brakes. Fluffy textures feel nice when I touch them, but if they're a particular shade of green they make my front teeth feel like there's yarn in them, and I hate that sensation.
Another one of my friends told me that I see the world entirely different than anyone else he knew. I think he didn't know exactly how true that statement was. While I accept that I see the world in a highly different way already, I don't think he also meant in a fashion that included letters having gender or colors inspiring feels and flavors, much less numbers having attitudes.
It feels almost freeing to know that this is actually something normal in its own right, and harmless. Something documented, if not totally understood. Something that isn't as-a-result-of or a-symptom-of something else. It just is. All by itself. And it's okay.
Even if the word "synesthesia" tastes like wet static-y sawdust.
February 03, 2011
A Few Quick Words
Winter does not last
Spring always pushes through the snow
Night does not last
Dawn always breaks over the horizon
Rain does not last
The sun will always shine again
Hard times will not last
For this, too, will pass away.
Spring always pushes through the snow
Night does not last
Dawn always breaks over the horizon
Rain does not last
The sun will always shine again
Hard times will not last
For this, too, will pass away.
January 17, 2011
Long Break, New Year
So, as you might have noticed, it's been a while since I've written anything. Mostly because 2010 grabbed me by the tail and swung me around a few times for fun.
I lost my awesome job not more than a month after I'd gotten it. One moment they were asking me if I'd be okay with coming on permanently. The next, I was apparently not to come back the next day. The good news is that it didn't take me too long before I found a new position working for an imaging company... contracted with the US Navy. While not the most glorious work - or even the most rewarding (what, I get to say "I labeled something!" at the end of the day?) - but the pay's all right, my coworkers are super-awesome, and the benefits (that I just started) are REALLY hard to beat. So while I may get grumpy from getting up at the crack of dawn, it's a good job. And really, I'm just happy to HAVE a job.
Nephew Number 2 arrived shortly after I got my new job, and it was both lovely and startling to see my eldest brother's family grow so quickly. Pictures of the girls remind me that they're growing up, and stories of Nephew Number 1 remind me that - crikey, he's a teenager already. This being the little boy I remembered who couldn't blow his own nose. Now he's getting tall and filling out and discovering girls. Where did the time go?
As I write this, aforementioned brother is approximately one month away from returning from the Middle East. Pictures and stories and the occasional holiday Skype conversation have showed changes in him too. He's thinner, quieter (if that was possible), more confident. And a lot more tan. I think he's where he's supposed to be. Job-wise, if not location-wise. I think it'd be better for him if he was home with his family, but that will come very soon. It's hard to believe he's only been away for a year. It seems like so much longer.
Other brother and his lady are growing and changing too. I wasn't the only one 2010 hit with a stick, and they've risen to the challenge with grit and determination in the face of adversity. They've taken direct hits and not just moved past them, but branched out around them into arts and paths previously unexplored. Z's crafting has developed in leaps and bounds, and she has found a career in writing. She's always rather possessed a gift for it, and it's inspiring to see her take it to the next level. A, on the other hand, took to music. His band released an entire CD's worth of damn fine music and I would be more than happy to point someone in his direction for a purchase. I've listened to it, it's good, it has my recommendation.
The folks? Well, the folks have been holding their own. Their community has suffered a series of blows that they've risen to correct with love and compassion. J and I went to visit them for Thanksgiving, and it was good to see them in their element for a while. There's something... wholesome about the land on which they live.
As for me? J and I have a new housemate living in the third bedroom. It's great to have someone here, especially as awesome as he is. He's neat, clean, quiet, respectful, funny, a good cook, and has similar interests to J and I. He fits in well. I have another four-legged friend as well, who shall only be known as Boris, and his strange toilet-paper-tube-loving nature add a bit of levity to our house. Shiko is curious, but completely unwilling to tangle with him, which relieves me a little; I'm tired of worrying that one pet might try to eat another.
But life goes on, otherwise. Much as it usually does. People are born, people die, the rains come, the rains go. Today it's sunny and warm. I think I shall make the most of this year, starting now.
I lost my awesome job not more than a month after I'd gotten it. One moment they were asking me if I'd be okay with coming on permanently. The next, I was apparently not to come back the next day. The good news is that it didn't take me too long before I found a new position working for an imaging company... contracted with the US Navy. While not the most glorious work - or even the most rewarding (what, I get to say "I labeled something!" at the end of the day?) - but the pay's all right, my coworkers are super-awesome, and the benefits (that I just started) are REALLY hard to beat. So while I may get grumpy from getting up at the crack of dawn, it's a good job. And really, I'm just happy to HAVE a job.
Nephew Number 2 arrived shortly after I got my new job, and it was both lovely and startling to see my eldest brother's family grow so quickly. Pictures of the girls remind me that they're growing up, and stories of Nephew Number 1 remind me that - crikey, he's a teenager already. This being the little boy I remembered who couldn't blow his own nose. Now he's getting tall and filling out and discovering girls. Where did the time go?
As I write this, aforementioned brother is approximately one month away from returning from the Middle East. Pictures and stories and the occasional holiday Skype conversation have showed changes in him too. He's thinner, quieter (if that was possible), more confident. And a lot more tan. I think he's where he's supposed to be. Job-wise, if not location-wise. I think it'd be better for him if he was home with his family, but that will come very soon. It's hard to believe he's only been away for a year. It seems like so much longer.
Other brother and his lady are growing and changing too. I wasn't the only one 2010 hit with a stick, and they've risen to the challenge with grit and determination in the face of adversity. They've taken direct hits and not just moved past them, but branched out around them into arts and paths previously unexplored. Z's crafting has developed in leaps and bounds, and she has found a career in writing. She's always rather possessed a gift for it, and it's inspiring to see her take it to the next level. A, on the other hand, took to music. His band released an entire CD's worth of damn fine music and I would be more than happy to point someone in his direction for a purchase. I've listened to it, it's good, it has my recommendation.
The folks? Well, the folks have been holding their own. Their community has suffered a series of blows that they've risen to correct with love and compassion. J and I went to visit them for Thanksgiving, and it was good to see them in their element for a while. There's something... wholesome about the land on which they live.
As for me? J and I have a new housemate living in the third bedroom. It's great to have someone here, especially as awesome as he is. He's neat, clean, quiet, respectful, funny, a good cook, and has similar interests to J and I. He fits in well. I have another four-legged friend as well, who shall only be known as Boris, and his strange toilet-paper-tube-loving nature add a bit of levity to our house. Shiko is curious, but completely unwilling to tangle with him, which relieves me a little; I'm tired of worrying that one pet might try to eat another.
But life goes on, otherwise. Much as it usually does. People are born, people die, the rains come, the rains go. Today it's sunny and warm. I think I shall make the most of this year, starting now.
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