Hyper Senstivie about Hyper Sensitivity

I've put off writing here for various reasons, none of them very compelling.  Tonight, sans dinner, I have the time and energy (ever notice how digestion robs one of energy?) to tread around an idea purling around my brain of late.

The idea?  That I am an HSP, a HyperSensitivePerson.  Proof?  I cannot recite, with attention, the stanza from The Ancient Mariner:  The spirit who bideth by himself, In the land of mist and snow, Who loved the bird that loved the man, Who shot him with his bow.

Tears spring to my eyes and if I dwell upon it I would cry, not only cry but boohoo.  Or, last night watching an Irishman canoe the River Shannon, talking about a male corn crake calling uselessly for a female who will not come, I bawled.  Filled a hanky with snot and tears.

I cannot watch certain tv shows or movies (have not watched The War Horse or Avatar despite them being given as gifts on DVDs because I know I would cry and I'm sick of crying at the behest of others).

Much of my adult online media digital life is spent avoiding things which will reduce me to snotandtears.  Ditto people.  I like people but spend an inordinate amount of time avoiding them, avoiding social obligations, avoiding minutes - which seem like hours - of seemingly scripted small talk.  I know, KNOW, it's harmless, it is the oil of social connectivity, what we use as a substitute to smelling each other's bums.  Nevertheless, these things exhaust me.  Why I am not a party goer, a ladies who lunch lady, why I have few friends, something I regret but which comes with the territory of being me.

I am my mother's daughter after all.


Don't know whether I still have the poem but when going through Mom's things after she died I found a poem she'd written in defence of being a watcher rather than a doer, that the world was full of doers but the world needed watchers to appreciate the doers.   I do do.  But I do privately rather than publicly. 

I do wish I was otherwise.  Life, in many respects, would be easier.  But would it be better?  To fit into the mold of what a 'good' person should be?  That those with a strong sense of community live longer, happier more satisfying lives?  How lovely for them.  But if my nature is one that is exhausted by social interactions, who finds what others take in their stride abhorrent and excruciatingly sad, is that so awful?

I think observing the Creation takes all types and if some of us are too much affected by the seemingly mundane, so be it. 

Bernie Sanders, Need I Say More?

USA politics are not my usual subject matter.  Despite having dual citizenship, I no longer live there and no longer have the right to vote.  Nevertheless, what is happening on the road to the presidency is the alpha and omega.  On the omega side, every GOP candidate, with special mention being made of Donald Trump.  If American elects him to the Presidency it has vanquished itself from the world stage.  No one would ever take America seriously again.  America is no longer a leader, not since we traded ideology for the corporate bottom line (and the tragedy that is Guantanamo Bay) but its demise will be hastened by the leadership of The Donald (fitting that he is referred to as a brand).  Mark Shields (or was it David Brooks?) on PBS said everything with Trump is transactional and that he is a cynic without ideology.  Shields (or Brooks) nailed it.

The entire GOP line-up seem to be misogynistic hawks, hell bent on a war on women and war period (no pun intended).

 Loved the tweet from Justina Ireland commenting on the recent top tier all male GOP debate:  @tehawesomersace

WOW THAT'S A LOT OF MEN I LOOK FORWARD TO HEARING THEIR OPINIONS ON HOW I SHOULD USE MY UTERUS. 

On the alpha side is Bernie Sanders.   What a breath of fresh air.  Just when I think the candidates will be a lineup of Ken and Barbie dolls molded by the Koch Brothers and media adviser halfwits, here comes 72 year old Sanders with a new-old take on the state of the union.  Yes, the emperor isn't wearing any clothes and Bernie seems to be the only one brave enough to say so.  

At first he barely rated a mention in the media.  He was viewed more as a curiosity than a serious contender.  Watching the reluctance of the media coverage and how it has changed is amusing.  They don't know how to peg him.  He isn't Washington Establishment.   But Bernie won't go away and now the media is being forced to take note.  Especially as he is garnering larger crowds than any of the candidates, on either side of the political fence.   

Go Bernie!

French Dreams

Dreamed  a dream with French overtones last night.  My high school Cuban born Spanish teacher said she knew she'd mastered English when she dreamt in English.  I'm not there yet but perhaps I can dimly see the the very tip of the Eiffel Tower peaking through the fog.

We'd watched a terrific French film, The Intouchables, last night.  Richard, who rarely stays up past 9:30, stayed up until 11 to watch.  This film is part of the reason French Films have a place in our iconography.  No one says, with the same meaning, German or Italian or Japanese films.  At any rate, it was one of those films which stays with you long after the credits have rolled. 

So much so that it rolled right on into my dreams. 

Richard and I were looking for a place to have a glass of wine and tapas.  We traipsed from one red brick lightless den to another.  The tapas were awful, the ambiance non-existent until finally we came to a smoke-filled people populated taverne with appetizing tapas.  In the dream, in French, I asked for a glass of red wine. 

That's it.  That's my mastering French dream.  I got it right in the dream save that I didn't know the word for mellow (moelleux).  Small hiccup.  Still, I'm very proud.

A Claytons Philosophy or What Should I be Doing Now

I've written about six sentences and cannot get a grip, spinning my writing wheels without a thought to hang on to.  I'm trying to elaborate on a thought about how each day is the same yet different.  An obvious truth.  But the difference depends on the colour window looked through.  Some days I spend being disappointed with myself.  Is that a common struggle with other people?  I know, know, not everyone is going to be an Einstein or Livingstone, a Mother Theresa or Mahatma Ghandi, I know that but much of my existence is coloured by the grey pane (pain?) of mild disappointment.  Is it really enough to be thankful?  Is that all that is required?  Or should I be stretching every ligament in my body to make every second of my existence mean something in the short time I am here?

How will I be at my death, if I have time to review this life?  Cranky that I wasted so much time, ashamed that I didn't use the talents given me?  I read the articles on the Rebelle website (http://www.rebellesociety.com) and even when the authors are bemoaning their faults or are struggling through difficult times, dangerous head spaces, toxic relationships, they still seem, somehow, to have it together.  They write from the Big Perspective, finding the juxtaposition of their unwellness with the cheer-squad wellness of their readers.  Their failings are their strengths.  Together, readers and writers, they are whole.  The mere act of writing their failings obliterates them.  They are complete because they can see the Big Picture.

Me?  I just seem to spend time moaning that I don't know what or how I'm supposed to be.  Or just moaning.  Maybe it's tied up with feeling trapped.  Wrote about that previously so won't go there again.  Maybe all that I do is all I'm supposed to do.  Being, wondering, doing, questioning, making bread and making beds, petting cats and spending time on the yoga mat, riding the hills and cleaning toilets, caring for R and wearing perfume every day because I can.  Maybe that's all that's required.  Without all the goddamn worrying about it!

So, now with that off my chest, I'll head outside and rake leaves beneath a vivid blue sky. 

I Come First, don't I?

A few free hours while R is in town.  I find it odd that I don't sink into solitude with the same ease I used to.  It isn't that I have trouble being alone.  Au contrare!   I value time spent alone, mistress of my thought and action.  The difficulty is lack of practice. 

Just spent an hour reading a book (The Barbed Coil by J. V. Jones).  I used to read for hours at a time.  Now I'm either making busy or I'm on the computer.  At the end of the day, after I've made dinner and my time is my own, I try and read but the tv is on and concentration is off.  Find I have to go back and reread bits to familiarize myself with characters or situations I should already know.  Even now, the call of the computer is strong.  What a blessing and a curse the digital age is.  I'd miss the computer if I didn't have one at the same time as I know how much time I waste clicking away on it.

(Oh no, there's a hare come out in broad daylight - 2pm - to nibble on the flake of lucerne I've put out for the horses.  Jamaica is lazing in the sun, it's another cold and windy day although sunny.  I hope he doesn't see him.  Jamaica's not asleep.  I can see the glint of bright brown eyes.   If he looked 45 degrees NE he'd see the hare.)

In a much better stronger frame of mind than yesterday.  A good nights sleep helps.  Yesterday was the day following the second night of little sleep.  Because I function and get through the day I act as though insomnia doesn't have an affect but of course it does.  I don't think as clearly, I'm more emotional and I mask tiredness with activity. 

(Ah, the hare has had enough and hops away on long strong legs unscathed.  Jamaica dozes on).


Reading on the Rebelle page about the only productive tip a creative sort will ever need.  Do the most important thing first every day.  I'd modify that statement to read:  Find the time to do the most important thing every day. 

I've got up in the dark to take the dogs and myself for a 40 minute walk while the stars shine overhead just to be alone and exercise at the same time.  I've got up an hour earlier, again in the dark, to write 3 pages longhand  while following the Artists Way.  I've got up an hour earlier to do yoga in the dark in front of the fire before work.  Now I get up just before dawn to feed the cats and horses and birds.  Creative acts come later.

One thing I never had to contend with before was responsibility for anyone other than myself.  Yes, I looked after animals, usually a single cat, but with Self as my Motto and Creed, and a cat being a self-sufficient creature it wasn't much of a stretch.  Now, at this late stage of my life, I am having to learn responsibility of and for others.  While still retaining my I Come First credo.  My I Come First credo now has riders; subsections and provisos so it isn't as awful as it sounds. 

But I no longer do the most important thing first thing every day.  It's usually toward the end of the day when I balance the art board on my knees while sitting on the couch with a cat or two and R at the other end. 

A Murder of Crows and Fight Club Magpies

Another day, another cleaning frenzy.  Prospective clients due out this Thursday...hopefully...there have been three cancellations, well two cancels and one mixed communication.  Taking a break from mopping/dusty/tidying.  Richard dances to the rhythmic sweep of the broom as he cleans all the walkways.

Know I get a bit (a bit!) anal about the cleaning thing, cleaning areas that will never been seen by anyone but me but it helps to dispense with nervous energy.

Not sure what I saw yesterday while riding.  Do magpies have Fight Clubs or Boxing Tournaments?  Always see magpies in family groups, usually three birds; mom, dad and juvenile.  Don't see them flock like PeeWees or even occasionally willie wagtails.  Yesterday however, was riding up  Zig Zag Hill prior to crossing the Muffin Top.  In a cleared area, only cleared because the grass hadn't grown  high, were a dozen or more maggies surrounding two fighting birds.    Naturally they all erupted and flew away, all dozen or more of them, when Balthazar and I crashed through the long grass.

So why were they congregated to watch the fighting?  How many family groups? Were they all males or mixed.   Mysterious.  Like so many things.

Like the gathering of crows.  A hundred or more crows will gather in one spot, squawking and squarking seemingly without rhyme or reason.  Periodically they will all lift into the sky as one entity, rising on a crescendo of screaming only to descend again, still shouting at the top of their lungs.

What do they talk about?  How do they know there is to be a gathering?  How far do they come?  Who decides the meeting has ended?  Just one more mystery in a universe of mysteries.

The Honesty of Imperfection

So restless.  Feel like a rubberband, stretching and condensing.  House not sold.  Hot buyers have bought elsewhere so back to square one.  Panic thinking.  Contact previous prospective buyers, say we'll accept your offer?  No, they've bought elsewhere.  So we sit and wait again.  Hence my restlessness.  In my imagination we were already moved.  Difficult to remain centered and here.  I want to be exploring and there.  

Why is it so difficult to trust in the rightness of the Universe?  Rather, why is it so difficult for me to trust in the rightness of my Universe?  Feel like I'm battering at the bars of a cage.  Let me out!  Feel trapped by this house, by my marriage (how dare I admit it, when any kernel of goodness I possess compels me to stay here and be true to this loving man who needs me in the hours of his illness - how guilty I feel admitting this.  And he knows, compels me with his words of love and devotion not to leave him when he needs me now and will need me more as time passes and his illness progresses.  Trapped trapped trapped.  Self-pitying shit that I am when most of the world is glad just to have shelter and food). 

It comes down to - How dare I want more than I have?  How dare I be unhappy?  How dare I be anything but overjoyed and thankful?

Then there are days when I just breathe thank you thank you thank you for the pure joy of breathing beauty that is there for the taking.

But those days are not this day.  Maybe there is something in just being honest with myself.  That it is okay not to be perfect, to be resentful sometimes and frightened.  To admit that I do not have the strength of character to change my mood at whim, to turn fear into gratitude, like bread into toast.  I'm doughy and yeasty and easily flattened.  Today I am flat.  Tomorrow toast!