people

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Understanding Boundaries

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Setting boundaries makes life easier and expectations are better understood. It may take time for those boundaries to cement themselves in place, but the effort is definitely worth it. 

I sent this sentiment to my kids this morning, just a random feeling I felt about what we give and take within our daily lives, the setbacks and promises.

You see, we all need, each one of us, space to thrive. Our own space. So that when we choose to bring others into our circle, we are ready to engage, fully.

If the boundaries we set are loose and inconsistent, then we never get to a place of knowing exactly what it is we hope for, whether it be within personal relationships or more of a happenstance of interacting with others in which we are all desiring the simple, daily respect we all deserve.

When we allow ideas and wishes to become jumbled, thrown around, without the thoughts required to attain the promises life presents to us it is only each of us, individually, that suffers.

Therefore, it’s important to set boundaries, carving out our own personal space to rejuvenate mind, body, and soul because then, and only then, will life’s rewards happen, allowing us to enjoy the joys of life.

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fifteen divided by five equals three

THREE FIVE-SENTENCE NANO-FICTION STORIES
(A challenge I was given 3 years ago that, obviously, I overlooked, or something)
Write three separate and unrelated stories, each consisting of exactly five sentences.



¹

“Stop!” she yelled. Silence. Everyone froze. The boy she was referring to smirked. But he quickly wiped that cockiness off his face when her seething eyes pierced the humor right out of him.

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A man and a woman chatted. Lively conversation filled the air with happiness. The aroma of a home-cooked meal danced around the house. An opened front door filled with their children. Laughter followed and stayed for the weekend.

³

Ready. Or not. Here I write. Spilling my vulnerable soul. Into the hearts of humanity.

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Men and their Penises

Girbaud_Color_Look_BookA penis is a penis is a penis.

So you’d think.

But apparently not.

Not when it comes (no pun intended, seriously, I’m being serious here) to length and girth.

I happened upon a documentary on Netflix™ called UnHung Hero about a guy named Patrick Moote whose marriage proposal was turned down by his girlfriend because his junk is too small.

Which led him on a journey, throughout parts of the United States and across the world, exploring what size means to different people, different cultures, different industries.

The overriding sentiment is that it’s not the size that matters, it’s the person. Women tend to agree; they are more impressed with a man’s skills than the size of his knob.

As we all know.

Right?

Right.

But still, men will be men.

It seems they continue to discover their worth amongst other bejeweled men while ⇑manning-up⇑ in the locker room.

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daphne

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Quiet, reflective, attentive, and a person of few words define me. Which, I believe, has impacted my interest in both the social and psychological aspects of human nature.

I like being quiet. You see, I learn quite a bit when I turn off my voice and tune in my ears.

I’m reflective, thriving on what I see around me, applying what is helpful, learning from mistakes (sometimes my own, but mostly made by others) and deflect from what might diminish the powers my soul.

I find if I look someone in the eyes when they are telling me a story, a secret, a worry, or any other type of human emotion, my attention rewards me with a meaningful relationship. Whether it be for a moment, or a life time.

A person of few words doesn’t mean one has nothing to say, rather, for me, it’s that what words, what I’m trying to say, needs to be worthy of revealing because I’m not trying to prove anything to anyone, except to myself.

Me. A quiet, reflective, attentive person. Interested in human nature. Especially my own.

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I Am PRO-quiet house.

IMG_1926One afternoon, while feeling the crowding of loud voices shedding from my ears, noise from the activity of an ordinary day in the classroom, and just as I was halfway down the hallway, heading towards my bedroom to change into my loose-fitting sweats and an oversized hoodie, mentally prepping myself for some quiet time and smut TV,

my son rips open his bedroom door, so forcefully that I could hear the whoosh! of wind, and he states,

“Our house is so boring. It’s so quiet!” He said it as if quietness is a bad thing. I leaned against the linen closet door and as patiently as I could I said,

“Well. If you worked all day in a classroom, with very energetic ten year olds, you too would not think a quiet house was boring. Instead, you would relish the quiet. Dream about quiet. Anticipate quiet. And you would never ever call your house boring.”

“Okay. Yeah. I can see that. From your perspective, anyway.” And he didn’t complain again.

Not until another afternoon. Months later.

“I get it, you work with kids and need downtime from all the activity happening throughout your day. But, man, when I am at my friends, and I mean all the different people’s homes I’ve been in, and spend the night, the parents never, and I mean nev-er, tell us to be quiet. The parents go to bed earlier, like you, and we play games, watch TV, talk. All with the volume pumped up.  And no one says a word. No on tells us to be quiet,” my son rambles on.

“I don’t have an answer for you,” I say, without apology.  “Geez, seriously, I’m not sure why the parents wouldn’t want you guys to quiet down at a certain time, but me, no way, I need my rest. I need quiet. I need my sanity. Seriously.”

I’m trying to wrap my head around the concept of kids having control of the home, but my son doesn’t seem to see it that way.

“I’m just saying, I don’t know anyone, and I mean any-one, that has rules about quieting down,” he added, seemingly just as confused, but on a different level.

“Well, when I was growing up,” I reminisced , “whichever house I was at, I don’t think we even were told to be quiet, we just were. For me, that’s the norm.”

I didn’t say it, but maybe the problem is that today’s parents, while trying to be cool, to fit in with their children, and to be their friend, are making the mistake of also believing that it’s okay for kids to Rule-the-Roost.

A few weeks, maybe months later, my son walks into the house, after a weekend spent with his friends.

“Ah, this is my sanctuary,” he said, without much thought. “I love going to my room, closing myself in.”

Go figure, is what I didn’t say.

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The Plumber

Years ago we had some issues with our plumbing, and because we didn’t have any specific company that we worked with that’d come our house, I simply looked in the yellow pages, found a local service, and phoned them. Whereby a young guy and his dad came over, fixed the problem, and have foreversince been the guys who are at the ready to fix our backed-up pipes.

This weekend, after almost three years of happy water flow, the Jones’ (to protect the innocent, names have been changed) were called and John, the dad, came by as soon as he had an open time frame. Friendly guy. Talkative. And interested in how our family was doing.

“How is everyone? How’re the kids?” he asked Rudy, while shoving a camera into the main pipeline.

“Kids are good, thanks. Every day is a new start, to begin again. You return home at the end of the day hopefully with everything intact…,” he commented. Then added, “…everyone’s fine, thanks for asking.”

John’s son Joe was the usual plumber that came by. A young man, working alongside his dad, learning how to work and run the family business. He always showed up with a smile, a readiness, polite conversation, and the determination to leave our home in better shape than before he showed up.

“How’s Joe?” Rudy asked.

“He’s fine, thanks.”

“Is he still working the business with you?” he wondered. “I haven’t seen him around town lately.”

John lowered his head. He didn’t say anything. Rudy wasn’t sure but he thought he saw John wipe away a tear. He pondered if he should say anything, or just wait.

“No,” John started. “About a year and a half ago, Joe went with some friends to a bar and somehow ended up in a fight. He was repeatedly kicked in the head, leaving him, to this day, with brain damage. He’s unable to work, or do most things on his own.”

Rudy was speechless. An image of Joe’s blue eyes and friendly face zoomed across his mind. He lowered his head, feeling John’s pain.

“I’m so sorry,” he managed to say.

His heart hurt, felt heavy when he realized how his previous statement is so true, that every day is a new start… with the hope of returning home at the end of the day.

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Attitude is EVERYTHING

Be positive. Find Avant-Garde people, those that possess innovative ideas that make the world an  interesting place. Let a Dilettante hold your attention as they dabble in the arts and fill you with knowledge that will enhance your good vibes towards humanity. Be Ubiquitous, while living a well-rounded life; live as if you are everywhere at once. Sneak in a Tryst with someone you love. Agree to meet, to enjoy an Idyllic location; somewhere that is carefree, tranquil, and picturesque. Think positive. Finding Equanimity will instill a sense of calmness and an even-tempered attitude.

Don’t be negative.

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Imagine

You’re 16. A boy. Hanging out with your buddies that aren’t really your buddies. They are some dudes, gangster-like, having the potential of looking for trouble, who are actually friends of your real friends. And the reason you’re hanging with these hooligans is because your true-blue friends are out and about. Doing their thing. And you figure you know these people well enough, so why not hang with them. For a while. For only as long as it takes to walk to the local mom and pop market to buy some chips and an ice cold drink. Long enough to wait for your tribe to show up.

So what do you do when, after leaving the store, you become part of an encounter that has nothing to do with you, but everything to do with one of the boys you’re hanging with? He’s in deep shit because he’d been tagging the city and from what you can tell, and what you’ve heard, the guy doing the complaining is an infamous gang leader in town. It seems bizarre, unusual, and sorta thrilling, too, but you know you must keep your cool and act like this is just a typical afternoon. So when the leader suddenly  walks up to you and says, Hey White Boy, those eyebrows for real? you, without thinking, reach up and run a finger along a naturally arched brow. Yeah, they’re for real, you say as coolly as possible.

Right answer. Right tone. At least you assume so. Because that leader of the gang, the Boss, turns away, back toward the criminal who’d been painting up the city, and he wraps his arm around the chump’s neck, leading him around in circles and tells that thug-wannbe to keep his city clean, or else.

And, all you could do is watch. Stand still. Be quiet. And hope that nothing bad happens. While at the same time, wishing you could cheer the Leader on, telling him how cool it is that he’s concerned  about the city and its polished status.

Imagine that.

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Sensitivity Across the Genders

girl_boy talkingHere’s the thing… we are all sensitive, all of us, male and female. Yet, and I am speaking in the most general sense, females tend to show their emotions more. Males hold it all in, having been taught that big boys don’t cry.

Except when in a vulnerable moment. Like when a husband is sitting next to his wife, watching a girly show.

I was watching Project Runway, Jr. (Love it!) whilst drinking a cup of morning coffee, observing talented kids create amazing pieces of clothing, when Rudy wandered in. He sat, sipped from his steaming cup, and began watching the show with me. (Unusual, for sure.) No words exchanged between the two of us. Until, he became invested in what was happening, commenting on how extraordinary it is that designers are capable of making an outfit from a large piece of colored cloth.

“Kinda like you with cooking,” I said. “I’m impressed with how you can make something delicious from what looks to be nothing in the fridge.” He smiled and continued to zone in on the young teens entertaining us via the tube.

We critiqued the outfits the kids had dressed the models in.

“Whoa, nice outfit!” Rudy said. “Looks exactly like the style a teenager would buy.”

“Yikes! Those pants are way too big, aren’t they?” I wondered, as I watched a model strut down the runway. He agreed, saying that the wide-legged jeans looked very uncomfortable, and that that designer may be the one voted out because of it. (She wasn’t.)

As the judges began presenting their constructive criticism, before they decided who to boot off the show, both of us felt for each kid. So young. So enthusiastic. So worthy. And when it came to the two final designers, standing there, tears welling up, ready to spill out, but unable to due to the courage both kids showed, I heard Rudy sniffling, breathing in choppy breaths. He rubbed the top of his head, quickly, a gesture he does when he’s very emotional. And then he wiped his eyes.

And believe me, I was weepy, too. We didn’t want to see those kids not making it in the big-wide-world. We were behaving like parents, as if those kids belonged to us. So, when the judges didn’t just send one kid away, but both, Rudy lost it. He had to leave the living room and gather his emotions. Put them back in place, confine them. Man up.

He returned. Normal. Even-keeled, (on the emotional spectrum), and said (again) how impressed he was with the talent of such young kids. I agreed.

 

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Confidence

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It’s interesting being a teacher of young kids. I tend to reflect on my own youth quite a bit, watching these 10 year old students interact. I don’t remember being so sure of myself. So confident. Waves of emotions roll through the classroom, sure, but I must say, overall, most kids are just that, kids. They cheer for each other, enjoy simple pleasures, and bounce back from problems just as quickly as they arise.

I love it. The innocence.

Today, a student stood in front of the classroom, presenting her How-To project. She was making a smoothie. She was so calm, so matter-of-fact, so ready. She measured out the milk, then added some more. She plopped in some yogurt, sliced bananas, and ice. She laughed, claiming she put in too much milk. “Oh well,” she stated, as she continued. She made a mess, spilled ingredients. She vigorously shook a canister full of her cold drink. When asked why she didn’t bring a blender, she answered, without much thought, in a casual, whatever tone, “Because.” is all she said. And just as cool everyone nodded in response.

When everything was mixed up, she took a big swig of her drink. No hesitation. No worries. No concern what others might have thought. “Pretty good,” she smiled.

Students clapped. She bowed. Gathered up her items, and headed out the door to wash up her dishes.