There is an intermittent odor in the kitchen at our summer cottage that smells like something, well, fishy I guess is the only way to describe it.
It was there again this morning briefly, as if swept in by a breeze. Only, there is never a breeze. It always manifests out of still air, like invisible fog, and then fades.
I'll never forget the first time I encountered it 13 years ago. How I scrunched up my face in awed disgust: “What is that?” I asked my husband.
It was the winter after we were married and the first time he introduced me to this place many miles north of our Naples, Florida, home. And to its other inhabitant.
“It's sometimes in the upstairs bathroom, too,” my husband said, his expression wavering between humor and bafflement. His father had also smelled it, he added.
“What is it?” I persisted.
“Don't know,” he said. “But it's been here for years."
Maybe it's because I'm female, but I decided I knew what it was: another female, in spirit form. I asked my husband if he agreed, but he still said, “I don't know.”
A week later we left the cottage and stayed the night at my mother-in-law's. When my husband flipped open his suitcase, that same peculiar stench assaulted us. We had both kept our clothes in the same closet at the cottage, but only his had acquired the odor. I was even more convinced we were dealing with a ghost, but my husband remained non-committal.
I'd never encountered a ghost before, but I'd known people who had. A Spanish teacher in high school had often regaled us with the ornery escapades of the apparition in her home, which she didn't see, only heard. It banged on pipes and turned on water faucets but never caused any harm. Years later, a friend often told me about the male ghost who came and sat on the porch of his Naples beach cottage and never spoke.
So I've always thought...hoped ghosts were mostly benign. I admit I've asked our cottage ghost, if she should decide to show herself to please do it slowly--and preferably not in the dark or when my husband is gone, so she doesn't scare the daylights out of me. Unfortunately or fortunately, she hasn't appeared.
With each passing year her frequency and malodor have lessened. And my husband has noticed she makes herself known anymore only when I'm at the cottage, either with him or alone. I'm not really sure what she thinks of me, but I've come to believe her intentions toward him are protective and motherly.
This morning, I began thinking about what to make him for dinner and, swish, she was there. Another time, we were teasing each other in the kitchen and immediately the entire room reeked. Each time she manifests, it's as if to say she approves of our union. At least, I hope that's what it means.
Because, for awhile a year ago something here wasn't approving of me.
One day out of nowhere it was as if a jumbo jet had landed in our living room, but only I could smell it. For a week the exhaust fumes would appear out of nowhere and follow me around the cottage. At times they were so intense I was sure my husband and I were being poisoned.
I begged it to leave us alone. When it didn't, I asked my husband to have the furnace checked--which he did, but the furnace man couldn't smell anything and found nothing wrong. In the end, it was only after I left the cottage that it left, too.
Still, I feel blessed. I've always believed there is more to this life than what my five senses can physically ascertain. Now I have proof of that—even if it is proof only I trust.
Maybe that's best. It keeps me reliant on my own innate sense of things; strengthens my own capacity to recognize truth in spite of what others believe—to know that my nose just knows.
QUESTION: Do you trust in your own innate sense of things and, if not, why?
(Not sure how to leave your name or pseudonym with your comment? See above left.)
Showing posts with label intuition. Show all posts
Showing posts with label intuition. Show all posts
Monday, August 16, 2010
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
What Really is Passion and Do I Have It?
When a friend suggested I write a column about passion, I laughed and looked at his wife, because she knows how confused I am about it. And no, he was not talking about sex. He was talking about that quality that makes some people leap out of bed every morning like it's the first day of their lives.
Since I am incapable of mental or physical sensation before seven a.m., I'm not one of those people. I unfold and crawl out of my warm womb-nest, but only after draining the lethargy from me and stretching every sedated muscle. In fact, I am not a leaper at any time of the day about anything really.
Which has caused me to wonder: Do I have passion or don't I?
For the friend who posed this topic to me, passion is something he never had until 10 years ago, when he got his first whiff of something he realized he wanted. During a vacation, he found himself on a boat off the coast of Florida and thought, "This is what I want someday."
Although he wasn't sure what "this" would be, he was sure he wanted to be on the water as much as possible. Four years ago, at 69, he retired, settled in Southwest Florida fulltime, and founded the first continuing longterm study of bottlenose dolphins in the region. Now, he jumps out of bed every day at five a.m. like a child on Christmas morning.
But what about people like me, who are not so much zestful about something as they are chronically pestered by it?
I became interested in writing when I was about 12, but I wasn't a gifted English student. Two big red Fs are emblazoned on my memory--along with a below average English SAT score. In college I floundered from one major to the next, never considering journalism; I assumed I wasn't good enough to be a writer. But privately I wrote poems and songs and novels I never finished, because of something inside of me that would not quit.
After college I flirted at the shallow fringes of the writing world, too afraid to dive headfirst into the deep end. First I worked for public relations firms and then for a film producer as a script reader.
To test the water a little further, when I was 24 I took a job as an editorial assistant for a small magazine here in Naples, Florida, eventually going on to became an editor and writer for various Florida lifestyle publications.
But during those years I felt an unceasing ache inside of me that said this wasn't the kind of writing I wanted to do.
The problem was, I wasn't sure what kind of writing I wanted to do. By the time I was 45 I had started but not finished 12 novels, as well as submitted 21 essays to my local newspaper, all of which were rejected. The longer I witnessed my creative writing going unpublished the more I doubted my ability.
And then I got a vision of myself at 80, full of regret for having never taken a chance on one of my dreams. The pain was so wrenching I made a promise to myself: I would write and finish a novel no matter how awful I thought it was. So I did, and then I re-wrote it five times before sending it out to agents and other writers, who told me to rewrite it again. And I have.
The latest agent called it "competent", so maybe there is hope, which I'll need to get through re-write number 12.
In the mean time, that nagging ache flared up, so I queried my local newspaper again. And now this column is published there.
As terrified as I am to be swimming in something that sometimes feels like the middle of an ocean I am grateful, because that haunting feeling isn't there anymore.
Maybe that means I'm doing what I need to do, at least for now. I do know I have a sense of contentment about this part of my life that I haven't felt before.
And although every time I sit in front of my computer I worry I'll have nothing to say, a small voice inside of me keeps urging me on, telling me not to give up.
Not even on that silly novel.
I guess that is passion.
QUESTION: Are you passionate about something and, if so, how are you honoring it?
(Not sure how to leave your name or pseudonym with your comment? See above left.)
Since I am incapable of mental or physical sensation before seven a.m., I'm not one of those people. I unfold and crawl out of my warm womb-nest, but only after draining the lethargy from me and stretching every sedated muscle. In fact, I am not a leaper at any time of the day about anything really.
Which has caused me to wonder: Do I have passion or don't I?
For the friend who posed this topic to me, passion is something he never had until 10 years ago, when he got his first whiff of something he realized he wanted. During a vacation, he found himself on a boat off the coast of Florida and thought, "This is what I want someday."
Although he wasn't sure what "this" would be, he was sure he wanted to be on the water as much as possible. Four years ago, at 69, he retired, settled in Southwest Florida fulltime, and founded the first continuing longterm study of bottlenose dolphins in the region. Now, he jumps out of bed every day at five a.m. like a child on Christmas morning.
But what about people like me, who are not so much zestful about something as they are chronically pestered by it?
I became interested in writing when I was about 12, but I wasn't a gifted English student. Two big red Fs are emblazoned on my memory--along with a below average English SAT score. In college I floundered from one major to the next, never considering journalism; I assumed I wasn't good enough to be a writer. But privately I wrote poems and songs and novels I never finished, because of something inside of me that would not quit.
After college I flirted at the shallow fringes of the writing world, too afraid to dive headfirst into the deep end. First I worked for public relations firms and then for a film producer as a script reader.
To test the water a little further, when I was 24 I took a job as an editorial assistant for a small magazine here in Naples, Florida, eventually going on to became an editor and writer for various Florida lifestyle publications.
But during those years I felt an unceasing ache inside of me that said this wasn't the kind of writing I wanted to do.
The problem was, I wasn't sure what kind of writing I wanted to do. By the time I was 45 I had started but not finished 12 novels, as well as submitted 21 essays to my local newspaper, all of which were rejected. The longer I witnessed my creative writing going unpublished the more I doubted my ability.
And then I got a vision of myself at 80, full of regret for having never taken a chance on one of my dreams. The pain was so wrenching I made a promise to myself: I would write and finish a novel no matter how awful I thought it was. So I did, and then I re-wrote it five times before sending it out to agents and other writers, who told me to rewrite it again. And I have.
The latest agent called it "competent", so maybe there is hope, which I'll need to get through re-write number 12.
In the mean time, that nagging ache flared up, so I queried my local newspaper again. And now this column is published there.
As terrified as I am to be swimming in something that sometimes feels like the middle of an ocean I am grateful, because that haunting feeling isn't there anymore.
Maybe that means I'm doing what I need to do, at least for now. I do know I have a sense of contentment about this part of my life that I haven't felt before.
And although every time I sit in front of my computer I worry I'll have nothing to say, a small voice inside of me keeps urging me on, telling me not to give up.
Not even on that silly novel.
I guess that is passion.
QUESTION: Are you passionate about something and, if so, how are you honoring it?
(Not sure how to leave your name or pseudonym with your comment? See above left.)
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
10 Cool Things I Now Know
Let me just say I haven't quite mastered walking my talk. For that reason, even though I know it isn't a good idea to offer unsolicited advice, everything that follows could be construed as that, since it's for my niece and she hasn't exactly asked me for it.
It's not that I think I know better than she what she should do in her life. I don't. And I know she has the right to learn for herself what will and will not work, without others like me butting in to confuse or complicate things.
But she turns 18 soon. And all I really have to offer that's meaningful, besides another birthday check, is the cool and helpful stuff I've learned, which, when I actually make a point of applying in my life, makes things so much easier.
And since I think the only thing worse than unsolicited advice is withholding really good secrets, I will venture to err on the good-secrets side:
1. There are always fewer jerks on the road when I leave 15 minutes earlier. I don't know why this is, it just is. And for some reason, the lines at the bank, grocery store, and post office also don't seem as slow. I learned this from a funny, wise man who's originally from Boston, which, when he says it, always sounds like Baaston.
2. Rejection is protection. I know this because years ago when I was a magazine editor, if my employer hadn't demoted me, which eventually led to my leaving, I would have never been hired by another publisher, who gave me what ended up being my favorite job in my editing career.
3. It's better than a stick in the eye. I learned this from my late father who, anytime I ever whined about something, would tell me this to help me put things in perspective.
4. Delay in life doesn't mean denial. I know this because after 10 and a half years of dating, my husband finally proposed--and we have now been married nearly 14 years.
5. People who are grumpy, mean, self-absorbed, selfish, annoying, and unpeaceful need my kindness the most. I know this because when I am any or all of these, kindness from others helps me dissolve the behavior much more quickly and shows me by example a better way to be.
6. People who are grumpy, mean, self-absorbed, selfish, annoying, and unpeaceful are my greatest teachers. I know this because the people who cause me the most un-peacefulness in my life continue to be my reason to master the art of being peaceful when the people around me aren't.
7. The difficult takes a little while, the impossible a little longer. I learned this from an elegant woman who learned it from her father. I know it's true, because since the age of 12 I've wanted to tell stories about my life, but didn't believe I was a good enough writer. Five years ago, when I suggested a column of personal essays to my local newspaper, they turned it down, confirming my fear. But I worked on my writing, queried them again, and now, at nearly 50, I am a contributor to that newspaper with this very column. So maybe it's true what Vince Lombardi said: "We didn't lose the game; we just ran out of time."
8. I am the only reason I may have a bad day today. I learned this from a truck driver who told me he wrote that bit of wisdom on a slip of paper and taped it to his bathroom mirror to remind him each morning who the real troublemaker was. I know it's true for me, because when I am agitated everyone seems mean and when I am peaceful everyone seems kind--or I don't care anyway because I'm so darn peaceful.
9. There are two kinds of business: My business and none of my business. I don't remember who I learned this from, but I'm pretty sure it was people who wanted me to stay out of their business.
10. Intuition is the best source of advice. I know this because it has always told me whether unsolicited advice--from a meddling aunt or anyone else--is worth listening to.
QUESTION: Do you pay attention to you intuition and, if not, why?
(Not sure how to leave your name or pseudonym with your comment? See above left.)
It's not that I think I know better than she what she should do in her life. I don't. And I know she has the right to learn for herself what will and will not work, without others like me butting in to confuse or complicate things.
But she turns 18 soon. And all I really have to offer that's meaningful, besides another birthday check, is the cool and helpful stuff I've learned, which, when I actually make a point of applying in my life, makes things so much easier.
And since I think the only thing worse than unsolicited advice is withholding really good secrets, I will venture to err on the good-secrets side:
1. There are always fewer jerks on the road when I leave 15 minutes earlier. I don't know why this is, it just is. And for some reason, the lines at the bank, grocery store, and post office also don't seem as slow. I learned this from a funny, wise man who's originally from Boston, which, when he says it, always sounds like Baaston.
2. Rejection is protection. I know this because years ago when I was a magazine editor, if my employer hadn't demoted me, which eventually led to my leaving, I would have never been hired by another publisher, who gave me what ended up being my favorite job in my editing career.
3. It's better than a stick in the eye. I learned this from my late father who, anytime I ever whined about something, would tell me this to help me put things in perspective.
4. Delay in life doesn't mean denial. I know this because after 10 and a half years of dating, my husband finally proposed--and we have now been married nearly 14 years.
5. People who are grumpy, mean, self-absorbed, selfish, annoying, and unpeaceful need my kindness the most. I know this because when I am any or all of these, kindness from others helps me dissolve the behavior much more quickly and shows me by example a better way to be.
6. People who are grumpy, mean, self-absorbed, selfish, annoying, and unpeaceful are my greatest teachers. I know this because the people who cause me the most un-peacefulness in my life continue to be my reason to master the art of being peaceful when the people around me aren't.
7. The difficult takes a little while, the impossible a little longer. I learned this from an elegant woman who learned it from her father. I know it's true, because since the age of 12 I've wanted to tell stories about my life, but didn't believe I was a good enough writer. Five years ago, when I suggested a column of personal essays to my local newspaper, they turned it down, confirming my fear. But I worked on my writing, queried them again, and now, at nearly 50, I am a contributor to that newspaper with this very column. So maybe it's true what Vince Lombardi said: "We didn't lose the game; we just ran out of time."
8. I am the only reason I may have a bad day today. I learned this from a truck driver who told me he wrote that bit of wisdom on a slip of paper and taped it to his bathroom mirror to remind him each morning who the real troublemaker was. I know it's true for me, because when I am agitated everyone seems mean and when I am peaceful everyone seems kind--or I don't care anyway because I'm so darn peaceful.
9. There are two kinds of business: My business and none of my business. I don't remember who I learned this from, but I'm pretty sure it was people who wanted me to stay out of their business.
10. Intuition is the best source of advice. I know this because it has always told me whether unsolicited advice--from a meddling aunt or anyone else--is worth listening to.
QUESTION: Do you pay attention to you intuition and, if not, why?
(Not sure how to leave your name or pseudonym with your comment? See above left.)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
