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The Monkey and the Sprinkler

The Monkey and the Sprinkler

I arose this morning rather fearful…choosing to watch the news for a short while and then sitting in silence and waiting for the voices to come.  And then I let them talk it out amongst themselves.   

They are the monkeys in my mind, and I patiently wait for them to finish each sentence, until at least a few of them quiet themselves and settle into collective chant of some kind.  You know?  As if their progressive unity means that there is, eventually…little dissent.  Slowly, but surely, disagreement usually wanes, and the disparate voices become one, gentle tone speaking just above a whisper inside my own mind, lulling me into centeredness.  And ease.

I would love to say that this progression happens naturally, but alas, not much during these morning hours occurs naturally or without effort.  It takes much concentration and intention.  And there are mornings like this one, when the process itself seems more exhausting than all the waking hours of yesterday.

These voices come from the many parts of me but also the varied influences that have shaped my life thus far…collective beliefs and experiences that are distinctive and singular.  I mean, right?  It’s only logical that no other person has walked where I have walked, lived what I have lived or has the exact same view as I do from this particular couch this morning.

That must be okay.  I can be pissed all I want, and I can choose a side if I’m asked, and I can expound about the multitudinous issues surrounding our current political situation, but in the end?  Where does that leave me this morning?

Well, it leaves me with choice.  Choice never leaves me.  It may be the singular value the we Americans hold dear and actually EXERCISE FREELY on a regular basis.  We forget that we have it or take it for granted, often not yelling about it until we argue about fertilized eggs. Right? Sure. That’s when we are all pros at talking about choice.

We preach about values.  We protest about rights.  Those are important, for sure, but in my own little world, I consciously CHOOSE to focus on CHOICE most of the time.  

Should I do this?  Or should I do that?  What are the repercussions of this?  What terrible thing could happen if I say that?

Ugh.  Maybe even that’s Privilege speaking, right?  Not born of a specific color, but probably closer to privilege born of those varied experiences I told you about.  Isn’t it GREAT that I have so many choices this morning, as I sit upon my nice sectional of a couch, in my house that we own, in my neighborhood with good schools, in suburbia where riots seem unlikely?

Well, yes.  It is.  This privilege did not come without struggle, but I still recognize it as privilege.  Maybe some of it has been earned and some of it has been given.  I’m not entirely sure.  I worked hard.  I struggled through some tough shit.  But for the most part, I am no more valiant than you, nor my words of more importance than your own. 

I am no martyr.  I am no hero, and any of my own struggles pale in comparison to what I’ve seen and heard from others around me. And certainly pale in comparison to what people experience in other countries. (eye on the prize, people…we can do this)

Most people in recovery have been through intense struggle.  That seems to be a recurrent theme, but trauma mustn’t be allowed to be the defining feature of our present reality, unless we want to leave ourselves open to further struggles.  I’ve watched Victimville lead directly to Martyrville for some folks, so I try to be aware of when I too have taken a few steps in that general direction.  Pretty unhealthy, ya’ll.  If you want to be a hero or a saint, there might be some unhealthy part of your personality ruling your actions.  If you want to yell and voice disagreement in a disrespectful manner, perhaps you need to quiet the monkeys first. 

Nah, I rise early, so no one but myself has to deal with my monkeys.

I sat on the back porch this morning, listening to my neighbor’s broken sprinkler head spew onto our front sidewalk, which creates muddy sludge on the cement each and every morning, and I should say that this has been happening for over an hour each day for the last 4 months every. 

Single.

Day. 

And nope, I ain’t pissed yet.

You know why?  Because no one resided in the house for quite a while before it went on the market, and a South American web designer and single father moved in with his daughter a few weeks ago, and he just hasn’t gotten to that quite yet.  It’s his first house.  His daughter speaks with determined broken English, and the two of them have been moving down their list of move-in priorities…and my fucking sidewalk really isn’t high on that list.

You see?  They aren’t disrespecting ME.  They aren’t disrespecting my fucking sidewalk.  They will get to the spewing sprinkler when their monkeys have collectively decided that it warrants action.  And expense.  And Mike has offered to help with that project because?

We’re neighbors.

So, it takes a lot to annoy me.  It takes a lot to piss me off.  It takes a lot for me to ghost anyone out in my life because I try to be tolerant.  For that to happen, someone must show utter disregard for my safety or the safety of someone I love.  And I mean SAFETY, in a rather broad sense…emotional, mental, physical and even spiritual.  That’s a whole lot to consider, yes, but I find that it gets easier and easier when I think about it in those terms. 

Are THEY causing me harm?  Are they putting those I love in jeopardy in some way?  Most of the time, they aren’t.  I mean, maybe if the sprinkler head was pointed at Will’s window, I would speak up.  It’s still before 5:00 in the morning, so that would make the situation a little different, right?

So, I get over my privileged self.  I listen to the noise all around me and remind myself that the spewing will stop, eventually.  But maybe not until we offer to help.

My neighbor is in my sphere of influence.  I heard this phrase awhile back, and I’ve used it often to sum up my feelings regarding my understanding and acceptance of my own place in this world.  And, to give my interactions perspective.  Proper perspective.  I believe we are all linked, and so therefore, whatever we do or say carries on in some way, so we must be cognizant of the very tone and energy of what we are passing on.  It is akin to the age-old saying “It’s not what you say, it’s how you say it”. 

Man, I try to live by this principle.  It’s not always easy, but I hope I convey this notion.

Let me ask you a question.  If I fill this page with rants and such emotion that you either stand up in ovation or denounce my words with an ugly emoji, would that be an incitation?  Hmmm…maybe.  It depends on what my words are, right?  And it depends on the intention behind them, right?  It depends on how I CHOOSE to convey my thoughts.

I never thought in a MILLION years that I would publicly choose to write a single thing relating to politics in ANY way.  If you know me, it’s likely that you and I have NEVER had a political discussion, and even more likely that you knew that I prioritized our relationship over politics.  Well, I hope that is the case. 

All too frequently, discourse becomes discord.  And then the worst happens.  People disengage.

For the most part, my choice is to listen…as long and as hard as I possible can…patiently waiting for the monkeys to settle into some kind of collective chant.  They are in my own mind, and they are all around me, fighting to be considered, understood, and heard.

I will try to hold my tongue if my own monkeys are still talking over one another.  And I will consider the priorities of different voices, for their perspective comes from different experiences.  I will listen to them all, as long as they do not threaten my mental, emotional, spiritual and physical well-being. 

And yep, I’ll tolerate the dirty sidewalk for as long as the sprinkler spews, and when it’s fixed? I’ll express my gratitude with respect and understanding. 

In Spanish.

 

 Tame your Monkeys. Calm the Mind. Choose to Keep Listening. Be the Change.

I love you.  Now...goodbye.

I love you. Now...goodbye.

Ordinary People

Ordinary People