C.A. MacConnell
7/30/2022
7/29/2022
Horse Sense
Mornings, I look out my window,
Searching for Priscilla,
The calico, lounge-bound, stray cat
Who curled up, slept, and purred
On orange, vinyl cushions,
Never hunting
A day in her long life.
For the time of day,
I study the sun,
And the hawks,
Even though
It's not their season.
I imagine the herd’s coat colors --
Blood bay, black, grey,
Chestnut, buckskin, roan,
And I remember the warning --
A wild, white ring
Around the eye
Of one appaloosa.
I listen for the blacksmith,
the vet, the hay man,
the tractor noise,
And I worry about
Pitchforks, shovels, buckets, pipes,
And the tumultuous weather,
Because sometimes,
Back in the day,
Lightning spooked the mare.
Sometimes I wonder about
Heaven --
If it lives and breathes
Within one ear,
One tail,
One hoof,
One gravel driveway,
Or maybe inside
The darkest aisle.
I still listen for the call
Of my dapple bay horse.
His eyes were like dark saucers.
There were the others,
And then there was him.
When I was sixteen,
He was simply,
God.
I guess
I know these panes.
I guess I know that he was.
C.A. MacConnell
Searching for Priscilla,
The calico, lounge-bound, stray cat
Who curled up, slept, and purred
On orange, vinyl cushions,
Never hunting
A day in her long life.
For the time of day,
I study the sun,
And the hawks,
Even though
It's not their season.
I imagine the herd’s coat colors --
Blood bay, black, grey,
Chestnut, buckskin, roan,
And I remember the warning --
A wild, white ring
Around the eye
Of one appaloosa.
I listen for the blacksmith,
the vet, the hay man,
the tractor noise,
And I worry about
Pitchforks, shovels, buckets, pipes,
And the tumultuous weather,
Because sometimes,
Back in the day,
Lightning spooked the mare.
Sometimes I wonder about
Heaven --
If it lives and breathes
Within one ear,
One tail,
One hoof,
One gravel driveway,
Or maybe inside
The darkest aisle.
I still listen for the call
Of my dapple bay horse.
His eyes were like dark saucers.
There were the others,
And then there was him.
When I was sixteen,
He was simply,
God.
I guess
I know these panes.
I guess I know that he was.
C.A. MacConnell
7/26/2022
Photo: Meet Me Here.
Film, color, 400.
If you like this shot, and you like all things 90s, you'll like THE HOUSE OF ANCHOR, and you'll never forget the adventure inside my sophomore work.
7/24/2022
Getting Lost...or Found?
When I was little, I was spending the night at a friend's house, and in the middle of the night, I woke up and wandered around, and I had no idea how to return to her room, so I began to sneak about the halls, poking through the house. I guess I made some racket, because my friend's mom finally found me in a corridor, and she said, "What are you doing? Go back to bed." I remember thinking, Right, I'd really like to. Confused and frozen, I stared back at her. Finally, she shook her bed-head and took my hand, leading me back to the den, the sleepover room. Crawling under covers, I felt so defeated that I was "caught lost."
I distinctly remember how much I wanted to figure it all out on my own.
In high school, I was a brief member of the cross-country team. Brief…meaning, one day. Well, we were supposed to run five miles, but I got lost and ended up running eight, and I was still running my heart out until I finally flagged down some random car and hitchhiked back to school. In the bathtub that night, I decided that eight miles and thumbing rides were too much trouble, so I quit the team, and I never regretted it.
I often get lost – when I'm walking, driving, or when I'm inside buildings and strange houses. Even when I visit a familiar house, if I’ve been hanging out on the back porch, once inside, I might forget whether the kitchen was right or left. If I enter a certain building from a new direction, I always have difficulty finding the right room. If I'm looking for the bathroom, I could end up at the closet door, or I’ll forget the way back to the people. I get distracted, or I notice a collection of dog figurines, or I see a cool painting, or I stop to visit with the cat, dog, plant, hall mirror, and bobble head collection. Any number of things can take the correct route right out of my brain. So, I listen for any noise, such as the rumble of voices, to find the right way, or I stay lost, and I study whatever’s close.
Other times, I focus my attention on which way someone is leaning so that I can follow the clue/hint toward the exit hall. If they don't lean, I mutter nonsense until someone heads a certain direction, giving me the "signal." Or I shuffle a little, studying how they react. Do they widen their eyes, which means, Where are you going? Or do they simply step forward, relaxed. Sometimes, it’s a rather humorous and maddening game. I hate, hate to ask. That's what makes me panic – not the lost part, but the fear that I might have to ask, or that I might get caught in my lost state.
When driving, GPS comes in handy nowadays, sure, and I have a good sense, unless I'm daydreaming, and then I still might pass my exit and end up taking the long way. Back in the day, before cell phones, my road trips were often exceptional, but if alone, I never became stressed; I shrugged, checked out the scenery, and drove on.
Perhaps many people experience this phenomenon, but it seems that I mainly get lost when I'm anxious, bored, distracted by visuals, or when I want to be somewhere else or be with someone else. It's as if my body is saying, No, you’re not in the right place. Go over here. Or, it's this: you are not with the right people. But most of the time, I get lost because I'm attuned to the scene around me, and I see the pictures and stories in things. Some days, I imagine the whole damn movie. When I'm supposed to be pay attention to routes, I think about the sadness in the ice cream man's eyes, the unique shade of a woman’s hair, the man in coveralls at the park, the brown-eyed boy I once met in Blacksburg, one of my old professors, how I want some gum, my grocery list, or the next step for book five. At exit three, my exit, I might think this: I wonder how I'd look with a Mohawk. By the time I'm at exit five, I've decided that some people might be offended, and my head is too big for the look. And then I reroute.
But maybe getting lost has a purpose. Maybe it's about becoming "found." Through someone's help, or a divine act of Providence, I eventually end up in the right place. And maybe it’s not where I was originally supposed to be, and maybe my way is crooked as all hell, but I end up where I need to be. Maybe "winning,” “careful timing," or being on the "right path" aren't all they're cracked up to be.
Maybe it's the ridiculous “route of trying” that matters.
C.A. MacConnell
I distinctly remember how much I wanted to figure it all out on my own.
In high school, I was a brief member of the cross-country team. Brief…meaning, one day. Well, we were supposed to run five miles, but I got lost and ended up running eight, and I was still running my heart out until I finally flagged down some random car and hitchhiked back to school. In the bathtub that night, I decided that eight miles and thumbing rides were too much trouble, so I quit the team, and I never regretted it.
I often get lost – when I'm walking, driving, or when I'm inside buildings and strange houses. Even when I visit a familiar house, if I’ve been hanging out on the back porch, once inside, I might forget whether the kitchen was right or left. If I enter a certain building from a new direction, I always have difficulty finding the right room. If I'm looking for the bathroom, I could end up at the closet door, or I’ll forget the way back to the people. I get distracted, or I notice a collection of dog figurines, or I see a cool painting, or I stop to visit with the cat, dog, plant, hall mirror, and bobble head collection. Any number of things can take the correct route right out of my brain. So, I listen for any noise, such as the rumble of voices, to find the right way, or I stay lost, and I study whatever’s close.
Other times, I focus my attention on which way someone is leaning so that I can follow the clue/hint toward the exit hall. If they don't lean, I mutter nonsense until someone heads a certain direction, giving me the "signal." Or I shuffle a little, studying how they react. Do they widen their eyes, which means, Where are you going? Or do they simply step forward, relaxed. Sometimes, it’s a rather humorous and maddening game. I hate, hate to ask. That's what makes me panic – not the lost part, but the fear that I might have to ask, or that I might get caught in my lost state.
When driving, GPS comes in handy nowadays, sure, and I have a good sense, unless I'm daydreaming, and then I still might pass my exit and end up taking the long way. Back in the day, before cell phones, my road trips were often exceptional, but if alone, I never became stressed; I shrugged, checked out the scenery, and drove on.
Perhaps many people experience this phenomenon, but it seems that I mainly get lost when I'm anxious, bored, distracted by visuals, or when I want to be somewhere else or be with someone else. It's as if my body is saying, No, you’re not in the right place. Go over here. Or, it's this: you are not with the right people. But most of the time, I get lost because I'm attuned to the scene around me, and I see the pictures and stories in things. Some days, I imagine the whole damn movie. When I'm supposed to be pay attention to routes, I think about the sadness in the ice cream man's eyes, the unique shade of a woman’s hair, the man in coveralls at the park, the brown-eyed boy I once met in Blacksburg, one of my old professors, how I want some gum, my grocery list, or the next step for book five. At exit three, my exit, I might think this: I wonder how I'd look with a Mohawk. By the time I'm at exit five, I've decided that some people might be offended, and my head is too big for the look. And then I reroute.
But maybe getting lost has a purpose. Maybe it's about becoming "found." Through someone's help, or a divine act of Providence, I eventually end up in the right place. And maybe it’s not where I was originally supposed to be, and maybe my way is crooked as all hell, but I end up where I need to be. Maybe "winning,” “careful timing," or being on the "right path" aren't all they're cracked up to be.
Maybe it's the ridiculous “route of trying” that matters.
C.A. MacConnell
7/23/2022
7/22/2022
Etchings
Look close. Inside trees, faces hide
within the branches, bark, leaves,
knots, lines, and even the holes.
Outside my window, weather moves
the mouth to shift from smirk to purse.
Sometimes, a thin smile becomes
an open circle, whispering, Wow, No,
Yes, More, You, Rest, Soon, Here,
only to silently close, depending
on the rush. Eyes open, slit or shut,
half-hidden by tattered, green, thin
or thick lashes, the sideburns, scruff,
and beard come and go. Brows grow
within the branches, bark, leaves,
knots, lines, and even the holes.
Outside my window, weather moves
the mouth to shift from smirk to purse.
Sometimes, a thin smile becomes
an open circle, whispering, Wow, No,
Yes, More, You, Rest, Soon, Here,
only to silently close, depending
on the rush. Eyes open, slit or shut,
half-hidden by tattered, green, thin
or thick lashes, the sideburns, scruff,
and beard come and go. Brows grow
and disappear. Cheek bones close in,
hollow out, and with one simple storm,
she vanishes -- enough -- and he turns
full. Perhaps God, perhaps someone
small, dead or alive, sends thoughts,
a prayer drifting across the miles,
an expression riding the edge of one
lost and found lip, one single breath,
until the moment erases all features,
beginning again. There is no telling.
C.A. MacConnell
hollow out, and with one simple storm,
she vanishes -- enough -- and he turns
full. Perhaps God, perhaps someone
small, dead or alive, sends thoughts,
a prayer drifting across the miles,
an expression riding the edge of one
lost and found lip, one single breath,
until the moment erases all features,
beginning again. There is no telling.
C.A. MacConnell
7/21/2022
Photo: Underpass
Hey there, working on something for you. Until then, here are some good vibes.
Love,
C.A. MacConnell
Love,
C.A. MacConnell
7/19/2022
7/18/2022
Imaginary Intimacy: Growing Out of It, Growing Into It
When I was little, I was captivated by the persona of Kevin Costner. I saw Dances with Wolves five times in the theater, and I binge-watched it at home, learning all of the words, even the Native American languages. I read the book too. Often, I dreamed about playing the part of Mary McDonnell, and it all made sense -- I rode horses, and I revered them so much that I wanted to become one, or at least be a part of a culture that included the four-legged creatures. How I longed for a spontaneous, free life in the wilderness, and I suppose Costner became a symbol of that deep desire; I assumed that he had what I wanted, and so I adored the internal image that I created of him.
Unhealthy? Immature? Clinging to nonsense? Taking a character too far? Perhaps, but here’s the strange thing about it all – if he created the art, and I connected to it so deeply, to the point that I wanted to live inside the movie, then I guarantee, if we actually went for a trail ride, we’d at least have a kinship in real life, on real time. No, I don’t think I’d be his partner on the prairie, ha, but the conversation would be interesting to say the least. And I also don’t believe that it was all mere useless obsession. There’s a much deeper thread happening here…
I’d like to call it “imaginary intimacy.”
Later, my musings moved on to Pearl Jam. At first listen, I dug the music. Then I collected pictures, articles, merch, and albums -- even the rare tracks -- and that focus lasted through college and beyond. I was enmeshed in the scene to the point that I even lived in Seattle for a time, because I felt called to be at the heart of the mosh pits. Secretly, I wondered if I'd meet the guys, but then I worried that I would, and that it would ruin the mystique. During this time in my life, I was lost, angry, depressed, and deep into my addictions, and the grunge scene was my outlet. And similar to the situation with Costner, I identified Pearl Jam (and following tours) as a way to escape my inner turmoil. And for me, like the rest of the grunge crew at the time, there was some imaginary intimacy going on. It was as if we looked at each other, took in all of the outside appearances -- the plaid, the faded T-shirts, the shredded, too-long, battle shorts, and the combat boots -- and thought, I know you. I’m in this war with you.
And maybe it was something “out there,” and maybe I was worshipping the unknown; however, today, if I had coffee with the band, I’m sure we’d have a lot to talk about. Perhaps we wouldn’t all become close friends, but at the very least, I could tell Vedder that at one show, I landed on his boot, and I bet there would be a lot of laughs.
Today, I have a sense of humor about it all, but it’s true – at the time, the focus on these people provided me with an escape. And yes, there have been others – horse trainers, professors, musicians, coworkers, actors, and the like. It seems that in each case, certain people became symbols, and they represented whatever was missing in my life, or they provided a distraction from the growth that I didn’t want to face. Imaginary intimacy.
Indeed, I have a vivid imagination, admittedly ferocious at times, and as I grew older, instead of waning, my dreaming grew. It was (and still is, to an extent) easy for me to latch on to someone or something unavailable and dream away, getting lost in it, ignoring my true wants, desires, and the need for change. Sometimes, in the beginning, it gave me a "high" of sorts. Other times, when certain musings fiercely took a hold of my every move, I ended up depressed, raging, or severely sick, because these imaginary characters became more than mere harmless crushes or leaders. Instead, in my mind, the interactions became so real that I felt the entire relationship as if it actually existed. I felt all of the emotions – the excitement, the chase, the friendship, the fight, the makeup, the breakup, all of the noise. Seem far-fetched? People do it all the time – online relationships, text relationships, celebrity worship, following social media influencers, and more.
Therapy and various other treatments ruined the fun, but it curbed the extremes.
But were these mind excursions entirely one-sided? Sure, I suppose the experts would say such words. Indeed, there was no concrete, human, tangible interaction. But what if I said there was something important present? I was in the audience – at the movies, at the shows. I played a part in it. I played a role in their histories, no matter how small a role it may have been. Simply, I was there. My energy was there. We were both there, living and breathing, participating in some kind of common dream.
Remember that crush you had on a teacher? A coworker? That person you wanted as a partner, but he/she only wanted friendship? Perhaps it was a well-known drummer, a painter, or a writer? You felt like you knew them. You cried when they died. How about that time some man broke up with you, and you continued to imagine what he might be thinking a year later, and the possibilities seemed so real, but then you soon found out he had long since moved on? How about following the Dead? Phish? Political affiliations, feeling close to the person with the same sign in her yard? What about when you were sure some woman was into you, so much so that you read into her words and actions in the hopes that it was all true, and after a while, you believed it was, even though nothing ever happened? And again, online relationships? Text relationships? And what about emotional and/or physical affairs? Imaginary intimacy. Same idea.
Don't get me wrong. I’m grateful for my vivid imagination, as it allows me to create stories, poems, and books; however, sometimes, I need to rein it in, because in my personal life, the dreams can become too real, and they take over the reality. And in some cases, they nearly destroyed me. And when I delved into the land of dating, here’s what I did – I picked someone who I knew (subconsciously) wouldn’t work out. Over and over, I was “drawn” to these types, and it was often about sex. Of course I was drawn to them, because deep down, without even consciously realizing it, within a few months’ time, I could control it, and I knew I had an “out.” Then back to Costner or whoever.
So how do I feel now about intimacy? The reality is this: I still maintain a distance. I have many acquaintances, but few really know my insides, other than what they see on the page, and it often feels as if I'm on the outside looking in. I've always been an extreme introvert, and for others, this often proves to be quite unsettling. Sometimes, I still create intimacy in my head, or I distract myself with politics or work, or I latch on to someone I don't even know, and I make it up. Certain days, I run wild with it, but that can get out of hand. But here’s the kicker – now I’m aware of all of it, and these insights push me to grow beyond the pattern because lately, I’ve noticed that when I'm home, and all of the work is done, and I'm resting on the couch, I think, I wish I had this thing, this closeness, this partner who joins me on this tumultuous thing we call life. Interesting. Annoyingly interesting.
And so, I took a break from all of it, stayed solo, and I learned about the patterns. Now, I’m sort of in the middle. Sometimes, I entertain my visions and other times, I fight against them, and when I’m out and about, I maintain some disguise of aloof normalcy. Still nonsense? Sill unhealthy? Hm, perhaps, but there’s more to this mess, because although I pay attention to the experts, I still retain a scrap of my internal magical voice, because my thinking is a culmination of all of my learning – professional, personal, and spiritual – and that’s part of who I am. And I still believe in dreaming, because sometimes the dreams do indeed become real. The old “be careful what you wish for” scenario.
Here and now, the answer doesn’t seem so black and white. Overall, I see grey. In my experience, real, true love with friends, partners, or whoever, reaches far beyond the mere highs and lows; rather, it is deep, hard as hell, and it pushes a person to grow. You see, I may continue to dream about someone “out there,” but now that my eyes are open, and I’m aware of my limitations, as well as the push behind it all, I believe that there’s a whole other possibility that exists within imaginary intimacy, and that is this: I could let go, see the future, continue to grow, and whether a connection comes through someone famous or the milk man, I can rest assured that all is well, because somewhere along the line, there surely exists one strange bird who will dream right back.
C.A. MacConnell
Unhealthy? Immature? Clinging to nonsense? Taking a character too far? Perhaps, but here’s the strange thing about it all – if he created the art, and I connected to it so deeply, to the point that I wanted to live inside the movie, then I guarantee, if we actually went for a trail ride, we’d at least have a kinship in real life, on real time. No, I don’t think I’d be his partner on the prairie, ha, but the conversation would be interesting to say the least. And I also don’t believe that it was all mere useless obsession. There’s a much deeper thread happening here…
I’d like to call it “imaginary intimacy.”
Later, my musings moved on to Pearl Jam. At first listen, I dug the music. Then I collected pictures, articles, merch, and albums -- even the rare tracks -- and that focus lasted through college and beyond. I was enmeshed in the scene to the point that I even lived in Seattle for a time, because I felt called to be at the heart of the mosh pits. Secretly, I wondered if I'd meet the guys, but then I worried that I would, and that it would ruin the mystique. During this time in my life, I was lost, angry, depressed, and deep into my addictions, and the grunge scene was my outlet. And similar to the situation with Costner, I identified Pearl Jam (and following tours) as a way to escape my inner turmoil. And for me, like the rest of the grunge crew at the time, there was some imaginary intimacy going on. It was as if we looked at each other, took in all of the outside appearances -- the plaid, the faded T-shirts, the shredded, too-long, battle shorts, and the combat boots -- and thought, I know you. I’m in this war with you.
And maybe it was something “out there,” and maybe I was worshipping the unknown; however, today, if I had coffee with the band, I’m sure we’d have a lot to talk about. Perhaps we wouldn’t all become close friends, but at the very least, I could tell Vedder that at one show, I landed on his boot, and I bet there would be a lot of laughs.
Today, I have a sense of humor about it all, but it’s true – at the time, the focus on these people provided me with an escape. And yes, there have been others – horse trainers, professors, musicians, coworkers, actors, and the like. It seems that in each case, certain people became symbols, and they represented whatever was missing in my life, or they provided a distraction from the growth that I didn’t want to face. Imaginary intimacy.
Indeed, I have a vivid imagination, admittedly ferocious at times, and as I grew older, instead of waning, my dreaming grew. It was (and still is, to an extent) easy for me to latch on to someone or something unavailable and dream away, getting lost in it, ignoring my true wants, desires, and the need for change. Sometimes, in the beginning, it gave me a "high" of sorts. Other times, when certain musings fiercely took a hold of my every move, I ended up depressed, raging, or severely sick, because these imaginary characters became more than mere harmless crushes or leaders. Instead, in my mind, the interactions became so real that I felt the entire relationship as if it actually existed. I felt all of the emotions – the excitement, the chase, the friendship, the fight, the makeup, the breakup, all of the noise. Seem far-fetched? People do it all the time – online relationships, text relationships, celebrity worship, following social media influencers, and more.
Therapy and various other treatments ruined the fun, but it curbed the extremes.
But were these mind excursions entirely one-sided? Sure, I suppose the experts would say such words. Indeed, there was no concrete, human, tangible interaction. But what if I said there was something important present? I was in the audience – at the movies, at the shows. I played a part in it. I played a role in their histories, no matter how small a role it may have been. Simply, I was there. My energy was there. We were both there, living and breathing, participating in some kind of common dream.
Remember that crush you had on a teacher? A coworker? That person you wanted as a partner, but he/she only wanted friendship? Perhaps it was a well-known drummer, a painter, or a writer? You felt like you knew them. You cried when they died. How about that time some man broke up with you, and you continued to imagine what he might be thinking a year later, and the possibilities seemed so real, but then you soon found out he had long since moved on? How about following the Dead? Phish? Political affiliations, feeling close to the person with the same sign in her yard? What about when you were sure some woman was into you, so much so that you read into her words and actions in the hopes that it was all true, and after a while, you believed it was, even though nothing ever happened? And again, online relationships? Text relationships? And what about emotional and/or physical affairs? Imaginary intimacy. Same idea.
Don't get me wrong. I’m grateful for my vivid imagination, as it allows me to create stories, poems, and books; however, sometimes, I need to rein it in, because in my personal life, the dreams can become too real, and they take over the reality. And in some cases, they nearly destroyed me. And when I delved into the land of dating, here’s what I did – I picked someone who I knew (subconsciously) wouldn’t work out. Over and over, I was “drawn” to these types, and it was often about sex. Of course I was drawn to them, because deep down, without even consciously realizing it, within a few months’ time, I could control it, and I knew I had an “out.” Then back to Costner or whoever.
So how do I feel now about intimacy? The reality is this: I still maintain a distance. I have many acquaintances, but few really know my insides, other than what they see on the page, and it often feels as if I'm on the outside looking in. I've always been an extreme introvert, and for others, this often proves to be quite unsettling. Sometimes, I still create intimacy in my head, or I distract myself with politics or work, or I latch on to someone I don't even know, and I make it up. Certain days, I run wild with it, but that can get out of hand. But here’s the kicker – now I’m aware of all of it, and these insights push me to grow beyond the pattern because lately, I’ve noticed that when I'm home, and all of the work is done, and I'm resting on the couch, I think, I wish I had this thing, this closeness, this partner who joins me on this tumultuous thing we call life. Interesting. Annoyingly interesting.
And so, I took a break from all of it, stayed solo, and I learned about the patterns. Now, I’m sort of in the middle. Sometimes, I entertain my visions and other times, I fight against them, and when I’m out and about, I maintain some disguise of aloof normalcy. Still nonsense? Sill unhealthy? Hm, perhaps, but there’s more to this mess, because although I pay attention to the experts, I still retain a scrap of my internal magical voice, because my thinking is a culmination of all of my learning – professional, personal, and spiritual – and that’s part of who I am. And I still believe in dreaming, because sometimes the dreams do indeed become real. The old “be careful what you wish for” scenario.
Here and now, the answer doesn’t seem so black and white. Overall, I see grey. In my experience, real, true love with friends, partners, or whoever, reaches far beyond the mere highs and lows; rather, it is deep, hard as hell, and it pushes a person to grow. You see, I may continue to dream about someone “out there,” but now that my eyes are open, and I’m aware of my limitations, as well as the push behind it all, I believe that there’s a whole other possibility that exists within imaginary intimacy, and that is this: I could let go, see the future, continue to grow, and whether a connection comes through someone famous or the milk man, I can rest assured that all is well, because somewhere along the line, there surely exists one strange bird who will dream right back.
C.A. MacConnell
7/16/2022
7/15/2022
Mental Tapes.
Don't we all have mornings where we look in the mirror and think this: I look like absolute shit. Well, I suppose I don't know if you do, but I do, for sure. Had that thought this morning. And yesterday. I suppose we all have some sort of old mental tape that plays over and over in the mind. Maybe the tapes are different, but they creep up on us at the strangest times.
Mental tapes. Maybe some girl wakes up terrified of work because when she was little her father told her she would never succeed and every day, she battles this demon (coworker). Some kid at the U.S. border wonders if he'll ever see his parents again because throughout his entire life, the outside world has stripped him of relatives, one by one, with no fucking warning (coworker). Some older woman (my grandma) collects canned goods because when she was little, there was no food in the house. Some man ferociously cleans his car at the self-service wash, even though he already did it once that day, because when he was little, his father lost it all gambling, and the message is clear to him: the work is never enough (friend). And deep inside me, there are still the remnants of myself as a little girl, depressed and full of self-hatred.
The tapes play on; they creep up on us in the strangest moments. Some people are never aware of these tapes. Others are. Awareness can be a beast...over time, I've worked to fight against these negative mental tapes, and there's been great progress, but I suppose we all carry the deepest ones with us for years...maybe some of us hold on to them our entire lives.
These days, I mainly battle self-esteem issues and fear. What makes me most afraid? It changes, but lately, judgment of my life and body, and the fear of being stuck. Trapped.
But there's something miraculous within all of this -- with all of these highs and lows, with all of these battles within us -- these pains can bring us together, when we share what lies beneath.
And so, I share with you.
C.A. MacConnell
Mental tapes. Maybe some girl wakes up terrified of work because when she was little her father told her she would never succeed and every day, she battles this demon (coworker). Some kid at the U.S. border wonders if he'll ever see his parents again because throughout his entire life, the outside world has stripped him of relatives, one by one, with no fucking warning (coworker). Some older woman (my grandma) collects canned goods because when she was little, there was no food in the house. Some man ferociously cleans his car at the self-service wash, even though he already did it once that day, because when he was little, his father lost it all gambling, and the message is clear to him: the work is never enough (friend). And deep inside me, there are still the remnants of myself as a little girl, depressed and full of self-hatred.
The tapes play on; they creep up on us in the strangest moments. Some people are never aware of these tapes. Others are. Awareness can be a beast...over time, I've worked to fight against these negative mental tapes, and there's been great progress, but I suppose we all carry the deepest ones with us for years...maybe some of us hold on to them our entire lives.
These days, I mainly battle self-esteem issues and fear. What makes me most afraid? It changes, but lately, judgment of my life and body, and the fear of being stuck. Trapped.
But there's something miraculous within all of this -- with all of these highs and lows, with all of these battles within us -- these pains can bring us together, when we share what lies beneath.
And so, I share with you.
C.A. MacConnell
7/14/2022
Beating Yourself Up.
Off the top of my head just now. Hope you like it. Love to you. C.A.
Beating Yourself Up
Beating Yourself Up
Well, I royally screwed up at work yesterday, and this morning, I guess I was beating myself up some, but then I contacted who I needed to, remained honest, and regrouped, because I know I'm too hard on myself at times, and when I'm too hard on myself, I'm often too hard on others as well. And later on, I'm always reminded that oftentimes, I simply don't know all of the information. And sometimes, I just fuck up and learn from it.
And then, I thought about last week, when that woman at the grocery took the last bag of chips right from under my hand ... well, maybe, at home, her husband abuses her, and if she doesn't bring the right chips home, there will be hell to pay. Who knows? That woman yesterday -- the one who gave me a downright evil look because I was in her way -- perhaps she has cancer, and she's late for a doctor's appointment, and there I was, holding her back from a crucial visit. I have no idea, really. Yeah, I don't know. It's OK to not know. And she had no idea what I was struggling with either.
And then, I thought about last week, when that woman at the grocery took the last bag of chips right from under my hand ... well, maybe, at home, her husband abuses her, and if she doesn't bring the right chips home, there will be hell to pay. Who knows? That woman yesterday -- the one who gave me a downright evil look because I was in her way -- perhaps she has cancer, and she's late for a doctor's appointment, and there I was, holding her back from a crucial visit. I have no idea, really. Yeah, I don't know. It's OK to not know. And she had no idea what I was struggling with either.
But be easy, be compassionate.
When it comes down to it, and when I see these strangers, what I see is a mere glimpse, and what they see of me is the same. Just as they have no idea what I may be grappling with today, when they come to me as a momentary snapshot of who they are, I have no idea about the culmination of their life's pains and challenges. Same goes for the internet -- day in, day out, we see stark images of people's lives, but the true, whole story remains unseen. Smiling in the picture? Sure. But behind the scenes, maybe a person is curling up on the floor, weeping. And surely, at times, they are. Because we're all human. No one escapes the gamut of feelings.
Be easy on yourself today. Be easy on others. I have to remember that often, I don't know all of the information. I may not know someone's history, current setbacks, and the like. And for sure, when I am stressed or acting out of character, as I was yesterday, there is always a reason. Same for others. Maybe it's deep-seated, from the past. Or maybe it's a current problem lurking on the brain, but whatever it is, overall, there is a reason, albeit complex at times.
Today, let me treat myself with care and compassion. Let me have empathy for others. Because when I see your face, your actions, and your gestures, it is merely a surface glimpse of who you really are as a whole. Regardless of the encounter, let me react with grace and ease...and save myself and you from added stress, because we all surely need to feel safe.
Seems to me, from billionaires to street punks, we're all searching for some kind of family, comfort, and peace. So, I can stop beating myself up, and I can ease up on the rest of the world as well. Because some days, I'm no more than a reactive kid, kicking and screaming, but in reality, I'm seeking out what I know as this: home.
C.A. MacConnell
When it comes down to it, and when I see these strangers, what I see is a mere glimpse, and what they see of me is the same. Just as they have no idea what I may be grappling with today, when they come to me as a momentary snapshot of who they are, I have no idea about the culmination of their life's pains and challenges. Same goes for the internet -- day in, day out, we see stark images of people's lives, but the true, whole story remains unseen. Smiling in the picture? Sure. But behind the scenes, maybe a person is curling up on the floor, weeping. And surely, at times, they are. Because we're all human. No one escapes the gamut of feelings.
Be easy on yourself today. Be easy on others. I have to remember that often, I don't know all of the information. I may not know someone's history, current setbacks, and the like. And for sure, when I am stressed or acting out of character, as I was yesterday, there is always a reason. Same for others. Maybe it's deep-seated, from the past. Or maybe it's a current problem lurking on the brain, but whatever it is, overall, there is a reason, albeit complex at times.
Today, let me treat myself with care and compassion. Let me have empathy for others. Because when I see your face, your actions, and your gestures, it is merely a surface glimpse of who you really are as a whole. Regardless of the encounter, let me react with grace and ease...and save myself and you from added stress, because we all surely need to feel safe.
Seems to me, from billionaires to street punks, we're all searching for some kind of family, comfort, and peace. So, I can stop beating myself up, and I can ease up on the rest of the world as well. Because some days, I'm no more than a reactive kid, kicking and screaming, but in reality, I'm seeking out what I know as this: home.
C.A. MacConnell
7/13/2022
The Great Artistic Leap
A while back, I headed over to the Art Museum. I haven't been to this museum since about 2010, and I'd been looking forward to seeing the new exhibit. While my buddy and I were checking out the art, a Group Tour started following us; it seemed like wherever we went -- ducking down corridors, hiding like snipers -- that damn Group Tour was in the way. So, when I came upon one particular, rather shocking piece of work that leaked out on to the floor about ten feet, Group Tour was in the way again. So, considering myself a genius, I decided I'd just jump over the part that was taking up floor space. Indeed, at first, I had planned to step on it, since I really did think it was interactive art, and there was no sign there, but then I thought the jump was doable, and I wanted to see if I could make it.*
So, I jumped, and even though I was wearing my platform Chucks, I cleared the above-mentioned artwork with ease. Think Supergirl, She-Ra, Xena, the warrior princess, you get the drift. For a moment, I felt like I was wearing armor, carrying a sword, and getting ready for a date with He-Man in the Museum Cafe.
Then I heard the entire Group Tour gasp. Group Tour Leader let out the loudest gasp. All heads turned. To look. At me.
Yes, it was clear that all thirty or so Group Tourists thought that I was beyond disrespectful, as well as an absolute plebeian when it came to the land of art. And then I was in more trouble.
See, right then and there, a female officer grabbed my arm and whispered, "Ma'am, please walk around it." She grabbed my arm tighter, and she wasn't showing any signs of letting go.
I thought for sure I'd get arrested or kicked out. I muttered, "Yes, yes, there was no sign. So sorry," I said, feeling shy, ridiculous, and embarrassed. I had completely cleared it, and I was proud of my jump, but I suddenly realized that my bold move was akin to someone attempting to leap over a Picasso like it was a sprinkler. "So sorry," I said again, turning into neon pinkish salmon goo. Then I hesitantly looked up and smiled at the officer, and when I studied her face, my eyes widened, and I was the one to start gasping. She wasn't any old officer. I knew her. From way back. At one time, she had been a close friend. "Oh my gosh! Tonya! (name changed) It's you!" I shouted, totally disrupting Guided Tour again.
I leaned in, tightly hugging Tonya's uniform.
"Christine, that's you!" Tonya shouted. With strong arms, she hugged me back, and then she squinted to get a better look at me. A light beamed from her deep brown eyes. "How the hell are you?" She laughed. "So good to see you!"
Then we embraced again, and we caught up for a good long while right there next to Group Tour and the art.
Group Tour Leader struggled to keep her group's attention while Tonya and I talked and yelled and laughed, cutting it up right by the edge of the art that I'd cleared with my mammoth jump.*
I'd like to say that the lesson made me more subdued, but as my buddy and I waved goodbye to officer Tonya and the exhibit, I couldn't resist creeping up behind Group Tour Leader to make bunny ears behind her head while she talked to her thirty listeners.
I dunno, I think I would've made the artists proud, because this particular exhibit was about the barriers that prevent us from connecting with each other as human beings. If I wouldn't have decided to push the limits, to take a small risk, I never would have known officer Tonya was there that day. I never would've been able to reconnect with my long-lost friend. And there, right in front of a display of a quite disturbing work of art, Tonya and I were embracing with ease.
Amidst the chaos, amidst the pain, the universe provides us with loving comfort through those around us, if only for a moment. So surprisingly enough, I never got kicked out. Sometimes, for me, the lessons of art happen right on time.
And it pays to know the security.
C.A. MacConnell
*The jump was not far at all. I am known to be a terrible jumper, because I wear pants with really long crotches, so for me, I act as if it were an Olympic leap, when it was actually only 2 feet at most.
So, I jumped, and even though I was wearing my platform Chucks, I cleared the above-mentioned artwork with ease. Think Supergirl, She-Ra, Xena, the warrior princess, you get the drift. For a moment, I felt like I was wearing armor, carrying a sword, and getting ready for a date with He-Man in the Museum Cafe.
Then I heard the entire Group Tour gasp. Group Tour Leader let out the loudest gasp. All heads turned. To look. At me.
Yes, it was clear that all thirty or so Group Tourists thought that I was beyond disrespectful, as well as an absolute plebeian when it came to the land of art. And then I was in more trouble.
See, right then and there, a female officer grabbed my arm and whispered, "Ma'am, please walk around it." She grabbed my arm tighter, and she wasn't showing any signs of letting go.
I thought for sure I'd get arrested or kicked out. I muttered, "Yes, yes, there was no sign. So sorry," I said, feeling shy, ridiculous, and embarrassed. I had completely cleared it, and I was proud of my jump, but I suddenly realized that my bold move was akin to someone attempting to leap over a Picasso like it was a sprinkler. "So sorry," I said again, turning into neon pinkish salmon goo. Then I hesitantly looked up and smiled at the officer, and when I studied her face, my eyes widened, and I was the one to start gasping. She wasn't any old officer. I knew her. From way back. At one time, she had been a close friend. "Oh my gosh! Tonya! (name changed) It's you!" I shouted, totally disrupting Guided Tour again.
I leaned in, tightly hugging Tonya's uniform.
"Christine, that's you!" Tonya shouted. With strong arms, she hugged me back, and then she squinted to get a better look at me. A light beamed from her deep brown eyes. "How the hell are you?" She laughed. "So good to see you!"
Then we embraced again, and we caught up for a good long while right there next to Group Tour and the art.
Group Tour Leader struggled to keep her group's attention while Tonya and I talked and yelled and laughed, cutting it up right by the edge of the art that I'd cleared with my mammoth jump.*
I'd like to say that the lesson made me more subdued, but as my buddy and I waved goodbye to officer Tonya and the exhibit, I couldn't resist creeping up behind Group Tour Leader to make bunny ears behind her head while she talked to her thirty listeners.
I dunno, I think I would've made the artists proud, because this particular exhibit was about the barriers that prevent us from connecting with each other as human beings. If I wouldn't have decided to push the limits, to take a small risk, I never would have known officer Tonya was there that day. I never would've been able to reconnect with my long-lost friend. And there, right in front of a display of a quite disturbing work of art, Tonya and I were embracing with ease.
Amidst the chaos, amidst the pain, the universe provides us with loving comfort through those around us, if only for a moment. So surprisingly enough, I never got kicked out. Sometimes, for me, the lessons of art happen right on time.
And it pays to know the security.
C.A. MacConnell
*The jump was not far at all. I am known to be a terrible jumper, because I wear pants with really long crotches, so for me, I act as if it were an Olympic leap, when it was actually only 2 feet at most.
7/12/2022
7/11/2022
Everyone Is in the Band
"There's no leader of this band, and there never will be. That's the key. You can't control how the public perceives you -- people see rock 'n' roll bands as the guitar player and the singer." -- Shannon Hoon
In everything we do, people slip into curious "roles." For a while, I was described as the “horse girl.” Then the “yoga girl.” Now, I suppose I’m the “writer.” But when I get deeper with it, something interesting comes to mind; I’m aware that these roles are merely created out of perception. And how I see others is directly related to my personal perception, to be exact.
But strangely, in a spiritual realm, these titles or labels don’t seem to exist at all. Because according to nature and all great spiritual leaders, everyone in the band is indeed important, so why do we single people out and raise them up as if they're "the ones"? And why do others disappear, fading into the background? Why do we film someone having breakfast? Why does someone else dine alone next to the sewer grate? Why does one man’s swipe of hand determine the fate of an entire country?
Throughout my day, I may glance around and see someone as a manager, an actor, a spoiled child, a diplomat, or a thief. But when it comes down to it, these perceptions are just that – perceptions. Superstar, punk, janitor, drummer, executive, chef, dishwasher, president -- all perception. Because what rests inside the soul may be altogether different and complex. Indeed, paying attention to the soul takes a wicked, devoted, spiritual gangster. In every great religious, psychic, or sacred text, from Native American philosophy to Christianity, there exists the creation story, as well as the notion of soul, or “god on the inside,” or the holy ghost, or the Buddha, or whatever name we choose. Jesus, Gandhi – part human, part divine, a mirror. Like us.
So take a look at the chef. Maybe he secretly wants to make butterfly wood carvings, and that is his true calling. Maybe the executive would rather be a tour guide in the Grand Canyon. Maybe the drummer dreams of swimming across random oceans, because he loves sharks. And perhaps the superstar simply wants to curl up on the couch with someone and experience love, but he or she can't seem to find it inside the work, because he never learned how to love. Maybe that guy with millions of followers can never feel full, because what he really wants is a son or a daughter. And then there’s me – I’d rather be holding hands with someone, taking a walk, instead of writing this piece, but I’ve failed to make that leap, because I am afraid, and I never learned how to receive love. The “god inside” is telling us these whispery hints each and every day.
But since we are human, sometimes we fail to hear the voice.
If we all saw each other as spirits here to follow a true purpose, the labels would ultimately disappear. We would be dead even, on a collective journey, and the appearances and roles wouldn't matter at all. We would simply understand that each person’s ultimate “reach” was true and right.
Everyone is in the band. And if all of the spiritual giants are even remotely on target, no one is the director. We are all here trying to figure things out, which means that no one human being is in charge. I have no say on your true path, and you have no say on my true path, because the answers rest within our own souls, and within our own divine direction.
Seems to me that everyone is in the band, and everything is a free choice.
Nature knows this. Within nature, at all times, each part pays attention to the “god inside.” Nature, as a whole, is the ultimate representation of individual divine purpose. Seems to me that any shark, worm, black snake, dogwood tree, blade of grass, or forest understands the reciprocal need that is necessary for planet survival. Each acts individually as part of a perfect whole. And yet, God, or whatever you choose to call the divine order of things, is invisible, intangible, and mysterious; the “unseen” shows the true power of ultimate love, and the mystery of it allows us all to have complete free will.
If we mimicked nature, it would be a definitive expression of freedom within a collective pattern. Seems to me that when it comes to free choice, any Moses, Eve, Gandhi, or Noah would agree. Seems to me that all of creation and God, however one names this being, this force, this intangible, unknown band leader, would agree.
Today, you are “the reader,” and I may be “the writer,” but tomorrow, I may want to set my books on fire and become a skydiver. And no god would stop me from doing so, because as it has been since the beginning of time, what I do with my body is a free choice, one made by no man alive. Amen.
C.A. MacConnell
In everything we do, people slip into curious "roles." For a while, I was described as the “horse girl.” Then the “yoga girl.” Now, I suppose I’m the “writer.” But when I get deeper with it, something interesting comes to mind; I’m aware that these roles are merely created out of perception. And how I see others is directly related to my personal perception, to be exact.
But strangely, in a spiritual realm, these titles or labels don’t seem to exist at all. Because according to nature and all great spiritual leaders, everyone in the band is indeed important, so why do we single people out and raise them up as if they're "the ones"? And why do others disappear, fading into the background? Why do we film someone having breakfast? Why does someone else dine alone next to the sewer grate? Why does one man’s swipe of hand determine the fate of an entire country?
Throughout my day, I may glance around and see someone as a manager, an actor, a spoiled child, a diplomat, or a thief. But when it comes down to it, these perceptions are just that – perceptions. Superstar, punk, janitor, drummer, executive, chef, dishwasher, president -- all perception. Because what rests inside the soul may be altogether different and complex. Indeed, paying attention to the soul takes a wicked, devoted, spiritual gangster. In every great religious, psychic, or sacred text, from Native American philosophy to Christianity, there exists the creation story, as well as the notion of soul, or “god on the inside,” or the holy ghost, or the Buddha, or whatever name we choose. Jesus, Gandhi – part human, part divine, a mirror. Like us.
So take a look at the chef. Maybe he secretly wants to make butterfly wood carvings, and that is his true calling. Maybe the executive would rather be a tour guide in the Grand Canyon. Maybe the drummer dreams of swimming across random oceans, because he loves sharks. And perhaps the superstar simply wants to curl up on the couch with someone and experience love, but he or she can't seem to find it inside the work, because he never learned how to love. Maybe that guy with millions of followers can never feel full, because what he really wants is a son or a daughter. And then there’s me – I’d rather be holding hands with someone, taking a walk, instead of writing this piece, but I’ve failed to make that leap, because I am afraid, and I never learned how to receive love. The “god inside” is telling us these whispery hints each and every day.
But since we are human, sometimes we fail to hear the voice.
If we all saw each other as spirits here to follow a true purpose, the labels would ultimately disappear. We would be dead even, on a collective journey, and the appearances and roles wouldn't matter at all. We would simply understand that each person’s ultimate “reach” was true and right.
Everyone is in the band. And if all of the spiritual giants are even remotely on target, no one is the director. We are all here trying to figure things out, which means that no one human being is in charge. I have no say on your true path, and you have no say on my true path, because the answers rest within our own souls, and within our own divine direction.
Seems to me that everyone is in the band, and everything is a free choice.
Nature knows this. Within nature, at all times, each part pays attention to the “god inside.” Nature, as a whole, is the ultimate representation of individual divine purpose. Seems to me that any shark, worm, black snake, dogwood tree, blade of grass, or forest understands the reciprocal need that is necessary for planet survival. Each acts individually as part of a perfect whole. And yet, God, or whatever you choose to call the divine order of things, is invisible, intangible, and mysterious; the “unseen” shows the true power of ultimate love, and the mystery of it allows us all to have complete free will.
If we mimicked nature, it would be a definitive expression of freedom within a collective pattern. Seems to me that when it comes to free choice, any Moses, Eve, Gandhi, or Noah would agree. Seems to me that all of creation and God, however one names this being, this force, this intangible, unknown band leader, would agree.
Today, you are “the reader,” and I may be “the writer,” but tomorrow, I may want to set my books on fire and become a skydiver. And no god would stop me from doing so, because as it has been since the beginning of time, what I do with my body is a free choice, one made by no man alive. Amen.
C.A. MacConnell
7/10/2022
blanket
blanket
outside, the shy,
cooler front
settles down
on our sky
inside, the air
turns thin
and mean
we crawl under
covers,
tossing,
and God knows
we'll never stop
moving
your slight
hand
graces my collar
bone
-- C.A. MacConnell
7/08/2022
Love, a Weapon
Love, a Weapon
Strangely, we had two tornadoes touch down here a few days ago, less than ten minutes from where I'm sitting right now. And these surprise twisters were very much out of season. Just a few streets up, there was plenty of wreckage, and an enormous tree fell, destroying a home that belongs to some friends of mine -- a sweet couple with a brand-new miracle baby, as the mom is in her forties. Luckily, Dad was at work, and Mom and baby were in the bathtub when the tree demolished the building, but the two were stuck in there until the firemen came.
The next day, I was caught up in outside stress, but then I called to ask the mom if she needed anything, and she responded, "No, we're all OK. We're at my mom's. We're lucky we have a place to go. No one is hurt." Also, miraculously, most of their formula and diapers had remained intact and dry. Then she laughed and said, "The baby thought it was bath time, and she was looking at me like she was wondering why I didn't turn on the water."
And even with the horrendous noise, that little girl never cried. Not once. Rather than shed a tear, rather than worry about herself, she focused on her mom, who remained strong. The baby focused on what she knew as love. And for that baby, in that moment, love itself summed up her entire world.
It touched my heart and jerked me into reality, reminding me of what's crucial to all of us. Nothing can keep us from love. Nothing. Love, kindness, concentrated positive thoughts, and human empathy -- these are the real weapons in this life.
You are important. We are all important. I dearly love these friends for showing me the truth and today, humbly, I'm reminded of these utmost important life lessons, not by a guru or great leader, but rather, I'm reminded by an infant. Despite the disruptions all around, I will strive to continue to be a channel of goodness, because my actions, and your actions, today...well, simply put, they mean everything. And together, we can turn a tornado into bath time. We can turn turmoil into quietude, comfort, and tranquility.
The stuff of movies? Perhaps. But every film began with one person's speck of a dream, one person's miniscule thought, a thought that later turned into a complex, real creation, and it is up to us to determine how this world's movie ends. If we focus, if we act in the spirit of goodness, if we grasp the notion that each moment is an opportunity for connections and grace, nothing can keep us from love.
C.A. MacConnell
7/05/2022
Uncle Ralph
a prose poem
Today, I was walking, and a fierce storm rolled in. When I stared into the trees, I watched the wind gently move countless branches. I squinted to see the curious reach of leaves and how, through the storm, they finally moved to touch one another. Almost, I could hear them laughing together. Knowingly. For many years, surely some were waiting for the right storm to bend them into feeling the friend next door. I could almost hear them whisper, Keep walking. Someday, it'll happen to you.
Lightning struck beside me, hitting the field near the batting cage, but I never flinched. See, some ducks hid in the runoff. Others stayed near the lake, telling me all was safe. Soon, a chipmunk crossed the path, heading for the other side. A pair of young deer spooked me in the woods. Geese gathered near the boat launch zone. Two teens fished, then stopped, hooks stuck in the thick weeds.
Soon, a three-year-old girl showed me her new, watermelon, clip-on earrings, and when I asked her if they hurt, she said, No. Come August 12, she'll be four. My mom looked and looked for these, she said. What pets do you have? she asked me. I answered, I had one cat, but now he's in heaven. She smiled wide, showing all teeth, and then her eyes widened, and she responded, Don't worry. He's with my Uncle Ralph. And you're with me.
C.A. MacConnell
7/04/2022
The Great Teachers. Part Two.
The Great Teachers. Part Two.
Same essay as the post from two days ago, below, if written by a six-year-old girl. Read the first 'The Great Teachers' first. Ha. Just messing around.
Wow, it was so cool. And so strange, I dropped my sucker. I saw this pretty girl, and she told me her name was Laurie, but she talked kinda funny, because she couldn’t hear right, but I guess she got me, because she was real nice, and she talked back all fast. Not like Grandpa, who spits when he talks, but fast. Laurie told me she was once really fat, so she doesn’t eat ice cream, but when I saw her at UDF, when I was ordering my sherbert, rainbow, you know, Laurie was staring at my lips all creepy. She told me she lost 100 pounds, and I almost threw up. Whoa, I’m glad. I had sprinkles and everything.
But I have a secret. I actually met her before! When I was at a boring meeting with my mom, because my mom used to drink cough syrup I think, and it made her fall down all the time, and her face would get all blue. Don’t know why Laurie was at that meeting, but that’s when she first talked to me too loud, and I couldn’t believe she used to be chubby, because she looked like a movie star to me, and most of those people aren’t chubby, but I guess some are. And some have big butts, now that I think about it. I dunno. Anyway, Laurie helped my mom paint her kitchen, which was kind of messy with the yellow, and she talked about heaven a lot, because she thought it sounded happy, I guess. My mom kept having her over, so they were besties, and then my mom and I started going over to Laurie’s house for tater tots, but Laurie could only have five, and I always had at least ten, which made me fart so much.
We went over all the time, and it was fun, because she had some big, scary dogs, but they gave me kisses, and wow, they had bad breath. Gross. I wouldn’t go in there if I was a bad man, though, because those dogs would probably get real mad and eat you.
Whenever we went over to Laurie’s, she stopped cleaning, and we watched movies like Toy Story, which was OK, but I like dog movies or puppets better. I liked to get in my blankie and feel the fur on those dogs. Laurie always tucked me in. We hung out at Laurie’s a lot, and mom and Laurie drank coffee, which gave them bad breath, like the dogs, but I never told them because I’m not mean. Sometimes, Mom and Laurie prayed, but they didn’t make me pray, because I was too little. Laurie stared a lot, because she couldn’t hear, but she let us come over whenever, and she even gave mom a key to the house. So, one time, Mom and I went over when Laurie wasn’t home, and Mom let me fingerpaint on the wall, which was so cool. I thought Laurie might get mad when she got home, but she gave me a high five, so she liked it.
Laurie helped my mom clean and do dishes all the time. I knew she wasn’t our cleaning lady, because we never had one, but she did lots of stuff at the house for no reason at all, which sounds weird. But then, one day, we had to move back to Ohio, because my mom got sick, and we needed Grandma, because Mom didn’t want to drink cough syrup again, I think. So, I missed Laurie when we moved, but I was happy when Mom told me she was really an angel.
Now that we’re back in Ohio, Mom tells me that Laurie was a teacher too, like my teachers at school who make us line up and do the drills, then take us to the lunchroom. Oh my god, I love pizza day. I hate pickles, but my friend Becky eats them every day. Laurie would never make me eat pickles, and I bet she’s fingerpainting right now. Mom tells me that Laurie saved her life, like a superhero. So cool that I met a superhero in real life.
The other day, when Mom dropped me off at school, I heard the big people talking about babies, which I didn’t get, but I know they said people were shooting guns, and some man told some other men to do bad things in Worshington and somewhere past the ocean too. I’ve never been there, but it sounds scary. Mom was crying about Worshington and the ocean, I think, and I sure wished Laurie was there to pop in a frozen pizza, because Mom likes pepperoni. Then I talked about Laurie to Mom, and she stopped crying. Mom tells me Laurie has to be an angel for someone else now, so that’s how come she’s not coming to Ohio.
I love my teacher at school, but we had to learn on the computer for a while, which was so boring, but Mom said we had to because everyone was getting sick, so we had to stay home. But teachers are the best, teachers like Laurie, because she let me fingerpaint and eat tater tots. She never made me eat broccoli, which tastes like grass to me. I know because I tried some once, and it was so gross. I love Laurie. I hope she comes to stay on the couch sometime.
I don’t know about Worshington, and I don’t know why people shoot guns, because they’re so scary on TV, and when the cartoons explode, it looks like it hurts. But I do know I love Laurie. And after my mom met her, she never drank cough syrup again, and she stopped tripping over stuff, and Grandma let us come over again.
When I get big, I want to be like Laurie. I’ll let everyone fingerpaint on my wall. And I don’t care if they come back, because sometimes, when one girl has a sleepover, someone doesn’t get invited, and that’s OK. Laurie taught me that if I don’t get invited, I can just help someone do the dishes or clean, because that’s nice to do. Some girls always get invited, because they’re so cool, but I only go sometimes, and I don’t get mad, because I know Laurie wouldn’t want me to cry over nothing. She even let me roller skate in the kitchen, if that tells you anything.
So if the other girls invite me, I’ll show them how to roller skate in the kitchen, which is so funny. And so hard! I asked mom if we could get a big dog too, so we might go to the pound soon. I’ll have to change my after-school time, though, because I’ll need to walk the dog probably. But I know it’s part of getting bigger. I have to maybe skip my long snack and maybe grab some orange crackers, so I have time to walk the new puppy. And then I’ll show the other girls how to change the snack time and walk the puppy. Maybe, if I’m good, I can save up for a hamster too. But those cages smell bad, because Becky has one, and there’s poo all over, I swear. But I help Becky clean it anyhow, because like Laurie said one time, friends do that kind of thing.
When I look around the kitchen, I think about Laurie, because she was always banging pots around. I loved her macaroni and cheese. I will never forget it, because she always got the animal shaped ones. One time, I heard Mom and Laurie talking about how I was supposed to have a sister, but Mom’s stomach went bad, and they had to take her out and she went to heaven, I guess. Mom didn’t know I heard because I was smiling and eating the cat face noodle.
Anytime I don’t get to stay up late, I think about Laurie and how she didn’t hear right, but she made me feel better if I had a fever, and she never talked about Worshington, like the other big people, who are always shouting at me to eat broccoli.
Same essay as the post from two days ago, below, if written by a six-year-old girl. Read the first 'The Great Teachers' first. Ha. Just messing around.
Wow, it was so cool. And so strange, I dropped my sucker. I saw this pretty girl, and she told me her name was Laurie, but she talked kinda funny, because she couldn’t hear right, but I guess she got me, because she was real nice, and she talked back all fast. Not like Grandpa, who spits when he talks, but fast. Laurie told me she was once really fat, so she doesn’t eat ice cream, but when I saw her at UDF, when I was ordering my sherbert, rainbow, you know, Laurie was staring at my lips all creepy. She told me she lost 100 pounds, and I almost threw up. Whoa, I’m glad. I had sprinkles and everything.
But I have a secret. I actually met her before! When I was at a boring meeting with my mom, because my mom used to drink cough syrup I think, and it made her fall down all the time, and her face would get all blue. Don’t know why Laurie was at that meeting, but that’s when she first talked to me too loud, and I couldn’t believe she used to be chubby, because she looked like a movie star to me, and most of those people aren’t chubby, but I guess some are. And some have big butts, now that I think about it. I dunno. Anyway, Laurie helped my mom paint her kitchen, which was kind of messy with the yellow, and she talked about heaven a lot, because she thought it sounded happy, I guess. My mom kept having her over, so they were besties, and then my mom and I started going over to Laurie’s house for tater tots, but Laurie could only have five, and I always had at least ten, which made me fart so much.
We went over all the time, and it was fun, because she had some big, scary dogs, but they gave me kisses, and wow, they had bad breath. Gross. I wouldn’t go in there if I was a bad man, though, because those dogs would probably get real mad and eat you.
Whenever we went over to Laurie’s, she stopped cleaning, and we watched movies like Toy Story, which was OK, but I like dog movies or puppets better. I liked to get in my blankie and feel the fur on those dogs. Laurie always tucked me in. We hung out at Laurie’s a lot, and mom and Laurie drank coffee, which gave them bad breath, like the dogs, but I never told them because I’m not mean. Sometimes, Mom and Laurie prayed, but they didn’t make me pray, because I was too little. Laurie stared a lot, because she couldn’t hear, but she let us come over whenever, and she even gave mom a key to the house. So, one time, Mom and I went over when Laurie wasn’t home, and Mom let me fingerpaint on the wall, which was so cool. I thought Laurie might get mad when she got home, but she gave me a high five, so she liked it.
Laurie helped my mom clean and do dishes all the time. I knew she wasn’t our cleaning lady, because we never had one, but she did lots of stuff at the house for no reason at all, which sounds weird. But then, one day, we had to move back to Ohio, because my mom got sick, and we needed Grandma, because Mom didn’t want to drink cough syrup again, I think. So, I missed Laurie when we moved, but I was happy when Mom told me she was really an angel.
Now that we’re back in Ohio, Mom tells me that Laurie was a teacher too, like my teachers at school who make us line up and do the drills, then take us to the lunchroom. Oh my god, I love pizza day. I hate pickles, but my friend Becky eats them every day. Laurie would never make me eat pickles, and I bet she’s fingerpainting right now. Mom tells me that Laurie saved her life, like a superhero. So cool that I met a superhero in real life.
The other day, when Mom dropped me off at school, I heard the big people talking about babies, which I didn’t get, but I know they said people were shooting guns, and some man told some other men to do bad things in Worshington and somewhere past the ocean too. I’ve never been there, but it sounds scary. Mom was crying about Worshington and the ocean, I think, and I sure wished Laurie was there to pop in a frozen pizza, because Mom likes pepperoni. Then I talked about Laurie to Mom, and she stopped crying. Mom tells me Laurie has to be an angel for someone else now, so that’s how come she’s not coming to Ohio.
I love my teacher at school, but we had to learn on the computer for a while, which was so boring, but Mom said we had to because everyone was getting sick, so we had to stay home. But teachers are the best, teachers like Laurie, because she let me fingerpaint and eat tater tots. She never made me eat broccoli, which tastes like grass to me. I know because I tried some once, and it was so gross. I love Laurie. I hope she comes to stay on the couch sometime.
I don’t know about Worshington, and I don’t know why people shoot guns, because they’re so scary on TV, and when the cartoons explode, it looks like it hurts. But I do know I love Laurie. And after my mom met her, she never drank cough syrup again, and she stopped tripping over stuff, and Grandma let us come over again.
When I get big, I want to be like Laurie. I’ll let everyone fingerpaint on my wall. And I don’t care if they come back, because sometimes, when one girl has a sleepover, someone doesn’t get invited, and that’s OK. Laurie taught me that if I don’t get invited, I can just help someone do the dishes or clean, because that’s nice to do. Some girls always get invited, because they’re so cool, but I only go sometimes, and I don’t get mad, because I know Laurie wouldn’t want me to cry over nothing. She even let me roller skate in the kitchen, if that tells you anything.
So if the other girls invite me, I’ll show them how to roller skate in the kitchen, which is so funny. And so hard! I asked mom if we could get a big dog too, so we might go to the pound soon. I’ll have to change my after-school time, though, because I’ll need to walk the dog probably. But I know it’s part of getting bigger. I have to maybe skip my long snack and maybe grab some orange crackers, so I have time to walk the new puppy. And then I’ll show the other girls how to change the snack time and walk the puppy. Maybe, if I’m good, I can save up for a hamster too. But those cages smell bad, because Becky has one, and there’s poo all over, I swear. But I help Becky clean it anyhow, because like Laurie said one time, friends do that kind of thing.
When I look around the kitchen, I think about Laurie, because she was always banging pots around. I loved her macaroni and cheese. I will never forget it, because she always got the animal shaped ones. One time, I heard Mom and Laurie talking about how I was supposed to have a sister, but Mom’s stomach went bad, and they had to take her out and she went to heaven, I guess. Mom didn’t know I heard because I was smiling and eating the cat face noodle.
Anytime I don’t get to stay up late, I think about Laurie and how she didn’t hear right, but she made me feel better if I had a fever, and she never talked about Worshington, like the other big people, who are always shouting at me to eat broccoli.
-- C.A. MacConnell
7/02/2022
The Great Teachers.
Back in the nineties, through strange circumstances, I met a strong woman named Laurie (name changed). She was Deaf, but she was an adept lip reader, and she was also a member of a 12-step program for overeating. I actually met her at an open 12-step meeting for alcohol, which she also attended, not because she was a drinker; she just liked the spirit there. When we crossed paths, I was in early recovery from alcohol abuse, and she was much further down the road in her program. Over time, she had lost 100 pounds, and she was at her goal weight; she was maintaining it well, and she was dedicated to her spiritual path. We became fast friends and soon after, almost daily, I'd show up at her house unannounced, barging through the door as if the whole world should stop for me. And Laurie's world always stopped for me.
Every time I randomly appeared, Laurie smiled wide and welcomed me, no matter what she was doing. When I curled up on the couch with her Rottweilers, she tucked me in. We watched movies, hung out, drank coffee, talked deeply and bullshitted and laughed and prayed, the whole gamut. And she had a special gift -- due to her lip reading, she focused on others intently, and she was always a sharp, engaged listener. Instead of balking at my surprise visits, she gave me a key to her house. When I painted a horrible mural on the wall of her study, she praised me, and she left it there for all to see. Maybe to the rest of the world, I was a stick figure artist, but to Laurie, I was Picasso.
Despite her challenges, Laurie never complained. Day by day, she focused on my wellness, my life struggles, and my care. No, she wasn't perfect, and both of us were fighting to recover, but she was damn raw and real. And when she noticed that early sobriety was too much for me, that I was too sick to live alone anymore, she didn't give up on me. Instead, she hunted down my family and called my parents to inform them of my current state, because I was too sick to do so. You see, Laurie was one of the angels who saved my life.
Now I consider her one of the greatest teachers I have ever known. Because great teachers never preach. Instead, they listen close, act accordingly, and reach out to others, swiftly lending a hand when they can, and then humbly backing down when it's time. And for me, her timing was crucial.
And now that I've had time for my thoughts and feelings to settle, in thinking about the world occurrences as of late -- the Roe v. Wade, the happenings in Ukraine, the January 6 hearings, and on and on, I've been mulling some things over. I believe that feelings are important but later, I look inward, because I feel that change radiates outward. Not the other way around.
As individuals, our personal experiences -- both our pains and joys -- are golden; they constantly shape who we are, and they give us the ability to help others, when used for good purpose. Such was the case with Laurie, who used her experience to help me survive at a time when I was in literal danger. And then, in an ultimate act of humility, when she knew she couldn't help me, without hesitation, she stepped down and reached out to others.
The greatest teachers I've known have taught me directly from experience. They never told me what to do. They never ordered me around or asserted any type of power. Rather, they humbly shared from the heart, and they pulled examples from their unique histories, and they lovingly showed me the way. There was no force, no violence, no disruption, no war, no upheaval, no panic. Perhaps, on the way, I encountered roadblocks or setbacks in learning, sure, but the route in these relationships rolled out smoothly. Simply, it just felt right. And through their actions, and through my observation of the positive force these great teachers created, my life was altered forever.
When I think of the people I admire, when I think of the kind of person I want to be, I don't think about anyone "out there, in the spotlight," a person with millions of followers. I don't think of the people we perceive to be in charge. Not one. I don't think of people in the news. I don't think of anyone with any kind of external power. Instead, I think of people like Laurie, people who face life's challenges, feel each and every feeling, fight to learn and grow from it, and then give back.
Because in the end, sharing experience and helping others ignites the real change. And maybe that sometimes means I need to protest. And maybe that sometimes means I need hide in the woods, stay home and write, or curl up with Rottweilers on a rainy day, so that I can recharge and later be of service. But in my observation of life happenings, change comes from the inside out. My experiences and my ability to help others are occurrences that last my entire life, whereas power, money, success, and the like, eventually turn cold. Power is fleeting. In the early stages, power and control may seem like the quick route, but the idea of I'm right, I'm in charge never lasts. Take a quick look at history; people in the so-called power role always dissolve, turning to vapor. One day, a king. The next day, a living ghost.
What lasts is this: how can I help you? How can I save your life?
Look around. Notice the great teachers. They are quiet, often lurking in the background somewhere, steadily grinning, listening close. No media outlet introduced me to Laurie. I met her through the Spirit of the Universe, God, Buddha, or whatever you want to call it. And this energy, powered purely by love, is both in us and all around us, waiting for us to tap into it.
It's been 24 years, and I still reminisce about the way Laurie saved my life. And since then, there have been countless others. And in my book, these quiet teachers are the ones who deserve my attention, my devotion, and my praise. Look around. They are all around us, and we all have the ability to both learn from these great teachers and later become one, if we so choose. Never underestimate the quiet, giving types, for they are far wiser than the chaos and the noise.
C.A. MacConnell