The Epiphany

Once you experience an epiphany, there is no going back. So it was when I realized that my emotional difference was an integral, and beautiful, part of me rather than something to be feared, suppressed, and eliminated.

peak

But the other side of the epiphany, the point when everything you ever believed to be true is found to be a lie, is lonely. Those who have not reached that peak, who are lost in the struggle of self-discovery, cannot see what lies on the other side. It is not because they are blind, or see the world with disillusioned eyes, but because they have not yet organized the frames of reference necessary to make sense of this strange new world. It is a blur, a frenzied state of meaningless fluff that is of absolutely no practical use.

So for those of us who have an epiphany, in whatever field we practice, we have an obligation to make what we have envisioned, and found to be true, more clear and more real to others on a similar life journey. Sometimes we do this by prodding them on with tough love, other times we seduce them with incremental measures of success, and yet other times we bridge the new world with the old, weaving together intellectual, cultural, and mythological wisdom into an inclusive tapestry that captures our collective imaginations and life aspirations.

The epiphany, the discovery that opens up unlimited new potential discoveries, is a unique, personal experience. It is one that compels us to share that experience with others so that they, too, might benefit. Doing so in a meaningful way is a burden borne with love by those who experience these life-changing moments. We write, we talk, we use our lives as an example, we hope that someone will understand. Not to confirm that this new world exists, because the epiphany is not tainted by uncertainty, but to give it wings.

Bat Out of the Belfry

I was recently looking through a three ring binder in my attic for a document that I thought might be helpful to a coworker who, just the other day, reached out to me for this specific type of assistance. While I was unable to locate the document, I inadvertently aroused another object, an animal actually, which would soon met me face to face. At least that is my theory of how it all began. bat Bats tend to make a grand swooping entrance that usually takes the room’s occupants by surprise. Few creatures can provoke such horrified excitement merely by entering the room. Refined, sophisticated woman that I am, I was unable to contain my surprise on this day not so long ago.

I have a certain type of scream, a shrill first soprano, which clearly indicates that a bat is within close proximity. My dearly departed cat Sugar had what I affectionately called his ‘bat face’ — eyes wide open, ears perked forward, and head titled at just a certain angle. While the visit of a bat is purely unpredictable, our reaction certainly is — particularly as it becomes something to which one becomes as accustomed as one can become accustomed to such a thing.

As I sat in my bed, where I often jokingly refer to as the place where I do my best work — not because I am a sex worker but because it allows me to spread out my papers and invite the company of a feline companion who usually blocks my access to as many papers as possible — setting up the final exam for the Introduction to Sociology class that I am teaching this fall, I saw something out of the corner of my eye. This something was flying around my room in circles. At first I thought it was a bird. While the odd bat finds its way into my 150 year old Victorian home that sits on a hill near the intersection of two rivers, which I imagine makes a lovely habitat for our bat friends, it was broad daylight and never before had I encountered a bat without my back to the sun. And usually at 2 a.m. on a day when I am expected to arise early, full of energy, to complete one task or another.

But then it hit me that yes, indeed, it was a bat. The screams, the shrieks, commenced. I had to think quick, a skill with which I am not largely endowed. I am usually plagued with abundant afterthoughts, and the perfect comeback or strategy magically pops into my head a minimum of 48 hours too late.

I managed to stand up, and grabbed the tennis racket — one that my mother used to play tennis as a teenager, at a club which she often reminds me was a very long walk from her home, but now rests near by bed to be used for just this sort of occasion. I tried to gently persuade the bat, coax her or him onto the racket so that I could escort him outside.

At some point during this ordeal, my mother — who was sitting downstairs — heard my screams which she later told me let her know in no uncertain terms that a bat was in the house. I told her to open the door. Then I asked her to bring me the oven mitts. I remember a former coworker once telling me that, when a bat visited their home in the middle of the night once long ago, she used oven mitts to pick her or him up from the ceiling fan to which he affixed him self (hmmm…I hope it wasn’t turned on, that would be a not so fun ride for a bat in crisis). She came up the stairs with the fishing net we purchased two years ago (but luckily didn’t need in 2014 as it was the year without a bat). I told her I didn’t want the net, and to go back down and get the oven mitts. It was a crisis, and I was commanding. She insisted that I take the net so I reluctantly did as I was told.

After a few minutes of some crazy woman screaming and chasing her or him around in circles in a relatively small room, the bat decided to take a rest. She or he perched on a shelf near the corner to the room. I grabbed a shirt from my closet and approached with it and the tennis racket, wishing I had the oven mitt lest I get bitten by a rabid bat. I tried to pick up the bat, but she or he would have no part of that and started flying around the room again. She or he found solace in another corner of the room, and crawled about my stereo speakers. As she or he rested there, I was somehow able to open up a window, shaking the whole time as I recall.

I went back to the corner with the racket and shirt, and the bat moved around slowly until finally her or his what we in Pennsylvania Dutch country call a ‘hinder’ was hidden underneath my blue yoga mat. It was then that I was able to carefully examine her or his face. The bat was cute. Really, really cute. She or he had a sweet little face, adorable feet, and a stripe down its back. I got the net and put it on the floor near the yoga mat to try to get the bat into it. She or he totally ignored my sweet talking, during which I called her or him just about every term of endearment in my sweetest of sweet voices. But sadly the net made the bat scared, and she or he started making a chirping noise. I could tell that the bat was even more afraid than me.

After several tries, the bat finally made her or his way into the net. I somehow stumbled to the window and placed the net outside. She or he flew off in an instant.

Bats really are amazing creatures. They are essential to our ecosystem, providing many benefits as described in this article from Bat Conservation International — an article which I read every time I have a bat encounter to help me be more understanding and compassionate toward this unwelcome house guest. While it was an exhausting event, I am grateful (in retrospect only, not that I ever want it to happen again) for this opportunity to get so close to a bat and speak to it lovingly rather than with screams.

Interconnected Self-Sufficiency

The concepts of interconnectedness and self-sufficiency may, at first, seem incompatible. Interconnectedness implies that all living things have a special, spiritual or natural relationship through which states of being, experiences, and consequences of action are intrinsically linked. In contrast, self-sufficiency … Continue reading

Excuse My Vulgarity

I recently met someone whose perception of the proper intersection of authenticity and propriety was skewed slightly differently than mine — especially when making a first impression. Call me old-fashioned, but I think there is a civility, and a tenderness, to using discretion when sharing the most banal and vulgar aspects of ourselves with new acquaintances. If I have offended anyone in this way, and I’m sure that I have, then please accept my apology.

That is not to say that deception ought to be employed. Nor should positioning and manipulation.

Rather, we should slowly and softly reveal ourselves. I long for the mystery and intimacy of gently unveiling our complexities, an art form which has sadly become scarce in modern society. I would rather lie awake at night, curiously anticipating more, than bend over the proverbial toilet proverbially puking because too much has been revealed much too soon.

Excuse my banal vulgarity.

Procrastination

My life has been a series of unfinished projects. Yes, I have seen many books, reports, home repairs, and other projects to their bittersweet end, and it would probably surprise most people that I suffer this perhaps self-imposed impediment. But there are many more, thousands more, that remain submerged inside of me.

Some of them are in bits and pieces, swirling about, searching for the perfect moment of emergence. Others are already complete, inside of my head, but have not yet started the journey to the outside world. Yet others have been spewed out — here, there, and everywhere — but have not yet been brought together into a final masterpiece. My unfinished projects are toys in the box, lonely and neglected, yearning for a playmate to make them come alive and have more than a symbolic meaning.

I tend to be good at starting things, but not finishing them. I once worked with a man who was good at finishing things, but not getting them started. We were the perfect (working) pair.

I have tried to organize my projects with index cards, notebooks, two different types of note software, file folders (both electronic and hard copy), websites, spreadsheets, three ring binders, sticky notes, and posterboard. I’m sure I’m missing something. And don’t even get me started on the calendars.

Perhaps it is subtle self-sabotage. Maybe it’s ADHD, mostly but not entirely without the H. Or it could be my vain and fickle heart that chases one dream after another. Possibly a fear of failure? Bashfulness?

Whatever it is, I have enjoyed the creative journey of generating ideas, whether or not they are shared and brought to fruition. The unfinished, and even the unstarted, project carries with it the allure of what might be. As long as it doesn’t cross over into the regret of what could have been, a certain amount of disorganized procrastination may be healthy. It serves as a reminder that creativity is a generative, rather than a depleting process, and that the process itself is what really counts, most of the time.