BLUES

A sad song, seemingly simple or small on the surface, but teeming with complexities below. Melodies and harmonies and counter melodies intertwining, weaving in and out, soar through our skin and touch us at the core. The sounds pervade any verbal or physical language we might try to use. They speak to us in a way that we've never heard before and will never hear exactly in this way again. Each experience with the blues is unique. I feel the landscape of emotions, of music, of history, deeply and differently each time. And that is beautiful to me.

FORTIFY

My defenses. Make them thick and heavy and strong. Build them up, proactively preventing future illness, attack, or hurt. If I prepare for the worst, I will never again feel the pain I've felt so many times before. The walls will be built up. Nothing will get in. Nothing will tear them down. I will be protected, and safe, sitting up high looking down at the world scurrying around below me. Untouchable. Unbreakable.

But then, I wonder, who will be there with me?

I forgot, in all my brilliant planning, to consider my heart. And in all of this defensive fortification, I've managed to shut out not only the negativity, but everything else too.

I'm fortified. I'm strong. And alone.

BRICK

Brick houses withstand far more than any other kind. But when they crumble, they fall hard. Crashing to the ground, crushing everyone and everything that hid inside. Amidst the dust and rubble, we might uncover pieces from a life turned disaster. Archaeologists, we pluck the memories, the artifacts, the physical manifestations of what came before. We pluck pieces from the wreckage and start to build again, brick by brick, a new life--one that holds the fallen bits close, but is unafraid to push forward. Fearless, the brick house stands stronger than ever. It simply exists, stoic and brave. It experiences each moment and then lets it go. Through tragedy, this brick house finds peace.

The following are a series of free writes...

...sprung from these prompts:

PRIDE

POWER

"Power corrupts; Absolute power corrupts absolutely."

The plight of the Average Joe

Such a slippery slope, this idea of power and corruption. The Average Joe begins his life. He steps out of his door on a perfectly regular sunny day. He breathes in the fresh air and smile smears his lips. He plugs in his iPod and sets out for the day. There is a positive pep to his step. Average Joe realizes that the day is new and the possibilities are endless.

His happiness spreads, infecting those around him. His whole body smiles, his eyes twinkle with the promise of this new day, beginning today. The people passing by would normally ignore the everyday man passing in the street, but today, Joe's energy pervades the typically separate space; the distance that stretches between complete strangers in the street is closed with a single smile and nod.

As time passes, however, and days begin and end and begin and end, Joe's inclination toward good, toward the simple and pure tendencies, start to cloud with desire. The materialistic, shallow, superficial pull of this sick and twisted world we live in begins to poison his purity, his happiness. His kindness disappears. Greed enters. The power-hungry mantra--more more more mine mine mine--echoes in his ears, drowning out the peppy positive tunes of before. And the picture perfect Average Joe descends down the same old tired slippery slope of corruption and power gone wrong.

Everything in moderation...

Pride fuels positivity in life, individually or collectively. But too much pride sews the seeds of evil and corruption. Pride then becomes a suit of steel, an eyeless mask, a thick brick wall separating good intentions from execution. And as the divide widens between what was what was intended--the compassion and understanding and truth that is essential to change, to growth in this world--and what ACTUALLY happens, the world falls into the deep dark recesses of despair.

Too much of anything is a bad thing. Gulping, inhaling, greedily ingesting the chicken mcnuggets of truth, we choke. We suffocate. The body rejects this excessive inhalation of sustenance. The stuff that the body needs to survive becomes the weapon that brings it down. A small piece gets stuck in the back of the throat. It sprints, it speeds recklessly by the gag reflex and throws the mind into panic mode. The lungs scream for air. Tears sting the eyes. The blood rushes to the face, trying to save the day, in vain.

The only hope is from the outside. A helping hand. An everyday hero. A friend. A foe. Another human being who knows what to do, is willing to do it, and who doesn't hesitate. In this case, the speed helps. But it is connected to kindness and care, not selfishness, self-indulgence, gluttony, greed.

Haste in that vein may end well. But haste driven by the needs of self, of the individual only, can only ever end in tragedy.

I am so sick of people thinking they know what is best for everybody else in the world. If I am different from the person next to me, across from me, behind me, across the country and across the world from me, then the same solution or approach is certainly not going to work for each of us. Somehow we have to find our common ground, because I still believe--perhaps stronger now than ever--that among our differences, there are even stronger similarities.

Let's start with being human beings, being living breathing beings who need food and shelter and love and care. We need support and community. We need challenge, intellectually, emotionally, physically, spiritually. All of these things are true for all people, despite the surface level differences. So why can't we look past the different colors, clothes, tastes, languages, customs, and see a greater connection. One that supercedes the one and only, the great and powerful, the holier than thou, the my way or the highway.

As I get older, my anger gets quieter, but it hasn't disintegrated completely. This nausea that I feel in the pit of my stomach tells me that the anger is still here. And sometimes it wants to burst free. It wants to spew forth in a loud and putrid way.

I had to stop being my grandmother so I could go see my grandmother.

My personal mission statement...

In an attempt to focus our goals, to identify the ways that we as individuals in an imperfect system might affect the larger whole, in spite of evils and powers seemingly greater than ourselves, I asked my students to create a personal mission statement for their lives. I asked them to identify the ways they could approach their life so that they could be proud and be agents of change.

It is idealistic in many ways, but is it so wrong to ask teenagers to get in touch with their idealism?

Here is what I came up with...
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The way I might personally better the larger whole is by working with young adults in a real and truthful way. Through theater and dance, I can teach students skills and encourage their artistry and teamwork. I can help young adults and adults work together toward a common goal. Through teaching, I can encourage students to explore and discuss issues pertinent to them and to the world they live in. I can use literature, past and present, to help students evaluate where we've been, where we are, and where we are going as a society; I can help them begin to define their place in a large and complex history. I can help them communicate effectively, through written and spoken word, and I can help them evaluate information to make them more literate social beings.

If, by the time my students leave high school, they have learned the importance of...

**Listening more, talking less.
**Thinking for themselves.
**Reading more.
**Expressing themselves clearly, uniquely, and truthfully.

...I will have succeeded.

"Good things happen to good people like you and me."

To my Gramps. One of the loves of my life.

This eulogy, from Russell L. Grinold’s funeral services on Saturday, September 27th, 2008, was written and delivered by his granddaughter, Tina M. Grinold.

Good morning.

Or, as my grandfather would say, “Hello, hello, said the man with two heads.” He would then follow either by asking how I was or by cracking a sly joke and then asking how I was. Nodding, listening closely, his eyes would sparkle, beautifully magnified by those big old bifocals he wore. And as I spoke, I could tell how genuinely he cared about what I was saying, how genuinely he wanted to make me laugh. With arms crossed and heart open, he’d say, “I see…said the blind man, as he picked up his hammer and saw.” He would look at me in that impish, mischievous way; his laugh would rumble up from the depths of his being; and at that moment I knew…all was right with the world. No matter where we were, as long as we were together, my grandfather made me feel at home.

My grandfather was a beautiful contradiction. He was a living, breathing paradox. He was a tough guy and a softy. He maintained control out on the streets and relinquished control in the kitchen. He was an enforcer and a supporter. He set rules. He followed rules. And he knew how to break them. He had German Shepherds and Beagles. He was a dog and a cat person. He loved Cadillacs and he loved pansies.

My grandfather embodied the phrase “tough love.” In a way, I see his life’s journey as a progression from the “tough” to the “love.” And in looking at that progression, in looking at who he was, through and through, I am learning more about me and who I want to be.

In my mind, my gramps represents an era that I never knew and could never fully understand. He is a time capsule showing me pieces from my family’s past and my country’s past, showing me pieces of things that I will try to carry through in my life and also some things that I will never condone.

But he is my grandfather; I love him; and I never, ever questioned his love for me.

Since the day I was born, he has been making me laugh, supporting me, and making me feel like a princess. When he called me Cutie, I knew I was beautiful and deserved to feel that way. When he stood by his family through the years, even when it was hard to do, I saw what true love and devotion looked like.

More recently, when he started trying to marry me off to any male nurse or doctor we came across, I realized he only wanted to make sure I’d be ok. He’d say to them, “This is my granddaughter. Isn’t she beautiful?”

I would turn scarlet and tell him not to be fresh.

He would look from me to whichever guy it happened to be and say, “Are you married?”

They would be gracious and charming, and eventually they would leave. As I scolded him, that impish look would come back, and he’d say, “What?! Would it be so bad to have a doctor in the family?”

When he slipped me various bills through the years, I knew it wasn’t about the money. It was about his generosity, his unwavering support. Two days ago, as I was looking through old family pictures, I wandered around my grandparents’ basement and found myself wading through the images, the special moments of their life together.

I came upon a little note I’d left them a long time ago, maybe ten or twelve years ago. I signed my name on a note pad and underneath it I wrote: “This is going to be worth money some day.” Underneath that, in his distinctive print, my grandfather wrote back: “You’re worth more than money now, Cutie.” It has been something like twelve years, and he never tore off the page.

Through the tears welling up in my eyes and the baseball growing in my throat, I looked around. As if through the black and white flicker of his old film projector, splashing the past across the walls, showing footage of my father and uncle when they were babies, toddlers, and teenagers—much to my father’s chagrin—I saw his very own life mythology flash before my eyes.

My grandfather kept a close, careful chronicle of the loves in his life.

I saw a proud and devoted public servant. As a Hartford cop, a state policeman, a national guardsman, and a military man, my grandfather maintained a high moral code and a sincere pledge to serve and protect others. I noticed a framed citation, praising him for his bravery, for his willingness to put himself in harm’s way. Because of him, a murderer, armed and dangerous, was taken into custody. I had never noticed this before. He never bragged about it. He never brought his work home with him. With all of its challenges and hardships, my grandfather never burdened anyone else. He never took any of those hardships out on anyone else. And this is just one of many ways he helped make other people’s lives better.

He also was one of the few officers given the honor to work closely with Gov. Ella Grasso in the 70’s. As her bodyguard and chauffer, he once again took on the role of protector. I understand that Ella was a tough cookie, and gramps respected her for it. While most people would sit in the back seat, she insisted on sitting in the front seat with him. She even asked him to pull over on the highway sometimes to pick wildflowers, knowing full well that this was not technically permitted in the state of CT. It seems the two of them shared a similar understanding of the important things in life. They were able to appreciate the other’s toughness, while also embracing the simple beauties and pleasures surrounding them.

I continued my trip down his memory lane, and my tears started to dry. The baseball began to shrink. I saw a proud and devoted husband, father, uncle, friend, brother, son, colleague…grandfather. I saw a man who could be serious and silly. I saw someone who knew what he liked, someone who cherished the seemingly small moments in life. I saw his sense of humor bounce from wall to wall. I saw a full and happy life. I saw my grandfather in ways that I hadn’t before, and also in the same old ways that I always had. The ways that always made my heart smile. The ways that still do and still will make me remember him with love and admiration.

And I have a feeling I will continue to find relics of his life’s history, of the story of this man that we all loved, for many years to come. And I have a feeling—no, I know—that those findings, those precious memories will be laced together with laughter and love.

Over the past few days, I began that process of uncovering, of remembering who he was. And all of the people I spoke to—many of you are sitting right here in front of me today—told me many of the same things.

He was a great guy. He was fun. He was funny. We had some good times. We have wonderful memories. He was a prankster. He was generous to everyone he met, even when he didn’t have to be. He provided undying and unflagging and unquestioned support—financial and moral. He was willing to make fun of himself, but God forbid anyone poked fun at his loved ones. He bailed people out of trouble. He scolded them for it and never let them forget it, but he never held it against them.

He gave and gave and gave some more, and he still felt like it wasn’t quite enough.

We also shared his stories. We remembered some of our favorites and couldn’t remember some of our favorites. And through the process, we laughed. A lot. I think he would have wanted it that way.

I have two stories, in particular, that I would like to share with you all today.

The first marks an earlier stage in my grandfather’s journey, and it comes in the form of a joke.

There was a man walking along a cliff’s edge, too involved in himself and his own thoughts to realize how treacherously close he had come to this edge. He lost his footing and fell over. Hanging on for dear life, he looked to the heavens and cried out, “Can anyone hear me? Is anyone up there?”

And a great booming voice answered him, “Yes, my son.”

“Oh, thank GOD,” he cried. “Can you help me?”

The voice replied, “Yes, my son. Have faith. Let go.”

The man, still dangling above the precipice, considered this proposition for a moment. Then he asked the booming, faceless voice, “Um, excuse me, is there anyone else up there I could talk to?”

The second story is one he told at his brother’s grave, with his wife and his sister-in-law. I believe this is the story he would have wanted told today.

There was a very special ship being built for a very special purpose. It was to transport people who were loved, respected, and cherished by others from their homeland to a new land. Board by board, this ship was constructed, and day by day, its departure came closer.

When the day finally came, the people boarded the ship, one by one, two by two. They boarded the ship for their very special voyage. They went up to the deck and stood by the rail. Their friends and family, their loves and their lives, stood on the shore waving and smiling and crying and waving. The people on the ship stood on the deck and waved back at them.

As the ship moved out of sight, the people on shore wondered what they would do without the departed. How could they ever replace that hole they left behind? And as those friends and family, the loves and the lives, tried to figure it out, the ship was coming into port on another shore—their newest destination.

And the people on that new shore were waiting there, waving and smiling and crying and waving. And they were ready to welcome the passengers of the ship with open arms. The very special passengers of the very special ship traveled from one shore filled with love, across a very special horizon, to another shore filled with love.

I think my grandfather told that story then for a reason. He wanted to help and to comfort and to protect once again. I believe these are his words coming through me. I believe this is his wish for us—to be at peace, to be comforted, to remember him fondly, and to know that he will be ok.

My grandfather defined himself by his strength and perseverance, and it became more and more difficult for him in the end. He hated having to inconvenience anyone. For years he took care of himself and the people he loved. For years, he did it all himself. He held it together. He fixed it. He built it, even if the “it” he built wasn’t perfect, my grandfather was proud to have done it himself. The thing is, I only see perfection in those imperfections. In fact, that may be one of the most important lessons he taught me.

But through all those years, I’m not sure he ever got over having to let others help him. All those years, those times that I drove my grandparents to and from the doctors appointments and the hospitals and the procedures; the times I went shopping for them or picked up prescriptions; the times I pressed the nurses and doctors for more information; the times I told him that “it shouldn’t happen to someone as nice as him” and that “if I could, I would take the pain away”—the same things he used to tell me when I was a little girl, sniffling over a scraped knee; or, more importantly, the times I just sat and listened and talked and laughed; all those years, my grandfather lamented being a burden on me, on all of us that helped.

He didn’t want to inconvenience anyone, ever, not even when he had no other choice. He still didn’t want to rely on anyone else. His stubborn pride couldn’t let him accept his weakening body. His inner strength and will fought sickness until the end.

What he didn’t seem to understand was my free will. If I were truly inconvenienced, I wouldn’t have stayed. If I didn’t want to be there, I wouldn’t have gone. If I had somewhere to be that was more important than being right there with him, that’s where I would have been. But there was no such place. In fact, this wasn’t just something I wanted to do; this was something necessary for me. I needed to be with him. I wouldn’t have been able to forgive myself if I missed this part. This was the part when I could give back. After all his years of protection, care, and service, I could finally return the favor. If I made him laugh just once, if I made him feel comfortable when he hurt just once, if I put his mind at ease even just a little bit for a little while, then all of the time he felt I was surrendering was worth it.

What he didn’t understand was how much he was giving me still, every minute, every second I spent with him.

And what I want him to understand now is how he protected us until the end. The strong, the stoic man spent the last years making sure we would all be ok. He gave us the time we needed to say goodbye; he showed us how to finally and gratefully surrender when the time is right.

He went down still telling stories and charming strangers and making all of us laugh. I will never forget the day he brought the house—or rather, the hospital—down telling one of his stories. The one about a parachute and a man with a stutter. Nurses and hospital workers packed into the tiny hospital room and the laughter rang through the hallways.

He showed us all the merits of both “tough” and “love,” and we will never forget it. I know I won’t.

Before I close, I need to turn the attention to my Gram for a moment. Through the years, but especially in the end, we were privileged to witness the tenderness between my grandfather and grandmother. Gramps referred to her in many ways: Polly, Dear, and even Cutie, which I always thought was reserved for me, but then quickly realized the truth. She was the original and only true cutie to him. He would also, quite simply, call her his bride. She never aged for him. Their love never aged. It went through different stages, sure. But for fifty-six years, they were a team. They supported each other, they finished each other’s sentences, they lived with and loved each other.

In the end, they were very careful with their goodbyes. Every single time she had to leave him, he would make sure to kiss her and let her know how much he loved her, how much he appreciated everything she was doing for him, everything she had ever done for him. I watched my grandmother tortured by every moment he was tortured. I watched her try with all her might to help him maintain the control that had always defined him. She lived for him, day in and day out, and he knew it. If it was possible, I think he loved her more than ever in the end.

And, Gram, I believe that his love will never, ever leave you. I believe you can go inside yourself whenever you need to and feel Grandpa’s love. I believe that for you and Grandpa, “till death do us part” is just a formality. It is only about the physicality of your relationship. When you miss him and when you need him, just remember him in your heart and soul. He will never really leave you.

Today, even the heavens are weeping for my grandfather. But somehow, I don’t think they are tears of sorrow or of grief. I believe that these are tears of joy. In many traditions, water cleanses, it purifies. When it rains, we should remember the story of the ship crossing the ocean.

In our limited, worldly view and experience, it looks like Russ is leaving us today. But in reality, he’s just moving on to the next place. He is bringing joy and laughter to the folks on the other side. I imagine him on the deck, as the ship heads for the horizon. He is standing on his own two feet, for the first time in a very long time. His belly is bulging again, just a little bit. He is wearing his baby blue fishing hat that he always wore, a short-sleeved striped polo, and he’s waving to us. He is at peace. He is ok.

And when he gets to the other side, he’ll see all those that went before him. He’ll see his parents, my great-grandma and great-grandfather Conti, his sister, his brother, and all the friends that went before him. He’ll saunter on over, thinking of the first joke or the first story he’ll tell. He’ll give a sturdy handshake or a big hug, and he’ll say, “Well. Here we are.”

I imagine him there right now, sitting around a kitchen table like the one over on Country Lane, surrounded by loved ones, looking down on us sitting here right now remembering him. I imagine him sitting there, saying the same thing we’ve heard him say time and time again: “It’s always nice when the family gets together.”

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On Tuesday, September 23rd, 2008, in the early hours of the morning, my mother and father, my grandmother, and my Auntie Ann and Uncle Joe went over to Manchester Hospital to see my grandfather’s body before it was transported to the funeral home. They weren’t sure what to expect when they walked into his room. But as they did, they were amazed at what they saw. On my grandfather’s face, where we had seen so much pain and suffering in the past few weeks, was a gentle, peaceful smile. It’s true. My Gramps was smiling in the end.

And as we were heading to the church in the limo this morning, to celebrate his life and to say our final goodbye’s, my grandmother said, “Maybe he was trying to tell us something. Maybe he was trying to let us know he was ok.”

I think my father said it best, “Dad had the last laugh.”

Even in his last moments, my grandfather was protecting us. He was trying, one last time, to make sure we’d be ok.

Little nuggets of encouragement make all the difference.

My boss is an inspiration. She is the kind of leader I want to be, one that loves her work, that has purpose and drive, and that is constantly, lovingly involved with her staff. This person not only makes me want to be a better teacher, she makes want to be a better person.

In a post script to our first department meeting, she wrote:

"I read a poem by Marge Piercy (from Circles on the Water, 1982) this weekend that made me think of all of you."

To be of use

The people I love the best
jump into work head first
without dallying in the shallows
and swim off with sure strokes almost out of sight.
They seem to become natives of that element,
the black sleek heads of seals
bouncing like half-submerged balls.

I love people who harness themselves, an ox to a heavy cart,
who pull like water buffalo, with massive patience,
who strain in the mud and the muck to move things forward.
who do what has to be done, again and again.

I want to be with people who submerge
in the task, who go into the fields to harvest
and work in a row and pass the bags along,
who are not parlor generals and field deserters
but move in the common rhythm
when the food must come in or the fire be put out.

The work of the world is common as mud.
Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust.
But the thing worth doing well done
has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident.
Greek amphoras for wine or oil,
Hopi vases that held corn,
are put in museums but you know they were made to be used.
The pitcher cries for water to carry
and a person for work that is real.

The Friday Five: Morbid Questions We All Think About

1. If you were to die today, what would your last words be?

I have been blessed.

2. What would you want your epitaph to say?

She loved, she laughed, she lived, and you can visit her anytime, dancing barefoot in a summer rain shower.

3. What song would you want played at your funeral?

"Imagine" by John Lennon. Or "Here Comes the Sun" by The Beatles. Or "Beautiful" by India Arie.

4. In lieu of flowers, what should loved ones do in your honor?

Go on a trip together. Or donate to the unsticking mentioned in #5.

5. What unfinished business would you wrap up?

Make things that have been stuck in the middle unstuck...right now.

When the end arrives...

...I'm not sure I'll be ready. After seven years of staring inevitability in the face, I'm still not prepared. Last night I sat in his latest hospital room, which is much like all the others, watching drops of blood plop plop plop into his veins. Watching as the latest attempt to flush sickness out plop plop plopped in vain.

His skin sags off of his bones. His head itches and flakes from the last round of chemotherapy he finished not too long ago. Or is it from the last bout of radiation to the head, the round attacking the four tumors in his brain? Purple bruises scatter themselves across his hands, elbows, arms, reckless marks of stabbings and pokings and needlings he's put up with for far too long. One of his legs is so thin you can see all of the bones and joints in detail. The other one bulges violently, angrily, from the thigh.

Metastasized, they said. In the soft tissue, they said. No more procedures, no more tests, they said. Hospice, they said.

Home, he said. I want to go home. I want to sit on my chair, in my living room, with my cat, in front of my big t.v, he said. I want to be able to go outside on a nice day, he said.

I sat at the foot of the bed, unable to take my eyes away from him and the last of the dripping blood. I had a baseball in my throat, and I blinked back tears more than once. I've known this was coming for a long time. I've been back and forth to different hospitals and nursing homes for years. I've driven him to New Haven for special testing, to DeQuatro in Manchester for various treatments and updates. I've heard doctor after specialist after nurse after doctor give reports and updates and diagnoses. I've read pamphlets and seen specials. I've heard the word cancer my whole life and always known what that meant.

But none of that could soften the blow. None of that prepared me to hear those words. None of that prepared me to watch as the last units of healthy blood dripped into my grandfather's ravaged body. I stared, willing time to slow down, unwilling to let go. Then I got up, I kissed his face, said "I love you," and went home to bed.

Tonight he was fast asleep. There were no units of blood dripping. I held onto his hand for dear life. My hand held on tight; his trembled and lurched. He didn't wake up, and I wouldn't let go. Then I got up, I kissed his face, said "I love you," and went home to bed.

We're nearing the end, and I know I should be prepared. But I don't know how.

My life to-do list...

...a work in progress.

...in no particular order.

1. Fall deeply in love.
2. Write a book.
3. Create meaningful theater.
4. Go back to India and Japan.
5. Travel to the following places: Europe (backpack), Cross-country road trip, Italy, Australia, New Zealand, various S. American locations.
6. Travel wherever life takes me, having the wisdom and guts to follow.
7. Have a happy and healthy family of my own.
8. That interacts on a regular basis with my existing family (near and far).
9. Live in a space that is full of life, that provides shelter for travelers, that hosts many gatherings with loved ones (new and old).
10. Learn the guitar.
11. Take voice lessons.
12. Write songs.
13. Write poetry.
14. Write plays.
15. Allow my career to focus on creating community through the arts.
16. Dance on a regular basis.
17. Take care of my back, and the rest of my body.
18. Learn my history (family, country, personal) and allow it to inform my interactions with the present and future.
19. Know enough to take that information and let it go.
20. Practice meditation regularly.

Inspiration.

I am reading for me again, and the most recent was a collection of essays from director Anne Bogart: "A Director Prepares."

The last passages (as well as most of the preceding ones) rang true for me. And in a creative draught of my own making, any bit of inspiration will help. Also, it just might kick my bony ass into gear.
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A working artist is in a constant struggle with the brain's attempts to ambush their work through diversion. Do not be seduced by the buzz. In all the work with artifice, while going through the back door, keep your inner eye secretly on paradise. Stay true to a deeper pursuit.

...

Today we live within another kind of totalitarianism. Each of us is a target of the attack machinery of consumerism. A media-drenched culture aims aggressively at our psyches with a constancy that breaks and numbs the spirit. This dangerous environment offers us an opportunity: the challenge to think and to act.

Laziness and impatience are constant internal resistances and they are very personal. We are all lazy. We are all impatient. Neither are evil qualities; rather, they are issues that we learn to handle properly and act on at the right moments. We navigate them in our aim towards expression.

...

Your attitude towards resistance determines the success of your work and your future. Resistance should be cultivated. How you meet these obstacles that present themselves in the light of any endeavour determines the direction of your life and career.

Allow me to propose a few suggestions about how to handle the natural resistances that your circumstances might offer. Do not assume that you have to have some prescribed conditions to do your best work. Do not wait. Do not wait for enough time or money to accomplish what you think you have in mind. Work with what you have right now. Work with the people around you right now. Work with the architecture you see around you right now. Do not wait for what you assume is the appropriate, stress-free environment in which to generate expression. Do not wait for maturity or insight or wisdom. Do not wait till you are sure that you know what you are doing. Do not wait until you have enough technique. What you do now, what you make of your present circmstances will determine the quality and scope of your future endeavours.

And, at the same time, be patient.

I am overwhelmed by all of the things and nothings I want to say.