Dear Ariele,

How enjoyable this month's column was. Wow there is a wise man. And even before I read that your favorite passage was this:

"I learned anger was being forced to conform, not being able to state your case, being told how to behave, never asked how or what you think."

I read it a second time before I continued reading the column I was so taken with it. I was raised in a very angry household, and to this day struggle with anger. I have found a healthy antidote in writing prose and poetry.

Thank you very much,

Diana Mercedes Howell
Bellevue

 

Since Diana commented on them and Roger was in both the September Writing Corner and the Poetry Corner, I'm going to paste those here in his blog.

 

Writing Corner    September 2014 by Ariele M. Huff for NW Prime Time paper version

Everyone Wants to be Heard

Ariele Huff

            In a recent writing class, a student shared a story with special relevance to “active seniors” and how significant writing can be for us. Here’s his story:

“A good time to make changes is after you are sure you have learned everything. The real learning takes place after we know everything.

            Case in point: After four years teaching in High School, I moved to grades sixth to eighth—should be easier working with younger children. But…where did all that anger—disruptive behavior and terrible attitude come from? To teach these grades successfully, I discovered, you need a bagful of skill that you marvel at when the day ends.

            I learned the anger comes from being forced to conform, not being able to state your case, being told how to behave, never being asked how, or what you think.

            A wise Junior High teacher encourages these young people to have an opinion and gives them the freedom to express it. When the kids feel this freedom, everything changes. They feel okay and they feel their teacher is also okay. That teacher is teaching that there is really only one kind of discipline worth talking about or doing—self-discipline.” Roger Wilson

            I particularly love this articulate passage: “I learned the anger comes from being forced to conform, not being able to state your case, being told how to behave, never being asked how, or what you think.”

            While I totally get that this is so significant in dealing with the grandchildren and other kids in my life, I also experienced an epiphany as I felt the meaning in those words.

For a long time, I’ve wondered why so much of what we hear about aging is negative. Statistically, elders actually rate themselves as happier than any other age group. We have backlogs of accomplishments including in relationships, education, and career. So many reasons to feel better, as experts say we do, until or unless we have a serious health condition.

But Wilson’s words help me understand the anger that I see many other seniors feel, that I feel too, when our gray hair or wrinkles or birthdates render us invisible—less valid, less of interest.

So, now that we know so much, it’s time for some learning!

Finding ways to be heard is much easier if we can be clear and strong in what we say. Start by doing some soul searching about how you truly feel, what you want, what you need, what you don’t want.

Then, I recommend rehearsing upcoming situations where you’ve felt unheard: speaking up when a cashier overcharges you, pleasantly reminding your doctor or daughter or waiter that you do know whether you want surgery, to give away your doll collection, or to have butter on your muffin.

Finally, a major consideration in being heard is to attempt to communicate in a way that also allows others to feel valued and heard. At the start of his piece, Wilson quoted Ephesians 4:12, “Be kind and compassionate to one another.”

Roger‘s blog:  http://rogersroughneckwisdom.blogspot.com/

Be heard at Sharing Stories on the Local page of http://northwestprimetime.com/. Send stories to ariele@comcast.net.

 

Poetry Corner September 2014                            [Collected and edited by Ariele M. Huff]

 “Rising”

Out of the Mist,

feet off the ground,

heart full of happiness,

1000 trumpets can‘t sound.

Dance on the wind.

Sing with the stars.

A flower’s best scent can

    be smelled from afar.

A new day is dawning.

A bright sun will shine.

Rise up friend.

Rise.

Roger Wilson

 

“The Director of Fun”

directs Fun in my retirement home,

chatting pleasantly in the dining room

with residents, hungry for Fun.

I’ve never seen the Director of Fun

 when he wasn’t smiling,

 about to recommend something that’s Fun.

Most of the Fun here is the result

 of his efficiently-crafted Fun.

Dorothea Kewley

 

Haikus

cut off kite
the sound of children
fading with it

paddy field
the stream carrying
clouds

Ramesh Anand

 

 

 

 

 

Counting Coup

(On an eleven-year-old boy)

Roger Wilson 10-17-13

An Indian friend introduced me to “counting coup.” We were both on horseback, playing cowboy and Indians. He caught me near a drop off to Garden Creek. The name of the game was to time your push so you land on top of the victim, breaking your fall. The victim absorbs the bumps and lumps of the encounter. This time, the Indian won. Off I went, Indian on top of me, yelling like only an Indian can. To my surprise, he had a genuine Tomahawk in his hand! I had a real experience with fear.

When we had stopped rolling—Indian still on cowboy, he said, “Do you realize, I could kill you?” I agreed that he could. But I wasn’t that sure he wouldn’t. He turned the Tomahawk to the other end in his hand and touched me with it. He had just made “coup.” Later, as we crawled away from the fall, he explained what “counting coup” was.

Coup was taking an enemy—and getting into a situation where the victor could do bodily harm, or even have a chance to kill his enemy. Instead, the winner touches the body with the harmless end of the weapon and that “counts coup.” The loser is left unharmed or alive when the winner could have killed him—or done bodily harm.

From that day forward, I belonged to my friend. Anything I had or cherished was his, if he wanted to claim it. Nothing held back. He saved me and now I belonged to him. After all…he had given me life. Never again, can a person declare war on that person because he owns him. What was mine, was now his. What an awesome idea!

Historically, this sometimes allowed a brave to ride recklessly into battle to expose himself to being killed. But his enemy could not, because he had taken “coup” at another time. All tribes rendered stock coup. Both taking and giving.

After we had recovered our horses, my friend took out his jack knife and told me to give him my hand. He selected one up-turned finger, cut it lengthwise, turned his own hand up, cut his finger. Now, both our fingers were bleeding. He took my finger in his hand, put his bleeding finger over mine, rubbed both fingers together. We were then brothers—blood brothers.

He told me his sacred name. The name his grandfather had given him. Then, we were the only three people who knew that secret name. He gave me my sacred name. It was……sorry, I can’t tell you!

In the Teepee

Roger Wilson 10-17-13

What did all of this do for me? My friend’s home, the teepee was now also my home. His family was now my family. When I came to visit, I no longer had to stand outside. They made a special place for me inside. No one else, only family, entered. What a warm, cozy place—where no anger was allowed, only gentle speech. A peace shared by one and all. How rich I had suddenly become.

Inside the teepee was a wonder to behold. A place for everything and everything in its place. An animal stomach had been tanned. Tip it and water ran into a special gourd, cut just so, with a handle—a beautiful creation just to see.

A young lady was nursing a fat little guy. A Black Lab stood nearby. Her job was to make sure a diaper was never needed. She kept that baby clean! The fire was set in the center. A pile of cow chips were burned. The smoke could be controlled, by buckskin strips, to change when the wind changed.

The male members knelt on one knee and ate—just to be ready if attacked. Each man’s war bow, his hunting bow, and his Tomahawk were left in a special place. A quiver held his arrows. A six-foot lance was present. If needed, he could take what he required as he left the teepee. A horse was always ground hitched just outside the door. Horses were changed at a special time.

The women were talented. Everyone had beautiful moccasins to wear—some for work, some for dancing, and some for war or traveling. All clothing was handmade. Leather was beautifully tanned. A large pot was always simmering—held over the fire by buckskin strips. A handmade dipper was available. Everyone owned a wooden bowl with two handholds.

Their favorite saying was, “Dig deep. The puppy is in the bottom.”

Your daily physical needs were met in an interesting way. Urine was a treasure!  It was used for tanning of fresh hides. The hides were soaked. I never knew what else went into this recipe. At the proper time, these hides were taken out, stretched, and all hair was removed to make them pliable. The other “need” was met by a log placed for all to use. Ferns were there for the toilet paper. The dogs cleaned up the mess.

No trip to the store was necessary. I still marvel how well this group of people handled life and living. In my own mind, my people are the savages. When the West was won, we were the big time losers.

 

 

Colors

Fred was never called Fred.

Because his hair was red,

we called him Red instead.

His name was White, even if

he was black as the Ace of Spades.

It is strange things people say.

A smile is for curing your time of feeling blue.

I have never found out how to hold “blue.”

Songs talk about colors.

Jesus loves all the children—

red or yellow, black or white,

they are precious in His sight.

Seasons have their colors.

Christmas: Red and Green.

St. Patrick’s:  Wear Green or get pinched.

Weddings: White gowns, White shirts.

Birthdays: many bright colors.

Foods have their special colors—

red watermelon, orange cantaloupe,

yellow or green onions,

chocolate pudding.

Sometimes we get a colored mark—

a black mark is not good.

A 100 A+ is a good mark [in any color J].

Eyes have special colors—

bright blue, sparkling green, warm brown.

People say a coward has a yellow streak.

A zebra would be entirely white if he didn’t have his black stripes.

A Harvest Moon is a collage of beautiful colors.

An older woman has a head full of beautiful white hair—

just teased with a little blue—a crown of Glory.

I never appreciated color until my television

went from black and white to full color.

Laughter puts real color in my life.

Love is a rainbow of color.

We have enjoyed its raging red and

its quiet real peace of a golden trust shared,

A sky full of memories shared

 like a 4^th of July bursting above.

The thrill of seeing the jockey who is wearing your colors

 flash across the Winner’s line for a Win.

The joy of a teacher who adds color to my life

 as she smiles and

talks to me writer to writer—

thank you, Ariele Huff

Roger Wilson 7/13/14

 

Roger:

You are welcome.

I love the way you use the exercises to create something new and creative each time.

Ariele