IF MY LIFE WERE A CARTOON

If my life were a cartoon… I would like it to be a colorful one. I used to think my life was—or I wanted it to be—inhabited by Mighty Mouse.

In the monthly Dance of the Letters Writing Circles I have the honor to host in my home for Women over 60, I offer “sparks,” which we can use in any manner to spark our writing. This was what poured out of me (stream of consciousness and left pretty much as it emerged) last month in response to the spark: “ If my life were a cartoon.” 

Note: Many years ago, I learned (I think it was from Pat Schneider of Amherst Writers and Artists) and have passed along the idea of pausing when stuck (or even when not stuck) in one’s writing—then write down: “What I really want to say is…” as a way to go deeper.  I do that in this piece.

Enjoy.   And check out my invitation to play at the end…     

With love,   Ani

If my life were a cartoon, I would like it to be a colorful one. 

I used to think my life was—or I wanted it to be—inhabited by Mighty Mouse.   Because I felt small and without even a safe mouse hole.  

To change metaphors, I formed a shell like a turtle’s but invisible and I hid there a lot.  Correction: I was not really allowed to hide.  But I could retreat and I did.  Into my imaginary turtle shell, usually under the long skirt of a pine tree.

But back to Mighty Mouse: I so wanted a protector.  My mother was the snarly, scratching cat. The neighbors were predators even more vicious.

Funny thing is, I felt both tiny and mighty, I think it’s true to say.  I knew something about my mighty-ness, which was not in size or how loud I could talk—I did not really want to scream like my mother and anyway, it was way way too risky to talk back, let alone talk back with a loud voice.  Few times I did, I paid.

What I really want to say now is I notice how present is my past sometimes.

I still feel both mighty and tiny.  I also feel mighty awe for this world.  For people—who can be both in their highest and lowest natures.  I am in awe of the things individuals can achieve on behalf of this world, such as Greta, at once mighty and as she herself says, small.  Mighty and small.  And others about whom I read. This week, Adam Schiff among those called—and meeting that call—with mighty heart and integrity.  And there are the big bullies and the liars, those who understand power to be power over and who protect their power and position fiercely and destructively not for the sake of any higher good, but in service to their egos.

This is not to say that I do not have an ego.  For surely I do.  When I feel painfully lacking, just not good enough, that is also living under the influence of my ego.

Which heartens me back to that little girl who had to find her true power within, without the help of anyone teaching her about the existence of her inner power, her competence, her value.  What value she had was conditional on being good in their eyes, which meant obedient in mind and body to her parents’ world view and commands.  She knew early that she was not of one mind with them, the grown-ups under her roof, nor those who hurled curses and rocks at her when she walked to the bus stop.

She did somehow fathom the awesome power in the forms of beauty around her, the sky at all times of day and night, the magnificent willow, the rain.  She sensed God in the wind, the way it made the willow move when she sat, back to the willow’s strong trunk, sheltered under her blue raincoat hood, delightfully turtled.

She communed with the presence she called HaShem, a name for God she had learned that felt at once reverent and intimate.  Usually when she began, she apologized for interrupting HaShem, making sure to share that she did not want to pull God away from more important business than whatever she was going to share or ask.  The last thing she wanted to do was pull God away from Africa—it was always Africa, hungry children in Africa who rightfully needed attention more than she did.  Or somebody who might have just been in a car accident or someone in a hospital.  She would wait, she said.  She would wait.

She imagined a waiting room outside the immense room with the throne to which God would return from Africa.  Or maybe, she realized, God did not need to leave because God, being God, could see Africa from his throne and the children praying for his help. [Then God’s pronouns were always he, him, his.]

The little one I was—am?—never wanted to be selfish.

But I have wandered from talking about the power within.  The grown up I am believes God is also me, in me as me.  Then why do I still fear and doubt at times?

What does it mean to be God in this moment and the next and the next?  How can I live with trust as the wind behind my back?  How can I live from and with the true power infusing and inspiring my actions and thoughts?  This isn’t not some kind of perfection I am reaching for.  No.  But it is linked to Truth.  To the Reality that perhaps, as yet, most of us do not experience moment to moment.  How can I, mighty and small being that I am, “know” and serve this Truth–which I suspect has to do with our capacity to know, receive and give Love?

________

And if your life were a cartoon? 

Perhaps you might wish to “play” with this writing spark. 

You would be most welcome to share your stream of consciousness writing, however short or long ,in the comments section below!