Words Escape Me

I usually have very vivid dreams and can remember them long after waking up. Last night, in one of my dreams, I was in conversation with my ex and she used a word I didn't know. At that moment, I stepped out of dream consciousness and thought to myself, wait a minute, this is my dream and my psyche is feeding her dialogue, so how could she use a word I don't know. I told myself to remember the word and look it up in the morning and then quietly slipped back into dream consciousness.

When I awoke this morning, I remembered the dream, but couldn't remember the word. Isn't that strange?

Libbys, Libbys, Libbys

There was a jingle. It went like this...

If it says Libbys, Libbys, Libbys
on the label, label, label
You will like it, like it, like it
on your table, table, table

Catchy tune
Excellent branding technique
Libby's probably paid a big hunch of change
to a Madison Avenue marketing firm to create it

Here's the thing...I HATE labels

Putting labels on people makes me CRAZY

So here I am again, being asked...."do I introduce you as my GIRLFRIEND?"

I respond, "I would be happy and proud to be introduced as your GIRLFRIEND, but could you please tell me what that means?"

So I guess I'm going to forced to figure out why it is I have such an aversion to labels. Or do I?

Here's why I don't like labels:

1. Very rarely do people define the words used as labels in the same way, so although you may think you know...you really don't.

2. Pidgeonholing people, situations, etc... limits them to our current perception and understanding...what if we just let it alone for a while and allow it to name itself?

ok...sidebar...I just realized I had the same thought years ago about teaching children to talk...what if we didn't talk around them, what language would they develop on their own?

3. Labeling someone "this" or "that" is but one facet of who they are.

If you have thoughts about this topic...feel free to leave a comment.

The Promise of Spring

The Ridge is noisy with morsels of color tucked here and there in the woods, along embankments, catching the corner of passive eyes grown accustomed to the gray of winter;

Yellow are the faces of daffodils as they stretch, stretch, stretch their long ruffled necks, peeking around tree trunks, winking from under bushes, flirting with the March wind;

Fuchsia are the berries, overwintered on tender stalks, waving seductively at passing flights of birds, gliding on the boomerang's path home;

Purple are the crocus cups, bashfully nestled in dry grasses, so fragile yet so valiant against the crush of a late winter snow;

Swollen are the tips of branches
Swollen is the dry creek
Swollen is the Earth where gophers have left their calling card

The Ridge is noisy with color, with stirrings of life anew, with deep cleansing breaths that rattle bare branches;

The same sweet, sticky sap rising in ancient trees is rising in me;
Intensity, desire, warmth, connectedness,
humor, joy, longing, passion, play
are pushing through the blanket of straw
cast over my heart

The Ridge is noisy with color, with lessons, with new paths carved by Nature's hand, with the percussive promise of spring.