Accept Godliness in Yourself | The Divine You

Imitation is Suicide. Insist on yourself; never imitate. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson | Self-Reliance

Prompt by Fabian Kruse

Write down in which areas of your life you have to overcome these suicidal tendencies of imitation, and how you can transform them into a newborn you – one that doesn’t hide its uniqueness, but thrives on it. There is a “divine idea which each of us represents” – which is yours?

Digital Writing Jolanda Nietveld

Printing a, b, c and each additional letter of the alphabet. Stay between the lines, let your pencil glide across the paper. First handwriting lessons, symbols painstakingly copied from the black board.

You and your parents visit another family. In the living room the man named Joop, uncle Sander and Papa bend over a book of artists' signatures. Used to the company of adults you feel insulted when sent outside to play with Joop's daughters. The mother hands you each a large carrot. The eldest girl insists you have to mash the carrot swallowing just the juice, and eventually you nearly choke on the pulp.

The rocket has landed on the moon and every one with access to a TV is glued to the set. Except for one other girl there's nobody on the playground, not even the guard. You and the girl leave the fenced area and scan sidewalks and stoops for coins. Money is lying in the gutter, the girl knows. Tired of looking you ask a woman for a dime.  

 "Do your mothers know you are begging for money? If you continue doing this you'll wind up in the gutter."

You have moved to the country, two hours north from the city. Whereas you were printing letters in italics before, the letters and numbers now have to stand upright. And whereas the upgrade from pencil in the city was to a ballpoint pen, the children in the village school are promoted to pen and ink, black for everyday use and colored when you make no mistakes. Your notebook is filled with green, purple and red that turns darker, nearly black as it dries.

Your mother sews your clothes from remnants a friend sends, after the latest fashion in Paris. The knee socks under your skirts are plaid, your long pants make schoolmates snicker, "That's boy's wear". Until the village catches up and everyone rolls up pant legs, showing the lighter side of denim.

Never advertise for free

Your mother turns name carrying shopping bags inside out. You learn to cut out labels, to not drop names, to know the difference between chic and ordinary.

Your father dresses you in Tartan, in tailored pants, a forest green bespoken suit in the latest Terlenka® and tries to find matching pumps and hand bag in the Godforsaken outpost. You're mother dresses in overalls, yet paints her toe nails and lips a startling fuchsia. She buys you candy striped and polka-dotted dresses in turquoise, pink and orange, but calls shocking pink vulgar, because it's favored by girls with the wrong hairdos and dialect.

You're an only child, who doesn't play much with other children until you go to Kindergarten at age five. "She loves to share," the grade-school teacher says when you move up north with your parents two years later. Girls at the village elementary school deny you a piece of candy. Your father gives you a guilder to buy all kinds of sweets and orders you —for once— not to share. A girl you don't play with, your best friend and her brother call you an i-di-Yid, the boy adds "voddejood". You're puzzled, the one thing your father doesn't deal in is rags, he buys textiles (your mother won't touch —that boring) from the Jewish pedlar who comes by on his bicycle loaded with merchandize. The men schmooze for hours, nurse their coffee, throw back a shot of jenever, and suck their cigars.Your father writes your friend's mother she should be ashamed of herself, to raise her children to call his child an idiot Jew. In her answer she says it's his fault entirely, in making his daughter stand out from the crowd, he singles her out himself. 

You are the one and only

And so it's up to you to take your unique singular self and deal with the pain of your elders; accept the godliness in every one, the divinity of life, and be, always be yourself.

This work by by Judith van Praag is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Spread Love - Make Tea Not War.

To believe your own thought, to believe that what is true for you in your private heart is true for all men, that is genius. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

Prompt by Eric Handler

What is burning deep inside of you? If you could spread your personal message RIGHT NOW to 1 million people, what would you say?

Today blends with yesterday. Why dwell in the past? To tell the story of a man and a woman thrown together by fate, or of a family suffering shame over a favorite son's mistakes, one generation after the other. Are we talking history on a personal level? That can't be enough. What is it that needs to be shared? Zeitgeist? The post-war idealism that called for possibilities allowing artists to create without having to work an evil day job? How about the skeletons the couple thinks to leave behind in the city, when they move to the country? Face your demons, one way or another, sooner or later, here or there. Might as well sit down and sit back and let the good times roll.

What I really want you to know is that that telling a child stories only meant for grown-up ears ruins her childhood. That taking away everything she cares for, everything she loves, to save her the anguish of loss does not work. And isn't  all this about remembrance and forgiveness, and ultimately love? 

My message right now: 

Put the kettle on, spread love, make tea, not war —Memento Mori.

This work by by Judith van Praag is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

A Fairytale

The other terror that scares us from self-trust is our consistency; a reverence for our past act or word, because the eyes of others have no other data for computing our orbit than our past acts, and we are loath to disappoint them. - Ralph Waldo Emerson - Self-Reliance

Prompt by Mary Jaksch

Emerson says: “Always do what you are afraid to do.”

What is ‘too scary’ to write about? Try doing it now.

The tires of the moving truck get stuck in the mud in pretty much the same place where uncle Sander's wheels spun around without finding traction the day we came to look at the farm in the middle of the fields. Only this time throwing rags in front of the tires doesn't help. Papa and the driver light a cigarette. On the other side of the wide ditch that runs the length of the dirt path that leads toward our new home, a man in dark blue overalls, followed by a little girl, appears from the side door of a brick farmhouse that's attached to a large barn. The girl steps into her wooden clogs, the man slides his stockinged feet into dirt covered rubber boots.
"Pigs," Papa says, "You hear the oinkers Shudy?"
The man drops a plank from his side to ours across the ditch.
I wave at the little girl and she waves back.
The man is going to get his tractor and pull the van out of the mud, but he has to drive around and through the fields.
Mama and I walk all the way back to the main road and then the same way back only on the other side of the ditch to where the man and the little girl came out of the house. Mama knocks on the door of the farmhouse, she needs to go, I don't.
The little girl shows me a deep square hole in the ground, filled with water. "Our swimming pool," she says.
Mama returns and pulls me away from the hole. It's the cellar for the house the girl's parents are going to build. They will have a WC, hot and cold running water, and a shower too, the girl says.

We are going back to nature and have none of those luxuries. 

This is not picture of ours!

We have a fairytale well with a bucket on a rope and two wrought iron pumps. One is on the terrace outside the small brick house where people used to cook and do the laundry, and one inside the barn, near the door to the hallway.
(to be continued)

So what is scary about this you may wonder. Well, let's say the scary stuff is yet to come, got to start somewhere, with spinning wheels, and getting stuck in the mud, a foreshadowing of never getting out of the drowning hole...

This work by by Judith van Praag is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Learn to Let Go to Deliver

There will be an agreement in whatever variety of actions, so they be each honest and natural in their hour. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

Prompt by Corbett Barr

What would you say to the person you were five years ago? 

What will you say to the person you’ll be in five years?

Prague 2006.

Inside the ancient shul, I go back in time 26 years to 1980.
In my search for roots and ancestors I find not Golem but an apparition of my own father at my side. The smell of his tobacco juice impregnated red farmer's handkerchief tickles my nostrils. My fingers remember circling small balls of tread in the fabric of his shirt cut from 1950s plaid. A smoker's hack brought me back.
"Excuse me," the dolled up octogenarian beside me grunted, her lips a scream of red.

Remembrance —a reminder I owe my father his story, history, my story, our mystery.   

Back in the hotel I find an email message from two gents in the the Netherlands. They've bought a portfolio of my father's work, a good 200 painted sketches, at a swap meet. They want to honor him with a book. "I can write," the typist says.
"Good for him," my husband quipped. "He won't have to, how do you say that in Dutch?"
"Get back the money he paid for school?"

I laugh with Gary, but a claw of fear grips my stomach. I've spent three years organizing data, writing my father's biography, simultaneously, side-by side on my monitor in both English and Dutch. And these dudes want me to hand over all that so they can put the information in a catalog that will raise the value of material that should have been mine in the first place?

The email says the man who demolished my parental house after I sold it, found the port-folio hidden underneath the bed box in my mother's room. I break out in sweat, I stopped my search for valuables when I reached the bottom of that bed box and noticed pink pallets of rodent poison dispersed across the boards. Did I ever know about the hiding place underneath? An ever so faint recollection of a dark hole, a scary place for a child, surfaces, nausea adds to the tightness in my chest. I know crying is the best way to release the fear, to soften the blow and the rock on my stomach. I cry in the shower, where my tears mix with the water running down the drain,

Back in Seattle I start the negotiation, and write the couple that I'm delighted they've recovered my father's art, that I'm saddened that the demolisher didn't contact me when he found the hidden treasures, and that I'll be happy to reimburse them for their expenses plus for postage and handling when (not if) they send me the goods.

"I remember the sketches my father made with colored ballpoint pens during meals at the dining room table in Amsterdam. it'll be great to see them back."

"That's not possible," the typist replies, "You cannot have seen your father create this work since you weren't even born in '35."

The nerve! And yet, it's true, I was born ten years after, not before WWII. Looking at the paintings on my wall, I can see how someone would mistake my father's painted '53 for '35. I know for sure his career as an artist did not start until the early 1950s. I ask them to send me JPGs to proof their point and to see if the work they talk about really is my father's. The couple feels insulted by what they see as my insinuation that they would not have obtained the artwork in a legal manner. However, they understand the work belongs with me, but not in exchange for reimbursed expenses! The work will need to be appraised, they state.
Before our trip to Prague and Amsterdam, I was almost ready to post my father's bio on Wikipedia, but after the correspondence I keep my writing to myself, until I know what to do about the portfolio, I tell myself.

Going back in time to 2006 I tell my younger self: 

Don't lose your momentum, you've worked so hard on your father's biography, it's time to share. Five years from now, you won't even care that you can't afford to buy back his art from these men. And you'll consider their browsing the swap meets similar to your parents bidding at auctions. 

Let them enjoy their find. You know they love his work! Don't worry about them using your father's biography for the content of their catalog. You've got something bigger in the making, not only a biography in Dutch and English, but memoirs, not one but several novels and a screenplay.
Learn from your mother's departure. Let go. Let go of your need to hold on, let go of your need to hide what you have discovered.

In 2016 I'll tell myself: BRAVA! You've delivered!

This work by by Judith van Praag is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Dream Big Outside the Writer's Den

 

Our arts, our occupations, our marriages, our religion, we have not chosen, but society has chosen for us. We are parlour soldiers. We shun the rugged battle of fate, where strength is born. 

~ Ralph Waldo Emerson - Self-Reliance.

The prompt by Matt Cheuvront) includes a quote by Steven Pressfield, from: Do the Work 

 “Next to Resistance, rational thought is the artist or entrepreneurs worst enemy. Bad things happen when we employ rational thought, because rational thought comes from the ego. Instead, we want to work from the Self, that is, from instinct and intuition, from the unconscious.A child has no trouble believing the unbelievable, nor does the genius or the madman. Its only you and I, with our big brains and our tiny hearts, who doubt and overthink and hesitate.” 

Prompt by Matt Cheuvron: 

The idea of “being realistic” holds all of us back. From starting a business or quitting a job to dating someone who may not be our type or moving to a new place – getting “real” often means putting your dreams on hold.

Today, let’s take a step away from rational thought and dare to be bold. What’s one thing you’ve always wanted to accomplish(ed) but have been afraid to pursue come out of hiding with? Write it down. Also write down the obstacles in your way of reaching your goal. Finally, write down a tangible plan to overcome each obstacle. The only thing left is to, you know, actually go make it happen. What are you waiting for?

Most days the challenge of this Trust30 - Self-Reliance Challenge lies in not discarding a prompt as not applicable to my situation (I am doing what I love), or worse uninteresting (been there, done that), and to instead do exactly what artists do, setting what "is" (reality) to their hand. Which turns out to be the subject of today, June 6th's prompt by Matt Cheuvront.

A writer friend commented on yesterday's blog post Finish the Project at Hand that I am a survivor and have followed my dreams.

My response: Dreams I did not have, and "dreaming" of the future was exactly what I could not do. It was only a year ago that I realized I'd never come out of my shell, would never share my personal stories (which doesn't mean they haven't already been written, they've just been stowed away) if I wouldn't dare to dream period. If I didn't project myself in a future situation that would show my accomplishment. I've got Oprah to thank for that (and I didn't even read the book Dream Big: O's Guide to Discovering Your Best Life).

 

This Trust30 Challenge is taking me closer to sharing my personal stories with the world. After I finish editing my novel I will send out the manuscript, same with my memoir and the film script. I'm my own worst enemy, the great obstacle on the road to publication, for I hide in bright daylight and living colors. 

Participating in the Self-Reliance Challenge forces me to come out of my shell, allows me to lift the veil of secrecy, slowly but steadily. I've got the Trust30 authors to thank for that.

Dear reader, seeing your portrait when we bloggers start a new post empowers us! To those whose portrait is already on view in the sideline gallery, and to my friends who leave comments, thank you, thank you! Your visit helps me keeps the dream I have now alive!♡

Steven Pressfield it the author of Do the Work















 Dream Big: O's Guide to Discovering Your Best Life











This work by by Judith van Praag is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Finish the Project at Hand

Life wastes itself while we are preparing to live. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson - Self-Reliance.

Prompt by Jonathan Mead:

If you had one week left to live, would you still be doing what you’re doing now? In what areas of your life are you preparing to live? Take them off your To Do list and add them to a To Stop list. Resolve to only do what makes you come alive. Bonus: How can your goals improve the present and not keep you in a perpetual “always something better” spiral?

Finds of the Day

This could be John Lennon's answer to Ralph Waldo Emerson: "Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans".

My answer to Jonathan Mead: Since childhood I've been living my life as though each day is my last. 

Old, physically beat and mentally tormented, my father knew he wasn't going to live long enough to see me grow from child into young adult. He  tried to prepare me for his death, telling me he would still be there for me after he was gone. 

At night, after my father and I finished watching a television movie and we had gone to bed (hours after my mother retired), I listened for his every breath, and sometimes would get up to check his breathing. If he had a quiet night without a cough, I was awake, his silence was killing me. Of all the colorful pills that filled an old cigar tin, I only remember the little green one that was for his nerves. Was that the one I handed out most, or was it his heart pill, or the one for asthma, or odema? 

I expected my mother would die soon after him, and while I didn't really express the thought that I would be next after she was gone, I lived up to that expectation by taking life one day at the time.

Programmed to make the most of each day I ask you: Stand By Me. I'll be back soon with more, today I enjoyed a day at the beach.

Some great finds: Fresh sand dollars, starfish, pipe worms, water spewing geoducks [gooey].

This work by by Judith van Praag is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Being at Home Wherever I Am

If we live truly, we shall see truly. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

Prompt by Chris Guillebeau

Not everyone wants to travel the world, but most people can identify at least one place in the world they’d like to visit before they die. Where is that place for you, and what will you do to make sure you get there?

Traveling is in my blood. "I've been so many places in my life and time." That's not my line, that's Leon Russell's in A Song For You. Is he fantastic or what?

My father was a wandering Jew. The eldest of four children, he was born in Antwerp, because his parents just happened to be there for business at the time, while his two sisters and brother could claim Amsterdam as their place of birth. He went to sea after his father died of the Spanish Flu, and visited many places in the world I didn't even find out he did until decades after his death.

My mother traveled for her job in advertising. The summer after my father died, she signed me up to hike from the southern tip of the Netherlands to Luxembourg. At sixteen I took the train to Skopje, in the former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia, and hitchhiked the rest of the way to Athens, Greece with a 21-year-old girlfriend.
"No one will ever take away the memories you collect on your travels," she said.

In Palma, de Majorca one Spring, in my early twenties, I promised myself I'd have a profession that would take me places, and working as a designer and artist did just that. I vowed I would not move from my present home before I finish a few books in the making. And then? Then I'll work the Writers' Conferences circuit, giving lectures and readings, teaching workshops. That's how I envision I'll get around.

In my dreams I see all different hues of blue in lagoons, and ache to paint the exotic beaches I haven't taken in, but for their appearance on television or in a movie. I sing Yerushalayim Shel Zahav on that hike to Luxembourg, and whisper "next year in Jeruzalem". I hear the banter at dinner parties with friends in Istanbul, Melbourne, Christchurch, and more places I haven't been to, but I don't really need to go there before I die, I just hope I'll be home before that.

Chris Guillebeau is the author of The Art of Non-Conformity.













This work by by Judith van Praag is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.