Tag Archives: Life Lessons

Silence and Solitude – Life Lessons

I learned to sit, in silence and solitude, at the end of my street, on Narragansett Bay, looking out and way, when I was young and questioned everything.

When the world was too much with me, I went to that place.

As I celebrated more birthdays I went less and less; and, finally, moved away to begin another part of my life.

Recently, I visited that street, again. I walked to the end of the street and looked out. The place I used to sit is no longer there. Nevertheless, I can bring it all back, as if it was the day before yesterday.

It’s come to my attentions that sitting in silence and solitude is, frequently, questioned, invaded and/or under suspicion in this society. Some folks just have to come up to you, say anything, and break that embrace of peace in which you were sitting. I don’t know why.

The long life lessons I learned as a young girl, sitting for hours sometimes, were to feel, with my entire spirit, to listen with an acutely tuned ear to the patterns of life and nature; and, most important, to stay open and be patient. I did not know then (only learned years later), I would come into the writing life and what lessons I already knew about feeling, listening, staying open, and patience.

I still question everything. I still create and/or find places where I can sit, in silence and solitude, and look out and away.

Where and how did you learn your life lessons?

Stay safe. Take care of yourself and each other.

In gratitude,

~ Jessan

Weeding With My Mother – poem

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Weeding With My Mother

I learned to weed a garden

squatting next to my mother

Once I began to learn what was wanted

and what was unwanted

The rest was easy

Bend down

Get my hands dirty

Smell the earth

Look carefully

Make clean spaces

Talk softly.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Dedicated with Love and Memory to Helen Constance Smith Dunn ~ 1912-1980 / Until we meet again.

© Jessan Dunn Otis, June 30, 2018

“Dirty Money”

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“Dirty Money”

Think of all the things you’ve done to “make money”. That, in itself, is a ridiculous concept. We don’t “make money”, the government does. We, you and I, earn money.

I started earning money as a girl – granted an allowance for accomplishing certain chores. Chores done, allowance paid. No chores done, no allowance. Some chores completed, partial payment.

Simple.

Time passed.

At 19 I landed my first “adult” job as a clerk-typist at a social service in Providence, Rhode Island. Paid weekly. Still living at home with my parents in Warwick, RI. Within a few months I fledged myself. Time to go out on my own. One room apartment on the East Side, shared bath, no parking. Independent. Earning money. Paying my own bills.

Time passed.

Many changes.

Some time later I began to see and understand better about what money, as a thing, did to folks. The earning of it, who had more of it, who had less of it and how those two conditions stratified and segregated people from and against each other. Judgements. “Better than” because one had more money. “Less than” because of having not so much money.

This is nothing to say about how the getting of that money perverted folks – what one did to get more, as if the flash and bling and apparent “power” that all that money was had made a person, somehow, superior or more influential, ultimately.

I still earn money and appreciate what it allows me to do – support a household, buy food, purchase something beautiful, share it to support a charitable cause or new initiative. There are times, however, when I think about the earlier tradition of barter – I have something you want, you have something I want, we determine a fair value, make the deal and each of us walks away satisfied and happy. Simple. Neverthemore, in most Westernized societies, barter has faded and it’s the dollar that rules.

Next time you think about money, think about what it really is – a coin or a decorated piece of paper – and, what it takes to earn it, how the having or not having it creates false and devastating divisions between us (as people and as nations); and, what’s the true value and human cost of “earning money”.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

written by: Jessan Dunn Otis|Writer

A new spin on K.I.S.S. ~ essay

The Cambridge Poem

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T H E C A M B R I D G E P O E M ~ #poetry

Commencement Address – Class of 1990 – The Cambridge School, Weston, MA

Give your regards when you go to the reunion and at the dinner,

say that you were thinking about them They’ll, eventually, recall

your name; you went to the movies with that one, felt the weight

of their life when they sat next to you – they never said a word

All of you are rising friends: one used to play the piano, one once

wrote a play, one even seemed awakened enough to photograph the

fields as the unencumbered with tutored minds and unrehearsed passions

Meet them at the door, they’ve brought the souvenirs of time; a seashell

from the Pacific, the nose of a marble saint, and from the field

a spent casing divulged from the flower bed

Face a rising world bearing its gifts in its hands, kiss your incidental

dreams – rise, move away, take others

Give your regards to the well-protected; you knew them, you went

to school together There’s something to bury when you begin

to move away When you are ready and rich in your wish for the

world, you have a new race to start

From the heart of this darkened quadrangle, I hear the library

hum, an immense chorus of writers murmur inside their books along

the unlit, alphabetical shelves; each one stitched into their

own private coat, (you will have to write your own) together forming

a continuous, enormous breath of language

I picture a figure in the act of reading, shoes on the desk, head tilted

into the wind, a person in two worlds, holding the nape of their neck

as another’s life saturates the page; or, in the middle of a thesis,

moving from paragraph to verse, touring endless rooms (you will have to write your own)

I hear the voice of my mother and father reading and inside their

voices lay other, distant sounds

I see us reading ourselves away from ourselves, straining in circles of

light to find more light until the line of words becomes a trail

that we follow across a page and you will have to listen hard to

hear the voices going away (and, you will have to write your own).

All We Are Are Our Stories

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All We Are Are Our Stories

I’ve been told that the first human sound I ever heard was, most likely, laughter; as my mother looked over the drape, surrounded by a bevy of student nurses, and asked, “Over hand or feather stitch?” as Dr. Vorsick repaired her episiotomy.

This is where my story began. Since then, looking back, there’s no way I could have predicted nor anticipated the journey from then to now – just as well, I suspect.

All posts are my own, unless I invite someone to share their stories – with the exception, of course, of “Comments”. All credit where credit is due will be made.

There is only one primary and permanent guideline: play nice with the other children. This site/blog is open to all and any comments, opinions, and points of view. However, if what you write is inflammatory, bigoted, narrow-minded and/or hateful, I will delete it.

That rather unpleasant matter aside, I look forward to telling stories, sharing stories, listening to stories, and learning more as we all journey through this thing called Life.

Welcome!

What say you, please?

~ Jessan

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