Anne Smith :: Blog for February 2015
I can't say that the last couple of months have been easy. I've been off the radar, adjusting to a new lifestyle being single. It's a vulnerable feeling; but in the same breath, space has been cleared for change, both for Marc and for me. It's not a coincidence that Marc has made some amazing strides, both personally and professionally, since I moved out, as I knew he would. It takes courage to work on the self. It's easy to stay in a relationship and say "we have our problems". It's almost impossible to work on the self when you are partnered.
I continue to be fascinated by the work I am doing here, assisting a Neurodevelopmental Audiologist. I am reading a great book by Dorinne S. Davis, "Sound Bodies Through Sound Therapy". While Music Therapy has its place, I'm drawn to the study of applied psychoacoustics, and the impact of specific tones on the central nervous system. I will be leaving for Kansas on Tuesday morning for a 5 day conference on Neuro-Structural Repatterning as part of the work that I am training for with Dr. Light.
I recently applied for a certificate as an Assistant Audiologist and became engulfed by the Florida State Department of Health and almost didn't make it out alive. My sister had warned me that "Florida is a different planet" but I never took her words seriously until 2 months ago. The application seemed forward enough. I diligently filled out my History of Education, work experience, etc. I was completely honest and disclosed that I held a Masters Degree and Teaching Licenses from both New York and Massachusetts. Well. You would think that was tantamount to admitting that I had been selling drugs and seducing minors. The woman who became "in charge" of my case holds the very important-sounding title of "Regulatory Specialist". When my certificate did not arrive in due time I contacted her and asked her what the hold up was. "You see", she said with great relish-as I imagined her settling back into her swivel chair for the long haul, "You didn't send us a statement from New York State which indicates that you have no 'illegal or derogatory actions' taken against you, nor are there any pending." Bewildered, I asked her why they couldn't just enter my NYS teaching license number into a database and find out in 10 seconds if I were a felon. "Well, we don't do that here. And as for your information, we already know from previous applicants that New York State will not provide you with a statement, so you have to write the statement yourself, to the effect that you have no 'illegal or derogatory actions' taken against you, and get it notarized, then mail it to us."
Okay. That really makes sense. In other words, the Son of Sam could write his own statement attesting to its truth, and as long as he had it notarized, it would be acceptable to the Florida DOH. As an added snicker, their address has a BIN #. Not a PO Box. A BIN. As in, a bottomless pit or some kind of cistern or black hole.
Anyway, I persevered and got my certificate; I won't even go into my conversation with the Massachusetts State Education DePAHTment, except for one exchange I had with an employee who was being forced to locate to Ft. Lauderdale because he owns property and it has to be owner-occupied. He flat out told me, "I have to relocate and I'm sick about it, sick. The neighborhood doesn't even have a bookstore. I wish you luck. I'm really sorry you are dealing with this."
I won't bash the weather, I won't bash the wide open spaces and clean landscape, and beautiful, beautiful skies, lots of good books and creative ideas, good health and my twin sister in Orlando. I have a small circle of great friends. I was just venting!
I have been very creative lately with my sculpture pieces, getting them ready to take to Wynnwood, the art district here…similar to Williamsburg but larger…it's time to act on these creations, because I will never know if I don't try. I also was very moved and inspired by American Sniper. I have sketched out 3 songs, one is complete. The recurring theme that kept coming to me over and over was the denial of feeling that accompanies such assignments, and the complex reasons that men and women will give for going to war. When I saw Sniper, I was in the middle of reading a fantastic work by Ken Carey, The Third Millennuum-Living in the Posthistoric World.
Posthistoric? What are the implications of such a word? We are supposed to learn from our past mistakes, otherwise, as we all know, history will repeat itself. Could it be that there is a global awakening and the human race is becoming deeply conscious of the "here and now", and that one day war will be obsolete? The book explores new modes of perception and understanding as we evolve into a more spiritual way of living. I know I will read it a second time, it is that compelling.
Meanwhile, back in the Prehistoric Sunshine State, I was peacefully sitting on a park bench reading all of this when my morning bliss was disrupted by the arrival of eleven children between the ages of 6 and 10, on bicycles. I heard the shouting and commotion to my left as they entered the park gate, accompanied by a 30-something woman and two guys about the same age. Three of the youngsters were little girls, on pink bikes wearing pink helmets, smiling and drifting like innocent cherry blossoms as they wove through the gang of boys. To my increasing horror and disbelief, every single one of the boys was brandishing some kind of a toy gun or rifle. I put down my book and watched as they targeted each other, squeezing off shots and yelling. One of the boys was slicing at the heads of his buddies with a machete type weapon. They continued to the large jungle gym and ditched their bikes, swarming the structure and taking it over. No body was laughing. These kids were serious about their play. One boy knocked a little girl to the ground and pointed his gun at her head, firing multiple times. The three adults merely stood there and watched. I overheard the woman say, "No pushing, somebody is going to get hurt, and then we'll have an issue." I debated with myself about approaching the adults and asking them to explain this scenario to me. In case the thought entered your mind, these kids were all Anglo. A park ranger slowed down her van and watched along with me. Her eyes met mine and she shook her head. I sensed that she wanted to address the adults as well, but hey, WE GOT OUR RIGHTS. Right? I chose to leave the park. It really hurt my heart. Our children deserve better.
Sending my Northern loved ones much love and strength as you deal with the cold. I was home a few weeks ago in Argyle, just before the blizzards started arriving. Still, it was cold. I recorded the sounds of chickadees and my boots crunching through the snow as a crow and beagle traded calls across the street. Winter in upstate. Where your nose sticks together when you inhale. Where there are "whitecaps in the toilet", as my dad likes to joke. But at night, the brilliance of all those stars…..
Until Next Time x0x0x0Annie
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