I was at a workshop where the facilitator asked what the meaning of “dis’ed” is. I looked around and saw faces that described how unfairly treated the elderly feels in the neology world of generation X. I was probably the youngest in the audience and had the honour of defining the word whose origin is traced to American prisoners (when asked why they committed a crime, they often said it due to the feeling of being disrespected or more colloquially “I felt dis’ed”).
The comfort of our lives has a bearing with our anxiety level. Our feelings of anxiety or otherwise is depended on respect; respect for self, respect for others and feeling that we are respected. Imagine how you would feel being asked to give a speech in a meeting with five other colleagues. The level of anxiety and its attendant stress is changed if you are then told in the middle of the speech that there is a camera in the room and the speech is being transmitted on live TV. In the end our actions can be greatly influenced by what we think is the opinion of others.
However, should our lives be dictated by the design of our jeans, the model of our car, the level/development of the community we live in? That sort of comparative living is at the root of the rat race. Some one has said that even if one wins a rat race, one is still a rat! Harsh but true. What is also true is that the majority of people are not watching what we do with our lives. Hence the subjective feeling of being disrespected is an exaggeration.
Respect in this piece extends to self-worth, the value we exact and the response we provoke. Respect for self and respect for others are personally generated. Hence we must carry ourselves with and treat others with respect. When it comes to feeling of being respected by others, we ought to be comfortable with ourselves irrespective of the position we occupy in the scale of a competitive society. There in is our true value.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Thursday, June 9, 2011
CHILDHOOD BLUES
As a teen, I read a number of those motivational/self-help books. They made a lot of imprints on my young mind as I strove to discover myself and find my own peace. The impressions included among other things the value of seeing the glass half full, making the most of those time wasters that we don’t have control over and “seeing romance in common place”. The latter informed my love for nature and small little things. Instead of drinking my glass of water, I could be drawn to the impeccable curvature of the glass rim; the purity of water itself or my thought could be projected to the glitter of splashing water, the wave front rippling from a pebble dropped into water, the pattering sound of rainfall on lush vegetation. It made life both beautiful and deep.
Recently, I saw a little boy playing by the trough of a fountain. He appeared so absorbed, muttering to himself and making gestures as if he was following the movement of something in the water. I came closer and asked if there was a fish in the pool of water. As I chatted with the boy, my childhood practically rolled out before me. I am tempted to relive the years of my innocence!
As a child, I loved the sight of fish in water; the sight of swallows or wild pigeons making their nests and of course, the twinkle of Christmas lights. This was before my admiration for other school pupils who wore glasses (I thought they were very brilliant); eagerness at seeing the medal award ceremony in a major sport event; my grip for all fine arts and encyclopaedias or handling a burette. I remember the dimensions of my thoughts as I looked again and again at the pages of my first book of world atlas. As the male hormone was let down, there came an “unfounded” rebellious character especially in church settings. My followership of football replaced wrestling as well. The rebelliousness was unfounded because it was just a protest against being stereotyped as a good boy. My inner self always felt betrayed by my rebellious outbursts. Almost sadly, I am still very agreeable to authority.
The above is by no means an exhaustive list of my childhood. I grew up into the sort of fellow who still has a penchant for all that is mentally stimulating, including all the gizmo of this techno-age. We are truly older versions of childhood
Recently, I saw a little boy playing by the trough of a fountain. He appeared so absorbed, muttering to himself and making gestures as if he was following the movement of something in the water. I came closer and asked if there was a fish in the pool of water. As I chatted with the boy, my childhood practically rolled out before me. I am tempted to relive the years of my innocence!
As a child, I loved the sight of fish in water; the sight of swallows or wild pigeons making their nests and of course, the twinkle of Christmas lights. This was before my admiration for other school pupils who wore glasses (I thought they were very brilliant); eagerness at seeing the medal award ceremony in a major sport event; my grip for all fine arts and encyclopaedias or handling a burette. I remember the dimensions of my thoughts as I looked again and again at the pages of my first book of world atlas. As the male hormone was let down, there came an “unfounded” rebellious character especially in church settings. My followership of football replaced wrestling as well. The rebelliousness was unfounded because it was just a protest against being stereotyped as a good boy. My inner self always felt betrayed by my rebellious outbursts. Almost sadly, I am still very agreeable to authority.
The above is by no means an exhaustive list of my childhood. I grew up into the sort of fellow who still has a penchant for all that is mentally stimulating, including all the gizmo of this techno-age. We are truly older versions of childhood
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
I HAD A DREAM
The other day, I had a mid night dream, woke up and thought its theme would make a good blog post. I slept back afterwards. By the time I would wake up in the morning, I could only remember I had an interesting dream but completely forgot the content. That’s me.
I am told that some people have the gift to have dreams with real life significance; like if they dreamt someone died, something sinister will occur to the object of their dreams in the least. I find this very out of my reach. At times like this, I really wish my father also bought me a biblical coat of many colours; that I do not only identify the sun in my dream to be my “old man”, folks would really come around I would tell them that the dream they had last night infers they will be re-instated in yesterday’s glory. On the other hand, I will also be a breaker of bad news.
Certainly, being the bearer of bad news would be very disheartening and I am glad I have been saved from the anxiety of knowing some thing untoward is going to happen. I dream almost every night, but it is mostly free-style with practically no relevance in reality. One moment, I am admiring a guard of honour, the next I am whistling the tune of a song that I know nothing of. Sometimes, the theme of my dreams are at par with circumstances from the consciousness overwhelming my momentous thoughts, other time times they are just way out of sync with everything I am about. However, they are still always short, trivial, vain, shallow, un-real and sometimes out rightly ridiculous. This is both intriguing and fascinating to me.
It seems to me that this is another way in which life is funny. Most days, I go to bed tired. When I am not fatigued, I keep wake into a late night. I am told I am a “shallow sleeper” (wherever that came from?). I could answer a phone call, switch off the bedside CD player, acknowledge someone‘s presence in the room during my sleep and still wake up by morning feeling very well rested. My dreams float in and out of these activities so that by sunrise, I simple wake up knowing I had a few dreams the previous night that I can barely relate with. I feel teased at the thought of this. The title of this post may as well be “the pranks from my sleep”. It’s my lot, I guess.
I am told that some people have the gift to have dreams with real life significance; like if they dreamt someone died, something sinister will occur to the object of their dreams in the least. I find this very out of my reach. At times like this, I really wish my father also bought me a biblical coat of many colours; that I do not only identify the sun in my dream to be my “old man”, folks would really come around I would tell them that the dream they had last night infers they will be re-instated in yesterday’s glory. On the other hand, I will also be a breaker of bad news.
Certainly, being the bearer of bad news would be very disheartening and I am glad I have been saved from the anxiety of knowing some thing untoward is going to happen. I dream almost every night, but it is mostly free-style with practically no relevance in reality. One moment, I am admiring a guard of honour, the next I am whistling the tune of a song that I know nothing of. Sometimes, the theme of my dreams are at par with circumstances from the consciousness overwhelming my momentous thoughts, other time times they are just way out of sync with everything I am about. However, they are still always short, trivial, vain, shallow, un-real and sometimes out rightly ridiculous. This is both intriguing and fascinating to me.
It seems to me that this is another way in which life is funny. Most days, I go to bed tired. When I am not fatigued, I keep wake into a late night. I am told I am a “shallow sleeper” (wherever that came from?). I could answer a phone call, switch off the bedside CD player, acknowledge someone‘s presence in the room during my sleep and still wake up by morning feeling very well rested. My dreams float in and out of these activities so that by sunrise, I simple wake up knowing I had a few dreams the previous night that I can barely relate with. I feel teased at the thought of this. The title of this post may as well be “the pranks from my sleep”. It’s my lot, I guess.
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