by Jennifer Paros

In a journal writing class years ago, I was taught to look more closely at any and all aspects of my experience through dialoguing.  So, if I had a headache, I’d talk to it. If I were stuck in my work, I’d ask it pointed questions.  If I were chronically angry, I’d take it to the page, opening conversation with a person, event, or the emotion itself. I was, of course, playing all the roles, but that was okay because I was hoping to learn more about my own internal state. 

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by Jennifer Paros

I was watching an interview with Michael J. Fox and he spoke of the early days of living with his diagnosis of Parkinson’s disease.  He described sometimes hitting the wall (literally) and said, “I just couldn’t get my brain around it.”  But over time, he realized it was about him “plus” the condition.  The condition wasn’t diminishing him but was part of the context in which he was experiencing himself.  His life expanded and incorporated another area.  He was who he was – whole and complete regardless - and the situation he found himself in was just that (despite any judgment upon it): a situation.

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by Jennifer Paros

As a kid, I liked Halloween - dressing up, going out, collecting candy - and the experience rarely, if ever, was scary. But Halloween did manage to feel frightening the year my friend and I were trick-or-treating and were joined late, in our neighborhood rounds, by an unfamiliar, tough little boy.  With forced friendliness and salesman-like fervor, he latched onto us. We attempted to disengage but he continued tagging along and visiting the same houses.  At one point, I knelt down to tie my shoe and set my bag of candy beside me.  Quickly it became clear why this boy was with us; he grabbed the bag and ran off.

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by Jennifer Paros

It used to be that when a fly entered our bedroom and we were ready to go to sleep, my husband leapt to his feet, grabbed a hand towel, and went after it.  He had a technique, he claimed, a way of whipping that towel that yielded results.  Often, it was true and Man did triumph over Fly.   

But still, I always sighed when the process began - not because I was unperturbed by the buzzing and zooming but because there seemed something frantic about attempting to put an end to it.

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by Jennifer Paros

At twenty-one and recently graduated from college, I was living alone in a studio apartment, frightened of looking for work. Gradually, worry lead to inertia and depression.  In my isolation and fear of making a move, I took to creating collages — which sounds artistic and potentially therapeutic.  But mostly I was cutting out individual letters and gluing them down in the form of somewhat disturbing almost-poems. I don't remember why, however, as I am mainly familiar with kidnappers employing this technique for ransom notes. 

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by Jennifer Paros

My thirteen-year-old son has a habit of saying “of course” when I ask something of him or speak of topics in which he’s not interested. His tone - distant and automated - sets my mind racing with complaints of not being acknowledged. Suddenly he is The Emperor whose attention I am trying to win.  And there’s no winning - I can’t make anyone hear me out.  It is natural to want to be heard, but still my greater desire is to speak authentically, regardless.  And no one’s response or lack thereof determines me realizing that desire. 

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by Jennifer Paros

I have heard about an African tribe in which female members, early in pregnancy, go off with other women to pray, intending to hear the “song” of the spirit of the new child.  Once the women intuit the song, they sing it in celebration of the upcoming birth.  When the baby is born, the community sings it again, in welcome.  And whenever the child goes through a rite of passage, the group sings the song in his honor.  And if that tribe member does something considered socially aberrant, the community encircles him and, once more, sings the song.  There is no punishment for the crime, only the acknowledgement that this person has forgotten the song of the spirit - who he really is.

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by Jennifer Paros

Several years ago, a friend of mine had lost a substantial amount of weight and a mutual friend asked if I thought she would be able to keep it off.  I said, “ Oh yeah – sure!” 

I remembered this exchange recently and realized I’d been wrong.  That person had gone on to regain the weight.  But although I was clearly wrong, there wasn’t any other answer I would have preferred giving, and certainly not the one that would have made me right. I had been asked to give my prognosis, but a prognosis is ultimately just a guess.  So I guessed in favor of the best change.

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by Jennifer Paros

When we got our cat, Lou, though we stopped and bought supplies on our way home, we forgot to get any toys.  One of the first things Lou did was disappear down the hall and return with a mouse-sized porcupine finger puppet he had extracted from a bag full of puppets stored under my son’s bed.  It was as though Lou had so clearly known his desire for play, the gods kindly and immediately directed him to what might be of use.  Porcupine became, and has remained, his favorite toy to date.

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by Jennifer Paros

Recently, my son was curious about Mike Tyson - the fact that Tyson had once bitten off part of someone’s ear.  He started researching and was soon filled with details of a life story packed with dark and challenging moments.  In reviewing what he’d learned with us, he announced that Mike Tyson had had “the worst life ever!”  We agreed, in part, but also shared examples of others who had experienced beatings, rape, being sold into prostitution, concentration camps, schizophrenic breaks, and so on.  And as he listened, following each description, he felt compelled to re-award The Worst Life Ever title time and again. 

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by Jennifer Paros

In the first studio art class I took, my professor addressed the group’s anxiety over our upcoming art show in this way.  She said:                                   

                    “It’s not YOU hanging on the wall!

We laughed as she then pretended to hang herself like a piece of art, lifting her arms as though pinned to the wall while letting the rest of her body go limp. Yes, we laughed, but we were not soothed.  That was a room full of raw egos all trying to figure out how they could protect themselves from the potential judgments of others.  

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by Jennifer Paros

Recently I had the opportunity to watch the film Amadeus again and was struck by a scene in which the fictionalized character of Salieri, Amadeus’s greatest admirer and nemesis, is composing at the piano.  He discovers a melody with which he is delighted, turns to the crucifix on the wall and thanks Jesus for the blessing he’s been given. 

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by Jennifer Paros

Over twenty-five years ago I was in a drawing class in which the professor declared, “I want to teach you how to sustain your own work.”  At the time, I didn’t even know I had my own work, but now, after years of following ideas and feelings towards new drawings and stories, I understand why this was so important. 

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by Jennifer Paros

In creating a piece of writing, or in moving toward any goal, there is a strong temptation for me to gauge where I am in relation to where I want to be.  But when I check on a project - looking for progress and assessing the work – my energy splits in its focus and it becomes hard for things to advance.   I’ve often heard the analogy of a seed used to explain the nature of allowing a project to grow.  We plant a seed and we wait.  But if we constantly check on it by digging it up and looking for its progress, we never see progress.

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by Jennifer Paros

Several years ago, a social worker named Julio Diaz was mugged during his subway commute to the Bronx.    A teenage boy threatened him with a knife and Julio gave him his wallet.  Then Julio offered him his coat to keep him warm, and suggested they have dinner together.  The boy questioned him but agreed. They went to a familiar diner; the mugger took note of how nice Julio was to everyone, saying, “I didn’t think people actually behaved that way.”  Diaz offered to treat for the meal but said he’d need his wallet back to do so; the boy returned it without hesitation.  Then he gave the teen twenty dollars and asked that he give him the knife.  And the boy did.

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by Jennifer Paros

When I am writing or drawing, I consistently need to go back to black – back to internal darkness – in order to let the next new thing emerge.  It is a choice between staying focused on the activity of my mind, trying to think my way through the creative process, or allowing my attention to turn inward, listening and watching, stationed in the darkness that might afford me new light.

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by Jennifer Paros

The other night, my husband, my youngest son, and I all sat down to play a game of SORRY. It took a little convincing, though, as my son - due to a recent losing streak – had banned most board games. Warily, he agreed to play.

If you’re familiar with SORRY you know that the object is for each player to get all his pieces safely Home.

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by Jennifer Paros

My youngest son, who has been having a challenging time in school, told me he wants to “fit in.”  

At first I flinched at the expression, having always seen fitting in as trying to pretzel oneself to match and blend with external expectations.  But soon I felt compelled to take another look at the idea.

As someone who writes, I’ve thought fitting in was counterproductive to originality and authentic expression.

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by Jennifer Paros 

Lately, I have been working on unraveling my impulse to try harder, along with an addiction to feeling strained and stressed – as though these conditions are true indicators of putting in proper effort and guaranteeing desired results. I love to write and draw, but when the work is marked with heavy effort it becomes chore-like, a signal that I am attempting to outrun fear and insecurity by trying harder. 

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by Jennifer Paros

When I write it’s common for me, at some point, to start to worry about what others might think of my work.   But this fear of criticism is always about thinking I am someone I am not - thinking I am vulnerable in ways I am not.   

We teach each other that to be criticized is painful.  That if someone tells us we’re ugly or stupid, they are mean and we are right to feel hurt.  Whether we’re right or not, it’s still awful to hurt.  So maybe we ought to rethink this.

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