On nonsense

or non sense or n on sen se (a prompt and reflection)

I won’t go on about how good of a time I had in San Miguel de Allende because I’m already annoying people. It’s almost as bad as the time I went on a falconing walk and didn’t stop talking about it for two weeks. The world was full of birds then. People were just there to listen.

Today, my world is full of beauty and mythology, poetry, good weather, and cobblestone streets. But also, it’s full of nonsense.

So at the risk of being slightly annoying, especially to any of you who follow me on social, I’ll say it one more time: hot damn did I have a good time! Here’s a pic of me looking off into the distance, probably at nothing at all.

Me, full of nonsense & tacos (Image credit: Elizabeth Powell)

It wasn’t just being in a beautiful city and meeting new friends, nor was it exploring the near-hidden shops and eating well-seasoned food (salt and pepper is not spice, Ohio). It wasn’t even the readings and workshops or the fact that I got to do it for free. It was the fact that I had fun. Fun! I had fun because I had no agenda, and I didn’t take myself seriously in the least.

I wandered till my feet hurt and explored a shop that didn’t bother with the typical displays (see below).

This was only a third of the store.

I dropped a credit card down a street vent in the first few hours I was there and got a little embarrassed, then “built a bridge,” as my mother would say, “and got over it.” I learned how to use a digital wallet, and how to shamelessly explain my situation in Spanish before asking ¿Aceptas tarjetas digitales?

I happened upon an improv class, and I wandered with nowhere to go. I dreamed. I dreamed a lot. I dreamed and listened and laughed and was misinterpreted. I cheered on writers and performers and listened to conversations in Spanish, appreciating only the cadence. And I didn’t try to analyze or achieve. I just let go. I was not there to network. I was not there to sell books. I was just there.

I’m not sure if it’s a right of passage or happenstance or increased confidence/decreased self-consciousness, but lately, I’ve been feeling more in tune with the energy I remember feeling as a child. The child archetype, if you will.

As much as I can ride this out, I’m inviting wonder to lead me through my days. I remember as a child being so interested in every nuance of every person I met. I’d interview adults until they grew tired of my questions, and I didn’t ask them about the world (why is the sky blue?) but about them. Who were they? Why did they do what they did? Where had they traveled and what made them laugh? I remember dreaming about going on adventures with my elementary school bus driver, Mrs. Jackson, who drove too fast and had an impressive Jheri curl. For a full year, I waited for the day she’d decide we kids had more interesting places to go than school and take us all on an adventure to somewhere full of magic and intrigue.

Like many kids, I let curiosity lead my life. I was a relentless dreamer, an innocent. Then life revealed its anger and concerns, sicknesses and threats, and I lost that dreaminess for a while. For more than a decade, in fact.

A few years ago, I was in a lovely discussion group with my friend Jim Coe about Jungian psychology and Joseph Campbell’s theories of archetypes. It got me thinking about the cycles we all go through. The freedom of childhood (innocent) leads to the wreckage of first fears (orphan), which requires resiliency and fight (warrior), and so on. Carol Pearson’s book, Awakening the Heroes Within, outlines the way we embody all archetypes to varying degrees, but we often find ourselves in a phase in which one is dominant.

The child self is easy to neglect but crucial to our ability to create fully, and I believe the only way to rekindle our relationship with that part of self is to surrender to play. But so many adults don’t know how. They think play is drinking a glass of sauvignon blanc. (It’s not.)

So how can we experiment with this child self if it feels too distant, and especially if we don’t have the time or opportunity to travel right now?

Jungian psychologist Dr. Rachel Newsome shared with me an excellent activity to coax adults into play. It begins by reading Lewis Caroll’s “Jaberwocky,” which toys with language and meaning and . . . well . . . makes no sense.

Newsome suggests following Caroll’s lead and writing a nonsense poem as a way to rekindle the sense of play. While the initial response to this exercise was a cringe, when I finally broke down and tried it, it was quite fun. And is perhaps more so if done in a group. I wanted to share the exercise with you (which, of course, I’ve altered a bit).

It begins like this:

• List words that you used as a kid or words your kids used that weren’t true words (think “psghetti”)

• List words you love and combine them into new words (joy and plate could be “jlate”)

• Come up with at least ten (10) nonsense words

From there, the exercise is to integrate each nonsense word into a line of poetry or prose that you don’t plan to submit or monetize.

Just play.

Give it ten minutes of your life. Five minutes even. Make it an exercise in release. Allow yourself to be vulnerable, to speak a new language, to let go, to dream and act silly. Try it with a friend or friends. You might be surprised where it leads.

But just as likely (perhaps more so), it won’t lead anywhere. Knowing the latter makes it a little more fun and calls for a little more wonder.