The Here, Up There, and Everywhere

How did I get here?, I asked myself.

I was standing outside, dressed in jeans and a down jacket- appropriate enough for the weather- yet wrapped from head-to-toe in a wool Pendleton blanket. I was smoking a cigarette and staring alternately at my cocktail on the deck post and the falling snow. My only light came from the streetlight half a block away, and the end of my cigarette.

 I don't smoke, mind you.

And I didn't mean "here," as in a physical place; I meant Here, this place in my life where I feel like some change is about to take place, but I can't put my finger on it. And where I'm fed up with the waiting, where I'd like to catch a break for once, but where I'm scared to force anything. That Here.

Since my last post  where I told an entirely true story and called everyone on Facebook assholes (Which, at the time, I said I didn't mean it, that people were assholes. That was a lie- I totally meant it.), I've had time to stop and try to identify what has brought me Here. I look back for clues and see these vignettes:

I.

I am multitasking: laundry, dishes, making soup and the bed. I pull a stray hair caught in the pillow case, and let it fall to the floor. The vacuum will meet it later, I think, noting where the line of jet black has rested near my feet.

II.

Question posted via Facebook: Remember your first day of something you now love? What was it like? Answer: It was literally a summer evening, and it seemed like the sun would stay up forever, and then an instant later I was under a blanket of sparkling stars. Questioner's response: Poetic...

III.

I am looking out at the horizon, the Great Lake freezing over a bit more every minute. I can't even begin to comprehend the vastness of this, I think. I turn around and raise my arms up, celebrating the awesomeness all around; a photo gets snapped. I glance back at the lake for just a moment before I hear splashing behind me, to the side of me. Suddenly I am flat on my belly right there on the ice, reaching for the puppy's harness and baby-talking words of encouragement to him that intellectually I know he doesn't understand. Once safe on shore, he shakes the cold cold water from his coat and carries on as if it were a summer day.

IV.

I am laying in my bed, staring out the window; I had forgotten to close the blinds last night. The window faces due west, and I'm trying to discern if the sunrise that's about to happen (it is 7:18 now, and the sunrise is scheduled-scheduled!-to happen at 7:43) is going to be spectacular or cloud-covered and sunless. The blankets are pulled up around me; I'm in the same position I was when I last looked at the clock, when I blew out the candle on my bedside table, when I last glanced at my phone. Trying to figure out if getting out of bed is worthwhile is arduous. The bed says, Your pillow is still waiting for you to come and rest your head. Let me take care of You.

V.

I am sitting on the stool pulled up to my makeshift kitchen bar. I am curled up on the couch, fading in and out of sleep to the conversational tones coming from the television. I am walking through the woods in snow that is still hip-high in places, listening for the light jingling of the bell newly attached to the puppy's collar. I am laying on my back, covered with too many layers and bargaining with whomever for sleep. I am tapping out syllables on my pillow for another haiku, the words I can only say in my head (not ever out loud), or only put in print on social media at two-thirty or three-thirty or even four a.m.

VI.

I am in the car, the radio is off, and the heat is on high. I've a chill that won't leave. The hum of the gears and tires on the road hypnotize me, and as I put the car in park in front of my work building, I have no recollection of what's transpired over the last 21 minutes/miles. Some days are like that, a small voice in my head says.

VII.

I am walking in the street, the sidewalks still covered with the snow and ice from a different day, and the puppy is on his leash. I keep looking up at the sky, more stars punctuating that plane with each glance. I try to make out constellations without slipping on black ice. Stargazing is better when you're not alone, I think. 



And now, I wonder how I got to this space in time, sitting here in a sunbeam that's streaming through my bedroom window, and me on the floor, back against the bed. Those things are all in the past, I tell myself, learn something from them and move on. Memories are the architecture of our identity, as the saying goes. What are you going to do next?

What does the next chapter in this story look like? What words will come out of my pen? Which characters will have a reoccurring role, and which will fade like those sunset colors I love so? And I guess that's the thing that keeps us going day after day, isn't it? The curiosity fueled by our innate human need for love and companionship, for mattering to someone, for validation that we are significant somehow. We look back on moments or memories for indicators, for the last piece of the puzzle, for a glimpse of our legacy. 

I tell myself, You can't create your life story by living in the past. Focus on now. Focus on up there, on the road ahead. Your story will write itself if you'd just throw back the covers and let it breathe.

And with those words, I'm off to write the next chapter, one adventure at a time. Live your story, friends. 

Another Mini Post

I KNOOOOOOWWWWWW!

You don't need to tell me that I'm slackin', here. I can feel your disapointed stares and hear the tsktsktsk under your breath. But like that picture says: I have a strategic plan. Haha!

The thing is...I am in a funk. Or, I was. Well no, maybe I'm still there a little bit, but I'm making my way out.

Yes, that last one: I'm making my way out.

I have so many excuses at the ready, but no one wants to hear those, so I'll just say that the past few months have been REE-DICK-YOU-LUSSSSS-LEE hard on me; I also have been hard on myself in all the wrong ways. My lack of discipline in every aspect of my life has taken a toll.

Mostly, I blame the weather.

Anyhoo, now that the weather around these parts has finally turned to more sunshine than grey-cloud days, I can feel a bit of a lightening to my surroundings; I can focus on colors and early summer sounds, I can eat my dinner and ice cream outside, I can take my new puppy for long walks after 10 pm, I can sleep with the windows open all night. All Good Things.

I have even started a new, longer post that I'll be sharing soon. Mostly because I think it's about time I got back to this blog on the regular, but also because I kinda told someone I'd post twice per month. And if I failed to do so? I'd have to do something that scared me, that was the agreement. Strategic Plan, right? Let's get to the Doing Things part.

Until next time, friends.

Stay Soft

You know, I haven't been updating this blog as often as I had hoped in 2013, but I've struggled this past fall and winter with a variety of things that have made being creative and positive and (hopefully) helpful kinda difficult: the past showing up uninvited, the present weighing me down like too many layers, the immediate future hiding, not even a square on the calendar yet. So much unsettled and up in the air can bring a girl down, and the stress of these types of everyday moments has caused me to batten down the hatches, as it were.

My primary struggle has always been to be open; my life has always been focused on simple survival, the barest of exchanges employed to move forward from point A to B. I am blessed to have cultivated a support system that allows me a great deal of latitude, that understands and recognizes my need to pull away and refocus from time to time. My secondary struggle is with patience. I have it in spades, my Co-dependent Brethren, except for when I finally figure out what I want, and then whatever that is becomes my singular cause, my whole life. And sometimes I build really tall walls to keep out interlopers, no matter how well intentioned they may be.

In short, I allow myself to be hardened.

It is not intentional, really, I just don't actively try to stop it from happening.

Every morning after I drop Blonde Daughter off at school, I drive to the lake with a big cup of coffee and I walk out on the sandbars (although these past few weeks, it's been more of a wade than a walk). I love taking note of the minutiae of changes along my path, snapping photos with my iPhone, sharing them on Instagram or Facebook. Or not. It is a routine that helps keep me centered. Every day, however, on my way back to the FJ, I recite a mantra. Sometimes out loud for the birds and clouds to hear, sometimes just to myself. And I send out intentions to the Universe- requests, I guess, or prayers. What I say to the Universe out there on the sandbars, in the middle of the lake each morning? What I ask for, hope for, what I must believe will be granted me? What propels me forward despite the overwhelming sense some days that staying put would be so much easier?

Those words are none of your fucking business.

Anyway, sometimes I'll get back to my Dollhouse and waste time on Pinterest, creating my Fantasy Life through design and fashion and food inspiration, pinning quotes that make me think or laugh or cry. A few weeks ago, I came across this quote:

Be soft.

Do not let the world make you hard.

Do not let the pain make you hate.

Do not let the bitterness steal your sweetness.

Take pride that even though the rest of the world may disagree,

you still believe it to be a beautiful place.

- Kurt Vonnegut

Well.

I'm a big believer in Fate, in things coming to us exactly when we need them to. I was in a bit of a funk, and so I sat with this quote for a few days after I found it. It made me pause and recognize that my walls were being built up again.

And sometimes when I need to clear my head and just not think so much, I go shopping.

TOTAL GIRL COPING MECHANISM. Ha!

So, I'm at the grocery store (honestly, you don't think this single parent has disposable income, do you?), walking around kinda dazed and lost, and as I moved from produce to meat departments, I saw a man standing in front of the meat cooler, studying the different cuts of pork. From the back- all long legs, bad posture, stocking cap, bad shoes, rough hands- I thought it was my Wasband. I didn't want to deal with him right there in the grocery store. Or at all, frankly. It wasn't him, despite the fact that this man had on the same windbreaker I had bought years ago. It wasn't him; as I moved over towards the poultry and then beef, he moved toward the lunchmeat and pickles. I moved to the eggs, he to the sliced cheese.

It wasn't him, and yet it was him, the future him. This man's face was etched with the weather of hundreds of days working outside. His beard was scraggly and only there because he didn't have any razors to make it go away. His eyes were blue. His eyes were defeated and half-closed. His eyes looked right at me, then past me, not hesitating to move on.

We played hide-and-seek among the aisles. Toilet paper, frozen berries, bread. I stopped to check my phone, and have lost him, I think. Iced tea, trail mix. Gone.

I got home and it was dark. I was in my own world, still a bit disturbed by this blast from the past/glimpse of the future. There was so much brought up in my mind when I thought the Grocery Store Guy was my Wasband; all of the issues and emotions (and the confusion that comes with them) made me a bit numb. And then I got sad. And angry. And onward through the stages, wall getting higher bit by bit, until I heard a voice in my head say: "Stay Soft."

I listened again: Stay. Soft. Stay soft. Some things cannot be undone. Some emotions will keep at you until you acknowledge them fully. Stay soft. Instead of looking at your Life So Far and shaking your head, wondering why you put up with what you did or how you managed to make it to this day, be thankful for that life and the lessons you've lived through and for the ability to apply those lessons in a way that will help you become who you've always meant to be, who you've been destined to be. Sit with that.

I felt incredibly calmed then, there on my couch in the lamplight glow.

Seeing the past and the future at the same time, presently, is most surreal. And the emotions that can bubble up can't be ignored. Those walls you've built up? Your suppressed emotions are going to overflow them, and then you'll have to mop that shit up. Ain't nobody got time for that. But-

But if you stay soft, if you recognize a bit sooner what you're doing to yourself? That emotional overflow can be soaked up, and like a sponge, you can choose to hold on to only what's necessary. It doesn't matter what triggers this emotionality- what's important is the validation and release of those feelings. At least, that's what I took from the quote and that voice in my head.

The next day, I went for my morning sandbar walk like always. But on my way back to the FJ, I stopped myself from reciting my usual mantra, and instead repeated to myself with every footfall: Stay, soft. Right, left. Splash, splash. Breathe in, breathe out. Repeat.

Since then, I've gone back and forth between this mantra and the other, always on the way back to the truck, always using the words to signal to the Universe that I'm ready to start the day, that I'm ready to leave my intentions out there for Fate to find and answer. Or not.

Either way, I've taken this discovery to heart. I'm more prone to think about a situation or person or possibility through a different field of vision, one blurred around the edges, only the most important things in focus. I'm getting more comfortable with being open, with being okay with embellishing the path from point A to B, with living a bit more and not just surviving. I'm not saying its easy, or that I don't still catch myself building walls; I'm saying that I'm not allowing the hardening to be complete every time.

Until next time, friends.

April's Showers Are Just Poems

The snow showers that April has gifted to this part of the country are a certain kind of poem, I think: each flake unique, each one an intention brought forth from the clouds, each weather advisory maybe a calling for continued introspection before the celebration of True Spring.

It's true: April is National Poetry Month (and look here, too), and there is a poet in each of us. Teen angst love ramblings, unintentional poetry from words spoken by children, commentary from so-called "professional" writers- just about anything can be called a poem. Although sometimes I think that all it really takes is the skillful use of a thesaurus and some clever spacing in Microsoft Word, I'm prone to insomnia-fueled haikus, posted as staus updates on Facebook myself, so I should probably refrain from being overly critical. Often poems are the only way certain things can ever be communicated; to use the words of a poem in actual conversation would seem, maybe to today's overly-saturated social media & technology-driven masses, too quaint. But then again, if the Hipsters have gotten a hold of it...

...and with that side swipe and an unapologetic smirk, I digress.

Back to poetry.

My regular writing has been feeling like more of a burden than an outlet lately, but I swear I'm working on a new post that is more in the vein of what I normally do. Upcoming topic?
Softness. Reader widens eyes, nods head to the side, thinks (maybe) aloud "Hmm. Softness. Interesting."

While taking breaks from that post topic, I've been painting. And knitting. And sulking. And writing poems (those last two go hand-in-hand, don't they?). I tend to be a storyteller when I write, so just allow me this one indulgence, okay? Like I said, I'm always good for a haiku (that form is the best-creating within structure-see what I did here?); but today I will give you this non-haiku, written recently, and only after many revisions do I feel comfortable posting it here (which is to say, I'm not comfortabe at all posting it anywhere at all).


Elegy, In Anticipation

I think about you some days,
and how heavy it felt to be near you
with you
even on days with good news,
even sitting in the light of a sunbeam.

The photographs of your childhood show sunshine,
but your face
is never really smiling, only
squinting from the glare,
or red from frustration,
or swollen-eyed from not getting your way;
the farm garden lush
the pine trees go deep
the pigs and cows and rooster
the front steps and the three-legged dog-
Sunshine.

I think about your best artwork
pieces created years apart-
accidentally, reluctantly-
a study in contrasts, and
bright spots on your timeline, no doubt;
and you let them go
and you let me go,
animals in our own rights.

Those dreams of you driving?
Sweaty-handed and jittery at the wheel?
I know there is no sun, but
here comes the curve, and with it
the headlights catch you off guard
every time,
their brightness too much for you to bear
and you throw your hands up
and you let go.

And when you finally combust
by either your own doing or not,
or from the realization of all the brightness
you could have kept but wasted-
or maybe just couldn't bear to hold onto?-
and when those billion tiny particles move around the air
like dust sparkling in a sunbeam,
I will think of you as the cloud that makes them disappear.



I will leave you with this, a poem from a favorite author:

North

The rising sun not beet.
or blood,
but sea-rose red.

I amplified my heartbeat
one thousand times,
the animals at first confused
then decided I was another
thunder being.

While talking directly to god
my attention waxed and waned.
I have a lot on my mind.

I worked out
to make myself as strong
as water.

After all these years
of holding the world together
I let it roll down the hill
into the river.

One tree leads
to another,
walking on
this undescribed earth.

I have dreamed
myself back
to where
I already am.

On a cold day
bear, coyote, cranes.
On a rainy night
a wolf with yellow eyes.
On a windy day
eleven kestrels looking
down at me.
On a hot afternoon
the ravens floated over
where I sunk
myself in the river.

Way out there
in unknown country
I walked at night
to scare myself.

Who is this other,
the secret sharer,
who directs the hand
that twists the heart,
the voice calling out ot me
between feather and stone
the hour before dawn?

Somehow
I have turned into
an old brown man
in a green coat.

Having fulfilled
my obligations
my heart moves lightly
to this downward dance.

- Jim Harrison


And now it's your turn. Write a poem. Read a poem. Go listen to someone else read a poem out loud. Memorize a favorite verse, or explicate a piece that really makes you think. And then write a poem about that poem. Until next time, friends.

A Scavenger's Plateau

Little Bay de Noc, Lake Michigan

 8:14 am, December 6, 2012: sunless sunrise

I wrote the start of this post on my birthday, down at the lakefront where I go every weekday to walk and meditate, however I could not bring myself to get out of the car. It was raining, and the wind was blowing blowing blowing; the car was rocking from some of the gusts. The fact that it was my birthday didn't bother me so much in that I don't think too much about getting older; it was just another day to find the Good, to count my blessings despite all I was feeling, to keep up the daily routine I'd created for myself.

In the twelve months since my last birthday, I have gained more than another tally mark on the wall. The bits and pieces of my experiences this year have come to rest right in the front of my brain where I can cull from them lessons on life and on living. I take them on my morning meditation walks, on my solo camping trips, when shopping for steel-cut oats and toilet paper. I even take them with me for odd errands, like when I had to go to the laundromat to wash my bed's comforter and the quilt I had just taken camping. (Side note: the laundromat is a very lonely place to be, especially when one is laundering things that should be shared.) I took those lessons with me down to the beach after spending $4.75 in quarters and watched a wind surfer move through the water, at times becoming airborne. It was mesmerizing and unsettling at once, mostly due to the lack of rhythm: there are times when he would get stuck in one spot, unable to turn or glide away, and then another burst of air would lift him up off the surface of the lake.

Isn't that how life is? How birthdays are? Such a confluence of emotions? So grateful for so much, yet a heavy, desolate sadness for what's gone or lacking? I wish sometimes that the Universe would hand me my lessons in school primer form, composition book along side: Read the following passage. What did you learn? Explain.

I feel like I'm on a plateau. It sounds so much more gentle than being "stalled" or "stunted," and life in the past year has found me heavily relying on my network of friends to sustain my ego, to help allay my general funk. I wanted sunshine and clear skies on my birthday, yet I can't deny the beauty in the overcast-ness of the morning here by the lake: the greys and blues of the water and sky, the sand and marsh grass browns, the regularity of the waves, spots of white on the water's surface, Nature reminding me I'm not in charge. This soothes me, in a way: I am tired of being in charge.

And this brings me to the idea of self-care. I had someone tell me recently that I did a good job of taking care of myself, that even though I'm a single/un-partnered parent, it looked like I was still balanced, that my life was busy and full and complete. I'm not sure if this was a compliment or not. While I've always maintained an independent life, doing what I want to do pretty much when I want to do it, I don't ever feel like I'm taking care of my self purposefully; I'm busy tending to others, trying to keep them happy and healthy, distracted, comfortable. My talent lies in scrounging what's left from the care of others and making it fit into the care of myself, in making it seem like whatever was left over was exactly what I've wanted and needed all along: Scavenger. Giver. 

I would very much like to be taken care of, if only to have the experience and see if I like it. I think I could learn to like it, I don't know. I know the importance of being true to yourself and what makes you, but doesn't everyone need a respite from that? At least now and again, anyway. A permanent check-out isn't what I'm advocating- that's the dangerous part of our relationships and commitments, isn't it? That we unmindfully relinquish "Self" in favor of "We," the collective?

So.

I've written about my propensity for crying, and how it seems to be useful. It is cathartic, yes, but the problem for me is that this catharsis never seems complete. It seems like, rather, the cycle of my emotions and issues doesn't get moved aside with the tears, there is no denouement, it just gets moved back to the bottom of the hill. Sisyphus ain't got nothin' on me. Your facade is built thusly: the scraps from the lives of others are swept up and mixed with an epoxy, pressed together and pressurized to resemble something like Real Happiness. And you continue to hope that one day soon you will be able to move in from the periphery of your own life, towards the center where you can be fully appreciative for Self. And you cling to this belief, this idea of Happiness in the collective sense and its ability to keep you. And so that's where this Scavenging comes in: What is left when the initial stark rawness of your independence subsides? What is left when everyone else's needs are met, Giver? Who is there to attend to your needs? What are those lessons stuck in your frontal lobe trying to teach you?

I feel like a fool, often, for believing that hoping for happiness is enough, that I'll be able to sustain _________. I struggle very much with the feeling that the joke is always going to be on me; that I shouldn't allow myself to relax and be cared for because I should be prepared for the worst- or at least the opposite of what I'd like- to come my way (history has taught me as much); that I shouldn't be focused on my wants and needs because those will take care of themselves. Eventually. After the others. When I finish the task at hand. When there is a pause, when the brain is resting, perhaps. 

This brings me to the title of this post, to the very particular sadness that comes with recognizing your constant hope for personal happiness has yet to be fulfilled. The plateau you're stuck on is the acceptance of not being where you'd like to be, despite your work on Self, despite that new awareness, despite the quality or quantity of the scraps you Scavenge. On your birthday, even. 

I needed to physically have my feet touch the ground, to allow myself the gift of my visceral energy connecting to my limbs, to experience the calm that comes from hearing the water and feeling the wind on my cheeks, eyelashes and -lids fluttering with the gusts. And yet the wind was howling outside my door, and it is still constantly in my thoughts no matter where I go or what I do; I could not get out of the car, I was too tired and chilled to even attempt it. My routine was broken.

And yet I feel obligated to find One Good Thing about this place, about this broken routine, about this expanse. What have I learned? 

At least there's no regression. Until next time, friends.

Crybaby

As I was driving home from work the other night and reflecting on the events of the day, I did two things I don't normally do: I smiled, and then I cried. Usually I just sigh heavily, and more than once. But that day? That day made me think about the movie "Armageddon." 

Yep. The one with Bruce Willis and Ben Affleck. Where the guys all sing "Leaving on a Jet Plane" before they go up into space to save the Earth? That movie marks the point in my life when I started to go soft.  I didn't know it at that time, of course, but a change was underway.  Up until I saw that movie (reluctantly, I might add), I was probably best describes as...a hard ass. Pure sarcasm. Bitchy. Cold. Detached. Indifferent. Unemotional.

I am not any of those things. 

I'm not saying I didn't behave that way for a good chunk of my (adult, married) life, I'm saying that I wasn't being authentic. Big difference.

Anyhoo, I had noticed that more than a few of my Facebook friends were posting daily "I'm grateful/thankful for..." statements in anticipation of Thanksgiving, and I was thinking about what I was grateful for, what I should give thanks for. As I thought about the myriad people and events in my life I was thankful for, my mind wandered to how lives are seen by others- in books, movies- which led me to the aforementioned movie. I know, my focus needs work some days. And that I'm thankful for becoming a Crybaby.

That movie was the impetus for me earning my Crybaby Badge. And like I said, I didn't know it at the time (we never know the importance of events as they are happening, do we? That's why reflection is so important. Again, I digress...), but there was a shift which led me to who I am today: I cry at everything.

Really. And not because I'm sad. Not all the time anyway. Although I am struggling with how much I'm struggling with a few things (Um, Yogi Berra much?), its more related to the thankfulness for second chances, for renewal. And so I cry.

I cry when I'm hit with the smell of dish soap and garlic and whiskey and cigarettes and a wood fire. I cry at the unique papery musty smell of a deck of cards used over and again. I cry when I see the brightness and feel the warmth of the sunshine on a sliver of my bare skin during these Autumn days. 

Sometimes the crying is triggered by a word or phrase, or the memory of the word or phrase being spoken: Where you going, Jim? He reminds her of her father. Did he make it? You abandoned us. You're so self righteous. For always and all ways. Anytime. This is true. Are you sure?

Sometimes it's a song or a scene from a movie- or even a television commercial!- that sets me off, something in the deep recesses of my psyche is given a little nudge (or a big ol' push). Sometimes it'll be when I'm reading to the kids at school that I turn into a giant mush ball (see: Where The Red Fern Grows and Charlotte's Web and James and the Giant Peach).

Most of the time (and especially in my Old Life) I respond to emotions like these by suppressing them. My modus operandi for dealing with emotions or with hearing something uncomfortable/not what I want to hear is to immediately get busy stopping it from being fully realized: one hand gets busy building a wall to protect myself from further exposure to those feelings, and the other hand gets busy filling sand bags to keep those emotions under water. Reactionary rather than rational. Of course, it's a direct response to other people's problems: codependency behaviors die hard.

Fucking other people.

I realized that I had recently employed that behavior, and now having given myself the space to reflect on the situation and my response to it, I feel sadness that I allowed myself to revert, at how I might have made the other person feel. No one deserves to be ignored, especially not those we love. It's not fair for them to be adversely affected because of our vulnerabilities. *sigh*

And so first I cry. A lot. My next step after behaving badly is to move everything- the emotions, the situation that precipitated them, the people hurt by my actions, the aftermath- to the periphery. Avoidance! At some point, though, we need to deal with those emotions- those bastards!- otherwise we lose sleep, we are irritable, we are listless, we walk around in a fog and are unable to explain our way out of it. Still crying, too.

What next? Actually dealing with our stuff is often uncomfortable or even more painful. This (I think) can be due to our innate Fear of the Unknown. What will those apologies sound like? How will those we've hurt respond to those words? How will we respond their reactions? How can we aptly express gratitude for ____? We don't know what we don't know (Yogi Berra dies hard, too.). Of course we want to believe everything will be okay (and it will be, eventually): believing takes practice. Give thanks for the opportunity to try again. And cry s'more.

And so we come back to my Crybaby status and those Facebook posts. All of these things I've mentioned- the books, words, songs, movies, memories- those human experiences in another format, those everyday moments and all of our actions that make up our biographies, we can see them there on the pages, hear and read the pain, confusion, sadness, joy, contentment- all of it. It is there in our voices and in our every action as we tell the story of Self. Status Update What's on your mind? I am grateful for tears of pain, confusion, sadness, joy, contentment; for memories, for potential, for dreams. Tears of thanks. 

Cry, baby.

Until next time, friends.

It Ain't Easy Bein' Green

"...a mass of tiny green things that looked like little stones or crystals, 

each one about the size of a grain of rice.

They were extraordinarily beautiful, and there was a strange brightness about them, 

a sort of luminous quality that made them 

glow and sparkle in a most wonderful way."

-Roald Dahl, James and the Giant Peach

Do you know this quote? This part of the story? It is one of my favorite parts of the book, when things are just about to start happening to James. The green creature seeds- so pretty, so fascinating- just looking at them offers the promise of having what your heart desires most. The caveat? The magic is worked on whatever or whomever they first meet. Poor James. And even us, when we see things like this, reflections of our desires, we can't help but be myopic. 

My life is full of friends. They are all glow and sparkle. I use them to fill my days with joy, I use them as sounding boards, I use them as a repository of giving- of my knowledge or time or listening ears and heart and mind. I think they use me for the same things. Also, I'm a pretty decent cook. So, having these people around me, not judging me, keeping me safe, has been deeply humbling. How do you sufficiently thank the people who sustain you? One day at a time. And yet-

I had an experience recently that involved an impromptu counseling session, a massage, and a renewed focus on meditation. Last month I was feeling run down and totally out of sorts. My mind was still adjusting to my new knowledge (or re-discovery) of Self from my retreat, and my body was beginning to show signs of the stress manifesting in my life. What stress, exactly? I mean, I had just come off a three-week hiatus, no? Yes, and I still had too much going on in my head. What to do? Arrange for a massage with my favorite Buddhist Hippie Sage? YES. 

It was a Sunday morning, early, and I met him at his work space. It was one of the last best days of summer, and so I was already feeling wistful (Summer! Do! Not! Go!), but the sun was still warm, and I could wear a skirt and flip flops and thought I'd go to the beach after my session. Little did I know where the day would take me.

Me and the BHS started talking, me relaxing a bit from the long drive, both of us feeling each other out, trying to gauge mindset, making small talk in between these silent assessments. The BHS sat in the corner, cross legged in a recliner; I sat cross legged on top of the massage table. Both of us had our hands rested on our knees. I must have looked a state. The BHS says to me as our conversation moves from one topic to the next, "Honey, do you have any love in your life?" 

Now, my modus operandi is to analyze and be intellectual rather than emotional. Oh, the walls we build in the name of Avoidance! My hands instinctively went up to cover my face and catch tears. 

Yes. No. I don't understand.

We talked about my life and the people I held on to and marveled at- those people who are my tiny green crystals, all luminous and willing to share their magic with me. Three hours spent talking (okay, me crying and listening, really) followed by a massage passed. Deep questions, strong hands. Catharsis. My body needed this. My mind was only partially ready, but I felt calmed if not spent. I went home that night with a quiet determination to pay attention to my Core Friends, my Luminous Seeds.

" 'Something is about to happen,' he told himself. 'Something peculiar is about to happen at any moment.' He hadn't the faintest idea what it might be, but he could feel it in his bones that something was going to happen soon. He could feel it in the air around him...in the sudden stillness that had fallen upon the garden."

My daily life outwardly returned to routine, to work and single parenting, to physical body care, to establishing a regular meditation practice and creativity practice, to time spent with my surrogate families. But I wasn't settled. I was still feeling peculiar, like James. Like I told one friend, "There is a disturbance in the Force." I was only half-joking. It got so bad one day at work, the overwhelming sense of discomfort, that I literally pitched a fit, collapsing onto the floor of my office, half laughing, half crying about how I didn't want to be there. And all my co-worker could do was stand there and say "Oh, please get up." We laughed, but I was being totally truthful, and he knew this, he sensed it. I wasn't alone.

I had to do something. I started taking walks at night to the lake shore. I'll sit and stare at the water or the sky, breathe the coming of Winter in the Autumn Damp. Recently, I decided to try a walking meditation on the stars; the swarms and night-star-clouds have helped clear my head, if only for an hour or so. My daily meditations since meeting with the BHS started out as being focused on thankfulness and gratitude for the love in my life, especially centered on my Core Friends, the women I use in one way or another- and their partners! Those men I know and use as supplements! After several sessions, though, I couldn't understand why I was still in a funk. Busy hands, wonderful friends, gratitude for all they bring to my life...why no movement? Why no progression from this spot on the road? What had I not yet learned?

And then it struck me one morning while I was starting my day: I picked up a pillow from my bed, the one that lays vertical next to me, the one on the side of the bed I do not sleep on. I grabbed it and tried to set it on the floor so I could adjust the sheets and comforter, and I couldn't let it go. I was overcome with such sadness over the fact that my bed- bought brand new after my divorce- was only mine. I am the only one to have slept there, to stay there. Loneliness, jealousy. One masks the other. I had been, under the guise of gratitude, coveting the lives of the very people I was thankful for. Talk about misdirected! I had allowed my emotions to creep into my thoughts and influence me in an unhealthy way. I had to sit with that, with the realization that I was incredibly jealous of what I saw around me, of the different kinds of joy others had and that I didn't at this point of my journey. I went back to my conversation with the BHS: did I have love in my life? Of course I did. Of course I do. But-

Friends traveling here and there and to the other side of the globe. Friends arranging date nights to reconnect. Friends making detailed shopping lists, complete with notations regarding coupons. Friends texting please pick up the Sunday paper. Friends taking dancing lessons. Borrowing houses. Borrowing pets. Borrowing partners. Borrowing from others' lives the bits I don't have, piecing them together, drinking the third cup of tea set out on the tray.

I look at these people and am happy for them, really. The joy they have is what I thought I had for such a long time, and is what I yearn for now in earnest. If I figured out one thing about myself in my work on identity, it is that I am a Giver. I thrive when I have the opportunity to share and give of myself. I am happier. I am more balanced. I am calm yet energetic. I function best when I have not just all of these friends and the resources they offer to me (and I, them), but when I have a Touchstone. The pull of the comfort of that kind of intimacy- the intellectual, emotional, and physical- is not only something I crave out of jealousy, but out of necessity. Personal Truth, right? I'm a Giver. I know the importance of taking time for myself (I need to do this more often, I know), but I also recognize and accept that part of my Core Self is to Give, to make life easier for those I love. 

And so what's making this section of my Life Path so rocky, what is partly responsible for the unsettled-ness, the restlessness, the disturbance in the Force, the peculiar feeling, is not what I have, but rather what I'm lacking: there is no Touchstone. That is difficult to admit, and it is difficult to know this and still be committed to finding the Good in my days, to be outwardly grateful and gracious, to still Give. I think back to the conversation with the BHS that day and how he knew- he knew- so much.

" 'My dear...' the Old-Green Grasshopper said gently, 'there are a whole lot of things in this world of ours you haven't started wondering about yet.' "

Where does this leave me? It leaves me to tell myself: stop over-thinking. Look at the Good. The glowing green seeds will work their strange brightness and magic. The wonderment will sustain. 

Until next time, friends.

30 Days, Days Three Through Eight

That's right: My Little Pony Princess Celestia. 

Now that I've posted the third of three parts about my retreat, as promised here's an update to my 30 Day Creativity Challenge project. I'm not sharing everything I've done (but have listed the dates/day number/topic), especially the bits I've written; some things I think I'll only share with my cohorts of this challenge, and other bits I might not share at all. I welcome your comments, always. Enjoy.

Tuesday, September 11, 2012- Day #3= Tablescape.

I had a bit of trouble with this one as I kept thinking about food, which led to me remember that I don't really have a table at which to eat; I mostly sit at my DIY counter top bar, and weather permitting I sit outside on my tiny dollhouse deck in my red plastic Adirondack chairs, or I'll often just stand at the pink Formica counter top. So I walked around my tiny dollhouse, looking for a place to stage my food for the day (um...trail mix, coffee. That's it.), when I spied my journal on the bedside tabletop. See what I did there? 

Probably more important to me than food right now, my nightly bedside journaling has proven to be an immense and comforting outlet for me. So it seems only fitting that my books and journals be my image for this day's challenge.

This is what I see every night before I try to sleep- that beat up table, that stack of books, that lampglow, that plainly dressed bed.

Wednesday, September 12, 2012- Day #4= Best Friend(s).

This is where I wish I had curated the list of challenges a bit more harshly. "Best Friend?" What am I, twelve? Ugh. I was feeling incredibly low and frustrated that day, and while I had friends to use as sounding boards, I couldn't pick just one to call "best." I also didn't have the words to explain any of those people without sounding like Stuart Smalley. So I went for a run to try and get some headspace.

I ran through the park, along the shore of Lake Michigan, legs pumping faster than they needed to be, music helping set the tone of my thoughts and the pace of those legs. Sitting outside after my run, I was drinking coffee from a treasured mug from a "best," and it dawned on  me that my Best Friends that day were all right there: music, running (with my favorite threadbare socks, even), and strong, hot coffee with cream. Those are the items I needed that morning, those are the items that helped me get dressed and go to work, those are the items that gave me a bit of strength. If that doesn't describe a Best Friend(s), I don't know what does.

Thursday, September 13, 2012- Day #5= A Favorite Place.

Another hard one! Challenge, indeed. I though about my favorite places- my little rental dollhouse, my parents' house, the beach-any beach, anywhere with my friends and laughter, or anywhere that made me warm all over and brought me joy. As I added more and more places to my list of favorites, I quickly came to the conclusion that my favorite Favorite Place was a feeling of joy and contentment rather than an actual, physical place on a map. And so I decided to describe some moments or scenes that, when I have them in my present thoughts as either memory or fantasy, I am transported. But the picture I'm posting here to go with these words is someplace I recently fell in love with, despite it literally being my back yard for the past 16 years.

A Favorite Place

The warmth of the sun on my bare skin, the sound of the water breaking on the shore, the stillness of the air.

The smell you catch in the grocery store that has you looking around for your grandmother, or mother. It is a certain perfume, or a mixture of garlic and coffee and dish soap from the kitchen, or (I don't know what other words to use).

The darkness of a navy-black sky, with swarms of stars punctuated by the brightest, closest constellations.

The sound of a laugh or a cough or the baritone of a voice you swear is your father’s, but it cannot possibly be, because he is five hundred miles away, asleep in his recliner or out fishing the Hennepin Canal for blue gill and crappie and bass and solitude.

The happy, floating, invincible feeling between a first and fourth vodka gimlet.

A lover’s arm across your body, or the linger of a kiss from their mouth in the crook where your shoulder and neck meet.

The smiles captured in a photograph when your children were smaller, happier, and unconcerned.

Three weeks ago, your Life swirling around, when you had no reason to be anything other than unconcerned.

A song that links to a memory of a place and time and another life and a person you used to be and whom you are grateful to have grown from because it means you have become who you are right now.

Friday, September 14, 2012- Day #6= Favorite scene from a book.

Saturday, September 15, 2012- Day #7= Favorite scene from a movie.

Sunday, September 16, 2012- Day #8= Self Portrait (#2 of 3).

I love this photo for a number of reasons: 1) It is my favorite part of my body, my neck/collar bones, shoulders, decollete; 2) I had just had a day so profoundly needed that I didn't want it to end, and so I love that this is a memento of that day; 3) I love the coloring of this shot, the way the flash of the camera illuminated my body and the room and caught all the right angles to highlight.

I gotta tell ya: even though I intended to use this challenge as a fire starter for my visual imagery/art, my writing has been front and center in my head, making my hands ache from wanting to scratch out the words on legal pad yellow paper before transforming them to computer bits. I've dug out books from my library that I haven't touched in years because of this challenge, and they have helped me focus and write and re-write; reading good writing helps you become a better writer, I'm convinced. The margins of my pages are just as filled as the spaces between the blue lines. For reference, some of those books are : A Natural History of the Senses by Diane Ackerman, Where I'm Calling From by Raymond Carver, The Woman Lit by Fireflies by Jim Harrison, and Hateship, Friendship, Courtship, Loveship, Marriage by Alice Munro. Although I've always loved a well-crafted novel, short stories are my favorite things to read. 

I'll post again soon regarding this challenge, something I've written, and/or maybe even something I've drawn. Until next time, friends: read, draw, doodle, write, daydream, DO.

A Recipe For Reconstruction

"None of us knows what might happen even the next minute, yet we still go forward. 

Because we Trust. Because we have Faith."

-Paulo Coelho, "Brida"

Part III of III

In the time since my retreat last month, I've struggled to get back into the swing of things. I've felt unsettled, out of sorts, frustrated, impatient...honestly, what did I expect? Instant enlightenment and an easy transformation/reintegration? Impossible. One thing I turn to when I'm feeling this way is the practice of structured creativity; another thing is to take care of others. 

I know, right?! So strong is the lure of the comfort of old habits! 

I've tried reallyreallyreally hard to break that habit (the care of others) and take care of my Self. I've used up all of my vacation time at work as of this writing (never fear- a new bank of time starts October 1st), and have enjoyed it so much. What's surprised me is that I've had to continue working on identifying my wants and needs more than I expected. I mean, I get that it's a process, this work on Identity, but let me tell you: there is so much more I want to do now, and I'm finally- FINALLY- grasping the full importance of Self first. Yes, I've always subscribed to taking care of yourself first in order to help others (by being an example or through hands-on actions). But post-retreat? I'm able to delve into the why of it being important to me.

Gather some food and some basic supplies- a place to sleep, something to write on, something to write with, something to move you. Take as much time as is available to you and add Introspection liberally.

Part of knowing who you are is knowing how you'll react to certain road blocks or life situations. I know, for instance, that I need to have some sort of schedule to my day in order for me to play. Yep. It helps me to know that I need to get ABC done before I can indulge in LMNO. And one thing I've really been lamenting is my job and how the current lack of structure is paralyzing me and my thought process. I know, right?! You would think that no parameters would make it so easy to be creative; alas, it is a big road block. 

Next, take the Blank Page as the Opportunity to truly present your wants and needs; be sure to check these often, as time may alter their shape. Review, reflect, and edit with prudence.

And the rest of my life? Well, there have been some challenges with Blonde Daughter this year, and those have had me questioning my abilities and intuition when it comes to parenting. Single parenting is never anything I would recommend, especially if you've had a partner at one point to help you and now don't. Not having that confidant to discuss matters of child-rearing with is frustratingly sad, especially when your child is dealing with her own internal battles. Knowing yourself first helps ease this pain, gives you material to tell stories that, whether asked for or not, can help your child come to an understanding about their challenges, can maybe guide them to a place they always thought wasn't really meant for them. 

After a time, share what you have created with those around you, friends and not-yet-friends alike. Learn to trust others, even if it leaves you feeling uncomfortable and unguarded and small and broken. 

My friends have, of course, been supportive and wonderful and encouraging throughout this process. Do they get it, do they understand the importance of this work for me? For what it means to how I'll live out my days? Maybe some of them do, I don't know. I know that I've been able to re-connect with friends on a level that is deeper and more genuine, and that the girl I used to be is lurking around, ready to make a move on those last pieces of the social construct that has been in my mirror for the past 20 years. 

Look around your feet for the sturdy bits, for the supporting bits, for the structural bits, for the shiny bits. Use these to build up not walls, but ladders, maybe, for others to climb onto. Be a Giver of _______. Anything, everything, yourself.

In short, what have I learned from my retreat? More than I could ever put into words, is what I think most days. And then other days I'll draw a picture or write a short story or take a photograph and think, This is what I have in my head when I think about _______ from my retreat. I need to share this before I explode with excitement over this discovery, this tangible and tiny flake. And then other days I'll think I've got it down, and during a three-hour conversation with a Buddhist Hippie Sage discover that, no, I have more work to do, that my pain runs deep and the wisdom at my core is just dying to get out. 

And that, friends, can only mean that the old saying must be true: the Journey is the Destination. And I'm so glad you're all here. 

30 Days

So I'm taking a bit of a break from posting about my retreat (here, here, and here) to share one of the projects to come out of the retreat: the 30 Day Creativity Challenge.

Have you heard of this? There's lots of versions floating around, lots of lists of what to do, what to create. One of the goals of my retreat was to tap back into my creative Self; I did, after all, graduate from art school. But saying you're going to be creative while you're still high on the bliss of a successful retreat and putting that bliss into action are two very different things. So like any good person, I Googled "creativity challenge."

The list I've come up with is a re-working of several different lists culled from several different sites. The only rule is that you use the item on the list to create something. For me, I'm focusing on imagery- drawing, painting, and thankyouJesusforInstagram- as well as writing; you could easily incorporate music or singing/songwriting, too, or even cooking or clothing choices. The main goal is to get you to think outside of your normal-ness. I'll try to post once weekly during the challenge to share what I've been up to, but no promises. My next post will be part three of my retreat posts. And so-

Sunday, September 9, 2012- Day #1= Self portrait.

What I like about this photo is how green my eyes look against that top. And that it doesn't look like I need Botox or Juvederm yet. And that I don't have bags under my eyes, and that they're not puffy, and that I look kinda okay with my face bare naked like that. 

Monday, September 10, 2012- Day #2= Animal.

For this challenge, I had to think a bit. I love birds, but didn't really want to draw a bird. So I thought about other animals, and naturally thought about people's pets. My friend Tha Doctah has cats. Hmmm. NO. I know several people with dogs, but...these pursuits were taking place in the evening hours, in my basement. What to do? A photograph of a pet? YES. Instagram to the rescue? YES.

So I found a photograph I liked and rendered a simple drawing in pencil. But as I was studying the photo and the drawing, I thought of a story to tell. So I did both. 

An Evening in August

She sat on the steps of the deck, looking out over the back yard and the items there: lawn chairs, a swing set, a rake, a garden hose, dog toys. And the dog. She was an old dog, maybe 8 or 10 years old, and her hips bothered her, you could tell. Some kind of shepherd mix, black, mostly, but with white on her muzzle and some on her chest.

"She can be a bit skittish with new people," he had said. But she had dealt with dogs like that before. Wasn't S____'s dog that way? All bark at first, and then quickly a mutual respect was established? That dog, Rezzy, was also a shepherd mix, but smaller, shorter, like a corgi or something.This dog was tall with matted fur that came off in clumps every time she petted it.

She picked up one of the dog toys and threw it out towards the fence; the dog retrieved it and brought it to her, tail wagging, excited barks. She did this- played with the dog- for a good 30 minutes or more. The dog tired and lay by her feet, which she tucked under the dog's belly, feeling the warmth and weight of this animal, feeling content.

What was it about a skittish dog? They were often her favorite ones. The docile and dumb labs or retrievers just lacked substance for her, even though they looked nice. She absently ran her hand over the dog's back, scratched its ears, massaged its neck. She grabbed the dog's face with both hands, rubbing under its chin, touching noses and telling it through a half-closed mouth, "You're a good girl. Such a good. Girl."

The patio door opened and the dog's attention shifted from the feel-good-ness of her hands to the figure in the doorway. The dog got up slowly and climbed the three stairs and walked into the house. She followed, sliding the screen door shut behind them both.

Get creative, friends. If anything, it can serve as a pleasant diversion from life for awhile.