A Yurt, A Yak, and You...

I saw a friend recently whom I hadn’t seen in some time.  In the process of catching up, I told her of our mission to visit ecovillages around the globe, to research them and interview their residents and to sort of “try on” life in intentional communities such as these. 

This was probably the first time she heard me talking about such things, especially in terms of a new life mission.  I mean, we’d talked about gardening before but here I was rambling on about permaculture (starting at the beginning and going all the way to Findhorn) and how I want to blog about the “inner journey” involved in living authentically in intentional community. 

I said that we are looking for a way to create a life in which we have a minimal “footprint” in terms of impact on the earth, and cooperate with others as well as the land for our sustenance so that when we are living in post-oil society, we will be equipped to produce food and other resources.  She listened thoughtfully, as is her way, and then declared the notion a noble one, adding, “Somebody’s got to do it”.

When I laughed at this, she looked up and said, “No, I’m serious.”

This friend is a doctor, the kind of doctor you feel really lucky to find.  She’s up on all the current research and is also well versed in the offerings of natural remedies.  She often helps people navigate the otherwise murky waters of health choices.  I’m lucky enough to work with some of her patients and know that their experience of her is the same as mine- that she listens with such genuine concern and interest that you literally feel compassion coming from her.  She grasps the big picture of a situation and can help break it down so you need not be overwhelmed.  She has a gentleness that you can wrap around you, and still carries the authority of a wise woman who knows the worth of her words.  So when she declared our mission a noble and necessary one, I felt a deep sense of affirmation of the worth of our venture.  And when she came up with the title for this blog and challenged me to post it, I said, “Done!”

It happened like this:  we were talking about the notion of living off the land and also growing older (I’ll admit it - part of the allure of living in community is that at my age, by the time I learn to do everything I need to do to be self-sufficient, I may not be able to do it on my own anymore!).  How the dream of retiring someday to the old family homestead becomes harder to realize in today’s economy; that people are working harder and for more years to provide for a “comfortable” retirement, and how tempting it is to settle for uncomfortable retirement just to get a break from the exhaustion of working nonstop.

I mentioned that, earlier this summer, we’d almost bought a used yurt for eight thousand dollars.  At the time we’d just given up on the notion of home ownership, at least in our current town, in deference to our real dream to homestead or join an existing community.  I said the thought was that whatever happens and wherever we are, we’d have a place to live, comfortably or otherwise.  “You’d need a yak too,” my erstwhile friend pointed out.  We locked eyes and chuckled together.  “It sounds like a Valentine. ‘All I need is a yurt, a yak, and you’...”.

Of course every day since this conversation I’ve struggled with the fact that this isolationist picture really appeals to me in some sense, kind of blowing the community aspect of my proclaimed wishes right off the map.  After a long sleepless night under our noisy night-owl neighbors, with whom every effort at problem-solving and productive confrontation has failed so bitterly that it’s prompted another post titled, “When the Highroad Bites”,  it is so easy to picture myself cuddled up with my loved one, sipping yak milk in front of the woodstove in the middle of our yurt, in the middle of our garden in the middle of a field in the middle of some land far, far away...

But of course that’s another story.

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Anticipation and Growing Pains

A word about programs that promise to stretch you emotionally and spiritually: The experience begins as soon as you register for the course, no matter how far in advance or through what technological medium.

To wit: As part of our excursion to the overseas ecovillage on our itinerary, my partner and I each plan to partake of different courses that are taught as part of the rotating curriculum offered there.  I will be doing a week-long intensive introduction to the place, including lots of inner work/transformational mojo.  Jenn will stay on for a whole month and complete her Permaculture Design Certificate as well as training in other aspects of ecovillage life.

We each had applications to fill out for our respective programs, and I sent mine in by email about two days before she sent hers.  Somehow I remember reading that I would get notification of acceptance within 48 hours, so on the day she sent hers in I was holding the quiet hope that I would hear soon- maybe even that same day.  It WAS a weekend day, so I held space for the fact that maybe it would be 48 work-week hours.  Still, I checked my email about every 4 hours, even at work (this is normal for some people, I realize- but for me once a day is usually it, sometimes not even that).  Yesterday was an exceptionally long day.  I worked early and hard all day long, came home to shower and change clothes, then do a presentation on essential oils in my living room.  These are always enlivening and fun- I get to slather on calming oils while I help others learn to support their own health... at any rate I am always starving when we’re done, so as soon as it was done we bolted out the door for the neighborhood taco joint (yeah, I know they don’t have those in ecovillages.  There will be plenty of time dedicated to wrapping my head around that!).
An hour and a half later, sated and sleepy, I started getting ready for bed.  I was brushing my teeth when Jenn popped her head in and said, “Oh, by the way, I heard back on my application.  They said which building to go to to pick up the registration packet, where to go for meals...”  Her words kept going because it took her a while to catch up with what was going on.  That wasn’t a smile on my face, it was a holding-back-the-tears grimace.  Oh yes, it had been a long day, and the strain of waiting to hear back on my application was beginning to wear on me.  It had been six days, after all... not two, or even four (considering the first two were weekend). 

Let me be clear that there is no question for me about whether I’ll be accepted.  I have not experienced any anxiety about whether I will “get in”.  I’m very well suited for the course, there are openings, and I’ve paid my deposit.  No questions lingering here.  What it is, is that I’ve been looking forward to the rush you get when some new dream suddenly begins to move forward of its own volition, as if the “powers that be” are in alignment and your life’s new direction is being forged.  It’s the little zing that makes you suck in your breath for a second, the “Here goes!” moment. As eager as I am for the commencement of the adventure, I have total certainty that it is coming to pass.  So I knew I wasn’t falling apart because I thought anything was wrong. 

From deep inside I could see that it has to do with taking that brave and irrevocable step of agreeing to undergo transformation.  It’s nothing to do with whether I’ll get in, and everything to do with what will happen to me once I’m in there.  The ego (and understand when I talk about the ego I do so from the Eastern Philosophy standpoint rather than Western Psychology - so, ego is not about self-aggrandizement, it’s about keeping you small and separate and insecure and uncertain of everything except your own unworthiness - - THAT ego is the one I talk about), is mortified at the prospect of me delving in deep again.  It’s going to be threatened, and I will know it because I will be uncomfortable.  I will have moments when I think I am not good enough, that I can’t transform fast enough (or authentically enough, or radically enough, or....).  I will doubt myself and my commitment, I will fantasize about neighborhood taco stands, I will wonder how on earth I will sustain this experience and whether all these wonderful people think I am a fraud.  I will probably also wonder who among them are frauds, or worse- I may presume to know.  This is what happens when you purposely choose to move beyond your present set of limitations.  Your spirituo-emotional uglies start to show up.  Any old #215800-ers still out there?  Know what I mean?  And so, with all the bravery and compassion you can muster, you welcome the little darlings.

This tender young sproutling of transformative motion is what unveiled itself last night as I sat sobbing on the edge of the tub.  Since I am a staunch defender of the notion that you create what you focus on, Jenn was understandably concerned to know whether I was painting awful pictures inside this skull of mine as I mopped up my face.  I smiled at her.  “No, not at all.  Just a case of ‘back to school’ nerves”. 

This morning I returned to the email I’d received to acknowledge receipt of my application, to see how long it had actually been.  Late, late tonight it will have been seven days since I hit “send”.  I’ve had a good laugh.  Here are the words I somehow missed the first time around:
“We will contact you personally within about a week”.

Ahhh, so it’s begun...

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Daring and Delicious Life Changes!

Change is in the air, along with that subtle shift in the angle of light in late afternoon.  There’s ripening going on everywhere, out in the field and here in the life-path-assessment region of my mind.

In the last installation I mentioned that we had just essentially scrapped plans to do the “logical” thing - buy a house where we are because the market is good and there’s a window for funding that closes in three months.  We scrapped it because, at 42 and 47 we aren’t ready to close the door on adventure and a life full of meaning.  The old notion that home ownership is the primary element in establishing security is quickly fading in light of the fact that all of the things previous generations relied on for security are failing fast.  Traditional forms of investment, climate stability, and fossil fuel are no longer the reassuring assets they were to our forebears. 

It is perfectly reasonable to assume that all of these things will change dramatically in my lifetime (and most certainly that of the generation that follows); and while a great being once said, “Ahhh, What would we do without the last minute?”... I’m starting to think, why not learn to be adaptable before the last minute?

This brings us to my latest plan to visit a number of ecovillages over the course of the coming year.  We’ll be exploring what it is about this intentionally designed way of life that is so compelling to us, what it offers to our imaginations, and what talents/skills/assets/resources we can offer to such an enterprise if we should choose to pursue it.

Jenn has great talents for design and putting things together, the how to do things part of the equation.  While this part interests and fascinates me, and I really really enjoy it, my real skill is more about exploring the why of it all- the philosophical underpinnings of the movement away from the extractive economy and toward real community and self-reliance.  Of great interest to me, is the inner work required to make this shift authentically and with integrity.  After all, if it should ever come to pass that we have to live together without oil, “convenience” foods, entertainment gadgets and the like, we are going to have to have some skills that have long gone dormant in most of society.  There are lots of people who will teach you how to tend a composting toilet or build water catchment, and I am So Grateful for them!  While they get that part of the equation rolling,  I’d like to help folks with the inner transition.

This very morning I’m awaiting word on my application to spend time at a globally recognized ecovillage in Scotland.  There’s nothing in the inbox yet, so it’s just going to be another delicious day of waiting.

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Forging a New Path

Ahh, how I’ve missed this daily routine of wake, stretch, write!  Oh, and of course the steaming bowl of matcha tea at my side. 

This blog has been sitting here taking up space (wait, is there space in cyberspace?) while I got my body healed and my priorities straightened out.  It was difficult to grapple with the fact that I would be better off not to follow  #215800 to its logical conclusion with the intensive retreat. Instead, I’ve done the best I can on my own.  I’ve been reading lots of writers’ works on writing, the creative life, and kicking my creative self in the butt (with greatest compassion, of course).

The big shift has come, and it is this: I do not need to hold on to the disturbing details that defined my childhood just because there is so much good material there.  I do not need to be the next Augusten Burroughs or David Sedaris just because my young self was in a lot of twisted situations of questionable benefit to developing minds and characters.

I finally had a conversation with myself that echoed one I’d had with a dear friend I’d once coached through a very dark time.  This person had put heart and soul into creating something that was practically carved out of his own being, and while there was a haunting beauty to it, while it was evocative and compelling and showcased his talents beautifully, it was not gaining the recognition he had hoped it would, and he was not having the success he’d felt sure would follow his efforts. For all its virtues, it was also incredibly depressing by virtue of its content and focus.  I remembered a time early in our friendship, asking the difficult question, “Is this really what you want to be known for?”. 

When you have received an awakening, it becomes your responsibility to shine more light on the world than shadow.  Even at those times when you are completely overshadowed by the shadow, it is up to you to find a way to, as my friend now says, “show it to the light”.

The awakening came like this: I was in a treatment room where I was expecting to receive lymphatic work to support the final stages of healing from July’s surgery.  Instead, the practitioner said she’d like to do some energetic work and began asking a series of questions.  I found myself saying outright that I resist healing a troubled relationship from my childhood because it would diminish the material I have to choose from when writing.

Oh dear.  One of my best-kept secrets was suddenly out there, and irretrievable.  Like good merlot on a white linen shirt.

Our best-kept secrets are the ones that surprise us when they’re revealed.  They’re  like some unknown bit of us has snuck out the back door, come around the side of the house and up behind us while we’re on the front porch.  We may have an inkling something is there, then it leaps out like a mischievous little brother with a water balloon, yelling, “Surprise!  Can’t catch me!”.  And the challenge, of course, is to not try to catch it.  To let it be free.  Because when we hear the secrets we’ve been keeping from ourselves, so much space opens up inside.  It’s like we’ve had a boarder in the house who suddenly vacates and now we have this whole room back.  Now we could have an office, or a sewing room, or a nursery, or a yoga studio...  We are now free to clean the space out and do something useful with it. Meaningful, at least.

When my childhood vacated the “potential material” vault in my awareness, there was a period of mourning.  There’s still work to be done with that past, if I and the other parties choose to do it, but I no longer have to keep transformation at bay in order to ensure the authenticity of my “abused kid reveals all” bestseller, because that tome is no longer even a twinkle in my future.  However popular it might have become, however many millions I might have raked in, the practice of dredging through what’s already happened, and which messed up a good portion of the first third of my life, is not a good way to spend time- recreationally or to make a living.  It’s not right living, at all.  So I had to temper my shame and anger at even harboring the idea in the first place (secretly or not!) with the incredible sense of lightness and possibility that followed in its wake.

Suddenly there is so much to write about, so much that is important and true and hopeful and imperative and useful and genuine and very, very exciting!  Suddenly the things and thoughts that are truly of value to me can breathe again!  So much passes through this head of mine that, if put into practice, could really be a transformative force for positive change in the world... and now I’ve been freed up to show all of it to the light.

Now I am on the verge of a whole new world, where everything has turned on its head.  How else can you explain the life-path that, in two weeks' time, shifted from house-shopping in a town I don’t really love, because the market is good and the timing of finances says it has to be this year... to blogging my way across parts of the country and across the ocean (hello, Scotland, my ancestral home!), visiting sustainable communities and ecovillages in search of the source of that which draws me to them. 

First, of course, comes the unloading of all the stuff that’s in my physical spare room (and back porch, and office, and... you know the story).

More soon!

Exploring the Inner Sanctum...Through Matinee Cinema

There but for the grace of Danielle LaPorte go I... to see Karate Kid.

Recently I read a comment added to Bindu’s post about the cobra snake person living in her head - Danielle mentioned a part in the film where the boy witnesses a lady balancing on one foot, hanging off a cliff, and  her every movement is in sync with the cobra coiled in front of her.  The master goes on to explain that it is the snake who is following the lady.  I've carried this image with me since.

So it happened that when my partner hesitantly suggested we go see the flick while everyone else was out blistering and imbibing in the 4th of July swelter, I surprised her with my enthusiasm, even popping the corn (yes I am one of those people, and I will stand up to anyone who challenges me by telling them I have violent adverse reactions to artificial flavorings and genetically modified anything).

And so we went.  We decided to take the afternoon off for "a little bit of light, uplifting, overcoming the odds and obstacles and whatnot" cinema.

I wasn't prepared to see the stunning side of China; I was really grateful for that. It was a kind of "lift you out of your seat and transport you" type of cinematography.

There were a few times when there was a certain poignancy that stung the ol’ tear ducts, but none like the moment (I am TRYING not to give the story away) when the little guy is being given the choice of whether to continue in a certain, very trying challenge.  He wants to go on despite an injury and the master is trying to dissuade him, thinking it is his pride or sense of revenge at work. He asks the boy why he is so insistent, and he says, “Because I’m still afraid.  When I leave here tonight I don’t want to be afraid any more”.

I clutched my lover’s knee and handed her a napkin.  We jiggled in our seats, stifling sobs of recognition.  Oh geez.

Of course it plays out like you expect it to, as it certainly should.  What I loved was that this kid was not afraid of being beaten, nor of being beaten up.  His ass has already been duly kicked around the screen a number of times before he gets to this point.    What it turns out he is afraid of is, in my interpretation, that if he gives up he will not have the opportunity to apply the level of inward-directed focus required of him in the moment.  If he gave up he would never accomplish the equivalent of the girl with the snake in the earlier scene – an inner focus so complete that she was entirely merged in the moment.
Of course these moments are available to us in everyday, if we should choose to meditate/contemplate and otherwise apply our immeasurable capacities to the inner realm.

But to apply them in a moment of real danger, or adversity, is to trigger the principle the Spanda Karikas refer to when they say that it is in moments of heightened emotional intensity that the experient (the person going through the thing, and through whose senses the experience is being processed) can seize hold of the spanda principle (ie: the creative force of the universe, which is continually and spontaneously creating the world around us in response to our our words and thoughts).

This little dude was absolutely linked in to the idea that facing fear theoretically is not the same as doing so in actual practice.  He needed to prove to himself on an experiential level that accessing that place of inner focus literally brings you to your fearless place regardless of extenuating circumstances.
Nah, I did not expect this at a Karate Kid matinee.  I was in awe.

As the day progressed I reflected on this more and more.  One of the prevailing themes of #215800 is, how do we deal with fear?  Do we run at it head-on, try to pretend it isn’t there, or give it a tap on the shoulder and a howd’ya do?

And more fascinating to me on this day, more than the outward manifestation of our actions around fear, what is our inner posture with it – how do we conduct ourselves on the inside when we are faced with a “big scary”?

The other day I found myself in a very uncomfortable conversation that had begun to bring up a lot of fear and insecurity about abandonment.  At a certain point I actually felt myself disconnecting, like a big steel curtain was set to automatic and it was descending on the conversation with such precision it could have cut a syllable in two.

This was one of the first times in known history that I actually witnessed this taking place- the ptsd moment where there's a scenery switch and the present moment is catapulted off the field of my awareness.  After a few moments I was able to describe the phenomenon out loud and begin the slow ascent back to where I could engage in the conversation.  It was like there was a witness within that could say, “oh no you don’t, missy.  You don’t get to close the curtain on this hurt.  You stay with it”.
My inner witness knows kung-fu, it seems.

I think this is what touched me so much when I saw this little guy declare that it didn’t matter that he’d proved his point, and that his urgent desire to continue wasn’t about honor or revenge or victory – it was as if he "got it" that he would only experience freedom from fear by going to that inner sanctum and aligning  with his witness –.  I’ve come to believe that no outward manifestation of fearlessness matters nearly as much as this one inner gesture- to hasten ourselves to the place inside where we can align with the deepest core of ourselves- the place inside that only we can ever go, and which is the same in each of us.  In that place is exquisite safety.

To Do The Work, or Not To Do The Work...

I’ve come to believe there are two kinds of people (is this idea a trite cliche yet, or can I make just one last comparison before we retire the tired old term?).
No, but really....

I’m lying in my bed thinking about the kinds of comments people are writing on my posts (thank you) and the kinds of things I’ve been reading from other #215800-ers (are we going to get t-shirts made?), the kind of changes we’ve made possible for ourselves and one-another.

From here I can’t tell whether it’s true of all the participants or just the ones who have popped into my little world, the ever-expanding circles I run in in this extravagant experiment - but from all my experience can tell me, this is a group of people dedicated to self-growth. To getting down and dirty and vulnerable and doing the needful.  To doing the work. 

The other kind of people, are not.  They either are not interested in doing their inner work, would rather be entertained/fed/numbed/stimulated/what-else-have-you-got than to buck up and do a little psychic housecleaning, or don't believe they have any work to do.
And to a certain degree, they are the reason the rest of us have so much work to do.

Is this laying the responsibility for our difficulties at another’s feet?  Saying, “I would not have this struggle if not for you”?.  To some extent I suppose it is. On the other hand, if we could say such a thing and get a cooperative response, we would know that the person is in the “do the work” camp and could be trusted to take their share of responsibility in the healing endeavor that is “the work”.

Way back when I was in massage school I received instruction in the art of Lomilomi massage.  This is a sacred Hawaiian form of bodywork traditionally taught by kahunas.  We delved deeply into the spiritual traditions that inform Hawaiian healing arts, which revolve around the assumption that everyone is doing their own work diligently, and that problems come when we cease to do so. In a world where hurricanes and tsunamis are considered Nature's response to neglect of inner work on someone’s part, there is a lot of personal responsibility going down.

We were taught that forgiveness in the ancient Hawaiian tradition is not unconditional. That's right,
Not. Unconditional.

This notion went against everything I believed at the time: we forgive despite all the ranting and thrashing from our injured selves that we should not let the bastard off the hook, in order to transcend the injustice and take “the higher road”, I thought.  Or, I thought that the act of forgiveness releases the healing energy pent up behind the plug that would go “pop” when forgiveness took place (and was not really for the other person anyway, but merely an exercise to relieve my own blockages). 

But here was this idea (a very old idea, from a culture that grew out of peaceful intentions) that forgiveness could be offered with a contingency clause. 

Once I grasped the concept, it made sense on a level that vibrates in all the knowing centers of the body:  When a person is wronged, they are expected to express it to the wrongdoer, who is then expected to seek forgiveness.  The person wronged must decide what penance will be sufficient to restore balance. The penance must be appropriate in content and magnitude to the injustice. Only when the penance is completed does the forgiveness actually take place.  It’s like a system of absolution mediated by the inner knowing of the people involved. 

Now my old notion of forgiveness as an exercise in transcendence was revealed to be nothing more than an elaborate ruse to keep from having to do the confrontational part of the work: the “you did this to me” part.  And why the avoidance?

Because this is not ancient Hawaii, where holding people accountable was de riguere; here and now it is very nearly the highest form of social inpropriety to call someone on their shit. There is no social expectation that people will take responsibility for their actions or the impact those actions have on others. In fact, such a confrontation would serve only to cause the other party to trot out their display of denial, violence, and mindtwisting head games... whatever’s in the bag of tricks that keeps them from digging down into their own neglected work. 

The “don’t do the work” camp are often in denial that anything needs doing- none of it is their responsibility, nobody has the right to judge their choices (regardless of the impact on others), those who are upset with them are just hysterical or uptight or not to be taken seriously.  My therapist quotes M. Scott Peck in A Road Less Traveled and says these people have “disorders of character”. 

At times it seems these Disordered Characters who make up the "avoid the work" camp are in the majority, leaving the rest of us baffled, embittered and bemused...
...and yet strangely empowered.

When we commit to our own inner work, we are taking some of our power back from those to whom we’ve given it in the past.  Has it ever occurred to us that most of the power they hold over us was taken, borrowed, or stolen from us in a moment when we were blinded by fear - that it is in fact our OWN POWER in whose shadow we’ve cowered all this time?

What I’ve learned is that we can unplug our circuitry from theirs, directing our own power back in the direction that serves us.  In effect, we stop feeding the dragon.

This is not to say we play the denial game or the turn-away-from-it-and-it’s-no-longer-true game (no, no... no one ever wins that one).  It’s to say that while it  may not be necessary (or even possible) to confront the people responsible for the work we’ve got in our respective baskets of woe, we can start by recognizing that we are already ahead of the game because our willingness and determination to do the work surpasses their refusal to participate. 

To borrow from an encapsulated summary of the Road Less Traveled by Newton Fortuin:

    “For the entirety of our lives we must continually assess and reassess where our  responsibilities lie in the ever-changing course of events. Nor is this assessment and reassessment painless... we must posses a willingness and the capacity to suffer continual self-examination.
    This capacity or willingness is not inherent in any of us...”

In other words, the capacity and willingness to do the work does not come pre-packaged.  Each of us in the “do the work” camp has had to develop these virtues on our own, often in the dark and in spite of abject terror and real harm coming down on us.  These have become our greatest assets, opening us to experiences, lessons, and even people that are simply not available to those who can’t/won’t/don’t-think-they-should-have-to go there.

The experiences, lessons, and people we’ve encountered in the last however many days it’s been since #215800 was launched are the gifts bestowed because we have fostered the willingness and the capacity to grow.  As we continue, may we unplug the energy we’ve been channeling to our demons and use it to nurture the delicious, outrageously fabulous beings we are on our way to becoming.

Gotta sign off now- going to see Karate Kid for Independence Day.  Ciao Lovelies...

Meltdown: The Soundtrack

(The photos, circa 1980-something... me and my shadow.)

Yesterday had many of us #215800-ers taking a look at the creatures in our own heads.  Many of us recognized in Bindu’s “cobra snake person” a variation of our own in-dwelling critters and commenced battle.

I confronted mine while agonizing over the decision to sever connections with her counterpart - the very real and still living person who gave her the script she uses to undermine, diminish, trivialize, and mock me (thank the havens I hired a therapist on day 10, because this is about to get messy).  I nicknamed her “bitchslap” and started practicing the mantra to keep her at bay when she gets out of hand.  “Not now, bitchslap”. 

I went about the day as one under the influence of super powers.  I felt strong, steady, a little bit taller.  I not only did more yoga than usual, I went to the gym and biked like a fiend, then got in the pool and did all the yoga my knees can’t handle on land. I discovered I’ve lost three pounds. Now I was feeling limber, capable, a little bit gorgeous - in other words, fully possessed by Brave Me (see yesterday’s post if you haven’t met her yet) who was driving from the helm from the moment I hit “publish” in the morning.

On the way home we stopped for lunch and I said to my partner, “You know how in movies there are these segments where - sometimes a character has made some kind of commitment or is undergoing a transformation and there’s this segment that shows them doing all the various things that get them there?  Like in Rocky, all the punching bags and running up the steps...?” (don’t know why Rocky came to mind, I’ve always been more of a Personal Best type of girl myself) ...”And there’s always some kind of a soundtrack song that epitomizes the whole thing?”.  She indicated that she understood but was not sure where I was going.
“Well, it seems like my life’s been kind of like one of those segments lately.  I imagine shots of early morning yoga, tapping at the keyboard, bumping it in therapy...”  She nodded.  Then I got to my point: “I wonder what the soundtrack would be”.

On coming home I declared it time to clean house in a big way.  For one thing my room was a pit from being neglected too long while more important things happened.
For another, I’m having surgery in a couple of weeks so I’ll be spending a decent amount of time in there and I won’t be able to clean then.  So off I went.  Sorting, tossing, organizing... doing the grand purge-and-order routine. 

As the project progressed, we put on some great house-cleaning music.  When one album ended I was going for my old standard cleaning album (Laura Love’s Helvetica Bold) but suddenly took pause... wait a minute.  Yeah, some of the older stuff that used to define me in the way that only young people can be defined by their music.  The stuff that transports me to the volatile time and place of my formative years as surely as the smell of fried chicken takes me to my grandmother’s kitchen.

So it came to pass that Siouxsie and the Banshees was blaring from a stereo barely equipped to withstand the rigor of such an exercise, while I huffed and heaved and strutted and threw. out. everything. that. doesn’t. serve me. Me.  ME!

The angst-ridden me of the 1980’s had arrived, and she was demanding her due.  The respect, consideration, and care that were not hers when she was being torn to shreds on the inside for want of someone to confide in about what she’d gone through on her way to young-womanhood was suddenly sitting on the edge of my bed, putting on black lipstick and wiggling her ridiculously high heel back and forth from the tip of her toe.  She was putting on her “don’t fuck with me face”, and practicing emotional distance. 

On her behalf, I sang along at the top of my lungs and let the anger sing through me in order to release its grip on my physical being at least.

The album ended.  My partner said something about tripping down memory lane and mentioned that the cat did not seem to enjoy Siouxsie, hiding as she was in the back of the house.  I promised to switch tone but keep it in the same era... flip, flip, flip.  Oh yeah.  Smiths.

More morose and brooding than the Banshee’s dark ravings, and so melodic.  I let my voice trail along with the dips and curves as I began to tidy up from the whirlwind cleaning.  Singing along, singing along...

My partner calls out that dinner is ready, and asks what I’d like to drink.  She repeats my name several times, and finally comes looking because I haven’t answered. 

When I enter the kitchen I am unable to speak; my throat is blocked with choking sobs.  I have been hollowed out on the inside and filled with a sensation that is larger than my body can contain, my face contorted and red, my body shaking.

She asks what’s wrong and I can only say I don’t know.  I’m pointing to the stereo.  Morrissey is going on about “15 minutes with you...”.  Can that be it?  Surely not.
It takes only a few minutes to cry myself out.  In that hot, moist place of sudden anguish I relive the trigger moment and come upon these words:
“It’s time the tale was told, of how you took a child, and you made him old...”
Grief for the child that was me hits me like a wall of hot air.
My eyes turn hot and well up again, my heart rising against my breastbone like it’s coming up for air.  Bingo.

In 1986 I would have thought it cool that my soundtrack would still be The Smiths at 42 (if I could have conceived of living this long). 

Today though, it simply serves to show me where my melting point is.  I can cry it out without attaching more history to it, and use it as a kind of bookmark for where to start the next round of healing process.
The Meltdown is never a bad thing if you use it for transformation.  When you are melty you are vulnerable, yes.  And malleable. Each of these conditions bring our attention to the strength of things that are not rigid.  Who said, “Nature has a funny way of breaking what won’t bend”?
So when you can be present in your vulnerability and malleability, you are in charge of the meltdown. The final form is still up for negotiation, and it’s in your hands.  Be bold!

Essential Oils and Yoga

This post was borrowed from my new blog which is linked with my new twitter: @oilpeeps.  Follow me there too by clicking the white twitter button on the lower right (or go straight to the blog at http://essentialoilmavens.blogspot.com/)!

The last time I had a steady yoga practice (and I’ll admit it was only four days in a row, but at the time it was revolutionary), I was traveling to attend the annual convention of the essential oil company with which I’m aligned for my health and livelihood (ok, cat out of the bag- it's Young Living).

I was heavier than the previous year, attending without my partner and rooming with someone I’d never met before (who was a delight as it turned out). I was a bundle of insecurity on a mission to untangle myself by engaging fully in all the sessions and “putting myself out there” socially (NOT my forte! I’m a recluse in the disguise of a gregarious teacher type).

Since the Convention experience (3,000 people heading to keynote engagements, expo demonstrations, and trying to choose 6 of the 12 available breakout sessions) is pretty much an exercise in distractibility and busy-ness, you’d think I’d have my whole “not-gonna-do-yoga” excuse in top form.

Ah, but not so. All of the equanimity, stamina, and focused attention that expressed itself through me I attributed to the the 6 am yoga classes taught by other Convention attendees who were also yoga instructors, and who were using essential oils in their personal practices as well as in their classes.

The whole thing probably came into being because Rodney Yee was teaching one of the break-out sessions; a 90 minute on-the-mat yoga class which incorporated essential oils throughout.

In the hustle and bustle I never made it to Yee’s class. But I did make it out the door, across the street, down the block and up a formidable set of stairs to class by 6 am each day to stretch, honor, and care for my being. We were a diverse bunch; from the fit and toned to the brave unfit, and never was there a better smelling bunch of sweaty people!

We began by sanctifying our practice with intention and frankincense, which heightens spiritual receptivity. Each participant duly anointed, the entire energy in the space shifted in a matter of 90 seconds. Suddenly we were on holy ground.

There’s a lot I can say about essential oils, and a lot of reasons I only use and teach about Young Living’s oils... matters of purity and integrity and authenticity and validation, and so on. I could (and do sometimes) go on for days. It’s all on the upcoming site.

What it came down to for me in that moment, was that because the integrity of the plant is honored and never distorted with all the chemical alterations that other companies do, the holy component of this oil is still intact. It doesn’t just impart the smell, it actually has the mojo. It’s the closest thing you can get to when the yogis of old would simply rub the resin on themselves in preparation for meditation.

This stunning moment was mine to cherish each of the four days of Convention. It was followed every morning by an experience of Valor when we did a more challenging pose, Peace & Calming with Savasana, and Deep Relief when I paid later for having gone deeper than good sense would have indicated.

Of all the astounding amount of information imparted to me those four days, what struck me most deeply was the impact of using the oils during yoga practice. Every day I looked forward to putting my body through a difficult challenge with the subtle emotional-spiritual support of the oils chosen to compliment the day’s routine. Once home and asked to declare what one thing stood out the most from the entire experience, I could only point to the pouch in which I carry my oils about and declare, "this stuff is holy!"

Rekindling "Intention"

I do not desire to rise from my bed.  The alarm beckons nonetheless.  I am not resistant, especially - I’m just having a very nice time in my dozing.  I am thinking of the matcha tea that awaits me, and the ceremonial whisk I'll use for the first time.  I am thinking of the yoga mat that anticipates my arrival based on a promise made last night, and my body starts stretching as if in response to the thought.


I’m thinking of the writing that awaits me too, and how the past two mornings I spent a good 30-40 minutes performing the following ritual: stare at the screen/write a few words (30 tops)/stare at the ceiling/erase the words/choose a new topic/repeat until you’ve exhausted the options: survivor child stuff/essential oils website content/yogic philosophy on words and manifestation/home grown food update... then heave a big sigh and commence to fretting.

This is when I remember I’d chosen my topic last night as an experiment to see if I could save all that wasted time and energy.   I’d committed to write this morning about Intention. 
Ahhhh.  Deep Breath.  Up I go.

If my experience is any indicator, “Intention” is one of those words bandied about in yogic and other spiritual, healing, and creative circles with such frequency that it could be in danger of overuse, misuse, and abuse of such magnitude as to diminish its usefulness.
  
More and more I hear “intention” and its verb form “intend”  used as an alternate form of “goal” for things (activities) to be accomplished, as in “I intend to get up at 6:30 and do surya namaskar”, “I intend to get a certain amount of writing done before anyone else gets up”...

Used like this, that regal word “Intention” becomes little more than a euphemism for “to-do list”.  And I cannot, in good conscience, let this continue.
I’m launching a campaign to Preserve the Integrity of Intention.

Intention is a word fraught with meanings that get glossed over in the bustle of wordplay.  Like the rest of us, it suffices in mundane circumstances while its deeper meaning is rarely elicited or, even more rarely, sought out. Sure, it's a pointer toward that-which-I-plan-to-do.  But to use it exclusively in this way is to waste its beautiful, deeper meaning.
To Intend in the deepest sense is to purposefully imbue an event with significance.
It involves your participation, your mindful consideration, your careful attention.
Your Intention is, in itself, and act of creation.

Furthermore, it sets the stage for the unfolding of the action/event/situation for which you craft the intention in the first place. It’s like the foundational garment to creative/healing/spiritual endeavor (my dear pert-chested, straight-out-of-a-yoga-magazine, never-had-to-wear-a-bra ladies will have to extrapolate on this; jealous as I am, I have never had that blessed luxury. We write what we know, yes?).

In other words, Intention conveys not so much the gumption or the commitment to do a thing, but the container that informs the thing.  It has to do with how the action is carried out rather than the fact of it.  It’s the purpose that imbues it, gives it life, makes it wholly ours.  It’s the state we choose ahead of time to bring to the thing:  Not, “I will do surya namaskar at 6:30”, but rather, “When I do surya namaskar at 6:30 I will do so with reverence and gratitude”; not, “I will get 800 words done in time to post before work”, but rather, “I approach this writing session in the spirit of openness and discovery”, or “May the words that flow through me today offer solace or insight to myself and others”. 

In our efforts at expression we have all-to-often relinquished this sacred effort in the service of efficiency - we get caught up in the doing at the expense of the most valuable part of the process.  With intention, we take part in the granting of our own wishes.  Why would we short-change ourselves in the time we spend crafting them?

The act of Intending is a sacred internal undertaking.  A true Intention is inspired.
It takes place in the moment we connect with our Source in a sort of conference call about the matter at hand- we dial in, as it were, to That-with-which-we-are-aligned and wait for a cue.  We may sense a flurry of noise while the mind rattles off responses it thinks will be pleasing but eventually the mind quiets and the Source itself speaks.  The Source, of course, lies just beneath/above/behind/beyond the chattering mind and it is for that reason we must take the blessed time to make a connection. 

When we take the time to formulate an Intention, then, we are in fact bestowing a blessing upon ourselves and that which we hope to accomplish.  We are holding ourselves accountable for the state in which we approach it, which informs and influences its outcome in inestimable ways.

I approached my surya namaskar this morning with the intention to open further physically- and emotionally, to experience appreciation for the rediscovery of movement as a sacred practice. 

I approached my writing with the intention to rekindle my own commitment to “mindful mentations” in a public forum, that others might follow suit and enrich their own experience as well...
A sort of psycho-spiritual performance art in the service of the greater good.
May it serve us all as we carry on...
Blessings to those who conclude their 21 days today.  Blessings to those who continue.
May this time together support and sustain us all.
In the deepest of all possible ways,
~Namaste

An Alcoholic's Toast

I’ve always been the social recluse type, though most who meet me would never guess it.  It would seem almost contradictory that I’ve spent most of my adult life in a teaching role, but there you have it.  My love of analogy makes it possible for me to take any topic of discussion and wrap it in words familiar enough to each student (based on her or his background) that they come to own the information as solidly as if they’d thought of it themselves.
I’ve been told my teaching style is gregarious and funny, open and perceptive, confident and inspiring.  And I know it’s true.  I’m gifted in the art of extemporaneous speaking.

Maybe it’s because I grew up backstage in the theatre (my parents started a theatre company when I was 3 and I still sometimes joke that I was raised by a band of gypsies), but I’ve always been more comfortable in front of a crowd than when meeting people one-to-one.  Somehow it is much more vulnerable to be seen up close by a few than as a spectacle by many.

There are many factors that contributed to my eventual addiction to drugs, alcohol, cigarettes, what-have-you... but I think at the root of it was in some sense an effort to maintain this sense of distance from the “audience”.  Since beginning the long journey back to squeaky-clean (my only vice now is sugar) I’ve come to appreciate vulnerability in a new way.  I understand it now as a kind of strength.  The tell-tale tummy quivers and sudden prompts for a deep breath that used to indicate danger are now signals that growth is immanent.

In the days when I was almost perpetually “altered” I was rather prolific in my creative life.  I’d rely on the substance of the day to allow me access to the inner place where such wonder resided that I could simply tap it and watch words, colors, shapes and ideas flow without the least bit of actual work on my part.  It was exhilarating to watch art pouring out of me.  During the most ambitious phase of my substance-abuse career, I became somewhat “known” in certain artsy circles.
I also came to feel like a complete fraud.

I felt that what was expressing itself on those pages was not, as I’d thought, parts of me that I could not access without drink or drug (If they were parts of ME, why the hell could I not access them on my own after all?), but rather that I was the vehicle the intoxicants were using to express themselves.  I didn’t want to be in such a partnership any longer. 
I burned the art.

All of this is to say that now that the last drink, the final illicit toke, the day I broke the needle- now that all these are years behind me - there is only me to be found on any page bearing my moniker.  For better or worse, the only “enhancement” available to me now is my willingness to plumb the depths of my being, to be real, to be vulnerable.

It makes me feel strong to face the page on my own terms.  I have fortitude to survive and overcome, and I am mighty beyond my own reckoning.  And all of this came at great cost for which I am ever grateful.

And you know what? 

Sometimes when someone says things like, “Our challenge is almost over, let’s have a toast”, there is a distinct plummeting sound in the region of my heart.  It’s followed by a sinking feeling and a deep sigh.  Because the payback for saving my own life, for finding strength where there was dependence and steadfastness where there was weakness - is that I am disabled in celebratory mode.

For years I have avoided my co-op’s annual picnics and my neighbor’s festive barbecues for the simple fact that the pivotal activity is imbibing.  The tone is less of celebration as it is a safe container in which to get snockered. Having spent time on both sides of this fence, let me assure you who’ve never watched- there is not much about drunken people that’s amusing unless you are one of them.

What I miss is the grown-up, sophisticated glass of a good red wine (and I’ll admit a fondness for Pacific Northwest micro-brews), taken at the advent or conclusion of a significant event, in the genuine spirit of celebration.  It’s tempting at these times to remember there are books by people who are alcoholics who regained their ability to drink socially and occasionally without a catastrophic relapse.  There are probably also books by those who tried and failed, only my guess is that they are incoherent and publishers won’t touch them.  So I don’t risk it.

Oh how I’d love to hoist a pint or sip a glass with you all.  Please accept instead my heartfelt blessings and gratitude as I toast you with my morning's kale and parsley juice.  Perhaps I’ll spin around in my chair to share that giddy sense of communion we call “getting tipsy”.

Wrangling with Gentleness

Got back on the yoga mat yesterday, thanks to a prompt from @amypalko about -returning (http://is.gd/d4KrZ).

The return to the mat was a victory in the sense that I declared it a priority, made time for it, and when the time came I arrived intending to participate fully.  I downloaded the video that @zenpeacekeeper so generously created for the #215800 participants, and arranged the space such that I could see the screen and move on the mat without kicking things off of tables,  and came to it very pleased with myself.

Before much time had passed I was grappling with grave disappointment. 

Both of my knees are prone to hyperextension and are easily injured.  One is still recovering from a contusion which apparently take months rather than weeks to heal.  My physical therapist has suggested it might be imprudent to expect to kneel ever again.  And yet the video, appropriate for beginners, asked me pretty early on to sit on my heels with toes bent under. 

As Marianne suggested this might be an intense stretch for the feet, I struggled to arrange myself in anything remotely upright with my upper body while keeping the weight off of the knees.  The result?  I squatted with my toes bent under as requested, but with my butt about four inches off the heels in order to accommodate the pressure in the knees while leaning forward at such a preposterous angle that to actually perform the arm stretches would have looked like a convoluted pranam to the opposite wall - angled as I was with my torso more parallel than perpendicular to the floor.  Eventually I gave up, but not entirely. I sat on my butt and did the arm stretches.

As we completed the sitting-on-toes segment and moved on, I felt the sting from not having thought this through- how had I entertained visions of myself in strong and solid warrior, triangle, and pyramid poses when “easy sitting posture” and child’s pose are beyond my capacity?  And most importantly, how was I going to come away with at least a modicum of self-respect so that I did not cast the entire enterprise in the unmitigated disaster category?  I’d just have to mitigate it is all.

To mitigate - to make softer, less severe.  To lessen in force or intensity.  What would need mitigation after all- the fact that my knees interpret child’s pose as punishment?  Or the fact that I maintain my well-learned tendency to see failure of any kind as an occasion for punishment?  Ahhh, I remember now.  We never know what kind of work we’ll do on the mat, do we?

Once we hit the mat, all bets are off.  It’s like open season for transformative occurrences. And in the beginning at least (it’s the only perspective I can call mine) it may take unexpected forms.  While I’d envisioned the exquisite tug of sinews releasing to the ends of their tethers, I was instead confronted with the daunting task of being gentle with myself. 

I can’t speak for all survivors but I imagine it’s a shared trait - being gentle with myself does not come naturally.  At a gut level gentleness toward myself is interpreted as a weakness of sorts. It’s seen as a cop-out, laziness, or abject failure, all of which point to unworthiness. To be gentle is to accept less than perfection, which is simply not an option - regardless of peril to equilibrium, well-being, or sanity. 

This “inherited” perspective is little more than the athletic drive to increase performance, only inverted and convoluted by its application to the psyche instead of the body.

Huh.  What a terrifically surprising turn-around.  What a stunning revelation.  My task on the mat this day was not to force, coerce, or subdue anything other than the tendency to drive myself away from gentleness.  I had come to the session prepared to use all the determination at my disposal in order to NOT give up on challenging poses; to prove myself worthy, to make myself proud. 

Instead I found I was being directed to apply every iota of athlete’s mind (just keep going, just keep going, just keep...) to insist that I sit on my butt instead of my knees.  It took precisely the same amount of determination that it takes to go another round of any physical exercise - another lap in the pool, 10 minutes on the bike (another 100 words on the page, come to think of it).  There was an insistence, a pushing (“just a little bit more, come on- you can do it”) into gentleness that absolutely happened for the first time on that mat.  Never before has it been preferable to refrain from possible self-damage in the effort to prove myself.

Surprisingly, this act of self-preservation made it not only possible but exciting to get back up and engage when the poses on the screen were within my ability. 
Instead of wallowing in self-defeat and bemoaning my physically induced limitations, I was able to revel in the parts that I can do.  I came away feeling physically more solid; there’s more space in my movements and strength in my stance. Today my body is achy but not broken.

What did break on that mat yesterday was a lifelong limiting assumption that I must be treated harshly in order to excell.  No amount of intellectual understanding was going to teach me that; no level of skilled counseling could have made the experience so tangible. Ah, all the benevolent masters of the universe must be having a great chuckle at my expense - and I gratefully grant it to them:

In order to imbibe the lesson of gentleness, I had to be brought to my knees.

Feet on the Path of No Turning Back

So it happened again...

Yesterday I promised my partner I’d dedicate the day’s writing time to creating fresh, new content for our webpage.  It’s daunting because I’ve said the same things so many times it was coming out stuffy and stale.  How to find that genuine voice and yet remain professional?  How to be compelling enough to make people want to explore further?  The whole litany.

Flustered by the audacity of the blank page staring back at me, secretly feeling it’d be easier to delve back into the gut-tangling implications of having actually sent the audacious epistle I’d just penned, I took refuge in the hope that I might find something  to ponder on in Susannah’s photos Bindu had posted the night before for our writing prompts the following day.

That the first two were chosen and positioned the way they were- did anyone else feel a stirring inside that set the tear buds to blossoming?

There is something mystical in the portrayal of any pathway.  This one, though, struck me in some deep resounding way as the exact path I’m on in this moment: In sepia tones it becomes timeless, the light makes it simultaneously ethereal and vaguely unsettling because it’s indirect.  What’s lit up is not the path per se, but the tall grasses surrounding it - because the traveler cannot see what lies beyond the grasses it becomes a tunnel of sorts - a topless tunnel, but one from which the traveler cannot stray until the path’s conclusion... and there is no way to discern what awaits there.
Hand in hand with the unsettled sense, though, is a deeply felt serenity.  I find myself taking one of those deep, calm breaths that come when I accept the task ahead of me.  There is suddenly a feeling of protection in gazing at the photo, and I am softly stunned to recognize it as coming from within.
It’s as if I have seen this pathway from many vantage points in times past, have known all along that I would need to cross it in order to continue in my unfolding - and that in this moment the fortitude and the courage and the extreme rightness of the task ahead of me have converged in a feeling of exhilaration.  That it is tinged with trepidation just adds to the thrill because the fear is now a companion instead of a barrier.

To scroll ever so slightly down to the next photo is to set the tear blossoms cascading as if at some great holy festival. 

It is said that the feet are the repository of spiritual energy, and the feet of the master are regarded with reverence in many traditions.  I’ve spent hours reveling in the contemplation of a certain set of holy feet myself; when I lived in a place dedicated to meditation and study in the Indian tradition, I used to arrive in the temple at 2 am to tend to the ablution and adornment, with sandalwood paste and flowers, of the padukas - the sandals representing the spiritual power of the master - before the stream of seekers came to place their reverent foreheads there.

But I digress...

From this perspective the feet are directly under me.  I feel the coolness on my toes even as I write (I have the photos on the screen with the page I’m writing).  These feet, while probably Susannah’s, can only be mine while I gaze at the photo.  Importantly, the metal thingamajig in the upper corner assumes (in my mind at least) the role of one of those great sturdy clamps that holds bridges onto the structure from whence they proceed.  As the two photos are arranged (bridge on top, tootsies beneath), I have the sense of gazing out at the bridge before me, and then down at my own feet the moment before I step onto it.

This is the moment, then.  The great “start where you are and keep going no matter what” moment I’ve been craving all my conscious life.

And the petals- yes, the petals.  I can construct a story to describe how they’ve been tossed in the air with great fanfare to herald the historic moment, bestowing blessings from my benefactors for the journey ahead. 
Or perhaps they have fallen all around me as the poetic manifestation of these burning tears.  Perhaps for once I bless my own feet as they stand so bravely beneath me, ready to do my bidding - to carry me along this path on which there is no turning back.  Bathing in the holy river of my own tearwater I feel unburdened and purified.  And changed. 
I imagine the photo playing out in a vignette where the tears fall as petals until they cover the feet and in some magical way I am able to kneel there and place my own head upon them - to bless and be blessed in a gesture so earnest, with a reverence so complete, it feels like a vow.

Gratefully Indebted to You All

I love this picture.  It says, "Just because you're growing, doesn't mean you won't get tied in knots".

If I know what I’m writing about when I start, 800 words typically flow fluidly from my fingertips in a little over an hour.  Yesterday I was nearly four hours in and still stalled at 696 words when I had to give up the topic for the day: one of those “letters you’re never going to send”. 

Of course near the end of the process I noted that Bindu’s post for the day mentioned the virtue of letter writing as an exercise during the #215800 challenge.  This has been a catharsis-evoking practice of mine for many years and it provides some of the juiciest, most genuine expression I’ve ever gotten out of myself.  The inner censor gets distracted and wanders away, leaving me to pour forth the truth with something akin to wild abandon.

Yesterday’s struggle announced itself when I realized that I was actually going to send the thing.

Doing so will have (probably already is having) irrevocable repercussions.  It will be the impetus for a round of inner work the magnitude of which I can scarcely fathom and which once started, I am obliged to ride to the finish.

Just thinking that that missive has been released into the world, I am breathless. Whether with exaltation or terror, it is hard to say. 

What I do know is that as I got ready to leave the house yesterday I found I had to choose shoes that make me stand a little taller, hold myself with a little more strength, make me feel a little more centered.  Then I proceeded to blast my psyche with the music of bold, strong, battle-torn women ranging from Nina Simone to Johnatha Brooke, with a sufi qawwali thrown in for good measure.  And at the end of the day, well past midnight and fairly racked with exhaustion and apprehension (“oh, what have I done?”), I came across the letter to which Bindu had linked on her post for the day.  Thus I discovered the Martha Wainright song the author had used as a soundtrack while writing, and ended the long night in gasping sobs.

Ah, and so it begins. Or rather, continues...

To say that this challenge has been significant is to leave out far too much of the equation. 
It’s given me control over a portion of my day that I never thought to claim as my own before. 
It’s opened portals of perception previously clogged due to inattention.  Life is resplendent with detail and nuance again.
This challenge has created a community out of strangers, some of whom I can nearly guarantee would not have come together in any more conventional way - creating an intimate bond that nonetheless is also somehow anonymous and therefore safe for everyone.

The greatest gift of all, though, is that it’s made me confront myself in a way that is as utterly terrifying as it is exhilarating.  It’s put things in motion that I’d been comfortably avoiding for eons; it’s compelled me to give myself homework of the highest order- and to turn in the assignment every day, no matter what.
I said in an earlier post that I wish to earn the trust of the old woman I hope to become.  Trust is a long time coming with me (and apparently with her too), but I’m beginning to feel that I’ve got her approval.  I feel her silent support as if she were my ancestor rather than the future me.

There is no question that years from now I will point to June 2010 as a pivotal, even defining moment in my life.  This is the time I learned to take up the space I need to thrive, and to revel in the sense of strength singing through my sinews when I stretch my self (literally and literarily). 

This is the time I’ll remember developing the tenacity to engage in the struggles necessary to be free from the past (to grow despite the knots)- when disruption, trepidation, and even abject terror were no longer good enough excuses for keeping the monsters safe in their pens, fed and watered with my own limiting fears.

This is the time I’ll remember walking out into the world as if wearing a slightly different skin- one that fits better, feels more comfortable, in some important way more “me” than I’ve ever been before...

Of course I am still replete with insecurities, uncertainties, and vulnerabilities.  I’m sure they’ll continue to baffle, confuse, and confound me with the very human aspect of every endeavor.  But what has happened in these two weeks is that I’ve come to look at these elements of my being as tools rather than liabilities.  They are a jumping-off place, the impetus for engaging in the work that moves me forward - out of the past and into a frank, authentic, and engaging future.

I am gratefully indebted to you all.

Comic Relief: Lesbian Recycling

The title Lesbian Recycling might give the reader pause.  It might invoke images of Wednesday Addams inquiring about the girl scout cookies being proffered for her consideration, “Are they made from real girl scouts?”.

One might be tempted, though with slightly tongue-in-cheek trepidation, to ask: This Lesbian Recycling - are we talking about the recycling program on the Greek Island of Lesbos?  Or are we talking about the women-who-love-women kind, the lesbian of modern lore?  And if so, is the recycling being carried out by the lesbians, or for their benefit?  Unless...

Oh my, oh dear (insert Deity of choice), are we talking about the recycling OF lesbians?

If the idea has fairly set the reader’s mind to whirring, and to wondering from what side of the mystic Land O’Lez the writer is coming, let all be reassured that the perspective on these pages is that of a real, life-long woman lover who has, whether on account of her winning personality or the sheer length of her career, managed to sidestep most of the stereotypes attributed to her kind by those of little social experience or tolerance.

That said, there exist in the world of lady-loving-ladies certain idiosyncratic features of social interaction that bear explanation to the uninitiated.  If the reader has no lesbian of his or her own to explain these peculiarities, this missive may help lift the shroud of mystery on at least one such feature.

Recently a co-worker was explaining the complexities of her current dating scenario: the boy in question is someone she’s known since she was ten, and he is the ex-boyfriend both of her sister’s friend and her own cousin.  They never considered one-another as potential dating material while those relationships were taking place, but now it makes sense and feels right.  She is concerned for the feelings of the others so close to her; can they rise above it and give her their blessings, or will it be a mar on their relations forever?  When she finally stopped for a breath I said, “Sounds like you all are taking a page out of the Book of Lesbian”!

Since I came out in a small community (Coeur d’Alene Idaho in the 1980‘s small enough for ya? Aryan Nations and all?) I originally assumed it was simply a matter of the miniscule number of lesbians in circulation (it was highschool in a redneck town) that accounted for the fact that the girl that I was dating was the best friend of the girl whose boyfriend was the twin brother of my best friend, and that she had always had a crush on her.   But wait!  Who had a crush on whom?  Exactly.  And they eventually dated, after we broke up of course.  Who dated?  After you broke up with... What? 
Yup.  Mmmm-Hmmm. Lesbian Recycling.

Let it be known that the phrase “Lesbian Recycling Program” had not yet been coined in these early, fledgling years.  For that to happen I would first have to witness the phenomenon in larger circles.  As my sphere of lesbionic experience widened I found it happening on a much grander scale: whole groups of friends could practically devise a board game based on which person’s ex-lover was now with the best friend of that person’s first love; which two had previously dated the one who was now with the one whose best friend secretly had a thing for her (and let’s be clear: it is practically a prerequisite for Lesbian 101 to fall in love with one’s best friend at least once).  And it's not that woman-lovers are a promiscuous bunch- in fact the arrangement-of-choice tends to incline toward committed monogomy.  It's just that we run in circles that are- well, spirals. 

The Recycling term came into play once I lived in Spokane Washington:  When my girlfriend and I went to visit an ex of mine and her new girlfriend, we discovered that The Girl I’d Always Swooned Over was also there- with a girlfriend of her own.  During the long summer that ensued (dubbed the “summer stranger than others” on a mixed tape commemorating the time) in which my girlfriend broke up with me to go back to her ex but instead wound up with my ex and then her girlfriend (yup, the ones we were visiting earlier).  The Girl I’d Always Swooned Over left her girlfriend for me (and oh yes we all lived together) and then took off for three days to straighten out her head while we two did our best to support each-other in the strangeness and confusion of it all.

And this is the thing that Lesbians seem to do in romantic crisis: there is a prevailing tendency toward rising above the petty bitterness that surrounds the ending of  relationships.    Indeed it’s sometimes hard to tell whether a pair has split or not. We may be hurt, bereft, indeed shaking in our shoes with the immensity of our loss - but we very often grapple with the ensuing feelings of acrimony toward our exes or our ex’s future partners (or our current partners’ exes for that matter) with a transcendent sort of beatific idealism that baffles uninformed onlookers. 

Indeed, it can be baffling from within the inner circle as well.  When the feeling of forgiveness, or moving-beyond-it-ness arises in a situation of turmoil, pain, and loss, it is at first so incongruous as to be disorienting.  Whether it’s true that women have inherently nurturing natures, or are innately forgiving, or whether we just have a heightened need for internalized drama, lesbians have a strong predilection for remaining friends with their exes.

Maybe it’s that we seem to lack the off-switch that makes people stop caring about others just because the form of the relationship has shifted.
Alternately, there might be a lesbian tendency to fast-forward through the dating process and move straight into serious relationships, or it could be that the lesbian penchant for loving one’s friend works in reverse as well - that we value our friends so deeply we are reluctant to let go of them just because we’re no longer a matched set.

Whatever the underlying reason, when we reach the “rising above” point, there is a sense that we are bigger than ourselves, that we have the capacity to be magnanimous and perhaps transcend the bounds of conventional limitations... to be friends with our ex - and sure, our partner’s ex, and her best friend who’s begun dating our own ex... and to contribute meaningfully to one-another’s lives just because we are all incredible, smart, and progressive women.  There is also the tickle in the back of the brain that makes us wonder if we’ve just gone mad, but by then the deed is done.

When we are at our best I believe we appreciate the fact that the person we love has been challenged and blessed and therefore enriched by those who went before us, just as I believe that when we let someone go we (eventually, perhaps- nobody says this is instantaneous or without serious effort) we can bless their path and those they will come to love.  At our less-than best?  We covet security and find that the entry into our lives of any interloper (real or imagined) causes us to hold our breath, pick fights, and harbor anxiety.  We are all of us always holding out for the next transcendent moment, are we not?


Post Scripts:
1) Let those readers who are of the hetero, male, bi, transgender or other persuasions not believe for an instant that I believe the characteristics above described pertain only to those of the lesbian ilk.  We are each and every one of us transcendent, delicate, stuck and strong in our own ways.  I was only trying to be funny.
2) Oh, and for those who are wondering about the girl who was left by the Girl I Always Swooned Over?  Years later, in a different city and state, my partner at the time (not The Girl) and I broke up for our mutual benefit and went out to celebrate. Guess who we ran into?  Guess who she dated next (hint: it wasn't me)?  You're catching on.

What it Means to Change My Life

For the second time during the #215800 challenge, I concluded the writing portion of my daily exercise only to discover that a suggestion had been issued to write on a particular musing... “what does it mean to change your life?”

Ironically, each time this happens I find that what’s already on the page is in a mystifying sort of alignment with the process...

Today was the first day in the challenge that the writing itself was a struggle.  I couldn’t be authentic in my memoirial (new word!) banter because the of the gymnastics of staying “identity neutral” regarding some of the living characters in my narrative.  I felt frustrated and thwarted and just wanted to give into a “damn the torpedoes” rant just to release some of the pressure.

I wished I could just stop typing and do yoga, but I was on a timeline so I tried to write about yoga instead.  I’ve never stuck with yoga long; even though it feels brilliant when I start, I have a history of getting hurt on my own and don’t trust just any teacher (I was spoiled because most classes I’ve taken were John Friend or his students).   Of course there are the logistics of adding yoga to an already full life,  but in writing I see that now I’ve begun to hunger for it. 

I recognized on a visceral level the role that yoga plays in the transformation that this challenge is pushing me toward.  I’ve done at least savasana each day, and I’ve added a small amount of asana work a few times.   Most notably though, I’ve discovered that when I am done writing difficult things I have to take warrior pose or scream.  I need to take up space with a strong physical stance, feel the sinews in my forearms tingle as I engage those muscles in both directions at once. My body itself is insisting that I expand beyond what was possible only two weeks ago! 

What does it mean to change my life?  It means holding a posture of strong vulnerability while the needed changes take place, excruciating and heart-stopping as they may be: to stay “open during renovation”.  There are few things more terrifying than claiming one’s own power.  The responsibility and the authority are astonishing in scope, because our power really is that great.
Changing my life means doing the work anyway, because to do otherwise is to be less than authentically myself.  It’s uncomfortable to realize that waiting to do the work is simply no longer an option.  

The stepping-off point is like getting a tattoo: you want it, you ask for it, and it hurts like hell!  You can’t change your mind part-way through, and you’re screwed if you flinch- so you find whatever reserves of grit and raw determination you have hidden deep within (and it is always there, make no mistake) and then it’s over! Only it’s not.  It’s raw and tender like the  wound it is.  You have to protect it by exposing it, make it strong my keeping it supple. Amidst all the paradox, you have to keep in mind that the whole thing was your idea.  Yeah, doing inner work is like getting a tattoo on your soul.

I hired a therapist on my lunch break yesterday because this childhood-related  “breakthrough project”  is long overdue. I call it a project because I have a specific goal, I know the issues and the roadblocks, and I have some sense of the work I have ahead of me.  I include the term breakthrough to remind me that what I am going for is to get to the other side of the murkiness and not just to wallow in it. 
I’ve hired a professional because I need someone whose perspective is steady to help me navigate the slippery times when I can’t tell “then” from “now”, and to keep me focused on the reason I choose to continue:   First break down, then break through.  I do well with strategies.

I knew this project was immanent but held off for the same reason that I haven’t found a yoga teacher: you can’t tell who is right for you until you invest the time and energy and risk your psyche or your knees (depending on which professional we’re talking about here), and spend a lot of time choosing your team when all you really want to do is actually turn up and do the work!  Who wants to do the “intro rap” on their deepest and darkest over and over again?

Still, I am just as rotten shrink for myself as I am a yoga instructor.  For once, the wisest advice is to look outside myself - so I did, and I think I’ve found a gem. 

Historically, once I’ve landed in therapy I am a very serious study.  I saw a counselor in Seattle who once told me, “I’ve never seen anyone work as hard as you do.  I give you a suggestion and by the next week you’ve grappled with it.  You’re sort of fearless that way.” 

All well and good, all mighty and fearless perhaps, in identifying patterns and confronting how I have limited myself because of my past - but this kind of work has done nothing to actually help me resolve it.  In my own estimation I have yet to bring forward my truly fearless aspect, but the prospect of doing so makes me simultaneously giddy and calm in a sort of unified-with-the source kind of way.

Sleeping In: The Cost of Self-Indulgence

Sleeping in is now the most subversive act in my repertoire. 

Make note, it’s no governmental regime I’m undermining with the snooze button set to stun, it’s my own precious daily routine... a routine which has come to mean more to me than I could have possibly forseen.

Mere weeks ago, rising at 8 am would have been a rare and bravely executed exception to the rule, performed for only the most significant events (be they onerous or erstwhile).  Not since I lived in an ashram environment eight years ago has there been a hint of regularity in my schedule.  Being self-employed has its hazards.

Today, 8 am is precisely an hour and a half late.  Not only would I usually be circling the 800 mark by now in terms of the number of written words it takes to start rubbing up against the breakthrough inherent in the practice, but I’d be on the second cup of tea and the construction noises outside the window wouldn’t have started yet.  Nor would the cat be yowling at my partner to get up and play chase-the-fleecy-thing with her.

About two weeks before this writing challenge began, I had an unexpected healing encounter.  In addition to my home enterprise, I work at the local food co-op.  We had a woman come in who was to train the staff on a line of flower essences, and part of that training was to give us individual consultations.  She showed us a list of of emotional traits and asked us to consider which ones apply to ourselves in preparation for our sessions.

When I met with her, she asked what struck me from the list.  I’d seen two opposite characteristics that I hoped to balance: being driven to work to exhaustion, and procrastination.  I explained that I’m prone to a sort of Hyperfocus ADD behaviour when working on an important project, wherein all self-care falls into disrepair and neglect. I also have what I perceived as a lackadaisical approach to my home business; there are days I just don’t feel like creating a newsletter or updating databases or making phone calls, and so I don’t.  I usually don’t do it the next day either.  This was the dilemma I presented to this dear, soft-spoken woman with the white braid at the back of her head.

She listened attentively and patiently, then leaned ever so slightly forward and said, “Yes, but where does the sadness come from?”

Oh, so this is how it’s going to be, I thought. Nobody told us she was an empath.  Geez.  Her blue eyes sparked at me, waiting.  So I told her.  I told her, and she listened, and she gave me advice that was related not in the least to the essences she’s come to share with us.   She made a point of saying that I’m not lazy, I’m chronically exhausted and need to learn how to stop and truly rest. She spoke of “rhythm” when she advised me to wake, eat, and sleep at the same times each day. She assured me that I will be compensated for the sacrifices I’ve made for the sake of my early antagonist.  She gave me a hug and sent me on my way with my little gift bag of goodies.

In the days that followed, I took her advice to heart as if she’d been my own fairy grandmother.  I began waking earlier in order to have an actual breakfast meal.  I embraced the notion of “rhythm” where I’d failed to accomplish the same thing under different names (regularity, discipline, routine) for years. 

Mornings have become my gift to me; rising a wee bit earlier each day, making my cup of tea and padding in sock feet to where the keyboard sits expectantly, allowing a more genuine me to reveal herself before the bustle of other people and activities begins.

The tea itself is an important part of the routine.  Having spontaneously broken a serious coffee habit two months ago, I’ve come to revel in the vast variety of experiences available through the medium of tea.  We have a full cupboard dedicated to my experimental impulses in this arena, the most recent addition to which is Matcha - that brilliant green powder celebrated and treated with such reverent attentiveness in Japanese Tea Ceremonies.  I tried it first at work, and it left me with a sublime inner sense that I could only describe by saying, “it feels like a great hug on a a beautifully rainy day”.

Apart from the health benefits, the rapturous flavor experience and the bliss-buzz the beverage itself imparts, the ceremony holds a growing fascination for me.  The spare and deliberate movements, the quiet humility , the two-point turns of the bowl at various points (the meaning of which I have yet to discover) bespeak a reverence I hope to nurture back to health in my own regard of daily routines.  I’ve begun to crave rising early enough in the morning to partake in a solitary ritual of centering and self-care with which to sanctify the day.

Today I missed out on that sacred jump-start because of the extra time spent wallowing amongst my pillows in soporific glory.  My penance is that, as opposed to the idyllic writer’s dreamday of three days ago, I am now tapping out my mental sputterings from the waiting room of a car dealership while my vehicle is serviced, the only available seat wedged next to the parts area with its wafting essence of rubber and grease.  Vying to divert my attention from the keyboard are intermittent calls from my tax guy (quarterlies are due today, darlings) and the monstrous flat screen unavoidably in front of me with the World Cup proceedings on display there.  This very moment I am actively efforting to blank out the commentators’ voices and focus instead on the constant drone of the noisemakers of the crowd.  It’s as if I’m in a bubble in a beehive, immersed in the buzzing sounds but without fear of a sting.  From another angle, it might sound like the gravely, booming, breath-stilling sounds that call Tibetan monks to prayer. 

I take a deep breath myself and reach for the stainless steel cylinder at my side...

I got some extra doze time, for sure - but I’ve had to take my ceremonial tea in a to-go cup.