full circle sacred™ 600 words on grace

Grace.

We use the word to describe something ineffable, some beneficent force that moves into and through our lives - carrying boons to in some way avert calamity or rescue us from suffering.

What happens, then, when we consider its source?  Where does Grace actually come from?

There’s a tendency in western thought to assign Grace to an action taken by God on one’s behalf - by the Grace of God this or that did or did not take place.  

I’d like to propose this inquiry… might it be somewhat more participatory?

“Bad” things happen to people who don’t “deserve” it all the time, and nefarious individuals go through cycles of gain and praise.

So it can’t simply be that to behave in a certain way garners grace, as if meritorious acts could be accumulated in order to earn “grace points”.

Studying the presence of Grace in the Eastern traditions, my then-professor Douglas Brooks asked us to consider these three points about Grace:

You can’t ask for it, you don’t deserve it, you can’t pay it back.

Let’s unpack this from the middle, as many psyches will lock in on that middle phrase and refuse to go further… what does it mean that you don’t DESERVE Grace?  

Aren’t we deserving of everything the universe has to offer?  Isn’t the whole point of achieving human existence, to bask in the immensity of all that is good and gracious and beneficial?  

Let us understand that it is not a question of whether we are worthy or “ok-enough” to participate in Grace; rather it is that there is no way for any one person to become more worthy than any other person.  In other words, Grace does not respond to a merit system -it is oncoming to all individuals with equal velocity at all times, like a wind that blows in the face of Saints as well as the most wretched, unaffected by the disparity in their countenances.

That you can’t pay Grace back may seem obvious.  Still, the idea takes on a depth that quiets the heart in earnest contemplation… that there is a beneficent force working in our favor and we are helpless to repay it because - well, in order to repay something there has to be acknowledgement of debt.  Grace is issued from itself- there is no gap between the beneficence and its source, so it is not giving anything away… it is just flowing ceaselessly ever outward, like a spring in the earth… how can you put water back into a flowing spring?  It’s not possible.  Likewise with Grace.  One of the surest ways to uncover one’s indwelling sense of humility is to contemplate this aspect of Grace.

Coming Full Circle to consider the beginning, what does it mean that you can’t ask for Grace?  Isn’t it part of our nature to call upon Grace during times of need, distress, or significance?

The very premise of prayer hangs on the notion that Grace is somehow responsive to our imploring.  And yet… we return to the observation that some prayers go (seemingly) unanswered.

Let’s return to the image of Grace as a blowing wind, moving equally across all in its path (picture rocks, for example).  Is it possible, through petition or sheer force of will, to divert a stream of that wind toward one object more intensely than those surrounding it?

Here’s the participatory part:

What would happen if one of the objects developed an opening - an aperture that Grace could flow through rather than onto/over/around?

How might this contemplation inform our expectations?  The way we orient ourselves?

I will be publishing a series of blog posts under the heading "Full Circle Sacred".

This is a separate enterprise from blue circle press, and is in the process of being trademarked in anticipation of future publications.

A full circle sacred blogspot is in the making, though there were some initial snags with the setup and I find myself urged to post before the official platform is ready.

So!  The urgings will be satisfied for now by posting here under the Full Circle Sacred heading, and the rest will work itself out according to a plan that's still being revealed (and which has my full, if bewildered, cooperation).

Socially Awkward Teen

Very recently I reconnected with an old friend from high school.  Washing dishes this afternoon, I wonder nearly out loud, "Did I ever tell her how much I liked her?".  My heart heaves, my brain feels cool to the touch.

I'm approaching my 47th winter, if you count the first one, during which I arrived.  I've only recently learned to make friends - in the manner of, "Hello, I like you.  I would like to play with you.  Do you want to come over?" sense of things.  I've  even more recently discovered that the reason I spent much of my 2nd grade in glass rooms with men in suits showing me inkblots very likely has something to do with what today's parents and teachers would recognize as Sensory Integrative Disorder.  Sometimes if you are talking to me and I appear to be ignoring you, it's not because I don't value you or even want to interact- it's because my sleeves are speaking louder than you are.  And they are telling me that my nervous system will go on strike if I don't adjust them- so I cannot hear you.

Add to that the tendency toward ADD-ness I've always already had, and a somewhat Aspergerian approach to social gatherings and interactions in general, and you're maybe not surprised that I was one of the "odd" kids in school.  But it was the 80's and that kind of aloof was actually cool in some circles, so it went unnoticed except in those cases where it was my 'signature'- a kind of 'weirder than thou' gesture of general disregard.

It is ironic then, looking back- to remember a teenage girl with such fondness.  I remember the moment of thinking, "Wow, I really enjoy being around her.  She's smart and hysterically funny and I always enjoy time we spend together.  But if I tell her so she will think I am coming on to her, and that would just be weird, so..."...

Fast forward to 30 years later.  I'm still not coming on to her, I still enjoy her just as much, and now I'm able to say so.

Hyperbole and a Half Brought Me Back

I'm back.

This morning, circumstances beyond my control landed me on the computer, in front of Blue Circle Press for the first time in more than a year.

You may notice I now actually OWN a blue circle- it's the drum under my arm in the picture, made for me by Scotty Ravendancer, who didn't even know about the blue circle thing at the time he made it.  In the picture I am collecting nature bits to use for ceremonially significant decor.

An odd string of circumstances brought me to this moment.  A person who is funny and also well-read, and whom I enjoy and admire (anyone who has written a book for 'tweens, about permaculture and sustainability is a winner in my world- plus if they are funny on top of it...) said to me about two weeks ago, "You would like Hyperbole and a Half, you should look it up".  This coming from a person whose recommendations about what I would find enjoyable or amusing are always spot-on.

So, early the next morning I googled the hyperbole entity and encountered a post called "Menace", about a wee child's discovery of absolute power, bestowed by a dinosaur costume but blamed by external forces (read: adults) on sugar surges.  Being new to the blog I had no gender context for the child in the costume, but identified absolutely with the side-splitting hysterics that come from calling our crazy out onto the page.  Like a play-by-play of "what-goes-on-in-that-head-of-yours", telling our "deep/dark" stories out loud and in full color often results in really, really funny stuff that just is really not-so-funny when it's happening.

On with the narrative: So, later I ran into the neighbor above me, whom I suspect I woke with my guffaws and can't-stop-laughing-to-breathe antics.  I said to her, "This morning I found a really funny- um, kind of a blog, kind of drawing, cartoonish but not..." and she interrupted me, saying, "Hyperbole and a Half?".  Apparently the kind of laughter that awoke her is a very specific kind of laughter, induced by initial exposure to the humor of Allie Brosh.  Amazed (but not as amazed as I was to be later) that she picked HaaH out of all the funny things in the universe that I DID know about the day before, I said yes.  She proceeded to tell me all about how Allie started a blog in 2009 and then disappeared for about a year and a half, returning only very recently with posts about her very real struggles with depression during the time of her absence.

WOW

striking a chord, striking a chord, striking a chord...

While it's not exactly Depression per-se that is at the root of my absence, it has been a spiraling sort of frenzy of all-the-other-things-that-somehow-become-more-important-than-doing-the-thing-that-makes-you-feel-like-you...
you know, work, building that home business, figuring out all the FREAKING TECHNOLOGY (yes I am kind of yelling, because my brain is not build for the technology and sometimes it completely short-circuits me)...

It's also got to do with the fact that there was a very strange dynamic between me and the person "in charge" of the writers' challenge that had me so up-and-at-'em a couple of years ago- so strange that, when the challenge ended and an exclusive group of members were invited to participate in an intensified experience, I had to seriously examine whether it was a good idea for me and this person to work together- especially considering I did not know whether THEY knew how strange our dynamic was (the relative anonymity of cyber-networking does have some dark twists in it).

I spent a great deal of time trying to figure out if it was kind, appropriate, and supportive to participate in something so personal and intensive with someone who was on the verge of doing something big for themselves, if my presence (and the potential weirdness that would come with it) would impact them or me in a negative way.  I tried really, really hard to be compassionate and real and consider it from all angles, and even reached out with a "would this be doable for you or would it be too weird?" sort of email.

Turns out they did know who I was, had known all along, and they were really a gross kind of a jerk about it, which soured my taste for the whole blogging experience, especially knowing that person was/is part of my "audience".

ANYWAY!

Knowing what I know now of Hyperbole and a Half (so funny it's even abbreviated "HaaH"), I was compelled to start back at the beginning, 2009.  Halfway through reading the posts for December of that year, I found myself suddenly lurching out of bed toward my computer because my phone (on which I'm reading the blog) won't let me comment.

I want to put a comment on her blog that says something like "I have a really funny story about taking a bus from Couer d'Alene Idaho too... how is that even possible?"  (It was really a bus TO Cd'A, but it was going the wrong way and I fell asleep and so didn't know the bus was going the wrong way until I woke up halfway to Coulee Dam - which apparently sounded like "Coeur d'Alene" to the driver... which is how I lost my job at Cloud 9, which is the original name of the restaurant -now called The Beverly- at the top of the Coeur d'Alene resort, when I was 17.)... the rest of the story sits waiting for another time (did I really think I could sleep unnoticed in the phone booth in Wilbur, Washington, waiting until morning for the bus going the right way?)...

Knowing that Allie gets comments that are "blog length" anyway, and that I was about to write one, I figured I'd just dust off the old blue circle and give it another whack.

After all, times are different now and I'm a different person now, and I know more about the rhythm of my manic-productive-episodes and what exactly a brain like mine needs and expects of me, so...

Here's to forging a new path, to routines (especially the morning kind!) and to finding humor where it lurks in the recesses of the mind (ever wonder why the wrinkles in the brain are called "convolutions"? Wonder No More).

Oh.  And.  When I made my way to the HaaH facebook page, there was one person I know who had already "liked" it before I even knew it existed:  the person I call my "child" even though I did not give birth to them, and even though they are now nearly 23 years old.  It just keeps getting better.

Pop's Rock

from Buddha's Playhouse, Breitenbush

Two days before my birthday I received an envelope from Ecuador.

I shook my head in a giddy sort of awe- my father had managed to send a birthday remembrance... not only on-time, but early- and from another hemisphere even!

I've learned to poo-pooh my birthday- falling as it does in the dead of winter and almost always when some hefty work or study project demands my attention, it has typically failed to command the bells-and-whistles sort of regard that I suppose, on some level, I used to long for.

See, there's a little girl in me who can be spunky, dauntless, and almost alarmingly independent.  Perhaps unsurprisingly, she's got a flip-side... there are times when she desperately, achingly needs to feel special, valued, and even adored- and this is rarely more evident than when the occasion of her birth marks another circuit around the sun.

There are reasons that this can be hard on the people around me...

One,  as the date gets closer it's hard to know which little girl you're going to get at any given moment (I'm fine one minute, and the next inexplicably but profoundly melancholy over some long-ago birthday gone awry).

Two, there's precious little in terms of material things that I really need or want.  I have little patience for knick-knacks, don't own anything that matches, and my interests are fairly esoteric and close to the earth (my mom sent a check and I bought a wooden crate with drawers to store herbal tinctures and a solar oven- who could intuit stuff like that?!?).  The only thing I really want is a piece of healthy land to live on and cultivate food and medicine, and I don't expect that'll land in my lap as a birthday surprise.

Three, in years past I have wavered idealogically over whether I find used and regifted items fun, funky, and practical- or whether the wee little girl needs to feel valued and special with something picked out just for her.

In the past few years my dad has endeavored to satisfy/pacify/gratify my birthday needs, without benefit of explanation as to why I needed/wanted/demanded for him to be present with me in ways I could not articulate or even comprehend.


His offerings (which were peppered for several years with a continually expanding family of rubber lizards, frogs, and geckos) were made, I can only imagine, in a sort of vacuum of unknowing and uncertainty as to how they'd be received.


A little backstory:
My dad was the young single parent of a pre-teen girl in the late 1970's.  Add to this equation the fact that our story unfolded against the backdrop of The Theatre community, and you will not be surprised to discover a tale full of big-D Drama. The time and our situation provided an entire panoply of opportunities for stresses and misfortunes in our relationship.

In the past couple of years, we have worked hard- and bravely- to step out of the mire of yesteryear and meet each other in the present tense.  In the past twelve months especially, Dad has surprised and impressed me with a series of small but earnest gestures- each giving us more space to call common ground.  I have been heartened.

Here comes the foreshadowing...
part one
This past summer, during a conference of women herbalists, I experienced a profound awakening around the experience of tribal drumming.  It bears telling in a post all its own someday, but for now let it suffice to say that it heralded a time of rich inquiry and discovery into the tales and traditions of indigenous peoples the world over (many of which point to similar considerations regarding 2012... ok, ok, another post.  Soon.)

I've been deeply affected by the shared perspectives among a number of Earth's original people- for instance, that there are no insentient beings but just different earth tribes with different purposes... the plant tribe, the insect tribe, the tree tribe... all working together in harmony to carry out cycles of birth, eating, dying, decay... from which comes new growth... of particular interest recently has been the stone tribe.


I recently read a retelling of a story shared by many tribes.  It says that since the stone tribe has been with the earth since it formed, its members have been entrusted with recording the history of everything that's ever taken place on the earth.  They are further charged with sharing the ancient wisdom with other beings (some of them human) who can benefit from (or better yet, serve the world community through) the knowledge thus shared.


foreshadowing part two
As an extension of the herbal conference mentioned above, I have undertaken a 10-part training in the Art and Science of Herbalism with Rosemary Gladstar (a celebrated grand-ma-ma of the herbal community).  In my present lesson I am focused on herbs that are described as "alteratives", which have among their actions a tendency to "purify the blood" through support of the liver and kidneys over an extended time.  One of the questions I've been wrapping myself around with relish has to do with why it seems to be that most alteratives are roots, that grow deep within the earth.  

As homework, I began devising a story in alignment with the indigenous traditions- that deep within the earth are the stone beings that live closest to the core of Mother Earth, and it is through the wisdom of those stones that the roots receive their instructions as to what healing benefits to offer those humans earnest enough to harvest, prepare, and consume the medicine.

scenic interlude... 
In the past eight months I have received postcards from my father in Mongolia, Helsinki, Jerusalem, Capetown and Galapagos.   He and his Long-Term Lady have embarked on a 13-month excursion with a backpack each, to experience an astonishing array of what this great blue globe has to offer by way of hostels, WoOFing (Work on Organic Farms- in exchange for room and board), and couch surfing.  

It was a matter of great good fortune that they both humored me in my desire to show them how to blog, mere hours before they left, because their recounting of their unfolding journey has been a source of immense delight, appreciation, and gratitude.  Through their generous sharing I have had a taste of amazing places from a very authentic perspective... South Africa, Sweden, Russia, France, Mongolia, the Dead Sea, Belgium, Spain, Jerusalem, Greece, the Andes... 

On the actual Day of my birthday the two intrepid travelers got on a raft at the headwaters of the Amazon, and off they went... I am eagerly awaiting that particular blogpost!  

"she'll be comin' round full circle..."
So.  I got this envelope from Ecuador.  It said not to open it until my birthday, and I reluctantly complied.  What could it be?  I poked, prodded, and pressed around the edges.  In deference to a tradition Dad and I made up when I was a kid, I hazarded a guess based on its size (about the size of a quarter, three-dimensional, irregular, and hard)... "it's a record!"  Nope.

The blessed morning finally dawned, and before I bustled out the door to a profusely demanding day I paused to tear open my little parcel.  Drum roll...

in my hands and in my heart

Out tumbled this little rock.  With one flat side, one concave and one convex, of slightly porous quality and a sense of deep saltiness (I can't describe why it feels that way, it just does), and sand-and-honey hue, it came with a little square of notebook paper explaining that it had approached him while he was in the Dead Sea- the lowest point on earth (Read: Closest to the Core of Earth Mother).  In one of the most celebrated healing places known to man, this rock had stood out to him... and he had felt compelled to ferry it on to me.

I paused.  I felt it.  Smelled it.  Held it to my heart.  Listened.


I felt a stirring inside as the salt in me rushed to meet the salt in the stone.  I wept sweet, sloppy tears for a moment- the tears of a girl who just got exactly what she wanted for her birthday, without ever having known she wanted it. 


Best. Birthday Tears. Ever.

 

Still, Deep in the Forest

From the Silent Spring

Much of me is still deep in the forest.  A week ago (to the minute, as it happens) I woke to the sunlight filtering in through the window in a tiny cabin with very little inside other than two very comfortable (thank you, thank you, thank you) beds.

I slipped on my sandals and pulled a hoodie over my sleep gear; Jenn still slumbered on but I had to pee- across the gravel path and two huts down I went, to the facilities.

It was raining.  I could tell because there was moisture on the brightly lit air and from the delicate percussive sounds coming from the trees that surrounded and hovered over me.  But not a drop came down on my head; the forest has long been in the habit of using this abundant moisture for its own ends, and no drop need be wasted on the humans here, who will just go get in the hot springs when they want to get wet.

Ahhh, Breitenbush.  The whole time I was a massage therapist in Seattle I would hear others extoll the virtues of Breitenbush hot springs as a vacation and/or retreat spot.  I longed for the days when I might be among the ranks of those who vacationed and/or retreated, and I must have unknowingly vowed that one day I, too, would soak this body in those steamy waters.

When we were originally planning the Oregon branch of our left-coast “whirlwind” tour, we fully expected to spend some time on the coast in between the ecovillages and communities we were going to explore.  But when Jenn said she’d found some hot springs deep in the woods I was intrigued.  When I realized she’d discovered Breitenbush all on her own, a number of things snapped into place inside me.  I can’t really put a finger on it, but I think I began a somewhat automated process of realigning with the Northwest.

There were many unexpected events in the earlier parts of our excursion, one of which resulted in us canceling all of our meticulously planned reservations and flying more or less by the seat of our pants- so it wasn’t until the day before we went that we knew for sure we could get there and that there would be a place for us.  So we did, and there was.

We spent the evening exploring the grounds and choosing which of the springs we’d soak in after dinner.  The height of the trees, the warmth of the sun, the sweetness of the breeze... the roaring of the river, the song of the birds, the absolute absence of any automated sounds WHATSOEVER...  the springy “give” of the forest floor, the huddled majesty of the pines and oaks soaring overhead, the unheard sound of the forest that reverberates just behind the breastbone in a deep baritone “whoosh”... conspired to take me several levels deeper into myself than I’ve been in years, outside of intentional meditation.

We spent time on the bridge overlooking the river and the modest geo-thermal plant that was built by the community and which supplies all of its electricity.  We watched tiny birds dart for bugs and “ominous birds” soar over the tree tops until the sun got to a certain angle, then we found the labyrinth, which I walked as the sun went down.
We soaked in the sacred tubs- three of them get progressively hotter and the third is to be enjoyed in silence.  The dark enveloped us a bit more with each experience; we were in the silent springs when the last light left the sky and we all became dripping silhouettes as we groped our way over the slippery stones toward the path.  We had to use our rented flashlight to find our way back.

The morning that I speak of now dawned raining and misty- stirring the soul in the way that only Northwest mist can do- and it was everything in our power not to miss our flight so we’d have to stay another day.  Next time, three days at least!

We said our reluctant farewells to this new favorite place and headed for the highway.  Fortunately the gatekeeper advised us that the more scenic North Cascades highway would get us there just as quickly as the major thoroughfares, so I had the distinct pleasure of introducing Jenn to this part of the country that I’ve loved for 30 years.  My dad and stepmom and I had driven the Washington portion of this road when I was in my wee-teens, and it was during that time that the Northwest began to seep into my bones.  I fancied I’d be a botanist or a forest ranger, that these magnificent pillars of needle and cone would be the home and cathedral for my expanding soul.

Of course those plans were waylaid, as public school and rebellion and the mis-spending of my youth took precedence over those beautifully innocent aspirations. 
And yet... and now... and how... can it be I’ve come full circle?

What I Just Wrote to ABC re: Cancelling Jamie Oliver's Food Revolution

food. comes. from. the ground.

"I am bereft, outraged, and appalled that TV as desperately needed as this is being pulled.  Oprah is a legacy because her goal was to use the TV medium for good, to educate, and to help people. It seemed like ABC was doing great work in this vein by airing this show. Now, instead of being an agent for critical and important change, you have simply deepened the disconnect between Americans and reality. I am ashamed of ABC. You need to apologize publicly and get that man back on the air." (they only give you 500 characters).

Tell them what you think:http://abc.go.com/site/contact-us

For those who don't know, Jamie Oliver is a cheeky Brit with a penchant for great food (ok, he's a spectacular chef) and a decent amount of outrage over how far "food" today is from its original, nourishing and healing forms.  He has traveled around advocating for real food and real transparency in the agencies that feed America's children (schools and fast food are huge areas of focus) without ever once attacking; rather he helps people see what's wrong - that a second grader can't tell a tomato from a potato and highschool kids- smart ones!- earnestly identify the "corndog plant" (which are really cattails) in a photo as the source of the hotdogs on their lunch menu.

Add to all of this that as obesity and diabetes rise in America, so does the mainstream consumer's dependence on prepackaged, processed, and mircowave-oriented food that does so little for the body and so much for the industrialized food industry.  American children are literally being trained to subsist on empty starches, sugared-up milk drinks, high fructose corn syrup, and "pink slime" (left-over bits from the industrial butchering process routinely mixed with bleach, pulverized, and added to Americans' "beef patties" as a filler).  Only the minutest portion of what we eat actually goes to support the brain's functions of cognition and memory, yet today's kids have more to cope with mentally than any previous generation- and virtually nothing to support them nutritionally.

Jamie contrasts this in his kitchen, to the amazement of parents and children alike, with locally raised, pasture fed and humanely treated meats, real vegetables (from the real ground), and teaches them what ought to be part of all children's learning- what food is, where it comes from, and how vitally important it is that we make this connection.

We are so mortifying-ly disconnected from our food sources as it is, and here comes this unassuming, funny, endearing man who knows his stuff and is all about helping fix the monumental problem in our society that is giving "the disease formerly known as adult-onset (aka diet related) diabetes" to children who haven't even hit puberty yet... and the network responsible for all of this abruptly closes the door on the whole thing.

Just when he had low-income kids in LA building their own garden and learning to cook for the student body after overcoming a shocking amount of resistance in the person of one member of the school board!  Mind you, parents were all for it.  In one episode they swarmed him with samples from their childrens' school breakfasts and lunches because he was not allowed in the cafeteria.  To a piece it was in the beige-ochre color scheme, mostly wrapped in microwave plastic sheaths, and at least 8 steps removed from any identifiable animal, fruit, or vegetable.  Not a speck of fresh produce in the mix.

The man who was fighting to change all this, and finally making headway, has been replaced in favor of RE-RUNs of (as another angry blogger put it) "Dancing with the f#*&@ng Stars".

Please do whatever you can to see what Food Revolution is still available to watch (try abc, hulu, and netflix if you must).  See what this man has done and if you share my outrage, please let them know.

Redemption Goes Both Ways

My childhood was imperfect.  Regular readers will know that one relationship in particular has stood out as by far the most damaging, disruptive, and difficult to reconcile.  Last summer many of you cheered me on as I unplugged the power this person had over me and reclaimed it for myself. 

I rode the vehicle of a writer’s challenge group to delve deep into the wounds that held me back, to challenge the inner demons that took most of their cues from this one troubled relationship and set of unfortunate circumstances.

At one point the transformation accelerated to the point that I wanted professional help to navigate emerging ptsd-style memories, so I hired a therapist whose vehement advice was to sever all ties with that person, forever, and never look back...

In the past twelve months another story has unfurled, which has ripened now to the point that it is only fair to give it voice.

After receiving the recommendation to sever ties, I recognized something inside was very unhappy with the idea.  Not a shred of good work could come from that tactic!  I was on a roll, I was feeling mighty, and I had two objectives: I was going to do myself the favor of saying, face-to-face, exactly what happened to “wee me” as a result of their actions, choices, and neglectfulnesses; and they were going to get the opportunity to rise to the challenge of hearing it full-on, and possibly make the jump to transformation.

It was a colossal risk, and the whole thing could have blown up in my face.  But here I had these inner demons nattering away at me, at the same time that I had this burgeoning force moving me forward-  Having reclaimed all the energy I’d been giving away through the damage itself, the time came to take the risk that was creating all the fear.

So. I did not sever ties.  I made a coffee date.

I arrived with a set of notes because this person is my single greatest ptsd trigger and the notes serve as an anchor to be sure I don’t miss anything I wanted to say, and I can also jot responses so they don’t get whirled away in the intensity of the moment.

I walked to the cafe- tall, strong, confident.  I chose the seat and sat calmly, waiting... within two minutes my stomach was turning flips, my hands were shaking, and my breath was all over the place.  I had to hit on my asthma inhaler.  A little baby panic attack.

And then my “date” arrived.  We exchanged what pleasantries we could, then got down to business.  Whomever said, “Speak your truth, even if your voice shakes”, totally had my back right then.  I was standing on a towering cliff while perched on a stool in a trendy little cafe.

I was about to take an irrevocable leap, and all the tumultuous scenes from the past were spooling to replay themselves indefinitely if I missed my footing.

But I started.  I started, and I kept going, and I was a river of anger and frustration and loss of innocence.  I explained everything that was wrong way back when, what it did to the tiny person I was, who had no tools to cope with it and who then responded by storing it all in hidden pockets of her being that occasionally rupture when current-time too closely resembles “back-when”.  I was bitter, I was caustic, I was on fire.

... and I was heard.

I had expected vehement denials, half-assed explanations, a violent eruption like the ones that resulted from past efforts to stand up for myself, and that were the hallmark of the original trauma.

But no.  On the other side of the table I saw a person holding themselves wide open, unflinching, to receive whatever I had to put forward.  No arguments, no denials, just a willing container for the outpouring of bile, venom, and tears I was churning out.

When I was emptied, I was told that I was right, that the past was indeed regrettable, and that I should not have been made to bear what I did.  Redemption as a verb goes two ways.  A person can redeem themselves, by taking responsibility for the things of which they are guilty (which, last summer I did not believe was possible for this person). 
A person can also redeem another, by confirming that the penance they’ve undertaken has been sufficient in accordance with the wrongs they’ve done.  We began this two-way process that day, perhaps to our mutual surprise.

At the very end, I was asked if there were any, any memories from childhood that were of brighter days.  At the time there were none I could access- they were still buried under the rest that I’d just begun to express.  This brought sadness to us both, but I said I’d keep an eye out as I continued clearing useless baggage.

The scene described above has been repeated a number of times since last summer, and by now I’ve said all I needed to.  Last time we got together it was just to have lunch.
This is not to say things are suddenly rosy and uncomplicated.  But so much of the mess has been cleared away that we can sit together in present time without first confronting the spectre of yesteryear.

Recently I began a course of bodywork that assists in releasing stored trauma.  During the first session I came up against a strong emotion from childhood which caught me off guard.  It was the simple, uncomplicated love of a young child, before anything awful happened to taint it.  It swept into/through/over me with a surge of such tenderness that I wept.

This must be my own small redemption.

A Witness to Transcendence

I have a dear friend who’s been grappling for years with a series of injuries that have seriously hampered her ability to engage in life physically.  I’ve seen her bed-bound for months at a time, on and off crutches, in and out of braces, and in the kind of pain that makes your heart stop.

And lately, I’m watching this friend transcend.

As in, cast-off-the-shackles-and-walk-forward-into-the-light, kind of transcend.  And it is one of the coolest things I’ve ever had the honor to witness.

When we undertake Healing-with-a-capital-H, it can take months or years to find the combination of modalities that will hasten us on the path.  We may have to grapple with practitioners who just don’t “get” us, others who go too far and make things worse, those whose work seems promising but is just-not-quite-the ticket, and some who react to the notion that the emotions impact healing by offering a prescription for pain meds.  Yikes!

Add to the above, complications with insurance, logistics of transportation (my friend hasn’t been able to drive for nearly a year), the disheartening fear of being a burden, and the time and energy it takes for the body to integrate all it’s been through, and you have all the makings for a very long, very frustrating ride...

At the end of which is transcendence.  

Deep Breath In, Deep Breath (all the way) Out.  Finally, after years of being subjected to the scrutiny and handling of dozens of different practitioners, my friend has wended her way through the gauntlet of modalities and found what works for her, in a combination of modalities that work pointedly with the subtle systems of the body/mind, in combination with the breath. 

Bodywork and mysticism are so intrinsic to my basic view of the world that this comes as no surprise.  Traumas that have no safe avenue of expression get stored, period.  Keep them long enough, and they will change the way you use or experience certain parts of your body.  They may come to define your posture, your habitual movements, the way your nervous system interprets sound coming from behind.  They are like subtle impostors- they’ve been exerting their influence so long that they just feel like part of the fabric of normalcy. 

The thing is, the physical body is dense.  And most of us, even if our belief system points to the interconnectedness of all things, still function with a very linear sense when it comes to healing our bodies.  Got a physical injury?  Go to a physical therapist. Or physiatrist, or physician, or any number of skilled professionals trained to diagnose, treat, and cure physical problems. 

And if you fail to heal from such treatment?  You are offered a prescription for anti-convulsants.  I'm not kidding; I’ve seen it done half a dozen times.

Of course much of this just points to the western model of medicine.  Even if the patient recognizes the problem as stored trauma, or emotion that’s become stuck in the tissues (“emotion” means “to move”, and if we’re not safe to move emotions through our bodies they get stuck there and begin campaigns for more and more attention until they manifest as illness or injury- but that’s a different post), most of us can’t get a referral to the local shaman, cranio-sacral therapist, or integrative energy practitioner (or even a western-trained counsellor, for that matter) to deal with what appears to be a physical issue.

What’s compelling is that, as my friend  has navigated the course from physical to subtle in terms of her treatment, she herself has become more subtle. What began as an endeavor to “fix what’s wrong” in order to “get back to normal”, has become a courageous journey into awareness, a willing exploration of Things Buried Deep... a whole-hearted endeavor toward integration.

And now?  Now that she seems to have bumped up against the modalities that agree with her body and are allowing her to accomplish what she’s been so willing to do for so very long? 
I’ve been in awe.

Things have come out of her mouth recently that simply weren’t possible a year or six months ago.  Arcane concepts she previously understood mainly through the intellect, have now become inherent to her experience of the world.
She’s developed a capacity to discern delicate points of interconnectedness within her being.  She has been prone to beautiful little “aha” moments- not the kind that konk you on the head and then vanish, but the kind that arrive on little cat paws and slowly unfurl before your eyes so that you can really take them in and integrate them.

As these insights seep into her awareness of things-as-they-are, I’ve seen her step forth into a new sort of power- a certain self-possessed presence has begun to shine forth that is truly magnificent to behold.  There’s a twinkle in the eye that tells you something new is lit up inside, a stance in the body that’s a little softer somehow, but also stronger.  It’s hard to put your finger on, but it’s there, a subtle knowing that changes everything.

I'm humbled today by the strength of courage that I see in her transformation.  And I mean that velvety, rich, gorgeous kind of humble; where you are just flooded with gratitude for the chance to behold humankind at its most vulnerable, mighty/delicate best.

"I am thinking today of dragonfly's wings,
and the gossamer strength
of delicate things"...  me,  circa 2001


(p.s. yesterday, she drove!)
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A Rather Awkward Pickle

I’ve felt that under-the-skin shaky kind of feeling all morning, the result of waking early after going to bed way, way late... it feels like my nervous system has been soaking in brine, my weary but restless mind spinning scenarios- "what if"-s, "why not"-s, "why does it have to be this way"-s tumbling over one-another like puppies with their eyes only half open.  Not as cute as it sounds.

This leaves me with only twenty minutes to write.  So how ironic that it was writing that kept me up all night?  Not the act of it, but rather the thought of it.  How a Very Cool opportunity could be staring me in the face, and how I may have to be uncommonly transcendent (even for a breakthrough junkie) in order to attain it.  And whether it’s worth the risk.  I spent the wee hours inventing risks, then transcending them, then deciding the whole thing wasn’t worth the heartache, then getting mad that everything has to be so complicated, finally completing the circuit with a vision of what-happens-if-I-can’t-transcend.  Then starting anew with a round of oh-but-what-if-I-can.  If I don't at least attempt transcendence, will I (n)ever forgive myself?

And because I am not in this picture alone, there arises the issue of others’ willingness to transcend as well-  which leaves me with buckets of quandaries regarding boundaries and respect for others.  

The cardinal question is emerging to be this:

Can we insert ourselves into situations in which our presence may be potentially challenging and awkward for another person or group of people, if we start from the position of presumed goodwill and show up willing to do the work?

I'll have to marinate in that one for a while.

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Intention, Yogini Style: NOT Your Pop Shrink's Affirmations

You can’t spend as long as I have in the areas of Bodywork, Eastern Religion, Earth-Based Spirituality, and Natural/“Alternative” Health, and be unfamiliar with the concept of “intention”.  That the power of the mind can be focused in such a way as to actually bend the course of events unfolding is no new-age curiosity just stumbled upon by the makers of The Secret (don’t get me started). 

It’s been around as long as we’ve been aware of our own mentation, of the phenomenon of consciousness.  It’s spelled out in ancients texts from traditions all over the world, and passed down through oral teachings in traditions that don’t use texts.  Intention is the backbone of transformational work, without which results are flimsy and without substance (soundtrack to this rant: Talking Heads’ Making Flippy Floppy)... which is to say, intention is nothing to be taken lightly.

I’ve rubbed elbows and bumped auras with my fair share of Affirmations Enthusiasts over the years, and I’m simultaneously heartened and irked when I listen to them speak  (as intriguing as it sounds, those sensations do not make for a winning combination) because though they are often standing within spitting distance of "the point", they just as frequently miss it!

I’ve heard people say they don’t need to tend to their finances any more because they’re  “Investing in the Universal Bank of Eternal Bliss”.  I’ve heard them blithely declare that they have rid their bodies of disease by doing nothing more than taping healing statements to their bathroom mirrors.  It’s as if they see dragons and monsters clawing at their door, and choose to call them “rainbow-eating unicorns”, even as they’re devoured alive.

What gets me is that there is a grain of truth in each of these approaches.  But (and I take care to never start sentences with “but”)... that grain of truth has not been given what it needs to germinate, sprout, and grow into a real thing... and that is a certain something I like to call subtle attention.

You need to get your subtle attention aligned with the subtle energy of money, the subtle energy of healing, even the subtle energy of the monsters at the door, if you have any hope of influencing them with intention/affirmation.  You can't stand in your customary mindset and expect to influence the most subtle and mysterious processes in the known universe- you have to adjust your own mentation, which means going within.  And, as you develop that skill, you also have to be crystal-clear that what you are asking for is exactly what you want.  I mean crystal-clear as in, there is no room for ambiguity or misinterpretation; as if you were hanging by your knuckles from a cliff edge and precision in speaking would save you:

Rainbow-eating unicorns are hell on your food budget.

The act and art of intention as it is marketed today, (and it is marketed; don’t get me started- again) it’s as if a candy-flavored decal has been manufactured that you can just slap over existing truths and situations in a sugar-glazed denial of anything that needs introspection, attention, or the most jonesed-after of activities for the Breakthrough Junkie: Inner Work.

The Spanda-Karikas are a heady, philosophically dense collection of pithy sanskrit verses that, properly understood, outline the entire relationship between our mental processes and the power that manifests the universe (spanda).  I could spend my entire career unpacking just the 22nd verse of the first section (from Jaideva Singh’s translation):

“In that state is the spanda-principle firmly established to which a person is reduced when he is greatly exasperated or overjoyed, or is in impasse reflecting what to do, or is running for life”

In short, it is precisely during those times when we are thrown mentally off-track by some heightened emotional state (and whether it is interpreted as “good” or “bad”, “happy” or “afraid” matters not a whit) or are at a complete mental impasse, that we are in a position to access and influence the creative pulse out of which the world throbs its way into being.
 
The commentary on this verse describes the manner in which the yogin(i) must grasp hold of the mind at precisely the moment that the heightened state arises, in order to bear influence on the situation.

In western culture it is customary to ignore the immense power in these heightened states.  When in fear or anger, we grasp at nothing (least of all, our minds) and let the situation spin out of control by focusing on more of what is wrong, unwanted, or unnecessary... thereby creating more of it.  Or, and this is where Modern Affirmationists often miss the boat even while standing on the deck, we craft a phrase or picture that is the opposite of the reality that's got us all fired up, and pretend it's true.  The old "fake it 'til you make it" routine does have its virtues; it is a great warm-up exercise for the work we're talking about here - but it does not manifest the whole enchilada.

What is required, and what this verse describes, is a stealth operation carried out by the experient on his or her own perceptions.  It is a skill that requires diligence, practice, and steadfastness on the part of its practitioner.  Having caught hold of the mind in the moment between one thought and the next, the yogin is instructed to immediately turn within. When this is accomplished, the experient is in the company of the manifesting power of the universe and uses laser-like focus to create the desired outcome.  The commentary goes on to say that those who are not yogis (practiced at turning within) will remain only stupefied.

In other words, this ain’t no platitudinous, candy-ass bumper-sticker philosophy; it’s a rigorous discipline that involves wrangling with the realities of the situation-as-it-is, while harnessing the subtle, yet run-away-train nature of the emotions.  And yes, it can bring you wealth.  And turn illness to health.  Monsters into unicorns?  Sure, if unicorns are truly useful to you (and if you can train them to eat whole enchiladas instead of rainbows).  But the trick is, and the point that pop-shrink marketers the world over are missing, is that it is Subtle.  Sub. Tle.  And it

Requires
Your
Participation.

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The Power of One Word

When I was practicing as a massage therapist I discovered that my clients’ recoveries often accelerated after we had conversations in which I said things like, “You know, you keep referring to the accident in which your neck was injured as, ‘My accident’.  The word’ ‘my’ indicates possession, and possessions are usually things we are attached to, and want to keep. So, I just wonder what message that’s sending to your body.  What if you used something less charged while still telling the truth- like “the accident’?”

In traditional study of the sanskrit language, it is emphasized that each syllable carries a whole plethora of meanings.  Each written letter makes one sound, and one sound only.   Consonants always have an inherent vowel attached, which makes every letter a syllable in its own right. The pronunciation is so precise that to place the tongue in the wrong position during any part of an utterance may render an entirely different meaning.

In sanskrit, each syllable has its own associated diety, color, element, state of mind, place of influence in the human being (sometimes in the physical body, sometimes in the energetic layers that surround and influence the body - what westerners think of as “personal space”).  Add to this list, certain physical processes, states of feeling (called “bhav”), powers (discernment, compassion, anyone?), and a whole wealth of subtleties that could take a lifetime to unravel in their entirety.  What it comes down to is, this point of reference places tremendous emphasis on the fact that the words chosen to describe a circumstance will have an influence on that circumstance.

The power of words to influence and create things... from emotional states and body processes, to governmental policy and weather patterns... has always been taken seriously by the proponents of this particular brand of wisdom.  The sanskrit term that describes it is “matrika shakti”.  Unpack any sanskrit word, and thousands of meanings will tumble out!  So, to gain a simple translation we will call shakti simply “power”.  It’s distinctively the power to manifest (as in, the universe).  Matrika can translate as “little mothers”.

“Power of the little mothers?!”, you say.  Consider this:  the sanskrit alphabet, when taken in its entirety, is considered to be the very body of the great mother from whom the entire universe is manifest (even this is an oversimplification, but it’ll do).  Each syllable is like a holographic part of that larger whole.  So, yes, the power of the spoken word is made from the collective power of all the syllables together.  Little mothers.  (Is it too much to add that the matrikas are also warrior goddesses that support Kali, the goddess of destruction (don’t fret, dear readers - she’s out to destroy the ego-riffic ignorance that’s gotten us into the mess we’re facing in the 21st century))?  And that Kali wears a necklace made up of... well, depends on whose translation you read.  Some say 50 skulls.  But if you’ve trained to read between the lines you’ll know that it’s the 50 letters of the sanskrit alphabet from which she derives her power.

It’s always fascinating to me to look back on my time as a bodyworker and realize that perhaps the most useful thing I ever did for my clients was to make a small observation about the language they used to describe their condition.  Without even meaning to, I became something of a “matrika coach”.

I’d say, “Let’s play with ‘injury’ and ‘healing’.  Which do you want to keep?  Which do you wish to let go of? Look at the difference between these two phrases:
‘The healing of my injury’
‘My healing of the injury’
It might look like they say the same thing, but look at the power of the small words!
In the first example, you possess the injury.  In the second example, it’s the healing that is yours.  Whatever your mind may think, your body recognizes and responds to the difference.”

Sometimes a client would get really gung-ho and start revamping their entire “language wardrobe”, suddenly spinning off phrases like, “Every day I’m blessed in every way”, and “I’m turning it all over to the universe”.   People tend to start with extremes when we learn new skills, so I reign them in and point out that sugar-coating or denying situations don’t change them, and that the powers-that-be actually require our participation if things are going to be different.  You can’t just wrap your circumstances up in a cloak of new-age phraseology and expect to alter the course of the universe.

Instead, I encourage people to hone in on one single word in their habitual repertoire.  I say, “You are looking for a word that carries power and significance.   Listen closely to yourself (or enlist the support of family and friends) for phrases that you repeat often, like refrains to the soundtrack of the day, and look for one single word to change”.  

My favorite example:
If you replace “I hate...” with “I love...”, it makes a lot of affirmation enthusiasts happy, but it doesn’t tell the truth about your experience.

But when you replace “I hate” with “I don’t understand...”, it still describes the truth of the situation, and it also changes the charge.  If you don’t understand a thing, you may or may not choose to seek understanding -that’s up to you. But at least it doesn’t push it away and close the door, and engender bad feelings like hate does.  Ask anyone who hated gay people until they learned they were raising one.  Their hate had to change to “don’t understand”, so that it could change to “trying to understand”, and eventually to understanding. Then “I hate” can morph into “I love”, through understanding.
With this one single change, we open the door to peace between people who come from different backgrounds, traditions, cultures, and belief systems. 

One thing about those little mothers - they will give you anything you want. 
Problem is, they think you actually want everything you say.
And that is another topic, for another day...

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Reframing During Crisis

Reframing:

By my own definition it’s the skill of challenging one’s habitual or automatic reaction to a situation, person, or mindset with the intention of gaining a new and more useful outlook, then harnessing the energy that would be otherwise lost, to use for transformative purposes.

Most of the time, our minds are on automatic pilot, tossing our customary reactions out into the world like kids throw bread at ducks, with certainty that because it came to us so quickly it must be the right and true and “natural” reaction.

The thing about our “natural” reactions, is that they come into existence with no thought given to the consequences of adding the energy behind them (typically non-useful energy like dread, anxiety, abject terror, spite or judgement, am I right?) into the mix of what’s already going on.

Where human beings are now in the history of things, it is imperative - now - that we start recognizing that the state of our minds impacts the state of our world, individually and on a larger scale.  We can start in our own heads.

Once upon a time I challenged a group of students to spend an entire day examining their customary thoughts, and endeavoring to “reframe” the ones that were not useful or productive.  The most frequent objection, was that sometimes truly horrible things happen and that denying that reality was just adding layers of fluff to an already unbearable scene.  This is not what I am talking about here; denial is a whole other useless mind-trick and though it is sometimes cleverly disguised, it is not the same as reframing.  Ask me sometime about the day I returned from two weeks in a foreign town, where I’d gone to retrieve my partner who herniated a cervical disc while traveling and who was then bedbound for the next several months, to have a friend enquire about the ordeal by asking: “how was your mini vacation?”, and I’ll tell you about burying real things in fluff.  This is So Not what I’m after.  Let me demonstrate:

I have a “stepmom” who is at the top of the “short list” of people most dear to me.  She married my dad and me as a family deal in a Unitarian Church when I was 15, and while  my dad left the marriage about three years later, she and I are still related.  She is the core of my experience of “family”.

Three weeks ago she and her husband travelled to a major city about 6 hours from where they live, for her to have a minimally invasive heart surgery.  The procedure involves running fiberoptic-size threads through a major artery from the top of the leg into the heart, so the incision is only an inch or so.  I was advised the surgery could take from 5-6 hours, so when my phone rang at 5 hours 15 minutes I anticipated news that she was on her way to recovery.

Instead, her husband informed me that there had been a complication resulting in uncontrollable bleeding, and that they were going to have to expose the heart directly in order to get to the bleed- this means separating the sternum.  When they say “open heart surgery”, it doesn’t mean that the heart is open- it means they have to open the chest cavity to get to the heart.

He had other family to alert and his own feelings to deal with, so our call was brief.  I stood on the spot, stunned for a moment by the enormity of what was taking place and the fact that I was thousands of miles away.

First in line was grief.  As if I’d already lost her, the grief came in and sat right on my heart, insisting that I empty myself and give in to the spinning vortex of loss.  Next in line, and impatient, was fear.  Fear and grief were actually struggling in line, trying to trip one another up in order to gain my attention.  As my breath stalled in my chest and tears were wending their way to where they make my nose sting, I remembered that none of this was helping her a bit.

She was lying somewhere in a sterile room thousands of miles away while doctors scrambled to save her life by cutting her dear chest open.  My drama would not serve her one bit!  The only thing I could do, was decide how I was going to spend my energy in reacting to the news.  It was mighty energy, it was powerful!  I could waste it playing pinball inside my own body, bouncing anxiety and fear off my organs like I was going for the high-score, or I could bundle it all up and send it off where it could do some good.

You don’t have to be someone who prays to get this: emotions are energy, and they can travel.  I made a choice to change the direction of the energy I was feeling in the form of panicky emotions. I chose to challenge my assumption that the doctors were “scrambling”.  Scrambling is disorganized, panicky, and unclear- like I was feeling.
I decided to convert my scrambled emotions to clarity, steadiness, and swift action - the kind you feel when you’re totally “in the zone” of doing something you’re really good at- and send it to the doctors in that room with the dearest of stepmoms anyone’s ever known.  I steadied my breath and practiced the sensation of calm certainty, and I sent it to the surgeons, nurses, anesthesiologists, and other professionals into whose hands her life had been delivered.  I pictured them thanking eachother for a job well done.

Not every instance of reframing needs to be this dramatic or difficult.  But it bears pointing out that, if we start with the small stuff, we develop our skills so that eventually we have the moxie for when the stakes are high.

...and yes, she made it.  She’s home having a cuddle with her critters and resting up for the next round in her recovery.

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Words, Writing, Wisdom Not My Own...

I have a dear friend who’s a blogger.  She sent me an email yesterday, and through her words I was brought directly to her side, going through the same things she was going through... though I realized eventually that her descriptors really were vague enough that I have no specific idea what the particulars are to her situation... her phrases were watercolors of human emotion, evocative of experience but devoid of details... and yet so poignant that I had a very in-the-skin snapshot of what her emotional world was like at the moment she’d been writing.

What happened next, I could not have anticipated.  I replied with words of deep knowing, compassion, and kind-hearted understanding.  I conveyed my support of her, my fondness for her, my belief in her stalwart inner strength.  I even dusted off my sanskrit/eastern-religion-major mantle, and pontificated on 5,000 year-old philosophy that describes how the state of one’s mind and the quality of the reality they generate are inextricably linked, that there are words in sanskrit (but in no other language) that describe the method by which the experient (the person going through the stuff) actually manufactures the experience.  Then I sent her a cyber-hug and a wish that I could bring her cocoa.

It made me want to write back and forth with her all day.  I can distill that down even further: It made me want to write. 

Words, words, words... always my favorite things.  Skillfully used, they make it possible to translate the most subtle of experiences from one being to another, so that we can share and teach and learn from one-another’s insights and perceptions.
My mother told me recently that I began writing before I could read.  All my youth I anticipated that I’d become a writer.  Then, and then and then...

Began the pursuit of making a living, I suppose.  And through that pursuit I garnered experience and expertise in so many varied fields that I now find myself flustered if I think about writing as a career - about which bag of tricks would I write?!  

The bits in my repertoire include the connection of body/mind/spirit from several years as a massage therapist and teacher of massage therapists; the power of words to create reality, based on direct observation, an unexpectedly clear understanding of ancient texts that spell it all out, the blessing of an enlightened master and the statement of one Sally Kempton (then Durgananda) that “this information wants to be known”; the connection between the human cerebrospinal fluid system and certain passages in other ancient texts; essential oils as medicine; replacing household toxins with natural healthy solutions; urban farmsteading; vermiculture; growing wheatgrass; self-reliance and permaculture... oh and of course, of course - what readers have responded to most, is when I write about nothing more than my internal processes.
My insecurities, demons, and the whole cast of characters that make up my inner dialogue, make pretty entertaining material as they wrangle their way into one tangled web after another, always intent on Breakthrough at any cost...
And so, with or without a chosen direction or area of focus, writing season is upon me.
We are at a time in human history where people who know things that may be helpful to the situation are beholden to share them.  Like the unexpected flow of words in response to my blogger friend’s email, there are times when we just need to speak what we know in case there are ears to hear it.

The past few weeks have been full of circumstances that were trying, frightening, and confusing for several people close to me.  While we were separated by thousands of miles, I have somehow been able in each situation to call up words that brought solace and also to offer guidance about how to harness the power in the “negative” feelings and turn it around to be of benefit. For no reason that I know, I have been endowed with the capacity to “reframe” just about any situation. My friends and family know they can always count on me for this kind of service; they’ve come to rely on it.  They call it my “wisdom”, as if I inherently possess this cache of tidbits that are real and powerful and useful and heartfelt.

What I know to be true is that I no more possess this wisdom than I possess the air I breathe.  I do let it flow through me, and in trying times I do know how to expand so I may access a deeper flow... so when it is expressed it may appear to come from me; It has lodged in me perhaps as a result of study and practice I’ve undertaken over the years (it certainly was not inherent in my younger days!), and while I feel humbled and honored to have access to it, I still recognize that it is consciousness flowing through me from a still place I’ve somehow learned to access, and it is not mine at all.

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Time to grow, Again...

I spent a long hard winter "cybernating" - weeks and even months at a time when I could not gather the where-with-all to get out of bed a moment early, let alone brave the blank screen.  Today, though- growth is happening all around.  At 80+ degrees outside and rain every night, everything is bursting forth with such unbounded enthusiasm... to grow, climb, bud and blossom... and who knows?  Bear fruit?
With a dear friend's musings serving as the epiphany to get me back on the pages, it is clear tonight that the morning will find me here, tappy-tap-typing my way into my own good graces once again.  Breathe in, breathe out... all the way out. 

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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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