I'm thankful not to be limited by my health in the choices I make, and now that I'm retired from the all-consuming 9-to-5 workday, I find the most difficult aspect of my life is deciding how best to occupy my time. People I barely know graciously include me in their lives and imaginations. Do I really want to be included? I don't know unless I try, but then at some point, I must decide whether to stay involved. I ask myself whether my involvment is serving others and myself to become more fully alive and connected (or whether I feel that I am merely a "yes" person, nodding in agreement without thought). If I find myself becoming numb, wanting to pull the covers of isolation over my head, then I don't think anyone is served (at least not if I am always isolated). If I find myself losing focus and purpose, I am not where I want to be.
Yet I also know that I tend to hurry. . . I make quick decisions that may not be the best ones. I'm impetuous. How long do I "give" these involvements before cutting clear of them?
Sometimes I feel I know little more than a child about how I should live, which says a great deal about how our culture operates. We are encouraged from childhood not to think but to go along with what is "expected" of us. And, though I've always questioned these cultural norms and admired those who break clear of them, I never quite committed (other than internally) to acting decisively in regard to my own life. Instead, I've always lived from this secret self that questioned, raged privately with knotted fists, yet externally, mostly appeared to be rocking right along on the calm waves of our culture.
What do I expect? I just don't know yet. . .
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Self Image
I just realized that we tend to hold our "self images" to ourselves as if they are something we own and can somehow contain and keep from others we deem undeserving. Thus, with this idea, we believe ourselves justified in becoming angry or hurt when someone "misunderstands" us. We believe we can take ourselves back from them, reclaim ourselves from their misbegotten hands, as if this image is a physicality, an unmutable thing.
How others perceive us is not within our purview unless we wish to mold ourselves according to what we think others think. . . and how convoluted this can become, how downright crazy!
In the small writing group that my neighbor invited me to, this same neighbor wrote a moving and perceptive journal entry and read it to us yesterday, an entry about her own hesitancy in owning the name "writer" for herself and an exploration of why this is true. Partly, it is her unwillingness to be taken in by others' expectations for her, i.e., others may expect a daily entry to read and then clip out to put in their little file of her saved and treasured columns. Another part is her sense that she is losing too much energy in worrying about what others think and expect (how does she avoid feeling guilty at not meeting their expectations?). And then, there is (especially in this small town) the feeling that one is no longer able to be anonymous when one wishes to run into the grocery store and not be stopped for long conversations when the time isn't right.
As she was reading these "reasons," I thought that I'd just be considered rude by such people because I can easily tell someone else that I can't stop now but would be happy to talk more later. I also know this person to be very good herself at setting limits, at communicating her desire to be alone without lashing out angrily at someone or hurting them. But I know that people can literally suck you in to their worlds, and these may be worlds that we do not want to enter and don't even realize we've been sucked in until we've spent a great deal of time there. . . .
Instead of attaching myself to a particular "image," I want to become truer and truer to what I value most, to what I believe is most beneficial to me, to Earth, to the greater good of which I am but a small strand, though my own small strand in this fabric of life may help hold on a button or two, and that is good, too. To do this, I personally do not always have an audience in mind other than my own striving self, and if anyone else can benefit from reading about my journey, this can only add to my joy, not detract from it.
How others perceive us is not within our purview unless we wish to mold ourselves according to what we think others think. . . and how convoluted this can become, how downright crazy!
In the small writing group that my neighbor invited me to, this same neighbor wrote a moving and perceptive journal entry and read it to us yesterday, an entry about her own hesitancy in owning the name "writer" for herself and an exploration of why this is true. Partly, it is her unwillingness to be taken in by others' expectations for her, i.e., others may expect a daily entry to read and then clip out to put in their little file of her saved and treasured columns. Another part is her sense that she is losing too much energy in worrying about what others think and expect (how does she avoid feeling guilty at not meeting their expectations?). And then, there is (especially in this small town) the feeling that one is no longer able to be anonymous when one wishes to run into the grocery store and not be stopped for long conversations when the time isn't right.
As she was reading these "reasons," I thought that I'd just be considered rude by such people because I can easily tell someone else that I can't stop now but would be happy to talk more later. I also know this person to be very good herself at setting limits, at communicating her desire to be alone without lashing out angrily at someone or hurting them. But I know that people can literally suck you in to their worlds, and these may be worlds that we do not want to enter and don't even realize we've been sucked in until we've spent a great deal of time there. . . .
Instead of attaching myself to a particular "image," I want to become truer and truer to what I value most, to what I believe is most beneficial to me, to Earth, to the greater good of which I am but a small strand, though my own small strand in this fabric of life may help hold on a button or two, and that is good, too. To do this, I personally do not always have an audience in mind other than my own striving self, and if anyone else can benefit from reading about my journey, this can only add to my joy, not detract from it.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
To Myself, Today
Slow down. Pay attention. Don’t go tripping over your tongue along the path, yammering about every feeling that passes over your nerve endings. Slow down. Stop that incessant interpretation of what you think and feel. Get out of that self-defeating spiral, the one that spins faster and faster the more you lean into it, the more words you feed it. That criticism you feed on. . . Stop eating it. Don’t worry if you can’t identify what every feeling is. Don’t allow your curiosity to drive you slap dab crazy. And stop telling yourself you’re “losing it” unless you really want to lose it! This, too, shall pass. Do not assume it will be forever. Go on that hike. Try to be silent and not worry about other people’s feelings so much. They can take care of themselves.
I’m awfully bossy, aren’t I.
Consider the sleeping dogs on the chair. . . They do not worry or toil. . .
I’m awfully bossy, aren’t I.
Consider the sleeping dogs on the chair. . . They do not worry or toil. . .
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
"Response-ability"
I've always been extremely responsible to my word. That is, when I say I'll do something, I do it, "come hell or high water"----as my father used to say. However, I never was especially "responsible" as our culture defines it. I never minded calling in sick to work when I didn't feel like going (though I've generally been blessed with good physical health). I never felt obligated to join clubs or to agree with what a person in power said, both of which some consider to be acts of the responsible. I never cared about gaining outward accolades for good work. And I never minded asking "Why?!" about anything, though after reading Wolf's piece on the Anima blog today, I see that the more responsive question is "Why not?"
Wolf reminds us of the importance of "taking responsibility for what [we] care about and are devoted to. . . " and then it is up to us to figure out what these things are, based on our values. One value that trumps all, I think, is to acknowledge that "every living thing is dependent on the rest, that life itself is a series of mutual dependencies" (as eloquently put by Lierre Keith in the book of hers I'm now reading, The Vegetarian Myth). As I've alluded to (many times) before, it's much easier to know what we do NOT want, but figuring out what we DO want, especially in this culture that throws so many distractions in our way, isn't so easy.
I'll end with one other quote from Keith's work that summarizes nicely what I've been thinking, too: "The challenge of adulthood is to remember our ethical dreams and visions in the face of the complexities and frank disappointments of reality" (p. 76), and that "reality" may simply be our learning better by peeling away another false reality.
Wolf reminds us of the importance of "taking responsibility for what [we] care about and are devoted to. . . " and then it is up to us to figure out what these things are, based on our values. One value that trumps all, I think, is to acknowledge that "every living thing is dependent on the rest, that life itself is a series of mutual dependencies" (as eloquently put by Lierre Keith in the book of hers I'm now reading, The Vegetarian Myth). As I've alluded to (many times) before, it's much easier to know what we do NOT want, but figuring out what we DO want, especially in this culture that throws so many distractions in our way, isn't so easy.
I'll end with one other quote from Keith's work that summarizes nicely what I've been thinking, too: "The challenge of adulthood is to remember our ethical dreams and visions in the face of the complexities and frank disappointments of reality" (p. 76), and that "reality" may simply be our learning better by peeling away another false reality.
Monday, April 20, 2009
It's Poetry Month
"[W]e all should realize, that just as there is no revolution worth attending unless you can dance, any struggle worth engaging has a poet’s heart. . .pain, effort, caring, anger and especially humor made more meaningful as well as beautiful through their apt and artful expression, set to the rhythms of campfire crackle and late night recitation, trumpeted from the mouths of the young and uncompromised, echoed on mountain cliffs as well as glass fronted buildings, recorded with music or cached like survival food, knives and blankets in the pages of patiently hopeful books."
--Wolf (from a Web site piece)
I've been writing poetry (and prose), off and on, for thirty (!) years, since I was 15. Now, I might look at this critically, even self-defeatingly because I've mostly chosen to write in private, sharing only occasionally, for many reasons. Some of those reasons have included my fear of stating the obvious (and I STILL fear this!) and being harshly judged on my writing; of being "pinned down" by ideas I've written about and later learned better than; of not wanting to "sell myself" by attempting to have my work published; of simply not being "good enough.". . . The list goes on, and just as I can state reasons why not, I can also refute them with why sos, but the best way to do that is to simply write and share.
And so, this year I've decided to push my envelope of comfort a bit by attempting to get a poem or two published. . . just to prove to myself that I CAN do it, that I'm not merely afraid of failure. . . because I love poetry and even have a certain admiration for those who write "bad" poetry (or that which I think is too sentimental or obvious) and boldly proclaim it! Yes. . . poetry is the natural language of the heart, the emotions, intense beauty recognized and eagerly consumed, language that expresses our uniqueness to be celebrated.
As Eliot so beautifully writes in "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" (which the Academy of American Poets quotes from), "Do I dare disturb the universe?" I say, please do, even if no one reads.
Friday, April 17, 2009
A Gift of Words
In Wolf Hardin's latest post , he tells readers to "Have confidence in the gift of your words," and once again, gratitude at this reminder hits home as I explore others' journeys and struggles in their efforts to become more authentic, more true to themselves, closer to our natural Earth home.
On one such site I came across, Wanderings and Wonderings, I saw a lovely picture of a bit of artwork Luna created while in a bookstore, based on some text she found in Llewellyn's 2009 Magical Almanac. Her drawing inspired me to create my own doodling of the words "BE MAGICAL" with the borrowed illustrative text beside each letter of that statement. Playing with color and form, focusing on the messages relayed, and forgetting my perfectionistic ways was just the tonic I needed this evening.
On one such site I came across, Wanderings and Wonderings, I saw a lovely picture of a bit of artwork Luna created while in a bookstore, based on some text she found in Llewellyn's 2009 Magical Almanac. Her drawing inspired me to create my own doodling of the words "BE MAGICAL" with the borrowed illustrative text beside each letter of that statement. Playing with color and form, focusing on the messages relayed, and forgetting my perfectionistic ways was just the tonic I needed this evening.
I love this piece----not just the music, which is wonderfully ecstatic, of course, but also the contrasting perspectives, and that these guys didn't let fear keep them from doing this. Take a look:
The Beatles: "I've Got a Feeling"
The Beatles: "I've Got a Feeling"
Tired of Words
As I mentioned early on, one goal of mine has been to stop taking antidepressants----to see what I'm really like now, without their influence, and to test whether they were merely dulling me to the pain of living as I didn't wish to live (but felt I had to live), or whether I'm one of those unfortunately diseased folk who must take chemicals merely to live. If I am the latter, I will learn to deal with that at some point.
Okay. I'm entirely off of the things now, as of yesterday. Because I didn't exactly follow my doctor's directions (designed to keep me from feeling the side effects so much), I've been feeling . . . strange: my eyes feel like they zoom back and forth on occasion, which makes me feel dizzy; I feel these little shocks (for lack of a better term) all over; and I'm a bit agitated, irritable, impatient, though MUCH more energetic.
I was in tears by yesterday evening, overwhelmed, and highly critical of myself (which is typical of my past, this self-wounding), but I stayed up late keeping myself busy with gathering all of my art supplies around me, organizing them so I can more easily access them when I'm in the mood, and listening to music, which took me OUT of myself, where I wanted to be.
Rising very early this morning (unusual for me since I hadn't gotten more than five or six hours' sleep; I can remember a time not long ago when I thought I needed at least 10 hours' sleep), I decided to look at my blog, in delight noticed a new follower (my best friend in Georgia had been the only one), and looked to find out who on earth could be interested in my page here, only to find another kindred soul. . . and to be reminded of myself.
And so, if anything I write here can serve as help for a lovely person who is trying to feel that strength within and to act upon it----without guilt and self-doubt----with joy and celebration of the immense beauty that is possible (in the midst, we acknowledge, of the great sorrow that Bruce Cockburn sings of in "The Beautiful Creatures Are Going Away") AND with the knowledge that she is not alone, then these words I write here, words that feel sometimes like so much "belly-button gazing" to me, are worth the discomfort I sometimes feel because they help serve to tell someone else "you are not alone," just as I learned only too recently, that I am not alone.
Because yesterday, I felt like a dry wind had blown through my soul, touching everything with its sucking fingers, leaving me feeling vulnerable, exposed, and hurting, hurting.
It's hard not to care what people think (and, yes, those of us who are sensitive CAN read minds on occasion), but I think it's absolutely necessary to be able to ignore it and to live to our fullest and truest, regardless of the perceived criticism, regardless of the difficulty we have in holding our feet to the ground when that strong wind blows through and threatens to take us with it.
Okay. I'm entirely off of the things now, as of yesterday. Because I didn't exactly follow my doctor's directions (designed to keep me from feeling the side effects so much), I've been feeling . . . strange: my eyes feel like they zoom back and forth on occasion, which makes me feel dizzy; I feel these little shocks (for lack of a better term) all over; and I'm a bit agitated, irritable, impatient, though MUCH more energetic.
I was in tears by yesterday evening, overwhelmed, and highly critical of myself (which is typical of my past, this self-wounding), but I stayed up late keeping myself busy with gathering all of my art supplies around me, organizing them so I can more easily access them when I'm in the mood, and listening to music, which took me OUT of myself, where I wanted to be.
Rising very early this morning (unusual for me since I hadn't gotten more than five or six hours' sleep; I can remember a time not long ago when I thought I needed at least 10 hours' sleep), I decided to look at my blog, in delight noticed a new follower (my best friend in Georgia had been the only one), and looked to find out who on earth could be interested in my page here, only to find another kindred soul. . . and to be reminded of myself.
And so, if anything I write here can serve as help for a lovely person who is trying to feel that strength within and to act upon it----without guilt and self-doubt----with joy and celebration of the immense beauty that is possible (in the midst, we acknowledge, of the great sorrow that Bruce Cockburn sings of in "The Beautiful Creatures Are Going Away") AND with the knowledge that she is not alone, then these words I write here, words that feel sometimes like so much "belly-button gazing" to me, are worth the discomfort I sometimes feel because they help serve to tell someone else "you are not alone," just as I learned only too recently, that I am not alone.
Because yesterday, I felt like a dry wind had blown through my soul, touching everything with its sucking fingers, leaving me feeling vulnerable, exposed, and hurting, hurting.
It's hard not to care what people think (and, yes, those of us who are sensitive CAN read minds on occasion), but I think it's absolutely necessary to be able to ignore it and to live to our fullest and truest, regardless of the perceived criticism, regardless of the difficulty we have in holding our feet to the ground when that strong wind blows through and threatens to take us with it.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Conundrum
Thinking about my own tendency to be restless, to seek, to experience more, and then the opposing urge to balance this restlessness by living in the moment made me wonder how this differs from what I despise about civilization: its never knowing when enough is enough, its emphasis on growth----what becomes cancerous growth.
My own seeking is more like expansion than growth, as one who breathes in deeply, expanding the lungs so capacity eventually increases, yet never expanding beyond their capability; it's a metaphorical/metaphysical expansion of the spirit that craves beauty.
Yet I, too, wonder how best to live for now and still accomplish what I wish. Living in the present moment hones my senses and develops my gratitude, but as someone pointed out to me, I'm still attached to outcomes/results, which sometimes makes me anxious about whether I'm "good enough," or whether I've "produced enough," or even whether I've read enough. True, I'm thinking of poetry and the arts/crafts I create and all the books I am eager to read (not factory farming or parking lots).
Is it that we need to plan as if there is a tomorrow yet live as if there isn't?
My own seeking is more like expansion than growth, as one who breathes in deeply, expanding the lungs so capacity eventually increases, yet never expanding beyond their capability; it's a metaphorical/metaphysical expansion of the spirit that craves beauty.
Yet I, too, wonder how best to live for now and still accomplish what I wish. Living in the present moment hones my senses and develops my gratitude, but as someone pointed out to me, I'm still attached to outcomes/results, which sometimes makes me anxious about whether I'm "good enough," or whether I've "produced enough," or even whether I've read enough. True, I'm thinking of poetry and the arts/crafts I create and all the books I am eager to read (not factory farming or parking lots).
Is it that we need to plan as if there is a tomorrow yet live as if there isn't?
"Rapt Attention and Silent Applause"
Having just read Wolf Hardin's latest entry on "Marriage to the Land" (from which the title of this post originates), I am reminded yet again of the importance of telling our story, of creating our own art, since, as Wolf says,
Sometimes my days are hoisted up and appropriated by others, and at the end, I wonder---what happened? Time slips through my fingers like water some days, and I wonder whether this water quenched any thirst since it appeared to leave no trace other than in my mind. Living deliberately, with intention, with balance and focus on what matters isn't so easy----especially when our habits have been long-established. Though I never watched much, I've given up television entirely (we don't even have a connection), but I still rent movies on occasion, and sometimes my choices are disappointing and I'm left wondering whether even they are a waste of my time.
After having spent 25 years working in an 8 to 5 job, it's not so hard to figure out why I'm having difficulty with focusing on what I want to spend my time doing now. . . Rather than having my weekdays laid out for me, my calendar is clear except for the penned-in days when I look after my granddaughter or when I go to the little writing group I've joined, walk to yoga, or join the committee planning the next writers' conference in our town. I even walked to the library the other evening with Jon, who played a couple of his own songs on guitar, and I read a couple of my poems, something I'd never have considered doing not that long ago----before I realized I was withholding my best self out of fear----fear that not only was I not "worthy" but also that my audience wasn't. It feels so good to let go of those fears. How did I do it? To borrow from BOLT, a movie I enjoyed with almost-5-year-old Emma: I put it aside, stuck a pin in it, and left it behind.
Around these planned events, I find myself joining this online "tribe," which is rich and varied, yet still doesn't address my basic need: to work to bring out my own . . . what? . . . essence? . . . true self? . . . art?. . . being? . . . purpose?
Of the tribe members I've visited electronically, Jane's Medicine Tree is most like my own yearnings----to create an imaginative world of art, writing, music, that is yet in touch with Earth, water, fire, air----the sacred connections that give (or, to use my newly-favored changing of that verb to a noun/verb of Wolf's) gift others and ourselves.
Yes. It's planning I need, a weaving of intention with openness.
it is story that centers us in our beliefs, in our world, in the progression of past, present and future. . . the threads that stitch us back into our contract and our place, a portion of life’s crucial lessons handed down through the inheritance of craft more than genes. . . to walk in gratitude, forever, together. . .
Sometimes my days are hoisted up and appropriated by others, and at the end, I wonder---what happened? Time slips through my fingers like water some days, and I wonder whether this water quenched any thirst since it appeared to leave no trace other than in my mind. Living deliberately, with intention, with balance and focus on what matters isn't so easy----especially when our habits have been long-established. Though I never watched much, I've given up television entirely (we don't even have a connection), but I still rent movies on occasion, and sometimes my choices are disappointing and I'm left wondering whether even they are a waste of my time.
After having spent 25 years working in an 8 to 5 job, it's not so hard to figure out why I'm having difficulty with focusing on what I want to spend my time doing now. . . Rather than having my weekdays laid out for me, my calendar is clear except for the penned-in days when I look after my granddaughter or when I go to the little writing group I've joined, walk to yoga, or join the committee planning the next writers' conference in our town. I even walked to the library the other evening with Jon, who played a couple of his own songs on guitar, and I read a couple of my poems, something I'd never have considered doing not that long ago----before I realized I was withholding my best self out of fear----fear that not only was I not "worthy" but also that my audience wasn't. It feels so good to let go of those fears. How did I do it? To borrow from BOLT, a movie I enjoyed with almost-5-year-old Emma: I put it aside, stuck a pin in it, and left it behind.
Around these planned events, I find myself joining this online "tribe," which is rich and varied, yet still doesn't address my basic need: to work to bring out my own . . . what? . . . essence? . . . true self? . . . art?. . . being? . . . purpose?
Of the tribe members I've visited electronically, Jane's Medicine Tree is most like my own yearnings----to create an imaginative world of art, writing, music, that is yet in touch with Earth, water, fire, air----the sacred connections that give (or, to use my newly-favored changing of that verb to a noun/verb of Wolf's) gift others and ourselves.
Yes. It's planning I need, a weaving of intention with openness.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Connections
From Wolf's having generously linked to this site from theirs, this site became linked to others, which connected me to Starhawk's writing (and I've seen her referenced in many other places but hadn't had a chance to delve more deeply yet) and a "Declaration of the Four Sacred Things," which I'll post in full below. How deeply I feel these things to be true, back-to-my-childhood-feelings deep, and how wonderful it feels to connect to these truths and to those who honor them. After reading this aloud as a personal manifesto on this Easter Sunday, I felt like shouting (as is done in certain Southern churches I've been in) AMEN!
DECLARATION OF THE FOUR SACRED THINGS, Starhawk
The Earth is a living, conscious being. In company with cultures of many different times and places, we name these things as sacred: air, fire, water, and earth.
Whether we see them as the breath, energy, blood, and body of the Mother, or as the blessed gifts of a Creator, or as symbols of interconnected systems that sustain life, we know that nothing can live without them.
To call these things sacred is to say that they have a value beyond their usefulness for human ends, that they themselves become the standard by which our acts, our economics, our laws, and our purposes must be judged. No one has the right to appropriate them or profit from them at the expense of others. Any government that fails to protect them forfeits its legitimacy.
All people, all living things, are part of the earth life, and so are sacred. No one of us stands higher or lower than any other. Only justice can assure balance; only ecological balance can sustain freedom. Only in freedom can that fifth sacred thing we call spirit flourish in its full diversity.
To honor the sacred is to create conditions in which nourishment, sustenance, habitat, knowledge, freedom, and beauty can thrive. To honor the sacred is to make love possible.
To this we dedicate our curiosity, our will, our courage, our silences, and our voices. To this we dedicate our lives.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Choices
Choosing to live in town here was, we thought, well-reasoned, yet all of the possible hitches to the plan have come to light, also just as expected. Does this mean that I didn't listen to my intuition and instead focused on my fears?
A couple of evenings back, I watched a Woody Allen movie a friend gave me before returning to Netflix, and saw two characters who embody such choosing in Christina Victoria Barcelona, though their choices have to do with whom to love rather than where to live. Christina finds it easier to say what she doesn't want and continually readjusts her thoughts according to her experiences. Vicki has rationally come to conclusions about whom to marry and live with and had committed herself to this person until she allowed herself to slip into Christina's mode of being for a while and experience a more passionate evolving of a relationship that then haunts her, even after she's married. I suppose that both, in the end, do not know what they want until after having experienced it. I can fully relate.
I am haunted by the choice I didn't make----that is, living in the woods in a more remote place rather than in this noisy and bright small-town with barking dogs, sirens, and the widows across the street with their bright porch lights (the better to scare away intruders, they think) blazing through our bedroom windows at night.
True, we have a big enough yard to have planted apple trees, satsumas, lemons, blueberries, and to continue to enjoy the lovely plum trees that produce prolifically already here. We just planted a little garden of raised beds and have put in a large herb bed. I've spotted the yard here and there with flowers and bulbs, so it's beginning to look playfully colorful. We can walk to the farmers' market and to everywhere else in town, not to mention to the rocky Pacific coast and its trecherous waves that our little newspaper's headlines all-too-frequently blare about yet another fisherman or careless beach-walker who turned his (no women yet!) back to the ocean and was killed. We can bike to the redwoods or the small college. I walk two blocks up our street for yoga on Tuesdays and Thursdays.
All so . . . civilized.
Which is why I tend to become restless and unsatisfied in so little time. I spin and spin my little deeds and then feel like I'm spinning my life away rather than living fully in the moment, rather than feeling truly connected. How easy it is to lose ourselves.
How difficult it is to make choices, in part because we cannot know everything in advance. We have to experience certain things in order to know, in our bodies, what is right for us. Guess this is why we humans can't seem to learn from history and the experiences of others.
A couple of evenings back, I watched a Woody Allen movie a friend gave me before returning to Netflix, and saw two characters who embody such choosing in Christina Victoria Barcelona, though their choices have to do with whom to love rather than where to live. Christina finds it easier to say what she doesn't want and continually readjusts her thoughts according to her experiences. Vicki has rationally come to conclusions about whom to marry and live with and had committed herself to this person until she allowed herself to slip into Christina's mode of being for a while and experience a more passionate evolving of a relationship that then haunts her, even after she's married. I suppose that both, in the end, do not know what they want until after having experienced it. I can fully relate.
I am haunted by the choice I didn't make----that is, living in the woods in a more remote place rather than in this noisy and bright small-town with barking dogs, sirens, and the widows across the street with their bright porch lights (the better to scare away intruders, they think) blazing through our bedroom windows at night.
True, we have a big enough yard to have planted apple trees, satsumas, lemons, blueberries, and to continue to enjoy the lovely plum trees that produce prolifically already here. We just planted a little garden of raised beds and have put in a large herb bed. I've spotted the yard here and there with flowers and bulbs, so it's beginning to look playfully colorful. We can walk to the farmers' market and to everywhere else in town, not to mention to the rocky Pacific coast and its trecherous waves that our little newspaper's headlines all-too-frequently blare about yet another fisherman or careless beach-walker who turned his (no women yet!) back to the ocean and was killed. We can bike to the redwoods or the small college. I walk two blocks up our street for yoga on Tuesdays and Thursdays.
All so . . . civilized.
Which is why I tend to become restless and unsatisfied in so little time. I spin and spin my little deeds and then feel like I'm spinning my life away rather than living fully in the moment, rather than feeling truly connected. How easy it is to lose ourselves.
How difficult it is to make choices, in part because we cannot know everything in advance. We have to experience certain things in order to know, in our bodies, what is right for us. Guess this is why we humans can't seem to learn from history and the experiences of others.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Carrying the Burden and Joy
Kokopelli is emblematic (at least among those at the Animá sanctuary) of one who carries burdens (that's what the "hump" is on his back) while continuing to dance ecstatically and live joyfully. I’d seen this figure before but didn’t know his significance until my visit there.
Somehow, just learning of the value Wolf and Loba place on this ancient figure gave me strength to imagine and attempt to live this way again myself. I’d always thought of myself as strong----which caused many problems in my life, as I too-often became emotionally entwined with men I believed I could “improve” by showing them my strength. However, instead of their becoming stronger, I felt myself wearing down, losing energy, and becoming more and more critical of myself, living----not with joy----but abandoning myself to a despair that grew, in part, from feeling defeated. (After all, we cannot control the actions of others. How many times have I said that to myself?)
How much simpler to deny such people access to my life, to seek those who contribute to peace and joy and beauty instead. Is that so difficult? Only if I decide others are more important than I am. To love myself is so basic, yet----for many reasons----I lost sight of this over the years. . .
. . .which reminds me of another simple idea (that is too-often ignored): There comes a time when explanations are not sufficient or even needed. Action is more important. All our thoughts mean nothing if they remain in that nebulous realm.
Somehow, just learning of the value Wolf and Loba place on this ancient figure gave me strength to imagine and attempt to live this way again myself. I’d always thought of myself as strong----which caused many problems in my life, as I too-often became emotionally entwined with men I believed I could “improve” by showing them my strength. However, instead of their becoming stronger, I felt myself wearing down, losing energy, and becoming more and more critical of myself, living----not with joy----but abandoning myself to a despair that grew, in part, from feeling defeated. (After all, we cannot control the actions of others. How many times have I said that to myself?)
How much simpler to deny such people access to my life, to seek those who contribute to peace and joy and beauty instead. Is that so difficult? Only if I decide others are more important than I am. To love myself is so basic, yet----for many reasons----I lost sight of this over the years. . .
. . .which reminds me of another simple idea (that is too-often ignored): There comes a time when explanations are not sufficient or even needed. Action is more important. All our thoughts mean nothing if they remain in that nebulous realm.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Control
We're reminded over and over again that we have no control over anyone but ourselves, yet how easy it is to think that perhaps we can have some little influence. From there, we begin to have expectations, and then. . . the inevitable disappointments.
For example, this is a photo I just took of two toys my daughter brought over with my granddaughter today:
Anathema.
For example, this is a photo I just took of two toys my daughter brought over with my granddaughter today:
Anathema.
Friday, April 3, 2009
Mindfulness
"Mindfulness" seems a bit of a misnomer. It isn't the mind that's full of anything, it's really the body. . . in the present moment. . . aware of that moment and nothing else, absorbed and perceived through our various senses without the mind's unnecessary interference.
And it's not always so easy to do----this being mindful. Why? One reason is our love of words, of description, comparison, contrast----of the many ways our minds luxuriously complicate the interesting moment, melding past and future with present, swimming in and out of time as if we owned it, as if we are in control----all delusional, of course.
Sometimes I wish to be disconnected from language, to purely experience something without my mind's interpretation. Yet this sort of reality seems to have almost been lost to modern folk who convince themselves that it is only through language (and the retelling of an event, whether through the written or spoken word----as in media such as television or film) that anything is real or valid.
Primary experience----and I'm thinking of experiences in nature, walking through (and stopping in) woods, on the ocean's shoreline, through a field, by a river or creek----has become rare to most people. They're always aiming at some future point, marked by a number on their wristwatches, with dollars and cars filling the interim.
It's no wonder minds are so filled with worry, the antithesis of mindfulness and living in the moment.
And it's not always so easy to do----this being mindful. Why? One reason is our love of words, of description, comparison, contrast----of the many ways our minds luxuriously complicate the interesting moment, melding past and future with present, swimming in and out of time as if we owned it, as if we are in control----all delusional, of course.
Sometimes I wish to be disconnected from language, to purely experience something without my mind's interpretation. Yet this sort of reality seems to have almost been lost to modern folk who convince themselves that it is only through language (and the retelling of an event, whether through the written or spoken word----as in media such as television or film) that anything is real or valid.
Primary experience----and I'm thinking of experiences in nature, walking through (and stopping in) woods, on the ocean's shoreline, through a field, by a river or creek----has become rare to most people. They're always aiming at some future point, marked by a number on their wristwatches, with dollars and cars filling the interim.
It's no wonder minds are so filled with worry, the antithesis of mindfulness and living in the moment.
Disheartened
Someone commented that she was thankful for my "transparency" here. . . and I've thought of that comment several times, rolling it around in my head. What I was reminded of most was an experience I had about fifteen years ago when my ex-husband moved out with my 13-year-old daughter while I was away on a work-related trip. When I returned home, the house was half-empty and I had no idea where my daughter was. I discovered their whereabouts a few hours later, and that's a long, mournful tale, but it's not what I want to tell here.
A few months after this event, I was so depressed that suicide seemed very tempting, so I checked myself in to the mental health ward of a hospital for 9 days, as it turned out.
My point? While there, I had the best, most meaningful conversations with people than I'd had----even with close friends----in some time. Why? Because folks there had lost all pretense. We were hurting, soul-wounded, searching for meaning, and we, too, had become transparent in our hope of finding help or being able to give it to others. No comparing, no one-upmanship, no criticizing----we felt a love for each other, especially since we were so vulnerable.
I felt that sense of love when at the Anima sanctuary, and I want to BE that sort of presence to others myself, but it it's not easy. Too easily, I become swept up in others' problems, I'm too sensitive to perceived criticism, and I become discouraged when I feel alone in my quest.
Yet we are alone/and not. No one can live for us. No one can die for us. Yet we all live and die together. What a conundrum, this life.
A few months after this event, I was so depressed that suicide seemed very tempting, so I checked myself in to the mental health ward of a hospital for 9 days, as it turned out.
My point? While there, I had the best, most meaningful conversations with people than I'd had----even with close friends----in some time. Why? Because folks there had lost all pretense. We were hurting, soul-wounded, searching for meaning, and we, too, had become transparent in our hope of finding help or being able to give it to others. No comparing, no one-upmanship, no criticizing----we felt a love for each other, especially since we were so vulnerable.
I felt that sense of love when at the Anima sanctuary, and I want to BE that sort of presence to others myself, but it it's not easy. Too easily, I become swept up in others' problems, I'm too sensitive to perceived criticism, and I become discouraged when I feel alone in my quest.
Yet we are alone/and not. No one can live for us. No one can die for us. Yet we all live and die together. What a conundrum, this life.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Thinking of Gardenias
"No biblical hell could ever be worse than the state of perpetual inconsequence."
This statement, relates a mother's dilemma in the film Dangerous Beauty (which is based on The Honest Courtesan , a 1992 biography by Margaret Rosenthal about a 16th-century Venetian courtesan named Veronica Franco)----to condemn her daughter to a boring marriage by contract or to have her train as a courtesan. It is her own hell she refers to----and that of many women of her time, and of our own time, unfortunately. She would prefer to have her daughter live a more educated and exciting life, albeit one of selling her body for the duration of her youthful beauty, than to have her live in the relative ignorance and dearth of love that defined a marriage at that time.
Jumping back to the present, many women (and men, I'm sure) feel inconsequential as a result of our competitive culture, always comparing themselves to others (either depressingly falling short or egocentrically superior). Many never feel "good enough" to enjoy the moment, it seems, and are always encouraged to do more, buy more, be more, more, more. Many people are simply lost within our culture----unable to feel good about themselves, unable to recognize or acknowledge their strengths if they do not match the media-driven "ideal" of the airbrushed face, the muscle-lined skeleton, the politically-correct drivel.
In Italy, aging courtesans once treated royally became streetwalkers abused by men as if it were their right.
What happens to women now as they age? We become invisible or "inconsequential" to many. . .
I was reminded of what Gardenia wrote in response to my first post here when she said, "In this ageist society, we women past 45 are shamed into erasing every line and vestige of our being ~ I battled eating disorders for over 27 years, when it just fell away as the fear of a frailer body took over and I allowed myself to eat 'permitted' foods that would not put on weight.... but still at my age of 57 have not been able to answer "what do you want to be when you grow up?" Must we all have a given purpose? How to find it? How to trust that inner true higher self voice and know that it is not our childish, frightened, wishful thinking ego? Where are our ELDERS? I used to envision myself as becoming an old Squaw, what a wonderful word that is ~ does a Crone mean age or wisdom?"
This statement, relates a mother's dilemma in the film Dangerous Beauty (which is based on The Honest Courtesan , a 1992 biography by Margaret Rosenthal about a 16th-century Venetian courtesan named Veronica Franco)----to condemn her daughter to a boring marriage by contract or to have her train as a courtesan. It is her own hell she refers to----and that of many women of her time, and of our own time, unfortunately. She would prefer to have her daughter live a more educated and exciting life, albeit one of selling her body for the duration of her youthful beauty, than to have her live in the relative ignorance and dearth of love that defined a marriage at that time.
Jumping back to the present, many women (and men, I'm sure) feel inconsequential as a result of our competitive culture, always comparing themselves to others (either depressingly falling short or egocentrically superior). Many never feel "good enough" to enjoy the moment, it seems, and are always encouraged to do more, buy more, be more, more, more. Many people are simply lost within our culture----unable to feel good about themselves, unable to recognize or acknowledge their strengths if they do not match the media-driven "ideal" of the airbrushed face, the muscle-lined skeleton, the politically-correct drivel.
In Italy, aging courtesans once treated royally became streetwalkers abused by men as if it were their right.
What happens to women now as they age? We become invisible or "inconsequential" to many. . .
I was reminded of what Gardenia wrote in response to my first post here when she said, "In this ageist society, we women past 45 are shamed into erasing every line and vestige of our being ~ I battled eating disorders for over 27 years, when it just fell away as the fear of a frailer body took over and I allowed myself to eat 'permitted' foods that would not put on weight.... but still at my age of 57 have not been able to answer "what do you want to be when you grow up?" Must we all have a given purpose? How to find it? How to trust that inner true higher self voice and know that it is not our childish, frightened, wishful thinking ego? Where are our ELDERS? I used to envision myself as becoming an old Squaw, what a wonderful word that is ~ does a Crone mean age or wisdom?"
Forget Who's Watching (or Not)
When I was in my teens and twenties, I remember saying that I had this ever-open "critical eye" that held me back, that kept me from enjoying myself or from ever really completing anything artistic because that eye told me nothing was ever "good enough" (which was contrary to what some of my favorite teachers told me and also contrary to what real friends might have said). I ignored positive remarks and praise, dismissing it as fatuous.
I thought I'd blinded that eye in my thirties----I finally believed that I was in control of it----but its influence continued in more subtle ways, instead becoming a censor more than a critic, one composed of so-called "friends and coworkers," who were better known as acquaintences, and who had a similar affect on my life. These, too, were watchers, and though they may not have expressed their criticism in words, I could see it in their eyes (I'm not blind) and feel it in their (usually) more subtle words or body language. Yes, I'm "too sensitive," a phrase used against me since childhood.
But it isn't my sensitivity I must give up, it's caring what such people think that I must give up.
Of course I've told myself that I didn't care what they thought, for decades. Yet my feelings and my responses said otherwise. I felt mostly sad, asking variations of "Why do people have to be so mean-spirited, so small-minded?" over and over, knowing the answers, yet still unable to accept them and wishing for it to be otherwise. My disappointed WISHES have caused me more pain than anyone can know. And what a waste!
Finally I am breathing deeply, feeling who I am, and attempting to act upon that. How freeing. . . .
What took me so long? What hideous tentacles of this culture were able to have such a strong hold on me? I can't blame stupidity----I read, I think, I'm not overly impressed by the credentials of our society and recognize the difference between them and being truly intelligent----or insensitivity, though I have been taking antidepressants off and on since my early twenties, and mostly on since my mid-thirties, to be able to cope. (And, by the way, I'm mostly off of them now, and will be entirely off by April. We shall see whether it's my body chemistry that's screwy or not sometime after that. The truth isn't so clear in these matters.)
Was it merely a fear of being judged that hurt me so much? I'm not sure.
I thought I'd blinded that eye in my thirties----I finally believed that I was in control of it----but its influence continued in more subtle ways, instead becoming a censor more than a critic, one composed of so-called "friends and coworkers," who were better known as acquaintences, and who had a similar affect on my life. These, too, were watchers, and though they may not have expressed their criticism in words, I could see it in their eyes (I'm not blind) and feel it in their (usually) more subtle words or body language. Yes, I'm "too sensitive," a phrase used against me since childhood.
But it isn't my sensitivity I must give up, it's caring what such people think that I must give up.
Of course I've told myself that I didn't care what they thought, for decades. Yet my feelings and my responses said otherwise. I felt mostly sad, asking variations of "Why do people have to be so mean-spirited, so small-minded?" over and over, knowing the answers, yet still unable to accept them and wishing for it to be otherwise. My disappointed WISHES have caused me more pain than anyone can know. And what a waste!
Finally I am breathing deeply, feeling who I am, and attempting to act upon that. How freeing. . . .
What took me so long? What hideous tentacles of this culture were able to have such a strong hold on me? I can't blame stupidity----I read, I think, I'm not overly impressed by the credentials of our society and recognize the difference between them and being truly intelligent----or insensitivity, though I have been taking antidepressants off and on since my early twenties, and mostly on since my mid-thirties, to be able to cope. (And, by the way, I'm mostly off of them now, and will be entirely off by April. We shall see whether it's my body chemistry that's screwy or not sometime after that. The truth isn't so clear in these matters.)
Was it merely a fear of being judged that hurt me so much? I'm not sure.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Carving Out Quiet Space
Making time to dwell entirely in the moment, notice our feelings and relationship to our surroundings, is difficult enough, but finding the silence to actually enjoy it is another matter. Try it with a rambunctious 4-year-old.
Ideally, after having made that wonderful time-stretching trip to the sanctuary, I'd have driven peacefully back home to reconsider and apply to my life what I'd learned. Instead, I drove to my former home-state, Louisiana, to help my daughter Lily and her daughter Emma to move here to northern California. Emma drove what turned out to be a rather emotionally grueling 4 days with me in my little car, as she had no concept of such distance. "Are we in California yet?" she continued to ask after we'd finally reached our huge state.
Every philosophy of substance reminds its practioners that we have no control of the circumstances in which we are often caught up and to cultivate instead the mindset that allows us to find peace within ourselves in spite of our surroundings.
Easy to say. Not so easy to do, especially in our more typical whirlwind existences that tend to be out of touch with that which we are trying to BE: authentic. . . here. . . now. . . close to nature.
But I do know this: It is easier for me to find peace when I'm surrounded by nature, when I'm as close to the natural rhythms of life as possible, than it is when I am caught in the mindless goings-on of the typical modern person who looks for things to arrange or buy or do, things that fill their spaces, their time, things that eat up our souls and leave no residue but regret.
It's even easy to use nature as a thing when we drive to a plant nursery, buy the flowering lovelies, and arrange them in our little yards. . . that is, if we are not present, if our attitude is one of "hurry-let's-do-this" instead of "grateful-for-being-in-this moment."
Yes. Gratitude is a key, and gratitude comes with the stretching of the moment in a soulful quiet that allows us to see the wonders that surround us in the natural world.
Ideally, after having made that wonderful time-stretching trip to the sanctuary, I'd have driven peacefully back home to reconsider and apply to my life what I'd learned. Instead, I drove to my former home-state, Louisiana, to help my daughter Lily and her daughter Emma to move here to northern California. Emma drove what turned out to be a rather emotionally grueling 4 days with me in my little car, as she had no concept of such distance. "Are we in California yet?" she continued to ask after we'd finally reached our huge state.
Every philosophy of substance reminds its practioners that we have no control of the circumstances in which we are often caught up and to cultivate instead the mindset that allows us to find peace within ourselves in spite of our surroundings.
Easy to say. Not so easy to do, especially in our more typical whirlwind existences that tend to be out of touch with that which we are trying to BE: authentic. . . here. . . now. . . close to nature.
But I do know this: It is easier for me to find peace when I'm surrounded by nature, when I'm as close to the natural rhythms of life as possible, than it is when I am caught in the mindless goings-on of the typical modern person who looks for things to arrange or buy or do, things that fill their spaces, their time, things that eat up our souls and leave no residue but regret.
It's even easy to use nature as a thing when we drive to a plant nursery, buy the flowering lovelies, and arrange them in our little yards. . . that is, if we are not present, if our attitude is one of "hurry-let's-do-this" instead of "grateful-for-being-in-this moment."
Yes. Gratitude is a key, and gratitude comes with the stretching of the moment in a soulful quiet that allows us to see the wonders that surround us in the natural world.
Monday, March 23, 2009
The Path Taken
Discouragement is easy: we enjoy the moment when others express their care, when they notice you as a real person, when the sun shines especially brightly on the path you're on, and then. . . suddenly. . . clouds form in grey heaps in the sky, you can't see the path clearly anymore, and you begin to wonder. . .
Are these merely more words added to the great Web, sticking like so many insects caught haphazardly in their innocent flights, waiting for that big spider to suck them dry? Would you write them if no one read them?
For a while I would. But it is true that I like to think of being of some service and wonder whether this writing might be that means of giving back. But for now, writing here is my attempt to understand what I'm doing, how I'm changing, how to become more REAL, and it is my hope that someone else benefits, too.
And so, for the first day of spring, I walked our little street here up and down with my neighbor Sharon (who's only a couple of years younger than my mother, yet unlike my mother is wonderfully interesting and interested in living and giving), each of us dragging beside us our large garbage bag like some reverse-Santas, picking up every bit of trash and cigarette butt along the way. I told her I was happy she encouraged me to do this with her because I'd likely not have done it on my own. She said she's done it alone before and would again.
I remember the wise saying that we do not always know whom we benefit and how, yet it is important to continue, regardless, as if we did.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Elation
Sharing our elation----and actually finding someone to listen----is such a joy. Just as I began writing here to share how I felt about finding a starting point to begin my journey to a more authentic life (and learning that a few people actually care and read!), so it happened yesterday that as we sat on the rocky beach looking out to a Pacific sunset, our two short dogs ran up a span of the wet grey beach to greet a man walking with a pack on his back who'd stopped to tell us, breath-quickened, blue eyes wide, grinning hugely, that he'd just circled the St. George Reef lighthouse from a small plane with an open hatch from which he shot photo after photo, he said, in what amounted to perfect light, which we, too, had admired earlier. "Thanks for listening!" he told us as he walked on up the beach away from us. I wondered where he was heading----whether he lived nearby and was walking home or whether he was topping off his day by walking to a camping spot, but I didn't ask out of respect for the moment.
Friday, March 20, 2009
A Few Favorite Quotes from Wolf's Works
"Discipline is turning away from that which is contrary to our purposes and intentions, or draining of our spirit. And always turning toward that which is most relevant----towards that which serves our spirits, deepens our compassion as well as our understanding, and furthers our most meaningful purpose."
"The problem is not so much that we have a hard time trusting the sources of truth, but that we are unwilling to give up those things we wish were true."
"Beware of confusing obligation with responsibility. The former is what one is expected to do, while the latter is knowing what needs to be done."
"The root of the word 'discipline' is 'disciple.' Thus true discipline is neither rules imposed from outside the self, nor punishment for their violation. It is, rather, a state of devotion and focus----a carefully considered allocation of our precious time and energy."
"Objectivity is perspective uninformed by emotion----the perspective of machines."
I lose track of my body easily.
At the sanctuary, though I would also lose track, each day Loba's lilting voice came drifting sweetly in like the aroma of the gourmet meal she walked down to me each day to prepare. A sample menu?
-Stinging nettle, garlic, and potato soup, dotted with fresh mozarella cheese and fresh clover pesto
-Corn on the cob
-Thick slice of home-baked bread with egg and garlic on top, toasted crunchy in an iron skillet
-Cranberry/blueberry/nut bread-pudding with a baked apple
Served to me on a plate or bowl arranged quickly yet deliberately and always beautifully by Loba as she talked softly on occasion, listened, and worked intently for me-----a gift I didn't take lightly-----mealtimes were quite special. Before eating (unless I forgot and stole a first taste, which happened once or twice), Loba took my hands, looked in my eyes, and said a blessing of gratitude over the food and over us, a ritual I'd mostly given up (but now wish to begin again, with a new attitude). This prayer served to summon me, rather like the wind that works its way into a small tornado summons the leaves and debris in its path to its form. I could focus on this moment and its beauty----on the delight of eating and the wonder of such bounty and color.
Even the tidying up afterward was special and reminded me of childhood Sundays as I watched my grandmother puttering around her kitchen picking up dishes, standing over the sink, washing them carefully and stacking them to dry as she finished up before taking a towel to rhythmically wipe them dry and set them back on the shelves.
What makes these simple moments so beautiful? The moments are full, blossomed open like flowers in their prime, no noise or hurry (like a television or radio blaring in the background) to disturb us, all focus on the coming meal or its satisfied passing. As the body's sacred needs are met, we are reminded of our connection to each other and the earth and grateful for the opportunity to take notice.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Permission
“What is your intent in being here?” A simple question. Surely one who traveled 1500 miles alone and walked tenderfootedly barefoot through several freezing river-crossings over rocky beds should have an answer, yet all I could seem to come up with at that moment was that I thought I wanted their permission to be myself and to feel that this was good----this being me. How strange it was to say this, to realize this as true.
Of course, I could have said many things; I’m quite adept at explaining and rationalizing, intellectualizing, saying that which makes me appear a certain way----rather as an actress who dons roles like clothing and tries to decide whether truth lies in any of it or not. It’s being clear and simple, clearing away all of the superfluous that is difficult for me----and, according to Loba, who told me that many who come there say similar things, that they, too, want permission----it is for others, too.
To ask permission of someone who has no power over your body is to grant them a power over your spirit, and for you to grant this power to them must be a gift of trust----trust that they want what is best for you, that they wish your strength, beauty, and love to shine for the betterment of all, that they wish for you to be free.
So here I was amidst relative strangers asking their permission for me to be myself.
Doesn’t that seem strange to you? What had brought me to this state of mind? Partly, it was living for years among the walking dead: those who do not question how they are living, those who drift along on the status quo, watching others, doing as others do, doing as television tells them to, thinking only what the mass media tells them to think, being good citizens, good consumers, good Americans, watching as nature is decimated for the short-termed “benefit” of humankind, watching buildings replace trees, concrete coat pastures, grocery stores replace farms, listening to friends spout politically correct arguments (or not politically correct) or claiming a politician will save our lives, cause the changes to occur that will make all that was wrong now right. . . .
I’d come to believe that I didn’t fit in anywhere, that I was unloveable and perhaps could no longer even love myself or others. I could find no reason to open up, to share what was good in myself because all seemed to have become a competition-----and I refused to compete. I’d become silent.
And now? Was it as simple as my accepting this permission granted from someone I respect?
Wolf warns of gurus and cults (as most folk I respect do), and I am, perhaps, too suspicious of such figures and movements to ever succumb, but when I find something or someone who speaks clearly to my spirit, I’m also capable of giving in to that feeling and of learning from it. Thus, when I woke that Thursday morning in the riverside cabin, just four days into my solitary retreat, and felt glowingly grateful and so open and happy for who I am and where I am and what I am doing, I wrote a thank-you to my dear hosts, and I thought of Wolf as yet another (I didn’t say this in my note; it’s a bit crazy-sounding, but I’ll say it here) Jesus or Ghandi or Buddah-----another who is able to synthesize the best and communicate it in such a way that others are able to free themselves because of this.
What could be better?
Of course, I could have said many things; I’m quite adept at explaining and rationalizing, intellectualizing, saying that which makes me appear a certain way----rather as an actress who dons roles like clothing and tries to decide whether truth lies in any of it or not. It’s being clear and simple, clearing away all of the superfluous that is difficult for me----and, according to Loba, who told me that many who come there say similar things, that they, too, want permission----it is for others, too.
To ask permission of someone who has no power over your body is to grant them a power over your spirit, and for you to grant this power to them must be a gift of trust----trust that they want what is best for you, that they wish your strength, beauty, and love to shine for the betterment of all, that they wish for you to be free.
So here I was amidst relative strangers asking their permission for me to be myself.
Doesn’t that seem strange to you? What had brought me to this state of mind? Partly, it was living for years among the walking dead: those who do not question how they are living, those who drift along on the status quo, watching others, doing as others do, doing as television tells them to, thinking only what the mass media tells them to think, being good citizens, good consumers, good Americans, watching as nature is decimated for the short-termed “benefit” of humankind, watching buildings replace trees, concrete coat pastures, grocery stores replace farms, listening to friends spout politically correct arguments (or not politically correct) or claiming a politician will save our lives, cause the changes to occur that will make all that was wrong now right. . . .
I’d come to believe that I didn’t fit in anywhere, that I was unloveable and perhaps could no longer even love myself or others. I could find no reason to open up, to share what was good in myself because all seemed to have become a competition-----and I refused to compete. I’d become silent.
And now? Was it as simple as my accepting this permission granted from someone I respect?
Wolf warns of gurus and cults (as most folk I respect do), and I am, perhaps, too suspicious of such figures and movements to ever succumb, but when I find something or someone who speaks clearly to my spirit, I’m also capable of giving in to that feeling and of learning from it. Thus, when I woke that Thursday morning in the riverside cabin, just four days into my solitary retreat, and felt glowingly grateful and so open and happy for who I am and where I am and what I am doing, I wrote a thank-you to my dear hosts, and I thought of Wolf as yet another (I didn’t say this in my note; it’s a bit crazy-sounding, but I’ll say it here) Jesus or Ghandi or Buddah-----another who is able to synthesize the best and communicate it in such a way that others are able to free themselves because of this.
What could be better?
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
A Contemplative
Before the poetry reading, she introduced herself to me. “I’m a contemplative,” she said in passing, knowing I would understand the implications, knowing I was one of these, too, adding “I’d like to e-mail you.” I’d heard her read from her work-in-progress several months before, knowing somehow that one day we would meet, and appreciating how good that it was this day.
How is it that we seek each other out, that we recognize each other? In one of Wolf Hardin’s songs, he says that we are connected by the great web’s strands----all of us who are sensitive, intuitive, in tune. What a wonderful realization that we are not alone here, that there are others not in competition with us, not wishing us small to appear larger themselves, but rooting for us as we are for them, to strengthen these ties so that we all may become stronger, more creative, more health-giving, more in tune with our greater selves and the whole of this world.
When I first arrived at the sanctuary, my mind was blank, open, that slate awaiting the writing, I thought. I walked around like a child, experiencing, not (as is more typical for me) explaining to myself or to my imagined future audience what I was seeing and feeling. What would be, would be.
Three days later, amazingly enough, I still had nothing to erase-----and I walked to the overlook with Wolf, staring down at the far bank of the river where beavers had downed some of the “children” he’d nurtured these past 30 years----gnawed down in a day. Sadness sat beside us on the edge of the high split-rock, the ancient circular inscription on the cliff’s face behind us marking this holy place as we talked and laughed. “Be decisive,” Wolf admonished, and at that moment, “decisive” was the perfect word to describe how I’d not been. Even though I thought I was decisive and had claimed to despise those who are not, apparently I’d subconsciously included myself with the indecisive, circuitously thinking that if I punished myself, I’d already made amends and made myself a better person----all without any positive action, though.
But how is it that this sort of self-flagellation has come to be so important to many of us trying to get along in this society? Somehow we seem to think that if we can explain what is wrong, if we are aware, then that is enough-----we do not need to DO anything. I think this lack of action is what kills many of us----snuffs our spirits into grey smoke that disappears and merely leaves a dirty smudge. We become distracted by all of the calls to inaction-----living vicariously through escapist films, working for more than we need, wasting this moment while expecting to have many more.
From the corner of my eye, a flicker caught my attention. On the outer edge of the boulder I sat on, a small moth, one wing tattered, managed to land quite smoothly, flapping rhythmically, yellow with purple veins of furry color. When I was a teenager keeping one of my first journals, I drew a moth in it, delighting in its wings’ complex patterns, and accompanying it with Don Marquis’ Archy and Mehitabel’s poem, “Lesson of the Moth,” the lines most important to me including “it is better to be happy/ for a moment/ and be burned up with beauty/ than to live a long time/ and be bored all the while.”
Sometimes I think that I knew what was best for my life before I was 18 and have gone more and more wrong every since. . . until now.
How is it that we seek each other out, that we recognize each other? In one of Wolf Hardin’s songs, he says that we are connected by the great web’s strands----all of us who are sensitive, intuitive, in tune. What a wonderful realization that we are not alone here, that there are others not in competition with us, not wishing us small to appear larger themselves, but rooting for us as we are for them, to strengthen these ties so that we all may become stronger, more creative, more health-giving, more in tune with our greater selves and the whole of this world.
When I first arrived at the sanctuary, my mind was blank, open, that slate awaiting the writing, I thought. I walked around like a child, experiencing, not (as is more typical for me) explaining to myself or to my imagined future audience what I was seeing and feeling. What would be, would be.
Three days later, amazingly enough, I still had nothing to erase-----and I walked to the overlook with Wolf, staring down at the far bank of the river where beavers had downed some of the “children” he’d nurtured these past 30 years----gnawed down in a day. Sadness sat beside us on the edge of the high split-rock, the ancient circular inscription on the cliff’s face behind us marking this holy place as we talked and laughed. “Be decisive,” Wolf admonished, and at that moment, “decisive” was the perfect word to describe how I’d not been. Even though I thought I was decisive and had claimed to despise those who are not, apparently I’d subconsciously included myself with the indecisive, circuitously thinking that if I punished myself, I’d already made amends and made myself a better person----all without any positive action, though.
But how is it that this sort of self-flagellation has come to be so important to many of us trying to get along in this society? Somehow we seem to think that if we can explain what is wrong, if we are aware, then that is enough-----we do not need to DO anything. I think this lack of action is what kills many of us----snuffs our spirits into grey smoke that disappears and merely leaves a dirty smudge. We become distracted by all of the calls to inaction-----living vicariously through escapist films, working for more than we need, wasting this moment while expecting to have many more.
From the corner of my eye, a flicker caught my attention. On the outer edge of the boulder I sat on, a small moth, one wing tattered, managed to land quite smoothly, flapping rhythmically, yellow with purple veins of furry color. When I was a teenager keeping one of my first journals, I drew a moth in it, delighting in its wings’ complex patterns, and accompanying it with Don Marquis’ Archy and Mehitabel’s poem, “Lesson of the Moth,” the lines most important to me including “it is better to be happy/ for a moment/ and be burned up with beauty/ than to live a long time/ and be bored all the while.”
Sometimes I think that I knew what was best for my life before I was 18 and have gone more and more wrong every since. . . until now.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
What Brings Me Here; What Took Me There
Friday (the 13th's) poetry reading at Blue Crow Studio in the harbor took me to a place I'd been wanting to visit yet needed multiple reasons, apparently, finally to take me there. Thus, poetry was the impetus for me to get closer to a potter's wheel and my subsumed love of playing in mud, just as my love of nature and simultaneous itch to peel out of the person I'd felt compelled to become in order to survive while working too many years in a city took me to the remote riparian Anima sanctuary, where Wolf, Loba, Kiva, and Rhiannon live and welcome others to their holy home.
Words typically used by those who have visited the New Mexico sanctuary are those of the nebulously grateful, the spirit released yet tethered to the wonder and weight of rock, dirt, river, body. People who go there seem continually thankful for the awareness that pain provides (the same people who often come from a too-comfortable life) as they stub their toes and gingerly walk barefoot on those rocky paths, picking out the occasional thorn, finding the current moment, finally, more vivid than the fading busy-thoughts of the culture not long left behind.
How oddly contradictory to our true natures that we have become so alienated from the everyday magic of air, food, water, earth, temperature, simple pleasures of the body, that when we return to their awareness, our beings are filled with such wonder.
Drinking the cool water collected from rain barrels or dipped from the San Francisco River satisfied me like nothing else while I was there----and not just because of its purity, but it took my effort and I knew its origins, just as walking to the composting outhouse, climbing up those few ladder-steps and parting the curtain that blows in the breeze, to sit there with the coffee-tin ready to fill with sawdust to dump below, again connected me to the simple present.
And why are we so enamored of this present moment----needing continual reminders that it is ENOUGH? Look at the aspects of our culture we are trying to leave behind, at all of the proddings to live and hoard for the future: the wristwatches sold as jewelry and even as toys for children----attempts to convince us we can own and control time; the continual bombardment of television commercials for goods to make our lives more comfortable or long-lived; to make our bodies more "beautiful" (i.e., bodies that require the constant upkeep of those products being sold----razors, creams, diet aids, hair dyes, clothes and shoes to show off these Barbie-bodies)---all in a future that, we are told, is OURS. . . for a price.
Having paid a price, as many have and are----years of attempting to fit in, to work as I was told I needed to, to become more acclimated to the world I lived in (rather than to live as I knew I should)----I was suddenly faced with the need to forgive myself for having subjugated my own feelings and desires for too long. This does not make me selfish, as a Christian upbringing lead me to believe, it makes me whole, and it is only through my being whole and authentic, closer to what is true within me, that I can help others in their journey, too. My culture tried to convince me I could be an island. Now I am aware I never was nor could be separate----that instead I am an integral part of life and others and that what I do and think does matter, not just to me, but to others, too.
This is yet another "obvious" epiphany from the Anima sanctuary, played out in the drama of another life that had come to think of herself as separate and alien within an unnatural world. But how happy I am to see that I am not the alien----it is this culture that is. As a teenager still connected to the innocence of childhood, I knew this, yet somehow I became more and more convinced as an adult that I was the crazy one (and thus had to take antidepressants to deal with this disjuncture in my life), not the culture.
And so through my recent reading of other folks' trials in our culture, most notably Derrick Jensen----who interviewed Jesse Wolf Hardin and thus led me to Wolf's own writing and way of living----I, too, have rediscovered living as an adventure (rather than as something to be endured), am beginning to withdraw from antidepressants (with my doctor's support), and find myself making connections to other people who share my desire to become more authentic. . . as we all celebrate the beauty and fierceness of nature and our unique willful desires to be ourselves within this wonderful whole.
I plan to use this means of communication----this "blog" (a word I'm not fond of, as it sounds too much like smog, grog, plod----all heavy and ugly words)----to record my journey and, perhaps, to encourage others along their own.
Words typically used by those who have visited the New Mexico sanctuary are those of the nebulously grateful, the spirit released yet tethered to the wonder and weight of rock, dirt, river, body. People who go there seem continually thankful for the awareness that pain provides (the same people who often come from a too-comfortable life) as they stub their toes and gingerly walk barefoot on those rocky paths, picking out the occasional thorn, finding the current moment, finally, more vivid than the fading busy-thoughts of the culture not long left behind.
How oddly contradictory to our true natures that we have become so alienated from the everyday magic of air, food, water, earth, temperature, simple pleasures of the body, that when we return to their awareness, our beings are filled with such wonder.
Drinking the cool water collected from rain barrels or dipped from the San Francisco River satisfied me like nothing else while I was there----and not just because of its purity, but it took my effort and I knew its origins, just as walking to the composting outhouse, climbing up those few ladder-steps and parting the curtain that blows in the breeze, to sit there with the coffee-tin ready to fill with sawdust to dump below, again connected me to the simple present.
And why are we so enamored of this present moment----needing continual reminders that it is ENOUGH? Look at the aspects of our culture we are trying to leave behind, at all of the proddings to live and hoard for the future: the wristwatches sold as jewelry and even as toys for children----attempts to convince us we can own and control time; the continual bombardment of television commercials for goods to make our lives more comfortable or long-lived; to make our bodies more "beautiful" (i.e., bodies that require the constant upkeep of those products being sold----razors, creams, diet aids, hair dyes, clothes and shoes to show off these Barbie-bodies)---all in a future that, we are told, is OURS. . . for a price.
Having paid a price, as many have and are----years of attempting to fit in, to work as I was told I needed to, to become more acclimated to the world I lived in (rather than to live as I knew I should)----I was suddenly faced with the need to forgive myself for having subjugated my own feelings and desires for too long. This does not make me selfish, as a Christian upbringing lead me to believe, it makes me whole, and it is only through my being whole and authentic, closer to what is true within me, that I can help others in their journey, too. My culture tried to convince me I could be an island. Now I am aware I never was nor could be separate----that instead I am an integral part of life and others and that what I do and think does matter, not just to me, but to others, too.
This is yet another "obvious" epiphany from the Anima sanctuary, played out in the drama of another life that had come to think of herself as separate and alien within an unnatural world. But how happy I am to see that I am not the alien----it is this culture that is. As a teenager still connected to the innocence of childhood, I knew this, yet somehow I became more and more convinced as an adult that I was the crazy one (and thus had to take antidepressants to deal with this disjuncture in my life), not the culture.
And so through my recent reading of other folks' trials in our culture, most notably Derrick Jensen----who interviewed Jesse Wolf Hardin and thus led me to Wolf's own writing and way of living----I, too, have rediscovered living as an adventure (rather than as something to be endured), am beginning to withdraw from antidepressants (with my doctor's support), and find myself making connections to other people who share my desire to become more authentic. . . as we all celebrate the beauty and fierceness of nature and our unique willful desires to be ourselves within this wonderful whole.
I plan to use this means of communication----this "blog" (a word I'm not fond of, as it sounds too much like smog, grog, plod----all heavy and ugly words)----to record my journey and, perhaps, to encourage others along their own.
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