Routine

We humans like routines, even when we think we don't.

I have fought routine my entire life, seeing it in my OCD-now-Alzheimer's-afflicted mother's life as chains around the neck.

We are ever seeking comfort, grounding, the metal teeth that fit perfectly in the grooves that turn our days. Some days we are happy with the inspiration, the beauty, the cat curled in the lap before a fire, snowflakes falling outside as we tap away at our story lines.

And some days we awaken and want to fall back asleep.

But our routines can call to us from the warm comfort of sleep: I enjoy this early-morning sitting before the fire with our animal-family, sipping my coffee, reading e-mail and our little 5-day-daily paper, wondering what I will learn or do as I pursue my current interests. . . learning the Tarot, meditating, painting, knitting, playing with all kinds of art (key word for me: "playing"), reading, writing, visiting with friends here, perhaps.

I have also learned how to use the infernal Facebook without its driving me insane, zipping through it once or twice a day (or less often if I'm not at home), much as I zip through most of our newspaper----rather like chatting internally with friends and acquaintances. On occasion, I learn something useful or even inspiring, and I am able to lightly touch upon some folk I love who live too far away. This is good routine, I suppose, yet I've never liked or been good at chatting.

But routines are meant to be broken.

Peaceful Day, Lovely Song

Sunshine!

Now that the wheel of the year is on its upward turn, opening to longer days and more light, I felt especially joyous about this rainbow's end that set down across the street from us during this rainy season here in northernmost California, when any break in the clouds (even without a rainbow) is cause for celebration.

Having gone out a couple of days ago in blustery conditions to buy new strawberry plants, I was delighted to awaken yesterday to clear skies and the urge to get the berries in the ground. Clearing away the two garden rows, trying to focus on what I was doing rather than my tendency to hurry and "get the job done," I found myself thinking about how important it is to cultivate the garden one HAS----and what that means to me.

As a younger woman, I rebelled against the idea, thinking it meant I was "settling" for the ordinary or conforming, somehow. Yet as I dug in the rich dark soil, trying to avoid chopping any earthworms in two, smoothing the surface to ensure I'd pulled away all the spindly weeds, and then digging spots to set each shiny-leaved strawberry plant, I felt the lovely security of home and was able to delight in it----in spite of my knowledge that many folk are desiring and deserving of home and do not have this pleasure, or that I, too, know that such pleasures are elusive, or even that I (quite recently) felt that I could not live here any longer after we lost our dog Fritz to some sort of poisoning.

We never identified what killed Fritz (and almost took his brother Kipper), and so our yard took on a larger-than-life, dangerous element, filled with "what ifs" and growing in my mind to be emblematic of the trouble that our entire Mother Earth is in.

Though Jon enclosed a smaller, safer segment of yard for Kipper and he's been fine in the months since his brother died, I told my husband I had to move to the country; I could no longer live here (where he delights in being able to walk to work) if I had to fear our own dog's being poisoned. However, taking some tours around the area with a real estate agent who also "bought high" around the same time we did a couple of years ago, I know that we can't really afford to sell our house and move right now (presuming someone would be on hand to buy it), good information that helped me cool my heels, and further served to remind me of the importance of being with where we are, with what we have, and making the best of it.

After all, when is anyone ever really "safe," whether at home or not? And safety isn't my goal anyway. . . . Only by taking risks, opening one's heart, and living fully is there any meaning to life. Yes, I know it's obvious, but look how easily it's forgotten, and how often we seem to need to remind ourselves of this.

Security

Having lost one of my dear animal companions recently----and almost losing both dogs----set my world on edge for a while. Add to that my increasingly regular practice of meditation while reading as much as I can about Buddhism, and one can deduce a little how I feel these days----rather as if my skin has been peeled back and a constant wind is blowing.

I exaggerate. . . a little.

What continues to bubble up are many truisms I used to take for granted as being, well, true, sayings like "Better safe than sorry," that seem now designed to imprison a person by fear, though not in any concerted way, just as a typical human tendency to seek safety, and through this continual seeking after the safe, finding that our hearts are closing more and more and that we begin to hide in the comfort of our homes, and that we begin to forget how to love. Sound like the typical American?

Another statement, that "Pain is not a punishment and pleasure is not a reward," continues to roll around in my mind but the meaning is as slippery as ever. On the one hand, it seems obvious and perfectly contradictory to how we are conditioned to believe life works. Even though many of us have argued vehemently against the idea that "pain is a punishment" (i.e., that homeless person deserves his fate because he did something bad), it's not quite as easy to argue that "pleasure is not a reward." We tend to want to believe that one.

But the most beneficial basic belief I am attempting each day to internalize is a belief in my (and all beings') basic goodness. My Southern Baptist upbringing almost beat that out of me, though some part of me always denied those precepts about exclusivity---that we are somehow "born into sin" and must make a conscious choice---One Choice---in order to be "saved."

And these are the sorts of thoughts that rush in after I've sat and meditated and labeled what pops up at that time as merely thoughts, those ephemeral visions we tend to stitch our worlds from rather than experience the real, live, world of this very moment, the one that Mauser, the cat in the photo above, does. . .

More Ranting about Facebook

One shouldn't rant against what one is unfamiliar with. . . and so, I have been experimenting with Facebook more lately, opening up the focal lens a bit and befriending acquaintances, posting photographs, and looking a little into others'. Now I find myself brimming with thoughts about how we hang onto certain images of ourselves, especially after seeing the profile picture of a woman who's several years older than I, and it's a sixties photo of a beautiful teenager with poofy, smooth blond hair. This is little different from the obituary photographs in the local paper that feature the 92-year-old deceased as a twenty-year-old.

Of course, all of us have difficulty at some point coming to terms with our aging looks----the greying hair, the wrinkles and spots----so much so that at first when we catch a glimpse of ourselves in a mirror out in public, we may not recognize ourselves. But why do some wish to live a constant lie rather than come to terms with the inevitability of decline and death? Do they believe that "fighting" the inevitable actually staves it off?

On this wheel of life, some apparently feel they can miraculously step off and do all they can to stand in that place, still, watching pridefully, perhaps, as everyone else continues to spin. In our youth, especially, we feel exempt as long days and nights seem to stretch eternally, and we feel change comes too slowly. As a young person, in fact, I never imagined I'd live this long. Does that mean I lacked imagination? More than that, I think, it meant that no one in my circle talked of death and decline as a natural part of life; it remained an aberration to the young, and set in the dim, mostly unreal "future."

I suppose this is the part of Facebook I don't admire----the aspect that causes others to continually compare their lives with others' lives. One friend listed 100 "classic" books and asked others to join her in bolding those they'd read, which I did, but then I simply deleted the list. Why should I care whether others know how many books I've read? Wouldn't it only serve to make someone feel "less well-read" or "more well-read"? What is the point? To feel "different" and more "special"?

A real-live friend of mine once told me that our insistence on these three things----judgment, comparisons, and understanding----are best let go of, and I've found I agree; however, Facebook tends to cause us to strive for all of them.

In Memory: Rosemeade's Fritz, August 20, 2002--October 27, 2010

Breitenbush Hot Springs, Oregon

A seven-hour drive took me and a friend to a meditation retreat at Breitenbush Hot Springs last weekend, where we mostly remained silent among the sounds of the Breitenbush River rushing, ravens calling from a bare branched tree-top, an evening thunderstorm followed by a steady rain and dripping from cedars and firs, and regular dinner bells announcing organic vegetarian, colorful, sumptuous, and nourishing meals. And, of course, the mineral-rich amazing hot springs in pools we women stepped into, melting away all pretense and care, soothing muscles and skin accustomed to holding stress, leaving only softness. So you see, heaven is really Earth.

More on Feline Aesthetics

I'd like to be able to give artistic credit to our kitten----to feel he was creating something beautiful (in his eyes) by shredding our Japanese paper lamp. . . But, as my neighbor once told me in regard to some of the people she felt she may have unfairly criticized for their behavior, "I'm not that evolved yet." Me, either; I want the old design back, Cat!

Why does Facebook bother me so?

I haven't been afraid of technology, only pessimistic about it. It's always felt like another gadget that comes between life that is more real, more direct, more personal. Computers are so expensive and quickly obsolete that they seem too much a part of our sad throw-away society, with corporations making bundles as people become more and more isolated, sitting and staring at these glowing screens as time blurs away.

When e-mail became prevalent, I readily accepted it for work-related purposes because it made my work life easier, but I hated it for personal correspondence and clung to my black pens and various papers and my playful handwriting, remembering how good it feels to find a letter with a friend's handwriting among the stack of faceless bills and advertisements. In spite of this pleasure, I've long since given up my reluctance and now primarily use e-mail with only occasional cards and letters mailed the old-fashioned way, though I continue to feel I've allowed an important part of me to slip away.

When my dear friend began a blog, I swallowed my criticism and wondered what on earth would make one want to put oneself so vulnerably before strangers. Yet here I am. (Though I have connected with some real friends through this means of communication.)

And when Facebook splashed across computers, I ignored it completely, until I realized that my daughter primarily communicates this way, that she'd given up answering my e-mails (though she sometimes responds to text messages), and all the promised photographs never arrived because they are accessible from her Facebook page.

So what bothers me still about Facebook?

I do not like its tiny bits and pieces of information scrolling down the page like so much advertising for individuals. These little pieces remind me of the short attention spans that are being cultivated (the better to keep folks from thinking seriously about anything). They also remind me of the scrolling newslines at the bottom of a TV screen, the little intense bursts of inflammatory "news" that isn't news, sort of like the color-coded alarm system for airport security (the better to keep one's adrenalin levels up while at the same time causing us all to wonder what the heck we're supposed to DO----and, of course, the answer is "nothing". . . Just do nothing and let Big Brother worry about it. . . ).

I do not like the perversion of the word "friend" that includes total strangers and mere acquaintances who can dip into your life at will. Such mindless "democracy" makes me feel that my friends don't really think of me as a true friend, only another number in a stack of Facebook Friends, all with equal access to what has become my only access to some of my true friends.

And, I absolutely abhor only being able to see this surface facet of my only child----and very little else.

But as I think about it here, perhaps Facebook allows me to see too much of my only child (who's a young woman), and this is what disturbs me. I am part of an audience that includes her best friends and they know so much more about her than I.

Facebook is just that: very little. . . a tiny taste of a friend's or relative's life, experienced by scrolling down a computer screen, distant, words with feelings attached on one end without having the real connection at the other.

How to Be Alone: Lovely Video

I enjoy Stephanie Voigt's posts in Space Clear Reflections, and appreciate her references to various creative YouTube videos, including this one:

Wishful Thinking

Being with loved ones who live far away fills me to overflowing with gratitude and joy.

I am also confronted by my ways of thinking that can be problematic. I love giving gifts, yet I am not always so astute in my choices. For example, I bought my granddaughter a fanciful skirt and shirt when I was in Paris last month, thinking how fun it'd be to see her in it----and forgetting that she might not find it so fun at all.

And she didn't. In fact, during her recent visit with me, it took all my persuasive powers to get her to simply try on the outfit. Then, when I realized what a ruckus she was making over wearing it (and when the tears rose to my eyes), I understood that it was merely my own wishful thinking that she'd want to wear that outfit, and that the very idea apparently made her feel absolutely horrible. Nothing I said made a difference. . . and I began to feel that I was merely trying to manipulate her.

So, I went in another room, cried about my idealistic nature that sets me up for disappointment too often, and made yet another vow to myself to accept people for who they are, rather than crying that they're not what I want them to be.

Sitting with Discomfort

At a ritual celebration of Lammas, we considered aspects of our lives that have come to fruition or that have been metaphorically harvested. Of course, along with a celebration of the harvest is the juxtaposed sadness of completion and inevitable death of the old. . . . And the turning of the wheel continues.

Our culture encourages a (rather mindless) seeking after constant comfort, so when we feel discomfort, we are led to believe that something is "wrong" and that the answer is to seek comfort and stability again.

Or---if you're like me---you roll it over and over in your mind and attempt to put words to what it is you feel. I'll fish around in recent events in my life, wondering whether they're the cause. Or, I'll troll through my recent readings or think about what friends and family have said to me. Perhaps it was that dream, the one where I was pushing through, birth-like, a series of tightly woven cardboard boxes, all the while wondering who'd thought up such a predicament.

That's my ego trying to "fix" things.

Perhaps instead I should simply allow the discomfort to dwell in me for a while, and see what happens.

Perspective

Reminding ourselves of aspects of perspective is almost always helpful, but surprisingly enough, many forget to do this and make snap assumptions and judgments about people and ideas based on a very limited perspective. We do this in part because not doing so can make us feel absolutely dizzy as we try to acclimate ourselves to the feeling of living in the moment and allowing our senses to take in everything without trying to hold onto it all too tightly, without immediately naming each aspect of our experience.

A spate of recent robberies in our small town, not surprisingly, has many folks believing that the homeless population is behind these, with neighbors getting upset and clamoring that something needs to be done. However, our town's newspaper reported today that the police chief noted that many of the robberies resulted from unlocked houses and cars that made it rather simple for someone to steal from them (and though it's sad we don't live in a society where we can still leave things unlocked, that's long gone for most of us). And, of course, there's a great deal more to this situation: the state of the economy, our culture's widening gap between those who have and those who don't, our culture's intensifying focus on (to quote a Pink Floyd song) "us and them," and all sorts of other things that affect individuals and groups, not to mention the fact that our town's leaders allowed a maximum security prison to be built nearby (leveling a huge swath of forest), so those who are newly incarcerated or released and their families who visit end up hanging around, which many believe adds to the problems our town experiences.

And so, that prosecuting attorney staying next door----the one who successfully presented a case against some meth dealers----has taken it upon himself to "warn" his landlady (my friend) about the folks he sees walking by who have prison records or are in some sort of trouble with the law. My friend asked him----What do you want me to do about it? I likened this to our former illustrious president's travel warnings: So, it's a code "orange": what do we do?

Maintain perspective and don't let fear rule.

Writing

I'm doing a lot of "tasting life twice" these days, not only writing these first-draft-thoughts here, but also trading poems and song lyrics with my daughter in a private blog, and I participate in two writing groups (one that meets monthly, one semimonthly), sharing poetry that I am working on or have honed as much as I can.

Writing IS healing, and more and more I see evidence of this outside of my personal experience. (Besides many others, there's Kim Rosen's SAVED BY A POEM and John Fox's FINDING WHAT YOU DIDN'T LOSE and his Institute of Poetic Medicine.) My next-door neighbor, who's become one of my mentors, writes beautiful essays full of humor and provoking thoughtfulness that make her audience wish for more. However, she reads her pieces to us and tells us that she has no desire to publish them. We cannot even hold her words in our hands.

Words flee from us, just like the moment
when we first understood
and tried to write down what that was
but the images
only suggest it all
and in memory
the edges become blurry.
Nevertheless,
we were happy
for a moment.

Pilgrim Photos

Judgment

Why am I going back, AGAIN, to discuss this jury experience I had? Because it seems to have tapped into many issues that face me and likely many people.

It's judgment---in the heavy, "I'm right and you're wrong" tone that disturbs me, and that's what came across so clearly to me after being on that damn jury. Though the LAW asks that jurors be objective (aka "fair"), most human beings are not capable (or have not advanced to the point) of seeing through entirely clear lens. And so we were asked to achieve something that neither the judge nor the attorneys practice themselves (they all had agendas and only made an effort to hide them from the jury, not from each other or from the defendants I found out later). In fact, the defendants, the prosecuting attorney told me, were counting on a hung jury, which explained their cavalier attitudes during the trial and their little winks and smiles to each other.

And---like the judge---I, too, believe that drugs are more a social issue than a legal one, but I was asked to put my beliefs aside and to judge impartially, based on the evidence.

I walked to the courthouse one day to make a point to myself that I would not walk in fear of retaliation (for whatever happened in the courtroom), and one of the little chants we sang while I was in Chartres came to me in the rhythm of my walking: "All healing is the release from fear, and without fear there is no need to judge."

This was helpful to me, but still----I had a job to judge as a juror.

And now, over a week later, I'm having a hard time washing my hands (yes---Judas-like) of that feeling, and I wonder whether to stop this public writing (because it's so easy for others---if there are any others reading this----to judge you by your writing, with its illusion of permanence and certainty) and hide out to think these things through on my own.

To continue this conversation I began about being "open" (and all full of love) after being in a supportive group experience and then being stunned by the stark cold-water-splash-in-the-face of ordinary life----as in being chosen to be on a jury for a trial of two people who, as it turns out, were convicted of intending to sell crystal methamphetamine in our small town. . .

How strange to notice the judge in the case seemed bored and a little irritated, and definitely prejudicial toward the defense attorneys, and then to learn afterward from the prosecuting attorney that the judge's son has had some drug problems and believes that drug abuse should be addressed primarily through social institutions rather than legal ones.

We were all asked----before being chosen as jurors----to put aside such "beliefs" and to be impartial, judging the case before us merely on the evidence shown. The prosecuting attorney was excruciatingly thorough in laying out the evidence: the one-ounce baggie of crystal meth, the five digital scales, the many tiny empty baggies (some of which had drug residue in them), the tiny spoon, the large sums of cash. . .

The defense attorney had little to go on and attempted to draw our sympathy (which he did, but it seemed "irrelevant" in the face of the facts) toward the woman defendant, who---he said---has multiple sclerosis, and she was merely "self-medicating," not selling the stuff. Oh. And what about all those digital scales? The baggies?

Yes. She and her lover were declared guilty of intending to sell this drug. It seemed rather evident, but at one point in our deliberations, I thought that it was possible that it'd be a hung jury, amazingly enough.

And what has continued to disturb me are the various tales associated with this entire trial----not just finding out about the judge's "history," but also listening to the prosecuting attorney's take on how jurors are chosen. (I spoke with the fellow afterward, mainly because he's staying in our neighbor's spare apartment and it was convenient for me to do so, which assuaged my curiosity with little effort on my part, I admit.) That is, young people are avoided (they may sympathize with the defendants), as are people who appear "too smart" (that really made me feel good, since I was chosen!) like college teachers (Hah, I thought; I've taught college classes!). They also avoid therapists (though one did make it in our group, and we deemed him the leader, which came close to being a mistake because he was so intent on being "fair" that he drew out conversations that were entirely beside the point and ended up confusing matters rather than clarifying them).

This is how our system of justice works, and it's not nearly as impartial as we might like to think. The prosecuting attorney talked also of juries with "CSI" people on them, implying that it's almost impossible to get a verdict from them. He also asked whether I'd noticed certain of his and the defense attorney's "techniques," which were, essentially, ways of manipulating the "facts" to portray the story in the way they wished it to appear.

How often does this happen in the media (see my friend's post) and in our own lives----when people are quick to judge based on partial truths? And wouldn't it be awful to be on trial and at the mercy of all of these factors? In my own life, I try to withhold judgment, to have issues resonate in my heart and mind against my experience, knowledge, and feelings to determine truth. But of course there is no one truth except, paradoxically, that we are all one.

Holding On

In our culture, we try so desperately sometimes to hold on to our youth, continually moving the sliding scale of age up, up, as we age, signifying and re-signifying the age at which we believe one has become "old." We look in the mirror, add up the wrinkles, the sags, gray hair, and the pounds, and come up short---no longer good enough, young enough.

For what?

To relate to the endless images of eternal youth marked by the actors and actresses that continually parade across our vision in movies that help ease our craving for story and meaning?

To re-enter the job market, where our young are chewed up and spit out in too short a time only to be replaced by yet another young wiz?

To cast off another friend or lover for one who has the excitement and mystery of newness?

To convince ourselves that we can live forever?

Heart and Mind

Until all too recently, I believed that I should be more focused on my mind than my heart, to listen to reason, weigh facts, allowing my heart also to weigh in, but attempting to understand what I feel, to puzzle-out everything, making feelings of secondary importance and reason primary. After all, I have a couple of college degrees, like a great many of us middle-class Americans who became convinced that education (that is, earning "degrees") is the key to a "better" life. We learned that logic and reason would somehow "save" us. During my work life (from which I'm now almost two years retired, gratefully), I also witnessed the doors that closed to those who expressed what was considered "excess emotion" and learned to hide myself, to maintain silence and a placid face when I recognized how little good it did to speak. I wasn't effective in keeping this attitude restricted to work, however, and almost lost myself in the process.

Having grown up with a father and brother who were much more adept at argument, I frequently felt overwhelmed by emotion when they displayed impatience at my bumbling attempts to recall facts when all I truly knew was how I felt---which didn't support a thing in their minds, except that I'm "too emotional" (read: "not as smart"). This pattern repeats itself in me even now when I feel that someone isn't giving credence to something that feels "obviously true" to me, merely because I am unable to line up the facts and figures perfectly. I finally realized that I will never know enough (and I still love to read), never have all the facts that will keep me from looking like the fool to someone. I have also begun to recognize that paying more attention to my intuition, my feelings, makes my life much more exciting, interesting, and purpose-filled than being led by mere intellectual curiosity.

And so, as I waited in the courtroom today to find out whether I would be chosen for jury duty (and I felt it a paradox that I was), I read from the July issue of The Sun an interview of Malidoma Some'----whom I'd never heard of before, but who----at least in this interview----sounds so wonderfully wise and expresses exactly how I'm feeling. The entire interview is fascinating and well worth reading, but I'm going to focus on the part that seems particularly applicable to my life now.

Since only a week and a half ago I returned from a six-day workshop and I'm signed up for a couple more over the next few months, I'm sensitive to his remarks about people in "the West" who are "starving for ritual. . . When one is over, they shed tears of dread: now they must return to the so-called real world, where there is no room for what they have experienced. It is not valued or even tolerated. This is a serious problem. . . Until there are communities in which these rituals are done consistently and can be reconciled with everyday living, there will always be what we call 'workshop junkies'. . ."

Of course, he doesn't have any easy answers for this problem, other than one must strive to maintain the "ritual energy" in spite of one's culture and, more importantly, one can become a part of creating a community where such support is a part of everyday life. I suppose the striving is what "real life" is all about, this recognizing and acknowledging the sacred amid the mundane, all the while attempting to keep one's heart open, one's connection to others----and love----in tact.

Home Again

What draws me to travel, even though I don't like feeling like a tourist or being in crowds? All I can say is that a convergence happens----feelings, events, facts, dreams begin to add up and create, puzzle-like, a whole that urges me on.

For example, this is a picture I took a couple of weeks ago of Mont Saint Michel, a French monestary. When I was 22, just out of college, I briefly worked for an architect in Baton Rouge, John Desmond, who offered me a choice of some of his drawings before I left, and I chose two for myself----of Mont Saint Michel and another monestary in France. My mother had them framed for me, and they've been hanging in my various abodes ever since.

And the image of Mont Saint Michel has appeared throughout my life, in the film MINDWALK, for example, which I bought back in the 80s and loved. Later, one of my friends from work and her husband, an architect, visited our home in Louisiana, and they brought along two friends, one of whom was John Desmond's son, and it pleased him to see his dad's drawings on our wall.

When I decided to go to France, in the back of my mind was an intention to see Mont Saint Michel, even though the original trip was in southern France, and it is located in the north. The original trip fell through, but since I'd sold my engagement ring to pay for the trip and already had paid my airfare, I worked up another trip, and on this one, my intentions became real. In my travels around this area, I even stopped to photograph a sign (though I didn't follow it) with my maiden name on it because I'd been thinking lately about how I know nothing about my father's side of the family. How odd that I should pass this sign---- this village was not on any map I held. The sign merely popped up on my path, reminding me of the bizarre synchronicities that can occur when we wander. My father's family probably came over from France as various outlaws (that word just fits for my dad, even though he was in the Air Force and became a university teacher) to populate the Louisiana Purchase.

Traveling

I am about to embark on a trip to France, a voyage of discovery and one in which I can face many fears----of traveling alone to a place where I am not fluent in the language, for example, and of being dependent on the kindness of strangers. But I will also be exercising my strengths, remaining open to learning, reveling in beauty, and feeling the depth and intensity of the ancient places as I walk on paths others have walked, recognizing my connections to all.

One Life

"Tell me----what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?" --Mary Oliver

At various times in my life, this famous and lovely quote from poet Mary Oliver would compel me to interpret it differently based on the stress I might place on different words.

That is, if "one" is stressed, I might wonder whether there should be one thing I focus on in my own life, one gift I should be honing to give to the world.

Or, I might focus on "plan" and wonder whether I have been lax in this aspect of my life----especially since my life has tended to unfold rather mysteriously, with my seeing patterns mostly in reflection rather than in advance.

Recently, I have been focused on its "precious"-ness, its fleeting aspects, especially since I'm now on the downward slope of my fifth decade, an age when many women begin to feel they wish to give of themselves to the greater good (having raised their children and fulfilled various practical societal commitments like helping pay the mortgage)----and I feel an intense desire to discover what I can commit my heart to now.

I have also been focused on my life's "wild" nature, that is, my continuing discovery of what it is to be an "authentic" woman. Raised in a patriarchal culture (as Western civilization is), and especially having grown up in the South among traditional Baptists, who interpret the Bible to mean quite literally that women are meant to be subservient to men (as men are supposed to be subservient to God---an aspect of the equation that is usually forgotten), I have nevertheless always been rebellious and questioning of all things cultural. This hardheaded rebelliousness has served to protect my spirit, but its emphasis has been on the intellect, on reason, on gathering information (and never feeling I have enough!).

And so, when I copied this quote from Jean S. Bolen's CROSSING TO AVALON, I realized that this is where I am now, and I feel privileged to find myself standing with many other women in this place:

We must remember how and when each of us has had an experience of the Goddess, and felt healed and made whole by her. . . Without words they are difficult to retrieve. But when someone else speaks of a similar experience, it can evoke the memory and bring back the feelings, which restores the experience. Only if we speak from personal experience does this happen. This is why we need words for women's mysteries, which, like everything else that is of women, seems to require that one woman at a time birth what she knows. We serve as midwives to each other's consciousness. To speak our own truth the first time feels fraught with danger. . . In the bones of our collective experience as women we know there are risks. . . " [I added the bold for emphasis.]

Life's Kaleidoscope

How wonderful to feel the patterns forming and to enjoy how the pieces are beginning to fit. Of course, sometimes when we are living through the pain and fragmentation in our lives, we can't understand that one day it may all take on a greater purpose, but it's valuable to have this perspective----that even darkness and despair have meaning, no matter how difficult it feels as it's happening.

In my continuing recreation of myself after retiring from a full time job and moving to a different part of the country (not to mention all of the internal changes that occurred simultaneously), I kept returning to the idea of volunteering in a local women's shelter, where victims of domestic violence can go for various kinds of help. However, the time never felt quite right until a couple of weeks ago when an application form accompanied our little daily hometown newspaper. That was all it took----completing that form----and now, I've received an internship for a two-week training period, and I'm on my way to doing what I've been intending.

Over twenty years ago, when I was gaining the experience in my miserable home life and the therapy I attended to help me figure out how to cope, who could have known that I would one day be able to use the misery I experienced to help someone else.

Here's a list detailing forms of domestic violence from the handout this organization provides (and I experienced almost every one of these):

Domestic violence. . .

. . . can be physical:
- preventing you from leaving the home or going where you want to
- intimidating or trying to control you or your children
- hitting, slapping, shoving, choking you
- throwing or breaking objects in the home
- following you when you leave the home
- forcing sexual acts against your will

. . . can be emotional:
- criticizing your abilities as a spouse or partner, parent or employee
- embarrassing you in front of other people
- disapproving of your friends, relatives, neighbors
- hampering you in your job or school
- having angry outbursts or "losing their temper"
- being over-protective or extremely jealous
- threatening you, your children, pets, family members, friends, or themselves
- leaving excessive phone messages

. . . can be financial:
- denying you access to bank accounts, credit cards, or the car; forcing you to account for money

Realizing that none of this sort of behavior is "normal" is a first step in getting help and support in order for a woman (and any children) to begin to create a new kind of normal, one that is loving and supportive and creative.

Stony Creek

We've been on a roll lately, celebrating our diverse and magnificent landbase---Del Norte County, California----first by attending several events at the California Redwoods Bird and Nature Festival, and then by continuing our explorations into areas we haven't been before: here, Stony Creek, where the exotic Lady's Slipper and Darlingtonia Lily (or Cobra Lily, a carnivorous plant) bloom profusely, enjoying habitat where they can keep their feet cool, and wowing us with the amazing close-up and distance views, just a short hike through the woods from the tiny village of Gasquet.

Truth in Symbols

Truth can be difficult to discern sometimes, especially when we seek what is sometimes beyond reason, beyond the five senses, even.

My reading over the past six months has been focused on various aspects of the Divine Feminine, the dark Madonna, labyrinths, and various other symbols that resonate within our souls and connect us with ancient truths.

How interesting it was to learn that the fish symbol appropriated by modern Christians for their bumper stickers had its origins in pagan symbology----as a vulva, symbol of the Divine Feminine, the Goddess, who is present in both spirit and body, a mix of life sorely missing in Western civilization's pride in its "conquering" of nature through its "superior science" and focus on the mind's powers to the exclusion of what was often considered humans' "dumb animal" nature.

And so we are all connected through symbols----whether we know their various meanings or not----something that can remind us that, though we are all unique, we are nonetheless connected.

Healing Fear

I almost don't know what to make of it all. . . the continual changes to my plans, the strange branchings-out and connections. Before I moved here almost two years ago, I'd never heard of Reiki healing, which---miraculously enough----"is not dependent on belief at all and will work whether you believe in it or not." This suits me because I'm slow to believe, even though I'm quite open to possibilities. (I know that sounds contradictory.)

I became curious about Reiki after reading Jane's blog but hadn't had a chance to learn much more personally until this trip to France (that I'd sold my engagement ring to pay for) was canceled. I'd committed to go with a group of women intent on exploring the dark feminine (and various other themes inherent in that, including various beliefs revolving around the probability that Mary Magdalene and Jesus were married and had children [Da Vinci Code stuff]----and how that information was suppressed by the Roman Church, intent on subjugating women, among other things)----all interesting themes that seemed to speak to my own feelings of having been silenced, so I thought I was somehow "meant" to go. So much for that.

However, when I got my money back from the woman who'd canceled that trip, she gave me someone else's name and told me that I might be interested in participating in a small workshop in Chartres Cathedral for a week---called "Healing Bodies, Healing Fear"----and after several other doors closed (including my looking at other possible tours), I decided to connect with the woman leading this group and make this a part of what has turned out to be my self-guided tour of France. And she's a healing touch practitioner (similar to Reiki) who actually performed a healing session for me while I sat in her living room, since I mentioned to her my most recent (annually occurring) breast cancer scare. I told her I don't believe I have cancer, and after the treatment, she agreed----so that felt good. (I'll still go back to have the radiologist confirm it with a sonogram.)

I grew up hearing stories of how my mother resented giving up her ideas of how she might have lived her life, so I vowed never to do this myself. However, fear is sticky and sometimes disguises itself as "practicality" or as "safety" or even as statements like "I wasn't meant to do" whatever.

Here in this time of wondering how to live my life, I am intent on pushing against the barriers of who I pictured I once was in order to become who I am. . . and FEAR will not hold me back.

Shifting

How strange to think I know myself in a basic way and then to find myself shifting in ways that are contrary to the stories I've told myself ABOUT myself before. . .

That is, I have always called myself a "loner," yet in the (almost two years) since I've moved, I've reached out to others with a constancy that is rather shocking to my formerly isolated self. In fact, someone told me that my "transparency" disturbed her.

Until recently, I have tried not to reveal myself, I have remained quiet, believing (as I'd learned from Carlos Castenada's Don Juan when I was a teenager) that those who tell their histories to others allow themselves to be trapped by others' judgments. Rather than freeing me, this idea actually kept me pent up and too-conscious of what others may or may not be thinking.

How freeing it is to simply say to oneself, "I am not responsible for what others think about me. All I can do is attempt to live and be as wholly myself as possible, trusting that I am unfolding and becoming who I am meant to become. . . always learning, always finding bits and pieces burned away, then regrown."

Dreaming

After writing about thinking of "building walls and barriers" to protect myself from unwanted conversations from strangers while enjoying my front yard, I dreamed I was swinging from the top of one narrow wall to another (from a trapeze connected somewhere in the sky), trying to find balance and stay safe from a coming flood.

I only now recognized the relationship between my thoughts and dream, coming back to this electronic space, wondering whether anything was happening here.

And so, in my continuing questioning of what is private and what is public, I wonder whether this sort of writing should remain private or whether it has a place in a public realm.

Town Life from My Front Yard

I've rarely lived in town over the course of my life thus far, and it's a challenge for someone who's mostly a loner (and frequently a curmudgeon), who prefers the company of a book to small talk and a walk in the woods or through a field and along a creek to shopping. We're still in the Wet Season here in northern coastal California, so on the rare occasions when the sun appears, almost everyone shows up outside, as I did yesterday, chopping around with my hoe, attempting to free flowers and vegetables from some of the choking weeds.

And so as I looked up to see a man walking on the street toward me with a big grin on his face, my own face grinned in response, but unfortunately this served as sufficient invitation to a visit from someone who (apparently) knows no boundaries because he proceeded to ask me about how much we paid for our house ("We don't talk about that") and to chatter on nonsensically before finally wandering away, talking loudly to himself (since I was no longer paying attention). I'd prefer not to believe the fellow was hopped up on meth (an unfortunate problem of our area) and instead is merely eccentric, but. . . this is why I don't like to spend any time in the front yard.

Instead, I dream of creating walls and barriers.

Not five minutes later, an 11- or 12-year-old boy appeared, introducing himself as our new neighbor, and asking whether he could help me (for a price, of course), and whether we have any fruit trees. I told him our apple trees are still young but that when they begin to produce enough apples to share, we would, and I suggested that he talk to his parents about planting one in their yard, too. (I bit back a wicked impulse to tell him we have cameras and motion detectors focused on those trees 24 hours a day.) He was polite and easy enough to talk to (with his shyer friend standing a bit behind him), and after he left, I began to see myself from his youthful perspective, wondering whether one day he might remember living on this street, talking to the lady who lived up the street about growing apples, and whether he'd remember her as kind; if so, I'm sure he'll also remember me as old.

Observing all these differing perspectives is what happens when I'm around people, whereas when I'm observing nature, I can simply watch and be.

Out to St. George Reef Lighthouse

Lighthouses have always fascinated me----for all the obvious, Romantic reasons, and then for more personal ones (like my grandfather's having been a seafaring man)----and so when we had a chance to benefit the folks who are working to restore the St. George Reef Lighthouse, located about 7 miles off the coast near where we live, by our buying a helicopter trip out for a too-short tour of less than two hours, we jumped at the chance. Opportunities don't come often or easily: the tour is only available on weekends that the weather permits and only from November through mid-April (today's was the last for this year) to spare the endangered stellar sea lions the noise and bother of us humans.

I may post a few other photos of Jon's later----he has the high-powered camera----but here are some I took today.

Links and Connections

Since I stepped away from this blog, questioning the value of the time I was spending with this metal box, I've come across several reasons to continue, but within limits. Reading this piece and watching the fascinating short film at the bottom of the page on the "social media revolution" reminded me, however, of the value of technology, too.

Of course, I still get angry with its too-quick obsolescence, with people who spend more time staring at screens (small and large) than they do at nature or their loved ones----and I don't want to be one of those, but I cannot deny that I enjoy the connections I've found via technology, as long as my more immediate and personal life with those around me here does not suffer.

Because one thing so easily leads to another. . .

Sailing Away

Thank you, dear readers, fellow seekers, for sharing time with me here. I am leaving behind these electronic creations for the time being to more fully attend to ink and paper, seed and dirt, warm hand in mine, cat in the lap, dog at my feet.

Feeling Blessed

Traffic where we lived near Baton Rouge, Louisiana, was awful, and every day I bemoaned the loss of nature---given over to highways and buildings and concrete.

Here, however, the drive anywhere (except within the tiny confines of this little town where we live and mostly walk) is absolutely stunning. The following are some photos of the Smith River (about ten miles from our town), one of the last undammed rivers in California, and also one of the clearest. If you're driving from here anywhere north (besides along the coast), this is the route you take.

If you look closely in the first photograph, you can see an RV driving on the winding mountain road from which these photos were taken----because no matter how many times I see these lovely views, I'm still incredulous and sometimes use pictures to look back on and pinch myself to remind me (when it's stormy and rainy and I'm feeling trapped inside) of how fortunate I am to live so close to such beauty.

Thoughts from the Tub

During my brief (but wonderful) stay at the Anima sanctuary, I was reminded again that the main luxury I will miss when civilization collapses will be my easily acquired hot tub baths, not just because I enjoy all of the physical sensations but also because I do a great deal of contemplating in the tub. It's as if sitting in hot water condenses my thoughts so that I'm able to see them more clearly, like the finger-writing we can do on a steamy bathroom mirror.

This morning, it occurred to me how strange it is to finally realize how hard I am on myself (after others have told me time and again that they notice) and to consider the reasons (in an attempt finally to break their hold on me)----especially since I can no longer believe that this stance serves me but only tears me down. This mental (as opposed to physical) self-flagellation isn't because one enjoys the pain but because one believes that the pain can be transformative and thus beneficial. Oh, how twisted. . .

Where did this thought pattern originate? Partly in patriarchy, partly in the Puritan-inspired work ethic of my grandparents (with whom I grew up closely), and partly in the morality I learned from Southern Baptists. It says that we can do good, but we mustn't take pleasure in or be recognized for the good we do. Good grief.

Only One?

Looking for the reasons my chest has been feeling so tight, why I become so restless and feel I must get out---move---anywhere sometimes, I reflected on a recent conversation that centered around the topic of "How to live one's life" in the everyday, and this person said that it's important to find one's passion.

Of course, this idea isn't new to me, but it reminded me of how long I've been seeking what others seem to know in their hearts early on. Some people discover in childhood or as teenagers what they wish to pursue, to focus on in their lives and they become accomplished at that art or craft or profession and stay with it.

Instead, I seem intent on tasting a little of everything I'm interested in, of experiencing as much as possible, knowing that this may make my experiences more shallow than those who delve more deeply over time into a certain passion, but also feeling that it's just my way----something I don't really desire to change because it feels natural to me, even though it may not seem ideal.

If I had to point to a single "passion" I've pursued with any regularity I'd say it's been writing, but its pursuit has been as fragmentary and on-again, off-again as any other aspect of my life, and thus the results are equally fragmented and poorly honed, forming not a body of work but scattered papers (and credentials now gathering dust). And so I wonder whether my passion is simply misnamed, or whether I lack the fire of discipline. I'm not sure writing is one of those saving passions, though (at least for me)---that is, the kind of passion that knits together days and makes a life feel whole and purposeful. But maybe it will be, especially if it's connected to nature, one of my other passions. . . .

from: Why Cats Paint, a Theory of Feline Aesthetics

Beware the dangers of "bovine hypnosis"! (Please click on the image below to see it full-size.)

Feeling Uprooted

It's finally dawned on me. Even though I always reckoned myself a free spirit, able to live anywhere, move anywhere, the fact is that I lived in the same 100-mile-region almost my entire life. In my mind, I didn't move away because I couldn't----too many ties, too little money. And, though I thought that I never really felt at home in the South, it was my home, by default, anyway. That is, there were people who came to know me, to accept me (whether begrudgingly or not), to forgive me (if not accept me for) my eccentricities, to know that even though I may come across too strongly for some, they at least could count on my meaning well. And. . . I had my "credentials" associated with my employment----that is, my college degrees, my sterling evaluations from jobs deemed well done.

A year and a half later, I am realizing how isolated I feel, how dependent I am on this technology to keep me in touch with my loved ones----my daughter and granddaughter and friends----who are so far away. And, though I don't really want to work again, part of me misses those affirmations of my strengths.

Which brings me to technology again: this morning I actually signed up to receive five e-mails weekly from "The Universe," little affirmations that are supposed to boost one's spirits. Add to this the poem I read each day from The Writer's Almanac, today's by Norah Pollard, that ends so sadly, so truly, and my tears just mix with the rain that is falling, falling, falling steadily.

When you did not give me
a Valentine today,
I was undone.
And I wept in the shower
even though I am an adult and know
gifts are materialistic shallow
commercially driven wasteful crap.

But why, why could you not have
Wasted some mute love on me?

The Nature of Privacy*

My notions of privacy were formed from an early age, imposed in great part by a mother who is excruciatingly private in most ways, as she learned from her father, who didn't talk about his own experiences (as a sixteen-year-old who joined the navy to enter WWI by lying about his age, who won the Croix de Guerre for heroic actions in France)----even to his own brother. As a teenager, I strongly related to what I read of Henry David Thoreau's isolation at Walden Pond and to the ideas that Carlos Castanada presented as Don Juan's, especially in regard to not telling anyone else your "personal history," for that would allow someone else to trap you in their own ideas of who you are.

Thus, I still have very conflicting ideas about whether to reveal my ever-changing self----and at what point. That is, I used to think that I'd eventually reach a point where I'd honed this self to an acceptable sharpness, brightness, that would be "worthy" of revealing to a larger world. Then I realized that my life was passing and I was merely hiding, waiting for a perfection that I could never attain, and that I was missing many opportunities of interacting with delightful people who generously accept me as I am . . . becoming.

And that's it. I intend never merely to be what I am now, but to continue always to become what I want to be (regardless of the social "acceptability"). Those folk who prefer to box you up, tie the strings tightly, and tape up your mouth, keep you conveniently on the shelf and expect you to behave just so----they don't interest me, but I must admit that when I examine my feelings about such people, I fear them. They are the ones who judge, who imprison, who hurt, the ones who try to make us feel we are always being watched from the infamous Panopticon.

And this is the crux of what I feel about privacy at present: it is the keeper of individuality, of differences, especially since I now live in a very small town, one with cliques very much like those that develop in one's school years. In revealing too many of our idiosyncrasies to the world at large (through this vast technology), I wonder whether we endanger them. Zombies are out there looking for life to consume; the impulse to remain hidden still seems viable.

*Inspired by reading "The Observer and the Observed," Marcy Peek

Budding Out

In the midst of a typically rainy, coolly mild Pacific coast winter, I stare from windows often at the rain slanting down. Sometimes it's the horizontal rain that the locals brag about, other times merely the mist we tend to ignore after a while, going out without umbrellas, which are the sure sign of a tourist.

Against a dark background, though, are the bright stars of blossoms on our cherry plum tree bursting out from full buds humming with life, with potential.

Being Present

I'd started several posts over the last couple of months and then left them unfinished as drafts; here in this post, I've tried to consolidate the ideas and deleted the drafts. It's interesting (and disconcerting) to see that the same ideas have kept coming up, unresolved, in my life since I was a teenager. I keep twirling them over and over in my mind, looking----always----for how to live my life.

Figuring out how to act, what to do, isn't so easy, especially when one desires to live with purpose and intent. So many diversions call to me----reading, writing, crafts (I learned to knit a couple of years ago, anticipating living in a cooler clime), watching movies, traveling----and I jump from one to another, all the while attempting to maintain touch with people I desire to have a relationship with.

After reading Wolf's piece, "A Case for Presence," I considered again why the average person seems to have such difficulty sustaining this sense of presence for any length of time. Of course, many people are uncomfortable with what may be perceived as not producing anything. We are taught that we must always have something to show for our time, so that leaves out observing for the sake of observation, experience for its own sake. Not-doing has come to mean instead watching television, becoming numb.

Most of us are trained from childhood to fit into a certain mold, our lives planned out for us from school to career to retirement to death. It's no wonder we become uncomfortable when we act outside the typical, the norm.

Saying that the experience of danger tends to snap us into attention to the present serves to remind us of the attractions of camping out, of riding a motorcycle, long hikes, of any sort of movement into the unknown where the unexpected can occur. More typically, we arrange our lives in just the opposite way, surrounding ourselves with comfort and predictability, becoming fearful and distraught when a schedule is disrupted or the electricity goes off.

Homogeneity has become the standard so that no one is surprised by any potential unpleasantness----which precludes the possibility of the unexpected delight, too.

And when I do try to communicate, I remember that no matter what I say or don't say, do or don't do, someone else can always see that as a hook to capture me and place me neatly folded in a box of theirs. But that in itself should never stop me from saying or doing what I feel is true and right in the moment, even when, upon circumspection or learning more, I find out that I was wrong. How else can anyone ever discover and experience truth as a part of the world? Otherwise, I would continue as I have been for much of my life----isolated, ruminating alone, silencing my voice that I'd learned to characterize as a bit too strange and never quite good enough.

Who am I?

For many reasons lately, I've been frustrated with technology, including many aspects of modern life----computers, flying, driving, movies----often compelling aspects that nevertheless can make me feel hurried, unheard, invisible, and separated from the natural world.

And so, reading A Harper's Garden, I was pleased to find questions asking me to (re)consider some basic aspects of my life. As an exercise in being more attentive and to slow down and focus, I have written some answers here, though they are only tiny shards of the whole.

What do I love in life? I love being attuned to my feelings, my intuition, and allowing my feelings to lead me or to teach me. For example, recently I felt overwhelmed and confused by the enormity of my emotions and the way I appeared to overreact to something my husband said. I felt as if I would fly in all directions at once----rather like exploding. It happened quickly and the outburst was over after ten minutes or so, but what interests me now is looking back at my reaction and what happened later in the day: an earthquake, 6.5, occurred 90 miles south of here, one strong enough to create a boom (rather like a sonic boom) and cause our old house to sway. And so I wondered whether my feelings earlier in the day were in response to the energy building in the earth beneath me.

Remembering that I have a part in the greater whole of life is important to me; it's what I love about life----that I am not this lone, separate being, and though I am unique, I also share with others----humans, animals, plants, rocks----in the greater good of all. This is also my greatest challenge: to remember I am important, too.

Asked to consider what I enjoy about reading A Harper's Garden, I like the mix of art, fantasy, magic, music, and thought-provoking, personal writing. I return to read the blog because I am often delightfully surprised by its contents and by the synchronicity to my own experiences. Also, I like the pauses----sometimes longer pauses in the regularity of the posts----because we all need breaks. I enjoy reading about others who are struggling to evolve, to be more sensitive, to live more fully.

To answer what my greatest wish for the planet might be, I would wish for zero population growth, zero new development, and to allow nature to begin to recover from the devastation civilization has wreaked upon it, which would also be the sentiment I'd voice if I knew that I'd be heard and attended to, along with loving and being tolerant of others and their differences.

Uncomfortably Stretched

Writing here has become daunting to me in my month-long absence from it, yet it's also measured how time can seem to encompass so much because a great deal has happened. If I had to describe my feelings, I'd say I feel as if I've been beaten up, pummeled. If my mirror image could reflect my feelings, it would be stretched, distorted, smeared across the glass.

Part of this feeling is because my feet have been in the air (along with the rest of me, of course), flying (or driving) all over the place, visiting family, friends, and former haunts, some places I was glad to have left behind.

And it's partly because of news I received last night of a former colleague who killed herself Sunday, the day I was traveling home. Over the course of my work-life, she is the second person I worked with who killed herself, and I'm just so saddened.

Synchronicity

Whenever I use this term, I must sing it syllabically ("Syn-chro-ni-ci-ty") whether in my head only or aloud to the melody of the Police song by that title. Lately, so many instances have occurred that I feel buzzing with excitement.

This particular time began with a forwarded e-mail referring me to a talk by poet Kim Rosen titled "Poetry: Medicine for the Soul." I'd not heard of Kim before, but I've always loved the idea (and experienced the reality) of poetry as a means of healing, so after listening to this talk, I ordered her book (with an accompanying CD), Saved by a Poem.

Though I didn't have time to begin reading the book before leaving for a short trip to southern Oregon, I did bring along the CD to listen to on the way. While in Oregon, I was invited to stay the night at the lovely woman's home where I attended a meeting because temperatures dropped quickly into the teens and a late-night drive back to the California coast on icy winding mountain roads would have been dangerous.

The following morning, drinking tea and talking to my hostess, I mentioned Rosen's CD and asked whether she'd heard of her. "Well," my new friend said, "Kim began writing that book in the room you just spent the night in. In fact, she's going to be in Eugene soon, which is only three hours from here." The details of how Kim Rosen ended up staying there are my friend's own tale of synchronicity, one rich in meaning to her life.

Needless to say, we are going to hear Kim Rosen in Eugene on Sunday and my anticipation over following the next length of thread to this event is growing.

Women Who Run with the Wolves

Lately, I read from this book by Clarissa Pinkola Estes (I fondly think of her as "Pinky") each day, allowing these archetypal stories to slowly steep in me. Over the last few days, I've felt this sinking in my spirit, a feeling I once named depression but now choose not to name it (and thus all-too-conveniently wrap it up in all the [sometimes false] notions I have about it) but to explore the feeling instead.

Estes refers to the "peaks and valleys" of our lives and how wolves "ride them as efficiently, as fluidly, as possible." She goes on to write that "the instinctual nature has the miraculous ability to live through all positive boon, all negative consequence, and still maintain relationship to self, to another." I've been working to become more attuned to my instincts and intuition over the last year (as opposed to focusing on knowledge and reasoning), which has opened me up to remarkable and surprising synchronicities and associations/relationships----what I've been needing for so long. It's these relationships that our culture so easily cuts off with its pressures on us to produce and maintain a certain style of living.

And so, I am trying to focus on looking at the depressions I fall into on occasion not as something I should or even can avoid, but as a kind of "compost pile" I'm naturally a part of at certain points on my wheel of living, a necessary breaking down in order to find myself built up again.

To quote Estes: "We have erroneously been trained to accept a broken form of one of the most profound and basic aspects of the wild nature. We have been taught that death is always followed by more death. It is simply not so, death is always in the process of incubating new life, even when one's existence has been cut down to the bones."

Thus, when I'm depressed, I can remind myself that I am in a necessary period of incubation, preparing for the new (and surprising) that is to come.