Meeting with wonderful old friends – from my first job – Monday night and realizing, other than aging somewhat, no one has really changed, I wondered out loud on the drive home if it's possible at 25 we have already become primarily the person we will be for life.
It seemed a rather profound thought to explore. I know in some ways I don't feel very different; in all of the essential ways I believe I am the same person, sans some of the baggage and experience I have accumulated along the way.
Or were we just putting on our best faces? In this group, we have all witnessed each other at our worst: nursing headaches at work after a Sunday night galavanting; playing grownup in newspaper jobs that practically paid play money; living large because we didn't know any better; and loving hard for the same reason, sometimes rewarded with heartaches, yet also with relationships that have survived and grown. It stymies me to think that these people sailed out of my daily life when they had been such an important part of my maturing. I guess we all grew into other things: different careers, marriages, relationships and families.
So is the person who laughed, reminisced, stirred fond memories and totally enjoyed herself with this group the real me or is the one who has not-so-gracefully navigated a harsh winter and feels lost, even desolate, me? I don't recall these spells of hardness during my tenure with these friends. But then, life was simpler. Only me to care for, no worries, no lingering expectations or disappointments, only living in the moment as we all did. AHHHH living in the moment. That may be the difference.
How did I stray so far from that earlier time? I felt new, alive and my own person then. Now I feel governed by some pretty deep ruts not necessarily of my own making, but trenches – family and cultural patterns, philosophies and tenants that run counter to my essential self – from which I am attempting to emerge The first step has been to recognize them. Now I am working to extricate myself. And it's really hard. I feel like I am the only screwed-up person as well as the only one trying to do something about it. It's not something that pops up in the daily course of conversations, e-mails or facebook posts. And, when in passing, someone asks how I am, I know they don't want to hear "crappy or demented," so I suck it in, force a winced smile and reply, "OK," which is a blatant lie. But the truth would upset the social script.
Deep down, I know this is imperative and what I am supposed to be undertaking right now, in this moment. Last week, I was beginning to wonder if God were an invention, but that's because I am conflicted about my faith community. I have been giving there what I have needed all of my life, spiritual nurture. My wise shamanic counselor says they can't provide what I need. So where, I ask, do I get it?
Certainly at age 25 I did not suffer from this dilemma. I did not examine issues this deeply. Was I living more superficially? It was surely an easier way.
Perhaps my lesson is to meld my earlier ability to live in the present with the harder course right now, including talking about it, even making people feel uncomfortable. And to take it one day at a time and see where it leads ... hopefully into God's loving embrace. But I am not so very sure.
• What does renewing old friendships mirror about who we have been? Who we are now?
• How does dealing with the complexities of life as we grow older contribute to our maturity?
• To our spiritual growth?
• How is it possible to have felt so very close the the Divine, only to feel so far as to question its existence?
• How can we open a healthy conversation about the darkness, which is also a part of the lightness?
they held the mirror
and when I looked back,
I saw joy, frivolity and an easier way
I am afraid to look presently
because the ride is steeper, twisting and taking
me deeper and darker away
from the light I only so
very recently seemed to find
something tells me it's okay and
if I were to peer ahead, I would be pleased with the view
I must hold that hope, along with the reflection
of the past, and let it light the darkness now
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Albatrosses to be shed
I had a last-minute invitation to an International Women's Day (IWD) lunch hosted by a Russian friend of mine Tuesday that was more of a treat than I could have imagined. I had never even heard of IWD until I met Svetlana a few years ago when the heater on the gym pool conked out in December and we were the two lone and hearty souls to take a dip.
The luncheon brought together an interesting array of women spanning five decades of ages, a myriad of life experiences and the common desire to unite. It was lively, serious, fun, nurturing and the breath of fresh air I desperately needed. Emanuela, originally from Umbria, Italy, and Svetlana, from St. Petersburg, had both grown up celebrating IWD, so they seemed to be the driving forces of the commemoration, which happened to be the 100th anniversary. It's a national, no-work, holiday in almost 30 countries. Apparently, in the former Soviet Union, there's a men's day, but everyone still works. The irony was not lost on me.
Initially, IWD was political in nature, originating in socialist Eastern Europe and Russia advocating better rights and working conditions for women, but has taken on the larger role of celebrating and uniting women around the world. It seems the collective voice has grown loud and strong in a century.
And I had NEVER heard of it before my Russian friend. How strange and ridiculous is that ... in this land of plenty and justice? Fortunately, my seventh-grader came home also talking about it as it had been discussed on her daily school news program.
After a marvelous Soviet-style feast, mingling and getting acquainted, learning about IWD and feeling a part of this group, we meditated together. Right there in Svetlana's living room mid day. And it was glorious. She played an Indian sax CD, we opened our kundalini energy and faced her altar dedicated to Sahaja Yoga founder/guru Shri Mataji Nirmala Devi, who died last month.
All of these women had that in common. They asked if I'd be comfortable meditating with them; I smiled and said I was Quaker and used to silent worship, which is, essentially, the same thing. They seem pleased.
OMG I had not realized how very long it had been since I had meditated outside of Sunday worship. Sure, I make my semi-weekly swims meditative and the five-minutes of relaxation twice a week in yoga, but this was SO different, SO healing, SO cathartic because I entered with NOTHING.
It has been a very long time since I entered my Sunday worship that way and I had not even realized it. Compared to the heaviness and restrictiveness I have felt in Quakerism [can you tell I haven't been fed in awhile?], the Sahaja yoga was light, deep and refreshing all at the same time. With no agenda.
I also happened to have a strange dream this week. [Well, aren't most dreams strange?] Someone in the Quaker Meetinghouse was pointing out rubber body parts – a heart, hand and unidentifiable organ – on the office floor to me. I recognized them as representing me and, upon reflection, something has been tearing me apart ... literally. My wise spiritual friend has given me some ideas for working further with this dream, but it is obvious wholeness is not a part of my life right now and I am beginning to understand the source – that, perhaps, it's time to explore another spiritual avenue. I am uncertain whether that means leaving my home of the past 12 years or just branching out. Hard to tell, but Tuesday's meditation makes the idea more appealing,
• How has a refreshing experience shaped or changed my view or attitude?
• When my spirituality has become stale, am I brave enough to look elsewhere or make a change?
• How can I extract myself from that kind of rut?
• What are potential drawbacks?
• Potential rewards?
unquestioningly entrenched
because, for so long, it fit
wearing it, bearing it because
it had been such a vital connection
relying more on memory than
the present for comfort
until something: a new experience or dream
awakens us to new possibilities and albatrosses to be shed
what courage will I be called to muster?
The luncheon brought together an interesting array of women spanning five decades of ages, a myriad of life experiences and the common desire to unite. It was lively, serious, fun, nurturing and the breath of fresh air I desperately needed. Emanuela, originally from Umbria, Italy, and Svetlana, from St. Petersburg, had both grown up celebrating IWD, so they seemed to be the driving forces of the commemoration, which happened to be the 100th anniversary. It's a national, no-work, holiday in almost 30 countries. Apparently, in the former Soviet Union, there's a men's day, but everyone still works. The irony was not lost on me.
Initially, IWD was political in nature, originating in socialist Eastern Europe and Russia advocating better rights and working conditions for women, but has taken on the larger role of celebrating and uniting women around the world. It seems the collective voice has grown loud and strong in a century.
And I had NEVER heard of it before my Russian friend. How strange and ridiculous is that ... in this land of plenty and justice? Fortunately, my seventh-grader came home also talking about it as it had been discussed on her daily school news program.
After a marvelous Soviet-style feast, mingling and getting acquainted, learning about IWD and feeling a part of this group, we meditated together. Right there in Svetlana's living room mid day. And it was glorious. She played an Indian sax CD, we opened our kundalini energy and faced her altar dedicated to Sahaja Yoga founder/guru Shri Mataji Nirmala Devi, who died last month.
All of these women had that in common. They asked if I'd be comfortable meditating with them; I smiled and said I was Quaker and used to silent worship, which is, essentially, the same thing. They seem pleased.
OMG I had not realized how very long it had been since I had meditated outside of Sunday worship. Sure, I make my semi-weekly swims meditative and the five-minutes of relaxation twice a week in yoga, but this was SO different, SO healing, SO cathartic because I entered with NOTHING.
It has been a very long time since I entered my Sunday worship that way and I had not even realized it. Compared to the heaviness and restrictiveness I have felt in Quakerism [can you tell I haven't been fed in awhile?], the Sahaja yoga was light, deep and refreshing all at the same time. With no agenda.
I also happened to have a strange dream this week. [Well, aren't most dreams strange?] Someone in the Quaker Meetinghouse was pointing out rubber body parts – a heart, hand and unidentifiable organ – on the office floor to me. I recognized them as representing me and, upon reflection, something has been tearing me apart ... literally. My wise spiritual friend has given me some ideas for working further with this dream, but it is obvious wholeness is not a part of my life right now and I am beginning to understand the source – that, perhaps, it's time to explore another spiritual avenue. I am uncertain whether that means leaving my home of the past 12 years or just branching out. Hard to tell, but Tuesday's meditation makes the idea more appealing,
• How has a refreshing experience shaped or changed my view or attitude?
• When my spirituality has become stale, am I brave enough to look elsewhere or make a change?
• How can I extract myself from that kind of rut?
• What are potential drawbacks?
• Potential rewards?
unquestioningly entrenched
because, for so long, it fit
wearing it, bearing it because
it had been such a vital connection
relying more on memory than
the present for comfort
until something: a new experience or dream
awakens us to new possibilities and albatrosses to be shed
what courage will I be called to muster?
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Perseverance in an imperfect life
Yesterday, my husband and I snuck off to a matinee of The King's Speech. I'd been wanting to see it for a very long time. It was every bit as good as I had hoped and then some. Beyond the intrigue of the royals, WWII and the abdication over an American divorcee, it was a moving story of friendship and how a commoner, no less an Australian, became a King's first true friend and how that friend helped a potentially great man overcome fear instilled by upbringing.
It was amazing to me to understand just how lonely, vulnerable and screwed up a King can be ... no less than an ordinary citizen; maybe more so because of circumstance and the way in which royals are raised.
My favorite passage [with the exception of the scenes when the speech teacher actually gets the Duke of York to spew obscenities or sing his words without stammering] was when Lionel tells Bertie (the-soon-to-be-coronated monarch) he is the most courageous person he knows because he has persevered.
The struck a powerful chord in me and is a strong reminder of how our wounds not only force us to grow (when we rise to the occasion), but are often the source of our gifts. If only we can see that for ourselves and remember.
Sometimes when I take stock of my life, I feel I have underachieved. That I pursued a career full force with wonderful opportunities and successes, took time out to start a family later and then tanked because an auto accident [combined with other factors] resulted in fibromyalgia, a diagnosis that took years and me finally screaming it at an endocrinologist, who concurred. Not that having a name attached has changed anything. I have a full list of what I haven't been able to do.
But the notion of perseverance – of getting up day after day to the wall of morning pain – stopped me. Even on days I feel I do nothing else, I persist and persevere. We all do in our own ways and with our own adversities. Think about it. And then begin another list. The list of what you have accomplished in spite of the wounds. Maybe even because of them.
I have been forced to slow down, live a more spacious and contemplative life. Would I trade that? Emphatically, NO.
We need to be the Lionels of the world and remind ourselves, as well as those we love, of what we have achieved. We must muster the courage to see, acknowledge and applaud our perseverance.
• When was the last time I gave myself credit for persisting? Muddling through?
• What difference can that make?
• Do I have someone to remind me or is there someone I can remind?
• How have my wounds aided or become my gifts?
• How has my life been enriched by the hardships?
I am beginning to understand
that life is in the struggle
otherwise, we'd be complacent,
ungracious, striving
not that we aren't those things anyway
but how much more so would we be if we danced
through life unaware?
instead of being grateful for the opportunity
to live imperfectly
It was amazing to me to understand just how lonely, vulnerable and screwed up a King can be ... no less than an ordinary citizen; maybe more so because of circumstance and the way in which royals are raised.
My favorite passage [with the exception of the scenes when the speech teacher actually gets the Duke of York to spew obscenities or sing his words without stammering] was when Lionel tells Bertie (the-soon-to-be-coronated monarch) he is the most courageous person he knows because he has persevered.
The struck a powerful chord in me and is a strong reminder of how our wounds not only force us to grow (when we rise to the occasion), but are often the source of our gifts. If only we can see that for ourselves and remember.
Sometimes when I take stock of my life, I feel I have underachieved. That I pursued a career full force with wonderful opportunities and successes, took time out to start a family later and then tanked because an auto accident [combined with other factors] resulted in fibromyalgia, a diagnosis that took years and me finally screaming it at an endocrinologist, who concurred. Not that having a name attached has changed anything. I have a full list of what I haven't been able to do.
But the notion of perseverance – of getting up day after day to the wall of morning pain – stopped me. Even on days I feel I do nothing else, I persist and persevere. We all do in our own ways and with our own adversities. Think about it. And then begin another list. The list of what you have accomplished in spite of the wounds. Maybe even because of them.
I have been forced to slow down, live a more spacious and contemplative life. Would I trade that? Emphatically, NO.
We need to be the Lionels of the world and remind ourselves, as well as those we love, of what we have achieved. We must muster the courage to see, acknowledge and applaud our perseverance.
• When was the last time I gave myself credit for persisting? Muddling through?
• What difference can that make?
• Do I have someone to remind me or is there someone I can remind?
• How have my wounds aided or become my gifts?
• How has my life been enriched by the hardships?
I am beginning to understand
that life is in the struggle
otherwise, we'd be complacent,
ungracious, striving
not that we aren't those things anyway
but how much more so would we be if we danced
through life unaware?
instead of being grateful for the opportunity
to live imperfectly
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Frozen by what's NOT in my heart
It's been a rough and tumble couple of weeks as I attempt to figure out what I want to be right now, not just when I grow up because I'm not sure I'll ever be in that place. Nor do I want to be, unless, maybe, when it's time to transition from this life.
My blog, among other things, has suffered as a result. It's not that I haven't tried, it's just that it has come out in fits and starts that never seem like a whole piece or even finished. Yet that's been my life of late. Perhaps stringing these chunks on one strand may make a whole something. Here goes:
1.
3.
I tried an office job because people I love and respect asked and I thought I should give it a go, which they graciously let me do. It was not a fit for many reasons. But primarily because that's not where my essential self calls and it spoke petty loudly. I ignored it and fought on. Which is what I have typically done in life when I let my social self tell me what to do and I let myself be dictated to by "everybody's opinion," that I have learned is not real thanks to reading Finding Your Own North Star: Claiming the Life You were Meant to Live by Martha Beck.
I understand I am not meant to live a conventional life and can surrender into that acceptance, while leaving "what everybody thinks" behind. Everybody, according to Beck, boils down to those influential in our lives, the media, our educational system and those who have been critical of us ... especially those.
The intensity of recent events in my life was almost crushing until someone shook me up and made me see what I passively let happen. Maybe not so passively. I took a bold step and the immediate release was unexpectedly wonderful. In North Star, Beck says that siding with the essential self makes one feel like Scrooge the morning after the ghosts have visited: free and full of love and gratitude.
I was certain I'd crash the next day with the flu/cold one daughter and my spouse shared. Instead, I arose very early, cooked large breakfasts and saw each daughter to her bus, took a yoga class, visited on the phone with a close friend and prepared to have appliances delivered the next day [i.e. cleaning out the old food and old fridge]. And, in between, dreamt of all the new possibilities for MY work, with the emphasis on my and not someone else's.
I have re-gained some energy and a new vision is emerging, one that flows and does not require me to fight. I am tired of fighting, pitting my selves against each other with my body and psyche as the battlegrounds.
4.
I am dealing with the lost-energy aftermath, but my spirit is more than in tact; it feels free again. Free enough to put itself out there with this "in-process" blog post. One person whose opinion I respect rather strongly suggests it's time for me to go out into the world and I wonder what, exactly, that means right now.
• How do I know what I am currently doing is my real work?
• How can I use blinders to let rejection and judgment fall away as I find my path?
• What lessons do those difficult encounters create?
• What is the real, true me?
• How do I remind myself gently that I am a work in progress and extend that to others?
frozen by what's not in my heart,
but rather on my mind or in untrue voices
thoughts and whispers that have imbedded a deep and binding
culvert I am attempting to dig out and re-channel
thus connecting my heart to the rest of me and ...
working toward wholeness
My blog, among other things, has suffered as a result. It's not that I haven't tried, it's just that it has come out in fits and starts that never seem like a whole piece or even finished. Yet that's been my life of late. Perhaps stringing these chunks on one strand may make a whole something. Here goes:
1.
Wish the world would let me in on its little secrets sooner. Ones like:
• You can have a career and have a family, but if you have the family later and take time off, you're in for a BIG surprise if you think you can return on your terms.
• If you decide you have a spiritual side and prefer to live in that place, the rest of the world doesn't hold much of a place for you.
• You can have a chronic disease and pretend you don't, but sooner or later the world will trigger something to remind you that you do.
• You can give yourself away and the world will ask for more.
• You can show your soul to the world, thinking you're ready, and it will still get stomped on.
• You can "think" you're in a spiritual environment and still be subjected to the demands of the secular world.
• If you are creative in any way, you will have to carve your own path.
• Ha, ha, ha; there IS a glass ceiling.
[You can CUT the anger and frustration, can't you?]
2.
After feeling defeated, now I am rebellious; tired of the restrictiveness of the norm and anxious to break out into something more creative, joyful and ... well ... me.
[Something's at work in this shift – creativity?]
3.
I tried an office job because people I love and respect asked and I thought I should give it a go, which they graciously let me do. It was not a fit for many reasons. But primarily because that's not where my essential self calls and it spoke petty loudly. I ignored it and fought on. Which is what I have typically done in life when I let my social self tell me what to do and I let myself be dictated to by "everybody's opinion," that I have learned is not real thanks to reading Finding Your Own North Star: Claiming the Life You were Meant to Live by Martha Beck.
Interesting how I came across this book. It was "recommended" by the New York agent who flirted with me for a few days to quickly dash my hopes of her representation after a lot of blood, sweat and tears. She said my book was too similar to North Star, among others. I was shocked because my research had not turned up anything quite like I was proposing: my journey of the past 12 years in journal entries and art, wrapped with meditations, queries, affirmations, exercises and explanations I've developed in training and leading spiritual-nurture groups and workshops. And, because North Star was ten years old, it wasn't even on my radar.
So, being the curious sort, I borrowed a copy of the book. Our titles are similar [mine was Finding Your True Self: A Map of Self Spiritual Exploration and Nurture, which I will change], even the chapters follow common themes, ending with exercises. That sounds like a lot, but the commonality ends in that her approach is more a life process of finding your calling; mine is about re-discovering the Divine within.
And then I began reading it. BINGO. I needed this book and am not sure I'd ever have found it otherwise. Coupled with a rejection, which I usually take pretty hard, I began to explore how and why someone else's judgment can be so personally damaging and damning.
This probing has been also been facilitated by a convergence of experience, awareness and provocative, loving souls who have witnessed my pain and frustration. The North Star book delineates our essential self [the one we're born with] and the social self [the one that conforms] and theorizes that balancing the two opens new and greater possibilities. For most people the social self is in charge ... often without any awareness.
I understand I am not meant to live a conventional life and can surrender into that acceptance, while leaving "what everybody thinks" behind. Everybody, according to Beck, boils down to those influential in our lives, the media, our educational system and those who have been critical of us ... especially those.
The intensity of recent events in my life was almost crushing until someone shook me up and made me see what I passively let happen. Maybe not so passively. I took a bold step and the immediate release was unexpectedly wonderful. In North Star, Beck says that siding with the essential self makes one feel like Scrooge the morning after the ghosts have visited: free and full of love and gratitude.
I was certain I'd crash the next day with the flu/cold one daughter and my spouse shared. Instead, I arose very early, cooked large breakfasts and saw each daughter to her bus, took a yoga class, visited on the phone with a close friend and prepared to have appliances delivered the next day [i.e. cleaning out the old food and old fridge]. And, in between, dreamt of all the new possibilities for MY work, with the emphasis on my and not someone else's.
I have re-gained some energy and a new vision is emerging, one that flows and does not require me to fight. I am tired of fighting, pitting my selves against each other with my body and psyche as the battlegrounds.
4.
I am dealing with the lost-energy aftermath, but my spirit is more than in tact; it feels free again. Free enough to put itself out there with this "in-process" blog post. One person whose opinion I respect rather strongly suggests it's time for me to go out into the world and I wonder what, exactly, that means right now.
• How do I know what I am currently doing is my real work?
• How can I use blinders to let rejection and judgment fall away as I find my path?
• What lessons do those difficult encounters create?
• What is the real, true me?
• How do I remind myself gently that I am a work in progress and extend that to others?
frozen by what's not in my heart,
but rather on my mind or in untrue voices
thoughts and whispers that have imbedded a deep and binding
culvert I am attempting to dig out and re-channel
thus connecting my heart to the rest of me and ...
working toward wholeness
Friday, February 18, 2011
Dreaming of possibilities, not dwelling on darkness
I found a shiny new toy this week; nestled in among the darkness of a fading winter and personal disappointment. Something bright blue, long, thin and somewhat slimy.
I traipsed off to my 5:45 a.m. water class Tuesday [ok, I don't get there til 6 so I can see my oldest before she flits off to junior high way too early for anyone to attempt functioning, particularly teenagers] after a couple of restless nights, so my eyes were barley pried open and I hadn't yet tested my froggy morning voice. I slipped in, stretched, then joined the class fluttering up and down the pool.
Usually I shine here, zooming past everyone. I overheard two women saying, "well she's always fast because she swims so much" as they – much to my amazement – overtook me. "Were they on drugs, had they attached motors to themselves?" I wondered. Apparently my puzzlement and eventual moment of clarity were visible to all. My body loosened as a trapped cat of a laugh escaped upon noticing their fins swishing behind them. FINS. They were whisping up and down the lanes with plastic appendages that propelled them as if on air. They offered me the third pair and, being game for any new water toy, I complied and was soon creating waves behind me.
I took off physically, mentally and emotionally casting off everything else, including the disillusionment of the previous week. This unexpected gift was, definitely, a deal breaker. More a mood breaker. The experience lightened everything and was the levity I had been secretly, and unknowingly, craving.
Who'd a thunk?
I kept the form-fitting fish feet on until the bitter end, not wanting to let go of my Cinderella-shoes. I worked hard, experiencing it in places I had forgotten existed. Any pain was replaced with waves of energy and exhilaration. It reminded me of when the water was new to me five years ago. When I didn't take it for granted, trudging off for my usual chore of laps [which never leaves me feeling like it was a chore]. Kinda like being a kid and, well, exploring all the possibilities of a new toy.
I wonder how many other toys have been strewn across my path that I failed to notice. Not this one, this time. Now I dream of all the new possibilities with fins instead of dwelling on the darkness of the past.
• When was the last time I discovered a new toy?
• How'd it make me feel?
• Can I really recall what that was like as a child?
• How can opening up the possibilities shift us?
• How can I nurture that joyful, childlike openness in myself?
dragging myself from the darkness,
eyes merely slits
attitude uncertain
sleep still too close
slipping into the familiar silky warmth
body wakes with movement
fogginess lifts
trading one bed for another
surging into the flow
muscles remember themselves
pulse quickens
and something seems askew
head shakes, eyes squint
and a question mark hovers,
soon replaced by childish longing
for the new toy
that makes ALL the difference
I traipsed off to my 5:45 a.m. water class Tuesday [ok, I don't get there til 6 so I can see my oldest before she flits off to junior high way too early for anyone to attempt functioning, particularly teenagers] after a couple of restless nights, so my eyes were barley pried open and I hadn't yet tested my froggy morning voice. I slipped in, stretched, then joined the class fluttering up and down the pool.
Usually I shine here, zooming past everyone. I overheard two women saying, "well she's always fast because she swims so much" as they – much to my amazement – overtook me. "Were they on drugs, had they attached motors to themselves?" I wondered. Apparently my puzzlement and eventual moment of clarity were visible to all. My body loosened as a trapped cat of a laugh escaped upon noticing their fins swishing behind them. FINS. They were whisping up and down the lanes with plastic appendages that propelled them as if on air. They offered me the third pair and, being game for any new water toy, I complied and was soon creating waves behind me.
I took off physically, mentally and emotionally casting off everything else, including the disillusionment of the previous week. This unexpected gift was, definitely, a deal breaker. More a mood breaker. The experience lightened everything and was the levity I had been secretly, and unknowingly, craving.
Who'd a thunk?
I kept the form-fitting fish feet on until the bitter end, not wanting to let go of my Cinderella-shoes. I worked hard, experiencing it in places I had forgotten existed. Any pain was replaced with waves of energy and exhilaration. It reminded me of when the water was new to me five years ago. When I didn't take it for granted, trudging off for my usual chore of laps [which never leaves me feeling like it was a chore]. Kinda like being a kid and, well, exploring all the possibilities of a new toy.
I wonder how many other toys have been strewn across my path that I failed to notice. Not this one, this time. Now I dream of all the new possibilities with fins instead of dwelling on the darkness of the past.
• When was the last time I discovered a new toy?
• How'd it make me feel?
• Can I really recall what that was like as a child?
• How can opening up the possibilities shift us?
• How can I nurture that joyful, childlike openness in myself?
dragging myself from the darkness,
eyes merely slits
attitude uncertain
sleep still too close
slipping into the familiar silky warmth
body wakes with movement
fogginess lifts
trading one bed for another
surging into the flow
muscles remember themselves
pulse quickens
and something seems askew
head shakes, eyes squint
and a question mark hovers,
soon replaced by childish longing
for the new toy
that makes ALL the difference
Monday, February 14, 2011
Protective cover of self love
I'm thinking it's time to remove the chink(s) from the armor. You know, the one that started as a nick when I was very young, then grew until it went right through me. The pieces missing from the protective cover of self love.
That visual image occurred to me as I was assessing how much damage I sustained after an agent's recent rejection of my book, saying I needed a "unique and special" message. She may as well have said "you're worthless," me ego tells me if I let it. It tells me a lot of things I know aren't true, yet it's so powerful and persistent, I sometimes fall into it's trap.
I had thought egos built us up better than we are, causing us to excel at the expense of being compassionate and caring. But mine (Just where is the ego factory anyway ... where we are endowed with these parts of ourselves? I'd like to trade mine in or return it as defective.) feeds on self doubt and has particularly fortified itself against me with fibromyalgia and my staying home with children, then attempting to build a career again.
It almost fooled me this time. The voice of ego, which took on the agent's, had a familiar echo ... a little too familiar and close to home. It sounded very much like the Sunday School teacher who told me my heart was black with sin at age three. The black-heart thing was the first time I ever even questioned who or what I was. The first time I felt less than. I also recall not believing it, even if I couldn't verbalize that thought then. Yet each time I received a similar message, I let it compound with the original.
Why do we do that? Is it because we are trusting? Naive? Don't want to buck authority?
For me, it has probably been all of those with the net result forming self doubt. I can't recall the last time I felt really sure about something. Well, yes, I can. And it's been about my book. The one I feel God has taken me by the hand and led, pulled and cajoled me through the last 12 years, even when I didn't recognize what was forming. The almost-unconscioualy moving ahead is part of the package. Had I realized, I would not have cooperated. One step at a time, however, I can manage ... even though I am continually whining for clarity. If I truly had it, it would scare me into immobility. Often I am immobilized anyway; or so it seems.
I am working to restore that chink, wondering if, perhaps, it's a phantom injury: one not really there, but "faked" by ego to hold me back. The best way to proceed, I believe, is by beginning to listen more deeply within myself and to those who love me and seeing ego for what it is and when it's whispering to me.
I am rebuilding that protective cover and will be more selective in what I choose to let in.
• What tends to make me doubt myself?
• What's the pattern of that been in my life?
• When/how have I recognized it as something destructive?
• What spiritual practice might overshadow those doubts?
• When I can truly be with Spirit, what happens to the doubt then?
it starts so very small
that it's easy to dismiss
until we're silently under barrage
and miss the pileup
falling into the habit
of assuming we screwed up
and that becomes a heavy weight to bear
one only undone with recognition
like shining the light into a deep, dark hole
to uncover something shiny and worthwhile buried
underneath
That visual image occurred to me as I was assessing how much damage I sustained after an agent's recent rejection of my book, saying I needed a "unique and special" message. She may as well have said "you're worthless," me ego tells me if I let it. It tells me a lot of things I know aren't true, yet it's so powerful and persistent, I sometimes fall into it's trap.
I had thought egos built us up better than we are, causing us to excel at the expense of being compassionate and caring. But mine (Just where is the ego factory anyway ... where we are endowed with these parts of ourselves? I'd like to trade mine in or return it as defective.) feeds on self doubt and has particularly fortified itself against me with fibromyalgia and my staying home with children, then attempting to build a career again.
It almost fooled me this time. The voice of ego, which took on the agent's, had a familiar echo ... a little too familiar and close to home. It sounded very much like the Sunday School teacher who told me my heart was black with sin at age three. The black-heart thing was the first time I ever even questioned who or what I was. The first time I felt less than. I also recall not believing it, even if I couldn't verbalize that thought then. Yet each time I received a similar message, I let it compound with the original.
Why do we do that? Is it because we are trusting? Naive? Don't want to buck authority?
For me, it has probably been all of those with the net result forming self doubt. I can't recall the last time I felt really sure about something. Well, yes, I can. And it's been about my book. The one I feel God has taken me by the hand and led, pulled and cajoled me through the last 12 years, even when I didn't recognize what was forming. The almost-unconscioualy moving ahead is part of the package. Had I realized, I would not have cooperated. One step at a time, however, I can manage ... even though I am continually whining for clarity. If I truly had it, it would scare me into immobility. Often I am immobilized anyway; or so it seems.
I am working to restore that chink, wondering if, perhaps, it's a phantom injury: one not really there, but "faked" by ego to hold me back. The best way to proceed, I believe, is by beginning to listen more deeply within myself and to those who love me and seeing ego for what it is and when it's whispering to me.
I am rebuilding that protective cover and will be more selective in what I choose to let in.
• What tends to make me doubt myself?
• What's the pattern of that been in my life?
• When/how have I recognized it as something destructive?
• What spiritual practice might overshadow those doubts?
• When I can truly be with Spirit, what happens to the doubt then?
it starts so very small
that it's easy to dismiss
until we're silently under barrage
and miss the pileup
falling into the habit
of assuming we screwed up
and that becomes a heavy weight to bear
one only undone with recognition
like shining the light into a deep, dark hole
to uncover something shiny and worthwhile buried
underneath
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Stepping on my soul
Why do I often assume I have made the mistake?
Yesterday, I was devastated to learn that a New York literary agent who had been back and forth with me for a few days, forcing me to exhaust myself [yes, of my own volition] by revising my book proposal, felt my work was too similar to other things out there and one, in particular.
I was shocked, disappointed and blamed myself for having missed that title in my competitive research, which was pretty exhaustive. I AM a die-hard reporter, after all.
I thanked her for her time -- while gritting my teeth and wiping teary eyes -- and said I would look at the similar book and possibly make revisions.
Today, I took that look and also noticed the 2001 publication date. No wonder I missed the book; I was searching "recent" titles. It was eery, however, how similarly our chapters were titled. And our book titles both begin with Finding the ... I think I'll change mine, no problem. I had already traded it in after an editor's suggestion late last fall. Finding was her word; answering had been mine.
I was gracious, no burning bridges here, but also wanted to know what I could do differently ... as if I had made a mistake. She bluntly said to write something "special and unique."
OUCH. How can the deepest story of my soul be stepped on like that? That really is the conundrum of putting this work out before people that don't know me or care to. Especially those outside a spiritual environment. I had forgotten how ruthless the real world can be. What a wonderful lesson, however, in the generosity from my virtual and Facebook friends! The encouragement and support have overshadowed the devastation.
Today is better than yesterday. At least I don't want to burn my book now. Tomorrow will be brighter yet.
It does remind me of the fall session I had with an editor. At the time she said my writing was strong, the art great, but I needed to focus more. I took that hard as well, put the book away a few weeks, then dusted it off as I was ready to hear what she had said and made revisions that only strengthened the work. I am hopeful the same will happen this time.
I understand it all as a process. One of growth, not necessarily MY mistakes.
• Why do I/we so easily assume the blame personally?
• Or even assume blame?
• How can I work in the secular world with a spiritual mentality that does not crush me?
• Why should that outside accolade/affirmation matter?
• What if I lived my life for myself or something bigger and not the cultural nod?
it was beautiful,
sang
and was me
it emanated from Spirit
and I was pleased
til the other world
said otherwise
and made me
question
myself,
my beliefs,
my soul
for a second,
when I realized how ridiculous that is
Yesterday, I was devastated to learn that a New York literary agent who had been back and forth with me for a few days, forcing me to exhaust myself [yes, of my own volition] by revising my book proposal, felt my work was too similar to other things out there and one, in particular.
I was shocked, disappointed and blamed myself for having missed that title in my competitive research, which was pretty exhaustive. I AM a die-hard reporter, after all.
I thanked her for her time -- while gritting my teeth and wiping teary eyes -- and said I would look at the similar book and possibly make revisions.
Today, I took that look and also noticed the 2001 publication date. No wonder I missed the book; I was searching "recent" titles. It was eery, however, how similarly our chapters were titled. And our book titles both begin with Finding the ... I think I'll change mine, no problem. I had already traded it in after an editor's suggestion late last fall. Finding was her word; answering had been mine.
I was gracious, no burning bridges here, but also wanted to know what I could do differently ... as if I had made a mistake. She bluntly said to write something "special and unique."
OUCH. How can the deepest story of my soul be stepped on like that? That really is the conundrum of putting this work out before people that don't know me or care to. Especially those outside a spiritual environment. I had forgotten how ruthless the real world can be. What a wonderful lesson, however, in the generosity from my virtual and Facebook friends! The encouragement and support have overshadowed the devastation.
Today is better than yesterday. At least I don't want to burn my book now. Tomorrow will be brighter yet.
It does remind me of the fall session I had with an editor. At the time she said my writing was strong, the art great, but I needed to focus more. I took that hard as well, put the book away a few weeks, then dusted it off as I was ready to hear what she had said and made revisions that only strengthened the work. I am hopeful the same will happen this time.
I understand it all as a process. One of growth, not necessarily MY mistakes.
• Why do I/we so easily assume the blame personally?
• Or even assume blame?
• How can I work in the secular world with a spiritual mentality that does not crush me?
• Why should that outside accolade/affirmation matter?
• What if I lived my life for myself or something bigger and not the cultural nod?
it was beautiful,
sang
and was me
it emanated from Spirit
and I was pleased
til the other world
said otherwise
and made me
question
myself,
my beliefs,
my soul
for a second,
when I realized how ridiculous that is
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