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

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

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

Befriending the dark thinness

I have been really moved this week reading a book I picked up purely for fun, Frankenstein's Monster.

CONFESSION: I am a fan of old horror movies, like Dracula, Phantom of the Opera and Frankenstein. Not the current-day slashers, but the ones that push us to explore or own inhumanity by questioning the humanity of those called other.

It's really shadow, that we all carry, rather than inhumanity. I have always been intrigued by the idea of shadow and have come to  understand that as the parts of ourselves unexplored, unassimilated, misunderstood, untended and unexposed. They are not necessarily parts to judge, but rather parts to integrate if we seek wholeness.

It occurs to me that my delight in shadow may have been triggered by a very early experience that I always felt wounded me: being told as a preschooler in Sunday school, no less, that my heart was black with sin. I instantly knew that was not the truth though I was in no position developmentally or cognitively to contradict the lesson or trusted authority figure. Perhaps the teacher was merely projecting her misunderstood shadow.

So this past of mine got caught up in the story of a being created from dead humans who had no say in his origin being rejected and hunted over and over. He has violent tendencies, yet prizes purloined books and brief encounters of kindness. He learns to live in the shadows because of the misery exposure surely brings. He has many more parts to assimilate than most and one begins to wonder what residual the parts of assorted others that form him can be quelled, let alone balanced.

It's as if Victor Hartmann is an opposite: his first breath emanates from the shadows and his lifelong struggle is to shine the light completely on himself. And he does, shaking loose others' expectations of his monstrousness and setting the intention to live as a man.

Victor finds his light. The question for us becomes, can we discover our shadow?

• When do I first recall my own shadow side?
• How have I explored or played with that?
• How do I reconcile myself to that darker side?
• What riches have I discovered there?
• What lessons?


so very easy to
sweep it all into the shadows


and not bother with it


the parts that annoy, disgust or provoke fear
the unknown self that seems to lurk
always there, though thinly


what if I befriend that dark thinness?
calling it into the light
exploring, knowing, perhaps, even loving


what then?


http://www.susanheyboerokeefe.com/Frankenstein_s_Monster.html

Finding the spaciousness in life

A room of one's own ...

• Drop off, then pick up cat from two overnights at the clinic – CHECK

• Start new, part-time position – CHECK

• Get first colonoscopy – CHECK

I've had a full plate the past few days and am begrudgingly into the cultural current again. A flow I desperately wish to slow. That's the one really big lesson from my week alone: I need the space and time for myself in order to create, be fed and feel whole.

That spaciousness of life that I require to be fully alive is so hard to attain amid family, work and obligation. I recently had a conversation about incorporating the writing life into raising children and a friend, also a writer, said some women never get to write and others, only after the kids are gone. The creative fire burns so greatly in me that I can not wait. It is my calling.

I think I have to move the idea of a room of one's own [Virginia Woolf] from the literal (I do have a studio) to one I can mentally create when and where I need. Perhaps that will be my new spiritual, creative practice. I so loved the luxury of living that life alone 24/7, answering to no one, rolling out of bed and doing nothing, but making a pot of coffee until I needed a break from the computer five and six hours later. It was pure joy, Certainly, it was work. But it wasn't busy work.

I was graciously offered a very part-time job at our Quaker meeting house in the office and with some more creative endeavors. It sounds like such a small slice of time, but I have to be certain I'm not trading writing time for what may be work that merely occupies me. I understand the intent of those offering was to also encourage my other writing.

I am reinterpreting my role as a journalist. For so many years, I carefully collected the stories of others and tenderly strung them into narrative to share more widely. I loved that role. Now I discover I am a journalist of a very different sort: one who uses a traditional and online journal to explore myself and, in doing so, encourages others to do similarly ... or at least consider it.

But I am also an artist, who barely finds time to pick up a chalk. Somehow, it seems ok for now as I move toward finishing my collection of writing and paintings. That has been an amazing journey that continues to unfold and has continued far longer than I ever expected. However, what I am creating is far better than I ever imagined and I am evolving right along with the process.

But that process requires time and space.

• How do I find time for creative expression?
• What happens when I don't?
• What happens when I manage to step out of the cultural flow?
• How can I build some accountability into finding that creative time?
• How can I share my progress and stumblings with another?


lingering fires
loads of time to find the right words
no rush
no schedule to hem me in


and then back to reality


and I find I can't stand saying yes before I have my time


I don't think I am supposed to

Seen from without

                                                                                                                                                                      Tad Barney photo

Two art openings and my favorite ceviche were a good antidote to feeling snowed in this week.

It's always wonderful to be around artists, photographers and other creatives. Yet, there was such a stark contrast to the minimalist third-floor gallery with gray floors, white walls and spare windows framing Over-the-Rhine at dusk as the sun cast its amber rays on once vibrant factories and breweries being reclaimed and the plush, more-known hotspot on the ground floor. The upper gallery honored its working-cass roots in its simplicity and the subtle photographs by talented locals. That was the show that drew us. The other was just fun to visit if only for the people-watching [ok, so some of the same visited both], the Picasso, Lichtenstein,  and Dubuffets. The monumental ceramics were impressive in stature alone and wrought at the hands of someone with international celebrity. This space made me anxious with so many geometric, strictly-lined and ordered paintings. As if an analyst were hiding and recording reactions. One set of paintings reminded me of a first-year college art project, then my husband told me they were famous. But he agreed.

There were classy older women trimmed in faux fir, young women with short skirts and impossibly impractical boots, raucous toddlers, Goth young adults and an interesting character suited in black, who resembled Pete Rose with a long mane he methodically and cavalierly tossed. Interesting, eclectic mix. Jet set on one floor, starving artists and their menageries on the third. Both mixing between spaces.

It aroused interesting feelings as to what qualifies as important art and who serves as judge. Is being born with a creative energy and acting on that if only for yourself enough? Acknowledgment. Being seen, appreciated and known for what emanates naturally.

Isn't that what we all desire in some way?

• Are you more comfortable with the lively, ambitious crowd or the quieter, lesser-known group?
• What does that preference suggest?
• Introversion or extroversion?
• Creativity or productivity?
• For what do you desire to be really seen?


I am who I am


not more
or less


I have reached a place
of comfort and acceptance within


and yet,
sometimes wish to be seen from without

Undoing myself or doing unto myself

Back to reality: days of marching to the schedules of others, finding the sugar secretly spilled and left behind the canister, cats who circle my feet waiting to be held and I, trying to hold off so I can breathe. No going to bed when I desire, waking, hitting the coffee, then the computer. No long spurts of uninterrupted creativity. Back to buying pounds of store-brand cheese, not exotic nibbles of whatever strikes my fancy.

I am acutely aware of how I let others influence my rhythm, pace and mood. I understand that I gave up the life of solitude when I married and bore children. What I have not realized until this recent week away and alone, is how completely I give myself away mothering, volunteering, freelancing and tending others so that there's nothing left for me. I know those in my circle of care would not want it that way.

So, existence for me – something richer than merely tolerable – lays in the balance of where and how I tend myself and others. With fibromyalgia, I have been so busy catering to my physical needs, I didn't seem to notice that others existed. Regular swimming and yoga, a vitamin-and-supplement regimen, Sunday worship, avoiding a host of foods and daily sinus dousing does not a complete life make. Yes they are things I must do to care for myself, but so is regular meditation, time in my studio, being in nature, basking in the sunshine in all seasons and writing daily. OK, I am an introvert, but have not articulated it until more recent years.

I re-learned that last week and it totally fed my soul. Interestingly without some of my physical necessities and eating foods I usually steer clear of, I experienced no pain. Two days home and it has returned.

Makes me do more than wonder; I need to change my life to work in things my soul requires before some of my other efforts. A few years ago, when looking at Jesus' words [and universally those of so many other traditions and cultures] to do unto others as you would do unto yourself, I realized I had practiced it backwards. "Do unto others before or better than you do unto yourself."As a mother and nurturer, that's the natural inclination.

I will do unto myself as I do unto others, which means I may come first occasionally. I know no one else will mind. It's myself that must grant the permission.

• Have I ever craved time away or for myself that I have not taken?
• Why not?
• If I have, how do I function solo?
• How is my rhythm or pattern altered?
• How do I incorporate that into my regular life?


the kids, the kids, the kids


yes, yes, yes


then exercise, so I may function for others


go, go, go
do, do, do


collapse


then start all over


wait a minute ...


I want more from life.


I desire to be fed, nurtured and truly alive
in my own right and just for myself


me, kids, exercise?
me, exercise, kids?
exercise, me, kids?