tough spell

Last week was a week of swings, of ups and downs, of emotional challenges and checking out. It started off with a bang with my collage, and continued strong for a few days - I loved the archeology excercise and the related insights I was led to regarding my family connections and my happiness. I struggled, however, with social difficulties. I got a little manic last week, a little ungrounded. When I went to my weekly S H sing (which I frequently skip for this reason), I felt hyper and exposed, and therefore ultimately a bit defensive. I must find a way to ground my progress in my face-to-face experience with other people. Just a little bit of discomfort and imperfect interaction that night sent me retreating to a cave of TV, food and sleep for two days afterward. It just brings up a lot - all the things I don't like about myself, all the things I still need to work on and change.

I slipped a bit in my practice. I missed yoga twice, though one of the missed practices I made up by doubling up the following day. I'm in a review period in A Course In Miracles, which, without getting into a lot of unnecessary explanation, made it easier somehow to let slide a little, to do less and therefore get less out of it. Disappointing. But I have moved on.

I did continue to do my pages every day, and they continued to help. I did an Artist Date, too, during which I explored a kick-ass thrift shop (and found several cheap treasures for me, G, and other friends), and took myself out to lunch. I also sat in sacred space for awhile and found myself spiritually refreshed. I had an awkward social interaction in the space, though, which took it out of me again. And I fretted about money during lunch. The restaurant part might have been gratuitous. Next time I'll be sure to eat before I go out - I don't want use ADs as an excuse to blow money. That's not the best approach for me at the moment. My own kitchen contains all the culinary abundance I require these days.

I also hosted a birthday party for G on Saturday night, which of course required extra cooking and cleaning. And SOCIALIZING. But I did alright. I had a lot of fun, actually, and I had no nitpicky behavioral regrets the next day. I think my stint on the couch may have have been a rest my weary emotional bones just needed last week. It seems to have helped.

The thing is, beyond and underneath everything else - beyond all the AW excercises and the playing and the facing things and becoming happier and more okay and all that, which is huge - oh dear oh me oh my - what really got to me last week was the wait to confirm the pregnancy I hope and believe may be in progress. There have been many snychronicitous, intuitive and physical indications. I want to trust, but I want to KNOW. And I do not want to set myself up for a lot of pain if it just ain't so this time around. What I really need to do is to let go. I got this message very strongly over the weekend as I emerged from the cave. Just. Let. Go. I have managed to do this somewhat since then. Of course, it's a wavering and an ongoing process. It's not easy.

A different sort of post for me, this. I feel a bit self-conscious, a bit dull. But I did want to check in, to say where I am.

I gobbled up the reading this week, but the excercises feel scary, especially that first one, the big one. Well, here goes...

my journal

Here it is:


These leather journal covers are fairly ubiquitous in the many funky bookstores and, as a dear friend calls them, crystal-swingin' shops that dot the landscape in the area where I live. It's almost a cliche to have one or to want one. However. I LOVE my journal cover. I am a huge fan of the Art Nouveau style and also of old murder ballads, which this image really conjures up for me. She's mysterious and sad, wandering the dark, stylized forest (or is it a swamp?) in her cloak. Alone with her haunted memories. I guess it's related to my "wings of the morning" theme: I really resonate with the idea of illuminated darkness, of light coming from within seemingly impenetrable murk and deep, dark depths. Plus, can you see the moon and star button that the cord closure wraps around? Yeah. Also, I am amused by the way her hair looks like a giant rat perched on her head.

It's 5 1/2 x 8 1/2, half-size, so I fill six pages every morning. I use pencil because it flows most easily. I buy sketch books to refill it. In the long barren stretches when I have not journaled, I have kept this lovely book out where I can see it anyway, thinking I want to, thinking I should. I'm so happy to have my morning pages ritual now, and to be using this beloved object.

archeology

Well first of all, I never did a proper check-in last week, and I feel I should. So here it is:

1) I always do the pages. I love them. They help me. I ignore Julia's suggestions to use them to explore this or that, because I need to use them to explore or to expel whatever's pressing on my mind that morning. I am writing them right after I wake up more often, and that is working for me even better (as I thought it would).

2) I've been working out money and abundance issues for more than a year now, with some success, so the Money Madness excercise and readings did not yield anything startling. I made my best progess on this issue the week before I signed on to this program, when I lost my job and knew in my gut it was time to live my dream of not working and focus on myself for awhile: on spiritual growth, on creating, and on procreating, not necessarily in that order. It was good to check in about that stuff, though. Toward the end of the week I learned that rather than the refund I've been expecting and budgeting for, it looks like we're going to owe taxes! Let's just say that my reponse to this revelation made it clear that a little more work around money wouldn't hurt. I also noticed that I could do more tarot readings and intuitive consulting, that I want to, that doing more of that work would nourish me deeply, and that it would ease things financially as well. Hmmm. Time to advertise, perhaps?

3) I had a swell artist date planned on Friday night, to go see a local high school musical production. I wanted to be in a school auditorium and to see dewy young 'uns earnestly doing the stage production thing. But the high school is on some country road around here, some country road with a blown-down street sign, apparently, and believe it or not I COULDN'T FIND IT. At first this seemed somewhat fortuituous, as my husband had brought his darling little sister home with him from work (she works there, too), so I got to hang out with them. But then I ended up calling her a liar because she seemed to be pretending to enjoy the popcorn with nutritional yeast that I prepared while barely touching it. I meant it lightly, and of course I didn't take her taste personally, but it didn't go over well. Ladies who would rather be polite than honest would also rather not be called a liar, apparently. I wouldn't know, since I am socially impaired. I say what I think (mostly comically and affectionately), and I truly LOVE being called on my bullshit, (as long as it's not done judgementally). Come to think of it, I probably came off as judgemental inadvertantly. Sigh. But I digress. That little bit of social discomfort, combined with all this bothersome progress and inconvenient HAPPINESS lately, as well as the feeling that I might be PREGNANT, well, o my f.g., how is a girl supposed to keep her balance? I could have slid in an eleventh hour replacement AD on Saturday, but I didn't.

I kept with my programs well enough this weekend, but by the skin of my teeth. I also stayed up until the wee hours a couple of times and ate an inordinate amount of candy. But I am okay. I ended up being so bothered by my AD truancy that I used my unbalanced energy for good and pulled images for my collage until 2am on Saturday instead of watching TV. I'm okay.

One last update item: G and I played for an hour or so yesterday. I can't say we made any real progess on our song, mostly because it's a strange little riff in some ways which he was hearing differently from what I had in my head, and since I'm the songwriter in the family I spent half the time trying to help him hear what I was doing rhythmically and where the chord changes were. After we got over that hump and just played it for awhile, however, our playing reinforced how much I like what we ended up with as a foundation for a song - I enjoyed just letting it wash over me, over and over. I remain committed to letting that song come through, as well as I can. Playing together a second time, and getting through a difficult period of musical misunderstanding, was also really good. Productive. Solid foundations are being laid here - I won't succumb to impatience if I can help it.

On to this week: I love my collage! It fills me with inspiration. I blew off the instruction to take only twenty minutes pulling images for it because I knew I'd been working up to it for years, and I wanted it to take as long as it wanted to take, to let it out fully. There are items in there that I knew would be for a special collage, and I've literally been saving them for years. It feels sooo good to have expressed myself in this way.

And it seems the creation is now creating - it really feels like my collage is helping me to help shape my consciousess of my life, my dreams, my desires. It has four sections: baby, music, home, and spritual work. I could go on and on about what's in there, section by section. It's tempting. But I'll let it speak for itself rather than slathering words all over it. (And I mean that more for myself than for any readers here.) The one thing I'll mention is that the collage makes very clear that intuitive consulting work is very, very important to me and that I need to be doing way more of it. This is another area in which I face discomfort and resistance in putting myself out there. But I really need to do that. I need to.

Archeology, an excercise:

(shortfalls)
1. As a kid, I missed the chance to be a kid.
2. As a kid, I lacked support and affection.
3. As a kid, I could have used an attentive parent.
4. As a kid, I dreamed of being a famous singer.
5. As a kid, I wanted a horse.
6. In my house, we never had enough real love.
7. As a kid, I needed more approval and understanding.
8. I am sorry that I will never again see the world from a child's perspective. [I see that even the perspective of a child who thinks she's an adult is a child's perspective.]
9. For years, I have missed and wondered about Greg. [How could I have lost his number after that unpleasant conversation? Why? Why is he not google-able? Was I meant to have lost him?]
10. I beat myself up about the loss of old friends I screwed things up with.

(positive inventory)
1. I have a loyal friend in G.
2. One thing I like about my town is it's progressiveness. Even though hippies get on my nerves, it sure is good to have them around.
3. I think I have nice boobies.
4. Writing morning pages has shown me I can keep with a program if the benefits are obvious and immediate.
5. I am taking a greater interest in other people.
6. I believe I am getting better at listening and accepting.
8. My self-care is improving in that it seems to be up from self-destructive to neutral. [Or even somewhat positive?! Wow.]
9. I feel more sensitive, awake and alive. Just looking at and considering my kitties is virtually unbearable sometimes lately.
10. Possibly, my creativity is thinking about re-emerging.

Here is a photo of the little altar I made on the bookshelf in my meditation room:


It's very interesting to me that those special photos are all of me with my siblings:



When we were little I wanted to be an only child. My mother scapegoated me and turned them against me, convincing them that I was very bad and the root of our family's problems. But I began to appreciate them as people as soon as I moved out of the house. And we began to get close when as an adult I began to tell my story. I had to tell it over and over, and illustrate it, and keep at it. But the end result is that they get it, they see it now, they are very sorry to have been pawns in my mother's hideous power play, and they are allies. Not that this is a war. Not that in truth it's ever really anybody against anybody. I don't need or want anyone to "fight" for me. I only want forgiveness and healing for all of us. But they do support me now. I have familial love, support, and understanding. It's imperfect and it's brave and it's beautiful.

And that little hummel? My dad brought home three hummels from Germany a long time ago, when we were very little. They represented us three kids. And this one, the one that's me, is 1) singing, 2) wearing boots, and 3) playing a BANJO! The little title plaque on the base says, "Happiness." Wow!

Years ago (before I even played the banjo), when my cat knocked it off a shelf and it shattered, I was pretty sad. But another one came back to me as a gift years later. When that one fell and broke, it was glue-able. Pretty corny, but: my happiness keeps shining through! And no brokenness is permanent.

collage, with PHOTOS, bitches!

Check me out. I spent the better part of the day making this, photographing it (lamely), and then sitting with my long-suffering husband opening a Flickr account and figuring out how to blog the results. I have to say, the photos don't capture the collage very well.

I LOVE my collage. It's treasure map style, a la Shakti Gawain, which basically means it includes a lot of images of things I want in my life (note nursing baby). And it's on the wall right next to my computer, so I will be passively programming my consciousness with it, well, often.

I've also posted a profile photo!

It's a few weeks out of date - my hair is dark bright red these days, and I have some kicky little rock girl bangs - but I guess you get the idea. Nice to meetcha.

G is tuckered out from helping mommy learn to post photos, so our date to play and work on our emerging song is postponed until tomorrow. But I'd say it's been a productive day.

in process

So far, my song (see previous post) sounds to me like something between anything by Radiohead and every other song I've ever written. Yawn. I've only played with it a little, though. And I'm optimistically planning to apply a little treasure of genius from Anne Lamott, a doctrine known as the Shitty First Draft. Between tomorrow and Friday I will sit down and write down and/or record whatever comes out of my head as I goof around with G's and my little riff. And I will see where that takes me. Wherever that may be, it will be a hell of a lot closer to having just written a song then I've been in way too long.

Come to think of it, the first verse of the last really good rock-ish song I wrote (okay it was over ten years ago) was written in a similar manner: At that time, I had been humming a tune I liked and playing a little riff for days but not getting any words, so I sat down in the backyard with a notebook one afternoon and resolved to spontaneously compose nonsense in the appropriate rhythm and write down WHATEVER came into my head. What I wrote was a sort of nonsense, but it was madly poetic in a way, and it somehow got the story going that would end up being the song. And I ended up keeping it.

In other news... I'm not sure how it will all pan out, but some of my early AW '06 synchronicities had to do with money, unexpected abundance, and evidence of a supportive God (which I actually believe in completely), so I have taken the spirit of this week's reading to heart. Either that or I have used it as an excuse to spend money I don't yet have. I went to a department store on an errand for a few needed (and budgeted) items, and I ended up spending seventy three dollars on myself. I did pretty well though. On the "10 Items I'd Like to Own" list from a couple of weeks ago, the one item with a star was a pair of black bootcut jeans in stretch fabric for thirty dollars or less. I found some that flatter my butt for sixteen. (!) One of the tasks this week is to throw out ratty clothing. Some of my cozy clothes (which I wear for lounging and sleeping, which lately means almost always) managed to survive the closet purge of week four, just barely, because I still wore them and was feeling too cheap to replace them. On my little spree the other day I found four pairs of cozy pants, again, butt-flattering, for an average of six bucks each. I also purchased a foundation garment (to help smooth out my line, don't you know) which had been on my list for ages. And then there were the two lovely lace-trimmed hip-length camisoles, in two smashing Eliza colors, on clearance for seven dollars each.

That last item counts as a synchronicity. Sure, they've been on my wish list (though not on the 10 items list). But here's the thing. I went to sleep the night before the shopping spree intuitively convinced that I was (ten minutes) pregnant. (Don't tell anybody.) I woke up still feeling that way. In fact, my morning pages were three solid pages of grateful prayers. Yeah. And I noticed these camis were roomy, potentially helpfully so, when trying them on at the store, but I didn't see until I cut the tags off at home that they were actually maternity wear.

Lord have mercy. Okay, whether I am or not, I've never felt more ready or more calm about it, so I must be metaphysically bursting no matter the physical state of affairs. Mama Eliza is in the bullpen, and the Old Me just walked another batter and loaded the bases. It's gonna happen.

So.

I've felt inclined to veer into the overwhelm zone over the last couple days, unsurprisingly. I have pulled out my less-than-healthy emotion- and energy-attenuating tools a bit more often this week than last. But you know what? Even this week, it really hasn't been bad. I'm managing all of that much better overall these days than I have in ages.

I wrote email to a friend recently with the following update: "i'm doing swell. i am not working apart from the occassional tarot reading, i'm doing 'the artist's way' again, this time not half-assed, with a group of arty bloggers online. i'm going through the workbook of 'a course in miracles' again, too. i'm trying to get pregnant. i love being married to g. i'm hoping the artist's way will help me remember how to be a musician again. i feel happy. i am happy. holy shit, i'm happy!"

Now, I do realize that this epiphany is... just... AWESOME. However, feeling happy has not in the past been a simple matter of, you know, good stuff. It's generally been a bit more like an emotional mine field, where no possible step feels safe and I'm sure I'll be blown apart at any moment. But this time is different, more grounded, less manic. I may be reaching for my opiate behaviors here and there, not to mention the Valentine's chocolates, but I'm also doing tasks and excercises and what-not. I went for a lovely walk today instead of writing this post in the middle of an afternoon of bright sunshine and lower fifties. In February. In New England. Yes, time was I'd have sat that out rather than face the intensity of it all. (Feeling happy is one thing on the couch with Colombo reruns, a spoon and a jar of peanut butter, but it's something else entirely out on the sidewalk when the smell of spring is rising faintly from the thawing lawn. It's a good thing I was a little congested from all the chocolate. That smell might otherwise have provoked mayhem.)

So, the other way, the new way I supplementally manage my emotional experience is to do the program. Or programs, in my case. It's funny to me that for a long, long, LONG time I resisted staying with anything like the Artist's Way (or daily yoga or A Course In Miracles) because I knew it would work. I knew I would feel better if I stayed with a practice, and I didn't know how to feel good without then bludgeoning myself back into my familiar and comfortable state of chronic emotional broken-ness. I certainly didn't know how to live like I imagined a happy person lived, with no self-destructive habits and no inconvenient incongruities of bearing and disposition. Now that I've stayed with something long enough to get that feeling good is better and *gasp* easier than being broken, and that being screwy and being happy are not mutually exclusive, all I can do to maintain my new stasis of relative comfort is to do the program. Sometimes I think I'm actually avoiding feeling by doing. Sometimes I know I am. But this doing helps me manage feeling, and it makes the feelings themselves somehow more... manageable.

At the moment, I find myself in a strange feedback loop where all I can do to avoid the discomfort resulting from doing this program is to do this program.

here comes something

Did I mention that my husband is a musician, too? That he plays bass, and that although we've been together for eleven years this week we've never played music together? Yeah. Funny thing, that. Well. Husband and I have talked a lot about how we should play together. In fact my local friend from the last post - the one I'll be playing banjo with in a couple of weeks, the one who plays drums in my favorite (currently defunct) band - wants to play some rock music with me and the man. That's been thrown around and, accordingly, avoided for nearly two years now. (No More!) And Husband has been between bands for over a year now. This is okay with him, as he has a very high-pressure, grown-up job which he loves but which nonetheless requires almost all the energy he might otherwise have to spare on loading in and out and staying up until 3, not to mention band politics. But he wants to PLAY, and yeah - we talk, he and I. He wants to play. I want to write and to play. Well. It hit me during the Week of Possibility that an excellent step for me to take toward finally manifesting outwardly my performing musician self would be to play with the musician that lives in my house, already. DUH!

Can this really be considered an insight? It's like lying on a sunny beach for hours fussing and complaining about being hot and sweaty, and then deciding with great fanfare after some fearless soul-searching that since I am a resourceful go-getter type I will go for a dip.

In any case, I finally did that today. We did that. A little dip. He was playing his bass by himself, and I said today is the friggin' day. I dragged my amp in and sat down with my guitar.

And oooh, it was yummy. Until today I had only ever plugged in at all of my two guitar lessons. But I plugged it in, I turned it up, and I started improvising on some unfamiliar power chords I may have made up on the spot. G played along on his twelve-string, a very cool and unusual instrument ideally suited with its fat, full sound for a duo arrangement with one guitar or, say, a piano. (And you know, voice.) And it started to happen! I played, noticing that my chaste scales and chord-change practice unplugged in front of TV news was actually paying off. We were making music. We were making the beginnings of a new song.

It is on my list this week to work out a melody. I will try some words, too. I am sooo excited. I don't want to overtax Mr. Big Brain-Biggy Pants-Big Job during the week (daddy needs to play his medicinal video games after supper), but next weekend we can really begin to work something out. Not to count any as yet egg-bound chickens. But at least I know there is something fetching, something juicy and tantalizing to begin to pursue creatively beyond coloring mandalas over the next several days. Yee-haw.

five lists of four, plus one fiver

Greenishlady has "tagged" me, which is nice, but it feels a little more like being pulled up onto a ledge: Blogger Heights. (Eeeee! What the hell is a "meme," anyway?) Here goes!

4 Wishes, dreams, desires:
- To have a baby this year
- To sing and play music in a band or project with people who challenge me deeply musically and personally
- To be a good mother
- To be youthful in spirit for the rest of my life

4 Imaginary lives:
(I did this already in a post, but they came out slightly different this time. I'll go with it...)
- Mystic monk - cloistered, fasting, levitation, the works
- Author of spiritual self-help books; lecturer on same (Alas, helping lots of people sounds great, but handlers and hotel conference rooms do NOT.)
- Poet/visionary hermit, a glimpse of whom might be doubted or assumed to be hallucinated
- Wealthy desert nomad - just to live in one of those giant cozy tents with piles of fur and tapestries and gorgeous rugs, with oil lamps, and with camels and starlight

4 Things I could change (I'm with you, Greenishlady - I avoid "should," and it helps):
- Go outside more
- Find places to walk and hike near where I live
- Make love more with my husband, even on the not-particularly-fertile days
- Play my piano at least a few times a week

4 People I admire:
(Okay, for this I'm just going to quote my previous post...)

Five people I admire:

The owner/operator of the Tire Warehouse franchise in a nearby town. He always has two inspiring messages on the marquis sign out front, one on each side, and never anything about tire specials or the like. His customer service is impeccable. He seems genuinely happy to meet and talk to everyone who goes into his shop.

A former boss of mine, one of the kindest people I've ever met, and one of the best listeners. Always acted with integrity. Always.

A mother I know with three teenagers, one with cerebral palsy, whose kids adore her, mind her, and let her know where they are and when they'll be home. Her patience with and love and gratitude for the disabled child is boundless and inspiring, yet she manages to set limits and look after herself, too.

My late grandfather, who was always patient, kind, enthusiastic, and engaged with his family.

The guy I saw on TV in a courtroom offering forgiveness to a serial murderer during his turn to "say his piece" as a victim's family member. He said he didn't know how the man could do what he did, but since Jesus forgave, so did he. The murderer, who had apparently remained stony-faced throughout hours of others' emotional statements, began to cry only then.

4 Things I like about The Artist's Way:
- The community! The opportunity to read and share and gain inspiration and support. Amazing.
- The way I usually end up dealing with exactly what the author says I'll be dealing with during a week, even if as I'm doing the reading I'm thinking I don't relate to most of it.
- The structure. I'm lifting this directly from either Kara or Greenishlady, but it is true for me, too--I really needed the structure that this program offers. It's flexible, which is also nice, but I find the more I just do what she says, just to see, the more I get out of it and the more supported I feel.
- The morning pages. This tool really works for me. I usually have way too much pointless crap cluttering up and clogging my thoughts, and doing the pages just cleans out the mental pipes every morning and lets things flow better for the rest of the day.

4 Things I still hope to get out of The Artist's Way:
- To embrace Artist Dates more enthusiastically, and put a little more effort and intention into them. I think I could get more out of this tool.
- To start writing songs and poetry regularly
- To make this new practice habitual - to really get over the hurdle of feeling stuck and feeling like feeling stuck is just part of who I am. I see another possibility now. I want to take steps every day, even when the program is over, even when I hit another wall or another plateau. I want to work this fucker.
- To try some visual arts like painting before the program is over and no one is reminding me every other day that deep down I want to try acrylics... and watercolors... and pottery... and...

Thanks, Greenishlady! Nice view from up here. That wasn't so bad. I think I'm supposed to tag someone else? Maybe four someone elses? Sheesh. This past is sort of scary! What if they don't want to? What if they don't even know I exist? Oh, excuse me, I went back to adolescence there for a minute. Okay. I tag Mighty Little Miss Communicator, My Healing Journey, Rebekah's Musings, and of course the luminous Saint Teresa, and I hope they all still want to sit with me at lunch.

paradise by the dashboard light

First, an excerpt from a previous post, written during week one, when I began noticing synchronicities indicating material manifestations of my spiritual energy (which is what my creative recovery efforts seem to have gone to work on first):

My car has some sort of electrical short in the dash which leaves three control knobs dark 99.8% of the time, and occassionally results in strange dashboard flashes and blackouts. These extra pyrotechnics have only occured three times [in the nearly three years I have owned the car]: a combination of symptoms shortly after I bought the car, as if to introduce the condition (I decided it was going to be one of those things that took care of itself and did not seek service); a total blackout the day I was driving around my home town having recently left another job, one I'd had for fourteen years; and a slowly intensifying flare-up of brightness that by its conclusion verged on the comical yet was also quite scary, which happened as I drove home after the very first time I did [Tarot] readings at the restaurant.

I was so wired yet so exhausted that night. I had done nine readings in rapid succession with no break, some of which were rather intense. I hadn't done multiple readings successively before, and I hadn't paid enough attention that night to keeping myself grounded and discrete. When I finally stood up to go home I nearly fell over. And yes, as I got on the road my dashboard had gone completely haywire, lighting up like something from Close Encounters of the Third Kind. The scary aspect of that (oh crap - it's late at night - i want to get home safely - please don't go dark) actually helped me settle myself energetically, out of necessity. I breathed and drove and thought about God, and everything returned to normal.

The other symptom of the dashboard issue is of course that the three dark knobs light up sometimes [very rarely]. Naturally, that only happens when I am particularly peaceful and balanced. And don't you know that I found them sweetly lit on my way home on Thursday, after a lovely evening of doing what I do...

I mentioned at the end of another post that after a particularly lovely artist date the lights were lit. What I haven't said since then is that they're almost always lit now. The only time in the past couple of weeks when they didn't light up at night (usually a moment or two after I flip the headlight switch) was the night before last as I ran some errands. And yes, unsurprisingly, I had been in a terrible funk all day. I was wearin' my poopy-pants, and I was not up for changing out of them. Oh no, I thought. I've ruined it. I've once again thrown grace back into the face of Grace in a petulant and pointless venting of I don't wannaaaaah! I don't want to be good. I don't want to get better. I don't want to do my work.

That night I half-watched nearly three hours of Law and Order as I lied on the couch trying to will some sort of escapist coma. My neck and shoulder hurt. But I woke up in another day and I did my work anyway. Yesterday I wrote my pages, colored a mandala, called a friend, did the tasks. I went to my weekly social singing opportunity. On the way down it took a minute for the lights to come up, which they did on cue as I said an affirmation to prepare me for singing and seeing people. On the way home, they lit up immediately as I turned on the headlights, as if they always did.

But you want synchronicity? Yeah? Here's one: In my last post I said that the reading for this week had brought up the wildest of my wildest dreams. I've decided to write about it a bit. (But if you are someone who can fill in the details of this little dreamscape of mine, let's not talk about it, okay?) As I think about it, this dream is not all that wild, since even in my still-mostly-blocked state, I can see that it is achievable. But it is very dear, and tenderly cradled somewhere in the light under the murky depths I've been plumbing. The fact that it is possible is what has made me hide it from myself; I know this.

I happen to be pretty good friends with my favorite singer and musician in the world. We're not in constant touch now, but there have been phases when we've spent a great deal of very special time together. For the record, he is relatively well-known in certain circles and enormously respected by all who know his work. And my friend happens to be the type of musician who, in the most extreme example, would rather teach a friend to play and recruit same to be in his band than play with people he doesn't connect with personally. He's been doing solo work lately and does not currently have a band to speak of, but he's always talking about the records he wants to make with all his friends. Alas, he lives twelve hundred miles away.

I am also good friends with his most frequent musical collaborator (and, naturally, one of his closest friends). This person lives thirty miles away. I helped him find his house. I said the blessing at his wedding meal. In the two years since he moved back to this area after four years away, we have spoken many times about getting together to play music. As many times, I have chickened out of taking action on that talk. Part of the deal is that we talk about playing electric music, and I've been dragging my friggin' heels on learning electric guitar. But there are other options - I don't need to wait until I play like Steve Vai, for one, but there are other instruments and other possibilities as well. Anyway. We see each other fairly often socially, and it's been a little awkward sometimes because he is a man of action and I am in this regard showing myself to be all talk.

We went to a show together a couple of weeks ago, one that involved lots of old-time banjo playing. Since I've been playing and enjoying my banjo a lot more lately, I decided to once again mention that it would be nice to play together - he's learning banjo, too. He once again agreed that that would be lovely. It occured to me that to play banjo together with this friend would be a great way for me to get over the psychological block I hit whenever I think of taking action on the opportunity to play with him at all. I would not have to be perfect and dazzlingly creative on an instrument I barely know. We could play songs we both knew on an instrument on which we both consider ourselves to be neophytes, we could ease into a laid-back playing dynamic together. Then the guitar stuff would seem less intimidating, or I could stop trying to force that at all and just do what was easy and natural and see where that led.

After the week five reading, during which I was positively clobbered over the head with the dream of being in a band with these two friends (and - oh yeah - successful musicians), I wrote here about how I was scared but willing to take steps. The very next day, I learned that Mr. Twelve-hundred Miles Away may be coming back to live in this area for a year, starting this fall. Good God.

That's about when the funk hit. The next morning, Monday, the Day of the Funk, I HATED this week - for making me remember what my dreams were, and for trying to show me that they were possible. It felt like cruel temptation. Am I really supposed to presume that I can play with my favorite band? I've played music all my life but I've never even been in a band. I haven't even had a solo show. I've found other outlets for performing rather than face the requisite discomfort of dealing with all my blocks to being and doing this huge part of what I think I am. Real brave, eh? So I don't even know if I have what it takes.

That has been the payoff of staying blocked - I can feel alternatingly sad and burstingly proud that I have all this potential that I haven't done much of anything with, and I never have to test my own mettle. I never have to do the work of producing, of improving. I never have to grow as an artist or deal with having to be a "performer." For the last decade or so (since I became friends with these guys - HUH!) I have barely even let anyone see this part of me. I've shown just enough people just enough to keep the idea alive - barely. It's like a pet bird that I starve, but I give it just enough to keep it pathetically breathing, glassy-eyed. I played and sang one of my songs for Mr. Twelve Hundred once, and when it was over he shook his head violently for a moment, apparently trying to dislodge the right words. "That was WICKED!" he finally said. He later asked me from the stage at a small show whether I wanted to come up and play something. I said no. The better to torture the bird.

I hated this week on Monday. I did not want to look at the grandiose me. Neither did I want to behold in the mirror the starver of delicate dreams. But on Tuesday, I got up, and I took my steps.

My mandala-a-day calendar includes short inspirational phrases with the daily mandala art, and a blank pattern to color every weekend. I was busy this weekend and didn't get to it. On Monday I did not look at my daily mandala, as I was way overscheduled with pouting and sulking. When I reported back to work yesterday and pulled off the pattern from the weekend to color, Monday's postponed message was revealed. It said, "I take action to realize my dreams."

I made a date to play banjo with my friend.

Week Four

I'm a little stunned, I guess. I had a productive week. For awhile I wanted to only focus on what I was still doing that I thought I shouldn't be - the (moderate) TV watching, the (occassional) hair pulling, the (relatively short) can't-stand-it-anymore tantrum of self-harm. But the truth is that I did less of all these things than usual, in addition to cutting out all reading and all internet. I missed the blogs and the feeling of connection, but I wrote overdue letters to other friends. By and large, I used my time much better than I thought I'd be able to, better than I have in a long long time.

I did the tasks. I cleaned and organized all my closets and drawers, decisively purging any item that resonated with the idea of low self-esteem (which yielded a half a black garbage bag full of giveaway). I revived an odd little room that I half-heartedly dubbed "the meditation room" when we bought the house, but then promptly neglected and allowed to become an overflow unroom full of unworn clothing, empty boxes and cat litter. Now it's a lovely little space, comfortable and quiet and sunny. The huge upholstered rocking chair that my grandmother rocked my father in may be in desperate need of reupholstering, but now it has a comfy and attractive slip-cover facsimile and a silky green chenille blanket thrown over it. There's a nice thick rug. The special photographs and other items are dusted and rearranged with fresh attention in a little altar on top of a bookshelf. There are some lovely white tulips up there at the moment, too. And if I needed any outside confirmation that it's a lovely space, the cats have obliged by spending long nappy hours in there since decorating day.

The idea that creativity is a spiritual issue (is that how she puts it?) has significance to me. In fact, I may be wondering whether my musical creativity is ever going to awaken from its stubborn slumber, but I feel so spiritually aligned and so willing to do the work of reclaiming my full self, as best I can and no matter how that may manifest, that the hows and whens and whats barely matter to me today at all.

But come to think of it, the reading for week 5 really stirred up some wild wildest dreams. Oh dear. (*fanning myself*) Lordy. Let's just say it's clear my dream to be a performing singer and musician is not dead. You guys think I write everything here? Whatever comes into my head? Well guess what - I don't. Wonder if I'll muster the courage to acknowledge these insights out loud at some point. I don't know. But I will take steps. I'll take steps. (Please help me take the steps, God! I'm going under in this heady riptide of possibility and I feel unmoored. Help me ground in process. Let me do what needs doing, but let me rely only on your strength. Mine is just way too spotty.)

I went to see "Brokeback Mountain" as my artist date. Forbidden, impossible, inevitable and essential love. Redemptive love beyond all logic or order. Heart-breaking willingness to show up for what the soul needs. My well is filled.

Looking forward eagerly to catching up with you all...