the wings of the morning

epiphany

2007-05-28T06:14:00.000-07:00

Well, hello, internets. Guess I took a little break. I'm doing fine, though tending toward an even more intense degree of sensitivity than usual. I deal with this every year as spring explodes, and again as the first summery days descend like a massive cresting wave of hyper-beauty, sucking me under the onslaught of smells and sounds and memories. Usually I get pretty distressingly self-destructive. This year I've mostly just had to avoid or cut short any potentially overwhelming social engagements, though damned if I haven't also hit the Ben and Jerry's with unusual frequency. And fervor. How about that Karamel Sutra people? My, my, my my my.

Anyway, I think that old familiar wave is rolling back into the sea. And it's been a gorgeous spring out this way, and I'm glad of it. It's a joy and a real comfort to have G at home this year, and I find that taking walks with him, or even just enjoying the porch while he works at his computer inside, is much easier on my system. Doing most things with him tends to smooth out my experience, actually. And last week I spent some quality time with two different dear old (female) friends, which also bolstered me tremendously. One-on-one time with the right people seems to sew me up, as opposed to the canon ball-to-the-gut effect of group or (god help me) family encounters.

Okay, seriously - must learn some techniques for knitting up the ol' aura at will. Or perhaps for remembering or being willing to do so. I can do that during readings pretty reliably. And at other times when I know I have to stay cool. Why not just apply that skill more often? I think it has to do with not wanting to be "too strong," an obsolete holdover from the troubled past. I'll have to ponder this some more.

But speaking of the obsolescence of old tools, I've had an epiphany this morning. Actually, it may have been more of a slow-dawning, pathetically resisted but inevitable insight which forced its way into my consciousness like tree roots cracking the sidewalk: I need to find ways to be grateful to my mother. The topic of parenting has come up with unsettling frequency lately in conversations with friends, and I can simply no longer deny how talking about my experience with my own parents, especially my mother, makes me feel. I want to take more responsibility for the kind of experience I invite into my life, and walk away from the negativity. The "facts" of my past just don't matter that much anymore.

Since suffering what could only have been what's called a nervous breakdown at age seventeen, I have felt compelled to enunciate the major points of my family background at every marginally suitable opportunity, as if to explain to the world why I'm this way. As if to apologize. It's time to stop explaining myself, it's certainly time to stop apologizing, and I could really stand to leave my poor mother alone energetically, as well. She's had a hard time of it. She needs support.

This is where gratitude comes in. Mostly what I've come to on that front (until today) is that I'm glad she didn't beat, physically torture, or kill me. Of course, I've also become increasingly aware over the years that my circumstances, difficult though they were, made me who I am in all the good ways, too. Sure, I've had some residual difficulties: the coping strategies I learned to employ have not exactly been allies in the long term. But when I think through my strengths, I can see pretty clearly where they came from. Through the more painful aspects of my experience, I learned to forgive anyone for anything, and to understand that we're all doing our best with what we have. I learned that Love doesn't just come from others. I always managed to find whatever strength I needed. And eventually, I recognized the Source of Love within.

Those are some pretty great gifts. So who cares what manner of crap they were wrapped in? Maybe that was just the most direct delivery system available. I absolutely believe that my spirit chose it, in any case. So why cling to the bitterness? Why even bother to spell out how I came to whatever wisdom I may now enjoy? Is it in fact wisdom, or some sort of personal conquest? Much different! Well, here I am now. And the negative side of all this is beginning to evaporate. I hope I can let it go quickly. It no longer serves me, and it's beginning to feel false and encumbering.

I need to do some reframing, and I need a jump start. So today, I'm making a point to remember the good stuff. Not just the not bad stuff, or the stuff that was so bad it was metaphysically good. For instance, my mother taught me to listen to my gut. She gave me direct instruction on this, and for that I am very grateful. She also taught me expressly that being a little weird was highly preferable to trying to be like everybody else. Again--very cool of her. And when she was around friends she loved and felt comfortable with, she laughed often and generously, gushed gratitude and praise for every small gesture, made yummy noises, and sang her little heart out. Wow - I learned a lot of good stuff from watching my mother. And holy crap--this feels great.

happy birthday to me

2007-05-03T12:20:00.000-07:00

Last weekend's show, the Big One, was a blast. My entire family was there--both parents, siblings and a few cousins, too--along with a downright humbling number of dear friends. One of them pointed out that the place had gone nuts when I was introduced. I suggested that might be because almost everyone I knew was in the club! I got lots of birthday wishes, cards and flowers as I made my way from the stage to the dressing room between sets. But the best gift, of course, was the opportunity to play and sing that music.

And we had a couple of gooood sets. All my dear ones who had never heard the band before were clearly quite genuinely blown away. It felt really tight. The sound guy is a genius, and also a friend, and the system there is excellent, so with the exception of the first song in the electric set, I could hear myself clearly. What this means is that I know I sang well. Ahhh! The whole deal was recorded in 24 tracks, and there's talk of producing a cd. We'll see about that, I suppose, but, at very least, at some point I'll have a nice record of this great night in my life.

I've been laying low since then. There's a lot going on socially and musically this weekend, too, and I needed a break from being around people. It's been a nice, quiet week. I like my life.

In the quiet, I've dived into ACIM practice with renewed vigor, and made some progress. One idea which has been particularly illuminating today is the notion that any sense of unease at all --anger, depression, worry, frustration, regret, etc.--is at its essence an unloving thought. Remember my long-ass post about my troubles with certain types of people in my life? I wanted to know what to do beyond forgiveness, which didn't seem to be helping me to avoid certain recurring problems. The wise and lovely Marilyn suggested I think less about what to do, and rather be forgiveness. That really stuck with me. And today what I am putting together is that a major way my negativity hides is in my frustration and disappointment over how (many) people don't "get" me. This may not be direct judgment of them, but those thoughts and feelings are certainly unloving in the ACIM sense, and they are keeping me in a sort of personal hell. They need to go. And I think I'm ready to let them go. Hallelujah.

P.S. - There are many photos on Flickr, and two videos on YouTube of Sunday's event, if you know what to look for. Here's a hint:

update/psa

2007-04-25T16:17:00.000-07:00

Been awhile... Ups and downs, and all is well. Radio show went well; REALLY looking forward to the big show this weekend: the 20th anniversary of the band's first club gig--an acoustic and an electric set at the now-posh club where they first played back then. Looks like we'll be recording the show with multiple tracks, so there'll be a high-quality recording of the event. And my whole family, along with most of my friends, will be in attendance. It even falls on my birthday! This is a significant event for me. Plus (and most important, really), everything is clicking with the music; it feels really together. Can't beat that.

The internet went away today, along with cable--not that I tend to watch TV during the day. I do dink around quite a bit online, however, and as I have been feeling a bit sensitive, this served as an interesting invitation to just dive in and feel, to show up rather than zoning out, as I would have preferred. In this case "showing up" meant reading, and watching a movie about Leonard Cohen. But G was out, working on his laptop from a restaurant with wifi, and somehow just this small break in my routine was all I needed to get cracked open.

I'm reading, among other things, a book kindly sent to me by an internet friend, an autobiographical work by a psychic. There are many ways to experience and practice that aspect of things, I imagine, and I am very very careful to maintain a certain detachment from others' accounts as much as possible, but certain bits of any other intuitive's story--the most spiritual elements--cut straight through to my absolute core no matter what kind of guarded I'm attempting to be. I got lanced thusly a couple of times this afternoon. But it's a good kind of (open, bleeding) wound.

And Leonard Cohen just kills me, too. I remember as a child of perhaps eleven or twelve, hearing his song "Suzanne" on one of my mother's Roberta Flack albums and being utterly arrested by the weight and depth of the words. This, I knew, was no ordinary pop song. In fact, hearing this song might have been the first time I considered Jesus in tangible, immediate, truly spiritual terms. I guess the nuns from my brief CCD [Catholic bible school] experiences did not exactly impart the sweet sadness of spirituality, and certainly not that of Jesus himself. Those teachings felt a bit more like a rat in a cage learning not to push the electrified lever. These words felt so very vast, yet so attentive and subtle:

And Jesus was a sailor when he walked upon the water
And he spent a long time watching from his lonely wooden tower
And when he knew for certain only drowning men could see him
He said, "all men will be sailors, then, until the sea shall free them"
But he himself was broken long before the sky would open
Forsaken, almost human, he sank beneath your wisdom like a stone

Yikes. Roberta Flack had changed sailors to brothers in that line with the quotation--a very seventies dilution--but even thusly adulterated the verse packed a serious wallop. My prepubescent mind reeled, and found a big piece of itself. I didn't understand it, exactly--and I still don't know if I do, or if I even agree with the theology--but I could feel and comprehend these words in a part of myself that was deeper than meaning or theology. And that's how I continue to experience much of Leonard Cohen's work. I don't know if I always agree with the guy's perspective, but the man is paying attention, and my spirit is still utterly seized by his art. And soothed. He sees so much darkness, but he seems to find beauty and light, and hope, everywhere.

And she shows you where to look, among the garbage and the flowers
There are heroes in the seaweed; there are children in the morning
They are leaning out for love, and they will lean that way forever
While Suzanne holds the mirror

I recommend the 2005 tribute concert/documentary film "I'm Your Man," by the way. Look out for Teddy Thompson's heartbreaking "Tonight Will Be Fine." I had a crying jag so intense I frightened the cats after replaying it a few times when the film was over. The song could not be more simple melodically or harmonically, but here its beauty is just transcendent. This guy's singing, and of course the words--the WORDS!--got right in there are jangled my everlovin' guts. It's interesting to me that it's ostensibly about a romantic relationship. I tend to get so bloody BORED by songs about those. But this reminds me of reading James Joyce, in a way. The characters and scenes are on many levels very common and quotidian. Most of us, most of our lives, on their faces, are! Yet in one day in Dublin, or in one love, is contained all the wonder and pain of all the world.

On to the PSA. I have discovered that a very serviceable chocolate sauce can be made by mixing a cocoa powder ("baker's" cocoa) and sugar with a little hot water. I think my proportions of cocoa to sugar are about 3 or 4 to 1 (but I like it super chocolatey and not very sweet). I stir it with a whisk to get out the lumps. You could pour this over ice cream and it would taste a bit like Hershey's Syrup, only better--and it has only three ingredients, one of which is water, and all of which tend to be around in case of chocolate emergency. LOVE IT! I personally just scoop a chocolate or strawberry whipped yogurt into the chocolate sauce bowl, and top it off with crushed granola bars. A healthy sundae! A nutritious one, anyway. And quite yummy. This makes me so happy, I do it every other day or so. Grinny face.

live radio show

2007-04-12T09:06:00.000-07:00

Go here to listen to a live set by the band I'm playing with--the acoustic side of things--this Monday, April 16th, from 11:23 am - noon, est.

On the fence? Here are some quotes from reviews of their last acoustic record (the creation of which I of course had nothing to do with), cherry-picked by the label that released it:

"revitalize these songs of love and death with passion, taste and talent"
-ALL THINGS CONSIDERED

"unusual and refreshing"- CMJ

"unpretentious...winning and warm"- SING OUT

"Incredible!"- TimeOUT (London)

"most exhilarating....fiercely performed" - Hartford Courant

"There's no affected lack of sophistication or fawning respect in the music. The band members just play, and they don't hold back"- Chapel Hill News

"exquisite and ominous" - Columbus Dispatch

"Those harmonies are scandalous" - Dwight Diller

"tastefully heavy" - Chicago Tribune

"ploughing a unique furrow" - FolkRoots (London)

"You may have been on the planet Mars for the past few years, but there are few other bands to match the potential and scope of [this band]...Absolutely fabulous. THE band to catch"- First Hearing (Manchester England)

-ROLLING STONE

- PULSE

I like "exquisite and ominous."

Another show has been scheduled, and more are in the works. So glad this project continues, at least for another couple of months. It's been good for me.

Speaking of kicking ass and taking names, G's company may not have massive funding yet, but he has kept his mind on the work--on doing his absolute best with what is in front of him--and he is consequently on fire. He came home from a meeting yesterday a changed man. To him, it was just another meeting, which happened to go well, but I could tell that the consistent, subtle changes he's been making energetically as he approaches his work, his attitudes and inner landscape, had quietly resulted in a tectonic shift from which I do believe there can be no return. He exuded an irresistible, matter-of-fact confidence. He spoke about his business so articulately, with such focused animation, that I was utterly drawn up into his observations. This stuff could be a bit dry in other hands, I imagine. But my man? Genius! So smart, so funny, so powerful. He seems happier and more comfortably confident all the time.

So I'd better go! I have work to do if I'm going to keep up with him. Yay.

onward

2007-04-04T14:24:00.000-07:00

Another m/c. This one is more like a late period--about six days late--but still. Bleah. Talk about detachment practice--G and I were just taking it a day at a time, and I can tell, now that we're at square one again, that we weren't just pretending. We're disappointed but really okay. We once again only feel closer to the finish line, somehow.

In other not good news, G's car died suddenly. Only two weeks after putting $659 worth of work into it, the engine ran into other, more serious problems which would have required a larger investment to repair than the car was worth. We got $500 for it as a trade-in. *sigh* On the plus side, we found something else we liked right away within the narrow range that was both finance-able and affordable for us. And we got a great rate from our credit union, which we double extra pink heart love now.

At least my voice is (mostly) back. It got so bad for so long, I began to wonder. I'm still taking it easy and saving it for band practice, since it's still not quite a hundred percent, but it seems clear that it will be soon enough. Just in time--the acoustic incarnation of the band is scheduled for a thirty-five minute live broadcast on a regional public radio station in a week and a half. Fun!

That project continues to go very well generally. My contributions are well-received, and I keep hearing from the founding members about how easy it all is these days. It really does seem as though things come together virtually effortlessly. I'm sure it helps that I knew the songs well as a fan. But I'm adding new harmonies and instrumental parts, and they seem to fit nicely and to add something. It all just flows. It feels great, actually. And that's something.

So, my challenge today is to keep my momentum going. I've really ramped up the self-care lately, especially since learning I was pregnant a few days ago. I recently conducted a small ritual, actually, inviting healthy new habits and routines. I also invited pregnancy, of course. And I realized when I saw that longed-for second pink line the other day that I'd received all three: Pregnancy instantly summoned the Will I needed to correct my days' work more fully. That motivator may be gone again for now, but the Will is still palpably present, and I know now much more immediately what it feels like to summon and rely upon it. So I can keep this going--the yoga, the prayer and meditation, the revitalized ACIM practice, the produce and the exercise. The happy clean slate with others; the lighter energy. It's like a cool breeze has been cleansing every corner of my life. Why not keep letting it fly? Leave these windows open...

And it occurred to me that G and I might have had a much harder time with the inconvenience and financial stress of major car problems if they had happened during any other three days this year. Yesterday, we were still untouchable. It's a small blessing under the circumstances, but significant. I'll take it as more evidence of God's perfect timing, and move on in confidence.

inspiration

2007-03-27T08:38:00.000-07:00

Well, that felt good. The last post, I mean, which I spent something like four hours writing last night. Of course, this morning I woke up with some new ideas. That's what happens when I yell help, I guess--inspiration. Mostly, I can see how I'm finding tricky ways to essentially judge people, even as I see past all the meaningless ego stuff. This pattern is old and there are understandable reasons for it, but--regardless of what people around me think or do--if this all breaks down to is me feeling persecuted, then I have answered my own question, and I know how I'm colluding in the proceedings. And I know why nervousness makes it worse: To expect persecution and misunderstanding from others, no matter how many times it may have happened in the past, must be to participate in the perpetuation of that experience.

A Course In Miracles makes very clear that there are two types of forgiveness, and only one is at all helpful. If we're regarding other people or ourselves as having done something bad, which carries "real" consequences, but we sort of magnanimously decide that we will find it in our hearts and blah, blah blah--that accomplishes nothing but to underscore the unhelpful and incorrect view that we are not God's perfect children, but rather that sin is real. It's contradictory. That kind of forgiveness is more like a form of hate than Love. Real forgiveness, on the other hand, looks past all error as unreal. I believe this firmly, and I do apply it. However, if I'm allowing myself to also remain so concerned with how to function socially, i.e. on superficial/ego terms, then that must just be the ego wanting to reclaim its bogus control.

So screw it! I'll stop worrying. People will think what they think of me. If I let go of all these fears that they're going to see me wrong and I won't know what to do, I bet the odds of things going smoothly will go up sharply. Just from the absence of fear! I may be crippling myself and creating these self-fulfilling nightmares, fanning the flames rather than pouring cool water. I have wasted a lot of energy worrying about my social challenges. But it hasn't just been wasteful--it's been counterproductive. Wouldn't it make sense that if I feel chronically wounded that I might give off a defensive vibe? What effect must that have? And what's the friggin' point? I know this crap has never touched the real me or had any detrimental effects at all. And on the level of experience in the world, if anything, it has taught me more and more about Love and real forgiveness.

I may be becoming increasingly eccentric. I just don't see things like most people I meet. But do I trust that my spiritual path is right, or don't I? Do I trust God and Guidance, or not? As I have pursued this learning, I've become afraid to be too different! On the level of fear, I have fashioned my spiritual progress into yet another reason I'm likely to be "attacked"--I have feared that others will get uncomfortable and take my personal detachment, well, personally. As a judgment on them. And that has happened, perhaps proving once again that we make our own experience in this world, and that we always get whatever it is we're asking for. Well, I don't want to be a monk. Actually, part of me would love to be a monk, but I have made different choices. Anyway. I'd love to find more kindred spirits with whom to share my life's experiences, and I hope I can finally realize my goal of bringing only peace and light to everyone I touch. I hope as well that I can find more ease. But my inspiration this morning is that I need to let go, and leave it all to God to heal. Settle much more deeply into what I know to be true about me and about others. Release my fears and my projections of the past onto the future, show up for the moment, and trust. It can sound like a daunting proposition until I remember that I really don't have to do anything for this healing. It's much more about stopping doing, and staying out of Love's way. Whether or not I see it, I am always held up by much more powerful forces than my own wits.

I'm remembering something from a recent ACIM lesson, which is particularly timely considering my recent bout of laryngitis: Let me remember all I do not know, and let my voice be still, remembering. But let me not forget Your Love and care, keeping Your promise to Your Son in my awareness always.

That's not to say that letting go and trusting God more fully will immediately stop all unpleasant interactions from happening with other people. But it will certainly heal my sense of brokenness, and make it possible for me to find a new way to function. It may not remove all worldly discomfort, but--I do believe --it will bring peace. I feel better already.

Coincidentally, I finished the ACIM Workbook for the second time yesterday, having struggled and staggered my way through the last section. Actually, I skipped the final five lessons because I know I'm not up for them. I've gotten so much out of whatever effort I've been willing to make, but I have simply not been able to learn to meditate the way the Course prescribes. Though I experienced many unspeakably beautiful moments of prayer, I never accomplished prolonged mental focus, and I continued to forget all too often to pray/meditate hourly and to turn immediately to Truth in all challenging moments. So I started at the beginning again today. I want peace. I can find more willingness to open to it. To bring it.

time to unload

2007-03-26T15:27:00.000-07:00

Whoah! Two weeks since I've posted. The funny thing is, I haven't been able to speak for almost that whole time. You'd think that might make me want to write more. Guess not. Till now, I guess.

It's been two weeks of ups and downs, and introspection. There's a peculiar social challenge sort of haunting the margins of my thought lately, a specific recurring situation which seems to contain the most implausible number of angles on several of my life themes. I can tell that larger forces are at work, because not only it is perfectly clear that I have been, and am, on both "sides" of this type of challenge, its two-sides-of-the-same-coin aspect is so prominent as to verge on the comic. I like when God makes things so obvious that the only sensible option is a big cosmic stooge slap. (God as Moe? Oh, dear.)

Still, my ironic big-picture detachment on how hilarious it is to be feeling inclined to complain about the very sort of thing that I detest most to experience complaints around when I do it, for instance, and even my lack of personal engagement on any painful or negative level at all, seem not yet enough to facilitate healing and mutual understanding. It will come eventually. It always does, in some form. But in the meantime, I wonder yet again at the gulf between my thoughts and intentions about people and (some of) their perceptions of me and corresponding reactions. I seem to have a special knack for pushing buttons. If someone within a five hundred-foot radius is nursing a painful insecurity or spoiling for a fight, there seems to be a better than decent chance that they will decide that I am provoking them and lash out accordingly.

I'm definitely no angel. I can get negative when I feel frustrated, which is more often then I'd like, and I can certainly be bitchy when I'm emotionally strung out. But even at those times, I'm usually just doing my best to deal with my own discomforts and sensitivities. I tend to take on too much rather than too little responsibility, and although, for this reason among others, I can really get riled when singled out unfairly, I'm usually painfully aware that when I feel prickly--though a hundred lifetimes ago it may have been tempting to blame someone else's annoying behavior--my prickly-ness belongs to me alone; it's my responsibility. And that's hard enough. Anyway, I don't mean to whine, God, but some people do just seem to project the most fascinatingly dark motives onto my speech and actions, even when I'm at my most happy and relaxed.

It's been a pattern all my life, of course, so I'm sure I'm inadvertently colluding in the proceedings somehow. Wish I could figure out how. One thing that I see happening is that I can tell when someone's on edge in this way about me, and I start to energetically walk on eggshells. Nervousness just never seems to help anything. Funny thing, though--when someone has decided I'm judging them, even sincere niceness and genuine, heartfelt overtures can be perceived as disingenuous, even nefarious snarkyness. When that happens, which is way too often, it's absolutely stunning. There's just nothing I can do.

Here's a garden-variety example of my experience of this type of misunderstanding: One day when I was about nineteen and had just returned home from college for the summer, I saw my sister in the kitchen and said hello. She had bleached her (dark blonde) hair since I'd seen her last. I smiled and said, "Your hair is so blonde!" Her face instantly contorted into a mask of seething rage. She called me a f@$%ing bitch, stomped away, and stayed palpably mad at me for about three weeks. I think it may have taken years, actually, to finally live that down. She had simply assumed utterly that I was critical of her appearance, and therefore expected the worst. I think she thought I was patronizing her, criticizing her with a smile. Her new hair color was noticeable, and it would have been rude not to acknowledge it, but I can assure you, I felt nothing critical at the time. I thought nothing much of it at all, really, and was just making conversation, so any attitude she perceived from me was pure projection. But project she did. Hoo-boy. I had been very, very bad.

But that's my sister, and sisters just have this sort of stuff, you say? Well, how about this one: A massage therapist once yelled at me so hard that I left sobbing, for walking into her workroom at my appointment time instead of waiting in the room outside. I didn't even know that was her waiting room. I'd seen her three times, and had always just walked through her open door. She knew that this was my first experience with massage therapy. She also knew why I was there--on the recommendation of a doctor, for stress-related neck and shoulder pain. I had even explained to her at my first appointment that I felt a little uncomfortable with the whole idea. I was concerned that my nervousness and discomfort might impede the process, and I even told her that I was stressed and might seem edgy. She assured me that she was a professional and a healer, smiling warmly.

And the first two massages seemed to go fine, even amiably. I thought it was possible that this could be helping. But on the third visit, on the third time that I went to walk through her open door at the time of our appointment, she blocked my entrance and barked some awful rhetorical question like did I have any idea how disrespectful it was of me to just march right into her space. I was beyond stunned. Tears welled up right away, and I stammered something about how I had no idea that I was meant to wait, but it only got worse from there. It seems it had never occurred to her that I might simply be ignorant. She yelled more--I can't possibly express just how out-of-left-field this all seemed to me--, telling me about other things I had done wrong, how she thought I was ripping her off because insurance companies never paid her, and how terrible my attitude was. I tried to defend myself between sobs. But on she went, not softening in the slightest. A therapist from another office came out into the hallway--we were making quite the racket, I'm sure. I wished he'd come down and administered the stooge slap. I almost called for his help. Eventually I just fled.

One of the cosmically comic things that happened over the past couple of weeks is that when I could not speak at all, when I struggled just to whisper and was trying to avoid doing even that, G kept getting angry at me during the resulting absurdist pantomime interactions for "copping a 'tude." I may have been a bit frustrated trying to express myself, plus I really didn't feel well, but I don't even remember feeling all that edgy. I was trying to be straightforward and as brief as possible. Makes sense, right? You'd think. But it turns out my "tone" is misread even when I can't make a sound! It was just too much.

Of course, I am also very free with my thoughts generally, "good" and "bad." I lavish praise and thanks. I make yummy noises when I eat. I also think nothing of outwardly acknowledging my own personal foibles and failings, but I'm correspondingly loose-lipped about others'. I just don't take my own crap very seriously, and I'm afraid I tend to expect, perhaps irrationally, similar detachment from others. If I have something to say, I'll say it, to their faces. For me that's just the Golden Rule--I feel respected and trusted when someone brings an issue to me rather than stewing about it or griping about it to others. I'm not a big fan of talking negatively about others behind their backs, actually. When I do it, it's out of frustration rather than malice, and it's generally tempered with acknowledgments of my own stuff, observations about the difficulty of growth, and lots of praise for effort made. If you look deep enough, all of us have good intentions at heart. I see people as perfect in Truth and doing their best in this world, and my heart is often broken by the sheer pointlessness of personal difficulties, even as it seems to be being stomped on.

That being said, in keeping with this pattern of judgment and ill-will being projected onto me, God help me when I actually do take issue with something someone has said or done. That's when the boom might really come down. Oh, Lawd. Like I said, I tend to take too much responsibility when things go awry, so even though I will speak up when I feel hurt, I know what it feels like to have the worst assumed, and I'm careful to keep it in terms of my own experience. Sometimes that works great. But with the Eggshell crowd, forget it. "Ow, that hurt," rather than becoming an opportunity for communication and greater understanding, is heard instead as "I think you are a bad person." Then I'm really in trouble.

Of course, I do believe there is such a thing as douche-y behavior, objectively speaking and without regard to motive or intentions. And in this world, we all seem to do stupid things and adopt attitudes which hurt each other, whether we mean to or not. It's not always about misunderstanding--sometimes it is about a kind of judgment. But it's judgment in the sense of discernment, not condemnation. Even if I were to comment on the unprofessional behavior of that massage therapist, for instance, I would merely be making a factual observation, and I don't care what might be said about negativity or judgment, facts is facts.

In any case, this tendency of mine to unwittingly act as a projection screen, as well as my general lack of restraint with regard to self-expression, have over time made me better suited than most to see and accept that some of my own behaviors and attitudes, however they are intended, may tend to be problematic under certain circumstances. I may not always see a reason to modify how I act, but I sometimes do. I'm generally willing to at least tone it down here or there as needed. And in any case, I'm truly, definitely, always eager to talk objectively about how the way I act might be affecting someone else, and to work with that person to find a solution to any resulting problems. The solution is often the talking itself, and the resulting mutual awareness and--hopefully--understanding.

When it comes to it, what is so terrible about dealing with that stuff? When you find someone who's equipped to deal, those corrective conversations can be the most fruitful and healing. With folks who can just show up, meet you halfway, take you at your word, and offer their own perspectives with an open heart and an open mind, it's just not a big deal. I have seen the promised land. We can talk to each other, sisters and brothers. Do not fear.

Of course, I have to allow that not everyone is equipped to deal. Or willing. Or... something. Sometimes emotion complicates things. And sometimes two people's stuff seems just too negatively complementary to ever get ironed out between them, even with repeated attempts at open corrective communication. At least in the short term. I really do believe that it all gets healed eventually.

But back to objective douche-y-ness. Once, a relative of mine, who is also in a mutual social subset, sent out invitations to a party at my house. The party in question, a double birthday celebration for her and G, had been hosted by her in previous years, and I had offered to throw it this time. I was waiting for a list from her of the friends she wanted me to invite (it was her birthday, after all) when I got the email invitation with the date, time, and my address, complete with a menu and food assignments. Needless to say, I was pretty upset by this. I saw no graceful way out, as I did not feel emotionally prepared to just let that party happen in that way--it would simply have been too uncomfortable for me. I had wanted to host them, to entertain--not just provide a space, for heaven's sake. What was she thinking?

This of course was one of the Eggshell folks in my life. It had always been pretty easy to spot that she was projecting critical attitudes onto me. She seemed intimidated by me--many of these folks do. She always seemed guarded, and sometimes hostile. But she was a family member--she hosts Thanksgiving!--and I did my best. Up to that point, she had been a social friend mostly of G's. They're all quite a bit younger than I am, as well as much more inclined to enjoy sitting around drinking (G only occasionally), so for the double birthday parties in previous years, along with many other such events, I often either made a short appearance or none at all. It was understood that it just wasn't my scene, and that was fine. But this was going to be my chance to offer something fun back to this group that I could enjoy, too. I'd planned to cook like mad and keep the focus on some great party games I know--on interacting rather than "partying." I figured we could all get to know each other better, and I was looking forward to it. It was not to be.

The message I sent in response to the invitation I'd shockingly received to my own party basically said, wow, I'm really upset by this and I just have no idea what to do next. I said, please call me; we need to talk. I think I asked her why she hadn't called before. I also complained that she used an email invitation format that I find tacky and would never have used--a snarky error, for sure, but it's not like I impugned her moral fabric. Anyway, the next thing that happened was that she canceled the party without talking with me. After that, she told me just how horrible I was to have attacked her like that.

It came out over the following days that she had basically pretended to assume that I didn't want to host the party, because she was afraid to talk with me about it. She never did apologize. So the question for me then became, what the hell do I do now? Did I forgive her? Sure. That's necessary for my own well-being. And I find it tends to be easier when a personality seems this messed up, anyway. But on a practical, gotta-see-her-around level, it wasn't easy to know how to actually proceed--what with not only the lack of an apology, but the ferocious insistence that we were somehow mutually culpable, since my response to her action had hurt her feelings. (By the way, she didn't like my dissing her evite, but she wasn't dwelling on it, either: She was hurt and angry because I was upset. Because I had told her that I was upset.) But besides, it was all just so awkward and embarrassing. Where do you go from there? I mean, I'm pretty clueless about social niceties. Maybe I should have consulted Emily Post. What the hell do you do in a situation like this so that everybody gets to save face? Not in a demanding, petulant way, but sheesh, just in a practical one for heaven's sake. How does one politely proceed?

I'm sure I could have made things easier if I'd thought to suck it up and say, you know, I'm sorry that you were hurt. That was the big lesson/reminder from that one for me, and a huge duh!, not that I always remember to apply it even now. At the time, I was just so flabbergasted that she had perpetrated what appeared to me a clearly, objectively massive faux pas--on the face of it!--and yet would not even begin to approach responsibility for the resulting difficulties. I did not know how to clean up the mess alone.

Things eventually just mellowed with time. I wish her well. I still see her, and I wish her well often, and sincerely. But in this situation and in others like it, even over time, the question still is: beyond forgiveness, what do I do? After something like that, my only option generally seems to be to go away and stop trying to make it work. As one friend sagely and perversely put it, you don't have to join the golf club just because you hate golf so much. I was on eggshells! Why did I try to host her damn birthday party in the first place? G and I put that situation to bed by acknowledging that while she might not be great at being a friend, she's quite cool for a relative. We backed off. I don't know if she likes it, exactly, particularly since G is no longer her pal, but the arrangement does seem to work okay. It's just sad. Lonesome.

So. Does anyone else out there have this problem? It's self-fulfilling. Someone gets over-engaged with what they think I'm thinking. They feel insecure. The projector comes out, and they decide I'm judging them. Then their guardedness makes them say or do something so clueless or hurtful that, in the name of self-respect, as well as the hope of social stasis, I feel compelled to say something about. All that does is "prove" how I'm judging them. Sometimes things improve through communication. Sometimes they don't. I get more and more nervous around people, and somehow (how, for pete's sake?) that only makes things worse.

Then there's the other side of perceived judgment, the spiritual cops. When I went to one friend to share my difficulty about the story I just told as it was happening, she shut me down before I'd even gotten started, glowering at me as though I were poisoning her lunch with my negativity, and then--patronizingly, it seemed to me--reminding me that maybe I needed to forgive. She was pregnant at the time, and therefore possibly somewhat impaired, but I had two issues with this, both of which I decided to just table permanently after this disastrous lunch date: One--as I've been saying-- is that forgiveness, for all its ultimate and immediate rightness and goodness, did not seem to provide me with a road map for how to navigate around these land mines or how to proceed in day-to-day interactions after one has gone off. I'd been hoping to compare notes on that. And two, where's my forgiveness, forgiveness lady? I've been hurt and confounded, and I'm upset. I truly do not wish to be coddled or enabled, but I need a friend, not a spanking. I mean, come one! I see her on her path. I see her struggling. And she did something clueless and fear-based that hurt and embarrassed me! How 'bout a kind word? Even if in my anger I had somehow suddenly forgotten who I am as well as all my spiritual work, even if what sat before you was a fallen shell of a person, an egomaniacal harpy bent on revenge, seriously!--even then, how could your cold sternness have helped? How could it teach forgiveness, or Love, or understanding? What are we coming to?

I understood that I had inadvertently whaled my friend with my intensity, and that she had not been prepared to field it. I apologized, forgave her and let it go. She remains largely guarded around me. Just so pointless and sad. So lonesome.

There's one more aspect of this chronic craziness that I need to unload: Sometimes people refuse to believe I'm being honest when I tell them my side of things. They simply cannot accept that I'm anything other than judgmental. It complicates things that I'm intuitive, I think. Others can tell that I see them, but they fill in their own ideas about what specifically I see. One of the sometimes problematic peripheral characters in my life play actually said to me recently, "You think you see me. You think you know me. And you think I'm mean and sinister." This interesting guy definitely does douche-y, and his behavior has made me uncomfortable and/or unhappy from time to time. He's not what I would call careful with people's vulnerabilities. But I identify with him in his freedom of self-expression and boldness around just saying things. I like that. And we've also been friends! How did he think I missed the rest of him, the 98% that's not douche-y? Or for that matter, the Truth of who he is! And how did he miss seeing me? It's all just so sad and stupid. I wish I could show him how I do see him in this world: sweet, sensitive, too smart for comfort, conflicted and frustrated and striving to be good. So much like me, and--come to think of it--, how I wish I were seen, even through the bitchy moments (which by the way are really not particularly numerous). Why not?

Well, world. Well, brothers and sisters. I don't know what I'm doing wrong, but I am doing my best. And I do love you all. Fellow students of A Course In Miracles or for that matter any other spiritual discipline, if you've made it this far, by all means, chime in. How do you deal with the seeming gulf between the Truth and these bumps along the road of temporal experience?

kersploding

2007-03-12T09:28:00.000-07:00

Wow! What a weekend. Beautiful. We had nearly four hundred folks participate over the two days--our biggest singing yet. And not only did everything go smoothly, but even in those unwieldy numbers, we were able to really come together as a community for our shared purpose and enjoy a pervasive sense of unity. There are always annoying little snags in the social and structural fabric of an event like this, and some of my singing brethren seemed as satisfied as ever to occupy a large portion of their time and energy in homing in and dwelling on those, but this year I was able to witness the inevitable element of negativity without feeling overcome by it or in any way responsible for it. And anyway, that element seems, objectively speaking, to be growing smaller and less potent with every passing year. The unity, on the other hand, is increasingly unmistakable.

We are an odd group, really diverse with regard to age and religious and political orientation. We come from all over the country, but the areas of particularly concentrated activity comprise both the rural south and the bluest of blue states and metropolitan areas. It feels a bit superficial to even be focusing on this aspect of things, but--just to get it across to the uninitiated--seriously, where else will you find skate punks joyfully engaged in the same activity as both aging hippies and pious, conservative southerners? Yet our love for the music we share connects us so immediately on the level of Love and Spirit that none of the sort of social challenges you might imagine for such a scenario ever seem to materialize. We simply don't discuss religion or politics. It's enough to have this music in common.

So what is it about the music? Well, the singing is raw and intense, startlingly loud, as richly and gorgeously imperfect as we are, and--when we're really together--absolutely transcendent. There's just nothing else like it. And perhaps because there's nothing else like it, and no convenient accessibility-increasing reference point for it on the radio or anywhere else in pop culture, people tend to either love it or hate it. Imagine ecstatic punk rock with overt religious/life/death themes, where the whole audience is the band, and you might be approaching the ballpark.

You can listen here to some samples of our local singing events from a few years back.

And the weekend for me, personally? Well, I woke up Friday with some cold symptoms; by the beginning to the third session on the first day, they had manifested as laryngitis. I was able to sing a bit in a lower range for most of Saturday, but by the end of the day I had to push hard to make any sound at all, and when I did so only the most unmusical croaks escaped my lips. Crap. I spent most of the Saturday afternoon and Sunday morning helping out with the business of keeping the event ticking, and for a while I was happy to be of service, but by late Sunday morning this routine was getting old. As someone once said about S. H. singing, "I'd travel across the country to sing it, but I wouldn't cross the street to listen to it." Or something. The point is that listening is not the point: the juice is in the participation. And I was beginning to get tired and sad from the frustration of only being able to listen.

Then came the time of the weekend when we sing for singers and loved ones who have passed away in the last year, and also for those who are sick or struggling. It is frequently one of the most powerful moments of the event, as we come together in unity of purpose and gratitude for the community. The first singer to share her thoughts touched me immediately with her ideas about the depth and substance of the sharing that we do at this time, and in general as a community. She has struggled with serious illness over the past few years, and she said she understood from direct experience how much it meant to be sung for at those times. She lead one of my favorite songs, which includes the following text (which I have found especially helpful in times of struggle): When through the deep waters I call thee to go, the rivers of sorrow shall not overflow. For I will be with thee, thy troubles to bless, and sanctify to thee thy deepest distress. As the names on the list were read, I resolved to make whatever sound I could in order to participate in remembering and supporting these people. And by the end of that song, I could sing again, though still just in my lower range.

Things just got more beautiful from there. The second half of that lesson, for those who had died, was even more moving than the first. The songs that were sung immediately following served as a sort of extended remembrance. I connected during this time with a woman who lost her son fourteen months ago in Iraq. It's an honor to have participated in supporting her and her family through that painful time (some of us sang at his funeral; she walked behind his casket holding her S.H. book, and she sang with us), and it's a joy to have her beautiful, joyful and resilient spirit among our local singing family. I only know her in the context of singing, but she's clearly an amazing and wonderful person. All I did yesterday was move to stand closer to her when I noticed her crying during the lesson, and offer a hug and a few awkward words of support. Yet she went out of her way to thank me after, "for being such a good friend." I can't describe the loveliness and fullness of intention that she focused on me as she took my hands and said that. These are small moments and small gestures, in a way, yet in that moment I understood that they are the biggest things in the world.

So I moved through the sea of hungry hearts, and I sang all afternoon. At one point late in the day, despite the unimaginably ample supply of reasons to be grateful, my ego managed to get me feeling sorry for myself. I hadn't been called to lead a song yet that day! I'd end up having to go as an afterthought, I bitterly mused, as mass overwhelm and exhaustion set in at the end of the long weekend, as socially not-all-there types became unmoored and started leading redonkulous tunes we were all far too satieted to dedicate ourselves to with any meaningful focus. Plus my voice was going again. (Though, hmmm... that seemed to kick in after the pity party began...) But, lo--what's this? The really, really not-all-there guy DID call the redonkulous tune, and he tried to make it even more arduous by talking about how hard it was, saying that if we got stuck, we could start over. But we came together before we even started singing the song. We effortlessly and good-naturedly guided the misguided singer along the most expedient and joyful path available. The song went fine; it was fun, even. No derailment. No deflation. It would take more than that this year. By the time I was called to lead a song, I realized I had been saved for last, just before the traditional closing song and prayer. It was an honor. My energy and my voice returned. I sang something joyful and fast, and many singers enthusiastically thanked me for closing out the session thusly as we all said our goodbyes.

I am filled with gratitude. And I'm actually not even all that wrung-out or strung-out emotionally. I think not being able to sing much this year may in a way have made it possible for me to have an easier time of things. Though I wouldn't want to lose my voice at a sing again, I have to admit--this was more manageable. Maybe I can take more breaks and do more administrative helping by choice next year.

On a somewhat related note, I noticed something interesting and slightly disappointing about myself yesterday. Last night after I'd been home for a few hours, I sent an email to many of my singing friends and the organizers of the event, with the same title as this post. I tried to express in as few words as possible how I was feeling; I went the cute route by using not-quite-English. And after I hit "send," I realized that all that love and gratitude had gone without saying, and that by saying it, even in a few virtually nonsensical phrases, all I was doing was popping a bubble for myself. I couldn't take the tension anymore--or in any case, I chose not to. I wrote to bring things back to normal. It worked, in a manner of speaking, but next time I'll see if I can just hold the tension of joy and fullness and gratitude too big for words, and let it dissipate on its own. I think this is related to my efforts toward poise... Live and learn. Live and live!

brief check-in

2007-03-09T11:31:00.000-08:00

Just stopping by to say hello. I feel I am rocking a strange combination of better than ever and really f'd up lately. At the moment I'm fighting cold symptoms; I'm achy and tired. I've been cooking all day. This weekend is our annual large singing event, and that brings up a variety of emotions as well, from excitement to dread, and unfortunately the needle on the emotionometer is leaning, as usual, toward the 'dread' end of things--though that has much less to do with actual singing/social circumstances than the mere idea of being immersed for two days straight in a sea of hungry, huggy humans singing hymns. I can get overwhelmed pretty easily at these things, and therefore defensive and/or really teary.

And I've been feeling conflicted generally about the social choices I've made, in the last year or two especially, that have left me isolated in many ways. This was really bothering me earlier in the week, actually--enough so that I contacted my own tarot reader and teacher, and dear friend, for a good long reading. And oh my, did I feel worlds better afterward! That pretty much saved my ass this week, actually, and who knows how long the positive effects will ripple out into my life. My perspective on myself and my choices, and my attitude, has been largely purged of fear and negativity, and replaced with grounded calm and confidence. My reader reminded me that all is quite well. She reminded me who I am. I needed that.

Still, everything seems somehow on edge. And I guess this happens to me every spring, but lord-a-mighty, I feel the Life--coursing through me and through the earth, taking me out of my cumbersome body in my dreams, connecting me to everyone and everything, letting me see connections and life paths more and more clearly. And that, my friends, makes me want to eat cereal and watch TV under a blanket.

But off I go this afternoon to a pre-singing event, a little something to kick things off. I may actually return from it excited to see everybody and to sing; I always get really happy about it all at some point. So, here's to Life! Might as well dive in...

video

2007-02-24T16:07:00.000-08:00

This is hilariously dark, on my monitor anyway, and the fact that G and I are the only ones visible on stage despite our supporting-cast status is also pretty comical (personalized lighting is apparently not prioritized highly when six bands play the same event), but hey, it's something. Here it is: my first rock video!

A big part of this band's deal is old songs done in a rock style. This one's from the perspective of slave who, though he hates to be leaving his girl, manages to sign up for job on a Yankee whaling ship when he learns he's going to be sold.

best kitten ever/eureka

2007-02-24T11:49:00.000-08:00

Is she great, or what? That's my little baby kitten girl!

In other news, things with G have been better than ever since our scary breakthrough. He has realized that he's been losing himself, seen clearly how it happened, and turned a corner. I'm sure that as he really gets down to it I will be called upon to examine and improve my ways of relating to him as well, and I'm more than happy meet him halfway, but today he's kicking himself and taking full responsibility. He finally sees what I've been saying all these years about how just showing up and saying what's on one's mind makes things better, juicier, and ultimately much easier. He gets it. Huzzah!

The moment that did it? When he told me that his thoughts had run lately to not wanting to be in this anymore, I didn't freak out. I have had those thoughts at times, too, I told him. The interesting question is, where do they really come from, and where do they actually lead? And so the biggest, scariest thought he'd ever stuffed turned out to be not that big a deal once it was out on the table--just an opportunity, really. A starting point. The world didn't end; it seemed to start over.

For the last few days, he's been delightfully vibrant and present. He's funnier, sharper--his ribbing is deliciously, mercilessly on the money, as opposed to slightly wincing and passive-aggressive. His communication generally feels much more direct and less jumbled, like a burden has been lifted. He's confident and sexy. He feels like the partner and equal I married. I'm reveling in his company; he has taken notice--so this is how I get what I want...

Yes, it is! EUREKA!

He says he needs therapeutic help and that he has a lot of work to do, but he has promised that this marriage could only end, hypothetically, after a prolonged and strenuous mutual effort to save it. He's not going anywhere but further down this road back to himself. So I am now much more excited than concerned. I'll go with him wherever he needs to go. His growth supports and makes room for my own. Bring it ON.

I mean, keep bringing it. Heh.

with the greatest unease

2007-02-21T07:26:00.000-08:00

I've been in a transitional period lately, not so sure I have a solid grasp on anything, and therefore less inclined to write. I read a great and timely post today over at 37 Days that got me thinking, though. It likens transition time to the moment in aerial acrobatics when you let go of one trapeze bar and soar for a moment, ostensibly unsupported, until you grab the other--the next thing. This in-between moment may be the scariest, and the time during which things could potentially go most horribly wrong, but it's also the time when we're actually most alive, present and in the moment. True transition crackles with electric life.

G told me a few days ago that he has been experiencing the very uncomfortable emergence of an awareness that he is unsatisfied in our marriage. He said he "wasn't sure if he wanted to be in this for the rest of [his] life." Thankfully, this revelation came within the context of a discussion which included the topic of his general emotional dysfunction: in our one-on-one interactions, he tends to stuff his own feelings down so far that he can't even access them himself with spelunking gear, so I really don't have a prayer. The connection was clear, and though his words gave me a start, I was not afraid. I don't want to be in this as it is for the rest of my life, either. And now we could start on the path out and up. And yet... it's not like nothing changes after a talk like that.

When I got home last night from my weekly singing event, the sensation of fear accosted me suddenly as I stepped onto my own front porch: my guts turned over, my pulse raced, my head felt woozy and I began to tremble. I'd had a feeling like that once before when I walked into my own house; at that time G was having a very brief but intense episode of some mystery illness, and I had known something was very wrong the moment I stepped into the kitchen. But last night, the feeling was more terror than intense unease. It was as though I were being pursued by a psycho whom I somehow knew was lurking in the bushes. Not pleasant.

G wasn't at his computer or in the TV room. And the lights in the bedroom were off--strange for this hour. I went straight upstairs without taking my coat off. I stood in the bedroom door for a moment, listening for his breathing, not wanting to wake him if he was there. "Hi," he said weakly from the dark bed. Phew. I sat down next to him, found his face to kiss, asked him how he was: okay. Just okay. It sounded to me like something was up, but he had obviously been sleeping and would soon be sleeping again if I let him, so I didn't press it.

Rivulets of sweat ran down my neck as I washed my face, and I brushed my teeth with trembling hands. What the hell? I breathed; I remembered the presence of God and my perfect union with perfect peace and wholeness. Gradually my body and spirit quieted down.

Then, this morning, G let me know that he'd gotten a phone call last night: one of his sisters is leaving her husband, the father of her two gorgeous little kids. Out of the blue. He's been mostly away for a few months, in a training program for his vocation. Apparently during that time, though she had never let him know that there were any issues, she thought about herself and who she wanted to be, and the more she thought, the more she realized she didn't want to be with him.

They've been together since high school, something like eighteen years. I felt anger, disappointment, sadness. To me, it seems like the epitome of irresponsibility to simply decide to walk out on a marriage, especially with young kids, without first at least trying to work it out. Maybe she'd find she could be more herself within her marriage, if she only showed up with her new expanded ideas of herself. If she only gave him a chance to meet her wherever she has found herself of late. Maybe the relationship could be refreshed and revived--maybe it could be better than ever--if she brought her bracing truth to the table rather than wrapping it in the cocoon of mistrust and running away with it. To where, I wonder. If she can't find the courage to show up here, then where?

I was afraid to ask, but I did: How did G feel when he heard the news? Awful generally, I knew, but awful because he didn't want it to happen to us? Or did he think, A-ha, I could do that? The latter, I'm afraid. He said his first thought was That sounds easy. Lucky for me, he has enough self-awareness to notice that first reaction and not stop there. He's been thinking a lot about this stuff since our talk the other day, but after that phone conversation he was plunged in even deeper. (Hence my sense of terror upon entering our home last night, I expect.)

"Luckily, I agree with you," he said of my assessment of his sister's choice. "I won't do that." But his fear, and the reasons of family history which make it hard for him--and for his siblings--to know and honor their own feelings, seem so large and unwieldy right now that I feel insecure, shaky, teary to hear him talk about his first reaction.

And of course, his stuff is complementary to mine in many ways, and it has the potential to push some buttons. For instance, I get slammed sometimes for having a "strong personality." And it's not like I haven't learned over the years that toning it down here and there to ease the delicate dance of relating is a reasonable and productive thing to do. I have no investment in making it hard for anyone. There's just lingering frustration about how what I really, truly want is for others to be just as strong with (and for) me. I have no insatiable need to be right or to get my way. In fact, I often feel distinctly uncomfortable and deeply disappointed when I am showing up and sharing honestly--not just my vulnerability and my need, but my strength and my truth-- and another is unwilling to do the same. I want to enjoy the company of others, not just seek validation for my own views and perspectives. Seems to me that's more like being alone. I can tell you that at those times I feel just lonely, lonely, lonely. But in the past, what has really sent me over the edge is when the unwilling party feels their fear and blames me. My strength has frequently served as the scapegoat for chicken-shit wussbags, bless their hearts, who need an external excuse for their own failure to know and assert themselves.

But this is my marriage. G and his siblings may all have chosen strong personalities for spouses, and this choice may provide at least the ostensible excuse for remaining self-sublimating within their intimate relationships, but G chose me. I may be strong, but I have seen what he's been up to from the start, and I have consistently implored him to get in touch with his truth and assert himself, not out of a sense of nurturing support, though I feel that, too, but because I want him to show up! I can't have a decent philosophical discussion or make love with a reflection of myself. Well, I can, but seriously--how boring. Then what's the point of being with another person?

Happily, it's really only within the context of the extra-close one-on-one stuff that his fear can take over. He's very assertive and self-determining elsewhere in his life. He's so excellent. I can't wait till I get to see more of him. But during our discussion the other day, he told me to be careful what I wish for, that he could be a bit of a bastard as he works through some of this stuff. So I told him that that sounded infinitely more interesting than what we've had. Bring it the fuck ON, I said. Bring it on.

So it's on. And I have to tell you: all this quease and unease may not be fun, exactly, but I am aware of the juice between us so much more palpably now, in this in-between time. I really do prefer these tears and fears to the old anesthetizing routines, to the stupefying safety of just swinging back and forth on that same old trapeze bar. I don't know for sure what's next, but I'm so glad that we have let go. We're flying!

another day, another kickass rock show

2007-02-10T08:36:00.000-08:00

Well, okay, it was in the dining hall at a local institution of higher learning, and the audience consisted of a few friends, a couple of parental units, a couple of band children, and a decent-sized gaggle of privileged hippies bobbing and swirling about like rapturous lunatics. But, yes, it kicked ass. I do love this rock'n'roll thang.

I am happy. I love my life today. Sure, it'll be swell when G's company has a Major Funding Event, and hoo boy, I do hope I'm pregnant soon. But yesterday I got up, baked some brownies, wrote pages, worked out, put on mascara, packed up the snacks and the rock acoutrements, and then spent the rest of the day hanging out and making music with my witty, warm husband and my favorite friggin' band. As if that all isn't cool enough, after the show I was told how sexy I looked on stage no fewer than ten times.

"You own the stage," one friend said. "You look like you were born for this." Well, I don't know about that, but being really large and often sort of dramatic-looking, I think I just feel comfortable up there. You're supposed to be larger-than-life on a stage. You're expected to be dramatic. No one's going to give me that who-does-she-think-she-is vibe. And I assure you: if anything, I'm toning it down during shows. In real life, I have a lot of nervous energy. I talk a lot, I laugh a lot, and I'm always jangling into people and walls and large objects with my unwieldy limbs. On stage, I leave the talking to the lead dude, I concentrate on what I'm doing, and I don't move much. I gather it all in and direct it.

Maybe that's the life lesson of this experience. It's so hard to embody myself day to day. I'm forever trying to blow through my energy, to expel it so it can't hurt or threaten anybody. Maybe it's time I learned to just ground myself, to breathe, to gather it all in and focus. I know how to do that in many situations, but it's easy to get overwhelmed and forget it all when there are more than a couple of other people about. Well! Perhaps my dream of poise may be attainable after all. If I can manage it on stage, then I must know how it's done.

Poise! The final frontier. As with everything else, it sounds like more than I care to try to handle on my own. But if I stick close to God I'll be okay. Speaking of Which... Starting around the new year, the Voice began whispering, "Be sexy." Oh for crap's sake, I thought. That sounds like trouble. But I always do my best to follow directions from that Source, even, and perhaps especially, if I don't see where they might be leading me. So I've been dutifully wearing my nice things and popping in my contact lenses when I go out. I've been remembering to moisturize and forgoing the hat/glasses/baggy pants/big sweater look. And now, well, now I think I'm beginning to see where I'm being led. And it's not so scary.

progress

2007-02-03T20:28:00.000-08:00

I'm feeling better and worse at once. I haven't exactly implemented instant structure this week, since posting about how I know it's time for some changes, but I have, well, made some changes. Probably best not to talk too much about it. In fact, I may tend to talk too much about myself in general. And this strange little outlet can't be helping! At least, not how I've been using it. But for now, since writing here is a way to update friends old and new, I will say that I've worked out and done pages every day since that post, and that both of those activities feel very, very helpful.

As far as the old crap I'm looking to let go of, I've been advised not to focus on that at all, even via trying to stop, but rather to turn my focus to my spiritual practice whenever I notice myself longing to fling myself off the path, in any way and for any reason. That focus, somehow new in the context of this current step, has also proven to be quite helpful. So I'll keep that the hell up.

I've noticed that as my days proceed with my new focus, it's tempting at times to think about how many more such days I might need to get behind me before I enjoy the "results" I'm looking for. Or rather, that my ego is looking for. So it's a helpful bit of synchronicity that I've been attending A.A. meetings in support of a dear one every week. That program is all about dealing with whatever is right in front of you, and gratefully taking things one day at a time. Helpful reminders! Letting my thoughts run to how I might look and feel in a month or a season does nothing but jeopardize the peace I can enjoy right now, if I only stay here.

And did I mention that I talk too much about myself? Well, not always. I'm also pretty alright at listening, and at talking with others about whatever is up with them. But I noticed recently that all this progress--the music stuff in the long strides and this week's new focus more recently--can tempt me, paradoxically, to want to not only cling to the good stuff but also to try to hoarde more by trying to be fascinating and alluring, and blathering on rather boorishly as a result. What could better guarantee that I squeeze my gifts right out from between my own fingers than that sort of B.S., I ask you? Oy. Luckily, I busted myself pretty early on in that unpleasant little phase. And my goal for tomorrow as I go about my busy and socially full day is to open my hands as wide as they will go. Let the blessings flow. In, out, wherever. To try to hold on or collect more is only to limit my capacity for Grace. Hopefully I can spread some good stuff around tomorrow rather than ending up feeling like a blathering boor.

So. How are you?

photographic evidence

2007-02-03T19:58:00.000-08:00

Look! Here I am, playing my first rock show:

A pensive moment... I'm pretty sure I'm waiting for my cue to sing, during a quiet and intense tune that I don't play on. (So I'm sort of hugging my guitar.) Funny that the spot is apparently on me, since that interesting character in the (dark) background is the lead dude, and I'm just supporting cast.

I may have some video soon...

'fessin' up

2007-01-29T10:54:00.000-08:00

It's a very good thing I have an exciting music project in my life right now; that's making it much easier to remain patient while waiting for pregnancy and motherhood. It has occured to me, and also to a very smart friend, that one of the reasons for the delay in that department, speaking in big-picture terms, may be that I would not have been able to participate in this opportunity if I were hugely pregnant or giving birth around now. If my last pregnancy went to term, there'd have been no electric guitar-learning, no rocking out, no dream-band dream-come-true for mommy. That stuff may not be as big as parenthood, but this experience is causing seismic shifts in my experience of myself as a musician and creative person, and I can certainly see the benefits of the preparenthood timing of it all.

I've also been coming to terms with the idea that I haven't worked as hard as I've intended on improving my lifestyle and habits while I wait. Well, maybe working harder at it is not what's called for. Working smarter? Perhaps. All I know is that there are things I want and need to let go of, and things I want and need to embrace, and that the delay might also be partly related to my not having made these choices yet. For instance, self-harm has really GOT to GO. It barely serves any function at all anymore. Sure, it's fairly reliable as an emotion attenuator, but I am aware of effective options now, and I swear I've continued in the old path only to avoid the unfamiliarity of the new. I mean, come on. I do it just because it's what I've always done? I can do better than that. My life allows me many choices if I'm in need of soothing and/or winding down. I must confess and own my growing awareness of my readiness to stop. It's time.

As for things to embrace, structure comes to mind... the kind that liberates energy rather than letting it waste away. Here's an idea, a metaphor: I want to go swimming, so I've got the hose running. And I could let it run as long as it would need to to fill up the pool, but if I haven't built the pool to contain the water, all I'll have is a soggy lawn. And even with all that water, I'll still be wanting a swim. I think getting out of bed at a predetermined time and then going about a routine would help keep me from glazing over at the computer for hours, procrastinating on housework and cooking and not even going near an instrument, a book or an art supply. I know from past experiments with structured time that I'm much more likely to work on creative projects when I'm tending to my basic self-care and responsibilities first, rather than avoiding them. I don't know why I don't procrastinate planning dinner by playing my banjo or reading rather than by playing Shanghai and "thinking." If I did that, I wouldn't necessarily feel a need to change the pattern. But as it is, well, I know I'm wasting time. When I left the work force 13 months ago, I really needed a rest. But now it's time to get a bit more active again. I can feel it.

*sigh*

It's not like I do nothing. Yesterday I took my dear one, the one who needs the support, to an A.A. meeting. I did the week's grocery shopping. I made a mix for a friend. Today is laundry day. I've also done some budgeting and bill paying, and--look!--I wrote a post. The plan for later is to cut my hair, a time-consuming project that I almost always procrastinate on for way too long. If I do it, that'll be big, and this day will officially have been productive. But come on. I can't think of a reason I couldn't have worked out and then gotten dressed first. I hate feeling like I'd be mortified if the UPS guy came, let alone an unannounced friend. Unscheduled PJ days have GOT to GO.

It's time.

*SIGH*

nothing of interest, plus chocolate

2007-01-21T18:41:00.000-08:00

Hmmm. Some randomness, I guess:

We had my cousin and her husband and three kids (ages 8 - 11) over for Sunday dinner today--very fun. We kept it simple: lasagna (with homemade turkey sausage sauce, and lots of spinach), salad and bread. I also made my famous chocolate torte, which everyone loved as usual. So glad I found that recipe. I'm quite sure that if I was in the market for a mate, this dessert would be my secret weapon. As it is, I'm just drawing all my dear ones even closer in with it, which is also nice. I love feeding special homemade things, particularly chocolate special things, to loved ones. Ahhh.

Come to think of it, it's really only been in the past year, since I stopped working, that I've learned to make anything like a chocolate torte, or been able to whip up a batch of fuss-free homemade sauce. Entertaining so large a cluster of company at all might have been a bit of a stretch in the bad old days, too, so much so that I don't think I'd have attempted it. Or enjoyed it if I had. So yay, yay,YAY, not working! It's really good for me. How cool that my man is okay with our tight budget, that he understands how much happier I am, that he's happier this way, too. Ahh again.

Another rock show is in the process of being booked. It'll be either in late February or early March, and whenever it is, I can't hardly wait. Seriously.

Along those lines, I had occasion to make a mix of songs by the band I'm playing with as a gift for my brother-in-law this weekend. Have I mentioned that I love this friggin' band? OY. Their songs turn up on every other mix I make; they are generally over-represented. But I've never made an unadulterated, you know, fest. Well, now I have, and I can see why I (unconsciously) put it off: It's too good. IT'S TOO GOOD. It hurts a little. I think I'll try this with my other favorite artist, the only other one who consistently kills me like this. iTunes is a beautiful thing!

Also along those lines, I'm pretty sure almost everyone I know will be at the big anniversary show this spring. As in (in addition to all our local friends), both my parents and their spouses, my eighty-four-year-old grandmother, and my brother and his wife, who will have to take an airplane to get there. Whoah. Well, that's how it looks at the moment, anyway. We'll see how much I end up with to do in the acoustic set. I can't see Gram (or Dad or Mom, for that matter) enjoying the rock set very much. These guys are rather fond of feedback, to an extent that can be a bit much even for me. Though I sure do love the double distortion pedals...

Still no pictures or video, but I think I'll have something eventually.

I really need to get back to writing pages, and playing my instruments more. And walking outside. (Sound familiar, AW folk?) My ACIM practice is going great, but it helps so freakin' much that I coast on other helpful practices just to keep things manageable. Or that's what I think I'm doing, anyway. And it's time to see what would happen if I reincorporate more helpful activities. (((biting nails)))

Thanks to the commenters on the last post. Leah, if you're there, I think I'll take you up on your very generous book lending offer. I have a good feeling about it. (Heh.) I'll be in touch.

Because I love you, internet:

Chocolate -Sexual Reference Here- Torte

Ingredients:

12 ounces (1 bag) semisweet chocolate chips
1/2 pound (2 sticks) unsalted butter, cut into 1-inch pieces
6 eggs

[If you really want to party, you can make whipped cream topping as well: Use a cup or so of heavy cream (not "whipping cream," as it is full of crap such as artificial thickeners), a little vanilla extract and a spoonful or so of maple syrup. Whip.]

Instructions:

Preheat the oven to 350. Line the bottom and sides of a 9-inch pie plate very smoothly with aluminum foil. Lower your standards and spray the foil liner with cooking spray.

Melt the chocolate and butter in the microwave, on a reduced power setting, stirring with a whisk until completely melted. (I find I only need to pause once for stirring mid-melt.) Set aside.

[Optional: Take the weird little hard white squiggly things off the egg yolks with your fingers and a teaspoon. They are weird and squiggly, and, though edible, they will remain unattractively unincorporated into the chocolatey goodness if left in the eggs.] Beat the eggs and stir them into the melted chocolate mixture. Use the whisk for maximum smoothness, but don't whip the mixture--just stir thoroughly. Pour the chocolate mixture into the foil-lined, chemical-lubed pan, cover with foil, and set it in a heavy roasting pan. Pour hot tap water into the roasting pan halfway up the sides of the pie pan (to create a bain-marie--now you're cooking in French!) and place it in the preheated oven for 30 to 35 minutes. Remove the pan from the oven, being careful not to scald yourself but drenching your potholders regardless, and uncover the torte.

The torte will be a soft batter that will solidify when cold. Let it cool to room temperature on a wire rack, then cover it right on its surface with plastic wrap. Put it in the freezer for at least 2 hours. Take it out, turn it upside down on a plate and peel off the foil while it's still frozen, then let it thaw for a bit--around forty-five minutes, but maybe not even that long if it was only in the freezer for the minimum two hours. (Apparently you can freeze the well-wrapped torte for up to 3 months before thawing and enjoying, but I sure don't know anyone with that kind of restraint.)

When ready to serve, put on some lipstick and your hottest boots, then cut the still cold or even frozen torte with a hot, wet non-serrated knife. (Clean the knife in hot water after each cut.) In case of hardcore partying, slather on whipped cream topping. (On the slices of torte.) (Ahem.)

You can also make this for a potluck--it travels great in the thawing stage. And you will make new friends and admirers. (Best to skip the lipstick and boots if you're not, you know, available...)

woo-woo pride

2007-01-15T20:50:00.000-08:00

Sometimes the things I'm thinking about just aren't what I feel comfortable blabbing about. But sometimes I blab anyway. Maybe this is one of those times.

I exchanged the books my dad bought for us at Christmas for some things I'll actually read. (G got the whole mall gift card for a video game he reeeeally wanted, so I get all the book money. Fine with me.) I picked up two new copies of "God Calling," one for some friends and one to replace the copy I beat to death over the past year by reading and contemplating it in the tub. (I LOVE that book. So helpful.) I picked up Anne Lamott's "Traveling Mercies: Some Thoughts on Faith," because I have a feeling I will want to own the book that contains this amazingly tender and insightful, hilarious author's thoughts on God. I picked up a weekly planner, which I will actually be using as a diary of the brief-and-to-the-point variety. (Helpful for tracking reproductive cycles and guaging general productivity.) And I bought a book called "Phenomenon" by a psychic called Sylvia Browne. :: sigh :: It's an alphabetical guide to the paranormal. There are sections on fairies, devas, angels, covens... phrenology. She's got great one-sentence, God-centered summaries of the Major Arcana of the Tarot, but the dear also believes that Atlantis will rise back into existence in this century. Wacky, no? And yet...

Some of this stuff just hits me so hard. And I admit: I feel conflicted about it all. Seriously. The section on telepathy made me have to put the book down and weep--like, screaming (no one else home)--for several minutes. This is me, I thought. This is what happens to me. Here it is. Yet even just having the cashier at the book store ring me up felt like potentially subjecting myself to condemnation, albeit silent: Yep, I'm one of them. I read this stuff. God and psychic phenomenon: I believe it. Yep.

Okay, so I'm what is called psychic. (I just know things, especially about people but sometimes about... other things.) Okay, so there's a Voice in my head. I'm pretty open about this stuff. I'm more than happy to do intuitive readings for others; I do this professionally, though on a somewhat intermittent basis as I do not advertise. But I also hang out with hyper-smart, hyper-educated people, and I can sometimes feel self-conscious about all of this.

It's not because I think my smartypants friends themselves will judge me. They're my friends, and this is a rather prominent and salient aspect of who I am. In close relationships, it all makes sense and I'm comfortable. Besides, my friends are mostly either very spiritual, religious, or woo-woo friendly themselves. (Thanks, Ms. Browne, for the charming new self-deprecating term woo-woo people.) Still, with the inner conflict.

Basically, I do not run around with a crowd of woo-woos like me. I worked in a natural foods market throughout the New Age nineties, and though I happily cherry-picked ideas that worked for me, I saw the whole thing done to death, and I distanced myself from the scene. In fact, I don't think I know very many people now who would buy, let alone read, let alone cry over a book like Ms. Browne's. And come to think of it, some religious friends seem a bit iffy on the phenomenon, and some of the woo-woo leaning are not so sure about God. So I'm surrounded by reminders that who I am is, well, weird. Different and slightly suspect, anyway.

And I just want it all to make sense to everyone! I wish every heart resonated with joyful recognition when reading about how sometimes whole chunks of knowledge or the fully articulated sense of an experience one didn't have will be just deposited in one's head from time to time, or how beings connected on the level of spirit do not need to speak in order to have a conversation. I want every religious person to understand and accept with an open heart that what I hear comes from God, in the same way all our other gifts do. And I do what I do for God! There is absolutely nothing evil about any of this, in my experience. And how 'bout it, rigid intellectuals: Are you ready to stop resisting the obvious and at least accept that intelligent people are often also fully faithful to a Higher Power? That we are not all crazy and/or stupid?

But why do I care at all, even in an abstact way, about what others may think about what resonates for me? Yes, I think we'd all be happier if we were all listening to our Voices. But I know this conflicted feeling boils down to me not yet being fully comfortable with who I am in the world.

Well, I'm very grateful to Ms. Browne for reminding me of these very real aspects of myself, and of their worth. I don't agree with her about Atlantis, but, hey, we'll both be gone by the time her prediction comes true or doesn't, so there's no need to quibble. I bought her book because when I picked it up I felt a surge of energy that said, yes. The telepathy section alone was worth the full retail price. I got the yes feeling when reading her take on angels, too, even though I'm not so sure about her literal take on the details. I'll keep reading. I need more yes. We all do. I'll take it wherever I find it. And I'll leave the rest.

state of grace/overwhelm

2007-01-08T11:04:00.000-08:00

Well, the show last Friday went... perfectly. We got to the club a bit early (after a two hour drive) and had to do a bit of standing around, but this also meant that we managed to score a legal parking space right by the entrance--no small feat in Cambridge, Mass., and cause for much rejoicing. Things just sort of fell into place from there. The sound guy and the other bands (six in total - it was the record label's ten year anniversary party) were all friendly, cooperative and generally cool. The sound check went fine--the club was boomy but we could hear ourselves. We took a nice walk after, ate snacks and drank chai. An old friend met me at the club when we got back. His excellent seventeen year-old daughter and her boyfriend stopped by, too. She unfortunately couldn't stay because the show was eighteen-plus (grrr), but she brought a mix she'd made for me of songs which incorporate a particular chord change for which she, I and her dad all share a very strong, very unusual affinity. It was a lovely gift. There was free homemade Korean food at the club, as part of the celebration. Can you even stand it? And as the time to play drew nigh, the crowd became more and more liberally peppered with good friends, loved ones and devoted fans.

I was calm generally; it helped a lot that G was there to help me in case of emergency. This was my first rock show! I understood that all sorts of things could go wrong: with instruments, effects, cables, amps, miscommunications... As I had no previous direct experience with that sort of thing, I'd just have to deal if something came up. But nothing did, to speak of. I adjusted my amp volume mid-song when I heard unwanted feedback. And I almost came in singing in the wrong spot once, but caught myself immediately. That was it for snafus, if they even qualify. On the plus side, the audience loved our set and responded with generous enthusiasm. The music gelled nicely; everything clicked. I could hear myself, so I sang in tune. One thing flowed smoothly into another. There was a little gaggle of dear ones standing right in front and in direct line of sight, singing along, rocking out and cheering wildly. I had taped a spare pick to my electric guitar in case of droppage (ain't that just the cutest thing?), but I didn't even have to use it. And I was singing with my favorite friggin' band. It was great.

After the show, fans made a point of approaching me to say "great show." These were folks who knew I was new to the lineup. One, a dude I recognized just by virtue of his being as big a fan as I am and being at many of the same shows I'd attended, went out of his way to gush about specific things I brought to the mix. The gaggle of dear ones from the front row had decided that I had been "The calm at the eye of the storm" up there, ..."a calm, strong presence, bathed in light." Wow! G was getting the love, too. He has a fantastic, rockin' yet solid stage presence; he's a blast to watch, and many friends and fans couldn't say enough about that. The head of the record label gave me a big hug and said I was amazing. Actually, he then went on to say he couldn't believe I'd even gone on stage "in these circumstances," which I felt funny about because I knew I'd been outed as a newbie, but T (formerly referred to here as 'R', the lead dude) made a point of explaining after we left that a moment before I had walked up and gotten that hug, the guy had been raving about what assets G and I were. Only then was it mentioned that this was my first show, and that I had basically learned the electric guitar so I could do it. "It only adds to the mystique," he said. Mystique! Gotta love that.

So. Huzzah. Wish I had a picture to show you. Will post something if any are passed along. And I hope something else is scheduled soon. This rock thing is rather fun, I have to say.

There was a party with many of the same folks to attend the next night, which was lovely. But I began to become aware that I needed down time soon. The morning after the party, yesterday, I took someone close to me to an A.A. meeting. This is something I've been doing to support her for the past month or so, once a week, but I swear I get as much out of going as she does, if not more. Yesterday's topic was spirituality, and I cried nearly continually (as inconspicuously as possible) as one excellent, beautiful person after another shared their ideas about how they had been helped by God (as they understood God). I was blown away. One girl told of how she had woken up once on the bank of a river with two homeless guys after passing out in a drug and alcohol haze, and she realized that in that state and in that place, anything could have happened to her. But these two men had watched over her. As she came to, they reassured her that all was well and that she was safe, and they offered her some soup. Beautiful. It all got me thinking about what Jesus said about the meek, about how doing good to anyone was as doing good to him, about entertaining angels unawares. There is spiritual light and beauty out there, and it is everywhere.

So by yesterday afternoon (when I had a sing and a singing community business meeting to attend) I'd gotten back into the good ol' mode of spritually porous mushiness, so sensitive, receptive, and emotionally filled up that I could barely function. I started to shut down; my communication became edgy and inadvertantly intense. I really must learn to manage overstimulation. Hey! A thought: I refer to that state to friends by saying I'm "full." Maybe what I need to do to manage it is to empty out a bit, by giving some away! I tend to want to shut down and curl up alone, but maybe if I instead made an effort to share and give to others at those times rather than pushing them away, I'd find my balance. Hmm. I hope I remember to try this next time.

Last night, I used isolation, french fries and formulaic cop show repeats to fix me up. And it worked fine. So. Life's good.

holy crappin' crap

2006-12-29T15:40:00.000-08:00

I am playing with my favorite band. My favorite. Band. Who cares most of you are not likely to have heard of them? I LOVE these guys! The days when some of their records were released were like holidays to me. I used to go see them play live over and over, and it just never, ever, EVER got old. And this afternoon the dreamy singer was standing in my dressing room playing and singing some of my most favorite songs, and I was playing and singing them, too, and we were playing and singing together, and he liked it, and... and... So what he's been a good friend of mine for years? That makes this that much more sweet and fun, and it takes away none of the thrill whatsoever.

The four of us have played together twice so far, and there are two more full practices planned, but this afternoon was one-on-one with the lead dude, fine-tuning. G finds it very amusing that this was what it took for the excitement to really settle in, but hey, whatever it takes. I am most definitely excited now. Yessiree. I guess it's partly that things are going very well, that it all makes so much sense now that I'm finally here. We're pretty well in agreement musically. And those guys are all very supportive of me and my newbie-ness. They're all also asking and expecting enough so that I feel pleasantly stretched. AHHH.

I had a nice holiday and all that. Through it all I've been busy practicing and listening and working things out. I'm behind on reading other blogs, and I imagine I'll remain slightly out-of-touch for another week or so. (The first show is a week from tonight.) I just thought I'd come check in and jump up and down a little in blogland as well as in my kitchen. Yay, yay, YAAAYYYYY! Jumpity jumpity jump. Oops, I mean, rock horns here. Heh.

5 weird things you didn't know about me

2006-12-20T06:30:00.000-08:00

I was tagged by Jana to list five things you don't know about me, but I saw a version of the "5 Things" theme over at Teri's which I feel compelled to incorporate: five weird things. Perfect. So.

1. From age 11 to age 14, I sang in a group of about fifty kids called "The Young Talents." I learned many beloved/classic/random songs this way that I wouldn't have otherwise--at least not so soon--though mostly shortened versions from medleys: South Pacific, Fiddler On the Roof, West Side Story... We performed with lots of stiff riser-bound choreography in hideous matching red-white-and-blue polyester outfits. The director, my elementary school music teacher, would implore us to "Sparkle!" and demonstrate by lifting her eyebrows to her hairline and pulling the corners of her mouth back to her earlobes. I can still recite the Gettysburg Address, or pretty close, because we learned an extremely cool version of it set to music. I sing it to myself every now and again and I still get choked up.

2. When I meet someone for the first time who will turn out to be a particularly significant friend, I recognize them right away even though I don't know them yet. This has played out several times in my life--like, seven or eight. I spotted my husband as one of "my people" too, though it took me a few weeks to figure out I wanted to be with him, you know, romantically.

3. I enjoy watching shows about autopsies on TV. Fascinating.

4. My spine is so flexible I can touch the floor with my full palms while bending my elbows slightly, but my hips are so inflexible I can't even make a ninety degree angle with my legs. I remember a young gymnastics instructor insisting that I must be able to spread 'em further, when I was a spry nine-year-old. Nope.

5. I have had many lovely mystical experiences. Here's a favorite: It was during a phase when I was particularly attuned to the Voice (in my head that offers wise guidance) in my day-to-day activities. When I really listen, it says all sorts of helpful things, about anything and everything. Anyway, I was also discovering old ballads, but realizing that I had always loved them and I just hadn't been exposed or sought them out enough to fully recognize the affinity. I had the thought around then that a song I loved at age eleven, Gordon Lightfoot's haunting "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald," so strange to my ear for top forty radio, was in fact a ballad. Then I got a mad craving to hear it again. This, children, was before either the impending glut of seventies nostalgia or the fabulous song-finding tool known as the internet, at least in my house. So I just thought wistfully of the song on and off for a few days. And then, one foggy, stormy morning as I waited in my car for a friend to return from the appointment to which I had driven him, as I hummed and tried to remember the words to that tragic song-story, I had the specific thought, "I wish I could hear that song!" And the Voice said, "Turn on the radio. We'll find it for you." So I turned on the radio. And I turned the dial. And after about five or ten seconds, I heard Mr. Lightfoot's wailing guitar. Wow! But, I thought, that guitar plays between many of the verses... maybe it's almost over! Nope. Just started. The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down of the big lake they call Gitchigumi... Heard the whole thing. All eleventy-seven verses, clear as day. And after the last word of the very last verse, just when the seventies fadeout ending kicked in, loud static began to take over and the signal faded. But before it disappeared completely, I heard the announcer do a station i.d. I had been listening to a radio station two states and a hundred miles away on a day when the fog and rain was so thick the clouds seemed to be sitting down on earth with their feet up.

we three kitties

2006-12-14T06:27:00.000-08:00

No burning agenda today; just thought I'd post an update. I'm still pretty Christmasy... went to a show last night where some friends and others performed an eclectic seasonal mix which included many of my favorite musical elements: banjo, SH, bluegrass harmonies, old-time music, safartic (Channukah) music, Christmas, and friends. The atmosphere was laid-back--lots of sweet little kids frolicking down front (until they got too distracting and were shuttled off to play outside the auditorium). I got to sing on a couple of SH tunes. Lovely!

I've had big ugly boogers in my lungs making my cough for nearly two weeks now, but I think going out and basking in seasonal joy last might might have been just the thing for it, as this morning I'm much clearer and quieter. Ahhh.

The three-and-a-half-hour nap I took yesterday with all three of my kitties probably didn't hurt, either:

(Thanks to G for taking advantage of the photo-op.)

In other news, (and this may be partly because I haven't been playing my guitars enough, but...) in the last month, I have knitted nineteen scarves and crocheted three potholders!

(The little kid models are in front.) I for one think they're all mighty fine. A few of the scarves have already gone out as birthday gifts, and have been very well received. What fun! And how geeky is that? [Well, this is not the first activity I've fallen in love with that's Geek- and/or Granny-Approved. Geek Power, baby. And come to think of it, in my experience, most grannies know what is up, yo.] I actually only started crocheting in earnest this week, and I feel borderline compulsive about it--I crave it. I want to be doing it all the time; it's so meditative. I guess I'll have to start making blankets after all these Christmas presents are done. Yes, indeedy. Huge, time-consuming afghans. And I can't wait.

tears on my kitty: christmas blubbering, part 2

2006-12-08T09:04:00.000-08:00

I decided yesterday that I needed some new Christmas music, and set about browsing over at iTunes. I listened to samples of about five hundred different folks' versions of "O Holy Night," a favorite so dear that even typing the title just now choked me up a little. Still, even in that blubbery state I could find nothing that inspired me to make a purchase. Finally I clicked the "holiday" category and was presented with an array of new releases, including Sufjan Stevens "Songs for Christmas."

Now, I may try to pass myself off as musically hip from time to time, but though I do have a faint clue about what's happening in the world of new/interesting/alternative/Cool music, I am frequently long in the dark about wonderful offerings that the actual Cool kids have known about for years by the time I find them. I even catch myself resisting certain things just because they're considered Cool, and much of what the the Cool kids go apeshit over is not actually all that great, in my opinion. I could list several artists I don't particularly care for here to illustrate how discerning and inadvertantly contrary my tastes tend to run, but I won't, because I overdo it in part to make myself feel Cooler than the Cool, and it's really not good for me or for anybody to be concerned with anyone's else's tastes or preferences, whether to gravitate toward them or away.

This summer I finally noticed a song called "Chicago" by Mr Stevens (listen to a sample here--scroll down) which had been around for a full year before I let myself take it in. I had wanted to turn up my nose at the zillion overdubbed tracks, the pseudo-symphonic arrangement, the repetitive chorus sung by what sounded like friends and roomates. A Hip Hippy--whatever. But the song really caught my ear in the movie, "Little Miss Sunshine." It was a perfect expression of the better nature of that film. And damned if the lyrics and that straightforward real-person singing didn't pierce my ill-considered armor. "You came to take us... all things go, all things go... to recreate us... all things grow, all things grow..." Hmmm. But what really got to me was the part where Sufjan sings (over and over), "I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes..." Somehow his inflection got me right there, and put me in direct emotional contact with the part of myself that was acutely aware of how imperfect my choices in life have been and how desperately I needed to confess this to my own Soul. And somehow in that same moment of full awareness which this song managed to kindle in me again and again came immediate and total forgiveness. Redemption. I put the song on a short mix titled "War and Peace," and found I couldn't listen to it without crying. Weeping, really.

[But did I seek out other songs by the guy who was able to punch this nearly unbearably deep place in me and then set me down ever so gently back in my life, renewed and refreshed? Nah. And it turns out G loves this guy; he has two or three of his records on the iTunes file he shares with my computer. Sometimes I wonder what the heck is the deal with me.]

Well, to get back to my Christmas story, I was excited to see a Christmas album by this guy. And--Good Lord!--there were forty-two songs on it! I sampled a few, became further intrigued and cautiously optimistic, and clicked "purchase." I then spent the rest of the afternoon listening, and weeping.

Readers must be getting pretty bored with all my tear talk. It's a bit much for me, too, believe me. But I just had to share this discovery. He gets it. He GETS Christmas! It's pretty obvious that he's a Christian, which I'm not convinced is required but sure doesn't seem to hurt. Now, in the right frame of mind I could listen to Babs or Englebert sing O, Holy Night and be struck by the song itself (most beautiful song ever written? I could make a case - ) and be really moved. One reviewer of Songs for Christmas wrote, "As for the traditionals, who would have thought anyone could find sincere pathos in "The Little Drummer Boy"...?" Well, I for one am absolutely cut off at the knees the first ten or twenty times I hear that one every year. It kills me. Still, eventually I like everyone else will grow tired of all the hoopla, my resistance will strengthen as to a virus, and suddenly I'll hear only the over-slick heartlessness of most versions of my favorites, and I will want them to shut up, already.

This is not bloody likely to happen, however, with my New Favorite Christmas album. Banjo! Regular-person singing! Old English hymns! Old American hymns!! Piano! Actual Sincerity! This is not the maudlin, syrupy "sincerity" contrived and sickeningly overdone by so many Real Singers (definition: it's about them and their Performance--not the song, not the music, not the truth or spirit). I mean, come on--the guy manages to make "Jingle Bells" sound fresh and fun. Okay, it's a fifty-second instrumental. But still, it sounds like two people jauntily playing one piano, and it's actually really great. Plus, there are many killer original tracks. One, called "That Was the Worst Christmas Ever!" is unbearably sad and exultantly beautiful to me. It conjures a complex, rich, and intense sense memory of childhood and Christmas Past in all its darkness and all its ultimate light, more than anything else on the record. But the whole record--though yes, a bit too long (though this is mitigated by the fact that it's technically five cds in one)--the whole damn thing with all its forty-two songs absolutely immersed me in a radiant constellation of precise memories, made crystal through hindsight and higher yearnings, for the entirety of its two solid hours. It split me open.

I learned how to weep silently as a child so as not to draw any unwanted and unhelpful attention. Sad but true. This skill comes in handy these days when I'm sitting here on a jag with my headphones on and G is working fifteen feet away. Don't wish to disturb! Yesterday afternoon I woke the sleeping kitten on my lap with the large teardrops I kept inadvertantly missing with the tissue and dropping onto her fur. She didn't mind the water, though she appeared concerned when she looked up into my face. I reassured her. Yep, it hurts. But in a good way. It was all okay. We are all okay.

Happy Christmastime, everybody.

today's thoughts

2006-12-07T09:03:00.000-08:00

Yay, Christmas. I was out shopping yesterday, humming along with the Christmas music on the overhead and getting all warm and squishy. Last night, we caught the Grinch on TV and I turned into the blubbering retard that this time of year predictably brings out in me. It might look maudlin, but the emotional sensation is absolutely exquisite. I suppose I could just enjoy it, but I was thinking about how when we have a child they will inevitably become increasingly mortified by my waterworks over anything regarding the True Meaning of Christmas. (Or animals in distress. The two boys I provided childcare for several years back used to bait me with "The Adventures of Milo and Otis" so they could have laugh at the expense of the very silly grown-up.)

Speaking of Christmas shopping, this happens every year these days: I spend more on G and me than on everybody else combined (which isn't that much anyway, come to think of it). That sounds a little selfish until you consider that I will wait to buy new linens and pajamas and the like until the old ones are literally falling apart with wear and are no longer mendable. At Christmas time, a switch in my head flips: the one that sends the okay-to-spend signal. I guess this system works well enough. For now.

One of the items I bought yesterday was a cheap pocket watch with an alarm feature, to help remind me to practice hourly. The instructions were so obtuse I was convinced after ten minutes or so of messing with the thing that, although a "chime" feature was mentioned (without any explanation or correlating instructions), it wasn't going to do what I needed it to do--beep softly on the hour. I tossed it along with the mangled packing materials, unintelligible instructions and receipt back into a bag and put it in the "to be dealt with" pile. Then the bag started beeping softly on the hour. Eureka! Now if I can only disable the alarm that went off at 2:20 am this morning.

G's new employers are in talks with many venture capitalists regarding an initial investment. Several are watching developments closely. One potential funder, the VC branch of a company whose name I recognized immediately, has entered into some sort of serious and promising-sounding confidentiality agreement with them. Which is good. Initial funding must be secured before actual success can even be pursued Everybody involved believes that, this way or some other way, it will happen soon. But the founder is spasing out now, dreaming of the possibilities. The other day he called G to ask, among other things, if in a major buyout situation we would hypothetically be willing to move across the country temporarily for many millions of dollars. Getting a wee bit ahead of himself, methinks. I told G that it didn't sound tempting, in any case. Why compromise something as important as living where you most love to live, surrounded by friends and family, for money in amounts that you couldn't possibly really need? Sounds empty and lonely to me. G said we might have a slight difference in opinion about that. But when he said "slight," he didn't mean it ironically. He's just more ambitious than I am, and the idea of raking it in appeals to him on some level. Luckily, he's also a very grounded dude with fundamentally sound priorities. If anything approaching this wild hypothetical ever comes to pass, I know we'll be able to make decisions we can live with joyfully. Which is nice.

In the meantime, my fervent and currently out-of-range wish is for a woodstove. I absolutely need the smell of woodsmoke in my environment from October through March. Lucky for me, we have a neighbor who provides a fix to tide me over fairly regularly when I go out. Still, it's just not the same as having one's home smell all warm and smoky inside. Plus, what can compare to that intense and concentrated heatsource when you feel chilled? There's a spot in the living room that will lend itself perfectly to a tiled corner hearth. I included images of a fireplace and glass-doored stove in my collage last spring, and I am visualizing madly. All I can do now is wait.

A very sad update: My brother's wife's pregnancy is ending. It's one of those situations that just plain sucks, and there's nothing to do or say about it. I was able to help in a small way by answering some questions and talking with her a bit about my experience, which at that point hers was paralleling. And I'm glad for that connection. (It's not easy to find opportunities for gratitude at times like this, but I will observe those that present themsleves.) It's good that we'll all be gathering again in a couple of weeks.

wahoo!

2006-12-02T10:10:00.000-08:00

Our jam/audition went great. What a blast it is to play loud rock music! I openly mused about why I hadn't started doing it twenty-five years ago. G and I both played well for the circumstances (16 songs, one week's notice), and we all got on famously--it was a good day. We won't get to do it again for about three weeks, but then we'll start cramming for the show in early January. Oh, and they liked the new voice parts I added. They also expanded my role on guitar--I'll be playing a little textural acoustic on some other songs, too. I guess G and I will be helping out at another concert scheduled at a favorite local venue this spring as well, and who knows what else might come up. Who knows? I heard the guys talking the other day about making a record or two over the summer. Hmmm. Well, I've certainly made it clear that I'm up for anything if they would like my help or participation, and I will continue to do so, as the Arnold Horschack approach seems to be serving me well.

This band is like two bands in one, since they do intense, deep and often spooky acoustic music as well as this really loud, swirly rock. The acoustic incarnation is even more special to me than the electric version, in fact. I got a big smile this afternoon when the topic of an acoustic set at the spring show came up and I once again put my hat in the ring, reminding them that they had my number for that one, too. Come to think of it, there was actual, bilateral talk of incorporating me--it wasn't just me going, "Ooh! Ooh!" and them grinning warmly yet ambiguously. My, my, my-my-my. As a close friend of ours who has also had a few happy turns lately put it upon hearing our good news, "It's like we fell out of the blessing tree and hit every branch on the way down." Amen.

Speaking of blessings, let me tell you about yesterday morning. When I woke up, my Rock n'Roll Blister had become an erupting wound, and my whole finger was red and swollen. In related news, I have been dealing with and fighting off unpleasant symptoms like headaches and coughing this week, and on the morning of audition day--whattaya know!--I had only a discomfiting sputtering, guttural growl to speak with, and no singing voice whatsoever. But I felt like the Whos in Whoville when all their stuff had been stolen: it was still Christmas morning, goshdarnit. I was still happy and excited. I can honestly say I never worried or feared. I just gave it all to God to take care of. The Course in Miracles idea I was scheduled to work with was, "God's healing Voice protects all things today." God's healing Voice! Perfect. The associated reading was about how that Voice would tell me what to do in all circumstances, and that all I had to do was listen to it. Even more perfect for the day. I meditated on that for awhile; I repeated the idea to myself as I ate breakfast and got dressed, really taking it in. And when I went over my songs again one last time before we headed over, my voice was just there when it was time to sing. It stayed full and clear all day. And I was able to play my guitar relatively painlessly with some of that thick white boo-boo tape over my Rock Wound. Blessings large and small.

At this point, I want to restate that the Artist's Way work for which this blog was started is quite evidently behind these wonderful musical opportunities opening up in my life. It's really amazing to me from my present vantage point that when I did some of the excercises designed to disinter and process just this sort of thing, I was flooded with long-ignored and all but abandoned wishes for the very specific scenario that's now unfolding. I'm so very glad I used those hokey little power tools (powerful little hokey tools?), and that I had this outlet to express the resulting ideas out loud, so I could hear myself say them and get used to the notion that they were not only real and important for me to pursue in a "follow your bliss" sort of way--no matter what--but that when it came down to it, they were also probably quite achievable. And not even all that big a deal. Like, seriously--not at all. What was I waiting for? What was I afraid of?

Funny how things start to seem so unmanageable when we deny our heart's desires, stuffing them down, trying in vain to shut them up. I wonder if our demons are really just denied true directives, demon-y only because they're demanding our attention more and more fiercely. Like a crying child! When you go and put your arms around it, that frightening little banshee quiets right down.

bringing the rock

2006-11-29T11:11:00.000-08:00

Well, I've got a blister the size of a small polynesian island on my left ring finger. A Rock n' Roll Blister! I'm bursting with pride. Workin' those power chords. And god bless 'em! They're just so easy, and they rock so hard. I am having an ABSOLUTE BLAST. I put off really starting to learn the songs for Friday's jam until Monday--not to mention learning to really play rock guitar (I work best under pressure)--but since then I've spent hours each day with the stereo and my amp cranked up to about a hundred and ten db, playing and singing along, learning my parts, learning to go for feel over perfect exectution, learning not to drop my pick (that's a hard one), and grinning from ear to ear. I saw the guys from the band last night. I proudly displayed my blister. One joked that the thing to do with those was to bite them off and spit them at someone. I said, "I have so much to learn." I just can't wait to play. Yee-haw.

In other news, I learned on Thanksgiving that my brother's wife is pregnant! The first of the next generation in my immediate family. Most exciting. Too bad they live several states away. They've come home often since they moved away, but I guess we'll just have to do more traveling there after the baby arrives this summer. Fingers crossed that they'll take action on the plan they've discussed intermittently of moving back to New England when they have a child. And of course, fingers and toes crossed that we provide a little cousin very soon.

G is settling in to his new situation. His work ethic is such that there is much more danger of his working too much and in an overly structured way than taking unhealthy advantage of the work-from-home scenario and task-oriented, nonhourly salary orientation. But that is not a problem now, so I will let him find his groove however he needs to and leave him alone. I'm just happy that he can barely even hear the rocking going on in the upstairs bedroom as long as I pull a pillow over the vent in the floor.

Well, break's over. Mama's gotta go rock now.

no. way.

2006-11-22T07:18:00.000-08:00

So as G bids farewell today to his office job and embarks on the path to his dream, I have something extra to give thanks for in the dream-come-true department as well: I get to sing with my favorite band! It's an embarrassment of riches around here lately, I swear. But we accept.

So far, we're just talking an afternoon of exploratory "jamming," but as there's a show scheduled in six weeks, the implication is clear that things are likely to be taken further if that afternoon goes well. I have always wanted to sing with these guys, but I must say, the specific way the dream is manifesting is far better than what I dared imagine--for one simple reason: G will be there, too. I can't hardly stand it.

The story, short version, is that the band has been on what looked like a permanent hiatus since their bass player/second singer moved to Europe a few years ago, while the two founding members headed for far-flung quarters and other pursuits. But when their record label asked them to play a reunion concert this winter, the two accepted, figuring it would be a fun thing to do and that something would work out. After all, they're living in the same state this year for a change, albeit temporarily. All the more reason to play together as much as possible, right? AN-y-way, when I heard that a show was scheduled, I had a feeling that this might create an opening, and I started making overtures. These were warmly received. If things never went any farther than just being considered, I was already happy.

Those guys know a lot of people and they like to mix things up, so I figured it was best to trust that the highest good for all concerned would be what ended up happening. That way, I could just toss my ideas/dreams out there for consideration and let go. So I tossed away, in a blissful state of detachment. No idea was too stupid or crazy, anything was possible, and whatever happened or didn't would be just fine. In this mad odyssey of free-form dream improvisation (to paraphrase Derek Smalls), I first thought I might learn the bass and fill in that way. A mighty ambitious proposition, that. Oy. But, hey, this was just brainstorming. Just tossing it out there. It was technically possible, and exciting to consider. Why not?

But then... THEN, I had the idea: G!! G plays the bass--ha-DOI! And he's been looking for a tasty project for years now, something cool and challenging, with smart people, preferably adult nonstoners. And haven't we been meaning to play together but not quite finding a way to get to it, already? Plus, this way I could just sing, and perhaps add a tasteful (read: easy) rhythym guitar track here and there. This would be low pressure all around, and WAY more fun. More fun for all, since G is a blast and those guys all already adore each other, but omigod--his presence would change everything for me. The potential for excess nervous tension and odd dynamics, not to mention discomfort over my lack of experience in band situations, all just seemed to float away in large measure the moment I visualized G on bass.

Meanwhile, and this is the real beauty part, it turns out that this exact situation has been a "daydream scenario" of G's for years. I knew he'd be into the idea, but I had not suspected and he had not mentioned that he'd actually been wanting to play with these guys, too. Can you even stand it?

So there's a whole lot going on around here today that wasn't yesterday. The list for "jamming" (the nice way they're saying 'audition', methinks) is sixteen songs long, and the first get-together may be as soon as nine days away. I'm familiar with all the songs, but knowing I'll be participating is making me listen to them in a new way this morning. My appreciation of what these guys do has already deepened, as well as my awareness that even "just" singing, I have a lot of work before me if I'm going to do this well. Which I am. What else... I'm suddenly wondering if I'll have time to make all the Christmas gifts I bought supplies for yesterday before we got the word, what with all the potential practicing and rehearsing. But I like the feeling that my time is filling up with such, well, fulfilling activities. This will change G's and my experience of the transition to his working from home dramatically, I imagine, as there are now two major factors in our life together emerging in the very same week. The timing seems perfect, somehow. And I'm surprised to find myself really happy in a calm way, rather than really hyper in every possible emotional direction. Somehow, after everything, this is really no big deal. In a good way. It's a bit early in the process, I know, but all signs point to my being ready for this. Which is nice.

The biggest item to note, of course, is how TOTALLY FRICKIN' GRATEFUL and BLOWN THE FRIG AWAY I am to observe this very dear and long-held dream emerging into my outward experience in the most perfect possible way and at the perfect time. Even if it only turns out to be one afternoon, just jamming in the basement. This is just plain COOL. And it's one of those times when the most suitable words seem way too small for their task.

PS - Hey, Kat, if you're still out there: I see what you mean about positive affects from The Artist's Way showing up months afterward! (Long-time readers may recall several posts in which I have ruminated about this very scenario, beginning with coming to terms with even just wanting it. My AW work clearly prepared the way for this happy funtime goodness. More gratitude! Blowing of kisses and throwing of bouquets!)

Here's my heart, God. You Rock.

high octane cocoa

2006-11-20T13:47:00.000-08:00

So I've cut way back on sweetened foods. I've suspected for some time that I might have been going a little heavy on the carbohydrates, since I'd been a bit drowsy and generally out-of-it just about every afternoon, and I could more or less use ice cream or candy as a sleep aid--it predictably knocked me out. The problem may actually be that I go too easy on the protein, as I only end up eating meat two or three times a week and I'm not careful enough to cover that category in other ways. Sidebar: When I was a vegetarian for six years once, I learned the hard way that I need to balance carbs with proteins and salt if I don't want to be chronically cranky, tired and spacey. I decided then that vegetarianism did not seem to be for me, and I think that's still true. But I had recently let the balance tip once again toward yin foods, as I think of them, and this time I figured it was time to take a hard look at my sugar intake.

It wasn't good, and it's not like I'd been eating candy or Ho-ho's every day. I'll spare you all the details. Well, most of them: Until turning over the new lo-sug leaf, I usually ate frosted shredded wheat with soy milk for breakfast. When I switched to Grape Nuts (zero added sugar) with plain yogurt and fresh fruit, I swear-ta-god, I felt worlds better immediately. My energy is just so much more level now. It was enough to get me to start regarding honey oat granola bars like I used to treat M&Ms. And I have not had to exert any effort to maintain the new approach--I associate sweets with feeling like crap, so unless I've just had a nice big, salty and meaty meal, I just don't eat 'em.

This created a dilemma when it came to chocolate, however. Time was, three seasons of the year I could just mix up some instant hot cocoa to satisfy that jones. Now that stuff tastes like candy to me. Well, come to think of it, I'd been meaning to finally face up to its obscene ingredient list and get real anyway. Seriously. Ew. So I finally made the break. I bought some baker's cocoa, nothing fancy--just the store brand ("ingredients: cocoa"), and my, my, my... in Tim Gunn's parlance, I'm making it work. The recipe I saw on the side of the fancy baker's cocoa called for a tablespoon and a half each of cocoa and sugar, dissolved in 8 ounces of milk being heated to steaming and stirred constantly. I'm using 12oz milk (no girly-ass portions for me), with two heaping tablesoons of cocoa (probably the equivalent of three measured units) and one heaping teaspoon of sugar. Which is still a lot. But the milk I use has extra protein. AN-yway, this ROCKS, and it takes the same time it used to take to heat up the kettle. It's very dark and chocolatey, with no subsequent nap required. (Oh, and I dissolve the cocoa and sugar in a little hot water first to get banish cocoa clumps. Recommended if you're trying this at home.)

Three ingredients! Reasonable sugar levels! Deep, dark, and chocolatey! What's not to love?

a week without internets

2006-11-17T08:08:00.000-08:00

Our internet service failed very early Monday morning and did not return until last evening. It was interesting to note through deprivation just how much time I spend on the computer and for just how many purposes: Couldn't check email. Couldn't read blogs. Couldn't check the weather or read the NY Times. Couldn't check the bank balance or pay the bills. Couldn't find a recipe for pea soup with ham in ten seconds flat, or get knitting instructions, or check the local classifieds for leads on the mystery kitty that turned up in our basement and stayed for a week without putting my boots on. Yes, many of these things could have been accomplished through other more cumbersome means, but come on. Cook books? Too few choices. Telephone banking? Did that ever seem convenient? CNN and The Weather Channel? Don't get me started.

In the early nineties, I was one of those Luddite wannabees who resisted so much as looking at a computer. How could diddling around with a machine that looked suspiciously like a TV make me in any way more productive? How could staring at a sterile little screen in an alpha-wave brain state do anything but isolate me further from my fellow beings? Well... huh! Sure, it's another way to waste alarming amounts of time astonishingly easily, but, man, I just hadn't fully appreciated how much time it can save. And do I even need to mention how much I missed my email and blog buddies? It's good to get bitch-slapped with one's own self-righteous prejudgements from time to time, I suppose.

The Mystery Kitty was eventually reunited with his grateful people the old-fashioned way: they saw one of the signs I'd posted around the neighborhood. Sure felt good to deliver him safely home. Handsome little dude. And, yeah, I finally closed up the hole he came in through. It was as if the cat said, "Hello. I am a friendly and fine-looking feline who needs a place to crash if it's alright. I noticed the broken basement window under your deck there and it just called to me. I can stay? Cool, thanks. Oh, by the way, I could have been a skunk."

G is inching toward his last day at his office job. Just three days to go after this. We got an interesting little preview of things to come yesterday when his new boss got tired of the delays in productivity due to our service outage and called a guy he knows at our internet provider, who happens to be the head of marketing there. And whattaya know! Our internet connection was restored within the hour. And G got a total of three personal phone calls from this executive, who smooched his butt liberally and told him to call his cell phone anytime if he needed help again. My man, the VIP. There were pink cartoon hearts swirling out the top of my head.

juicy plum

2006-11-09T05:37:00.000-08:00

Domestically speaking, this is a sleepy transition time. We're all keeping cold symptoms at bay--except the kitten, who, having succumbed, is quite sneezy and even more lapbound than usual. She's getting better, though. G was feeling crappy enough to call in sick, but well enough to work at his new job all day from his computer, so yesterday was a nice sneak preview of what life might be like after he leaves his office job for good in two weeks. It was great. He was very successfully, in his industry's parlance, squashing bugs all day, and therefore in a great mood. He gets more and more excited about his new situation as he is able to apply himself to the work part-time. He made us a yummy lunch of grilled turkey and cheese sandwiches. I later cooked a garlic-y bean, chicken and kale stew for dinner. It was dreamily dreary outside and very, very cozy inside.

I spent my time during the day knitting and watching cable news networks. Wow! Hope! Haven't felt that after an election in quite awhile. I think of myself as independent, though I always vote with the lefties, because I consider the donkey party, while being a WAY better choice than those belicose elephants, as essentially the other side of the same tired old, tarnished coin. I hold out hope for a viable new party or two to emerge in my lifetime, with truly new perspectives, and dialectic approaches to the same old petrified, habitual and entrenched political battles that we're all so very tired of. The so-called discourse has lost all of its honesty, all of its juice. (See: Jon Stewart on Crossfire, October, 2004.) I want comprehensive overhaul. I do not believe that that one side that I always vote with is able to provide it. I don't want one side of this tiresome game to win, anyway. In fact, I don't believe that's even possible. I'd rather see new guys, thinkers, cherry-picking the best of all possible systems and approaches and synthesizing balanced and inclusive solutions. I want off the see-saw.

This whole red state/blue state thing is hackneyed, false, divisive and dangerous. I have lived in the bluest of blue states all my life, and I notice that even here the margin of victory in many if not most races is not all that wide. If we looked at a map of the country by district with the colors red and blue blended together based on the percentages, it'd be a lovely shaded purple, like a plum. It was just as purple two years ago as it is now.

Here's a purple map by state, proportional to population, that someone put together after 2004:

We are clearly all in this together. Furthermore, while I'm sure some of the folks that have tended to vote the other way in recent years way may actually be people I wouldn't like or trust, the the same could certainly be said for my side as well, and the vast majority of those other guys are just folks, not all that different from me, when I get right down to it. Just people doing the best they can with what they know. Could they really all be stupid? Are we really all morally bankrupt? What good can come of this wholesale oversimplification?

Our recent election is a start toward a new era, or at least a step away from the old. We have a two-party government again. This provides another opportunity for real dialogue or--dare I?--cooperation as we stumble our way toward growth. The system may be corrupt, and it may fail to live up to our ideals again and again, but it has worked in many important ways in the past, and it's all we have for the moment. I hope we can begin to remember in our dark days who we really intend to be, and that our failures and embarrassments motivate us to correction and improvement.

who this is for

2006-10-31T06:26:00.000-08:00

Another rainbow, from Saturday. 'Twas but a shadow of the one that recently inspired me to give away money, but every rainbow is a good rainbow. Our deck provides an excellent viewing venue--whenever one of these lovelies appears in the sky it always seems to be visible in its entirety over the hills behind our house. Our rear view faces east/northeast, apparently a prefered quadrant. Sweet!

G gave his notice at work last Friday. He embarks on his new adventure full-time in just a few weeks--his last day at the office will be the day before Thanksgiving. Nice timing there. Even at this transitional stage, he is so filled with gratitude he's a joy to be around. Apparently saying out loud to his boss that he was leaving to pursue his dream was one of those moments. He's a changed man! Calm, confident, content... G was already all of these things, but now it's just radiating from his very pores. As he remarked the other day, "I think this is what they mean by 'actualization.' " Indeed.

I'm doing my best to ride the uplifting tide. I feel great, too: also calm and content, also very, very grateful. I've been domesticizing even more, keeping things cleaner, cooking more... and sewing! So far nothing from scratch, but it sure feels good to have finally made the skirt and funky tunic/jumper I wanted out of those dresses I wasn't crazy about, for instance. They've been waiting there for me for, oh, three or four years. I've also been knitting. I only know the two most basic stitches, but I discovered last week that if I use fat needles and bulky, fluffy yarn two strands at a time, basic scarves look funky and very cool. I started with one for G, which he loves and which looks truly great on him. Then I went back to the store and bought a hundred dollars worth of yarn, with which I will make fifteen Christmas presents. Um, cost effective? Yuh. I've made two scarves so far. They only take me a few hours to do. And I shall soon attempt my first sweater.

Basically, I'm relishing my life in all its details. My practice is still suffering after the intense stretch I went through recently, but I'm keeping it up as best I can, trying to stay open to the growth and to all the goodness unfolding. My ongoing additional intensity continues to make social interactions more challenging; that keeps me humble and brings me back to the work again and again. But these are fine times in our happy little home. I am happy. And socially challenged or no, we've been entertaining a lot lately, sharing the joy, such as it is. I am not withdrawing to cope with the sensitivity. So yay.

On the fertility front, a small but significant development: I realized over the weekend that pursuing medical means is simply not for me. In the back of my mind, I've been dreading what seemed like the virtually inevitable round of hormones I'd have to endure. I'd even set a deadline to start the drug that "everyone" in my situation takes--and it was this month, if we didn't conceive naturally. Well, F that. It's not my way. It makes no sense to me. If this is going to happen, it's going to happen. The only thing the drug would do is to ensure ovulation, apart from messing mightily with my already challenging emotional landscape and reinforcing doubt and fear, not to mention causing god-knows-what for physical symptoms. I believe I'll ovulate if I'm meant to conceive. No--it's more than that: I believe that this entire undertaking is in God's hands. The drug and the turkey baster and all those other means may be godsends of a sort for other women, but I now know they are not for me. The relief and the peace are palpable. (A bible verse comes to mind... I guess I won't start quoting scripture, but I just love this image: and thou shalt be like a watered garden... It comes after a bit about God guiding us always.) G supports my decision completely. Ahhh.

Speaking of not quoting scripture, I've been thinking about something I wrote here as I returned after a long hiatus: ...as I've considered returning to my blog, I've thought about finding a way to incorporate here more of the things I actually think about most... Let me just say I want to find a way to be more fully honest about who I am. As I consider my posts since then, I think I'm doing that. And I may need to go a bit further in that direction. The name of this blog is a quote from a bible verse, from the 139th Psalm, actually, which is a significant spiritual guidepost for me. The more I write here and the more my intentions for doing so consciously emerge, the more the name makes sense. So maybe I should be quoting scripture! -- along with all my other sources of written wisdom. I may want to expound a bit on the inner context of my musings here.

In a related vein, I've also been working out who I believe I'm writing for. I don't imagine I have many readers, for starters. And though I cherish the ones I do have, I don't tend to want to give the address out. But I also don't mind the idea of anyone reading who happens to find it. This includes people I know, especially since the group I started this thing to participate in has pretty much disbanded and my raison d'etre has ripened into something new. (Or perhaps has been refined back to its true original intent, judging by the name I gave the site.) I still think it's pretty weird that anyone I know well enough to consider a friend would read and not give me a little wink or a nod to let me know they're reading. And I realize that some share this perspective and some don't. But the truth is, knowing that anyone could be reading has not confined my writing in any perceptible way. So I guess that's that on the topic of lurkers whom I know.

On the topic of Who This Is For, I've realized it's for me, and it's for the world, in the same sense as any other creative endeavor. It's for me because it's an outlet for self-expression. And it's for the world because all our individual acts of self-expression (which is really every single thing we think, say or do) are part of the collective consciousness of Who We Are. So here is a small and meandering offering from little old me, for whomever may find it and gain something from it, anything. I believe that God distributes the gifts we're all giving, and the Holy Spirit takes care of the details of putting what we need to hear before us at the perfect time and in the best and easiest possible way. Some call that synchronicity. However it's framed, I trust this idea. That's Who this is for.

So in keeping with my new, clearer m.o., here's a little something that reached out and grabbed me by the soul over the weekend as I pondered G's self-actualization and material success, along with the blog-related stuff above: (It's from God Calling, an amazing book I recommend to anyone on a path of spiritual opening - )

Never count success by money gained. ... Your success is the measure of My Will that those around you have seen worked out in your lives.

Amen!

Still waiting for word about the possible opportunity to play some rock and roll...

friends and money

2006-10-23T11:00:00.000-07:00

Menstruation, boo! At least I succeeded in remaining disengaged this month from the intense yay-or-nay mentality I have indulged on and off since beginning the journey to parenthood. I'm feeling okay; I'm working the trust. I feel a little off emotionally, though - probably just the normal monthly challenges - and I'm a bit blue. Which doesn't help.

When I'm off, it can be hard to be around people. I feel awkward, more intense than usual. People seem to think I'm angry or otherwise negatively oriented at those times, but in truth the problem tends to be more along the lines of hypersensitivity. Ever noticed that your guardedness gets interpretted as hostility? Ever interpret someone else's guardedness thusly? I definitely have, and I'm trying to rewire my reactions. I know that when I feel guarded I need more love, not less, no matter how it looks. It's not easy to turn that around, to offer it to someone else who seems extra edgy rather than condemning them for doing (or feeling) something I do (or project) and don't feel comfortable with.

Of course, sometimes I am angry, or just cranky. Not as often as it apparently looks, but sometimes. And some folks don't seem all that comfortable with me then. Huh! So I also practice extending love and acceptance to angry people, as much as possible. That one's also tricky, but MAN is it satisfying when I remember to do it. In any case, I'm finding that I'm less engaged these days about how things go with other people, in good times and cranky, which must good. I just love them, and I just wish them well. If there are misunderstandings, they'll eventually clear up. And even when things feel awkward, chances are excellent that there isn't a thing there that's worth even a moment's notice. I waste less time and energy focusing on struggle these days, mine or others'. Even if it means moving out of closeness with some friends, which, hmmm... it seems to.

G just hugged me goodbye; he's off to an afternoon of watching football and drinking beer. He doesn't have these problems. Everyone loves him and feels comfortable with him. I didn't tell him about this post I'm writing; I just said, "I'm so glad I have you. You understand me." "What's to understand?" he replied with sweet, sweet irony. "You're so simple! So uncomplex!" God I love him.

He's now being courted by a second company, one with lots of money. Since he's in a part-time mutual trial period with the first place that spotted him, these new guys really had to bug him to even get an initial interview. He thought he wouldn't like them. But he did. And they looooved him. The structure of the job is virtually identical to the first--another version of his dream. As long as our basic needs are met, money is not at all his main motivator. So if they do both end up making offers, he'll choose with his heart and his gut based on where he believes he will feel most happy and fulfilled. But this pleasant new wrinkle does make the possibility of a little more money for us now a bit more feasible.

Even just thinking about a slight increase in household income has already had an interesting affect on the list of things I longed to buy: it got shorter. This reminds me of our honeymoon trip. We opted for an all-inclusive package, and we could basically have whatever we wanted at every meal. It seemed in theory that this might result in gluttony, or at least in ordering the most expensive item on the menu every time, just because we could. But what happened in practice was that we ordered just what we wanted--exactly what we wanted--no more, no less. We'd get whatever looked most intriguing or what seemd most likely to make us feel good. Sometimes it was the expensive entree, sometimes just the big salad. We'd order dessert if we felt like it, but if we got full halfway through, we wouldn't finish it anyway just because we'd already invested the extra five bucks.

The package came with a little card called "The Golden Key" - that's what we handed the waiter instead of money. Hello, metaphor! We decided we'd take The Golden Key home with us. It has helped quite a bit, though lean times can really jam whatever in us regulates the impulse to consume. And we have been through some lean times over the past couple of years.

In a bit of interestingly synchronicitous timing, I caught a show on cable the other night about massive lottery winners. Now, I am most certainly not talking about money on that level coming to us. It's fun to consider the possibility of G signing on with the next YouTube at its inception, but the odds of that are probably pretty steep as well. Still, I had been thinking about the idea of "more money," and here was this television show with a parade of newly rich people showing off what they bought with their winnings and how much they paid for all of it. And I watched, and I squirmed. And I thought, If I won the lottery, I'd set up a fund to perpetuate money so that I could keep giving it away.

Philanthropy. It has such a nice ring to it. How great it must feel to be in a position to make a difference in that way to a large number of people! I mean, how much better than having a solid gold toilet or seventeen really expensive cars. That, on the other hand, seemed to me like it might feel pretty crappy at the end of the day.

I suppose most philanthropists do both. I suppose having a gagillion dollars might change my perspective on expensive things. But witnessing these lottery winners' gleeful over-consumption helped further realign my inner consumption guage. I mentioned my plan for if we ever get in that position to Gerard. He concurred.

The next day, I saw the brightest rainbow I'd ever seen in my life. It made me feel uplifted, hopeful, happy. I always equate rainbows with the promise of peace. I decided in that happy state to write in my journal. And after a few pages I got the idea. We could do it now! Or very soon, in any case. We have so much. In many ways, most of us in this culture live better than kings did a few hundred years ago. All this food, all this comfort. Maybe G and I can help other people more now. Why wait till it's coming out our ears? That may never happen. So I made up a budget that includes a big chunk of giveaway money every month, and I asked Gerard to consider it. He said "You're so awesome," he slept on it, and then he agreed.

I'm so happy. Can't wait to try it out. I have a feeling we'll feel really... rich.

PS - Just read another great post over at 37days about Muhammad Yunus, a recent Nobel Peace Prize winner who has implemented the fabulous idea of making very small loans to very poor people, with wonderful results. Part of the deal is the agreement that borrowers make, the "16 decisions" that they commit to to improve their lives and their community. This is along the lines of teaching someone to fish rather than giving them a fish, and giving them a small loan for supplies to get them started as well. I will definitely look for programs to support which follow this premise!

Of course I also wonder what 16 decisions I could make to improve my own life and community. But that's a bit ahead of me at the moment. For now, I'll give money when I can to those amazing, mysterious creatures with energy and motivation, and I'll see if I can get my yoga practice going again... and work out... and wash the kitchen floor...

random musings

2006-10-16T08:34:00.000-07:00

First, the mundane stuff: Does anyone else get a high from paying bills? It makes me feel ridiculously good to write and mail off those checks. AHHHH.

And how's this for a hint that it might be time to start working out again: I went to put on my favorite pants today, which were dryer-fresh and therefore rather snug, and hmm... they seemed a little snugger than usual. So when I squatted into the deep knee bends I typically employ to banish dryer shrinkage, they split massively in the rear. Frickin' frackin' rickin' ruckin' motherscratcher!!! Good thing I got out my sewing machine yesterday, finally giving in to the inspiration I gleaned from my dear Teri's recent lucky find. But problems remain. First of all, no matter how well I do with it, the mending job will be quite apparent, so the days of these amazing funky, flattering pants being presentable are over. And secondly, in ongoing casual wear, how long will the mending job last? I can (and will) stop machine drying this beloved garment, but though their well-earned wear in the seat was a factor in today's incident, my seat itself was equally culpable in this sad case. Goodbye, era of the favorite widewale olive green corduroy pants. Hello, Nordic Track.

In other mundane news, I just never can get over how much light and love and joy our cats bring to my days. I try not to talk about it too much, since it's one of those things that can be irritating to the uninitiated, but OH MY GOD. I LOVE my cats. I love them so much it hurts a little; I have to grit my teeth. Our newest addition to the household is coming up on six months of age and has just figured out that she can leap onto the counters, to, among other very naughty things, pursue her favorite hobby of pulling over water glasses. We are entering a world of trouble. And I could not be less concerned. Nothing she could damage in her playful impudence is nearly as dear as she. How on earth do you parents of human babies manage the intensity?

Speaking of intensity, here's where I'm really at today: I feel I have made great progress in my spiritual work lately, and I'm happy about that, but it's a little hard to take. When I do my ACIM meditations morning and evening, and remember to pause hourly-ish to think about Love and Truth, it feels wonderful--but lately I seem all too often to become a blubbering pile of spiritually porous mush. Yesterday I went to church (Christian Science church, which often synchs up beautifully with A Course in Miracles), and the lesson was all about how we are one with God and with each other. I cried through the whole service. It's joy and it's gratitude--the tears come from a very beautiful place, a place I want to be--but... well, it's just hard to take standing up. I find my edginess and my personal armor wanting to re-engage even more energetically after a day or two like this, which is hardly the point of the work.

It's a kind of backlash, I think. My ego, the fearful part of me, is growing very concerned. And it has every reason to be concerned! Looks like it's losing control of the legislature, so to speak. And that's great. But I really need to find a way to do this work and live in the world simultaneously. That is, in fact, the point. I won't be nearly as much help holed up at home weeping with gratitude for my kitties as I might be bringing some of this light I'm opening to directly to those who really need it. Of course, that may be me attempting to manage affairs which, though ostensibly my own, are in truth better left to the higher powers. But I do know this: I need to find a way to become more loving more consistently in my interactions with others as a result of my spiritual work, as opposed to often more loving and easy-going, but sometimes a big hyper-sensitive, crankypants bundle of emotion. (Sorry, G.)

I actually made the conscious choice to skip my meditation last night, because I thought I just couldn't take anymore. And I haven't done one yet this morning, er, afternoon. That can't be right. Well, I'll go do it now. For me, facing this work is another one of those things that just can't be gotten around. Hey, that reminds me of a sweet old spiritual song:

Rock-a my soul in the bosom of Abraham
Rock-a my soul in the bosom of Abraham
Rock-a my soul in the bosom of Abraham
Oh! Rock-a my soul

So high, you can't get over it
So low, you can't get under it
So wide, you can't get around it
You gotta go through the door

Bawling again...

So while I'm here, one more thought: I've been feeling bad about vilifying that reporter from CNN in my post about the Amish schoolhouse tragedy. And not just because my smart, sensitive, wonderful brother pointed out in the comments that to lump "the press" together as a single entity with a unified focus and methodology is not terribly subtle thinking. I feel fine about the opinions I expressed, but I have realized that to derisively pick on the individual people caught up in the machinations of our culture won't ever do a bit of good. There are ways to express ideas like that without attacking anybody. Next time I'll be more careful.

i heart ac/dc

2006-10-13T07:48:00.000-07:00

G accused me recently of being a poseur. We were discussing the rock n' roll onesies we will (sometimes) dress our infant in when s/he arrives: G found a good one on the Cheap Trick website which will be a must, as he is a huge fan, of their bass player Tom Robinson especially. And I've had my eye on a teeny plain black AC/DC number hanging in a wicked cool shop downtown. Picture Beavis at 3 months. Anyway, I don't remember how he led into it... I think he made a funny reference to a song that I was unfamiliar with, of which there are many, and I had to ask him to explain it. "You're a big AC/DC pretender," he said.

He's right. I say I love them because I love one album of theirs, plus two songs - one a hit and one an obscure album cut that is so beautiful to me I think it'd have to be desert island material. But even though we have the album that song is from, I haven't even really checked out the rest of it. Poseur! Moi! Mon Dieu. I took it to heart.

So this morning when browsing in G's itunes library for some listening material to deepen and justify my daily time-drain on the computer, I chose 1979's "Highway to Hell." And guess what. I really do love AC/DC.

It's interesting to me that music like this is supposed to be so heavy and subversive. To me, it sounds exultant. Distorted power chords through Marshall stacks is, in my opinion, is one of the most beautiful sounds there is. And there's just something about these riffs and this rhythm that just makes me feel so joyful. I used to get irritated by the ceaseless puerile sexual innuendo, but now I accept that it's just part of the fun--it's a big part. So to speak. I used to get distracted by some of the fire and brimstone stuff in SH singing, too, but now I see that it's intrinsic to the style. And when I learned to just go with it, singing those stompy doom and gloom tunes became way more fun.

So, gotta just go with it. Check. And I bet I could find other ways to apply this morning's lessons in art appreciation. Like for instance, listen to more music, for heaven's sake. Explore! Start with the stuff you already own. This reminds me of going shopping in my own closet, something I need to do more often: Really get in there! Try to see things with a fresh eye. Mix it up. Revisit stuff you say you love but leave hanging, and really climb in. Open to new perspectives, even if they're perspectives you've been saying you have already. Open more deeply. Life could be so much richer, without having to add anything new.

progress

2006-10-11T06:36:00.000-07:00

Things are humming along. Husband's prospective employer is very apparently counting the minutes until the shortest version of the part-time trial period they all agreed on has elapsed so they can begin full-time negotiations. It's true love all around. As G's intuitive consultant (and spiritual advisor), I see very clearly that the only block to all the good that is wanting to come to him now is his ability and willingness to open his heart and mind wide enough to let it all in. So he's working on letting go of as much fear as possible; he's uncrimping his channel. G is my best client. He really listens to what I offer and gets right to work adjusting his thinking. I really envy and admire his ability to make important inner changes, actually. So, wow! A new chapter is about to begin.

Regarding my dream-job prospects, I talked a bit with my special musician friend last night. He/they have absolutely no idea how they're going to proceed for the shows they're booking as a band that more or less broke up a couple of years ago when one member moved to another continent. She's almost definitely not coming back for this project. There are many possibilities, and they like to mix things up. He's not at the decision-making stage yet. But he got all warm and squishy and said my idea of being in the band "just made me so happy." That sounds promising! We have also been talking about writing together. He says he needs someone to bounce things off of in order to write regular songs, and he agreed that I'd be a great person to fill that role for him. He said again last night he's really looking forward to doing something, and talked about how he hopes things will ease up scheduling-wise next semester.

Well, I hope so, too. But again, just to be planting these seeds and feeling very comfortable and detached from specific outcomes feels absolutely marvelous. This is a person to whom I used to give the power to unbalance and unground me. That drove me NUTS. I never wanted it that way and I worked furiously at correcting it for years. So, yay progress. Success, even. And to top it all off, I came up with another idea last night that involved both G and me playing with them which is actually more feasible, and potentially WAY more fun. Who knows? Who knows. Why not toss the dreams out there onto the table and let the larger forces work out the highest and best outcomes for all.

Our tenth wedding anniversary is this week. Time for a nice dinner out and romantic reflections on what a kick-ass job we each did in choosing each other. It's said that 90% of our happiness is derived from our choice of life partner. That figure seems a bit steep, but I can attest to the truth behind the idea!

forgiveness

2006-10-05T06:58:00.000-07:00

Yesterday on CNN I watched a flippant female reporter interviewing the grandfather of two of the young shooting victims from that Amish schoolhouse. This gentleman chose to be filmed from the back, so while he spoke we unfortunately could see the reporter's face, stretched as it was into an uncomfortably stiff and sickeningly predatory smile. It seemed she could barely contain her glee at nailing this awesome scoop. And her angle, naturally, was not to inquire as to this man's actual personal experience but rather to exploit his experience to demonstrate her own position. Or maybe that of her producer. Or the one she believed all us viewers must hold. It seems to me that they're rarely really asking.

She started with a reasonable question, what the experience was for him and his family. The man said simply, "Shock." This one word said much more than many words would have, but it was spoken too plainly to meet the reporter's needs. She probed for an emotional vein, asking what kind of girls his granddaughters were. "Sweet," he replied. Again, heartbreaking. But one word answers, though they spoke volumes, only served to unnerve and provoke the shewolf. Frustration flashed across her face. Seeking another channel to the "human" angle, she pointed out that he had not been sleeping, something she apparently knew already. No, he agreed, he didn't sleep last night. She probed, and he recounted the timeline of the night before, which included visiting victims in the hospital and watching first one of his wounded granddaughters and then the other die.

Now the reporter's face lit up, her eyes to my view positively lupine. She'd got it. "And are you angry with the family of the shooter?" Strange wording, I thought, but maybe more sure to get the answer she wanted than asking about his feelings toward the shooter himself. The man began to shake his head before her words were all out: "No... no..." Now we were treated to an expression of disdain, even disgust, disguised as confusion. Her last question sounded rhetorical: "How is that even possible?"

"With the help of God."

A new item was soon added to the ticker at the bottom of the screen, something like, "Family member of Amish victims holds no anger toward shooter." This in itself isn't a bad thing, I think. In fact I wish that sort of family reaction was considered news more often. What bothered me about it was that the reason it was being considered news this time was because it could be discounted as the quaint and outdated view of some backwards religious whack-job who refuses to face the "reality" of his world and his situation. This gentleman's lifestyle choice undercuts our society's ability to see his incredible spiritual strength for what it is.

Of course, the fact that he didn't (and probably couldn't) give in and make what he had to say about his personal strength, or make a show of either his pain or his spirituality, also highlights CNN's bullish indelicacy. If there's no personal ego angle, a story just does not compute. So it has to be chewed up and spat back out in patronizing sound bites, pre-chewed for what are presumed to be infantile viewers.

I read this in an article in the NY Times this morning:

"Rita Rhoads, a midwife who helped in the births of two of the murdered girls, said the father of one told her that God had helped his daughter. 'He said there was a battle between good and evil Monday, and good won,' Ms. Rhoads said. 'He felt that way because the shooter was killed before he was able to carry out all of his plans.'

"Investigators said they believed Mr. Roberts intended to sexually molest the girls but was interrupted by the arrival of the police."

How's that for glass-half-full? I am humbled and deeply grateful for this man's gift of transcendant wisdom this morning, as I safely sit miles away, sipping coffee at my computer.

I was also struck by the fact that the support fund set up by the local community was not only for the families of the victims, but also for the widow and children of the shooter, who are always mentioned by community members as being in their prayers, as well. This is the true generosity of spirit that makes healing after a tragedy like this possible, I think. And it's going on quietly and consistently amid the media's persistent flame-fanning.

"We can not think evil of the gunman," is another quote I heard in that same Isn't that quaint sort of context. That one must be harder. More from the NY Times:

"Lil Nissley, whose daughters had been playmates with one of the victims, said she was at the farm where those fleeing the schoolhouse — the male students and the adult women — had taken refuge. 'Any outsider would have said, what’s wrong with these calm people?' she said. 'I mean, we were crying, we were praying, but we weren’t hysterical.'

"But Ms. Nissley and her husband, David, who are not Amish, said the composure was a matter of culture and training, not suppression. 'Their blood runs red,' Mr. Nissley said."

Culture and training.

The wisdom and real strength that these people are quietly exuding is shining through the murk of our cultural bloodlust and schadenfreude. Their dignity and grace is a bracing call to quiet down; the message their loving actions send brings real hope of healing. This is not about stoicism. If these people are downplaying their emotional experience, it is not to supress or deny their humanness, but to find and to express a deeper truth about what they are--about what we all are. Including all the clueless reporters. And including the guy who snapped and took their babies in a shocking moment of unspeakable pain for all involved.

In the battle between good and evil, good wins. Love abides. My deepest gratitude goes out to the members of that stricken community for helping us all remember that.

dream jobs

2006-10-02T11:39:00.000-07:00

Not feeling very write-y, but shoot, some updates are in order. DH, as they say here in blogland ("dear husband" for slow starters like me), will most likely be leaving his relatively secure job at a company he's grown bored and frustrated with for a new and exciting situation someplace else. Thing is, the else place doesn't quite exist yet, in a sense. It's a start-up which is not yet funded. And somehow... somehow? Somehow, despite periodic lurches into fearful, angry fiscal paranoia since I began to attempt retirement into domestic bliss three years ago, I feel nothing but peace and ease and joy at this prospect.

And it's not because I'm cherishing any illusions about how this start-up is is a sure thing, though it does seem very promising. I know he might end up looking for another job in six months. Maybe sooner! But this is what he wants. In fact, he's been clarifying his vision of his perfect dream job over the past several months, listing aloud characteristics of the position, responsibilities, business model, bosses/partners, and philosophy. And yes--this sure looks like IT. So if we end up (temporarily) scrambling, it will have been for the right reasons: he will have taken a responsible risk and started off confidently on the path to his heart's desire, which is branching off just ahead from the one marked "Pay Dues Here." The man eats and breathes his work. Emits it from his pores. LOVES it. Of course this is the thing to do. I feel so happy for him I well up about it from time to time. What an opportunity! So. We will be just fine.

You may have noticed that the title of this post is in the plural. Heh. Well, the other day I got some email indicating that there might be an opening in my favorite band, or an opportunity to play with them, or something. I don't know. It might be nothing, for me especially since I have no professional experience. But the way I see it, I might as well ask for what I want. And I want to play with them, as I have written about here. They love me as a person, and they know of my talents. It could work, theoretically. So what the hell. I just came out and said hey, you should lemme in the band. Well, that was in an email, actually, and I haven't heard back about it.

I did see the guys over the weekend, in a context where it would have made no sense to discuss it. We were having a lovely time at a big SH singing. They're dear friends and I'm so glad to know them. So all I felt was happy, just to be in a position to even talk about it, which I hope we will. But whatever happens or doesn't, I am just so pleased. I feel so relaxed! I'm just so friggin' happy lately. And this comfort and ease has been a long time coming. So who cares whether this specific dream comes to pass? Things are good now. Maybe I'm happy because I'm not attached to the specifics. But I know I'm also happy because I feel so comfortable asking for what I want. I want to say again, this could be a complete pipe dream. But I think I could do it, and just that is pretty fun, I have to say.

next stage

2006-09-25T06:20:00.000-07:00

I felt pregnant right up until the day my period came. At first I wanted to feel petulant - How could I get so much guidance that led me to believe that this was it if it wasn't? - but I couldn't keep up that charade. I could see right away that I had felt rather manic throughout the past two weeks, and under that came the realization that I had essentially been trying to will what I wanted to happen.

There's a healthy sort of denial, I find, that is not about what I personally want but rather what is ultimately true. I use that to remember that all is well. It's helpful for banishing pain and illness, or for finding balance and ease when I think I need money or props. Helpful hardly touches what it is, really - it's the center of my practice, but more words would only feel less true. In any case, I can't confuse that with wishful or willful thinking. I've always known and said that something as big as welcoming a child is just not going to be in my hands or on my timeline. I thought it was happening now partly because I believed now would be the "perfect" time. But I'm not in a position to know what the perfect time is. All is well. I need to let go.

I'm very intuitive, but my superpowers can get hella scrambled when I'm trying to get a read on a situation in which I am personally engaged. I know this. So when it became clear that I wasn't going to get my wish this month, for five minutes I wanted to despair, to feel betrayed by Guidance and alone in an ocean of uncertainty. But, oh well - that passed. No tantrum today. I feel humbled and happy, relieved of a burden. On to the next stage! I've come too far to let myself believe I'm alone anymore.

i am back. (i think.)

2006-09-14T07:57:00.000-07:00

Huh! Guess I'm writing a post. The Bravo site seems overwhelmed at the moment with addicts like me trying to read "Tim's Take" - his blog entry about last night's episode (of Project Runway, of course). I can't seem to get to his comments about Angela and Michael's work, so I opened up my bookmarks out of sheer boredom, and ended up here.

Well, I have been pondering coming back. I'm still not sure I will; I think I'm just sort of feeling it out. I miss the outlet of writing little pieces to share. I still write pages a la the AW, but daily brain dumps, while helpful, do not particularly address the need to create.

Ah, yes. That's the thing, isn't it - the need to create.

I was pregnant when I stopped blogging last May. That pregnancy ended in July. I had been very very sleepy throughout most of my ten-week experience, and the miscarriage was three weeks long and bloody, so I spent most of the rest of the summer getting my strength back. (It's back.)

I found the emotional aspects of losing the pregnancy not unbearable. It was sad and frustrating and terribly disappointing, but my husband and I did not have a particularly hard time letting go once the shock had passed. We moved on, remaining optimistic. We trust that when it's meant to happen it will happen. Being pregnant had been a wonderful time for both of us - peaceful and joyful and absolutely filled with light - and it had been great for our relationship. We both felt the overall experience was net-positive. I think of it as a practice pregnancy. It only deepened our conviction that this is what we really want, plus we both had the chance to witness its obviously positive effects on us and on each other. Gotta count all that in the blessings column, really.

I started menstruating again right away, so we're back on the horse what threw us. And the past month or so has been filled with hopeful signs. Actually, okay - truth? I think we might have hit it again. No, TRUTH: I think we have hit it. I've thought that before and been wrong (ever the optimist), so i'm trying to stay somewhat cool. But what else can I write about? It's pervading my thought, from pretty deep down. I find I can only be cool by not allowing myself to obsess, to neurotically check for symptoms, to keep asking my inner Voice if I am. I have asked already. The answer was Yes.

So staying cool does not seem to extend to avoiding plain-old thinking about being pregnant now, or to not thinking that I am. I do! I just do. I calmly and matter-of-factly just happen to think that I am pregnant. I understand myself well enough to know that if it turns out I'm not (or, more likely and specifically if that's the case, that implantation has not occurred), I'll be fine. I'm good at letting go, when it matters.

So am I really putting all of this out there? Yeah, I think so.

I did decide to not spread the word far and wide last time. It was part of why I stopped blogging. I didn't want to talk about my pregnancy beyond a specific circle of friends. Truth be told, that was largely because I had intuitive misgivings about viability, though I claimed outwardly I was just being practical. I am glad that I didn't have to bring sad news back to my parents and grandmother, who would all have certainly been devastated. I made the right call not putting them on that roller coaster to begin with. But they don't read my blog.

Besides, I ended up telling the rest of my world about the miscarriage as it was happening. It's a different thing at that point--no roller coaster. And I needed the support. So why not write about all this here? I guess I'm back.

In other news, I stayed with my core spiritual practice through it all this summer, even while I had dropped all my other practices. I continue to feel I'm turning a real corner in my life. And as I've considered returning to my blog, I've thought about finding a way to incorporate here more of the things I actually think about most. I'll just leave that dangling for now. Let me just say I want to find a way to be more fully honest about who I am.

One last thing. We have a new kitten! Check out THIS massive sweet-itude:

My husband woke up one day with the overpowering urge to check out a local shelter's website. Turns out they were somewhat overrun with kittens. Huh. Naturally, the next step was to drive over there, just to... take a look. I regained my senses as we sat in the driveway on the very verge of a shelter visit, which at that point was virtually identical, statistically speaking, to adopting a third furry behbeh. "Why are we doing this?" I demanded. "We've been saying since we went from three to two last summer that it doesn't make any sense to adopt another one while we're hoping to bring a human baby home. It's hard enough to keep up with the demands for love those other two snuggle-monkeys make on us all day. Is it really fair to them in the long term?" G was quiet. "What do you have to counter all these arguments we've been making for over a year now to keep us from doing this?"

"Oh, not much," he replied. "I just think it will bring more light to our lives."

Sometimes there is just NO ARGUING with that guy. But do I need to even say it? He could not have been more right. He named her Matilda. She is perfect. She brings so much light it strains my heart a little to let it all in. I will never understand how people can not have kitties.

I don't know how often I'll be posting now, so I may just keep this on the D.L. for now and let whoever finds it read it or not. I have many ambivalent and conflicting feelings about the community aspect of this blogging thing, anyway. Maybe in the spirit of being More Fully Honest, I will write about that sometime. For now I'll just say that I do very sincerely wish everyone who has read and commented here all the best.

slackin' away in blogland

2006-05-19T20:09:00.000-07:00

Just thought I'd check in. I'm on a sort of spontaneous blogging semi-hiatus. I've been reading you alls' here and there but not feeling inspired to post. I will say that life is good these days. Life is very, very good.

Oh, and that the concerts with the community chorus I joined while doing the AW are happening this weekend. I'm not particularly moved by the piece, but we're performing with a full orchestra and some kick-ass professional soloists, which is cool. I'm glad I got inspired to join: all this rehearsing and fruity singing is making me feel more musician-y again. And it's just so nice to do a concert in May, with flowers and lush greenness exploding everywhere. It even takes me back to some happy high school memories. I do love being on stage.

Oh, and I had a nice little email exchange with my friend and dream bandmate (that phrase is rather cringe-inducing, but it's concise), the one who is moving back to this area for awhile starting this summer. He once again mentioned in a newsletter that he and his wife, who will be sharing a professorship at a local university for a year, are looking to start an American music ensemble open to anybody. I told him I really wanted to join. As I suspected, he's not positive the school will be okay with nonstudents in the project, but he hopes they will be, and he'd love it if I can join. Thank you, AW! This is such a sweet little synchronicity for me. So easy; so not a big deal. AHHH.

Still haven't painted a wedding gift vase, and the alloted practice time quickly draws near a close. Must get on that. Will take photos to share. Over and out.

my shoes

2006-05-07T06:14:00.000-07:00

Here they all are. The collection sprawled out in its considerable entirety looks somehow less obscene than I anticipated it might, but as this observation reignites a faint spark of longing, I'm not sure that's a good thing. (If I bought less footwear, maybe I'd have the money to replace that godawful wallpaper.)

I actually only own one pair of shoes that aren't boots, sandals, clogs or some other funky girly-type thing like mules or mary-janes--you know, shoes, with laces, that aren't sneakers. And I forgot to put them in the picture.

Here's a happy shoe story for you:

Menacing, aren't they? (If by menacing I mean FABULOUS...)

The first time I did The Artist's Way (well, some of it, anyway), when I completed the excercise of listing ten specific items I really wanted to own, I included big black bad-ass boots, sort of like cowboy boots, but not. I didn't know what these were called, and I hadn't even seen enough of them to formulate a clearer description. Nonetheless, a week or so later I found a pair that fit perfectly for fifteen dollars at a yard sale. None more bad-ass. I loved the harness, the thick gleaming leather, the square toe. That pair had wedge-shaped dips in the front and back of the top of the shaft, like cowboy boots. They needed new heel plates, so I had nice thick ones put on, and while they were in the shop I decided to have straight pieces of leather stiched in to fill those gaps. Then they were perfect. Heavy, chunky and black, the perfect counterpoise to my straight skirts and spaghetti-strap dresses. They seemed to bond themselves to my feet and calves under some metaphysical principle; the deepening creases only made them more and more perfect. I reheeled them again when the time came. Resoled, too.

Still, the tough, angular toes eventually started to round out, and my beloved friends began to lose their edge. I'd take them out for comfort, but my clothes were becoming a little embarrassed by them and began demanding something new. The time came to buy a new pair. The replacements were spanky and trim - decidedly unshabby - and they were eagerly trying to please me, but they just could never be my real daddy. I consoled myself by buying a pair in chestnut brown as well. These helped a little.

One night while I was rocking the brown ones, a friend of mine, to compliment my footwear choices in his own quirky way, said to me, "Hey, Eliza, can I have all your old boots?" As he is a special friend, one whose fashion sense coincides nicely with mine, and because one of the many benefits of being an amazon is the ability to share shoes with boys, the next time I saw him I presented him with my treasured old friends. And, lo. They actually woke up and took on a whole new life on him. It was like seeing an older dog getting adopted at the shelter, bounding gleefully into his new person's car. That was probably six years ago. I believe my friend is now on his second replacement pair.

The ones pictured above are my original replacements for the special boots. As you can see, with a little love, time and patience, they got good, too.

Here are a few more of my favorites:

Platform soles? Faux patened leather? Lined throughout with fake fur? I got these for eleven dollars several years ago, and they were so dreamily weird I bought a second pair for when the strap breaks on this one. I get a compliment just about every time I wear them, the most frequent being "those are beautiful." This makes me smile, since the reason I like them so much (apart from the fur - COME ON) is their eccentricity. There's just no accounting for taste!

The Cruel Shoes. I guess most women have at least one pair of shoes they blindly adore despite the physically abusive nature of the relationship. These are mine. Guaranteed lacerations. But aren't they hot? You should see them on. When will some enterprising woman inventor get on the stick and market invisible, padded, virtually un-dislodge-able bandaids?

I ordered these on clearance from a catalogue aimed at teenagers. When they arrived I was dismayed to note that the platform heel was at least five inches tall - a bit much. I drew a line around the soles at the height they'd be if teenagers were reasonable, and asked my then landlord (the sawmill owner) for a little bandsaw-related favor. And it worked!

Being cheap, I have a long and happy association with Sharpies. Chip a red ceramic bowl? Nothing a red Sharpie can't handily camoflage. Sick of the contrast stiching on that brown belt? You know who to call. These sneakers are of good quality and are very comfortable. Unfortunately the only color on the clearance rack was pink. No problem!

Speaking of how cheap I am, I found these lovelies on sale at a tacky discount department store seven or eight years ago (when clogs such as these had recently been trendy and were now available on sale at tacky discount department stores). I have tried and failed many times to put them in the giveaway pile during closet purges. The substantial sole just feels so... substantial under me on the ground; they weigh about three pounds each. They fit me perfectly. Plus, you gotta love the jacquard. Someday I will find a cool way to wear them again, I just know it.

It's a strategy that worked for these:

These comfortable retro darlings were purchased seventeen years ago and kept optimistically on hand but rarely worn - UNTIL I got my fabulous favorite new jeans a month or so ago. The jeans are long enough for heels (a rare and beautiful treat for me); their slouchy bootcut leg loves the seventies, and the wash of the denim craves brown. It's a perfect combo. I've worn these seventeen year-old glogs more often in the last month than in the preceeding sixteen years and eleven months.

Sharing my shoes is making me giddy. I took many more photos and could go on longer, but why don't I leave it at these:

Do you have a pair of shoes that you don't wear as often as you could because you're saving them? These are mine. At least, that's what I tell myself. As you can see, I have several pairs of platform boots, most of which are less interesting and far less sexy than these. The others do make me happy to wear - the drama of three- or four-inch heels on a six-foot-one-inch woman is always lots of fun - and I usually have my reasons for wearing the others instead: chunkier heels are a bit less death-defying (not to mention less overtly, well, sexy), plus of course there are the other colors to consider. And I don't want to wear out my best.

But every time I do wear these boots, I feel deliciously indulgent - to the the point of a sort of shame -, like I'm granting myself a pleasure I've been denying. I don't think the photo captures it (because it's not just the boots but the way they fit me), but they're cut in a way that makes me understand why in the days of floor-length women's clothing, men used to get excited about a well-turned ankle. They're also of better quality than most of the others. I see now that the main reason I don't wear these boots more often is that on some level I think they're too good for me. Well, balderdash! My new jeans are long enough to wear with them. And though doing so will make me want to spend money I don't have at the moment on some smashing new top, I will wear them out as soon as it's feasible. Modesty may have its place, but there are times when a girl has got to screw self-deprecation. Right in its ear.

More Sunday Scribblings here!

checking in (the lusty month of may)

2006-05-05T05:13:00.000-07:00

Well, I bought some ceramic and glass paints, a couple of different kinds. I splurged on three fancy paint-pens for glass, with which I plan to adorn glass vases as wedding gifts. I got fooled in the store by another type that said "dishwasher-safe," which was for either ceramic or glass and which required no baking. It was cheap, too, and came in a set of several decent colors. Could I really personalize dishes this way? If so, why doesn't everyone know about this? I should have known it was too good to be true. When I looked more closely at home, I saw the warnings about carcinogens and birth defects. Hmm. Perhaps I'll not use it to paint plates.

I know that food-safe ceramic paints exist. I haven't looked very hard yet, but now I'm not sure if anything fitting that description can be found outside the world of paint-your-own pottery places or home kilns. Very disappointing! I will keep looking, however, and let you all know. In the meantime, I'll paint some vases. That will be fun. I'm aiming for quality, though, not crafts-y. I don't want to give something away that I wouldn't love and be proud to to own. So wish me luck!

I'm happy to report that the painful seasonal transition time appears to be behind me. My beauty-tolerance capacity is way up, just in time for a stretch of sunny and warm, get-out-yer-tank-tops summery beauties this week. Trees and flowers are bursting everywhere like time-elapsed fireworks, and things are starting to become lush. Shade has returned to the road, and it looks momentarily out of place. A billion birds are chattering and singing praises out back. And the heady smell is almost too much for me - I actually get dizzy sometimes out walking, because I inhale too deeply and too often. I love May so much it hurts a little.

My practices are all going great. My synchronicities lately have all been too powerful, too personal, and too deeply spiritually oriented to find a comfortable home here on my blog, but, well, it's going on. And musically, fifteen minutes has begun to stretch more often into twenty and thirty and forty-five. I may not be writing yet, but I'm singing, improvising, playing harmonically challenging songs off the top of my head by ear, and generally finding my groove. The love is back.

The Ob I spoke with last week was very supportive, as was the friendly nurse who checked me in and could see no call for doubt, who said three or four times, "Oh that's so exciting." I now have a sort of plan, a timeline for adding this and that medical strategy if it comes to it. (Just a couple. Not the works. Too many babies in the world already in need of a family and of love, love, love. Perhaps one of them is ours? That would be okay, too.) But more important, when I left the office I felt youthful, dewy and burstingly fertile. And I must say, May is an awfully nice time to be trying to conceive!

It's been a good week.

sunday scribblings - why i live where i live

2006-05-01T07:41:00.000-07:00

Nowhere else smells like New England.

I'm tempted to leave it at that. Oh, sure, there are other reasons. I like to live where there are co-ops and ponytailed year-round sandal-wearers and lots of gay people with lots of happy little kids. I can't afford organic food or premium cheeses just now, but I'd hate to live anywhere I had limited access to either. Of course, even for the specialty food and extended movie selection, I'd rather not be a city dweller. I don't like my wildlife sitings to be accompanied by the accute dread for the fate of the animal. The beaver and deer I see around here are at home; I'm the interloper.

I'm also a yankee. I'm independent and rather a smart-ass. It's not that I don't appreciate and enjoy overt friendliness when I visit places to which it seems indigenous; I do. But eventually, I feel exposed and worn out in cultures like that, and I'm glad to return to the optional MYOB, hands-off annonymity of my home. I like the fact that not saying hello to strangers is acceptable and sometimes prefered. I like how honesty is valued just as much if not more than manners. Don't get me wrong - I think our culture as a whole is slipping horrendously in the manners department, and I'm all for genuine kindness and consideration. It's just that - in truth? I prefer bracingly honest rudeness to fake two-faced niceness. If someone wants to say "Kiss my ass," then I wish they'd just come out with it rather than saying "Have a nice day," and MEANING kiss my ass. Or how about those mean fake "smiles" where the corners of the mouth turn up but the eyes scream "Please die." I say, cut the B.S. But I digress.

It's not that we're un-nice around here. We can be friendly. And when it comes down to it, we'll probably do just about anything for a soul in need. We're just not generally... agressively... nice. We can opt to keep to ourselves. We can keep our guard up if that's just how we are. We can stay in a little bubble of rumination or of reverie all day or all our lives if we want to, and it won't be taken personally. We're not expected to chat up the cashier at the market. And even though I can sometimes be a real cashier-chatter-upper, and even though some of the younger chatees adopt a look that suggests they believe themselves to be in a sort of peril, still, I like that.

But - bottom line? Nowhere else smells like home. Every season - every week of every season - there are gradations of change: something different is blooming, or filling up, or getting mowed down or burned, or going fallow. It's complex, of course. Each town has a river or a factory that broadly imprints its unique contribution. Salt water and sand add something different from corn fields or suburban pavement mazes. There are stinky muddy marshes and sunny baseball diamonds, shady rows of maples, dark piney depths and mossy stone walls. Each state has a different smell, like each state has a different feel. (Have you noticed? In many spots, the shift is palpable as you cross the borders.) And there are regional areas, sub-feels, sub-smells.

But all together, New England just smells like home. Many people who live here say they couldn't live without the seasons. That's true for me, too, but - rich spring soil, smoky snappy autumn leaves, hot dusty pavement and thirsty lawns, wet tree bark and snow - I think the shifting pallet of aromas is what's at the root of my love for the seasons themselves.

My house is the most house we could get for the money when it came time to buy. Two years later, we still regularly well up with gratitude at our luck. We love it. It's big and funky and friendly; it's solid. But one of the reasons I knew this was the one was the way the air up and down our street reminded me of the air on the playground at my old elementary school. Home.

creativity update

2006-04-27T08:07:00.000-07:00

It's really striking how much difference fifteen minutes a day makes toward making me feel like a musician again. Even just this little bit is really limbering me up on all my instruments. (Of course I sometimes play longer, if I want to.) I don't know what else to say about this. I don't want to push it. I'll keep up this practice and see what happens (with songwriting, for instance). But just to, you know, prime the pump, I really recommend this little-bit-daily approach to anyone who feels blocked or overwhelmed; I bet it can be adapted to any medium at all. (Kara's daily practice with clay, which helped to inspire me in the first place, is the best example of the wide applicability of daily practice across mediums, I think.)

The Sunday Scribblings have been helpful in getting me to produce something every week. I don't consider myself a writer, but I love to write, and I'm willing to pursue any available avenue to creative expression that even slightly appeals to me at the moment. And goodness gracious - reading the other writers' scribbles is so inspiring! I'm a bit restricted financially just now, so I dare not even look at listings of painting classes and such. I guess Sunday Scribblings is like attending a free writing group, or something. One that tolerates any level of ability, effort and commitment. What a treat!

I used this week's S.S. prompt to take advantage of Kat's Contagious Creativity suggestion (from last week) to give myself permission to create crap. I hope to go with that approach every Sunday if I can, even if I end up doing something I'm proud of sometimes. I don't want to lose the sense of freedom I've been granting myself to just do something, without regard for quality. It's helping. A lot.

Yesterday I thumbed through a book I picked up a few years ago and have ignored since, an encyclopedia of craft projects that can be completed in a day. Most of the patterns and such in the book are really corny, but I think I could make some very cool stuff using the instructions. I've got a few wedding gift situations to deal with this summer and not a lot of disposable cash, so I'm particularly excited to try some things: glass painting, pottery painting, mosaics (good for picture frames or mirrors)... the raw materials are fairly affordable, and I LOVE to make things. In fact, it occured to me that I could customize myself a whole set of dishes this way, if I can find dishwasher- and food-safe paints. We've never bothered to buy a nice set of dishes. I'm not crazy about matching sets of things. But with a cheap set of plain glass or ceramic pieces, I could go nuts making something really special - a set of dishes that match each other in their basic construction but that are also unique and individual, different from each other and from any other set of dishes anywhere. I love folk art and simple designs. So why pay more for somebody else's creations? I seriously can't wait to get started.

So tomorrow, I have an artist date planned. I'm heading over to a Michael's craft store. I'm actually giddy about all this!

never tell me the odds

2006-04-25T08:30:00.001-07:00

I turn 42 this weekend. It was almost two years ago now that my husband and I realized that, despite what we'd been telling ourselves since not long after we got married, we did in fact want to have a child. That was quite the epiphany, I must say. The thing is, we got the opportunity to come to this realization when I missed a period. [We were both really sad when the pee stick said, "Nope," and then it was like, Wait a second...] And as I would soon learn, that happened because I had a little thyroid problem called Grave's Disease, which, in addition to making me more hyper, more sensitive, hungrier, and sweatier than usual, was tweaking my body's hormone soup in ways which would have made it nigh on impossible and even dangerous for me to try to concieve before clearing it up.

It took about a year from then to take care of that problem. And somehow I've whiled away the year since the clean bill of health, sort of trying to concieve but sort of not trying all that hard and not really worrying about it. My doctors both told me that that was the best approach, which was refreshing.

But it hasn't happened yet. And I just made the mistake of doing a little internet research on fertility after forty. Stupid, stupid. Let's just say the odds may not be in my favor. I mean, I knew this, but I didn't really break it down because I believe that if I truly intend something, if it's meant to happen the odds don't mean doodly. I suppose I could have paid more attention sooner to boosting my odds, but I really didn't want to mess with my easy-going attitude about the whole thing - my secret weapon.

So why did I look at this information? Well for starters, the number 42 sounds inordinately larger than the number 41, somehow. And I have an appointment with an Ob this Friday; I guess I wanted to be passably familiar with the standard M.O. for women like me. All I can say is that I hope the doctor I'll be seeing is extremely cool, and sensitive to the importance of optimism and fierce, faithful belief in situations like mine. I get that it's possible I won't get what I want. I do. But that's always possible, isn't it? I am not about to dwell on that aspect of things out of some misguided idea about what's "good for me." I think what's good for me is to stay as open as I can possibly be to my true dreams and wishes and intentions, and then to pursue them with all my power in the way that feels most right and least fearful (fear-full). The path that opens up that way can certainly lead to unexpected outcomes, but it doesn't lead to undesired ones. Something this important can only be in God's hands. I trust that the right thing, the best thing, will happen. I'm doing my very best to both do my part and stay out of the way. I know that one way or another I will be a mother.

I still think it will happen the old-fashioned way, actually. Why not? Besides, no one ever thinks I'm as old as I am. That can't hurt. People in doctors offices and such are forever confirming my birth year, thinking it's a typo or something, and when co-workers and such find out my age they often seem downright stunned. This used to happen even when I got sick of coloring my hair and let my copious grey grow in. I got lots of comments then about what an interesting dye-job I had. I guess I have a youthful presentation! I do have good genes and all in this regard, but I figure it must be at least partly due to my spry spirit. And I imagine that sort of thing helps.

Anyway... don't want to start protesteth-ing too much. Just please do me a small favor if you're so inclined, and picture me with a nursing infant from time to time. I could use some support as I work on my ultimate creative project. Thanks, friends.

sunday scribblings - chocolate

2006-04-24T08:11:00.000-07:00

The two girls sat on the picnic table with their feet on the bench and their pigtailed heads bowed conspiratorialy.

"They're left over from my party," Amy explained as Lori studied the fistful of Tootsie Pops she was holding. I'm having the purple one first. Which one do you want?"

"You always take the purple ones!"

"Well, they're from MY party, and I AM sharing them with you. Do you want one or not?"

"Okay. I'll have a red one." Amy began to pull one of the buds from the little wax paper bouquet. "No, not the pink-red one. A red-red one." Correction made, two wrappers were twirled off and two pops clacked against two sets of insurgent incoming teeth.

Amy smoothed the purple wrapper over her knee with her free hand. "I'm having the other red-red one after this. Those are so much better than the pink-red ones. The pink-red ones are kind of gross."

"They're better than the orange ones." Lori pursed her lips and spun her pop on its stick in front of her brand new incisors, feeling the rough edges of the raised band smoothing over.

"Yeah. Well... a little. I don't know. " Amy, holding her stick at eye level and out of her own shadow for closer inspection, spotted an extra dark spot on the side of the dark purple pop, the brown center showing through. She stuck it back in her mouth and crunched down hard. Pulling the other cherry pop out of the little pile on the table next to her and putting it in her lap, just to be safe, she grabbed the bunch and held it out to Lori.

"Wehish on de ye wan nest?"

Lori spun her stick pensively as she considered her options. "I'll have a chocolate one."

Amy pulled her head back and squared her shoulders, her face a riot of confusion and utter disdain. "WHA?" She chewed for another moment and swallowed the remains of pop number one, studying first her now nervous friend and then the bunch of heavy-headed sticks. "Do you mean a BROWN one?"

"Yeah! Duh."

"That is so not chocolate."

"It is too! What flavor do you think brown is?"

"I don't know... Tootsie Roll flavor."

"Well Tootsie Rolls are chocolate."

"Oh my god! They ARE NOT!"

"Well then what are they?"

"They're Tootsie Roll flavor! You can't have chocolate that's not... chocolate! That's like trying to make chocolate milk with water. It doesn't even count. It is sooo gross."

"Well it may not be as good as real chocolate stuff, but they are so trying to make it taste like chocolate." Lori unwrapped her brown pop. "Look! It even says so."

Amy grabbed the wax paper square and examined it in disbelief. "EEWWW!"

The sound of Lori's big sister singing along with her cd player drifted down from a window as the girls licked and pondered. "AND IIIIIIIIII-EEIIII - will always - love you-OOOOOO-oo-oo-oo!" They looked at each other and rolled their eyes in unison. Lori jumped off the picnic table and held her pop like a microphone, mouthing extreme earnestness, raising her eyebrows as high as they'd go, sticking her chest out and wiggling her butt. Amy rolled onto her side, screaming with laughter.

"Hey! Knock it off you little turdballs!" The Melanie the Meanie scowled fiercly as she leaned into the screen in the window above.

Lori looked up over her shoulder then back at Amy. "Wanna go make some chocolate milk?"

Amy jumped off the table. "Do you have any Oreos?"

The girls headed for the back door. "I don't think so," Lori said. "And anyway, those aren't chocolate." They both giggled and broke into a run.

**********************************
Hey, this is kind of fun. I haven't tried writing a story (or a bit of dialogue, or whatever this is) since I was in high school. I hated this prompt (though yes of course I love chocolate; I'm not made of wood). Maybe it's especially good to work with the less appealing ones, to get out of the comfort zone.

Regarding Contagious Creativity, I wish I'd run a little more with last week's theme of self-care, but I didn't. Though come to think of it, I have been loading up on the fresh produce lately, which really seems to make me feel great. Must get back to taking Artist Dates, though. I didn't feel I got as much out of them as I could have during the AW, but I haven't taken any since that wrapped up, and I really notice a difference.

More Sunday Scribblings here!

underpants inventory plus update

2006-04-18T20:06:00.000-07:00

Well. I learned today that because I was stupid enough to include the name of the type of social singing I do in a couple of posts (and my profile) and ignorant enough with regard to both the basics of blog searching and the level of personal ethics generally regarded as acceptable online (hint: it's not very high), several people I know and that I have considered among my friends have been to this blog. And not let me know that they found it despite its obviously personal nature and its lack of relation to anything that could be construed as their business. And shared the link with each other.

I'm not one to keep secrets. I'm a lay-it-all-out-on-the-line kind of a girl. Just about anybody could and would get just about anything out of me in a conversation if they asked or if the talk just went that way. I share. But if I was in, say, an Al Anon meeting, which is of course public and technically open to anyone including observers, nonparticipants and supportive others, I'd probably want to know if a friend of mine who was not even in the group was lurking in the back as I shared personal and sensitive information. I definitely would not expect that friend to tell another person to come and check it out the following week and not even let ME know that they had been there as I spilled my guts.

I have been disabused of my illusions of relative privacy and safety here on my inconspicuous little artist's way blog. I don't know how this will change my blogging habits. I suppose it will change some things about what I choose to share and how I write about it. I don't know. In any case, of course it's good to be aware - duh, I know - that people search for things and that the expectation of privacy is so low here that even though I'm POSITIVE that the people in question would have KNOWN that I would feel uncomfortable if I knew they were reading, they not only didn't feel an ethical pang sufficient to move them to stop reading, let alone let me know they found it, they also spread the word. Next time I notice their skirt tucked into the back of their pantyhose, I'll be sure to tell three friends but not them. And the sad thing is, even though this feels very icky to me, a) I accept responsibility since it's true that I was really ignorant about blogging, and b) to not tell anyone something like that would be IMPOSSIBLE for me. That would be like returning a lost wallet but keeping the cash. I just ain't put together that way.

Anyway, in honor of ALL of my readers and visitors, because I'm such hot shit and I have no secrets, I thought I'd share the following: I have an entire lingerie chest plus two dresser drawers full of underwear. I own something like forty bras. I mostly wear string bikinis and thongs, but I do own a few pairs of granny panties for those times when I need a smoother line and anything else would make me sweaty. I have several contraptions involving garters, but I buy them mostly to wear with tights I've turned into stockings because the proportions of my lusciously curvy, amazonian body do not tend to fall within the shaded areas of the sizing chart. Lycra is a very good friend of mine. I love to wear the stuff that makes me feel like a scuba diver under my form-fitting dresses. What else... oh yeah, 36 or 38A. Which is funny. 'Cause A is small. And I am large. Lucky for me, my voluptuous hips are balanced nicely by my broad strong shoulders. And relatively prominent collar bones. Muy caliente!

As for all the other sensitive material here, well, that's just more indication of my fabulousness. I am real. It's all true. I haven't written a single word of it to impress anybody - until this post, that is. And this post is all you'll ever get from me along those lines.

Thursday, April 20th

UPDATE

It turns out that while a couple people were aware that I was unlikely to know my blog was so findable or that it was being read by people I know (and one of them stopped reading, and the other got her courage up about the inevitably uncomfortable exchange and let me know, which is cool), two out of three of the people whom I hadn't spoken to before posting but was so sure were aware I'd feel uncomfortable if I knew they were reading told me that they actually never considered that possibility, since the internet is public and since I am generally so frank and out there anyway. It was hard to see at first, but I have no reason not to believe them.

So. I don't know who else might be out there reading or having read , and I don't know what their thoughts or motivations may be. (And I'm already past caring.) But if this sampling is at all representative, my lessons are as follows: 1) the obvious one about the technically public nature and searchability of blogs, 2) the matter-of-fact lack of any sense of the idea that something might be "personal" or "private" (as in, oops, I wasn't meant to see this) that many blog readers and searchers apparently operate from as part of their understanding of the medium, even with writers they may know personally, and 3) I could be more careful about not making assumptions or jumping to conclusions about others' thoughts or motivations, no matter how things look. (I hate it when people do that to me! I definitely don't want to do that.)

I'm feeling just fine. I made the choice to be somewhat identifiable (first name, photo, name of singing) with you guys, and I'm living with the consequences of that choice, as well as with the consequences of my innocent technological ignorance. I'm grateful for the support and kindness I've received since revealing that I felt betrayed. I feel good about my own behavior and my handling of this unpleasantness. I am certainly not embarrassed about anything contained here in my blog, though it's sad and bothersome to me that some humans may tend to seek out perceived weaknesses in others in order to exploit them or to make themselves feel somehow cooler or better. I don't know how mean or judgemental could ever equal cool or better. But I guess that's how I do judgemental. Anyway, lessons learned. Onward.

when we were wee - sunday scribblings

2006-04-15T13:30:00.000-07:00

I don't remember feeling small. Looking around at the other kids piled in the nursery school hallway putting their coats on, it was as though I was standing on a box - the top of every other head would only have reached my nose, my chin, my broad little shoulders. And I remember the feeling of melancholy when I saw you through the window coming up the walk to collect me... the songs they sang there were sort of dumb, but at least no one was angry with me. The busy ladies didn't seem to realize what a bad little girl I was. Of course, I knew how to be big girl, so they didn't have to pay very close attention. I wished I had someplace else to go after it was time to put coats on. But there you were.

And then later when you wanted to walk me to school on my first day of kindergarten. Gawd! So embarrassing. Here it was, my first day of big girl school. I knew where it was. I knew how to get there. Why were you insisting on treating me like a baby? Then when we got there, Victor from next door was wrapped around his mommy's legs, crying hard and refusing to let go. I pondered the notion of not wanting to leave one's mommy, and determined I must just have been different from other kids. But as I watched them on the sidewalk I couldn't shake the feeling that maybe I was missing out on something.

The next year when I went to visit the new prospective friend who also had the lunch box with the pretty lady in the fluffy pink and white fancy dress, we didn't end up having much to talk about. Her house smelled like cooking, a lot. When it was time to go wait for you to get me, I helped myself to a lime sour ball from the bowl in the hallway I had noticed on the way in. In some dark moment that felt wrong, like it was not supposed to happen, the candy was suddenly blocking my throat. My eyes got very wide and I waved my hands at my quiet new friend. She ran to get her mommy, who came storming in with her apron on looking like a lunch lady and saying interesting-sounding words I didn't understand. She smacked me on the back really hard and my lime ball popped out onto the floor. Guess I wouldn't be finishing it. It was really nice to be breathing again. The other mommy was yelling now in her mysterious language. Her face was red and sort of wet as she bent over me, took my face in her hand, turned my head from side to side. It seemed like maybe she was telling me not to do that again, but she seemed scared. This yelling was different from yours. I understood that this mommy wanted me to be okay. I wanted to take my coat off and stay there, have a bit of whatever was cooking. But there you were, and the car was running.

I wanted my second grade teacher to be my mother, too, even though her voice was so loud and flat. She let me play the piano after school. She told me I was a good singer. She didn't give me extra attention in front of the other kids, but I knew she secretly thought I was special. There was also a lunch lady, whose house I visited once uninvited on my way home from school. She had always seemed happy to see me. She gave me an extra cookie sometimes. She wasn't as nice when I knocked on her door, though. She seemed a little confused. And I did know better. I was a big girl. Taller than my gym teacher (but she was REALLY short). And anyway, all that stuff about wanting a nice mommy was babyish. It was like playing at pretending to be little, except even that game was too babyish for me.

And anyway, I only wanted to be left alone. Isn't that what I always yelled back at you? Why can't you just leave me alone?

The first time I rode my bike far away from the house, it was thrilling at first - an adventure. I could go anywhere. But then I started to feel a little sad, because no one knew where I was, and no one had told me not to ride there. And I knew I'd go back home before anyone noticed I was gone. That was our arrangment: If I behaved like an adult, you would treat me like one. So I followed the few rules there were. I could ride my bike way out here because I knew what I was doing. Where's the thrill in that? Just lonely. Lonely.

But Catty was pretty cool. He was a friend of mine, a cat who walked upright, wore glasses and smoked a pipe. His voice was like Sean Connery's or Gregory Peck's (though I don't think I knew that then). Taller than me. Nice fur - sort of brownish reddish tabby. He lived in a magical room in another dimension in the basement. A library, really, with a big leather wingback chair. Catty was really smart. He knew how to have fun, though. Once he took me to a land where a giant animated fork and spoon invited us to play in their playpen with them on the front lawn of their house. To get to this place, Catty showed me how to hang by my knees from a tree branch near our driveway, and then to just Let Go. He showed me that part of the ground under the tree was actually foam. When I landed on it, I fell through. It was quite comfortable.

Then there was the time in the summer, when bedtime came while it was still sort of light out, when as I lied there trying to fall asleep, a parade of small bright beautiful cartoon flowers and ribbons and a happy little alligator wearing a hat came marching through the air from the other side of my room, right past my eyes. I was clean in my fresh PJs, my hair still slightly damp from bath time. The sheets were cool and smooth. The metal box fan whirred softly in the window, gently blowing the smell of evening summer trees inside . There was circus-y music playing, accompanying the parade. And that alligator tipped his hat, jiggled his eyebrows and smiled right at me.

real life

2006-04-12T10:43:00.000-07:00

It's long past Sunday, but all the Sunday Scriblings posts have inspired me to get on board. So here we go. (Disclaimer: I am not a poet.)

Real Life

Lift me out of this pale routine.
My comfort is slow-acting poison now.
Pull me outside.
Let beauty smack my sleepy face
Like a worried parent.
Wake me up.

Surprise me.
I may think I know you, so
Tell me what you really want now.
And don't make me happy.

Hear the call, the boredom
Seeping in contentment's basement.
The squirm, the snap,
The flash of anger:

This is not enough.

We drape the light with darkness dressed
As form
Familiar.
We pack the open wound, forgetting
It
Bleeds
Life.

refrigerator poem

2006-04-10T20:24:00.000-07:00

Here's a vacuous little ditty using some words left by kat and lynn for the purpose of composing a poem. Lynn did a good job writing something of substance this way. As for me, doing this really reminds me of making a cut and paste poem with the magnetic poetry kit - which can be fun. Well, I need a random and easy creative excercise tonight, so here we go:

Careful! Never Trust a Wooden Cat

Jerk and twist the
Lisp from that cursed pursed lip.
Bland my questioned brow.
Hands that flounce and float
Hold empty treasure.

As near as I can tell, it's about a silly pretty girl and the boy who hates to love and loves to hate her, who wishes he knew how to quit her. (Is it bad when a poet feels compelled to explain?) In any case, I hate it (grin), though putting it together did sound a faint echo of the call to creativity. It's a good excercise.

And it reminds me of my favorite magnetic poetry work ever. One night a bunch of friends and I were hanging out making a party game of magnetic poem composition. We used the lids to two cookie tins and a game timer, and we took turns competing, though our "scores" - the somewhat drunken accolades of the group at large - were not recorded or counted. We had a blast. It took almost no time for the compositions to become consistently laden with the sort of sexual innuendo one can only intimate through the inclusion of the word, "sausage." Hilarious at first, but... we soon agreed that it might be even more fun to mix it up a little. I tried. I wrote, "Dream the delirious winter garden. Blow me."

putting it out there

2006-04-07T07:14:00.000-07:00

Okay. I've been percolating a bit on the topic of playing music, and rereading the comments I received on my post about resistance to ambition resulting in resistance to playing. Here is what I have come to: In order to keep myself feeling at least somewhat anchored with regard to my musicianship, I need to incorporate a daily practice. Applying myself and keeping the discipline to play something every day will retrain my thoughts back from "It's lost, it's gone, I screwed it up, I let it go," etc.

However. I have to make this approachable, easy, and as fun as possible, since regimented and compulsory practice might only make my spirit rebel. The last thing I need is a new reason to resist playing. In fact, I've told myself a couple of times over the course of the AW that I need to play every day, but I haven't. I think have to accept that I set the time bar too demandingly high. So first of all, I'm going to start with fifteen minutes a day, and keep to that as long as I need to - maybe forever. Maybe fifteen minutes a day is enough. (Of course, I can play longer any time I want to.) Secondly, I can choose whatever instrument calls to me each day, even if that means neglecting one or two indefinitely. As long as I'm making a little music evey day, which will be a huge improvement over the last several years, it's enough. And third, I can play whatever I want. I can improvise, play a commercial jingle by ear, get out my old classical piano music books, play scales, bang on strings and grunt, whatever. Anything goes.

I envy Kara her daily lumps. What could provide more tangible evidence of accomplishment than a lump of lovingly manipulated clay? What a great metaphor - making something out of nothing, manifesting the form of spirit from a lump of earth. Part of me is tempted to try recording what I do each day to approximate this tangibility, but music and recordings are really two different things. I appreciate recordings as art forms and I very much enjoy making them, but to me music is raw, real, live, imperfect, and only to be truly, fully experienced in the spine-chill of the present moment. Awake and alive. I know that that experience is more what I need to get back to, rather than trying to skip ahead to capturing (or contriving) something that's not yet there.

This calls to mind one of my favorite musical experinces ever: Some friends of ours have a cabin in the woods. And somehow, among other fascinating junk, the still-strung sounding board of a demolished grand piano ended up on the property, leaning against a shed. Discovering it one afternoon, I began to hit the tuneless strings with a stick. The sound was riveting, encompassing, like the seemingly eternal ring echoing through a struck metal tank full of water - loud and pervasive, ringing madly at too many different frequencies at once. Disorienting. When I hit it hard, my body was completely absorbed in the volume. Hit the high stings, and it was haunting and eerie. Pound the lower ones, and oceanic power and darkness bellowed forth. The sound just rang and rang, so every stroke just added a layer on top of everything else that was still sounding slowly out.

What an experience. I have no idea how long I crouched there; I was completely engaged in the sound and the sensation--unearthly. I forgot that anyone might be listening. I think because on some level I was just pounding on a noisy piece of junk with a couple of sticks, I was totally free of the constraints of having to make music. And the music I ended up making was some of the most inspired of my career.

I'd love to sneak back through that door again. There must be a way to find that level of freedom, and to set it loose on, for instance, the piano sounding board that happens to be inside my structurally sound and functional piano. Play. Consider the possibilities fifteen minutes a day could open to me...

infinite.

what you wish for

2006-04-05T08:00:00.000-07:00

I'm still here. Still doing pages. I'm trying to ramp up my spiritual practice. To that end, I'm focusing on kicking the self-harm. Trying to kick has tended to make it worse, but I'm sticking to the effort and refusing to halt progress by beating myself up for slips. No action on the creative/musical front, but I got some GREAT support in response to my last post, and I am taking it to heart. Thank you. Actually, for the last few days I've been mostly sitting at the computer solving Sudoku puzzles for hours at a time. Escape!

Well. To get to the point: There's a hilarious little synchronicity going on in my life right now that I had to share. First, a little background. I don't pay much attention to popular culture except when I happen to take interest in something that's popular (which doesn't seem to happen very often), and I don't get excited about celebrities. When I sang at the Academy Awards a couple of years ago, I cringed a little to see other members of my group getting autographs and pictures from famous folks who were also involved in our segment. It's just not my thing. They're just people, right? I'm inclined to leave them alone. I sure wouldn't want to be asked to grin for photos with strangers every twenty minutes. And don't get me started on the famous-for-being-famous thing. Ew!

So, yeah - celebrities schmelebrities. However. There is one famous actor, someone you all know, who I like. I like him... a lot. I love all his work. He chooses excellent and interesting projects, and he always steals the show - never the same character twice. (Some of you might know who I'm talking about. I'm not including his name because I don't want it to get googled here.) I'm a bit embarrassed to admit it, but I've gone through phases where I have chosen to kill way too much time reading about this actor on the internet, and he even seems like a nice guy. Oh and yeah he's unbelievably attractive.

Him I had my eyes peeled for that weekend in L.A. He was staying at the same hotel - someone else in my group rode the elevator with him and a couple of his handlers - but I missed seeing him. He wasn't even in the audience when we were singing; he was cued up backstage, getting ready to present next or something. Ah, well. Probably better not even to have had the opportunity to risk making an ass of myself and abandoning my no-paw celebrity rule.

Well guess what. He seems to have bought a home fifteen minutes from here. This story is still unconfirmed, though of course I know someone who knows someone who knows a FedEx driver who delivered a package. I just also know better than to believe it all the way at this stage. Still... it's possible.

I find this hilarious and synchronicitous because it's just another call to step up, to be my best self, to emerge from the cave. I can have whatever I want, whatever I ask for in earnest. Nothing is out of reach. Anything I turn my attention to will end up in my field of experience eventually. No, I don't expect to become his pal or even to meet him. But who cares! Isn't it just interesting to think about how possible things can be? I mean, I live in Nowheresville, New England. What are the odds? Even if it's just a rumor, there is a message for me in this.
("Never tell me the odds!" --Harrison Ford as Han Solo)

peace de la resistance

2006-03-29T08:27:00.000-08:00

Here it is - my new spot across the way. I've kept up my intention to get over there every day this week. I've ended up writing my pages there, actually. I know it's not ideal not to be doing them first thing, or come to think of it even in the morning, but the spot does seem to foster mindfulness.

I'll get my butt over there again today, I suppose, though what I really want to do is watch TV and eat candy. It'll be 60-something degress outside today. It's sunny, too. The smell of spring is beginning to kick in in earnest. I'm dyin'.

About here is usually where I fall apart for awhile. I feel so sensitive and sad. When I let myself pay attention, I realize I'm also joyful and hopeful. And really quite cranky. I space out and pull hair or worse to try to keep the level of emotional stimulation manageable. I just want to escape, to go to sleep until about September.

I have commited myself to weathering the spring and summer more bravely this year, for the sake of my future child. I want some solid practice at getting through emotionally stimulating circumstances and remaining grounded and present. Today that means going outside and facing the ferocious beauty of sixty degrees and sunny. It also means doing my pages, my yoga and my ACIM practice.

My other practice, the AW, is ending. My feelings about that are very mixed. I know I've made some progress over the last few months, but it doesn't look or feel like creative progress, and I'm not sure how much of it is attributable to the AW. I have enjoyed blogging and connecting with all of you, and I hope to keep up both of those things. Artist Dates and Morning Pages are also clearly helpful to me, and I am staying with them. But if this program has helped me, why haven't I, for instance, picked up an instrument for over a week? Why do I let weeks go by between times spent working on my new song(s)?

One possible answer is that I have found the Artist's Way to be very ambition-oriented, and this aspect of the program has not worked well for me. In fact, it has caused some inner conflict. I have played along as best I could to get as much out of this as possible, but now that it's ending I need to come clean, with myself most of all: I could give a rat's ass about making records or even playing out right now. I want to do it sometime because I don't want to not have done it at the end of my days, but when I think about pursuing that sort of thing now, even casually, I just feel tired - and phony. I wish the AW had been more about letting myself learn to play without the taint of all those friggin' timelines. My only real ambitions right now are to have a child and improve my spiritual practice. I can't quite wrap my head around directing energy toward my musical "career" while all I really want to be doing is rocking a baby and making pies. Thinking about the recordings I'd like to make someday has made sitting down at the piano a stressful rather than a relaxing experience lately. So I've barely done it. Is this resistance?

Yes. Yes, it is. It's resistance because playing, writing and generally channeling my creative energy more productively - letting it flow instead of keeping it bottled up - could only help me, at this or at any time in my life. I don't want to be justifying not playing for this or any reason. However. If this does happen to be the reason I don't want to play now, then I need to clear it the hell out. I just plain don't want to connect those activities to a career plan or timeline right now. And I'm nearly positive that the reason musical ambition and plans make me queasy at present is NOT because I'm afraid, self-censoring or otherwise blocked, but simply that I have other priorities, one in particular, with which I will let NOTHING interfere.

The way I figure it, if I can cleanse my mind of all that career plan crap, I might just start to play again for the joy of it. Then I'll be more likely to feel up to offering and accepting invitations to play with others, for fun. If there happen to be other perks - as in, I'm singing for fun but it happens to be in a studio or on a stage (and that has actually happened more often than you'd think) - great. That's cool, too. I just won't be as likely to get mentally derailed and reblocked if I don't think about it all in terms of a career path right now. I've got other stuff going on. I have made a different choice.

I need to peruse "Walking In This World" more carefully before I commit to it, to confirm my impression that it is more oriented toward introspective work than career moves. (If anyone has any knowledge about or experience with the book in this regard, I'd appreciate hearing it.) Making a commitment I won't keep will do me no good. For now, I think I may just improvise for a couple of weeks and see what happens.

AAHHHHH.

right there in front of me

2006-03-24T11:33:00.000-08:00

My artist date yesterday consisted of exploring a neighborhood across the large and busy street I live on. It's not that the street is even all that hard to cross, but I've had a sort of mental barrier, and I haven't ended up going over there much at all since I've lived here. I did, however, have a memory from a walk last summer of a tiny and pathetic neglected park somewhere around here - not sure where - with a couple of sorry little swings and forlorn basketball hoops. And here's the crazy part: I remembered that the park, such as it was, was next to some woods. And if you only poked your head into the woods, you'd see right away that there was a big lovely brook back there. Not big enough for a beachy bank, but, you know, pretty enough to sit by and even wade or dunk your sweaty self in on a summer day. How could I not go back there all this time?

I've been meaning for what seems like ages to get back to that brook. In fact, as I prepare to welcome a child (whenever it's time), I have lamented the "fact" that there is no little park within easy walking distance from my house. Wouldn't it be sweet, I thought, if I could put the little one in the stroller, pack a blanket and some lunch, and head out for an excursion? In my memory the sad little park near the brook seemed far away and hard to get to. You see, my town is in a very hilly valley. It's quite pretty, but not the best place to, say, take a long bike ride. And for a big Sweaty McGee like me, any walk around here tends to mean having to change clothes upon returning home.

Then there's the architecture. The neighborhood in question, along with other developments near my 1908 farmhouse, was obviously built in the sixties; it's all ranch houses, and gaudy split-level numbers with superfluous pillars ridiculously adorning the front entrances. Depressing.

Or so I remembered.

Yesterday for the second time ever, I walked up the street that practically intersects with my driveway, were it not for the thoroughfare between. Up a short hill, past the thirty foot retaining wall built from old tires (which I find inexplicably charming), around a corner, down a little dip, and - what's this?! The friggin' park is RIGHT THERE. No sweating required. I could practically see my house from where I stood.

I walked across a still-snowy brushy area just before the park, through some trees, and there it was: the prettiest little brook you'd ever hope to see. The sun poured down. The bare trees broke the light like stained glass in a cathedral. The water rushed and murmured happily. It was like the spot knew I was across the street all along, and greeted me then by throwing an arm around my waist and laughing, "What took you so long?"

I walked along next to the brook for awhile, just exploring. So many places to sit with a book or a journal or a guitar. So many holy stands and radiant clearings. I didn't see a single beer can, condom, or slick of shattered glass. It was heavenly.

When I hit private property, I turned back and investigated the little park. The swings are not at all pathetic! They're in good shape, though they're probably too small for me to really get going on (darnit). One is made for a baby. The slide looked good, too - very shiny. The basketball hoops, well... they stood about twenty feet apart and faced the same direction, though the park area was big enough for a small court. But the really perverse bit there was that there was no pavement under them. Who plays basketball on grass? I can see why I was left with a sorry impression of the park from those bizzarre monuments to civic budget cuts. However. Overall, this was clearly a lovely place to bring a baby and some lunch. And while I wait for the baby to show up and make our lunch date, I will be visiting my new friend the brook often. Hopefully daily.

For good measure, I also took a spin around the neighborhood beyond. The street is a big circle, which is awfully appealing for walks. The couple sitting on their porch laughing and talking as I walked by waved back to me warmly. A good sign. And, funny thing - the houses that had looked so crappy and sad to me last summer looked somehow friendly and sweet yesterday afternoon. I loved the garish trim colors. I... okay, the pillars still look dumb to me. But the wind whispered through the tall trees, I greeted my first spring robin (and made a wish - thanks, Kara), and all was right with the world.

It's very funny to me, perfect for the time and not at all surprising, that this happy little haunt has been right under my nose these nearly two years, while I have sat around on the couch, slightly disgruntled about living on a busy street. Behind the house and across a side street is another section of the same brook, but there it's all maddeningly ensconced within private property. Phooey. Meanwhile, all I had to do was cross the street, try a different angle, and New England's stony and tree lined holy ground would spread out before me like an ancient invitation. Somehow, since I had the memory of the park, I must have managed to see this outstretched arm of God once before without seeing it. I guess I wasn't ready to accept the invitation until now.

inspiration

2006-03-22T11:51:00.000-08:00

This may be a bit cheap in a way, considering I encountered this woman and her story for the first time last week on PBS program promoting the book Inspiration: Your Ultimate Calling. Maybe I'm just appropriating Dr. Wayne Dyer's inspiration. But I just can't get this lady out of my head.

Here's the thumbnail sketch, lifted from the Amazon page for her book:

Immaculee Ilibagiza grew up in a country she loved, surrounded by a family she cherished. But in 1994 her idyllic world was ripped apart as Rwanda descended into a bloody genocide. Immaculee’s family was brutally murdered during a killing spree that lasted three months and claimed the lives of nearly a million Rwandans.

Incredibly, Immaculee survived the slaughter. For 91 days, she and seven other women huddled silently together in the cramped bathroom of a local pastor while hundreds of machete-wielding killers hunted for them.

It was during those endless hours of unspeakable terror that Immaculee discovered the power of prayer, eventually shedding her fear of death and forging a profound and lasting relationship with God. She emerged from her bathroom hideout having discovered the meaning of truly unconditional love—a love so strong she was able seek out and forgive her family’s killers.

Apparently, the bathroom was three feet by four feet in size. Apparently Imaculee's whereabouts were suspected the whole time she was in hiding. The bathroom was well concealed, but gangs of machete-wielding Hutus would periodically roam the house, calling to her by name, telling her they knew she was there, telling her how they would relish slitting her cockroach throat. She weighed sixty-five pounds when she emerged to safety. She's five nine.

I try pretty hard, but I catch myself slipping quite often and holding on to grievances and judgements about other people. In certain moods, I can get pretty worked up if a grocery clerk looks at me the wrong way. How much happier would I be if I could see past all that pointless crap consistently?

In the AW tasks and excercises, sometimes just for one specific question here or there, I have been asked over the past eleven weeks to imagine a "perfect" childhood. I have been urged to consider the specific what-ifs if I'd had a "perfect" childhood. I have been nonplussed at best and quite irritated at worst with these questions. (When I was asked to finish the sentence, "If I'd had a perfect childhood, I'd have grown up to be..." I wrote, "boring and arrogant.") I am me because, among other things, my past was my past and my parents were my parents. I may be beset by challenges stemming from past abuse, but it is in meeting these challenges that my character develops and my spirituality deepens, and I become more perfectly myself. I don't know how else it could have happened. It happened the way it did. I may have developed differently if I had not experienced abuse, but would I have been better?

I know how to forgive anyone for anything. I know that everyone is doing his or her best with whatever they believe have. I have a keen understanding of the tricky ambiguities of ideas like "good" and "bad."

At least I like to think it's pretty keen. Vanity springs eternal.

Imaculee Ilibagiza made positive use of circumstances horrible beyond measure and beyond expression, seeing and taking an opportunity not only that no one should ever be presented with at all, but that almost no one would even begin to see as an opportunity. She took ideas like "bless your enemies" and applied them far, far beyond what most of us would imagine to be their limits. She hiked directly through hell to personally deliver her humble, infinitely loving offering to God, and she came back alive. She sees the killers as fearful and sad. She wants to help them find the light like she did.

She's married now and has children; she lives in the US. The nightmare is behind her. But even twelve years later, she is so sensitive and present that she tears up when telling an audience that she still believes people are good. And even on TV, even on a book tour, her dignity and grace are palpably evident and absolutely astonishing. In the PBS studio at the pledge break of all things - what is more irritating than a pledge break? - I can hardly look at her or hear her speak without beholding the choirs of angels shining around her shoulders.

Writing this post brings me back full circle to an early post in which I discuss my mother-childhood stuff. Funny, that all came up far less often in the program than I thought it would. Anyway, I suppose the inspiration-share is meant to be more directly creativity-related. But this angel on earth and others like her truly inspire me, more, I believe, than the craft of any artist ever could. In my life and in my creative work, I want to be funny, insightful, smart, sad, dark, bright. I want to be brutally honest. Sometimes I think I'm just honestly brutal. But above all - underneath and around and through it all - may I be loving. Dear God, may I Love.

walking in this world

2006-03-17T13:17:00.000-08:00

Just back from my AD. I set out not sure where exactly I would go but knowing I wanted to walk outside a little. I headed in the general direction of a state park I can see as I pass on the highway but which I've never visited. I guess it's not on the road I thought it was, though, as it never materialized in my travels.

As I drove, I listened first to a mix my brother made me this winter which I love, and then to one of R's rock records. I have heard this thing many times. I helped with the ordering of the tracks, come to think of it, and have been listening to it since before it came out nearly five years ago; yet it continues to deepen for me. My friend's songwriting is truly creative. Some of his stuff sounds like nothing else I've ever heard anywhere, but it's unusual without sounding like it's trying to be something. The expression is just clear, natural and unpretentious. And his singing comes straight out of the depths of him. I had forgotten that I'd put this record into my CD changer a month or so ago; it was a real treat to have it with me on my date.

I ended up taking the scenic route to a town I lived in for eight years and remembering some easy walking trails I could make use of. It was chilly outside today, but clear with lots of pale sunshine. I love this time of year. The level of beauty in nature in March is of an intensity I can handle in larger doses. Everything - including the sun - is muted, dun colored, watered down by winter and still slightly frozen. The smell of the dirt waking up under my feet is yet restrained from its future vigor. In April that aroma will vine around my ankles, tripping me up, binding my limbs and winding straight into my poor defenseless heart. In April the buds will burst and I will feel weak with joy and sadness, sensually stimulated to the point of pain. Today there is only a suggestion in the air of the coming ferocity, and I can taunt it with reckless abandon, walking freely in the pastel afternoon.

I walked, I breathed. The last time I was on this trail I had been with a hospice patient, as a first-time volunteer. For about seven months, I showed up for her once a week for two hours and I helped however I could. The first time I visited her, that meant straightening and rearranging her literally overflowing closets to her unreasonably exacting and completely futile specifications as she called out directions from her perch on the edge of the bed. I believe my actual assignment that day had been simply to remain good-natured. I passed. My crazy-making patient adored me from that day till her last. On the occassion of our mountain walk, though she was pale and thin as a reed, her hairless head wrapped in a big purple scarf and her breastless torso looking already like that of a drowned child, I struggled panting and sweating to keep up with her as she strode triumphantly on, defying death on a summer afternoon. I thought of her often today. I thanked her for her lessons in living.

When I returned to my car I wasn't sure what to do next. I needed a bathroom. Should I stop somewhere for tea? My car was headed away from town on a road I couldn't do a U-turn on (huh!), so I drove on a bit. A moment later, I realized I was practically in the neighborhood of a positively magical used book store I'd been meaning to visit. I'd even written about it as a potential artist date early in the program but hadn't made it down there. Welly well.

The drive and the music continued to enchant me on my way. I love love LOVE New England. I stayed off of all the big roads and just drank it in. The drive alone would probably have been a great AD. But then there I was, in the parking lot of Used Book Nirvana (not its real name). I paused to take in the rushing river - glorious - and in I went. It smelled good. Some perfect new-to-me music was playing at the perfect volume on a great-sounding system. The sun poured in through the tall windows. The floorboards creaked under my feet as I browsed. I found a collection of Irish ghost stories, a small sycnronicity since it's St. Patrick's Day and all, and remembered how much I LOVE ghost stories. Resolving to add them to my "touchstones" list (from the tasks this week), I settled into an easy chair in a sunny window overlooking the river, and gobbled one up on the spot. It was only maybe ten pages long, but just packed with intriguing characters, puritan guilt, murder, peat bogs, and the tragic apparition of a dead bastard infant. I loved it.

I also found a copy of Julia Cameron's Walking in This World. I wanted to not care. I wanted to eschew the attraction of further structure. But I picked it up (hmm, perfect condition, probably unread), and I turned it over (hmm... a new photo of the author... I sure did hate the one on the back of The Artist's Way... in this one she looks kind of cool), and I cracked it open. (What's this?! I like her writing in the introduction, and I love what she's saying about walking and talking. Am I misting up?)

Then I flipped back a couple of pages and read the following. It must be by her. (It had better be, since there's no other credit. )

Jerusalem Is Walking In This World

This is a great happiness.
The air is silk.
There is milk in the looks
that come from strangers.
I could not be happier
if I were bread and you could eat me.
Joy is dangerous.
It fills me with secrets.
"Yes" hisses in my veins.
The pains I take to hide myself
Are sheer as glass.
Surely this will pass,
The wind like kisses,
The music in the soup,
The group of trees
Laughing as I say their names.

It is all hosannah.
It is all prayer.
Jerusalem is walking in the world.
Jerusalem is walking in the world.

I love this. This sounds like me. Even the reference to Jerusalem - a gleaming gem of a metaphor that frequently gets lost through literal readings - goes straight to my core. I bought the book. And I gather Ms. Cameron will be comandeering another twelve weeks of my life sometime very soon. This comforts me as we head into week 11 of 12. I guess more structure is just another way to love myself at present. I'll go with it. I'm learning.

week 9 - now, with more singing

2006-03-13T05:54:00.000-08:00

I feel tired and emotionally porous, and I think I may have to watch a movie or four on cable until I get my legs back under me today, but I am very happy to report that my weekend of S H singing and socializing was wonderful.

I got off to a slightly rocky start at the workshop my friend taught last Thursday; I felt like the awkward and nervous self that does not resonate as really me no matter how many times it manifests, but which I have nonetheless felt trapped inside way too often for over a decade now. I think I have finally worked out, however, that dwelling on that self, picking apart its feelings and reliving its foibles, has been like handing it the keys all this time. I've been telling myself in effect that that is how I am. On Thursday, I moved on to the next thing, to the next moment, instead. It was good practice - I knew there would be many potential snags to simply move on from over the weekend. Come to think of it, aren't there always?

I am remembering now the Henry Miller quote that inspired me earlier in the AW: Develop interest in life as you see it; in people, things, literature, music--the world is so rich, simply throbbing with rich treasures, beautiful souls and interesting people. Forget yourself. I did not have these words consciously in mind over the weekend, but I think I did live the idea. I was absolutely surrounded, much more densely than usual, with rich treasures, beautiful souls and interesting people. As much as I could, I focused on them. When some little moment did not go as I might have wished, when I felt impatient or judgemental, or unseen, unloved or unperfect, there was always something or someone wonderful to turn my attention to. I found myself simply stepping into the next moment, the next song, the next conversation, the next opportunity to participate. I enjoyed several moments my ego would have found gratifying, but I didn't cling to those, either. Forget yourself. I got to connect, I mean really connect, with so many wonderful people this weekend - old friends, newer friends, people I have wanted to know better. I was PRESENT.

And the singing was fantastic. We were so... together. In an ACIM meditation on Sunday night, I was once again struck by the metaphor of unity that our many voices singing provides. There were as many as three hundred separate bodies sitting in that room, but when we were singing we all sat united in the glorious vibration and harmony of the music. It's like another element, like air or like ether, but more alive. You can practically swim in it. And it penetrates every cell, instantly - of all of us together. The spirit of it is not even aware of our physical limitations; it infuses each of us alike and makes us all the same.

I've hardly written a thing on this compared to my usual volumes, but I am wearing myself out trying to write about it at all, so I'll stop. One final word on my weekend, a synchronicity: The little meditative message on the weekend's mandala to color was "Invisible evolution." I passed the progess test. I've made some.

Here's a quick AW progress report:

I did MPs six out of seven days. The day I missed was during the week and I just forgot - I stayed with it through the busy-ness. I only missed one day of yoga, too. No AD this week, but I am fine with that. I started to read over my morning pages. I found this largely tedious, though I also noticed many areas of progress and actions taken, and a whole lot of movement in the right direction. Which is nice. I'll go back and finish reading them, and continue to make notes on my progress as well as what could still use some focused attention.

I did not do the visualization task as such, although when I read it through it occured to me again that what I want is the life I have, with the addition of more playing, writing, and playing out. I have the advantage of being able to visualize playing with the friends I'd like to collaborate with by actually being with them and making music with them. Better than photos, I should think. My banjo date last Monday was very effective in this regard, and that went so well it seems certain we'll do it again.

Again I say, the themes of compassion and creative U-turns could not have been better timed for me. I got to live not only the visualization but also the U-turn mending task last week. I've been taking steps toward retreiving "the one that just kills [me]" and calling a do-over. The workshop may not have been perfect, but between connecting personally with my dream collaborator and my banjo date with his drummer, things really seemed to be moving forward. This important figure in my life - okay, I'll just call him... R - is already talking about wanting to just move back for good. This area is his real home, and his closest friends and family are all on this coast. So that could happen. I need to do whatever I need to do to get myself writing and playing more as well as playing out, and I'm very much looking forward to the process with G and to whatever other surprises unfold, BUT/AND - if that move were to happen, I could potentially get the do-over of a lifetime. The nice thing is, I know - I'm positive - that I'm already headed into a kind of resolution, no matter how the details work out and no matter how much time elapses in the process of this delightful denouement. It's already happening.

I just took out my totem, which I forgot to do last week: It's a little pewter pendant of Lucy Van Pelt (of Peanuts/Charlie Brown comics fame), looking very pleased with herself. Actually, maybe she just looks pleased! Her closed-eyed smile is positively beatific.

I was painted as a Lucy figure in childhood. I either was or appeared like her in many ways, though I sure don't see myself pulling any footballs away from any Charlie Browns. In any case, when I saw this little necklace in the store perhaps fourteen years ago, I recognized it immediately as my totem and knew that I needed to buy it and keep her near me. At the time, it was primarily her crabbiness that I wanted to embrace. I see now that to love and appreciate Lucy in all her vainglory is to love and accept that aspect of my childhood self, and to bring light to some of my murkiest early pain. Lucy has no reservations about self-expression and no tendencies toward self-doubt or -flaggellation weighing her down on her march through life. She's strong enough to hang out her Psychiatric Help shingle and collect her nickels. She's brave enough to stay open to the bittersweet joys of her unrequited love for Schroeder, and to keep trying. Okay, actually she's so obliviously self-absorbed she probably doesn't notice the unrequited bit, but come on. Isn't there something enviable about that? She may be crabby, but in her way, Lucy walks between the raindrops.

I will definitely go back to list my creative goals, because I find that sort of excercise very productive without being painful.

And now I'd better get cracking on week 10...

big week in eliza-land

2006-03-07T20:02:00.000-08:00

This weekend my local S H singing community hosts its annual convention, meaning two or three hundred of my closest friends are coming to town to sing together. Okay, only like thirty of them are actually really close friends, but they feel more like family. In a very real way, the whole unwieldy gang - seriously, the entire community - feels like family. It's intense. So from Friday through Sunday we'll have a houseguest, I'll be getting up at six to cook enormous potluck dishes, I'll be staying out until unreasonable hours singing and socializing well beyond the normal human capacity for either, I'll be hanging out with many of the people I love most in the world but who live far away, AND - the singing that all this centers around, two whole days of it, tends toward a level of musical and spiritual depth and intensity that I can hardly hope to express here. It's big.

As anyone who has read a little of this blog may already suspect, convention weekend has at times been challenging for me. I have had many of my best experiences and many of my very most unbelievably painful ones within this community and around this activity. S H singing with these friends just reaches down into my soul and tears it out into the air, naked and screaming.

For the last couple of years, I have retreated from it all somewhat - sometimes just inwardly, but sometimes by, oh, not showing up for a day. Or avoiding all the peripheral social stuff. Then again, I had been dealing with Grave's disease for the past couple of years, so in addition to my usual sometimes-problematic sensitivity and intensity, I was hyperthyroid. This meant extra anxiety, irritability, and emotional-ness, plus spasitude beyond the pale. (On the plus side, I got to eat like a linebacker.) In this regard at least, I'm all better now.

And I've made so many changes and improvements. All this AW, morning pages, ACIM, yoga, playing and coloring - surely I have turned a corner. Right? Well, ladies and more ladies, this weekend is the test.

This week, more like. A good friend with whom I have had a difficult relationship for some time, a S.H. singer (of course) chose last Sunday to get really , really mad at me just when I thought we were out of the woods and had found a new way to be friends that didn't involve her hating my guts. I have spent the last two days navigating that mine field, trying hard to forget that if things weren't resolved I could be heading into my equivalent of Christmas and the Boston Marathon combined dragging a large sledge loaded with poo. Blessedly, another good friend, another singer, reminded me that I could probably find a way to give more. Even though the friend who was mad at me was being the whack-job, she suggested that I apologize to her. It took me a minute, but I did see that regardless of what "rightness" I wanted to cling to to for the benefit of only my ego, I could give more. I thought she had no grounds to be getting all up in my grill, but I didn't want her to be unhappy. And from her late-night emails, she obviously was. Quite. So I sent her an e-card with a flower on it, and told her I was sorry I upset her. I asked her to please look with me for a new way to be friends. (Nothing says, "It's the thought that counts" like a virtual bouquet e-card.)

I had been planning to blow off the weekly sing tonight because there's just so much enormous stuff going on and I wanted to take it easy. But after I got a little confirmation message that she had retrieved her card, I had the feeling I should just go. And my oh my. Not only was it one of the best singings I've been to in awhile (and we have a lot of good ones), but my friend approached me at the break to give me a little gift. AHHHH.

But wait, there's more! Remember my dream of playing with my musician friend? Well of COURSE he's a singer and will be in town. And let's just say it's a bit of a synchronicity that we are working with creative U-turns this week. When I met him/them and started singing S.H., I pretty much ended up doing a total creative about-face. Back then, before I went completely mental, this friend taught me how to play the banjo and had opportunity to hear some of my non-rock compositions. For many reasons (all fear-based), I was a bit, um, overly engaged with what he thought of me and my creations. He sensed this. He gets that a lot. He was helpful in those early days in the ways he felt comfortable being helpful, and he really was generous with me, but since his style of support did not include falling down rapt and gushing over my staggering talent and/or begging me to be in his band, I took him to be unsupportive or even critical. By the time I figured out that he was actually very interested in what I was up to, I was so twisted up about everything that I had squashed my dream of collaboration down deep into my murky depths. U-turn. Yuh.

Of course, the Artist's Way work dredged it back up for me. Well. Remember how one of the tangible steps I decided I could take toward dipping my toe into the water of this wild dream again was to play banjo with my other friend, the one who plays with the one I want to play with? I did that last night. It was gooood. And, miracle of miracles, I felt comfortable. I had fun with it. So here we go.

And I will leave you with the synchronicity grande of the week. My dream bandmate is not only moving back to this area for a year starting this summer, but he also sent out email on Monday saying, among other things, that he wanted to start an "American Music" (old-time music and ballad-type and S H singing) ensemble. Okay, he's going to be here to teach at the university, and this may be just for his students, but he actually wrote in his mass email update that he wanted the group to be open to anyone, of any ability. No matter how you slice it, that's some juicy synchronicity burger right there. He's also teaching a workshop this Thursday that I can attend. And best of all, I get to hang out and sing with him this weekend. (He even sent me some sweet personal email yesterday to reconnect.) More steps, more openings, more possibility. A chance to one way or another reverse one of the most significant and regret-laden creative U-turns of my life. What a gift. So lets hope I can keep my wits more or less about me this weekend. There's no crying in baseball.

week 8

2006-03-04T09:03:00.000-08:00

Well. The progress report felt awfully good to do. I think it helped me move toward the goal of recovering a sense of strength in a rather difficult week.

My potential pregnancy party has officially been pooped. Yet somehow, the net result of the experience of becoming convinced I was pregnant, even though I wasn't (or didn't stay that way), is that I feel more fertile. I know more deeply that I am ready and that I really want this. After an initial high in week 7, I watched myself let some of my helpful new habits and practices slip into the back seat as I retreated into nervous disassociation and some self-destructiveness. It wasn't even fear of pregnancy or motherhood that did it - it was just the discomfort of not knowing, of being out of control. Doubt set in. The less I trusted that all would be well no matter what, and the more I manically checked my symptoms and looked for signs, the worse I felt. Less grounded. Less strong. More out of it. I even developed cold symptoms and ended up missing some things I had wanted to do.

By the end of this week, even as my period was late, I settled down. I got real. I let go of outcomes and I got back to work on myself, my creativity, my life. I cooked, I played, I did my practice, I started another new song. I felt better. When it became clear I was not pregnant, I was completely okay. And now I know that in my future opportunities, which have already begun to unfold, I won't do that again--I'm tired of the cliche, but this is definitely a been there, done that kind of moment.

I think this pattern may play out with other creations as well. I don't like the earliest phase of gestation. I want my songs and such to come to me whole and perfect in the manner I choose, at the time I appoint. I start imagining the positive responses I will get from the people I'll share them with before I've gotten any further than a couple of interesting chord changes. Huh. Come to think of it, there is something to explore here about wanting to validate myself to others through my creations, and I think it started to rear it's nasty little head around having a baby. Eek. Well, that's something else I learned, something else to keep an eye on starting now.

I did my pages every day, as usual. My cold kept me in for my artist date, but I did watch a fantastic movie called "What the Bleep Do We Know," which definitely filled my well. I plan to rewatch it later today. It's right up my alley - metaphysics - though via the scientific perspective. Same diff! Among other fascinating assertions helpfully illustrated in this wonderful piece is the idea that our words and emotions actually change our physical bodies on a molecular and cellular level. More reason to choose forgiveness, love, and joy, all spelled out and articulated in a cogent and scholarly manner. Both sides of my brain were thrilled. And I just LOVE how many of the conclusions of quantum theory say many of the same things about reality, virtually verbatim, as spiritual texts like A Course In Miracles and Conversations With God. Everything's coming together. The parallel lines of science and spirit are heading into infinity, straight toward intersection. They are revealing themselves to never have been opposed at all. Ahhh.

Ooh, goody! Just peeked: Compassion is the theme of week 9. I expect I will experience sychronicities among my practices. And what was I just saying about reasons to choose forgiveness, love and joy? Ahhh.

progress report

2006-03-02T17:02:00.000-08:00

I need to count my blessings out loud today. It occurs to me that in the last two months, I have begun changes, made changes, made progess, taken steps. I feel as though I may have lost my footing, but I'm brushing myself off today and things don't look bad at all. Here's an inventory, in no particular order:

- A new practice: Morning pages
- A new form of self-expression: Blog writing
- A commitment honored: Staying with the AW, doing tasks and excercises
- Progress: More frequent piano playing
- Progress: More frequent, deeper banjo playing
- Progress: More comfort with electric guitar; playing plugged in
- Progress: Playing music with G
- Progress: Two songs in process
- Step taken: Banjo date with P (finally coming up this Monday)
- New pleasure: Joined community chorus (We're doing Haydn's "Creation" this spring. Heh.)
- Progress: Going out for Artist Dates, walks, sitting on the porch
- Progress: Better SH sing attendance
- Progress: Seeing friends more
- Progress: Reviving friendships I'd let slip
- A commitment honored: Two months of yoga very nearly daily
- A commitment honored: Two months of regular ACIM practice
- Progress: Reading more
- Progress: Feeling much happier overall
- Progress: Much less self-harm
- Progress: Feeling more socially comfortable overall despite some wrinkles
- A new practice: Weekly mandala coloring
- A new work of art: My week 7 collage
- Progress: Learned how to use the camera with the computer and post photos
- A new creative outlet: Photography
- A new blessing: Blogging friends
- Progress: Spring is coming

I remain in the land of in-between, of not knowing. I continue; I am in process. Moving onward, not sure of my precise location on the continuum of my life's timeline, taking my steps: one at a time.

This brings to mind one of my all-time favorite songs. It's called, "Put One Foot In Front of the Other," and it's from the Rankin Bass stop-action animation Christmas special, "Santa Claus Is Coming to Town." I guess I'll save my gushing about what Christmas means to me for next December. But this song really gets me, and it's perfect for how I feel now. I don't know if I've ever heard it as an adult without crying. I'm pretty smooshy that way.

I identify with the bad guy who is good deep down, since I was cast as a bad guy in childhood and the resulting anger and frustration made me seem like one sometimes. I still watch myself very carefully for meanness, and I still notice plenty there. I have often punished myself for what I believe to be bad thoughts or behavior, only to punish myself for punishing myself - for the damage I have done, for the time I have wasted in this cycle of pain. I have gotten that God loves me completely exactly how I am, with my entire inventory of "bad." The secret is that God doesn't see the bad - to God, that stuff is so illusory and ephemeral as to not be there at all. Only Love abides. Yet I still struggle, as we all do.

Anyway, the scene with this song opens with Kris Kringle asking the Winter Warlock to have the magic evil trees that are restraining him let him loose for a minute, because he'd like to give him a present. The Warlock is taken off guard by this since no one else has ever made him such an offering. He suspects a trick. But K.K. says he wants to start a new custom, the bad guy is swayed, the trees are commanded to liberate the prisoner, and soon the mean old warlock is happily smooching his new choo-choo. Then we hear a melting sound and his face goes watery, coming back into focus soft and pink where once he was icy and white. "My whole outlook has changed from bad to good!" he exclaims. "Ah. but will it last. I really am a mean and despicable creature at heart, you know. It's so difficult to really change." Kris Kringle laughs and tells him that going from bad to good is as easy as taking your first step.

Put One Foot In Front of the Other

Chorus:
Put one foot in front of the other,
And soon you'll be walkin' 'cross the floor.
Put one foot in front of the other,
And soon you'll be walkin' out the door.

You never will get where you're going
If you never get up on your feet.
Come on! There's a good tailwind blowin'.
A fast walkin' man is hard to beat.

(Chorus)

If you want to change your direction,
If your time of life is at hand,
Well don't be the rule, be the exception.
A good way to start is to stand.

(Chorus)

[Warlock:]
If I want to change the reflection
I see in the mirror each morn,
You mean that it's just my election
To vote for a chance to be REBORN?

Put one foot in front of the other
And soon you are walkin' 'cross the floor
You put one foot in front of the other,
And soon you are walkin' out the door!

The Warlock's faltering but slowly steadying steps are cheered by woodland creatures, including a fawn standing for the first time. I love this juxtaposition. The idea of that option of rebirth at any time we choose means a great deal to me. I used to want it in a lightning bolt, with a fiery angel and suspension of time. These days I notice that rebirth happens over and over, every time I feel my hard heart melting. No matter to what nether regions I take the wings of the morning (most recently to pointless doubt and ungrounded mental restlessness), the sun keeps dawning and I keep standing back up. This program and community are providing "a good tail wind." And my time of life is at hand (whether I happen to be pregnant today or not).

spiritually evolved or VERY BORING

2006-03-01T16:51:00.000-08:00

Remember that Sinead O'Connor album title, "I Do Not Want What I Haven't Got"? Well that's me, apparently. I just did this week's tasks, and my wildest dreams are ostensibly quite attainable. I don't want to be famous. I only want to do what I enjoy, to respect myself, to create for the sake of creating, to work with others I respect and who challenge me to keep growing creatively, mentally, and spiritually. I want to make recordings, not to sell them so much as for the sake of, well, making a record of my work and having a tangible representation of it that I can keep and share with others. (The nice thing about recordings as opposed to, say, sculpture, is that I can make as many copies as I want and share what I have done virtually infinitely.)

I want to perform to share what I do with people I love and with others who might discover and enjoy or be touched or helped by my work. I've been around and involved in the music/recording business enough to know that anything beyond the musical equivalent of independent press just ain't my bag. Touring and high-pressure performance dates hold little or no appeal. I'd rather play smaller, more intimate stages. I know I could get gigs around here, and that would be enough. Digital technology has made it possible for anyone to make and reproduce decent recordings, but I used to be a recording engineer. And I even prefer lo-fi to slick. Doable, doable, doable.

Of course, I also want to play and perform and record with the musician friend/s I wrote about a couple of weeks ago. That's a bit specific, but I'm asking the universe for it anyway, especially since it's so, well, possible.

I am sure, and I mean I'm completely positive, that the attainability of my goals is not just me preemptively undercutting my own options to avoid having to take risks. My heart knows that when it comes to creative goals, these are the things I truly want.

Does this make me boring? It feels pretty good from in here, but I wonder on some level if it makes me a less interesting person to others. When I did the list of twenty things, I noticed that I tend to like to do things that are cheap or free and have little or no associated physical risk and a nice slow or moderate pace, although I listed nothing that I didn't find spiritually stimulating. The thing is, I listed the things I do or could do every day. Baths. Walks. Movies. Singing. When I moved on to the "Ideal Day" excercise, I realized that by the yardstick of this list, I could have an "Ideal Day" every day. And for the "Ideal Ideal Day"? Well, I could use a nicer yard with trees for snoozing and hanging out in in the summer, but even there, something else in this town or this area would suit me fine. I don't want to live in Bali or even in Big Sur. And I don't want to be on any magazine covers, sell a million records, or have my ride pimped. I just want to have a good meal and a good laugh with friends. I want to have a child, happy kitties, some cds of my songs.

This is quite a thing to notice about myself and my life: I can have what I want. I don't want a different life. I want the one I have; I just want to live it more fully. I could take way more of the nature walks I love so, or even make a regular thing of it - a weekly walk, not to be blown off. And horseback riding - easily incorporated. The steps I laid out toward meeting my musical goals were the ones I've already been beginning to take - just play. Just write. Play with others. Begin to share the work again. Doable, doable, doable.

Wow. What was I afraid of? The AW must be like the ruby slippers and yellow brick road - you may have had the power all along, but you have to walk the whole way before you'll believe it. And you have to believe you have it to use it.

PS - I'm still in limbo about the status of my ultimate creative project. Many thanks to those of you who left supportive words. I need them, and they're helping.

tough spell

2006-02-27T07:48:00.000-08:00

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

2006-02-22T08:00:00.000-08:00

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

2006-02-21T07:39:00.000-08:00

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!

2006-02-19T15:38:00.000-08:00

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

2006-02-15T19:32:00.000-08:00

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

2006-02-12T19:05:00.000-08:00

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

2006-02-11T09:19:00.000-08:00

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

2006-02-08T08:11:00.000-08:00

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

2006-02-04T13:27:00.000-08:00

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...

AD-D

2006-01-27T18:00:00.000-08:00

(Artist Date-Date)
I've just returned from my second artist date. I went to hear the local community chorus sing Rachmaninoff's "All-Night Vigil." The whole town must have turned out. The concert was held in a big old Catholic church with fabulous acoustics, and it was literally standing room only. I had to park blocks away. I have a couple of sort-of friends in the group, but the main reason it occured to me to check it out, beyond the obvious artist date potential, was that "singing choral music" came up on the list of twenty things I enjoy, something I hadn't done in ten years, and I've been thinking of joining this group.

They were wonderful. The piece is completely a capella, which is so lovely; I was reminded what an enchanting instrument the human voice is. I chose the piano as my favorite instrument in the "Detective Work" excercise this week, but now that I think about it, I was taking the question too literally - the voice is my favorite by far. Listening to this large group reminded me how heavenly it was to sing in such a context, especially (believe it or not) in some of my high school experiences. I got the opportunity to sing in large district and all-state choirs, and there were moments when I felt we were all being lifted right off the risers by angel wings we didn't know we had. I was lifted, anyway. Anyone remember those cheaply pressed LPs they used to sell to all the parents? We'd sign up and pay in advance, and a month or six weeks later a stiff record album that was likely designed to withstand only a handful of playings would arrive in the mail. I not only still have the record from my first district chorus experience, I still listen to it. I have included a couple of the songs on mixes, so I can hear them again and again without wearing out the fragile, brittle whatever-the-heck-they-used. That concert was one of my all-time best musical experiences.

And tonight reminded me of it. A little. Enough. I've been singing S H music for the past eleven years, and there the only dynamic is LOUD. This is part of the great fun of singing S H, but tonight I was reminded how exciting double forte can be when it's used sparingly, as one startlingly gorgeous color standing out in a rich tapestry of hues. And speaking of color, I decided while listening that part of the reason I love Russian composers so much is that they write music that somehow features more of the dark, rich, nuanced colors I love so. It was all blood red, deep deep teal, earthen brown and vibrant gold tonight. And when the chorus exploded into one of those stunning double fortes, it was like a volcano of light erupting into the gothic arches. You know the part toward the end of "How the Grinch Stole Christmas," after his heart grows three sizes, when he finds the strength of ten Grinches, plus two? Remember how the sky behind him looks as he lifts the sled with the ginormous sack over his head, as Max dangles happily from a runner? It sounded like that.

Guess it's time to join the chorus, huh? Huh-DOE-EY.

I had another artist date this week, too. Somewhat impromptu. I've been thinking that going to the bead store downtown would be a good one, but it's-a-pain-to-park-and-I-didn't-want-to-spend-money-and-I-didn't-want-to-
be-around-the-other-bead-store-patrons-and-the-staff-and-- who knows why else I was resisting going. The universe tricked me into it by making the only available tickets for the chorus concert be at a bookstore downtown. I looked at a book about trees while I was in there that was really neat, but I was paid up for an hour in the garage... and I needed a replacement dangly tine for a favorite pair of earrings; I had a reason to go to the bead store which had been on my list of things to take care of for, like, a year. I sighed and headed over.

When I first entered the store a song was playing on the overhead that I have only heard in one other context: while driving my old boss (the one who rashly fired me for no good reason two days before Christmas) to and from business meetings. She had this irritating mix of irritating songs that she'd play on endless loop in the car. This song was the most... irritating. I felt my shoulders tense. But I recognized right away that that gave my old boss and that unfortunate work situation power over me in a way, power that I really didn't need to give away, especially since I am SO FRIGGIN' HAPPY about not working. I closed my eyes for a second and I sent her a little blessing, which is the only way I know to get free of anything and everything. I felt much better.

The perky staff member I approached told me they didn't carry the replacement earring part I needed, but the next song on the PA was one I had strongly positive associations with. It's on the Cold Mountain soundtrack, which I got to sing on as an S H singer. It was by Allison Krauss, whom I had sung with on stage several times, including at the Academy Awards, as part of that experience. As an S H singer, not a performer. Believe me, there's a difference. But obviously, these were wonderful and special experiences. This week is about recovering a sense of power, right? Well, this seemed to be happening right there in the bead store. I had been sychronicitied into being there, and they didn't have what I needed, but I'd just been sent a pair of blessings in a span of about three minutes, so I stayed. Happily.

Turns out they have cool toys there, too. Classic toys. I picked out a paddle ball game with a nice, thick, unwarped paddle and a high-quality, wrapped (replacable!) rubber string. For less than three dollars. Then there was the classic tin kaleidoscope, beautiful outside and in, for seven. I picked up some wire for whenever I did find a replacement tine for my special earring. And oh, what the heck - make it a spool. I like making earrings too. Haven't done that in awhile. I found some gorgeous huge shell hoop earrings that are going to make my ensembles sing this summer. For less than ten dollars. Happy songs continued to play. And THEN... then, it hit me: I didn't need to replace the lost tine with the exact same part. There were five dangling tines per earring in that pair, which of course I was wearing, to be safe. Maybe there was some other little dangly thing that would balance them again but would make them special. I looked at all the little dangly things I could find, and settled on a tiny butter knife, just the right size. It's like one of those hidden pictures in Highlights magazine - it's not immediately noticeable, but like a happy little secret to stumble on. Like a wink. Of course I love the earrings even more now; they're one-of-a-kind.

Oh, and I got back to my car that day at Exactly the time on my parking slip. And tonight as I left the concert, my finicky magical trick dashboard lights were lit. The end.

Tasks Part Deux - the interesting years

2006-01-25T11:03:00.000-08:00

Before I get started on tasks again, let me just say that yes, voice in my gut, I am aware that doing tasks and writing about it here is a form of avoidance at the moment. Wasn't there something in the reading this week about being sure to hang out with other artists who do the work, and not so much with those who only want to talk about doing the work or about why they're not doing the work? Which one am I at the moment? I really don't know. I played my piano yesterday. I went outside today. There were a couple of small synchronicities involving horses, which have come up in the AW work a couple of times recently. I plan to read my meaningful Anne Lamott book this afternoon, and possibly cut my hair in some wildly creative fashion. But I am not really here. I am "showing up at the page" in the morning (though even longer after I awake these last two days), but I do not feel accessible to the Creator. (For the record, and in the interest of full disclosure.)

Task 4
Habits. Oy. Three overt rotten ones:
Pulling my hair out strand by strand. I do this automatically when I feel stressed or conflicted. There's a name for the problem and I've had it since I was six, so part of me likes to think I might as well keep doing it since there's no hope. But I don't actually believe that. I'm blessed to have very thick hair genetically speaking, so I don't look at first glance like many of my fellow sufferers/practitioners, although if I saw me in the grocery store I would know why certain areas seem grayer and fuzzier than others. It must be a blessing that the problem is not obvious, but its concealability only makes it more problematic in a way, since it's easier to ignore that way.

This, even though when I do sit down to write a song or to some other creative, soul-intensive project, I spend as much energy on my hair as I do on the work. I space out, I glaze over, I go away. Even as I admit I want to do something creative and I act on the impulse, I create a barrier to my own spirit's expression, a hurdle of indifference and disengagement. So the payoff must be that I do less to feel conflicted about. Remember, I got the message that being smart in any way beyond getting good grades - in any way that actually involves thinking, that is -, or expressing my truth, or applying talent in any interesting manner - which might make someone else feel inferior, obviously - was baaaad. So I do less creative work in order to avoid having to deal with the emotional consequences and the behavioral flare-ups.

I sometimes overeat, but lately I am allowing myself the payoff, which is easy earthly comfort, without much self-critical fuss.

My rottenest overt habit is outright self-harm. I don't want to talk about that anymore except to say that the payoff is staying the same. And that I've actually been easing up on myself lately. I know this program wasn't designed to support recovery from that type of problem, but this is what seems to stand between me and my creative self-expression, and I'm going to apply ADs, tasks and morning pages liberally to whatever wounds I find unhealed.

A subtler rotten habit is not getting dressed in the morning. It keeps me in that "What's the use?" state. In the introduction, Cameron says "What's the use" is fear, and fear means you are secretly in despair. So put your fears on the page. Put anything on the page. That's what I'm doing here, my cybercircle-mates.

I think not getting dressed is related to another subtler bad habit: not going out. I say I want to go out and do things, but when it comes around to it I end up staying in more often than not. If I don't go out, I don't have to deal with other people and their reactions to me. I also miss out on an awful lot of life.

Hmmm. Subtler bad habit number three is multitasking. I half look at catalogues while half watching tv. I jump up from the dinner table to add an item to my shopping list. I eat and surf. If I want to do a thing, why not focus on that one thing? Sometimes it seems my hidden objective most of the time is to avoid giving my full attention to anything.

Phew! Made it through the habits task, more or less in one piece. It doesn't seem so bad now that I've written it out. If you're avoiding this one, I have to say - I recommend it. Ahh.

The friend tasks are befuddling to me, so I should probably do them. At some point. Maybe. Okay... I don't tend to hang out with lots of people. I always have a couple or a few special folks that I'm in touch with, and I tend to stay in touch with "my people," as I think of them, forever - though sometimes years may elapse between connections. In general I tend to prefer special relationships with a few dear ones with whom I meet, say, quarterly, to having buddies to get together with on weekends. My chosen dear ones tend to be supportive. I don't think I've ever been enabled, though I'm aware that I used to enable others many many moons ago. Glad I knocked that shit off early. I know I can't talk with every one about everything, and that's usually okay. I don't know that I feel nurtured by all of them, but that may be because I generally don't let people even try. There's a social circle I'm an honorary member of through my husband and brother, and they are very nice to me, though the girls in that group tell me I'm a bit intense and my presence can be unsettling (which I've heard before), so things get weird occasionally. I often find it's my responsibility to look after others' needs, or at least to avoid their tender spots. Actually, in the tasks for last week, when I made the graph of different aspects of life I felt a little weak in the friends department. I just don't call people all that much. This week, partly because of this befuddling task, I went out and saw some friends at a social singing thing I sometimes do and sometimes avoid, and I made plans for dinner with someone else. Okay, okay - I'll call another. Criminy.

Task 8:
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.

Five people I secretly admire? That's an odd question. As I think about it, though, I guess I do know what it means. I outwardly admire the pure-hearted Melanie Wilkeses of the world, but I can only be supportive of the fierce Scarlett O'Haras from a bit of a distance. When I get up near them, their ego-strength seems grating and wrong-minded. Yet that kind of strength is absolutely necessary for some of what the world requires. (I can't think of any nonfictional examples.) I guess I also secretly admire figures like Oprah Winfrey and Steven Speilberg. I find their work unsubtle, and I don't prefer that things be spelled out quite so overtly, but they're doing their best to use their power for good. That's cool. I secretly admire truly eccentic people I meet around. They seem so bold, so utterly unconcerned with other people's ideas or impressions. I admire the geeky folks that go to Star Trek conventions and dress up their dogs and children as Klingons for the same reason. I wish I had the courage it would take to go to work in a Federation uniform.

Five dead people I wish I'd met: Jesus, Martin Luther, Martin Luther King, Elizabeth Freeman, Anne Hutchinson. Dead people I'd like to hang out with: Okay, here I see no difference. Same list. Traits to look for in my friends: Lovingkindness, free thinking, independence, peace-mongering, personal responsibility, intelligence, creative problem-solving, and willingness to stand up, to stand out, and to confront ignorance and status quo. While I'm at it, I'll look for ways to unreservedly admire the ego-strength of my friends. These five people all had some big ol'... reserves of spunk (wink) and courage.

It's pretty obvious to me at this point that I also need find a way to be okay with my own ego-strength, and with its less savory but absolutely necessary manifestations. (Lord help me, but I may be a bit more of a Scarlett than a Melanie.) I can subordinate all that stuff to God, if I only listen. It shouldn't be stuffed when it could be used. It needs to be kept available in my tool chest, for the use of the Great Getter-Done-er.

Now I'm thinking of that Marianne Williamson quote, the one that's often attributed to Nelson Mandela. I see it everywhere, but maybe that's because I really need to hear and consider it again and again. I won't assume that you all know it. Here it is, for me and for whoever else it may help, even though I've already posted it elsewhere in this circle:

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It is not just in some of us; it is in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.

--from "A Return to Love" by Marianne Williamson

Week three tasks, part one

2006-01-24T08:56:00.000-08:00

Okay, now I'm all hopped up on peanut butter-and-jelly saltines and tea with milk and sugar, because that's what my artist child liked or whatever and I've indulged as instructed. Actually, it's a nice sensation. I let myself eat whatever I want, but to intentionally eat and drink something to please the little girl I used to be feels good. I can tell she appreciates it. Though she's not crazy about the soymilk.

I went to work on the tasks in a notebook, but that felt like more work and less fun, so here I am at the computer again. I'll go with it.

Task 1:
Until I was 9 or 10, I shared a room with my sister with two twin beds, and floral wallpaper on a white background that I used to stare at a lot. I contemplated the repetitive pattern, the ribbons,the stray blossoms not caught in the repeating bouquets, the greens, the colors. Did these blooms all exist in nature? I was not convinced. But to this day I adore floral patterns on a white background. After an unfortunate furnace-cleaning incident involving hot water pouring from the radiators into every room while my family was out for the evening, the wallpaper came down. At my request the room was painted light purple with dark purple trim. My dad ran out of the lighter color, though, so one whole wall was painted Donny Osmond purple. It was hideous, but I told myself I liked it.

Interestingly, while I don't have a room of my own now per se, the bedroom with the most closet space is known as my dressing room. I also work out and do yoga in there. And on the walls is the most depressing baby shit tan floral wallpaper with horrid darker brown vertical stripes. It must come down. My favorite thing in there is the rug, a five foot round deep mossy green wool beauty with a dark gold Art Nouveau fillagree design. Must take care of those walls! The wallpaper brings shame to the rug's family.

Task 2:
Five traits I like in myself as a child. (Ew, I have to compliment myself. Especially my child self. Very hard.) Well, I was very inquisitive. I wanted to know the name of every color and every kind of bird. (One.) When I got to sing at school or in special choruses for kids who could carry a tune, I sang my little heart out. I am a real American patriot, though more like Lenny Bruce than a Fox News personality, and I know it's partly because I was eleven years old at the time of the bicentennial and I took to heart all the songs I got to learn for the gala celebrations. I'm choked up again. (Please God don't let it die.) (That's two.) Hmm. I loved loved loved to eat, and would pretty much devour anything they put in front of me. In the old days when the lunch ladies could coerce kids to eat their vegetables by not letting them go out to recess until their plates were clean, I would happily eat the cabbage or spinach of any kid on my row. (That's three.) I was really kind to kids who needed help and were embarrased about something. I thought I was an adult, but this still counts because my desire to help was genuine even if I didn't always see other kids as peers. And I loved and noticed every sensual pleasure - pj's and clean sheets after a bath, the sound of the AM radio singing thin static-y songs from the kitchen counter or the dashboard, the wind on my face as I swung as high as I could, the lonely smell of woodsmoke from outside on a drizzly day.

Task 3:
Five childhood accomplishments. Cripes now I'm wishing I was working in the notebook instead. 1) I learned to sew despite the fact that my mother was the teacher and she regularly shamed me in front of the whole class. 2) I won the awards for excellence in music and English as I "graduated" junior high (8th grade). 3) I finally did a back dive at swimming lessons after standing on the edge of the pool for what seemed like days considering it. Must have been around nine then. 4) I won an award for my fairy princess costume in the Halloween parade when I was five. I was wearing a pink tulle dress of my mother's from the fifties (with lots of pins in back so it would stay on) and some cardboard wings I begged her to help me make. I insisted on the color - a light moss/seafoam green - and when they were attached to the dress, I figured out that I could flap them a little if I squeezed my shoulder blades together. This I did with furtive but focused purpose as I walked by the judges' stand. I didn't want to appear too eager. (Wish I still knew how to pull that off.) I don't remember what I won. 5) Once when I was standing in the lunch line, a boy I disliked (because I thought he was a jerk) turned around - I don't know what I did to provoke him, maybe nothing at all - but he turned around, looked me right in the eye, wrinkled his face into an expression of sheer repugnance, and said, "You are so queer!" - which at the time meant weird and annoying. Without missing a beat, I started dancing a little in place and singing, "That's the way, uh-huh, uh-huh, I like it, uh-huh, uh-huh!" It was a proud moment and a seminal one. I knew, I mean I really knew, that I did not give a flying fuck what this kid thought of me. I was eleven.

Favorite childhood foods: Chocolate pudding, boiled cabbage with butter, cafeteria hamburgers, Thin Mints Girl Scout Cookies, raspberry sherbet in the form of something called "Circus Surprise" from the ding-dong cart, and (a bonus item, since I mentioned saltines and tea) watermelon sherbet from Friendly's.

That's enough for now. Maybe I will go play for awhile.

Detective Work, an excercise

2006-01-24T06:38:00.000-08:00

1. My favorite childhood toy was a doll I named Anne (my middle name). She was supposed to be a little girl doll - she stood up on her own - but she was actually the size of a toddler. This was great, because old baby clothes I found in the basement fit her. She had a two piece bathing suit, a velvet Christmas dress, a little cardigan and some pink corduroy pants I thought of as her school outfit, tights, and lots of pajamas and other things. Dressing her up was all I cared about - I didn't really make her a person. This might have been an early expression of my love for clothes.

2. My favorite childhood game was swinging on my swingset singing and making up songs. After that it was building forts in the basement or backyard and then hanging out in them. Alone. In all my favorite childhood memories, I am either alone or inwardly enjoying something unshared though others are around.

3. The best movie I ever saw as a kid was an animated after school special about a bird whose species is becoming extinct. He flies for awhile with a flock of another type of bird to avoid being completely alone, but he's still lonely. He eventually with great joy finds a female of his species, and is very happy for awhile. But one day as they rest on a fence, a farmer mistakes them for birds that have been eating his seeds and fires at them, killing the female. My sister and I ran to our rooms and sobbed when it was over. I am crying now. I never got over it. (Interesting, really, and not surprising, how alone I felt in childhood, and how deeply this story of lonliness, alienation and senseless loss rent my heart.)

4. I don't do it much, but I enjoy riding and being around horses.

5. If I could lighten up a little, I'd let myself get more into making love.

6. If it weren't too late, I'd have more lovers.

7. My favorite musical instrument is the piano. Such a range! From bright, sweet and tiny to oceanic, dark and terrifying.

8. The amount of money I spend on treating myself (and my husband) to entertainment each month is about $150, and that's mostly on cable tv and netflix.

9. If I weren't so stingy with my artist, I'd buy her a digital recording device so I could post what I do online.

10. Taking time out for myself is necessary but scary, since I am swimming in time for myself, and I'm learning to use it productively and not harm myself actively or passively. It's not easy. But I suppose jettisoning the guilt about having the time in the first place would go a long way toward progress.

11. I am afraid that if I start dreaming I'll want a different life.

12. I secretly enjoy reading newspaper horoscopes.

13. If I had had a perfect childhood I'd have grown up to be boring and arrogant.

14. If it didn't sound so crazy, I'd write or make a record.

15. My parents think artists are interesting but impractical.

16. My god (my ego's idea of god?) thinks artists are self-indulgent. My God thinks artists are set perfectly on their paths and doing their best to find Love again the only way they know how, like all God's beloved children.

17. What makes me feel weird about this recovery is I'm not sure I deserve it or whether it is still truly available to me, since I've either misused or thrown all my gifts back in the face of the giver for so long. (Blurt conversion: God measures time in the good that is unfolded. It is never too late.)

18. Learning to trust myself is probably not the issue. Learning to act in my own best interest may be a bit trickier.

19. My most cheer-me up music is one of my own mixes, since it's individual songs that tend to get inside my heart. Here is the track list of the last mix I made, sadly over a year ago, for those of you playing along at home:

Held - Smog
New Hampshire - Sonic Youth
Penetration - The Stooges
Feeling Good - Nina Simone
You Won't Fall - Lori Carson
Five-Way Flashlight - Cordelia's Dad
Hard as a Rock -AC/DC
Love is More than a Feeling - The Darkness
The Gypsy Davy - Cordelia's Dad [This particular song actually came to mind first as my "most cheer-me up music." It consistently makes me dance like a hippie.]
Where They Walk Over St. Teresa - The Loud Family
My Brain Is Hanging Upside Down - The Ramones
Windy - The Association [This is one I used to sing on the swingset.]
La Partenza - Genoese longshormen recorded by Alan Lomax
Bluebird - Bonnie Raitt
Rock Me - Cordelia's Dad

20. My favorite way to dress is in lots of rich textures like suede and (fake, mostly) fur. I like to wear rich, earthy, neutral colors like dark brown and brick red, and I wear a lot of black. My adornments are mostly made of leather, wood, rubber, filligree - stuff that doesn't sparkle - but I also love silver. I feel naked without a pair of substantial boots on. (And a p.s. confession: high-heeled platforms put me in the freakish range height-wise, but I wear them anyway. It feels like I'm occupying a different space than eveyone else, and I can join them if I want, or I can stand up straight and retreat to my mobile aerie.)

I feel a bit hollow lately. It's resistance, I know. I haven't picked up my instruments in two days. All I want to do is eat and lie around, and though I have done my basic structural support activities like morning pages and yoga, and I've managed to attend to household upkeep tasks like laundry and grocery shopping, I know in my heart that even in doing my chores I am avoiding doing anything really brave, like singing or playing or going for a walk to listen. Resistance. All I can manage at the moment is the form. Hope I'm willing to look some content in the face sometime very soon.

In the meantime, more AW tasks coming soon. Maybe they'll shake something loose.

Week Two in Review

2006-01-20T17:56:00.000-08:00

I love the pages, and I think they help, so I do them. But I've noticed that I'm in the habit - as a woman of relative leisure - of lying in bed sort of half-awake for awhile, sometimes for perhaps an hour, before I admit I'm up and write my pages. This week I want to try rolling over as soon as I open my eyes once or twice and see if that spices things up at all. The pages are fine, and they often yield interesting personal insights, but I think they could be more interesting if I whip them out while still emerging from some dream. Worth a try.

For my artist date this week I went to the library. I have lived in my town for a year and a half but have not been in, let alone gotten a card. Come to think of it, though I loved the public library in my town growing up I haven't spent a whole lot of quality library time since then. Just a bit here and there. No real exploring... no getting lost in the stacks... no settling in with something interesting and completely unexpected and forgetting the time. But today out of nowhere the words, "the library" popped into my head as I was showering and avoiding thinking about how I didn't have the time to drive out to the special bookstore and how I had no alternative plan for an AD. I love when things pop into my head like that, when the words are clearly and firmly spoken into my inner ear. I always listen, big advice or small. So off I went.

What a deal, a library card. Free free free book and cd borrowing and movie rentals. Why did it take me so long? Well okay - actually, it's a pretty small library, and I was disappointed not to find any little corner with a comfy chair that I could disappear into. Still, I had a great time starting anywhere and just randomly browsing. Many of the books and authors were familiar but not yet read, and it was fun to note the latent potential of their presence on the shelf. A few looked so forlorn, so out of date and and out of place, that I wondered how they ever came to take up residence on the shelf and who ever read them. Those were intriguing, too.

I ended up choosing "Bird by Bird" by Anne Lamott, the title of which has stuck in my head since a former therapist recommended it perhaps three years ago. (It seems I've seen that title again recently whilst blog-hopping among this group and its branches.) Then I moved to a different area, put my stuff down on the first available surface I saw, turned around, and found myself in the paranormal/spiritual section of nonfiction. ("Coincidence?" says Bill Curtis. I think not.) I picked up Conversations With God, Book 3, because I can't get enough of that stuff (channeled texts are my favorite), and I've been wanting to read it but not wanting to buy any new books. The third and most random book I checked out was a little something called Incest. It's Anais Nin's unexpurgated diary from 1932-1934, during which time she apparently had lots of mad sex with her husband Hugo, her father, and none other than Henry Miller, which I figure counts as synchronicity. The introduction explains somewhat apologetically that Ms. Nin considered the journal her ultimate confidante, and that she "wrote in her diary at white heat, immediately following the events she was describing." I could stand to read something written by a Bohemian frenchwoman in white heat.

After I made my selections I sat in the comfiest place I could find, which was a rocking chair in the big window in front. I'd been trying to hold the Anais Nin in such a way that the title might be obscured by my arm or sweater as I browsed. Now after a moment's perusal I had to shut the book because I was convinced that my agitated (read, "aroused") mental state would be energetically apparent to nearby patrons whether or not they could see what I was reading. Phew! God bless the library. God bless America. Fuck the Patriot Act.

I also checked out a cd by Steve Earle called "The Revolution Starts Now." The title track, which I was already familiar with, rocks. Now I can put it on a mix. (Ooh, that would be a good creative project next week.) And lo, it shall be my theme song. I played it first thing when I got home from my date, and it seems very appropos to my recent energy shift:

The revolution starts now
When you rise above your fear
And tear the walls around you down
The revolution starts here...

Yeah the revolution starts now
In your own backyard
In your own hometown
So what you doin' standin' around?
Just follow your heart
The revolution starts now

Robert Frost or Mary Oliver it ain't, but ahh - just the ticket.

Task-o-rama

2006-01-19T13:48:00.000-08:00

My heart hadn't been in the tasks this week, or so I thought. I did a couple on Tuesday, but I'd been distracted at the time and thought the results had been lame. I listed twenty things I enjoy doing, and rather than think up twenty definitive Eliza activities I just sort of let whatever wandered into my thoughts be the next item on the list. It took something like 25 minutes, though like I said I was distracted, and I thought the experience was difficult and unsatisfying. For task 4, I chose two items from the list, made them goals for this week, and promptly forgot about them.

Task 6 this week is to add five more imaginary lives to the list from last week. I didn't choose that task last week, but I took the opportunity to start my imaginary life list that day.

I came up with:

Monk (maybe seven hundred years ago, ardent student and keeper of records of human learning, scribe)

Mystic (but not ascetic - more voracious with regard to earthy pleasures - and subversively, personally provocative, like Gurdjieff)

New Age recording artist (making music more emotionally compelling than a lot or maybe most of what's out there)

Horsewoman (not like Catwoman, just surrounded by horse companions *grin*)

Poet-naturalist hermit (like Thoreau)

I'm not sure I'm well-suited to any of these lives, though they're the ones that intrigue me most from the outside looking in. But there's one on the list I might actually be able to try. 14th century monk, of course! Heh. Okay okay I admit it: I could make New Age recordings if I decided to. That one's attainable (if I don't assume success or even breaking even), and would not require putting my husband on a jettison, or a back burner. Interesting.

I'm not sure I'm well-suited to the life I imagine those recording artists live either, mind you. I bet they don't like South Park, by and large, or AC/DC. I wonder if the label would make me stop wearing big black boots and rubber bracelets when they give me my big New Age recording contract. They probably wouldn't let me call my first record "God Doesn't Care That You Stole That Frisbee." But I digress. In the instructions for the task, Ms. Cameron advises working out small ways to "be" that life now.

So I played my piano today. I consider it a synchronicity that I had it tuned and repaired last month, before I knew I'd be doing the Artist's Way, especially since I hadn't really played for at least a couple of years, you know, with feelin'. And I hadn't done that regularly for a decade. It's recently been sitting there all bright and tuned and un-sticky, eagerly calling out to me like a dog who needs a walk, especially of course since I started the AW. I have ignored its call, rationalizing that I was "not ready."

Not ready for what, I wonder. I mean, I know what that meant in my head but it's really pretty dumb when I dissect it. It's as if I think the guy from Airy-Fairy Records in the ponytail and Jerry Garcia tie is going to show up with pen in hand tomorrow if I play my piano today, and then whatever would I do? I love my big black boots. (And then there's picking out my dress for the Grammys... what a bother!) Oy.

So because I said I'd do this program, and because I wrote "AW task" on my list of things to do today, and because it's not very threatening to just improvise for a half an hour, I did. And it was so cool. I'm glad I set the half-hour time frame, or I would have stopped before it got good. At first all I kept thinking about was how I need to practice, to play more, to develop more skill. It's as if I don't let myself play because I think I don't play well enough. Doesn't that make so much sense. But I kept at it so I wouldn't feel bad about not really trying, thinking about that thing from the book: "God, I will take care of the quantity. You take care of the quality." (That bit really works for me; it makes something click.) By the end of my half hour I was really engaged, and the music was readily flowing. Even my skill seemed to improve - my fingers seemed to know better what to do. I let myself just play with chord progressions that I really love, and I found myself letting the music wash over me. Then I got self-conscious, thinking about how I could actually make recordings if I decided to, and my fingers forgot what to do. But I know I can go back anytime, and I know I will, because I actually want to. And the quality of the music is not my department. Phew!

When I finished playing, I went back to my list of twenty things. It's not so bad! There's a lot here to work with. I'm glad I let it be stream-of-consciousness instead of trying to define myself in twenty activites.

Here's my list:
1. Real tarot readings for myself - long, with notes and incense
2. Long walks in nature
3. Horseback riding
4. Playing and singing w/T and S
5. Eating chocolate pudding
6. Cordelia's Dad shows
7. Reading poetry (or Leonard Cohen lyrics)
8. Eating popcorn with nutritional yeast and spices while watching movies at home
9. Long metaphysical (or just long, great) talks
10. Singing hymns in church
11. Smooching my kiddens on der heads
12. Road trips w/G
13. Choral singing
14. Looking at trees
15. Hanging out by a river or meadow alone with a journal
16. Swimming in a lake
17. Writing songs
18. Playing my songs for people
19. Drawing
20. Looking at and smelling flowers

(I tried to squeeze "riding a bike" on there, but limits are liberating so I'll leave it at twenty.)

I actually wrote (blurted), "Not very imaginative. Perhaps I can do it again another time," at the bottom of the page. Well... nuh-uh! No sir! There's plenty of interest here. I bought some nutritional yeast, and I smell a DVD artist date. Or is that popcorn...? Actually there's a ton of stuff here that could be easily translated into meaningful artist dates, so I shall refer back to it often. And maybe it's time to join the community chorus again. Hmm.

Hurray for just doing it. And for taking notes, in case in hindsight the it you just did turns out to be cooler than you thought.

By the way, the two things I chose to do from the list were to read some poetry or L.C. lyrics and to make one drawing. I can handle that.

Glad

2006-01-19T11:53:00.000-08:00

Well, I wish I could say my own creativity was responsible for this, but it's by David Byrne, and I just heard it for the first time. I love this perspective: All good and all happy is so not. Enjoy!

I'm glad I've got skin, I'm glad I've got eyes
I'm glad I got hips, I'm glad I've got thighs
I'm glad I'm allowed to say the things I feel
I'm glad I got hair, glad I got ears
I'm glad I got lungs, I'm glad I got tears
Glad that I never ever know what's real

I'm glad I got lost
I'm glad I'm confused
I'm glad I don't know what I like
I'm glad I got stoned
I'm glad I got high
I'm glad I found out I'm alright

I'm glad when the sex is not so great
I'm glad that I doubt I know what they say
I'm glad when I get my girlfriends' names confused

I'm glad I know how my life will end
I'm glad I don't have no common sense
I'm glad the things are wrong I thought I knew

I'm glad I'm a mess
I'm glad you don't mind
I'm glad you're better than me
I'm glad that I changed
I'm glad I'm not nice
I'm glad it's the way it must be

I'm glad I can't see beyond myself
I'm glad when the conversation ends
It's good when it's bad, I'm glad it's not
worryin' me

--David Byrne

Delight

2006-01-16T07:59:00.000-08:00

Develop interest in life as you see it; in people, things, literature, music--the world is so rich, simply throbbing with rich treasures, beautiful souls and interesting people. Forget yourself.
--Henry Miller

Wow! Encountered this happy gem in the margin of chapter two last night. It's so easy to get caught up in self-reflection or even self-absorption, yet, yes! - there are so many wonderful things I could turn my attention to at those times and be free - free to just be here and happy, and maybe even free to participate and to create, unimpeded by the paralysis of hyperawareness of self.

Forget myself. What excellent advice! I have noticed how wonderful it feels to be called upon for help when I happen to be feeling unhappy or upset. Focusing my attention on supporting someone else, even if that means just listening, I settle right down. Suddenly, I can home right in on the peace that seemed out of the question moments before. So, hmm... maybe I don't have to wait for the universe to put a needy fellow traveler in my way at those times. Maybe I can just refocus my attention. And maybe I don't have to scold myself to think good thoughts instead, for the good of the world or my spiritual development--maybe I only have to turn my attention to something I love or simply enjoy to get back on track, for my good and for the universal good.

There's something to be said for self-reflection. It's important to notice and to lovingly pay attention to what's happening on the level of self and subjective experience. We need to know what our personal truth is before we can transcend it, I think. Before we can heal. But it seems to me that there's also a very real danger of getting stuck there if we're not careful, and then we may begin to actually miss out on our own life experiences while we're crying in our inner ladies' room.

Reading the very next page of the text, this sentence leapt off the page and started smooching my face:

The quality of life is in proportion, always, to the capacity for delight.

The waterworks began gushing away. This is my saving grace, I thought. When I read that line my heart recognized right away that my persistent and enduring capacity for delight is what perennially brings me back to life despite all my senseless efforts to dull down and all my habitual and counter-productive marathon wrestling matches with inner demons. (I think those demons keep their strength up through wrestling with me. Their muscles would probably turn to mush if I didn't keep climbing into the ring with them.) Interestingly, Ms. Cameron goes on to say that "The capacity for delight is the gift of paying attention." This suggests to me that idea about refocusing again.

I've been aware as I have attempted to make myself and my experience smaller and more manageable that part of what I'm trying to attenuate is a very large capacity for attention. Too much gets in, I thought. I notice too much. Being intuitive, dealing with the feelings and experiences of others can be challenging, and I need to consciously practice maintaining energetic boundaries. But even just the smell of the air in October or the sound of wind in the trees, heck, even just looking at trees can make me tear up, and often does. Too much! What I put together when I read what Cameron wrote, however, is that my capacity for delight, my saving grace, comes in the same package as my sensitivity. I can't have one without the other, and I don't think I would want that anyway.

So when I put this all together, I get that when I feel sad or overwhelmed or bad in any way, I can refocus my attention outward. I can forget myself! - and turn my attention to any of the rich treasures that, as Henry Miller puts it, the world is simply throbbing with. No need to stop for even a moment to consider how sensitive I am and how problematic that can be. No need to put on my tights and mouth guard and climb into the ring with the reasons I think it's problematic. No reason to turn feeling into feeling bad. Just refocus, and let the well be filled.

Speaking of over-reflection, I'm enjoying this outlet of writing and sharing, but I also expectantly await the bursts of creative production that Ms. Cameron keeps promising. I await my new songs and poems or drawings or whatever else wants to pop on out. C'mon my little babies, come to mama.