All About the Goat

It's been a 'taking time' sort of year. That sounds wrong, as if I had snatched time away. So I guess I'd rather say I have been working on 'being with time.'

Monsieur Goaty Goat

This goat is the perfect example of my being with time. During soccer season, my husband drove our son to practice and to coach, and on alternate nights, I drove our daughter. The fields were located at the end of a long driveway that wound through a place stuck in time. I thought it was the coolest thing: decayed buildings with worn pictures of what looked like British Colonial Indian men wearing turbans and holding rifles. We drove by an abandoned miniature golf course, and just past that, a large penned in structure with peacocks, chickens, horses in a field beyond, and this fat goat.

It became a ritual for my daughter and I to hope that the goat was hovering at the entrance gates. Most nights he was, and we were the only ones to stop the car, get out, and say hello. The goat didn't give a shit, of course. Merely sniffed an outstretched hand, turned and trotted off to his perch. But I loved that we did that, even as other soccer moms raised eyebrows driving by, I loved it.

Being with time was sometimes a struggle; during our moving crisis, it felt narrow and tense. Many other times, I argued with it; wanted it to speed up so that healing could be done faster; anger and resentment would fade quicker. But time goes at its pace, and we must go with it. Like the one lane road we often find ourselves traveling on, stuck behind the slow driver with no passing allowed.

In the roominess of the space I sit when I'm feeling at peace, I see how valuable this particular year has been. I will admit to clinging to certain sufferings and still, I'm not sure why. They aren't ready to be understood yet, so I am still...always...continually...learning to accept them. But when they rise up I can lash out; I'm working on that. But mostly, time for this year has been so beneficial to the most loving relationship next to self, and that is with my husband.

Bidding adieu to 2013, a time of learning, growing, stretching, understanding, loving, fearing, anger, detaching, resentment, judging, wishing ill-will, forgiving, apologizing, making peace, reaching out, hoping, wishing, hugging, kissing, making love, creating, writing, expanding, thinking, separating, dancing, crying, seeking truth, breaking, sitting, mindfulness, meditating, thanking, gratitude.

2014 will no doubt, bring more of the same, although with a little less financial crunchiness, and that's just fine.

Now for a little bit of visual feastiness:  My favorite video of the year. The song by itself is ok, but when I watch it with the video, it makes me so happy.

Lose Yourself to Dance. Why? Because, really, it's just a wonderfully, uninhibited, freeing, soul-reviving thing to do.

Peace to you All.  Keep Dancing!

Buy, Buy, Buy

It's been a strange-feeling Christmas this year, and I can't quite put my finger on the reason.

This is the first Christmas since my oldest was born that I am working. Perhaps I have felt the time constraints more keenly because of that. When I was able to get presents for my kids, it was within a week and a half of Christmas, and how time breathed heavy down the neck of my shirt. The things they wanted were no longer available; snapped up by others with the luxury of time and income. ~a touch of resentment there. 

At the mall yesterday (a place I had hoped to avoid) I was aware of the materialistic nature of the season. Signs everywhere begging for attention, and I felt dissatisfied. I've been naming emotions the past few days and that one pops up frequently. I'm on the road a lot more this year with work commutes and I'm more aware of the douchy nature of so many drivers. Why not just let the guy in? Why do you have to close ranks and be a dick? Why? Where is the courtesy? Where is the compassion?

I know it's out there. I see it on my facebook feed daily through the lives of friends and acquaintances near and far.

There's just something lacking, which is hilariously ironic because truthfully, I lack for nothing. Nothing of importance anyway - I have love, comfort, family, a roof over my head, and those are enough for my soul. It's my ego that is dissatisfied.

So, to the ego, I say go. Leave and let self bask in the joys of the season. There is nothing here for you to worry over, or stress about, or be angry about. Nobody else matters. Just relax.

Breathe. Beer. Cookies. Delight. Togetherness. Tradition. Family.

Fortunate.

This blog was forged at the beginning of the year; it began lightly, dancing over a veneer, oblivious of its purpose beneath. I remember at the start trying to be witty; ad-libbing funny in a thought out manner, writing about me, me, me. It felt narcissistic and full of ego and I don't mind saying that although I enjoyed the act of writing, of sharing, it felt awkward and sometimes embarrassing; the attention-seeking sense of it all.

It is known now that this was not created by the part of me that is offered to the world; the funny, make-em-laugh girl with an easy smile and helpful manner. I know because it has become something much deeper, as if the words themselves have carved away the inside of me allowing spaciousness for soul, allowing room for spiritual growth and development.

Journey. I love that word -  an odyssey, a quest, progress, adventure. Life is this journey. The goal is clear in that eventually we will leave our bodies, and since this is already figured out for us, shouldn't we make the most of our journey? We have no idea of the length of time, or what the surface will be like along the way. It's wild and woolly sometimes, heartbreaking and filled with sorrow. Other times it's so joyous we could burst, sometimes simply quiet and comforting.

This place here has become a proving ground, a learning ground, a welcoming hollow to write about the highs and lows. All the valleys with their dark undergrowth that seemed to go on forever, and through which I stumbled, weeping and blind. The peaks that looked out onto sunny skies. Over there, the roller coaster rides that rocked and stunned. All around, moments, people, situations...life. 

I am fortunate to  have this place, these pages, and as this year closes I acknowledge the time I have spent digging down to truth, making way for self.

I tip my hat to my friends who read. I hope I have helped or maybe *pinches thumb and forefinger together* inspired a tiny bit.

A lesson I have read many times, but only recently truly taken to heart is sitting with emotion. Thanks to Tara Brach by way of this lovely group, I am learning this: Whatever comes up, and whenever it comes up - take pause. Breathe into the feeling, allow yourself to feel it, give it room, acknowledge its presence, and it will pass. By doing this, a wiser choice can be made.

I hope to practice this during the coming year, and all the ones beyond.

Merry Christmas!

Sunflower Mind

Part of the awareness growing in the last year has become more prevalent of late. I want to write about it without flaunting it, without it seeming as if I'm bragging because it's not like that at all. It's a quiet thing; a baby really - not that babies are quiet at all - I guess I mean in the 'smallest' sense. I've written about writing before as a snake, a monster, the tail of some unearthly creature come to whip me into shape. I've written about it as collecting grains of sand to build a giant sandcastle at some later date. And to some extent, those metaphors remain a little true. But with growth and strength of mind comes also change. Change in vision, in the path to get to a certain point, in the way of doing things.

This week I piggy-backed on a piece of flash fiction I wrote last week by turning it into a one act play; the theatre group I belong to had a need for a few more to complete their line up.

I've written a number of flash fiction pieces for Friday Fictioneers, and dabbled with expanding them into larger works but in this relatively new arena (which is actually fairly old, I just haven't been here for many years) larger works are elusive. The way is hazy as if I had stretched out my fingers to move forward but no amount of headlight will help me find the tips or the way ahead.

So, I wrote this one act. And I whipped up another Friday Fictioneers piece of 100 words.

What I want to say is that I am in love with how my creative mind is slowly cranking into life. I look at the picture presented and it's as if I plant a seed; just stick it in the groundmind and let it do its thing. No work, no pressure, no force. Images come to mind, the first few words appear and off I go, sailing down a little hill on a homemade go-kart until I come to a stop at the end. Looking back up the hill, I make note of bumps, smooth them out, tidy up a bit. 

And smile. Inwardly and outwardly; smile at the observation of my own self. And that's the key. Nothing as jolting or jarring as vicious snakes rising up from the depths, simply the act of nurturing a talent by letting it just be. By planting the intention and allowing my soul to do the rest.

Perhaps this is the way then for me? To write lots of small stuff, so that my imagination is fertile enough, rich enough to grow more than a daisy.  Perhaps one day, I'll have a really big sunflower!

Last Year's Language

From Mindfulbalance blog - one of my go-to bloggers for affirmations and inspiration. He quoted this yesterday:

For last year’s words 

belong to last year’s language 
and next year’s words 
await another voice.

And to make an end 
is to make a beginning.

T.S. Eliot

A new age then for me on the last day of November.  I am now on the cusp of the mid-forties.  A phrase which makes my husband smile and nudge me with a whisper "you're in your mid-forties..." 

You ask how the hell did I get here?  What happened to 34 or 24?  You remember where, what, why and how you were then, and a little dawning lowers like a soft light onto the stage. You could be surprised at the speed and passing of time but then you stop, listen, see everything around you. The dishwasher shushing through its watery cycles, your husband fiddling with the kids' small Christmas trees to get the lights to work (and you know he will because he can pretty much do anything). You hear the soccer match on the telly. The taste of bacon in your mouth. The cool air on bare arms but comfy fleecy pants to keep your legs warm. You just know that everything is ticking along rightly so.

Time, space, the padding in between all the stuff we do feels fatter as we get older. I love the plump feel of it like big cushions to roll around on. As a teen or twenty-something, the air in between felt like a vacuum and I think I just got sucked through to go on to the next activity. As a 30-something new wife and mother, time and space were nowhere to be found. So, what a relief that I am here.  Now.

In love with being forty-something. Loving the discoveries. Pulling back dark dusty curtains, surprised by the revelations. Some things, some admissions, some truths cause a wince but it's all good; it's moving forward. And what better way to step onto the next stone than seeing what lies ahead?

A new year for me. Last year's language has all but gone; I worked hard this month to purge, and despite one or two trips, it's looking big and breathful ahead.

This vast, beautiful life.

The Loops

It came to me today while running on the treadmill - the surreptitious presentation of the realization of a lesson about to be learned.

It's been a strange week.  All the days are different on the surface but after such a lovely hiatus from the emotional valleys recently, it was fully felt that I was trudging downward this week.  It began with a slight malaise when I woke on Monday morning.  And then upon arriving in work, I found a poor little rat, poisoned and close to death.  He/she was shivering and weak on the tarmac.  Fate would have it that I be alone in the office so I grabbed a new company fleece, wrapped up little Ratsky and put it down on the grass next to the building, sheltered from the wind.  It was very weak and bleeding from the nose so I put a bowl of water next to it.  The following hours were spent alternatively working and going outside to check on it, stroking its bony little head, then weeping my way back inside.  It died just before lunchtime.  I dug a little grave with the claw side of a hammer and gently rolled it in, covered it back up with dirt, said a few words, threw the jacket away and washed up the bowl.

The day remained melancholy, and little Ratsky was on my mind until I fell asleep that night.

Perhaps that was the start of the insidious loop; the recording that plays in the background while you're living your days?  It can be good, it can be bad, it plays back memories, events, thoughts, people...every thing you've ever experienced in some way, shape or form. It's always there. The contents of it can nudge a person to take notice, or not. The one that played out for much of this week turned out to be a negative reel with lots of pointed fingers and angry expressions. It doesn't come to theatres very often but when it does, the awareness that I cultivate regarding thoughts becoming reality dissipates. This allows thoughts to form in the spaces with an ugly clarity.

I went down for a day, enmeshed in the rolling "thoughts feed emotions" process. At the end of that day, there came a small internal conversation about staying home vs. attending Sangha. I went. And was glad that I did.

The Universe granted me a safe haven and provided many more souls in the group than usual with which to bounce safely around. As soon as the circle closed, my eyes relaxed and I felt my soul escape the bounds of the body. I felt bigger; filled up. It was wonderful. I listened to a teaching from Thich Nhat Hanh which was most timely, and reminded me that though my emotions be strong, though my thoughts be unruly, I must remember to breathe deeply at my navel, and there I will find peace.

A lesson learned then this week (and no doubt will be presented again at some point in the future) that thoughts shape what we perceive as true. They can be our best friends or our biggest enemy.

All The Good Things

I am in the present moment very much lately. I love that. I can look behind me and feel an ache in my heart. I can look ahead and feel the tug of worry in my heart. Mostly I'm right here, right now. Flying, sailing, whatever feeling that comes from going along comfortably, smoothly. I have begun to allow the dark things some room to breathe and exist.  I can have thoughts of anger, resentment, jealousy, wishing a person ill-will and I am more at ease with these things. I know they can't be true, they are my own issues from *waves hand* events past. They are not truly who I am. I thought I had changed, become a new me but it's not that; I am growing into the real me. I smile. I am smiling so much lately for no other reason than that.

The questions that live inside still poke for answers, like children not content with the explanation. But I can do nothing for those questions. I am answerless. They niggle a little and if I have occasion to become wrapped up in them, I can still shed tears for them. But I am 'cleaning up' as the chakra lady said. It's just a bit of a big mess that takes a little extra time, is all.

Yoga has a gym-mat-fad feel in the world. However, at home in the privacy of my bedroom, looking out into the fallen-leaved wood with families of deer frolicking around at breakfast, it is a sensual, albeit sometimes strenuous act. I love the feel of going (and pardon my unyogi-like verbiage) from plank, to yoga push up to cobra to downward dog.  It's effort and gliding, strength and stretching all at once; so satisfying.

The feel of the first sip of hot Earl Grey tea from the ceramic tea thermos that a dear friend recently sent me.  Instant blanket for my insides for cold mornings on busy, inconsiderate roads.

My husband is home for family dinners.  I adore that we all eat together now when for many years, with him as chef for whatever restaurant, it was never possible.  It's a fun routine accompanied by music, telling of our Highs & Lows, belching, chatter, giggles, and of course some stern words to keep knees down, all four chair legs on the floor, and to stop mouths being stuffed with too big a bite.

Life is truly good. Just a tinge of things past to nudge my heart at some point every day. It's ok though; without it, I wouldn't appreciate what I have so I think I can live with the sting.

I have changed my mind

The desperate mental untangling from the stickiness had become my own sealing wax and throughout all this time, I used whatever perspective, or thought, or action as an exit point.  But each one was an illusion and I'd sink into the fight again and again.

It was the crack of the whip, long coming in its furious arc, that did it. Perhaps I had perceived that sound before but it was simply an echo of things to come. Its snap across my heart left a sting that sizzled down my body. With clarity presented, I knew that it was time to change.

So, here I am,
hoping that trusting my intuition. Believing myself. Listening to the voice of conviction. Surrounded by my own cheering section.

It yells, it whoops and bounces around, "You got this!" And I do.

I choose differently.

I have changed my mind.

***************

Ten

Our tenth wedding anniversary approaches. We've been through some very tough times, I think to myself frequently. I also say it out loud a lot. Perhaps to remind myself just how far we've come. Verbalizing the memories brings a crack to my voice, and tears are apt to fill my eyes. On the heels of the statement, like flapping coattails, I also know that many, many couples go through hard times in their relationships - illness, financial worries, death, uncertainty, knocks from left and right, rugs pulled so swiftly as to leave a couple knocked onto their asses.

Sometimes it's unthinkable the things that happen.

I spent many years assigning blame; pointing fingers at family members (one of which I'm not sad to admit, is probably broken beyond repair), my husband included. I always tried to divert the pointing away from him because I knew how hard he was working and how he suffered for our little family but it was there all the same, shouting into the vast silences, or picking and niggling out of my mouth without any remorse.

At our lowest, at our most far apart, and when he left for work, often it felt as blank as closing the door on an empty house. In another room, I would become aware of his leaving, and feel floundered but at the same time I didn't care. We could be in the same room but the balance of our relationship had shifted so that we couldn't relate to one another. We didn't know how to navigate the waters together so we stumbled angry, haughty, and defensive through the turmoil. Each of us aware of the other but too stubborn, or we didn't know how, or just didn't want to make the effort, to reach out and tap the other on that cold shoulder. Fearing rejection? Fearing taking the first step? Fearing the hard battle to right things?

Visually speaking, I see the journey like a scab, which isn't appealing but then again, marriage has its hard, dark side. The deeply wounded part of our journey; stuck and welting red under the hardened skin I could liken to our worst four years. As the scab gets better around the outside, the sore becomes lighter and stronger. The skin is thin, and tenuous but pinker. As the edges spread, the scab is no longer needed because the skin has become firmer, more solid.

These have become good years. We still struggle somewhat, but there's an honesty and humor that wasn't there before. It appears that we have sailed the storm, both with the same destination and we have arrived together to sunnier shores.

I love my husband with all my heart and I have no regrets about anything I have done or said in the last six years (and I have done and said some not-so-good things) because without all the experiences, the challenges, the hardship, the sadness, the shame, the silence,  we would still be skating on the surface. Holding hands and smiling, sure, but without the deep knowledge that can be seen in the quickest of glances.

That said, I would not want to relive it!

Afloat in a Shandy Sea.

Creativity is lounging somewhere getting drunk at a bar.  It's stalled on writing but became ever so quietly excited at Goodwill when I purchased an outfit destined to be zombiefied.  I quietly plan on the sidelines while thinking of other things.  I love that talent.  The ideas form and gel in the background.  I stand back, press my finger to my lips, take out this, add that.  All the while, I'm checking ingredients in food, cooking dinner, doing laundry, thinking about things, worrying about my son.  Life rolls forward in an endless stream but behind the scenes, the nature of me does what it does best: Plans, creates.  And I know when I have all I need in front of me, the thing that I've been visualizing will come to be as imagined.

The practical side has stepped up.  But I have a little bitch with a whip silently berating me for not making any progress with my writing.  I feel guilty which is so not the frame of mind from which to be doing this.  I sit down and write anyway, delete what I've written, start again, become dissatisfied and give up altogether.  I think perhaps I put too much pressure on myself to write long.  And by long, I don't mean the length of time, rather the length of the piece.  It appears that I'm pretty good at flash fiction.  If only, I think, if only I could stretch out those 100 word pieces to thousands.  Driving in the car, I think well, I'm in my mid-forties...maybe I'll have it together in my fifties - I've got plenty of time!

If I do, I do.  If not, well, at least I have two great kids, right?  That's some wonderful creation right there.

I'm astonished that how day after day, week after week, I'm still surprised at the ebb and flow of life.  Of love.  Of feelings.  Of the past.  Monkeys occasionally jump on for a quick ride (sometimes the same terribly stupid monkey who won't quit), sometimes I'm up and free of burden, sometimes I'm weighed down and sometimes, like this week, I'm treading water.  It's probably a good thing to feel astonished because the alternative would be very boring.

At once, I'm feeling ironic.  Opposite.  Paradoxical.  This AND that.  Pushed and pulled.

I'll keep myself buoyed with some disco. It reminds me of my little nine year-old world that came with this:

so that I could play and dance and sing to this (very cheesy and lip-synched)...so, perfect!

Now is fine

I stand in front of the mirror applying make up. I am doing this without thought or feeling; simply doing what I do as moment follows moment. Suddenly, happiness rises up. I am, in that moment the happiest soul I can be. For a few seconds in the gap I see clearly, and I feel joy and gratitude. It is fleeting but its imprint stays with me as my day progresses.

Squabbles between my children, negotiating traffic, obstacles arise throughout but I am flying and smiling, rising above it all. Sure, stuff gets under my skin but there's always something to bring me back. Some thing that I can do to regroup, to find peace because I'm on a wonderful part of my journey. Nowhere truly special, no vacation, no fabulous happenings...just being here is all it takes.

I wave to the couple moving in across the street. I have been wanting to connect in this small way after I watched their scene unfold last week - she was stressed, he was trying to help. Their neighbor, a young woman, pulled into the parking space next to them and I observed the man look at her a few times in an attempt to establish first contact. But the neighbor utterly ignored them despite the close proximity of all involved. I wondered why. So, I remedied the situation in my own way this morning. They waved and smiled in return. I could tell that my reaching out made them happy and that made me happy too.

Lately, I am doing so very well; my heart is singing. I am humorous and laughing and making others laugh.

Perhaps I have learned to stop fighting certain things. Currently, these things float as if they are lily pads on the surface of a pond. There, I can be curious about them. I think I'm fine with that because these things just can't be banished no matter how I struggle to fling them away.

Of course, this may change and I may find myself wrestling with them again at some point further down the road.

If so, then that will be then. For now, this is now. And now, I'm doing just fine.

On becoming more like a donkey

I can't say specifically what caused this feeling of the upsweeping to come over me. Not that I've been truly on the downturn. Well, perhaps a few weeks ago for a day or so but not for any length of time. Perhaps it was a plateau I had been on, yes that must have been it. Perhaps for two weeks I stood on the plateau taking in my surroundings; looking behind, which I know does no good (there are a bajillion affirmations telling me so after all) but sometimes I do like to remember, to reflect, be a bit wistful. As long as I don't 'go down the rabbit hole' as a dear friend said recently. Of course, going forward is the only other option. And what a vista before me; a slope that beckons to be ambled up. For, as I am constantly learning, these steps in life are to be ambled and bimbled. Tripping ahead, dashing forward would mean missing out on all the things.

And so I find myself forsaking, but not unfeeling the forlorn to bring on the new. New season, my favorite season. New plans in place to run in harmony with what I feed my body. With that point of view comes positivism and a renewed sense of calm from more time spent on the cushion. Financial niggles still...niggle, but I trust that things will work out okay (barring unforeseen circumstances).

Creativity stirs. I know myself in this area fairly well and judging by the number of great starts, I have been collecting an awful lot of sand. I write as my personality dictates; rushing out of the gate like a thoroughbred horse. Except, I haven't been trained very well and I live on a diet of ice cream and cakes (no, I don't really but you get the gist). I gallop with gusto for the first quarter mile but shortly thereafter, slow down until I am found, out of breath, out of energy and out of ideas. So perhaps (I consciously say) you take this little kernel of an idea and really really try to write a little each day. Really, really take it slowly. Allow things to grow. Allow characters to take shape. Nurture the storyline.

I've been here before and I feel a little like the boy who cried wolf. What makes this point in the journey so different? Why should I believe me? Who's to say that by this time next week, my little kernel won't have popped into an old maid, forced to find space on an already crowded shelf?

Like I said, I can't say specifically, but between this:

and what E. L. Doctorow said, "It's like driving a car at night. You never see further than your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way."

...I am coming into awareness that this is one facet of my life that must be slowed down. Only then can I get done what I want done.

Not so much the thoroughbred horse on a sweet diet, more like a donkey with a bag of hay.

And, here I am, laughing at so much the last few days:

The gift of the future

Let a child be what they want to be, right?  Be free, be easygoing, be fearless, be you.  The spirit is so very important.  Until you see their future fluttering ahead of them like a long, unstable red carpet.  Attached to a rope bridge.

You want to ensure their future.  Give them opportunities.  Provide encouragement.  Want them to excel in one thing, or many things, just be good at something.  Something that can be a springboard for something else that will help propel them forward with self-esteem and self-confidence.

But what if the opposite appears to be manifesting?  What if your kid seems to be a drifter?  A dreamer?  At times, unwilling to try for fear of failure.  And at others, doing what you've asked of him but in such a way that it pleases him, risking taunts or becoming  an outcast?

Your fears abound that history is poised to be repeated.  You find yourself pushing back the notion from the cliff edge, glancing fearfully over your shoulder at fate, future, circumstance and know that although you have taken steps to steer them, ultimately the force will outweigh you and whatever happens, happens.

The best we can do is keep our eyes peeled in helping them find a path.  It's not a time for anger...at them or at ourselves.  It's a time to let them experience all they can with stuff that costs money and stuff that doesn't. Make sure they work hard to get good grades, support them, make them laugh (a lot), hold them (a lot), let them know that they are loved (every day, several times a day) and above all, be open to them.

My parents were of a different generation - closed off, emotionally absent, and unpromising discouragers. (Definitely not a word but I like it, so there).  But I'm not here to whine about my childhood, all I will say is that I practice daily in breaking the cycle.

Whatever my son decides to do with his life, I hope that he will be happy, healthy and aware.  And, that he carries with him into adulthood, the ever-present traits of affability, empathy, and an even temperament.

Fighting the good fight

External forces create internal rife and the war rages inside between what is right and what is wanted.  It seems to go on for far too long, like most wars, with individual battles won or lost. I thought that in this particular war, the right was winning.  Hard fought, but winning nonetheless.  However, like the twist in a tale or the flick of the hand of fate, the opposition jerked around and pulled me into the foray as I was leaving the field.

And I am tired of this fight.  Truly, I want to just throw a damp towel on it to douse the flames, turn off the light, close the kitchen door and pack off to somewhere infinitely more steady and calm.  What is there left to learn?  I believed I was living with the questions just fine.  Why does it insist on reigniting?

Perhaps it's simply another downturn along the journey.  A dusty, hillside trail strewn with initialed stones, stones with phrases, words, places, names that I kick angrily over the edge and which magically reappear further down the path.  I have felt foolish and childish, angry and scornful.  These feelings are not me, I know that; they are insidious scabs that I keep picking at instead of allowing them heal to the scars they need become.

So, a little downtime was necessary, a snapshot of time to lick the old wounds.  But the war, I find, still goes around and around.

Meditation is necessary and I absolutely have to find the time to practice.  Searching for more truths. Investigation and discovery.  Honesty with the self.

But, I am so tired.

Surrender, I have just thought.  What would happen if I simply surrendered?  Fine.....Wanting wins the battle but when the hungry beast finds that there is nothing left, that what it wanted is no longer available, what happens then?  When the truth is completely and utterly accepted, will it fade away?  And quite how I surrender is a mystery to me.  I have written of acceptance in the past, of reliving and releasing and I had thought to be successful in doing so.  This feels like the final desperate grip of a creature who has absolutely nothing else when in fact, the opposite is so very true.

We have everything and in everything, all we need.

Stop the madness.  Stop the fighting.  Allow me to pry your taut, withered fingers from the past.

Everything will be fine and then some.

Gridless

You know when your mind feels overcrowded, distracted, and preoccupied?  Constantly electrified with technology and communication?   It goes on and on and you deal, meddling in the bits and pieces that take you to so many places until you reach the summit of the feverish noise and the swell.  I broke through the top of the mountain sometime yesterday afternoon, reaching up with both hands outstretched, mouth agape and ready for fresh air, gazing at the blue sky with its lazy clouds while all around down below, the hustle and bustle seamless black moving parts of every day.

I decided to disconnect from the giant grasping hand of Facebook.  It was more of a slipping away really - no fanfare, no coy update or attention-seeking.  I simply...vanished.

I had deactivated my life from Big Blue last year but got sucked back in after only 24 hours.  So far, this time I'm doing very well indeed and patting myself on the back, enjoying the freedom, the looseness, the relinquishing of the hold.  I am free and cool - as in temperature cool - an odd sensation attached to an arms-wide grin.

I am enjoying my life in the present.  The extra internal dialog that usually runs alongside, like a friendly dog is fairly quiet.  I don't need to tell everyone that I figured out how to drive a forklift this morning, all by my ownsome and that I really have a knack for spatial awareness and driving things.  The posse of my friends does not need to know that I had a good run today and stopped to take a great picture of the misty morning with its foggy bottom and pink hues.

I love it.  My husband would twerk an eyebrow at the very admission because I am usually a constant Facebook checker, check-in-er and updater.

I don't know how long I'll be disconnecting but quite likely, for some time.  From Facebook that is.  For without the mind redirected, I am resolute in cultivating other talents.

See past the bathrobe

There is a woman who walks with her two sons to the bus stop every morning.  She wears a faded, puffy pink bathrobe and carries a mug of hot liquid.  She has the kind of walk that makes you think she's got attitude, like she doesn't give a shit what you think of her; she's comfy and that's all that matters.  The first few times, my internal eyebrow shot up and I thought she was 'one of those women' that blabbered to all and sundry about achievements and what she'd been up to and generally just being nosy.  I judged her, I admit it.  Because I'm the opposite.  I would never been seen outside in my bathrobe.  Perhaps if I lived in England still, I might be seen opening the front door to retrieve a pint of milk on the doorstep before sliding inside with a panoramic glance to see who might be watching.  I am not that visually comfy sort of person.  And because this woman was so different, I turned my nose up and away.

It nagged at me, my reaction to her; she kept invading my thoughts.  This morning, as I bent over to dry my hair, I brought it forward like a subject to his master and decided to consciously process my reaction to her presence in order to find the love instead of perpetuating the cycle of mental sneering.

Today, I waited with my kids and she sauntered toward the bus stop, sans hot liquid but still fully swathed in the bathrobe.  And, today we had a conversation.  It began with the flyers for the lost kitty stuck on all the lampposts then moved to the roofers who had come to fix and repair all around the community, and finally ended with her asking how my weekend was, very sincerely. We commiserated over the never ending loop of laundry, soccer practice and matches, housework and food prep.  She explained the circumstances that allow her an hour of freedom every morning after the kids get on the bus and before she has to go to work.  I bonded with the fact that I have the same hour after work but before the kids get off the bus.

She is a genuinely nice woman.  Chatty, open, warm and welcoming.  Not the sauntering, know-it-all, community gossip I had pegged her for.  Well, maybe she is, I don't know her that well but in taking the first step to blowing up preconceptions, I am closer to being happy in myself.  And I am loving that.  So much.

However, this does not mean that I shall be walking my kids to or from the bus stop in any kind of clothing that should be worn prior to or after bedtime and shower.  Just so you know.

Hello and welcome

Some mornings after the kids have gone their way and I am in the car to work, I think that I need to find a quote or an affirmation for my day.  Much like holding tightly to a balloon string, I hope that it will keep me steady and aloft during what could be a turbulent day or one that is slightly off-kilter.

I forget often that I am my own balloon and string.  Sure, the words I would eventually find might offer solace and comfort or be a momentary guide but essentially, I am the only one who can glide above the crap.

Having said that, some things I have read have stuck and are helpful.  One phrase (which I shall paraphrase because the exact wordage has faded) goes along the lines of "Whatever knocks at the door of your soul, be it anger, fear, disappointment, happiness, joy, whatever...open the door and welcome it.  Whatever it is will not stay but while it is there, be a most welcome and gracious host."  I take it to mean that it is up to me to observe and feel and to avoid being carried away by undercurrent to a place where I am no longer in control.

I'm not quite sure why I feel a faded shade of blue today.  It's possible in part to my son's expected reaction to starting a new school and subsequent sickness on day two.  It's also possible in part to the attachment I have to my car which will be an unattachment very soon, I discovered yesterday.

It's silly to feel the sting of an impending cheerio for an inanimate object but my car has many memories attached to it.  Since I got her in 2010, I have run the gamut of situations and emotions.  She has been there for me through every time capsule of anger, guilt, rage, fear, love, passion, wonder, confusion, worry, joy, hope.  Like a soothing blue angel, she wrapped herself around me, comforted me and allowed me room to express.  She opened up and gave me space to be lifted when I felt at my most happy.  To feel this strongly is trivial and natural at the same time and I will miss her for a while when she is gone.

Also, I am, as the English part of me would say, gutted, that I may be unable to accept a sudden opportunity. This, due to the new Autumn schedule for our kids.  On one hand, I am delighted that we are finally able fund extra-curricular activities and yet the timing puts a crimp on my own loves.  And so, a feeling of ambiguity has stepped across my threshold and I am breathing deeply to allow it room.

How fickle the human nature.  How wondrous.  To be able to feel happy and lithe only to tumble down to feel the opposite.  Up and down we go, and around and around.

All the while I continue to learn and grow.  I open the door every day to whatever is knocking.  Some days the balloon stands no chance against my guest and I do get swept up. For some time there is no way for my feet to touch the floor but I am so grateful when they finally do, because they always do...eventually.

And there I am again, at my front door, holding my own balloon and string, taking a deep breath.

On Anger.

I guess I have a lot bubbling up this week.  See what happens when my back is turned?  The scab is peeled away, leaving the wound open for me to inspect.  For once I welcome it. After too long a time of pushing down the ugliness that struggled to see the light, I am conscious of an opening up to everything that I have refused to acknowledge.

Anger.  And lots of it.  Hatred, too.  And resentment.  Boiling and roiling and really pissed off on its own that I've allowed it to fester; covered up with ineffectual platitudes and verbiage of love and forgiveness and kindness in the hopes that it would seep away in its own time.

In my practice of mindfulness, I led myself to believe that these emotions and thoughts were 'bad'.  Even though truly I knew that they are part and parcel of the spirit, they are not who I AM, who I really AM.  But I was scared of them.  Frightened by the ferocity, by the lack of grace they represented that I was trying so hard to maintain.

Now I crack open my heart and let the grungy, brown toilet water pour forth.  Let it all out.  Feel it all.  Know it's okay to feel angry.  Know that it's okay to think  "I really fucking hate you," because in so saying and in so admitting, I am freeing myself of these things that have held me down for so long.

It must be said also that even though I do what is needed, none of it is destined to remain.  On the contrary, they are thought and said and released.  Gone, like tainted butterflies crumbling into wispy bits out in the Universe.

No fear now for the words or the emotions.  New space is being created;  an empty mass vacated by truth; replaced with love and light.  This was a task no affirmation nor positive quote could accomplish.  Only until I quit with the sidelong glances and stares away to find the strength to turn inside and face it fully, could I feel this freedom and move closer to my truth.

A New and Deeper Truth
by Kaveri Patel

the old truth made you

run a thousand miles
inside an arid desert
desperate for an oasis

sit and close your eyes
inhale the breeze of kindness
exhale the toxic judgments
dehydrating you like a prune

feel the pain of old patterns
trapped in tense muscles
it's ok to cry, to taste
the salt of possibility

just be, just breathe
let waves break against
the silence, returning you
to a new and deeper truth

*******

Riding With The Dog

During the recent spell of distraction, I failed to notice the dog named Ego covertly slip a collar around my neck and take me off for a little trip down memory lane, up angry road, through the woods of confusion and on across the meadow sea of resentment.

Old patterns restitched themselves into familiar places and I bounced around in their quilty arms, thinking thoughts which fed the feelings which led to tears.  And on and on.  And all the while, Ego panted happily beside my floppy, unseeing Self.

I began yoga a week or so ago.  I never thought I could be that kind of person; I've tried classes and apps and DVD's over the years but it felt too strenuous; not enough movement for my restless spirit.  I used to find solace on the crossramp with my legs going a million miles an hour to thumping club music.  These days I have found a peace in running too which admittedly is more like Phoebe-running.  Although I do not enjoy getting out of bed at the obscene hour that I do (thanks to husband for that), I do love the misty morning feel, the dark, the cool, the solitude.  No music.  Just me, just my feet, just breathing.  On the days I don't run, I do yoga.

During my session this morning, I came into an awareness that I had been dragged along of late.  I had been preoccupied with the film I was helping with and instead of living with my heart open and being conscious of thought and of love and space, I had retreated to my old ways.  Certain situations that I know will take years to sit comfortably with, rose up and roared.   I did not fight them, I didn't observe and let them be.  I ignored them. And in that rejection, they bred.

Ego yelped when I opened my eyes this morning and stopped; he was still galloping with destinations dark and thorny for me but I took off the collar, wagged my finger at him and turned away.

Ego, exasperated, would say, "how many times do I have to do this?  This back and forth with awareness?" and the answer, with an equal amount of displeasure, would be "who the hell knows?" but that would get me nowhere.

I understand fully that this is what the journey is about.

It's about the opening and closing of the heart, the learning and learning, the turning away and being sucked into old mental pathways followed by the returning to the self.  The loving openness of each return which holds no judgement or harsh feelings.  And, of being able to sit with whatever is going on, be it joyful or painful.

Tara Brach has said that there is beauty in a heart that is ready for everything.

Mum.

A visit to my beautiful home state of Virginia approaches and I'm part nervous, part warmly excited, part dreading the trip.  To friends, I make light of it with conspiratorial jokes about the five hour car ride alone with my children or the prospect of sleeping in a small room with both of them.  In truth, what should be a lovely trip is usually preceded by melancholia.  Whilst there I am the epitome of false light and bravado and upon leaving, I feel relieved and guilty.

It has nothing to do with my parents and yet, everything to do with them.  Even though I'm married with my own family, the three of us (my parents and I) are all we have and all we've ever been.  Even as a kid, as far apart as we could possibly be from each other, we were always a unit.  The unit is tremulous these days; things unspoken, fears go unreleased. We live in the day by day, hoping to make it through okay.

Four years ago I entered a hospital ICU room with my Dad and saw my mother like I'd never seen her before.   Her body purposely swelled with liquid during surgery and covered in long plastic tubes of warm air to keep her at an optimum temperature.  She wasn't breathing except for the ventilator that was doing so for her.  She looked like my grandmother; her face puffy yet drained and old. Tubes and wires spiraled from her chest, stomach and arms like a sacrificial bloodletting.   She had been a snatch away from death.

A cry tried to escape but became stuck in my throat.  My Dad looked so dismayed.  We stood on either side of her bed, holding a cold knuckled hand not knowing what to say, or think, or do.  Stunned and silently weeping, were grateful just to still have her.

My mother has always been a fighter and two days later when we walked in, she was sitting upright although heavily propped with pillows and cushions.  The ventilator was still operating but the doctors were determined to have her begin breathing on her own.  She recognized me then and I could sense her embarrassment that I'd come all this way.  I don't think she understood the enormity of the event that had just played out.  I stayed a while with her and suppressed so much in her presence that my heart was sore.  I watched and encouraged her to try to catch her breath, learning to find the life force that was continually out of reach.  Her eyes bulged with the effort of gasping.  I cracked jokes, listened to the doctors, and had quiet asides with my Dad.  But all through the time, I wanted to scream and cry and pound cushions.  Why did this happen?  Why her? What the fucking fuck?  And, oh my god, I know this is hereditary and will it happen to me or my children?  It was as if someone hit my heart with a crowbar and it wouldn't stop reverberating.

She has been a paraplegic since that day.  The doctors told us it came down to life or limb, and limb it was.

My visits are once-yearly with the kids and once a year, my parents make the five hour drive North to us.  A couple of days away isn't so bad for an able-bodied person but for a paraplegic there is back pain, skin sores, urine pouches, appropriate bed height, hotels that are equipped with adapted showers and ramps and doors wide enough.  There are medicines, medical supplies, towels, bowel training (which a trip will completely interfere with), and a host of other needs and necessities.  My Dad has become my mother's caregiver, and at 68 I am concerned about his ability to continue beyond five, even ten years.

When I visit, I do what I can to help; I cook, I clean.  I make small talk with my Mum as if nothing ever happened. We don't talk about the depth of the situation.  We gloss over physical therapy, the trip to Mexico for stem cell treatment that seems to have made no difference.  My mum is eager to please the kids and I let her...she wants to buy them things to show her love.  They are nervous around the wheelchair so need some quiet explanation and encouragement alone.  My Dad, who has no-one else to talk to, sits down and vents to me in the evenings. And I let him.  I sit and listen and nod and take it all in because everything not said during the day comes out in the night with him.

My heart aches for him the most.

And so I sit here with four days to go, pre-anguishing.  I'm preparing with food and money and supplies and things to occupy the kids with.  And I'm preparing myself emotionally and mentally for the onslaught of hidden emotions that always surface from now until the day we leave.