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.