I’ve written from a place of shame; I’ve written from a place of compassion, and I’ve written from a place of love. I don’t know that I’ve ever written from a place of anger of the sort I feel now.
I am angry at our operating system.
I am angry at the patriarchy.
I am angry at the Judeo-Christian, off-planetary, white male, asexual god.
This myth has got to burn.
Operating from this place of hierarchy and feudalism is killing our planet, and this dominant world view divides. If we’re operating with parent images, we must replace the god metaphor of king on the throne with that of the Great Earth Mother— a strong, black, beautiful and naked woman who birthed (and wants to nurture) us all. We must replace in the name of the Father, Son and the Holy Spirit with in the name of the North, the East, the South and the West. We must see and feel our connectedness. We must see that we can’t be for women and deny them the right to make decisions about their very own bodies. We must see that we can’t be pro-equal rights for some and not for others.
We cannot believe only some are the chosen people.
We must look to our historical figures with accuracy and cut the bullshit. We can walk in the way of Jesus, but we can’t distort his activism, love and self-sacrifice. And we certainly can’t use his name has a shield to protect us from the work we need to do.
We must know how powerful we are and the responsibility we have because of our power. Every word we choose and act we perform has consequences. We must act bravely and with discernment. It is absolutely okay to take breaks. It is not okay to stick our heads in the sand and pretend the lives of others are not our business, play that we are here on earth merely to consume and be entertained and distracted.
No.
We must wake up to our potential, to our power and to our duty to serve and to protect this earth and all her inhabitants. We must see that I am you and you are me. We must acknowledge both the slave and the slave master in each of us. Don’t try to tell me you don’t have slave master in you. How does the voice in your head speak? Is it kind? Compassionate? Soothing? Or does it tell you you are not good enough, that you must compete harder and perform and perfect better? Or else.
The work is inside work and it’s outside work. And it is all HARD FUCKING WORK. It will make you tired. It will make you mad and it will make you confused. I know. And I know I’m not alone. You can join me too.
Please stand up to nonsense. Please stand up for all humankind. Please don’t concern yourself with where people put their private parts, or with whom they put them. Please don’t value your property over human life. Please don’t tell me we can have differences of opinions about basic human rights like voting, healthcare and personal safety and still be friends.
No.
If you are not willing to stand up to your church or your church’s teachings, or your parents or neighbors or anyone whom you love in the name of keeping the peace, I ask you, what kind of peace do you want to keep?
Racism must become uncomfortable for all, not just for those whose skin is darker than ours. Misogyny must be uncomfortable for all, not just for those harassed. Discrimination based on gender identity and sexual orientation has to stop. Xenophobia must go. We are a global community whether we like it or not, which means we are all in this together.
I opened up my facebook feed this morning and was greeted with a post from someone I care about mocking the concept of wearing masks. I felt an immediate and visceral reaction to this message of ridicule. It was potent and defensive, but I wasn’t sure if it was anger or hurt.
Confused, I asked myself:
Q: Why do people wear masks? A: To feel safe and somewhat in control, and to feel like they are protecting those around them.
Q: So, why make fun? A: This is a defensive reaction, perhaps to a dislike or fear of being told what to do, or a simple disagreement in values and beliefs about how the world should operate.
Upon coming to these conclusions I made a comment to my husband about a person’s desire for a mask being similar to a person’s desire for a gun, both of which are related to the need to feel safe and to protect. I went on to say that one of these objects hurts no one, while the other has the potential to hurt so many. My husband began, don’t make the comparison… or some such similar statement that I really can’t remember because I immediately shut down when he started telling me what to do.
Bingo.
I was in a similarly patterned loop as my friend, who I believe to be a gun-supporter. I got defensive with my shut-down just as she had gotten defensive with her put-down.
So what is my message, my learning, in this discomfort and realization of sameness?
It’s that the universe is nudging me to continue to try to look for connections and similarities between me and the people with whom I disagree, both at home and faraway. Where I believe my husband was attempting to lead me, albeit with bossiness, was to the idea that when I engage in further divisiveness (from a place of supposed superiority) I’m not helping to create the connection and understanding I long for.
As I write, I look up and see on my 2020 vision board:
Being receptive to the view of someone we disagree with is no easy task, but when we approach the situation with a desire to understand our differences [and sameness], we get a better outcome.
I want a better outcome. As well as more joy in the process.
Thus, I commit to being receptive. I commit to observing with curiosity my reactions as well as the reactions of others experiencing my reactions. I commit to imagining how and where we might broach conversations that lead to greater understanding. I commit to increasing connectedness.
I also commit to continuing to speak, even if it my speech isn’t perfected.
Work in joyful progress.
For more shelter-in-place interpretations of my pre-Covid 2020 vision board, please visit @katietwitwrites on instagram.
One evening last week, at the end of the sixth day of family quarantine, I let myself go all the way in.
I followed the thread of fear all the way to the end. I let myself explore the worst case imaginable as opposed to damming all negative or scary thoughts. Gratefully, my husband held good space, not turning away from my trembling, my tears, nor the doomsday scenarios I played with, and the next day I awoke with less tension in my jaw, neck, and shoulders than I’d felt all week.
Moving emotions and physical tension wasn’t the only benefit of my purging tear-fest and exercise in imaginative exploration. Once I allowed myself to picture it all, I got really clear on my fears. I realized I am not as scared of physical illness and death by natural causes as I am my community feeling hungry, unsafe, and desperate. I am scared of civil unrest.
I am reminded that although this fear is new for me, it is ancient and prolific for so many in the world, both near and far. I have always stayed relatively aware of traumatic world news— civil wars, disease, famine and starvation, terrorism, gang violence, asylum-seekers jailed and separated from their families— but I can normally keep fear, concern, and empathy for those suffering at bay by creating excuses, distractions and imaginary distance between me and them. If I didn’t create these boundaries, how could I ever make it through a day?
But now these boundaries are gone, as this virus affects us all. And now that I know in my body a hint of the fear that so many across the globe feel day in and day out, some for endless generations, I pray I can’t un-know it, even when this pandemic is under control. I pray that every human experiencing this type of communal fear for the first time can also realize that it is the same physical sensation of fear that so many of our brothers and sisters experience on a daily basis, not knowing if they are safe or where they will get their next meal.
I pray we take this new knowing handed us by COVID-19 and work with it to change the way we live as a global society. I pray we change the way we consume, the way we vote and the way we practice diplomacy. I pray we begin to grow and spread the peace, generosity and resources that the world begs us to grow and spread. I pray we use our imaginations to create new ways of being in community that we’ve not yet experienced.
I pray we start now.
By not hoarding, by not believing we are exempt or above, by staying aware, by sharing our best practices, talents and resources, by practicing non-violent communication and amazing self-care—so that we can rescue ourselves when we need to and reach out a hand to those needing rescue.
I awoke Sunday morning to a Facebook scroll full of images of elegant couples captured from Saturday night’s big formal fundraiser, of which I was pleasantly unaware. This blissful ignorance made me quickly flashback to a not-so-blissful conversation with my sister three years ago, regarding said fundraiser.
Me: I am dreading Saturday night. So much about the event makes me pissy. The face painting, the stilts donning, the leaving the house barely dressed in the middle of winter. It’s not fair men get to be warm in their tuxes, while women freeze in their gowns. Then there are the 10-top tables, the booze and the massive amount of food waste. Who needs steak AND salmon? I’m sick to my stomach thinking about it. Why can’t we just send a check?
My sister: If you dread the event so much, why on earth are you going?
Me: Because saying no would lead to divorce.
My sister: If that is truly the case, Katie, you’ve got much bigger issues.
Time stopped, searing the scene into memory. My gut clenched and we ended the call. Her words hung over me all day. I did have undeniable issues if I could neither muster the strength to choose me, which would mean disappointing my spouse, nor call in the peace and acceptance I needed in order to attend with him lovingly and willingly.
I’d been beating myself up pretty badly, both about about my big group social anxiety -always exacerbated by the pressure of dressing up, doing hair and make-up and worrying about tripping in high heels- and my inability to go with the flow. I know my husband wanted me to be easy, but more than that, he wanted to feel supported. He believed that attendance at these events was part of his job, and me being at his side was important. So important that he’d neglected to ask me if I wanted to attend, despite his knowledge of the apprehension I felt at this type of event.
He couldn’t wrap his mind around what the big deal was for me, it was only a handful of hours. I couldn’t understand what the big deal was for him. I was happy to meet in a smaller group with any man, woman or couple he wanted me to meet or get to know better, but these giant events didn’t seem the place for relationship building.
I believe it was my sister’s reflection of my sorry situation combined with Trump’s recent inauguration and the solidarity I felt with all women for whom men in suits make decisions that finally gave me the strength to say,
Honey, I honor you and your work.
I happily offer emotional support
and my presence in small gatherings.
But for this event, to which you RSVP’d without consulting me,
I refuse to attend.
I am sorry. I know that stings.
I bless you going alone or inviting another in my place.
This voicing of my desire, my will and my boundaries (me choosing me) caused some painful ripples in our household. It was disorienting and confusing for us both, as it often is when one partner decides she’s going to change the dance steps.
But this past Sunday morning— waking up early after a full night’s rest with a clear head, a happy belly and a memories of family moments from the night before— was SO worth the growing pains endured three years ago. And to realize that the event wasn’t even on my radar made the Facebook scroll all the more sweet. I felt empathetic joy in my heart for all those happy ball-goers raising money for a good cause, and I felt personal joy in my heart for me for my husband, continuing our growth as sovereign individuals while celebrating the beautiful partnership of support we are becoming.
I started binging and purging right about the time I started high school. Right about the time my world was expanding and the rules to keep me safe were getting more restrictive. As a child, I’d had very few rules about where I could go exploring solo on my bike. The world was my oyster and my curfew an empty belly, but when I started bleeding and growing breasts, the rules got much more confining. Looking back, I interpret this change in structure to the disappearance of trust, both my parents’ trust that the world was a safe place for me and my own trust that I had the skills I needed to navigate it. Freedom was pulled out from under me, and I’m pretty sure I simply handed my sovereignty away. There were new unnameable threats of which to be wary and new ways of operating to be learned. My parents’ fear was not unfounded. This was decades before #metoo, long before sex was talked about.
No matter, I knew that it was dirty. The message I got at home, from church and from Midwestern culture in general was that sex was a big no-no. Bad girls wanted it, and I so very much wanted to be a good girl. I was already a good student, so just like I picked up chemistry formulas, Spanish verb conjugations and algebraic equations, I also picked up social rules.
Good girls are asexual, thin and co-dependent.
I took it upon myself to stuff my budding sexuality, to strive toward thinness and to find myself a boyfriend. Before long, I’d gained twenty pounds, a nutritionist telling me what to eat, a therapist with whom I shared codified bits and pieces, and boyfriends with whom I played damsel in distress. Somehow, between all the binging and high-mileage running purges, I managed to be both class president and homecoming queen, a sure result of my strict adherence to aforementioned good girl rules.
I continued playing out a pattern of physical and mental self-abuse, self-mistrust and deep shame throughout high school. And though I’m still shaking off its remnants today, I share here the story that sparked my healing journey, the story that sowed the seeds of self-trust, self-care and sovereignty that I tend to so mindfully today.
________________
Freshman year of college I attended a women’s retreat. There, a woman came to share with us her story of escaping an abusive marriage. She told of making the decision to stop waiting for her husband to get better and instead choosing to take care of herself— right then and there. She sneaked out of the house with her children in the middle of the night to take refuge in a shelter and save her life.
I was 19, and her story of rising up and owning her role in that story, of leaving behind everything she knew in order to choose herself sparked in me for the first time the thought that I too could choose to take care of myself. I could choose to choose me, instead of choosing to succumb to whatever force was trying to confine me, keep me stuffed and sedated, constantly eating and running. I could choose myself when making the decision to eat or not to eat an entire pizza, loaf of banana bread or batch of cookie dough. I could choose to leave behind patterns that were slowly killing me from the inside, one bite at a time. I could choose to let go of behaviors keeping me from addressing the issues behind the incessant consuming..
Typing I can choose me today seems so silly. So obvious. But at the time, the idea of choosing myself and acting in my own best interest was completely novel. Completely rebellious. And completely empowering. It was one of those time-seems-to-stop moments when I was able to watch my thinking shift in a way that allowed healing to begin. The journey certainly hasn’t been linear, but the insight that I could step out of victimhood and into agency was the impetus toward a new paradigm, one that I am continuing to grow and one that I hope for every human on the planet.
I have agency. I have choice. I can choose me.
I hope for the feeling of sovereignty and freedom for all humans, and I celebrate the micro-moments and micro-choices that lead us there. I celebrate that earlier this week, in the midst of severe anxiety and the deep and ancient eating-disorder urge to stuff, control and numb, I chose me. I tended to myself carefully and with love: asking for what I needed, applying boundaries and nourishing and resting the body. The issues that were behind the anxiety didn’t disappear or transform with my nap or the chopping of vegetables, but instead of compounding the issues, I brag that I minimized collateral damage, leaving more energy for examination of those issues.
In these weeks of Mercury moving in retrograde, of communication being compromised, of old patterns being brought to light and of campaigns bringing deep emotion to the surface, I celebrate the thread of learning that begins in adolescence and continues throughout a lifetime. I celebrate the self-awareness and self-reflection happening at the individual level that lead to life-promoting cultural shifts at the global level. I celebrate expanding trust and appreciation for the wisdom and autonomy of every human body.
My reactions to the Super bowl halftime experience.
First thoughts: Holy cow, what amazing bodies! What amazing moves! What amazing skills! Damn!
Second thoughts: Wow, that’s a lot of crotch shots. I am feeling uncomfortable. I wish I were watching alone. I wonder if my boys are watching. Why do I hope they are not? What’s the issue? Is it my own issue? Am I jealous of these women? -a prude? -turned on? -nervous about others’ reactions?
Third thoughts: That Puerto Rican flag looks so cozy. Right ON with these African and Middle Eastern beats. This feels so PRIMAL. This feels like HOME. Holy shit this is sexy. And powerful. I want to DO that. I want to BE them.
Then the show ended, we collected the kids we brought and headed home. Along the way I heard my youngest say he heard the show was inappropriate. I heard echoes of someone in the car saying “it was.”
I said nothing.
I awoke the following morning with the Super Bowl heavy on my mind.
A) because one of my gut reactions to the whole display of feminine power, grace and sex was discomfort.
And
B) because I had stayed quiet when questions about its “appropriateness” arose.
Me, who likes to think of herself as a feminist, open-minded and sex positive, was uncomfortable.
Me, who likes to think of herself as an activist stayed quiet.
Me who has sitting dog-eared and underlined on her bookshelf Pussy: A Reclamation and Me and White Supremacy still saw this powerful and awe-inspiring display of feminine voice, power and collaboration and had a reaction of “uh-oh”.
WTF?
Today I am owning my disappointment in myself with compassion. I am acknowledging where I am in my evolution. I am seeing my discomfort for what it is— remnants of the worldview I inherited living where I live in the time I live. I am re-affirming my desire to remove the lens placed upon my vision by a thousands-year-old patriarchal culture suppressing women’s sexuality, desire and power.
I am also talking with my boys about discomfort I felt (and where it comes from) regarding seeing two minority and middle-aged women own that stage with their undeniable talent and sexual energy.
Shakira and J-Lo, I am channeling your strength, discipline and bravery. I will do better.
In a time when we are receiving news of one environmental protection after another being repealed by the current administration, connecting with the Earth and the ancient traditions surrounding her are becoming more and more important. Celebrating the Earth and our integral relationship to her seems the most natural way to create connection and encourage care. If we see planet Earth as sacred and celebrate her seasons (I’m not talking the Hallmark ones), how can we possibly allow her to be raped, pillaged and abused? How can we disregard the migratory patterns of her birds, the thirst quenching water of her rivers and the life-giving nutrients of her soil– all in favor of cheap oil?
Only when we feel little to no connection with her can we think it’s okay to favor big business over land and water. Only when we don’t honor the native people who cared for this land for millennia can we think it’s okay to desecrate their sacred sites with bulldozers and pipelines (as is currently happening in Utah). For many, relating to the native people of the Americas and their land is difficult because we come from a lineage of immigrants who view the Native people and their relationship to Earth as “other”. But those of us with European backgrounds can dig into our ancestral roots for rituals that celebrate connection to the natural world too.
February 1 marks Imbolc, an ancient Celtic holiday celebrating the midpoint between Winter Solstice (the shortest day of the year) and the Spring Equinox (one of two days a year when night and day are equal). Imbolc is the Celtic word for sheep’s milk, as this is the traditional time of year for birthing lambs. This is a time of celebration, as the Winter food supply can be supplemented with milk after many months of rationing and scarcity. By its very nature, Imbolc celebrates the relationship between humans and animals and acknowledges human dependence upon beastly gifts.
Imbolc is a time of assessment as well. Will the provisions put away for the non-growing season last until the plants provide? If not, how else can we find nourishment? How can we work with our neighbors and to make sure there is enough for all? How can we collaborate? Share? What community needs aren’t being met? How and with whom can we meet those needs?
Imbolc is also a time of planting seeds, both literally and metaphorically. It is a time to review our plans for Spring and Summer crops and Autumn harvest. It is a time to to be deliberate with our actions, acknowledging that what we sew now we will reap later. It is a time for new beginnings, with vision for the future.
In addition, Imbolc asks us to double check that we’ve released the past year. There is too much work in our future to be burdened by carrying around the left-overs of the past. What are we still clinging to that can be composted as nutrients for the new year’s crops? What can be fuel for new growth?
Imbolc acknowledges that the darkest days of winter have passed and it’s time to think about stretching our limbs as well as our minds. It’s time to crawl out of the darkness and back into the light. It’s time to consider our relationship with earthly time and our earthly space.
This particular February it may also be time to call our representatives and check into the practices and promised policies of our favorite presidential candidates.
Earlier this summer a girlfriend sent me an invitation to join an on-line writing experience called Finding Your Voice with author Robin Rice. Every other day we were sent a photo prompt to use as inspiration to write the first few paragraphs of a story, with opening lines provided, or to practice writing a concise paragraph or haiku poem. I created an instagram account to share with those who happened upon it, but I have decided to also post the whole collection here on my blog too, for what is voice if it’s not shared? Please enjoy. I hope one or two of the 28 little pieces speaks to you.
Thanks for hearing my voice,
Katie
“I never said I wouldn’t jump,” she whispered aloud to herself. “So I can’t be called a liar. Then again, if I do jump…”
I never said I wouldn’t jump, she whispered aloud to herself. So I can’t be called a liar. Then again, if I do jump, what do I care what I’m called. I could be called every single word I’ve ever feared —bitch, bad mother, selfish woman, and I wouldn’t be around to know. I could be called unstable, a pity, a life wasted. What constitutes a wasted life? One that doesn’t last enough years? Doesn’t have enough laughs, produce enough offspring or please enough people?
She knew the truth was that she’d been wasting her life for decades, since the age she traded in pink for colors she deemed more sophisticated.
But the view from halfway up the lighthouse wall was crystal clear. She could make the most impactful choice of her life from there. Working with her allies, Rock and Sea, she could right the incongruity urgently ripping her apart.
Or, she could climb down, into the truck and and hit the open road, leaving behind the life passively created along the path of least resistance. She could start over, this time on purpose. Leaping seemed nobler, but running away gave her a second chance.
And then it struck her, like the waves crashing on the boulders below. There was a third option too. One that would require much more of her. She could start living on purpose from right where she was.
…
I can feel this tiny being’s heart beat in my gut, and below too. I can feel this little bird’s heartbeat in the place I am only now learning to tune into. I thought this place was for sex, or perhaps a punishment. I realize now this place is for life. This place lets me know when I need to pay attention. She lets me know when I am in the presence of a message worth heeding. She lets me know I am connected, I am part of the web.
What is this message?
I see Bird, full of raw and unconditioned anxiety, I feel her heart beating as fast as her little wings want to fly, yet her body is still. She wastes no effort fighting. Is she trusting? I can’t imagine she’s run through all possible future scenarios and chosen stillness as the most appropriate action. How does she know she doesn’t stand a chance against this much bigger hand? How does she know to be still, to allow and to trust?
Maybe she has her own place of wisdom.
…
I am taken to the all but disappeared Nebraska village where my parents met, courted and married. A place I visited my grandparents and cousins as a child, the playground rusted with abandonment. A place I felt the stuck-ness and stifled-ness of the worn-down people, as well as the beckoning of the surrounding land. The tree-lined lane led the curious ones past the Church and out of town— a portal to the vast horizon whispering of untapped magic and opportunity. My parents, like most, escaped the town, but not the deeply embedded and oxidized restraints. I wrestle now to untangle the multilayered chain-link directing my beliefs and those of my grandmothers too. I hold hope in the hollow diamonds of space permitting the light.
…
The Incas call the earth-time intersection Pachamama, and they worship her as Earth, Sun and Moon. I wonder what our world could be if no matter how else we differed in belief, we all honored time and place as sacred— if we worshiped by consciously choosing how we passed our time and made holy the places we inhabited.
…
I twist into you As you circle around me Nowhere do we go.
…
I cringed upon opening this photo prompt. The dime a dozen-ness churned my stomach in disgust, and my heart deflated in disappointment. The leprechauns don’t appear to be made by hand or for conscious consideration.
Who thought making them was a good idea? Who chose to stock them on the shelves? Who will buy them and for whom?
I envision them landing in a secondhand store on the way to a landfill, and my blood begins to boil. The judgement initially turned outward changes course like a mutant cancer cell and points itself back at me, growing rapidly. This is the type of judgement that eats away me, wearing me down. The type that emerges with single-use plastic, buy-in-bulk shopping chains and overflowing storage bins. The type that makes living in my culture a daily struggle. I realize my judgment hurts me and may even color my luck. I further wonder about a possible relationship between my reaction to this dratted little leprechaun line-up and my missed flight this morning.
…
Like Pavlov’s dogs I sense the fomo wafting into my field before I even recognize the photo for what it is: travelers awaiting their journey. The irony in the longing is that I awoke today in an unknown land partaking in my own journey. I take pause to register this subtle, yet faster than a knee jerk reaction. What is it about travel that makes me covet so acutely? Certainly not the planning, packing or logistics. Not the delays, discomforts or disrupted sleep cycles. These are a small price to pay for the opportunity to see through the lens of a different land, to break the sluggishness of routine and to find connection and light where ignorance once lived. Journey is the metaphor for knowing the unknown, and I seek insatiably to water the flames of fear with discovery, making acquaintance and sharing tea. My wish is to learn to journey more profoundly without the pull to leave right where I am.
…
I know this look, it’s the satisfied one between contentedness and borderline-scary, exhilarating joy. This is the look of connection. The one that asks to be burnt into memory because the heart is sensing its tendrils reaching out to this specific intersection in time and space and it feels so right and sacred it doesn’t want to be forgotten. The one calling for selfie documentation and perhaps a bold share. This is both rootedness and expansion. All is right in the world, even if only for this moment, which for now is forever.
…
“I almost didn’t come today,” she said. “I am glad you did”, he replied, “because otherwise …
I almost didn’t come today she said. I am glad you did he replied, because otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to tell you that I’m starting to understand. Before, I thought I did, but I was shielded from truly hearing your words by the disdain I felt from coming you. I realize now that what I took to be disdain was really a defensive shield protecting a sore heart trying its damndest to soften. When you told me how you interpret my actions it took a bit for me to really fathom how badly that interpretation must pierce, and how it must color your handling of me. Imagining you holding these beliefs about about me, about us, about your perceived ugliness and worthiness is extremely difficult. I see you so strong, so beautiful, so powerful. I want you to hear that I am seeing the constraints of your binding beliefs and the pain they cause, but I am also seeing you, glorious you, through the prison bars of your own making. Though I’m beginning to understand, I’m not saying that I can gracefully handle the ice freeze of your protective mode, or that I know how to convince you that I’m all the way in and I’m not going anywhere. I can’t help you untangle the mess of constraints in your head, but I can offer you my human and messy love.
This is how she would interpret whatever came out of his mouth as he appeared boldly in the threshold, pinned her against the wall and began consuming her body with his hungry need and adoration.
…
If I want to open to the world, if I want to feel, really feel, the opening is going to come with water droplets. There is no other way. My work is to learn to sit through the salty (and sometimes snotty) outpouring, to not resist, try to be stoic or wait for precipitation to pass before engaging in the prickly conversation, entertaining the difficult emotion or examining the dark underside of reality. Just like amorous opening requires wetness, so does opening of heart space. I will use my wetness as an ally, letting me know we are getting to the good stuff.
…
One day I’ll be a little old lady with bed head. People will giggle as they see me humming to myself at the market and hear me singing as I tend to my garden. They will see my wardrobe choice – comfort and beautiful splendor- and wonder if the cheese has fallen off my cracker. I will welcome into my abode and magical world those curious and unhurried souls who want to hear stories about the old days, about tyrannical feudal lords and the rise of the rainbow people.
…
I thrive in the heat of summer. Under the big hot sun my shoulders fall away from my ears, my muscles soften and my heart expands. My legs bronze and strengthen, kicking in the pool and skipping on the walk. The cicadas, fireflies and sensuous lilies beckon me to mimic.
To sound, to light, to open.
The mighty shade trees call for me to sit below their branches, and in the hammock I enjoy the breeze. I may appear lazy, but I’m soaking it all in, storing up vibrancy for the days at the other end of the spectrum.
Cold and short, they make me call upon reserves, digging down deep for the motivation to rouse, bundle and survive.
A different type of thrive.
…
My ears perk, alerting me morning is here. The quiet is disconcerting. I lift my nose to the sky. The air smells a bit like metal. It’s dryer. Something big has changed. Outside pulls on my insides. I stand and attempt to shake it off, but I only draw in more of this charged air. Must go out. I set my chin on his pillow—eyes focused, head still, but my bum can’t be contained. How on earth can they sleep through this pull? My body, wiggly, wants to jump so badly. Is it worth their being angry with me? Too late, I’m already in the bed, my tongue uncontrollable. Laboriously he comes to life, in slow motion fumbling into robe and slippers, he shuffles clumsily to the stairs. Knocking into the back of his calves, I pass him, skid on the hardwood and slide into wall. The door opens, and I remember what all this magic hoopla is about — SNOW!
…
Fourth of July greetings.
May you celebrate all light and love that this bright holiday shines through you: freedom, youth and opportunity. Vast plains, high peaks and deep valleys. Two oceans connected by many rivers and roads.
May you also pause to reflect on the the darkness that inevitably roughs the edges: breakneck speed of growth, rape, theft. Disregard for people, land and water. As a young nation, we are all of this, and as we approach adolescence we must ask ourselves what kind of nation we want to become.
May the gods bless the USA with a slower pace and a more connecting way of viewing time and the space. May they bless us with wisdom to process our past and move forward with intention for well-being and liberty for all.
…
Oh, to be a grandparent!
I look forward to it. Not too soon though, I mentally wink at my 15-year-old. I imagine that to parent from this grand perspective is to know how fleeting the innocence and wonder is, and to be able to open to it more fully—without the cautious weight of responsibility or the protective fear born from knowing that if you truly sat in the splendor of the littles your heart could explode, keeping you from completing all the tasks and checking all the boxes. I imagine grand-parenting to be without the the incessant questioning about how many times you’ve already glitched their systems with little hurts, rushes and betrayals that they will have to work out later.
I imagine grand-parenting to be akin to parenting the third or fourth, but supersized, with a toolkit bursting of trust, experience and wisdom. And beyond the magical skill set, is the practical. Enjoying a babe in spurts of visits and outings with plenty of rest and recuperation in between makes for a ready and nourished leader. One who is more equipped to listen deeply and pause before responding.
Again I’m reminded that child-rearing takes a tribe, if not a whole community of aunties and uncles willing and able to lead and hold. Thank you to my blood brothers, sisters and parents, my reciprocals in-law, and all those teachers, neighbors and friends both near and far who show my children love and lend them their time and attention.
….
To watch my parent Dote lovingly on my babe Is a love sandwich
I am the middle Snuggled between soft slices Of protective bread
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I wonder if smoking a cigarette while arguing helps keep those involved calm and collected. Maybe all those deep breaths tell the nervous system “you’ve got this” while the tobacco smoke, reminiscent of that from peace pipe, conjures a little supportive connection from the native guides it summons. Maybe having a burning object in hand keeps both arms from crossing, thus relaying to the other that you’re at least half open to what they are saying. Maybe a pause to cup a hand and light up another provides just the time needed to check in with the body or think before speaking. Maybe the nicotine provides the rush to say the words that are stuck. Maybe the mere act of taking a smoke break provides the time and space for an argument to unfold which otherwise could be buried in silent resentment.
Maybe I stop reading self-help and pick up a pack of Marlboros.
…
Love is a very large and accommodating concept to capture.
Fish tacos, a cold beer and the smell of the sea over sunkissed skin
A charming new beau with electrifying words glances and touches.
Chatting with my sis while walking through the park on a crisp fall morning.
My comfiest sweats, snuggled into my hubby with the fire crackling.
Our newborn baby tugging sweetly on my heart strings with his god smell.
A steaming cup of joe on the patio as the birds chirp good morning.
Parents eagerly giving me and my children their time and stories
All of this is love, But so is the stuff between The perfect moments.
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I didn’t expect my call to the man I took to be an arborist to take an existential turn. Or maybe I did. Maybe that is exactly why I waited to dial until I was feeling extra confused about my earthly role. I thought I was calling to ask for a tree trim, but maybe I was really in search of someone who could ask me provoking questions, who would invite me to deeply consider my values. Maybe I needed to be asked why I believed my tree should look different than it does, or if having a yard overtaken by wild strawberries was really a fear of being judged. (Did I know that the birds enjoyed the red berries and the bees the yellow flowers?) Maybe I needed to be reminded that treating a symptom, even if I do so organically, isn’t the same as seeking and addressing the root cause. Maybe I needed to hear the words “working with nature rather than against her” spoken aloud by a man a man who is not, in fact, an arborist, but rather a naturalist, an arboricultural consultant. Maybe I needed a gentle earth advocate believing in the power of connection to steer me back toward my path when I began to doubt and stray, worrying about how the life I’m creating for myself doesn’t look like the ones I see around me. Maybe I needed to be reminded that I much prefer low-maintenance and sustainable, that I am uplifted by beauty and kept safe by diversity, that I contribute to the web of connection when I nurture an environment that invites others. Thank you for reminding me that I favor all this a thousand times over striving to be just like the Joneses next door.
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When was the last time my eyes felt this clear? My smile this honest? My mind this free from judgement?
I can see my younger self in this little girl. I can feel myself in the child imprisoned at the border. I can imagine myself as the brave parent who risks everything for increased security and opportunity in the North. But can I see myself in the border patrol agents? And where are the parts of me in our fearful president?
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I held the plastic tray of pre-made hamburger patties in my hands, my thumbs grazing the smooth expanse of cellophane. So much easier for the lake, I thought. And then a current of consciousness forced the matter. A jolt. I set the tray down and picked up the ground beef wrapped in only a single layer of plastic, the option that would require my hands to be more involved in the preparation of my meal, the option that would ask me to acknowledge the life given up for my family’s barbecue, the option that ecologically and spiritually aligned with my values and required me to slow down and ponder my connection.
So many cities, my own included, have contemplated limiting single use plastics. Councils question how much difference eliminating plastic bags will really make for the environment. They contemplate the inconvenience for consumers having to remember baskets, boxes and bags from home.
Maybe a bit of an annoyance, but every time we choose to do the little uncomfortable thing that honors our space and each other, we slightly shift our consciousness toward the action of connection, we deepen the mental groove of responsibility. And these itty bitty shifts can lead to big change.
I read just this morning, “more than 100 people are dead and almost 6 million are under threat from rising flood waters in South Asia”.
Both the news blurb and the photo prompt ask me to examine how my actions ripple out to my brothers and sisters sharing the same sky and the same waters, all across the globe.
I choose to keep doing better.
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Coins spin in outer space, the backdrop image to bedtime Hail Marys,
Our Fathers, Glory Bes. Followed by fantasies of Michael Jackson
spotting my roller skate crash from his airplane up above. He swoops down
to scoop me up to safety and adoring love. All this while I keep
at bay the fear that Jesus will appear to ask that I give up my
worldly existence and follow him, living a simple, toy-less life.
In later years the prayers change to more fervent pleas. Help me be good.
To succeed. Achieve. Bartering begins. I run. Count. Control the urge.
A rosary to stave away teen pregnancy. Forgive me Father.
Where is the mother? I do not know I crave her. Or that she exists.
In the fat Buddha, and rocks, plants, animals, trees. In quiet she comes.
Action is not a requirement, but rather an impediment. Instead
the spirit asks that I still. And allow her to be known. As she is.
To participate with a whisper to the moon, clear intention set.
To be aware of this body. Be curious of all sensation.
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She looks at this photo one day and sees brown.
She looks the next, and sees rust, caramel and the color of the sun. She enjoys the smoothness of the yellow layer beneath and the sharp, crisp edges of the rolling peels above. She hears crunch as her fist squeezes and then crackling as the fire consumes.
The difference between day one and day two?
Time, presence, and the willingness to observe and allow.
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I have heard it said that serious dancers dance because they can’t not dance. Does that make dancing an addiction? An addiction to being in the body and transcending it too? To strength, flexibility and rhythm? To synchronizing with a group or communicating wordlessly with a partner? To getting inside the other worldliness of the music? To form? To discipline? To excellence?
I have also heard it said that dancers can easily fall into the all-so-common pit of disordered eating, another addiction of sorts. Perhaps it makes sense that the ease in which they can be lifted or the effort it takes to defy gravity be a concern. But what about the rest of us?
What is the difference between passion and destruction? Between beauty and death? Between precision and obsession? Is the line between order and disorder a fine one? What is the relationship between chaos and control? And the cost?
And anyway, what is addiction but a break from reality, a way to numb from the now, an attempt to connect less painfully? What makes an addiction culture friendly or shunned by society? When does an addiction make us shun ourselves?
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“I used to have problems. Now, I just get tired. Dying will do that to you. Show you what a problem really is. It also shows you… “
I used to have problems. Now, I just get tired. Dying will do that to you. Show you what a problem really is. It also shows you what really matters. Not a whole lot. Or everything. It makes your mind feel foggy and clear at the same time. I can focus on so little, I only notice what’s biggest, and right in front of my nose. So it could be a dust bunny floatin’ in the air, or the feel of the wind on my skin or the hum of this train rumblin’ from its guts and through my elbow, down my arm and hand and into my head. I swear, sometimes I feel like I have noticin’ superpowers. I ain’t never noticed stuff like this before I knew the dyin’ was comin’. There was always somethin’ else to think about, some plan to make or chat to be had. Now, I’m alone in a way I didn’t even feel in seventh grade. I wonder what the rest will be like. Will the tiredness turn to pain that I won’t be able to handle? Will I take the morphine and will it dull this super power or magnify it? I thought I’d feel sad about not seein’ my grandkids grow and my kids turn old like me, but I don’t. They’re going to do what they’re going to do and I’m going to do this dyin’ thing. And then who knows. Maybe I will see it all, just from a different place, but it doesn’t seem to matter, I’m just so damn tired. I let my sleep come when it wants now, on the train, in the waiting room, at family dinner. I surrender. I wonder if my kid self would call this quittin’. It feels wise to me. It’s comin’ whether I fight it or not. So for now, I’ll keep nappin’ and noticin’. The textures, the rhythms and the dust bunnies. They seem like enough right now. And a nice long stare into my wife’s eyes. She’s got this carin’ for the dyin’ thing down. She’s strong and she’s so busy makin’ the plans now that I have be stern just to get her to sit and look at me hard. But when she does it’s as good as makin’ sweet love to her in the back of my daddy’s truck. It’s different now. Everything is different. No problems. Just the tiredness and knowin’ it could get pretty bad. I think I’ll take the morphine. I’ll surrender to it like I do to the sweet sleep. Maybe this is what bein’ a baby was like, dust bunnies, voices, rhythms, textures and sleep. Wasn’t so bad then, I guess. Ain’t so bad now.
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Time is a funny concept, concrete in minutes, hours and days, yet relative in interpretation and value. Time allows for the accumulation of experience, permitting a broad and vast vantage point from which to see. Time beckons the emergence of natural rhythms to be felt, for patterns to be discerned and wisdom to be gleaned.
But time does not require it.
Time speaks in cycles, seasons and deepening lines in the human face. Each one less of an offense as it joins the others in the map of physical age. Each one becoming a gift. A sign of perseverance, luck and perhaps something valuable to be shared.
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We unfold naturally from the tight, dark womb space as we take our first startling breath. We stretch our limbs and slowly our attention, testing limits and boundaries as toddling humans. From there, so much of the result of this incessant life-force pushing and pulling us to blossom depends upon the soil into which our roots reach and extend. Is the earth rich with minerals and organic matter? Do we receive plenty of rain or alternative care? Is there enough opening above for the sun to reach us? For us to spread? Are there creatures nearby, both limbless and winged, for us to work with in symbiotic communion?
I often wonder if our blossoming matters in the grand scheme of things. Either way our time will eventually be done. But the shameless unfurling of our petals sure does make the landscape more beautiful.
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He/she/they conjures childhood fear of the different and unknown, the things that don’t fall within my narrow and inexperienced scope of how people behave. In small town Nebraska I learned women wear dresses. Men wear pants. People like me (like me = that I can trust) don’t get tattoos. Smoking is bad (but maybe not unforgivable because my dad does it secretly). Small is good and right. Thin is what is on TV telling me what to buy and what to do.
He/she/they is confusing, I’d like to look away or pretend I don’t see.
I am transported to Tijuana, my first experience with the very different, with poverty and dirt, with begging and my father’s tangible fear, my mother’s desire to explore. I don’t remember exactly how Mexico beat out Sea World, but we crossed the boarder and looked for cheap trinkets to memorialize our day-trip adventure. We returned to our San Diego motel and I spent 30 minutes in the bathroom. With steam and scalding water I scrubbed my nine-year-old skin pink. I scrubbed my clothes and the turquoise ring I bought from the street vendor. I tried my damndest to scrub off all the filth and fear I felt that day. I got the surface clean but deep down I must have known the only way to eradicate the fear of difference was to go back in. To understand differences and why they happen. To spend time with difference and to engage with difference. To accept and connect. Trip by little trip to Central America my fear of poverty and living close to the earth disappears. As those fears disappear, they take with them other fears of difference, like sexual orientation, dress and behavior.
Now the time is approaching to start chipping away at fear of self.
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The light and shadows don’t make sense to me at all. Why is there brightness
where there should be black? Why does shadow appear where there ought to be light?
Is it me who can’t see? Or only me who can? What’s it like for you?
Back when I was a teen in the throes of my eating disorder, I often despaired that I wasn’t an alcoholic instead of a compulsive binger and exerciser. I lamented not being able to simply stop eating, swearing off food and all the decisions it required of me. Or pills, I thought, that would be okay too. I could stop taking meds forever. But no, my addiction revolved around food, the second most important ingestible to my survival.
Today, however, I am thankful for my history with food. I can see that by learning to negotiate outings, desserts, rest-stop snack options and all the emotions and anxiety they conjure, I have grown. I see that the beauty of my struggle lies not in denying myself certain experiences, but in learning to be in relationship with them.
This rush of gratitude came on the heels of hearing a classic Chinese Zen tale about an old woman who graciously housed a monk on her property. After many years of witnessing his austere practices and delivering a daily meal to his hut, the woman one day decided to send a beautiful maiden in her place, instructing the girl to embrace the monk very warmly before leaving his hut. Later, the old woman questioned the monk about the test, asking how the girl’s warm body felt pressed against his. The monk replied, “like a withering tree in the winter”. With that, the crone cursed the religious man, called him a fraud and kicked him off her land, very angry he had learned nothing in all that time.
This story hits home to me in a very visceral way. As I continue mindfulness studies and exploration, I am beginning to understand that spirituality in no way requires perfection or shutting off a part of ourselves like the monk in the tale. Instead, spiritual growth is entrenched in humanness. Humans respond to beautiful young bodies, just like they respond to warm loaves of banana bread fresh from the oven. Human bodies make all sorts of gloriously sticky messes and human minds make all sorts of holy and elaborate mistakes in their never ending quest to seek positive feelings and avoid negative ones.
The art of being a spiritual human is not to not be tempted, to not make mistakes or to not feel uncomfortable, sad or fearful. The art of being human is to feel all those things, but to know deeply, at the same time, that all is okay, even if the physical body is in distress, the emotions are overwhelming or the ego is begging for something that could potentially be dangerous.
Had I been an alcoholic like I’d once wished, perhaps life would have been more cut and dry, a little more black and white. Perhaps I would have learned much quicker how to deal with difficult emotions once cut off from the bottle. Or perhaps that learning curve would have been too steep and those I love would have had much bigger and more painful repercussions to deal with as a result of my addiction. Luckily, that was not the case, and luckily, having to navigate the world of consumption has provided me ample opportunity to learn, grow and pay attention to my body and its messages, though they haven’t always been so obvious.
With time, binging morphed into limiting calories. (Who has time and energy to run all those miles to burn them?) Restriction eventually led to avoiding hunger. Grasping for a feeling of ideal satiation led to hoarding nuts like a squirrel. A high-fat diet eventually led to an angry gall-bladder. And this sensitive organ now speaks to me very clearly about my food choices, my increasing tolerance and my physical and mental health.
What a ride!
Different than the monk living in isolation and deprivation, my journey with addiction has allowed me to transform while also staying connected to the world, to my body and to the people I commune with over food and drink.
And the journey continues.
Lately it is providing me insight regarding more general discomfort and pain. I have discovered I can go hours without eating and be okay. I have realized I can be really hungry and be okay. Surprisingly, I can be very full and be okay too. And the beauty lies in these discoveries seeping out of my food world and into my emotional life. I am finding that I can be angry and be okay. I can be sad and be okay. I can be confused and overwhelmed and be okay. I can even disappoint others and be okay. I do not have to stuff the feelings with food, purge the feelings with exercise or completely lose my shit to shake up overwhelming emotion. I can pause and ground my body by sensing the breath in my belly and the weight of gravity holding me securely to the earth. By tuning in and paying attention, I can perceive information the body gives me about my experience, which is vital, as the body seems to know long before the mind can comprehend.
For this growth I am grateful for my complicated, yet slowly simplifying relationship with food as well as for my yoga practice, which teaches me time and again how to return to my corporeal home, physical proof of my humanness and glorious gateway to the spiritual.
I am sitting in my sunny living room sipping a cup of decaf coffee and listening to the wind chimes. I am happy and proud because this cup of joe is the first I’ve had in more than 15 days. Continue reading Taking care of my animal
