an invitation...to really look

Taking self portraits of myself has become part of my routine over the last few months. To pose for the camera, to pose just for me, to look at myself. After taking lots of pictures (except in March when I took just one a day), I look at them and often hear that inner voice who just wants to let me know that I am not pretty. Eventually, I find the one photo that I can share with, well the world, but also the photo I can agree on, with myself, to stare at whenever I come to this page.

My journey has been about the work inside. Unpacking the baggage, looking at it to see if there is something to learn, if there are reasons amidst some of the shit. Looking at the moments I am triggered and why, looking at the patterns, and so on, but also to recognize the beauty that is there, that is part of my life. The beauty of the world around me, of the people in my life, of the path I am on, and the beauty inside me. But throughout this, there is this piece of beauty on the outside. The other stuff seems like the hard stuff. But this outside piece, accepting my physical looks, this is a big part of the baggage as well. I have just been so focused on the inner stuff because it is easier, on some level, than…well, than looking at the outside…of me.

As I mentioned on Tuesday’s post, on Monday, when I took this week’s self portraits, I felt something shift as I looked at my face on the computer screen in front of me. There have been moments of this over the past few months, a whisper of self-acceptance. There has been an awakening and a determination to get over my negative body image and “face beauty” issues. But it then it goes back to a whisper, and most of the time, I just forget to listen for it.

In the August issue of Yoga Journal, Elizabeth Gilbert (the author of the "much talked about in blog world" book Eat, Pray, Love – a book I really want to read) writes about finding her own beauty. After realizing she was wrapped up in being self-critical of her looks to the extent it was consuming her, she asked a yogi friend of hers what she should do. The woman recommended she spend time, every day, looking in the mirror until she recognized her own beauty.

A piece of my negative physical image is about my body: Not being thin enough, always being “my biggest friend,” not being able to find clothes sometimes, having clerks give me "that look" when I walk in certain stores. But another piece is wanting to feel pretty. Wanting to be one of the pretty ones. Wanting to see my face as pretty. As Gilbert says, “A person’s face is, you might say, the spokesperson for the soul.” Yes. And I want people to see my soul, but first they see my face. The face that often has multiple chins. The face that looks tired and is gathering wrinkles each day.

As I read about Gilbert’s experience, I began to wonder if I could have a daily meditation where I sit across from myself, all alone, in the quiet, and look at my own face. I could start with one minute…or maybe 30 seconds. And work my way up to a few minutes. Each day. Until I recognize me.

The idea is that you have to accept the shell that carries your soul, before you can let go. Let go of the desire to be the pretty one, of the ego involved, of the past that might hold you a bit too tight. Let go to be free of the way your body image weighs you down when you are trying to fly.

Do you want to join me? We could start with 5 seconds, 45 seconds, 2 minutes. We could do this together. A daily meditation of reflection. A daily meditation to recognize the beauty.

random thoughts on my mind...

Right now, the man who is doing some sort of work on the house across the street (and has been for a while now) is stretched out, prone, on their roof soaking in the sun. It cracks me up. I wonder if the retirees who live in the house, who are always looking out the window, are thinking "where'd he go?" Because I am camped out at the dining room table (I am often on the couch instead...my back likes the couch better than a chair when I am using my laptop but because I have to use a mouse for this current project and because I am working 12-16 hours days on said laptop I have to be able to see out the window and this room has the best light), I can chuckle out loud at a man sunning himself on a roof across the street.

This week, I have been listening to Deb Talan's CD "a bird flies out" over and over and over. If you are on a journey...

to find yourself

through grief or sadness

of awakening

looking for love

realizing you have wings

...well, my friends, this is the CD for you. You should buy it/download it right now (and when you do, you should come back and tell me all about it). If you already own it, go turn it on. Right now. These songs have filled me up this week. Filled me up. I keep listening to Talan's sweet voice with headphones on and I just sing along. Out loud as though I am in concert with her (my husband is so patient with me and my little quirks). I feel like her lyrics have just stopped right in front of me, peeked inside my soul, and given me the gift I needed this week.

When I work for this many hours, and late into the night, I dream in Word. Literally. Last night I was trying to figure out how to fit myself (as in me, the person, me) inside a bullet point in a document in Word. I think I need to sit in a dark room with an eyepillow over my eyes and just a quiet CD of chanting playing in the background. For about five hours.

I keep thinking of that poem "Persimmons" I posted the link to for Poetry Thursday. That poem is incredible. Even if you aren't "into" poetry...or you don't like long poems...take a moment to read it out loud. It might change your life (those last lines...his father's words...they will haunt me forever).

Storypeople. Some of you noticed the Brian Andreas prints behind me in my self-portraits this week. I am a bit of a collector (we have a lot more than these four...you don't even want to know how many). Right after my parents separated in 1995, my mother and I found Andreas' work in a little shop in Berea, KY. I had also just discovered Sark's books. The combination of these two amazing, creative, soulful artists changed my life. With Storypeople, I have found that there are stories that speak to me at different times in my life. I have given some prints away when it seems that they have spent enough time with me, and someone else needs them. (But the sculptures, well, the sculptures I don't give away but I have loaned one with that same idea in mind.) If ever you stop by for a visit, one activity I would love to do is sit down with some Storypeople books and read the stories out loud. Oh yes. That is one of my most favorite things to do. You take a couple of books, I take a couple, we share the ones that invite us to laugh out loud, nod in agreement, sigh, tear up a bit, the ones that speak to our souls. We can drink tea or wine and have cookies and cheese. Until then though, you could go to the website and let me know which stories you love. (And if you want to know some of my favorites email me.)

Oh and an update on my brother the rock star. He is living in Portland doing the rock star thing. His pet project Daytime Volume (he is also the drummer in the band) has just been signed to a label in Portland. They will be playing at the CMJ Music Marathon in NYC in October. Very cool. But before then, you can hear them in Portland next month! Check out their myspace page.

it's all about the layers around here {poetry thursday}

happy poetry thursday to all!

i didn't have time to bring my pen to paper and write my own words this week (too busy editing the words of others), but i did venture out into the web to find some poems that got my mind turning a bit.

for my post at PT today, i talked about layers. i feel like poetry is all about the layers of our lives, but i think this is because poetry is really about the journey that is life. this is why poetry has plopped itself down into the middle of my world. and why my response was simply "you are welcome to stay" when i realized it wasn't going to leave.

as i read this poem, "Persimmons" by Li-Young Lee, the words wrapped around me like a blanket and i settled into the poet's memories as he peeled them back, layer by layer. i admit to letting the tears just fall as i read the last lines again this evening. not that it is sad so much as gorgeous. it is as though the lines have reached inside of me. inside of my heart. i breathe them in.

i love poetry.

and then i visited "True Love" by Sharon Olds. over the last few months, she keeps stopping by for tea. and how lucky am i to read her words when she does. this poem speaks to a piece of the reality of married sex. how it is to feel so very comfortable with another person. to be yourself with this person. to love one another. but to also venture down the hallway to the bathroom in the middle of the night together after you have made love...

and finally...i discovered a delightful podcast about sex, weddings, and wrestling at poetryfoundation.org. click over to this page and scroll down to the May 24, 2006 edition. sit back with your tea, or wine, or coffee, or ice cream....and enjoy.

as a reflection of hope {self portrait challenge}

This is how I want to be.
For you.
For me.
A reflection of hope.

Yesterday, a dear friend and I were talking about the idea of why we come to these online journals open for all the world to see and then we write our stories. And for both of us, one real reason is that by coming to this page and writing the truth of our lives, we hope that someone out there reading might realize they are not alone.

This has such power for me.

But sometimes I forget that this means I am not alone too.

Last night, I had one of those "fuck. my grandmother is totally dead and i can never talk to her again for real. this just sucks so much. i hate it. i am so pissed at her for dying like that. and i am pissed at the universe that this is what life hands us. and that it will keep handing it to me whenever it wants" moments. Triggered by one little line in a Kenny Rogers' song I was listening to at midnight as I worked away on this huge editing project that has been keeping me glued to my laptop for 12 or more hours a day lately. The line, "If I close my eyes, it doesn't hurt quite so bad. 'Cause tonight I just lost the best friend I ever had." If only I would have paused to take a drink of tea during the next song, "on a warm summer's eve, on a train..." well, you know the rest.

And in that moment...the house quiet...the darkness caved in for a moment. So alone.

A little while later, I stopped my work and downloaded the self portraits I had taken earlier.

I saw this woman's reflection. A spark of something in her eye. A peaceful look on her face. She seems wise. As though she lives on her path and walks in her life. As though she knows.

As I soaked in these images, Deb Talen's words, ones I had been listening to on repeat for a while before Kenny dropped by, echoed in my head "you are a phoenix with your feathers still a little wet...the ashes just look pretty on your eyes...dry your wings in the sun, you have only begun to understand."

Yes. Yes. Yes.

Hope...

I am beginning to understand. I am finding my way. And I am not alone. Even in the loneliest darkness, I have me.

(Little does Thea realize that she actually inspired this post for another reason. On Sunday night, I took another break from editing world, and I dipped into the archives of her blog and found this post which prompted me to buy Deb Talen's CD on iTunes. Thank you friend. Thank you.)

all that stuff, all that baggage {sunday scribblings}

I have caught a glimpse of her at different moments of my life. I think it began when I was about three or so; I would be walking and suddenly she would be there. I remember seeing her skipping down a sidewalk, arms waving in the air as she sang to a song in her head. On another day, when I was about five or so, she was sitting up in a tree with a little lunchbox balancing next to her and she was eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

I must have been about nine the first time I saw her with more than just that lunchbox. She was carrying a huge tote bag that seemed to be filled with lots of stuff and was much bigger than her little shoulders could hold. She still smiled and waved though.

A few years later, I came across her in the middle of a rainstorm. She didn’t have on a raincoat and stood on a street corner shivering. She was wearing a backpack and carrying that tote. Before I could ask her if she needed any help, she hopped on a bus and was off once again.

For a while, I kept looking for her, hoping she was fine and that maybe the bus had taken her someplace that felt like home. And one day my question was answered. There she was, standing on the shores of a lake, smiling. She was wearing the backpack still and carrying the tote bag. And she had a little suitcase next to her. But she looked happy and content.

About 10 years ago, I remember seeing her in the middle of an airport. She had a trunk, two suitcases, a backpack, and a basket on her head. She was carrying at least six of those tote bags and a huge purse. I just stood there watching her pull it all through the terminal. “How were they ever going to let her get on that plane?” ran through my head over and over for weeks after that. At the time, I didn’t even think about how odd it was that she didn’t use one of those carts or ask someone to help her.

A few years ago, she was sitting on the trunk with four suitcases, about eight tote bags, and two backpacks surrounding her, her face buried in her hands. The little lunchbox was tumbled over to one side. My heart ached for her, but I was too shy to comfort her. I wish I could have told her that it would be okay and that if she wanted, she could just get up and leave it all there, taking only what she needed. Taking only what she wanted to bring along to that next minute, day, year, lifetime. I wish I could have told her that she could just walk away from it all.

About a year later, I thought I saw her out of the corner of my eye getting ready to climb up on a merry-go-round. But by the time I turned my head, she was gone.

And last year, well, last year was different. I stumbled across her in the middle of a spring day. She was sitting on a rock along the sea. All she had with her was the little lunchbox and her backpack. She was clutching them both to her and sobbing. Not wanting to disturb her, even though I knew I might actually be able to talk to her this time, I tiptoed away quietly.

Well, lately, we have been running into each other quite a bit. Sometimes she just waves as she sits amidst wildflowers watching hummingbirds zoom over her head. Other days, over her shoulder she carries a curly willow branch with a bandana tied around the end. “Must be full of the important things,” I think to myself when I see that indigo blue bandana. There are some days when she has that backpack again and a suitcase or two at her side. And when I catch her eye, she just looks at me and shrugs her shoulders with a “doing the best I can” look on her face. Then she wheels the suitcases away.

It’s kind of nice knowing she is out there somewhere figuring it all out as she goes.
(to read about more baggage, click over to sunday scribblings)

another secret love

It all started in June of 2001, on my birthday to be exact. Well, it might have started before then, when I saw Bridget Jones’s Diary earlier that year, but I didn’t really meet him until June of 2001.
Mr. Darcy.
Over a week, I spent six glorious hours with him. And I ate up every minute. From his brooding, egotistical moments to his white, wet shirt to his professions of love. Yes. Yummy. I fell in love with him.
At the time, I was convinced I had fallen in love with Colin Firth. I mean, how could you not? And soon after finishing all six hours of BBC’s Pride and Prejudice, there was a nice, large photo of Mr. Firth in a magazine I was reading. So, his beautiful face became a fixture on my fridge. Yes. He became my secret boyfriend. Well, I often referred to him as such, so I guess he really became my not-so-secret boyfriend.

Though at some point, with no discussion, we began to grow apart.

But then, June of 2006 arrived. The new version of Pride & Prejudice appeared in the mailbox via netflix. I had been adamant that I was not going to watch it. Ever. I mean there was only one Mr. Darcy for me. But after reading some positive reviews over the months (especially by fellow bloggers), I agreed (with myself) to give it a try. However, I was going to watch it and work at the same time. I didn’t plan to really pay much attention to it. Even though I had loved Matthew Macfadyen on MI-5, my mind was already made up before I watched it.

But then something unbelievable happened. I realized I wasn’t in love with Colin Firth. No. Actually, I am quite in love with Mr. Darcy. He had me from the very first moment once again. My heart went pitter patter as he looked at Elizabeth, as he confessed his love with such arrogance. Yes. He is such a stubborn, proud, rude, brooding man. And I love him.
I watched the movie again before sending it back. And to be honest, I think I could probably watch it every week. Though, not sure my heart could handle it.
After this, I caught Bridget Jones’s Diary on TV and relished in the way Mark Darcy is Mr. Darcy (even though Bridget is not so much Elizabeth). Don't get me wrong, I adore her in this movie.
As that movie ended, I added the second Bridget Jones movie to my netflix queue (though I hadn’t really planned to see it either. Didn’t love book number two like I loved the first book, and I didn’t really want to deal with Bridget and her drama. But Mr. Darcy had me under his spell). I did laugh during it and had a smile on my face every single time Mark Darcy walked onto the screen even though his face was often frowning.
Then, during the last week in June, I curled up on the couch and I watched the BBC version of Pride and Prejudice again. In one day.

Oh yes. Mr. Darcy. I love you.

Now, I have decided that I must read the book. I know some say it is thick, and I can hear Meg Ryan's character in You've Got Mail talking about getting lost in the language, but I am going to give it a try. Of course, I have to buy the book first.

By the way, Mr. Darcy probably wouldn’t have come in to my life if it hadn’t been for my husband. We had been dating for about six weeks when my 25th birthday came along. And he gave me BBC’s Pride and Prejudice. Little did he know that even though we made out at the end of every single episode of that mini-series, and I was deeply falling in love with him, I was falling in love with Mr. Darcy.

Don't worry, I know which one of them is my true love.

a little laughter...but also grief (again) {poetry thursday}

Reading the posts of Poetry Thursday participants last week...well...my heart felt so full. The community, the sharing, the discussion, the words, the poems, the introductions to favorite poets...all of this. Yes. Thank you. I am doing a little happy dance as I think about how much this project has grown in the last few months. A happy dance.

This week, I am sharing the poem I was working on last week. (It is still a bit in progress, and I welcome gentle suggestions via email if any spring to mind.)

A vacation interrupted

Last Tuesday,
with the temperature at 92 degrees,
I began to stick to myself.
Thoughts of rainbow sherbet,
icy raspberry, orange, and lime,
sent me on a holiday from
the hell of the living room.
As I snuck away,
I did not anticipate a memory
ripping off the bandage
I use to hold my heart together,
when at noon the next day,
I lifted the plastic lid, inhaled,
and traveled to the humidity
of another kitchen.

A teaspoon scooping
rainbow sherbert, she watched
as I pressed two scoops
into the little pink bowl with
scalloped edges, then she said,
“Are you going to eat all that?”
Later, after a commercial
break, with Gramps and I
sucked into a story about
teenage mothers on 20/20,
she would sneak to the kitchen
for seconds. The suction
of the shutting freezer door
became the invitation
to echo her words.

Lacking manners and
sneaking up from behind,
the eager claws of grief
clutched at my center
when her laughter
rang out inside my head.
Untangling, I opened
the cupboard, reached for
a small purple glass,
took out a teaspoon
from the drawer, and
began to scoop up
the ribbons of color,
pressing each spoonful
closer together.

*********

Inspired by The Writer's Almanac link I posted last week, my husband has invited me to share a new evening ritual with him. We sit together on the couch and listen to Garrison Keillor's daily post. A nightly date with my husband and poetry. What more could a girl want really?

some of my favorite things in all the world (this week)

earlier this week, in one of the comment discussions that takes place at sprigs, i mentioned that i just might makes a list of my favorite things in all the world. well, here it is (at least for this week).

watching lynn’s hamster, tater, eat. tater is so cute as she stuffs her cheeks. and watching her little paws hold a raisin, well, I haven’t seen anything that cute in a long time.

entourage. this. show. cracks. me. up. sunday night i caught up on the last several episodes. kevin dillon makes me laugh. out. loud. love it.

the way my husband does his best to keep the sky from falling onto my head on days when it threatens to do so.

this poem by david whyte. erica introduced me to david whyte a few months ago on her blog. and i have been looking for a book of his poems ever since. over the weekend, in a little bookstore on bainbridge island, i found one. and i have been reading this poem before i go to sleep this week.

the movie the constant gardener. i know it has been out for a while, so i am just getting on board here. if you haven't seen it yet, i hope you will. it may not uplift you but it invites you to think. the acting is incredible. kind of want to be rachel weisz this week.

my dear friend melissa. she has known me for 15 years, and she is still my friend. our friendship becomes deeper every year, every day and this is a blessing. her sense of humor invites me to giggle and laugh and guffaw at times. we encourage one another to live in our lives authentically, even when this seems impossible. and i appreciate the way she holds me in her heart even though we are miles apart.

do you know the book bitter with baggage seeks same? well, i don’t own it, and part of the reason is because i love to rediscover it in bookstores and gift shops and open it and stand there reading it until tears of laughter roll down my face. not kidding. and in trying to explain this to lynn, i discovered that there IS A WEBSITE. please click on over to it, right now, and click to “extracts.” then come back here and tell me which one made you laugh out loud. (oh and if it is not your thing, no worries. surprised the hell out of me when I stood there laughing in urban outfitters a few years ago. i am more of a touchy-feely person as you might have known. but this book, well, it cracks me up.)

dancing. i have sucked jonny into dancing to marc broussard’s song “home” as millie watches us wondering what is happening.

the movie you’ve got mail. if you feel a bit bruised or overwhelmed (like I do this afternoon), and you need to catch your breath, watch this movie (you should own it so you can do this whenever you need it). escape to the lighthearted world this little movie gives you and enjoy the soundtrack. delightful. and now that i have seen pride and prejudice so many times lately (see the next one on this list), i enjoy all the references to this book (that i need to read, i know i do!) and the ways the characters parallel elizabeth and mr. darcy. you should know that i have seen you’ve got mail so many times that i can recite the lines along with the actors. and i still crack up at all the same jokes. every time. i love this movie. and today, i relate to meg ryan’s character kathleen even more than usual as she is trying to find her place in the world. she says, “i lead a small life, valuable but small. and sometimes I wonder, do I do it because I like it, or because I haven’t been brave? so much of what I see reminds me of something I read in a book, when shouldn’t it be the other way around?” yes. this is a feeling i know.

mr. darcy. yes. the mr. darcy. he is one of my favorite things in all the world this week and every week. and this summer, we have spent quite a bit of time together. this is a bit of a teaser because i plan to tell you all about this in another post soon.

a website i came across today. if you haven’t already done so, go find out where the hell matt is. watch the video; you will be glad you did.

the song Virginia woolf by the indigo girls. yes, i am still listening to it over and over. so much so that when i am listening to an iTunes playlist that includes it, i expect to hear the opening bars of virginia woolf when it finishes, even though james taylor insists on singing instead. this song heals my heart a tiny bit more every single time i hear it.

and one thing that is my least favorite this week: when people invite you to take on emotional guilt. hate that.