the canyon of my heart

On the outside, you might see me sitting on the couch working on my laptop. Sometimes I wear my headphones and will suddenly start singing and dancing while I work. Other times I am hunched over the Chicago Manual of Style trying to figure out how to reference something. You might see me reading a book or a magazine while I am curled up in bed. I might be making macaroni and cheese or a cup of tea. I might be on the floor in bridge pose stretching out my back. This is what you might see on the outside if you peeked in on me in the middle of the day.

This is what you would see on the surface. But what would it be like to look beyond this outer me?

As I looked through the pictures we took in Durango last weekend, I had a thought when looking at this photo of the cliff dwellings carved into the side of a mountain at Mesa Verde—looking at this photo is almost like peeking into my heart. All the emotions and memories and dreams that live in my heart live in a place like this.

When I was taking this picture, I heard someone from across the canyon call out to another person. I was amazed at the thought of how I could hear the person as though she was right next to me. I started to imagine how it would have been to call out to one another hundreds of years ago. How the seemingly quiet world of living on the side of a cliff was probably not all that quiet with thousands of people living throughout this canyon. The surface of something is never quite what it seems. I wondered about the loneliness people felt hundreds of years ago. When did these people decide to leave this place? Did somebody run back to pick up a lost belonging and turn around to find her family had left her? Only to then hear someone from across the canyon yell, “hurry up, we are just over here.”

Someone told me that the second year after you lose someone is the hardest. I remember nodding my head but thinking, “you have no idea what last year was like for me.” Today I am beginning to understand the truth of this statement. The first year you are simply trying to wrap your brain around the pain. And as humans, I think we are used to the idea that pain goes away. You break your arm, and then it heals. You fail, and then you get bounce back. So part of you is waiting for the pain to go away. But at some point, you begin to realize that this pain isn’t leaving. The person doesn’t come back. Ever. Sometimes I will just look at Jon and say, “my grandmother is totally dead.” This isn’t my sarcastic self talking. No, this is me reminding myself of the truth. I appreciate that time has a way of dulling things a bit and that she is with me and on and on and on. But I also know that my heart feels broken. And sometimes I am paralyzed for seconds at a time at the thought that this is how it will feel when I lose the next person. And then again with the next. My breath is cut off by this thought.

No one ever explained all this to me. Though I realize that maybe you can’t really understand it until you experience the loss of someone you love. Still, I wish I had even understood a tiny piece of it. Every day I am still a bit shocked about the depth of feeling I have now. How my understanding of life changed in one moment. And this isn’t melodramatic; it is just truth. My truth. Me.

At times, my heart does feel as empty and lonely as this cliff dwelling appears from across the canyon at first glance. However, I know that even through this emptiness a spirit is strong within these walls. These dwellings have been here for hundreds of years and they aren’t going anywhere anytime soon. And even when they do crumble, the energy of the people who lived in these walls is everywhere. This is also true of my heart. Even in moments of grief I am not alone. Even when it seems as though no one knows my experience, I am not alone. The spirit of all those who came before me lives in me. The spirit of all those who are with me now lives in me. The energy that creates the future lives in me. I try to remind myself that even in the deep, wide feelings of grief, I am not alone.

And if there are moments when you don’t know what to do, you don’t know what to say, or you don’t know how to respond, remember: To really see me, is to move the outer stuff aside to take a peek across the canyon to look inside my heart. To really love me, is to call across the canyon to let me know you are there.

And I will remember that this is true with you too.

a bookmarked poem and a gift {poetry thursday}

This week's idea at Poetry Thursday spoke to me for many reasons. I love the idea of bringing poetry into the every day moments of our lives. To allow ourselves to stop being afraid of poetry (if that is the case) or to let others in on our love of poetry. Carrying poetry with you and sharing it is a beautiful thing. Even if you share only with yourself. To know that you have these special words along for the ride of whatever is before you. I also loved this idea because it was perfect for the hecticness of my life. Meaning, I haven't had time to write much lately, but I appreciated the invitation to stop and take a breath and read a poem that I love (thanks Lynn).

Because I am spending most of my time with my laptop attached to me, I decided to electronically bookmark my poem and click to it every now and then as I worked. And I have done this over the last few days. (I have to admit that I like the idea of actually writing out the poem and putting it in your pocket. I want to do that soon too.) Because I have felt a bit melancholy, I wanted to turn to someone who would fill me up a bit. And this person continues to be William Stafford. The words of his poem "Sending These Messages" have been like balm for my aching heart this week. They have been a reminder of why I write, why I read, of all that poetry is for me. You can read it here.

I haven't mentioned the exciting news that earlier this month one of the women I work for hired me full time! So I am still editing from home and taking on some freelance projects, but I will have steady work from now on. This is a fantastic development for me (and I won't go into how excited I am to be working for her because she is a woman with integrity and is so honest...I don't want kiss up or anything but really I am lucky).

However, my time has been a bit stretched with summer and weddings and other things going on, so I am feeling a bit disconnected from things other than editing. I found out Monday that the yoga studio I teach at is closing. Now. So last night was my last class there (I will still have my community center class) and I already miss my regular students. It has been a very odd few weeks. And spending the weekend with family, coming back to a project that has been a bit crazier than expected, and the closing of the studio has just added to it all. As I mentioned in a previous post, this family gathering was the first one since my grandmother's death. And this weighed heavily on me. No one talked about her. It was so odd. I miss her deeply. I wanted to talk about her. But it was a wedding weekend and not about this. I get that. Still, my heart feels a bit depleted with it all.

And my husband knows this.

So last night, when I came to bed in the middle of the night because I was working late, I found a book of poetry on my pillow with a love note.

Tonight, I opened the book and read these words:

And I am thinking: maybe just looking and listening
is the real work.

Maybe the world, without us,
is the real poem.

From the first section of the poem "From the Book of Time" in Mary Oliver's book The Leaf and the Cloud.

This is the year I have been given the gift of poetry.

Thank you.

enclosed in music {self-portrait challenge}

I sit and look in the mirror, listening to Deb Talan sing in my ear. Then I join in and harmonize with her.

Serenading myself has become a new experience for me. I always sing, but actually singing to myself on purpose is something new. In certain moments, it seems to be holding me together.

finding my way back

On being tired

There are days you invite me to hold up
everything in sight. You. The world.
My arms ache. Add more. Go ahead.
My body becomes numb. You look
into my eyes and tell me no one cares
about you. I shift, grit my teeth, and try
to explain you are wrong. You follow
the instructions from your past:
pour more, rinse, repeat.
I start crying. You change the subject
to how you give. I start shaking. I cannot
breathe. You remind me of all you do not
appreciate about me. The time I said nothing
the person I know would say. You remind me.
Again. “Do you see how hard it is to be me?”
Every day I stand, my arms reach to the sky
as the sun burns the back of my neck.

“Yes. I see”

********

Tomorrow this blog will return to the regularly scheduled programming of meditations and self-portraits and pictures from my trip and encouragement and all that good stuff. However, tonight I found my way back to this poem I began a few weeks ago and decided to share it here.

a few things...

1) my grandmother is here. even though this is the first big family event she is missing, she is here. in the faces of her daughters (and in their interactions with one another, this is a hee, hee moment), in my heart, and in the spirit of the hummingbirds that are everywhere in this gorgeous corner of the world.

2) even though my grandmother did this kind of wacky, sometimes horrible thing of encouraging this odd competition between my and my cousin who is about two months younger than me, we get along great. i adore him. and i can't wait to spend time catching up with him and with his wife this evening. i kind of stick my tongue out at my grandma right now about this one. she had this thing with creating competition when there didn't need to be any. and we outgrew that. thank goodness.

3) seeing my aunt and uncle interact with one another makes my heart happy.

4) my husband is a kind soul and my best friend. this makes me the luckiest person i know.

5) i might want to be a mom. but only if i can have a daughter as cute and smart and funny as my cousin's daughter. (no need to tell me it doesn't work that way...i am just sayin')

6) i wish my brother was here. he is playing a show in portland so he couldn't be here but i miss him. he and my cousin (the one who is getting married) were born on the same day of the same year. how cool is that? my mother and her sister both had a baby on the same day. i know he hates that he isn't here this weekend.

7) the cliff dwellings at mesa verde remind me that a lot of what i spend my time being wrapped up in is pretty insignificant in the scheme of things. i want to come back here (kind of want to come back alone) and spend time in these ruins. when my back is better and i can walk like regular old me again.

8) i am switzerland in a family that thinks they are switzerland too. but i think i might be the only one actually able to hoist that flag with certainty. family is great though. you can learn so much from spending time with the people that make up the tribe from which you came.

9) i love wearing my hair in these two pigtail bun things and i can't wait until it is long enough to wear it in two braids again.

10) the book eat, pray, love might change your life. so read it already won't you? (i am going to write and write and write some more. this book has yelled at me and also whispered to remind me that this is my calling.)

11) I miss my grandmother like crazy. i am just tired enough after getting three hours of sleep wednesday night and a few more than that last night that i kind of want to curl up in a ball and cry. but i won't. i will keep my eyes open for the hummingbirds. have you ever heard them talk? they make this fantastic chirping sound, letting you know that they have some feelings about you being in their air space. yes, i think my grandmother flies with them now.

12) i saw wild horses today. enough said really.

13) i know i missed poetry thursday for the first time since the thursday in february when it all began. just trust me that today in the ruins i was part of the poetry of the earth. that is enough for this week i think.

14) wait until i tell you about how i am doing the mirror meditation while i am here. stay tuned...

senses. a day spent working on my laptop on the back porch.

{see}

{taste}

{touch}

{smell}

{hear}

{and know}

what do you want?

There are a lot of voices that whisper inside me. That is just the truth. But there is one that has been trying to spend a lot of time with me recently. It has been a soft voice lately, but I know it has been there for a long time, and it has, in the past, even been a loud, shouting voice. This voice says things like: “Who do you think you are?” “Why are you doing this?” “Do you really think anyone cares? About you? About what you are DOING? About who you are?” “Why can’t you just be quiet and leave others alone?” “You always want to talk about things and no one else does. Shut up.” “Stop whining.” “This is pathetic. Just stop. It will be easier if you just sit back down in your corner.”

There are lots of things that I can do to ignore this voice. I read, eat, watch television, go to a movie, listen to music, practice yoga, talk on the phone with a friend, talk and talk so I don’t have to hear it. But it just waits until I think I feel some balance. Then it begins again.

Over the last few weeks, the comments and emails I have received from you wonderful people who visit me in my world at this blog have simply overwhelmed me. You have invited me to honor who I am and how I share myself here. But just as I finish reading and feel those words start to fill up my heart, this whisper starts up again. “Who do you think you are? You can’t really believe that stuff.” And I recognize that may seem like I am not honoring what people have written, but that is not the case. This is not about the writer of the comment or email, it is about me. It is about how I cannot accept that the words are true.

I always thought my friends thought of me as “the bitch” of the group. I always wanted to do the right thing and not get in trouble. I would disagree with them. I had strong opinions about what was right and what was wrong. I was liberal and independent and wanted to be strong in a culture that kind of just wanted me to shut up and be like the rest of the girls. In grade school, I recited Helen Reddy’s “I Am Woman Hear Me Roar” for my oral interpretation. My freshmen year of high school, my speech teacher had me speak against the Equal Rights Amendment because he knew how alien this would be to me. I was so angry I could not vote for Bill Clinton in high school because I was worried he wasn’t going to win. I could be moody at times because I felt sadness and was troubled by things that were happening around me and in the world. I was confused by fakeness and would react with emotion when I was confused. Friends would keep things from me (like how a boy I had a crush on had asked one of them out on a date or that they all started smoking when I was vocally against smoking because my grandfather had died of lung cancer before I was born) because they were afraid of how I would react, “Liz is emotional.” I had similar experiences in college and beyond. And this made me feel scared that I didn’t really have any friends because no one really knew me or wanted to really know me.

There is a song by the Spin Doctors that was popular in high school called, I think, “Little Miss Can’t Be Wrong.” One of my high school friends turned to me one evening and said, “Liz, I think this song is about you.” Do you know how that song starts? “Been a whole lot easier since the bitch left town.” Wow. That interaction greatly shaped my role in my group of friends in high school and to this day. Was I the bitch?

In my family, I often felt like the oldest person in the room because of my need to do the right thing or because I felt so deeply about things or because I wanted to talk about things or because I spent so much time worrying about everyone else. And this was different from how people in my family reacted to life, at least from my perspective at the time.

(This is where a disclaimer originally appeared. A place where I talked about how I am not pointing any fingers and I am not trying to invite anyone to feel bad. But really, I have to stop that. Sometimes my life feels like a disclaimer {my friend Heather is out there nodding somewhere} so I deleted it. Still, remember that this blog is about my perspective and not about someone else’s. My name is the one in the sidebar to the right.)

When I look in the mirror, I am afraid to be honest about the fact that I think some of that past stuff is shit. That I do not think I am a bitch. (Am I?) That I do not think I was wrong when I was vocal because I felt compassion for others or because my goal wasn’t to be a quiet “good” wife one day or because I was intelligent or because I was mad about something or confused…the list is endless.

Now there is a bit of a disconnect between my realization that I have spent so much time thinking about the feelings of others and not myself and that some of these others think of me as a self-centered person. This seems so confusing. And I wonder if some people read my blog and think, “This isn’t really her. I mean, she isn’t being honest about how she can be a bitch.” But as I look in the mirror, I think I just have to honor that I know my truth.

And your words, the community I have found here, a community where I do think people are real with one another, helps me see this. Do I believe this seems so “real” partly because I don’t have baggage yet with the people I have met through blogging? Perhaps. But what I think is that in this environment, many people (certainly not all, but the people I feel the deepest connections with) get right to the guts of things. The small talk isn’t needed. Whether this is on their blog, in an email conversation, over the phone. Instead, we just get right to it. The heavy lifting. The good stuff that is hard and painful and beautiful and true.

Last night, I turned off my computer earlier than usual and went to bed to read. I may be the last blogger to read the book Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert, but I am finally reading it. I imagine there was a reason I waited until now. I am so swept up in it that I keep promising myself little things like, "just edit one more chapter, then you can read five pages." There is something wonderful about not reading on a computer screen because I do that all day long with my work and when I am out in blog world.

Gilbert's words prompted me to spend time in front of my mirror around midnight last night. I got up to go to the bathroom and then after I washed my hands, I leaned against the bathroom counter and had a meeting of the minds with myself.

What do you want?

The answer came right away. But then: You can’t really do that.

What do you want?

Same answer. Then, no, you don’t want that.

What do you really want?

Same answer. But, you said you wanted this and that, so you are kidding yourself again.

What do you want?

Same answer. This time I did not even pay attention to the voice, I just asked myself again.

And again and again and again, the same answer.

As I leaned into the mirror, I felt as though I had clarity about something that the negativity could not touch. Clarity that is not about some huge life changing thing exactly, but something I know to be true about my future and who I want to be. Something I have pretended to have clarity about in the past but always that knowledge seemed to succumb to that voice. And maybe it will again. But at least I see it for what it is now. Just a voice that wants to drag me to the past. The past I honor because it brought me to this place. But a past in which I do not live.

enclosed in a moment {self-portrait challenge}

This month’s topic at self-portrait challenge is enclosed spaces. I have been exploring the idea of being enclosed in my body.

Today I was enclosed in a moment with my body.

In this last week, my energy around the reflection meditation has become a bit more about “oh I forgot again and it is 11:00 p.m.” and less “this is the time I have set aside to do this.”

Today, I changed that. I created a practice. My plan is to partake in the extended version I did today at least once a week. But each day, I will do at least a piece of this practice.

I created a space for myself in our family room. Propping up the mirror that usually sits on our mantel, using a small stool as a table, changing into something that makes me feel good, putting on a little make-up. I made a pot of tea for one and a small plate of treats.

I sat down in front of the mirror and lit a candle and stated my intention.

I chanted to Shiva, hoping to gain strength and the ability to detach from all that flits back and forth in my mind.

I opened my eyes and looked at my reflection.

I had a tea party with my own reflection, eating a little chocolate, some walnuts, and rainier cherries.

I took some pictures of myself.

I watched myself in the mirror, noticing how it felt to be in my body, in these clothes, in this day.

I honored my body and its curves.

I acknowledged a power greater than me and blew out the candle.

This meditation is about accepting that my outer self and my inner self are one. It is about being as gentle with my physical body as I believe I should be with my emotional body because they both make up me.

Is there a separation between the outer and inner physical self? Do the voices of others speak so loudly in our heads that we forget to honor that inner beauty is the outer beauty? Will we allow the expectations of the “shoulds” to take over who we want to be? These are the questions that swirl around me tonight as I sit here hoping you are being gentle with yourself. That you are honoring your physical and emotional bodies. Hoping you are owning your beauty.