good morning (okay, afternoon) monday {december 4}

just a note to say why i do these Monday posts. i like the idea of checking in with myself in this way, as though i am somewhat holding myself accountable for what i do with all my time. i spend so much of my time alone and i sometimes wonder where all that time goes. during the weeks when i was ill and resting last month, i found myself realizing that i can just stop and take a nap, that the world continues if i am not working during every free minute of my day, and that taking notice of the people, books, poems, animals, movies, foods, hobbies, moments and so on that surround me fills me up in the best of ways. i want to be able to look back and see what inspired me, made me happy, caused me to push myself, frustrated me…and i like that through the blogging medium i can do this in a way that also connects with others (who might be singing the same songs or who might want to investigate a new poet or who might have suggestions for me to expand who i am or who might want to join me for a latte).

thinking

about the evening jon and i spent with david whyte. we attended a poetry reading/talk he gave in seattle friday. i keep hearing the cadence of his voice in my head. and i continue to hear it whenever i turn to one of his poems. he one of the first poets who made poetry accessible to me, but i had only read his poems here and there on other blogs. a few months ago, i bought my first book of his poetry and i can't stop reading his words. (and after friday's vendor table i now have three more books and four cds. yep, i just can't stop.)

about the odd experience we had watching the new james bond movie. it was quite good (if you like movies like that, which i do). was really the best bond movie i have seen. daniel craig (and the script) made bond human...and you believe that he could save you from anything. a combination that makes the movie interesting (to men and women). but during this horrific torture scene, the audience starting laughing. to put it into context, bond is using sarcasm to indicate that he isn’t going to “break” or tell the torturer any information. but, the scene isn’t funny. at all. it was a disturbing moment of human beings not knowing what to do with the feelings that were coming up in the uncomfortable-ness of it all and the effect other people have on one another. i can't imagine any of thoes people would have busted up laughing if they were alone in the theatre. (have you seen it? did the audience at your theatre do this?)

about dr. oz on oprah. i am trying to eat a better breakfast (not just cereal that i thought was a “smart start” but really has sugar as the fourth ingredient) filled with protein and fiber. (okay, today i had eggs and turkey bacon and wheat toast…but i wasn’t sleepy and i am not hungry yet.) i asked for his books for christmas. if only i would have had this one a month ago.

about the kim family, a family from the bay area who have been missing for over a week now. kati kim is known by people in the crafty/artsy blogging community; she runs two boutiques in SF. our local news keep running stories about them. for more information go here. [update at 3:30 pm: according to our local news, Kati and children have been found alive. the search continues for her husband james.]

about crystals used for healing and meditation. jon and i went to the east west bookshop last weekend and i bought a few with specific intentions and i would like to incorporate them into my daily practice/life, but i am not quite sure how to do that. i bought the crystal bible and it does have some wonderful information, but i am still not quite sure how i should literally “use” them. i welcome any suggestions/books/websites and so on. thanks.

enjoying

the artwork and words at inside a black apple. i love the prints she has for sale in her etsy shop (great Christmas gifts).

this (somewhat random) site i found when searching for a recipe for kale. if you sometimes find yourself with produce that you aren’t sure what to do with because you bought too much or you get an organic delivery like us or you want to try something new, check it out as it has some delightful recipes listed (and they are listed by fruit/veggie).

singing

a playlist that includes: deb talan, paul simon, the indigo girls, feist, kenny rogers, loreena mckennitt, conway twitty & loretta lynn, cowboy junkies, tina turner…

reading

poems from David Whyte’s book, “Songs for Coming Home.” my eyes fill with tears again and again. (i have to remind myself to breathe…but i am reminded again that i am not alone.)

creating

some christmas presents. i love fabric.

cooking/eating

peanut butter on graham crackers.

sushi. we have had sushi almost twice a week for the last three weeks. i keep thinking of the good salmon eating up all ill cells in my body.

anticipating

next weekend. i am going to LA for the first time to visit my friend dear friend heather. it is a spur of the moment trip and i will only be there for about two and a half days. but the price was right and we simply need to see each other. and those two things are a good combination.

studio 60 on the sunset strip tonight. that show just makes me happy.

drinking my first gingerbread latte later today when i stop at starbucks after some grocery shopping.

loving

that i have given myself permission to take 20 minute naps when i get tired.

filling the house up with candlelight. on a pacific-northwest day like this one, you can wake up and light them because it looks like it is already 4 p.m. outside. to light the candle with intention and then to say a blessing as you blow it out…this is part of my daily ritual. (my favorite candles are carla’s over at zena moon. we will be placing our holiday order soon!)

time spent together curled up on the couch reading, listening to music, watching a movie. my heart is at home in these moments.

a poem, a practice

This week’s prompt was inspired by a conversation I had with the parents of a friend of my mother’s. The conversation took place about eight years ago in the kitchen of the house they had lived in throughout their more than 50 years of marriage. Years later, I sit here on my couch, with a laptop before me, working on a poem inspired by that conversation. Honoring the lesson, yet again, that every moment is poetry.

The poem is still a work in progress, so I will not share it today…

As I mentioned in a post earlier this week, I have been reading Daniel Ladinsky’s translations of poems by the Sufi poet Hafiz. Almost every day this week I have picked up the collection of poems found in The Gift and let the book flip open to a page. I read the poem that lives on that page aloud. And take a breath. And sit with it. And try to eek out all the answers I can find from it.

Today, the poem* living on the page I turned to:

When You Can Endure

When
The words stop
And you can endure the silence

That reveals your heart’s
Pain

Of emptiness
Or that great wrenching-sweet longing.

That is the time to try and listen
To what the Beloved’s
Eyes

Most want
To

Say.

Today, I began the practice my teacher gave me last Saturday.

Part of the practice is an inner-guided, silent meditation. Another part of the practice is a speaking meditation of sorts. Listening to the silence, then listening to myself as I give energy to the words that are trapped within my throat, and then coming back to the silence once again. Opening the head and the heart to something greater than me.

Today, I opened The Gift and discovered…

this poem is my practice.

*shared with permission

sewing tiny threads

I am a person who can quickly tap into that feeling of loneliness. I know I have mentioned this before, and through writing about it every now and then over the last year, I have come to honor that this is part of who I am. At the same time, I am lucky. I am lucky because I am really never alone. I am beginning to realize that loving and knowing myself is key to understanding this. And through the journey I am on, I am starting to honor that fact that I am lucky because I have a partner in this life: my husband. However, I often forget this. I forget that I am not alone, that he is here to support me, listen to me, brainstorm with me, and hold my hand. I forget that through our relationship I learn more about this person who is me. I forget to pay attention to this because I become lost in the day-to-day stuff.

During these last few weeks, I have been forced to rely on him. Not in my usual “take it for granted that he will empty and fill the dishwasher because he knows how much I hate that” way or my assumption that he will put the new roll of toilet paper on the toilet paper holder thing because that bugs me or my “I have been married for four years and have forgotten how to do certain things I always did as a single girl so now I need a man to do it for me” way. Not in those usual ways.

I had to rely on him to drive me to doctor’s appointments and tests because I was too sick to drive myself or might be too ill after the test or procedure I was having. He made me meal after meal, not because I was too lazy or didn’t think about cooking, but because I couldn’t do it. I had to just rest. There were a few days when I could shower only when he was home because I was so dizzy and one day when he had to wash my hair for me because I was in too much pain to hold my head back. This is an entirely new level of relying on someone else.

A few months ago, I casually mentioned on my blog that I would like to write/talk more about marriage. The truth about marriage. The challenges, the ugly bits, the gorgeous moments, the misunderstandings, honest moments, the beauty, the fears…the guts of it. How marriage acts as a magnifying glass hovering over all of your baggage, stuff, fears, loves, hates, and beauty. And I want to start talking about it. Here. Today.

Talking about the guts of marriage can, of course, apply to any relationship that involves the intimacy of romantic love. A person in a relationship like this obviously does not have to be married (and I honor that some of you can’t get married and to say that the fact that you might want to and you can’t pisses me off…well, that is an understatement, but a topic for another time), marriage is just my frame of reference.

These last few weeks as I have relied on Jon in a different way, I have remembered why it is that we do the heavy lifting in our marriage. Why we stay in the room when we have a conflict (or at least why we continue to work to stay in the room even when we want to flee). Why he does the dishes almost every day knowing that I hate to do dishes. Why I take care of presents and mailing things and on and on because he hates trying to figure all that out. Why he sits on the couch next to me listening to his iPod and I turn and put my legs up over his legs even though I am working and basically ignoring him and if I were to talk he wouldn’t hear me anyway because he is engrossed in a podcast. Why he is learning to give me space when I lash out because my fears are sometimes louder than the reason and truth that rest in my heart. Why I am trying to understand how to listen and not fix/suggest/take over/talk over him when he shares his problems. Why we just keep doing the work. Every day. To me, because you are doing the work, you are saying to the other person, “You are not alone. I am here. Right here next to you. And when the shit hits the fan, even if we just had a big, fat, ugly argument, I am going to be right here, right next to you. This is something you can simply count on because I am telling you this. You can trust me.”

When I was single, I thought if I just found someone all the pieces of my life would fall into place. I would be thin (of course because no one was going to love a person who was not thin), I would feel beautiful all the time, I would have great sex every single day, I would have fun most of the time, I would entertain people in my big house, I would buy this and that, I would have five kids, I would have money to travel to exotic places, I would feel brave, I would feel whole, I would, I would, I would.

Yeah, I so didn’t get it.

I didn’t get that someone would actually love me for me. Which means that person would even accept the parts that I didn’t accept about myself, the parts I still didn’t magically accept after that person was a part of my life. I didn’t want to admit that I knew my self-image was about me and not about the fact that I didn’t have several boyfriends in high school and college (or really any for that matter) and other boy-related issues. I didn’t get that the other person would bring all of there shit (literally and figuratively) into the relationship and that my shit and that person’s shit would just have to co-exist and learn to love one another and all fit under the roof of one apartment (that had been plenty of space for me and a dog) and in the space between us. There was so much that I didn’t get.

I believe relationships are one of those things that you have to live to understand. But one thing I do feel is true, we can be a bit more honest about it. And by we, I mean you and me and all the people that make up this crazy society. We can talk about the guts of it—the beauty and the shit—and let go of the fears surrounding being honest.

When you are a newly married person, there is a societal pressure to prove that you are going to be one of the ones who makes it. Meaning, you have to talk about how everything is still bright and shiny like an issue of Martha Stewart Weddings, instead of being honest about how the honeymoon ended a lot sooner than you thought and crap, you just don’t want to put Star Trek ships up in the living room and how you are sometimes too tired to have sex and how you can’t believe that he doesn’t understand why it is okay that you leave your underwear in the bathroom every morning because you have always lived here and that is just what you do but that you get mad at him when he does it. From the silly to the serious, we are invited not to talk about it. We don’t want people to think/say, “oh…they are having problems.”

So starting today…let’s talk about it.

"Chains do not hold a marriage together. It is threads, hundreds of tiny threads which sew people together through the years."
Simone Signoret

(This is the part where I reassure you [and my dear husband] that this doesn’t mean I am going to share the nitty-gritty details of every aspect of my own marriage or that my blog has become “married-girl blog”—anyone who knows me knows I am not “married girl.” But as I continue to think about how this place has become a place for me to witness my journey, I have realized that I do want to start to look at what this partnership means in my life, what I can do to be a better communicator, and how it really is to try to have such an intimate relationship with someone else knowing that you are simply going to trigger each other because that is what happens in close relationships. And I also want to look at what it means to build and establish true trust in intimate relationships and friendships. Trust that you can just be yourself. End of disclaimer.)

remembering my way back

(rose in pt. defiance rose garden. october 2006. canon digital rebel.)

It is snowing. I can see the flakes falling outside the kitchen window. And I am filled with an overwhelming longing for home. The idea of home. The idea of a place where I grew up and lived for 28 years. A place where the winters were filled with snow.

Lately, I have been struggling with what to write about here. And I am remembering my way back. The quote, attributed to The Buddha, that sits atop this page every day is one reason why. A private session with my yoga teacher this weekend reminded me as well. I believe that we are here in the place we are in because our soul has a question. We seek the answer.

And even though I am also remembering that it isn't popular and it isn't easy and it isn't something everyone else wants to talk about and people perceive me as a serious person, searching for this answer is part of who I am. This is part of who I am. And I am not going to change to fit the mold of an expectation or to be "liked" by another.

As the snow falls and falls, I sit here knowing the truth. Even though I sometimes run from it, even though I fear it, even though I do not always understand, I am here. I am showing up. I am peeking underneath things and peering around corners and stopping to listen, and trying to find the courage to speak. I am showing up. Though the answer may never be found, and maybe finding it really isn't the true goal, I am showing up to seek, to learn, to crack open, to grow, and to love.

Today, when I started this post, I thought I would just share this photograph and a quote. Because, like I said, I thought I didn't really know where I wanted to go with this blog, what to say knowing my words are read by people who know me, kind of know me, don't know me at all, or think they know me. Taking a break from work and remembering my teacher's mention of Hafiz in our session, I turned to his words. And I turned to a page in the middle of the book, to this poem*:

It Felt Love

How

Did the rose

Ever open its heart

And give to this world

All its

Beauty?

It felt the encouragement of light

Against its

Being,

Otherwise,

We all remain

Too

Frightened.

Reading these words, hearing the words of my teacher, and opening my heart to something greater than me, I am remembering my way back. To my journey. To my soul's question. To me. And this place will continue to be where I share some of the pieces of my journey.

(*Translation by Daniel Ladinsky in the book The Gift. Shared with permission.)

just let me pout for a few minutes, well only after i tell you the good news

First, on a non-pouting note: We did hear from my doctor today and had some positive results from one test. Positive meaning the news was good. So that is good. Very, very good. Still don't really know what is going on...but at least some good news (which means we have ruled out at least one thing that would have been bad, bad news). So celebrate good times...

Now, on to the pout: In about an hour and a half, I was to be sitting on the edge of my seat, ready to see "The Gambler" perform and hear him sing Christmas songs and some of his classic tunes. But I am here on my couch, in Washington, instead of getting ready in Indiana...so I will not be hearing Kenny Rogers sing this evening. And that is making me pout a bit...and I kind of want to pout. So, I am. I will get over it in a few minutes, especially because in a few minutes I am going to start making the day after Thanksgiving, Thanksgiving dinner for me and jonny and millie. And more good food...well, that is good. (and of course, the good news in the first paragraph above has not been forgotten...bring on the cranberry sauce from a can...and the stuffing...and the WINE.)

happy day after thanksgiving everybody!

waiting (week three)

It feels strange to be spending so much time away from this page that is like a second home to me. It feels strange not to be taking pictures and posting them, talking about all the good things I am enjoying, and thinking about “what am I going to post on my blog today?” This is the third week of this new life of having a “health condition” and it seems to fill most of my time. I also started working again this week (after not working for over two weeks for first personal reasons, time with friends, and then health reasons). These three weeks have been full of lots of different appointments, physical and emotional experiences, phone conversations, and other stuff…

The first week was filled with illness and pain and fever and fear. Having a fever for over a week does a number to the body. Feeling discombobulated, dizzy, achy, and out of sorts in the midst of not knowing what is wrong with you is something I hadn’t ever experienced. I was also in some extreme pain that was not the usual for the general diagnosis I had been given at that point. I have a new understanding of illness and pain now. I have a new understanding of the idea that one has to fight for one’s own health care. In the midst of feeling so awful, I had to insist someone listen to me—that even though my symptoms were not “usual,” I had to insist that I know my body. And finally, someone did listen.

The second week was filled with doctor’s appointments and waiting and feeling better physically even if some things didn’t change. After the first doctor I met with during this second week was more concerned with more tests and less concerned with how I was feeling, I called my primary care physician’s office and again expressed my concerns about how I was feeling physically. And after lots of insisting and talking and talking some more, I was put on an antibiotic by a new doctor, a woman, who is now my primary care physician. Even though it seems that it is possible that some of these symptoms may not have been connected and I might even have something secondary going on, I have learned that you must call and call until someone listens to you. Luckily, I didn’t have to resort to going to my primary care physician’s office and sitting there until someone helped me. My fever was so high, I wouldn’t have been able to drive myself anyway. After a few days on the antibiotic, I began to physically feel better. After meeting with my new primary care physician, I felt even better because someone was listening to me. Listening TO me.

The third week has been full of a more tests, more waiting, and deep breaths. I had to undergo a test that was to take ten minutes that instead took ninety. I have learned I am slightly claustrophobic (especially when three people are standing over me and I cannot talk or move). This has become a lesson in my biggest fears: not being able to express myself, not being able to control my physical space (and in some ways my physical body or what is being done “to” it), not having any answers, not even knowing the right questions to ask (or even being able to ask the questions), and on and on. And the important lesson of waiting. And learning what is about me and what isn’t and beginning to feel my way through the difference.

On Monday evening, when I was recovering from Monday’s experience of the test that lasted longer than planned, Jon and I watched a couple episodes of House. The same four DVDs from Netflix have been sitting next to our television for several weeks now. I somehow put things into the queue that I simply did not want to watch during this time of resting and waiting. And, House, well, House I didn’t want to watch most of all. I didn’t want to see some patient with similar symptoms as mine suddenly have boils on her body or some scary thing (no, I have not had boils). In the episode we watched, one of House’s colleagues was with an older male patient in the clinic. Suddenly House and three other doctors come into the room and started talking about symptoms and tests and “what can it be?” etc. The patient’s eyes were getting wider and wider until he heard, “but he is only 12 years old.” The patient whispered, “oh, it isn’t about me.”

I started laughing and said to Jon, “that is one of my all-time favorite TV moments.” The fear and confusion and the sudden beautiful understanding. It isn’t about me. Nope. Sometimes it isn’t.

I am sure it may seem odd to some that I am not sharing the specifics of what is going on with me. I apologize if that irritates or seems odd. At this point, this is what I feel comfortable with. When my grandmother passed away, I learned that people share a lot of platitudes because they do not know what to say. And they are also moved to tell you about a lot of their own experiences. And sometimes this is really, really helpful, and sometimes…not so much. Because we are in the midst of understanding what is going on for me…and it might not be a big deal (even if the tests to determine this are a big deal at times, at least to me) and it might be kind of a big deal or somewhere in the middle. Although I appreciate that someone’s uncle’s friend’s sister went through the same thing or the boyfriend of a second cousin had something similar six years ago this Christmas…those people are not me. And so far, I have learned that my “case” isn’t following the usual anyway. Last week, Jon had to listen to someone at his school share horror stories of something similar. Yep. Not so much helpful. I truly appreciate that the way we find common ground and understanding is to share our stories (anyone who visits this little spot regularly knows I am all about the stories), but right now, I am just taking this day by day and waiting. So instead of adding to hope or fear, I have realized that just sitting beside me and nodding and lighting a candle and breathing is what I am really looking for from others. First-hand experiences (like “my wife had this same thing last year” and “I went through something similar a few weeks ago)…yes, those are really helpful and I do want to share that I appreciate those very much.

So Week Three is all about waiting. Luckily it is all about turkey and mashed potatoes and gratitude, too. Even if that makes the waiting longer, it is nice to eat some good food, meet some new people (which is what we will be doing tomorrow), eat some more good food (when we make Thanksgiving ourselves Friday because we want the leftovers and I actually love making it all but wanted to get out of the house tomorrow), recognize the reasons we are thankful…oh and start listening to Christmas music!

get up and do it again {sunday scribblings}

I am someone who is easily captivated by stories of fantasy and fiction. I love stories where someone comes and saves the day. I am on the edge of my seat during Superman and Lord of the Rings and the X-Men movies. I chew off fingernails as I read the adventures of Harry Potter, the Pevensie children, and a feisty fairy named Magpie. These stories are filled with heroes who save the day. Literally. And I eat up every minute of them.

Some of my friends know I am fond of saying that I think almost every story (okay, at least the ones I enjoy) has a bit of A Christmas Carol in it. Someone who doesn’t get it at all faces something, and as the person faces that “something,” the person suddenly gets it. Every year (not necessarily in December), I cuddle up on the couch and watch The Muppets’ Christmas Carol to be reminded of this very idea: A person who seems as though he may never “get it,” he has a story, and we can hope that some day he will be face to face with something that invites him to crack open and get it. (Oh and I also love, love, love the music in this version of this story. If anyone has the soundtrack, I would love to know where to get it.)

It is this realization, this understanding that is the awakening of the hero. I love how this happens in fantastical stories and in stories about every day people. Almost every good story has a character who fits the Ebenezer Scrooge definition. And this is the part where I admit that I believe we have a little of Scrooge in all of us. The ego that must take a breath and realize everything isn’t all about us. That even though our story has brought us to where we are, we make a choice to write the next page.

There is a story by Brian Andreas that hangs in our bedroom above our dresser. It is a framed print called “Real Hero.” It is about the idea that real heroes are people who get up every day and live their lives. I bought this for Jon to let him know that I honor his feelings that life can be hard, hard, hard. That sometimes it can be so challenging that everything seems like it can go wrong. But that the hero inside each of us is what gets us up every morning to face it again anyway.

On Monday, when Jon and I left a doctor’s office, I was feeling pretty overwhelmed and scared. As we waited for the elevator, a woman in a wheelchair was ahead of us. I was so in my head, in my fears, that I could feel myself trying not to notice that she did not have any legs. Her hands were enclosed in leather, fingerless gloves, and she operated her wheelchair on her own.

I believe that the situations we are in are relative to what we know and who we are. So of course, it is easy to think, “well, at least I am not her.” The “at leasts” that fill up space. Although they may have merit, we run the risk of walking a line of pity, which is, for me, a waste of time. Pity. Not a word that resonates. But understanding. Yes. This is what I seek. And, of course, to be understood.

In the five days since the not-so-great doctor’s appointment, I have thought about this woman. No matter her story, she is someone who gets up every day and does it again. And again. And again.

A hero.

I can hope that no matter what life hands me now and in the future, I will try to follow this same path. Get up. Do it again. Go to bed to rest a while. Repeat. And in the midst of this living, I hope when I am face to face with whatever stands in my path that I will be willing to crack open. To let go of the ego that it is all about me and learn. To make a choice to write the next page of my story. And then, yes, repeat.

(to read the writing of others who responded to this prompt, visit sunday scribblings)

if you were a fly on our wall tonight...

"do you see meeko? do you see her? she is way cuter than that guy."
"eek! they are so little. i think those guys are way to young to play this game."
"are you lookin' at her? are you?"
"oh god. totally a tie."
"sorry guys. you both lose points because your humans can't take good pictures."
"yeah, we don't like the hairless ones."
"do you think they have one for dogs? see if they have one for dogs?"

followed by

"that one is creepy."
"oh it's a golden. we have to vote for all goldens."
"no! i like charlie. charlie is C-U-T-E!" "no. those dogs creep me out." "fine...it's a draw."
"that dog has the same name as my grandmother." (long pause.)
"kitten wars is way more fun." "yeah, i don't know why, but you are right."

so back to

"we have discovered that kittens are more photogenic." "yep."
"i am falling asleep now." "just a few more."
"it's 11:30" "fine."

(yes, this is how jon and spent our "late night" friday night time together. first we went to kittenwar, followed by puppywar, followed by, that's right, kittenwar again. good times. go ahead. you will agree. and you too will be surprised how sixty minutes just fly right by!)