begin

a stream-of-consciousness blog post.
also known as a morning-pages-like blog post.
also known as a dumping-the-brain-before-going-to-bed blog post.
also known as a welcome-to-the-world-of-me blog post.

*******

sleepy. so excited about my little room. trying to figure out what to do with the last bits of things. can’t wait until i can get my work done and play in here. just have a bit more to do. i want to put up my initials on the wall. figure out what to call my bulletin board inspiration thing. need to get a chair. i want a brown leather chair but i don’t know where to go to get one. hopefully this weekend we can look for one. i am sleepy. i can’t believe it is almost midnight. i should be in bed. why have i been staying up so late. my brain isn’t ready for bed lately. though i haven’t been all that tired during the day so that is good. feeling good. well. it is a good thing. i am so tired i don’t even know what i want to write about. i think morning pages that are really midnight pages might be better written out. i can’t help but use the delete key just a little bit (not counting when i make a mistake). kelly gave me the idea to just start using the morning pages as brainstorming. and this is how i fell in love with them again. i just started writing down words that make me happy. words that trigger all the good stuff i have learned in the last two years. has it been two years? i cannot believe that in a few weeks it will be the anniversary of traveler’s death. two years. i miss him. and then two years since my grandmother’s death this april. i miss her every single day. i was telling jon today that all my poetry is about her. and the reason i think it is always about her is because it is the most real thing in my life. the fact that she is dead. it is tangible and real and yet unbelievable and crazy and not at all tangible at the same time. but it is the most real. i have never felt more real in all my life as i have felt since she died. everything is different. every single fucking thing about it all is different. all of it. i am sleepy and don’t really want to be so focused on this as i get ready to head to bed. i miss her. getting her windbreaker in the mail and some other things has been a good thing. but the missing crept back to the forefront since i opened that box. that is okay. but it is still so very painful. but real. i think of the velveteen rabbit a lot. the wise skin horse. the truth, the truth, the truth. yes. only when you are rubbed off in parts and all that stuff. only then are you real. what i love about blogging is that i really believe some people come to the page and come from their real place. not everyone i suppose. but that is not for me to judge. i appreciate that blogging has helped me to know that this search for real is not something i am doing alone. oh this makes me even more tired though. all the work. and it is work. this living. i bought these little tiny glass jars today and i cannot wait to fill them with the smallest of bits i use to create. of course, i have been creating more in my mind lately. but soon, i will be creating again. stuff that is tangible. i spent the last few days brainstorming potential names for a little business i would like to create where i might sell my creations. hmmm. so many fun words out there. so many possibilities. it is great fun to brainstorm like this. i told jon that sometimes i laugh in my head that i am one of those people with all these great ideas for things to sell and create. the good thing is that i don’t create businesses for each one of them because then we would be living in a little teeny one room place. but at the same time, i wish i took the leap. stopped the excuses. today, we were at a store also known as the paper source also known as a place where i want to spend a million dollars also known as the place i left without spending a dime, and they had these delightful lowercase letters i could put on my wall. and i decided what i wanted to spell: begin. that is the word. begin. BUT. of course. they didn’t have any e’s. not one. though the nice woman told me that michael’s has the same kind of letters. will be funny to compare prices. they were hollow cardboard letters that i can decorate. this is the reminder. begin. when i don’t know what to do. begin. when i don’t know what to make. begin. when i am scared. begin. when i am overwhelmed. begin. begin. do not be afraid. stop with the excuses already.
begin.

a bug wrapped in snow

we still have snow
(and ice)
we haven't left the house since we got back from my yoga class wednesday night
(jon had two snow days)
we are reaching into the depths of the cabinets for food
(though so far that has been a good thing because we have plenty)
and we are now out of bread and eggs
(and izze sparkling apple juice)
so tomorrow
(well, today really)
we will try to drive
(skate)
to the store
(and starbucks)

short poems and stafford {poetry thursday}

Another Thursday filled with poetry!

We are having a snow day here out in the Tacoma area. Those of you in snowier parts of the world might think that means we have a foot or more of snow. Nope. Not here. It just takes a few inches to close down schools. It is nice having my husband home though as I work.

Speaking of work, I am finding clichés everywhere as I edit this week! My cliché radar is in full force after this week’s (completely and totally optional) idea. It looks like people have had fun with this odd prompt. I can’t wait to spend some time clicking around to Poetry Thursday participants’ sites later today.

I have been working on several poems lately, but I find myself getting stuck. I was on the phone with Dana last evening and was telling her how I think I need to write short poems for a while. I explained how I keep getting stuck in the wordiness and my own amateurishness (which, I guess, is a word).

I thought about this conversation today and decided to just write a few short poems. Here is one of them:

Where you live

Though you sit on a mantle
in the house you lived in
for almost 40 years,
all that you were is folded
into this windbreaker
resting upon my lap.

This is where you live.

This feels like the beginning of a poem, but maybe it is just a thought I have been having wrapped up in the form of a poem.

I have started reading The Answers are Inside the Mountains: Meditations on the Writing Life by William Stafford (edited by Paul Merchant and Vincent Wixon). It is a collection of his essays, interviews, writings, and so on. As I struggle with my writing, he finds a way, as he always does, to remind me to keep going. In an interview, when asked if he has an audience in mind when he writes, he said:

No, it’s just for myself. I’m very indulgent at the time of writing. I’ll accept anything, any old trash; it can never be low enough to keep me from writing it. You know, the process of writing is kind of a trusting to the nowness, to the immediacy of the experience. And if you enter into the artistic endeavor with standards, already arrived-at ideas of what you want to do, you’re not entering creatively into the immediacy of encountering the materials.

It’s almost as if an artist who enters into the process with this determination to meet standards, achieve quality, is not trusting the self that’s doing the writing. That’s what led me to say once, writers ought to let themselves write bad poems. Not bad from their point of view, but unacceptable from another’s.

I read Stafford’s words.
I read my own.

I keep writing.
I keep writing.
I keep writing.

you already know

The great teachings unanimously emphasize that all the peace, wisdom, and joy in the universe are already within us; we don’t have to gain, develop, or attain them. We’re like a child standing in a beautiful park with his eyes shut tight. We don’t need to imagine trees, flowers, deer, birds, and sky; we merely need to open our eyes and realize what is already here, who we really are.
Bo Lozoff

Anticipating the President’s words tonight, needing to turn off CNN, today, my mind keeps returning to peace. Wanting to just sit and be present to this need for peace. The need to share it and embody it. The need to send it out into the world. I came across the above quote and am thinking about how I often say, internally and to others, “…you already know.” We do know. It is in us. This knowledge lives inside us; we just have to be quiet enough to listen.

How do we do this? Find that space to sit in the quiet? One way is to let go of the fear. The fear of what sitting in the quiet might invite. The fear that we may not hear what we want to hear. The fear that we might not hear anything at all. The fear that we might have to change, grow, push ourselves. The fear that we will have to actually do something…something different…something difficult.

During two conversations with friends this week, I found my way to saying what was really on my mind when asked. I found myself being present and aware of myself enough to share who I really am. I found myself listening to my inner truth so that I could then share it aloud. This wisdom that is already inside of me, I am beginning to trust it as I begin to slightly let go of the need for disclaimers and the fear of judgement and just share the truth.

As I thought about these two conversations, I recognized that I feel lighter. I realized that in both instances, each party was coming from a place of peace and knowledge of their own inner wisdom. I sensed that I could trust the other person enough to share my own truth and they sensed that they could trust me. A conversation between two people who were simply open to wanting to know more, listen more, be honest more.

Sitting in the quiet and being open to the lessons that come from within…this is how we find our way. This is how we tap into the knowledge that we already have. It lives in us because we breathe it in with each inhalation, we tap into it with each turn of the earth, we open up to it with each step on our path. We just have to open our eyes, listen, reach out, breathe, and sit still long enough to recognize it.

Join me right now in sitting in the quiet for a moment, tapping into the peace within you.
Take a breath.
Then another.
Then another.
And then send the peace out into the world, remembering that it always lives within you.

a few things from this week’s “good morning monday” list…on a tuesday evening…

enjoying

many mugs of genmai-cha tea

bringing true honesty to conversations with friends (speaking my truth…really doing it…i am vibrating with happiness about how free i feel)

time spent with friends over the weekend: laughing, talking, eating, and playing a delightfully hilarious game of cranium.

a house that is pretty clean (still, even after three days since we cleaned)

thinking about

jerri’s invitation to the blogging community to participate in a tonglen meditation this saturday. it is a meditation to send healing and compassion to mark (darlene’s son and denise’s nephew) and his family. for more details, check out this post.

a package that came in the mail from my mother yesterday. over christmas, she and my brother visited my grandfather. she asked me if there was anything i wanted in the house as my grandfather was asking. i said something along the lines of realizing that what I had wanted, a piece of clothing of my grandmother’s, was long gone. my mom said, “no, we didn’t get rid of all the clothing.” “is the grey sweatshirt with the chickadees still there?” “yes, i think so.” when you miss someone, you don’t really want the random tea set you never even saw that the person kept in the china closet. it is nice to have. but when you deeply miss the person, at least in my experience, you want something that really represents the person to you. and this sweatshirt, one my brother and i gave her for christmas years ago, is that. her. my mom sent the sweatshirt and some other articles of clothing. as i unpacked the box, there was this blue windbreaker. i gasped. i had forgotten it. i said aloud, “my grandmother lives in this.” jon looked up from across the room. “my grandmother lives in this,” i said again. puttering in the yard, feeding the ducks at the lake, walking together on the beach, sitting outside in the fresh air. she did all these things in this windbreaker. i touch it and i touch her. i touch her.

singing

“proud mary”—tina’s version—loud. while dancing. all around my house. repeat.

all the songs from paul simon’s album graceland. all afternoon and evening i listened to these songs as i worked, cooked, twirled, ate dinner, blogged, chatted, twirled some more.

loving

moments when my husband just settles in and enjoys himself.

moments when i know. this is the path. this is the path. this is the path.

bringing in ritual: sitting at the table {self-portrait challenge}

This month, I am thinking about the ways I can bring ritual into my life more. Instead of new year’s resolutions, I am honoring the idea that ritual is important to me and inviting it into my life with awareness.

To turn off the day, the rest of the world, and just sit together and eat and talk and share. This is the hope I have for my husband and me. We have spiraled into the habit of sitting in front of the television and eating. When this happens, we don’t talk with one another…about our day…about our dreams…about our relationship. We don’t check in with each other. We just turn off the world by turning on the television. And yes, sometimes, to eat a pizza and watch a movie together on a Friday night is exactly what you need. But, to make dinner, set the table, light candles, pour wine, and sit down together…this is connection. To just move everything to the side and put down a plate and a glass of water and sit across from one another…this is connection.

Tonight, as we sat together, I shared pieces of myself he didn’t know. I shared excitement about a conversation and some things I discovered as I reflected on that conversation. I spoke about some realizations and some memories. And he listened. We were both thankful for this time to just get to know one another more. It felt like exactly what we should be doing. No distractions. Just us.

I want to do this with the meals I eat alone as well. I work from home, so I usually eat breakfast and lunch hunched over my laptop as I work. This means I often don’t eat what is good for me or what my body wants, but I instead eat what is easy and accessible. Last week, I tried to listen to what my body needed for lunch, but I still ate over my computer. I noticed a shift in energy, in a good way, when I filled my body with good stuff. This week, I am going to try to eat at the table, taking a break from my work.

Sitting at the table. Noticing taste, texture, smells, colors. Paying attention. Being present to this necessary task. Being open to connection with another or connection with myself. Inviting awareness in once again. Inviting in the ritual of sitting at the table and eating.

see more self-portraits at self-portrait challenge

a letter

dear morning pages,

i know you are good for me. i know i should love you. i know you help me. when i spend time with you, i solve a few problems of the world. you open my eyes to new ideas. about me, about life, about my past, about my future. i start to get ideas for things: books, projects, stories, things i want to create. i know. you do all these things. you turn me inside out some days. and this can be a really good thing. you even invite “aha!” moments. yes, i know your power.

but right now. well, right now i am just raging against you. those are the words that run through my head whenever i see you and know it is time. i rage again the morning pages. yes. i rage against you. i don’t like you. i want you to go away. i can’t believe that i agreed to come back to you again. i can’t believe it. i know our relationship has, at times, been love-hate. but this time. well, this time i am not loving you at all. nope.

because, you see, i know your tricks. how you suck me in. how i tell myself i am only going to write one page but you tempt me with the truth and creativity and suddenly i am at the top of page four and realize what you have done. you will not seduce me this time. you will not prove yourself to be a tool i cannot live without.

oh no you won’t!

you won’t get me. i see you for what you are. i see you for all your messiness and truthiness and boldness and silliness and all that you can give me. i see it.

told you didn’t i?

and just you wait, when i open up my notebook again tonight, you will hear it all again.

sincerely,
someone who is super, super annoyed with you

********

(i am working through the artist’s way with my friend heather. her first time. my third. of course the first two times i didn’t get through the whole thing. last time i mostly loved the morning pages even though i didn’t do them every day. this time. this time i am raging against them. and we are just starting week two. i think the MPs are getting the first wave of me speaking my truth. good thing they don’t have any feelings.)

for real this time

On Tuesday, the candle burning on my altar was lit with the intention of inviting myself to speak my truth. Writing, especially as here on my blog, has given me an outlet to write my truth. Over the last year, this blog has opened me up to share a side of myself that only my closest friends really knew before now. And I do feel that with each post I share pieces of my truth with people who stop by here, the friends and family who read it, and I share it with me. It has been quite the gift in my life.

I have discussed that I believe we do censor ourselves on our blogs, but the reality is that we do this in our lives. Most of us do not intentionally want to hurt another person with our words, spoken or written. Yet, we do hurt one another. Intention is sometimes not enough because we occasionally speak long before we have had time to think things through, and we also cannot control how the other person reacts to what we communicate. When people react to something I say in a way that indicates they feel hurt by my words or actions, the first thought I often have is, “but don’t you know me?” To me, this means: I would never mean to hurt you. I am still the same person I was right before those truly horrible words left my mouth and I really wish I could pull them back inside me. How can I fix this? But you just hurt me, that’s the only reason I just said that. I am just thinking this through aloud. I know I am being triggered here but I can’t find a way out of this situation. I feel cornered. I don’t know what to do so I am trying to fill up the space with words. And so many other similar thoughts.

In November, I found myself with an illness that centered around my throat on the heels of an experience where I had been unable to explain how I was feeling about something on the heels of a life where I am afraid to hurt anyone by telling them how I really feel. In the midst of the process of the doctors figuring out what was wrong, I had a procedure that was supposed to be a simple needle biopsy that might take five minutes that became a much longer and intense experience. Though they were wonderful throughout the procedure, because the doctor, nurse, and technician thought it would only take a few minutes, they didn’t give me a lot of instructions. My throat was numbed but my mind and adrenaline were awake and I was trying to breathe them into a space of calm. When I suddenly had a question and tried to ask it, the three of them said, “do not speak” at the same time. I hadn’t really thought about the fact that there was a very long needle in my throat, so I shouldn’t speak. I couldn’t see what was being done as my head was tipped back and it is difficult to see one’s neck without a mirror anyway. I was running so many scenarios through my head, including one that centered around the fact that because of the trouble they were having I must have cancer. In a sense, it was all of my worst fears in one moment: I had no control of anything. I could not move. I could not speak. I could not ask questions. My body was not doing what it was supposed to do. Even though Jon was there rubbing my leg, I felt alone and terrified. Even though there was a certain layer of good news that came out of this procedure and then very good news a week later, I can still feel that sensation of laying there feeling as I did that day…as though at any moment I might have to step out of my own body.

The day after this procedure, I began to be honest with myself about the lesson that was sitting across from me in every moment of this illness. The lesson that is always sitting in front of me. The one I have tried to understand and be honest about but never really want to look at. The lesson that scares me. Being literally unable to speak or move was the physical reality that made me pay attention to this lesson.

It is time to start letting it out. All the words, fears, anger, sadness, shame, hurt, agony that lives inside me. It is time to start letting it out. For real this time.

I have never done this because I am always afraid of what will happen. All the what ifs that come up when I actually think about telling someone how I feel. Because here is the thing, I don’t think the other person always has to know how you feel. Really, what do you expect them to do about it? You are in charge of your world and how you react to things. If you call a parent up and suddenly let him or her know all the ways you have been hurt about over the years, do you think that will suddenly solve everything? That you will just be over that pain because you said those words to that person and invited him or her to feel like shit? I don’t think so.

No, I am talking about something else. I am talking about being honest with myself about how I am feeling. Figuring out what is underneath so that when I do need to tell someone something, I can come from a place that isn’t full of all the anger, hurt, sadness, defensiveness, and pain that bubbled up to begin with.

When I met with my teacher in November, we talked about how I do share so many pieces of my truth here and in some other writing I do, but that my body is letting me know that I need to speak it. Out loud. My personal practice centers around this idea of spending time talking aloud about how I am feeling. In college, I went to therapy as my parents were divorcing. The therapist would often say, “And how did that make you feel?” And I would start talking. He would stop me and say, “But how did it make you feel?” I can see him pointing to his heart here, referencing how I was talking from my head. Even though I felt safe with him, I was totally afraid to be honest about how I was feeling. The anger that was bubbling in me, threatening to boil over as tears that might never stop. Through my conversation with my teacher, I was honest that I am afraid to tell my closest friend, who knows a whole lot of shit about my truth, and my husband how I feel about certain things, about certain people, about certain moments in my life.

As I talked with my teacher, it became clear that several things happen because of my fear of sharing how I feel. Because I do believe that we are constantly triggered by those around us and that we have to look at how we react to things, I spend a lot of time in my own head thinking about why I am reacting a certain way, what is coming up for me, and looking for the lessons. I am almost trapped in my own head unable to see the feelings for what they are. I spend so much time blaming myself for how things are going in my life that I am unable to see all the things I simply have no control over. But because all this work that I am doing in my head is such hard work, I sometimes resent that others around me don’t see all the work. They don’t see how hard I am trying to understand and be present to the moment. But then here comes the other part: they don’t see how hard I am trying to help them. And with that, poof, the very thing that I most do not want to invite in my life shows up, just like that: I become a martyr.

In trying to own my reaction to life around me, I somehow have decided that I cannot share how I am feeling about something. I am trying to protect the other person, but in doing this, I start to feel bad because suddenly I realize that very few people are protecting me. And then = suddenly I am alone in a room with only one door and its marked resentment.

In not speaking my truth, the truth began to fester in me, literally. Even though I am doing so much work and working so hard. Even though I have learned so many lessons, especially in the last few years. Even though my heart feels heavy a lot of the time. Even though the darkness sometimes threatens to knock at my door. Even though all of this is true, I have to be honest with myself.

The somewhat obvious question sits in front of me, “What would happen if you did start speaking your truth?” The answer comes in the form of another question, “What will happen if you don’t?” And my body already knows the answer. This is why I am grateful for the opportunity to get the lesson without cancer. I am grateful that I am beginning to push through the fear to be honest with myself. For real this time.

(And no, Carla doesn’t pay me to her plug her candles, but they have became such an important part of my own healing in the past few weeks that I just can’t talk about them enough. Again this evening, speak my truth is nestled on my altar burning brightly.)