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I hate Vista. I just had to put it out there somewhere. This operating system has made my life considerably more difficult. Everyday I run into a new problem. If you're thinking of purchasing a new PC,think about switching to a MAC.
I also hate Bing.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Space in Relationships
“But let there be spaces in your togetherness.
And let the winds of the heavens dance between you.
Love one another, but make not a bond of love.” – Kahlil Gilbran
I think most people have trouble with the task of creating space within togetherness. Taking space for oneself, leaving it for the other, and creating it for the relationship are challenges that we need to make conscious and face head-on. Togetherness should never feel like imprisonment, and love ought not come with shackles… though it often seems this way. I think we need to ask whether love is even the right word if what is being offered comes with restrictions that feel like imprisonment.
Whereas prisons and shackles don’t sound very appealing, the truth is that many of us participate in this way of being together: Parents, children, siblings, romantic partners, and friends. Why is this?
For a great many, fear is the answer (it often is)—Fear of rejection, abandonment, humiliation, and shame. We think we won’t survive such experiences, and so we set-up our relationships—or try to—in a way that we believe will allow us to avoid them. We, understandably, try to protect ourselves from the potential pain. We seem to do this in two related ways.
1. We don’t give the other the space to be fully him or herself.
2. We don’t take the space we need to be wholly our selves (Eric Francis, www.planetwaves.net). **
The problem is that in the long run, these strategies only create more pain.
Most of the time this process happens subtly, which makes it all the more insidious, with fear flowing into the relationship unnoticed, underground, and yet pervasively. Working this out would be more simple, for example, if a woman said to her partner: “I’m afraid that I won’t be important to you some day and that you’ll leave me. When you spend time golfing with your friends, I feel my fear strongly and so I want you to stay with me rather than go out golfing.” Instead, this same fear is often acted out more passively and subtly: The woman starts to grow silent whenever her partner talks about going out with friends, and she grows angry when he/she’s on the phone scheduling a tee-time. Her partner notices this but doesn’t understand why. Her partner cannot see her fear.
We can say that because of her fear, the woman is not giving her partner the space needed--space to nurture other friendships and to engage in his/her passion.
Let’s say her partner feels her anger and hurt, even if it’s not explicit. And let’s say this partner then decides to cancel plans with friends. Or maybe the partner gets very angry and starts blaming the woman for all sorts of dissatisfactions in his/her own life. Either way, the partner is now the one not taking space for him/herself, probably because he/she is also afraid. Afraid of not being good enough, afraid that the woman might walk away from the relationship, afraid of being accused of being selfish, or fearful of engaging in life with passion….
As adults, we are responsible for filling up the space of our own lives. Doing so involves recognizing one’s own needs and acting in ways that best allow these needs to be met. Conscious living is about awareness (i.e., recognition) + action (i.e., exercising one’s ability to respond). Fear, again understandably, gets in the way. Fortunately, there is a way out of this: When fear is present we can look for a need within it, and we can recognize that the more intense the fear, the more than need is experienced as a matter of survival.
Let’s go back to the woman: Under her fear is a need for something- perhaps a need to feel important. This need is valid for her. It may even feel like a matter of survival because of some deeply held belief she learned long ago: “I will only be loved if I’m important.” What is problematic is that now, as an adult, she is expecting her partner to take responsibility for this. She relies on her partner to help her to feel important, and she does this unconsciously (meaning without awareness and without her own ability to respond to her need), which ends up feeling a bit like shackles to the partner! As challenging as it might be, it is up to her to feed her own need for a sense of importance, and it is up to her to test out and possibly learn that even when she doesn’t feel important, she is still loved and she can definitely survive.
Going back to the partner: If he/she tries to fill the woman’s need to feel important due also to fear, and in doing so neglects his/her own needs thereby failing to take space for him/herself, resentment is the likely result. The whole situation becomes a vicious cycle and the inability to give or take the space-to-be becomes toxic, poisoning the relationship between partners as well as the relationship that each partner has with him/herself.
How do we step out of this cycle? Because it is fueled by fear, the way out must contain a great deal of compassion. Each partner must be compassionate with him/herself and with the other. Compassion allows us to see through the defenses to the fear, just as seeing through to the fear allows compassion to flow. Compassion does not mean giving up one’s own space! We cannot have true compassion for another unless we also have it for ourselves, which literally means coming together with our own passions. Stated another way, this means filling out the space of our own short lives, which further requires tolerating the fear, guilt, or shame—of others and ourselves—that may arise as a result. Therapy can help both the process of increased awareness as well as that of tolerating the resulting feelings that can at first be difficult when one begins to live more consciously.
** The notion of giving another space is influenced by Object Relations Theory and D.W. Winnicott’s notion of a holding environment (1960). The idea of taking space is attributed to Eric Francis, whom I have heard speak about this concept in personal communication and various pieces of writing.
And let the winds of the heavens dance between you.
Love one another, but make not a bond of love.” – Kahlil Gilbran
I think most people have trouble with the task of creating space within togetherness. Taking space for oneself, leaving it for the other, and creating it for the relationship are challenges that we need to make conscious and face head-on. Togetherness should never feel like imprisonment, and love ought not come with shackles… though it often seems this way. I think we need to ask whether love is even the right word if what is being offered comes with restrictions that feel like imprisonment.
Whereas prisons and shackles don’t sound very appealing, the truth is that many of us participate in this way of being together: Parents, children, siblings, romantic partners, and friends. Why is this?
For a great many, fear is the answer (it often is)—Fear of rejection, abandonment, humiliation, and shame. We think we won’t survive such experiences, and so we set-up our relationships—or try to—in a way that we believe will allow us to avoid them. We, understandably, try to protect ourselves from the potential pain. We seem to do this in two related ways.
1. We don’t give the other the space to be fully him or herself.
2. We don’t take the space we need to be wholly our selves (Eric Francis, www.planetwaves.net). **
The problem is that in the long run, these strategies only create more pain.
Most of the time this process happens subtly, which makes it all the more insidious, with fear flowing into the relationship unnoticed, underground, and yet pervasively. Working this out would be more simple, for example, if a woman said to her partner: “I’m afraid that I won’t be important to you some day and that you’ll leave me. When you spend time golfing with your friends, I feel my fear strongly and so I want you to stay with me rather than go out golfing.” Instead, this same fear is often acted out more passively and subtly: The woman starts to grow silent whenever her partner talks about going out with friends, and she grows angry when he/she’s on the phone scheduling a tee-time. Her partner notices this but doesn’t understand why. Her partner cannot see her fear.
We can say that because of her fear, the woman is not giving her partner the space needed--space to nurture other friendships and to engage in his/her passion.
Let’s say her partner feels her anger and hurt, even if it’s not explicit. And let’s say this partner then decides to cancel plans with friends. Or maybe the partner gets very angry and starts blaming the woman for all sorts of dissatisfactions in his/her own life. Either way, the partner is now the one not taking space for him/herself, probably because he/she is also afraid. Afraid of not being good enough, afraid that the woman might walk away from the relationship, afraid of being accused of being selfish, or fearful of engaging in life with passion….
As adults, we are responsible for filling up the space of our own lives. Doing so involves recognizing one’s own needs and acting in ways that best allow these needs to be met. Conscious living is about awareness (i.e., recognition) + action (i.e., exercising one’s ability to respond). Fear, again understandably, gets in the way. Fortunately, there is a way out of this: When fear is present we can look for a need within it, and we can recognize that the more intense the fear, the more than need is experienced as a matter of survival.
Let’s go back to the woman: Under her fear is a need for something- perhaps a need to feel important. This need is valid for her. It may even feel like a matter of survival because of some deeply held belief she learned long ago: “I will only be loved if I’m important.” What is problematic is that now, as an adult, she is expecting her partner to take responsibility for this. She relies on her partner to help her to feel important, and she does this unconsciously (meaning without awareness and without her own ability to respond to her need), which ends up feeling a bit like shackles to the partner! As challenging as it might be, it is up to her to feed her own need for a sense of importance, and it is up to her to test out and possibly learn that even when she doesn’t feel important, she is still loved and she can definitely survive.
Going back to the partner: If he/she tries to fill the woman’s need to feel important due also to fear, and in doing so neglects his/her own needs thereby failing to take space for him/herself, resentment is the likely result. The whole situation becomes a vicious cycle and the inability to give or take the space-to-be becomes toxic, poisoning the relationship between partners as well as the relationship that each partner has with him/herself.
How do we step out of this cycle? Because it is fueled by fear, the way out must contain a great deal of compassion. Each partner must be compassionate with him/herself and with the other. Compassion allows us to see through the defenses to the fear, just as seeing through to the fear allows compassion to flow. Compassion does not mean giving up one’s own space! We cannot have true compassion for another unless we also have it for ourselves, which literally means coming together with our own passions. Stated another way, this means filling out the space of our own short lives, which further requires tolerating the fear, guilt, or shame—of others and ourselves—that may arise as a result. Therapy can help both the process of increased awareness as well as that of tolerating the resulting feelings that can at first be difficult when one begins to live more consciously.
** The notion of giving another space is influenced by Object Relations Theory and D.W. Winnicott’s notion of a holding environment (1960). The idea of taking space is attributed to Eric Francis, whom I have heard speak about this concept in personal communication and various pieces of writing.
Cest la vie
Feeling stuck in life continues. I've tried every way out of the box I know how, to no avail. Today I ended a rather brief course of therapy with a therapist who basically agreed that I'm between a rock and a hard place. My hope was that he would help me to see through myself... that we'd uncover an insight I was missing that would unlock something, would unblock the dam, would allow me to start feeling alive again. He confirmed that there was no such key.
So I'm trying to accept that this is just my life. It's hard. To believe, that is. I just can't understand that the universe would want me to give up my dreams. It feels cruel to me. I'm a Pisces- "I believe." The motto of the fishes.
I know people talk about getting to the place of giving up completely; of having nothing left to loose; and that something opens up from there. Today, I have no hope of this.
I write to have a record, to get it out, to in some way try to connect with something other than myself.
So I'm trying to accept that this is just my life. It's hard. To believe, that is. I just can't understand that the universe would want me to give up my dreams. It feels cruel to me. I'm a Pisces- "I believe." The motto of the fishes.
I know people talk about getting to the place of giving up completely; of having nothing left to loose; and that something opens up from there. Today, I have no hope of this.
I write to have a record, to get it out, to in some way try to connect with something other than myself.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Grief, Beauty, and Spaces
“It is in dialogue with pain that many beautiful things acquire their value. Acquaintance with grief turns out to be one of the more unusual prerequisites of architectural appreciation. We might, quite aside from all other requirements, need to be a little sad before buildings can properly touch us.” Alain de Botton, The Architecture of Happiness
The 20th century, German philosopher, Martin Heidegger wrote a great deal about the way in which things gather world. An early 18th century home gathers a very different world than does a 1970’s ranch. White Rock, New Mexico allows for a different kind of world than does Miami, Florida. And an ashtray gathers a different kind of world than does a pin-cushion. I imagine an ashtray and think of a darkly-lit jazz club or of journalists meeting deadlines late into the night. A pin-cushion, in contrast, conjures up images of an older world, when women worked at home mending the clothing of husbands and children—a world of grandmothers and those older 18th century homes that are so different from those of the mid-late 20th century.
The idea of things gathering world is a Vestal concept—different spaces, structures, and things allow a certain character of world to come into being just as they preclude other worlds from taking shape. I wonder if this is where grief finds its place in architectural appreciation: In grasping the beauty of one way of being we simultaneously mourn the preclusion of others. And in mourning what is not, we can appreciate the unique and special character of what is.
The tears that accompany grief and sadness help to clear us out, like a river running through us. The experience of grief allows us to let go of possibilities that we once held on to, and herein lays both its pain and its gift. When we truly experience the sadness of what no longer is, or of what will never be, we clear space for something new to open up; and in this space lies an appreciation for how special and impermanent this next something is. This is a space of true vulnerability, of being open to what is and to what is yet to come, even as we carry the pain of what is no longer and even as we know the pain of one day needing to let go again.
It is this space of vulnerability that allows one to appreciate art; for art is very much about letting go of possibilities. A painter must choose one form over another; a songwriter needs to let go of certain words; and an architect only has so many corners to work within and a finite number of buildings to design.
I read the quote above on a day when I was sad and immediately understood. It inspired me to sit by a building I love, and I began to feel grateful for the sadness I was experiencing. I was reminded that every one of our feelings has a place, a purpose, and a beauty that can be discovered if we only enter into them. I allowed the beauty of the building to sink in, mingle with the grief, and create a sweetness that I could not have predicted nor experienced had I not let the river of sadness doing its clearing. Here’s to tears, to letting go, and to the capacity to be touched by a building.
The 20th century, German philosopher, Martin Heidegger wrote a great deal about the way in which things gather world. An early 18th century home gathers a very different world than does a 1970’s ranch. White Rock, New Mexico allows for a different kind of world than does Miami, Florida. And an ashtray gathers a different kind of world than does a pin-cushion. I imagine an ashtray and think of a darkly-lit jazz club or of journalists meeting deadlines late into the night. A pin-cushion, in contrast, conjures up images of an older world, when women worked at home mending the clothing of husbands and children—a world of grandmothers and those older 18th century homes that are so different from those of the mid-late 20th century.
The idea of things gathering world is a Vestal concept—different spaces, structures, and things allow a certain character of world to come into being just as they preclude other worlds from taking shape. I wonder if this is where grief finds its place in architectural appreciation: In grasping the beauty of one way of being we simultaneously mourn the preclusion of others. And in mourning what is not, we can appreciate the unique and special character of what is.
The tears that accompany grief and sadness help to clear us out, like a river running through us. The experience of grief allows us to let go of possibilities that we once held on to, and herein lays both its pain and its gift. When we truly experience the sadness of what no longer is, or of what will never be, we clear space for something new to open up; and in this space lies an appreciation for how special and impermanent this next something is. This is a space of true vulnerability, of being open to what is and to what is yet to come, even as we carry the pain of what is no longer and even as we know the pain of one day needing to let go again.
It is this space of vulnerability that allows one to appreciate art; for art is very much about letting go of possibilities. A painter must choose one form over another; a songwriter needs to let go of certain words; and an architect only has so many corners to work within and a finite number of buildings to design.
I read the quote above on a day when I was sad and immediately understood. It inspired me to sit by a building I love, and I began to feel grateful for the sadness I was experiencing. I was reminded that every one of our feelings has a place, a purpose, and a beauty that can be discovered if we only enter into them. I allowed the beauty of the building to sink in, mingle with the grief, and create a sweetness that I could not have predicted nor experienced had I not let the river of sadness doing its clearing. Here’s to tears, to letting go, and to the capacity to be touched by a building.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Weeping Walls
I've been ignoring my blog, instead focused on some work projects and a memoir in progress. Here is an excerpt from that, written about the time in my life when my husband and I bought our first home (the "It" that starts the excerpt), which I hated:
It just wasn’t my dream home, which I had found several weeks prior—a mustard-yellow, 18th century dilapidated colonial, with a modern kitchen and upstairs master suite, both recently added on. Lar’s version of the story also includes something about the furnace being referred to as “a monster” and a memory of being in this historic home with its seller’s realtor during one of the showings. As she and he stood in one of the upstairs bedrooms original to the house watching rain seep through closed windows, the realtor desperately pleaded to an invisible other that she “would not lose this house.” Apparently, there was some question about whether the home was sellable at all. (Lar would later tell me that the bank wouldn’t give us a mortgage for this home, reasoning that it was worth much less than the asking price.) None of the practical, financial details left their impression upon me, though, and they couldn’t distract me from those things that did matter. I found the leaky windows charming. I loved that this was a home in need of care and repair. My poetic and melancholic heart melted at the thought of weeping walls—a term from the lingo of the construction and home repair industry that describes condensation on the walls of a basement, for example, which can result from a host of factors and might be expected when the basement dates back to the 18th century. Most of all, I loved its juxtaposition of opposites: The intimacy of the small rooms—made more endearing by low ceilings and creaky floors—opened-up to a large kitchen with glass doors running the length of an entire wall and leading to the backyard deck. This was a home appropriate to the complex range of human moods, needs, and experiences—including my much desired need to, every once in a while, escape it all.
It was from behind the kitchen’s glass wall that I caught my first glimpse of the sanctuary: A two-story, oversized barn sitting proudly on the property.
When Lar and I stepped out the kitchen door and onto the deck, only yards away from the barn, I felt a familiar, even if infrequent, warm, tingling sensation spread across my chest and down into my gut. An understated smile, which seemed to give birth to itself, crept across my face and told me that I was home. Lar started to walk with the realtor ahead of me—around the yard and into the barn, I think, probably seeing dollar signs being flushed down a toilet in his mind’s eye—as I stood, still, starring, taking-in the barn from a distance. Here was the potential studio I had always wanted. I wasn’t an artist or a writer, but I dreamed of an art studio or a writing space nonetheless. After a childhood full of shared bedrooms, and sometimes even shared beds, I craved a space of my own, a getaway, a sanctuary. The warmth of my solar plexus morphed into goose bumps that spread down my arms. A sacred space to support my need to escape, recharge, and maybe even dream. In childhood it was my dresser, always impeccably arranged (and which I have kept all these years), that served as my sacred place. The barn, of course, was quite a bit larger than the dresser, and although it felt like home I knew somewhere deep within me that it would not be. I chose not to go in. And when Lar came out, we wrapped-up our tour, thanked the realtor, and left.
Many years later I’m still not exactly sure why I chose not to go into my would-be-sanctuary. That part of me that disallowed dreams knew it would have been an impractical purchase. The house was a real fixer-upper that neither Lar nor I had the talent for (an enormous understatement). Yes, I had a vision. I saw potential. And to me, precisely because I could have played a part in realizing its greatness, it was a dream home... and dreams aren’t real, I thought. So we walked away, and as I faded out Lar continued the search for a more practical home. The non-descript floral-papered home that we eventually bought was just that.
It just wasn’t my dream home, which I had found several weeks prior—a mustard-yellow, 18th century dilapidated colonial, with a modern kitchen and upstairs master suite, both recently added on. Lar’s version of the story also includes something about the furnace being referred to as “a monster” and a memory of being in this historic home with its seller’s realtor during one of the showings. As she and he stood in one of the upstairs bedrooms original to the house watching rain seep through closed windows, the realtor desperately pleaded to an invisible other that she “would not lose this house.” Apparently, there was some question about whether the home was sellable at all. (Lar would later tell me that the bank wouldn’t give us a mortgage for this home, reasoning that it was worth much less than the asking price.) None of the practical, financial details left their impression upon me, though, and they couldn’t distract me from those things that did matter. I found the leaky windows charming. I loved that this was a home in need of care and repair. My poetic and melancholic heart melted at the thought of weeping walls—a term from the lingo of the construction and home repair industry that describes condensation on the walls of a basement, for example, which can result from a host of factors and might be expected when the basement dates back to the 18th century. Most of all, I loved its juxtaposition of opposites: The intimacy of the small rooms—made more endearing by low ceilings and creaky floors—opened-up to a large kitchen with glass doors running the length of an entire wall and leading to the backyard deck. This was a home appropriate to the complex range of human moods, needs, and experiences—including my much desired need to, every once in a while, escape it all.
It was from behind the kitchen’s glass wall that I caught my first glimpse of the sanctuary: A two-story, oversized barn sitting proudly on the property.
When Lar and I stepped out the kitchen door and onto the deck, only yards away from the barn, I felt a familiar, even if infrequent, warm, tingling sensation spread across my chest and down into my gut. An understated smile, which seemed to give birth to itself, crept across my face and told me that I was home. Lar started to walk with the realtor ahead of me—around the yard and into the barn, I think, probably seeing dollar signs being flushed down a toilet in his mind’s eye—as I stood, still, starring, taking-in the barn from a distance. Here was the potential studio I had always wanted. I wasn’t an artist or a writer, but I dreamed of an art studio or a writing space nonetheless. After a childhood full of shared bedrooms, and sometimes even shared beds, I craved a space of my own, a getaway, a sanctuary. The warmth of my solar plexus morphed into goose bumps that spread down my arms. A sacred space to support my need to escape, recharge, and maybe even dream. In childhood it was my dresser, always impeccably arranged (and which I have kept all these years), that served as my sacred place. The barn, of course, was quite a bit larger than the dresser, and although it felt like home I knew somewhere deep within me that it would not be. I chose not to go in. And when Lar came out, we wrapped-up our tour, thanked the realtor, and left.
Many years later I’m still not exactly sure why I chose not to go into my would-be-sanctuary. That part of me that disallowed dreams knew it would have been an impractical purchase. The house was a real fixer-upper that neither Lar nor I had the talent for (an enormous understatement). Yes, I had a vision. I saw potential. And to me, precisely because I could have played a part in realizing its greatness, it was a dream home... and dreams aren’t real, I thought. So we walked away, and as I faded out Lar continued the search for a more practical home. The non-descript floral-papered home that we eventually bought was just that.
Friday, June 5, 2009
In the face of disappointment...
I've been working with a new therapist for a few weeks now. I've been painting my most accurate picture of my life- where I've come from and where I am now, and he's been constructing his own hypotheses about how to help. Yesterday he told me that he thought I was probably searching for something that one can get only in childhood, from one's primary caregiver, and that basically I missed my chance when I turned about six years old. In other words, there is a lack that will always be there. A sense of meaningless that can never be fully healed. That the best I can do is to grieve. Not that the grief will transform anything-- which as a Scorpio rising is of course what I'm after-, only shrink the pain a bit, allowing me to "put it on a shelf" so that I might be able to salvage something from the rest of my life.
Needless to say, I was disappointed and thought how such disappointment is in many ways the mark of my life. Not that I experience disappointment often. I don't. I don't allow myself to get my hopes up; to want; to desire something enough that it's lack of obtainment would translate into diappointment. I have learned to cut this off, for the most part. Every once in a while, though, my desire rears its head and I find myself back in that place of disappointment, and the humiliation that comes with it.
Today, I decided not to let myself fall into the depression that was waiting for me. Instead, I put on my favorite, barely-there, mini-dress; red heals; drove around too fast with music playing too loudly; went to the book store to buy more music to play too loudly and some books on architecture; & then bought a cup of coffee with extra sugar to bring back to my office where I'm also listening to music, writing, and enjoying a bit of a sugar high. The meaningless is humming very softly in the background, but I'm not paying it any attention... not today, anyway.
Needless to say, I was disappointed and thought how such disappointment is in many ways the mark of my life. Not that I experience disappointment often. I don't. I don't allow myself to get my hopes up; to want; to desire something enough that it's lack of obtainment would translate into diappointment. I have learned to cut this off, for the most part. Every once in a while, though, my desire rears its head and I find myself back in that place of disappointment, and the humiliation that comes with it.
Today, I decided not to let myself fall into the depression that was waiting for me. Instead, I put on my favorite, barely-there, mini-dress; red heals; drove around too fast with music playing too loudly; went to the book store to buy more music to play too loudly and some books on architecture; & then bought a cup of coffee with extra sugar to bring back to my office where I'm also listening to music, writing, and enjoying a bit of a sugar high. The meaningless is humming very softly in the background, but I'm not paying it any attention... not today, anyway.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Memories, Passions, & Questions
I recently wrote something about the nature of memory as related to our life stories. My memories of watching The Brady Brunch are probably a case in point of how we remember things in the context of our ever-evolving narratives.
I remember the show being on all the time, day and night, on all channels. I don’t think I necessarily even liked the show, but I now remember it as a quintessential reflection of my childhood, at least as far as TV programs went. I also remember being drawn to Mike Brady’s drafting table, though I’m not sure this is an accurate memory either. I’m drawn to these tables now, and my fascination conjures up images of the home office at the Brady residence, with its gorgeous (notice how the feeling tone colors the memory) drafting table placed on the wall opposite the office door. The camera angle, according to my mental pictures, placed itself at the far end of the drafting table (where a wall should have been) so as to capture the moment when one of the six kids or Carol or Alice- though rarely Alice, if I remember correctly- would come through the door, interrupting Mike, who never seemed to mind.
Now, as an adult 30 or more years later, I remember loving the drafting table. Somewhere in my own foggy 12th House realm, I also have the sense of loving the beauty of the work of the architect, though I’m sure I didn’t know what an architect was, or what he (she) did, then. I’m one of those people who see beauty in order, spirituality in precision, God in geometry. Maybe it was the protractor and compass used by Mike Brady that stirred my passions. It may be, also, that those passions were never stirred back then—that my adult mind has created those perceptions based on what I have felt only long after those daily episodes of The Brady Brunch.
The drafting table: It’s sort of like my version of a baby grand piano. Some people who don’t play piano choose to put a baby grand in their living rooms as an essential part of the décor. My dream-home fantasy includes a beautiful drafting table (I found the perfect one once in a Northhampton furniture store which is no longer there) strategically placed so as to be the center of the design without calling too much attention to itself, like a well-placed tattoo. I love it as a paradigmatic artistic tool. Yet, whereas an easel might accomplish some of the same symbolism, it is the drafting table I want, leading me to believe it is more than just its representation of art and creativity. Maybe it’s the precision of the lines- drawn on the drafting table- in relationship to one another and the overall design. Or the beauty of those angles, which can easily be misspelled angels, that ultimately work together to create a home, for example. And the seeming orderliness of it all. Very different from the messy finger-painting that can take place on an easel, especially in the mind of a child. The messiness also appeals to a part of me, but the orderliness holds something a touch more sacred, for me anyway.
I’m sure I didn’t think of my dream home when I took geometry, but it’s tempting to remember those classes as though I did. I’m pretty sure the first time I ever dreamt of the art of architecture as having any relevance to me was about eight years ago when I started to watch Inside the Actor’s Studio (a program quite different from The Brady Bunch) with James Lipton’s famous show-ending questions that include, as number 8, “What profession other than yours would you like to attempt?” I have several answers to this question, but the first to come to mind is always architecture. Here are the other nine questions, for the sake of fun self-reflection and self-knowledge. It’s also fun to revisit these questions every now and again, and to witness how your answers shift, or not. My answers for today are also listed below.
1. What is your favorite word? Penultimate
2. What is your least favorite word? White-trash
3. What turns you on? Muddy, dark leather work boots & the scent of fresh sweat, preferably combined
4. What turns you off? Whining
5. What sound do you love? The voice of Eddy Vedder
6. What sound do you hate? Overly noisy restaurants, especially the clanging of dishware combined with a harsh cacophony of voices
7. What is your favorite curse word? F—k, used appropriately
8. What profession other than yours would you like to attempt? In addition to an architect, I’d like to be a professional Muse
9. What profession would you not like to do? Anything involving a 9-5 schedule
10. If heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the pearly gates? Thank-you.
I remember the show being on all the time, day and night, on all channels. I don’t think I necessarily even liked the show, but I now remember it as a quintessential reflection of my childhood, at least as far as TV programs went. I also remember being drawn to Mike Brady’s drafting table, though I’m not sure this is an accurate memory either. I’m drawn to these tables now, and my fascination conjures up images of the home office at the Brady residence, with its gorgeous (notice how the feeling tone colors the memory) drafting table placed on the wall opposite the office door. The camera angle, according to my mental pictures, placed itself at the far end of the drafting table (where a wall should have been) so as to capture the moment when one of the six kids or Carol or Alice- though rarely Alice, if I remember correctly- would come through the door, interrupting Mike, who never seemed to mind.
Now, as an adult 30 or more years later, I remember loving the drafting table. Somewhere in my own foggy 12th House realm, I also have the sense of loving the beauty of the work of the architect, though I’m sure I didn’t know what an architect was, or what he (she) did, then. I’m one of those people who see beauty in order, spirituality in precision, God in geometry. Maybe it was the protractor and compass used by Mike Brady that stirred my passions. It may be, also, that those passions were never stirred back then—that my adult mind has created those perceptions based on what I have felt only long after those daily episodes of The Brady Brunch.
The drafting table: It’s sort of like my version of a baby grand piano. Some people who don’t play piano choose to put a baby grand in their living rooms as an essential part of the décor. My dream-home fantasy includes a beautiful drafting table (I found the perfect one once in a Northhampton furniture store which is no longer there) strategically placed so as to be the center of the design without calling too much attention to itself, like a well-placed tattoo. I love it as a paradigmatic artistic tool. Yet, whereas an easel might accomplish some of the same symbolism, it is the drafting table I want, leading me to believe it is more than just its representation of art and creativity. Maybe it’s the precision of the lines- drawn on the drafting table- in relationship to one another and the overall design. Or the beauty of those angles, which can easily be misspelled angels, that ultimately work together to create a home, for example. And the seeming orderliness of it all. Very different from the messy finger-painting that can take place on an easel, especially in the mind of a child. The messiness also appeals to a part of me, but the orderliness holds something a touch more sacred, for me anyway.
I’m sure I didn’t think of my dream home when I took geometry, but it’s tempting to remember those classes as though I did. I’m pretty sure the first time I ever dreamt of the art of architecture as having any relevance to me was about eight years ago when I started to watch Inside the Actor’s Studio (a program quite different from The Brady Bunch) with James Lipton’s famous show-ending questions that include, as number 8, “What profession other than yours would you like to attempt?” I have several answers to this question, but the first to come to mind is always architecture. Here are the other nine questions, for the sake of fun self-reflection and self-knowledge. It’s also fun to revisit these questions every now and again, and to witness how your answers shift, or not. My answers for today are also listed below.
1. What is your favorite word? Penultimate
2. What is your least favorite word? White-trash
3. What turns you on? Muddy, dark leather work boots & the scent of fresh sweat, preferably combined
4. What turns you off? Whining
5. What sound do you love? The voice of Eddy Vedder
6. What sound do you hate? Overly noisy restaurants, especially the clanging of dishware combined with a harsh cacophony of voices
7. What is your favorite curse word? F—k, used appropriately
8. What profession other than yours would you like to attempt? In addition to an architect, I’d like to be a professional Muse
9. What profession would you not like to do? Anything involving a 9-5 schedule
10. If heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the pearly gates? Thank-you.
The Astrological Unconscious
What I love about the art of astrology is that it opens up, as opposed to closes down, possibilities and potentialities. As Richard Tarnas writes in Prometheus the Awakener, Astrology is archetypally predictive, not literally so. Likewise, it is archetypally descriptive. That is, Astrology describes essential energies which can take form in a variety of different ways. We might say that Venus is the archetypal energy of Desire, and that this desire (one’s Venus) can show up in matters of love, sexuality, child-rearing, appetite, and creativity. One of the challenges of writing about Astrology, then, is to maintain this openness- the full-of-potential flavor that enriches experience rather than diminishes it. It is with this intention, and caveat, that I write about the 12th House of Astrology- the House that has something to do with what we call the unconscious, though cannot be reduced to this alone.
Some of the keywords associated with the 12th House include: Spirituality, destiny, the past, karma, secrecy, sacrifice, institutions- especially hospitals and prisons, limitation & constraint, freedom (interestingly enough), and the unconscious itself. This paints a picture of a more elusive realm of experience, one that is slippery and hard to grasp yet profoundly influential perhaps, in part, because of its inability to be easily captured.
Let’s start with the unconscious. Does something like this exist, and if so, what is it exactly? It may be helpful to first define the terms as an adjective and adverb rather than a noun. Think of “it” less as a place or a thing or an “it” and more as a description of certain aspects and processes of experience. What is unconscious is outside of our usual awareness. In the same way that breathing is usually happening outside of our awareness, psychological needs, motivations, fears, and goals can influence us even if we are unaware of such influences. This is why an individual can say “I really want x, y, or z” and yet he or she continues to act in ways that seem contrary to the stated desire. The person is not lying. She may truly want what she says she does, and also want something else. If this latter want is outside of her awareness, her life path can seem confusing, frustrating, and outside of her capacity to create it as well.
This is the realm of the 12th House and we can begin to see some of those keywords taking on life. A common experience is the person who says he wants an intimate, romantic relationship yet can’t seem to find someone(s) to share this with. Of course, the experience may be just that. Even the father of the unconscious admitted that sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. There could, however, be more to the cigar than meets the eye. There may be a motivation that lies outside of awareness at work here. Maybe our gentleman is desperately afraid of losing some measure of autonomy if he were to enter into a committed relationship of some sort. Perhaps he learned, sometime long ago, that to be in a relationship means tending to the other’s needs and having his own preferences diminished, or even destroyed, in some way. Maybe these messages were so subtle that they settled somewhere outside of awareness (i.e., “in” the unconscious) and are all the more powerful because they are not consciously acknowledged- not because of denial but because he has not yet had the support he needs to see in the dark. And maybe this is a pattern passed on to him by his mother, who shared some of the same fears that likewise remained hidden outside of the light of awareness; and perhaps her father passed this on to her after “inheriting it” from his father and so-on.
Some of the most subtle and unconscious dynamics within our psyches have been passed on through generations and lifetimes.
This realm, which we might call the unconscious or 12th House, is dark, unclear, foggy. It is so subtle and under-the-surface that it is difficult to make contact with. The motivations that are formed in this way, or hang out in the 12th, therefore- and ironically- have great power in our lives, which may be why terms such as destiny and karma and secrecy hang out here.
Precisely because this realm of experience is so powerful, it also points to spirituality, transcendence, and healing. What is hidden and dark and foggy isn’t nonexistent. Rather, such needs, motivations, fears, and dreams break through into awareness in the form of symptoms, fantasies, dreams, and internal conflict. We notice the existence of this realm when in touch with the pain of the longing for an intimate relationship that never seems to happen, for example. If we can then, in such moments, shine a light into this shadowy realm we can bring more of our needs and motivations and fears into awareness. Therapy helps us to do this; so too does art, journaling, and working with dreams.
Shining the light is the first step. Ultimately, we’ll need to examine the full complement of motivations and choose among them, implying the involvement of some sacrifice. We may need to give up others’ approval in order to move toward a desire. We may need to sacrifice one potential path in order to pursue another. Letting go is a huge part of moving through life, moving forward, and creating the life one most wishes to live. This may be why sacrifice shows up in the last house of the zodiac.
Here again is another interesting offering of the 12th: As we sacrifice and let go, as we own up to limitations that are an essential part of being human, as we face the constraints that come with making one choice over another or having those choices made for us, we find freedom. One of the times I felt most free in my own life was a week that I spent confined to a hospital bed. I find this fascinating.
I imagine that the birth chart of Russian composer, Igor Stravinsky, reveals an interesting 12th House. His words: “My freedom will be so much the greater and more meaningful the more narrowly I limit my field of action and the more I surround myself with obstacles. Whatever diminishes constraint diminishes strength. The more constraints one imposes, the more one frees one's self of the chains that shackle the spirit.” The 12th House is that realm where we discover both the shackles and the freedom. As Stravinsky so insightfully points out, they are intimately related.
Some of the keywords associated with the 12th House include: Spirituality, destiny, the past, karma, secrecy, sacrifice, institutions- especially hospitals and prisons, limitation & constraint, freedom (interestingly enough), and the unconscious itself. This paints a picture of a more elusive realm of experience, one that is slippery and hard to grasp yet profoundly influential perhaps, in part, because of its inability to be easily captured.
Let’s start with the unconscious. Does something like this exist, and if so, what is it exactly? It may be helpful to first define the terms as an adjective and adverb rather than a noun. Think of “it” less as a place or a thing or an “it” and more as a description of certain aspects and processes of experience. What is unconscious is outside of our usual awareness. In the same way that breathing is usually happening outside of our awareness, psychological needs, motivations, fears, and goals can influence us even if we are unaware of such influences. This is why an individual can say “I really want x, y, or z” and yet he or she continues to act in ways that seem contrary to the stated desire. The person is not lying. She may truly want what she says she does, and also want something else. If this latter want is outside of her awareness, her life path can seem confusing, frustrating, and outside of her capacity to create it as well.
This is the realm of the 12th House and we can begin to see some of those keywords taking on life. A common experience is the person who says he wants an intimate, romantic relationship yet can’t seem to find someone(s) to share this with. Of course, the experience may be just that. Even the father of the unconscious admitted that sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. There could, however, be more to the cigar than meets the eye. There may be a motivation that lies outside of awareness at work here. Maybe our gentleman is desperately afraid of losing some measure of autonomy if he were to enter into a committed relationship of some sort. Perhaps he learned, sometime long ago, that to be in a relationship means tending to the other’s needs and having his own preferences diminished, or even destroyed, in some way. Maybe these messages were so subtle that they settled somewhere outside of awareness (i.e., “in” the unconscious) and are all the more powerful because they are not consciously acknowledged- not because of denial but because he has not yet had the support he needs to see in the dark. And maybe this is a pattern passed on to him by his mother, who shared some of the same fears that likewise remained hidden outside of the light of awareness; and perhaps her father passed this on to her after “inheriting it” from his father and so-on.
Some of the most subtle and unconscious dynamics within our psyches have been passed on through generations and lifetimes.
This realm, which we might call the unconscious or 12th House, is dark, unclear, foggy. It is so subtle and under-the-surface that it is difficult to make contact with. The motivations that are formed in this way, or hang out in the 12th, therefore- and ironically- have great power in our lives, which may be why terms such as destiny and karma and secrecy hang out here.
Precisely because this realm of experience is so powerful, it also points to spirituality, transcendence, and healing. What is hidden and dark and foggy isn’t nonexistent. Rather, such needs, motivations, fears, and dreams break through into awareness in the form of symptoms, fantasies, dreams, and internal conflict. We notice the existence of this realm when in touch with the pain of the longing for an intimate relationship that never seems to happen, for example. If we can then, in such moments, shine a light into this shadowy realm we can bring more of our needs and motivations and fears into awareness. Therapy helps us to do this; so too does art, journaling, and working with dreams.
Shining the light is the first step. Ultimately, we’ll need to examine the full complement of motivations and choose among them, implying the involvement of some sacrifice. We may need to give up others’ approval in order to move toward a desire. We may need to sacrifice one potential path in order to pursue another. Letting go is a huge part of moving through life, moving forward, and creating the life one most wishes to live. This may be why sacrifice shows up in the last house of the zodiac.
Here again is another interesting offering of the 12th: As we sacrifice and let go, as we own up to limitations that are an essential part of being human, as we face the constraints that come with making one choice over another or having those choices made for us, we find freedom. One of the times I felt most free in my own life was a week that I spent confined to a hospital bed. I find this fascinating.
I imagine that the birth chart of Russian composer, Igor Stravinsky, reveals an interesting 12th House. His words: “My freedom will be so much the greater and more meaningful the more narrowly I limit my field of action and the more I surround myself with obstacles. Whatever diminishes constraint diminishes strength. The more constraints one imposes, the more one frees one's self of the chains that shackle the spirit.” The 12th House is that realm where we discover both the shackles and the freedom. As Stravinsky so insightfully points out, they are intimately related.
Going Back to the Start
The devil is in the details. We’ve all heard this saying before and most have some experience of the truth of it. Recently, I’ve been learning how true this is with regard to our life stories. The discipline of writing has been a large part of this realization for me. Of course, participating in therapy- as psychologist and as patient- creates an acute awareness of this truth as well.
Earlier this year, I embarked on the journey of telling—through writing—the story of the past several years of my own life, which have been marked by subtle yet profound shifts and transformations. In doing so, I have been forced to put down on page the details behind the story I’ve been telling myself. In other words, I’ve needed to deconstruct my narrative in order to write it as a story, for a reader. It is one thing to say “My life had been very unfulfilling…” and quite another to show a reader the truth of this. Sometimes, when we put our narratives—usually told at some level of generality—into the details of what we mean by unfulfilling (for example) and how—more exactly—this has showed up in our lives, then we’re left with holes and inconsistencies. “Wow, I’ve been telling myself I was unfulfilled, and yet I remember that conversation with my best friend when I told her how well my life was going.” Or, I remember that things were really miserable, but both my journal and photo albums seem to be full of happy memories. Psychologists and lawyers alike know that memory is not a purely objective process.
Our memories can be tainted or skewed in the other direction as well. “When I first got together with so-and-so, everything was great,” says the woman whose friends tell her how unhappy she seemed to them during the time-period in question. Our distant past can be even more susceptible to narrative interpretation disguised as objective memory. “My aunt was so good to me,” says the guy who has forgotten most of the physical punishment he suffered at her hands. Or a woman remembers that her childhood friends “were so mean to me,” though she is unable to come up with an example of this.
The point is not that our narrative interpretations are untrue. According to my all time favorite Coldplay song, our hearts speak louder than the objectivity of numbers and figures. Our hearts, the seat of our psychological lives, are primary. Chris Martin and I seem to agree:
“I was just guessing at numbers and figures
Pulling [the] puzzles apart
Questions of science, science and progress
Do not speak as loud as my heart.” – The Scientist, Coldplay
And the narratives we tell ourselves are exceedingly significant for this reason.
The point is that they are, in fact, narratives; and narratives usually begin in generalizations colored by an overall psychological tone that is often not the whole story. Our narrative interpretations do speak loudly to how we have gotten to be where we are at any given time. Deconstructing them—that is, getting down the details and discovering any holes, inconsistencies, & overgeneralizations—helps us to move out of what can become self-fulfilling prophecies and into a more authentic life; meaning, a life we are choosing based on as much awareness as possible. Deconstructing our life-story narratives is essential to the ability to relate more authentically as well. Untangling the details allows more space within which we can meet others, and ourselves, in the present moment & on its terms rather than the terms of the past. If we remember that a sometimes abusive aunt was always good to us, then this leaves a knot within which there is no space for compassion for oneself, for what one endured. Likewise, if we think that life has always just been hard, then we diminish the space that those happier memories need to breathe their equally valid breaths. And if we tell ourselves that people are just out for themselves, then we can miss those exchanges that are sincerely unconditional in their offerings of generosity.
“Tell me your secrets
And ask me your questions,
…Let’s go back to the start.”
The lifelong process of self-awareness can be greatly supported by honesty with oneself, revelation of secrets in appropriate time, & really good questions. Sometimes, it really is helpful to go back to the start- not to rewrite one’s narrative, but to tweak it, elaborate, and stretch oneself—all with the compassion that comes with knowing how hard this can be.
Earlier this year, I embarked on the journey of telling—through writing—the story of the past several years of my own life, which have been marked by subtle yet profound shifts and transformations. In doing so, I have been forced to put down on page the details behind the story I’ve been telling myself. In other words, I’ve needed to deconstruct my narrative in order to write it as a story, for a reader. It is one thing to say “My life had been very unfulfilling…” and quite another to show a reader the truth of this. Sometimes, when we put our narratives—usually told at some level of generality—into the details of what we mean by unfulfilling (for example) and how—more exactly—this has showed up in our lives, then we’re left with holes and inconsistencies. “Wow, I’ve been telling myself I was unfulfilled, and yet I remember that conversation with my best friend when I told her how well my life was going.” Or, I remember that things were really miserable, but both my journal and photo albums seem to be full of happy memories. Psychologists and lawyers alike know that memory is not a purely objective process.
Our memories can be tainted or skewed in the other direction as well. “When I first got together with so-and-so, everything was great,” says the woman whose friends tell her how unhappy she seemed to them during the time-period in question. Our distant past can be even more susceptible to narrative interpretation disguised as objective memory. “My aunt was so good to me,” says the guy who has forgotten most of the physical punishment he suffered at her hands. Or a woman remembers that her childhood friends “were so mean to me,” though she is unable to come up with an example of this.
The point is not that our narrative interpretations are untrue. According to my all time favorite Coldplay song, our hearts speak louder than the objectivity of numbers and figures. Our hearts, the seat of our psychological lives, are primary. Chris Martin and I seem to agree:
“I was just guessing at numbers and figures
Pulling [the] puzzles apart
Questions of science, science and progress
Do not speak as loud as my heart.” – The Scientist, Coldplay
And the narratives we tell ourselves are exceedingly significant for this reason.
The point is that they are, in fact, narratives; and narratives usually begin in generalizations colored by an overall psychological tone that is often not the whole story. Our narrative interpretations do speak loudly to how we have gotten to be where we are at any given time. Deconstructing them—that is, getting down the details and discovering any holes, inconsistencies, & overgeneralizations—helps us to move out of what can become self-fulfilling prophecies and into a more authentic life; meaning, a life we are choosing based on as much awareness as possible. Deconstructing our life-story narratives is essential to the ability to relate more authentically as well. Untangling the details allows more space within which we can meet others, and ourselves, in the present moment & on its terms rather than the terms of the past. If we remember that a sometimes abusive aunt was always good to us, then this leaves a knot within which there is no space for compassion for oneself, for what one endured. Likewise, if we think that life has always just been hard, then we diminish the space that those happier memories need to breathe their equally valid breaths. And if we tell ourselves that people are just out for themselves, then we can miss those exchanges that are sincerely unconditional in their offerings of generosity.
“Tell me your secrets
And ask me your questions,
…Let’s go back to the start.”
The lifelong process of self-awareness can be greatly supported by honesty with oneself, revelation of secrets in appropriate time, & really good questions. Sometimes, it really is helpful to go back to the start- not to rewrite one’s narrative, but to tweak it, elaborate, and stretch oneself—all with the compassion that comes with knowing how hard this can be.
For an Artist
I’ve come into the office early this morning, coffee in hand, with the intention of writing most of the day. I have columns for my website that need to be written according to my own, now past, self-imposed deadline; a blog that needs attention desperately; the next chapter of my memoir; and a paper to write for a conference this August. I check the NY Times, the local paper, and favorite astrology websites seemingly for inspiration though deep down I know it’s procrastination. I check my email and find a message from my nephew, a songwriter, asking for advice about getting through writer’s block and think to myself You are asking the WRONG person at this particular moment. I’m tempted to pay the bills sitting on my desk, to write-up a clinical report, water plants that don’t need water, shop online, and reorganize my bookshelves- which also don’t need this- all in an effort not to have to sit at my computer feeling empty. Empty of observations, wisdom, poetry, or hope.
Begin where you are. This is the advice I will write in response to my nephew’s question. Write about not being able to write, and maybe- just maybe- somewhere outside of your own will, the emptiness will turn into a vessel where ideas, observations, even some wisdom will begin to take shape….
Begin where you are. This is the advice I will write in response to my nephew’s question. Write about not being able to write, and maybe- just maybe- somewhere outside of your own will, the emptiness will turn into a vessel where ideas, observations, even some wisdom will begin to take shape….
Friday, May 15, 2009
I Love You Anyway... and Always
I didn't think you looked very good
Lacking a pulled together sense of fashion
Reflecting a lack in that longed-for solidity of Self
And I loved you anyway.
The vibe was absent this past time.
The energy not-there
Reminded me that this is usually how it is with us
But I desired you all the same.
And I know I feel something, always.
Your darkness, lack, hated-fragility
Pulling for a mirror and camera which together might heal
So I long to caress you.
I wish for the healing
I want for you
I long for you to be whole
I should have said Yes to the sharing.
Lacking a pulled together sense of fashion
Reflecting a lack in that longed-for solidity of Self
And I loved you anyway.
The vibe was absent this past time.
The energy not-there
Reminded me that this is usually how it is with us
But I desired you all the same.
And I know I feel something, always.
Your darkness, lack, hated-fragility
Pulling for a mirror and camera which together might heal
So I long to caress you.
I wish for the healing
I want for you
I long for you to be whole
I should have said Yes to the sharing.
For My Favorite Men
Great Song by Alanis Morissette
You are the bravest man I've ever met
You unreluctant at treacherous ledge
Oh, You are the sexiest man I've ever been with
You, never hotter than with armor spent
When you do what you do to provide
How you land in the soft as you fortify
This is in praise of the vulnerable man
Why won't you lead the rest of your cavalry home
You, with your eyes mix strength with abandon
You with your new kind of heroism
And I bow and I bow down to you
To the grace that it takes to melt on through
This is in praise of the vulnerable man
Why don't you lead the rest of your cavalry home
This is a thank you for letting me in
Indeed in praise of the vulnerable man
You are the greatest man I've ever met
You the stealth setter of new precedents
And I vow and I vow to be true
And I vow and I vow not to take advantage
This is in praise of the vulnerable man
Why won't you lead the rest of your cavalry home
This is a thank you for letting me in
Indeed in praise of the vulnerable man...
You are the bravest man I've ever met
You unreluctant at treacherous ledge
Oh, You are the sexiest man I've ever been with
You, never hotter than with armor spent
When you do what you do to provide
How you land in the soft as you fortify
This is in praise of the vulnerable man
Why won't you lead the rest of your cavalry home
You, with your eyes mix strength with abandon
You with your new kind of heroism
And I bow and I bow down to you
To the grace that it takes to melt on through
This is in praise of the vulnerable man
Why don't you lead the rest of your cavalry home
This is a thank you for letting me in
Indeed in praise of the vulnerable man
You are the greatest man I've ever met
You the stealth setter of new precedents
And I vow and I vow to be true
And I vow and I vow not to take advantage
This is in praise of the vulnerable man
Why won't you lead the rest of your cavalry home
This is a thank you for letting me in
Indeed in praise of the vulnerable man...
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
The Nature of Love...
I was listening to Martina McBride's This One's for the Girls this morning. It's a simple song that has a powerful effect on me. "To love without holding back" is a huge goal of mine this days. I know that it is what I am meant to do here on earth, and in many respects, this is not difficult for me. I tend to love easily, to fall in love often, and to joy in the experience of revealing myself from within this place of love. The intensity with which I can love, though, renders me vulnerable; and this can be painful.
I'm trying to explore ways of transforming my own love nature. I have a difficult time reconciling my desire for intense, transcendent love that is nevertheless ultimately personal (which I have never experienced except in one-sided fantasy) with that of my belief that I can (and perhaps, should) love anybody and everybody-- i.e., that my love should not discriminate. I do tend to experience such discrimination though. I feel more strongly toward some than others. What makes a person feel such strong longing for any one person over another? Is such an experience real or illusory?
For now, I'm focusing on not holding back what I feel. Which doesn't mean I will act on everything feeling, just that I won't amputate the experience within me- as I've been known to do.
Thanks- and love- to Jeremy for teaching me this.
I'm trying to explore ways of transforming my own love nature. I have a difficult time reconciling my desire for intense, transcendent love that is nevertheless ultimately personal (which I have never experienced except in one-sided fantasy) with that of my belief that I can (and perhaps, should) love anybody and everybody-- i.e., that my love should not discriminate. I do tend to experience such discrimination though. I feel more strongly toward some than others. What makes a person feel such strong longing for any one person over another? Is such an experience real or illusory?
For now, I'm focusing on not holding back what I feel. Which doesn't mean I will act on everything feeling, just that I won't amputate the experience within me- as I've been known to do.
Thanks- and love- to Jeremy for teaching me this.
Monday, April 27, 2009
No Sour Milk
I'm usually a naturally grateful person. I feel gratitude rather spontaneously and sincerely, for everything from the pleasant UPS man to someboey else's passion that inevitably inspires me. Lately, though, I haven't been feeling very thankful. So I've been doing what Oprah and others are often touting: Keeping a gratitude journal, at least mentally. 10 things a day. Some days I have to dig deep, expressing gratitude for not drinking sour milk or catching the pig flu. My mother always tells my bitter sister to be thankful she has two arms and two legs, which is never a comfort to her. I doubt that avoiding the possibility of drinking sour milk on any given day would comfort her either, but it's helping me to feel as though I'm at least trying.
Here's my list for today: I'm grateful for...
1. My doctor, who listens to me and ensures that I know he is listening
2. Coffee
3. Song's like Coldplay's Yellow played loudly
4. Not getting a speeding ticket
5. AStrology insights
6. The fact that my doctor doesn't think my kidneys are failing
7. Jeans
8. Designer flip flops
9. Pain-free fingers
10. Good writing
Here's my list for today: I'm grateful for...
1. My doctor, who listens to me and ensures that I know he is listening
2. Coffee
3. Song's like Coldplay's Yellow played loudly
4. Not getting a speeding ticket
5. AStrology insights
6. The fact that my doctor doesn't think my kidneys are failing
7. Jeans
8. Designer flip flops
9. Pain-free fingers
10. Good writing
Sunday, April 26, 2009
La Résistance
I wrote the following for my website, under the guise of the professional I am there. So, it has a more teachy kind of tone. The truth, which anyone who can read this or listen to it being read will know, is that this is about my own now long-standing wading through resistance. I'm hoping that writing helps me to take my own advice!
Have you ever felt as though you were fighting against the current of life? Holding on to a fierce assertion that a particular part of life was wrong? Or to the notion that a specific person was just impossible? Have you ever, on some subconscious level, refused to be happy with the way things were because you believed they should be different? If so, you’ve experienced something of psychological resistance. It feels miserable if you’re in it, and it can be frustrating if someone you care about is in this place. Most individuals who go through a conscious process of awakening will run up against this. Likewise, individuals who happen to wake-up one day feeling resistant will need to initiate a conscious process of awakening in order to move beyond it.
As miserable as it can be, it is an expectable part of the process of growth.
Let’s start with a positive look at resistance. Two men who have without question changed our world in significant and positive ways are Mahatma Gandhi and Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., each of whom practiced civil disobedience and non-violent resistance in order to bring about the change they wished to see in the world (a well-know saying attributed to Gandhi). They led movements which spoke to the unacceptability of certain conditions within their worlds, refusing to accept these practices, discriminations, and policies. Ultimately, their movements of resistance changed the world. They give resistance a good name, so to speak.
I love this way of thinking about resistance and have to admit that all the talk within spiritual communities and new-age psychology about acceptance of what is drives me crazy. I just don’t get it- at least not the way it is often spoken about. “Accept what is. Change your perception and everything changes.” I’ve heard it over and over. And over and over I think of Gandhi and King and Milk (and recently Anne Stanback, Executive Driector of Love Makes a Family here in CT, who has led the organization to its ultimate goal of legalizing marriage for all individuals). These are people who have used some form of resistance to fight discrimination and effect change. They show us that non-acceptance of what is brings about results. Their legacy supports the importance of holding on to one’s perspective when it is saying something valuable.
Herein lies the crux of the issue, I believe. Resistance does say something valuable and it asks for understanding, clarity, and an open heart. We need to ask, with the utmost honesty, what is it that I am truly resisting? We need to get really clear about this, and to unpack all the issues that it brings up. I’m not sure that we should ever ignore this question in favor of changing perception, though it may be that answering the question honestly leads to the needed change, whether this is a matter of perception, belief, or external circumstances. Answering this question honestly is challenging, though, and this is often why resistance is so unwavering—not in the sense of a Gandhi-like commitment to change, but in the sense of being stuck within one’s life in a way that can, overtime, erode all hope. Gandhi and King are examples of hope fueling resistance, not resistance destroying hope. There is a big difference here, and the difference lies in whether we can speak with our resistance honestly and openly. When we do this, we’re bolstered by authentic, grounded hope. When we fail to do this, our inner protest of what is robs us of the same authentic hope required to effect the change we wish to see.
Why would it be difficult to look at one’s resistance honestly? I think the answer is the accountability it brings and the fears and insecurities that it unleashes. When we become clear about what’s wrong, then we’re also faced with the responsibility for making it “right.” King didn’t hang out reiterating how unfair life was. He didn’t use his energy proving who the bad guys were. And he didn’t waste time refusing to participate in life. He got to work, he took responsibility for being the change he wished to see, and I’m sure he faced quite a bit of fear and insecurity in the process. And he forged on.
Not forging on is of course an option as well; and it’s a valid one. There are many reasons why a person may choose not to effect the change they want. Maybe they are tired of psychological work; maybe they need to strengthen their inner resources first; or maybe they realize that the change they thought they wanted isn’t worth the risks they would have to take. Again, all very valid reasons for not forging on. Not effecting change is itself a decision, though, and therefore also requires responsibility and accountability. If we are choosing this decision, then we can no longer point the finger at someone else, or at circumstances, or at life more generally. Resistance is the place we find ourselves when we’re not yet willing or ready to accept accountability for our lives and the choices made therein. As a temporary stop in the journey of life, such non-acceptance helps us open our eyes and hearts not only to what seems wrong, but to the change we wish to see. As a temporary stop, it helps us to gather hope that then becomes the fuel of change. If we stay too long, however, and fail to see our resistance clearly, then that same hope disintegrates due to lack of use.
If you find yourself in this place, know that it is part of the process. Then, make a date with your resistance. Sit across from it and ask why it’s there. Then open your heart, be willing to really listen, and decide to accept accountability for moving forward- whether this means change, or not.
Have you ever felt as though you were fighting against the current of life? Holding on to a fierce assertion that a particular part of life was wrong? Or to the notion that a specific person was just impossible? Have you ever, on some subconscious level, refused to be happy with the way things were because you believed they should be different? If so, you’ve experienced something of psychological resistance. It feels miserable if you’re in it, and it can be frustrating if someone you care about is in this place. Most individuals who go through a conscious process of awakening will run up against this. Likewise, individuals who happen to wake-up one day feeling resistant will need to initiate a conscious process of awakening in order to move beyond it.
As miserable as it can be, it is an expectable part of the process of growth.
Let’s start with a positive look at resistance. Two men who have without question changed our world in significant and positive ways are Mahatma Gandhi and Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., each of whom practiced civil disobedience and non-violent resistance in order to bring about the change they wished to see in the world (a well-know saying attributed to Gandhi). They led movements which spoke to the unacceptability of certain conditions within their worlds, refusing to accept these practices, discriminations, and policies. Ultimately, their movements of resistance changed the world. They give resistance a good name, so to speak.
I love this way of thinking about resistance and have to admit that all the talk within spiritual communities and new-age psychology about acceptance of what is drives me crazy. I just don’t get it- at least not the way it is often spoken about. “Accept what is. Change your perception and everything changes.” I’ve heard it over and over. And over and over I think of Gandhi and King and Milk (and recently Anne Stanback, Executive Driector of Love Makes a Family here in CT, who has led the organization to its ultimate goal of legalizing marriage for all individuals). These are people who have used some form of resistance to fight discrimination and effect change. They show us that non-acceptance of what is brings about results. Their legacy supports the importance of holding on to one’s perspective when it is saying something valuable.
Herein lies the crux of the issue, I believe. Resistance does say something valuable and it asks for understanding, clarity, and an open heart. We need to ask, with the utmost honesty, what is it that I am truly resisting? We need to get really clear about this, and to unpack all the issues that it brings up. I’m not sure that we should ever ignore this question in favor of changing perception, though it may be that answering the question honestly leads to the needed change, whether this is a matter of perception, belief, or external circumstances. Answering this question honestly is challenging, though, and this is often why resistance is so unwavering—not in the sense of a Gandhi-like commitment to change, but in the sense of being stuck within one’s life in a way that can, overtime, erode all hope. Gandhi and King are examples of hope fueling resistance, not resistance destroying hope. There is a big difference here, and the difference lies in whether we can speak with our resistance honestly and openly. When we do this, we’re bolstered by authentic, grounded hope. When we fail to do this, our inner protest of what is robs us of the same authentic hope required to effect the change we wish to see.
Why would it be difficult to look at one’s resistance honestly? I think the answer is the accountability it brings and the fears and insecurities that it unleashes. When we become clear about what’s wrong, then we’re also faced with the responsibility for making it “right.” King didn’t hang out reiterating how unfair life was. He didn’t use his energy proving who the bad guys were. And he didn’t waste time refusing to participate in life. He got to work, he took responsibility for being the change he wished to see, and I’m sure he faced quite a bit of fear and insecurity in the process. And he forged on.
Not forging on is of course an option as well; and it’s a valid one. There are many reasons why a person may choose not to effect the change they want. Maybe they are tired of psychological work; maybe they need to strengthen their inner resources first; or maybe they realize that the change they thought they wanted isn’t worth the risks they would have to take. Again, all very valid reasons for not forging on. Not effecting change is itself a decision, though, and therefore also requires responsibility and accountability. If we are choosing this decision, then we can no longer point the finger at someone else, or at circumstances, or at life more generally. Resistance is the place we find ourselves when we’re not yet willing or ready to accept accountability for our lives and the choices made therein. As a temporary stop in the journey of life, such non-acceptance helps us open our eyes and hearts not only to what seems wrong, but to the change we wish to see. As a temporary stop, it helps us to gather hope that then becomes the fuel of change. If we stay too long, however, and fail to see our resistance clearly, then that same hope disintegrates due to lack of use.
If you find yourself in this place, know that it is part of the process. Then, make a date with your resistance. Sit across from it and ask why it’s there. Then open your heart, be willing to really listen, and decide to accept accountability for moving forward- whether this means change, or not.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Failing...
85 pounds of flesh hang on the fragile skeleton, who is now not absorbing enough of the mineral that would ground and root her, perhaps afraid of something she can’t see. Perhaps not knowing how to take-in. Slowly, her strength has faded, almost gone. Muscles attack themselves, robbing her of independence and power. Challenging her when she wishes to hold up her head high. To stretch, to see far, to see over, to awaken. And the pulse of passion- debilitated as well, weakened by its organ’s breaks. It is unable to pump with the fierceness required by the harsher world, though it continues to circulate the red fluid needed to just barely keep going. Unsure of how to keep loving. The breath of life more labored, too, reminding the skeleton that living is hard. “I will keep on keeping on,” she says, even though she does not know how to do so, or why.
The Seeker
What is life about? This question plagues me, distorts me, and leaves me searching in a way that- ironically- takes me out of the life I’m seeking to fulfill. I know this, and yet I cannot just be.
Am I seeking because I am dissatisfied with my life, or am I dissatisfied because I am seeking? Many would say it’s the latter. I can concede that they might be right, and yet I don’t know what to do with that part of me that truly longs for a life I cannot have. Grieve, perhaps, is the thing to do. But for how long can a person grieve, and what allows them to turn that around?
Today I vowed to bring my best self into every encounter I have. So I smiled and was gracious to the guy at Dunkin Donuts who knows my coffee order by heart, and I decided to join in an online discussion thread rather than holding myself back. This is the stuff of life, I suppose. I’m not sure that this will ever feel satisfying to me, but it’s time to let that go. What if life weren’t about being satisfied, and instead were about bringing one’s best self forward in every encounter?
I believe in some sort of power that is beyond our limited human experience. Most often, I don’t call this God; not because I take offense to the God-concept, but rather because it holds that image of the wizard in the Wizard of Oz- the man both in front of and behind the curtain who granted Dorothy her wish. This was the image I held of God when I was younger; an image that no longer fits. Still, I pray to something like God sometimes, particularly when I feel the need to apologize for not fulfilling my life. Lately, I have been wasting away (which is what it feels like) into bitterness. I KNOW BETTER, and yet I can’t seem to escape it.
So, for today, I vow to put my best self forward, to the very best of my ability. And I have tremendous empathy for all of those who feel stuck in life, particularly my sister, K.
Am I seeking because I am dissatisfied with my life, or am I dissatisfied because I am seeking? Many would say it’s the latter. I can concede that they might be right, and yet I don’t know what to do with that part of me that truly longs for a life I cannot have. Grieve, perhaps, is the thing to do. But for how long can a person grieve, and what allows them to turn that around?
Today I vowed to bring my best self into every encounter I have. So I smiled and was gracious to the guy at Dunkin Donuts who knows my coffee order by heart, and I decided to join in an online discussion thread rather than holding myself back. This is the stuff of life, I suppose. I’m not sure that this will ever feel satisfying to me, but it’s time to let that go. What if life weren’t about being satisfied, and instead were about bringing one’s best self forward in every encounter?
I believe in some sort of power that is beyond our limited human experience. Most often, I don’t call this God; not because I take offense to the God-concept, but rather because it holds that image of the wizard in the Wizard of Oz- the man both in front of and behind the curtain who granted Dorothy her wish. This was the image I held of God when I was younger; an image that no longer fits. Still, I pray to something like God sometimes, particularly when I feel the need to apologize for not fulfilling my life. Lately, I have been wasting away (which is what it feels like) into bitterness. I KNOW BETTER, and yet I can’t seem to escape it.
So, for today, I vow to put my best self forward, to the very best of my ability. And I have tremendous empathy for all of those who feel stuck in life, particularly my sister, K.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
A Wet-Saw Fetish?
My husband is downstairs using a vacuum. I find that this turns me on. I would, of course, much prefer the sound of a hammer, or better yet a wet-saw (my husband wouldn't know what that was), but over 20 + years, I've settled for being turned-on by a vacuum. I'm not sure if there is a lesson here. Maybe I need to learn to use that wet-saw myself; to accept that life doesn't always live up to our expectations and to learn how to accept it-- embrace it, even-- anyway, on its own terms; or to go out and find the guy with the tools, sandpaper, glass-blower, or guitar. For now, I have a guy who wields a vacuum, so I'm doing my best to embrace that.
Over and over again, my various spiritual mentors have told me that I hold too tightly to the pictures I have of what my desires should look like, and that in doing so I miss what is in right front of me. Thinking I want a hammer, I miss the beauty of the vacuum. This is about that elusive difference between resignation and surrender, which is intimately related to the difference between the form and energy of a thing (which, interestingly enough has something to do with those strange turn-ons we call fetishes). The energy of my turn-on has something to do with a guy in control, passionate about his craft. I tell myself I know what this looks like, because I have in fact seen it before, but in doing so I forget that this same energy can manifest in different ways- ways that surprise me. If my husband's craft is occassionally cleaning our home, so be it. Today, I try to embrace that sound that soothes colicky infants; a sound that reflects a home on its way to being clean; and a sound that means my husband loves me, because he is doing this housecleaning this morning for me.
And, right or wrong, I keep my ears open for the sound of that glassblower, musician, or craftsman with the saw.
Over and over again, my various spiritual mentors have told me that I hold too tightly to the pictures I have of what my desires should look like, and that in doing so I miss what is in right front of me. Thinking I want a hammer, I miss the beauty of the vacuum. This is about that elusive difference between resignation and surrender, which is intimately related to the difference between the form and energy of a thing (which, interestingly enough has something to do with those strange turn-ons we call fetishes). The energy of my turn-on has something to do with a guy in control, passionate about his craft. I tell myself I know what this looks like, because I have in fact seen it before, but in doing so I forget that this same energy can manifest in different ways- ways that surprise me. If my husband's craft is occassionally cleaning our home, so be it. Today, I try to embrace that sound that soothes colicky infants; a sound that reflects a home on its way to being clean; and a sound that means my husband loves me, because he is doing this housecleaning this morning for me.
And, right or wrong, I keep my ears open for the sound of that glassblower, musician, or craftsman with the saw.
Same as It Ever Was, Or Not
“And you may ask yourself-Well...How did I get here?” - Talking Heads, Once in a Lifetime
I’ve been looking at my life lately, asking how the hell I got here. I’ve always sort of known what to do, where to go, what the next step would be. Until recently. Now I look around now and feel completely lost. How did I get here?
I’m a pretty talented person. Not a genius, by any stretch of the imagination, yet someone who most would choose to have on their team. I have common sense, an ability to think through problems, to distill the essence of things, notice the details, follow through, keep hold of the big picture, relate to others with compassion… not a bad resume of skill. And yet I feel as though I have no idea what to do with myself. And I think, how did this happen? How did I find myself in this place of lack? Lack of motivation, passion, desire, and knowledge about what I want from life or what it wants from me?
It seemingly happened all at once, outside of my awareness, and I think it has something to do with that midlife shift in perspective that most of us experience. For me, this has been a shift from my emphasis on a professional life to that of a more personal one. The shift itself has been a mandate; and not one that I dreamed up. Rather, it came from some OTHER place, not of me. As though I woke up one day with a gun to my head, whose trigger said- Shift perspective or else. Needless to say, this has been difficult to do. Although I could list many talents and skills that serve me well in professional roles, when it comes to my personal life, to my relationship with myself, I am lost. So I remind myself that there is water on the bottom of the ocean, and that there will always be. I can still count on some things, even as everything else disappears.
This midlife shift is what most think of as a midlife crisis. Unfortunately, the midlife crisis has been overly associated with the guy who buys the red sports car and the woman who starts dressing like her teenage daughter. Like much else in the world, we stick to a rather superficial explanation. I understand midlife crisis to be that moment in life when the Soul breaks through and demands something of us that often looks nothing like the life we’ve been living to date. The sports car is one way of answering this call, and it is a specific, often superficial, manifestation. For a long time, men in our culture have been asked to sacrifice themselves for the sake of family. Go to work, earn a living, know that you are ultimately responsible for taking financial care of others, bring the kids to baseball practice, walk the dog, and then take the garbage out before going to bed and waking up to do it all over again. The Soul of such a man may one day hold a gun to his head telling him to put himself first for a change—so he goes out and buys his new red vehicle. The sports car isn’t a great long term solution, but the attitude underneath may be the beginning of a much needed change.
Don’t get me wrong- a Soul Awakening or midlife crisis isn’t always about putting oneself first. In fact, I believe it is about finding our place within something much larger than ourselves. But the path to that something first winds along a connection with one’s own true desires, and therefore, one’s own true nature. The question Who Am I? becomes important again, on a whole new level than it was in adolescence. So when David Byrne warns that “you may tell yourself, ‘This is not my beautiful house!’ And [that] you may tell yourself ‘This is not my beautiful wife,’” he is in fact helping us to see that sometimes we wake-up, look around, and realize that the life we’re living is no longer our own. “My God, what have I done?” is a fairly common response. The midlife crisis starts, the Soul speaks, and we can consider ourselves on a path toward authenticity, if we’re brave enough to heed the call.
I’ve been looking at my life lately, asking how the hell I got here. I’ve always sort of known what to do, where to go, what the next step would be. Until recently. Now I look around now and feel completely lost. How did I get here?
I’m a pretty talented person. Not a genius, by any stretch of the imagination, yet someone who most would choose to have on their team. I have common sense, an ability to think through problems, to distill the essence of things, notice the details, follow through, keep hold of the big picture, relate to others with compassion… not a bad resume of skill. And yet I feel as though I have no idea what to do with myself. And I think, how did this happen? How did I find myself in this place of lack? Lack of motivation, passion, desire, and knowledge about what I want from life or what it wants from me?
It seemingly happened all at once, outside of my awareness, and I think it has something to do with that midlife shift in perspective that most of us experience. For me, this has been a shift from my emphasis on a professional life to that of a more personal one. The shift itself has been a mandate; and not one that I dreamed up. Rather, it came from some OTHER place, not of me. As though I woke up one day with a gun to my head, whose trigger said- Shift perspective or else. Needless to say, this has been difficult to do. Although I could list many talents and skills that serve me well in professional roles, when it comes to my personal life, to my relationship with myself, I am lost. So I remind myself that there is water on the bottom of the ocean, and that there will always be. I can still count on some things, even as everything else disappears.
This midlife shift is what most think of as a midlife crisis. Unfortunately, the midlife crisis has been overly associated with the guy who buys the red sports car and the woman who starts dressing like her teenage daughter. Like much else in the world, we stick to a rather superficial explanation. I understand midlife crisis to be that moment in life when the Soul breaks through and demands something of us that often looks nothing like the life we’ve been living to date. The sports car is one way of answering this call, and it is a specific, often superficial, manifestation. For a long time, men in our culture have been asked to sacrifice themselves for the sake of family. Go to work, earn a living, know that you are ultimately responsible for taking financial care of others, bring the kids to baseball practice, walk the dog, and then take the garbage out before going to bed and waking up to do it all over again. The Soul of such a man may one day hold a gun to his head telling him to put himself first for a change—so he goes out and buys his new red vehicle. The sports car isn’t a great long term solution, but the attitude underneath may be the beginning of a much needed change.
Don’t get me wrong- a Soul Awakening or midlife crisis isn’t always about putting oneself first. In fact, I believe it is about finding our place within something much larger than ourselves. But the path to that something first winds along a connection with one’s own true desires, and therefore, one’s own true nature. The question Who Am I? becomes important again, on a whole new level than it was in adolescence. So when David Byrne warns that “you may tell yourself, ‘This is not my beautiful house!’ And [that] you may tell yourself ‘This is not my beautiful wife,’” he is in fact helping us to see that sometimes we wake-up, look around, and realize that the life we’re living is no longer our own. “My God, what have I done?” is a fairly common response. The midlife crisis starts, the Soul speaks, and we can consider ourselves on a path toward authenticity, if we’re brave enough to heed the call.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
The Muse
I once again looked up from my book when I sensed someone coming through the door—I had been doing this for about ten minutes or so in anticipation of my somewhat-blind date—and instantly knew that this time it was Susanne. An iridescent spirit, her arrival had the effect of the sun shining right there inside Starbucks. She wore an ocean blue, made-from-a-talented-hand sweater. Soft, thick and stopping short at the waist, seemingly in an intentional effort to resist overpowering her petite frame, the sweater was further balanced by an almost floor-length skirt of light-colored denim that flared out with a trace of mermaid to reveal the kind of boots you want to own in the midst of New England’s end-to-winter when you still wish to be fashionable. Part Muse, part cowgirl, I thought. Her ethereal spirit pulled into a body that was rooted in earth. For the second time that week I knew I was in the presence of a goddess, this time, a goddess of word and page.
If I hadn’t already been taken, her hair would have been enough to get me there. Butter-blonde and naturally curly in a wiry kind of way. Already a shade of wild, a curl or two stuck out further than the rest, mimicking the coils that would spring from an old mattress in the days before mattresses became wire-free. The blonde coils framed a face whose makeup was literally natural. I remember wondering whether she was wearing make-up at all. It was a brief moment of confusion. Her eyes popped, cheeks flush, smile bright, and skin well-toned and glowing. After wondering about this within the privacy of my own thoughts, I concluded that her skin was bare; it took this intentional questioning to discover that it was blood and peace and energy that created the beauty. A beauty which invited me in. And I was happy to linger there.
We met to talk about my writing and the prospect of her mentoring me in some way—through a workshop or some one-on-one time. I had arrived about 45 minutes early, bought a cup of coffee, and sat down with a book. It was then, a few short moments later, after an impulse to take notes in the margins, that I realized I didn’t have a pen. What kind of writer was I?! The doubts and self-criticism crept in. Traveling without a pen! I don’t deserve to call myself a writer. What the hell am I doing here? I tried to put my thoughts aside, forcing myself to instead listen to the pompous self-advertisement of the college student at the next table, lecturing a group of his peers about the inauthenticity of the acting business, which he clearly saw-through. The entrance of the goddess mercifully put a stop to my unwanted attunement.
Her soft, gentle, strong presence reassured me and allowed me to tune back in to myself before we even shook hands. I could breathe out some of my vulnerability and allow it to hang between us. Susanne and I talked for about 45 minutes; me sharing my unclear sense of what I was searching for and revealing my fear about somehow destroying the sacred activity that writing had become for me. Was my objective in seeking a mentor to try to perfect something whose joy lay in being one of the few activities that I didn’t feel I had to master? I was worried, not about her eventual feedback, but about my intentions. I knew how capable I was of destroying my own desire, of sabotaging the hope of even some small joy. Writing was the exception. Was I about to destroy that? I thought, yes. What was I doing here?
I shared my ambivalence the best I could, describing the blogging I’d been up to for about a year and half now—how I wrote about anything purely for the sake of writing, the rare self-expression that accompanied the experience for me, and the unfamiliar joy I experienced when I wrote a piece I really liked. I told Susanne that I had written as work in the past, writing others’ projects and such—helping to craft a guide to understanding psychological trauma, a chapter about being a psychologist in private practice, and the many, many dry documents that included things like policies, procedures, bylaws, and project summaries. Creative writing in any fashion was new to me. I shared my very tentative desire to write about the midlife crisis I was still utterly in the midst of and how I thought there may be a story within me that needed to be told. I hinted at the internal struggle that had become my life, within which writing still only shimmered behind a rather thick veil. Although I sensed a future in which these various pieces might come together, and just barely glimpsed how writing might be part of this, I could not articulate how or why or when. So I did my best to acknowledge the Crisis, to point to the veil, to admit my desire and to cop to the accompanying fears.
That the blog, the writing, had saved my life; this I left unsaid.
If I hadn’t already been taken, her hair would have been enough to get me there. Butter-blonde and naturally curly in a wiry kind of way. Already a shade of wild, a curl or two stuck out further than the rest, mimicking the coils that would spring from an old mattress in the days before mattresses became wire-free. The blonde coils framed a face whose makeup was literally natural. I remember wondering whether she was wearing make-up at all. It was a brief moment of confusion. Her eyes popped, cheeks flush, smile bright, and skin well-toned and glowing. After wondering about this within the privacy of my own thoughts, I concluded that her skin was bare; it took this intentional questioning to discover that it was blood and peace and energy that created the beauty. A beauty which invited me in. And I was happy to linger there.
We met to talk about my writing and the prospect of her mentoring me in some way—through a workshop or some one-on-one time. I had arrived about 45 minutes early, bought a cup of coffee, and sat down with a book. It was then, a few short moments later, after an impulse to take notes in the margins, that I realized I didn’t have a pen. What kind of writer was I?! The doubts and self-criticism crept in. Traveling without a pen! I don’t deserve to call myself a writer. What the hell am I doing here? I tried to put my thoughts aside, forcing myself to instead listen to the pompous self-advertisement of the college student at the next table, lecturing a group of his peers about the inauthenticity of the acting business, which he clearly saw-through. The entrance of the goddess mercifully put a stop to my unwanted attunement.
Her soft, gentle, strong presence reassured me and allowed me to tune back in to myself before we even shook hands. I could breathe out some of my vulnerability and allow it to hang between us. Susanne and I talked for about 45 minutes; me sharing my unclear sense of what I was searching for and revealing my fear about somehow destroying the sacred activity that writing had become for me. Was my objective in seeking a mentor to try to perfect something whose joy lay in being one of the few activities that I didn’t feel I had to master? I was worried, not about her eventual feedback, but about my intentions. I knew how capable I was of destroying my own desire, of sabotaging the hope of even some small joy. Writing was the exception. Was I about to destroy that? I thought, yes. What was I doing here?
I shared my ambivalence the best I could, describing the blogging I’d been up to for about a year and half now—how I wrote about anything purely for the sake of writing, the rare self-expression that accompanied the experience for me, and the unfamiliar joy I experienced when I wrote a piece I really liked. I told Susanne that I had written as work in the past, writing others’ projects and such—helping to craft a guide to understanding psychological trauma, a chapter about being a psychologist in private practice, and the many, many dry documents that included things like policies, procedures, bylaws, and project summaries. Creative writing in any fashion was new to me. I shared my very tentative desire to write about the midlife crisis I was still utterly in the midst of and how I thought there may be a story within me that needed to be told. I hinted at the internal struggle that had become my life, within which writing still only shimmered behind a rather thick veil. Although I sensed a future in which these various pieces might come together, and just barely glimpsed how writing might be part of this, I could not articulate how or why or when. So I did my best to acknowledge the Crisis, to point to the veil, to admit my desire and to cop to the accompanying fears.
That the blog, the writing, had saved my life; this I left unsaid.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Attraction
And the same black line that was drawn on you
was drawn on me
And that's drawn me in....
The Wallflowers, Sixth Avenue Heartache
was drawn on me
And that's drawn me in....
The Wallflowers, Sixth Avenue Heartache
The Box
A line is drawn.
He needs another, a third, and a then a fourth.
Perfect, he observes, admiring what he’s created for himself.
Safety is assured.
He invites another in. Then a third and a fourth.
Splendid, he thinks, taking comfort in the right angles.
Air is sparse.
The molecules vanish; one, then a third and a fourth.
Still lovely, he imagines, not noticing the lack of movement.
Decay is near.
They want out. The first and then the next, and the fourth.
Still safe, he imagines, not seeing the illusion.
A last breath is drawn.
He opens his eyes, first one and then the other.
Alone, he finally sees, with confusion, the betrayal of those lines.
He needs another, a third, and a then a fourth.
Perfect, he observes, admiring what he’s created for himself.
Safety is assured.
He invites another in. Then a third and a fourth.
Splendid, he thinks, taking comfort in the right angles.
Air is sparse.
The molecules vanish; one, then a third and a fourth.
Still lovely, he imagines, not noticing the lack of movement.
Decay is near.
They want out. The first and then the next, and the fourth.
Still safe, he imagines, not seeing the illusion.
A last breath is drawn.
He opens his eyes, first one and then the other.
Alone, he finally sees, with confusion, the betrayal of those lines.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
No Title
I haven’t felt much like writing these days. I am stuck in life, and therefore stuck on page. I do okay when I’m sad, lonely, despairing. I can turn this into sub-par poetry. But resignation yields nothing. It is not made of the stuff that easily transforms into art. Its expression on canvas is nothing—the absence of paint strokes, rather than a color, form, or movement of the arm. There is no internal seed to resignation. No impetus that leads to something else.
I look around and see flatness that continues ad infinitum. They say that one thing you can count on is change, but I see a landscape that doesn’t shift or move or transform. The boredom and lack is so vast and leads no where.
I stop writing because I don’t want to be the kind of person who holds such negativity and spreads it to the world. I have a sister like that… I can only imagine how many people, most of whom are complete strangers, she has hurt in her life with her bitterness. I don’t want to be her. So I try to descend, deeper and darker into the resignation, completely giving up and trying not to want anything from life. Is this what surrender is, the not-wanting? How does one continue to want and wish and hope while simultaneously giving up? It’s a lesson I have not yet learned.
I move to plan B. The sinking does not work, and so I keep on keeping on. I go to work and force myself to tend to the daily tasks that make-up life. I try to escape out of myself. And I drink coffee as support.
Today, I am grateful for coffee.
I look around and see flatness that continues ad infinitum. They say that one thing you can count on is change, but I see a landscape that doesn’t shift or move or transform. The boredom and lack is so vast and leads no where.
I stop writing because I don’t want to be the kind of person who holds such negativity and spreads it to the world. I have a sister like that… I can only imagine how many people, most of whom are complete strangers, she has hurt in her life with her bitterness. I don’t want to be her. So I try to descend, deeper and darker into the resignation, completely giving up and trying not to want anything from life. Is this what surrender is, the not-wanting? How does one continue to want and wish and hope while simultaneously giving up? It’s a lesson I have not yet learned.
I move to plan B. The sinking does not work, and so I keep on keeping on. I go to work and force myself to tend to the daily tasks that make-up life. I try to escape out of myself. And I drink coffee as support.
Today, I am grateful for coffee.
Friday, March 20, 2009
If I could only write lyrics like this...
"Now she wouldn't dance
It's so rock and roll to be alone
And they'll meet one day
far away
and say
'I wish I was something more.'" - Amy McDonald, Mr. Rock & Roll
http://www.kovideo.net/lyrics/a/Amy-Macdonald/Mr-Rock-And-Roll.html
It's so rock and roll to be alone
And they'll meet one day
far away
and say
'I wish I was something more.'" - Amy McDonald, Mr. Rock & Roll
http://www.kovideo.net/lyrics/a/Amy-Macdonald/Mr-Rock-And-Roll.html
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Love at First Sight...
I saw her today. She was beautiful. A stone exterior; colorful slate roof; concrete floors; and Soul. Beautiful as she was, she was also wounded. The cobwebs and overgrown vines speak of her profound abandonment. She is need of love.
As I walked in, and around, I could hear her speaking to me. I knew she would be able to tell me what she needed, and wanted, and how to bring her back to life. I started to assemble the Venus-inspired medical team in my imagination-- the meetings we would have to come up with a plan full of care, beauty, and integrity. The Labor of Love that would follow.
She was the home I was searching for. Intimate. Full of potential and character. Able to give back a sense of both security and beauty to whomever stepped-up to do the same for her. ... It would not be me.
I was reminded of the painful side of having a rich fantasy life; one's heart is broken easily and often.
As I walked in, and around, I could hear her speaking to me. I knew she would be able to tell me what she needed, and wanted, and how to bring her back to life. I started to assemble the Venus-inspired medical team in my imagination-- the meetings we would have to come up with a plan full of care, beauty, and integrity. The Labor of Love that would follow.
She was the home I was searching for. Intimate. Full of potential and character. Able to give back a sense of both security and beauty to whomever stepped-up to do the same for her. ... It would not be me.
I was reminded of the painful side of having a rich fantasy life; one's heart is broken easily and often.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Almost undecipherable
"I wanna wish it all away...
I wanna drum it all away...
I don't want to stay at all..."
Pearl Jam, Yellowledbetter
I wanna drum it all away...
I don't want to stay at all..."
Pearl Jam, Yellowledbetter
An Early Arrival
My husband loving put out our deck furniture this morning. It took only the slightest bit of cajoling by me. Either he also wanted to believe spring has arrived, or he wanted to make me happy. I imagine it was the latter. He knows nothing makes me happier than sitting comfortably in warm sunshine with a good book, or my thoughts.
Happy Spring.
Happy Spring.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
To Be or Not to Be
I had my first experience with zero balancing, a bodywork method that combines eastern approaches to energy work with western ways of understanding the mechanics of the body. It brings together energy and structure. As someone born under what seems like an unfortunate conjunction of Saturn (structure) and Mars (energy) this seemed a very appropriate treatment for me. The practitioner is what drew me in, though, not the technique. I met her in another capacity and loved her energy. I just knew she was one of those ultra-intuitive goddesses of the body. I knew she would assist my healing journey in some way.
Her knowing hands and wise heart had the following insight for me: I haven’t yet decided if I really want to be embodied and living on this planet. She was right. The words resonated with that Piscean desire toward escapism, fantasy, isolation. I get by just fine, but do I really want to be here? If not, then I’m dying a slow death rather than living a long life. Anna rightly told me that I was good at living in the wispy realm and needed to learn (decide) to live in my skeleton, in my bones. And that my life will fill itself out once I decided to do this.
So this is my task now. I never thought I’d make it to 40. As of tomorrow, I have one year left before that fateful deadline. I will spend my 39th birthday deciding if I want to be here, knowing that yes means committing to life regardless of where that takes me….
Her knowing hands and wise heart had the following insight for me: I haven’t yet decided if I really want to be embodied and living on this planet. She was right. The words resonated with that Piscean desire toward escapism, fantasy, isolation. I get by just fine, but do I really want to be here? If not, then I’m dying a slow death rather than living a long life. Anna rightly told me that I was good at living in the wispy realm and needed to learn (decide) to live in my skeleton, in my bones. And that my life will fill itself out once I decided to do this.
So this is my task now. I never thought I’d make it to 40. As of tomorrow, I have one year left before that fateful deadline. I will spend my 39th birthday deciding if I want to be here, knowing that yes means committing to life regardless of where that takes me….
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Hendrix and Hunger
The problem with being passionate is that when I’m not in those moments of intensity, I fall into longing. Nothing is ever enough. It means that necessary activities such as standing in line at the bank are quite challenging due to the sheer boredom.
There’s a line in the album version of Pearl Jam’s difficult to decipher song, Yellow Ledbetter, just before the sensual guitar riff; Vedder calls out: “Make me cry.”
Make me cry, make me laugh, make me love, make me feel. It’s as though I can’t believe I’m alive unless the fire of inner experience is burning.
So, I’ve been listening to Yellow Ledbetter over and over again this afternoon. The guitar solo, a tribute to Hendrix, evokes a feeling that I cannot name. The closest I come to describing it is arousal—it makes me want to rise and meet the world in full openness with the hope of transcending it all, flying to new heights, or reaching invisible depths. Hungry for something, though I’m not sure what.
There’s a line in the album version of Pearl Jam’s difficult to decipher song, Yellow Ledbetter, just before the sensual guitar riff; Vedder calls out: “Make me cry.”
Make me cry, make me laugh, make me love, make me feel. It’s as though I can’t believe I’m alive unless the fire of inner experience is burning.
So, I’ve been listening to Yellow Ledbetter over and over again this afternoon. The guitar solo, a tribute to Hendrix, evokes a feeling that I cannot name. The closest I come to describing it is arousal—it makes me want to rise and meet the world in full openness with the hope of transcending it all, flying to new heights, or reaching invisible depths. Hungry for something, though I’m not sure what.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Nessus: Wounded Eros
In addition to the traditional planets, the discipline of astrology takes note of many other planetary bodies, including asteroids and centaurs—the latter of which are named for the half-horse, half-human creatures of mythology. As planetary bodies, the centaurs move in long, dis-orderly orbits around the sun. Wikipedia describes how “many [within] the astrological community approach [the centaurs] with less dignity than the celestial bodies now considered planets,” then adds that “many astrologers believe the centaurs are of major astrological significance, recognizing one or more as rulers of Zodiac signs” (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Centaur; March 1, 2009).
I grant the centaurs much significance, and I respect their profound teachings on human nature. Nessus is the third discovered centaur and is associated with intergenerational wounds, karma, and sexual abuse. It has been described thusly: “Nessus represents primitive, unrestrained energy which can destroy without thinking and thus is destroyed by the same energy it seeks to dominate. This asteroid is also implicated in ancestral sin or the violation of one family member by another... Often the problems implicating Nessus are generational in span and duration” (http://www.mysticmarguerite.com/WebDocs/Texts/Asteroids.html; March 1, 2009).
Eric Francis writes that “Nessus is a Centaur planet that assists with identifying and healing of abuse patterns. But on another level, it reveals the complex interplay of causes and effects; of stated motives, underlying motives and of outcomes. While it can address cycles of karma, the most poignant key concept comes from Melanie Reinhart: the buck stops here, indicating that it in some situations it speaks to the conclusion of the karmic cycle involved: the truth revealed, the perpetrator caught, the situation resolved, responsibility taken” (http://www.planetwaves.net/smallworlds/contents/planets/nessus.html; March 1, 2009).
We can learn something also from the mythology of which Nessus gains its name. As one version of this myth has it, Nessus was killed by Hercules when Hercules discovered him about to rape his wife. And, as if the rape and his own death weren’t dark enough, in an act of betrayal toward Heracules’ wife, Nessus then kills Hercules-- after his own death!-- with his poisoned blood.
We see themes of rape, betrayal, damage after death (and therefore between generations), domination, and love. At the time of its discovery Nessus was in the sign of Scorpio, a sign associated with the deeply psychological, dark, taboo, and sexual aspects of life. Scorpio, in turn, is associated with the 8th house of astrology, which carries these Scorpion themes as well as that of contracts, agreements, and the use of others’ resources for one’s own gain. Nessus may have something to do with the ways in which the energy of one person is extorted and violated by another—and I believe it’s the fundamental energy of Eros that we’re talking about here. In fact, Nessus was square Eros at the time of its discovery (the square being an uncomfortable aspect between two energies that are related in ways that require a “working through”).
Reflecting on this mythology, the centaur’s discovery-location within Scorpio and square Eros, and its place within natal charts, I have come to wonder about Nessus as an expression of the way Eros has been wounded, diminished, and even raped—in our world and in our individual lives. Sexual abuse is the most obvious way in which this wounding can happen. But we are talking about life energy; and forms of psychological abuse, neglect, as well as the simple task of growing into a world where certain aspects of human nature are disallowed can also lead to a wounding, or disruption, of Eros. It should come as no surprise that this energy is wounded within our culture. And I even wonder if it may be human nature, regardless of culture, that Eros is disturbed in some way.
In other words, Nessus may represent the specific form of the challenge to Eros, which each of us suffers—a challenge to that energy that speaks of love, vitality, and our place in the Unity that sources our world.
For those who practice astrology, the location of Nessus in your chart (see below) may point to the ways in which Eros has been diminished for you, within your lifetime and/or across generations. It may help you to ponder the following questions: What gets in the way of my vitality? Where has my energy been diminished? Or what is left out within my way of relating to the world? To others? To myself? Nessus in Gemini might indicate a split between mind and body that diminishes Eros. Nessus in Taurus might point to a wounding of one’s feminine connection with matter (presenting as an eating disorder) or a heavy connection with matter and the things of the world, manifesting as depression felt deep within the body. Of course, the house it is located in and its aspects will also reveal something of the nature of what I am conceptualizing as a wound to Eros. And we do not need to know astrology to ask such questions.
As is always the case, our wounds also hold within them the potential to transform, grow, and in this case, reconnect with Eros--- with that life forces that animates life and makes it worth living. As Francis indicates, quoting Reinhart, it is about the cycle of abuse, diminishment, or wound to Eros stopping. And the way to do this is with awareness. It is in this way that Nessus points us in the direction of the shadows in need of light, and through that, toward what we need to heal from a legacy of diminished love.
I grant the centaurs much significance, and I respect their profound teachings on human nature. Nessus is the third discovered centaur and is associated with intergenerational wounds, karma, and sexual abuse. It has been described thusly: “Nessus represents primitive, unrestrained energy which can destroy without thinking and thus is destroyed by the same energy it seeks to dominate. This asteroid is also implicated in ancestral sin or the violation of one family member by another... Often the problems implicating Nessus are generational in span and duration” (http://www.mysticmarguerite.com/WebDocs/Texts/Asteroids.html; March 1, 2009).
Eric Francis writes that “Nessus is a Centaur planet that assists with identifying and healing of abuse patterns. But on another level, it reveals the complex interplay of causes and effects; of stated motives, underlying motives and of outcomes. While it can address cycles of karma, the most poignant key concept comes from Melanie Reinhart: the buck stops here, indicating that it in some situations it speaks to the conclusion of the karmic cycle involved: the truth revealed, the perpetrator caught, the situation resolved, responsibility taken” (http://www.planetwaves.net/smallworlds/contents/planets/nessus.html; March 1, 2009).
We can learn something also from the mythology of which Nessus gains its name. As one version of this myth has it, Nessus was killed by Hercules when Hercules discovered him about to rape his wife. And, as if the rape and his own death weren’t dark enough, in an act of betrayal toward Heracules’ wife, Nessus then kills Hercules-- after his own death!-- with his poisoned blood.
We see themes of rape, betrayal, damage after death (and therefore between generations), domination, and love. At the time of its discovery Nessus was in the sign of Scorpio, a sign associated with the deeply psychological, dark, taboo, and sexual aspects of life. Scorpio, in turn, is associated with the 8th house of astrology, which carries these Scorpion themes as well as that of contracts, agreements, and the use of others’ resources for one’s own gain. Nessus may have something to do with the ways in which the energy of one person is extorted and violated by another—and I believe it’s the fundamental energy of Eros that we’re talking about here. In fact, Nessus was square Eros at the time of its discovery (the square being an uncomfortable aspect between two energies that are related in ways that require a “working through”).
Reflecting on this mythology, the centaur’s discovery-location within Scorpio and square Eros, and its place within natal charts, I have come to wonder about Nessus as an expression of the way Eros has been wounded, diminished, and even raped—in our world and in our individual lives. Sexual abuse is the most obvious way in which this wounding can happen. But we are talking about life energy; and forms of psychological abuse, neglect, as well as the simple task of growing into a world where certain aspects of human nature are disallowed can also lead to a wounding, or disruption, of Eros. It should come as no surprise that this energy is wounded within our culture. And I even wonder if it may be human nature, regardless of culture, that Eros is disturbed in some way.
In other words, Nessus may represent the specific form of the challenge to Eros, which each of us suffers—a challenge to that energy that speaks of love, vitality, and our place in the Unity that sources our world.
For those who practice astrology, the location of Nessus in your chart (see below) may point to the ways in which Eros has been diminished for you, within your lifetime and/or across generations. It may help you to ponder the following questions: What gets in the way of my vitality? Where has my energy been diminished? Or what is left out within my way of relating to the world? To others? To myself? Nessus in Gemini might indicate a split between mind and body that diminishes Eros. Nessus in Taurus might point to a wounding of one’s feminine connection with matter (presenting as an eating disorder) or a heavy connection with matter and the things of the world, manifesting as depression felt deep within the body. Of course, the house it is located in and its aspects will also reveal something of the nature of what I am conceptualizing as a wound to Eros. And we do not need to know astrology to ask such questions.
As is always the case, our wounds also hold within them the potential to transform, grow, and in this case, reconnect with Eros--- with that life forces that animates life and makes it worth living. As Francis indicates, quoting Reinhart, it is about the cycle of abuse, diminishment, or wound to Eros stopping. And the way to do this is with awareness. It is in this way that Nessus points us in the direction of the shadows in need of light, and through that, toward what we need to heal from a legacy of diminished love.
THE MATRIX
The Matrix is the well-known sci-fi film about a computer hacker who, over time and with the help of others, discovers that the world he believes he is living in is an illusion. He is a character in somebody else’s reality, much like we are all characters in a larger, Divine or Universal plan, which we cannot possibly grasp in its entirety.
The Matrix is many things, including a metaphysical exploration: A commentary on the nature of consciousness.
To one degree or another we all live within our own matrix; and it takes an-Other perspective to help us step outside of this and to see our matrices for what they are. The point being that we cannot see our own blind spots. We can think of the matrix as the framework with which we approach the world; the perspective through which we view ourselves, others, and situations more generally.
An example: A guy believes that he has to be strong, and in control, and right all of the time. At about midlife, he begins to glimpse how this gets in his way: His wife complains that he does not embrace his vulnerability, for example, and this leaves her feeling lonely. So he vows to learn to become more comfortable in his vulnerability and goes to therapy. Once there, he “does vulnerability” in a very in-control way. He plans exactly what he will say to the therapist before each visit, wanting to talk about something that connects him to his feeling-life. He is really trying. And to a certain degree, things are different.
In another way, they are the same. His matrix (approaching the world in an in-control, strong, right kind of way) is still in place. And because it is being threatened by his attempts to be more vulnerable, it may be even stronger. Our matrices don’t like the process of dissolution very much.
The problem is this: His matrix (our matrices) is SO compelling. Here he is, in therapy, talking about feelings! He sees that he is doing something differently; his wife sees it; his therapist sees it. What no one sees, yet, is the blind spot: The way he is doing vulnerability “strongly” and in-control.
Here is another example: This time, a guy who lives in the world in a very safe, secure, and therefore sort-of rigid way. His penchant for ritual and routine seem to hold him in or hold him back in some way. He is starting to notice an absence of passion in his life and so seeks to loosen-up the rigidity. He decides to take up yoga. Before long, he is going six days a week, at the same time every day, and wishes his mat to be in the same location at each class. He is literally loosening-up, but the matrix is still in place.
Can you see it?
Maybe the structured way of approaching yoga keeps other people out. Maybe it keeps him in. Maybe it prevents him from looking inside to ask “Do I want to do yoga today?” and therefore from coming into contact with the spontaneity that is feared as too wild, uncontrolled, dangerous. But his yoga practice is SO compelling. “Look, I’m participating in the alternative and spiritual world where people trust their instincts!”
… But is he?
I am giving examples that are both exaggerated and simplified; and perhaps I am being too hard. Both of these men are trying to do something differently and to enrich their lives accordingly. And this is part of the process—a significant part. In my experience, as we make this kind of progress and travel through the process, we bang up against the walls of our matrices again and again, and again. The bumping is what teaches us they are there. Others, by virtue of offering a different perspective, framework, or way of looking at things, teach us about the existence of our matrices as well. Glimpsing the Divine, the invisible, the formless world also teaches us that there is so much more than the form or framework to which we are so attached.
And slowly, and often just a little bit at a time, we begin to emerge. The emergence doesn’t mean we cannot ever enter back into our original matrix. It’s just that when we do, we do so with more awareness that it is one of multiple frameworks. Not the only one. And we begin to understand that those painful moments of glimpsing our own insanity—the way we do the same thing over and over again hoping for a different result—are gifts that point the way toward an ever expanding consciousness; and more fulfilling relationships. Toward a way of being in the world that gives us choices, each and every moment; including the choice to be more fully our selves.
The discomfort of bumping into the familiar walls of the matrix leads outside of these same walls. And into freedom.
The Matrix is many things, including a metaphysical exploration: A commentary on the nature of consciousness.
To one degree or another we all live within our own matrix; and it takes an-Other perspective to help us step outside of this and to see our matrices for what they are. The point being that we cannot see our own blind spots. We can think of the matrix as the framework with which we approach the world; the perspective through which we view ourselves, others, and situations more generally.
An example: A guy believes that he has to be strong, and in control, and right all of the time. At about midlife, he begins to glimpse how this gets in his way: His wife complains that he does not embrace his vulnerability, for example, and this leaves her feeling lonely. So he vows to learn to become more comfortable in his vulnerability and goes to therapy. Once there, he “does vulnerability” in a very in-control way. He plans exactly what he will say to the therapist before each visit, wanting to talk about something that connects him to his feeling-life. He is really trying. And to a certain degree, things are different.
In another way, they are the same. His matrix (approaching the world in an in-control, strong, right kind of way) is still in place. And because it is being threatened by his attempts to be more vulnerable, it may be even stronger. Our matrices don’t like the process of dissolution very much.
The problem is this: His matrix (our matrices) is SO compelling. Here he is, in therapy, talking about feelings! He sees that he is doing something differently; his wife sees it; his therapist sees it. What no one sees, yet, is the blind spot: The way he is doing vulnerability “strongly” and in-control.
Here is another example: This time, a guy who lives in the world in a very safe, secure, and therefore sort-of rigid way. His penchant for ritual and routine seem to hold him in or hold him back in some way. He is starting to notice an absence of passion in his life and so seeks to loosen-up the rigidity. He decides to take up yoga. Before long, he is going six days a week, at the same time every day, and wishes his mat to be in the same location at each class. He is literally loosening-up, but the matrix is still in place.
Can you see it?
Maybe the structured way of approaching yoga keeps other people out. Maybe it keeps him in. Maybe it prevents him from looking inside to ask “Do I want to do yoga today?” and therefore from coming into contact with the spontaneity that is feared as too wild, uncontrolled, dangerous. But his yoga practice is SO compelling. “Look, I’m participating in the alternative and spiritual world where people trust their instincts!”
… But is he?
I am giving examples that are both exaggerated and simplified; and perhaps I am being too hard. Both of these men are trying to do something differently and to enrich their lives accordingly. And this is part of the process—a significant part. In my experience, as we make this kind of progress and travel through the process, we bang up against the walls of our matrices again and again, and again. The bumping is what teaches us they are there. Others, by virtue of offering a different perspective, framework, or way of looking at things, teach us about the existence of our matrices as well. Glimpsing the Divine, the invisible, the formless world also teaches us that there is so much more than the form or framework to which we are so attached.
And slowly, and often just a little bit at a time, we begin to emerge. The emergence doesn’t mean we cannot ever enter back into our original matrix. It’s just that when we do, we do so with more awareness that it is one of multiple frameworks. Not the only one. And we begin to understand that those painful moments of glimpsing our own insanity—the way we do the same thing over and over again hoping for a different result—are gifts that point the way toward an ever expanding consciousness; and more fulfilling relationships. Toward a way of being in the world that gives us choices, each and every moment; including the choice to be more fully our selves.
The discomfort of bumping into the familiar walls of the matrix leads outside of these same walls. And into freedom.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Death's Claim
His inaccessibility drives my wanting deeper
Just one night, I imagine, and I can rest
Three years after falling and I am still seeking
Knowing that the fire would burn me alive
I listen to songs about jealousy
And torture myself with his fantasies
Absent of me
To drink his soul before It claims me
And taste his skin with oceans raging
The thought of the Dark reminds
I’m viewing maya from behind barred windows
He sees bars too
And it’s time to allow him this
Absent of me.
Just one night, I imagine, and I can rest
Three years after falling and I am still seeking
Knowing that the fire would burn me alive
I listen to songs about jealousy
And torture myself with his fantasies
Absent of me
To drink his soul before It claims me
And taste his skin with oceans raging
The thought of the Dark reminds
I’m viewing maya from behind barred windows
He sees bars too
And it’s time to allow him this
Absent of me.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Glimpses
He hurries down the steps with presence and purpose, a few garbage bags in hand, greeting his new visitor as they pass on the stairway leading up to his home. It is as though he’s in pursuit of his own thoughts, racing to keep up with their pace… to grab hold of these energy-particles, which are quick, original, and- like him- seem to emerge from nowhere, though their substance reveal a history—as well as his story.
I see a man in love with the challenge of tracking his mind.
Back from depositing the trash, he meets his client, this time at the top of the stairs, and ushers her into the chaotic-looking space. Papers, equipment, books and photos, which are scattered across the kitchen table and flowing over onto the floor, hide his laptop from view. I imagine he didn’t sleep much the previous evening, even as I observe his energetic greeting of the clutter, in search of the lost item. His ease negotiating the chaos reflects that the scene is not uncommon.
He is at-home.
And in the classroom: Wearing khakis, a button-down, and a vest which belies his affinity for the 60’s, he is ready to play the role of teacher…only it isn’t a role at all. Too grounded for role-play, rooted in the contours of his body, knowledge and offerings. Rooted in earth. He radiates calm, care and an endearing openness. There is spaciousness. The teacher is the man and the man, the teacher.
Inevitably, his students fall in love.
The intensity rises when his attention turns to the conspiracy theory. His voice grows louder. He asserts himself with both aggression and playfulness. Paces back and forth, in full command of the classroom, speaking with an authority that mesmerizes. All Mars Now. And the tone of the room becomes almost solemn, even as his eyes sparkle with the enjoyment of this authority, confidence and power of persuasion.
I imagine that he’s aware, in this moment, of his desirability.
I know he is aware of hers, as his camera offers her the space to be. How miraculous is the opening he creates, momentarily eclipsing that which burns within so that she can find her fire! The lens extends he-as-palette. He is red and Blue and the absence of color as well as them all, and she feels herself coming to life within this prism of light.
Desire swells now, and he is left to drink himself.
EVER PRESENT INTENSITY: Just for a moment it seems to dissipate with the arrival of a hearty, earthy laugh—the sort that originates deep in the belly. A laugh so full of presence that it carries its own passionate force…and I realize it never really goes away. So I imagine him surrendering to sleep. And my fantasy holds his body still, though his psyche continues its motion, politely and appropriately ignoring my desire to bring him rest.
He is at home, here, too, in the deep, beautifully chaotic recesses of (un)consciousness.
Oh… and as a young boy: His face is so soft and his eyes, large, curious and wanting. The desire is already there. So, too, is the surrender. Longing for the embrace that proves he is loved. It’s an embrace I experience when he holds me with his eyes. He is there, with me, completely. In me, even; leaving me yearning to dance.
His compassion swaddles and heats and melts.
And in that moment, I am aware of the man and the boy; the love and aggression; desire and surrendr; the presence and dissolution.
The All and the one.
I see a man in love with the challenge of tracking his mind.
Back from depositing the trash, he meets his client, this time at the top of the stairs, and ushers her into the chaotic-looking space. Papers, equipment, books and photos, which are scattered across the kitchen table and flowing over onto the floor, hide his laptop from view. I imagine he didn’t sleep much the previous evening, even as I observe his energetic greeting of the clutter, in search of the lost item. His ease negotiating the chaos reflects that the scene is not uncommon.
He is at-home.
And in the classroom: Wearing khakis, a button-down, and a vest which belies his affinity for the 60’s, he is ready to play the role of teacher…only it isn’t a role at all. Too grounded for role-play, rooted in the contours of his body, knowledge and offerings. Rooted in earth. He radiates calm, care and an endearing openness. There is spaciousness. The teacher is the man and the man, the teacher.
Inevitably, his students fall in love.
The intensity rises when his attention turns to the conspiracy theory. His voice grows louder. He asserts himself with both aggression and playfulness. Paces back and forth, in full command of the classroom, speaking with an authority that mesmerizes. All Mars Now. And the tone of the room becomes almost solemn, even as his eyes sparkle with the enjoyment of this authority, confidence and power of persuasion.
I imagine that he’s aware, in this moment, of his desirability.
I know he is aware of hers, as his camera offers her the space to be. How miraculous is the opening he creates, momentarily eclipsing that which burns within so that she can find her fire! The lens extends he-as-palette. He is red and Blue and the absence of color as well as them all, and she feels herself coming to life within this prism of light.
Desire swells now, and he is left to drink himself.
EVER PRESENT INTENSITY: Just for a moment it seems to dissipate with the arrival of a hearty, earthy laugh—the sort that originates deep in the belly. A laugh so full of presence that it carries its own passionate force…and I realize it never really goes away. So I imagine him surrendering to sleep. And my fantasy holds his body still, though his psyche continues its motion, politely and appropriately ignoring my desire to bring him rest.
He is at home, here, too, in the deep, beautifully chaotic recesses of (un)consciousness.
Oh… and as a young boy: His face is so soft and his eyes, large, curious and wanting. The desire is already there. So, too, is the surrender. Longing for the embrace that proves he is loved. It’s an embrace I experience when he holds me with his eyes. He is there, with me, completely. In me, even; leaving me yearning to dance.
His compassion swaddles and heats and melts.
And in that moment, I am aware of the man and the boy; the love and aggression; desire and surrendr; the presence and dissolution.
The All and the one.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Another Love Story
I found Taylor Swift’s Love Story within the iTunes library that I share with my husband. More a fan of folk- and/or alternative- rock, I’m frequently teasing him about his poor taste in music and how surprising this is to me given that he originally taught me much of what I now know and appreciate about music. He introduced me to classic rock over 20 years ago, and now he listens to pop! “The student surpasses the teacher,” I only half joke and arrogantly assert as I hold to my conviction that good music is an objective fact and not just a matter of taste. And that I’m the judge and jury when it comes to such objective facts, despite the fact that I don’t believe in objectivity.
Anyway, in spite of myself, I love Swift’s song. Feminist that I can be, I hesitate to admit that this girl called me longs for her version of Romeo. I think many of us do, unless of course one is apt to dream about her version of Juliet. For me, it’s Romeo I find myself somewhat shamelessly wanting. My version is the type with a strong, solid exterior alongside a sensitive, wounded heart that is almost inaccessible.
On one specific occasion many years ago, my husband was my Romeo. I had fallen on an icy patch of an isolated part of the private school campus where he and I lived at the time. I hit my head on a brick wall and blacked out, just for a moment, as I lay alone on the concrete unable to get myself up. Not too long after, a student passed by and got help; but when the “help” arrived, no one wanted to touch me. I think they were thrown off by my inability to get myself up and concerned about a spinal cord injury, as we’re all taught to be in those basic-life-saving-skills classes which teach us to administer CPR with dummies. As I lay on the ground of ice, pleading with my coworkers not to call an ambulance, my husband appeared. He might as well have been riding a white horse. He ran over, pushed everyone out of the way, and swept me off the ground—into his arms—and away from that terrible scene. Then he took me home.
This is the one clear memory I have of him being that strong, solid man coming to my rescue. There is only one memory, not because he wouldn’t do it again in a heartbeat, but because these aren’t the usual roles we play for each other. My default mode is to be the strong one: I don’t need, or allow, rescuing. Though, as I reflect on my role as the damsel-in-distress, I know that there is something relieving for me in receiving help—and in having a Romeo to turn toward.
Today, I needed a Romeo again. Yesterday’s battle with a huge pothole threw off the alignment in my car and affected the tire pressure. Still, the car seemed drivable, and I was determined to get to my shamanic healing appointment this morning. On my way, the affected tire blew—on the highway. The scent of burning rubber accompanied a blinking engine light before I was quite cognizant of what was happening. Still, always one to be calm under pressure, I managed to get the car onto an off-ramp. After nearly driving one of the rims off its axel, that was as far as my reliable Subaru was going. So I sat in the car, contacted AAA, and then called my Romeo.
Before he showed up, I met two other Shakespearian characters, each ready to save me from the tragic circumstances of this bitterly cold winter morning. The first was the son of a state trooper—also driving a Subaru—who was kind enough to stop and make sure I was okay. He offered to call in a trooper to sit behind my car until all was safe; and he reminded me, with a smile, that I should not have been driving on a rim. The second strapping young prince was the tow-truck driver, who, when we initially spoke by phone, assured me that he would find me even though I couldn't tell him quite where I was. Once on the scene, he invited me into his truck to keep warm; and when he discovered that a muscle-related disability made it impossible for me to step into that sexy but very-far-off-the-ground truck of his, he took charge of ensuring that I’d be safely escorted from the scene. Prince Eric later called back to make sure I knew exactly where he had taken my car, leaving me feeling a bit like a princess.
As this hero of a man was saving me from a potential highway tragedy, my third Romeo entered the picture, quickly moving toward me from the thru-street at the end of the off-ramp—where I was now standing with a huge tow-truck and state trooper nearby. This time my husband took my hand, leading me over the treacherous ice, across the traffic-full street, and into the safety and warmth of his not-so-high-off-the-ground car. He then claimed full responsibility for the incident—claiming that he should have never let me drive the car after the pothole war—and tended to all of the practical details, leaving me free to transform this mini, road-side crisis into a Taylor Swift Love Story complete with three leading men.
He would be happy to know he was cast as the hero in this based-in-reality fantasy of mine. And I was happy enough to be in need of rescuing. Politically incorrect and offensive as this story-weaving may be to some, I think it illustrates the usefulness of fantasy, which is to help us recognize the rigidity of the roles we usually play… and the lives we usually lead. My fantasies of late have led me closer to surrender. This has come in the form of asking for help, giving up control, not having to be so strong, and relaxing into receiving. Plus, it’s fun to transform a tow-truck driver into Romeo with a sexy truck, staring in a role-play of a pop song.
Anyway, in spite of myself, I love Swift’s song. Feminist that I can be, I hesitate to admit that this girl called me longs for her version of Romeo. I think many of us do, unless of course one is apt to dream about her version of Juliet. For me, it’s Romeo I find myself somewhat shamelessly wanting. My version is the type with a strong, solid exterior alongside a sensitive, wounded heart that is almost inaccessible.
On one specific occasion many years ago, my husband was my Romeo. I had fallen on an icy patch of an isolated part of the private school campus where he and I lived at the time. I hit my head on a brick wall and blacked out, just for a moment, as I lay alone on the concrete unable to get myself up. Not too long after, a student passed by and got help; but when the “help” arrived, no one wanted to touch me. I think they were thrown off by my inability to get myself up and concerned about a spinal cord injury, as we’re all taught to be in those basic-life-saving-skills classes which teach us to administer CPR with dummies. As I lay on the ground of ice, pleading with my coworkers not to call an ambulance, my husband appeared. He might as well have been riding a white horse. He ran over, pushed everyone out of the way, and swept me off the ground—into his arms—and away from that terrible scene. Then he took me home.
This is the one clear memory I have of him being that strong, solid man coming to my rescue. There is only one memory, not because he wouldn’t do it again in a heartbeat, but because these aren’t the usual roles we play for each other. My default mode is to be the strong one: I don’t need, or allow, rescuing. Though, as I reflect on my role as the damsel-in-distress, I know that there is something relieving for me in receiving help—and in having a Romeo to turn toward.
Today, I needed a Romeo again. Yesterday’s battle with a huge pothole threw off the alignment in my car and affected the tire pressure. Still, the car seemed drivable, and I was determined to get to my shamanic healing appointment this morning. On my way, the affected tire blew—on the highway. The scent of burning rubber accompanied a blinking engine light before I was quite cognizant of what was happening. Still, always one to be calm under pressure, I managed to get the car onto an off-ramp. After nearly driving one of the rims off its axel, that was as far as my reliable Subaru was going. So I sat in the car, contacted AAA, and then called my Romeo.
Before he showed up, I met two other Shakespearian characters, each ready to save me from the tragic circumstances of this bitterly cold winter morning. The first was the son of a state trooper—also driving a Subaru—who was kind enough to stop and make sure I was okay. He offered to call in a trooper to sit behind my car until all was safe; and he reminded me, with a smile, that I should not have been driving on a rim. The second strapping young prince was the tow-truck driver, who, when we initially spoke by phone, assured me that he would find me even though I couldn't tell him quite where I was. Once on the scene, he invited me into his truck to keep warm; and when he discovered that a muscle-related disability made it impossible for me to step into that sexy but very-far-off-the-ground truck of his, he took charge of ensuring that I’d be safely escorted from the scene. Prince Eric later called back to make sure I knew exactly where he had taken my car, leaving me feeling a bit like a princess.
As this hero of a man was saving me from a potential highway tragedy, my third Romeo entered the picture, quickly moving toward me from the thru-street at the end of the off-ramp—where I was now standing with a huge tow-truck and state trooper nearby. This time my husband took my hand, leading me over the treacherous ice, across the traffic-full street, and into the safety and warmth of his not-so-high-off-the-ground car. He then claimed full responsibility for the incident—claiming that he should have never let me drive the car after the pothole war—and tended to all of the practical details, leaving me free to transform this mini, road-side crisis into a Taylor Swift Love Story complete with three leading men.
He would be happy to know he was cast as the hero in this based-in-reality fantasy of mine. And I was happy enough to be in need of rescuing. Politically incorrect and offensive as this story-weaving may be to some, I think it illustrates the usefulness of fantasy, which is to help us recognize the rigidity of the roles we usually play… and the lives we usually lead. My fantasies of late have led me closer to surrender. This has come in the form of asking for help, giving up control, not having to be so strong, and relaxing into receiving. Plus, it’s fun to transform a tow-truck driver into Romeo with a sexy truck, staring in a role-play of a pop song.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
House of Bliss
What do children, play, gambling, love affairs, and creativity all have in common?
For one thing, these are all themes related to the 5th House of Astrology. An astrology chart, often represented pictorially as a circle, shows the position of planets and other celestial bodies at any given moment in time. The circle is divided into 12 houses, of roughly 30 degrees each, totaling 360 degrees of zodaical territory. What this means is that each planet or asteroid finds itself located in one of 12 houses. The 5th house is my favorite and happens to be where my Pisces-Sun finds its home in my own birth chart. So, I decided to write about it this month—which, by the way, is a very 5th house thing to do: To follow your bliss.
Before I’m accused of circuitous arguments, though, I need to introduce the question again. Why are activities such as child’s play, creating art, gambling, and romance grouped together in an astrological house in the first place? Or, stated another way, what is the 5th House really about? What is its essence?
Jeremy Neal, life-long astrologer and blogger (http://chirotic.wordpress.com/), once said that astrology is about pattern recognition. I believe it was he who also advocated for distilling such patterns and themes to their essence. If you are at all interested in Astrology, it would be a worthwhile activity to pause and answer for yourself the questions posed above. What do these 5th House activities have in common?
To begin with, the 5th House is about taking risks. Gambling is the most obvious example of this, though we are not talking only about such concrete illustrations of risk. Taking risks in life involves moving through our fears and walking into unknown territory. It is about moving toward the unknown, even though it may be scary. It is about desiring and sometimes acting on that desire even though we cannot predict or guarantee or control the outcome. When we can do this, really do it, we usually discover a sense of joy.
I recently had the pleasure of witnessing the following scene:
Two children, about 4 and 6 years of age approached a large, ground-level water fountain located in the middle of an outdoor shopping center. It was closer to a park-like setting, and the fountain was a landscape feature, not a drinking fountain. The sun seemed to be blessing the fountain with its abundant light, so that the water glistened with its own joy.
The fountain consisted of about forty different spouts located on the pavement in the shape of a circle. The various spouts would give life to their respective eruptions of water according to a host of patterns that would repeat over time. Every third spout would erupt with a certain height of water spraying into the air, while every forth spout would remain silent, and every fifth erupt slightly after the third with a higher column of water. Suddenly, the pattern would change, over and over again, until all the spouts were operating at full blast creating an explosion of water that had the effect of liquid fireworks. Meanwhile, the two children, fully-clothed, found their way into the fountain and were squealing with delight. They seemed to love the unpredictability of it. And they were totally in the moment—not thinking about the previous pattern of water or what they ate for breakfast that morning, and not needing anything specific to happen next. They were not worried about their dad putting an end to their fun or the fact that their clothes were wet. They were staying with their desire in that moment, and found what I can only describe as pure bliss.
This is the 5th House incarnate. It’s about being in the moment, letting go of our expectations and our need to control the outcome, saying yes to our desire, and following our bliss. All of this involves risk, and being open to hurt or to disappointment. Children do this well. Love affairs jolt us into this space. Creativity requires this attitude—art moves through us, we do not control it.
As the two children were enjoying their shared moment of eternity, another younger girl—wearing what looked to be an expensive, brightly-colored dress-- approached with her mom. I’m not sure if it was spoken directly, but it was clear that this girl was not allowed in the fountain. Her momentary sad look broke my heart. There may have been very good reasons for this. In life, we cannot always follow our heart’s desire. Still, as a 5th House person, I was devastated for her. Regardless of the reasons for her specific prohibition to enter the fountain, what this leads me to think about is how often we shut down our 5th House attitudes for no good reason at all. I remember, back in the 7th grade, thinking about how ridiculous it was that my friend and I would get kicked out of class for laughing. I could understand wanting to remove us from the classroom so as not to disrupt the learning, but it was how upset some adults seemed to get that I could never fully understand. Why not celebrate such laughter?!
In any event, I think we are a culture of people who for the most part live in the 6th House of work and routine much more than the 5th House of Risk and Bliss. Everything has its place, which is part of the beauty of astrology. We may just be a bit off balance. So, whereas the purpose of my writing this is nothing other than the joy I experience in writing, I would not at all mind if it has the effect of inspiring someone to follow their version of bliss. And this is another lesson of the 5th: When we follow our own desires, it is not only good for us, but also for those around us.
For one thing, these are all themes related to the 5th House of Astrology. An astrology chart, often represented pictorially as a circle, shows the position of planets and other celestial bodies at any given moment in time. The circle is divided into 12 houses, of roughly 30 degrees each, totaling 360 degrees of zodaical territory. What this means is that each planet or asteroid finds itself located in one of 12 houses. The 5th house is my favorite and happens to be where my Pisces-Sun finds its home in my own birth chart. So, I decided to write about it this month—which, by the way, is a very 5th house thing to do: To follow your bliss.
Before I’m accused of circuitous arguments, though, I need to introduce the question again. Why are activities such as child’s play, creating art, gambling, and romance grouped together in an astrological house in the first place? Or, stated another way, what is the 5th House really about? What is its essence?
Jeremy Neal, life-long astrologer and blogger (http://chirotic.wordpress.com/), once said that astrology is about pattern recognition. I believe it was he who also advocated for distilling such patterns and themes to their essence. If you are at all interested in Astrology, it would be a worthwhile activity to pause and answer for yourself the questions posed above. What do these 5th House activities have in common?
To begin with, the 5th House is about taking risks. Gambling is the most obvious example of this, though we are not talking only about such concrete illustrations of risk. Taking risks in life involves moving through our fears and walking into unknown territory. It is about moving toward the unknown, even though it may be scary. It is about desiring and sometimes acting on that desire even though we cannot predict or guarantee or control the outcome. When we can do this, really do it, we usually discover a sense of joy.
I recently had the pleasure of witnessing the following scene:
Two children, about 4 and 6 years of age approached a large, ground-level water fountain located in the middle of an outdoor shopping center. It was closer to a park-like setting, and the fountain was a landscape feature, not a drinking fountain. The sun seemed to be blessing the fountain with its abundant light, so that the water glistened with its own joy.
The fountain consisted of about forty different spouts located on the pavement in the shape of a circle. The various spouts would give life to their respective eruptions of water according to a host of patterns that would repeat over time. Every third spout would erupt with a certain height of water spraying into the air, while every forth spout would remain silent, and every fifth erupt slightly after the third with a higher column of water. Suddenly, the pattern would change, over and over again, until all the spouts were operating at full blast creating an explosion of water that had the effect of liquid fireworks. Meanwhile, the two children, fully-clothed, found their way into the fountain and were squealing with delight. They seemed to love the unpredictability of it. And they were totally in the moment—not thinking about the previous pattern of water or what they ate for breakfast that morning, and not needing anything specific to happen next. They were not worried about their dad putting an end to their fun or the fact that their clothes were wet. They were staying with their desire in that moment, and found what I can only describe as pure bliss.
This is the 5th House incarnate. It’s about being in the moment, letting go of our expectations and our need to control the outcome, saying yes to our desire, and following our bliss. All of this involves risk, and being open to hurt or to disappointment. Children do this well. Love affairs jolt us into this space. Creativity requires this attitude—art moves through us, we do not control it.
As the two children were enjoying their shared moment of eternity, another younger girl—wearing what looked to be an expensive, brightly-colored dress-- approached with her mom. I’m not sure if it was spoken directly, but it was clear that this girl was not allowed in the fountain. Her momentary sad look broke my heart. There may have been very good reasons for this. In life, we cannot always follow our heart’s desire. Still, as a 5th House person, I was devastated for her. Regardless of the reasons for her specific prohibition to enter the fountain, what this leads me to think about is how often we shut down our 5th House attitudes for no good reason at all. I remember, back in the 7th grade, thinking about how ridiculous it was that my friend and I would get kicked out of class for laughing. I could understand wanting to remove us from the classroom so as not to disrupt the learning, but it was how upset some adults seemed to get that I could never fully understand. Why not celebrate such laughter?!
In any event, I think we are a culture of people who for the most part live in the 6th House of work and routine much more than the 5th House of Risk and Bliss. Everything has its place, which is part of the beauty of astrology. We may just be a bit off balance. So, whereas the purpose of my writing this is nothing other than the joy I experience in writing, I would not at all mind if it has the effect of inspiring someone to follow their version of bliss. And this is another lesson of the 5th: When we follow our own desires, it is not only good for us, but also for those around us.
Opening Up Perspective
A revision of Miami: Day Three--
I was away on vacation recently. As is always the case for me, it was only once I was boarded onto my plane and up in the air that I realized how important it was to take some form of vacation. Travel seems to bring me perspective. Once the plane literally began moving me away from my home and work, my mind cleared. I felt space opening up within me; and in that space, thoughts, fantasies, and memories came rolling in, one after another.
This is what I noticed during my warm January week: I didn’t have to be anything or anyone in Miami. The simple feat of being transported from a very familiar place to one less so had the effect of the dissolution of my ego—at least one of the outer layers of it. In other words, I was much less attached to a certain identity, to those beliefs that I am this, or ought to be that. And without that attachment, I responded more spontaneously, meaning that my responses arose in the moment, unconditioned by my past history, future expectations, and the attachment to identity that these can create.
This is freedom.
And what does this freedom have to do with relationships?
The nature of being human is to fall into limited perspectives (as much as it is also about always being much more than this). In relationships, this “falling” happens almost naturally, and easily. When we relate to the Other, we begin to form an image of them- a sense of who they are; just as we have an image of ourselves. My friend Jane is ---, fill-in the blank: Funny, outgoing, caring, abrasive, optimistic, and so on. What then happens is that when we are with Jane, we pay most attention to the information that confirms this image and less to anything contrary to it. Over time, and if we are not careful, we begin relating to an image rather than a living, breathing human being.
We do this with ourselves as well. Rather than relating to ourselves as human beings who are open to all possibilities in any moment, we close down these possibilities by believing I am only this. For example, we may have an image of ourselves that goes something like, “I am responsible to my family.” Then, when the opportunity arises to do something for oneself, and that opportunity seems in contrast with one’s family’s needs, that person may turn away from it- even though he really desires it.
What this looks like in relationships is: Mr. I am only this begins a relationship with Ms. She is this way, and the two living, breathing human beings almost disappear. Conflicts exist between the potential of each person and of the relationship in general with the images that each believes must be upheld. No wonder so many long-term relationships grow stale! Our way of relating to one another, and to ourselves, closes down possibilities. If you are feeling trapped, bored, apathetic, or unfree, this is a clue that you may be over-attached to an image or identity. It is also an opportunity to begin to live a juicier life.
How can we begin to discover that juicier life?
We need to embody the spirit of children, who are much less conditioned than adults into these fixed identities. We need to try to approach the world with a naïve vision—as though we are seeing things for the first time. Watch a child explore the world, and try to emulate this attitude.
On a more concrete level, there are things we can do to break-up our fixed patterns and images.
1. Try to observe this happening in your life. Notice the images or identities that you have crafted for your self and for others and notice those places where they may interfere with what is possible.
2. Take a vacation from usual routines. Drive to work using a different route. Eat something different for lunch. Have dinner out instead of in, or in instead of out.
3. Take a real vacation from work and home obligations. Even if you cannot go away, turn off the TV, phone, or computer. Stop you mail for two days. Indulge in a long bath or your favorite dinner, or sleeping-in.
4. In your long-term relationships—with friends, partners, or family members—challenge yourself to notice something different about the other person.
5. Hang out with a child, or an adult with a child-like spirit, for a whole day. Meet them where they are, and spend the day being playful, exploring, and experimenting—without expectation.
6. Fantasize about what your juicier life would look like. How do you feel within the fantasy? What is different about you? Others?
7. Finally, plan your vacation, play-date, or fantasy-time. Mark it on your calendar for at least one day this month. And honor the date!
I was away on vacation recently. As is always the case for me, it was only once I was boarded onto my plane and up in the air that I realized how important it was to take some form of vacation. Travel seems to bring me perspective. Once the plane literally began moving me away from my home and work, my mind cleared. I felt space opening up within me; and in that space, thoughts, fantasies, and memories came rolling in, one after another.
This is what I noticed during my warm January week: I didn’t have to be anything or anyone in Miami. The simple feat of being transported from a very familiar place to one less so had the effect of the dissolution of my ego—at least one of the outer layers of it. In other words, I was much less attached to a certain identity, to those beliefs that I am this, or ought to be that. And without that attachment, I responded more spontaneously, meaning that my responses arose in the moment, unconditioned by my past history, future expectations, and the attachment to identity that these can create.
This is freedom.
And what does this freedom have to do with relationships?
The nature of being human is to fall into limited perspectives (as much as it is also about always being much more than this). In relationships, this “falling” happens almost naturally, and easily. When we relate to the Other, we begin to form an image of them- a sense of who they are; just as we have an image of ourselves. My friend Jane is ---, fill-in the blank: Funny, outgoing, caring, abrasive, optimistic, and so on. What then happens is that when we are with Jane, we pay most attention to the information that confirms this image and less to anything contrary to it. Over time, and if we are not careful, we begin relating to an image rather than a living, breathing human being.
We do this with ourselves as well. Rather than relating to ourselves as human beings who are open to all possibilities in any moment, we close down these possibilities by believing I am only this. For example, we may have an image of ourselves that goes something like, “I am responsible to my family.” Then, when the opportunity arises to do something for oneself, and that opportunity seems in contrast with one’s family’s needs, that person may turn away from it- even though he really desires it.
What this looks like in relationships is: Mr. I am only this begins a relationship with Ms. She is this way, and the two living, breathing human beings almost disappear. Conflicts exist between the potential of each person and of the relationship in general with the images that each believes must be upheld. No wonder so many long-term relationships grow stale! Our way of relating to one another, and to ourselves, closes down possibilities. If you are feeling trapped, bored, apathetic, or unfree, this is a clue that you may be over-attached to an image or identity. It is also an opportunity to begin to live a juicier life.
How can we begin to discover that juicier life?
We need to embody the spirit of children, who are much less conditioned than adults into these fixed identities. We need to try to approach the world with a naïve vision—as though we are seeing things for the first time. Watch a child explore the world, and try to emulate this attitude.
On a more concrete level, there are things we can do to break-up our fixed patterns and images.
1. Try to observe this happening in your life. Notice the images or identities that you have crafted for your self and for others and notice those places where they may interfere with what is possible.
2. Take a vacation from usual routines. Drive to work using a different route. Eat something different for lunch. Have dinner out instead of in, or in instead of out.
3. Take a real vacation from work and home obligations. Even if you cannot go away, turn off the TV, phone, or computer. Stop you mail for two days. Indulge in a long bath or your favorite dinner, or sleeping-in.
4. In your long-term relationships—with friends, partners, or family members—challenge yourself to notice something different about the other person.
5. Hang out with a child, or an adult with a child-like spirit, for a whole day. Meet them where they are, and spend the day being playful, exploring, and experimenting—without expectation.
6. Fantasize about what your juicier life would look like. How do you feel within the fantasy? What is different about you? Others?
7. Finally, plan your vacation, play-date, or fantasy-time. Mark it on your calendar for at least one day this month. And honor the date!
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
A SOUL MATE
Today, while sipping my Starbuck’s iced-latte at a table outside a Godiva Chocolate Shop, where my husband was ordering an ice cream cone, a man approached me to ask me the time. “Excuse me, do you have the time?”
“No, I’m sorry,” I smiled. “I never have the time.”
It was true. It’s been years since I’ve worn a watch, and more often than is the case for most, I don’t even have a cell phone with me. At that moment, I really had no idea what time it was. He smiled back; put his hand on my shoulder; and asked if I were okay, in the kind of way that made me want to reassure him: Yes, I’m okay.
Maybe a woman in modern day America who didn’t have the time caused him some concern; then again, he didn’t “have it” either, so I’m not sure this would have alarmed him at all. I think it’s more likely that his concern grew from seeing me moments before (I had noticed him), this time sitting on a park bench, staring into my daydreams with a sad, distant look on my face—or so I imagine this is how I seemed. Perhaps it was that I looked sickly to him at a body weight of about 85 pounds with my ribs showing through the barely-there dress that covered-over my bikini. A combination of all of these things creates a picture of a fragile being not quite of this world and one for whom another such being might have compassion. For whatever reason—and in any case, one that I will never know for sure—he seemed to care; and this touched me deeply.
The man searching for the time was good looking. At about 6’ tall with sun-tanned skin and light-colored, very matted, and long hair, he was the kind of guy I fantasize about dressing in those dreams when I’m a famous designer of men’s clothes. He had the kind of form that transforms clothing into art, and a face to go with it. But it was not this that caught my attention and affected me profoundly the remainder of the day.
It was something else.
My sense was that he was an artist who found his home on the streets of Miami. His aura of nonconventionalism mixed with the softness of his spirit against the (imagined?) toughness of his life circumstances, evoked my instantaneous love for him—I had originally wrote, in one of those Freudian slips of the keyboard, love for me.
Telling.
I felt as though he could understand me. As though his soul grasped mine, without any words needing exchange at all. That he was one of those soul mates of mine walking around this earth separately; yet on some other plane, connected. And this made me love him, and through him— perhaps— me.
It is not just that he reflected me, in the sense of my seeing myself in him in some indirect way. Rather, it is the understanding… the grasping… the seeing into my soul, which evokes the love, and reminds me that there is much less distance than we often experience between incarnated souls sharing the space of this earth.
I hope to see him again. If not on the street, and not in my dreams, then on that Soul Plane wherein we are all connected. Where seeing and feeling are one. Where a sort of grapsing of one another happens instantaneously. Where moments count more than anything else. And where love for another is love for oneself. I graps him, and love him, now.
“No, I’m sorry,” I smiled. “I never have the time.”
It was true. It’s been years since I’ve worn a watch, and more often than is the case for most, I don’t even have a cell phone with me. At that moment, I really had no idea what time it was. He smiled back; put his hand on my shoulder; and asked if I were okay, in the kind of way that made me want to reassure him: Yes, I’m okay.
Maybe a woman in modern day America who didn’t have the time caused him some concern; then again, he didn’t “have it” either, so I’m not sure this would have alarmed him at all. I think it’s more likely that his concern grew from seeing me moments before (I had noticed him), this time sitting on a park bench, staring into my daydreams with a sad, distant look on my face—or so I imagine this is how I seemed. Perhaps it was that I looked sickly to him at a body weight of about 85 pounds with my ribs showing through the barely-there dress that covered-over my bikini. A combination of all of these things creates a picture of a fragile being not quite of this world and one for whom another such being might have compassion. For whatever reason—and in any case, one that I will never know for sure—he seemed to care; and this touched me deeply.
The man searching for the time was good looking. At about 6’ tall with sun-tanned skin and light-colored, very matted, and long hair, he was the kind of guy I fantasize about dressing in those dreams when I’m a famous designer of men’s clothes. He had the kind of form that transforms clothing into art, and a face to go with it. But it was not this that caught my attention and affected me profoundly the remainder of the day.
It was something else.
My sense was that he was an artist who found his home on the streets of Miami. His aura of nonconventionalism mixed with the softness of his spirit against the (imagined?) toughness of his life circumstances, evoked my instantaneous love for him—I had originally wrote, in one of those Freudian slips of the keyboard, love for me.
Telling.
I felt as though he could understand me. As though his soul grasped mine, without any words needing exchange at all. That he was one of those soul mates of mine walking around this earth separately; yet on some other plane, connected. And this made me love him, and through him— perhaps— me.
It is not just that he reflected me, in the sense of my seeing myself in him in some indirect way. Rather, it is the understanding… the grasping… the seeing into my soul, which evokes the love, and reminds me that there is much less distance than we often experience between incarnated souls sharing the space of this earth.
I hope to see him again. If not on the street, and not in my dreams, then on that Soul Plane wherein we are all connected. Where seeing and feeling are one. Where a sort of grapsing of one another happens instantaneously. Where moments count more than anything else. And where love for another is love for oneself. I graps him, and love him, now.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
A Toast to Artists
I’m writing from my hotel room now. My husband’s stuff is all over the place, as is he. Eating, chewing, talking, giving me unsolicited advice, and other such habits that he is of course entitled to, though they kill my creative spark. He just commented that I could play my itunes from the computer as I type. No shit!
Meanwhile, his belt sits in view, on the side table next to the couch in my room, balancing a plastic knife that he used yesterday to, almost unsuccessfully, cut through a plastic wrapper. He is getting ready to go to the gym, and I breathe a sigh of relief, even as his shoes look up at me from their place on the middle of the floor in the “living room” of our suite. One is facing upright, the other is on its side pointing away from its twin. It all has the effect of human fingernails scrapping the surface of a blackboard.
Earlier this week I mentioned to a friend my preference for things to be in their place in order for the creative spark to flow: For the practical details to be tended to before the visioning can begin. This is not procrastination for me; rather, it is like a necessary container. In my life, the alchemy of creation needs its clean, clutter-free, and organized vessel.
I am reading a book called Trust the Process: An Artist’s Guide to Letting Go. The process of creativity, whether we are writing a blog, designing a home, or painting a picture, is a dance of ritual and structure with that of trust, waiting, and letting go. As I began to write this morning, my intention was to write something else. The sound of my husband’s salvia swishing around his mouth before being swallowed down his esophagus led me somewhere else. Rather than drown in the distraction of it all, I went with it. I spaced down a few lines from the two sentences of the intended blog entry and began a new one.
Start with the now.
My now was distraction and irritation and crawling skin. Even so, as I reread the first paragraph of what I wrote, it brings me delight. I enjoyed describing the crawling skin. And although complaining about my husband, I’m really poking fun at myself. Ironically, I’m illuminating that part of myself that has a difficult time letting go; the part that wishes conditions to be just right—meaning exactly the way I want them—before I can sit down and put words on page.
I will eventually get up and put things in their place. This, too, brings me delight. For now, though, I can take pleasure in having experienced a moment of spiritual teaching: If we fight what is now, we experience “writer’s block,” in art and in life; if we instead embrace the now and trust its wisdom, it will lead us toward an unknown, yet equally satisfying or necessary, next now. And we can never view the whole picture from where we sit. (As an aside, the Academy Award nominated Slumdog Millionaire portrays this latter mentioned aspect of spiritual teaching with humor, compassion, and inspiration.)
Here’s to being with what life brings us. To waiting. To trusting. To loosening up the hold on our expectations and identities. Here’s to being artists.
Meanwhile, his belt sits in view, on the side table next to the couch in my room, balancing a plastic knife that he used yesterday to, almost unsuccessfully, cut through a plastic wrapper. He is getting ready to go to the gym, and I breathe a sigh of relief, even as his shoes look up at me from their place on the middle of the floor in the “living room” of our suite. One is facing upright, the other is on its side pointing away from its twin. It all has the effect of human fingernails scrapping the surface of a blackboard.
Earlier this week I mentioned to a friend my preference for things to be in their place in order for the creative spark to flow: For the practical details to be tended to before the visioning can begin. This is not procrastination for me; rather, it is like a necessary container. In my life, the alchemy of creation needs its clean, clutter-free, and organized vessel.
I am reading a book called Trust the Process: An Artist’s Guide to Letting Go. The process of creativity, whether we are writing a blog, designing a home, or painting a picture, is a dance of ritual and structure with that of trust, waiting, and letting go. As I began to write this morning, my intention was to write something else. The sound of my husband’s salvia swishing around his mouth before being swallowed down his esophagus led me somewhere else. Rather than drown in the distraction of it all, I went with it. I spaced down a few lines from the two sentences of the intended blog entry and began a new one.
Start with the now.
My now was distraction and irritation and crawling skin. Even so, as I reread the first paragraph of what I wrote, it brings me delight. I enjoyed describing the crawling skin. And although complaining about my husband, I’m really poking fun at myself. Ironically, I’m illuminating that part of myself that has a difficult time letting go; the part that wishes conditions to be just right—meaning exactly the way I want them—before I can sit down and put words on page.
I will eventually get up and put things in their place. This, too, brings me delight. For now, though, I can take pleasure in having experienced a moment of spiritual teaching: If we fight what is now, we experience “writer’s block,” in art and in life; if we instead embrace the now and trust its wisdom, it will lead us toward an unknown, yet equally satisfying or necessary, next now. And we can never view the whole picture from where we sit. (As an aside, the Academy Award nominated Slumdog Millionaire portrays this latter mentioned aspect of spiritual teaching with humor, compassion, and inspiration.)
Here’s to being with what life brings us. To waiting. To trusting. To loosening up the hold on our expectations and identities. Here’s to being artists.
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