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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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….