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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.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
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.
Hospitals, Planes, and Freedom
I’m writing from sunny Miami, having arrived here two days ago from the bitter cold that marks January in the Northeast. As is often the case for me, my tears began to flow as soon as I settled into my window seat on the plane and allowed the poetry contained in my ipod’s playlists to dance with my imagination.
Travel seems to bring me perspective. Once up in the air and moving away from home and work, my mind clears out. I feel space opening up within me; and in that space, thoughts, fantasies, and memories come rolling in, one after another. I flashed back to the time I left my home for graduate school in Pittsburgh, and how leaving my nephew who was about three at the time evoked an ache in my heart that I had not felt prior, nor since.
I laughed, almost out loud, as I later recalled my sister’s telling of a story that involved my father’s very appalling and bigoted comment to her when she called him in a desperate moment from her first home away from home, a college dorm room many, many miles away. How could this be funny to me, I wondered as I found some delight in the memory? Am I not the person who stands up to that sort of bigotry? Shouldn’t I be more responsible than a person who laughs at such a story? What I was in touch with, I believe, and what evoked the internal laughter was the tenderness of my father’s response—tenderness toward my sister, even as it was housed in a prejudicial statement of hate toward others. It was as though the perspective brought to me through travel held space for the compassion I experienced, which was at least equal to whatever outrage I felt.
This is what I have noticed during these first two days of a warm January week: I don’t have to be anything here. The simple feat of being transported from a very familiar place to one less so has the effect of the dissolution of my ego—at least one of the outer layers of it. In other words, I am no longer attached to a certain identity, to those beliefs that I am this, or ought to be that. And without that attachment, I respond spontaneously, meaning that my responses arise in the moment, unconditioned by my past history, future expectations, and the attachment to identity that these can create.
This is freedom.
The other place I have experienced this is the hospital. On two different occasions in my life, I have experienced extended stays (a week or more) within hospitals. I remember a similar feeling of freedom then, even as I was more confined than at any other time in my life. The confinement, though, and being removed from the familiar routines and obligations I call life, invited this detachment from ego. Then, as now, I had the choice of listening to my ipod all day long, getting lost in my thoughts, and not being anyone in particular.
At those times when I am feeling most stuck, or trapped, in my life, I’ve noticed fantasies of being hospitalized creeping in. It’s the freedom of not having to be anyone in particular. I realize now, that is what I’m truly craving in those moments. And experiencing that freedom here in Miami reminds me that a hospitalization is not the only way of achieving such!
Travel seems to bring me perspective. Once up in the air and moving away from home and work, my mind clears out. I feel space opening up within me; and in that space, thoughts, fantasies, and memories come rolling in, one after another. I flashed back to the time I left my home for graduate school in Pittsburgh, and how leaving my nephew who was about three at the time evoked an ache in my heart that I had not felt prior, nor since.
I laughed, almost out loud, as I later recalled my sister’s telling of a story that involved my father’s very appalling and bigoted comment to her when she called him in a desperate moment from her first home away from home, a college dorm room many, many miles away. How could this be funny to me, I wondered as I found some delight in the memory? Am I not the person who stands up to that sort of bigotry? Shouldn’t I be more responsible than a person who laughs at such a story? What I was in touch with, I believe, and what evoked the internal laughter was the tenderness of my father’s response—tenderness toward my sister, even as it was housed in a prejudicial statement of hate toward others. It was as though the perspective brought to me through travel held space for the compassion I experienced, which was at least equal to whatever outrage I felt.
This is what I have noticed during these first two days of a warm January week: I don’t have to be anything here. The simple feat of being transported from a very familiar place to one less so has the effect of the dissolution of my ego—at least one of the outer layers of it. In other words, I am no longer attached to a certain identity, to those beliefs that I am this, or ought to be that. And without that attachment, I respond spontaneously, meaning that my responses arise in the moment, unconditioned by my past history, future expectations, and the attachment to identity that these can create.
This is freedom.
The other place I have experienced this is the hospital. On two different occasions in my life, I have experienced extended stays (a week or more) within hospitals. I remember a similar feeling of freedom then, even as I was more confined than at any other time in my life. The confinement, though, and being removed from the familiar routines and obligations I call life, invited this detachment from ego. Then, as now, I had the choice of listening to my ipod all day long, getting lost in my thoughts, and not being anyone in particular.
At those times when I am feeling most stuck, or trapped, in my life, I’ve noticed fantasies of being hospitalized creeping in. It’s the freedom of not having to be anyone in particular. I realize now, that is what I’m truly craving in those moments. And experiencing that freedom here in Miami reminds me that a hospitalization is not the only way of achieving such!
Sunday, January 4, 2009
A New Year with Heart
My personal writing, for the most part, took a hiatus during the last month of 2008. I've been working on a never-ending, academic project with four other authors for many years now. I finally had to end my involvement as it was no longer bringing me any joy or satisfaction. Before doing so, though, I wanted to finish a heavy editing task that I had promised to do. December 31st was my deadline. With the exception of some minor consultation and one more in person meeting, I am now officially free of this obligation and hope to get back to more personal writing, which is where my heart is most happy. In the meantime, I send positive thoughts and energy to my colleagues who will be finishing up what we all hope is the last leg of this journey. If all goes well, we will have a book published sometime this year.
I hope others are using the demarcation of a new year to recommit to themselves, to their hearts, and to what they most love. The universe really does have a grander plan that none of us can ever fully know. But we are given clues about how to follow along, and these clues reside in the heart. Often, our hearts don't speak in the ways we're used to. They're not so loud and they don't actively compete for our attention. Rather, they put their message out there and trust that if we really wish to listen, we'll tune in to them. Every once in a while, or more, we would do well to quiet down the other voices and tune in to those of the heart.
In addition to the message of writing about more personal experiences and writing for the sake of writing, my heart is telling me to get off a medication that I recently started that is kicking my ass! I imagine the docs will tell me to hang in there and stick with it. Sometimes, our hearts have practical advice. Much to my doctors (and others') dismay, when the two clash, I listen to my heart over the dictates of the medical and pharmaceutical industries.
Follow yours and you will find yourself in the places and spaces you need to be.
Happy 2009.
I hope others are using the demarcation of a new year to recommit to themselves, to their hearts, and to what they most love. The universe really does have a grander plan that none of us can ever fully know. But we are given clues about how to follow along, and these clues reside in the heart. Often, our hearts don't speak in the ways we're used to. They're not so loud and they don't actively compete for our attention. Rather, they put their message out there and trust that if we really wish to listen, we'll tune in to them. Every once in a while, or more, we would do well to quiet down the other voices and tune in to those of the heart.
In addition to the message of writing about more personal experiences and writing for the sake of writing, my heart is telling me to get off a medication that I recently started that is kicking my ass! I imagine the docs will tell me to hang in there and stick with it. Sometimes, our hearts have practical advice. Much to my doctors (and others') dismay, when the two clash, I listen to my heart over the dictates of the medical and pharmaceutical industries.
Follow yours and you will find yourself in the places and spaces you need to be.
Happy 2009.
In Defense of Passion
“Give me the luxuries of life and I will willingly do without the necessities.” – Frank Lloyd Wright
“When I find beautiful things, it feels as though they are necessary tools for my life. I can’t bear to have old junk around, disturbing the peace. Better a space be empty. But we have been here two years, and when I saw the chairs and rugs, I had to buy them for my sanity. Can you possibly understand that? It’s part of finishing a piece of art.”
The first quote above is attributed to the famous architect, Frank Lloyd Wright; the second is spoken by the fictional Frank Lloyd Wright in the historical novel, Loving Frank, by Nancy Horan.
My body responds with an overall tingling feeling of resonance to these words. If I were to ever consider acting, this latter quote is the one that would lead me to the craft. Every time I read it (I have the page marked), I want to act it, to speak it over and over, injecting just the right feeling and gestures and passion into this declaration.
These words capture a way of being that I sometimes feel but could not have articulated as well myself.
The articulation of being in love… with a rug or a chair, and with the art of which they are a part. The speaking of pure passion. The voice given to the inner necessity for beauty that obliterates the need for those things others consider necessary. The desire that leads to the decision to buy a piece of art rather than food for the month.
In the novel, fictional Frank gets into some trouble as he chooses his passion over responsibility; buying rugs rather than paying his contractors, for example. There are many who would consider this careless, thoughtless, selfish, and irresponsible. The arguments in favor of this perception are clear: We must take responsibility for our actions and follow things through, tending to the consequences of all we put into motion. “But what about the other side?” I hear my inner thoughts plead. I wish to stand up for passion and art and the truth that arrives in beauty. I’m more than willing to overlook Frank’s indiscretions in exchange for the joy of knowing someone out there followed his passion and created things truly beautiful, inspiring many along the way.
There are some who would say that beauty is all around us; and in all things. I disagree. I think something things are beautiful and some are not. I don’t think all art is equal; nor is all design; nor all visions. The truth that arrives in beauty has something to do with a sense of integrity; an internal order that may or may not be obvious; a whole that both exists within individual parts but is only complete within the relationships among these parts. It is the Gestalt of a thing, we could say, that makes it beautiful, or not. The ways in which the parts and whole reflect and enhance and create one another. Nature delivers beauty in many forms: The way snow gathers on a tree branch; a blooming rose; and the way the sun radiates its light through a series of clouds turning a blue sky coral. Sometimes, men and women create equally beautiful things.
In truth, I think responsibility and structure and form are almost as important as passion is for the creation of art. I also think, though, that many of us have an overdeveloped sense of obligation, duty, and responsibility in our lives; or equally common, overdeveloped fears. It is for this reason that I find myself wanting to be a fierce advocate for the passion embodied by both the real and fictional Frank. Sometimes, we need to at least allow for the urge to buy those must-have boots rather than pay the electric bill; or the urge to call-out for work not because we’re ill but because we just MUST paint; or to hang that erotic art on our living room wall even though everyone else disapproves. Giving voice to those artistic visions that arise from within is a necessary first step to creating art. Beauty is not created out of duty; nor is it perceived from a place of obligation (other than the obligation to beauty itself). To begin with, we must connect with our wild instincts and the fiery spirit within. For it is here that our capacity to perceive and to create beauty breathes its breath.
As we begin a new year, I want to encourage those who are inspired by beauty, those who can see it, and those who create it, to do just that. Whether it’s putting together a gorgeous outfit, carving a piece of furniture, arranging flowers, playing jazz, or juxtaposing colors on a canvas, find the time and space to do it. Create the time and space to do it. Build this into your New Year’s Resolutions. Or better yet, rather than creating resolutions out of perceived obligations such as “losing weight,” allow your passion for the truth that finds its home in beauty to inspire which resolutions you actually chose to implement for 2009.
“When I find beautiful things, it feels as though they are necessary tools for my life. I can’t bear to have old junk around, disturbing the peace. Better a space be empty. But we have been here two years, and when I saw the chairs and rugs, I had to buy them for my sanity. Can you possibly understand that? It’s part of finishing a piece of art.”
The first quote above is attributed to the famous architect, Frank Lloyd Wright; the second is spoken by the fictional Frank Lloyd Wright in the historical novel, Loving Frank, by Nancy Horan.
My body responds with an overall tingling feeling of resonance to these words. If I were to ever consider acting, this latter quote is the one that would lead me to the craft. Every time I read it (I have the page marked), I want to act it, to speak it over and over, injecting just the right feeling and gestures and passion into this declaration.
These words capture a way of being that I sometimes feel but could not have articulated as well myself.
The articulation of being in love… with a rug or a chair, and with the art of which they are a part. The speaking of pure passion. The voice given to the inner necessity for beauty that obliterates the need for those things others consider necessary. The desire that leads to the decision to buy a piece of art rather than food for the month.
In the novel, fictional Frank gets into some trouble as he chooses his passion over responsibility; buying rugs rather than paying his contractors, for example. There are many who would consider this careless, thoughtless, selfish, and irresponsible. The arguments in favor of this perception are clear: We must take responsibility for our actions and follow things through, tending to the consequences of all we put into motion. “But what about the other side?” I hear my inner thoughts plead. I wish to stand up for passion and art and the truth that arrives in beauty. I’m more than willing to overlook Frank’s indiscretions in exchange for the joy of knowing someone out there followed his passion and created things truly beautiful, inspiring many along the way.
There are some who would say that beauty is all around us; and in all things. I disagree. I think something things are beautiful and some are not. I don’t think all art is equal; nor is all design; nor all visions. The truth that arrives in beauty has something to do with a sense of integrity; an internal order that may or may not be obvious; a whole that both exists within individual parts but is only complete within the relationships among these parts. It is the Gestalt of a thing, we could say, that makes it beautiful, or not. The ways in which the parts and whole reflect and enhance and create one another. Nature delivers beauty in many forms: The way snow gathers on a tree branch; a blooming rose; and the way the sun radiates its light through a series of clouds turning a blue sky coral. Sometimes, men and women create equally beautiful things.
In truth, I think responsibility and structure and form are almost as important as passion is for the creation of art. I also think, though, that many of us have an overdeveloped sense of obligation, duty, and responsibility in our lives; or equally common, overdeveloped fears. It is for this reason that I find myself wanting to be a fierce advocate for the passion embodied by both the real and fictional Frank. Sometimes, we need to at least allow for the urge to buy those must-have boots rather than pay the electric bill; or the urge to call-out for work not because we’re ill but because we just MUST paint; or to hang that erotic art on our living room wall even though everyone else disapproves. Giving voice to those artistic visions that arise from within is a necessary first step to creating art. Beauty is not created out of duty; nor is it perceived from a place of obligation (other than the obligation to beauty itself). To begin with, we must connect with our wild instincts and the fiery spirit within. For it is here that our capacity to perceive and to create beauty breathes its breath.
As we begin a new year, I want to encourage those who are inspired by beauty, those who can see it, and those who create it, to do just that. Whether it’s putting together a gorgeous outfit, carving a piece of furniture, arranging flowers, playing jazz, or juxtaposing colors on a canvas, find the time and space to do it. Create the time and space to do it. Build this into your New Year’s Resolutions. Or better yet, rather than creating resolutions out of perceived obligations such as “losing weight,” allow your passion for the truth that finds its home in beauty to inspire which resolutions you actually chose to implement for 2009.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Will I Find Happiness in a Shiny New Car?
Two weekends ago, I laid in bed feeling as though I were dying. The experience was similar to depression, but not quite the same. I was in a place of resignation—all hopes dashed. I managed to get out of bed to sip a cup of tea in the morning, and then tried to lose myself to sleep once more. I forced myself out of bed again at about 3 each day to take a shower so that at least I’d be clean as I died. And when the boredom got to be too much, I ventured out, mid-evening, to watch several back-to-back reruns of Sex and the City before trying once again to sleep through the night; only to wake up and live this dying routine another day.
My dying was triggered by a visit to the couple’s therapist—mine and my husband’s fifth or so visit with this particular guy. He suggested we meet with a second therapist who could then consult to us and to him, because he was “stuck.” Now, I understand that consultations can be quite helpful to long-term therapies and that this can work well in a variety of ways. However, in five weeks this guy hadn’t shown us that he knew how to be helpful at all, and he was suggesting that we pay to enlist help?! Why wouldn’t we just see this other guy, rather than pay him to help someone else help us? Why would we wish to continue trying when he joked that “maybe it’s my fantasy that someone else can help you?” Anyway, at the time I wasn’t angry. Just despondent.
This was my hope: I thought that if I fought, and that if we did the work, someone could give us hope. Hope that it would be better than it is now. Hope that I might discover the passion I’m looking for in the relationship I already have. Hope that I would discover the secret to living a life well-lived.
And this was my belief: If I fight hard enough I can have anything I want. If I were determined enough, passionate enough, and willing to work on myself honestly and psychologically, I would always find what I was looking for. If a person goes to years of therapy, works everyday to be self-aware, and does her best to be kind and real, then she will eventually create a good life.
The therapist told me that I was looking for a shiny new car and the only thing he could do was sell me an old one. In other words, I would have to settle for something other than what I really want; and because I was having a hard time dealing with this, he was stuck and couldn’t be helpful. There was no way to turn led to gold, to use a metaphor higher in resonance for me; even though I always believed I could do so. He was telling me that those hopes and beliefs mentioned above were false. Life is about settling.
This is when the hopeless and long days in bed with only a slight reprieve from Sex and the City—which, if you’ve seen episodes or the movie, you know just worked to reinforce my fantasy life rather than cure it with the dose of reality (or pessimism, depending upon how you look at it) my therapist was suggesting—began. I managed to pull myself out of it, with my fighting spirit I might add, and turn that despondency into anger. Anger is always helpful to me. Then I realized that the therapist was correct in some ways, even if not very skilled at delivering his observations. Fighting what is does not work. Accepting right where we are is always the first and necessary step to healing. I wish he could have stayed with us to create space to do this accepting, but then again maybe he helped me in a less costly way. His admitted stuckness brought me face to face with the tons of resistance I’ve been carrying around. He helped me to see this more clearly, and quickly. For that I am grateful.
I happen to be working with a Shaman who commented that this—meaning my life right now—is my dying. I am dying to the ego that wishes things to be a particular way and that is addicted to the fight that I believe will achieve such things. Dying in this way is difficult. Mostly, I feel disappointed… Disappointed that what I thought life could be is not. Disappointed as I look around and realize that this really is all there is. Some— my Shaman included—hold out the hope through their own experiences that although this is all there is, when we really accept that—fully surrender to it—we find a beauty in it that is better than anything we could have imagined. Full surrender can bring contentment. Contentment sounds a lot less appealing that the passionate life I was hoping for, but this feeling actually helps me because it allows me to move further into the surrender—which is always the opposite direction from the kind of hope I’ve described.
My dying was triggered by a visit to the couple’s therapist—mine and my husband’s fifth or so visit with this particular guy. He suggested we meet with a second therapist who could then consult to us and to him, because he was “stuck.” Now, I understand that consultations can be quite helpful to long-term therapies and that this can work well in a variety of ways. However, in five weeks this guy hadn’t shown us that he knew how to be helpful at all, and he was suggesting that we pay to enlist help?! Why wouldn’t we just see this other guy, rather than pay him to help someone else help us? Why would we wish to continue trying when he joked that “maybe it’s my fantasy that someone else can help you?” Anyway, at the time I wasn’t angry. Just despondent.
This was my hope: I thought that if I fought, and that if we did the work, someone could give us hope. Hope that it would be better than it is now. Hope that I might discover the passion I’m looking for in the relationship I already have. Hope that I would discover the secret to living a life well-lived.
And this was my belief: If I fight hard enough I can have anything I want. If I were determined enough, passionate enough, and willing to work on myself honestly and psychologically, I would always find what I was looking for. If a person goes to years of therapy, works everyday to be self-aware, and does her best to be kind and real, then she will eventually create a good life.
The therapist told me that I was looking for a shiny new car and the only thing he could do was sell me an old one. In other words, I would have to settle for something other than what I really want; and because I was having a hard time dealing with this, he was stuck and couldn’t be helpful. There was no way to turn led to gold, to use a metaphor higher in resonance for me; even though I always believed I could do so. He was telling me that those hopes and beliefs mentioned above were false. Life is about settling.
This is when the hopeless and long days in bed with only a slight reprieve from Sex and the City—which, if you’ve seen episodes or the movie, you know just worked to reinforce my fantasy life rather than cure it with the dose of reality (or pessimism, depending upon how you look at it) my therapist was suggesting—began. I managed to pull myself out of it, with my fighting spirit I might add, and turn that despondency into anger. Anger is always helpful to me. Then I realized that the therapist was correct in some ways, even if not very skilled at delivering his observations. Fighting what is does not work. Accepting right where we are is always the first and necessary step to healing. I wish he could have stayed with us to create space to do this accepting, but then again maybe he helped me in a less costly way. His admitted stuckness brought me face to face with the tons of resistance I’ve been carrying around. He helped me to see this more clearly, and quickly. For that I am grateful.
I happen to be working with a Shaman who commented that this—meaning my life right now—is my dying. I am dying to the ego that wishes things to be a particular way and that is addicted to the fight that I believe will achieve such things. Dying in this way is difficult. Mostly, I feel disappointed… Disappointed that what I thought life could be is not. Disappointed as I look around and realize that this really is all there is. Some— my Shaman included—hold out the hope through their own experiences that although this is all there is, when we really accept that—fully surrender to it—we find a beauty in it that is better than anything we could have imagined. Full surrender can bring contentment. Contentment sounds a lot less appealing that the passionate life I was hoping for, but this feeling actually helps me because it allows me to move further into the surrender—which is always the opposite direction from the kind of hope I’ve described.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Feelings I Cannot Understand...
I could spend all day dreaming about his biceps, the way he seems so grounded and comfortable in the solitude of his own skin, how he might taste, and what it is that he really craves.
What would he confess if it felt safe enough? And what might he desire if freedom to do so were granted from within? What is he looking for, really, when he surveys the bar in search of a woman to go home with?
I can't stop wondering about his psychic aches and pains, and how well he knows his own pain...? I wish to feel what he does, to understand at that depth, and offer that up to him, and for him, so that he might receive something, though I know not what.
I dream about his biceps and tears fall and I believe that I would die if it would save him.
What would he confess if it felt safe enough? And what might he desire if freedom to do so were granted from within? What is he looking for, really, when he surveys the bar in search of a woman to go home with?
I can't stop wondering about his psychic aches and pains, and how well he knows his own pain...? I wish to feel what he does, to understand at that depth, and offer that up to him, and for him, so that he might receive something, though I know not what.
I dream about his biceps and tears fall and I believe that I would die if it would save him.
Gifts
Since I love giving gifts so much, I thought I'd capture them here. Here are my favorites for this year:
US Open (golf) tickets for my brother
A tarot card reading for my mom
Make your own book for one of my nieces-- you actually send the book in and they send it back "published," bound-and-all
A beautiful. very tasteful photo of a nude women (close up of her torso) in an equally beautiful custom frame for my husband
Fresh flowers for many of my favorite people in this world
And I'm contemplating inking my husband's name onto my upper, inner thigh-- which is not something I want, but the very idea that it would be a sacrafice is what is enticing about it-- I would truly be doing it for his pleasure and that's the kind of gift I love giving.
What was your favorite gift-- to give or receive this year?
US Open (golf) tickets for my brother
A tarot card reading for my mom
Make your own book for one of my nieces-- you actually send the book in and they send it back "published," bound-and-all
A beautiful. very tasteful photo of a nude women (close up of her torso) in an equally beautiful custom frame for my husband
Fresh flowers for many of my favorite people in this world
And I'm contemplating inking my husband's name onto my upper, inner thigh-- which is not something I want, but the very idea that it would be a sacrafice is what is enticing about it-- I would truly be doing it for his pleasure and that's the kind of gift I love giving.
What was your favorite gift-- to give or receive this year?
Thank God for Snow!
Thank God for snow! I'm hpoing to be snowed-in here in the northeast tomorrow, which will finally give me not only the time to get back to my writing, but the space to reflect. My desire to write comes from either: (1) Deep and passionate longing or(2) A poetic way of experiencing the world-- a sort of sensibility that I can access only when I stop long enough to notice what's around me. I'm not sure what has me so busy these days but that space has been missing. And I'm feeling it; it's lack, that is. I'm tired, run-down, cranky, and haven't been feeling much of anything. I need my space back...
I need to write about how I felt as though I were dying last weekend. My body was shut down, my psyche was soooo shut down. And I did everything I could, from that shut down state, to bring the sort of awareness that might turn this crazy experience into an ego death--- intentionally letting those parts of me I no longer need fall away.
I need to write about all the pain in the world that I see close up and whether we can find meaning in that, or not.
I need to write about how my couple's therapist told my husband and me (though I think it was really me) how he couldn't help us... he didn't know what to do or where to lead us. He didn't know how to work with my resentment. What kind of psychotherapist-- and one who works with couples-- doesn't know how to work with f--king resentment?!
I need to write about how I spend too much money at Christmas time because of how much I love buying great gifts.
In sum, I need to process the tension, stress, pain, disappointment, grief, and even the numbness I've been feeling and I do this best by writing about it.
I hope to be back to this regularly, and soon. Tomorrow, I'll start with a visit to our neighborhood Shaman, who has been helping me in ways similar to how writing does... which is yet another topic for future posts.
I need to write about how I felt as though I were dying last weekend. My body was shut down, my psyche was soooo shut down. And I did everything I could, from that shut down state, to bring the sort of awareness that might turn this crazy experience into an ego death--- intentionally letting those parts of me I no longer need fall away.
I need to write about all the pain in the world that I see close up and whether we can find meaning in that, or not.
I need to write about how my couple's therapist told my husband and me (though I think it was really me) how he couldn't help us... he didn't know what to do or where to lead us. He didn't know how to work with my resentment. What kind of psychotherapist-- and one who works with couples-- doesn't know how to work with f--king resentment?!
I need to write about how I spend too much money at Christmas time because of how much I love buying great gifts.
In sum, I need to process the tension, stress, pain, disappointment, grief, and even the numbness I've been feeling and I do this best by writing about it.
I hope to be back to this regularly, and soon. Tomorrow, I'll start with a visit to our neighborhood Shaman, who has been helping me in ways similar to how writing does... which is yet another topic for future posts.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Grounded Exuberance
The big astrological news this month is Pluto’s ingress into Capricorn, marking a new generation—a new time in history—which will take us through 2024.
Outer planets such as Pluto move very slowly, in comparison to the sun, for example. Whereas the sun changes signs every month, Pluto changes every 12-20+ years. I was born just as Pluto was getting ready to exit Virgo, where it found its home from 1956- 1971. The Pluto in Virgo generation is a health conscious one. It is a generation that began to cultivate a respectful relationship with the environment. We take our work seriously, and can be prone to anxiety about the changes around us and what such changes mean for our sense of self and independence—thanks in part to Pluto’s proximity to Uranus during these years. Pluto is currently, and (for the most part) has been, in Sagittarius since 1995. We can reflect on the nature of the collective ethos beginning in about 1995 in order to capture an experiential sense of Pluto in Sag. Among other things, it is a sense of expansiveness, shooting for the heavens, optimism, and wishing to live “big.” Pluto in Sag marks a generation of visionaries, those that reflect on the big picture, and are concerned with cultivating a philosophy of life and ongoing learning, expanding their horizons in addition to super-sizing their homes and food products. The shadow side of such expansiveness has been made known to us as banks, homeowners, and businesses all face the crash of structures that were built upon unsupported grandiosity.
Speaking of Sag more generally, it is represented by an archer shooting toward the sky and is ruled by the planet Jupiter, the largest planet in the Earth’s solar system. It is the sign of vision, physical and psychological/ imaginary travel, athleticism, reaching beyond where we find ourselves in the moment. The Olympics are a good example of a Sag-infused event. Likewise, Sagittarian-influenced individuals can be exuberant in their ability to dream. John F. Kennedy, Jr.; Tina Turner; Bette Midler; and Winston Churchill are among some well-known Sun-sign Sagittarians. These are big personalities with a meaning or purpose behind their greatness. It is as though the desire for expanded horizons and philosophical thinking tempers the potential for narcissism.
So, as the Sun makes its way across Sag this month, Pluto makes its way out—and into Capricorn. Adjacent signs tend to compensate for one another. Capricorn, ruled by Saturn, tends to correct for Sagittarius’ exuberance. And just as Saturn and Jupiter represent somewhat opposite energies, so too do the signs they rule. Whereas Sagittarius (and Jupiter) are about expansion, Capricorn (and Saturn) have something to do with containment. Capricorn is about structure; it’s an energy that cares about foundations—solid foundations that can ground our optimism & dreams and support our goals. For a culture that was too caught up in a grandiose energy without attending to its shadow side, Pluto’s trip into Capricorn will likely be experienced as a rude awakening. Again, most of us have already felt this shock as we’ve watched our retirement accounts, homes, and jobs slip away from us. The universe has an interesting way of assisting us in our evolution, in our learning about how to balance and respect various energies and take accountability for all of our choices.
Over time, I’ve learned something about balancing these energies. The rulers of Sag and Cap sit exactly opposite from one another in significant positions within my natal chart. With Jupiter and Saturn exactly opposite one another, I and others born in and around 1970, are likely to experience the profound tension between expansion and contraction, letting go and holding on, philosophizing and practicality; dreaming and realism. What I’m learning is that the Saturn side of the equation—the structure, containment, crucible, reality-checks, and accountability—makes possible the dreams and learning (Jupiter). I think this lesson is one we will all be challenged to learn, collectively, through 2024 as Pluto traverses Capricorn. And the sooner we learn it, the sooner we will be able to experience the benefit of structures and policies that have legs to stand on; grounded exuberance; and dreams becoming reality.
Outer planets such as Pluto move very slowly, in comparison to the sun, for example. Whereas the sun changes signs every month, Pluto changes every 12-20+ years. I was born just as Pluto was getting ready to exit Virgo, where it found its home from 1956- 1971. The Pluto in Virgo generation is a health conscious one. It is a generation that began to cultivate a respectful relationship with the environment. We take our work seriously, and can be prone to anxiety about the changes around us and what such changes mean for our sense of self and independence—thanks in part to Pluto’s proximity to Uranus during these years. Pluto is currently, and (for the most part) has been, in Sagittarius since 1995. We can reflect on the nature of the collective ethos beginning in about 1995 in order to capture an experiential sense of Pluto in Sag. Among other things, it is a sense of expansiveness, shooting for the heavens, optimism, and wishing to live “big.” Pluto in Sag marks a generation of visionaries, those that reflect on the big picture, and are concerned with cultivating a philosophy of life and ongoing learning, expanding their horizons in addition to super-sizing their homes and food products. The shadow side of such expansiveness has been made known to us as banks, homeowners, and businesses all face the crash of structures that were built upon unsupported grandiosity.
Speaking of Sag more generally, it is represented by an archer shooting toward the sky and is ruled by the planet Jupiter, the largest planet in the Earth’s solar system. It is the sign of vision, physical and psychological/ imaginary travel, athleticism, reaching beyond where we find ourselves in the moment. The Olympics are a good example of a Sag-infused event. Likewise, Sagittarian-influenced individuals can be exuberant in their ability to dream. John F. Kennedy, Jr.; Tina Turner; Bette Midler; and Winston Churchill are among some well-known Sun-sign Sagittarians. These are big personalities with a meaning or purpose behind their greatness. It is as though the desire for expanded horizons and philosophical thinking tempers the potential for narcissism.
So, as the Sun makes its way across Sag this month, Pluto makes its way out—and into Capricorn. Adjacent signs tend to compensate for one another. Capricorn, ruled by Saturn, tends to correct for Sagittarius’ exuberance. And just as Saturn and Jupiter represent somewhat opposite energies, so too do the signs they rule. Whereas Sagittarius (and Jupiter) are about expansion, Capricorn (and Saturn) have something to do with containment. Capricorn is about structure; it’s an energy that cares about foundations—solid foundations that can ground our optimism & dreams and support our goals. For a culture that was too caught up in a grandiose energy without attending to its shadow side, Pluto’s trip into Capricorn will likely be experienced as a rude awakening. Again, most of us have already felt this shock as we’ve watched our retirement accounts, homes, and jobs slip away from us. The universe has an interesting way of assisting us in our evolution, in our learning about how to balance and respect various energies and take accountability for all of our choices.
Over time, I’ve learned something about balancing these energies. The rulers of Sag and Cap sit exactly opposite from one another in significant positions within my natal chart. With Jupiter and Saturn exactly opposite one another, I and others born in and around 1970, are likely to experience the profound tension between expansion and contraction, letting go and holding on, philosophizing and practicality; dreaming and realism. What I’m learning is that the Saturn side of the equation—the structure, containment, crucible, reality-checks, and accountability—makes possible the dreams and learning (Jupiter). I think this lesson is one we will all be challenged to learn, collectively, through 2024 as Pluto traverses Capricorn. And the sooner we learn it, the sooner we will be able to experience the benefit of structures and policies that have legs to stand on; grounded exuberance; and dreams becoming reality.
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