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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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

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.

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