A tweeted comment to my last blog post caught my attention:
RT @NerdyGurlBlog : @csmith2471 @MrsWhich Whoa! Couldn't even process all that. Way too much thinking going on. Life should be simple. Mind should b @ peace.
The shoulds set me off, I'll admit it. Too much thinking for what? Why should life be simple? The mind should be at peace? That I don't buy. How can any mind be peaceful all the time? How can any mind stay peaceful knowing the atrocities and hatred that still permeate this world? What call to action is there in a peaceful mind?
Oooh, @NerdyGurlBlog, you hit a nerve! Great, now I have to think about it.
I mean, thank you for the learning opportunity.
For years, I accepted the idea of seeking a quiet mind as the ideal, and judged myself lacking because I have a crazy, overactive, always-on-the-go, multi-tasking processor for a brain. But I didn't understand the concept beyond a surface level. I thought it was about my mind.
For me, I need to focus on wholeness of mind, body and spirit, not subjugating the mind or body, but working with them. On the rare occasions that I achieve wholeness, the experience is not peaceful. It is sometimes energizing, sometimes devastating, sometimes comforting, always highly charged and stimulating. The brief peace that envelops me after a few moments of absolute wholeness is not the point. I seek the core strength and knowing of my own insignificance and absolute power, which strengthens me and helps me find balance in my day-to-day life.
Perhaps at a later stage in my development I will come to further understand how a peaceful mind and a fundamental drive to better the world can come together, and how to achieve it every day despite the fact that the world itself provides few incentives for peace. How simplicity and peace can exist in me while faltering in the world. I have a long way to go before I get there.
I am not ashamed. It took me this long to get to here. So be it. I can only work forward and process, process, process, working with how I'm built and how I'm wired to learn and grow and understand to the full capacity of my limited bodily structures and unlimited spiritual potential. It's a life work. Daunting, but my challenge to myself.
But I think there is still part of me that is ashamed that I'm not further by now, and that's what got triggered today.
Thank you, @NerdyGurlBlog, for the learning opportunity.
Musical accompaniment by Badly Drawn Boy:
http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/badlydrawnboy/oneplusoneisone.html
Tender
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Release
Today my kids (4 and 2 yrs old) left to stay with my husband's parents for a week. My mother-in-law suggested it, seeing how much we are suffering for want of slack. I think she sees us as tired and in need of a break. I see us as post traumatic stress survivors trying to find space to come to terms with how much we miss and regret the life we expected and deliberately, though naively, relinquished to parent two children.
I still choose this choice, and I believe A. does as well. Now that we are starting to understand what the progression of time means to us and the particular webs in which we've entangled ourselves over the years, we need to re-wire everything for that context. These conversations are changing our relationship and we need to pay more attention to them. There are unexamined fears, expectations, disappointments, and losses that get in the way for each of us in building new thinking, and examining those things has been unsuccessfully relegated to the cracks and crevices of our lives.
Now, a week without children.
Their leaving is so rushed. They're excited to be going, not noticing what it means about when we will see each other again. I don't want to draw attention to that aspect of the trip, yet I can't help wanting a proper goodbye, a hug and a connection between our eyes while we say I love you. I want to charge up their batteries with knowing how much I love them, feeling my love enter their souls. But there are suitcases flying by, rushing and calling for shoes to be put on and last bathrooms to be done. Inevitable resistance feeds off separation anxiety to create a power struggle that I fail to avoid. Then they're buckled in and asking curious questions about the trip, and my last kiss and hug are just a moment of attention, their eyes skirted off before I can catch them.
I have to just let it stand, just as it is. They will carry as much of my love as they hold in their hearts every day, and it will need to be enough to get them through the strangeness, loneliness, homesickness and magnetic pull to be with me.
So here is what I tell myself:
Those moments will be scattered, temporary, and offset by the experience of being in a less familiar but safe place. I trust the relationships their grandparents have built with them, and with me, enough to know that they will be cared for, not just taken care of. They may not have as many of their perceived needs met as with me, but that will be fertile ground for them to practice the work we've done together around comforting ourselves and jumping over emotional hurdles. They will be safe, they will have lots of opportunities for fun and for down-time, and they will have hugs and love when they need it.
Okay, I've covered the logical reasons why I shouldn't feel upset. Now I need to jump the emotional hurdle, right? So I need to find a way to look at this positively. Okay. Here is what I tell myself:
This is good practice for me, a good way to strengthen emotionally because every day, they are moving away from my protection and my influence, and the best thing I can do is show them how I manage so they can judge for themselves how it fits with their beings.
That's my attempt at positive thinking. Please don't laugh, I'm trying. It's very logical. Sounds sound. But jumping the hurdle with my thinking always feels like trickery to me, smoke and mirrors. It has no integrity, even though I do believe the positive aspects to be true. They simply are not The Truth.
Because
I feel the emotional umbilical cord between my heart and theirs become painfully taut. I feel it physically, it stretches forward through my skin and into the world, faintly pulsing. With my breath it strains through my chest; my skin tingles and slightly burns. My breasts are hard and my nipples erect. My heart is reaching, reaching to keep them safe. My mind is soothing, soothing to let it go. Like the births themselves. Relax into it, ride the wave of the pain, breathe slowly and fully, let it go. My breath is ragged but I hold it steady and full. My eyelids spill tears down my face as they close. I hear a roaring behind my ears as the muscles in my head strain in contraction and release.
The wave passes. My head aches. My muscles feel sore through my chest, neck and head. I correct my posture, massage my temples and along the back of my skull. My thumb pulls downward, lengthening a neck muscle. I focus my mind on my breath and let my hands and body work together, adjusting and using pressure in intuitive ways that immediately improve my alignment. I feel blood flow where it was constricted.
I find myself at the yoga mat I never seem to put away. From shavasana, I move my body and stretch over my hands behind my back, putting pressure where needed, supporting stretches that sing to me through my hips and lower back. Some movements begin to approximate yoga poses that I am familiar with, and when I notice this, I become more deliberate about moving into the pose. Even so, I stay in free-form mode, moving as my body feels. There. Hold, settle in. Breathe. Release. Without actively deciding, I allow my conscious focus to stay with my breath and let my body choose its movements with only the barest mindful intercession. I am in my slowly moving body, without needing to control it to any end. At peace.
Clearly in my mind ring these words:
You can release them into the safe unknown and put down your burden for today, my love. Heal. Be.
I still choose this choice, and I believe A. does as well. Now that we are starting to understand what the progression of time means to us and the particular webs in which we've entangled ourselves over the years, we need to re-wire everything for that context. These conversations are changing our relationship and we need to pay more attention to them. There are unexamined fears, expectations, disappointments, and losses that get in the way for each of us in building new thinking, and examining those things has been unsuccessfully relegated to the cracks and crevices of our lives.
Now, a week without children.
Their leaving is so rushed. They're excited to be going, not noticing what it means about when we will see each other again. I don't want to draw attention to that aspect of the trip, yet I can't help wanting a proper goodbye, a hug and a connection between our eyes while we say I love you. I want to charge up their batteries with knowing how much I love them, feeling my love enter their souls. But there are suitcases flying by, rushing and calling for shoes to be put on and last bathrooms to be done. Inevitable resistance feeds off separation anxiety to create a power struggle that I fail to avoid. Then they're buckled in and asking curious questions about the trip, and my last kiss and hug are just a moment of attention, their eyes skirted off before I can catch them.
I have to just let it stand, just as it is. They will carry as much of my love as they hold in their hearts every day, and it will need to be enough to get them through the strangeness, loneliness, homesickness and magnetic pull to be with me.
So here is what I tell myself:
Those moments will be scattered, temporary, and offset by the experience of being in a less familiar but safe place. I trust the relationships their grandparents have built with them, and with me, enough to know that they will be cared for, not just taken care of. They may not have as many of their perceived needs met as with me, but that will be fertile ground for them to practice the work we've done together around comforting ourselves and jumping over emotional hurdles. They will be safe, they will have lots of opportunities for fun and for down-time, and they will have hugs and love when they need it.
Okay, I've covered the logical reasons why I shouldn't feel upset. Now I need to jump the emotional hurdle, right? So I need to find a way to look at this positively. Okay. Here is what I tell myself:
This is good practice for me, a good way to strengthen emotionally because every day, they are moving away from my protection and my influence, and the best thing I can do is show them how I manage so they can judge for themselves how it fits with their beings.
That's my attempt at positive thinking. Please don't laugh, I'm trying. It's very logical. Sounds sound. But jumping the hurdle with my thinking always feels like trickery to me, smoke and mirrors. It has no integrity, even though I do believe the positive aspects to be true. They simply are not The Truth.
Because
I feel the emotional umbilical cord between my heart and theirs become painfully taut. I feel it physically, it stretches forward through my skin and into the world, faintly pulsing. With my breath it strains through my chest; my skin tingles and slightly burns. My breasts are hard and my nipples erect. My heart is reaching, reaching to keep them safe. My mind is soothing, soothing to let it go. Like the births themselves. Relax into it, ride the wave of the pain, breathe slowly and fully, let it go. My breath is ragged but I hold it steady and full. My eyelids spill tears down my face as they close. I hear a roaring behind my ears as the muscles in my head strain in contraction and release.
The wave passes. My head aches. My muscles feel sore through my chest, neck and head. I correct my posture, massage my temples and along the back of my skull. My thumb pulls downward, lengthening a neck muscle. I focus my mind on my breath and let my hands and body work together, adjusting and using pressure in intuitive ways that immediately improve my alignment. I feel blood flow where it was constricted.
I find myself at the yoga mat I never seem to put away. From shavasana, I move my body and stretch over my hands behind my back, putting pressure where needed, supporting stretches that sing to me through my hips and lower back. Some movements begin to approximate yoga poses that I am familiar with, and when I notice this, I become more deliberate about moving into the pose. Even so, I stay in free-form mode, moving as my body feels. There. Hold, settle in. Breathe. Release. Without actively deciding, I allow my conscious focus to stay with my breath and let my body choose its movements with only the barest mindful intercession. I am in my slowly moving body, without needing to control it to any end. At peace.
Clearly in my mind ring these words:
You can release them into the safe unknown and put down your burden for today, my love. Heal. Be.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Meet Maverick
I realize I haven't introduced you to my invisible friend. It's not exactly cool to have an invisible friend around the office, so I'm generally reticent to mention him. He prefers to be called Maverick but I call them like I see them, so what I actually call him depends on the day.
Why a male invisible friend? He likes to be sexy. When I was a kid he masqueraded as a slightly-older, apparently world-wise little girl named Honey who got me into a whole lot of trouble. I'll tell you about my teen years later. Now, he just fucks with my head.
He thinks he's so powerful, just because he's not real and he doesn't matter. He claims he's trying to help me find my powerful me, but he's just picked up that language like lint on old gum. He's trying it on for size. What does he know about mattering?
What he does do is try to goad me into believing impossible things. He says it's good practice, and I'll admit I'm not very good at it. He claims believing impossible things will stretch my mind, open me to the possibilities of the world, and make me powerful. Or, he says, I can work really, really hard at "meeting everyone where they are" and "providing a mirror," and toil my life away making "little differences like ripples on the water." And never make any substantial dent for the cause of sanity in the world. Wasting my gifts through sheer laziness. Anyway, he tells me, it will be fun. Or at least interesting. "Aren't you bored in there?"
So I can't see any downsides to his plan, which pisses me off, let me tell you. If he lets me choose when and for how long I practice, I suppose I can take a few rounds in the impossible ring. But the first thing I have to believe is that he exists, which of course I do not. Except.
Except under very specific circumstances. Fast heart rate, rapid heavy breathing, my body finding its own rhythm in movement. Exercise lets me practice believing I am having a conversation with impossible Maverick. Sometimes I can pull it off, especially if he does a good job picking appropriate random music to guide the illusion. Once in awhile I get there - I actually suspend my disbelief. Which isn't exactly believing, but, well, it's close. I'm practicing.
Believing impossible things is the latest obsessive mind development game Maverick has thrust upon me for my own good and his own amusement. I stumbled myself right into it during an eliptical workout, in a debate that goes down in my history as:
The Lottery
Maverick: Hey sexy
Me: Fuck off
Maverick: So you could be doing better, huh?
Me: If you're so powerful, I want to win the lottery
Maverick: It doesn't work like that
Me: How convenient
Maverick: I can't make you win the lottery.
Me: "Only I can make me win the lottery" with my powerful jedi mind, I know
Maverick: Close. But, not really. Try harder.
Me: Fuck off. Tell me.
Maverick:
Me: Fine. (thinking)
Suddenly, I have a flash from this morning, Sabine crying, me frustrated when she wouldn't use words. I begged, "sweetie, ask for what you want."
I laugh out loud at the simplicity.
Me: Do I have to ask for the winning ticket?
Maverick: Well, that's a real stretch of an assignment for someone who doesn't even believe in me, but okay, try that for awhile. See if you can believe that. Can't hurt your chances
Me: (gutteral, animal noise from my throat, through my jowels, ending in an angry roar)
Maverick (pouting): Why don't you love me?
Me: Because you're an asshole
Why a male invisible friend? He likes to be sexy. When I was a kid he masqueraded as a slightly-older, apparently world-wise little girl named Honey who got me into a whole lot of trouble. I'll tell you about my teen years later. Now, he just fucks with my head.
He thinks he's so powerful, just because he's not real and he doesn't matter. He claims he's trying to help me find my powerful me, but he's just picked up that language like lint on old gum. He's trying it on for size. What does he know about mattering?
What he does do is try to goad me into believing impossible things. He says it's good practice, and I'll admit I'm not very good at it. He claims believing impossible things will stretch my mind, open me to the possibilities of the world, and make me powerful. Or, he says, I can work really, really hard at "meeting everyone where they are" and "providing a mirror," and toil my life away making "little differences like ripples on the water." And never make any substantial dent for the cause of sanity in the world. Wasting my gifts through sheer laziness. Anyway, he tells me, it will be fun. Or at least interesting. "Aren't you bored in there?"
So I can't see any downsides to his plan, which pisses me off, let me tell you. If he lets me choose when and for how long I practice, I suppose I can take a few rounds in the impossible ring. But the first thing I have to believe is that he exists, which of course I do not. Except.
Except under very specific circumstances. Fast heart rate, rapid heavy breathing, my body finding its own rhythm in movement. Exercise lets me practice believing I am having a conversation with impossible Maverick. Sometimes I can pull it off, especially if he does a good job picking appropriate random music to guide the illusion. Once in awhile I get there - I actually suspend my disbelief. Which isn't exactly believing, but, well, it's close. I'm practicing.
Believing impossible things is the latest obsessive mind development game Maverick has thrust upon me for my own good and his own amusement. I stumbled myself right into it during an eliptical workout, in a debate that goes down in my history as:
The Lottery
Maverick: Hey sexy
Me: Fuck off
Maverick: So you could be doing better, huh?
Me: If you're so powerful, I want to win the lottery
Maverick: It doesn't work like that
Me: How convenient
Maverick: I can't make you win the lottery.
Me: "Only I can make me win the lottery" with my powerful jedi mind, I know
Maverick: Close. But, not really. Try harder.
Me: Fuck off. Tell me.
Maverick:
Me: Fine. (thinking)
Suddenly, I have a flash from this morning, Sabine crying, me frustrated when she wouldn't use words. I begged, "sweetie, ask for what you want."
I laugh out loud at the simplicity.
Me: Do I have to ask for the winning ticket?
Maverick: Well, that's a real stretch of an assignment for someone who doesn't even believe in me, but okay, try that for awhile. See if you can believe that. Can't hurt your chances
Me: (gutteral, animal noise from my throat, through my jowels, ending in an angry roar)
Maverick (pouting): Why don't you love me?
Me: Because you're an asshole
Now what?
*Warning: this is not an uplifting post, it is a cry for help. If you are feeling spiritually shaky, you may want to look away and move on.
Today I feel the smallness and aloneness of utter futility. I mustn't let on. It's contagious, you know.
There are days, there are times, there are moments when I feel, powerfully, that there is greater meaning at work, movement and rhythm and purpose that I am a part of. There are days, there are times, there are moments when I know that I am powerful beyond measure, and everywhere I walk I infuse the air with optimism. There are days, there are times, there are moments, when I can awaken the openness behind someone's deadened eyes for a few seconds and feel that it matters to the universe.
Today, it all seems like whooey.
The world is stark, unforgiving and rewards its most vicious inhabitants with the best morsels. Each day is about doing all the things that are required to live with others in society, with no time nor respect for my own desires. Each interaction is an attentive balance to preserve the other and relationship behind careful language and responses.
Each week is a repeat of the last, the tasks similar and conversations familiar, incrementally shifted but essentially alike. Each month I get older, my kids get older, the world continues as it has and will. Nothing matters - to whom should it matter? Every human on the planet right now will be dead within a century, and by then whoever is here will suffer under the scorching sun.
Even the things that most shock and upset us ease with time until the memory barely exists, both individually and collectively. Even the things that most excite and entice us eventually become routine or disappointing; at best, remain carefully guarded memories.
You may say, what matters is how I choose to be. If I choose to direct my thoughts and energy to those more comforting, and I succeed, am I happy? For how long? The cycle of hope and despair has become just another routine. I'm sick of it. Fight for hope despite scant reason or encouragement. Get tired and discouraged. Surrender to despair and realize that I can't live like this. Blah blah blah. Life goes on.
Now what?
Today I feel the smallness and aloneness of utter futility. I mustn't let on. It's contagious, you know.
There are days, there are times, there are moments when I feel, powerfully, that there is greater meaning at work, movement and rhythm and purpose that I am a part of. There are days, there are times, there are moments when I know that I am powerful beyond measure, and everywhere I walk I infuse the air with optimism. There are days, there are times, there are moments, when I can awaken the openness behind someone's deadened eyes for a few seconds and feel that it matters to the universe.
Today, it all seems like whooey.
The world is stark, unforgiving and rewards its most vicious inhabitants with the best morsels. Each day is about doing all the things that are required to live with others in society, with no time nor respect for my own desires. Each interaction is an attentive balance to preserve the other and relationship behind careful language and responses.
Each week is a repeat of the last, the tasks similar and conversations familiar, incrementally shifted but essentially alike. Each month I get older, my kids get older, the world continues as it has and will. Nothing matters - to whom should it matter? Every human on the planet right now will be dead within a century, and by then whoever is here will suffer under the scorching sun.
Even the things that most shock and upset us ease with time until the memory barely exists, both individually and collectively. Even the things that most excite and entice us eventually become routine or disappointing; at best, remain carefully guarded memories.
You may say, what matters is how I choose to be. If I choose to direct my thoughts and energy to those more comforting, and I succeed, am I happy? For how long? The cycle of hope and despair has become just another routine. I'm sick of it. Fight for hope despite scant reason or encouragement. Get tired and discouraged. Surrender to despair and realize that I can't live like this. Blah blah blah. Life goes on.
Now what?
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
7 Generations
I look around and I think, are we really okay with this?
And I must be, because look at how I live. I give my family as much privilege as we can afford, almost to the line. We buy the privlege to learn. Privilege to appreciate. Privilege to experience. Privilege to develop our best nature. Privelege to enjoy health, leisure and comfort. Sure, I took a hit coming into non-profit and working part time, but it was carefully calculated to reduce our comfort level only so far. And frankly, it pinches.
Imagine a world where the financial wealth-generating machine is valued equally, legislatively and socially, with other types of wealth generation that benefit society - learning, art, connection, support, care, to name a few. I have no faith in the goodness of human nature as it stands today in successfully creating such a world, but it seems increasingly obvious to me that as long as we tolerate the desperation of poverty, our race will never evolve to a place where we really work together.
We all want the magic bullet that lets us do only what we're comfortable doing, yet solves the problems of humanity. Waiting for it makes no sense.
I spent some time this week with a woman who is a member of our First Nations community. She told me that all decisions in her tribe are made from the perspective of how they will affect the next seven generations. All members, including children, have the right to speak. We failed to learn what our first nations had to teach us, focused instead on greed. Can we bring this wisdom forward? Can the power brokers of today ever really make decisions that will benefit humanity seven generations from now? Who has that power? Who has that courage?
If we do not just exist in the now, if our separate bodies are not all there is, our standards are woefully inadequate for any wider context. The selfishness inherent in our corporeal nature limits our capacity; worse, it jeopardizes our survival. Are we really okay with letting it have sway? Am I?
And I must be, because look at how I live. I give my family as much privilege as we can afford, almost to the line. We buy the privlege to learn. Privilege to appreciate. Privilege to experience. Privilege to develop our best nature. Privelege to enjoy health, leisure and comfort. Sure, I took a hit coming into non-profit and working part time, but it was carefully calculated to reduce our comfort level only so far. And frankly, it pinches.
Imagine a world where the financial wealth-generating machine is valued equally, legislatively and socially, with other types of wealth generation that benefit society - learning, art, connection, support, care, to name a few. I have no faith in the goodness of human nature as it stands today in successfully creating such a world, but it seems increasingly obvious to me that as long as we tolerate the desperation of poverty, our race will never evolve to a place where we really work together.
We all want the magic bullet that lets us do only what we're comfortable doing, yet solves the problems of humanity. Waiting for it makes no sense.
I spent some time this week with a woman who is a member of our First Nations community. She told me that all decisions in her tribe are made from the perspective of how they will affect the next seven generations. All members, including children, have the right to speak. We failed to learn what our first nations had to teach us, focused instead on greed. Can we bring this wisdom forward? Can the power brokers of today ever really make decisions that will benefit humanity seven generations from now? Who has that power? Who has that courage?
If we do not just exist in the now, if our separate bodies are not all there is, our standards are woefully inadequate for any wider context. The selfishness inherent in our corporeal nature limits our capacity; worse, it jeopardizes our survival. Are we really okay with letting it have sway? Am I?
@obsrvationalist 's list
I suggested, months ago, that I might put together "mixed tape" lists for some of my Twitter friends (http://mrs-which.blogspot.com/2010/02/mixed-tapes.html). I plug in a song here and there as I notice one that would work for different people. It looks like @obsrvationalist 's list is the first to finish, though he's been MIA for almost 2 weeks now. The others will follow...eventually!
The playlist SHOULD be accessible on Grooveshark except one song - if you'd like to listen too, http://bit.ly/dkUvB7
Here's the list:
Ubiquitous Synergy Seekers - 5 2/16
Kate Bush - The Big Sky
Sloan - Everything you've done wrong
Tool - Schism
Cocteau Twins - Oil of Angels
King Kobb Steelie - Lady Toronto - can't find this on Grooveshark :-(
The Music - Getaway
Beck - Go it alone
System of a Down - Toxicity
Kermit the Frog - Rainbow Connection
Cibo Matto - Birthday cake
Joy Division - Transmission
Galaxy 500 - Strange
They Might be Giants- Road Movie to Berlin
Enjoy, Mr. Kern, wherever you are.
The playlist SHOULD be accessible on Grooveshark except one song - if you'd like to listen too, http://bit.ly/dkUvB7
Here's the list:
Ubiquitous Synergy Seekers - 5 2/16
Kate Bush - The Big Sky
Sloan - Everything you've done wrong
Tool - Schism
Cocteau Twins - Oil of Angels
King Kobb Steelie - Lady Toronto - can't find this on Grooveshark :-(
The Music - Getaway
Beck - Go it alone
System of a Down - Toxicity
Kermit the Frog - Rainbow Connection
Cibo Matto - Birthday cake
Joy Division - Transmission
Galaxy 500 - Strange
They Might be Giants- Road Movie to Berlin
Enjoy, Mr. Kern, wherever you are.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Twitter? Changed my life?
Bindu Wiles (@binduwiles) is collecting stories of "how Twitter changed my life." I thought I would be interested in reading them, but didn't think of myself as someone to whom the topic applied. Then, it nagged at me. I was not giving credit where it was due. I was actually feeling a bit silly and protective about my Twitter experience in light of the world's misunderstanding.
So, I wrote this:
Dear Bindu,
I have spent too much of my life force maintaining a precise level of acceptability at any given moment.
As a child, I ran innocently to strangers, insisting they come in for lunch. Gloriously happy, invitingly open. School killed that quickly. Confused, terrified, my spirit retreated. I gave up nothing more of myself than I had to; I became silent and solitary. I watched carefully. I decided very deliberately, by about eight years old, to never show any portion of myself before first feeling certain that portion would be acceptable. The pain of rejection felt so acute that I believed this was the only sane path. I devoted myself to developing skills to stay safely hidden while appearing to participate in the world. I became an exceptionally good reader of people, not just through traditional means, but by feeling the slightest change in their emotional state as they feel it. Since most people's expectations of me have been lower than my capabilities, I've combined this talent with adequate acting skills in order to be what people needed me to be. People like when you give them what they need. But that's not a meaningful relationship.
I had come to believe, at my core, that I was unacceptable. I believed that developing new relationships was pointless, since there will eventually come a point where I can't share any more of myself without becoming unacceptable. Intense is the word many acquaintances, co-workers, family and friends have used to describe me. THEY HAVE NO IDEA. Beyond my husband and my children, I have permitted only surface-level engagement of my spirit. I was making incremental steps, opening dialogues with other women, introducing myself, overcoming my fight-or-flight to stay present for a few moments before letting my gloss take over. But I felt I wasn't getting far. My spirit longs to be free; more, it longs for communion with others. I had stalled out on my ability to reach widely for love.
And then Twitter. I had opened an account for work, but felt constrained by my name as a community brand, so I created a pseudonymed home account. I mostly followed comedians and found it a pretty futile exercise. One day I started doing searches on random words, and came across @obsrvationalist . He followed me back and actually tweeted @ me, which had never happened before. I looked at his profile, followed his most interesting followers, and over the next month or two, I discovered myself building community with people across North America. Supporting each other, asking about each other's lives, even sharing real email. Jokes, inspiration, advice, and even agreements to disagree without any withdrawal of affection. I have been encouraged and supported to be me in ways that I never am in my daily life. The people who follow me, for the most part, don't know me in person, but there are a handful I'd want to share my good news with before anyone. There are a handful I would turn to if my heart were breaking.
Is it because they don't know me? Yes. I am not ready to build these kinds of relationships in real life, nor do I have time to be in regular contact with my real people in a way that allows this level of relationship. It's a limited partnership with very clear parameters. I can be entirely myself, and I don't have to worry about continuing to work with or socially address people who don't like me at any point in the revealing. They can just unfollow. What pressure that removes!
Building a small, trusted audience encouraged me to try blogging, where I'm really pushing my limits. I may lose some people, gain others, but I am communicating my experience honestly and clearly in a way that resonates with others. I am exploring themes that become a work of fiction that compels me. But here's the best part - it's translating to real life. Every day, out in the world, I'm building my tolerance for presence with others. I am pushing myself to reach out, and I've cleared the plateau. Since I started working with Twitter in June, I have made more progress than I had in the previous three years. The relatively small sting of unfollow has helped me build a thin callus against rejection. It's a starting place. I am finding my way with more courage and less fear, putting myself forward more than holding myself back. It's hard, and I'm clumsy, but practice helps. Twitter offers me daily practice on my home ground. A tremendous tool in my healing - the ability to find and connect with other real people in a supportive, loving way that fits my lifestyle, schedule and capabilities. I'm surprised to find myself saying: it's changed my life.
Sincerely,
@MrsWhich
So, I wrote this:
Dear Bindu,
I have spent too much of my life force maintaining a precise level of acceptability at any given moment.
As a child, I ran innocently to strangers, insisting they come in for lunch. Gloriously happy, invitingly open. School killed that quickly. Confused, terrified, my spirit retreated. I gave up nothing more of myself than I had to; I became silent and solitary. I watched carefully. I decided very deliberately, by about eight years old, to never show any portion of myself before first feeling certain that portion would be acceptable. The pain of rejection felt so acute that I believed this was the only sane path. I devoted myself to developing skills to stay safely hidden while appearing to participate in the world. I became an exceptionally good reader of people, not just through traditional means, but by feeling the slightest change in their emotional state as they feel it. Since most people's expectations of me have been lower than my capabilities, I've combined this talent with adequate acting skills in order to be what people needed me to be. People like when you give them what they need. But that's not a meaningful relationship.
I had come to believe, at my core, that I was unacceptable. I believed that developing new relationships was pointless, since there will eventually come a point where I can't share any more of myself without becoming unacceptable. Intense is the word many acquaintances, co-workers, family and friends have used to describe me. THEY HAVE NO IDEA. Beyond my husband and my children, I have permitted only surface-level engagement of my spirit. I was making incremental steps, opening dialogues with other women, introducing myself, overcoming my fight-or-flight to stay present for a few moments before letting my gloss take over. But I felt I wasn't getting far. My spirit longs to be free; more, it longs for communion with others. I had stalled out on my ability to reach widely for love.
And then Twitter. I had opened an account for work, but felt constrained by my name as a community brand, so I created a pseudonymed home account. I mostly followed comedians and found it a pretty futile exercise. One day I started doing searches on random words, and came across @obsrvationalist . He followed me back and actually tweeted @ me, which had never happened before. I looked at his profile, followed his most interesting followers, and over the next month or two, I discovered myself building community with people across North America. Supporting each other, asking about each other's lives, even sharing real email. Jokes, inspiration, advice, and even agreements to disagree without any withdrawal of affection. I have been encouraged and supported to be me in ways that I never am in my daily life. The people who follow me, for the most part, don't know me in person, but there are a handful I'd want to share my good news with before anyone. There are a handful I would turn to if my heart were breaking.
Is it because they don't know me? Yes. I am not ready to build these kinds of relationships in real life, nor do I have time to be in regular contact with my real people in a way that allows this level of relationship. It's a limited partnership with very clear parameters. I can be entirely myself, and I don't have to worry about continuing to work with or socially address people who don't like me at any point in the revealing. They can just unfollow. What pressure that removes!
Building a small, trusted audience encouraged me to try blogging, where I'm really pushing my limits. I may lose some people, gain others, but I am communicating my experience honestly and clearly in a way that resonates with others. I am exploring themes that become a work of fiction that compels me. But here's the best part - it's translating to real life. Every day, out in the world, I'm building my tolerance for presence with others. I am pushing myself to reach out, and I've cleared the plateau. Since I started working with Twitter in June, I have made more progress than I had in the previous three years. The relatively small sting of unfollow has helped me build a thin callus against rejection. It's a starting place. I am finding my way with more courage and less fear, putting myself forward more than holding myself back. It's hard, and I'm clumsy, but practice helps. Twitter offers me daily practice on my home ground. A tremendous tool in my healing - the ability to find and connect with other real people in a supportive, loving way that fits my lifestyle, schedule and capabilities. I'm surprised to find myself saying: it's changed my life.
Sincerely,
@MrsWhich
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Unresolved, or In Progress (?)
I think I should tell you, he starts. I’m always a little suspicious of this breed of conversational starting place. It ranks right up there with “good news/bad news” and “now, don’t worry but….”
Fine. I give up (really?). I won’t try to make anyone happy (do you think you can “make” someone else happy?). I won’t try to be thoughtful and caring, because it doesn’t matter anyway (who are you to judge outcomes by only what you see?). It always ends this way (it doesn’t).
SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!
I feel this. I feel it. I feel overwhelmed, disappointed, angry, self-righteous, hard-done-by, put-upon, unappreciated, unloved. I feel regret for the moment where the decision went wrong, angry with myself for not avoiding it, frustrated knowing the exact twist that would have erased this present painful moment from the timeline. That my feelings are wrong only makes shame the cherry on top.
I feel frustrated by the futility of life and effort. I feel this, and it hurts it hurts it hurts and I want it OUT OUT OUT.
I want to SMASH. I want to SLAM. I want to SCREAM.
I want to blame, judge and punish. In this moment, I want it more than anything. It consumes me. It clutches my heart and clamps my lungs, demanding explosive, physical release.
I can’t hold still. Tears are starting to stream and I almost run from the bathroom without a glance at him. Where do I go? To the other bathroom, where I slam the door (wasn't that satisfying?) pace and stew and brush my teeth vehemently while my mind picks over the threads of the memory, once again identifying the moment, renewing and feeding the emotional swell.
I want to eradicate, negate the entire circumstances of this inconvenient, over-compensating pain. I find myself banging out into the hallway, barging into their empty rooms, grabbing the offending chipper chipmunks out of their beds and squeezing their puffy little middles with malice.
I stomp back into his bathroom (you need an audience) stuff the toys violently into the garbage can, and stomp out again. I feel his resigned disapproval as a polluted vapour that gets in my nose, hair, skin, eyes.
Through his eyes I see the level of unbalance between circumstances and my reaction. This knowledge encourages my mind to draw forward previous memories of failure, lack of appreciation, inability to bring happiness. There, see, it’s all reasonable. This moment symbolizes my impotence in the face of the world’s wrongs. Maybe I’m not upset enough.
Back to my bathroom. Wash my face. Water like a warm relief and release.
I hope he takes them out of the garbage. Oh, how stupid. Oh, I can’t believe I did that. What is wrong with me? What is wrong with me? Now I have to live with the shame that he’s seen me so ridiculous, so out of control. I feel defeated by myself.
I walk slowly back to his bathroom. I take the offending chubby-cheeks out of the garbage. I brush them off. Damn. I’ll have to launder them now, won’t I?
Before I even speak I know I’ve come back too soon. I feel it but I don’t leave. I still can’t let it go.
I make the mistake of sharing that thought out loud.
He deftly avoids taking responsibility for my stuff, but I persist in demanding his help as proof of love. THINK ABOUT ME! SPEND SOME TIME THINKING ABOUT HOW TO HELP ME! Don’t just give up with a shrug – oh well, I’ll just wait until you’re calm, then I’ll deal with you.
He starts the water for the shower, then turns to me.
What do you want me to do? he asks, his voice tired and resigned, borderline dejection. I’m certain he is regretting the moment he told me about the disappointment as much as I regret the moment that created the disappointment. Probably more.
He’s asked a reasonable question. I strain to force my brain to organize around an answer.
Again I feel the swell of annoyance. He’s not willing to put himself out for me (maybe he doesn’t know how). He’s not willing to even try to think about it for himself (it’s not his responsibility, it’s yours).
If I want his support I’ll have to spoon feed him all the steps and make it easy. It smacks of lack of commitment. It feels like lack of caring. (he’s tired too, he’s under so much strain keeping the money coming in, he’s not able to pursue his dreams, he has no energy left. Give him a break).
Fine.
I feel petulant in my wrongness. Alone, ultimately alone. The shower is still wastefully pounding out water, steaming the room and demanding that this conversation come to a close so life can move on.
Okay, I sigh. Have your shower. I’ll go get ready.
I leave. I go back to the other bathroom. I cry. I feel. I stop thinking and feel and feel, and once the thinking lets go its tight fist, the feeling gradually becomes its own vapour and seeps from me, dissipating and leaving me raw, heavy, done.
I long to connect. I walk back into his bathroom. I peek in the shower curtain.
Okay. This is as far as we’re getting today. I’m no longer convinced there is anything to take further. I'm tired.
Leaving the bathroom, I go to Blaise.“What? What, mom?” he demands in a whiney singsong, his tone hinting at something derogatory about the word mom. I’m struck by his sudden boy-ness, the complete lack of baby in this four-year-old person.
We sit on the red sofa.
Last night, Blaise was very sad. He told me that he didn’t understand why you would give him Theodore and give Simon to Sabine, when Simon is his favourite chipmunk.
Something in me snaps.
Another stupid, petty failure. Another time I put myself out, executed an idea I thought was good, and it flopped. Another time that I tried to create happiness and instead produced the opposite – disappointment.
Fine. I give up (really?). I won’t try to make anyone happy (do you think you can “make” someone else happy?). I won’t try to be thoughtful and caring, because it doesn’t matter anyway (who are you to judge outcomes by only what you see?). It always ends this way (it doesn’t).
SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!
I feel this. I feel it. I feel overwhelmed, disappointed, angry, self-righteous, hard-done-by, put-upon, unappreciated, unloved. I feel regret for the moment where the decision went wrong, angry with myself for not avoiding it, frustrated knowing the exact twist that would have erased this present painful moment from the timeline. That my feelings are wrong only makes shame the cherry on top.
I feel frustrated by the futility of life and effort. I feel this, and it hurts it hurts it hurts and I want it OUT OUT OUT.
I want to SMASH. I want to SLAM. I want to SCREAM.
I want to blame, judge and punish. In this moment, I want it more than anything. It consumes me. It clutches my heart and clamps my lungs, demanding explosive, physical release.
I can’t hold still. Tears are starting to stream and I almost run from the bathroom without a glance at him. Where do I go? To the other bathroom, where I slam the door (wasn't that satisfying?) pace and stew and brush my teeth vehemently while my mind picks over the threads of the memory, once again identifying the moment, renewing and feeding the emotional swell.
I want to eradicate, negate the entire circumstances of this inconvenient, over-compensating pain. I find myself banging out into the hallway, barging into their empty rooms, grabbing the offending chipper chipmunks out of their beds and squeezing their puffy little middles with malice.
I stomp back into his bathroom (you need an audience) stuff the toys violently into the garbage can, and stomp out again. I feel his resigned disapproval as a polluted vapour that gets in my nose, hair, skin, eyes.
Through his eyes I see the level of unbalance between circumstances and my reaction. This knowledge encourages my mind to draw forward previous memories of failure, lack of appreciation, inability to bring happiness. There, see, it’s all reasonable. This moment symbolizes my impotence in the face of the world’s wrongs. Maybe I’m not upset enough.
Back to my bathroom. Wash my face. Water like a warm relief and release.
I hope he takes them out of the garbage. Oh, how stupid. Oh, I can’t believe I did that. What is wrong with me? What is wrong with me? Now I have to live with the shame that he’s seen me so ridiculous, so out of control. I feel defeated by myself.
I walk slowly back to his bathroom. I take the offending chubby-cheeks out of the garbage. I brush them off. Damn. I’ll have to launder them now, won’t I?
Before I even speak I know I’ve come back too soon. I feel it but I don’t leave. I still can’t let it go.
He says nothing. It’s a perfectly reasonable response. I’m so frustrated with him saying nothing (he’s afraid of you). If he loved me he would know what I need (because love makes him a mind reader?). He should help me.I should give them to charity. Maybe someone will actually appreciate them.
I make the mistake of sharing that thought out loud.
He deftly avoids taking responsibility for my stuff, but I persist in demanding his help as proof of love. THINK ABOUT ME! SPEND SOME TIME THINKING ABOUT HOW TO HELP ME! Don’t just give up with a shrug – oh well, I’ll just wait until you’re calm, then I’ll deal with you.
I don’t know how to deal with you when you’re like that.
So you pull back.
Yes, I pull back. What else would I do?
I feel that as a removal of love. I feel your pulling back as, I love you this far and no further. I love you, but. I love you except. I love you despite. I love the part of you that doesn’t resort to this level of immature behaviour. Not right through your core, just to the outer edgesAnd I find, as I’m working through all this, that I really do want his help, though I’m sure I’ll be ashamed if he offers it. Maybe having him on my side instead of watching in judgment would make me feel less alone and powerless against my worst self.
He starts the water for the shower, then turns to me.
What do you want me to do? he asks, his voice tired and resigned, borderline dejection. I’m certain he is regretting the moment he told me about the disappointment as much as I regret the moment that created the disappointment. Probably more.
He’s asked a reasonable question. I strain to force my brain to organize around an answer.
Maybe you could…ask me a question?
What question?
If I want his support I’ll have to spoon feed him all the steps and make it easy. It smacks of lack of commitment. It feels like lack of caring. (he’s tired too, he’s under so much strain keeping the money coming in, he’s not able to pursue his dreams, he has no energy left. Give him a break).
Fine.
I feel petulant in my wrongness. Alone, ultimately alone. The shower is still wastefully pounding out water, steaming the room and demanding that this conversation come to a close so life can move on.
Okay, I sigh. Have your shower. I’ll go get ready.
I leave. I go back to the other bathroom. I cry. I feel. I stop thinking and feel and feel, and once the thinking lets go its tight fist, the feeling gradually becomes its own vapour and seeps from me, dissipating and leaving me raw, heavy, done.
I long to connect. I walk back into his bathroom. I peek in the shower curtain.
I’ve changed my mind.
About what?
I reach in, put my arm around his wet waist, spray spritzing my face and hair.About leaving without a hug. I need to touch you.
He steps toward me, we hug carefully to minimize my soaking, then I just relax into his chest, not really caring. He sighs heavily, his chin resting on my head. He seems relieved in a sad, confused kind of way.Now you’re all wet.
Okay. This is as far as we’re getting today. I’m no longer convinced there is anything to take further. I'm tired.
Leaving the bathroom, I go to Blaise.“What? What, mom?” he demands in a whiney singsong, his tone hinting at something derogatory about the word mom. I’m struck by his sudden boy-ness, the complete lack of baby in this four-year-old person.
We sit on the red sofa.
I think I let you down.
...
I saw these chipmunks (I hold up Theodore) and thought, Blaise and Sabine would like these!
But you gave Simon to Sabine, and Simon is my FAVOURITE chipmunk, he wails.(um…he WOULD ask that, wouldn’t he?)
Remember, I hid them behind my back, and you picked the one on the left, and Sabine picked the one on the right. That’s how you got Theodore.
….
I didn’t remember that Simon was your favourite. I thought you would like them both equally.
…
I’m actually surprised that you like Simon so much. He’s kinda bossy.
(laughs) Yeah.
I might have thought you’d like Theodore better. He likes to laugh and play and tell jokes.
(lighter, higher voice; quiet) He likes to tell jokes…
What jokes?
Pardon?
What jokes does he tell?
Maybe knock-knock jokes?He gives me an awkward hug.
Okay. Thanks mom, thanks anyway.
I’m going downstairs now, okay?
(pause) Yes. Okay.Life would be easier if I could just feel less.
Bye.
Bye.
Post Script - So, what actually happened the previous day?
We had finally decided that the persistent cough was getting worse, not better, and a doctor must be seen. Anticipating a hectic Good Friday crowd at the walk in clinic, I packed food and, at the last second, remembered the plush chipmunks I’d picked up a few weeks ago for just such an occasion. I threw them in the bag before running out the door.
The crowds weren’t too bad, but the kids were impatient. I decided the time was right to pull out the chipmunks. I wondered for a moment which to give to which child. If I let them choose, they tend to choose the same one and fight. I thought, I’ll avoid all that. I hid them behind my back.
I have a surprise for you, I said. Pick a hand. As I pulled my hands from behind my back, I thought I felt him go for the other hand the instant before I gave them each their own chipmunk. I chose to attribute his lack of enthusiasm to the fever.
Knowing that I knew doesn't exactly help.
The crowds weren’t too bad, but the kids were impatient. I decided the time was right to pull out the chipmunks. I wondered for a moment which to give to which child. If I let them choose, they tend to choose the same one and fight. I thought, I’ll avoid all that. I hid them behind my back.
I have a surprise for you, I said. Pick a hand. As I pulled my hands from behind my back, I thought I felt him go for the other hand the instant before I gave them each their own chipmunk. I chose to attribute his lack of enthusiasm to the fever.
Knowing that I knew doesn't exactly help.
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