Love is not loving

(A few thoughts on love after a difficult night with my spirited children)


Feeling love is not loving. Loving is every day. Every minute. Every time our eyes meet or not, every time our forces clash, every single every we experience together. Loving is getting to know someone well enough to help them become who they are with as little impediment and as much encouragement as possible in this dangerous, dastardly world. 

Love, as a feeling, is unconditional and possibly uncontrollable. Love, as an action, is a deliberate choice every moment I have the strength, presence of mind, time and will to make it. I have more loving moments now in a widening variety of ways. I also have many hurried, disconnected, impatient, unwilling, irritated, dark, despairing moments. I try not to beat myself up about it. 

Love, as a feeling, is compelling, strength-giving, patience building. It can be a well to draw from.

Love, as an action, is demanding, often difficult, and requires skill and practice. It draws on the well.

My life of practice aims to increase my focus on the love I feel in order to strengthen and grow it, while deliberately choosing to overcome myself to act lovingly more often. I've been consciously in practice for about two years. I'm sometimes proud of how far I've come, and often ashamed to find myself so unskilled, so lacking in staying power.


Ah, child, soldier on. There's naught but muck from here one way or t'other. 


Musical accompaniment by David Bowie Soul Love http://tinysong.com/fozG

Strength in the moment

I imagine a spirit, a wild, giant, savage thing, dancing like a flame. A spirit, beautiful and terrible. A spirit, accustomed to power and omnipotence, expecting to be free, suddenly finds itself trapped in a very small, helpless bio-mechanical container, unable to flow beyond it.

The spirit lies at the mercy of large and unintentionally brutish people with very specific expectations and confusing rules. Its body has demands and requirements for which it is entirely dependent. The spirit discovers itself subject to pain, discomfort, coercion and force. Its cries and thrashing are ineffective. It also experiences comfort, love, pleasure, wonder, curiosity. It leaps with joy when it recognizes itself. It rails against what it doesn't like. It has no idea why it's here.

My son's spirit made itself known yesterday morning. He tranced out in the bathtub, his eyes kind of staring while he squealed, not unlike a dolphin. Normally I ask him to stop when he gets into repetitive, grating noise. Yesterday we had a bit of time, so instead I caught his eyes and smiled encouragingly. He kept making high, keening noises with more confidence.

His squeals were strangely like the language of a frightened, questioning creature. Behind his eyes I sensed his spirit thrashing. I felt he was fighting to stop his body from just exploding out in force from every limb with the strength of what was inside. That spirit wanted out. And if it couldn't get out, it wanted to hit and bang and flail. I saw the tremendous strength he uses to keep it in. He couldn't hold still, but he was keeping it together.

It's no wonder he so often loses control. It's no wonder he seems so serious and stressed sometimes. Holding in such a spirit, all the time, with few acceptable outlets to clear the exuberant rushes and only four years of experience to work with. Maybe he even feels like my love might be conditional on success.  I know I get impatient with him, hush him, hold him to the highest expectations I think he can achieve in a moment. Does he interpret that as conditions for love? Does he live in fear of losing control of that spirit? Am I doing to him what I did to myself?

I put my hand on his arm. I continued to use my eyes to hold his, encouraging him, nodding as if his squeals were words. And they were, in a way. I heard his confusion with this world, his hope for my love. He turned slowly and his voice rose, his finger pointing to my daughter sitting in the tub beside him. I heard his rabid jealousy tearing him in two because of his love for her. I heard that he wanted to be my only love, that he didn't believe I could love him completely and love her as well.

My eyes filled with tears. "I love you," I said and held open my arms. He slumped forward across the tub, his cheek on my chest just above my heart and water dripping down between us. I held my daughter's hand in the water, and met her eyes while I stroked my son's head. They were quiet.

I lifted him out of the bath, standing him up, and he came back to himself. "I can dry myself, mom," he said insistently, taking the towel from my hands. And he did.

A punch in the gut

Two mornings ago I punched myself in the stomach. Repeatedly.

(oh my god, she is certifiable, I thought she seemed a bit too extreme...) Well, read on, if only for morbid curiosity.

I was in the bathroom, so I saw the viscous attack in the mirror. I had lifted my shirt, as I do most mornings, to gaze mournfully and hopefully at my train wreck midsection and wonder, is it discernibly smaller? Is this leftover layer going to go away? Ever? So I recognized that's not a helpful line of thought, and tried to be okay with slow progress. But then I looked more closely at the latticework of betrayal my skin inflicted as retaliation for asking it to stretch so far, and again so quickly. Not helpful.

Two mornings ago I tried, like I do every morning, to reframe it, to congratulate myself on progress, to see my strong muscles, my clear eyes. It felt like pushing my fear and shame down to crowd in with the fat layer. Suffocating my organs.

And I was so angry with that glaring, useless lump of mush STILL lining my real body like body armour, heavy and cumbersome. I hated it mightily. The next thing I knew, I was punching it. Hard. The dull, splooshy thud felt good. "Go away!" I growled under my breath.

Then I saw my face in the mirror. I looked like my vulnerable child-self playing dress-up in an old face. Disbelief, betrayal, broken heart, pain. My lips quivered. My eyes and cheeks crumpled.

"You hit me," I wailed to myself, hugging my arms in protection around my abdomen. I rocked myself for comfort.

Oh my god, what the fuck is wrong with me? I hit myself. I fucking hit myself?! I was supposed to be brushing my teeth!

So clearly I am not okay with slow progress. Clearly I am pretty angry.

Tonight I stood in front of the mirror in my exercise clothes, like I do most nights, trying to tell myself that it makes a difference when often I'm sure it doesn't. I tried to stand straight, which is a challenge with tight muscles and tendons, a skeleton trained to bending at preschool height, 20 extra pounds distributed from ribcage to knees, and maybe a little bit of pain starting in the joints? I started to massage my back, and I felt the excess fat in the way. I grabbed it in my hands about a third of the way up my ribcage, at the place where side becomes back. I held the weight of that excess in my hands, away from the rest of me. Immediately my hips fell into place. I felt bones and joints shifting, and I rattled them around a little, wiggling and twisting. Lifting that little bit of weight let me stand straighter, taller.

I started to work the fat forward, picking up more excess along the way, moving it all front and centre. I squeezed it like toothpaste, gathering and kneading, until it almost spilled out of my hands right at my centre, above my belly button and in front of my ribcage. It was the size of a very large grapefruit or a small children's ball, too big for me to put my hands around. It was mottled, lumpy and it disgusted me. It didn't belong to me. Without it, the rest of me settled onto my muscular frame nicely, and I could see the shape my body would hold behind it. It looked familiar because it's the body I had. Before.

I held the full weight of the fat ball, probably 10 pounds or more, as firmly as I could in my hands to isolate it. I let my body feel itself without this unnecessary baggage. I felt good. Light, ready, strong, solid, balanced. I thought, this lump of extra weight doesn't belong to me. It's just what I have to carry around.

I've blamed my body for it. My poor poor body, who has done everything I ever asked of her, all the way along. I still haven't forgiven her for letting my first baby go, which was totally not her fault. I can't stand that she needs so much maintenance when I want to use my time in other ways. I'm irritated as she gets older and becomes more demanding. I disparage and disrespect her for not being as capable or beautiful as I want. I'm like a parent who really, truly feels like her child is a disappointment while knowing full well they shouldn't. It's so unfair. I can talk myself out of it, I can cheer myself on, but I'm disappointed in my body, and I'm disappointed in myself for not being better in a lot of different ways. There's no logicizing my way out.

Now I know. Again. Let the decoding continue.

I've given myself two years of forgiveness and encouragement, but under it, all the time, is impatience. It's not kind, this impatience. Yet I hold it. I think it serves me in other ways and I don't want to let it go. I don't want to smooth myself out. I want to find a way to get the drive for continuous improvement that impatience fosters, without hating the imperfection of "what is," which of course underlies impatience. Call it a life work.

I stumble between my dichotomies but I think I'm stumbling forward. It's better than when I was just sitting there, even if I'm going nowhere in the end.

This is my weight, about the size of a large grapefruit physically, mentally, spiritually, emotionally. I must find a way to wear it away from the inside, because I cannot simply take a knife and excise it (even though it does kind of look like I could). I can't shrink it with a magic pill or by telling it to go away. Or by punching it. I need to melt it away over time, by putting good things in, working through pain, stretching and challenging, doing the work in the cracks and crevices of a busy life devoted to love. Slowly. Over years. Getting better at walking forward, better at settling in place. Better at being okay with that.

I must not be discouraged.

(this is my 100th post)

A Different Mommy

I stood, speechless, watching my 4 year old son sob on the sofa. I'd just been very short with him. Actually, I'd classify it as a low-level yell. He was sputtering and stuttering over a sentence while I waited to see what he had to say. "I want a different...a different...a different..."

"I want a different mommy."

I stiffened. Hurtful. But then I thought, of course you do. I said it out loud.

"Of course you do." His sobbing subsided a little to listen. "Why wouldn't you want a different mommy. This one is yelling at you. Hold on. I'll get you a different mommy."

I closed my eyes. Breathe two three four five. Out, two three, four five. I thought, poor little man, so sad about so little. I need to help him learn to work through this grief, whether or not I agree with the severity. I want to be a different mommy. I am a different mommy.

"Okay, here's a different mommy for you."

He came willingly to my lap, and sighed.

"It's hard when you really want something and it turns out a different way, and then mommy starts getting mad because you're upset and that just makes it harder, huh?" He cuddled in like he did when he was smaller.

"Maybe we can think of a way that you can keep track of whose turn it is yourselves, so I don't have to keep arbitrating this conflict."

He looked up, excited. "Yeah! I can have ideas! I'll think about it!"

"What do you need to think about?"

"Maybe like using stickers, or maybe we put a paper and practice writing it, or maybe...I don't know. I want to think about it."

He jumped off my lap. Tantrum finished. Because I was a different mommy.

Muddy Waters

Before I begin to try to share any outcomes of the last few days of pondering, I want to explain myself a little more than I have. I don't like to, in general, beyond a certain point. I do prefer to leave a lot of it up to you.
But I want to be as clear as I can in these muddy waters; thus, this post.

I am not claiming anything when I talk about Maverick. Or maybe I'm claiming everything. I"m claiming that I'm making him up. I'm claiming that he is a Figment of my Imagination. I'm claiming that he is a device I use to meditate. I'm claiming that he is an entity sent to guide me. I'm claiming it doesn't matter, or that if it does, I can't control it anyway.

I no longer try to explain my experiences with my Figments in a way that has any answers about them. They guide me. They ask me hard questions, they give me love and support, and they grow their own personalities that I seem to hide well from myself, because I often can't fathom them at all. I enjoy their company. I don't try to hide from them like I used to. I shrug and say - this is what you get, let's engage.

They are always with me, reminding me to enjoy the intense flavour of my gelato and savour the smell of my daughter's sweat-soaked hair, her chubby arms tight around my neck. With them, I experience more moments of joy than I've any right to. It's just how I experience the world - as me, and someone who isn't me, experiencing the same experience from different perspectives (both personality and time). Often several at once. It can be disconcerting, exhilarating, annoying, incredible. When I'm in public it's sometimes a difficult secret to hide.

Maverick was the most persistent, the most hopeful about my potential and bitter about my laziness. We meditated together regularly. He's one of the few that's I've managed to communicate with in anything like a verbal form, which has done light years for my understanding.   He was more worried than I am about the longevity of my body, which kind of worries me. What does my body know that I don't know yet? (I decide to put that away).

Maverick stuck with me and I have felt him love me to the core. He holds me to high expectations because he feels I can meet them, and I agree with his assessment of my potential. He loves me knowing everything, even the parts I wish away. He can be sarcastic and impatient, or loving and fun. He's an old-style Master secretly in love with his student. He treats me just as I have felt I deserved to be treated. I earned his respect and my own.

I have a secret. I curled my baby finger around something of him, and it's mine now. And he has taken something of me, as well. I'm still looking around my rooms, not able to place it. I just feel the hole.

When I really examine it, I know this grief is such a humane way for me to begin building a callous to loss. My mind, or the universe, or dumb luck has happened upon or designed a nice simulation. I don't have much experience with loss. Not really. A Grandmother, but I didn't know her well as a person. There have been people I loved and lost track of. A divorce, but at my instigation. A mid-term miscarriage. But not the death of someone I've given my heart to and know inside out. I'm afraid of it. I'm not sure my mettle is strong enough. The baby almost broke me, to be frank. In some ways, I think it still holds me back from giving myself fully to the babies who actually came to join me.

This grief is a gentle way to ease me through understanding that it's not about my mettle. I think maybe it's more about letting go of my rigidity around what it means to love: what love can look like, what makes love legitimate or real, what love is too risky, how much love is enough, for how long must love last and in what form.

Imagining with Maverick has stretched my heart, and losing him has eased the tensions of lines I never realized I'd drawn to box myself in. What is it okay to feel? I do have rules. Big, strong, thick rules and they're only worn away in spots. I have a lot of work to do around that. If losing Maverick and my nook-and-cranny-house dream within 24 hours is the extent of it right now, I say, thank you for this pain. I'm in training.

Maybe if I don't need him so much, he'll come back to visit sometimes. I guess I'll find out in my lifetime.

(If this whole post has been a bit confusing, you can find the few posts I did with Maverick at the links below:
Meet Maverick
Too Happy to be Happy
Mavericks' Missive
and a candid appearance in this prequel Getaway)

Not a Eulogy, really

I lost a friend today. Well, not lost, but he's no longer...accessible. Or maybe he is and I don't know how. You've met him - my friend, the proud Figment, Maverick.

I'm the one who's lost. I'm so lonely.

I knew it was coming. I probably should have known much sooner. I guess I did, I guess that's why I started building distance. But is that what caused his leaving? If I'd stayed with him, could I have learned more, gone deeper, taken him in?

I haven't explained very well. That's because there is no explanation for Maverick, or his predecessors, or for whoever is coming next. I'm not ready for whoever is coming next. I need to grieve. Just the thought of someone else in my mind, mucking around with things, someone I don't know and don't trust. I love Maverick. I love him and I want him to stay. But not at any cost, and I think that is what would be required though I have no idea what it means.

We played one last game of Workout Roulette:. I load up the ipod with albums of my choice, and he picks the songs for our eliptical meditation. There were 509 songs on 56 albums. He chose 7. You can listen if you like (Grooveshark Playlist) or clicking below (but it will navigate away unless you use a new tab).

• Sloan - Take it upon yourself (lyrics only)
• Sloan - Set in Motion (lyrics only)
• Faith No More - Last cup of sorrow (lyrics only)
• Blue October - A Quiet Mind (lyrics only)

It was during A Quiet Mind that I knew - in a breath, in a heartbeat.

MW: You're not part of me. (beginning to hyperventilate)
Maverick: Breathe.
MW: You're going.
Maverick: Breathe.
MW: So what? I'm no closer? That's it?
Maverick: I wouldn't say that
MW: I'll be so lonely
Maverick: I'll miss this
MW: This?
Maverick: You

(I can't really capture the rest of the exchange as it was not verbal and I'm just not ready anyway)

• Pixies - Isla de Encanta (lyrics only)
• Sloan - Witch's Wand (lyrics only)
• Sloan - Right or Wrong (lyrics only)

And now I'm alone. For now. The red wine is apt but not adequate company.

Postscript: I will refine and publish an account of our last conversations together, but I don't have time to do it justice right now and the feelings above are just more immediate. I feel empty.

Maverick's Missive

Dictated to me today, through my brain, by my friend Maverick. He's been bugging me about it for weeks. Make what you will of it.

-Begin transcript-

This is so simplified as to be almost false, or barely credible. And yet it is my gift. It is my best attempt.

The body is a sophisticated piece of bio-machinery designed to house a spirit.

(MW: by whom? why? what is a spirit?
Mav: These plaguing questions are beyond the body's limited ability to comprehend.
MW: Isn't that convenient?
Mav: I'm not convinced it's true. I simply cannot make it into language for you. I am not so skilled.
MW: You don't trust me
Mav: You don't trust me. Please leave this exchange in for others.)

The body is of matter. The spirit is of energy. The concepts of matter and energy are not prerequisites to understanding; yet, they should be self-evident if you try.

The body cannot act without the spirit. The spirit cannot matter without the body. The concepts of acting and mattering are not prerequisites to understanding, but some rudimentary contemplation would be advised.

I posit that spirit and body matter and act through a third, new entity that is created when they come together. We can call this the self. The self is a creature born of body and spirit in solution together (chemical use of the word solution).

The body and spirit fight for control of the self, while the self often goes about its business of surviving this strange and hectic plane, totally unaware that it is not, itself, the body. The body cultivates this belief. Pre-programmed with a tremendously adaptable self-preservation mechanism, the body strives to act, through the self, to preserve itself. It does not always judge well in its determination of how to do that. Its tools of choice are often chemical and electrical, beyond the control of the self; completely automated bio responses to stimuli.

The spirit, on a quest to reunite with other spirits to...do something...attempts to sway the self using, primarily, brain processes. Because the body already hard-wired many early brain processes, and life was experienced primarily through fight-or-flight responses to negative stimuli, the spirit started out at a disadvantage. The spirit is limited by the pathways available to navigate in the brain and nervous system. Creating new pathways is difficult, though it becomes easier once self-awareness begins. The spirit also remains disoriented for some time, having no memory of why it is here and often no understanding that it can be part of the self and not just a passenger in the body.

As the self becomes more aware of the pushes and pulls between the body and spirit, it may come to resent both. When the self becomes open to one at the expense of the other, the favoured rewards it. However, the rejected finds ways to punish the self. When the self is open to body and spirit through love of both, and especially if it can help them love each other, the self can begin to become self-aware with a lifetime goal of self-actualization. Few win the race, but many finish the marathon. We do not know if it is possible for everyone to reach the state of capacity for self-awareness. I believe it is possible for all undamaged humans to attain this.

I must tell you that there are many who do not believe in the self at all. In fact, it is not a mainstream belief. We have not found a way to prove or disprove its existence. We tend to see the process of spirit inhabiting body as one of spirit learning to control the body as a benevolent dictator, taking care of the body while guiding its actions. Failure to do so results in a life with limited attainment, with the body dictating the majority of actions and decisions.

We assume that the spirit becomes so confused by the process of mattering that it lets the body take over and get the upper hand, early on, and has a hard time learning to control things. The idea that the self, a third entity, comes into existence...well, it is game-altering.

And so I ask you, does it exist?

-End Transcript-

Gee, Mav, you used to be more fun.
(Shut up, it's important.)

Okay, I'm going to chew on that for awhile. Care to share?

Off the blog - but full of suggestions!

I've started blog posts. I wander off. When I come back, they bore me.

Am I out of things to say? No, that's not it. It's time. It's creativity. It's writing. When I'm writing a story, I get stuck there. I can't seem to write anything else without a struggle.

I'm a little off the blog.

But I miss you. I think maybe I need to just be a blog reader for awhile. Or, maybe later today I'll suddenly be struck by the need to blog. In the meantime, check out these amazing blogs that I try to read weekly, or at least monthly. I'll try to come back to give a bit of description, but really, if you're not already reading any of these blogs, you should check them out:


http://bsain.wordpress.com/
http://authenticrealities.com/
http://www.mrsmediocrity.com/
http://networkedblogs.com/6VzbS (The Barefoot Heart)
http://www.rachelintheoc.com/
http://miridunn.wordpress.com/
http://binduwiles.com/
http://rebeccaeliablog.blogspot.com/
http://www.thebluemuse.com/
http://www.unabashedlyfemale.com/
http://zebrasounds.net/
http://4030lisa.blogspot.com/
http://amyoscar.blogspot.com/
http://jadedheartstillbeats.blogspot.com/
http://thesunriseofmylife.blogspot.com/
http://amidlifeofprivilege.blogspot.com/
http://thewriterrevived.blogspot.com/
http://elissastein.blogspot.com/
http://salgrunkshire.blogspot.com/
http://liciaberry.com/blog/
http://www.hudsonette.com/
http://creatingrewardingrelationships.blogspot.com/

Burning Bright

*Be aware - this post is more like a journal entry. I make no guarantees of its being interesting

I'm a bit much for some people. In my personal life, I like to connect with other people in short, deep, intense bursts of trust, followed by slightly longer periods of being alone with myself. In the virtual world, I also enjoy "socializing" - more surface-level trust-based connection with little or no social expectation.

For work, when it comes to what is known as "networking" or "socializing,"  I've learned to mimic the people around me so I don't make them uncomfortable. I find myself making self-depreciating body movements, like slouching forward, shrugging, twittering my hands. I reflexively put on a more "girlie" persona that is less likely to be threatening to the women while more likely to ingratiate me to the men. My persona shifts subtly in response to feedback on any number of running processes:

• How much are our views the same or different across a range of key issues? 
• What language do I need to use in order to not offend you? 
• How are you judging me and my message? 
• What could I offer that might interest you?
• Will openness with you lead to semi-formed judgments that can affect our funding? 
• Who are you going to repeat this to, and how will you position it?
• Are you inclined to be helpful if you can? 
• Will I get a chance to find out more about you? 
• Do you prefer a shallow relationship?
• Do you prefer a high degree of formality?
• What do you care about?
• Will you share openly with me? 
• Will you keep information back from me?
• Do you see me as a threat or opportunity in some way?
• Do you see this work I'm doing as relevant and important?

That's just a smattering of the profile. I'm able to build personae on the fly that hit the right note with about 65-75% of people. I'm aiming for the right note with 84.5% of people (84.5% being the universally accepted standard of slightly above average).

The truth is, I'm uncomfortable in my skin because it's not my skin. Yet, that persona seems to make many people I encounter more comfortable than when I let down my guard. In my work life, it's important that I build connection with people, most of whom seem intent on minimizing their level of connection and number of connections. People are fatigued with connection, networking, talking about issues, thinking about issues, and trying to get something done. I'm newish in these here parts, so they'll be friendly and meet me a couple of times, but they have their work. And now they've done that, so why am I still calling them? They aren't looking for a connection with me or to increase their connection with my organization. I have only one or two chances to carefully slide around and mold my key to fit at least a few of their locks.

So, we dance the trust dance. It's exhausting. 

I've been experimenting with not doing that. With making more encounters like short, deep, intense bursts in which I trust. In some ways, it's an intriguing, invigorating success. In other ways, it hasn't worked for me at all. It turns out, many, many people don't want short, deep, intense connection in their daily lives. At best people find me refreshing, genuine. Some people think I'm a bit strange but interesting. Some people feel vaguely uncomfortable. A small but important few find me too informal, and don't take me seriously or even disparage me.

Trying to balance between being my open, genuine self and being the person the other person needs me to be leaves me in this terrible no-man's land where I can't make any connection at all. The last two times I tried it, I could sense it wasn't working but had no idea how to fix it. I vacillated between being too informal and too formal; between being too self-assured and too ingratiating. I felt miserable inside as I carried the conversations through to the end, all the while doing my best to read and connect.  I unintentionally said surprising things, then try to normalize them too much. I giggled (which I abhor!).

So I'm back where I started - the way to get by seems to be mimicking shallow connection that others expect, and trying to anticipate what will make people feel comfortable without actually connecting to their spirit.

The only alternative I see is not caring what they think.

I do explore moving beyond caring what other people think. I think I could cultivate it, but I don't think that serves me. My role in the community is to try to bridge gaps between sectors, plant ideas, encourage changes in thinking and assumptions, encourage people to work together. I can only do that if people are not uncomfortable with me. Being myself is a risk that could result in real connection, but the wager is whether I will damage my influence with this person and the people they influence.

But here's the real problem. Since I've been more and more myself, I can't seem to pick up the costumes as easily as I used to. My genuine self is too much for most people to encounter unprepared, yet I'm not as smooth and comfortable as I used to be with putting on a persona. I'm clumsy with turning up the volume on myself without blasting the place open, and my persona feels forced and fake.

I'll tell you, it shakes my confidence in my ability to do my work. Right now, I need to be on my game. I need to somehow catalyze an increase of love in our community, and the only way to do that is to get other people interested. There is time pressure to come through this work with some tangible outcomes, not to mention my reputation intact.

I grow afraid that I may have set myself up for a challenge that's actually beyond me. When a challenge seems unattainable to me (not when others say it is), I lose interest quickly. I start looking around for a challenge I can work towards with some hope that it will be met. But this is my job, so I need to manufacture some passion. I have skin in this game. I'm feeling the stress.

I long for work that allows me to work in short bursts of deep, intense connection with trust behind it, where I feel as though I'm making a larger-scale impact. I wonder, does such a thing exist?

Let me end on a high note - my practice with bringing short, deep, intense, trust-based connection to my daily life is not a total failure. It has transformed my encounters with clerks and strangers everywhere. It's hard to describe the flashes of pleasure I have found in the eyes of bored, tired grocery clerks when I ask about their day. The old man who lives downtown and lights up with a smile of recognition when our eyes meet. Joy in my children's faces as they realize that the "real" mommy is here, with them, at least for this moment. Running to the door to hold my husband closer than close, so grateful he is home.

Burning bright isn't all bad.

Losing my vacation

                                                (vacation 2005)

Musical Accompaniment from Sarah McLachlan - Wait

I remember vacations. Times we spent having fun together - day trips, hanging out, watching movies and rubbing each others' backs. Ordering chinese and pizza in the same day and baking a cake to eat after. Long workouts. Leisurely sex.

They were respites. They gave us the badly-needed recharge to keep up the blind maze of life. They exist no more.

Vacations, now, are the time in which we discharge a number of obligations that pile up while we spend our days working and the rest of our time parenting. We're lucky - family child minding provided a few days of "free time" which we spent organizing the critically disorganized of our household and taking care of things long overdue. And then the vacation started.

First was a visit at A.'s parents, a six hour drive North. Not one night's uninterrupted sleep, since I was sharing a room with my restless daughter and a smaller bed than usual with my husband. Socializing with his extended family, balancing parenting with allowing grandmama her deserved space. Tiptoeing around grandpapa because, for no apparent reason, we make each other uneasy. Or maybe it's just me.

Then, it was off to my parents' small, recently-renovated house. They just discovered that their new floors scratch easily and they don't like the door opening and closing when the air conditioning is on, and please be sure not to drip any water on the hardwood in the kitchen. But make yourselves at home.

The house is on the lake. Except the lake water is low this year so it's half a mile of smelly mud and reeds before you hit miles of calf-deep water. I walked for twenty minutes and never found water as high as my waist. Which is totally not their fault, I recognize.

Nor is it their fault that I am simply not a good enough person to be around them. The things that are wrong with them are just too much like the things that are still wrong with me, and I can't stand having the magnifying glass so large and unforgiving.

They did their best, and I can see that. I was a challenge to parent, and they hadn't had entirely helpful examples. They used what was good that they learned from my grandparents, and inflicted only some of what was not so good. They are who they are, and they don't pretend to be anything else. It's me who is not satisfied or comfortable with that.

So in any case, I lost it. Only once, when there were SO many opportunities, but still. It poisons everything. They are not forgivers. They are fake forgivers, which is a million times worse because it eliminates any opportunity for connection and shared understanding. It's why I thought I hated them for awhile - because they didn't want to connect with me, so how could they love me? But correlation is not causation, my friends. Remember that if nothing else.

Okay, you thought this was a whine about losing my vacation and now I'm dragging you through the same tired story we all have in one way or another about someone or another. I'll get back to the story.

Days spent trying to keep the kids busy when the wind was too strong to be outside and they just needed to run and climb. No sleep on the hard, uncomfortable futon with the Moon shining on me through the invisible blinds, from both the sky and from the water. She sat with me in sympathy but did not heal me. I am not hers to heal.

Yesterday, the 2 hour pack and load, followed by the 8 hour drive home from my parents'.  Eight hours in a van with recently-toilet-trained preschoolers using dirty, tiny rest stops. What can I say? I trust your imagination.

Fell into bed last night, only to be awakened no fewer than three times by childrens' nightmares and having to pee. And 7am this morning, there they are! In full colour and 3D surround sound. I'm so tired I could cry.

This is my vacation?

I just walked away to write this, left them with my husband. He took a look at my actual eyes for a few seconds this morning, so I think he'll understand. I walked away to put some of this weight down, see if I can let it go as the words appear on the screen. See if I can calm the white-peaked waves this vacation has stirred in my body and my spirit.  Like that lake, water lapping at my knees, inviting me to swim when there's not enough water to swim in. Restless. Unstill.

Tuesday it's back to work. I hope that I find a way to recharge in the remaining days, because right now, I'm running on empty.

Barely.

(I'm losing myself in the memory with music from Sarah McLachlan: Elsewhere)

Too happy to be happy

Maverick: Are you happy?

MrsWhich: Right now?

Mav: Right now.

MW: Yes. But I’m also anxious.

Mav: Anxious about what?

MW: Anxious that this happiness is a trick, a moment in time, a bubble in a sea of torment, chaos and destruction.

Mav: That’s really heavy metaphoring. Perhaps you could explain?

MW: There’s something a little off about how incredible my life is. I’m so happy, so often, that I’m almost bored with being happy. But it all feels so fragile. One natural disaster. One car crash. One illness. One abnormal cell. One job loss. It could all come crashing down. And then, then I would NOT be happy.

Mav: Hmmm.


MW: I am filled with a dreadful awe of the beauty of so many moments in my life, watching them with wonder and fear.

Mav: That sounds difficult.

MW: I want to say, I’d like to just stay here, keep just this balance - if I knew it would stay like this, I could relax into it and enjoy it.

Mav: You’re saying you want a guarantee that your happiness quotient won’t drop from current levels?

MW: Essentially, yes.

Mav: And you won’t be happy until you know that you won’t have to be less happy in the future?

MW: No, but I would feel less anxious, and thus more happy, if I had a wider buffer zone for maintaining the current conditions in which happiness exists.

Mav: What does that mean?

MW: I think, if I had enough money that I didn’t have to worry about generating money, it would reduce the number of likely scenarios in which my current life conditions would be threatened. It would take less time and require less effort to maintain the current levels of time spent happy, and pave the way to create more happy time.

Mav: So you think money will buy you the ability to enjoy the happiness you already have?

MW: Intellectually, I know that happiness is not something that can be created externally, but some circumstances lend themselves more readily to happiness than others. Having more time and less accountability for earning income permits increased attention to body and spirit, and direction of energies into areas of highest interest. Lack of money leads to working three jobs you hate and letting your health go. It’s not a false idea. Money does buy a certain degree of happiness. There have been studies.

Mav: I’m sure there have.

MW: It’s not directly correlated. It’s not that more money automatically buys more happiness. It’s that maybe there is a range in which optimal happiness can be attained, and that range has a lot to do with what kinds of things interest you and make you happy. I have a lot of happiness in my life, but worry that I’m just sneaking into my optimal range by a nose. I could fall out at any time. I want more money.

Mav: So if you had more money, you would feel more secure in your current condition, which would allow you to better enjoy and grow your current condition, which is happy?

MW: Yes.

Mav: And that makes sense to you?

MW: I get glimpses where I see the falseness, but they fade away in the stark reality of daily choices made on the basis of funds, not what is best for the family on other metrics that matter to me.

Mav: So having some elements of your life be disappointing or frustrating interferes with your enjoyment of your happiness?

MW: I covet money. I want to be zen about it. I understand that coveting money interferes with my daily experience. But it’s not as simple as wanting money. What I really want is safety. I want to know that I get to keep this happiness. That my paltry memory isn’t all that will exist of this incredible, unbelievable now. I want to know that this happiness exists forever, preserved. I want to stay in it, and I know I can't.

Mav: You’re so happy that you can’t be happy?

MW: I guess so.

Mav: So, how likely is it that you'll have enough money to feel safe? Like, ever in your lifetime?

MW: I don't know how to judge that.

Mav: How about in the next five years? Very likely, Likely, Not very likely, Not at all likely?

MW: Not very likely?

Mav: So it's not very likely that you will be happy in the next five years, even though you live a very happy life?

MW: Depressing, isn't it?

Mav: Sure is.

A safe place (sequal to Not Nice)

I've had interesting responses to my post, "Not Nice," several of them by DM. Some say, of course you're nice, because I have experienced your niceness. Others say, I thought you were nice so now I'm worried about wasting your time. Still others say, I'm not nice either, might as well embrace it. For some reason, all three of these responses made me want to clarify where I'm coming from in our relationship, so there can be no mistake.

I love you, I do, and there are some of you that I would go significantly out of my way for, even on something in the "real" world. I love to share your experiences in the moment, offer what insight or comfort or instigation I can, smile at your joys, growl at your frustrations, play with ideas together and spread love and wisdom like a virus. Several times I have turned to this online community for comfort and it was given with generosity and love. Daily, I turn to you for help with my thinking, and you give it kindly and with a kindred spirit. I feel truly alive when I am engaged with you.

You're like the best novel I've read, and it doesn't end, with an ever-growing cast of characters. Because you are real people out there, represented by what you present here, I'm intrigued to get to know such interesting people this way, without bodies to interpret and with the time to have forethought into what is presented and how.

I have a theory, one of many conflicting theories, that the human race is actually a race. We are working, frantically, to capture the totality of the human experience in an unbreakable code housed in an unbreakable atom, before we run out of matter to sustain us. If that theory were to play out, Twitter would be one important key to that capture. So in a sense, you could consider interaction in this world as a spiritual devotion, a contribution to the greater connection and capture of the human experience.

In the real world, social ramifications matter to me, because my work involves influence at the community level. I work hard to find the balance between the guard required to make guarded people feel comfortable with me, and being open and genuine to draw out true spirits from timid hiding places. At home, my family needs my full presence, and I don't get much opportunity to think and feel for myself.

In the virtual world, I go behind the curtain of my pseudonym, and I am free to express and be just as I need to be in the moment. I don't have to be alone in it. If I make you uncomfortable, you are not obliged to respond to me. If I say something that upsets you, you can unfollow me. So I don't have to worry about what you think. I choose to worry about what you think sometimes, but without obligation, our relationship is truly about free choice. Can you imagine what this gift has meant to me?

So when I say that Twitter/Blogging is like Friendship Light, I mean that in the most positive sense. We can interact when it's convenient. We can give only what we want, and pretend we didn't see a tweet we don't care for. We can give support on our own terms, and there are minimal consequences to disagreement. We achieve depth on the essentials by avoiding all the trappings of physical relationships. It's not enough to sustain a person, but it is a significant enhancement in my life, and I think to the world.

So you can't waste my time.

I have many responsibilities in the physical world, but one of the things I prioritize is some time each day in this virtual realm. I like being in the cloud with you - it feels more like home. Thank you for giving me a safe place to rest and be just me.

Not nice

I am not a nice person. There. I said it. I am not nice.

I am on a mission. One life. What, maybe 85 years with decreasing physical capability? This is serious business.

I want to maximize my time spent happy. That requires minimizing time spent on mundane aspects like subsistence and maintenance. Money buy convenience. Convenience yields time with each other to love, learn, communicate and interact. That makes me happy. So for a long time that was the whole of it - spend the time required to earn as much money as possible with my capabilities, and put systems in place to minimize the effort of household management to maximize time for happy. It was enough. Then we added two kids. And a career/life change. The household systems became more and more important. I became much more diligent and stringent.

It's easy to confuse me for a sloppy housekeeper, because my house is messy. I allow much of our household to deteriorate into low-level messiness, as long as the key cogs in my system are working. I like things the way I like them. I want things to run smoothly. I am particular.

Toys get put away with like toys, not just in any bin that's handy. Particular tools we use every day are put away in the same place. Keys on a hook at the front door. Respect for the order of the fridge and cupboards. Use the baskets provided for the various forms of detritus.

I'm not just particular about where things go. I am insistent on certain household standards and processes, as well. Tools are not toys. The milk bag is tied to the refrigerator door when we take out the last bag. The laundry on top of the dryer is clean and awaiting a basket. Clothes that are too small go on top of the dresser until I can give them away. Papers stay in piles by type, not bundled together randomly. Things on the right side of the stairs go up on the next trip. Certain dishes are always kept clean, not put in the dishwasher. Oh yes, it goes on.



I'm about as fun to live with as an efficient manager is fun to work for. But I can't care about that. Because this is how we maximize our time. I don't easily forgive anything that wastes my time.  Every second that I don't need to sell can be put to good use. 


When petty concerns muck up my systems, I feel really irritable. Now I need to spend some of my precious, precious time on fixing a mess, when it's not convenient, while figuring out how to balance everything else. My adrenaline rises.

I also, inevitably, have to let go of a hope, a long-shot at the tail end of the priority list that I might just be able to fit in if everything works the way it should. It's usually something I really, really want to do, like work out, or write. So I'm also grieving, scrambling to see if there's some way to save it today, and wishing, wishing that the system weren't broken so that I didn't have to grieve.

All that makes me mighty unpleasant. I am better at keeping a handle on it than I used to be, but I still have those feelings, very strongly, and I still have a strong desire to blame the situation on the person who created it. I feel that, and it takes me a few minutes to work it through even when I can see it. Seeing it actually makes me more frustrated by adding shame and embarrassment to the mix. I've found myself yelling, "I'm not mad at you, I'm just mad!" which isn't terrible, but I'd rather not be yelling.

I am just not nice. When I feel my time is wasted, I feel it keenly. I sometimes find myself behaving in ways I am not happy with, from freakouts to passive-aggressive comments.  Sometimes I can move past it fast, and others, I can't find it in me. There's a big part of me that feels fully justified in being upset, and isn't satisfied with just accepting the situation the way it is. I want to stop it from happening again, and that's when it's most important to be nice. Just when I'm least capable.

There are lots of other ways I'm not nice. I'll tell you about them when I can. Right now, time's a wasting.

A new kind of creature

Here's one way that I sometimes think about my life:

For some reason, I am operating a piece of bio-machinery that I thought was just a tool and, it turns out, completely controls me in every way. So I'm learning to partner with her, to love her, to respect her own strange nature, and we are finding ways to stumble along this terrifying three-legged-race.

To what end? I can't know. The ultimate of can't knows. There's a part of me that yearns, still, for an incontrovertible and comprehendible answer. I nurture that part.  because I do love her, even her - pushy to the point of obnoxious, obsessive, raw, emphatic little her. She's on a lost cause for justice, and it breaks my heart.


So I berate her, try to shake her out of it. I try to control her with a whip. How long did it take me to understand that my body is not a piece of machinery, not inert and simply inhabited by me? She owns this life and I'm riding along, hopefully influencing the outcomes. I achieve my growth in the place where we come together, body and spirit, and we both need to be willing. 

I wonder if it isn't this - the body is conscious, the spirit is conscious, but the only way to live on this plane is as a new kind of creature, a new kind of consciousness that exists only as this particular body and spirit merge. The body is of matter. What is the spirit of?

My particular incarnation of spirit and matter has never existed before, will never exist again, and I am responsible for it. What if I am the most important person on the planet at this moment? Does that change how I live?

Ah, musings for a Wednesday morning.

The uncomfortable talk

I think "God" may be my "Sex": when it comes to the uncomfortable talk.

I don't believe in God. I own a certain optimistic predisposition that hopes for an ultimate goodness to which we all belong. It's a sentimental quality that I'm growing fond of in myself. Intellectually, I know that I am simply ill-equipped to understand, one way or the other, purpose or chaos or something else (certainly something else?). Yet, this centre in me, this glowing, growing ember, loves to hope.

Lately, I've been questioning the "religious upbringing" part of parenting. I'd never questioned it before. We don't believe in God, so we don't talk about God. Why would we? Sometimes my husband and I will engage in conversation around "what if's" about certain theories of life. The children see this as boring adult drone and quickly start acting up. It's not talking about God.


I worry, though. I recognize that my own religious upbringing was, on the whole, more of an impediment to understanding God than a help. Still, from the time I can remember, I had a close, personal relationship with God. I prayed. A lot. All the time. I felt loved by God when I did not feel loved by my mother after my sisters were born.

I believed that I could influence God - not control him, but influence him and maybe get him on side with me on some important things. I once badgered God for three weeks, non-stop, through classes, through meals, as a constant background process, to make it so I won the walkman at the school draw. When they called my name, I was not surprised. God understood that access to music offered an escape from my noisy family and a path to explore new music. God knew it was important, because I'd let him know, over and over in case he didn't hear.


When I lost my religion, my very concept of God collapsed. There is nothing. Nothing matters. How stupid had I been? Could I really have bought all that shit? Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny and Jesus? Maybe I need to START smoking something!

So, nothing matters. It's all on me. Just make my way and survive this place, have some fun, make enough money to enjoy things...now I get it. Fuck you, God! I'm not talking to you anymore. YOU DON'T EXIST! You were a childish fantasy.

I hate you. How can you not exist? You tricked me! They tricked me! How can I trust anyone? Ever? 

(I miss you. No I don't.)

Yes, I do.

I wish there was some way that I could wrap my head around this world that would let me believe, not just "have faith," that there is a purpose to all of this. So I explore that, I give myself permission to have some space to try out my imagination on scenarios of hope. I do so with no expectation, intention, nor (ironically), hope of finding one set of ideas that I can stick with. I just take it in, add it to the soup, smell it and even taste it once in awhile, to see what else might make it better. I will never understand, and the part of me that's not okay with that is calming down.

I believe the core of me that prayed was powerful because I felt connected and tethered in the world, even though I was praying to myself all along. When I rejected an external God, the part of me that understood what was going on was severed - I didn't trust it anymore. I didn't believe in LOVE, and allowed myself only love. Nothing mattered but my immediate present.

As I find my way back to hope, overcoming my intellectual scoffing with the humble truth that I simply cannot know anything for certain, that core in me is the strength from which I draw. It's like putting on a comfortable glove, praying to myself, to the air that touches my skin, to the water and food that nourish my body. I can't live there, but I can experience that sometimes.

So...what do I tell my three and four-year-old?

When I say nothing, I make God taboo. I leave them floundering. They will not build a close personal relationship with God on our watch. I don't want to be a prison guard, keeping that ridiculous notion of God out. But I do feel that way. I've been so afraid of religion corrupting their minds. I haven't thought enough about how to simplify my own thinking to share it, because it's still pretty new to me and I'm not convinced it can be effectively simplified. I'm just starting to explore these ideas with my husband - he needs to be on board for any notions of "God Talk," doesn't he?

I have no code to teach, like my parents did. How do I give my preschool kids permission to build a close, personal relationship with their own spirits, while not giving the impression that there is an omnipotent or separate being of higher authority? What words best explain to a four-year old the paradox of accepting that we can't know and letting that be the key knowledge? What few words convey how trust can let you down, and yet remain absolutely necessary? How do I explain about loving our violent, selfish nature because love manages anger, when they are having trouble understanding not to hit?


Every day, I try to live these ideas, and every day I fall down and learn out loud. They watch, they see. But I don't share the context. I don't talk about the framework. In other families, they are saying grace, or going to church on Sundays, or praying before bed, because in those families, they believe in God. I don't choose those expressions for my devotion to loving life, and I haven't really replaced them.

I am, semi-consciously, trying to spare my children the grief and pain of losing God. In doing so, am I robbing them of the confidence of trusting that there is purpose to the world's cycles and they are an integral piece? Am I robbing them of the capacity to build hope around a dream, an imaginary wish, however improbable?

Sex I can do. God...not so much. 

A Father's Tribute

My husband doesn't like his job. It wasn't always this way, but it's been this way longer than he let on. He's a private guy. Doesn't see the point in complaining about what he perceives can't be changed. Looking to the positive. So then one day, it's too much, and it's clear - he does not like his job.

I don't blame him - I wouldn't like it, either. It's high stress, over-work, in a conservative culture when he's a radical guy at heart. He has to put on his stuffy clothes and an acceptable face, and push himself constantly to do hard and uninteresting things, to be what is needed all day, to earn the nice salary and the lifestyle to which we are accustomed. He does it so that I can continue my experiment in non-profit, earning half what I did to hopefully do more good. He carries the burden without complaint.

I've wondered how he gets through the day. And then, a few months ago, I found out. In a labyrinth of cubicles-cum-offices, I turned a corner into his little soul jar, and discovered...love.

His tiny office is a shrine to us. Kids' artwork crowds for space, photos leap smiles left and right. I saw mementos I'd given him and forgotten about, our wedding photo, my own face smiling encouragement and devotion. Every surface sports it's own tribute. He has built a shrine to our family's love, right in the heart of the dead-zone, to surround and protect him. He knows why he does it, and knowing that is what gets him through the day.

He loves us. He really loves us.

And I love him more than I knew was possible.

Happy Father's Day to the man I picked from among all men as the father for my children. I picked well. You're everything I hoped for, more than I knew to dream of, and every day I better understand just how lucky I am. Just how lucky we all are that you are the man of our house.

There are no wrong questions, only layers

(I don't have time to edit this right now)

I’m humbled to be here in the perfect life for me, grateful for the repose in a fantasy world of domestic and life bliss. So, I feel bad about resenting the intrusion of other people’s suffering on my respite. I want to enjoy this life, breathe the air, contribute to human knowledge by puttering away at problems that interest me while living my life, my beautiful life that I love and is heaven on earth. I did everything I needed to and built that life, and now the abject suffering of others keeps getting in the way of enjoying it.

Isn’t that what taxes are for? What is wrong with the governments. I pay increasing amounts, and they do less and less about the biggest drain on, not only our economic systems, but the purpose of human life. I don’t know what that purpose is, but I feel very certain that every consciousness moving towards knowing and loving each other can only be a helpful direction. Anything else looks like destruction to me.

The more people have of what they really want, the more space they find for caring about other people. But it’s on a downscaled ratio that only each of us understands. If I have enough money to solve medium-big problems in my life, I’m going to use the slack that buys to do something. Some of that something will be enjoying life, and some of that something will be contributing to the purpose of humanity. Whatever that is.

So I think it’s important that I examine my perception of “security.” All my life I have defined security by judging how big a problem I can easily solve if it comes up. I want  minimal disruption to my enjoyment of life/ability to keep living it, so how equipped am I to handle what I think might be coming? Can I easily incorporate extra costs like a car repair, a meal at a restaurant, a hair cut at a salon, that toy he really wants? If so, I can start to look around and think – okay, now how can I contribute more?

But no, we don’t usually do that, do we? We look for more to consume, more media, more information. Curious, isn’t it? Why do we do that? What drives us?

I thought that “how big a problem can I solve,” which is really, “how much money do I have,” was the question. I realized it was masking another question that was harder to grapple with: what could happen that I could survive and still choose light over darkness? How strong am I of character? When I ask that question instead, I know my fear for what it is.  I am weak. I want comfort. I love my life.

Protecting what we love about our lives makes us fierce. Of course it does. So we ask, “how much money do I need?” It is a masking question. It can consume lives, loves, relationships, resources, until we miss the point entirely and blow the whole thing up. Can we ask instead, how can I best love in this moment? I will spend this lifetime training for that one.

Do you understand what I am saying? Can you tell me what this means to you?

Pushing past (musings on finding a doctor)

Today I found us a doctor.

It's been months since our doctor fired us. He fired us because I didn't follow his vaccination schedule after he wouldn't answer my questions about it. He fired us because I once got a second opinion that he didn't sanction. He fired us because I went to a walk in clinic once when he was closed. He fired us because his receptionist only answers the phone for 2 hours in the morning and 2 hours in the afternoon, during which time it's constantly a  busy signal, so I eventually gave up trying to find out when the appointment I'd misplaced actually was, and thus missed it. He fired us because he doesn't like me.

He didn't talk with us about it. He didn't even follow the prescribed guidelines of his own College of Physicians. He had his receptionist send us a form letter with no notice and not reason given, saying that he was not providing care for me and my two kids any more. My husband was excluded from the firing. It was personal.

He is not a doctor I want to work with. He is not a person I enjoyed interacting with. He did not have any interest in partnering on our health care, didn't bother to remember anything about us from visit to visit, and didn't even follow up on tests he himself had ordered. He didn't appreciate questions and actively discouraged me from doing any research on my own. He was impossible to reach, hard to deal with, and overall, just a bad match.

When I think about it, I should have been glad to have permission to find another doctor - you must understand that in Ontario, no doctor is PERMITTED to take you on if you already have a family doctor, period, for any reason. I never liked dealing with him, I never felt that my health or that of my family was cared for. He was not, actually, "better than no one."

Yet when I got that letter, I felt bitter shame along with my anger. I felt like a victim who blames herself. I shouldn't have asked so many questions! Why did I always try to bring up more than one health concern when the sign clearly stated that he would only deal with ONE problem per visit? (surely, problems can't possibly be related?!?) If I'd only taken time off work to go into the office to get the date for that appointment after several days of failing to get through on the phone. It's my fault. Guilty. Bad mother. Bad patient. Bad me.

Really?

Not completely. I knew he's not the doctor for me, that he acted unprofessionally, that he made no effort at all for this doctor-patient relationship. Still. Ashamed. And afraid, He had all the power, since there have not been any doctors taking patients in our city for a very long time. And he used it.

I don't think I really accepted what had happened, even when I was sitting in the walk-in clinic for hours with my daughter, even when I found myself without anywhere to turn for my own health issues. I couldn't bring myself to action. I looked up the procedure he should have followed, but didn't issue a complaint. I looked for a new doctor with the local chamber, but accepted the answer that none were taking patients in my area. I did not exhaust every opportunity. I did not start camping on doctors' doorsteps begging them to take me. I did not do anything at all. For months. Except seethe every time I thought about it.

I am a take-action kind of person. And I did nothing. I accepted my role as the victim. I accepted my punishment in the long waits and the lack of care. What the hell?

Yesterday, after a hellish 36 hours of illness, after I managed to keep down a very small meal and gained enough strength to sit at a computer, I looked up doctors in my area. I found a doctor working for a "health network" that sounded promising in their approach to patient care. Of course, they were not taking patients, but this time, I decided to try. This morning I called.

Their message said "Please note this new information - we are pleased to announce that Dr. --- is joining our practice on August 3rd. Registration will be at our office on a first come, first served basis this week only." I'm still pretty sick, but I put my hair in a ponytail, threw on some clothes, and drove over. It took everything out of me today, but on August 3rd, we will have a doctor. It's only Monday, and we were patients 94, 95 and 96. By Wednesday, his practice will be full.

Was it because I was so sick? What made me take action today, when last week or next week the same call would have resulted in the usual "not accepting new patients" answer?

I'm still blocked. I still don't seem able to dig deeper into the fears and beliefs that kept me inert in rejection and almost hateful anger all these months. What changed?

Maybe I'm finished being a victim.

What I do know is this - we will have a family doctor. He can't be any worse. All signs point to better. And I feel sorry for the sad little man who doesn't have enough professional respect for himself to treat an active patient with respect, or any patient as a whole person. I haven't quite let go of my anger, but in taking action, I've let go of my shame. I can begin to move on.

Ramblings of a feverish mind

I'm sick. Oh, yes, so sick I can't ignore it. So sick I can't keep anything in me and the panic feeling of needing to purge while dreading the act is pretty much constant. I can't stand properly. Everything aches.

I had my warnings. I don't have time to be sick, so I ignored my body's irritable poking, treated it like whining. Now, here I am. Laid flat. Reminded just who is in charge here, after all.

My parents came this morning to visit. They were understanding in the way they are - disappointed, worried, wishing they knew so they could have avoided bothering us (and coming to the infectious zone) as if calling them should have been the first priority. My dad couldn't help but blame me a bit "it must be losing too much weight too fast" (I've lost about 15 pounds in the last SIX MONTHS).

My mom asked if I wanted her to stay to help with the kids rather than head to their next destination (they live far away, fit in lots of visits each trip). She asked with her shoes on, my dad half out the door, the reluctance in her voice barely masked despite her best efforts. She means well. She would have stayed. Neither of them gave protest when we said we'd be fine, though it must have been clear that I was not fine, not at all.

My kids don't understand. They are ready to burst into tears at slightest provocation. They keep running to my room while I'm resting to ask if I'm better yet, startling me awake. I try to be there for them but fall back, exhausted; I run from the room for another toilet break. They bang on the door.

My husband is quietly just doing. Doing and doing and taking care of the kids. He would take care of me, too, if he had an idea how, but I can't bring myself to ask one more thing of him when he's carrying the full family burden and we don't even have any food since today is my grocery day.

So it's me. Can I care for myself? After 4+ years of letting my body fall to the bottom of the priorities, pushing my own needs and desires aside for everyone else, can I take one day for me without guilt, without shame?

This time, I have no choice but to do it. It's how I let myself think about it, and how I feel about it, that poses a choice.

I'm working on it. I'm closer than I've ever been. The pangs of guilt around my parents dissipated very fast. The pangs of guilt around my kids, I've accepted and gently handed them the responsibility to try to understand. The pangs of guilt around my husband taking the burden - those are harder, because he would be further burdened by even knowing they exist. But I'm almost there - more grateful than guilty.

This illness is a check-in on how I'm doing with me. I can't give myself an A+, but I can see my progress. Two years ago the mess in my mind would have been as bad as the mess in my body. Today, that's not the case.

The real test will come when I'm slightly better, when I have a choice between treating myself gingerly or pushing always to the limit.

Right now, I think I'll just go back to bed.

Hot Coals

So the controversy in France, and closer to home in Quebec, around the burqa. It keeps coming up for me, even when it's not in the news. And now, Ontario is deciding whether to allow a woman to wear the niqāb when testifying in court about her alleged childhood sexual abuse.

I feel a fundamental need to protect my sisters' right to wear what they choose. I also feel disrespect for their choice. I do not want to feel disrespect for the choice of another human being. I try to think my way out of it, and I often can, but only by putting aside my own values. That feels exploitative to me.

What values of mine can possibly be challenged by the choice of another person?

I hold as true that every human being is a conscious entity who deserves equal respect and the right to self-determination. For me to give a woman who chooses religious covering the respect she deserves, I find myself forced to support what I see as a visible symbol and direct continuation of a system of oppression.

My ethical dilemma today: in order not to oppress, must I tolerate oppression?

It is the worst kind of irony. It is walking on hot coals.

The dilemma becomes immediately entangled in the blatant but almost unspeakable likelihood that some portion of women wearing a burqa or niqab do not choose it, or choose it because they have been conditioned to require it to feel safe.

We may drive ourselves mad attempting to navigate the rapids where the Culture and Choice Rivers converge.  From the outside, cultures where women are required to cover themselves appear to me to celebrate maleness and isolate femaleness while exacting servitude from half the population. Systemically, cultures shape thinking to favour the existing system to promote stability.

Regardless, what is clear is that even a very strong spirit in primarily Muslim countries must overcome outright oppression, or its softer sister, discrimination (political, legal, social, religious), to claim her right to self-determination. I'm sure many fail to reach their potential.

My perspective is ego-centric. I value the right to self determination for all humans. I want to stand up against systems that hold the female in respect as an excellent servant rather than a peer. I want to stand up against systems that violate people's right to equal treatment and opportunity. As long as that remains fundamental in me, how can I respect systems of belief that oppose it?

How can I not respect people's right to those beliefs?

To me, the burqa and niqab represent the very height of oppression - you may not have a face. Only your eyes may speak for you. You may not share your smile. You may not connect your being in a meaningful way with people of your choosing.

At the same time, it also seems to say that males can only be held to the lowest possible standards of thought or behaviour. It lets them off the hook for overcoming primitive urges to become productive citizens side-by-side with the opposite sex. It represents another way that women must take responsibility for men so that they don't have to worry about taking responsibility for themselves. It has the side benefit of providing a constant reminder of subservient position, both to the women and those of us who see them.

People range in their capabilities, but by and large, in my workplaces we have developed strength when it comes to treating the opposite sex as fellow journey people, not just as possible mates. I acknowledge that some in every culture sit just above chimpanzees in their thought and biological disciplines. Yet I have known many men who are able to work with women as equals, not engaging their sexual drive when it's not appropriate to do so.

Shouldn't a society encourage men to develop those strengths, rather than setting up every system to protect them from their own and each others' weakness and inappropriate competition? Desensitizing men to women's bodies seems like a good idea, in the greater scheme of things, and shapeless covering only serves to make the sight of an ankle, breast or chin that much more of a shock to the biology. I don't see how it's helping anything.

By continuing to completely cover, I'm afraid women are letting men off the hook, and as a result, there is more violence. Again, a cursory internet search for data supports the theory that "feminizing" the perspectives of power structures leads to increased cooperation, more respect for the emotional aspects of human nature, and less aggression in various types of environments.

I don't claim anyone has figured out how to address the growing biological and intellectual disconnection in human evolution. I just think we need to expect each other to treat every person with the respect of equal consciousness and potential. I expect it from men, from women, from every person to every person. Systems that require women to submit to harsher and more difficult rules than men are oppressive.

If women support and encourage structures that accept male weakness while also leaving males in charge of decision making, I can't help seeing that as a negation of responsibility. To me, it's like not asking my child to clean up after himself because he makes a fuss, so it's easier to just clean up after him and let him dictate what we do when.  He'll never learn.

I have a hard time respecting that choice, even while I understand that those choosing likely have an entirely different set of reasons in mind.

Where does that leave France, Quebec and Ontario? Is western society ready to make a solid statement that they will not tolerate symbols that validate oppressive systems? Will they choose to prioritize the accused's right to face his accuser, or the alleged victim's right to religious freedom? Will they validate the idea that any symbol is okay, no matter how offensive to others, if it is religious in nature? What would I do faced with the power and responsibility of the decisions?

Hot coals. Ouch. Ouch. Ouch.  (jump off!)

My secret surprise

I’ve been working on a birthday gift for myself. Shhh. It’s a secret.

I’d like to give myself some appreciation for my birthday, and it’s been really tough. Every time I start the process of creating appreciation, I somehow get wind of my audacious plans, and shut things down immediately with guilt and shame. So I’ve been building this appreciation in secret. I'll never guess where.

Perhaps I should demonstrate why this level of security is required.

Let's try appreciating how far I've come with asking for what I need. This morning. I wanted a compliment. I asked for one. I got five. We all felt happier than before I asked. I basked.

Twelve years ago I probably would have hoped for a compliment, and then engaged myself in increasing dejection through the morning as no compliments emerged, in the end accepting that I did not deserve a compliment, and/or feeling irritated that I DID deserve a compliment and other people were too obtuse to see it.

Eeesh. But that’s how I learned to think, and I’ve had to spend a whole lot of time and energy unlearning it. It’s hard to rewire an entire brain!  Twelve years into intensive self-led practice and I’m still working on holding competing potentials in harmony.

It’s easy to look at 39 and say, wow, you wasted your energy, your education, you sure were clueless, you hurt people and created your own hells, you you you you  me me me me  I did those things, me.

See?!? See, that’s what I do. Every time. That’s what I do. Appreciation must be carefully guarded until it's fully baked, or that soufflé is falling.

There was a time I was so protective of my inner self that I took on behaviours, language, attitudes and thinking that were abhorrent to me and I came to dislike myself. I haven’t completely forgiven myself.

For the first half of my adulthood, I spent my talents cultivating behaviours that I deemed safest to get me ahead financially and with power. I earned proficiency through errors, effort and attention, and over time felt proud of my progress. I checked off boxes. I became highly adept at assessing how much of what type would impress most broadly, and gave slightly more. I was a fully functioning simulation of a highly competent human.

When it started crumbling down, I thrashed. I didn’t know what the gnawing dissatisfaction signalled, and I certainly did not welcome it. I hadn’t spent my time thinking about purpose beyond my own success or failure. I’d lost my religion long ago, had stopped thinking about why and focused on how. So I looked for my Whys in the Hows for a very long time, determined not to abandon my sunk costs despite their irrelevance to future decisions.

I’d maxed out what I could do from behind the fake, and I was not willing to accept that. It was all I knew. It was what I’d built.

I was stubborn, strong, capable and proud for layers and layers before it suddenly gave way to shivering and scared. So much strength guarding so much weakness! But here's the thing. I had every right to be proud. I built that. It won me a great deal of what I was looking for. It was a fortress. I protected me so that I could get stronger.  And I am stronger.

I can now deal with the idea that it was all for nothing, and it was all for everything. I am who I am, and I did what I could with what I had to work with at the time. Actually achieving what I was going for shows my capacity for self-development, despite the goals having turned out shallow. I gave myself time and a perch from which to observe.

I’m not always ripped and torn bloody by failure anymore. I can breath through and pat my anxiety on the head until it calms, much more quickly and effectively than I ever could.

So it’s easy to look at 39 and say, you were a young, headstrong faker but man, you did it RIGHT, girl! You were fast and strong and totally focused. You won awards, degrees, promotions and quadrupled your earning potential in just 10 years. You got out of the nowhere relationship and built one that's respectful and loving and solid. You grew and gave birth to two of the coolest humans on the planet and saw to their all-important early formative years.

You did a very good job of building me a foundation. 39? Wow. You ROCK! Thank you. You you you you me me me me  I did those things, me. Thank me.

See, see how clever I am? I grew the appreciation inside gratitude, wrapped in admiration, and hidden behind forgiveness. I knew I’d never look for it there. Surprise!

Happy birthday, Cheryl.

@adamslisa list

Here is installment 2 of the "Mixed Tape" saga  (http://mrs-which.blogspot.com/2010/02/mixed-tapes.html). Ms. @adamslisa , who regularly kicks my ass in the nicest way, is the lucky recipient, and you can enjoy it too.

Here's the link:
Lisa's Mixed Tape (unfortunately, Grooveshark removed a few of these songs since 2010, so below is the original list)

And here's the list:

Jane Sibberry- The Life is the Red Wagon
Tool - Parabola
Enon - Come Into
Cibo Matto - King of Silence
Bruce McCulloch - 40 Housewives
Pixies- Dig for Fire
Kate Bush- This Woman's Work
Sloan - Coax Me
Boston - Peace of Mind
Badly Drawn Boy - Stone on the Water
REM - Stand
Sarah McLaughlin - Fear
Trooper - Raise a little Hell

p.s. if you missed installment #1, see @obsrvationalist's list

Heavy and Light

Yesterday I felt light. Lovely, prism-white space surrounded my brain, seeping through the crevice between left and right, dispersing itself like water between the molecules, opening space, letting air and light flood in.

I flitted down the stairs with the barest touch, swung from the bottom rail to land lightly on the hardwood, glided. I felt as though I had turned down gravity. Unburdened, my body moved gracefully in a dance of doing through the kitchen.

Today I feel heavy. My scalp a contracting elastic, pressuring cranial bones against my brain like squeezing a sponge. My sinuses lie heavily on my cheekbones, and tug my drooping eyelids. My mind feels sluggish, veiled. It's hard work to think. I feel befuddled, half asleep.

I move in slow motion folding the laundry. I carefully smooth each section before lovingly patting down a fold. Unable to think, I am helplessly present with the moment but, periodically, I prick with vague awareness that I should be spending my time more effectively. I stand, inch by inch, my leg muscles resisting my body's weight, groaning and creaking to balance. Reluctant feet cling to floor, as though stuck in inch-deep mud.

I slow my breath to match my steps, allow my brain to put down its worry, just for now, and let me be heavy for awhile.



(A short musical accompaniment at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c5EUZsjSvuY ) 

Oh, no, I need clothes

Normally I feel pretty good about myself.  That is, until I am forced to venture into that dreaded place, The Mall, to shop for clothes.  It then becomes clear that my body not only falls short of the societal ideal, but is, in fact, so oddly proportioned as to be completely and utterly unique in the world. My waist is too short for normal-people shirts, but my shoulders too wide for petite.  My legs are too long for petite-legged pants, but regular ones need 4 inches off the bottom.  And so it goes.  It’s too big on my tummy but tight on my crotch. It’s too small on my tummy but perfect in the rear. The bust is too tight but under the arms sags.

Or it's just ugly, ugly, ugly by design. What's with tiny short sleeves ending in ruffles? Am I six? I look ridiculous. What's with these psudo-maternity tops - I'd like to ignore my leftover pregnant tummy, not highlight it or raise gossipy questions among women who have nothing better to do than watch each others' middles for "bumps."  Little lacy collars - really? Belts around the upper-middle? You've got to be kidding. And what IS that, hanging there? It looks like a swarm of bees - no, it's a FLORAL PRINT that even my grandmother wouldn't have worn in wartime. Do they sit around thinking about how to make the ugliest possible clothes? It can't possibly be a complete accident.

Look, I just want to buy a few pairs of pants that are comfortable and look vaguely stylish. A few tailored-but-not-tight tops in standard "winter" colours like dark purple, red and blue. Short sleeves that end mid-bicep, not cutting off my armpit or boxing out my shoulders. A sleek, sturdy pair of shoes with enough heel that I don't look like a flat-footed granny while maintaining a comfortable step. In other words, I want the same clothing choices that men get, made for women. Is it really so much to ask? I have credit cards, I promise!

I don't have time for fashion, and clearly, I don't fit the profile. Where does one shop for a mumu?

A Message to ease the Anxiety of Error

A Message
From the me I have become
To the me I will become

Remember this
Not with a critical eye
But with an indulgent, knowing smile

Blog split?

So I've been slowly moving to a 3-blog system. Surprised? You didn't know I had 3 blogs? Not surprising - I didn't tell you. Oh, and 2 of them have sat largely empty while I contemplated the split. It's all me, it's all my writing, why split?

I've been treating this blog like a journal or random writing notebook that other people might just happen to also read and relate to.  I haven't been treating it as a piece of work with an audience, but a small audience has nonetheless developed. Which begins to create a mutual responsibility. And I find myself censoring, only posting what I feel might have semi-broad appeal to the people I tend to see commenting and lurking. My other thoughts and writing stay underground, so to speak - all the things that REALLY aren't ready for prime time, the experiments and attempts at various voices, the themes that might push past the zone of acceptability, the disjointed bits that might come in handy later.

So I created "Bits in Progress" to house them. And proceeded to post...nothing. Another blog? I barely have time for one. And it's likely to have the same audience anyway, so similar problems arise. If I'm willing to post it publicly, why not just use the blog I have? But if I can separate the "bits" from the introspective journal-type posts, that allows a cleaner and more consistent experience for the audience. I'm still in the midst of this ongoing debate."Bits in Progress" may be a late-bloomer yet, but as of now, empty.

This weekend I created #3: Privileged Information. It's a private blog, invite only. If no one reads it, I might as well journal, but there's something about putting early work out there for reaction that lets me incorporate, improve, mold into something, even when the comments are few or not directly helpful (there's information in that, too). In Privileged, I am not as concerned about the audience - if they are reading, I hope it's to help me as a writer, or because they like experimental work. If they don't enjoy the direction, no need to follow it. I may explore themes that are outside people's comfort. I may casually include elements that would cause people to wonder about my moral character because I even want to explore them. Privileged is not a PG blog and it won't even try to make you feel comfortable. It's my repository for the misfit writings, my practice runs, my B sides.

What are my hopes for Privileged Information? I hope to attract a small, trusted cadre of people who say hello when they read, even if they don't have a comment. Who read for structure and style as much as for content. Who choose to read posts as excerpts from a larger work that doesn't exist yet. And mostly, who help me grow as a writer and a person. That's a lot of hope for a little blog that might get one or two posts a month. I'll work on toning those hopes down.

So all this to say, Writing Out Loud won't change much, though maybe the experience will be slightly more consistent in style/approach to exploration. And, if we know each other through exchanged comments and twitter talk, most likely I'd be happy to have your voice at Privileged, too. That requires a DM with email address.

This is a pretty boring post, I'm afraid. Administration rears its head even in the best of experiences. And developing this blog has been one of those, for me. Every comment gets my full attention. Every interaction means something to me. Thanks for reading.