Reflective Depth

Reflective Depth

No words

Emission

(July, 2011)

It doesn't take but a moment...

I'm trying this out...I'd like your thoughts on video. I find I avoid them because you can't skim and they are often long, but others tell me they only watch v-logs, don't even read blogs. I can see the appeal but I do like to hide behind my words. More on that in an upcoming post.

In the meantime...

Earlier this year, I reluctantly recorded some video about my writing and projects. Here's a 1 minute preview specific to this blog, Writing Out Loud.

The story of my 2nd Adult Life

Clarity (burns through) 

It’s the story of my second adult life.

My husband and I became lovers the year I turned 30. This year, I turned 40.

Now that I know him better, now that he sometimes shares some glimpse into what he’d rather be doing when there’s something he’d rather be doing (a dangerous admission in most circles), for the love of him I wish I had known what it’s taken us a decade to learn.

We spent so many years on the wrong goal.

We always knew we wanted to pursue our passions – for him, music. For me, writing. But what is a passion that you don’t practice and pursue? A wish. A fantasy. A frustration.

We thought the problem was money, and we also thought money was the solution. Money to buy time so THEN we could have the lives we wanted. We dismissed music and writing as pursuits unlikely to yield money, and never considered them in deciding what best to pursue. Right away, we had already picked a solution as if it were the only one that mattered. Then we diligently worked on that singular solution as if it were divorced from the goals it was meant to buoy.

We looked around for the best opportunity in our vicinity to yield enough payoff to let us live the lives we wanted. We considered our knowledge, skills, connections, abilities, talents, but never our passions, not seriously. We thought we found an opportunity that might pay off big, and invested our sweat, time and energy - twice. To our chagrin. Because there was no payoff. We worked with people who did not come through. We came of age at the end of the bubble, when so many entrepreneurial efforts fell stillborn with the crumbling of the twin towers. We used up our risk cards and at the end we had $60k in debt, and no visible chance at the lives we wanted.

Choices (narrow)

Maybe our parents were right. Maybe it was time to live their way.

And so we rebuilt. Jobs. Challenging, well-paying jobs that took our time and attention so that all we had left was to collapse with each other at the end of the days. Our minds were occupied. Our heartfelt passions, still, on the shelves.

Clear the debt. Buy a house. Begin to save.

Have a baby.

Have another baby.

Have alternating nervous breakdowns, intermittently, for years, manifesting with great variety.

(Suburban) Perspective

Stop.

Enough.


Now, is it too late to undo some of this, to start again and build another adult life, my third? An adult life that lets us do what matters to us. Not necessarily all day, every day, but at least every week, hopefully several times. That has enough space to allow us the presence and patience to make even the structured time - getting dressed, getting breakfast, driving to the school across town - time we look forward to together.  


It's not the original goal. If we'd been...if we had...if we could have...if we'd known... Who knows? Who knows what would be different if we'd started with a goal of music and writing every day, instead of making a pile of money so someday we could write and play music. 


Will we find out, or will the collective responsibility of adult life force us back on The Plan? 


Stay tuned... 

Wield

Forgiveness Pending

Se Pardonner
(Forgiveness)
(Arles, France, 2004)

Bless me, friends, for I have sinned.

Too many times...

I've responded to feeling intimidated

by becoming intimidating

I've responded to feeling alone

by acting as though I was the only one who mattered

I've responded to feeling sad

by denying it

by blaming for my sadness

by feeling sorry for myself

by letting myself crawl in too deep, and telling no one

I've responded to feeling rejected

by removing my caring

I've responded to feeling afraid

by getting bigger and stronger and bulletproof

I've responded to feeling vulnerable

With cynicism

I've responded to feeling angry

by pretending I was okay

by yelling and threats

by shutting down my feelings

by walking away 

I've responded to feeling left out

by removing myself from participation

I've responded to feeling unappreciated

With disdain

I've responded to feeling betrayed

with betrayal

with dismissal

with self-righteousness

I've responded to feeling unheard

by undermining

I've responded to feeling unloved

with shame.

For these and all my sins, I am truly sorry. 

Can I forgive myself?

(can I stop?)

(cross-post) Poking the Sky

This is a post from my blog at the Timeless site, where I'm desconstructing my "40cubed" project.

Poking the Sky

I'm inspired to write by a recent text-based discussion with an online friend (who knows my heart) that was initially about impatience, "deserving," and what it means to be truly operating at peak. She raised the term "divine slave," and I unexpectedly reeled with the phrase hitting my forehead, thump. So I immediately put that away, because there was clearly no time for that level of introspection! (But I did let a little, niggly bit of that meaning slide into my background processes. I will let myself roll those words around a little. )

As a starting place, I responded by describing my 40cubed  project as a way of poking the sky. Like saying to the universe, how about now? Wanna use me now? I'm bored here on the bench. I wanna run. I wanna play. I'm getting stiff. I'm losing my skills. Use me! Put me in the game. Whatever that means. So on one level it was about putting up my hand, even if timidly, even if not very high, but putting it up because if someone is ready to help me find my use, I'm ready to step it up.

At the same time, I'm not, really. I'm mothering small children. I'm struggling with anxiety and existential angst. I like to think I'm slowly building my health back, but I wear easily, cry easily, lose my temper and lose my patience more often than I want. I get embarrassed and it cripples me. I'm barely more than a child myself, grasping and lost, trying to lead others who don't even know they're awake yet. Is it arrogant to think what I have to offer is of value? Is it shameful to think anything but that?

So those are the questions I put myself to task for exploration in this project. I decided to raise my hand even though even though even though even though, and while I didn't jump up and down, the hand moved and something shifted in my universe. I let go of a big chunk of that nasty, crusty black Need To Be Seen As Perfect by opening up my unedited, unfinished work for participation. As it cracked off, it scraped some of my Desire To Please the Person I'm Talking To and a little of my I'm So Sorry to be So Insignificant and Still Bothering You. It also knocked a big hole in my What Will They Think, which has been itching and scratching at me far too long. I feel more hopeful.

I'm poking the sky, like a tease, like a test. And now, I'm about to jump to see what winds pick me up. I sure hope those are wings I feel back there, and not just weights.

Maverick Returns

I was feeling playful and laughing at myself so he slipped in pretty easily. I felt him right away, a part of me that I've been missing. But I'm still pretty mad at him for abandoning me.

"You're here."

"I'm here. Or you're imaging I'm here."

"It creeps me out, you watching me. If you're watching me, I want to see you."

"Look."

"I am looking."

"Look for something else."

"No. No cryptic stuff. Clear. Light of day."

"What if cryptic is all I can do?"

"Do it better."

"Hold out your hand."

I held out my hand.

"Notice the shadow of your hand reflected in the mirror. See your fingers, there?"

"Yes. Okay, but don't just shake the shadow or something, that's just me moving. Make it close and open, or wave or something."

"Watch."

As I watched, the reflected shadow hand began, almost imperceptibly, to grow. The fingers lengthened. I could see them snaking along the wall, reaching for the shadows behind the cabinet, impossibly long, the tips disappearing. My hands tingled. For a second, the index finger barely seemed to beckon, a tiny mocking shake.

Another trick of the light. Another goddamn trick of the light. Do you think parlor tricks are still good enough?

"No. No shadows. Out in the light. I want to see you."

I closed my hand and pulled the shadow into a tight ball. I shook it out.

I felt his despair in my own chest.

"It's just how you see."

(lost? the Maverick trail ended here: http://mrs-which.blogspot.com/2010/08/muddy-waters.html and previous incarnations are listed at the end of that post)

Tugging the Chain

Pride and Joy
(Hold on Hope, 2011)

How can I write you my joy before it dissipates into uncertainty once more?

Why, oh why do I always need such a long, laborious process and a complete physical breakdown before finally coming to the conclusion that whatever happens next, happens, and what happens after that, happens after that. What blissful relief.

And when I finally get there - actually, for-real get there, it seems so obvious. Just do the best you can with what you have, every day, and chill out a little.

The problem I have is when I don't think I'm optimizing. Who am I to say, anyway? I'm so impatient. Arrogant to be impatient, like my son wanting to build the Buzz Lightyear spaceship when he should be building the Mickey Mouse Car. Just shut up, quit getting freaked out by the emotion of how incredibly big this task is, and practice already.

(But there is this voice that says: you need to be greater at this, already. Fast track. Somehow. Quit waiting for permission. Quit waiting for assurances from other people who don't know either, even if they know more. Figure out your position, narrow it down and spit it out already. Get on with the show!)

I need to pat her on the head and say, yes, shhhh, momma will feed you when she's ready. When she's ready. And tug on that big chain to make her heel.

Musical Accompaniment A Sea Chanty of Sorts by Margot and the Nuclear So and So's followed immediately by Curve's Hell Above the Water

Wolf spirit watches

Essence

Essence Flickers

I'm reading a book my husband picked out for me for Mother's Day, called, "Tibetan Power Yoga: The Essence of All Yogas, A Tibetan Exercise for Physical Vitality and Mental Power." How's that for a title?

The book is written simply, in story form. It outlines the steps of a straight-forward set of postures, strung together like a wave, referred to as "prostrations." I find I have a hard time with that word. In any case, the monk shared 35 verses that people recite as they practice, then shared a simplified version for those of us in the West, consisting of 10 verses. I was delighted - the ten spoke to me far more than the 35. I had been kind of dreading all that contemplation, but the 10 felt like truths I could sink into.

Still, I couldn't remember them. So I wrote myself a little song, and I'm sharing the lyrics below. It's a bit corny, but I do feel a warm glow inside reciting this to myself. It helps remind me of the true verses, which are much more eloquent.

I'd like to share it (she says shyly)
Essence*

I am in love with all alive

I am one with patience

I am one with honesty
Sidestepping complacence

I am compassion incarnate

Tolerance, reflection

I am kindness, true and real

Steeped in circumspection

Today my gift is life itself

And those who share my way

Their essence calls my own aloft

I am myself today

*Based on the “Verses for Western People Who Practice” in Jutta Mattausch’s Tibetan Power Yoga


These are the original verses from the book (I hope I'm not breaching copyright by sharing, but it seems that sharing is the point)


I prostrate myself into the love of all living beings
I prostrate myself into the endless patience
I prostrate myself into absolute honesty
I prostrate myself into compassion for the poor
I prostrate myself into absolute tolerance
I prostrate myself into radiant truth
I prostrate myself into deep circumspection
I prostrate myself into true kindness
I prostrate myself into the golden abundance of all encounters that this unique day will give me.

Life lesson #18: Dethreading

Dethreading

Life Lesson #18: a gift from Fila, who insist on sewing tags inside their workout wear that are made of cast iron along the edges, and integrated as closely with the garment's actual seam as possible.

In other words, the tag won't go. It bugs. It itches, so I cut it out. But the part that's too close to the actual garment remains. It bugs, it itches. So I go in close. Still, the nubby back end and pointed corners laugh from their protected zone under the seam. You can't catch us here, they gloat. And I grab the scissors.

Stop. Do you see where I'm going? The tag - the unnecessary, unwanted thing placed in my tool (clothing) by its makers for their own benefit alone? The thing that itches, nags, even bites at times, and keeps me from flow? You see the life applications, yes?

Anyway, the scissors. And patience. It always does come back to that. How mad am I at that tag? How fast do I want to get this over with? Will I wield the scissors carefully enough? I start out well - a carefully placed little end-clip, a bit of tugging with the scissor-tips to pull the threads. It's coming out. I check the seam - unbreached. I keep pulling, tugging, making precision-snips where I need to. The tag won't go! It frays, breaks off, forces me into tighter and tighter competition with the regular seam. Do I have the patience? Can I keep at it till it's gone? Or will I face another workout with that damned annoying picking in my back? Is this good enough to go on with?

While I'm thinking that thought, my decision made before the thinking began, I take a deep cut into what I see as the heart of the reluctant left-corner contingent. I yank the ends with force, paying little heed to the seams or the garment. This is between me and the tag. This is personal.

And of course, I nick a seam. One, tiny little nick, waiting to become a big, gaping hole unless I sew it up, which never really works. GRRRRRR!

And in the end, I have to ask myself: am I okay with that? You know, for next time.

Musical Accompaniment from the Pixies, covering the Jesus and Mary Chain: Head On

A perfect form

She awaits (hope)
(Hold on Hope, 2011)

A perfect form
Repeats in nature
Where we look, we find

Love grows where it finds itself

Love grows where it finds itself
(Hold on Hope, 2011)

Too Much

Chi
(I'd love to credit this shot, but I have no idea where it came from)

When a child is out of control or afraid, and I am also afraid or weak, it is still my job, as the grownup, to be in control. I must put away what I feel to ensure that my child feels safe. 

I parent every human I encounter in this way. And when I can't, I'm reminded of the reasons why I must never, never let down my guard with anyone. Letting down my guard leaves me with vulnerable spots open, and if they hit one, I might hurt them with my response. Not physically, but that doesn't reduce the impact. 

I am too much for most people. Too much immediate intimacy because I already know their soul - and trust me, it's not on purpose. Too much love, which I can't help. but feels like over-intimacy to others. Too much power in my excitement and in my disappointment. Too much strength in my defense to hurt. Too much. 

The only way I knew how to avoid being too much was to be nothing at all. To give people only the surface, the smile, the encouraging word. To not let them really touch me beyond a brief reachout to see who they are so I can gauge how to behave. To keep myself well back of anything they might see, so that even if they hit a soft spot, I would only feel a tiny prick through the layers of distance between us, and I wouldn't have a gut-wrenching response that might throw them off-kilter. I honed this skill over years, with precision. People liked me. I got promoted regularly. People invited me for social engagements. I "had friends." It just never turned into what I needed from friendship, and I got lonely in here. 

Here's what I discovered along the way: I can't give all the good stuff of intimacy without risking that I get a big hurt. My hurt is too much for another person to experience in its rawness and still love me (my husband being the single exception currently in my life).

As I daily reach over a chasm that I dug with my own hands, trying to bridge between my dangerous, powerful, incredible self and the person people see and meet, I have no idea how. I'm clumsy. I'm careless. I vacillate between intimacy and coldness. I tell them what I think they need to hear to know what I want them to know, because if I listen too closely I'll get sucked into their humanness and let down my guard. I don't trust myself to be open without being unable to protect others from what I can be when I'm hurt or, god forbid, angry. I can't even be unguarded in casual conversation, or I might overpower you by accident. I must choose my words carefully so that you don't misunderstand me. I can't let you close enough to hurt me, because if you do, and I hurt you in return, it will break my heart into pieces. I can't trust you because I don't trust me not to be clumsy. I am the grown up, and I must remain in control. I only know one sure way, and it largely denies me.

I used to think my "authentic self" was not ready for prime time. Lately I've been thinking I was right in the first place, and maybe my authentic self simply has no place in this world except inside of me, a powerful watcher caged behind a carefully constructed wall. This week could be enough to confirm it.

And yet. Here I am, writing this out loud. So where does that leave me?

Music today from The Music: Breakin' (I need to move!)
(or if you want to stay in the heaviness a little longer, here's Jane Siberry: the Walking and Constantly)

Bound by the beauty in the muck

Beauty in the Muck
(Hold on Hope Series, 2011)

Would I walk among these humans if I had a choice? (we are always at choice)

Careless, clumsy creatures. Clumsy with each other. Careless with our words. Careless with blame, shame; clumsy with judgment, labels. Dependent on maps for thinking, a little lost when the detours come along. Lovely creatures, but really, can we be trusted with something so delicate as my raw little heart and all the muck that keeps it safe? The proof is in the living.

Would I walk among these humans if I could soar with the hawks? If I could prowl with my sister lions? Would I take on all this extra baggage? Would I place myself before them, again and again, with failings they dare not stare down, so they can make me what they wish they weren't or wish they were?

I would. Because I do. 

Humanity. I haven't quite decided about you. I have seen many signs for hope this week amidst my turmoil. I may vouch for you yet.

Musical Accompaniment from the wondrous Ms. Jane Siberry, Bound by the Beauty

A quick note

My last post, Labouring, was removed  by Blogger during their scheduled maintenance yesterday. They say they are restoring it. If you were looking for it, sorry! But there's lots here to read in the meantime.

A morning revelation

Passby

I had a revelation this morning upon waking. I don’t need language to know and love another person.

Perhaps this sounds banal to you. Maybe it’s a truth you’ve always held, but I find, now that it’s revealed, that I never believed it. We think we speak each others’ language. But we don’t.

It is very difficult to communicate truth so that someone else can hear it. Next to impossible. But we think we do it every day. We think everything we read, everything we hear, accumulated, amounts to what we call understanding. We think the words we say mean the same thing to the person beside us.

I remember as a child, learning that everyone sees colour in their own way. I was fascinated by the idea that what I saw as blue, someone else might see as what I might call a similar shade/grade of purple, and yet by agreement, whenever this colour appeared, we both called that “blue.”

How much does this happen when we say love, like, hate, wish, disappoint, worry, wonder, help, ask, brave, join, community, feedback, input, mother, father, wife, husband, good, bad, trust?

And we think we know each other? Well enough to judge, make decisions about, dismiss or accept as worthy?

We haven’t begun.

Yet, we can know each other, maybe only beyond the language that confuses us about each others' meaning, when we try to teach each other what our words mean to us, through what we do. And we can love each other without ever understanding  a word.

(my question for today: what do I feed?)

This month, this blog will also appear at http://holdonhope.ca/timeless/blog/ - check out Timeless!

So frustrated with my fellow Canadians that I could spit

The results of this election can only be symptoms of a larger social problem that I'd tricked myself into thinking was maybe smaller than it is.

Now we must exercise democracy a different way and I wonder if anyone is up to it. The current government has used our fear and low morale to create the very conditions that keep people afraid and mean. This vision for Canada will weaken our social fabric and hurt the families it claims to protect. Our middle class is already decimated - and why not, all dissent comes from a comfortable, educated middle class who looks around and says, wait a minute, that's not right. The cult of self-interest won a major victory over the communion of humanity.

There's a part of all of us that is self-interested. That part knows that she's selfish, but because she's selfish, she doesn't care. There's something primal in us that wants the world to be a contest, wants to engage in hard, fast play and see who comes out on top. We want the game to exist. We want it to be rigged so that, if we're smart enough, we can figure out the rules and win. We don't mind cheating because this game is life and death. We don't mind accepting the luck that comes to us as our deserved reward for existing. It's very fulfilling.

And there is something primal in us that understands, at a deep level, that while any of us suffer, the rest of us are culpable. We don't want to face that part. We don't want to accept that we could decide to value the human dignity of every life through all our systems of government, because if we could then we must. So it must be a complex problem. It must be unsolvable.

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

We know exactly, precisely how to solve the problems of poverty. Not that it can be done overnight, but we know. And we choose to starve the systems that would do it, and design them to opposite effect because the short-term cost is prohibitive, yes, but more because we want to avoid being cheated. Almost everything that is wrong with our systems is a direct result of our primal fear that someone might get ahead at our expense.

So does every human life have dignity, or do I need to look out for me and my own first? What balance can I live with and still sleep at night? Do I keep myself ignorant to tip the balance for my own comfort? How much? Can I even have enough perspective to know that? What is the cost, in the long run, of paying money to enable poverty instead of spending a little more and beginning to eradicate it? How long will I have to pay for the social and health effects of deep poverty? Forever? How much of this is really about not wanting other people to be able to live with dignity unless they work for it, damn it! And do I even understand one thing about the "people" I think of this way? Where does my understanding come from? Is it up to date? Oh, I can go on.

I demand that people start asking themselves questions like this. It's a responsibility of citizenship. It's a responsibility of being human. I demand that we slow down our "growth" until we know what we're growing for, and give people time to think and breathe again.

But I must not demand. I must convince, cajole, plant seeds, influence, demonstrate. Slow, passive means. People are in distress, in fear, in anger. They are deciding from a very limited scope, deliberately, because they are not responsible for what they don't know or don't believe to be true. Depth of knowledge would require acknowledgements people can't live with and sleep at night. So I must not confront them with these truths. I need to find ways to get them across with love, not frustration.

Good thing I have a blog.

What happens next?

What happens next?

Spare-time Novelist

Follow Me
(Boston, 2004)

When I told regular people that I was thinking of writing a novel in my spare time, they smiled indulgently and thought to themselves, she'll never finish it. They figured that the day to day rigours would grab my attention, and I just wouldn't find the space of time.

When I told an artist that I was thinking of writing a novel in my spare time, he smiled with empathy and thought to himself (I imagine), I wonder if she's strong enough to finish? He knew what I was in for. Aspiring writer, if you have not begun your journey, I suggest you ask yourself that question before you fall in love with it. Are you strong enough to hold yourself and your life together and devote yourself to creation, too?

Because it's not the day to day rigours that will grab your attention. It's the writing.

Why did no one tell me about this moment in the creating process? Oh, maybe they did. I often don't understand what people are telling me. I assume I know me best.

Anyway, this moment. This moment when the story has grown to a heavy lump, not ready for the world but definitely in the way of living a normal life. This moment when the characters are demanding that I adapt my mind to them and live in them before they will give up their more of their secrets. This moment when the world of the story cries for its creator to feed it. My energy gets sucked up creating barriers to keep my drive to write the story from mucking up my daily life. I'm not as able to switch between worlds, focus my attention. It's like a constant siren's song.

This is the choppy water and sharp rocks that the artist wonders if I'm strong enough to take. There are real cuts and bruises in this journey, real impossible choices and no right answers. The regular people think not finishing is just a matter of losing interest, letting go of a fancy. The artist knows that if I don't finish, it will be a conscious decision to lower my expectations of myself in the face of "too much."  The artist knows that if I don't finish, I may never forgive myself.

The tension among all my "must do well"'s creates this moment. This moment when I need to ask myself - do I continue to let this eat up more and more of me because I am so in love with creating, or do I suck up my heartbreak and let it go, "for now"? (you can always come back...I might pick it up again...oh, who am I kidding).

The moment is not here, but it's coming. I feel the earth beginning to rumble with it, a tremor under my bare feet. I wonder what will happen next.

Veggie Art = Veggie Smart (how's that for a Mom Post title?)

I'm sure you won't mind if I go a little off side here and write a pure mommy post. Or, if you do, you'll just skip it and love me anyway.

All of a sudden, my kids eat vegetables. Like, not just one or two, more than a dozen different kinds, including the big ones: broccoli, cauliflower, spinach. The only ones they don't eat are tomatoes...yet.

It wasn't always this way. Although both children took to pureed vegetables early on, the moment they tasted fruit, veggies went out the window. We were down to pureed pea/corn mixes just to get a little veggie into them. That lasted a very long time. Every attempt to introduce vegetables into our meals was met with constant resistance.

So what changed? One, I got lazier, and two, I got bored.

I decided to stop cooking vegetables. I only bought vegetables that I was comfortable serving raw. In fact, I bought a bit of every vegetable that I felt comfortable serving raw, washed them and carefully put them away. That night, I cut up veggies and created the first of many tableaus to come.

That's the secret: raw veggie tableaus. And time.

I create a picture, sculpture, abstract visual piece, or an attempt at realism, using raw veggies. The family chooses our own veggies from the tableau throughout the meal. CHOICE IS KEY!

At first, the novelty got their attention. My rule was that they needed to choose three pieces of vegetable from the picture, no more than two the same. They reluctantly complied, and though it often took a long time at the table, they got used to eating their three pieces of raw vegetable every night without complaining too much.

Still, they were very limited, choosing only carrots or celery, avoiding chunkier bits. I persisted in using colour in my pictures, and managed to convince my son to try a piece of red pepper by making it a light saber. He loved the red pepper. He loved how happy I was that he loved the red pepper. He was encouraged to try other veggies, adding broccoli, cucumber, green beans and snap peas within a week. He declared that he LOVED zucchini and he couldn't BELIEVE I hadn't given it to him before, the night it was a face. He started enjoying his picks, taking six, seven and eight pieces of vegetable. Soon my tableaus needed to grow in size to keep up with demand.

My daughter was stubborn. I didn't think she'd ever come along, Then, based on her brother's recommendation, she decided to try just a little tiny bite of red pepper. She declared that she LOVED it. She loved how happy I was that she loved it, thought she only ate a few tiny bites, not sure after all. The next night she persevered, taking red pepper as one of her choices. She got a little further. Eventually, she could finish a piece in no time. Another day, we pretended to be rabbits and she ate the spinach leaves *nibble nibble nibble*. Next it was cauliflower, which had been the sheep in my shepherd tableau (she was happy to CHOMP the sheep!).

The thing is, I am not a veggie lover. Unlike my kids, my repeated tries have not resulted in LOVING any particular vegetable. But I am trying. And I make sure they see me take a variety, see me eat it. My husband, too, though for him it's not a chore since he actually likes them.

So here's the list of things that seem to have led to my kids' big turnaround:


- my positive attitude towards vegetables (look! I got fresh cucumber this week!)
- serving vegetables raw
- creative presentation
- variety available, choice
- patience
- supporting even a very tiny try with big love
- sibling recommendations
- eating my own vegetables so they see it
- perseverance and a willingness to sit them out, every night (or at least, most nights)
- early, promises of dessert, but not every time



That's my list. I can't guarantee it will work for anyone else. But I am shocked and proud to find myself the mom who's kids beg for more broccoli. Hooray!!


They won't make any museum, but my family really looks forward to them:

A Calling

Deceptive
(Grand Bending Series, 2004)

Any sailor can tell you

A calling

May be a Siren's song

Beckoning only to rocks and horror

(I don't want to turn away)

Another way to see(?)

See Again
(Hold On Hope, "Hope in my Backyard", 2011)

I’ve gotta find another way to go, here

I’ve gotta find another way to be

This mess of confusion, this not-coping nightmare

I cannot allow this to be me, not me

I can’t afford to lose face

I can’t afford the disgrace

Bristles to prickle the people around me

Showing them what I don’t want them to see

I see it, I know it, I can’t seem to fix it

The effort’s beyond little me, just me

But

I can’t afford to lose face

I can’t afford the disgrace

Most don’t forgive all those moments of weakness

Blame is an easy little flame to throw

Smiles hide judgments and whispers that haunt you

A hush and a coldness, silence, a no

So

I can’t afford to lose face

I can’t afford the disgrace

I’ve gotta find another way to go, here

I’ve gotta find another way to see

(well, it's better with the music in my head. fledgling.)

Hope (is an explosion)

Hope (is an explosion)
(Hold on Hope, 2011)

From the path

Stumps like rooted litter, leftover, dead.

(come closer) 

Look.

Depth  Awaits Our Notice
(Hold on Hope, 2011)

Hold on Hope project

Hope (is a Colour)
(Hold on Hope Series, 2010/2011)

Hold on Hope (a life project)

I’ve always had a well of hope, of optimism, and I never tried to guess how many experiences, at what intensity, might drain it too quickly to replenish. I assumed it was infinite. I assumed I could always draw hope from within, even when the world was stingy in providing. I could always find reasons, ways to hope.

And then, I couldn’t.

Sometime last year, I started losing hope. It’s been coming on for some time, in waves of despair that I dissipated quickly with some pride in my efficiency.

But they kept coming.

Stronger. Pounding me down a little harder each time, with fewer moments for a relieving breath before the next wave, BAM. And me, the whole time, trying to pretend to stand upright, pretend I’m not dripping wet, my smile determined.

That day, the day I scraped the bottom, I didn’t see it coming. I was paying attention to my body, breathing, focusing on my strength and capabilities. Then gradually, an undercurrent distracted my attention. I felt a rumble of discontent, like a little earthquake shaking my Okay. I felt a rumble of BULLSHIT.

From threat to explosion, brutality disguised as truth, the dam I’d been building gave way and what was there behind it was still there, rancid and steaming:

You don’t buy this. You know it’s hopeless. Is this what you’ve made of your life? Do you think that all those people watching Fox News are really capable of understanding what is required for humanity to live in peace on this planet? You have no more impact than a finger stuck in a pond and removed. Where do you get off even thinking you should or could make a difference? You’re just a middle-class no one in nowhereville doing nothing that anyone will ever care about, and that’s all you can be. You're on a path to fucking even that up. You’re ridiculous.

I sunk to the ground. I couldn’t remember one reason why I might want to dwell among humans. I thought, if I die right now, that’s okay. Whatever.

Whatever.

I don’t know how long I was there, in a heap, repeating that word , Whatever, over and over and over to myself like it excused every weak and ugly thing about me, like it absolved me of thought, caring and action all at once. A guilty relief, and a fake one, but I didn’t care at all. I laughed, manically at and to myself. I thought maybe my head would explode with the pressure of rejecting anything that felt like caring.

Me, without hope, is not someone I’m fond of being.

Eventually, I had to move. The body required it. Stiff, drained, empty, I rolled to my side. I sat up and faced myself in the mirrored wall. I couldn’t look in my eyes. I moved closer, rested my forehead against my forehead in the glass.

You need to get a hold on hope, I told myself.

I raised my head, and my blue eyes shocked me with their brilliance. I watched me see myself, and I smiled for a moment.

But it’s hard, I said, whiny.

I nodded in sympathy. Yes, it’s hard.  Hope anyway.

I held my eyes. I told myself: decide and stop deciding. Commit to a life that demands hope, every day. Stop worrying if it’s going to hurt. It is. Just figure out how to do it. Each choice, each decision, says what we really believe. What do you believe? What do you dare hope for?

This Hold on Hope project is about that, for me. It permeates everything I'm doing. It demands expression, this process of asking:

What do I believe? 

What do I dare hope for? 

And how will I be strong enough for all the inevitable disappointment along the way?

 

It's a life project. I’m glad you’re here with me. Stay tuned.

Almost a Path
(Hold on Hope, 2011)

Texture

Texture
(Hold on Hope series, 2011)

A collage
A montage
Each season shares her colour
Light and shadow play
As though by whim (don't be fooled)

Angry

Slow Seethe
(Hold on Hope, 2011)

Anger is a lot like death. We don't talk about it, except in hushed tones.

When people are angry, we rush them out of sight as quickly as possible. People who express anger risk being labeled unstable, unreasonable, hysterical (primarily women), and whatever they say in this self-inflicted state of behaviour must automatically be negated, no matter how true. It's too bad so much of the truth makes me angry. It requires tremendous discipline to accept, accept, accept.

Or maybe, anger is the new sex. We don't talk about it, we just act out in private.

How private is private? What is acting out?

I am an angry person. I feel that I came into this world curious and ready to go, and time and again I was shoved aside, pushed down, discounted, ignored, dismissed, told to lower my sights and act like everyone else or be shunned. Perhaps, given my limitations, it was kindness, but I never enjoyed the process. So I have developed some sensitivity to being dismissed, which of course gets in my way. Even so, I believe that "nurture" is not where my anger came from, exactly. I think I was prone to it from the start, and it was fed by ongoing disappointment as I learned more about the world, history, and how far/not far we've come.

I am, frankly, disappointed with my species, humanity, which has completely missed the point in the grand scheme despite my stalwart optimism. Don't they say that a pessimist is a disappointed optimist? I've devoted much of my self-work to developing a positive attitude, and I train my thinking. But I have a long way to go in my heart.

I feel frustrated and angry with stupidity, injustice, unnecessary complexity, unnecessary simplicity...basically, anything that reminds me that humanity is still struggling with even the basic concept that all life has value, that all life deserves respect and dignity.

I resent anything that reminds me that we are led by selfish, greedy, short-sighted monkeys with such a stranglehold on the systems they created that the rest of us are working our asses off, reading articles about reducing stress and living on less sleep, so that 400 of them can decide what to do with most of the world's wealth. And defending it as though it's actually democracy, they claim changing this system would destroy democratic principles that, in fact, are made mockery by our current system. The ultimate pyramid scheme, my friends, is capitalism without a conscience. To what end? To what end?

There is anger in my genetics, if that is possible, and I have the burden of carrying a piece of that darkness inside of me. It is a gift, as well, and I would not live without it, but it's a heavy, heavy rock to weigh down an otherwise light heart. It makes me a tourist wherever I go, and tells me the secrets in the room. It lets me forgive people for what they are capable of even if they never do it; they feel that and let down their guard enough for me to pass them a moment of hope. It's something.

I believe we must love the dark to bring balance, and the only way to do that is to learn to love the anger in myself so that it can be free to do more positive things than drag me into depressive mires or violent outbursts. That I have largely contained unacceptable externalization to my workouts doesn't make me less angry, just disciplined. That I have been highly disciplined most of my life means only that my anger is more secret.

I have only begun to scratch the surface on this.

*Let me tell you, I am more ashamed to speak of my anger, more afraid of other people's rejection of me as an angry person, than anything else I might reveal. I would rather people see me naked and cold than see me truly angry. I am so uncomfortable that I may not publish this.

(And thus we feed ourselves to the machine.)

Staring into it

Burn Hole
(Hold on Hope Series, My Backyard, 2011)

Do you ever think,

Maybe,

I should just look away?

World in Motion

World in Motion (2011)

The barren world awaits the sun

to tell it what comes next

(blow, wind, blow...but not too hard)

Hopespring

Hope (is a well)
From my Hold on Hope series, 2011 (in progress)

I've often heard speakers begin their presentations with stories about how naive they used to be. They may describe earlier foibles and wrong-thinking with the amused affection of a parent, creating an illusion of vulnerability while actually only revealing what they have already resolved and, clearly, moved beyond. It's a fine tactic and I'm sure expresses their honest experience while establishing both rapport and context for their messages.

I imagine myself one day, many years from now, giving a speech like that; indulging, perhaps, a little self-congratulation at having finally dispelled the mire that overtakes me every time I think I've outrun it. Maybe I will describe this dry, cracked soul that begs for a hopespring while I moisten it with tears and spit and sometimes blood. Will I tell the audience how I clawed at that hard clay, stones grating my knuckles red, my fingernails broken and caked, because I didn't know what a shovel looked like? Will I say how I blamed the sky for not raining? Oh yes, of course I will. I will smile at my foolishness, hold up a shovel as a prop. All will be moved. I will stand before the people and know that I fulfill my purpose each day. I will shine with enlightenment, courage and love.

A girl can hope.

Perspective

Le Point de Vue
(Arles, France)

Love manages anger

This week I have evening commitments, so the kids aren't seeing me much. They have a very low tolerance for that, and let me know it. Last night, I got home ten minutes too late to say goodnight - they were both asleep when I kissed their cheeks.

I started thinking about how to fit in more time with them. I realized that I have a webinar Thursday night, and I'm starting my Kung Fu class on Friday evening, so if I wanted time it would have to be my usual yoga/workout time on Thursday evening. Right away, I resented having to give it up. My neck twanged just to reinforce the point that I was not prioritizing self-care. But really, how much self care can I justify. This week, the balance tips the other way because of extra demands and a new "me" activity.

I decided to set the clock a half hour early, even though I was late going to bed, so I could fit yoga into the morning. And of course, I hit the snooze and got up at the usual time. I was so mad at myself, but also really tired and grumpy. As I went down the stairs to start making breakfast, I came upon my husband, taking care of himself and doing his stretches, which he needs to do. And I resented it.

Do you see a theme beginning? I did. But I felt powerless to stop it. Suddenly all the hard things about my life right now started piling themselves up in my mind, building pressure as I rejected them and the feelings they stirred. I just didn't have time! I felt myself growing brittle, detached, resentment seething under my surface. I wanted to stop it. I tried to focus on my breath. The thoughts wouldn't leave me, they poked and jeered.

I should never speak in this state.

I said, "I hope you'll still be on time. I had to give up my workout today and I don't want to be late."

Ouch. To his credit, he just said, "Oh, yes, I"ll be on time."

I went downstairs. I started assembling food, making coffee, resenting and being mad at myself for resenting and half-heartedly trying to stop resenting while starting to weaken against the soothing flow of self-pity. Suddenly, my husband came down the stairs, fast and determined. He removed the container from my hand and wrapped me in a giant hug.

His heart against my heart, his arms supporting my lower back, his sigh and my sigh synchronous. I felt the pressure release, dissipate. The underlying angst that feeds my moods is not gone, but in that moment, he relieved the pressure that would have been an explosion. He noticed it building, and he didn't reject me or judge me for failing to fight it more strongly. He loved me.

Love manages anger. Even mine.

A good mother should be (a Bad Mom installment)

My fingers tingle the need to type.
That energy tugging, tugging my nerves,
demanding of my brain:  give me the words.

Someone there is in me
that refuses and negates
Shall I keep on hating her, keep getting what I get?
How to love that ugly?
(she is afraid)

Yesterday, my daughter (three and a half) was showing me her giraffe, which she had just discovered. She said "It's mine, it's mine forever."

What is it in me that needed to say to her, "Well, it's yours for as long as it lasts."

She looked up at me seriously.

"But I want to keep it for always. For when I'm a grown up."

And still, I persisted.

"It's not likely to last that long, sweetheart," I said, off-handedly.

Her little eyes welled up with tears.

"But I need to keep him! Forever!"

I could not let it go.

"Nothing lasts forever, sweetie. Everything goes back to the earth or sky or water. Everything."

Her eyeballs were getting red, the corners of her mouth turned down. She shook her head.

"No, not everything. Not me."

"Yes, love. You, me, everything, everyone. Nothing lasts forever."

And suddenly I saw it hit her, and I realized that it was too fast, too brutal a revelation. She understood exactly, precisely what I had said to her. She had not known impermanence until this moment, and I had thrust it on her suddenly and cruelly, carelessly. My heart cracked - I felt it crack. I had inflicted a sacred wound on this innocent spirit, as a mother inevitably will in spite of all.

I swept her up in my arms and carried her from the table, to our spot on the stairs where we talk.

"Oh, it's hard! Don't worry. If you take care of your giraffe, you might have him for a long time. I had a teddy bear when I was a baby, and I took care of him and he slept with me until I was 30!"

"But he didn't last?"

"Oh, sweetie, he did last for a very long time."

"I want my giraffe to last forever."

"I know. Me, too. Wouldn't it be great if everything we love could last forever? And all the stuff we don't like, that stuff can go away, right?"

"Right. But do you know? Mountains last forever."

"That's great thinking, but it just seems like that to us. They do wear away, or get changed when the earth moves."

"No. That's not true."

"You don't have to believe it for it to be."

You see, even then, I couldn't let her have it. She came up with MOUNTAINS in her search for forever, and I barely praised her before telling her she was wrong.

I tried to tell her, "We don't need anything to last forever," but she was wriggling away, already finished with this conversation.

Parenting is certainly a strange and interesting process. I'm learning so much. And I'm sure I'm missing half of it.

(Beliefs I hold: A good mother should be kinder than I am. A good mother should be more patient than I am. A good mother should be more selfless than I am. A good mother should be more present than I am. I am a pretty good mother. It's not good enough for them. I am improving.)

Indomitable

Indomitable (Grand Bend, 2005)

They are coming back, my words,
pushing through the rubble to reach for the sun
in the blue, blue sky