You are currently browsing the tag archive for the ‘filling the well’ tag.

 

 

Hello there, outside world! I’ve been M.I.A. for awhile – I’ve been in the trenches, but in the best possible way! I’ve been engrossed with my newest pursuit – art. (I figured I’d share some of what I’ve been up to on here!)

 

Don’t think. Thinking is the enemy of creativity. It’s self-conscious, and anything self-conscious is lousy. You can’t try to do things. You simply must do things. (Ray Bradbury)

 

  

Last Thursday night, Jeremy arrived home to find the entire kitchen (and other parts of the apartment…) had been colonized by my forays into the artistic realm. I was blaring tango music (courtesy of Dani – thanks, by the way), wearing an intriguing new kerchief on my head to keep my hair out of the gesso, and having an absolutely fabulous time. 

     

He took one look around, smiled, and said, “I’m so glad to see you doing this babe.” It felt good to hear that, and I quickly rescued some of the stuff I was working on from the top of the stove, so that he could make us dinner.

 

 

Creativity is allowing yourself to make mistakes. Art is knowing which ones to keep. (Scott Adams)

 

I was at it until three a.m. Happily, wholly engaged. Completely captured with experimentation and the joy of watching my ideas translated into form.

 

Creativity is a lot like looking at the world through a kaleidoscope. You look at a set of elements, the same ones everyone else sees, but then reassemble those floating bits and pieces into an enticing new possibility. (Rosabeth Moss Kanter)

 

I wandered through the house, scouting out things I could “repurpose” (translate: destroy) with impunity, and I tried things, without worrying how they would look or turn out. I just wanted to see what would happen when I went about it in different ways. It was freeing.

 

Freedom is the oxygen of the soul. (Moshe Dayan)

I’ve been breaking out of my shell, and it feels good. It feels good to play, and to create. It feels good not to hear the voice inside that’s always chiding and scolding.

 

Tomorrow, I’ll gather up all my tools and toys and go to play across the street with Dani. It’s like an artist’s play date, and I can’t wait! Life is good – and I feel great.

 
 
 

The cover of my soul-art-book.

 

The creative is the place where no one else has ever been. You have to leave the city of your comfort and go into the wilderness of your intuition. What you’ll discover will be wonderful. What you’ll discover is yourself. (Alan Alda)

Any creative venture is like an expedition into the unknown. You might designate a leader, and they might lob some direction at you, but you are the one navigating trackless jungles and jumping willingly into pits to discover whether they’re bottomless or not.

When I was in high school, I took every art class that they offered. I sensed, then, that there was something within me that wanted OUT, that wanted expression, that defied the words I was so comfortable with. When I got to college, I took art survey (history, essentially) instead. Somewhere along the way, I decided that to engage the part of myself which hungered for expression was dangerous. I retreated into safety, and into language – safe.

The first page.

Writing can be dangerous – but for me, facility with language always came so easily. I encouraged the logical-mental functions of it, and left others to explore the wildfires and sandstorms it could create. I kept it small, so that I could control it.

Lately, that hunger has been resurfacing. I almost couldn’t name it, I hadn’t let myself feel it in such a long time. Last night, I gathered around a table with other women who sought to enter the realm of juicy creativity. Our guide, Tracy, laid the tools for the journey out on the table and we slavered over them, eager to begin.

I jumped in – I played. I didn’t think too hard, I shut up the inner critic (for whom, nothing is ever good enough). God, I enjoyed myself. I felt giddy!

You need chaos in your soul to give birth to a dancing star. (Frederich Nietzsche)

I’ve been on a spiritual quest since before I had words to understand what it was I sought. And along the way, I’ve avoided my own dark heart. I’ve shunned my shadow, and I’ve spent an awful lot of time attempting to rub clean all the places I felt messy.

Second page -- a paper created by our guide Tracy.

I spent a lot of time, essentially, sterilizing myself. (Pardon me – I’m having a moment right now, letting that statement sink in. I don’t think I knew I felt that way until I wrote that just now, this minute).

Third Page.

I’ve spent so much time afraid of my own passion – passion can warm your bones, or burn you to cinders. That unpredictability? It just didn’t jive with my need to perfect everything. To live a creative life, we must lose our fear of being wrong. (Joseph Chilton Pierce) I’ve written about my perfectionism on this blog. I’ve talked about how I know it’s slow death. I just think I forgot what I was allowing it to kill. Until last night. Until I played. Until I showed up, and let go, and just played.

Fourth Page

 

 

All the times I’d written a poem with true emotionality, I hid it. I don’t think I wanted anyone to know that I could be so out of control. That’s the other part of last night that was so important – the sharing. To sit in a circle, and to each draw out from ourselves some beautifully messy part of our souls, and put it down on paper, and share it with one another.

Fifth page.

I am so excited about this, you’d think I’d created the next Mona Lisa. Maybe not to anyone else’s eyes, but for me, this was monumental. This was the tip of the iceberg, and I’m diving deeper next time. I’m committing to it – to myself, to my creativity, to my wild and dark beating heart, to my murky emotions and my human frailty.

Sixth page

This morning, I took pictures of all the pages I’d created last night (I need to practice with the bloody camera. I really hate technology sometimes – I apologize for the cruddy quality of the pics). I decided to post them on here – to “finish” slaying the dragon by drawing it out of the darkness, and sharing it with the world. And, not caring what anyone thinks of it – only that I love it, and I feel impassioned and eager to finish this project and embark on the next expedition. To dip into my soul’s chaos, and give birth to whatever comes.

Seventh Page

Eighth page.

 

Back Cover.

 

 

I love Joy Harjo’s poetry. It speaks to something deep and female and primal inside me – a part of myself that I don’t allow expression often enough. I thought I’d share my favorite poem of hers – a poem that’s fueled a lot of thought for me each time I read it.

What are your horses?

She Had Some Horses

By Joy Harjo

She had some horses.

She had horses who were bodies of sand.
She had horses who were maps drawn of blood.
She had horses who were skins of ocean water.
She had horses who were the blue air of sky.
She had horses who were fur and teeth.
She had horses who were clay and would break.
She had horses who were splintered red cliff.

She had some horses.

She had horses with long, pointed breasts.
She had horses with full, brown thighs.
She had horses who laughed too much.
She had horses who threw rocks at glass houses.
She had horses who licked razor blades.

She had some horses.

She had horses who danced in their mothers’ arms.
She had horses who thought they were the sun and their bodies shone and burned like stars.
She had horses who waltzed nightly on the moon.
She had horses who were much too shy, and kept quiet in stalls of their own making.

She had some horses.

She had horses who liked Creek Stomp Dance songs.
She had horses who cried in their beer.
She had horses who spit at male queens who made them afraid of themselves.
She had horses who said they weren’t afraid.
She had horses who lied.
She had horses who told the truth, who were stripped bare of their tongues.

She had some horses.

She had horses who called themselves, “horse.”
She had horses who called themselves, “spirit.” and kept their voices secret and to themselves.
She had horses who had no names.
She had horses who had books of names.

She had some horses.

She had horses who whispered in the dark, who were afraid to speak.
She had horses who screamed out of fear of the silence, who carried knives to protect themselves from ghosts.
She had horses who waited for destruction.
She had horses who waited for resurrection.

She had some horses.

She had horses who got down on their knees for any savior.
She had horses who thought their high price had saved them.
She had horses who tried to save her, who climbed in her bed at night and prayed as they raped her.

She had some horses.

She had some horses she loved.
She had some horses she hated.

 These were the same horses.

 

© 1983 Joy Harjo

 

 

Maybe I’m not as lapsed a Catholic as I thought, or maybe there is just something ingrained in me from all the religious education classes I went to for all those years. Maybe it’s just something inherent about this time of year…this is Holy Week – the week preceding Easter, and all those miraculous happenin’s.

Probably not uncoincidentally, this morning I woke up pondering miracles. Reading through the blogs I follow, two of them were talking miracles in one way or another. It spurred further thought…

The dictionary defines Miracle as: an effect or extraordinary event in the physical world that surpasses all known human or natural powers and is ascribed to a supernatural cause; such an effect or event manifesting or considered as a work of God; a wonder; marvel.

What interested me, though, was the history of the word – the etymology, where it came from. Miracle originally described something that was an “object of wonder.” That’s important – nowadays, most people figure a miracle happens when tidal waves crush a home, but miraculously the toddler and the dog are found safely suspended in a tree out of harm’s way. There is no denying that is miraculous – but focusing on the big and showy has blinded a lot of us to the other miracles.

I’m talking about the “objects of wonder” – what I think of as the quiet miracles. The subtle ones. The ones you see and notice when you’re paying attention, when you’re focused, when you’re feeling that inner quiet just long enough to see through the eyes of wonder.

When I see something happening amidst a crowd – when I’m the only one who sees it. When I set my busy down long enough to let God get my attention. When I set my worry aside long enough to hear a new thought, to look in a new direction.

I know that I do not take enough time to simply revel, to marvel, at the world around me. When I think about all of it – really think about it, and let it touch me – I am speechless in amazement. At how everything fits together, at how each piece is perfectly within the whole, at the swirling veins on a leaf, at the intelligent look in my cat’s eyes, at the sheer weight of creation.

This week, I am going to seek that inner quiet and spend time contemplating those quiet miracles. I am going to spend time being in love with the world, and let myself get carried away with amazement. I am going to look out through child’s eyes, and see it all new and fresh.

It may be Holy Week for the Catholic Church, but it could be holy week every week for all of us if we let it. If we allow quiet. If we allow ourselves to reimagine our selves and our world anew. To see one another with quiet wonder, to honor the small miracles that we are to one another.

 

 

Suddenly there was a great burst of light through the Darkness. The light spread out and where it touched the Darkness the Darkness disappeared. The light spread until the patch of Dark Thing had vanished, and there was only a gentle shining, and through the shining came the stars, clear and pure. (Madeleine L’Engle, A Wrinkle in Time)

By all accounts, I was one of those unsettling children who look out at you from a child’s face, but speak with a tone, confidence, and vernacular far beyond their years. I was what people tend to think of precocious in the classical sense, and not as a thinly veiled euphemism for too-worldly.

I have only ever known what it is to be precocious, and therefore, don’t exactly have the same perspective on many things that others (who weren’t quite as precocious) have. It is now, as an adult woman, that I look and see what that precociousness meant and what it wrought for me throughout my life. It is as I watch children and see them interact with one another, and watch them blooming “on schedule,” or “ahead of schedule,” or “behind schedule” with adult eyes. (Who determines these things, anyhow?)

In retrospect, I see my own journey with some clarity. (Can it ever happen any other way?) I can see how I tended to lack true peers – I could play the game well, and “fit in” with kids who weren’t quite at the level I was, but it felt like a lot of work. I could speak to adults with the maturity of one of their peers, but it came out of a child’s mouth and was often disregarded because of that – and I lacked the experiences of an adult, so that was one more barrier.

You’re given the form, but you have to write the sonnet yourself. What you say is completely up to you. (Madeleine L’Engle, A Wrinkle in Time)

I really wouldn’t say that I technically had a lonely childhood, but in some ways, that was very true. I realize now, that my love for reading and my passion for stories and books was partially inherent (I think we all come here with leanings toward talents and interests), and partially cultivated. I soon realized that having a book in front of your face gave you two things: a barrier and an excuse to not have to socialize, and something to talk about if you were made to interact.

When I was doing my student teaching internship, I happened to bump into one of my high school teachers. She remembered me instantly (having taught 168 kids a year, I now know how rare this is), and said that she remembered that I was never without a free reading book (again, having taught, I now know how rare this is).

Those books were my solace, my inspiration, and my shield. I was never really alone – I had a whole cast of characters holed up in my head. I was never really bored – even when I was stuck without a book, I could conjure one of the many stories I’d read to ponder.

I am going through the rest of the boxes I still have at my folks’ house, and I’ve come across some very old friends. I saved two things for last: my books and my genealogy research. Both are precious to me.

I share Einstein’s affirmation that anyone who is not lost on the rapturous awe at the power and glory of the mind behind the universe ‘is as good as a burnt out candle.’ (Madeleine L’Engle)

As I open these boxes, some for the first time in five years, I am transported. I remember the edition of Tom Sawyer that my mom’s parents gave us when I was about ten. I remember the huge, ponderous collection of Shakespeare’s Collected Works that my former mother-in-law gave me for my birthday one year. It has a maroon cover, and Bible-thin pages. I remember the copy of The Velveteen Rabbit my mom gave me shortly before I got married – a story that carries special significance in our house. The Bible my Aunt Margaret gave me for my confirmation. The canning books I bought when I thought it would be cool to make my own preserves (still planning on it, someday…).

The animal and plant guides I bought when I started to explore the complexity of our world… The poetry volumes I purchased as I discovered new voices… Philosophy… Spirituality… Religion… Life Sciences… My “Beach Reads”… Books from the Banned Books List… Classic Fiction… Eventually, I hope to have enough shelving to store / display them in some semblance of “order,” which will probably only make sense to me (which is fine, since I’m the one who’s into them all the time).

Then, this weekend, I came to some of my very old, very special friends. For Christmas, when I was twelve years old, my Uncle Dave gave me a series of books by Madeleine L’Engle, which I fell in love with. I’ve read my copy of A Wrinkle in Time so many times that I’ve loved the cover to smithereens. I promptly petitioned my parents for the rest of the series, and have read and re-read them repeatedly.

I am reading them again now, as an adult woman, whose precociousness, subsequent experience, and continually developing perspective, give me a new appreciation for the gift of them. These were the first books I’d read then, at twelve, that didn’t try to scrub the ugly things clean, in the way that so many people try to for children. They let the ugly be present, and they let the good and the beautiful be present, side by side, and gave the reader enough credit to make sense of it themselves.

Infinity is present in each part. A loving smile contains all art. The motes of starlight spark and dart. A grain of sand holds power and might. (Madeleine L’Engle)

L’Engle couched truths within fiction. I encountered God there, and science. I met with the age-old predicament of what I think of as can-or-should (as in, just because we can, does it mean that we should?). I entertained ideas of cosmic scope, and eternal reach, of infinite perplexity and infinite simplicity.

I lay on the couch last night, following Meg Murry through her troubles, her struggles, her challenges and triumphs. I walked along the path with old friends for a time, covering territory that felt familiar and brand-new at once. I spotted seeds of later-thought within the story – ideas that fueled the genesis of my spiritual questioning and my reasoning.

I lay there, at once twelve years old again, and brand-new to the world with all the wide-eyed optimism and belief in the possible – and at the same time, as I am now at 31 – older, a bit more cynical, a bit more hesitant, a bit more jaded, a bit less hopeful. I captured, for a bit, that sense of who I was when I’d read them for the first time – the wonder they awakened, the daydreams I embarked on, the debates they encouraged.

I like that girl I was, and there are days when I really miss her. In some ways, she was far braver then, than I am now (it helps when you don’t know all the facts of a situation, I suppose – it’s easier to talk myself out of things, or around them, now). Having got that sense of her – that essence of possibility and dreaming – I carry it forward into today. I marry it to my experience, and in that, I attempt to balance naiveté and experience.

I am grateful to Madeleine L’Engle for giving young readers enough credit, for having the guts to put it all on the page. I am grateful to Uncle Dave (and everyone else) for the gift of books – the gift of ideas, really. I am grateful to my parents for encouraging my precocity. I am grateful to my twelve-year-old self for having a courageous mind, and a questing heart, and an empathic way. I am grateful to have these thought-worlds to revisit, to rediscover, to recapture all the selves I have been. I am grateful, because they all contributed, and in this latest incarnation of self, I am especially pleased.

It seemed to travel with her, to sweep her aloft in the power of song, so that she was moving in glory among the stars, and for a moment, she, too, felt that the words Darkness and Light had no meaning, and only this melody was real. (Madeleine L’Engle, A Wrinkle in Time)

 

Couch Explorer:

When I was young I always wanted to go exploring in a cave and when I got older I finally did & it was dark everywhere & there were strange sounds like your stomach after a big meal & I couldn’t wait to get out. I figured out later that I mainly liked to go exploring caves in my mind where I could be comfortable & not get dirty & cold. If you read too much National Geographic when you’re young it’s hard to adjust to the real world.  (Brian Andreas)

I could be off curing obscure tropical fevers, or creating diplomacy amidst warring nations, or writing the great American novel (which my mother would love), or scrubbing my freaking bathtub – but, no – I have been derailed. And it is all my friend Dan’s fault.

I did not want to want to join facebook. I didn’t even have an account until last September, and the only reason I joined was because my friend Dan was going off to the Americorps, and when I asked him for his email address, he said he didn’t really use it – he facebooked. It is a measure of my affection for Dan that I broke down and grudgingly joined the rank and file of facebook users.

And, I used the account pretty sporadically – at first. I was mystified by all of the random and seemingly inconsequential or incredibly personal things that people would post to their profiles – Things like, “going to work now” or “cleaned all day” or stranger things that I’m not sure I would’ve wanted broadcast across the world-wide-web.

I uploaded a bunch of pictures initially, too – but I kept them private so that only I could see them. I just wasn’t sure I wanted them broadcast to people I hadn’t seen since the seventh grade (even if it was really neat to see what became of them).

I logged on here and there, and as I reacquainted myself with some of these far-flung folk or connected with newer friends, I became more comfortable. I even decided to make all the pictures I’d uploaded available to the public (even the ones where I know I’ve put on some weight and I no longer like the shape of my jawline, or anything else).

And that was all well and good, and then I discovered Farmville. Last Thursday night (a mere 5 days ago), I finally decided to accept one of the oodles of invitations I received in my notifications and start my own little farm. I haven’t done much of anything productive since then, and Jeremy (my fiancé) has had to make dinner every night because I was hooked to my laptop and couldn’t be bothered to do it.

You’d think that he would be incensed, but he’s actually rather amused. He likes it when I do things that are somewhat more “human” and hint at potential commonalities with all the other humans. (I am a brainiac, and I know it gets intimidating sometimes, and annoying other times). Every time he comes home and sees me staring intently into the screen muttering things like, “One more valentine and I can get another Luv-Ewe,” and “I fertilized their crops, when the heck is someone going to fertilize mine?” and “My ugly duckling is 58% ready,” he giggles and asks me how the farming’s going. And I think he actually likes it that there is a part of me that is so utterly fallible and addictable and de-railable.

What has me totally confounded is this: How on earth have I become a Farmville junkie? And by extension, a facebook one?

I actually gave it a lot of thought (that’s what brainiacs do, I guess, when they are farming virtually), and I think I’ve come up with a theory. When I was a little girl, the family who lived behind us had a dairy farm. All of them took turns working on the farm, and they were all in 4-H and got to raise their own cows and stuff, and I thought it was intensely cool.

I used to read all sorts of books about pioneers, and I used to love the game Oregon Trail (even if all of the people in my little wagon always seemed to die of cholera). I was entranced by the idea of striking off and exploring new places, and then carving out a place for yourself that was just how you wanted it to be, and that you created with your own hands.

I used to play pioneer in the backyard, and spend the afternoon harvesting and foraging for supplies (which made my mother very nervous since I was harvesting berries from the rowan tree and leaves from hostas – and essentially creating “food” out of completely inedible and poisonous plants). I would gather them all up, and turn them into little meals like I’d seen the chefs do on the cooking shows I saw on public television.

I loved all of those things. I loved the idea of owning a little farm-let when I grew up and having some chickens and maybe some other critters, too.

And then, I grew up. And in growing up, I realized a few things: farming is incredibly hard work and it is difficult for the family farm to even sustain itself in this era of the corporate conglomerate farms; animals are not always cute and cuddly (more often they’re smelly and dirty) and they get sick a lot and they die – or you have to kill them so that people can eat them. Yeah…when I was twelve, my mother made duck for the first time, and I sat at the table and cried and wouldn’t eat it because I told her that all I could picture was this poor guy waddling around a barnyard (poor woman – no one looked too enthusiastic about the duck after that). I was not cut out to be a farmer – in real life.

I like it that Farmville is my grown-up version of playing farm or pioneer in the backyard with my brother and sister. The animals don’t die. They don’t smell. When you harvest them, it isn’t to turn them into bacon – I had been kind of nervous about the pigs when I bought them. I mean, we all know what pigs are used for, ya know? Well, the cute (non smelly) plump smiling piggies on my farm gather up truffles for me to harvest. How cute! And how fun!

Even thought I may never accomplish anything ever again (I am astonished that this post even got written!), I am glad I found this little game. I’m glad that it’s just for fun and it’s totally idealized and not remotely like real life. I get enough real life every single time I pay the bills – it’s nice to have a little fantasy now and again. Well, I’ve got crops to harvest and cows to milk…(and a tiny virtual agricultural empire to build. Muahaha).

 

Faith is reason grown courageous. 

Sherwood Eddy

I have always struggled with my faith. I struggle with the very idea of faith – much less putting faith into my life as a practice. I was raised to believe that God helps those who help themselves – and I come from a family of hard-working, do-it-yourselfers, to whom asking for help is anathema.

I remember in college, reading about Dorothy Day – a socialist reformer turned devout Catholic. I really connected with her story, because at one point in her narrative she says, “I could not go to God on my knees.” She could not conceive of surrender – the idea that she must do for herself, that she was the only one on whom she could reliably depend, was too ingrained. She struggled, and eventually she came to a point where she was able to have faith.

To one who has faith, no explanation is necessary. To one without faith, no explanation is possible.
St. Thomas Aquinas

I remember that one sentence, out of all of the things that we had to read for that class. I could not go to God on my knees: I could not arrive in supplication; I could not allow myself to rely on that which was outside of myself; I could not have faith.

In recent years, this struggle has come to the forefront for me. I do believe in God – one who is loving, forgiving, patient, etc., etc. I do believe in mystical experiences, I do believe in miracles. I do believe that God has the power to and the ability to intercede in people’s lives. I guess the problem might be that I have a hard time conceiving of that God ever noticing me enough to intercede in mine?

Whatever my hang-ups, of late, I have been presented time and again with situations that demand my faith, first – and then what I long for materializes. Maybe that doesn’t sound difficult, but it is for me. And, I find it ties into what I am facing on my path to mastery: if you have faith, you do not worry; if you have faith, you can honor others; if you have faith, you have no need for anger. Aack.

In honesty, I long to have the kind of faith that would leave me with the certainty and security of knowing that, like the lilies of the field, I will be provided for. I long to have the sensation and knowing that I am held in the palm of God’s hand – safe, loved, and protected…treasured.

I’ve been doing a lot of soul searching about this. I am trying to discover how to bend, to trust, to allow – instead of being so stubborn, so myopic, so determined to do it my way. Especially since when I do let go of the need to control, things FLOW – things go perfectly, and I am cared for – things materialize, and I have to struggle so much less than when I try to do it all on my own.

Faith is not trying to believe something regardless of the evidence; faith is daring something regardless of the consequences.
Sherwood Eddy

It seems like such a small cost, doesn’t it? Just have a little faith, and invest that faith. For me, that is like asking me to hand over limbs. It’s so safe here, behind my intellect and reason – so safe trusting in only me; no one can disappoint you if you never give them the opportunity to do anything for you. It’s also a very lonely and isolating way to live. One of my refrains is that “I am tired of feeling like Atlas – I am tired of holding up the world.” It’s exhausting to never trust anyone enough to allow them to do things for you – it’s bone-wearying to try to be the God force of your own life.

Along with the soul searching, I have been trying to put my faith into action in my life. I actually used to be rather good at this, but I also used to be very optimistic, and kind of naive. Then, I went through a divorce, and all of that changed for me. I became much more skeptical and cynical – much more negative, and so unwilling to allow people into my sphere, my trust, enough to disappoint me. At that time in my life, I just couldn’t take anymore disappointment. I would have rather been driven to my knees by the sheer weight of the world, rather than bend them willingly in faith.

If I purport to be actively walking on a path to mastery, then I cannot allow myself to continue this faithlessness with consciousness, and I recognize the need for a shift. The question is how? How to willingly bend, how to let go control? How to master the fear that relinquishing control creates? How to have faith that I can allow it all to fall out of my hands, and into God’s?

I have been presented with some very strong lessons in this in the past year (a kind of wonderful-terrifying, fabulous-frightening year). Situations kept coming to the forefront. On the one side, I stood there, with a white-knuckled grip on things, and deeply unhappy. In order to obtain the things I deeply wanted, I came to see that the only way to get from here to there was to have faith, and to take a leap – a nigh impossible task. The fact that I did it at all is due to the fact that I cannot stand the idea of being a hypocrite (I’m always telling people to take risks and really live their lives – how can I do less?) and that the potential happy outcomes were beyond enticing.

Faith is courage; it is creative while despair is always destructive. 

David S. Muzzey

The most confounding part of all of it is that I have had burning bush moments – times in my life when I knew without a doubt that I walked with the Divine, that God was a presence and active force in my life. I have seen the joys born out of having faith in that Divine wisdom and will and power, and experienced them firsthand. So, why is it so hard to bend to that faith time and again?

All of my questioning, all of my soul-scouring searching, all of this struggle . . . and at the end of the day, I must face the fact that I already know what I must do – get out of my own way, get out of God’s way, and allow. To stand in the knowledge that faith has moved mountains in my life – and that if I can relinquish control long enough, my entire reality could shift.

Namaste,

One Seeking Faith

 

Ahh, Mother,

I walked awash in your light,

gently enshrouded

tenderly kissed

all of the nights of my life.

 

A silent witness

to every howl, sob and sigh

to each time I’ve stood –

as solitary as yourself –

and stretched my arms wide

spun circles in dewy glades

closed my eyes

and rejoiced,

knew what it meant to feel blessed.

 

And hail their queen, fair regent of the night.

Erasmus Darwin

 

I should have spent today in bed.

Today was a day to spend ensconced in creamy white sheets – the cotton ones my mother bought for me, the ones that feel deliciously smooth on my bare legs.

Today was a day to spend propped up on pillows clad in my favorite pillowcases – the ones my great-grandmother embroidered with the blue thread that remind me of crisp, clear fall skies.

 

To lie there,

lissome, languid,

And contemplate.

To stare at the ceiling without even seeing it.

 

To think.

To push aside plans, and release clocks and schedules.

To open my heart to dreaming,

To drop slowly, stone after stone, ideas, forms, thoughts,

subtle meanderings

Into the stillness inside me.

 

To get nothing done.

To be away.

To let everything take care of itself for one day,

To let the phone go unanswered,

The mailbox go unchecked,

The to-do lists go undone;

to just be.

 

To respect the cozy haze

To allow myself to ensorcelled by my own energy

To be mellow.

 

Today, even books (my weakness) would have felt intrusive.

I wanted to sit,

Allowing silence to press in

To circle round,

To embrace me –

To transport me.

 

To be contemplative.

To feel prayerful –

With each breath,

Each movement of my fingers along the embroidery –

To read the Braille of those stitches and divine meaning.

 

To revel in a state of happy-aloneness,

Knowing the comfort of never being alone.

To commune with myself,

With God.

 

To honor my own body and mind

To allow respite,

To enjoy rest, and the act of resting.

 

To enjoy my quiet heart,

To not speak, and not need to speak.

To listen, instead.

 

To be prayerful –

To praise on each breath

And honor with each movement.

 

To be prayerful –

To think about the things for which I have no words –

The things that need to be felt to be experienced.

 

To be prayerful –

To have a peaceful heart

A quiet mind

A resting body

A listening spirit.

Calm_by_Stefano83

 

This morning did not start out well. On my way to go pick up my cousin for school, I had the insistent and persistent sense that my ferrying services would not be needed today. Every single time I have had this feeling (the “I don’t know why you’re even bothering leaving. That boy is not going to school today” feeling), I have been enroute, and gotten a text message telling me not to come. Again today, I got that feeling, and again today the boy did not need me to take him to school. Only today, I discovered this after I’d been sitting outside his house for fifteen minutes. He and my uncle were both very sorry, but to be honest, that was totally beside the point.

Hot on the heels of this little annoyance, I call my sister only to discover that she has invited a virus into her computer much in the same way one might invite a vampire into their home. My sister, the inexperienced computer user (obviously), doubted that there was anything to be so concerned about. I spent about twenty minutes calling and waking my poor fiancé to get his take on things, calling her back with information and instructions, and calling him back to apologize for harassing him so early in the morning. Finally able to convince her that this was serious – call the bank, don’t even touch your computer serious – I got off the phone, heaved a deep sigh, and continued my long morning commute.

The day was not off to an auspicious start.

I arrived at Three Sisters, and I had about an hour and a half to myself to kind of decompress and invite calm back into my sphere. I also chose to turn off my phone. Dani and I had a great day (I always do when I’m there – love it, love it, love it) – very productive, busy, and fun. So productive, busy and fun, we didn’t have time to eat, and since I was having so much fun, I didn’t really notice how hungry I was until I left.

So, I called my fiancé to get the scoop on tonight’s victuals, and he (per my earlier instructions) had already eaten. Great. Hmmmm. I was flying solo, super tired, and super hungry – and I couldn’t really decide what would be the most economical and least pain in the rear…. I realize that this shouldn’t have been a major decision, but my brain had atrophied by this point, and it sure felt major.

I called Rosati’s pizza in the Falls, deciding that, since I only have to please me, I’ll get the pizza I like, which no one else does – the Chicago style deep dish, all goooey and delicious with cheese and a buttery flaky crust and rich, chunky tomato sauce smothering all of the cheese and toppings…YUM. I call to order this delectable dish fit for the gods (or at least fit for me) only to hear, “I’m sorry ma’am, we’re all out of deep dish crust.” I literally said, “You make me sad.” I have no idea what the poor man thought of this, but he was very accommodating as I attempted to make another selection. I must have sounded as disappointed as I felt.

I arrive at the pizza joint, ready to dart inside and retrieve my pizza at the exact nanosecond he said it’d be ready, only to be told that it would be another ten minutes or so. At this point, I am tired, and so hungry that I feel dizzy and have a headache blooming across my forehead. I call Wittler (my fiancé) to tell him (or warn him, depending upon whose perspective you’re viewing this through…) that I was on my way home. Poor man. He sounded somewhat alarmed and not a little bit scared, even though I told him I wasn’t gunning for him.

The entire ride home, my poor little car made the whirring, spinney, rattling noise that my uncle (the mechanic) warned me was the harbinger of doom and my car’s imminent demise. Drat, drat, and double drat. So with the annoying and anxiety-producing whirring in the background, and the litany of the day’s issues running doggedly through my head, and the issues of the past weeks thrumming along nicely just for rhythm, I drove home.

With the exception of the middle of my day (while I was at Three Sisters’), this had not been the best day.

Wittler was very solicitous when I walked in the door, dutifully oohing and aahing over the scarves I bought out of the new shipment at the shop, and keeping his distance the way you would from a dog you’d just met and didn’t want to bite you.

To survive, we must begin to know sacredness. The pace at which most of live prevents this.

                                                                                — Chrystos

For a long time now, I have kept up a punishing pace. I am very hard on myself, and more demanding of me than others would be. I am a hard and exacting taskmaster. And, I’ve decided I am too damn nice. I need to learn to say no sometimes. Even to myself.

As I trudged into the front room with the pizza and Practical Magic, and the announcement that I planned to do whatever I liked this evening without interference, I realized that I don’t do that nearly often enough.

Before the age of cell phones, which I am thankfully old enough to remember and appreciate, I used to go off the map. Get lost for a while, have an adventure, do whatever the heck I pleased, for just a little while. I don’t do that anymore – and today, I realized just what that is costing me.

Your sacred space is where you can find yourself again and again.

                                                                                — Joseph Campbell

Where are my sacred spaces now? I used to have favorite and secret haunts that soothed me and fed my soul. I have starved myself of the sacred, and withheld the opportunity to replenish myself, and I feel it.

I do too much for other people. I say yes to things far too quickly. I have “dutied” myself out of the pleasure I found in just being with myself.

So, tonight I told Wittler that soon – very, very soon – I’d be taking a day just for me. That I would hold it sacred, and that I wouldn’t be answering the phone, or telling anyone where I was, and that everyone would just have to somehow manage without me for one bloody day. Dani does this for herself, and in hearing her talk about it, despite my obstinacy, the Universe finally found a way to creep through the cracks of my stubbornness and get that seed in there.

I cannot remember the last time I even took a few hours for myself that did not involve going to visit with someone or weren’t simultaneous to doing the laundry at my folks’ house. 

 

I have not been honoring my need to be alone with myself.

I have not been honoring my need for silence.

I have not been honoring my need to explore my world, to explore myself.

I have not been honoring myself.

 

Live your life as you see fit. That’s not selfish. Selfish is to demand that others live their lives as you see fit.

                                                                                — Anthony DeMello

For the course of my entire life, I have been led to believe that in order to be good, I should find ways to be unselfish (which I’ve apparently translated to mean selfless). In order to be good, I needed to find ways to be of service to others. That is not in itself an untruth, or a bad thing. It should have been prefaced, though, by the idea that in order to be of service to others, I need to first serve myself. I need to take care of me, first. I need to love me, first. I need to serve me, first. Then, I can take the fullness and breadth of my whole and healthy being, and serve others.

The wonderful irony of the Universe is that I have said this very thing to at least three people in the past few weeks. It wasn’t until today, that I could see it with new eyes and hear it with new ears, and take it into my being, where it most needed to be.

So, my lovelies, I am going to indulge in watching one of my favorite movies, and I am not going to empty the blasted dishwasher, I am not going to answer my phone. And Wittler, since he is smart and knows me so well and loves me so well, will steer clear of the front room so I can have the me time I so desperately need. And, most importantly, I am going to start scheduling time for myself, before I schedule time for everyone else.

Come have a look through my kaleidoscope eyes. Come walk with me, as I make my way down the Path of Mastery (complete with fits and starts and pitstops and potholes). Our very impermanence is what makes us burn so brightly, and struggle so valiantly, and feel so deeply – it’s what makes us seize the day, and the moment. Come in, settle in, share a moment with me.

Enter your email address to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

Join 39 other followers

How to Leave Comments:

Click on the title of the blog post you want to comment on. This opens that particular post, and at the bottom of the page, there is a comment form. Can’t wait to hear from you!

Got a minute? Check out my new art blog here:

"Who are YOU?" said the Caterpillar. This was not an encouraging opening for a conversation. Alice replied, rather shyly, "I--I hardly know, sir, just at present-- at least I know who I WAS when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then." (Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, Chapter 5)