going slow ...

An interesting thing happens when when you slow down and commit to uni-tasking  ...  the day feels large, time stretches and snaps like an elastic band and a common response to the inquiry of "what did you do today?" is perplexed silence.

What did I do with this day?  Or more accurately: what did this day offer me? 

Lots.  Just nothing I can quantify or measure in the usual terms. How illuminating that my knee-jerk response is to want to offer some sort of measurement of productivity? As if wrestling with the contents of my world or my mind is a sign of deep engagement? Certainly the rabbits who are frolicking about my yard aren't concerning themselves with how many of my pansies they demolish in a day. (Okay, frolic may be too energetic a term for these suburban lagomorphs who resemble overfed house cats lolling in the sunshine.) 

There is a natural heaviness to this season of new beginnings.  Through Ayurveda I've come to appreciate that this period of earth mixed with water (rain) = mud. Just the other week I was volunteering at the stables on a misty, damp day.  We took the horses outside to their corrals for some fresh air while we cleaned inside.  Then the rain came. Hard. Fast. Cold and miserable.  We rushed out to bring the horses in but rushing was impossible. Each step in the now-sticky mud coated my boots in a thick and heavy layer so each step felt like I was walking upon slippery platform shoes. The horse I was told to retrieve was even more distressed by the unstable conditions, refusing to face downhill, he slide sideways towards the gate.  At one point, all I could do was circle him around and around because going forward was impossible.

Hmmm ...

I finally just stopped moving. And waited for help to come. Part of my work with horses is to yield completely and utterly to my lack of experience, learning to say I need help, learning to ask for guidance and learning to trust that I am, well, learning.  It is an overdue correction to how I was in childhood and, truth be told, an embarrassing amount of adulthood. Saying I didn't know or understand something seemed to me - as a child -  to be a sign of my inherent lack or incompetence and therefore something I guarded carefully. Understanding the absurdity of this still does not undo a lifetime of habit and fear. But I am chipping away at it.

Sounds a bit like Anne Lamott's famous prayer: Help. Thanks. Wow.  In my case, the wow came once I sat down in my car and took stock of my boots, drenched jacket and hair do inspired by a mix master blender frappe cycle. 

All of this is to say, going forward isn't always the best option and mud demands a delicate kind of surrender. I cannot clomp through mud, it just won't allow it. What is required is a mindful and careful stepping forward and an understanding that things will be messy for awhile.  Learning not to rush, but to linger ... and summoning persistence, stick-to-it-ness seems to be my mode for the season.

Even this wonky little bowl required undo amounts of patience and willingness to start again ... and again ... and again.  It's imperfections remind me that I am not striving for perfection, but instead seeking to learn, discover, grow, and ask for guidance.

Oh yes ... guidance ... seeing who my real teachers are ...

Happy mud days. May there be much comfort in these mud pies of mine.  I am inhabiting out-of-time-ness with these inspirations: 

Taking my time listening to David Whyte's What To Remember When Waking.  The perfect guide for the threshold stages I've been traversing.  
true discipline - reading one poem a day from his collection and not continuing on ... it is hard, just one but then time allows the images to soak in ...

Sharon Blackie (reenchantingtheearth.com) This post got my mind whirling ... (thank you Mel)

Company in the dark (and the light!) places - The Sacred Pause and my sister in moondancing (more to say about her amazing work on repatterning energetic boundaries, if there is anything the doctor should prescribe, it is this!)

Speaking of the moon ... my moon mandala meditation practice is my contribution  to Spectrum 2015 which begins on May 1st.  26 amazing workshops that compliment and augment each other in magical and exciting ways. I am particularly excited by Hali's offering "Calling on the Grandmothers" and Jennette's offering of Make-To-Mend moon ritual object and moon exilir.  

Finally, this had me in tears ... and filled with gratitude and anticipation as I will be making this very journey next October with Em and Nicole. 

Suddenly, I realize I am soaking in a wonderfully cleansing mud bath of ideas and new perspectives! Feel the energy of sunshine slowly drying things out ...

Simple is anything but ...

Start close in,

don't take the second step

or the third,

start with the first

thing

close in,

the step you don't want to take.

- David Whyte, from Start Close In 

I am haunted by that bloody first step!

It seems so simple, right?  Do what calls to me.  Do what flows from me.  Follow the inner guidance. Don't get balled up by envisioning the whole enchilada!  Just answer to the first step, the one whispering, begging me to take.  Take the first step and allow myself to one-step-after-another move forward in the adventure.

Of course, what is unsaid is how those second or third steps distract and seduce me from that essential first step.  

The second step is self-sabotage that has me looking outside myself for inspiration, for guidance, for additional hints and best practices on how to take a step.  It is all the advice offered freely and at ridiculous prices (if it's that expensive it must be the real deal -  the map to Shangri-la, the code that cracks the riddle) and the books that offer insight into other peoples' journeys. (How I do love those books, the true life fairy tales with happily ever after assumed if not guaranteed.) 

The third step is a false notion of priorities. Confusing another person's notion of what constitutes successful, meaningful, vital and necessary with my own.  In my world, reading books out loud, writing letters and noticing how asparagus is green and purple with touches of rose pink must be present for true happiness to exist. 

I am one who excels at complication. I specialized in crafting muddy water, clutter and chaos.  I am grateful for friends who lasso me back in. 

That first step?  It is so hard because it is mine alone to take. No one else can describe it, no one else can verify or validate it for me. It is mine alone to make and mine alone to receive.

It is also very humble and unglamorous.  It is sweat and conviction and determination and discipline held together by a childlike faith in the magical and miraculous, and a certainty that if I eat my dinner, there will always be desert. 

A bit of a koan: if magic happens and there is no one else to witness it, does it make a sound?  If it touches my heart, does that vibration ripple out? 

Above all, be alone with it all,

a hiving off, a corner of silence

amidst the noise, refuse to talk,

even to yourself, and stay in this place

until the current of the story

is strong enough to float you out.

- David Whyte, from Coleman's Bed  

I am extracting a story from deep within.  It is unfamiliar territory this practice of writing.  I am summoning it forth with the assistance of paint and play.  

I am leaning heavily the support of my practice which I am shoring up through community here  and in my May gathering of The Gift of Practice.  

I am calling upon friends who inspire me, who follow their own paths and who counsel me to stay true to my way.  These interviews will be part of The Gift of Practice and they represent the heart of what I share: that we each must find, honor and follow our unique path. No one can tell you the way.  No one can do it for you.  It is the gift you give yourself.

Remember the way you are all possibilities

you can see and how you live best

as an appreciator of horizons,

whether you reach them or not.

- David Whyte, from Mameen 

 

my one word

It's that time again ... time to say goodbye to the old, thanking my one word of 2013 for all the amazing gifts it offered me throughout the preceding 12 months and then inaugurating my new word, new intention for 2014.

Looking back upon the previous year, I would have to agree it was a year of opening to possibilities.  I finally left my job of 12+ years that had been confining and squeezing my spirit; I embarked upon a dream of a lifetime to visit New Zealand, meeting at last a sister of my heart (how often had we danced with the notion of meeting in the flesh?!); I stretched myself to teach new courses; I shed another layer of constricting skin and released a position that had become a burden; I traveled, visited with friends, and continued to challenge myself creatively.

Possibilities was my mantra for the year and it allowed me to see change as a threshold into new adventures.  Rather than dwelling on what I was releasing (the experience more often than not being one of grasping tightly to a thorny branch ... yes, I had hold of something but look at the bloody results?) I kept my gaze open to what might be, daring to dream big and full and wide and vast.

This is the gift of choosing a word for the year.  Rather than a resolution, a to-do list (oh, but I am soooo good at those!) it acts as a reminder of who or how I want to be.  My word is my intention for myself, for my life.  What I want to cultivate within myself, what I want to open to, what I want to embody or embrace.  

Some years my word has been inspiring and others it has been less so.  My understanding after working with this practice for 4 years is in choosing a word that excites and somewhat frightens me.  To choose an intention that holds some aspect of daring, that pushes me over the edge of my comfort zone.  Fearless (2010) was a damned good year.  Shine (2011) less so. (Perhaps too abstract for me?) Possibilities (2013) was full of juice and interpretation. Full of ... yes ... possibilities.

There are many worksheets and complicated formulas for helping you to choose your word. As one who naturally falls upon the obsessive/controlling spectrum, it is best for me to avoid such techniques.  Rather, I try to open my awareness to allowing my word to find me.  I find a little serendipity, a healthy dollop of trust and a dash of trust in happy accidents works best.

So my word found me while I was listening to David Whyte's audio program What to Remember When Waking. (Reading or listening to poets or philosophers makes one more accident prone when it comes to moments of grace and inspiration.)  It was a word that leaped out at me ...

Yes, Desire. 

Ahem.

As I told a friend, desire is a concept alien to my puritanical inclination.  It fits my criteria for daring, and it feels audacious and ... well ... a tad dangerous? It is a word, as my friend pointed out, that could take me all kinds of places, could unlock many interesting doors.

What hooked me was David Whyte's explanation of the origin of the word, "from the stars"  and "to await what the stars will bring."  He writes:

"Desire demands only a constant attention to the unknown gravitational field which surrounds us and from which we can recharge ourselves in every moment.

How would your days be different if you lived a life of desire?"

The act of desiring being one of connecting with the deepest yearnings within the heart and the soul, a connection with Divine, with something larger than myself.  To open to desire is to invoke both my spiritual and animal self and in doing so experience a new fullness of being.  

In all honesty, asking myself "what do I desire?" feels like a challenge to the gods.  My reaction being "how dare I?" To speak of desire never mind actively seeking it, feels selfish, greedy, and indulgent.  But then there is the poet's challenge to live a life of desire.  It suggests a reaching for the ultimate pot of gold.  Yet I hold back - why?  

If I am being honest, it is out of fear.  That I will be disappointed, that I will discover I am not worthy, undeserving, that fulfillment and connection is not my fate. I am haunted by Prufrock's dilemma "do I dare?"   (And in short, I was afraid.)

So Desire it is.  I accept my own dare.  To open myself up to my deepest yearnings, dreams, aspirations ... to open to desire and then hold a space to receive that which is beyond my small mind's ability to conceive.  To open to what the heart can imagine and what the stars offer me ... to stand in the night and allow my dreams and yearnings to expand with the dark sky, the pinpoints of light suggesting the millions of possibilities that are mine to taste, touch, smell, see and know.  To tether myself to the stars and see where they take me. 

 To be that bold, to love that immensely ... Desire sounding like life dipped in dark chocolate ... recognizing I've done it once before ...

And it was soooo right, so good.  Opening to Mystery and seeing what she offers ...

I think that is a pretty exciting proposition for the coming year, don't you?

the moments in between ...

Years ago a friend said to me: I jump from this and that when what I really want to know are the moments in between.

Indeed. I know all too well the sensation of being a frog, leaping from one lily pad to another.  I am aware of skipping those liminal moments ... I am becoming aware of what it is I am avoiding by my compulsive busyness.

I am avoiding the discomfort of this moment of stillness and quiet.  While I have craved such, to be in it is hugely disorienting.  I am aware of the sound of the clothes tumbling in the dryer, the hum of the refrigerator, the steady rhythm of my dog breathing as he sleeps by my feet.  I am aware of the glow of the kitchen light, harsh in contrast to the darkness outside.  The false brightness emphasizing the gloominess of the weather and the dimness within me.  

I am aware of the compulsion to be doing something.  The other inhabitants of my home are out in the world and engaged in their tasks while I sit here ... doing what?  Abiding?  Waiting?  

Paying attention.  Trying to grab hold of what constantly slides through my fingers, aware of a shadow at the edges of my consciousness.  I envy my dog his lack of anxiety over what he does or doesn't do.  He simply is.  

I am aware of my defensiveness regarding my day.  The Husband comes home and in a spirit of genuine interest and curiosity asks me, "What did you do today?"  I snidely reply "I sat around eating bon-bons."  I am aware of feeling guilty if I cannot account for myself, my actions, my productivity. But I know too well that busyness and doing does not equal living nor does it make for a satisfying life.

I have joined with the participants in The Gift of Practice in experimenting with a new practice.  I took the advice of David Whyte and am taking the step that scares me, the one I've resisted for much of my life.  I am sitting every day and spending a minimum of 5  minutes watching my breath.  I am not doing, striving, perfecting ... I am attempting to simply be.  Sit. Breathe. Be.

In the process, I am watching the cloaks and hats and labels I've dressed myself in, peeling away one by one.  The longer I sit, the more layers I discover.  Perhaps one day I will come to the end and discover what I've been seeking my whole life: to truly know myself. Just me. Simple, plain, perfect in my imperfections.  Sitting snugly, comfortably within myself. 

If Life is a gift ... and truly, I believe it is such ... then each of us is a parcel of wonder, a treasure to be shared and enjoyed.  I want to sit in that space in between the scattered wrapping paper, torn off bows, savoring the moment of receiving. 

Time to turn off, stop typing and start being ...  

Fumbling my way through ...

It is unbearably hot and strong, furnace-like winds have melted away any ambitions beyond reaching for a popsicle and making our way to the swimming pool after Cowgirl gets home from school.

My drying rack is handling heavy duty laundry as the Husband just returned from a 5 week adventure away from home to make an independent film.  Didn't you hear me bitchin' about all the yard work, double-shift parenting and dog walking duties?  I think I was too exhausted to complain. It's good to have him home ... although I may need a second drying rack ... laundry hanging being a wonderful opportunity to shift through some more brain lint ...

I just heard what sounded like banjo music coming from our bachelor neighbor's backyard.  For a brief moment I thought "He must be learning to play!"  I don't know why such an idea sent a frisson of excitement through me ... perhaps it is my own ukulele ambitions and the notion of neighborly support or a local folk band forming.

I play a mean "You Are My Sunshine" and "Puff the Magic Dragon" ...

Yes, well.

What struck me today was the fact that my work - MY WORK - as such appears to have settled into writing.  Which I find fascinating and amusing in an ironic sort of way because any writing assignment for college or grad school had me parked close by the toilet; the anxiety impacting my digestive system along with my nervous system (I had a little bout of Trichotillomania - the irresistible urge to pull one's hair out - while writing my master's thesis; a river stone in the palm of my hand became my self-soothing device.)  Although I found writing term papers draining, I was always exhilarated by the end result of gathering up the muddle that is my mind and formulating some sort of coherent perspective.  I was often surprised to realize "I know all that?"  

I think that is what the poet David Whyte means when he talks about the creative process as coming to the edge of our understanding about oneself and the world, and taking the courageous step into uncharted territory.   He talks about the call to commit to  the necessary, central conversation which involves voluntarily stepping into the space of our unknown, dropping the armor of identity and risking the discovery that who we are is not what we know - not a static being - but one that is constantly evolving, growing, shedding, dissolving and re-forming as we engage in the conversation of living.
This is what brings me back to writing - and at other times in my cycle, painting or photography or art journaling.  As taxing as this process is - wandering through my thoughts and words and fragments of ideas - each time I willingly take this journey, I find myself inhabiting new ground.  The process of shifting through ideas, feelings and beliefs and seeing where the internal meanderings leads me is exciting beyond description.  It is akin to a rollercoaster ride that lifts me up, drops me down and when I am least ready for it, spins me upside down.  Maybe that is my way - needing to be shaken up to allow what has been buried or hidden to rise to the surface.  

For as much as I seem to like using lots of words, writer is not how I identify myself. (Just as someone who eats a lot of cookies isn't a baker.)  Creative Explorer or Adventurer may be more accurate; perhaps I need to watch Bear Grylls for some vital tips and inspiration?

(I am riding waves of excitement as I shift through material for my upcoming offering The Gift of Practice.  I hate self promotion, but  each day I sit down to wrestle with the material and my experiences, I finish feeling more enthusiastic and committed to the practice of showing up for my life and my creative self. I have been busying recording interviews with some of my favorite people and am steeping myself in the richness of those conversations.  While my bank account may not be flush, I am feeling very full and rich with such inspiration fueling me onwards. If you feel curious or called to commit to yourself in a vital way, I hope you will consider joining the virtual gathering.  Further information and details can be found here.) 

water goes around the rock ...

That is one of my core mantras, along with "baby steps" (is it just me, or have you noticed as you've aged Bill Murray becomes increasingly relevant and indeed heroic?)






This is not where I planned to wander today ... but I am baby stepping my way through things over here and I am claiming points for showing up.  Yes, I operate upon an imaginary point system (thank you Karen!) where certain tasks - say, making the bed or tidying up the counter clutter (clutter, I've discovered is naturally self propagating) earn me ten points.  Putting laundry away (I may be one of those rarest of rare beings that has heaps of clean, air-dried, laundry sitting about - I do so love my drying rack ...) folded is 15 points and pulling out a new, clean t-shirt for the day (rather than the one I tossed off the night before) is also point-worthy.  I don't record my points mind you ... it's just the game I play in my head.

ahem ... yes ... the voices inside my head ... so staying with the brain lint theme here, I have come to confess that I am a bit fatigued - okay, completely done in! - by the sound of my own voice droning on and on and on inside my head.  I am hoping others of you partaking in your own homesteading adventures can reassure me that you know of what I speak.  Otherwise, well ... I don't know what otherwise I have available to me?

So, baby steps and water goes around the rock ... you see, today is one of those days where my flow - if you could call it such - ran smack into a unexpected and inopportune boulder.  Nothing too massive that I cannot shift around it and indeed, there is no other option (a tantrum not option so much as a delaying tactic.) So as I take the curve around the obstacles in my day, I find myself thinking about the rocks that water goes around.  And I am thinking those rocks are really the opportunities where I am force to shift perspective, change direction, and open myself up to the reality that life is not about me reaffirming who I think I am, so much as me rediscovering moment by moment who I am and who I am becoming.

Okay ... did that just hurt your brain too?  Blame this this talk by the poet David Whyte which has the white mouse in my brain spinning wildly upon his little wheel: Being at the Frontier of Your Identity.  I've listened to this talk 3 or 4 times now and only a fraction of its immensity has penetrated the dense outer crust of my mind.  

A form of enlightenment may be to understand that you'll never feel quite at home in the world. And you're not meant to.  (from What to Remember When Waking)

My mind is reeling.

And then there is this nugget: 
 

...one of the difficulties of parenting is that you are constantly attempting to relate to someone who is not there anymore ...  they are growing so quickly  ... and you also have this internal heartbreak that they are growing away from you and they are no longer the person who needed you in every facet of their life ... and so there are tremendous dynamics that are attempting to stop the child from growing. 

I am sucking the marrow from that bone ...

So today I am attempting to staying present for the me that I meet as life forces me to flow unexpected ways.  There is the me I've crafted piece by piece through the stories and events in my life; and there is the me I meet when I let go of the labels I've plastered upon myself - impatient, emotional, sensitive, odd ball - and open to the reality that I am always unfolding, learning, growing, being and becoming.  What surprises me is how much trust I feel about that process ... and about that person.

I wonder who we will be tomorrow?  

okay, so the paintings make an appearance because 1) in reviewing old old blog posts, I was struck by all the color in my life and I feel a strong pull right now to paint and bring color back in; and 2) the characters that appear in my work represent the many voices that are attempting to penetrate this thick skull,  so perhaps I ought to give them their space to speak?