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 

 

an insistent call ...

I consider myself somewhat of an expert in daydreaming. As a child road trips involved flopping about the backseat of my mother's cream colored Impala to find a comfortable and cool spot out of the sun (this being the era before air-conditioning and mandatory seat belt use) and staring out the window, creating movies inside my head to pass the time. To this day, I tend to fall mute on any road trip my interiority annoying to The Husband who would talk or listen to music. 

My nature is quiet and rather sloth-like.  Yet there comes a time when I must apply effort to channel the inner out.  A backlog of ideas, images, impulses to create a specific thing rattle around my head, distracting and disturbing the peaceful, easy daydream feeling.

So I find myself reaching for familiar structures of support as I seek to birth a fantasy long-held and only half-heartedly attempted in the past.  I know when I seek the freedom of creative energy I must exercise a fair bit of discipline and structure to constructive channel this energy.

I turn to what I know from 20 years of a yoga practice: show up daily, set a clear intention, be open, let go of my notions of what should or ought to happen (way too small for magic to exist in) and hold space for the unexpected to arise.  The foundation is hard work: I must do my part and then trust Creative Flow to come in and take care of the rest. To meet any Call is to suspend the rational, logical mind in favor of the spacious, daydreaming, anything-is-possible-when-you-step-out-of-the-way mind. 

Still, one must go in prepared ...

Practice is how I prepare for the magic.  Practice is how I clear space for the miraculous. Practice makes us more likely to be accident prone in the sense of hearing the Call and the grace in knowing it is speaking to me.  

I would love some company on this portion of the journey ... I would love to support you in making your way:




Further details and registration information can be found here.
Final days for early bird registration and bonus gift of a mentoring session.

There's no perfect time to start ... you just have to decide you can no longer wait ... you must choose to answer the Call before you can surrender to it ...

everyone is my teacher

This first week leading The Gift of Practice has been an intense one for me.  In a good way ... in a "Beam me down/beam me in Scotty" sort of way.

I confess to feeling fraudulent as each participant is showing up with so much trust and bravery and willingness to dig in.  It is a big thing,  because deep in my heart I know what I am holding is the space for each to find her way more fully into trusting herself.  But I am the one holding the door open, smiling and saying "yes, yes ... come on in ... it will be fine!"

Of course, I cannot predict how things will unfold and I know that space of not-knowingness (!) is where the magic and gifts reside.  Still. I like to know.  I am a planner but this process - any process embarked upon for discovery and growth - requires me to trust myself and believe if I fully commit to taking just one step and arrive in that place, the next step will present itself to me.  It's like feeling one's way in the dark: touching with fingertips what is before me and shuffling slowly along, guided only by that touch.

I guess I must project some sense of having a handle on these things and really, I don't.  I am willing to admit such is the case and that perhaps qualifies me to share with others my process.  All week I've been thinking about a rich teaching experience courtesy of that great laboratory of human experience: the retail environment.  (Have I never mentioned my 12+ years working in retail?  Oh my ... stories to tell!) 

I was working the cash/wrap at a major bookstore and it was during a typical lunchtime rush. I fell into a brief conversation with a woman dressed in the robes of a zen monk. I think she was a trainee of some sort.  There is a zen center in my town that I have always been curious about, but fearful to explore.  While she was waiting for the next clerk and I was finishing up a transaction for my customer, we chatted. I asked her about programs for newcomers and she enthusiastically encouraged me to check out one of the open house events. 

The sales clerk next to me became available (I remember him as a was a very gentle, sweet, young man) and the woman moved on to her transaction while I turned to my next customer.

The next thing I knew, zen woman was screaming and yelling at my co-worker.  It had something to do with a discount she believed she was entitled to, but wasn't receiving.  The clerk was trying to calmly explained to her why she wasn't getting the discount but she wasn't listening.  In a phrase - she lost her shit.  Big time.  Before we could call a manager, she stormed out of the store.  I swear, everyone stood stock still, mouths hanging open.

Not that we didn't encounter angry, irate customers on a regular basis; it was the incongruity of a person dressed in the garb of a spiritual aspirant going ape-shit wild.  My response to the stunned customer before me was "I guess I won't be visiting the zen center."

What I didn't understand then, but what I've come to learn, is that the  deeper we go, the messier we become.  Or rather, we become more willing to own and explore the messy, ugly and inconvenient parts of ourselves.  Practice doesn't erase the discomfort of being me - in fact, it brings me repeatedly into my most tight, sticky, painful places - but it does offer me an understanding that who I am is more than just the ugly bits.  I've got to work with what I've got.  And if I am willing to show up and do the work, it is there (so I've been told) the shit gets cleared away and what I will discover is precious treasure waits within.

Yesterday I was surprised to see a picture of our neighborhood pizza shop owner on the front page of the morning paper.  The photo captures his spirit and energy. Then I read the story line: Little time left, but he isn't crying in his pizza.

Well, I am crying.  Repeatedly and unexpectedly, I find myself slipping into moments of mouth-wide-open, snot-running-down-my-face convulsive sobbing.  I am tearing up right now as I think about this man - who we know as Mr. Pudgy - and the fact that he is dying from terminal cancer.  And my heart breaks wide open thinking about him shouting out to Cowgirl How's it going Chicken Leg! because when she was 3 that was what she told him she wanted to be called.  

Yes, life is messy and so it shouldn't come as a surprise that more often than not, I feel myself to be a mess.  

It is painful because it is it so joy-full. It is challenging because anything worthwhile requires all of me - mind, body, heart and soul - to be in the game.  I choose to show up because I cannot imagine accepting anything less even though I know I am going to endure some pretty intense moments. 

I guess if a pizzaman named Pudgy can crack open my heart, making tangible the fragility and immensity of love and connection, and an impatient zen practioner reassure me we all are works in progress (she returned to the store to apologize), then I too can step into the space of teacher. 

Look around, teachers abound.  

a juvenile cardinal who shows me a glimpse of myself ... awkward but with red plumage beginning to peek through ...

Planting seeds + Wisdom giveaway!

I think the most challenging part of blogging is crafting an accurate title!

I am loving the response to my last post ... it is so gratifying to see others carrying the conversation into other forums and this is why I churn out words and images on a fairly regular basis. For it is by being In dialogue and discussion with others and that compels me to dig deep and uncover the buried messages and yearnings of my heart and soul. From there, we bring together all our voices so that we can mindfully move forward contributing to the world we want to inhabit and pass on to the next generation.

Lately it seems I have been wrestling with questions that have no easy or apparent answers.  I have been conversation with 5 other brave and word-loving souls regarding the topic of Wisdom and how we each define, experience or find it in ourselves and in our lives.  This lively debate has spawned an offering I am proud to be a part of:



Bluestocking Introduction from Jill Clifton on Vimeo.


Let me just say, explaining what I mean by wisdom (never mind figuring out how I know it or tap into it!) is a pretty heady experience.  I suffered only minor breakdowns in attempting to tangle with wisdom.  I am here (in one piece!) to say that I am pretty chuffed (to borrow a favorite term from a favorite thinker/writer) with my offering.  And while I don't want to spoil the mystery, I will say that in the end I go beyond the wisdom of the body and the breath (and if you know me - and I think you all do - you probably can figure out where I finally discover my own wisdom resides, patiently and lovingly, awaiting my attention.)

I've had a sneak peek at some of the offerings in this 8 week course (6 presenters) and I can honestly say, it is full of juicy and artful morsels along with the protein component of wisdom.  What I love about this project is each of us grants authority to her own process and experience.  Each of us uncovers and shares the wisdom gleaned from women's experiences - creativity, connection and conflict of family life, the body, cycles and nature.  By recognizing we each can create and claim wisdom within our own lives, we empower others to look within themselves to determine and then align with their wisdom.  As a mother, I see the urgency of this message for my young daughter: believe in, and trust yourself.  

In celebration of wisdom, I am offering a spot in the Bluestocking Salon's first e-course: The Bones of Wisdom. The course run January 7 - February 25, 2013.  For a full description of the course and contents go here.  To enter your name for a chance to win, either leave a comment here (one comment per person) or email me to add your name into the hat: Lishofmann(at)novia(dot).   If you are a facebook person, then "like" our page and share with your readers (facebook or blog) to receive additional entries.  (Let me know how you helped spread the word by either a comment here or email.) 

I will draw a name at random next Thursday, December 13 and announce the winner on Friday.  Please be sure I have a way of contacting you (or be sure to check in and see if you are the lucky winner!)  

I mention planting seeds and I as I move through these thoughts on wisdom, which seems to involve self trust and deep listening, I am continually pulled to create or contribute to some kind of project or program involving girls in that wonderfully formative age range of 8 to preteen (of course, Cowgirl is 8!)  Just the other day Cowgirl agreed to an after-school play session with a friend, only to tell me in the car "I really want to be home with you, but I guess I have to make my friend happy and do what she wants."  She feared being honest with her friend, saying "She will be angry with me and tell me she doesn't want to be friends anymore."   Already she is picking up on the negative message to dismiss her feelings and needs in order to fit in or be accepted. 

I can address these issues, but I know deeper and more insidious ones lie far below every day conversations. Somehow, some way I want to chip away at inherited biases and beliefs that bolster gender inequalities.  No small task, but listening to this young woman speak, I am compelled to try to make a difference in whatever way I possibly can:







direct link to video here

(This amazing young woman is part of a documentary Somewhere Between which explores the experiences of four teenaged women adopted from China and living in the U.S.)

So tell me, how do we as women claim wisdom for our lives, our stories?  How can we empower younger women and girls not only trust in themselves, but stand up and fight for their place as makers and markers of wisdom?  Who are the wise ones, the mentors and heroines in our lives? How can we recognize and teach our girls (and ourselves) that, as Fang so clearly expresses it, "We don't have to wait around, we can be our own heroines, our own saviors. But we need mentors."  

This is the soil I am turning.  The seeds I am tending.  I can't help myself.  I love that little face with my entire being. I would love your thoughts. I would love the support.  I am open, ready, and apparently qualified in wisdom (as are you) so let's get started.

50 ❉

 

I'm not really sure what I've come here to say.  I find it fitting that I mark this milestone while Mother Nature makes her mark on the eastern half of our country.  I was born at the end of a historic event - the Cuban missile crisis  - which my mother has never mentioned when recounting my birth story. I need to ask her about this.  The 2004 Tsunami had a profound impact upon my commitment to become a mother and our decision to pursue adoption.  With so much uncertainty in the world, choosing life seemed to be the only course of action.  At that time, I had no idea my child was already born and waiting for me. 

I marked my 49th birthday with the conclusion of an intensive art project.  I have been wondering if that collection of guides and guardians was really gathered to prepare me for the coming year?  This birthday feels quieter.  Maybe because I've been so busy living life rather than contemplating it?  Much has happened in the past year but I am feeling like it is only the tip of the iceberg.  Yet it feels strange to consider the next 20 years - 50 to 70 - may be the most important years yet.

This is what is on my mind: at 50 I have outlived my maternal grandmother.  The stories I have inherited have come into fuller view and I am aware of standing on this edge between that past and a new future.  I am aware I have the choice to reframe those stories, reexamine and understand them within a larger context within which my individual life is just one, small part. Doing so, I see that while it obviously feels personal, it is not personal.  Wounding, scarring occurred but I wasn't so much targeted as I was caught up in a flow of beliefs, attitudes, unexamined reactions that impacted generations of us.  

But now I believe I am in a place where the light of understanding affords me - and all of us - the opportunity to recreate the values and systems I want to contribute to and live within.  I envision a world rooted in Kindness and I understand that it begins with myself and then ripples out to those around me.  

I see so many strands coming together - old and new myths, archetypal histories, karmic connections, new tribes actively seeking to contribute to positive and mindful change - all of which is healing wounds and strengthening new stories of hope and reverence and respect.  I see the woundings of my grandmothers and great grandmothers and ancestors before them and I know my daughter and I are in a position to break that cycle.  I'm not completely sure how.  I just feel it in my heart and in my soul.  I know we each carry an essential piece to this puzzle and it is our sacred duty to contribute our share.

 

I hope to be adding to this new story in the coming weeks, months and years. I know each voice, every new perspective, strengthens and supports me in sharing mine.  I feel the energy and inspiration of my daughter guiding me and I pray the bravery and fearlessness with which I embrace this future will nourish and support her in continuing down the path that seems to be rising up to greet us.  I believe it is strewn with roses and hope. I trust in it and in us.

sacred journey

 It is a trip we take with some preparation.  Snacks, water bottles, extra clothing for cooler night temperatures, camera and maybe a favorite musical instrument are gathered and toted to the car.  Fuel tank filled for the drive and ample time to make the journey without rushing through the landscape.

 

We drive around the edges of town

 

Past farms and fields

Over the river

 

Our destination tucked away within the unusual landscape feature known as the Loess Hills.  

 

 Rising 200 feet above flat fields and plains in craggy cliffs, a rich soil comprised of quartz, feldspar, mica and other minerals ground into glacial flour and  carried to the region by winds (eolian) rather than ice age rivers or lakes.  These hills unique in all the world for the depth and intricacy of their features except for a region in Shaanxi province, China although those features have been altered by human habitation.

 

We wind our way through these hills to come to a temple.  A dear friend and a source of inspiration for her ability to manifest dreams and heart energy into walls, shingles, ceramic sculptures, bronze bells created this temple in honor of her guru and mine, Swami Kripalu.  

 


A temple built with love and dedicated to the power of love.

This journey we made in honor of another love as magical and expansive - defying space and time.  Returning to the site of our conception ... 8 years later ... a full moon, the same Harvest Moon that is know as the Mid-Autumn Moon Festival in China.  It is said the moon shines brightest on this night and under her light we are united with all of our loved ones.  Bathed by the light of this moon I prayed for a healthy child.  Bathed in the same moon light, but on the other side of the planet, my girl was just 2 days old.  Yet here we are ...

 


now and forever. always.

 


We came to sing, to celebrate, to remember divine mother's love and to be nourished by the crickets' song, the flight of hawk, swagger of turkey and the dance of deer.  When I think I cannot possibly love my girl anymore than I already do, I look over and see her playing the bongos, eyes closed, head tipped back, singing Om Namah Shivaya and my heart cracks freshly open. She expands my capacity for love and I watch her shadow run across the dark fields, my cellphone held outstretched in her hand to shine a path, her hair flowing back and blending into the dark blanket of night and stars and moonlight.

 This is our sacred journey ... to remember and celebrate our love and the gifts of this beautiful life.  And we bow down to it again and again.  Om Namah Shivaya. 

overflowing (i look closer ... inner excavations)

 

A university professor went to visit a famous Zen master.  While the master quietly served tea, the professor talked about Zen.  The master poured the visitor's cup to the brim, and then kept pouring.  The professor watched the overflowing cup until he could no longer restrain himself.  "It's over full! No more will go in!" the professor blurted.  "You are like this cup," the master replied.  "How can I show you Zen unless you first empty your cup."

I left for a week's vacation an empty cup.  No expectations but to relax, be present and enjoy the time with my family on Cape Cod.  With the exception of one year, we have taken Cowgirl back to the Cape for a week at the beach.  Growing up, summers for me revolved around the Jersey shore.  When I was in college, my parents bought a house on Cape Cod and it became my place of retreat and renewal.  Before Cowgirl came home with us, I knew I wanted to give her a week at the beach every year if possible.  I tell the Husband it is a right of all children to know long days spent playing in the surf, sand, collecting shells and stones and drinking icy cold raspberry lemonade from the beach kiosk; to go to bed dusty with dried salt from the ocean and the sound of the waves echoing in her dreams.  

 

So much happened this week at the beach.  We played hard and we were gifted some amazing sights: 24 giant humpback whales splashed around the whale-watching boat, dazzling us with their power and their grace;  

 

seals lumbered by in the distant waves as we swam in the refleshingly icy waters off of Nauset beach (no, we did not see any sharks!);

 

our backyard was a theater for birdsong and nocturnal antics of raccoons, owls, coyotes, and cats (and daytime naps in a cocooning hammock) ; snowy egret bestowed a blessing upon me after navigating through some intense horsefly country; 

 

and much ice cream was consumed.

But more happened under the surface.  So much, I find my cup overflowing and I am unable to begin to decipher the meaning of all that was gifted to me.  But being me (terrier girl, always tugging an internal sock) I will make an initial stab at it.

I returned to this place of pilgrimage, carrying with me powerful tools for self-reflection. I began a mirror meditation practice shared by Liz Lamoreux in her book Inner Excavation and in her retreat kit "The Gifts of this Moment."  The first night I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror (fan on so no one would wonder why I was camped out in the bathroom!) and immediately I was confronted by the fact that I carry much of my father upon my face but also deep within me.  I witnessed the lines life has etched upon my face, the wear of years upon tired, hooded eyes and fading red hair.  I acknowledged the stories I have carried within my heart and the heavy toll of parts of my past.  Being in this place with ties to my father's family, those stories and the burdens placed upon his soul, I recognized my place within that narrative.  Or rather, I realized the potential purpose to that past and its connection to the trajectory of my future.


In SouLodge we were thinking about Voice and specifically the voices of our ancestors.  In this place full of memories, I felt like a veil was being lifted and that a light of Hope and healing was being shined upon the possibility of my story and Cowgirl's story being new threads woven into a narrative of loss, loneliness, silence and disappointment.

Seeing so many whales and learning of their repeated travels to these waters with their young - 30 years in the case of one whale we saw - I felt like an important piece of my purpose, my work, was being given to me by Grandmother Whale.  I am still digesting the teachings shared with me during the week as I sat upon the shore watching the seals and my girl splash within Ocean's healing embrace.  


Right now, my heart feels like a teacup overflowing.  I took a closer look at myself, my life and then I listened and boy, did I receive!  I wrote every morning and evening; words poured from me.  I took pictures and each day marveled at how present I felt. 


Now I hope to sit with it all - the images, the words, the emotions, the dreams and the visions - and let it all sink in.  Like Whale, rising to the surface to take a conscious breath and then diving back into dark, rich, waters.

Meanwhile, I sit and marvel at the fearlessness and full-on joy and pleasure this girl exhibits whenever she is near water.  If Whale is talking to me, then Seal is definitely claiming this child as her own.

 

 

 In the end, Whale says it best: dive deep and when you do surface, make a mighty splash.  

Thank you, Grandmother. 

i seek (inner excavations)

It is week two of Liz Lamoreux's Inner Excavate-along.  In the second chapter we are encouraged to look at pictures from our past in an attempt to shed light upon the journey that brought us to this moment.  She encourages us to look through old photographs choosing how far back we may wish to journey - last month, last year, or 10, 20, 30 years ago.  Another suggestion is to look at old family photos of ancestors - to examine one's roots.  

I admit, when I initially read this chapter I was resistant to these prompts.  I have few photographs from my childhood.  I cannot say if there are any pictures of me with my mother prior to my college graduation, something foreign to my existence now as so many of my pictures are of me with Cowgirl.  Photos holding my entire family together in one moment rarer still.

I decided now is the time to tackle a few boxes labelled "family photos" which have sat in the guest room closet for almost 3 years now.  When moving my mother cross-country, she actually told my husband to pitch the boxes.  "They are just old pictures of family nobody would care about" she told him.  Thankfully, he argued on my behalf and now I find myself holding journals written by my grandfather in 1918; my father's dog-tags and medals from WWII; an envelope filled with congratulatory cards for my birth; 

 

 and numerous photos spanning close to a hundred years of our family's history.

It was my mother's albums which drew me in.  One book is filled with autographed pictures of servicemen - her many beaus - from her single days.  There are a handful of pictures of her as a young girl.  I am struck by  this image of my mother as a teenager.  

 

  

There is something in the way the sunlight almost obscures her, an uncertainty in her posture, a protectiveness as she holds her hands in loose fists, a solemness to her face - all these details familiar aspects of my own self and history.  I too was a guarded child, hesitant, alone, but shielded by an inner conviction to move forward, to find my way out of what felt like a restrictive environment.  Looking at this image, I can feel my inheritance of her will and resolve pulsing in my blood.  

And in a flash, I recognize the spirit of my girl - the direct gaze, shoulders squared, standing firmly in her place and holding her ground.  Brave but vulnerable, unsure but ready to forge ahead.  

 

I sit amazed to behold the weaving together of such disparate threads into one coherent story.  For if Cowgirl is the latest chapter, then these women (and the many invisible mothers, aunts, sisters and daughters) represent the prologue.

Below are the words I wrote after finding the above photograph.  While I see the seeds of my own being within the lives of my grandmother (far left) and her aunt, I also see how Cowgirl's story is the logical and natural continuation of this spiritual bloodline.  Blood may be thicker than water, but love flows beyond all boundaries of physical space and time.   Who we are is so much vaster than anything we can imagine.   Only our hearts can hold the immensity of it all. 

I come from a long line of broken hearts

dreamers sustaining themselves with hardened crusts of hope,

hard work,

blistered feet finding home upon dry, barren earth.

These women of stout ankles

solemn faces covering

the many disappointments -

lost children, lost families,

selves lost in the pain of abuse, disease, poverty, isolation -

I carry both the bitterness and the spiritedness of their blood within me.

I pull out the boxes of family photos

seeking clues about the girl I was

for I distrust these memories I have inherited:

quiet, shy, a good girl, good daughter, good student

second child

I already know there is little here for me

I find my brother’s blue baby book

filled with cards, names and dates recorded

in my mother’s tidy script

and this family tree -

names of ancestors I never knew branching together to hold my brother

in his place, at the top

my finger traces the path from Ireland, Glasgow, Texas, Hoboken to him

blank blocks signifying images lacking,

faces lost, stories missing.

I realize I too have been a blank square,

unknown quantity to myself

“I’m whoever I choose to be”

my flippant response

but here I hold the evidence of this truth.

I came to this task

seeking to find myself within my family’s history

but what I uncover is

absence,

An abandonment of sorts.

But also a freedom

I can fill in the missing gaps

with new stories

dreams retrieved, mended and slipped on again.

Seed of my mother’s mother’s 

watered by the blood of these women who
dared to survive,

finding at long last

rich, welcoming soil.

Who I once was - or who I was lead to believe was me -

drifts out to sea

as who I am,

the woman I seek

waits patiently within

this healing but whole heart.

all balled up

All balled up - that is what my piano teacher, Mrs. Carson, used to say whenever I was in that place of intense emotional response to a piece of music and my technical skill set was lagging behind.  All knots and desperate attempts to unravel and spool myself out being  hampered and I am left hopeless confused.

I haven't thought about Mrs. Carson in a long while.  I took piano lessons for the four years of high school and always felt behind because my image of kids studying piano involved 7 and 8 year olds playing Brahms Lullaby with their teenage selves far beyond simple chords and notes.  During my senior year my teacher somehow talked me into participating in this formal evaluation; it wasn't a recital per say, but I had to perform before some judges who would rate me.  I'm not even sure I understood what it was all for - my mother only recently explained to me the evaluation could have been used to apply to music school.  All I remember is my teacher wanted me to do it and I went along albeit quite fearfully.


I think I played something by Schubert.  I can't really play anything on the piano anymore but my hands almost almost remember the movements of the piece I performed.  I can recall the movement of the music in my fingers, in my body and in my soul.  I can hum a few notes and I still sway, 33 years later, when I think of it.  I loved that piece and I performed it with all of the emotion I dared to leak out which is to say, a fair amount for me but probably restrained by more musical standards.  I don't remember flubbing up and I am still here so I survived.  But I never believed I could be a pianist and so it didn't occur to me to ask about my scores afterwards.  I mean, if Mrs. Carson didn't tell me then theyI must have been embarrassingly low and she was sparing me by not bring the matter up.


After that year I left for college and briefly considering resuming my piano studies but decided against it because, well, it would be a waste of time, right?  In my mind the time had passed for me.  I was too old, too late in my ripe age of 17 to amount to much.


It never occurred to me to consider that I really enjoyed playing the piano and that I might continue my studies purely for my own pleasure.  


A year or so ago the whole topic came up with my mother and husband.  My mother expressed her regret that I hadn't continued playing, that she and my father held onto the piano for years hoping I might start up again and that reluctantly they sold it when it became evident I would not play again.  I confessed that the evaluation process was the final proof that I was wasting my time at something I would never be very good at.  My mother sat stunned.  "You scored very high ... in the 90s ... Mrs. Carson wanted you to apply for a scholarship ... she thought you should study music but you seemed to have decided upon art and we didn't want to push you."  


In the months since my mother relayed this bit of information to me, I have reexamined the string of decisions made afterwards over and over in my mind.  It pains me to realize the number of times I abandoned something - myself really - because I compared myself to others and felt I was lacking and should quit.  Piano. Photography. Writing. Foreign Languages. Teaching.  All things I enjoyed but never pushed myself to pursue too seriously because, well because ...

 


And now I've returned from The Makerie Retreat and two full days of painting and I want to immerse myself in it.  My first day back at work someone asked me how I was and I broke into tears sobbing "I don't want to be here, I want to be painting!"  


I want to be able to devote more time and attention to what I love; to what opens me up to passion and engagement and presence; to feel utterly alive and awake in this life.  I want to dare to say "This matters to me and that is reason enough to pursue it."  


What holds me back - the nets that block my leap from the cliff and into the colorful abyss - are notions of responsibility, selfishness and good old-fashioned guilt.

listening to crow who has been insistent he has messages I need to hear ... and heed

So here I sit, all balled up.  I know which ideas I can dismantle but others are harder to evaluate honestly.  And while all of this has been on my mind this week, today is my day to paint and play  and to let all these thoughts drain away.  Right now I can commit this chunk of time to following my bliss and my curiosity.  That may be the best I can do for awhile which isn't to say I am abandoning myself again but rather committing to this moment and what is possible.  And that's a good place to start.  


Stay tuned.  

she always helps me to find clarity and purpose albeit often with a healthy dollop of chaos and distraction