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

Monday Inspiration Celebration: Voices

still snowing here!

The Husband is the story teller in our family. It is what he does - he teaches screenwriting at the university - and he enjoys studying it. Ask Cowgirl and she will tell you, you need a "bad guy" in the story to make it interesting. Hers are usually monsters, zombies, or those worst kind of antagonists - those beings who do not follow rules or observe nice behavior. "Not Listening Binker" is a reoccurring character.

Me, I am the teller anecdotes. In social settings, I perform a form of stand-up comedy which is drawn entirely from my own mishaps and adventures. I am also the navel gazer of the family. But secretly, I have always longed to write and tell stories.

Stories have been on my mind ever since I re-read Clarissa Pinkola Estes Women Who Run with the Wolves. I love the idea of recovering old stories and connecting them to our lives, discovering new meaning in both. I love to write, but I do not consider myself a writer. I said that a few weeks ago and then toppled head first into a love affair with writing in Natasha's course Oh, The Stories You Will Tell.

And now I hold in my hot little hands the latest gift from story catcher/teller Jen Lee: Finding Your Voice: a voice and story course. I've read the introduction and already my fingers are cramped from writing page upon page in response to her questions and prompts. She tells the story of her journey and this insight got me really thinking: "I realized recovering my voice wasn't going to be a journey that was limited to the page... Recovering my voice has been a whole-body affair for me. " She then suggests we examine "What aspect of your voices eludes you?"

Reflecting upon this question, I realized my dreams hold important clues for me. For years I used to have a dream where I was incredibly angry at this particular person in my life. He would do or say something that would have me so incensed and I would be trying desperately to give voice to my fury but my throat would be choked off. I could not get the words out of my mouth. I had the force of screams stifled within me and I would wake up with my throat sore and tight from the constriction.

I know, this is pretty common for a dream but it was only a slight exaggeration of my reality. I could not give voice to my feelings. I could not stand up for myself. I was not allowed to express anger. Or rather, my anger was insignificant in relationship to the feelings of others.

In comparison to the times my voice felt restricted, I am surprised to realize the times when my voice is powerful and clear. It is when I sing. More specifically, when I chant Sanskrit chants. The first time I ever chanted I was on a weekend retreat by myself at a small yoga ashram in the mountains. There were very few guests and just a few more residents participating in the evening kirtan. The only Sanskrit words I had ever heard were the names for yoga poses or asanas. Even though I stumbled through the words and struggled with singing the correct notes, I was hooked after that first night. I bought a cassette tape from the gift shop and I've been chanting ever since.

The first songs I sang to Cowgirl were chants. She knew Om Namah Shivaya long before she ever sang Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. Even when I don't know exactly what I am singing, I find my voice draws upon some hidden reserve of strength deep within me. I know that I am chanting my devotion to Love and any restrictions or concerns about sounding or seeming foolish or inappropriate or unworthy dissolve under the force of that love. My breath and my voice melt away any blockages and the power of my heart drives the song. I experience myself worthy and whole when I am chanting.

Cowgirl loves to sing. She will sing the most nonsensical songs often comically out of tune and she sings with a gusto and zest that I admire. I remember being a child and singing with that kind of abandon and unselfconsciousness. I have yet to pinpoint the moment when I lost that innocence; I hope to preserve it as long as I can for Cowgirl.

two joy warriors getting ready for a girls day out

Recently she became aware of the fact that her eyes are different than mine. Attempting to explain the epicanthic fold, she needed to examine her own eyes in the mirror to verify the difference. And then she wailed "My eyes are ugly!" Of course, I understand that right now she would find distasteful any difference between herself and me, but to have her believe her eyes are ugly is heartbreaking. I talked about how I had disliked having red hair and freckles, how I hated standing out and seeming different when I was her age but how our differences are often what make us unique and beautiful. It didn't matter; she hated her eyes and wanted them to be like mine.

The next day I asked her about a friend of ours who is Korean American. I asked if she thought our friend was beautiful. And she said "oh yes, she is beautiful inside and out!" (We talk about how it is who we are on the inside that makes us beautiful and how that light illuminates our outer beauty.) I then asked "What do you have in common?" She shyly answered "Our eyes."

I know, so what does this have to do with singing? Well, I'm fuzzy on the details here, but I just know that if we don't believe ourselves to be worthy or acceptable, if we discount who we are - our inner and outer selves - then our voices will be stunted if not silenced. We doubt our right to speak. And worse than that, our ability to sing which is really a way of sharing our hearts. And I am purposely not going into the race issue here except to say Cowgirl is very proud to be from China and I want to make sure she is also proud to be Chinese American.

surreptitious photo of Dan Zanes after the announcement of "no photography"

Okay, so I promise I am winding this all up and will add a ribbon and a bow albeit a little sloppily. Yesterday I took Cowgirl to see Dan Zanes in concert. (An event worthy of its own story!) As the band made their way on stage, she pointed to one musician and asked "Mom, can I be her?" This is her habit: when we go to the zoo, she will point to an animal and say "That one there is me ... and the big one over there, that one is you." (I am always the big, slow moving one of any species.) When we read books, she will tell me which characters she wants to be. So determining which band member is whom is pretty common. What was unusual is Cowgirl usually wants to be one of the men. This time she picked a woman. And the woman - Elena Moon Park - is Asian American. The band started up and Elena picked up her trumpet and started playing this joyful tune. I said "Wow, she plays trumpet! Isn't that cool?" Cowgirl, clearly in awe, replied "And she's beautiful."

cowgirl with Dan Zanes (who had to really stoop over!)

After the show we got to meet all the performers. Cowgirl made a beeline to Elena who is definitely beautiful on the inside and out. Clearly tongue tied, Cowgirl managed to squeak out "You are beautiful" to a very gracious Elena. Seeing Elena's ukulele slung over her back, Cowgirl has declared she wants to play the ukulele. (So do I! I am adding it to my list of 100 things for the year ... so if you know about purchasing ukuleles, let me know!) I am thrilled she has this positive role model with whom she can identify.

with Elena

Okay, almost finished here ...but a postscript: so after the show I discovered on Dan Zane's website that Elena is trying to raise money to make an cd of family folk music from east Asia. Inspired to explore her own heritage, she is discovering the power of music to strengthen identity and connection to ourselves and our history. She is appealing to fans and peers to help fund her project and you can learn more about it here and in this video:



As Dan Zanes says, when we know about our heritage we can tell our stories. And through that process we come to know each other better; we come to understand each others hearts and when we communicate at that level, there is great potential to heal and grow.

I hope this is the beginning of a long story. I hope I can tell it properly. I hope that Cowgirl and I play our ukuleles and sing it at the top of our lungs. I hope you will consider sharing the link to Elena's Kickstarter page or even become a supporter and make this musical dream a reality.







And ending on a sweet note - after our girls day out, complete with singing and dancing we had to HAD TO end it with some ice cream before heading home for a spa night in the big tub with bubbles and toys and a few new songs.

What do you love to sing? How do you express the sweetness of your own heart? Do you share or hide your voice? Just remember: a joy warrior always has a song on her lips ...






... and of course, a little ice cream.

my quiet rebellion ...

something is rotten ...

As John Lennon so aptly put it "Nobody told me there'd be days like these."

Yesterday was one of those days.

I couldn't figure out why my shoe was sticking to the brake pedal while driving and so I pulled over to discover a wad of electric green, minty gum and a mound of hairs stuck to the bottom of my clog.

I went to pick Cowgirl up at school wearing my Moose walking outfit which I will admit is a tad eclectic but certainly not deserving of the stares and giggles of a pair of first graders who proclaimed, in a stage whisper "WHO is that woman?!" (This is a topic for another post if not a therapy session as I was simultaneously indigent, humiliated, vengeful, and ashamed. Yes, I even cried in the car telling Cowgirl "some people I don't even know were mean to me and hurt my feelings and I know I shouldn't care because they don't know me, but I do." To which she wisely counseled: "Mommy, just ignore them." And no, I did not tell her they were kids!)

The dog found a lone skittle, ate it and promptly threw up.

But this day of trials akin to Job on his dung heap started when I tried to log into my Facebook page and received the message "this account has been deactivated."

Now, understand I joined FB kicking and screaming. Friends would say "If you were on FB then you would already know ..." and having lost numerous email address books, I figured it was time to plug myself in and join the party. I was excited to find old friends who had vanished into the mist (or had I vanished?) and I did reconnect with a few people but by and large, I have found the experience unsatisfying. It is like sushi: I can enjoy a bite or two, but cold, raw fish is not my idea of a fully satisfying meal. That's just me.

So to be jilted by FB was particularly galling.

And in typical fashion, trying to find answers is like entering the Minotaur's labyrinth. You go 'round and 'round and end up back where you started. There are no humans behind that blue and white screen: I firmly believe FB is run by the Cylons and they are here to torment us. (Off the subject, but not really, did you know when you call businesses or companies for assistance and there seems to be no option for speaking to a flesh and blood person on the answering machine queue, you can say loudly and anxiously "I want to speak to someone" and sometimes that will trigger the system to switch you over to a representative. I know this from trying to help my 85 year old mother get info on her health insurance and was released from automation limbo by shouting "For the love of God, I want to talk to a person!" I was clicked right over.)

But back to FB and my slow simmer ...

All afternoon (after the gum; after being humiliated by 7 year olds) my mind churned with thoughts regarding FB and how I was infuriated by being denied, and relieved to be out from under the weight of my expectations. Because I keep hoping for something real in all those mini-bites of information; I desire connection with people I once was deeply connected to and I wanted to be in the loop of information. But it struck me that the reason so many give for being on FB - it is free and it is easy to stay in touch with friends - is precisely why it is so empty and false. If the foundation for my relationships is free and easy, then am I really connecting at all? Shouldn't relationships - friendships - require more? Don't I want to give more? And don't I deserve an equal level of commitment and attention?

So last night I went to bed believing that in fact the Universe had just handed me a beautiful gift. Sure, I was sad to think of losing the contacts recently made via online communities and courses but I could find those people in other ways. And while contemplating a FB-free world, I decided I want to commit to nurturing the relationships that matter to me via a rather old fashioned way:

I am returning to writing letters and postcards and using the good old U.S. Mail.

I used to write a lot of letters. I blamed my declining handwriting for the eventual cessation of written correspondence but really, it is a matter of me slowing down and dedicating a piece of time to think and write (legibly) and connect. A small rebellion, I know, but it is my attempt to put some flesh and blood back into what has become all too virtual. (Hello? Anyone read The Handmaid's Tale? Am I the only one bothered by the fact that so much of our identity and history could be wiped out with a click of a mouse, a cyber-coup to end all coups?)





So here is my end of year vow: once a week to send out some piece of mail to a friend. It may be a letter, an art postcard, a postcard grabbed while in line at Walgreen's and a poem scribble on the back. Whatever it is, it will be me committing my time, my awareness, my hand to say to each recipient "you matter to me and you are deserving of my attention."

I would love to think I might get mail in return, but I'm not kidding myself. Free and easy is very tempting and I understand people are busy and over-committed. But I hope in some small way to reconnect in a more meaningful manner, nurturing my relationships with my love and attention. Care to join me?

As it would happen (and proof that Cylons are running the show) as mysteriously as my FB account disappeared, it reappeared today. So here I hang on the horns of a dilemma: do I stay but on my terms? Or do I go and hold my head up high? I haven't decided yet because I know there are people I will never hear from again and I am not quite ready to give up the dream. But I do plan to wean myself off of its teat bit by bit, day by day, letter by letter. I mailed off a letter and a art card today and it felt great holding the heft of a stuffed envelope in my hands. Maybe my other resolution should be to start collecting snail mail addresses in preparation for departure?

But for now, my permanent status should you check my FB account, will be: busy writing letters.

Multitasking: Wishes and Dreams ❀

I keep coming back to the lesson of learning to live in Time rather than fighting against it. No, really, I draw this oracle card on a regular basis! One of the things I have wanted to be more connected to was a sense of natural time: the cycle of the moon, the day, the seasons. So this month I decided to take part in Jamie Ridler's Full Moon Dream Boards. I loved giving myself the two weeks from the new moon to the full moon in order to ponder Jamie's prompt - The Pink Moon and what seeds do I want to plant? What do I want to blossom in my life right now?

Last night I drove home under the almost full moon. I was aware from these days of gathering the images and words for my board of the immense need for me to simplify, slow down and focus. The beauty of the moon reminded me of the power and grace inherent in stillness. This is what I have been craving: to be Still and aware. Awake, Present and Centered. A lot is going on within me and I need time and space to process it all. I want to let the juicy goodness soak in, appreciating the gifts and celebrating the singular beauty of each blossom as it arises in my life. I don't want to rush anything. I want to feel my connection to the natural cycles of life and from that connection let flow my creativity. Flow and grow, that is what I want for myself in this phase of my life.

My Dream Board seems to flow nicely into this week's Wishcasting. I wish to invest in these seeds: Stillness so I can hear the call of my heart; Simplicity so I can see what is around and within me; and Play so I can joyfully express the luminous beauty of this life.

Planting Seeds

Feeling a bit uninspired - it is midweek with to-do list expanding as I sit here typing. Crisis situations abound: low on coffee, low on fresh fruit; washed the dog bed only to have it disintegrate in the washer; and oh, dog is low on his food and YIKES! Almost out of his dooty bags. So an afternoon driving around town to gather all these necessities is leaving me feeling drained before I even begin. Then I remember it is Wishcasting Wednesday, so I pop over to gather some kernels of inspiration. How's this for an opening line to rally one's spirits:

You can be a maker of magic and a tender of wishes.

Er, ahem, excuse me ... that's my job? Ah, what about the fairies? Doesn't magic and wishes fall under their union contract?

It gets better: today Jamie asks: What do you wish to Experience?

Initially, I drew a blank on this. Which really really bothers me. It bothers me because I truly believe we are only limited by the scope of our dreams. (I tried googling similar phrases thinking this sage comment had to originate with someone else; it seems to be an advertising slogan, which seems oddly appropriate.) Finding my storehouse of dreams empty then is cause for alarm.

Or is it a fear of voicing those dreams because once they are expressed, then it is up to me to do something about them? To make a wish is to plant a seed and someone - me - has to water that seed and periodically move the pot into the changing sunshine spots.

If I let myself get quiet, stopping my obsessive busyness, then I do see that recently I have been planting many little seeds in my life: returning to photography; exploring different art making mediums; taking and teaching creativity workshops; writing my stories here and the stories still rooting in the greenhouse that is my laptop. It has been a rich, fruitful and exciting time in my life and yet I know I need to take another step forward, rather than the spiraling around that I've been doing lately.

So right now, in this place, in this moment in my life, what one thing do I wish to experience? (Already I can feel a list formulating for all the many things I want to experience carrying me far into the future, but such expansive dreaming can distract me from seizing this moment as I ponder: What next?)

The answer that bubbled up surprised me: I wish to experience the richness, the support, the community of a women's circle. Awhile back, a friend told me I should do this and I loved the idea but please, couldn't someone else organize this? I'm all about joining; I really don't want to lead. But this wise friend knows me well and knows I shy away from claiming and expressing my power. So here I am, wishing for a circle and knowing if I want this, then I must do it. Or at the very least, be a midwife to this concept in the hopes that others will rally around to keep it alive. I also see, I have become part of several online circles which have been my life support systems these past few months. But I crave a physical gathering of women with which to talk,share, laugh, cry and hug.

So I wish for a sacred circle to form. A side wish that is already gestating is for my flickr 365 group to gather for the retreat we've all been dreaming and talking about. That both circles may rise up, well - that would be magic indeed. Okay, I'm getting out the potting soil ...

What do you wish to experience?

Thoughts on turning 7 and a little Wishcasting for the upcoming year

If you ask Cowgirl, she will tell you I am now 7. She is a bright child, understands 500 is bigger than 100, a 1,000 is bigger than both but somehow in her mind she is 5 and I now have turned 7. Daddy (who by her logic should be 6) is 13. I guess it is his bald head. She cannot be convinced that I am older than Pa-Pa.

There is something wonderful about celebrating a birthday through your child's eyes. The grown ups are a little too tired to make much of a fuss (truth be told, I want a fuss, but there you have it) but Cowgirl will not let it die. She informed me on Monday she is in charge of the calendar this week at school and she told everyone my birthday was coming. She has been talking about what the fairies might do for me - a quandary to be sure since I am the fairies hand, eyes and feet ... so yes, I wrote myself a note from the fairies wishing me a happy birthday and slipped it into her mailbox this morning before she arrived downstairs for the celebratory birthday scones she had me buy yesterday at Whole Foods (woefully non-sconelike scones I might add.)

One thing I seem to be teaching my daughter is the concept of doing for yourself. We are big on Thank You notes in our house and I guess I must mention who gave her what more often than I realize. Today she has on her Jeannie Shirt (turtleneck lovingly appliqued with a horse by a dear friend) and she loves coming home and coloring in the pads Adeline gave her for her birthday. So I shouldn't be surprised when she repeatedly points and asks me "mommy, who gave you that necklace?" or "I like that shirt mommy, who gave you it?" And I find myself replying fairly often "well honey, mommy got that for herself."

I had a friend who would buy herself a bottle of champagne every year on her birthday, explaining she did not want to rely upon anyone else to celebrate her day. I guess I've been living that philosophy in my daily life, justifying if I don't do this for me, why should I expect others to? Still, birthdays have been a time when I have waited for others to remember me and I've been disappointed a lot over the years. Of course, I don't remind people it is coming up. I've equated remembering with caring and that has gotten me into trouble. For I will remember a significant date is coming up, but still fail to make the time to do something in time. I'm a scrambler-at-the-last minute type even though I've known for weeks. It has nothing to do with caring; we're just all way over-extended, short on down time for all the details.

So today I am adopting a "celebrate as we go" attitude and making this day what I want for myself. A day of play, dancing, responding to our whims and fancies and letting go of crazy expectations. Because 7 is a wonderful age to be especially with a 5 year old to lead the way.

(Okay, a necessary addendum because I sound like a horrible ingrate here ... I have received such amazingly thoughtful gifts from friends ... packages filled with pampering and crafting goodies from Leanne and Diana and the most creative photo homages from my Unravelling 365 Flickr pool crew who just rocked the day for me. And then this afternoon Cowgirl was making cards for her aunties and she came up to me with a card she made especially for my birthday: me holding kite. My kite of dreams. Indeed, I am so blessed by so many and I never never want it to seem that I've forgotten that.)

And because it is my day, I am choosing to make a wish for the coming year. I want this year to be a time of deeply, fully believing in myself, listening to my dreams and living fearlessly as I step forward to bring those dreams into reality. The two qualities I wish to bring into my life are Patience and Joy. I think if I can work on the first, the second will naturally arise.

Big wishes but hey, at 7 I am ready for some big girl gifts. And while I'm asking, I might as well throw in a wish for that 50 mm lens that seems to be dancing through my dreams lately.

Happy Birthday to us all ... because every day we can choose as a new beginning. ♥

(oh, and for those curious few ... just add a few decades onto 7 and you will have my true age.)