Pearls

I'm thankful to this process I'm in the midst of. It's certainly given me the freedom and courage to think differently. 

Remember that Seinfeld episode where George decides he has been doing everything wrong, and starts to follow the opposite of his normal instincts? He goes up to a beautiful woman, and instead of trying to impress her, he tells her he's unemployed and lives with his parents, and she is immediately attracted to him. A few years ago, I started to formulate a similar theory about my life but I don't think I've written about it here, and in the wake of "The Real Me," I figure, what the heck? It's Saturday.

OK, here goes. What if, instead of spending years learning to play the organ and getting a master's in church music history, I was just meant to go straight to singing and hearing the music I love in its own setting? What if, instead of learning Old Masters oil painting techniques and getting an associate's degree in art, I was meant to have someone paint a John Singer Sargent-like painting of me, and to be surrounded by great paintings and beautiful architecture? What if, instead of working for a decade for a major news organization, I was meant to be a newsmaker? What if, instead of my paid jobs as paralegal and paraprofessional and adjunct professor and other "helper"/support staff roles, I was meant to be a leader? What if, instead of cooking and baking for others (which I genuinely enjoy), I was meant to be cooked for? What if, for me, having my feet in the right place isn't on a rocky shoreline or in the mountains or in a forest, but surrounded by human-created art, music and beauty of all kinds -- that I am not solely responsible for creating? 

These are just queries. I don't know the answers right now. It's like, in the late-20th century world and economy I was born into, everything had to be a career, especially if you walked out into the world with huge student loans and no resources. With my skill set and passion for beauty, was my career going to be writing, or playing the organ, or painting and teaching art? What training did I need? It turned out that all of these almost guaranteed too little income to immerse myself in the beauty I yearn for, and too little income to be powerful or secure as a single woman in any way. Absurd. It's not that I want to be passive. But my true active "power" is my intelligence and wisdom -- the rest is, in a sense, the beautiful home for and expression of that power. (The reason I have no home isn't that I never got a degree in architecture, but it feels that way sometimes.)

I'm so "post"-everything and new paradigm and feminist that even if a fortune were to come my way tomorrow, I know that the right apartment and the right art on the walls and the right concerts or church music or museum exhibits wouldn't be the whole story. Me being me, I would continue to push the envelope of tradition somehow, trying to make it happen in the context of all people finding their right place in the world, the "place" that works for them. And in that formal portrait, I'd probably be wearing a 21st century swingy tunic, leggings -- and pearls. Definitely pearls.

Wednesday Miscellany

This has been a magical few days. Early on Sunday morning, I saw, if not a whole meteor shower, then at least a few shooting stars. Just to have the excuse to lie on the ground and gaze upwards at the heavens was healing. Why don't I do it at least once a month? It puts everything, everything into perspective.

Then, Sunday into Monday, I made homemade chicken soup and an apple pie, the latter of which requires (on the Liz path) some strange ingredients -- plastic wrap and tape. You'll be happy to hear that these inedibles do not make it into the pie itself. There is something so grounding about all the chopping and mixing required to make from scratch. And fresh fall McIntosh apples make all the difference.

This food was to honor the visit of four dear friends who I see only rarely, and so hugs and meals and reuniting and catching up and playing board games was a joy. 

Then, this morning, after a crazy dry fall, torrential rain. I don't think the torrential part is a good thing but at least the reservoirs will be replenished.

Lastly, I finished quite an extraordinary book. Indeed, I suspect I was influenced by it last week when I wrote "The Real Me" and I may need to read it again to fully take it in. It is, If Women Rose Rooted: The Journey to Authenticity and Belonging by Sharon Blackie. In it, she weaves her own life path, and the wisdom of other contemporary women, with Celtic mythology, exploring women's relationship with the earth, the elements, and our own selves. She notes the powerful difference she has felt when she leaves the "Wasteland" and her feet are "in the right place," and for her, that has meant returning literally to a place with Celtic roots. What a gift to find women expressing truths that really resonates with me, even though the details are different. Right this second, I can't say that I feel rooted, but I do feel a bit grounded, thanks to the miscellany of this late autumn week. 

Exploring Oppositeland

The few days since I wrote the last blog, "The Real Me," have been intense, and if you haven't read that post I would definitely read it first. I am so gratified, hearing from friends who said it spoke to them! And it has released some additional thoughts...

The first is immense gratitude for having lived in a part of the world where a woman's intensive 35-year search for "the real me" was possible. I mean, at times it has felt impossible, but I know full well that in certain parts of the world it would literally have been impossible. 

The second thing (and I think I implied this in that essay) is to remind myself that sure, once the keys to my London flat were in my hand, I would probably spend a good few months or longer joyfully immersed in real me's musical world. But current me is powerful too, searching, cutting edge, nomadic, American me, and "she" wouldn't disappear. That's the whole point of getting them under one roof, as it were. After a short time, they would lovingly work together toward a new, richer and more all-encompassing goal, possibly the goal that's been the point of this whole thing all along. 

The last thing, for now, is to mention that over the last six or seven years, a number of my friends have envied the fact that I at least had some idea who "the real me" was. They said they did not know who they really were inside, and wanted suggestions about how to start. All I knew to say was to pay attention to what you love, and/or to find a great coach, spiritual director, counselor, or therapist as I have off and on over the years. After writing "The Real Me," and thinking more and more about the surreal "oppositeland" quality of much of my life, I also wonder if other people might learn from the process of writing their own story of meeting up with their "opposite" (which of course is really their complement and possibly a clue to a more whole self...) I mean, if you are working the night shift at a convenience store, write down your conversation with CEO "you." If you are married, have five kids, a mortgage and three cars, converse with contemplative nun "you." If you live in a cabin in the woods, write a story of your meeting with the "you" who teaches in the inner city. If you live in New Mexico, write a story of meeting up with the you who lives in New England, or if you are living in the Y, imagine and write about living in a penthouse. I think many of us get pushed down a rigid "opposite" path by society's expectations or even our own desire to protect our beautiful real self. What are the complementary qualities that we are seeking to knit into our whole? Power? Solitude? Community? Respect? Warmth? Wet? Gardening? Music? Silence? City streets? Bushwhacking in the wilderness? It may be that just an hour of writing will give you some important clues. (I am sure other authors and spiritual teachers make this recommendation, but I don't remember reading it, or perhaps I needed to reach a point where it would happen organically, in my own time.)

I don't know what a psychologist would say, but I know what is in my heart. Bringing together the two sides of me that have literally been oceans apart, and "hearing" them joyfully compare notes over a glass of wine, has been the happiest moment of my life so far. I finally feel whole. A little shaky, but whole. And right now, the world needs as many whole people as it can get, doesn't it?

The Real Me

My first trip to the UK, in 1978, took me within hours to choral evensong at King's College, Cambridge, and then via old fashioned BritRail Pass north to Scotland, around Scotland, and finally back to London, where I stayed with an older American friend who lived in South Kensington. At the time, I remember thinking, "this is my life." For several days before flying back to the States, I used her flat as home base as I explored the city on foot and on the Tube, and two years later when I arrived to start my master's degree at Royal Holloway, I somehow assumed I would never leave. I would easily figure out how to live in London. In the end, with the intense work on my degree, there simply wasn't time. Thus it was that the flight back in September of 1981 was utterly wrenching, as has been, on some level, my entire American life since then. Despite wonders and miracles and unique life lessons, I have never felt like I was really in my own life, more like traveling across the surface of its opposite, as I guess some of my readers have gathered (!) 

Last night in the middle of the night, I had one of those moments which was either entirely crazy or entirely healthy and significant. I imagined that, in fact, the "real" Liz is alive and has been living in London all these years. After a few years of working at a job, she fell into a wonderful living as a freelance writer. She attends choral evensong at least twice a week at St. Paul's, Westminster Abbey, the Chapel Royal Hampton Court, Southwark Cathedral, and elsewhere. She is in a high caliber choral group which sings evensong at least once a month. She attends concerts of The Tallis Scholars, The Sixteen, Voces8, and other groups, and has dozens of musical, artistic, writer and visionary friends with whom she eats out and attends concerts. She volunteers at the National Gallery and the Victoria and Albert Museum, and frequently travels to the south and west of England to sites of historical and spiritual significance to her, which she writes about. And she spends a lot of time on her own, loving her small but comfortable flat with its handful of oriental rugs and oil paintings.

And I imagined current me, with her $12.99 haircut, hand-me-down clothing, and roller bag, showing up at real me's flat. She opens the door, and we immediately recognize each other and fall into each other's arms like sisters. She's better coiffed than I am, somewhat slimmer, with nicer clothes, but with the same dark-rimmed glasses and dark (but greying) hair. She whooshes me into the kitchen, orders some delivery Thai food, and opens the first of at least three bottles of wine. And we start talking. And talking. And talking. "No way! You did what?" "You met who?" "You went where?" "What was it like singing there?" "What was it like going there?" "Tell me about your book!" "Tell me about your blog!" Etc. etc. An entire adult lifetime (or two), shared in five or six hours. 

By three in the morning, we agree that it made a certain amount of sense that we had had such diverse life experiences, and that it was meant to enrich our future. Then she shows me to the guest room, and I collapse onto the bed and fall asleep until at least eleven the following morning.

The flat sounds awfully quiet. I get up, and get dressed, and walk from room to room. "The Real Me" seems to be gone, but when I see a note on the mantelpiece saying "Welcome Home," I realize that she's not gone, it's just that we are finally the same person after all these years. I walk over to the desk, look at my calendar for today, and, with a big smile on my face, get ready to walk out the door and get on with my life.

Friday the...

Yes...the thirteenth. In a year where every single day has been weird by almost any reckoning, at a moment when an Atlantic hurricane is heading to Ireland for goodness sake, and parts of California are on fire, it's almost like every day has taken on the energy of a Friday the thirteenth. Maybe today will simply be calm and lovely for most of the world, as a little much-needed gift.

It really is overwhelming to think of the number of Americans whose lives have been utterly upended over recent months in floods, hurricanes and fires (and this is, of course, just the tip of the iceberg for what is happening worldwide.) There are so many issues facing these populations, yet I guess because of my life story the thing that most resonates is imagining the very moment people realize all they have left in the entire world is a purse full of important papers, a gym bag filled with clothes and an extra pair of running shoes, and a family photo or two. For many people, house is gone, a lifetime of accumulated possessions and family heritage is gone, workplace is gone, heck their bank may be gone and paychecks have stopped. Life will never be the same again. I doubt that many of them have ever read this blog, but I just want to say (as someone who has put herself through semi-voluntary huge transitions over and over) that my heart is with you at this moment, and I celebrate the person you are without any of the trappings. I celebrate the "you" who is driving away from the fire to an unknown destination, or scrambling for higher ground as the water rises, or hunkering down in a shelter on a cot just staring at the ceiling. I celebrate the "you" who is courageous right now, whether you feel that way or not. I celebrate the "you" who has, willingly or not, stepped out on a hero's or heroine's journey. Something new will come of all this, so just hang in there a day at a time. If there's anything to love in the current situation, love really is the only path through chaos. That has been my experience, anyway. 

And if you can't find love, anything positive or likeable will do, somebody being kind or seeing a child play with a toy. Even something ridiculous or strange, like an "open" sign outside a building that is in ashes. Focus on it, not the tragedy -- if you possibly can. Don't "look down" quite yet. When you get to the other side to a safe place, you can tell the whole story.

To weed or not to weed

This morning, I spent about 45 minutes weeding and cutting back dead flowers. I mean, I'm not a gardener. I haven't had my own home or flower bed in which to really hone my skills. However, if there is a garden at my disposal in the fall, and there are any shriveled, brown, dead plants to be pulled out, I'm your gardener, as long as I don't have to spend too much time at it or make decisions. As with most physical chores, I'm best at the really obvious kinds of gardening, not detailed minutiae. I spent hours this summer removing enormous ferns that had taken over a garden. It required brute strength and some twisting of the below-ground seed pods, but there were hundreds of these suckers and they all had to come out. I could only stand to do it for about an hour at a stretch, but it's amazing how much you can get done in an hour when you are just a culling machine.

In another area of my life, I am trying not to weed. Yes, I've gotten back to work again on my book, and, reminded by my friends of Annie Lamott and the concept of the "shitty first draft," I'm trying to curb all my natural instincts to sound good. To please people. To write logically. To be nice. I'm just typing into the computer like a wild woman for short stretches, and even resisting the temptation to re-read each section once I am done. For now anyway. It's very, very hard for someone who has spent her lifetime self-editing. I've had the darnedest experiences, but until now I hoped, in effect, that no one would notice, that I'd slip under the radar screen of life. Well, I've managed to survive six decades, so I guess the time has come to just be and grow and have these adventures, and not self-prune so much. Lordy, enough other factors regularly cut me down to size without my help! This blog is teaching me to write faster and more freely and instinctively, and these qualities are beginning to color my other writing projects. I'm so thankful. 

Duluth

Today is "Liz in Duluth" day. What, you might ask, is Liz in Duluth day?

Back in 1990, I left New York City, having finished paying off student loans and achieved an associate's degree in illustration from Parsons School of Design. I spent several months at Pendle Hill Quaker Study Center at this crossroads and, having re-examined the whole English church music thing (still all male), I realized that I was probably going to spend the rest of my life in the U.S., so I had better darned well get to know the country. I bought a small red used car, and spent the better part of the summer meandering around from state to state, staying with family and friends and, basically, following my gut. By late September/early October, I had made my way back around as far as Minnesota, and at a Quaker gathering, I met someone who invited me to visit Duluth. This seemed rather hilarious to east coast me, but I decided to do it. 

I'll never forget, driving up 35 and cresting the hill near Proctor and looking down at the enormity of Lake Superior with the cities of Duluth and Superior tucked at its edge. The highway wends its way down a fairly steep hill, and toward the bottom -- not knowing anything but having a good instinct for destinations -- I followed signs to the Aerial Lift Bridge and Park Point, which turned out to be a spit of land sticking out into the end of the lake. The road took me several miles through mixed housing and sand to a parking lot at the end, where I turned off my car and burst into tears. I just basically asked God, what in the Sam Hill am I doing here of all places?

A day or two later, Sunday the seventh of October, I attended the local Quaker meeting, where I met some friends who are still among my dearest to this day, and I decided to at least spend the winter in Duluth. When I called my parents to tell them, there was dead silence at the other end of the phone, followed by, "Well can you at least get the New York Times there?" At that moment in history, the answer was no.

With the exception of a year or so in the middle of the decade, I would spend most of the rest of the '90s in Duluth. I loved it there. It is one of the most extraordinarily beautiful places on this earth. My east coast-England-y resume being what it was, I couldn't find a "real" job to save my life, so over the course of my time there, I worked at a toy shop, a stationery shop, a candy shop, Duluth's coolest restaurant, and as a "community visioning aide." I had many beautiful friends. I took up rowing, and practiced when the moon was going down and the sun was coming up. I drove up and down the North Shore. I got frostbite. I lived on Park Point, and woke up every morning to the sometimes turbulent sight of an inland sea. I saw northern lights multiple times. I painted the lake and its mind-boggling horizon line. I experienced weeks at a stretch at below zero degrees F. I used to think I should create a tee shirt that said, "Most people go to Nepal or Tibet for enlightenment. I went to Duluth."

In 1999, I returned east permanently due to my mother's illness. It would take another ten years to remember my passion for English church music, but I suspect I wouldn't ever have done so in Duluth. As several friends have pointed out, it was about as far from that civilized world as is humanly possible. But it was like the dreamtime. I think the Great Mother held me in her arms near that great lake, kept me safe, and opened my eyes to wonder. 

What I was going to say...

I was going to say something about going on retreat this weekend.

I was going to say something about sleeping in a tent for the first time in twenty years, feeling the cold earth beneath me and cuddling under an ancient cheapo sleeping bag and several warm blankets.

I was going to say something about sitting in the middle of a field at sunrise, and watching the sun brighten the tops of the trees to the west. I watched the process as the light then slowly moved down until each tree was completely shimmering in bright green, yellow, brown and red. It was like a reverse window shade. I had to keep reminding myself that it really had little to do with the sun "going up" behind me but rather with the earth turning around. When you stop and watch it happening in real time, it is quite astonishing, isn't it?

And in the end, I don't know what to say about Las Vegas that hasn't already been said, here or by someone else. I don't understand people killing other people. Ever. I don't understand wanting to own weapons of any kind. I don't understand wanting to create those weapons, or to glorify them in movies, books, games or other entertainment. But even my own vague focus on the negative illustrates part of the problem. Those of us who are literally peace-loving will only create the world we want by focusing on the world we want. A consistent fight against (or focus on) what we don't want will only create more of what we don't want. I really believe this essential law of attraction-ism.

I want a world where I can watch vibrant trees coming to life in the morning and not have that immersion in beauty snatched away a few hours later. I want outbreaks of beauty and love to be world news.