Well, I did it. I guess a continued feeling of not being "engaged" provided the contrast I needed to propel me "home." for Christmas. I'm in England, and while it may only be for a short visit, it had to be. It's probably the only time I've come with no agenda but to be here and hear my music in its element, in any form. It's the first time since my dad died, the first time since I've been able to see a place of overlap between this music and my focus on the divine feminine, and the first time since I've "retired."
Perhaps this is why it has been a particularly magical week. Sinking into what is easy, local, and intuitive (rather than following an agenda) has led to beautiful synchronicity. Monday was a case in point. Following my gut led me to backtrack some steps and unexpectedly connect with some acquaintances. The proverbial right place at the right time. About an hour later, I turned on the TV and found a special about Canterbury Cathedral, where I sang services for a week in 2017. Lo and behold, I came in at the end of the program, where they chronicled the debut choral evensong service sung by the cathedral's new girls' choir. In one of the prayers, the celebrant blessed "these pioneers of English church music." Of course I burst into tears. They don't know from pioneers. They cannot imagine being a little girl in Schenectady in the 1960s, wearing out LP's of King's College, Cambridge, teaching herself Anglican chant. They can't know half a century of yearning, of a life in the desert. Yet ultimately my tears were of joy. That blessing was for me, too. It has all been worth it, just to see these girls in the choir stalls, where they belong.
In the evening, a television special on Tudor Christmas feasts included a segment filmed at Gloucester Cathedral with music by their choir, the choir I auditioned for four years ago. There was a marvellous efficiency in the entire day. It was almost as if, after a lifetime of struggle, the Universe was making all things easy. Sort of a, thanks for working so hard, Liz, now if you'll let us, we'll take over.
I realize that, above all, I am interested in everything over here. People have always said, Liz, you've had such an interesting life. That "interesting" life with all its harrowing twists and turns has really only been that way because I wanted to be "interested" in what interests me. Not what others might expect of my gender or generation or nationality or skill set, but the song that genuinely and easily unfurls from my heart. I don't know what will unfold after I push "publish" at the top of this page, but I do know one thing. If you are at the beginning of a discernment path or a retirement path, that is the question. "What interests you?" Not what interests your family or your spouse or your society or a guru or the corporate entities trying to sell you things. What interests you? That is the one thing that will never let you go, the one thing you came to this planet to explore. It's the one thing you will find your way to if you can trust and let go of control. Everything that doesn't match the energy of this interest may eventually fall away. The truth of your unique passion is all there is. I'm so honoured (my computer changed the spelling!) to live it one day at a time right now.
Friday, December 21, 2018
Tuesday, December 11, 2018
A Bridge
Probably the most powerful symbol for Duluth is its Aerial Lift Bridge, which connects the mainland (so to speak) with the long thin finger of sand called Park Point. It is literally a lift bridge, in that traffic stops and the road surface rises whenever one of the huge ore or cargo ships comes under it. In the summer, there is even more "up and down" to make it possible for tour and sail boats to come in and out of the harbor. It is a beautiful structure, kind of a gateway to open Lake Superior, the other Great Lakes, and, via the St. Lawrence Seaway, the world.
This week, someone said to me that they thought that when I lived here in the 1990's, I underwent my first "birth" as my own person, sort of a "who am I?" outside the context of the east coast world and expectations that I had previously known. I had to turn inward for validation, as many of my resume highlights like Smith College, the University of London, and Time Inc. were foreign to the culture out here. Then in 1999, I returned back east when my mother's health declined and I spent, as it turned out, twenty years revisiting various facets of the old me from a new perspective. Of course, I returned here this past summer, after a winter of tsunamis and my dad's death, and there has been another rebirth. Something in the depths of this lake lends itself to truth, love, and clarity. What interests me really interests me now, what doesn't interest me really doesn't interest me. No more pretending or trying. I was on Park Point on Sunday, watching ice fishermen and iceboaters and parasailers on the clear reflective sunset surface of the bay, and then later drove back across the bridge with sparkling lights of the city on the left and the pitch black of the lake on the right. It was beautiful, it was symbolic.
It's another bridge moment for me. I am thankful for a journey that never fails to surprise and give me rich material to write about. I will keep writing, although perhaps a little irregularly over the next few weeks, as my little boat makes another foray into life's great waters. May your dark December be filled with light!
This week, someone said to me that they thought that when I lived here in the 1990's, I underwent my first "birth" as my own person, sort of a "who am I?" outside the context of the east coast world and expectations that I had previously known. I had to turn inward for validation, as many of my resume highlights like Smith College, the University of London, and Time Inc. were foreign to the culture out here. Then in 1999, I returned back east when my mother's health declined and I spent, as it turned out, twenty years revisiting various facets of the old me from a new perspective. Of course, I returned here this past summer, after a winter of tsunamis and my dad's death, and there has been another rebirth. Something in the depths of this lake lends itself to truth, love, and clarity. What interests me really interests me now, what doesn't interest me really doesn't interest me. No more pretending or trying. I was on Park Point on Sunday, watching ice fishermen and iceboaters and parasailers on the clear reflective sunset surface of the bay, and then later drove back across the bridge with sparkling lights of the city on the left and the pitch black of the lake on the right. It was beautiful, it was symbolic.
It's another bridge moment for me. I am thankful for a journey that never fails to surprise and give me rich material to write about. I will keep writing, although perhaps a little irregularly over the next few weeks, as my little boat makes another foray into life's great waters. May your dark December be filled with light!
Friday, December 7, 2018
Voices and snow
Every morning the last few months, I have taken a beautiful little gold cocker spaniel for a walk. This dog and I seem to love each other very much, and I say "seem" just because I am new to pet love and still attribute some of it to "yippee, she's the lady that walks me and sometimes feeds me." Indeed, while I have come close to seriously loving several of my friends' pets over the last few years, this is the first time I have completely succumbed. At this time of year, the dawn sidewalk is silent except for the sound of snow crackling underfoot. My little friend pokes his nose into the drifts, sniffs out scents near the sidewalk, and generally meanders until he needs to do his business, after which, in this cold, he is all "business" trotting back to the warm house. Several mornings we have encountered deer, but today was dead quiet and still, maybe ten degrees Fahrenheit.
There is a new voice singing, however. Evidently a major British opera star has called on King's College, Cambridge to open their famous men and boys' choir to girls. I wondered when this would finally happen. Many of the major choral programs have girls' choirs now, but not Kings (a college chapel) and a few of the other most prominent cathedrals and abbeys. From what I can see, this has started a passionate debate, one that I would have thought was long overdue, whatever the outcome. I first wanted to join that choir fifty-five years ago. It's going to be something else, watching whether and how the evolution takes place. What do you know? Maybe it will be in my lifetime after all!
There is a new voice singing, however. Evidently a major British opera star has called on King's College, Cambridge to open their famous men and boys' choir to girls. I wondered when this would finally happen. Many of the major choral programs have girls' choirs now, but not Kings (a college chapel) and a few of the other most prominent cathedrals and abbeys. From what I can see, this has started a passionate debate, one that I would have thought was long overdue, whatever the outcome. I first wanted to join that choir fifty-five years ago. It's going to be something else, watching whether and how the evolution takes place. What do you know? Maybe it will be in my lifetime after all!
Monday, December 3, 2018
Advent Miscellany
The first thing to mention this morning is that -- of course! -- after having said in my previous blog that I rarely feel fear anymore, the few fears I do have came out over the weekend, eager to remind me that they are still lurking about. I wasn't able, initially, to shrug and blot them off my shirt. But I discovered something interesting. When I looked carefully at the worst fear, it was, at its core, anger, not fear. It involved something that I believe our society has totally wrong. The moment I got in touch with that anger, the fear disappeared and, at least temporarily, so did the situation that had made me fearful. I just put that out there in case any of you are dealing with fears. If nothing else, anger is more powerful than fear or despair. It is a step in the direction of love, as hard as it can be sometimes to believe that.
So, it is Advent again. While the traditional church meaning of it has loosened its grip on me, the broader meanings of "appearance, dawn, emergence" seem to always be pertinent for me in late November/December. It has been the month of some of my biggest changes in recent years -- arriving in New York City to sing at St. John the Divine, and in Gloucester to audition for the cathedral choir, for example. This year I sense changes afoot as well; if nothing else, the last few weeks have offered me almost blinding clarity in areas both personal and universal, and you cannot put the genie back in the box. Future decisions will be born of that clarity, which is good.
In a semi-related comment, I just saw something on television about celebrating young women studying STEM (science, technology, engineering and mathematics). I feel such mixed feelings about this. On the one hand, it is crucial that we women be actively involved in all areas of human endeavor, that we receive the best possible training, and have our accomplishments recognized. If this is a young woman's true passion, I am all for it. On the other hand, the unbalanced focus on science feels like yet another erasure of women like me. The arts, humanities and spirituality have never been valued in our economy; I gather that young men and women of college age are being actively discouraged by families from even studying these fields. I understand. Parents of my generation look at someone like me and shudder, hoping for any other outcome particularly for their daughters. But, of course, there is another answer, and that is to insist on supporting -- not dropping like a hot potato -- the artistically and spiritually creative people in our midst, the creators of beauty and inspiration, the people who offer surprising, colorful, love-filled suggestions for improving the world. The people who "see things differently." Once again, we seem to be creating a "job" need and trying to fill it, rather than looking honestly at each young person's true gifts and giving them the means to pursue those gifts, no matter what they are. There seems to be fear at play here too, as in, "you must enter this kind of field in order to have a job." I just don't know that I will ever understand this way of thinking. It makes me cry to think of a young "me" out there in her teens, knowing (much as I did) that my gifts aren't wanted, and won't adequately get used. And I guess the truth is, it makes me angry. It's just such a waste of precious divine energy.
So, it is Advent again. While the traditional church meaning of it has loosened its grip on me, the broader meanings of "appearance, dawn, emergence" seem to always be pertinent for me in late November/December. It has been the month of some of my biggest changes in recent years -- arriving in New York City to sing at St. John the Divine, and in Gloucester to audition for the cathedral choir, for example. This year I sense changes afoot as well; if nothing else, the last few weeks have offered me almost blinding clarity in areas both personal and universal, and you cannot put the genie back in the box. Future decisions will be born of that clarity, which is good.
In a semi-related comment, I just saw something on television about celebrating young women studying STEM (science, technology, engineering and mathematics). I feel such mixed feelings about this. On the one hand, it is crucial that we women be actively involved in all areas of human endeavor, that we receive the best possible training, and have our accomplishments recognized. If this is a young woman's true passion, I am all for it. On the other hand, the unbalanced focus on science feels like yet another erasure of women like me. The arts, humanities and spirituality have never been valued in our economy; I gather that young men and women of college age are being actively discouraged by families from even studying these fields. I understand. Parents of my generation look at someone like me and shudder, hoping for any other outcome particularly for their daughters. But, of course, there is another answer, and that is to insist on supporting -- not dropping like a hot potato -- the artistically and spiritually creative people in our midst, the creators of beauty and inspiration, the people who offer surprising, colorful, love-filled suggestions for improving the world. The people who "see things differently." Once again, we seem to be creating a "job" need and trying to fill it, rather than looking honestly at each young person's true gifts and giving them the means to pursue those gifts, no matter what they are. There seems to be fear at play here too, as in, "you must enter this kind of field in order to have a job." I just don't know that I will ever understand this way of thinking. It makes me cry to think of a young "me" out there in her teens, knowing (much as I did) that my gifts aren't wanted, and won't adequately get used. And I guess the truth is, it makes me angry. It's just such a waste of precious divine energy.
Thursday, November 29, 2018
No fear
The other day, I said something about how going on retreat has made me ever more sensitive to the fears being foisted on us. And I thought I would talk a little more about that.
Most people aren't going to follow my lead and try to live outside the world's fear-based paradigms. It is (as I have found out) nearly impossible to survive on the margins and seriously, I don't recommend it. But perhaps simply being conscious of whether something represents love or fear is a first step. If I cannot see "love" in a phenomenon, and I am conscious that I only wish to engage with loving people and situations, the hook of fear may be less likely to take hold.
For the moment, I'm not talking about the biggest fearful things, such as that our leaders will send us down the rabbit hole, or that gunmen will open fire on us, or that climate change will make earth unlivable. I am thinking about the smaller but more widespread way that fear is used to promote the spending of money, and to influence our larger attitudes. There are so many examples, but what has been particularly striking to me this past week is the marketing of prescription drugs. Despite the fact that these ads routinely show smiling, happy people, the undercurrent is clearly fear, the fear that if you do not take this medication, you will get sicker or die. Of course, most of the advertising also (comically) trumpets the possibility that taking this particular pill could lead to death. Lawyers are fearful, so long, copious lists of caveats are intoned. We are trained to fear being seriously behind the technology curve, to fear attacks to our computers or our homes, to fear living without the right clothing or labels or investments. We are trained to fear high numbers. We are trained to fear low numbers. We are trained to fear everything from romaine lettuce to missing out on the best deals. Truly, I don't know that I have ever seen advertising based in a genuine love of people and their well-being.
"Once we buy 'x' we will be OK" is the larger belief being peddled here. But the right pill, or the right bite of food, the right politician, the right weapon, or the right lifestyle -- they are all outside us. The truth will never be popular with advertisers, right? The notion that peace and love and health and security can only come from within won't ever be popular with merchandisers. The notion that "life is eternal and ever-blossoming so there is nothing to fear" won't ever be popular with most powers-that-be.
I have largely transcended many of these smaller fears, and even the huge ones, because when you've survived as much day-to-day uncertainty as I have, you know that you'll survive not eating a particular hamburger or taking a particular pill. If there are still fears and frustrations within me, they have more to do with how on earth to be powerful on the margins, outside the mainstream. And that, too, can only come from within. I need to feel my power and own it enthusiastically. I need to remind myself that other peoples' fears do not have to be mine. I need to smile, even laugh, at the most ludicrous fear-mongering coming from outside me, and face it with a strong, easygoing shrug of the shoulders. Somewhere in her talks, Abraham-Hicks says this great thing about how being diagnosed with cancer should be approximately the equivalent of finding out you have a spot of mustard on your shirt. Having no fear, you would face virtually any challenge that way. Shrug, smile, wipe off the mustard, and move on.
Most people aren't going to follow my lead and try to live outside the world's fear-based paradigms. It is (as I have found out) nearly impossible to survive on the margins and seriously, I don't recommend it. But perhaps simply being conscious of whether something represents love or fear is a first step. If I cannot see "love" in a phenomenon, and I am conscious that I only wish to engage with loving people and situations, the hook of fear may be less likely to take hold.
For the moment, I'm not talking about the biggest fearful things, such as that our leaders will send us down the rabbit hole, or that gunmen will open fire on us, or that climate change will make earth unlivable. I am thinking about the smaller but more widespread way that fear is used to promote the spending of money, and to influence our larger attitudes. There are so many examples, but what has been particularly striking to me this past week is the marketing of prescription drugs. Despite the fact that these ads routinely show smiling, happy people, the undercurrent is clearly fear, the fear that if you do not take this medication, you will get sicker or die. Of course, most of the advertising also (comically) trumpets the possibility that taking this particular pill could lead to death. Lawyers are fearful, so long, copious lists of caveats are intoned. We are trained to fear being seriously behind the technology curve, to fear attacks to our computers or our homes, to fear living without the right clothing or labels or investments. We are trained to fear high numbers. We are trained to fear low numbers. We are trained to fear everything from romaine lettuce to missing out on the best deals. Truly, I don't know that I have ever seen advertising based in a genuine love of people and their well-being.
"Once we buy 'x' we will be OK" is the larger belief being peddled here. But the right pill, or the right bite of food, the right politician, the right weapon, or the right lifestyle -- they are all outside us. The truth will never be popular with advertisers, right? The notion that peace and love and health and security can only come from within won't ever be popular with merchandisers. The notion that "life is eternal and ever-blossoming so there is nothing to fear" won't ever be popular with most powers-that-be.
I have largely transcended many of these smaller fears, and even the huge ones, because when you've survived as much day-to-day uncertainty as I have, you know that you'll survive not eating a particular hamburger or taking a particular pill. If there are still fears and frustrations within me, they have more to do with how on earth to be powerful on the margins, outside the mainstream. And that, too, can only come from within. I need to feel my power and own it enthusiastically. I need to remind myself that other peoples' fears do not have to be mine. I need to smile, even laugh, at the most ludicrous fear-mongering coming from outside me, and face it with a strong, easygoing shrug of the shoulders. Somewhere in her talks, Abraham-Hicks says this great thing about how being diagnosed with cancer should be approximately the equivalent of finding out you have a spot of mustard on your shirt. Having no fear, you would face virtually any challenge that way. Shrug, smile, wipe off the mustard, and move on.
Tuesday, November 27, 2018
Remarkable
There is so much that is remarkable, worthy of attention, right now. Why my little life should matter in the midst of it all, I don't really know, but I think it does.
My Thanksgiving retreat was your basic "mystic-goes-on-retreat," plus some. It certainly pushed all my buttons to be entirely alone in a big old house eating a microwaved frozen turkey dinner when most of the country was feasting with friends and family. Of course, that's the point. Perhaps there were millions of other people on their own. (Our image of what that day should be may be outdated in so many ways, and totally irrelevant in others. How we have segued from connectedness and giving thanks to football and shopping boggles my mind.)
Putting aside all the ways in which my situation is unique, the fact is that more and more women are staying single, and more and more of us are not having children. Some people might say, well, if you don't have a family, or you are no longer connected with your family-of-origin, that's your own darned fault, but I think the whole notion of family is undergoing a serious shift, and some of us are simply on the cutting edge. I won't say it isn't terrifying. It is. Every single day. I'm proud of myself that I did not try to push the loneliness aside. I waded into the wave with both feet.
Fortunately I have the capacity to get above it all (most of the time) and celebrate some bigger meaning. For I was with family over the weekend, my personal sense of the divine. I think I finally reached that point of recognizing that the only "person" to whom I need look for support, for a reflection of who I am, and for validation of my worldview, is that loving divine energy that, at the moment at least, I can only see as feminine. I am at home in her and in myself, and in relationship with her, and with myself. When I take a deep breath and don't panic, that's essentially all I need.
The other remarkable realization that came from the weekend is an ever more immediate sensitivity to every factor in our world that tries to spread fear. Getting away for a few days, you "return" and sense fear everywhere, in almost every television advertisement, news item, institution, you name it. The dualities feel ever more painful, but also increasingly dispensable. Everyone else may want to "fight" fear-filled things, but I cannot fight and at the same time be in the flow of unity and love, so given the choice, you know what I'll pick! Some of us are fighters, and some of us aren't. In this remarkable time, we must, must, must be authentically who we are.
My Thanksgiving retreat was your basic "mystic-goes-on-retreat," plus some. It certainly pushed all my buttons to be entirely alone in a big old house eating a microwaved frozen turkey dinner when most of the country was feasting with friends and family. Of course, that's the point. Perhaps there were millions of other people on their own. (Our image of what that day should be may be outdated in so many ways, and totally irrelevant in others. How we have segued from connectedness and giving thanks to football and shopping boggles my mind.)
Putting aside all the ways in which my situation is unique, the fact is that more and more women are staying single, and more and more of us are not having children. Some people might say, well, if you don't have a family, or you are no longer connected with your family-of-origin, that's your own darned fault, but I think the whole notion of family is undergoing a serious shift, and some of us are simply on the cutting edge. I won't say it isn't terrifying. It is. Every single day. I'm proud of myself that I did not try to push the loneliness aside. I waded into the wave with both feet.
Fortunately I have the capacity to get above it all (most of the time) and celebrate some bigger meaning. For I was with family over the weekend, my personal sense of the divine. I think I finally reached that point of recognizing that the only "person" to whom I need look for support, for a reflection of who I am, and for validation of my worldview, is that loving divine energy that, at the moment at least, I can only see as feminine. I am at home in her and in myself, and in relationship with her, and with myself. When I take a deep breath and don't panic, that's essentially all I need.
The other remarkable realization that came from the weekend is an ever more immediate sensitivity to every factor in our world that tries to spread fear. Getting away for a few days, you "return" and sense fear everywhere, in almost every television advertisement, news item, institution, you name it. The dualities feel ever more painful, but also increasingly dispensable. Everyone else may want to "fight" fear-filled things, but I cannot fight and at the same time be in the flow of unity and love, so given the choice, you know what I'll pick! Some of us are fighters, and some of us aren't. In this remarkable time, we must, must, must be authentically who we are.
Tuesday, November 20, 2018
A Voice
I guess I have mentioned before that for a variety of reasons, my life right now really boils down to learning, from scratch, how to love and be loved. It truly is a case of starting from nursery school. And some of it involves "watching and learning."
For several years I have enjoyed the TV show, "The Voice." Early on in any given season, I enjoy the silly interplay between the coaches, the spontaneity of the blind auditions, and the element of surprise. As the season progresses and the contestants (and their performances) become more polished, it isn't as appealing to watch, for me, except for one variable: most (not all, but most) of them have what I suppose you could call a cheering squad, friends and/or family who cheer them on, and have believed in them their whole lives. I'm sure some of this is played up for the sake of the show, yet even in this exaggerated form, I watch this in wonder. Imagine having a cheering section all your life! Imagine people believing in you and wanting you to succeed to your highest level! Imagine speaking or singing and being met with spirited, consistent encouragement and love! As with several other recent posts, this isn't about self-pity, it truly is a matter of wonder. What would that be like, being loved and encouraged at every turn? I am trying to access the feeling sensation of this.
Last night after that program, I happened upon the PBS special where Julia Louis-Dreyfus was about to be presented with the Mark Twain Award for American Humor. Again, I found myself thinking, "Imagine that! An entire audience gathering to honor you." It just takes my breath away.
The odd thing is that I can imagine it, it's just that in reference to my life thus far with all its pushbacks, I have only experienced in conversations with a few women friends. But somewhere way down in me is a spiritual core that can "hear" the emcee saying: "We honor your survival of a most unusual childhood; your passion for English church music and desire to sing it; your passion for that country; your integrity to your values; your bravery in speaking out and willingness to experience chronic discomfort for the sake of paving new potentially rich life paths for women. Thank you for going out on so many limbs. We love you." At the moment, the only "people" I can see in the audience are the Goddess and a handful of my female friends. They are my cheering squad! And recently, I have been privileged to attend events in town where friends were singing, playing, or speaking, and I clapped and cheered as much as was seemly in these cold northern climes (!)
Women of all generations have had their voices silenced. One hundred years after achieving the right to vote, we still struggle to be heard or taken seriously. That's why I cheer especially loudly for the young women contestants on the show, for Louis-Dreyfus, and for all my friends when they speak or sing. I love their courage and I love them. I hope maybe in this regard I'm making progress.
For the next five days, I'll be on retreat and I do not plan to write. So expect me back next Monday or Tuesday. To my handful of readers, please know that, this Thanksgiving, I give thanks for you!
For several years I have enjoyed the TV show, "The Voice." Early on in any given season, I enjoy the silly interplay between the coaches, the spontaneity of the blind auditions, and the element of surprise. As the season progresses and the contestants (and their performances) become more polished, it isn't as appealing to watch, for me, except for one variable: most (not all, but most) of them have what I suppose you could call a cheering squad, friends and/or family who cheer them on, and have believed in them their whole lives. I'm sure some of this is played up for the sake of the show, yet even in this exaggerated form, I watch this in wonder. Imagine having a cheering section all your life! Imagine people believing in you and wanting you to succeed to your highest level! Imagine speaking or singing and being met with spirited, consistent encouragement and love! As with several other recent posts, this isn't about self-pity, it truly is a matter of wonder. What would that be like, being loved and encouraged at every turn? I am trying to access the feeling sensation of this.
Last night after that program, I happened upon the PBS special where Julia Louis-Dreyfus was about to be presented with the Mark Twain Award for American Humor. Again, I found myself thinking, "Imagine that! An entire audience gathering to honor you." It just takes my breath away.
The odd thing is that I can imagine it, it's just that in reference to my life thus far with all its pushbacks, I have only experienced in conversations with a few women friends. But somewhere way down in me is a spiritual core that can "hear" the emcee saying: "We honor your survival of a most unusual childhood; your passion for English church music and desire to sing it; your passion for that country; your integrity to your values; your bravery in speaking out and willingness to experience chronic discomfort for the sake of paving new potentially rich life paths for women. Thank you for going out on so many limbs. We love you." At the moment, the only "people" I can see in the audience are the Goddess and a handful of my female friends. They are my cheering squad! And recently, I have been privileged to attend events in town where friends were singing, playing, or speaking, and I clapped and cheered as much as was seemly in these cold northern climes (!)
Women of all generations have had their voices silenced. One hundred years after achieving the right to vote, we still struggle to be heard or taken seriously. That's why I cheer especially loudly for the young women contestants on the show, for Louis-Dreyfus, and for all my friends when they speak or sing. I love their courage and I love them. I hope maybe in this regard I'm making progress.
For the next five days, I'll be on retreat and I do not plan to write. So expect me back next Monday or Tuesday. To my handful of readers, please know that, this Thanksgiving, I give thanks for you!
Friday, November 16, 2018
The Day the Truth Flowed
Yesterday turned out to be a remarkable day, one of those days which feels like it contains a lifetime of experience. I knew early that it would be special, because the sunrise that flowed across the sky at 7:30 AM was so sweet. Not "Hallelujah Chorus" beautiful, but subtly, with layers of pastel orange, pink, apricot, lavender, and blue. That's the type of day it would end up being.
I went to the public library. Goddess bless public libraries. I was looking for the kind fiction you might expect of me (set in England and/or about English history and/or on the theme of women's spirituality). The librarian kept making good suggestions long after I had chosen more books than I could possibly carry around town in my tote bag. As the day progressed, I met some new friends, and visited an old friend who is recovering from surgery. In the evening, I attended a heartwarming multicultural music/storytelling event. A woman of about my age sat nearby accompanied by a much younger woman in a wheelchair, perhaps her daughter. In a flash, I knew that their every life choice for decades had been defined by that wheelchair. What remarkable people. What a journey they have had.
Most of the day's travel had taken place on the city bus, with all the extra time it takes to walk to bus stops, make transfers, wait at the bus terminal. As I have mentioned before for the sake of readers overseas, American city buses (except, say, in Manhattan) tend to be used mostly by riders who aren't affluent. Some days, this Smithie finds it hard to embrace a sense of community with the other riders; old snobberies and impatience surface. But yesterday was one of those good days when my heart literally went out to all of us. In the end, we are all just people, trying to get from Point A to Point B without a car.
The day ended watching a TV news piece on the horrible conditions faced by the refugees from the Northern California fire. So much for my impression of ever-warm California -- the daytime highs at this refugee "camp" aren't much better than Duluth, maybe 40 degrees F. People in parkas mill around look shell-shocked. Speaking of cars, all they may have is a car and a wallet, having thrown themselves and family members or pets into a vehicle with minutes to spare, outracing the flames. No more belongings, no more homes, no more neighborhoods, no more places of employment, no more nothing. For very different reasons, I know this impasse, and my heart unfolded yet again to embrace their bafflement, their incredulity, their terror at the empty slate ahead.
So November 15 was a tour through the truth of the human condition. We are all just trying to step forward, to get to tomorrow, to achieve safety and security (if such a thing is possible), to have a home and to achieve our dreams. We are all simply hoping that the stream of love will flow us where we need to go. I was thankful to have caught the wave and successfully navigated the stream, at least on this one day, the day the truth flowed.
I went to the public library. Goddess bless public libraries. I was looking for the kind fiction you might expect of me (set in England and/or about English history and/or on the theme of women's spirituality). The librarian kept making good suggestions long after I had chosen more books than I could possibly carry around town in my tote bag. As the day progressed, I met some new friends, and visited an old friend who is recovering from surgery. In the evening, I attended a heartwarming multicultural music/storytelling event. A woman of about my age sat nearby accompanied by a much younger woman in a wheelchair, perhaps her daughter. In a flash, I knew that their every life choice for decades had been defined by that wheelchair. What remarkable people. What a journey they have had.
Most of the day's travel had taken place on the city bus, with all the extra time it takes to walk to bus stops, make transfers, wait at the bus terminal. As I have mentioned before for the sake of readers overseas, American city buses (except, say, in Manhattan) tend to be used mostly by riders who aren't affluent. Some days, this Smithie finds it hard to embrace a sense of community with the other riders; old snobberies and impatience surface. But yesterday was one of those good days when my heart literally went out to all of us. In the end, we are all just people, trying to get from Point A to Point B without a car.
The day ended watching a TV news piece on the horrible conditions faced by the refugees from the Northern California fire. So much for my impression of ever-warm California -- the daytime highs at this refugee "camp" aren't much better than Duluth, maybe 40 degrees F. People in parkas mill around look shell-shocked. Speaking of cars, all they may have is a car and a wallet, having thrown themselves and family members or pets into a vehicle with minutes to spare, outracing the flames. No more belongings, no more homes, no more neighborhoods, no more places of employment, no more nothing. For very different reasons, I know this impasse, and my heart unfolded yet again to embrace their bafflement, their incredulity, their terror at the empty slate ahead.
So November 15 was a tour through the truth of the human condition. We are all just trying to step forward, to get to tomorrow, to achieve safety and security (if such a thing is possible), to have a home and to achieve our dreams. We are all simply hoping that the stream of love will flow us where we need to go. I was thankful to have caught the wave and successfully navigated the stream, at least on this one day, the day the truth flowed.
Wednesday, November 14, 2018
Love, Again
Back sooner than usual. That's the thing about nearing 63 (augh!) is that you realize it's now or never. If it's on my mind, I'm signing in and writing. Whether I have two tomorrows or thirty-two tomorrows is anyone's guess, so there's no reason to put things off. Today, I'm going to completely finish the collage I have been working on, on the same principle.
Monday's blog got me thinking. What kept me going all these years, long after I realized I didn't believe in any of our institutions and couldn't function within them? What kept me going once I realized I was "new paradigm/new paradigm" and was so hopelessly untethered to the old paradigm? What kept me going when I saw (or sensed) the deep fear basis of the construct around me and I knew I didn't want to be part of it? I mean, it sure as heck would have been a lot easier to throw myself into the frigid lake, or fall into addiction, or just compromise for the sake of having security. But I didn't. I remember back in the 90's, being in tears on the floor of my new but empty apartment just feet from Lake Superior, trying to imagine how I could keep going. And even then, I knew I wasn't doing it for me, I was doing it for the sake of women in the future who might try to self-actualize outside the mostly male construct, and try to create a new one. Yet I've always believed in a world that reflects both male and female powers (what Riane Eisler calls "partnership"). I don't want to turn everything on its head and erase men's input. It's just that it has been hard to even identify my own instincts, except as an 180 degree contrast to what is out there.
Someone from my background may be the last person to be qualified to speak about what love is, but if I've learned nothing else in 62 years, it is what love "isn't." It isn't war, terrorism, hatred, wealth extremes, borders, limitations...you get the picture. As to what it "is," I think that's the thing. None of us, myself included, can even imagine the complete joy, acceptance, beauty, and unconditionality of divine love. We cannot imagine being loved to our core. We cannot imagine every being on the planet being loved to their core. It is so powerful, it is terrifying. So we keep falling back into the old fear paradigm. Yeah, I do too, every other second. In a sense, it is far easier than believing we may be truly worthy of love.
So, what is keeping me going now, heading into 63? Sure, partly the hope that my life experience will help someone else carve out the future. But partly, purely selfishly, the hope that I will finally find my tribe, my home, my love-based platform. It's the belief that I didn't get this far just to fizzle out. It's the belief that the only path forward, today, is doing something I love, and that little iota of love will spread out exponentially. It's the belief that what I love, matters. It's the tiny little baby step toward loving myself as I believe I am loved on the divine plane.
Monday's blog got me thinking. What kept me going all these years, long after I realized I didn't believe in any of our institutions and couldn't function within them? What kept me going once I realized I was "new paradigm/new paradigm" and was so hopelessly untethered to the old paradigm? What kept me going when I saw (or sensed) the deep fear basis of the construct around me and I knew I didn't want to be part of it? I mean, it sure as heck would have been a lot easier to throw myself into the frigid lake, or fall into addiction, or just compromise for the sake of having security. But I didn't. I remember back in the 90's, being in tears on the floor of my new but empty apartment just feet from Lake Superior, trying to imagine how I could keep going. And even then, I knew I wasn't doing it for me, I was doing it for the sake of women in the future who might try to self-actualize outside the mostly male construct, and try to create a new one. Yet I've always believed in a world that reflects both male and female powers (what Riane Eisler calls "partnership"). I don't want to turn everything on its head and erase men's input. It's just that it has been hard to even identify my own instincts, except as an 180 degree contrast to what is out there.
Someone from my background may be the last person to be qualified to speak about what love is, but if I've learned nothing else in 62 years, it is what love "isn't." It isn't war, terrorism, hatred, wealth extremes, borders, limitations...you get the picture. As to what it "is," I think that's the thing. None of us, myself included, can even imagine the complete joy, acceptance, beauty, and unconditionality of divine love. We cannot imagine being loved to our core. We cannot imagine every being on the planet being loved to their core. It is so powerful, it is terrifying. So we keep falling back into the old fear paradigm. Yeah, I do too, every other second. In a sense, it is far easier than believing we may be truly worthy of love.
So, what is keeping me going now, heading into 63? Sure, partly the hope that my life experience will help someone else carve out the future. But partly, purely selfishly, the hope that I will finally find my tribe, my home, my love-based platform. It's the belief that I didn't get this far just to fizzle out. It's the belief that the only path forward, today, is doing something I love, and that little iota of love will spread out exponentially. It's the belief that what I love, matters. It's the tiny little baby step toward loving myself as I believe I am loved on the divine plane.
Monday, November 12, 2018
"It"
I don't know whether it's the All Saints/All Souls effect, the Lake Superior effect, the lake effect snow effect, or the tragedies unfolding across our country effect. But for a few days last week it was overwhelming to realize (again! Sorry, folks, more tsunamis!) that absolutely every major aspect of my life has been the utter opposite of what I would have wanted. I would have wanted a warm, loving, supportive family-of-origin, and that wasn't the reality. I would have wanted to sing English church music all my life, and that wasn't the reality. I would have wanted to live over there, and so far, that isn't the reality. I would have wanted marriage and children, and that wasn't the reality. I would have wanted work or a career that was fulfilling, suited to me, and earned me appropriate recognition and income, and that wasn't the reality. I would have wanted a solid, rooted, home, and that hasn't yet been the reality.
This isn't a "pity party," although I've been on the verge of tears a lot. At 62, though, whatever "it" is in your life washes over you until you resolve it. In my case, "it" isn't each of these aspects of life individually, as hard as they have been. It's the whole package, the enormity of trying so very hard in so many areas only to "achieve" nothing that even begins to look or feel like success (or even stability) by anyone's standards. For someone who believes in the law of attraction, this path has been nearly devastating at times. Why can't I "attract" these things? I am trying like heck to figure out what the life lesson is in it all, because the life lesson may be the only achievement.
That's where a memory comes in. Back in the mid-90's, I met an extraordinary woman. To this day, she may be the wisest human being I've ever encountered. She was an Aquarian mystic, like me, and at that point had, herself, been wandering for at least twenty years. She was at that time about the age I am now, and at that point, I had been wandering only a few years; I remember thinking, "Lordy, if I am still in this position in twenty years, I won't be able to stand it." (How true!) But she made a comment that stuck with me. She made the point that the people who are "new paradigm" in their thinking but can tolerate operating day-to-day in an "old paradigm" manner are the people most likely to be comfortable, if not rich, at this transitional moment. (I think this is still true -- look at computer and IT millionaires.) She reckoned that those of us who are completely new paradigm have no choice but to literally forge a path in the wilderness.
Remembering her observation helped me to calm down. In the end, every single one of the institutions I wanted to be part of are "old paradigm." Whatever tune my body and soul are singing, it isn't on the same radio station as the culture at large. I am ultimately "new paradigm" through and through, which is why I simply haven't attracted "old paradigm" experiences. The reason life has been, at times, hellish is that I have measured myself to standards that simply will never fit who I am. Spiritual paths aren't linear, but still, backward movement doesn't work. Holding yourself back from who you really are doesn't work.
I'm close to finishing the collage self-portrait that I started a few weeks ago. It is extremely powerful. In fact, I can only work on it in small snatches because the image is so intense. The woman looking out from the two-dimensional page is so real and so powerful, I myself can hardly bear to look at her, much less be her. Yet "being her" is literally my only option going forward. I don't know where my old friend is, whether on the human or on the divine plane, but I feel she is with me. She gets "it." She lived "it."
This isn't a "pity party," although I've been on the verge of tears a lot. At 62, though, whatever "it" is in your life washes over you until you resolve it. In my case, "it" isn't each of these aspects of life individually, as hard as they have been. It's the whole package, the enormity of trying so very hard in so many areas only to "achieve" nothing that even begins to look or feel like success (or even stability) by anyone's standards. For someone who believes in the law of attraction, this path has been nearly devastating at times. Why can't I "attract" these things? I am trying like heck to figure out what the life lesson is in it all, because the life lesson may be the only achievement.
That's where a memory comes in. Back in the mid-90's, I met an extraordinary woman. To this day, she may be the wisest human being I've ever encountered. She was an Aquarian mystic, like me, and at that point had, herself, been wandering for at least twenty years. She was at that time about the age I am now, and at that point, I had been wandering only a few years; I remember thinking, "Lordy, if I am still in this position in twenty years, I won't be able to stand it." (How true!) But she made a comment that stuck with me. She made the point that the people who are "new paradigm" in their thinking but can tolerate operating day-to-day in an "old paradigm" manner are the people most likely to be comfortable, if not rich, at this transitional moment. (I think this is still true -- look at computer and IT millionaires.) She reckoned that those of us who are completely new paradigm have no choice but to literally forge a path in the wilderness.
Remembering her observation helped me to calm down. In the end, every single one of the institutions I wanted to be part of are "old paradigm." Whatever tune my body and soul are singing, it isn't on the same radio station as the culture at large. I am ultimately "new paradigm" through and through, which is why I simply haven't attracted "old paradigm" experiences. The reason life has been, at times, hellish is that I have measured myself to standards that simply will never fit who I am. Spiritual paths aren't linear, but still, backward movement doesn't work. Holding yourself back from who you really are doesn't work.
I'm close to finishing the collage self-portrait that I started a few weeks ago. It is extremely powerful. In fact, I can only work on it in small snatches because the image is so intense. The woman looking out from the two-dimensional page is so real and so powerful, I myself can hardly bear to look at her, much less be her. Yet "being her" is literally my only option going forward. I don't know where my old friend is, whether on the human or on the divine plane, but I feel she is with me. She gets "it." She lived "it."
Friday, November 9, 2018
Yet Again
In England, much is being made of Remembrance Sunday (this year, the 100th anniversary of the end of World War One.) Both my grandfathers served in Europe, and while they survived, both were at the receiving end of poison gas. There are no words to express what a hellish conflict it was, a ghastly prelude to the "modern era," and if it was meant to be the "war to end all wars," it wasn't, as we all know now.
In America, remembrance days seem to be coming almost every week. It is hard to look back a century when senseless killings are happening all the time right around us, in real time. Yet again, yet again, yet again. People ask "why?" I think the answer must be relatively simple, that a greater number of people are attracted to extreme violence than not. The other day, I scrolled through some TV channels trying to make my way to the program I wanted to see on public television, and briefly caught sight of two explosions and one dead body. Virtually all of our popular movies and TV shows involve killing, at times spectacular ones, and that doesn't even count video games which (I understand but have never watched) are even more violent. The mere fact that I am willing to even turn on a television under these circumstances shows that I have grown at least a tiny bit tolerant or numb to it all. I must take responsibility for having myself chosen the experience of violence, even for a second or two here and there.
All of life is a mirror. Current events around us reflect the dominant energy our culture is putting out there. And it's a chain of why's that go back to this one: why is killing of other humans considered acceptable in any context? Any context? Why is it that we think violence is appealing and necessary in our entertainment, then are surprised to find it in real life? These are the questions that baffle me. The starting point is each individual heart, and the hard inner work involved in aligning to divine love. Wars, legislation, uprisings, and vitriol will never "end all war," or all violence. Indeed, it may never end. But those of us who are awake must scan our own lives yet again, and see whether we have chosen to "enjoy" any form of violence. It's hard to find non-violent books and entertainment, even among the classics. It's hard to sit quietly, knitting or listening to Mozart when we have all become addicted to frenzy, crisis and stress. I've reached the point, however, where I know that even the mildest of murder mysteries adds to the world's tolerance of violence. If I make the choice to read or watch such fare, I need to own the energetic consequences.
In America, remembrance days seem to be coming almost every week. It is hard to look back a century when senseless killings are happening all the time right around us, in real time. Yet again, yet again, yet again. People ask "why?" I think the answer must be relatively simple, that a greater number of people are attracted to extreme violence than not. The other day, I scrolled through some TV channels trying to make my way to the program I wanted to see on public television, and briefly caught sight of two explosions and one dead body. Virtually all of our popular movies and TV shows involve killing, at times spectacular ones, and that doesn't even count video games which (I understand but have never watched) are even more violent. The mere fact that I am willing to even turn on a television under these circumstances shows that I have grown at least a tiny bit tolerant or numb to it all. I must take responsibility for having myself chosen the experience of violence, even for a second or two here and there.
All of life is a mirror. Current events around us reflect the dominant energy our culture is putting out there. And it's a chain of why's that go back to this one: why is killing of other humans considered acceptable in any context? Any context? Why is it that we think violence is appealing and necessary in our entertainment, then are surprised to find it in real life? These are the questions that baffle me. The starting point is each individual heart, and the hard inner work involved in aligning to divine love. Wars, legislation, uprisings, and vitriol will never "end all war," or all violence. Indeed, it may never end. But those of us who are awake must scan our own lives yet again, and see whether we have chosen to "enjoy" any form of violence. It's hard to find non-violent books and entertainment, even among the classics. It's hard to sit quietly, knitting or listening to Mozart when we have all become addicted to frenzy, crisis and stress. I've reached the point, however, where I know that even the mildest of murder mysteries adds to the world's tolerance of violence. If I make the choice to read or watch such fare, I need to own the energetic consequences.
Tuesday, November 6, 2018
Election
For readers in the US, please vote before even thinking of reading this blog. This is an important election. I voted; it is still the best system we have for universal participation in our communities and countries.
Having said that, speaking as a post-duality mystic, the polarization/"us vs. them" nature of all of humankind's current systems is painful. Really. I could tell you what I envision in the not-too-distant future, but it is so out there that I don't think it is particularly helpful today. But clearly as notions of Side A vs. Side B start to break down, as things start being defined less in reference to contrast to the other, and more from within our own souls, our community participation will take on a whole new energy. To say I'm personally looking forward to that day is an understatement! Will I live to see it? As my mom used to say, "we shall see."
On this grey, rainy November day with snow threatening, what do I elect to do? I elect to experience beauty. Today, rather than Howells, I chose William Byrd. I elect to do more work on my collage. I elect to hold this rather battered country in the light. I elect to continue to go within for my answers, not to expect miracles from politicians or outside experts. I elect to let go of expectations. I elect to remember that the human story has a long way to go, and tomorrow is another day.
Having said that, speaking as a post-duality mystic, the polarization/"us vs. them" nature of all of humankind's current systems is painful. Really. I could tell you what I envision in the not-too-distant future, but it is so out there that I don't think it is particularly helpful today. But clearly as notions of Side A vs. Side B start to break down, as things start being defined less in reference to contrast to the other, and more from within our own souls, our community participation will take on a whole new energy. To say I'm personally looking forward to that day is an understatement! Will I live to see it? As my mom used to say, "we shall see."
On this grey, rainy November day with snow threatening, what do I elect to do? I elect to experience beauty. Today, rather than Howells, I chose William Byrd. I elect to do more work on my collage. I elect to hold this rather battered country in the light. I elect to continue to go within for my answers, not to expect miracles from politicians or outside experts. I elect to let go of expectations. I elect to remember that the human story has a long way to go, and tomorrow is another day.
Thursday, November 1, 2018
Saints and Souls
Happy All Saints Day. Actually, I really don't distinguish between All Saints and All Souls, since in my view, the majority of people on this planet are souls doing their very best, which makes them "saints" or "angels" to me. The remaining people who don't seem to have any connection whatsoever to divine love, those who are monsters acting monstrously, aren't doing the best they can, and wouldn't know how to even if they tried. They are not held in my heart at this time of year, or ever. At this moment in my own healing process, I cannot forgive or love them; all I can do is acknowledge that they exist, and note with the deepest sadness their horrible tendency to turn on their fellow humans.
Yes, I am struggling with how to respond to everything that is happening. Moving beyond a duality model forces one to try to get beyond even notions of victimizer and victim; I celebrate the lives of the brave, beautiful people in Pittsburgh, and the countless others across the country and the world; that we are experiencing such a Niagara Falls of violence and terror is breaking my heart, and it isn't over. But I personally continue to search for a way of acting that is not a "reaction" to the choices made by monsters. There appears to be intense narcissism in their literally "calling the shots"; I don't want to be disempowered by constantly having to react to their lead. Yet to be completely non-referential to others' violent impulses is extremely difficult in a violent world. It's hard to carve out a new path in a duality construct without being seen to be doing nothing.
My blog has so few readers right now, literally a handful, and it has been so tempting just to call it a day, and hang up my proverbial pen. I kept thinking it would take off, and so far it hasn't. However, this week I "acted as if." I have needed some kind of contact card to hand to people, and when I made my order, I identified myself as "Mystic." Whoa. That's the only title that begins to cover all the facets of who I am, and my constant quest to make sense of everything. As I said to a friend, at this point I'd rather be a bad mystic than to continue not identifying myself as such. I can hear the guffaws of family and some friends, the "ho, ho, she'll never make a living as that!" Well, I've never made a living from anything I've done, and besides, I am not a business. I am who I am, that's all. It was somewhat humorous to imagine an anonymous typesetter somewhere going, "Mystic, what the heck is that?" I had this vision of every woman in the country ordering so-called business cards identifying themselves as: Goddess, Seer, Prophetess, Loving Eternal Soul, Artist, Healer, Anchoress, Planter, Gaia, Truth-teller, Singer, Wisdom Personified, Peacemaker, Poet, Lover-of-all-that-is, Yoga Master, you name it! I had this image of women blanketing the world with new notions of "career" and really owning those deep sides of ourselves that we've been afraid people would laugh at. I had this image of taking the focus back off the monsters and onto what will keep us alive in the long term, love.
That's it for today. That's all I can do. Yours in sainthood and soulhood, Liz
Yes, I am struggling with how to respond to everything that is happening. Moving beyond a duality model forces one to try to get beyond even notions of victimizer and victim; I celebrate the lives of the brave, beautiful people in Pittsburgh, and the countless others across the country and the world; that we are experiencing such a Niagara Falls of violence and terror is breaking my heart, and it isn't over. But I personally continue to search for a way of acting that is not a "reaction" to the choices made by monsters. There appears to be intense narcissism in their literally "calling the shots"; I don't want to be disempowered by constantly having to react to their lead. Yet to be completely non-referential to others' violent impulses is extremely difficult in a violent world. It's hard to carve out a new path in a duality construct without being seen to be doing nothing.
My blog has so few readers right now, literally a handful, and it has been so tempting just to call it a day, and hang up my proverbial pen. I kept thinking it would take off, and so far it hasn't. However, this week I "acted as if." I have needed some kind of contact card to hand to people, and when I made my order, I identified myself as "Mystic." Whoa. That's the only title that begins to cover all the facets of who I am, and my constant quest to make sense of everything. As I said to a friend, at this point I'd rather be a bad mystic than to continue not identifying myself as such. I can hear the guffaws of family and some friends, the "ho, ho, she'll never make a living as that!" Well, I've never made a living from anything I've done, and besides, I am not a business. I am who I am, that's all. It was somewhat humorous to imagine an anonymous typesetter somewhere going, "Mystic, what the heck is that?" I had this vision of every woman in the country ordering so-called business cards identifying themselves as: Goddess, Seer, Prophetess, Loving Eternal Soul, Artist, Healer, Anchoress, Planter, Gaia, Truth-teller, Singer, Wisdom Personified, Peacemaker, Poet, Lover-of-all-that-is, Yoga Master, you name it! I had this image of women blanketing the world with new notions of "career" and really owning those deep sides of ourselves that we've been afraid people would laugh at. I had this image of taking the focus back off the monsters and onto what will keep us alive in the long term, love.
That's it for today. That's all I can do. Yours in sainthood and soulhood, Liz
Monday, October 29, 2018
Tears
Tears. I woke up all too early this morning, and burst into tears. Saturday seemed to be the culmination of a horrible week, a horrible few years, and, for me, a horrible three decades or so.
No, this moment in history is not about me. Now that I realize how I was influenced by extreme narcissism from the moment I was born, I will always have to check myself whenever I write. Am I speaking my truth so that people focus on me, or is it to try to get to the bottom of bigger truths? Most of the time, I think it is the latter, and I hope I'll always catch myself if I slide into the former. Today, I believe the tears were about a bigger truth.
I've told the story how about, back in the 80's, a very successful businessman lectured me about how it's a "kill-or-be-killed world," and unless I was willing to kill, I would never make it. These words would turn out to be prophetic. I came to realize that all our institutions seemed to be fear-based, and either literally or figuratively violent. One by one I stopped being able to function within them. I have been looked on as pathetic, inept, unintelligent, annoying, and de facto invisible, and I'm lucky to be alive, but in the end, it's about the fact that I cannot fathom "killing" another person or supporting a system that does so, even symbolically. It has been traumatizing watching our for-profit system in action, a health care system that "fights disease," and the spread of violent entertainment content. I would have made a great lawyer, except I cannot bear "us vs. them." It is even hard for me to walk into a big box store, sensing the violence and slavery that goes into almost every single item and the harm to the earth of every tiny scrap of plastic. For decades, modern life has traumatized me; I may believe that the people killed on Saturday have made a smooth and easy transition to the eternal stream of divine love, but that doesn't negate the utter devastation caused by this gunman and a larger system that too often seems to condone or glorify such events, and puts those who are sensitive, artistic or peaceful in jeopardy. I think I am only beginning to feel the pain of years of such day-to-day insecurity.
There have been a lot of calls to "fight" hatred, and that brings me to tears even more because fighting hatred only leads to more fighting and more hatred. This "fighting" paradigm is on its way out, and those of us who can must focus on the qualities that will continue into the next, unified, one: beauty, joy, love, community and harmony. There is no "other," there is only us.
No, this moment in history is not about me. Now that I realize how I was influenced by extreme narcissism from the moment I was born, I will always have to check myself whenever I write. Am I speaking my truth so that people focus on me, or is it to try to get to the bottom of bigger truths? Most of the time, I think it is the latter, and I hope I'll always catch myself if I slide into the former. Today, I believe the tears were about a bigger truth.
I've told the story how about, back in the 80's, a very successful businessman lectured me about how it's a "kill-or-be-killed world," and unless I was willing to kill, I would never make it. These words would turn out to be prophetic. I came to realize that all our institutions seemed to be fear-based, and either literally or figuratively violent. One by one I stopped being able to function within them. I have been looked on as pathetic, inept, unintelligent, annoying, and de facto invisible, and I'm lucky to be alive, but in the end, it's about the fact that I cannot fathom "killing" another person or supporting a system that does so, even symbolically. It has been traumatizing watching our for-profit system in action, a health care system that "fights disease," and the spread of violent entertainment content. I would have made a great lawyer, except I cannot bear "us vs. them." It is even hard for me to walk into a big box store, sensing the violence and slavery that goes into almost every single item and the harm to the earth of every tiny scrap of plastic. For decades, modern life has traumatized me; I may believe that the people killed on Saturday have made a smooth and easy transition to the eternal stream of divine love, but that doesn't negate the utter devastation caused by this gunman and a larger system that too often seems to condone or glorify such events, and puts those who are sensitive, artistic or peaceful in jeopardy. I think I am only beginning to feel the pain of years of such day-to-day insecurity.
There have been a lot of calls to "fight" hatred, and that brings me to tears even more because fighting hatred only leads to more fighting and more hatred. This "fighting" paradigm is on its way out, and those of us who can must focus on the qualities that will continue into the next, unified, one: beauty, joy, love, community and harmony. There is no "other," there is only us.
Friday, October 26, 2018
Just...
With everything that's going on, this might seem to be an odd day to do this, but I have to make a writing confession.
Almost every blog post, I need to go back and edit out at least one or two "just"s. Not the adjective ("let's work toward a more just society") but the filler adverb meaning, essentially, "simply," but which in modern American English has "just" taken over our speaking and writing. It is everywhere. I say it far too frequently. (I "just" want to do this, or such-and-such "just" has to be true.) "Just" tends to weaken one's prose so much, to nullify or exponentially diminish what is being said. One "just" and a whole paragraph becomes soft and squishy, like a marshmallow. As a woman, I struggle as it is to be taken seriously, so anything that impedes the process has got to go.
I once read an article that said that "just" has become an almost sentence-by-sentence staple of evangelical prayer ("I just want to thank you, Jesus" kind of thing). For a Tudor-era Book of Common Prayer girl, it is hard to imagine wanting to repeat the word frequently. If nothing else, it is not very attractive to the ear. When I see it in print, wherever I see it, I ask myself, does the use of the word "just" improve the sentence? When I find it in my prose, I consider whether using "simply" or "only" would be better, or I remove it altogether. Usually, the sentence is much more powerful without what is essentially a draining qualifier.
As we speak, I have had to edit out several other squishy expressions, "I think," "I guess," among others. Lordy, all of this may be my version of what my mom used to do, apologize before saying anything important. Part of what has kept me burrowing around underground all these years has been the desire not to be noticed, to make everything sound backhanded and uncertain. It worked, all too well. Even the opening paragraph of this very essay has that quality, although I will leave it in for illustration purposes. Yes, the time has come "just" to say what I mean and mean what I say, with as little filler as possible!
Have a good weekend, folks. Hang in there.
Almost every blog post, I need to go back and edit out at least one or two "just"s. Not the adjective ("let's work toward a more just society") but the filler adverb meaning, essentially, "simply," but which in modern American English has "just" taken over our speaking and writing. It is everywhere. I say it far too frequently. (I "just" want to do this, or such-and-such "just" has to be true.) "Just" tends to weaken one's prose so much, to nullify or exponentially diminish what is being said. One "just" and a whole paragraph becomes soft and squishy, like a marshmallow. As a woman, I struggle as it is to be taken seriously, so anything that impedes the process has got to go.
I once read an article that said that "just" has become an almost sentence-by-sentence staple of evangelical prayer ("I just want to thank you, Jesus" kind of thing). For a Tudor-era Book of Common Prayer girl, it is hard to imagine wanting to repeat the word frequently. If nothing else, it is not very attractive to the ear. When I see it in print, wherever I see it, I ask myself, does the use of the word "just" improve the sentence? When I find it in my prose, I consider whether using "simply" or "only" would be better, or I remove it altogether. Usually, the sentence is much more powerful without what is essentially a draining qualifier.
As we speak, I have had to edit out several other squishy expressions, "I think," "I guess," among others. Lordy, all of this may be my version of what my mom used to do, apologize before saying anything important. Part of what has kept me burrowing around underground all these years has been the desire not to be noticed, to make everything sound backhanded and uncertain. It worked, all too well. Even the opening paragraph of this very essay has that quality, although I will leave it in for illustration purposes. Yes, the time has come "just" to say what I mean and mean what I say, with as little filler as possible!
Have a good weekend, folks. Hang in there.
Wednesday, October 24, 2018
Lifetimes
Plowing ahead. Now that I am out in the sun, the words are flowing faster. And it's a full moon. Lots of clarity.
I realized this morning that I am very glad I am one of those people who believes that we have many lifetimes. If this were my one and only go-round, the fact that our world is taking on a distinctly Orwellian "boot stamping on a human face" quality would lead me to total despair. As it is, I'm extremely, extremely troubled, but curious. Something good has to come of all of this sooner or later. I hope it is in my current lifetime.
For years, I have thought that the chances were virtually nil that for my one and only lifetime, I would be gifted with literally too many talents to use properly. When I was taking old masters painting classes, my teacher looked at my first effort and said she was sure I must have done this in another lifetime...that I was too skilled and instinctive not to have done it before many times. And my whole thing about England and cathedral music has previous lifetimes written all over it. The question becomes, how do you use these skills when you circle around again? I'm old enough now and have survived enough to realize that it may have to be from the new, higher perspective -- that trying to insert yourself into extant structures may not work. And it can be boring. Things are literally second nature, too easy.
I love Abraham-Hicks's take on death (and I cannot remember exactly where she said this): Something to the effect of, we are spiritual beings focusing briefly on the earth plane. At death, we simply switch our focus back to the spiritual plane. No big deal. She's totally cheeky about death, and wonders why we all make such a fuss about it. And I agree. We're just basically splashing in and out of the river of love, like otters. Fear of death seems to be at the root of so much that happens in our world, and there is quite literally nothing to fear.
However, the other side of that coin is another truth. Death may not be a big deal, but another person's human experience is their business. That's why I could never attack someone, or "defend" myself with a weapon. If someone should kill me, that would be their bad karma (so to speak), but if I turn around, beat them to it, and defensively kill them, it's mine. I simply won't do it.
There is so much fear-mongering right now, both real and in our entertainment industry, so I guess it is no surprise that it feels like waves of horror are moving around the planet. It's impossible to avoid them all, but I'm committed to being just a little island of fearlessness in the midst of it all. (Heck, after surviving all my personal tsunamis of the last year, I have a lot of practice.) Life is eternal. It's a river of love that we weave easily in and out of. Speaking only for myself, I cannot listen anymore to anyone who says otherwise.
I realized this morning that I am very glad I am one of those people who believes that we have many lifetimes. If this were my one and only go-round, the fact that our world is taking on a distinctly Orwellian "boot stamping on a human face" quality would lead me to total despair. As it is, I'm extremely, extremely troubled, but curious. Something good has to come of all of this sooner or later. I hope it is in my current lifetime.
For years, I have thought that the chances were virtually nil that for my one and only lifetime, I would be gifted with literally too many talents to use properly. When I was taking old masters painting classes, my teacher looked at my first effort and said she was sure I must have done this in another lifetime...that I was too skilled and instinctive not to have done it before many times. And my whole thing about England and cathedral music has previous lifetimes written all over it. The question becomes, how do you use these skills when you circle around again? I'm old enough now and have survived enough to realize that it may have to be from the new, higher perspective -- that trying to insert yourself into extant structures may not work. And it can be boring. Things are literally second nature, too easy.
I love Abraham-Hicks's take on death (and I cannot remember exactly where she said this): Something to the effect of, we are spiritual beings focusing briefly on the earth plane. At death, we simply switch our focus back to the spiritual plane. No big deal. She's totally cheeky about death, and wonders why we all make such a fuss about it. And I agree. We're just basically splashing in and out of the river of love, like otters. Fear of death seems to be at the root of so much that happens in our world, and there is quite literally nothing to fear.
However, the other side of that coin is another truth. Death may not be a big deal, but another person's human experience is their business. That's why I could never attack someone, or "defend" myself with a weapon. If someone should kill me, that would be their bad karma (so to speak), but if I turn around, beat them to it, and defensively kill them, it's mine. I simply won't do it.
There is so much fear-mongering right now, both real and in our entertainment industry, so I guess it is no surprise that it feels like waves of horror are moving around the planet. It's impossible to avoid them all, but I'm committed to being just a little island of fearlessness in the midst of it all. (Heck, after surviving all my personal tsunamis of the last year, I have a lot of practice.) Life is eternal. It's a river of love that we weave easily in and out of. Speaking only for myself, I cannot listen anymore to anyone who says otherwise.
Monday, October 22, 2018
Prayer
Happy Monday morning. It's a new week, and over the weekend, I seemed to be at the receiving end of a handful of important, what?, revelations, realizations, epiphanies, whatever the best word is. Anyone who looks at a mystic and wonders why they don't seem to be doing anything doesn't realize that they are "doing" the most when their body is relatively still. It can be exhausting but, yes, invisible. It's like being a radio receiver. The music cannot be heard without it, but the actual plastic box isn't literally jumping around the room.
Yesterday morning, I caught the end of a Sunday morning TV preacher's sermon, which was about prayer. I had this interesting moment where I realized with clarity and a certain irony that I am not a pray-er. Outside of choral evensong ("O Lord, open Thou our lips" and "O God, make speed to save us" etc.) I really don't pray. Hmm. I suppose it would be easy to look at my life and say, "Well it's obvious that that is the case. If only she'd pray for a solid home and an easier life, maybe she would get it." in fact, for a moment, I did just that. Please, for goodness sake, please?
And yet I most closely associate prayers of supplication with an older, more dualistic religious model. I mean, you can only "ask" for things from a deity who you picture to be outside yourself, separate. When I transfer the model over to a divine feminine, it no longer seems to work. I've had this little thing for years that the Goddess really doesn't want prayers or worship, but for us to spend that time being humane and becoming our true authentic selves. It's less about her "giving" things to us, and more about us aligning with her values, which is challenging enough in the modern world.
I sometimes wonder if the emphasis on "manifestation" and "visualization" aren't sort of updated versions of supplicatory prayer. Attempting to manifest money or visualize prosperity hasn't worked for me, complicated, as it is, by my not believing in any of the duality-based institutions/paradigms that have created most of the objects and conditions people pray about. I could probably visualize a fancy car and house from now until the end of my life and still never "manifest" them, per se -- unless and until they serve a higher good regarding my purpose on the planet. But this apparent powerlessness to "create" or "receive" is further muddied by my being a woman, and by our historical outsider status. Where does one frustration end and another begin? And there is one more complication here, and that is the awareness that there is a much, much bigger picture going on than most of us can see, just as even astronomers cannot see to the far edges of the universe. Each individual's life is such a complex maze of decisions (made, I think, both before and after our earthly "birth") and outward events. We are all part of a powerful momentum toward human spiritual growth, and we simply may not know how a current health, financial, or relationship situation is serving the higher good. A specific personal outcome might, in fact, fly in the face of that universal good.
Everyone has to walk their own prayer path. For me, right now, prayer "to" or "for" something outside myself isn't likely to be my focus. My variation on it is imagining the divine feminine and molding myself as best as I can to those values and qualities. It is, yes, beginning the day with the most beautiful music I know and trying to stay aligned to it. I've borne far more than I ever thought I was strong enough to bear, and I suspect that deep down, my prayer always was to become "me." My "prayer" has probably already been answered, in that I am the person I am, in this very instant.
Yesterday morning, I caught the end of a Sunday morning TV preacher's sermon, which was about prayer. I had this interesting moment where I realized with clarity and a certain irony that I am not a pray-er. Outside of choral evensong ("O Lord, open Thou our lips" and "O God, make speed to save us" etc.) I really don't pray. Hmm. I suppose it would be easy to look at my life and say, "Well it's obvious that that is the case. If only she'd pray for a solid home and an easier life, maybe she would get it." in fact, for a moment, I did just that. Please, for goodness sake, please?
And yet I most closely associate prayers of supplication with an older, more dualistic religious model. I mean, you can only "ask" for things from a deity who you picture to be outside yourself, separate. When I transfer the model over to a divine feminine, it no longer seems to work. I've had this little thing for years that the Goddess really doesn't want prayers or worship, but for us to spend that time being humane and becoming our true authentic selves. It's less about her "giving" things to us, and more about us aligning with her values, which is challenging enough in the modern world.
I sometimes wonder if the emphasis on "manifestation" and "visualization" aren't sort of updated versions of supplicatory prayer. Attempting to manifest money or visualize prosperity hasn't worked for me, complicated, as it is, by my not believing in any of the duality-based institutions/paradigms that have created most of the objects and conditions people pray about. I could probably visualize a fancy car and house from now until the end of my life and still never "manifest" them, per se -- unless and until they serve a higher good regarding my purpose on the planet. But this apparent powerlessness to "create" or "receive" is further muddied by my being a woman, and by our historical outsider status. Where does one frustration end and another begin? And there is one more complication here, and that is the awareness that there is a much, much bigger picture going on than most of us can see, just as even astronomers cannot see to the far edges of the universe. Each individual's life is such a complex maze of decisions (made, I think, both before and after our earthly "birth") and outward events. We are all part of a powerful momentum toward human spiritual growth, and we simply may not know how a current health, financial, or relationship situation is serving the higher good. A specific personal outcome might, in fact, fly in the face of that universal good.
Everyone has to walk their own prayer path. For me, right now, prayer "to" or "for" something outside myself isn't likely to be my focus. My variation on it is imagining the divine feminine and molding myself as best as I can to those values and qualities. It is, yes, beginning the day with the most beautiful music I know and trying to stay aligned to it. I've borne far more than I ever thought I was strong enough to bear, and I suspect that deep down, my prayer always was to become "me." My "prayer" has probably already been answered, in that I am the person I am, in this very instant.
Friday, October 19, 2018
Touchstones
I don't know if I have permanently picked up the pace of my writing, or if it is just the result of the times we are in, but yes, I'm back again.
My last blog post (about how the Howells Coll Reg "Te Deum" is my touchstone for beauty) came and went rather quietly; most people may not realize exactly how revolutionary it was for me. It has literally changed my life to realize (and this was building gradually) how important beauty is for me (and, I suspect, for the world, although I cannot speak quite that universally!) It changed my life to realize that beauty has been my litmus test, which helps me see clearly what has and hasn't worked in my life, and why. And it changed my life to clearly identify myself as a "post-Christian feminist" when writing about English church music, and to begin to understand why they are not really completely at odds. The common denominator is that I am a heart-y human. I recognizes beauty, and my soul zings and sings when it sees, hears, or takes part in beauty of a certain type.
For years, I have seen how this is an energetic universe, that each person, place, and thing exudes a unique "energy" or wavelength. It's like colors on the spectrum. A person helping a friend exudes one wavelength, a person shooting at a stranger exudes another. A tree exudes one, a rock exudes another. A piece of plastic exudes one, a piece of moss another. When I was singing Anglican chant I exuded one energy, and when I was struggling to find a job, any job no matter how menial, I was exuding another. Because yes, we humans are complex and can send out multiple signals, or can have been exposed early on to one energy and aspire to another, and then get totally stuck in neutral. I am so thankful for the last year or so, with its opportunity to stand and face the waves of lower energy/pain/despair. It's like, I am gathering these memories and hurts in my arms and saying, dear ones, come with me. We've retired from being stuck in the dark. From this point forward, let's make it all about beauty, joy, passion, love. Let's make it about being in the light, in the sun. I'm going to start every day with Howells's "Te Deum" in my head or coming through speakers, and match as many experiences to that glorious energy touchstone as possible.
My last blog post (about how the Howells Coll Reg "Te Deum" is my touchstone for beauty) came and went rather quietly; most people may not realize exactly how revolutionary it was for me. It has literally changed my life to realize (and this was building gradually) how important beauty is for me (and, I suspect, for the world, although I cannot speak quite that universally!) It changed my life to realize that beauty has been my litmus test, which helps me see clearly what has and hasn't worked in my life, and why. And it changed my life to clearly identify myself as a "post-Christian feminist" when writing about English church music, and to begin to understand why they are not really completely at odds. The common denominator is that I am a heart-y human. I recognizes beauty, and my soul zings and sings when it sees, hears, or takes part in beauty of a certain type.
For years, I have seen how this is an energetic universe, that each person, place, and thing exudes a unique "energy" or wavelength. It's like colors on the spectrum. A person helping a friend exudes one wavelength, a person shooting at a stranger exudes another. A tree exudes one, a rock exudes another. A piece of plastic exudes one, a piece of moss another. When I was singing Anglican chant I exuded one energy, and when I was struggling to find a job, any job no matter how menial, I was exuding another. Because yes, we humans are complex and can send out multiple signals, or can have been exposed early on to one energy and aspire to another, and then get totally stuck in neutral. I am so thankful for the last year or so, with its opportunity to stand and face the waves of lower energy/pain/despair. It's like, I am gathering these memories and hurts in my arms and saying, dear ones, come with me. We've retired from being stuck in the dark. From this point forward, let's make it all about beauty, joy, passion, love. Let's make it about being in the light, in the sun. I'm going to start every day with Howells's "Te Deum" in my head or coming through speakers, and match as many experiences to that glorious energy touchstone as possible.
Wednesday, October 17, 2018
HH
Today is Herbert Howells's birthday. Somewhere back in about 1967, I acquired an Argo recording of the composer's music, and that was the beginning of everything. I wore record player grooves deep into the disc, particularly the Collegium Regale "Te Deum." (You can listen to the exact recording, complete with old-fashioned scratches, here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ScGeISIp4Fg.
Why does this piece, and all of HH's music, resonate? First of all, it is astonishingly beautiful. It is bittersweet, hard to sing, break-your-heart-even-more-than-it-already-is stunning. At eleven or twelve, I'd sit in my room, playing it (and recordings of Anglican chant) over and over until I memorized it. I played it in my Smith College room when my roommate wasn't around. I played it in my hippie décor Upper West Side New York apartment when those roommates weren't around. I play it still, as I did this morning in HH's honor. Part of the bittersweetness that left me in tears (by "Oh Lord, in Thee have I trusted, let me never be confounded") was, of course, the realization that as a woman I was unlikely ever to sing the piece. Although I don't remember whether I ever have sung the "Te Deum," I did on several occasions sing some of his other works at Royal Holloway and elsewhere, and it is profoundly satisfying that these opportunities are now more available to girls and women, particularly in the UK. And I eventually wrote two published articles about the composer.
I had this insight this morning that this piece of music has been, in effect, my touchstone for beauty. And by being that, it has been the touchstone for my whole life. Everything I genuinely love resonates at approximately the same beauty wavelength as this piece, and frankly, anything not on that wavelength, I find extremely challenging to walk through. (Most of my life has not, in fact, been remotely easy. Our contemporary social and economic "reality" was apparently not set in motion by a composer of HH's talents!) At this precarious and frankly frightening moment in history, it is sometimes hard to make a case for beauty: creating it, experiencing it, enjoying it, sharing it, appreciating it, whether in "manmade" or natural form. How can beauty possibly matter when our human rights are under threat, when our environment is eroding, when other people are being unspeakably cruel to fellow humans?
Yet in recent days, I've come to understand that the beauty of my personal touchstone is my life. It is who I am. My "resistance" can only come in the form of fully embracing what I find beautiful, and creating even more beauty (written, musical or artistic). Life's trials may have made a post-Christian feminist of me, but the thread of HH's music remains my lifeline, my touchstone, and my joy. I don't know if he would be appalled, amused, or honored by that last sentence, but it matters not: I'm out in the sun now, and have the freedom to say it.
Happy Birthday, Herbert Howells.
Why does this piece, and all of HH's music, resonate? First of all, it is astonishingly beautiful. It is bittersweet, hard to sing, break-your-heart-even-more-than-it-already-is stunning. At eleven or twelve, I'd sit in my room, playing it (and recordings of Anglican chant) over and over until I memorized it. I played it in my Smith College room when my roommate wasn't around. I played it in my hippie décor Upper West Side New York apartment when those roommates weren't around. I play it still, as I did this morning in HH's honor. Part of the bittersweetness that left me in tears (by "Oh Lord, in Thee have I trusted, let me never be confounded") was, of course, the realization that as a woman I was unlikely ever to sing the piece. Although I don't remember whether I ever have sung the "Te Deum," I did on several occasions sing some of his other works at Royal Holloway and elsewhere, and it is profoundly satisfying that these opportunities are now more available to girls and women, particularly in the UK. And I eventually wrote two published articles about the composer.
I had this insight this morning that this piece of music has been, in effect, my touchstone for beauty. And by being that, it has been the touchstone for my whole life. Everything I genuinely love resonates at approximately the same beauty wavelength as this piece, and frankly, anything not on that wavelength, I find extremely challenging to walk through. (Most of my life has not, in fact, been remotely easy. Our contemporary social and economic "reality" was apparently not set in motion by a composer of HH's talents!) At this precarious and frankly frightening moment in history, it is sometimes hard to make a case for beauty: creating it, experiencing it, enjoying it, sharing it, appreciating it, whether in "manmade" or natural form. How can beauty possibly matter when our human rights are under threat, when our environment is eroding, when other people are being unspeakably cruel to fellow humans?
Yet in recent days, I've come to understand that the beauty of my personal touchstone is my life. It is who I am. My "resistance" can only come in the form of fully embracing what I find beautiful, and creating even more beauty (written, musical or artistic). Life's trials may have made a post-Christian feminist of me, but the thread of HH's music remains my lifeline, my touchstone, and my joy. I don't know if he would be appalled, amused, or honored by that last sentence, but it matters not: I'm out in the sun now, and have the freedom to say it.
Happy Birthday, Herbert Howells.
Monday, October 15, 2018
My rabbit warren
Me being me, it would normally be my impulse, after several ultra-serious blog posts, to write rather lightheartedly today, just to be "nice" and not scare any readers off. Well, this doesn't seem to be that moment in history, does it? A small group of readers seems to stick with me no matter what, and I embrace all of you with warmth and appreciation. After three years, it still takes every ounce of courage to push "publish," but you help me to follow through.
So over the weekend, I was reeling from yet another slight, one of those subtle ones that I seem to specialize in that might have another explanation but which (after dozens and dozens over the years) hurts like crazy. I was trying to share a small success with an institution that I assumed would be interested, and it appears that they are not. This ties into a much longer story, of course; my life is a rabbit warren of longer stories that I have kept underground because I didn't want to get anyone in trouble, to make other people look bad. I was more willing to make myself look ridiculous and flighty, to burrow down and race in circles in the dark underground, than to speak openly and clearly out in the light. That impulse still hangs on for dear life, although the examples of dozens of brave women in the news are inspiring me to look at myself through a different lens.
Because of course, earlier in life, slights, rejections, condescension, erasure of any kind triggered enormous shame in me. Of course they rejected me, I was pathetic. I wasn't beautiful. I must not be qualified or interesting or worthy. With my skill set, I didn't deserve even to be visible or to take up room on the planet. The joy of 62, as I have noted in recent months, is waking up and almost overnight realizing how utterly absurd this is. I am beautiful, essentially good, outrageously intelligent and creative and musical and filled with every possible sort of inspiration. I am wise, observant, prophetic. I can walk into a room and almost immediately sense what is happening at a deep level and articulate that.
I finally realize that more than anything, it is that latter quality that has probably terrified some of the people and institutions I have interacted with over time. If they had reasons not to be "seen through," they knew instinctively to protect themselves from me because I literally saw them so clearly. Making me feel small worked -- until now. Making women generally feel small worked -- until now. As so many of us are turning ourselves inside out, bringing the content of those underground mole holes and rabbit warrens to the surface, the instinct to silence us may well grow even more. I cannot speak for others, but I know that I choose to persist, one step at a time, one day at a time. I am working on a self-portrait because it is the best way I can think of to say, "I choose now to be visible." To switch momentarily away from my usual water metaphors, I have crossed the threshold onto the topsoil. I am standing on Mother Earth, not burrowing through her, and I am beginning to feel the warmth of the sun directly on my face.
So over the weekend, I was reeling from yet another slight, one of those subtle ones that I seem to specialize in that might have another explanation but which (after dozens and dozens over the years) hurts like crazy. I was trying to share a small success with an institution that I assumed would be interested, and it appears that they are not. This ties into a much longer story, of course; my life is a rabbit warren of longer stories that I have kept underground because I didn't want to get anyone in trouble, to make other people look bad. I was more willing to make myself look ridiculous and flighty, to burrow down and race in circles in the dark underground, than to speak openly and clearly out in the light. That impulse still hangs on for dear life, although the examples of dozens of brave women in the news are inspiring me to look at myself through a different lens.
Because of course, earlier in life, slights, rejections, condescension, erasure of any kind triggered enormous shame in me. Of course they rejected me, I was pathetic. I wasn't beautiful. I must not be qualified or interesting or worthy. With my skill set, I didn't deserve even to be visible or to take up room on the planet. The joy of 62, as I have noted in recent months, is waking up and almost overnight realizing how utterly absurd this is. I am beautiful, essentially good, outrageously intelligent and creative and musical and filled with every possible sort of inspiration. I am wise, observant, prophetic. I can walk into a room and almost immediately sense what is happening at a deep level and articulate that.
I finally realize that more than anything, it is that latter quality that has probably terrified some of the people and institutions I have interacted with over time. If they had reasons not to be "seen through," they knew instinctively to protect themselves from me because I literally saw them so clearly. Making me feel small worked -- until now. Making women generally feel small worked -- until now. As so many of us are turning ourselves inside out, bringing the content of those underground mole holes and rabbit warrens to the surface, the instinct to silence us may well grow even more. I cannot speak for others, but I know that I choose to persist, one step at a time, one day at a time. I am working on a self-portrait because it is the best way I can think of to say, "I choose now to be visible." To switch momentarily away from my usual water metaphors, I have crossed the threshold onto the topsoil. I am standing on Mother Earth, not burrowing through her, and I am beginning to feel the warmth of the sun directly on my face.
Saturday, October 13, 2018
Ruins
I know I rarely post on weekends, but the "spirit is moving me."
Back when I was in my teens, I took a long daily school bus ride from Schenectady to the schools I attended (St. Agnes, 7th through 10th grade, and Albany Academy for Girls, 11th and 12th grades.) The bus wended its way around the two cities, but the longest stretch was down the Albany-Schenectady Road (Rt. 5). Even back then, and this is the late 1960's and early 1970's, this was an early version of what is now called a "strip." What undoubtedly at some point had been farmland (and before that, forest) was now block after block of gas stations, dry cleaners, clothing stores, insurance agencies, hair dressers, carwashes, etc., all the way from one city to the other. And this is before the era of endless fast food restaurants, although some early ones probably had cropped up by the seventies. Even in their own time, these unremarkable stores, all surrounded by paved parking lots, were, to me, an eyesore. I've never found any aspect of American suburbs to be beautiful, and the commercial strips are the worst, spreading, as they do, to any available vacant patch of land. Because I never understood the profit incentive, the urge to spread more and more retail establishments on people's path seems bizarre. Recent forays down Rt. 5 have felt particularly post-apocalyptic to me. Some of the original stores remain, with hopelessly outdated original signage, cheek-by-jowl with many more modern fast food places. My 20's era elementary school is still there, but boarded up and abandoned. One reason (of many) that I couldn't stay any longer in that area of the world is that it already feels to me like ruins.
Watching the aerial coverage of this hurricane was heartbreaking because it shows a slice of land that was similarly covered by sprawling development, literally in ruins. Mile after mile of homes, trailers, shops, malls, schools, restaurants, entirely flattened. These people are living a potential future for any or all of us; with no electricity, there can be no banking, pumping of gas, communications, food storage, control of waste, you name it. What will personal property lines mean when the landscape has re-formed, when you cannot even see the ground, and trees have been uprooted? What will it matter that you are on important, life-saving medications if pharmacies are closed? What will it matter that you have a job if it isn't there any more? It is almost too much to take in, yet I think we must start to recognize that it is a current and growing reality. I utterly feel for everyone down there and for the shocking U-turn their lives have made, but even more so for the health of the natural environment as tons and tons of unleashed toxic materials make their way into the oceans, rivers, and topsoil. In our exuberance, in our push to own and profit and "grow," we certainly didn't think ahead.
What is so out of kilter hasn't been the urge to create and innovate. Many of the fruits of this creativity have been extraordinary. But it is the fact that this impulse didn't recognize the necessity of working with nature, with purveyors of beauty, with women's priorities -- that is why we are at such a momentous impasse. Once again, I've heard people talk about restoring power, re-building, getting things back to the way they were, and yet I just don't think this is really the life lesson of this experience. The way things have been has not been sustainable. That is the whole point.
Back when I was in my teens, I took a long daily school bus ride from Schenectady to the schools I attended (St. Agnes, 7th through 10th grade, and Albany Academy for Girls, 11th and 12th grades.) The bus wended its way around the two cities, but the longest stretch was down the Albany-Schenectady Road (Rt. 5). Even back then, and this is the late 1960's and early 1970's, this was an early version of what is now called a "strip." What undoubtedly at some point had been farmland (and before that, forest) was now block after block of gas stations, dry cleaners, clothing stores, insurance agencies, hair dressers, carwashes, etc., all the way from one city to the other. And this is before the era of endless fast food restaurants, although some early ones probably had cropped up by the seventies. Even in their own time, these unremarkable stores, all surrounded by paved parking lots, were, to me, an eyesore. I've never found any aspect of American suburbs to be beautiful, and the commercial strips are the worst, spreading, as they do, to any available vacant patch of land. Because I never understood the profit incentive, the urge to spread more and more retail establishments on people's path seems bizarre. Recent forays down Rt. 5 have felt particularly post-apocalyptic to me. Some of the original stores remain, with hopelessly outdated original signage, cheek-by-jowl with many more modern fast food places. My 20's era elementary school is still there, but boarded up and abandoned. One reason (of many) that I couldn't stay any longer in that area of the world is that it already feels to me like ruins.
Watching the aerial coverage of this hurricane was heartbreaking because it shows a slice of land that was similarly covered by sprawling development, literally in ruins. Mile after mile of homes, trailers, shops, malls, schools, restaurants, entirely flattened. These people are living a potential future for any or all of us; with no electricity, there can be no banking, pumping of gas, communications, food storage, control of waste, you name it. What will personal property lines mean when the landscape has re-formed, when you cannot even see the ground, and trees have been uprooted? What will it matter that you are on important, life-saving medications if pharmacies are closed? What will it matter that you have a job if it isn't there any more? It is almost too much to take in, yet I think we must start to recognize that it is a current and growing reality. I utterly feel for everyone down there and for the shocking U-turn their lives have made, but even more so for the health of the natural environment as tons and tons of unleashed toxic materials make their way into the oceans, rivers, and topsoil. In our exuberance, in our push to own and profit and "grow," we certainly didn't think ahead.
What is so out of kilter hasn't been the urge to create and innovate. Many of the fruits of this creativity have been extraordinary. But it is the fact that this impulse didn't recognize the necessity of working with nature, with purveyors of beauty, with women's priorities -- that is why we are at such a momentous impasse. Once again, I've heard people talk about restoring power, re-building, getting things back to the way they were, and yet I just don't think this is really the life lesson of this experience. The way things have been has not been sustainable. That is the whole point.
Thursday, October 11, 2018
Collage
To refer back to my last post, I have not started a sculpture, but I have started to work on a collage -- a self-portrait collage. No, this is not a creative visualization collage with pictures of beautiful homes and beaches and the ideal boyfriend. And it's not going to be surrealist. My whole life has been surreal, so I can't go there. No, this will be relatively realistic. I'm going to try to do what I have done more successfully in oil painting and drawing, which will be to create three dimensions through shading. My skin will be made up of little snippets of color magazine photographs shaded to look from a distance like paint. The background will feature images that have some reference to my life so far. I even found a photograph of Manhattan from the air, and was able to cut out my old neighborhood on the Upper West Side. What's great about collage is the serendipity of finding images and textures that you don't expect and couldn't ever have planned ahead for. I don't know if this will all "work" but all I can do is try. I was pleased with the preliminary sketch that I did. I am pleased that I can still do art.
Yesterday was a powerful day all around. The devastation of the hurricane, the drop on Wall Street. The western shores of Lake Superior were pummeled with wind and ocean-sized waves. It was not a good day to be a manmade structure on the water's edge. I may have been up the hill, but I could feel the battering within me.
I think I have said this before, so forgive any repetition. I don't like hearing references to "Mother Nature's Wrath." I cannot speak for Mother Nature. She may well be angry. (I've just started Rebecca Traister's Good and Mad and it's helping me put my own anger into a larger historical context.) But our human understanding is so limited, and this terminology can play too easily into an "us against nature" or a "she is ruining all our plans" mind frame. She isn't. We are part of nature. Earth is part of us. We are all one. Yes, she is scrambling desperately to restore the kind of balance that makes our life on this planet possible. We can work with her, be part of her, and help her restore that balance respectfully, or not.
Yesterday was a powerful day all around. The devastation of the hurricane, the drop on Wall Street. The western shores of Lake Superior were pummeled with wind and ocean-sized waves. It was not a good day to be a manmade structure on the water's edge. I may have been up the hill, but I could feel the battering within me.
I think I have said this before, so forgive any repetition. I don't like hearing references to "Mother Nature's Wrath." I cannot speak for Mother Nature. She may well be angry. (I've just started Rebecca Traister's Good and Mad and it's helping me put my own anger into a larger historical context.) But our human understanding is so limited, and this terminology can play too easily into an "us against nature" or a "she is ruining all our plans" mind frame. She isn't. We are part of nature. Earth is part of us. We are all one. Yes, she is scrambling desperately to restore the kind of balance that makes our life on this planet possible. We can work with her, be part of her, and help her restore that balance respectfully, or not.
Monday, October 8, 2018
The Statue that is Me
Yet again, a woman risks all to come forward to articulate her truth, and yet again, the world rolls on as if nothing had happened. If this hadn't been my whole life story, I might be able to just roll on, myself, but it has been my life story, just in different arenas. Am I angry? Of course. But that's the point, I've been tired and angry and depressed and frustrated and confused by it all for a lifetime. Most of this has been in reference to people outside myself, people who have chosen (or have no choice but) to be cruel or violent or dismissive or fear-filled. I've tried to understand, to facilitate, to provide a positive model, to take the high road, to make sense of things, to study the history, you name it. I've stayed on the margins of life because I couldn't bear the heartless energy of our institutions, yet I still lent it all validity by agreeing that it was "reality" and giving it much of my focus. So much of my life energy has gone to the statue that is them, and so little to the statue that is me.
As I try to understand a world beyond dualities, I guess today all I can do is try to get beyond "versus." "And" is the word of the day. Yes, I acknowledge that there appear to be two very different perspectives on the world, that they both exist and are at odds. Today, rather than focus on the statue that is them or fight that statue, I acknowledge that their statue exists, but commit to the statue that is "me." I'm removing the veiling that has covered this statuesque creation, and the tape over my mouth. I am knitting the pieces back together, and forming or re-forming the beautiful, powerful body of this work of art. I commit to creating beauty, harmony, and a sense of peace around me. It's not about ignoring that other, already-crumbling statue. It is about knowing with certainty that it is crumbling because of its very nature, and that the best thing to do now is focus on the positive qualities that have some chance of helping earth and its people to survive into the future.
As I try to understand a world beyond dualities, I guess today all I can do is try to get beyond "versus." "And" is the word of the day. Yes, I acknowledge that there appear to be two very different perspectives on the world, that they both exist and are at odds. Today, rather than focus on the statue that is them or fight that statue, I acknowledge that their statue exists, but commit to the statue that is "me." I'm removing the veiling that has covered this statuesque creation, and the tape over my mouth. I am knitting the pieces back together, and forming or re-forming the beautiful, powerful body of this work of art. I commit to creating beauty, harmony, and a sense of peace around me. It's not about ignoring that other, already-crumbling statue. It is about knowing with certainty that it is crumbling because of its very nature, and that the best thing to do now is focus on the positive qualities that have some chance of helping earth and its people to survive into the future.
Thursday, October 4, 2018
Knitting
The other day, I bought some yarn and have started knitting a scarf. I am your basic knit-and-purl knitter, slow and steady. If I have to do any major counting or figuring out of designs, "fuggettaboutit." So far, I've only gotten about five inches into the project, as I am only knitting when the nightly news is on TV. I cannot bear to watch it, so if I focus on the stitches, I can at least keep track audibly of what is going on in this absolutely crazy world.
"Knitting" can be added to my growing list of metaphors, a good one for now. I have sloughed off so much, and what hasn't been shed has been blown rather to bits from outside. Here I am, by the shores of Lake Superior, trying to knit remaining strands back together. It is involving a lot of decisions and energetic matches and mismatches, things that I thought would work out but are not, people who I thought I would immediately connect with but haven't. The lake remains a beloved constant. I am here, now. But is it "home"? "We shall see," as my mother used to say. A lot of until-now-not-fully-understood aspects of the topic of "home" are coming into focus, for future blogs. Plus, there's the old problem here that there isn't a C of E cathedral on the horizon. I still have to rely on photographs of Gloucester, Wells, Lincoln, Salisbury, Ely, etc. online.
A violent near-tornadic wind hit last night, and I was further chilled to the core to read a public quote by Dr. Blasey Ford's father. It sounded so cold, so familiar, so arm's length, the words I felt being "we know who she is, but we no longer embrace her." I doubt that she reads my blog, but wherever she is, I hope she knows that many of us embrace her.
I have seen a lot of women knitting recently (at the bus station, in church, etc.) or walking out of craft stores with bags of wool. A whole lot of knitting going on. A whole lot of women knitting their shattered lives back together.
"Knitting" can be added to my growing list of metaphors, a good one for now. I have sloughed off so much, and what hasn't been shed has been blown rather to bits from outside. Here I am, by the shores of Lake Superior, trying to knit remaining strands back together. It is involving a lot of decisions and energetic matches and mismatches, things that I thought would work out but are not, people who I thought I would immediately connect with but haven't. The lake remains a beloved constant. I am here, now. But is it "home"? "We shall see," as my mother used to say. A lot of until-now-not-fully-understood aspects of the topic of "home" are coming into focus, for future blogs. Plus, there's the old problem here that there isn't a C of E cathedral on the horizon. I still have to rely on photographs of Gloucester, Wells, Lincoln, Salisbury, Ely, etc. online.
A violent near-tornadic wind hit last night, and I was further chilled to the core to read a public quote by Dr. Blasey Ford's father. It sounded so cold, so familiar, so arm's length, the words I felt being "we know who she is, but we no longer embrace her." I doubt that she reads my blog, but wherever she is, I hope she knows that many of us embrace her.
I have seen a lot of women knitting recently (at the bus station, in church, etc.) or walking out of craft stores with bags of wool. A whole lot of knitting going on. A whole lot of women knitting their shattered lives back together.
Monday, October 1, 2018
Floodgates, Two
I had no idea, when I wrote Thursday's blog "Floodgates" early in the morning, that the word would take on even more resonance as the day wore on. The few days since then have shaken the country, as traumas have been remembered, shame has surfaced or re-surfaced, and hard conversations could no longer be put off. It is like hands across a million mouths and forearms across a million windpipes, whether real or metaphorical, are being peeled off. The assumption of silence, long teetering on the edge, may finally be a thing of the past.
How much of our construct has been based on the silence of women, children, so-called minorities (no one should be called "minor"), and Mother Earth ("Heck, let's extract every last natural resource from her body. She isn't saying anything.") What happens to all our institutions when the silent begin to open their mouths?
I listened to Dr. Ford's opening statement, then I turned the TV off. I personally could not bear to hear her questioned or challenged. She spoke her truth, and did the best she could, courageously. In the wake of everything I have been trying to make sense of in my own life, that was all I could take in, on Thursday anyway.
This is a most extraordinary time.
How much of our construct has been based on the silence of women, children, so-called minorities (no one should be called "minor"), and Mother Earth ("Heck, let's extract every last natural resource from her body. She isn't saying anything.") What happens to all our institutions when the silent begin to open their mouths?
I listened to Dr. Ford's opening statement, then I turned the TV off. I personally could not bear to hear her questioned or challenged. She spoke her truth, and did the best she could, courageously. In the wake of everything I have been trying to make sense of in my own life, that was all I could take in, on Thursday anyway.
This is a most extraordinary time.
Thursday, September 27, 2018
Floodgates
I guess it stands to reason that I opened the floodgates last week, and stuff is pouring out.
The topic that is calling most urgently is one that I suspect most of my friends and readers may find surprising, although I don't think it is uncommon: All my life, I have felt that deep down, I must be "evil."
A stranger might immediately jump to the conclusion that religion was involved, and certainly, Christianity's concept of "original sin" has a lot to answer for. As an Episcopalian, I was exposed this notion, but not over-exposed, if you know what I mean. Yes, I joined in the Book of Common Prayer's "Prayer of Humble Access," where I said that I was "not worthy so much as to gather up the crumbs under Thy table." I literally believed the words of the hymn Herzliebster Jesu ("I crucified Thee") and I've written about how I confessed in fourth grade to sins I not only did not commit, but couldn't possibly have understood. But my church upbringing didn't seem to me to focus on sin, but more on beauty, the beauty of the service words and music (presumably as a window to the beauty of heaven?!) There were no "fire and brimstone" sermons, or extra weekday services. At home, except for a simple daily grace at the dinner table, my parents never mentioned religion or good vs. evil. The Bible was not read except for the Christmas story, on Christmas Eve. Adult parties (at which our church rector was a frequent guest) featured alcohol and cigarettes.
No, I think my sense of being evil came earlier, almost as a birthright. And the following is the only sense I can make of it.
What if people like my dad, with limited-to-no capacity to love others or to see outside themselves, literally consider "good" people "evil"? What if this duality is turned so totally on its head in them that they cannot tolerate the qualities that most people would agree are good -- kindness, generosity, truth, wisdom, beauty, respect for others, etc. I guess it might make sense for a "good" child born into this situation to get the impression that they were evil. Speaking only for myself, I think what happened was that, to counteract how bad I had the impression that I was, I worked hard to be abnormally "good." This wasn't to impress people, but out of a simple desire to overcome my badness and earn the possibility of being loved. Of course, the irony is that, the more good I tried to be, the more I felt myself being held at arm's length (nothing, of course, was ever said), intensifying and providing more momentum to the whole circular process. If I slipped even in the slightest, I felt not only mild embarrassment, regret or mortification, but genuine, pit-of-the-stomach "I don't belong here on this planet" kind of self-hatred, which has continued until very recently. A small accident, like breaking someone's drinking glass in their kitchen sink, brought on a level of terror and self-loathing utterly out of proportion to the actual event. This daughter of someone who was incapable of apologizing has been the queen of apologizing. And I've had a tendency to think I am responsible when anything anywhere near me goes wrong, just because I was in the vicinity. Really?
There may be no way for me to ever know for sure if this theory holds water, in my life or in general. No one close to me ever said anything, and it was the utter silence around everything that left room for so many self-negating assumptions, left me blaming myself for not being loved. Yes, there is a lot of "unpacking" of this that I need to do. But I am glad to say that, over the last few months, I have noticed that I am less terrified of myself. The sense that I might be inherently evil seems to be completely dissolving from my core. This rebirth is bringing with it a measure of self-acceptance. I may be many things, but evil? Of course not. It was a preposterous misconception, wherever it came from.
The topic that is calling most urgently is one that I suspect most of my friends and readers may find surprising, although I don't think it is uncommon: All my life, I have felt that deep down, I must be "evil."
A stranger might immediately jump to the conclusion that religion was involved, and certainly, Christianity's concept of "original sin" has a lot to answer for. As an Episcopalian, I was exposed this notion, but not over-exposed, if you know what I mean. Yes, I joined in the Book of Common Prayer's "Prayer of Humble Access," where I said that I was "not worthy so much as to gather up the crumbs under Thy table." I literally believed the words of the hymn Herzliebster Jesu ("I crucified Thee") and I've written about how I confessed in fourth grade to sins I not only did not commit, but couldn't possibly have understood. But my church upbringing didn't seem to me to focus on sin, but more on beauty, the beauty of the service words and music (presumably as a window to the beauty of heaven?!) There were no "fire and brimstone" sermons, or extra weekday services. At home, except for a simple daily grace at the dinner table, my parents never mentioned religion or good vs. evil. The Bible was not read except for the Christmas story, on Christmas Eve. Adult parties (at which our church rector was a frequent guest) featured alcohol and cigarettes.
No, I think my sense of being evil came earlier, almost as a birthright. And the following is the only sense I can make of it.
What if people like my dad, with limited-to-no capacity to love others or to see outside themselves, literally consider "good" people "evil"? What if this duality is turned so totally on its head in them that they cannot tolerate the qualities that most people would agree are good -- kindness, generosity, truth, wisdom, beauty, respect for others, etc. I guess it might make sense for a "good" child born into this situation to get the impression that they were evil. Speaking only for myself, I think what happened was that, to counteract how bad I had the impression that I was, I worked hard to be abnormally "good." This wasn't to impress people, but out of a simple desire to overcome my badness and earn the possibility of being loved. Of course, the irony is that, the more good I tried to be, the more I felt myself being held at arm's length (nothing, of course, was ever said), intensifying and providing more momentum to the whole circular process. If I slipped even in the slightest, I felt not only mild embarrassment, regret or mortification, but genuine, pit-of-the-stomach "I don't belong here on this planet" kind of self-hatred, which has continued until very recently. A small accident, like breaking someone's drinking glass in their kitchen sink, brought on a level of terror and self-loathing utterly out of proportion to the actual event. This daughter of someone who was incapable of apologizing has been the queen of apologizing. And I've had a tendency to think I am responsible when anything anywhere near me goes wrong, just because I was in the vicinity. Really?
There may be no way for me to ever know for sure if this theory holds water, in my life or in general. No one close to me ever said anything, and it was the utter silence around everything that left room for so many self-negating assumptions, left me blaming myself for not being loved. Yes, there is a lot of "unpacking" of this that I need to do. But I am glad to say that, over the last few months, I have noticed that I am less terrified of myself. The sense that I might be inherently evil seems to be completely dissolving from my core. This rebirth is bringing with it a measure of self-acceptance. I may be many things, but evil? Of course not. It was a preposterous misconception, wherever it came from.
Monday, September 24, 2018
The follow-up
Lightning hasn't struck me dead since last week. I still seem to be in one piece. The unspoken lifetime threat, "speak, and disaster will strike," has so far proved to be a lie, like so many others. Of course, it helps when by some measures your whole life has already been a disaster, or at least an unusual, unconventional, nontraditional jumble. The old, "when you've got nothing, you've got nothing to lose" thing again.
So I'm shaky, but I have survived. It took three years of blog practice, but I told an important truth last week and I hope speaking out will only get easier and easier.
There are so many major tasks facing me, not the least of which is finding more permanent housing. But first things had to come first this fall, and right this minute I am focusing on the little accomplishments.
In recent years, on solstices and equinoxes, I've pulled a Tarot card to represent the energy of the upcoming three months. What did I pick Saturday but Queen of Wands? For me, she is the queen of passion and possibility, of being able (literally) to point to a goal and make things happen. To say, "I declare this" and it happens easily and quickly. May all women on this planet find that inner power this fall.
And in the last few days, I have just tried to notice when I am happy, and what makes me happy. The other night, I watched "Educating Rita," which I used to show as part of the Allegory of the Cave unit of one of my courses at the community college. (See my October 3, 2016 blog, "Liz's New Allegory.") I know this film "dead well," and love it. Afterwards, I found myself singing its faux-Thomas Arne fanfare music, and was told I sounded happy. Well yes, I was happy. I love seeing my beloved England in any form. I love English (-y) music. I love this story of a plucky "lower-class" woman who loses almost everything in order to gain an education and find herself. I allowed myself to trust, even for a few minutes, that it is valid to love what I love. It may seem like a simple equation, but it hasn't always been for me, as you may know from previous blogs. The music flowed exuberantly from my heart.
I also stepped out of my comfort zone to attend an event I wasn't sure I would like, and in a sense I didn't, but I might have made an important connection or two, and I learned more about navigating the city on weekends, by bus and on foot. The whole experience expanded me.
And finally, the "gales of November" came really early and we had a cold rain-wind-branches whipping off the trees-whitecaps visible on the lake from a mile away-kind of storm. I felt a distinct shiver. ("This is Duluth. We ain't seen nothing yet.") But my thankfulness for a warm, dry perch, friendships, and space to grow knows no bounds. Yes, I have survived. And I think maybe, even more than before, I am on the cusp of beginning to learn how to thrive. It continues to be one day at a time.
So I'm shaky, but I have survived. It took three years of blog practice, but I told an important truth last week and I hope speaking out will only get easier and easier.
There are so many major tasks facing me, not the least of which is finding more permanent housing. But first things had to come first this fall, and right this minute I am focusing on the little accomplishments.
In recent years, on solstices and equinoxes, I've pulled a Tarot card to represent the energy of the upcoming three months. What did I pick Saturday but Queen of Wands? For me, she is the queen of passion and possibility, of being able (literally) to point to a goal and make things happen. To say, "I declare this" and it happens easily and quickly. May all women on this planet find that inner power this fall.
And in the last few days, I have just tried to notice when I am happy, and what makes me happy. The other night, I watched "Educating Rita," which I used to show as part of the Allegory of the Cave unit of one of my courses at the community college. (See my October 3, 2016 blog, "Liz's New Allegory.") I know this film "dead well," and love it. Afterwards, I found myself singing its faux-Thomas Arne fanfare music, and was told I sounded happy. Well yes, I was happy. I love seeing my beloved England in any form. I love English (-y) music. I love this story of a plucky "lower-class" woman who loses almost everything in order to gain an education and find herself. I allowed myself to trust, even for a few minutes, that it is valid to love what I love. It may seem like a simple equation, but it hasn't always been for me, as you may know from previous blogs. The music flowed exuberantly from my heart.
I also stepped out of my comfort zone to attend an event I wasn't sure I would like, and in a sense I didn't, but I might have made an important connection or two, and I learned more about navigating the city on weekends, by bus and on foot. The whole experience expanded me.
And finally, the "gales of November" came really early and we had a cold rain-wind-branches whipping off the trees-whitecaps visible on the lake from a mile away-kind of storm. I felt a distinct shiver. ("This is Duluth. We ain't seen nothing yet.") But my thankfulness for a warm, dry perch, friendships, and space to grow knows no bounds. Yes, I have survived. And I think maybe, even more than before, I am on the cusp of beginning to learn how to thrive. It continues to be one day at a time.
Thursday, September 20, 2018
Event horizon
After writing the post on Monday, probably the hardest one I have ever published, I did the following three things: listened to Choral Evensong on BBC Radio 3, made an unsuccessful batch of cookies (subsequently tossed out, rare for me), and then spent an hour curled up in bed with a stuffed animal. I regrouped somewhat later in the day, but the waves continue to hit, waves I had hoped were over when I returned to "the water" a few months ago!
Of course, there is a little part of me wishing my memories would all have gone away, making writing or thinking about them unnecessary. And there is that voice continuing to say to me, as it has my whole life, you're making a big deal about nothing. All the brave women coming forward right now were actively attacked. You were not, so what is your problem? (Comparisons, begone!)
Well, that's the whole thing. Breathtaking lack of humanity doesn't always come in the form of rape, violent beatings, shootings, knifings, torture, kidnappings, gas attacks, etc. It does not always come in the form of violence foisted upon you or into you.
It can be silent, a black hole that pulls in everything around it. It is the opposite energy, a pulling in rather than a lashing out. If you are at the receiving end of it, you spend your life in an abyss so deep that when you attempt the Sisyphean task of clawing yourself out, just as you reach the event horizon you fall back in and start the process all over again. All those qualities that human beings so dearly want to experience -- love, support, respect, visibility, a sense of home, a sense of hope, a sense of connectedness, validation of your uniqueness, abundance, fulfilling work -- are always just beyond the horizon. You know somehow deep in your bones that you deserve them as much as every other person on the planet, but they are always out of reach. The black hole is, indeed, "nothing," but a person with that energy needs to pull in everything around them to survive, to seem like "something." The resulting chaos to those of us around them is very real.
As of now, anyway, I am not angry about my experience because I know my soul chose it for a variety of reasons (more on that another day). Yes, I wish I could have continued to sidestep talking about it so that I wouldn't risk having it define me. Those beautiful things beyond the event horizon still feel far away, but one thing feels better today -- I know that out in the world, there must be many women and men who have had similar experiences, and perhaps my imperfect attempt to articulate what it is like will help them, too.
Of course, there is a little part of me wishing my memories would all have gone away, making writing or thinking about them unnecessary. And there is that voice continuing to say to me, as it has my whole life, you're making a big deal about nothing. All the brave women coming forward right now were actively attacked. You were not, so what is your problem? (Comparisons, begone!)
Well, that's the whole thing. Breathtaking lack of humanity doesn't always come in the form of rape, violent beatings, shootings, knifings, torture, kidnappings, gas attacks, etc. It does not always come in the form of violence foisted upon you or into you.
It can be silent, a black hole that pulls in everything around it. It is the opposite energy, a pulling in rather than a lashing out. If you are at the receiving end of it, you spend your life in an abyss so deep that when you attempt the Sisyphean task of clawing yourself out, just as you reach the event horizon you fall back in and start the process all over again. All those qualities that human beings so dearly want to experience -- love, support, respect, visibility, a sense of home, a sense of hope, a sense of connectedness, validation of your uniqueness, abundance, fulfilling work -- are always just beyond the horizon. You know somehow deep in your bones that you deserve them as much as every other person on the planet, but they are always out of reach. The black hole is, indeed, "nothing," but a person with that energy needs to pull in everything around them to survive, to seem like "something." The resulting chaos to those of us around them is very real.
As of now, anyway, I am not angry about my experience because I know my soul chose it for a variety of reasons (more on that another day). Yes, I wish I could have continued to sidestep talking about it so that I wouldn't risk having it define me. Those beautiful things beyond the event horizon still feel far away, but one thing feels better today -- I know that out in the world, there must be many women and men who have had similar experiences, and perhaps my imperfect attempt to articulate what it is like will help them, too.
Monday, September 17, 2018
The lesson in the bag of candy
Well, OK, here I go, before I lose my nerve.
As regular readers and friends know, my dad passed away a few months ago. It was a bittersweet milestone, really. I envy the people who can genuinely grieve for a parent, and who can truly celebrate a long life well-lived.
In my case, my dad was a lifelong mystery. On the surface, he was handsome, sweet, smiling, WASPY, with a uniform of button-down shirts, rep ties, and (depending on the situation), grey flannel trousers or tan chinos. But the core reality that I experienced from childhood was his alcoholism. From the moment he got home from work at 5 pm, he poured himself a new cocktail every twenty to thirty minutes until, somewhere around 8 pm, he would "fall asleep in front of television." So many nights, I would try to wake Daddy up, shaking his shoulders, but he remained entirely unresponsive and slack-faced in his easy chair. It felt, to me, like he died every night. I knew that he didn't from the evidence of my eyes (there he was, leaving for work the next morning) but it was a daily heartbreak that I was not allowed to acknowledge or understand.
During my 20s and 30s, I explored this situation (and subsequent family perplexities) in therapy and 12-step programs, and yet I never felt that I had gotten to its core. No one else in the family wished to join me in solving the mystery, and so for a good decade or more I just tried to forget about it all and get along with everyone.
Somewhere around 2000, an old friend of the family expressed dismay that I had changed my life entirely in order to help take care of my mom while she was dying. This woman said, "Your father is an incubus. He's just using you." I was so clueless, I had to ask her what an incubus was. Vampire. Bloodsucker. I said, "Oh no, you're wrong."
Fast forward to 2014. Two years earlier, I had moved to his town out west, both because the choir at St. John the Divine had been disbanded and I wasn't sure what to do next, and because I thought once again that I could be in relationship with family by "helping." (Dad was due to make a major move into a different housing situation, something that never actually happened.) It had been a wrenchingly difficult few years, but I had survived. One night, I ate dinner with dad at his swank retirement community's dining room, and he said to me, "Liz, come back to my apartment for a minute before leaving. I have a present for you." Silly me. Dad had almost never spontaneously offered me anything and my heart almost burst with anticipation as we walked down the hall.
He handed me a 99-cent plastic bag of discount candy, you know, those sugar-coated fruit slice-shaped soft gum drops. Before I even registered the shock and disappointment of receiving something so totally worthless after such fanfare, I sensed that there was something even more amiss. The bag felt oddly heavy. I pinched one of the candies between the plastic and my fingers and it was as hard as a rock. I peered at the expiration date (I am the Queen of expiration dates). Lo and behold, that date was a good seven or eight years earlier.
"Dad, this candy is extremely stale." Silence.
I plucked up all my courage, and with as much control as I could muster, I said, "What on earth would possess you to give your beloved only daughter a stale bag of candy years past its expiration date?" He looked at me with this utterly blank look that often came over his eyes, but he regrouped and said, "I thought that you could share them with your friends at the Y." (The fact that he was living in luxury and I was living at the YWCA was another one of those clues that was finally adding up, although all of a sudden I was proud to be there.) I said, "Dad, what kind of person would I be to do such a thing? Most of these women are living in abject poverty, missing many of their teeth, and breaking a tooth would lead to dental work they cannot afford." He stared back at me, and then walked away. I dropped the bag into his wastebasket, and walked out the door. This was a watershed moment. This wasn't about his age, or dementia (which he did not have) or alcohol. This wasn't just "a man of his generation." This wasn't some unique situation, the result of a bad day. This was the latest in a string of inexplicably subtle but cruel interactions that I had never understood, and it had to signal something far worse.
The next morning, I went to the public library, and wandered around the psychology section hoping that some insight would leap out at me. And of course, information that might be applicable was easy, but horrifying, to find. Dad would never in a million years have consulted with any mental health professionals, so an accurate diagnosis may never be possible. And I'll never know whether his condition, whatever it was, was genetic, or the result of his experiences in World War II. I'm just going to be conservative and refer to it as extreme narcissism. But surrounded by stacks of books and the light slanting in from high library windows, I finally came to understand my experience of my father.
Other than the New York Giants, the New York Yankees, and alcohol, I never experienced my dad taking a loving interest in me or any other person, activity, or situation. He never really had a career, hobby or creative pursuit.
I never experienced my dad apologizing or expressing regret for anything, even though there were many events and situations where that might have been appropriate.
I never experienced my dad expressing genuine appreciation for anyone or anything, unless it reflected on him. (On Easter, he would tell me and my mom, "My ladies look nice today," kind of thing.) He did stand up and say some nice words about me at my 50th birthday, words he had never said directly to me; there were some of his old friends there, and I'll never know who he was really speaking to.
I never experienced my dad helping people or offering to help. He never said, "Here, let me do that for you" or "I'm going down the street to help Joe paint his shed." He didn't belong to civic, church, or volunteer groups. Most of my interactions involved my feeling that I had to help him. However, late in life he led the residents' group at his retirement community, which I never really saw firsthand. Perhaps a new side of him came out at that time.
In my experience, my dad was highly manipulative about money. That is all I will say for now on that subject.
Fortunately, my dad had no global ambitions, and his energy vis a vis the world was quite passive. The people most affected by his emptiness were family. I think the fact that I was female and utterly his opposite meant that I was exiled, at birth, to a point off his radar screen, except for some key occasions when he could use my free help. The candy incident gave me an intellectual context for finally solving the family mystery, but the waves of emotion didn't start to hit me until last year. I apologize to readers for taking so long to more fully explain some of my metaphors, but I literally didn't dare speak until well after he was gone.
I left Montana soon after I learned the lesson in the bag of candy, but I did go back one more time two years ago, when he almost died. We had what we both knew to be our last encounter. I thanked him quite genuinely and in a heartfelt way for the emphasis he had placed on getting a good education, for his and mom's choice of churches (where I was introduced to the English church music tradition), and for our summers on Lake Champlain. I told him how these three things had enriched my life. And then there was silence. This was when another father might have jumped in to say, "I love you so much, honey. I am proud of you. I hope you will have a wonderful, happy future." Instead, a long, dead, silence. I finally blurted out, "Dad, do you even love me?" He said, "Of course." "What is it that you love? I mean, I am not sure I even know." He looked at me blankly, clearly not having a clue what love is, who I am, or how a quote-unquote "normal" father would feel on parting for the last time from his daughter. Finally, after a few more empty moments, I stood up, went over and kissed him on the top of his head, said, "Good-bye, Dad," and walked out.
There are a million more stories to tell, but that's all I can bear for today. I guess you can see why, when I say I'm just now learning about love from scratch, I am not joking. I think I have always known how to love, but not how to believe that love, respect, or caring will ever be returned in my direction.
As regular readers and friends know, my dad passed away a few months ago. It was a bittersweet milestone, really. I envy the people who can genuinely grieve for a parent, and who can truly celebrate a long life well-lived.
In my case, my dad was a lifelong mystery. On the surface, he was handsome, sweet, smiling, WASPY, with a uniform of button-down shirts, rep ties, and (depending on the situation), grey flannel trousers or tan chinos. But the core reality that I experienced from childhood was his alcoholism. From the moment he got home from work at 5 pm, he poured himself a new cocktail every twenty to thirty minutes until, somewhere around 8 pm, he would "fall asleep in front of television." So many nights, I would try to wake Daddy up, shaking his shoulders, but he remained entirely unresponsive and slack-faced in his easy chair. It felt, to me, like he died every night. I knew that he didn't from the evidence of my eyes (there he was, leaving for work the next morning) but it was a daily heartbreak that I was not allowed to acknowledge or understand.
During my 20s and 30s, I explored this situation (and subsequent family perplexities) in therapy and 12-step programs, and yet I never felt that I had gotten to its core. No one else in the family wished to join me in solving the mystery, and so for a good decade or more I just tried to forget about it all and get along with everyone.
Somewhere around 2000, an old friend of the family expressed dismay that I had changed my life entirely in order to help take care of my mom while she was dying. This woman said, "Your father is an incubus. He's just using you." I was so clueless, I had to ask her what an incubus was. Vampire. Bloodsucker. I said, "Oh no, you're wrong."
Fast forward to 2014. Two years earlier, I had moved to his town out west, both because the choir at St. John the Divine had been disbanded and I wasn't sure what to do next, and because I thought once again that I could be in relationship with family by "helping." (Dad was due to make a major move into a different housing situation, something that never actually happened.) It had been a wrenchingly difficult few years, but I had survived. One night, I ate dinner with dad at his swank retirement community's dining room, and he said to me, "Liz, come back to my apartment for a minute before leaving. I have a present for you." Silly me. Dad had almost never spontaneously offered me anything and my heart almost burst with anticipation as we walked down the hall.
He handed me a 99-cent plastic bag of discount candy, you know, those sugar-coated fruit slice-shaped soft gum drops. Before I even registered the shock and disappointment of receiving something so totally worthless after such fanfare, I sensed that there was something even more amiss. The bag felt oddly heavy. I pinched one of the candies between the plastic and my fingers and it was as hard as a rock. I peered at the expiration date (I am the Queen of expiration dates). Lo and behold, that date was a good seven or eight years earlier.
"Dad, this candy is extremely stale." Silence.
I plucked up all my courage, and with as much control as I could muster, I said, "What on earth would possess you to give your beloved only daughter a stale bag of candy years past its expiration date?" He looked at me with this utterly blank look that often came over his eyes, but he regrouped and said, "I thought that you could share them with your friends at the Y." (The fact that he was living in luxury and I was living at the YWCA was another one of those clues that was finally adding up, although all of a sudden I was proud to be there.) I said, "Dad, what kind of person would I be to do such a thing? Most of these women are living in abject poverty, missing many of their teeth, and breaking a tooth would lead to dental work they cannot afford." He stared back at me, and then walked away. I dropped the bag into his wastebasket, and walked out the door. This was a watershed moment. This wasn't about his age, or dementia (which he did not have) or alcohol. This wasn't just "a man of his generation." This wasn't some unique situation, the result of a bad day. This was the latest in a string of inexplicably subtle but cruel interactions that I had never understood, and it had to signal something far worse.
The next morning, I went to the public library, and wandered around the psychology section hoping that some insight would leap out at me. And of course, information that might be applicable was easy, but horrifying, to find. Dad would never in a million years have consulted with any mental health professionals, so an accurate diagnosis may never be possible. And I'll never know whether his condition, whatever it was, was genetic, or the result of his experiences in World War II. I'm just going to be conservative and refer to it as extreme narcissism. But surrounded by stacks of books and the light slanting in from high library windows, I finally came to understand my experience of my father.
Other than the New York Giants, the New York Yankees, and alcohol, I never experienced my dad taking a loving interest in me or any other person, activity, or situation. He never really had a career, hobby or creative pursuit.
I never experienced my dad apologizing or expressing regret for anything, even though there were many events and situations where that might have been appropriate.
I never experienced my dad expressing genuine appreciation for anyone or anything, unless it reflected on him. (On Easter, he would tell me and my mom, "My ladies look nice today," kind of thing.) He did stand up and say some nice words about me at my 50th birthday, words he had never said directly to me; there were some of his old friends there, and I'll never know who he was really speaking to.
I never experienced my dad helping people or offering to help. He never said, "Here, let me do that for you" or "I'm going down the street to help Joe paint his shed." He didn't belong to civic, church, or volunteer groups. Most of my interactions involved my feeling that I had to help him. However, late in life he led the residents' group at his retirement community, which I never really saw firsthand. Perhaps a new side of him came out at that time.
In my experience, my dad was highly manipulative about money. That is all I will say for now on that subject.
Fortunately, my dad had no global ambitions, and his energy vis a vis the world was quite passive. The people most affected by his emptiness were family. I think the fact that I was female and utterly his opposite meant that I was exiled, at birth, to a point off his radar screen, except for some key occasions when he could use my free help. The candy incident gave me an intellectual context for finally solving the family mystery, but the waves of emotion didn't start to hit me until last year. I apologize to readers for taking so long to more fully explain some of my metaphors, but I literally didn't dare speak until well after he was gone.
I left Montana soon after I learned the lesson in the bag of candy, but I did go back one more time two years ago, when he almost died. We had what we both knew to be our last encounter. I thanked him quite genuinely and in a heartfelt way for the emphasis he had placed on getting a good education, for his and mom's choice of churches (where I was introduced to the English church music tradition), and for our summers on Lake Champlain. I told him how these three things had enriched my life. And then there was silence. This was when another father might have jumped in to say, "I love you so much, honey. I am proud of you. I hope you will have a wonderful, happy future." Instead, a long, dead, silence. I finally blurted out, "Dad, do you even love me?" He said, "Of course." "What is it that you love? I mean, I am not sure I even know." He looked at me blankly, clearly not having a clue what love is, who I am, or how a quote-unquote "normal" father would feel on parting for the last time from his daughter. Finally, after a few more empty moments, I stood up, went over and kissed him on the top of his head, said, "Good-bye, Dad," and walked out.
There are a million more stories to tell, but that's all I can bear for today. I guess you can see why, when I say I'm just now learning about love from scratch, I am not joking. I think I have always known how to love, but not how to believe that love, respect, or caring will ever be returned in my direction.
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