The eye of the needle

There is so much going on, it's hard to know where to start. I have often felt like I was going through the proverbial eye of the needle, but this last week has to be the real thing. Rebirth intensified.

First of all, I have been crying, a lot. I've prided myself on how much I was able to endure and even overcome without resorting to tears, but that stiff upper lip finally eroded this weekend, perhaps permanently. A movie ("Lady Bird") left me in tears. Petting a little black cat, calling him "sweetheart," telling him I love him, made me burst into tears because I've never said that to anyone before. Then the news of the death of a most wonderful, grandmotherly 97-year-old. And tearfully re-reading some Mary Balogh romance novels.

The common denominator, of course, is love. I believe that what is happening isn't that my heart is breaking, but breaking open.

I have also had kind of a "Come to the Goddess" moment with my inner divine feminine about money. As longtime readers know, ever since my favorite capitalist told me (way back in the 1980's) that our system is "kill or be killed," I've basically been non-functional. I wasn't willing to "kill" so...my life today is the result. But this goes against anything I believe about any loving notion of the divine. We are meant to thrive. I believe that. How to bridge two apparently irreconcilable notions? 

Yet again, the answer that came to me was, "love," the only answer to every question, really. The transition to a future economy is love. When you've whittled down to nothing, your gut reaction to any material desire is to squelch it immediately. But the last few days, every time I've had any budding desire -- from having the use of a car, to new shampoo, to getting back to London -- rather than squelch it, I've written it down in my journal. I fervently desire to take a road trip! I would love, love, love new, healthier shampoo! I love the idea of time in London! Etc. I'm not focusing on how impossible they all might seem to be right now, or how many hours at what job I would need to "earn" them, but rather on how I'd love them. How fun they would be. How love is the only power in the world, to embrace or not. How there might be some loving, easier way for these things to enter my life. At the moment, this exercise is not about results, it is just to get used to the idea of embracing love, expressing love. If I can do it for shampoo and black cats, maybe there's some hope for me after all. "All love, all the time" is the eye of the needle. Don't be afraid if it makes you cry, though. 

It's the eyes

There are moments when this blog is a metaphor for my life. In the past few weeks, I have had to dig deep in the courage department to write about the things that are hard to write about. There is still more, of course, but I'm pacing myself. However, it often feels that the more important the blog post, the fewer people read it. I have just had a handful of readers the last few posts (whoever you are, thank you!) and I am thankful in an odd way, too, that my life has given me so much experience at being invisible so that I don't freak out!

Because it's the eyes, isn't it? Isn't that all that anyone wants? To be seen, to be heard. To be validated. "Yes, you exist. It is important that you are here. I hear you. I see you." Several weeks ago, in a pivotal post, I said that the only "person" on the beach with me right now is the Goddess, the energy of the divine feminine, and that was and continues to be true. It was an important turning point. It's hard to express what I am experiencing in this regard, because words don't express it. I don't know if I am experiencing what some people say they feel in their connection to Jesus or other spiritual figures. I don't know if it's a figment of my imagination. All I know is that the only way I feel my journey can be seen as courageous, honorable and beautiful is through the eyes of the divine feminine, the all-encompassing mother, the source of all-love. The minute I try to understand my journey in the context of our current duality construct, I see myself as, at best, pitiful. I simply haven't functioned well in the "old paradigm," and I can get caught in a quicksand of despair when I look at myself through old paradigm eyes.

I guess that's the other reason I feel aligned with the Goddess right now. I mean, I think she "gets" my journey. Where has been a safe home for her? Who has supported her? Has her physical bodily earth been safe from indignities and downright abuse? Has her loving, truthful voice been audible in the din of cascades of gunfire and hateful rhetoric? Who is representing her? I believe there are millions of us, yet we have been left largely invisible, as she has been.

Oddly enough, it is only now that I am beginning to "see" her now in the world. Maybe it took the bitter end of looking into a male mirror in order to see myself. Maybe it took being washed up on a beach with nothing but my own soul to my name. Maybe it took a buffoonish, cartoonish, but all-too-real time of horrors. I get the difference now between love and not-love. I see her. I think she sees me, and the many courageous women and men who are digging deep to live from a place of love. The quality of love in those eyes is so overwhelming, no wonder so many people look away. May I never do so again.

More...

A quick postscript to my last blog. This phrase came to me early this morning: the recent tsunami waves may have broken over me, but have not broken me. I am thankful for that. As I stand on the beach, brushing off the latest deposits of sand, seaweed and ocean detritus, I am super conscious of one fact. I am, in theory, of the kind of background that might have guaranteed late 20th/early 21st century success. I am white, an East Coast "WASP." My family had a uniquely challenging set of problems (which when I finally feel I can, I will talk more about), but my parents did emphasize education, which I have in excellent abundance. Although I now realize that I have been skirting around depression most of my life, I do not believe I am seriously mentally ill. I am not addicted to drugs or alcohol. I am not unwilling to work. Nevertheless, I have not yet thrived. Early privilege was just not enough to sustain a single, creative woman who had no family money, capitalist impulses or experiences of real job satisfaction; yet even today, it must at times pave my road in ways that I don't realize.

The point is, my background in this lifetime isn't African-American, Native American, Hispanic, Asian or Middle Eastern. I am not LGBTQ. All the indignities and uncertainties I have experienced over time must pale, pale in comparison to those experienced by Americans of these heritages or identities. I can only see -- and feel -- the tip of the iceberg. I need to acknowledge this fact, with humility. And to say that in my vision, everyone thrives. Absolutely everyone.

Teasing

Just when I think maybe most of the tsunamis have calmed down, and that I'll soon be preparing my boat to return into the stream, another wave (or two or three!) comes ashore, soaking me. 

Because I never had children, the topic of school bullying isn't one I've really considered. But the other day, I heard a reference to "teasing" in the context of shaming and bullying, and I could feel shivers go down my spine.

Yes, I have been at the receiving end of a lot of teasing and shaming in my life. By the age of about six, I had become an extremely serious, anxious child with thick glasses (that in itself is enough isn't it?) I was pushed ahead in school, at times ending up effectively two grades ahead of my age, and good at every academic and arts subject until I voluntarily decided not to "like" science and math, which I had originally excelled in as well. I attended all-girls' schools in grades seven through twelve (complete with somber uniforms), and then an all-women's college for my BA. It was the "hippie era," but I didn't party, do drugs, or swear. I was an American girl with a passion for an obscure English form of music; when in England, I was too American. My journey has been more spiritual than material and I own next to nothing...well, you get it. Lots of great material. And, of course, no one was better at teasing me than me; often, to get ahead of the curve and blunt the hurt of being teased, I've made fun of myself. Throughout the nineties and early 2000's, I called my hard-earned MMus in historical musicology (early Christian chant) my "cosmic joke." Wandering around the US trying to find work with this particular degree from a prominent English university sure felt like that, but I disrespected myself before anyone else had a chance to, and well before I was not hired. The two were, of course, inextricably linked. 

So this past weekend, among other things, I tried to make some headway with actually feeling the feelings of a lifetime of being teased...but also simply to understand what happened. Because something dawned on me; at the core, what people were teasing me about (and I was making fun of in myself) were my essential qualities -- who I am, what I look like, what I am best at, what I have achieved, what I love, my intuition, my ability to speak my truth, and my efforts to live in alignment to my inner guidance. I was being teased/shamed because of what wonderful parents of today's young girls call my "superpowers," and then sometimes teased some more for not having enough of a sense of humor to join in the laughter. In the old days, it was easier to tease people down to size, keep everyone safely in a neutral middle zone. Maybe we're slowly moving out of that era.

Even today, there may be as many young people teased for being "too good" at things as for being "not good enough." (The added factors of race, gender, religion, etc. may have to wait for another blog.) What if children and adults simply understood that we are all exactly who we are meant to be? Teasing isn't fun, and doesn't help anyone to thrive. Let's be as kind as we can to ourselves and others today.

The Stream of Life and Love

One of the final pieces of a low-key but beautiful birthday was watching the movie, "Antonia's Line." For the first two minutes, I thought it was going to be too grim, but it evolved into a loving view of a woman returning to her Dutch hometown at the end of World War II, and the intertwining of her life (and that of her daughter, granddaughter, and great-granddaughter) with the lives of villagers, some charming, one or two quite odious. There were some wonderful lines (at least in the subtitle translations), one of which was, "Life wants to live."

Life wants to live. 

I guess the latest in a succession of mass shootings proves that some people aren't alive, and don't want others to live either. These people may not always carry guns; they may attack us in other ways. I have been re-thinking my early church training in this regard; certainly someone willing to shoot innocent people cannot be a high "love priority" for me. And if, as I suspect, the young suspect's channel to the divine stream of love is entirely blocked, then it really won't be helpful to spend time trying to forgive him either. What can I do? Honor those who were killed, knowing that they are in the divine and eternal stream of love, and then turn away from the event and focus totally on the people and situations who nurture human, animal, and plant life on earth, and our air and water. Do the things I love. Support others who live joyously and courageously and lovingly. Create a more beautiful world starting from within me. Flow with the stream of life and love. If it were up to me, there would be no guns, no weapons of any kind. Fortunately, those who shoot bullets into the stream of life cannot ultimately stop its flow. The ammunition falls to the stream bed having served no long-term purpose, because "life wants to live" and it will keep living and flowing.

Before my very eyes

Without being too melodramatic about it, I'd have to say that approaching 62 is like a near-death experience, complete with scenes from my life flashing before my very eyes. These little vignettes would have shocked the little fifties-era girl in Schenectady. Few of them would have seemed likely, even possible.

I see myself in a line of Smith College Chamber Singers in Toledo, Spain, walking to our concert in long white dresses, being cat-called by passers-by. Driving the daughters of a prominent Washington, DC family to school when I was a mother's helper. Playing the organ for one service at Washington National Cathedral. Living to sing daily morning services at Royal Holloway College and as part of the choir-in-residence at Lincoln Cathedral. Researching my MMus thesis at the Bibliotheque Nationale in Paris, twelfth century parchment spread out before me. 

I see myself back in the States, making the painful decision to drop England and further efforts to sing English church music, since there were no opportunities for adult women at that time. Working in my corporate window office high above Rockefeller Center, and walking to art classes in the Village. Volunteering at South Street Seaport museum. Putting Herbert Howells' Coll Reg Te Deum on the record player at my upper West Side apartment and singing until I cried. Lots of bagels and cream cheese. 

I see myself on retreat at Pendle Hill in 1990, trying to decide whether my English church music time had come, and on realizing the answer was still no, deciding to get to know America instead. Choosing "eagle" as my totem animal and making one in raku clay. Driving around the country in a little red car. Finding my way to Duluth, new friends, frostbite, rowing, and the vast expanse of Lake Superior outside my window every day. Using Minnesota as a springboard for more exploration by bus and automobile of the US and Canada. Waitressing, selling stationery.

I see myself back east at the end of that decade, accompanying my mom through the last eighteen or so months of her life. After that, rediscovering the little town of my childhood summers. Making weekly meals for farmers. Commuting by ferry across near-frozen Lake Champlain to teach. Trying unsuccessfully to create a painting career, or find an appropriate academic program in women's spirituality. The trauma of bankruptcy.

I see myself suddenly, miraculously, singing in the choir of St. John the Divine in New York. The three-mile-long processions of choirs, clergy and acolytes at Christmas and Easter. The bliss of finally singing weekly evensong. The heartbreak when the choir was disbanded a mere few months later.

I see myself in Montana, visiting my elderly Dad at his retirement community, and writing my first article about composer Herbert Howells at various dining room tables, at the public library, and in my little yellow room at the YWCA. My data entry job out near the big box store. Singing in that cathedral's first ever choral evensong. Never quite acclimating to the mountains and the dust.

I see myself, finally, on yearly trips to England the last few years. Researching a second Howells article (also published) about the motet "Take Him, Earth, For Cherishing." Eating a Lenten luncheon with the current congregation of the Lydney church where Herbert's father played the organ, and HH learned to do so too. Singing an evensong at King's College, Cambridge, stunned to hear my own voice lifting to that famous ceiling. Meeting some of my musical heroes and heroines. Auditioning for an alto position in the Gloucester Cathedral choir, the first time it was open to women. Not getting it but realizing it was OK. The view of the Cotswalds from a friend's window. Singing daily evensongs for a week last summer at Canterbury Cathedral. Walking into St. Albans Cathedral just as an organist started practicing the Howells Coll Reg Magnificat. 

It's an astonishing thing, really. A lifetime that could never have been lived by a single woman before the late 20th century. I am really, really thankful. I am really, really tearfully thankful. It hasn't been what I would ever have expected, but writing it out like this, I see that it's my version of, "Nevertheless, she persisted." I see the threads and "get" that I haven't even begun to mine or share the richness of these experiences. It is time to start.

A Slide Projector

Do you remember slide projectors? Some people and institutions probably still have one around.

Back in the 80's when I was studying illustration at Parsons School of Design, I took a class in colored pencil illustration. One day when we arrived at class, the room was nearly dark, and there was a slide being projected on the front screen. It was extremely blurry, but as we were taking our seats, I'm sure most of us assumed that the instructor would put it into focus before we started. However, as class began, he simply said, I want you to draw this image. Somebody summoned up to the courage to say, hey, it's not in focus. And all he said was, draw it anyway.

What we saw was several blurry fields of color -- say, orange, pink, blue and white -- and some greys around the edges. I thought, OK, well, I'll draw what I see. I used my pencils to sketch out five or six large, blurry overlapping circles of pastel colors, thinking, this is kind of boring. This is kind of bogus. When I looked up at the screen a few minutes later, the image looked slightly different, but I worked a little more at "finishing" what I thought was meant to be a picture of large vague blobs of color, and probably put my pencils down thinking I was done. However, when I looked up at the screen once more, the image had changed again, and I finally realized what was happening; the projection of the slide was getting sharper. I watched as, a few minutes later, the teacher turned the knob probably about an eighth of an inch more, and the image became sharper still. So I got back to work. I still couldn't tell what we were looking at, but as things started to get into focus, I added new details, darker lines, deeper colors and contrasts, more form. Near the end of the half hour or so, we all realized that we were dealing with an Impressionist still life of flowers in a vase, and fruit. This had been a deliberate (and ingenious) effort on his part to force us to focus first on the generalities, then slowly but surely add the details, rather than what comes naturally to most of us, racing to get all the details right from the start. (I also took a portrait class where I was forced, extremely nearsighted me, to draw without my glasses so I would focus on shading, not each individual eyebrow hair.)

This week I was reminded of these art classes, as perhaps a metaphor for a rebirth experience. Yes, I am working on a new aim or mission statement for my post-62 life, but I am going to try to keep each area of color as vague or general as I can. I want to let the goddess and all my friendly divine supporters have their hands on the slide projector knob. I want to let go of what Mike Dooley calls "the cursed hows" and resist my strong impulse to fill in all the details from the start, to race ahead thinking, "I need to contact this person" or "I need to do X by such-and-such a date" or "I need to go to Y." Even if my statement ends up being as vague as, "I intend to experience happiness, fulfillment, and abundance, and share those qualities with others" I trust that as soon as I have sketched those colors onto my drawing pad, I'll look up and there will be new clues to the emerging details. The sharpening of my picture will be instituted at the divine level, with me "drawing" it on the earth plane. Let's see how that approach to a richly-hued, beautiful, and fulfilling life works. 

Success

The other day, an ad came across my computer for a Hay House video by Robert Holden, about "Success." The headline alone got me thinking: it said something to the effect of, "You are making every decision in your life based on your concept of success."

That word "success" is so strange to me. It's almost like when someone calls to you, and you turn and look behind you, thinking they must mean someone else. Having been born in the 1950's, and never having fully bought into the social and economic paradigm that, later in my life, was presented as the only means to success, I don't know that I really know what it means to be a success in the popularly accepted sense. (And when only a handful of men have the wealth and power of half of the rest of the world, you have to wonder about our yardsticks!) The women in my family did not have careers, or jobs after marriage, and I wonder what they would have said if someone asked them, "Do you consider yourself a success?" The response would probably have been deep, bemused silence or bitter sarcasm. I suspect that until the mid-70's, many women might still have defined success by whether they had married well, and probably considered it a success to have a reasonably safe and ordered existence. I don't know -- do we women think that way at all? "Were you successful in finishing that quilt?" "Were you successful in raising your three kids?" "Were you successful in baking pies for the Thanksgiving meal?" In an obituary, do they ever say, "She was a successful housewife (or schoolteacher or secretary or doctor)" the same way they say, "He was a successful businessman"? Perhaps I'm the one still stuck in past stereotypes, or perhaps my innate non-competitiveness just makes it an impossible concept for me.

And of course there's the duality of "success vs. failure" which I guess I'll leave for the moment, except to say that dualities have become almost impossible for me to deal with. I'm done with "versus."

But there is something to Holden's statement which I need to spend a little time unravelling. The Oxford Dictionary says that success is the "accomplishment of an aim or purpose." I started to think back to moments in my life when I articulated an aim, and the walls I have hit either when that aim was or was not "successfully" accomplished, or I outgrew it. There have been successes, but also a lot of walls of brick, water, stone, you name it. (This current one is a doozy, but I'm still in one piece.)

If Holden is right, and every decision we make is based on what we consider to be success, then it seems to me that this is a crucial moment for me to sift through mixed messages about what success was/is for women, mixed feelings about duality, capitalism, and "making it," and old heartbreak about what simply could never have been. I need to come up with a personal, quirky, forward-thinking definition for my future "success" that I am comfortable with. As this rebirth-day approaches, I will articulate with exquisite care a new aim or mission statement. Many future life decisions may hang on it.

Lifelines

Well, isn't life funny? You write the blog post that will either a) go viral or b) bring the proverbial wrath of God down on you with its attendant lightning strikes, but nothing happens. A small handful of people have read "A Dedication" at this writing. It was very important to me and I absolutely had to write it, but it has left me somewhat emotional and off-kilter. Essentially, I'm happy, perhaps as anyone would be who tells the world some essential truth about their being. It's a relief to achieve alignment, but it unleashes a lot of stuff. The tsunamis are still pouring over me, but I think they are diminishing.

Yes, the goddess has been my lifeline through this process, and episodes of Time Team.  Somehow, incredibly, they must be connected. Also, a friend shared a lifeline in the form of a remarkable poem, John O'Donohue's "For One Who is Exhausted, A Blessing":

...The tide you never valued has gone out

And you are marooned on unsure ground...

You have traveled too fast over false ground;

Now your soul has come to take you back...

Bless him. The tide I never valued, indeed.

How do you prepare for your soul to take you back? If it's humanly possible, pull your boat out of the water onto a safe beach, face the waves of pain, let that tide go out, and then start to say something true every day. Do something you love every day. Accept the gift of a poem or a song or a good deed or a meal every day, or give one away. Find beauty in something, anything that is beautiful to you. For once, don't measure it to what other people value. Truth, love, gifts, beauty. Coming in, going out. I will settle for no less than this from now on. When the tsunamis settle down and I brush myself off and get ready to re-launch my boat, my lifeline (my navigational chart) will be my truth, my gifts, what I love, and what I find beautiful. My soul is only present in their presence, and I'm not leaving her behind again.