It's hard to speak about the unspeakable, so I'll take a slightly different tack.
Putting aside all human-created physical boundaries, where do I come from?
I would like to think I come from Love. I would like to think I come from Truth. I would like to think I come from Harmony and Music. I would like to think I come from Beauty. I would like to think I come from Art. I would like to think I come from Good. I would like to think I come from Empathy and Generosity. I would like to think I come from Joy. I would like to think I come from Expansion and Spiritual Growth. I would like to think I come from Vision. I would like to think I come from Perfect Self-Expression. I would like to think I come from Wisdom. I would like to think I am as good a representative as I can be of the Divine Feminine.
And if there are days or even weeks when I am off-center, this is the general neighborhood of energetic expression that I hope to go back to.
Tuesday, July 23, 2019
Friday, July 12, 2019
Fragility
On this hot, exceedingly blustery summer day, I'll take a moment to muse about fragility. A few short years ago, I assumed that all my previous challenges would evaporate, and my sixties would be the apex of my own life and the lives of my female friends. I assumed that reaching the high points of careers, retirement, and power would put most of us in good places. Yet the reality is that many of us are either in extremely fragile places, or flirting with fragility in a way I don't remember in my mother's generation. My personal fragility is, as always, the transitional nature of my housing and a wavering sense of being able to fulfill my unique place and purpose. But my fall in England made me feel exceptionally fragile too, in a physical way. It cracked more than my wrist.
Friends in their sixties and early seventies are dealing with all manner of personal illnesses, challenges within their larger families, downsizing, disappointments. And of course so many of us are "freaking out" on some level about the direction our country seems to be taking. It is like there are storms blowing (more tsunamis?) and some of us, try as we might, are cracking, or breaking outright. Many of us are single, too, and as I've mentioned before, this brings up unique issues. If we aren't in close contact with birth family, who are our proverbial "loved ones"? And it's not like society at large loves its older single women. There's no, "Bravo, you! You've lived an unconventional life, you've contributed in unique ways (large and small) to our society, and we are proud that you are in our midst. Let's make the tallest and most elegant building in town its housing for wise older women"! (Hand to ear...still listening! No, I have never, ever heard words to that effect!)
My backbone right now, my counteraction to fragility, is writing my book. I am writing a blue streak, with index cards being filled up at an alarming rate. The "bringing cards to the library and typing" piece is going rather more slowly, but I'm not too worried. The book, in its early form at least, will be done by Labor Day, as I promised myself. Every word I write is empowering me, and I hope the ripple effect will subtly empower my personal friends and other women as well. I don't think it is possible to be empowered and fragile at the same time.
Friends in their sixties and early seventies are dealing with all manner of personal illnesses, challenges within their larger families, downsizing, disappointments. And of course so many of us are "freaking out" on some level about the direction our country seems to be taking. It is like there are storms blowing (more tsunamis?) and some of us, try as we might, are cracking, or breaking outright. Many of us are single, too, and as I've mentioned before, this brings up unique issues. If we aren't in close contact with birth family, who are our proverbial "loved ones"? And it's not like society at large loves its older single women. There's no, "Bravo, you! You've lived an unconventional life, you've contributed in unique ways (large and small) to our society, and we are proud that you are in our midst. Let's make the tallest and most elegant building in town its housing for wise older women"! (Hand to ear...still listening! No, I have never, ever heard words to that effect!)
My backbone right now, my counteraction to fragility, is writing my book. I am writing a blue streak, with index cards being filled up at an alarming rate. The "bringing cards to the library and typing" piece is going rather more slowly, but I'm not too worried. The book, in its early form at least, will be done by Labor Day, as I promised myself. Every word I write is empowering me, and I hope the ripple effect will subtly empower my personal friends and other women as well. I don't think it is possible to be empowered and fragile at the same time.
Monday, July 1, 2019
Atypical
As I move forward with my book, and with my life, I realize that there is nothing "typical" about me that I can discern. Nothing.
I guess this moment in Duluth is allowing me to fully appreciate this without totally freaking out. The circumstances of my life have been so wide-ranging and contradictory that I may never find a friend or community who I can hug and say, "You get this, you lived this too."
Friends who grew up in "typical middle-class American suburbs" at least may have been brought up with some shared values and experiences...type of housing, public high school, work ethic, etc. I have several friends who grew up on farms. On a very basic level, they lived a shared experience. They know what it is like to grow up in that unique environment. I have several friends who grew up in fundamentalist households. However different their circumstances might have been, there is a core spiritual experience that they could mirror to each other were they to meet. And of course, virtually all my friends married and had children, so no matter the dissimilarities in the other details of their adult lives, they know some of the "typical" trials and joys of partnership and childbirth and beyond (along with some atypical ones, surely).
It has always been hard for me to find a family of people who know what it is like to be American, but to have grown up with ultra-upper-crust "aristocratic" values but no money. To have family living in luxury one minute and dire poverty the next, and not even be allowed to talk about it. To be an American girl wanting to sing the English men and boys' choir tradition of music decades before that was possible. To have never settled down to husband or home because of those reasons and more. I have had so many friends over the years, and I love them and am so grateful for them. Right now, though, I am in such a different "place" than any of them that I feel somewhat panicky. Whether they are American or British, our actual day-to-day lives and struggles have had very little in common. I can rarely say, "You know what this is like." I wish I had more people with whom I had a specific shared mix of life experiences. From that standpoint, my life can feel outrageously lonely.
Yet this is all the more reason to increasingly tell the truth in my writing, the truth not only of what happened at specific moments, but also the truth of how things felt. I need to tell the truth of the evolution of my ability to emerge from numbness into human emotion. What I have experienced seems to set me apart from most other people, but how it affected me is the factor that may bring me back, closer to others. I may never be "typical" except on that deeper, feeling level. My heart has been broken over and over. That cannot possibly be atypical.
I guess this moment in Duluth is allowing me to fully appreciate this without totally freaking out. The circumstances of my life have been so wide-ranging and contradictory that I may never find a friend or community who I can hug and say, "You get this, you lived this too."
Friends who grew up in "typical middle-class American suburbs" at least may have been brought up with some shared values and experiences...type of housing, public high school, work ethic, etc. I have several friends who grew up on farms. On a very basic level, they lived a shared experience. They know what it is like to grow up in that unique environment. I have several friends who grew up in fundamentalist households. However different their circumstances might have been, there is a core spiritual experience that they could mirror to each other were they to meet. And of course, virtually all my friends married and had children, so no matter the dissimilarities in the other details of their adult lives, they know some of the "typical" trials and joys of partnership and childbirth and beyond (along with some atypical ones, surely).
It has always been hard for me to find a family of people who know what it is like to be American, but to have grown up with ultra-upper-crust "aristocratic" values but no money. To have family living in luxury one minute and dire poverty the next, and not even be allowed to talk about it. To be an American girl wanting to sing the English men and boys' choir tradition of music decades before that was possible. To have never settled down to husband or home because of those reasons and more. I have had so many friends over the years, and I love them and am so grateful for them. Right now, though, I am in such a different "place" than any of them that I feel somewhat panicky. Whether they are American or British, our actual day-to-day lives and struggles have had very little in common. I can rarely say, "You know what this is like." I wish I had more people with whom I had a specific shared mix of life experiences. From that standpoint, my life can feel outrageously lonely.
Yet this is all the more reason to increasingly tell the truth in my writing, the truth not only of what happened at specific moments, but also the truth of how things felt. I need to tell the truth of the evolution of my ability to emerge from numbness into human emotion. What I have experienced seems to set me apart from most other people, but how it affected me is the factor that may bring me back, closer to others. I may never be "typical" except on that deeper, feeling level. My heart has been broken over and over. That cannot possibly be atypical.
Monday, June 17, 2019
Midwest Miscellany
One of the visually intriguing things about Duluth is that there are a number of large grain and ore silos in the bay which the huge ships on- and offload from. In certain lights, in the fog, at night, and (ahem) if I take off my glasses, some of them look very much like English cathedrals. It is like there is kind of a semi-transparent film over my eyes, showing me something I love in another form.
Yesterday morning, I woke up and handwrote ten single-spaced, college-ruled pages about my dad. It was only later, after a friend asked me if I realized that it was Father's Day, that I made the connection about the appropriateness of the timing. It's amazing the way our brains work. I am not sure yet whether this material will end up in my book or here in my blog. But in a nutshell, I was grieving the fact that I never heard these heartfelt words from him: "Elizabeth, you are my beloved, wonderful daughter. I love you, I am so proud of you, and I want the best for you throughout your life. I would sacrifice almost anything to make your life easier and more fulfilling."
I think that Father's Day must be hard for many women, and men too (although perhaps the issues for them may be somewhat different.) Yes, there are some women who may have wonderful fathers who say this and mean it, and act appropriately and supportively for decades. There must be many women, like me, whose fathers were physically present, but not in any other way. There may be fathers who say such things early in life, then become monstrous predators, twisting the words into knots. And, of course, there are so many women who never meet their real fathers. When there is this gaping hole, it is so very hard to fill even in a lifetime of trying. My heart goes out to anyone for whom yesterday was painful or challenging.
Lilacs are just coming out here. It's so late. Gosh, I think in England they were coming out in March. Duluth's summers are so very short, and it's almost like a Saturnalia...each weekend is crammed with marathons, rummage sales, sailboat races, rowing regattas, farmers' markets, outdoor concerts, you name it. Most of it isn't my thing right at the moment (this summer being devoted to writing my book) but I'm breathing in the life energy and the excitement with gratitude.
Yesterday morning, I woke up and handwrote ten single-spaced, college-ruled pages about my dad. It was only later, after a friend asked me if I realized that it was Father's Day, that I made the connection about the appropriateness of the timing. It's amazing the way our brains work. I am not sure yet whether this material will end up in my book or here in my blog. But in a nutshell, I was grieving the fact that I never heard these heartfelt words from him: "Elizabeth, you are my beloved, wonderful daughter. I love you, I am so proud of you, and I want the best for you throughout your life. I would sacrifice almost anything to make your life easier and more fulfilling."
I think that Father's Day must be hard for many women, and men too (although perhaps the issues for them may be somewhat different.) Yes, there are some women who may have wonderful fathers who say this and mean it, and act appropriately and supportively for decades. There must be many women, like me, whose fathers were physically present, but not in any other way. There may be fathers who say such things early in life, then become monstrous predators, twisting the words into knots. And, of course, there are so many women who never meet their real fathers. When there is this gaping hole, it is so very hard to fill even in a lifetime of trying. My heart goes out to anyone for whom yesterday was painful or challenging.
Lilacs are just coming out here. It's so late. Gosh, I think in England they were coming out in March. Duluth's summers are so very short, and it's almost like a Saturnalia...each weekend is crammed with marathons, rummage sales, sailboat races, rowing regattas, farmers' markets, outdoor concerts, you name it. Most of it isn't my thing right at the moment (this summer being devoted to writing my book) but I'm breathing in the life energy and the excitement with gratitude.
Tuesday, June 4, 2019
Aha!
My readers know that my focus is on writing my memoirs right now, and it was my intention not to blog as frequently. However, I guess this activity is serving to spur my brain cells, generally, and this morning I had an "Aha!" moment that I have been waiting a lifetime for. So I could not wait to share it with my small group of faithful readers. If you've stuck with me this long, maybe this will resonate with you.
OK, here goes.
Over the years, I have met a handful of other women like me, single, strongly focused on their spiritual journeys, and, yes, living either in poverty or very straightened circumstances. Wandering (or stable-yet-hanging-on-for-dear-life) mystics. (There may be men in this category, but I just haven't met many yet!) And, of course, many artists, writers, musicians, poets, and other creative men and women share this experience, and have been made to feel intense shame at their lack of financial success.
I cannot speak for anyone else, but since the late 1980's, I have certainly been exposed to law of attraction teachings, and indeed, believe them to be absolutely true. I believe that "like attracts like," at the very least on this earth plane. For decades, I have tried to "attract" money, income, paid opportunities, gifts, whatever, not just so that I could barely get by, but to try to accomplish the hundreds of things I still wish to accomplish in this life. I've tried visualizing a permanent home and the means to make that possible because I am so tired of wandering. I've loved listening to my favorite law of attraction gurus, and knowing that for some people, affirmations, creative visualization and other tricks really do work. But they most assuredly do not seem to work for me. My life has proved sort of an inverse proportion to the rule; the closer I get to understanding who I am and to my core beliefs and understandings, the less I seem to function in our system and the further I seem to get from "abundance" (as expressed through money, anyway! My life has had other forms of abundance, clearly.)
This morning, it finally hit me. This is, in fact, the law of attraction at work. Our current economic systems and institutions are based firmly in a duality view of life; two planes of reality that are in constant opposition. right vs. wrong, good vs. evil, profit vs. loss, success vs. failure etc. This assumption is at the core of almost all of our societal structures, not just the economy. Think of how we fight illness, war, drug use, pollution and illiteracy. The other political party. You name it.
I think I came into this lifetime with at least a budding understanding of a post-duality worldview. I'm not sure if there is a better word to use..."unity"? "unity through harmony"? "Wholeness"? A world where everything is essentially one and there is no actual split down the middle. Personally, I'm coming more and more to see all Life as a single river of love and beauty, running, literally, in one direction. I feel it as a construct of the divine feminine, although it just may be that, as a woman, I need a more concrete, personal sense of identifying with divine oneness.
As of yet, I do not know of any economic systems based on this paradigm, although gifting and bartering may align with it somewhat more than making a profit. That's a question for another day. But because our Western economy is based on duality, and my thinking is not, law of attraction is working (ugh!) perfectly. I do not easily attract "money" to my true self, and it is not attracted to me (nor, by and large, are people who are really invested in the system). Those of us who just simply cannot function in a dualistic fashion find all aspects of the dualistic world extremely hard to navigate, practically and spiritually.
This isn't about making excuses. But it was a wonderful "aha" for a Tuesday morning. I haven't done anything wrong, at least from the perspective of that unified stream of love, unity and beauty. Neither have many other people who haven't flourished. It's just that our essences are not reflected in our economy's essence. This won't make it any easier to function, gosh darn it, but it does make it a little easier to feel better about my life... not a bad thing when I am writing about it, finally!
OK, here goes.
Over the years, I have met a handful of other women like me, single, strongly focused on their spiritual journeys, and, yes, living either in poverty or very straightened circumstances. Wandering (or stable-yet-hanging-on-for-dear-life) mystics. (There may be men in this category, but I just haven't met many yet!) And, of course, many artists, writers, musicians, poets, and other creative men and women share this experience, and have been made to feel intense shame at their lack of financial success.
I cannot speak for anyone else, but since the late 1980's, I have certainly been exposed to law of attraction teachings, and indeed, believe them to be absolutely true. I believe that "like attracts like," at the very least on this earth plane. For decades, I have tried to "attract" money, income, paid opportunities, gifts, whatever, not just so that I could barely get by, but to try to accomplish the hundreds of things I still wish to accomplish in this life. I've tried visualizing a permanent home and the means to make that possible because I am so tired of wandering. I've loved listening to my favorite law of attraction gurus, and knowing that for some people, affirmations, creative visualization and other tricks really do work. But they most assuredly do not seem to work for me. My life has proved sort of an inverse proportion to the rule; the closer I get to understanding who I am and to my core beliefs and understandings, the less I seem to function in our system and the further I seem to get from "abundance" (as expressed through money, anyway! My life has had other forms of abundance, clearly.)
This morning, it finally hit me. This is, in fact, the law of attraction at work. Our current economic systems and institutions are based firmly in a duality view of life; two planes of reality that are in constant opposition. right vs. wrong, good vs. evil, profit vs. loss, success vs. failure etc. This assumption is at the core of almost all of our societal structures, not just the economy. Think of how we fight illness, war, drug use, pollution and illiteracy. The other political party. You name it.
I think I came into this lifetime with at least a budding understanding of a post-duality worldview. I'm not sure if there is a better word to use..."unity"? "unity through harmony"? "Wholeness"? A world where everything is essentially one and there is no actual split down the middle. Personally, I'm coming more and more to see all Life as a single river of love and beauty, running, literally, in one direction. I feel it as a construct of the divine feminine, although it just may be that, as a woman, I need a more concrete, personal sense of identifying with divine oneness.
As of yet, I do not know of any economic systems based on this paradigm, although gifting and bartering may align with it somewhat more than making a profit. That's a question for another day. But because our Western economy is based on duality, and my thinking is not, law of attraction is working (ugh!) perfectly. I do not easily attract "money" to my true self, and it is not attracted to me (nor, by and large, are people who are really invested in the system). Those of us who just simply cannot function in a dualistic fashion find all aspects of the dualistic world extremely hard to navigate, practically and spiritually.
This isn't about making excuses. But it was a wonderful "aha" for a Tuesday morning. I haven't done anything wrong, at least from the perspective of that unified stream of love, unity and beauty. Neither have many other people who haven't flourished. It's just that our essences are not reflected in our economy's essence. This won't make it any easier to function, gosh darn it, but it does make it a little easier to feel better about my life... not a bad thing when I am writing about it, finally!
Wednesday, May 29, 2019
My Life on Index Cards
As promised, I am well underway writing my memoirs. I tried to do this about four years ago, but really struggled with it, and then came the shocking, unexpected death of my little brother. Quite rightly, this brought the process to a screeching halt. And many things have happened since then...
So what I have decided to do this time is write short episodes and anecdotes by hand on 4x6 lined index cards. I've bought the multicolored ones, so that the cards can be grouped by rough time period. At least as of now, I don't intend this to be a "first this happened, and then this happened" kind of chronological account. Frankly, I have lost track of the exact threads of my timeline. What old datebooks and journals I had have either been tossed, or are in storage back east, and so I'm embracing the rather dreamlike aspect of some of the narrative and working with it, I hope.
One of the things that has become clear to me this go-round is the fact that, given my passion for English cathedral music, most of my life from the age of eight on was, by necessity, a Plan B. In the sixties, young English boys with musical talent would probably find their way into a cathedral choir and accompanying school. If this continued to be an interest, they would study at Cambridge or Oxford and sing in one of the college chapel choirs, and possibly even progress to sing countertenor, tenor or bass in a cathedral choir. This not having been an option for me as a girl and as an American, quite literally most of my life choices went wide of the mark, either slightly or spectacularly. The process of writing about the colorful journey that followed is thus rather bittersweet. I love what I have experienced, and yet I feel angry too at the utter waste of human talent in a specific field. I did my best not to waste divine time (and indeed, I guess my journey to help open up the field was a good use of that time!) but at 63, I can literally feel the pain of how distant certain activities were, and still are, from my core. I realize that this may ultimately be the source of my constant longing to "go home."
The phrase came to me, "my only home is my journey." So far that's been the case anyway! Let's see how many index cards it will take to write about it.
So what I have decided to do this time is write short episodes and anecdotes by hand on 4x6 lined index cards. I've bought the multicolored ones, so that the cards can be grouped by rough time period. At least as of now, I don't intend this to be a "first this happened, and then this happened" kind of chronological account. Frankly, I have lost track of the exact threads of my timeline. What old datebooks and journals I had have either been tossed, or are in storage back east, and so I'm embracing the rather dreamlike aspect of some of the narrative and working with it, I hope.
One of the things that has become clear to me this go-round is the fact that, given my passion for English cathedral music, most of my life from the age of eight on was, by necessity, a Plan B. In the sixties, young English boys with musical talent would probably find their way into a cathedral choir and accompanying school. If this continued to be an interest, they would study at Cambridge or Oxford and sing in one of the college chapel choirs, and possibly even progress to sing countertenor, tenor or bass in a cathedral choir. This not having been an option for me as a girl and as an American, quite literally most of my life choices went wide of the mark, either slightly or spectacularly. The process of writing about the colorful journey that followed is thus rather bittersweet. I love what I have experienced, and yet I feel angry too at the utter waste of human talent in a specific field. I did my best not to waste divine time (and indeed, I guess my journey to help open up the field was a good use of that time!) but at 63, I can literally feel the pain of how distant certain activities were, and still are, from my core. I realize that this may ultimately be the source of my constant longing to "go home."
The phrase came to me, "my only home is my journey." So far that's been the case anyway! Let's see how many index cards it will take to write about it.
Wednesday, May 15, 2019
It's Strange
I returned from the UK one week ago, and I haven't even begun to adjust. Everything seems strange, from the quality of the light to the hues of the landscape (still largely greys and browns, with green in the process of popping). I appreciate the wider streets and increased spaciousness. I appreciate the mothering lake. But the actual energy of American life -- from the crime TV shows to the malls and retail strips to the evolving downtown to the news items on a weapons cache in L.A. -- feels harsh. But then it always has, to me. Increasingly, I realize that tuning my heart so early in life to music like Howells's Gloucester Service set an impossibly high bar, one that can probably be met only in a handful of locations and situations.
Still, somewhere in this unlikely stage set is the spot from which I'll write the book that is already taking shape. I may not write as frequently over the next few months, but I promise I'll keep you posted. (Hmm...a pun in the blog era?!)
Still, somewhere in this unlikely stage set is the spot from which I'll write the book that is already taking shape. I may not write as frequently over the next few months, but I promise I'll keep you posted. (Hmm...a pun in the blog era?!)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)