On Saturday, I did something I never thought I'd do. I stood up in front of approximately one hundred people and said words to the effect that "my life has been heartbreaking, from the moment of my birth onward." And that's the truth -- I won't elaborate, because if you have read more than a handful of my blogs, you have some idea what I mean. But this is the first time I literally stood up and verbally said those words (with no further explanation) into a sea of faces. Not surprisingly, I have experienced an emotional roller coaster since then, made even more traumatizing by the fact that the national spectacle in front of us reminds me of me trying to operate in my family and much of my life -- a strong, creative, intelligent, well-intentioned, ethical, reasonable "case" being met by a brick wall of "no."
The fact is (and this may be the reason I could never have become a lawyer), the minute you have to "argue a case" with the black-hole-that-isn't-love, you have already lost. The black hole doesn't listen. It simply sucks in everything that comes near it, and you lose yourself, and everything you hold dear.
In the midst of this week's confluence of remarkable events, it is clear that the answer is not to fight harder, adding to polarization and the conflagration of fear. The answer isn't found in focusing on any of the world's black-holes-that-aren't-love. I must increasingly "reference"/model/stand for only love/beauty/creativity/truth/integrity/joy. In a sense, this is exactly what has made my life so impossible so far, but going backward isn't an option either. I've embraced my broken heart, stood her up for all to see, and I think it's helping me love her more.
Thursday, January 30, 2020
Friday, January 17, 2020
Blog 500: Lake Superior Freezing Over
Hard to believe. My 500th post. I am at the beginning of a three month, what?, retreat/hermitage/mystic-being-a-mystic time that lasts until Easter. I mean, I'm still getting out most days on the city bus to do grocery shopping, use the library computer, see friends, etc. However, my focus is on finishing my book and listening to any and all inner leadings that may surface during this time. It's easier to do at this season of the year. Yesterday began at something like -13 degrees F, with wind chills down in the minus thirties. The sky was brilliant blue, and as anyone knows who has traveled to or lived in this environment, everything seems sharp, clear, almost shockingly so.
I sat looking out the window and stared at the big lake, which is starting to freeze around the edges. Something happened that has never happened to me before, which is that a poem started to write itself. So I grabbed pen and paper, and the result is here. Whether it is a good poem or not, I'll leave to others, and whether it's really about the lake or me, I also don't know. But I share it with my ever-indulgent readers, with thanks for still being there after four-and-a-half years.
Freezing Over
I am freezing over.
Some say I have been frozen all along,
Creaking, groaning,
Inarticulate.
But you weren't listening, were you.
Beware my placid surface
Beware the white sheen that goes as far as the
eye can see.
Nothing is happening, you say.
But it is happening. It is happening.
I will thaw in the spring.
And this year
You will hear my voice.
It will be all that is audible.
It will be all that is sensible.
Any more.
I sat looking out the window and stared at the big lake, which is starting to freeze around the edges. Something happened that has never happened to me before, which is that a poem started to write itself. So I grabbed pen and paper, and the result is here. Whether it is a good poem or not, I'll leave to others, and whether it's really about the lake or me, I also don't know. But I share it with my ever-indulgent readers, with thanks for still being there after four-and-a-half years.
Freezing Over
I am freezing over.
Some say I have been frozen all along,
Creaking, groaning,
Inarticulate.
But you weren't listening, were you.
Beware my placid surface
Beware the white sheen that goes as far as the
eye can see.
Nothing is happening, you say.
But it is happening. It is happening.
I will thaw in the spring.
And this year
You will hear my voice.
It will be all that is audible.
It will be all that is sensible.
Any more.
Tuesday, January 7, 2020
Epiphanies
I love the word and the concept of "epiphanies," whether in the religious construct, the literature construct, or just in life. And this year -- 2020 -- seems like a good one for them. I am sure we'll all get sick of references to clear vision and clarity this year; yet I love the prospect of a clear-seeing year. Eyesight is particularly precious when your glasses correct 20-800 vision to near 20-20. In the new year, I wish all of us the ability to really see and understand what is happening.
Sure enough, almost as if on cue, the news gave us something to lurch us into clarity, if we're ready for it. For me, putting aside the particulars of this current event, it's just a case of, when will we (the human race generally) get sick of conflict? All conflict? When will we wake up from this nightmare of duality? The curse of the "versus." Conflict never ends when you believe there is a frightful "other" with whom you must fight. I am so done with it all, the revenge, the retaliation, the reaction, the lines in the sand, everything done in "response" to something. Will this be the year that we finally grow out of this paradigm?
Maybe I was born with it. Maybe I developed it because of being a choral musician and artist; I don't know. All I know is that I can only seem to see and tolerate a unified field of harmony and beauty. I have no room in my 60-something life for conflict of any sort. In situations where I realize I am or have been angry (writing my book is bringing some of this to the surface), this is my internal issue. I am responsible for the pain I feel, and I need to heal myself and walk through the epiphanies I am having, not lash out at others.
Not everyone is there yet. But those of us who have "re"tired from (or are just plain tired of) the world of conflict have an excellent opportunity this year to model non-reactive action. We can use this rocky historical moment to release the beauty and harmony hidden in our cores, in our own ways. We can choose to model true creative power, not destructive reprisal.
Sure enough, almost as if on cue, the news gave us something to lurch us into clarity, if we're ready for it. For me, putting aside the particulars of this current event, it's just a case of, when will we (the human race generally) get sick of conflict? All conflict? When will we wake up from this nightmare of duality? The curse of the "versus." Conflict never ends when you believe there is a frightful "other" with whom you must fight. I am so done with it all, the revenge, the retaliation, the reaction, the lines in the sand, everything done in "response" to something. Will this be the year that we finally grow out of this paradigm?
Maybe I was born with it. Maybe I developed it because of being a choral musician and artist; I don't know. All I know is that I can only seem to see and tolerate a unified field of harmony and beauty. I have no room in my 60-something life for conflict of any sort. In situations where I realize I am or have been angry (writing my book is bringing some of this to the surface), this is my internal issue. I am responsible for the pain I feel, and I need to heal myself and walk through the epiphanies I am having, not lash out at others.
Not everyone is there yet. But those of us who have "re"tired from (or are just plain tired of) the world of conflict have an excellent opportunity this year to model non-reactive action. We can use this rocky historical moment to release the beauty and harmony hidden in our cores, in our own ways. We can choose to model true creative power, not destructive reprisal.
Tuesday, December 31, 2019
Paradox morphing into mystery
I've tried unsuccessfully to think of a single word to encapsulate 2019. Words could sputter out of me to describe the world scene this year, but my little individual journey through those events was -- what? -- "paradoxical"? For the moment that works best.
The year started in my beloved England, only a broken wrist left me so battered and timid that I couldn't run around and experience all the things I had planned. The visit included almost no church music, but oddly, many blessings and more of a sense of rootedness there than ever.
And yet when the time came to an end, I uprooted again, back to Duluth, my American "as close to home as I can get." I found temporary housing in a beautiful place that slowly revealed itself to be uniquely challenging. Blissful summertime walking on the beach probably led to a painful IT band injury. Then a series of severe winter storms made the city nearly unnavigable at times. Walking around and getting into city buses, etc., has been as challenging as at the beginning of the year, only in a different place and for different reasons.
Human connectedness has made all the difference in 2019. Yet in another painful paradox, I seem to have lost the long term friendship that means the most to me, and I really do not understand what happened. Thus Christmas brought a lot of grieving, the processing of losses and closed paths. I have too rarely allowed myself to reach, much less feel, the deepest pain of life, so perhaps that was a good thing.
I end the year house-sitting, a quiet being in the quiet frozen North, hearing the roiling surf of Lake Superior as it changes the beach landscape irrevocably with every wave. Perched, not planted, as usual, and yet something feels different. I feel somewhat more inwardly rooted, somewhat less dependent on conditions. Maybe the paradoxes and ironies of life are slowly morphing into "mysteries" as I hit my mid-sixties.
May the next year, for all of us, be "mysterious" or better!
The year started in my beloved England, only a broken wrist left me so battered and timid that I couldn't run around and experience all the things I had planned. The visit included almost no church music, but oddly, many blessings and more of a sense of rootedness there than ever.
And yet when the time came to an end, I uprooted again, back to Duluth, my American "as close to home as I can get." I found temporary housing in a beautiful place that slowly revealed itself to be uniquely challenging. Blissful summertime walking on the beach probably led to a painful IT band injury. Then a series of severe winter storms made the city nearly unnavigable at times. Walking around and getting into city buses, etc., has been as challenging as at the beginning of the year, only in a different place and for different reasons.
Human connectedness has made all the difference in 2019. Yet in another painful paradox, I seem to have lost the long term friendship that means the most to me, and I really do not understand what happened. Thus Christmas brought a lot of grieving, the processing of losses and closed paths. I have too rarely allowed myself to reach, much less feel, the deepest pain of life, so perhaps that was a good thing.
I end the year house-sitting, a quiet being in the quiet frozen North, hearing the roiling surf of Lake Superior as it changes the beach landscape irrevocably with every wave. Perched, not planted, as usual, and yet something feels different. I feel somewhat more inwardly rooted, somewhat less dependent on conditions. Maybe the paradoxes and ironies of life are slowly morphing into "mysteries" as I hit my mid-sixties.
May the next year, for all of us, be "mysterious" or better!
Friday, December 13, 2019
Right and Wrong
It may seem odd that a non-dualistic thinker like me would write a post called "right and wrong," but bear with me. I've been influenced and formed in that paradigm like everyone else...
Writing my memoir has been revelatory. Hard, but revelatory. It has reminded me (if the news doesn't, each and every morning) that I have been fortunate enough never to have experienced war, physical or sexual abuse, direct terrorist attacks, or any similar physical violence at the hands of other people.
But my life experienced has been characterized by an unusual level of psychological rejection -- abandonment, condescension, shaming, ridicule, contradiction and push back. Perhaps the worst of all is just simply being ignored. This has been as hard to write about in my book as I imagine outright violence would have been, but I am beginning to see a clear trend; I think I may have explored this in a blog a few months ago, but I'm seeing it more and more clearly.
I was made to feel "wrong," I believe, the minute I was handed into my father's arms. He simply could not register the qualities that a beautiful young first baby represents, and as I came into my own (at least to some degree a person of love, beauty, wisdom, empathy, and creativity) I was kept further and further at arm's length. Soon I fell in love with English church music -- wrong again, it seemed. Over and over, I've had regular experience with being pushed back in almost a knee-jerk kind of way, particularly when I am being most "me." It never ceases to be painful; thankfully, there have been wonderful exceptions along the way.
The gift of writing all these events down on paper, and having survived long enough to do so (because, Lordy, that alone is a miracle!) is that I am finally seeing the consistent thread through them all.
In almost every case, I verbalized (out loud, or in writing) something that was, in fact, true, a "case" that was arguable, or something that time would prove true. I was, in effect, "right," but in a situation where people did not want to hear the truth so it was easier to make me feel "wrong." Until recently, I just couldn't completely separate people's reactions to me from who I was. Somewhere in me, I carried the shame of consistently being wrong. Maybe some of you have experienced this.
Of course this phenomenon is magnified by my being a woman "of a certain age" (we're all invisible and inaudible, right?) and by my having made the choice so many times in my life to live in climates that require months of "muffling" against the elements. My truth flies away on a brutal northeast wind the minute the words leave my mouth. My breath freezes to my scarf, my glasses. I still resonate with being near Lake Superior because she is endless, roiling, Nature-speaking-her-truth. I am inspired by her refusal to be tamed or made wrong.
I am so ready -- not necessarily to be told I am "right," because truly, I am trying to leave that form of duality, but...-- to have people say, "I'd like to hear more about what you have to say." I'd like to regularly feel what it feels like to speak -- or "be" -- and not hear all the shutters pulled down around me. I'd like to know what it is like to be fully welcomed for being in my fullest integrity. And, yes, I'd like that for everyone.
Writing my memoir has been revelatory. Hard, but revelatory. It has reminded me (if the news doesn't, each and every morning) that I have been fortunate enough never to have experienced war, physical or sexual abuse, direct terrorist attacks, or any similar physical violence at the hands of other people.
But my life experienced has been characterized by an unusual level of psychological rejection -- abandonment, condescension, shaming, ridicule, contradiction and push back. Perhaps the worst of all is just simply being ignored. This has been as hard to write about in my book as I imagine outright violence would have been, but I am beginning to see a clear trend; I think I may have explored this in a blog a few months ago, but I'm seeing it more and more clearly.
I was made to feel "wrong," I believe, the minute I was handed into my father's arms. He simply could not register the qualities that a beautiful young first baby represents, and as I came into my own (at least to some degree a person of love, beauty, wisdom, empathy, and creativity) I was kept further and further at arm's length. Soon I fell in love with English church music -- wrong again, it seemed. Over and over, I've had regular experience with being pushed back in almost a knee-jerk kind of way, particularly when I am being most "me." It never ceases to be painful; thankfully, there have been wonderful exceptions along the way.
The gift of writing all these events down on paper, and having survived long enough to do so (because, Lordy, that alone is a miracle!) is that I am finally seeing the consistent thread through them all.
In almost every case, I verbalized (out loud, or in writing) something that was, in fact, true, a "case" that was arguable, or something that time would prove true. I was, in effect, "right," but in a situation where people did not want to hear the truth so it was easier to make me feel "wrong." Until recently, I just couldn't completely separate people's reactions to me from who I was. Somewhere in me, I carried the shame of consistently being wrong. Maybe some of you have experienced this.
Of course this phenomenon is magnified by my being a woman "of a certain age" (we're all invisible and inaudible, right?) and by my having made the choice so many times in my life to live in climates that require months of "muffling" against the elements. My truth flies away on a brutal northeast wind the minute the words leave my mouth. My breath freezes to my scarf, my glasses. I still resonate with being near Lake Superior because she is endless, roiling, Nature-speaking-her-truth. I am inspired by her refusal to be tamed or made wrong.
I am so ready -- not necessarily to be told I am "right," because truly, I am trying to leave that form of duality, but...-- to have people say, "I'd like to hear more about what you have to say." I'd like to regularly feel what it feels like to speak -- or "be" -- and not hear all the shutters pulled down around me. I'd like to know what it is like to be fully welcomed for being in my fullest integrity. And, yes, I'd like that for everyone.
Friday, December 6, 2019
A Blizzard and a Book
Last weekend, Duluth had a serious blizzard, probably the worst since 1991, when I was also here. Technically, not as much snow, but such heavy, wet, stuff that digging out has been extremely challenging. In fact, it's definitely going to be one of those winters when those of us of a certain age avoid going outdoors. I was never into winter sports...my winter sport is looking out the window at the black and white landscape, I guess!
I ended up miscalculating one thing, which was how many books to have out from the library. I raced through the two I had, and was bookless. Disaster. However, a few weeks before, I had found Edwin Way Teale's Springtime in Britain (1970) in the library's own free book shelf. I am not a naturalist and generally have no interest in books about birds, ferns, nature. Sorry, but that's the truth! I had pretty much figured I would just keep this book in my collection of Britainia. But with nothing else to read, I got started, and it is wonderful. He describes his late-1960's springtime trip to Britain, driving with his wife all over the country. For the most part, they avoided cities, and his descriptions of the landscape and animal life are charming, beautiful, grounding.
My readers must be so tired of my England "thing" -- someone asked me the other day, "Why didn't you ever just get over there to live?" What's the answer to that? I simply do not know. At times I have tried and tried, at times I have given up. One likely reason is that my "relationship" with England (and its church music) has simply not been a clear, pure energetic signal. A few years ago, someone gave me a beautiful book of photographs of small English country churches. I tried looking through it, and it made me sob so hard that I have basically never looked at it since. It is too poignant, too hard to look from a distance and not be there. Similarly with listening to webcasts of choral evensong services...often I just simply cannot bear to listen from so far away.
So I see reading Teale's book as a victory of sorts, over my own belief in separation. I have been able to read, to picture many of the places that I also know, and simply smile and feel grounded and part of it. I drew a picture the other day of my feet rooted by long Jack and the Beanstalk vines to Britain. I am trying to get away from the notion of "homesickness" and lean into "home-rootedness." I'll try to use this winter's brutal black and white time to heal that lingering separation within me.
I ended up miscalculating one thing, which was how many books to have out from the library. I raced through the two I had, and was bookless. Disaster. However, a few weeks before, I had found Edwin Way Teale's Springtime in Britain (1970) in the library's own free book shelf. I am not a naturalist and generally have no interest in books about birds, ferns, nature. Sorry, but that's the truth! I had pretty much figured I would just keep this book in my collection of Britainia. But with nothing else to read, I got started, and it is wonderful. He describes his late-1960's springtime trip to Britain, driving with his wife all over the country. For the most part, they avoided cities, and his descriptions of the landscape and animal life are charming, beautiful, grounding.
My readers must be so tired of my England "thing" -- someone asked me the other day, "Why didn't you ever just get over there to live?" What's the answer to that? I simply do not know. At times I have tried and tried, at times I have given up. One likely reason is that my "relationship" with England (and its church music) has simply not been a clear, pure energetic signal. A few years ago, someone gave me a beautiful book of photographs of small English country churches. I tried looking through it, and it made me sob so hard that I have basically never looked at it since. It is too poignant, too hard to look from a distance and not be there. Similarly with listening to webcasts of choral evensong services...often I just simply cannot bear to listen from so far away.
So I see reading Teale's book as a victory of sorts, over my own belief in separation. I have been able to read, to picture many of the places that I also know, and simply smile and feel grounded and part of it. I drew a picture the other day of my feet rooted by long Jack and the Beanstalk vines to Britain. I am trying to get away from the notion of "homesickness" and lean into "home-rootedness." I'll try to use this winter's brutal black and white time to heal that lingering separation within me.
Thursday, November 21, 2019
Health Care II
Well, in nearly 500 posts, I have never published a retraction, and I'm not quite doing it now. But concerning yesterday's post, yes, there was an error on the bill I received, in the sense that it didn't give me complete information. I still had to pay the amount on the invoice, but it turned out to be for three sessions of physical therapy, not one. That makes things a bit more bearable, yet still...
Do I believe in universal health care? Absolutely. But I don't believe it will be possible to institute under our current system.
I've learned to trust my body, and to believe that it can, and will, adapt to most outside challenges. It also aligns with my inner reality, which I try to stay very conscious of. I'm not afraid of my body or of illness...am I a little afraid of falls and their ramifications? Yes. That seems to have been my biggest challenge; I didn't fall last month, but the IT band problem might have stemmed partially from last December's fall. Clearly these situations absolutely require medical intervention. Ditto, dental work. So we all need something, sometime. I am grateful for good care these last few weeks, but why is it that the minute money enters into any scenario, I feel sick in the pit of my stomach? I just feel better about a love economy, a "I'll do that for you because you are another wonderful human being" economy. In health care and in other scenarios.
Do I believe in universal health care? Absolutely. But I don't believe it will be possible to institute under our current system.
I've learned to trust my body, and to believe that it can, and will, adapt to most outside challenges. It also aligns with my inner reality, which I try to stay very conscious of. I'm not afraid of my body or of illness...am I a little afraid of falls and their ramifications? Yes. That seems to have been my biggest challenge; I didn't fall last month, but the IT band problem might have stemmed partially from last December's fall. Clearly these situations absolutely require medical intervention. Ditto, dental work. So we all need something, sometime. I am grateful for good care these last few weeks, but why is it that the minute money enters into any scenario, I feel sick in the pit of my stomach? I just feel better about a love economy, a "I'll do that for you because you are another wonderful human being" economy. In health care and in other scenarios.
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