Stay Soft

You know, I haven't been updating this blog as often as I had hoped in 2013, but I've struggled this past fall and winter with a variety of things that have made being creative and positive and (hopefully) helpful kinda difficult: the past showing up uninvited, the present weighing me down like too many layers, the immediate future hiding, not even a square on the calendar yet. So much unsettled and up in the air can bring a girl down, and the stress of these types of everyday moments has caused me to batten down the hatches, as it were.

My primary struggle has always been to be open; my life has always been focused on simple survival, the barest of exchanges employed to move forward from point A to B. I am blessed to have cultivated a support system that allows me a great deal of latitude, that understands and recognizes my need to pull away and refocus from time to time. My secondary struggle is with patience. I have it in spades, my Co-dependent Brethren, except for when I finally figure out what I want, and then whatever that is becomes my singular cause, my whole life. And sometimes I build really tall walls to keep out interlopers, no matter how well intentioned they may be.

In short, I allow myself to be hardened.

It is not intentional, really, I just don't actively try to stop it from happening.

Every morning after I drop Blonde Daughter off at school, I drive to the lake with a big cup of coffee and I walk out on the sandbars (although these past few weeks, it's been more of a wade than a walk). I love taking note of the minutiae of changes along my path, snapping photos with my iPhone, sharing them on Instagram or Facebook. Or not. It is a routine that helps keep me centered. Every day, however, on my way back to the FJ, I recite a mantra. Sometimes out loud for the birds and clouds to hear, sometimes just to myself. And I send out intentions to the Universe- requests, I guess, or prayers. What I say to the Universe out there on the sandbars, in the middle of the lake each morning? What I ask for, hope for, what I must believe will be granted me? What propels me forward despite the overwhelming sense some days that staying put would be so much easier?

Those words are none of your fucking business.

Anyway, sometimes I'll get back to my Dollhouse and waste time on Pinterest, creating my Fantasy Life through design and fashion and food inspiration, pinning quotes that make me think or laugh or cry. A few weeks ago, I came across this quote:

Be soft.

Do not let the world make you hard.

Do not let the pain make you hate.

Do not let the bitterness steal your sweetness.

Take pride that even though the rest of the world may disagree,

you still believe it to be a beautiful place.

- Kurt Vonnegut

Well.

I'm a big believer in Fate, in things coming to us exactly when we need them to. I was in a bit of a funk, and so I sat with this quote for a few days after I found it. It made me pause and recognize that my walls were being built up again.

And sometimes when I need to clear my head and just not think so much, I go shopping.

TOTAL GIRL COPING MECHANISM. Ha!

So, I'm at the grocery store (honestly, you don't think this single parent has disposable income, do you?), walking around kinda dazed and lost, and as I moved from produce to meat departments, I saw a man standing in front of the meat cooler, studying the different cuts of pork. From the back- all long legs, bad posture, stocking cap, bad shoes, rough hands- I thought it was my Wasband. I didn't want to deal with him right there in the grocery store. Or at all, frankly. It wasn't him, despite the fact that this man had on the same windbreaker I had bought years ago. It wasn't him; as I moved over towards the poultry and then beef, he moved toward the lunchmeat and pickles. I moved to the eggs, he to the sliced cheese.

It wasn't him, and yet it was him, the future him. This man's face was etched with the weather of hundreds of days working outside. His beard was scraggly and only there because he didn't have any razors to make it go away. His eyes were blue. His eyes were defeated and half-closed. His eyes looked right at me, then past me, not hesitating to move on.

We played hide-and-seek among the aisles. Toilet paper, frozen berries, bread. I stopped to check my phone, and have lost him, I think. Iced tea, trail mix. Gone.

I got home and it was dark. I was in my own world, still a bit disturbed by this blast from the past/glimpse of the future. There was so much brought up in my mind when I thought the Grocery Store Guy was my Wasband; all of the issues and emotions (and the confusion that comes with them) made me a bit numb. And then I got sad. And angry. And onward through the stages, wall getting higher bit by bit, until I heard a voice in my head say: "Stay Soft."

I listened again: Stay. Soft. Stay soft. Some things cannot be undone. Some emotions will keep at you until you acknowledge them fully. Stay soft. Instead of looking at your Life So Far and shaking your head, wondering why you put up with what you did or how you managed to make it to this day, be thankful for that life and the lessons you've lived through and for the ability to apply those lessons in a way that will help you become who you've always meant to be, who you've been destined to be. Sit with that.

I felt incredibly calmed then, there on my couch in the lamplight glow.

Seeing the past and the future at the same time, presently, is most surreal. And the emotions that can bubble up can't be ignored. Those walls you've built up? Your suppressed emotions are going to overflow them, and then you'll have to mop that shit up. Ain't nobody got time for that. But-

But if you stay soft, if you recognize a bit sooner what you're doing to yourself? That emotional overflow can be soaked up, and like a sponge, you can choose to hold on to only what's necessary. It doesn't matter what triggers this emotionality- what's important is the validation and release of those feelings. At least, that's what I took from the quote and that voice in my head.

The next day, I went for my morning sandbar walk like always. But on my way back to the FJ, I stopped myself from reciting my usual mantra, and instead repeated to myself with every footfall: Stay, soft. Right, left. Splash, splash. Breathe in, breathe out. Repeat.

Since then, I've gone back and forth between this mantra and the other, always on the way back to the truck, always using the words to signal to the Universe that I'm ready to start the day, that I'm ready to leave my intentions out there for Fate to find and answer. Or not.

Either way, I've taken this discovery to heart. I'm more prone to think about a situation or person or possibility through a different field of vision, one blurred around the edges, only the most important things in focus. I'm getting more comfortable with being open, with being okay with embellishing the path from point A to B, with living a bit more and not just surviving. I'm not saying its easy, or that I don't still catch myself building walls; I'm saying that I'm not allowing the hardening to be complete every time.

Until next time, friends.

Mini Post

Sunrise over Lake Michigan, April 2013.

Poetry month continues, and I wanted to share this beauty before I post my regular post. Enjoy.

I Think Over Again My Small Adventures

I think over again my small adventures,
My fears,
Those small ones that seemed so big,
For all the vital things
I had to get and reach;
And yet there is only one great thing,
The only thing,
To live to see the great day that dawns
And the light that fills the world.

- Anonymous (19th Century)

April's Showers Are Just Poems

The snow showers that April has gifted to this part of the country are a certain kind of poem, I think: each flake unique, each one an intention brought forth from the clouds, each weather advisory maybe a calling for continued introspection before the celebration of True Spring.

It's true: April is National Poetry Month (and look here, too), and there is a poet in each of us. Teen angst love ramblings, unintentional poetry from words spoken by children, commentary from so-called "professional" writers- just about anything can be called a poem. Although sometimes I think that all it really takes is the skillful use of a thesaurus and some clever spacing in Microsoft Word, I'm prone to insomnia-fueled haikus, posted as staus updates on Facebook myself, so I should probably refrain from being overly critical. Often poems are the only way certain things can ever be communicated; to use the words of a poem in actual conversation would seem, maybe to today's overly-saturated social media & technology-driven masses, too quaint. But then again, if the Hipsters have gotten a hold of it...

...and with that side swipe and an unapologetic smirk, I digress.

Back to poetry.

My regular writing has been feeling like more of a burden than an outlet lately, but I swear I'm working on a new post that is more in the vein of what I normally do. Upcoming topic?
Softness. Reader widens eyes, nods head to the side, thinks (maybe) aloud "Hmm. Softness. Interesting."

While taking breaks from that post topic, I've been painting. And knitting. And sulking. And writing poems (those last two go hand-in-hand, don't they?). I tend to be a storyteller when I write, so just allow me this one indulgence, okay? Like I said, I'm always good for a haiku (that form is the best-creating within structure-see what I did here?); but today I will give you this non-haiku, written recently, and only after many revisions do I feel comfortable posting it here (which is to say, I'm not comfortabe at all posting it anywhere at all).


Elegy, In Anticipation

I think about you some days,
and how heavy it felt to be near you
with you
even on days with good news,
even sitting in the light of a sunbeam.

The photographs of your childhood show sunshine,
but your face
is never really smiling, only
squinting from the glare,
or red from frustration,
or swollen-eyed from not getting your way;
the farm garden lush
the pine trees go deep
the pigs and cows and rooster
the front steps and the three-legged dog-
Sunshine.

I think about your best artwork
pieces created years apart-
accidentally, reluctantly-
a study in contrasts, and
bright spots on your timeline, no doubt;
and you let them go
and you let me go,
animals in our own rights.

Those dreams of you driving?
Sweaty-handed and jittery at the wheel?
I know there is no sun, but
here comes the curve, and with it
the headlights catch you off guard
every time,
their brightness too much for you to bear
and you throw your hands up
and you let go.

And when you finally combust
by either your own doing or not,
or from the realization of all the brightness
you could have kept but wasted-
or maybe just couldn't bear to hold onto?-
and when those billion tiny particles move around the air
like dust sparkling in a sunbeam,
I will think of you as the cloud that makes them disappear.



I will leave you with this, a poem from a favorite author:

North

The rising sun not beet.
or blood,
but sea-rose red.

I amplified my heartbeat
one thousand times,
the animals at first confused
then decided I was another
thunder being.

While talking directly to god
my attention waxed and waned.
I have a lot on my mind.

I worked out
to make myself as strong
as water.

After all these years
of holding the world together
I let it roll down the hill
into the river.

One tree leads
to another,
walking on
this undescribed earth.

I have dreamed
myself back
to where
I already am.

On a cold day
bear, coyote, cranes.
On a rainy night
a wolf with yellow eyes.
On a windy day
eleven kestrels looking
down at me.
On a hot afternoon
the ravens floated over
where I sunk
myself in the river.

Way out there
in unknown country
I walked at night
to scare myself.

Who is this other,
the secret sharer,
who directs the hand
that twists the heart,
the voice calling out ot me
between feather and stone
the hour before dawn?

Somehow
I have turned into
an old brown man
in a green coat.

Having fulfilled
my obligations
my heart moves lightly
to this downward dance.

- Jim Harrison


And now it's your turn. Write a poem. Read a poem. Go listen to someone else read a poem out loud. Memorize a favorite verse, or explicate a piece that really makes you think. And then write a poem about that poem. Until next time, friends.

I'm still here, honest.

Original image can be found here.

I KNOW.
I KNOW.

Really, I do.

I haven't posted a darn thing since just before I left on my vacation- which was awesome- and I can't even tell you why, except to say that maybe I left a big chunk of my mojo back in Puerto Rico, or that the mojo I tried to find or recapture in Puerto Rico was out of my reach. I guess I lost my map.

Regardless, I've had a less-than-stellar Winter, and have some thoughts that have permeated my brain, made me re-evaluate things, made me remember that ultimately, I am just a passenger on this Universal Life Ride, despite my co-dependent control issues. 

I'll share soon, promise. Until then, I'll keep looking for my map. 
Keep giving, friends.

Pack and Go

Right now, as I type this out, I am supposed to be excitedly zipping up my suitcase. I'm leaving my little rental dollhouse in a few hours for a vacation. To a tropical island location with beachside cabana. Alone.

Aaaaaaaand I can't focus.

This has been my life the past ten months or so; my inability to focus and the ensuing feelings of unsettledness and dissatisfaction with everything have rendered me a wreck. I can't make sense of anything, I have no Clarity. And this Winter, especially, I've been dealing with that stale feeling that comes with too many snowcloud-covered days, the days that tarnish the shiny bits that normally give glint when the Winter sun decides to come out. What's a girl to do? 

Go on another retreat? YES. In the Winter of Her Discontent? YES. Someplace warm, with myriad distractions, but also with myriad stretches of sand and sea for solitude and serenity? YES. Mission: Tropical Retreat? YES.

So it was back in the late Fall when I started planning. This retreat, though, required a bit more planning than a summer camping retreat: there were airlines and car rentals and accommodations to figure out. And it cost more than a tank of gas, campsite fees, and a cooler full of food. Way more. Like, more than I probably should have spent. But hey, there are worse things that could happen besides the cable getting shut off while I'm gone, right? 

These past few weeks have been spent avoiding responsibilities in favor of coming to terms with leaving everyone and everything I know to go away. Far, far away. Alone. 

Yes, Alone. 
Necessarily so.
Again. 
Every time. 

As my departure date has approached, I've had to think about what I'd actually be doing during this sojourn: What would I need? What would I pack? How much could I fit in that small carry on suitcase? Well for starters, I'd need some distractions for the travelling portions, so books (special thanks to Magheen for a particularly poignant selection) were packed and music was downloaded to the ol' iPhone. I knew I'd be spending some time reflecting and writing, so I packed a journal (a beautiful one from my friend, Winga). I'd also be spending ample time on the beach, and in went not one, not two, but five bikinis. (Yes, bikinis. Yes, I'm *gulp* over 40. I'm not that awful to look at, I don't think.) And then some warm weather clothes were rolled up and smooshed in. Flip flops. The smallest bottle of sunscreen. A fleece top to soothe my sure-to-be-sunburned shoulders during the evening hours. Jewelry (girls love jewelry, right?) consisted of some important things: a collection of bracelets- of freshwater pearls, of garnet beads, of prayer beads ("they're the color of your eyes," a friend told me); and of favorite necklaces, reminders of love in silver pendant form. And then the business of everyday life went in, all the soaps and potions that keep me feeling ready for the daily grind, let me feel pretty, sometimes, even. So much stuff for one person!

I stopped packing to switch the laundry around, and during this pause, I consulted my checklist, answered a few text messages, scanned Facebook, and then realized I haven't eaten anything today except trail mix, had nothing to drink except coffee. I'm leaving in only 6 hours now, and it is finally hitting me that I'm embarking on my first real vacation in over 18 years. Eight. Teen. Years. And I can't move from my spot on the couch, can't finish folding the laundry, can't stop whatever the fuck that feeling is that gets caught in my throat and produces tears. Eyes closed, eighteen years of another lifetime gets compressed and moved along behind my eyelids, complete with PowerPoint slide transitions and sloppily edited soundtrack. And again, so much stuff for one person!

Deep breath in, exhale. Hands cover eyes and wipe cheeks dry. Hands push me up off the couch, feet move me towards the kitchen. Coffee maker is set, another handful of trail mix, a gulp of water. Back to the task at hand.

As I finished packing all of my things, I thought about how this layering of tangible daily assets into a bag is directly mirrored with our internal assets: the layers we put on our bodies- clothing, jewelry, perfumes? These are the visible marks of Our Memories, the way they are interconnected and layered upon each other; they are Our People, the layers of connections they represent, from the food we've eaten together, the music we've listened to together, the books we've read and discussed- all of it. What is here now and what we've collected on our journeys, what we've kept up in front of our minds for a short while, and what we've branded on our hearts...the symbolism of all of these layers? These things get packed up and get to come along on our adventures whether we like it or not, and so we are really never alone. And my suitcase is filled, and my alarm clock is set for 2:30 am, and I am ready to go on an adventure Alone, but not.

Not Alone.
Not this time.
Not next time.
Not ever.

There is a smile on my face as I cover up with down comforter and quilt, and for the knowledge that all the Loves of My Life are just as excited and anxious as I am for morning to get here. They're packed and ready to go. They've got the big bottle of sunscreen, they've got the FJ fueled up and ready to go. They are wringing their hands. They are reflecting and putting pen to page, they are waiting for me at my cabana, lounging in the hammock, waiting for their turn to use the outdoor shower after sand and surf get all up in their business. They are collecting my mail, eating the perishable food left in the fridge, keeping the sidewalk clear of snowcloud tears. Too much stuff for only one person- thank goodness there are so many of them to help!

Mission: Tropical Retreat is nearing Go Time. The Clarity I've been looking for is maybe the acceptance of Right Now; of going Alone, but Not; of figuring out that I get to choose which memories only stay for a little while as opposed to getting branded on my heart; of falling through the ice and only getting bruised and chilled; of being grateful for so much stuff for only one person; of all the Loves of My Life, no matter if they believe me when or how I say I love them; and of allowing myself to Give Love without promise of anything in return. 

That's my theory, anyway. I'm going to pack and go- I'll let you know what I find. 
Until next time, friends.

Re-View and Reflect

I was browsing through some of my favorite sites the other day, blogs and informational sites and the like, and one of the women I follow published her top three favorite posts from 2012. I liked this idea immediately; however, 2012 was not a banner year for me, and I was kinda glad to see it go.

I commented on her post that I was going to steal the idea for my own blog. And I am going to link to my favorite three posts, but they will be from ALLLLLLLL of my posts, ever. Five years' worth. Go big or go away, right?

I'm working on a new post, too, so don't think of this as a shirking of my regular musings; rather, think of it as being introduced to a side of me you might not know about, or maybe forgot about, or maybe you will see and you will fall in love with me all over again.  A celebration of sorts. 

*fingers crossed*

In no particular order, for your re-viewing (oh, and Happy New Year):

This one.

This one.

And this one.

Until next time, friends.

A Scavenger's Plateau

Little Bay de Noc, Lake Michigan

 8:14 am, December 6, 2012: sunless sunrise

I wrote the start of this post on my birthday, down at the lakefront where I go every weekday to walk and meditate, however I could not bring myself to get out of the car. It was raining, and the wind was blowing blowing blowing; the car was rocking from some of the gusts. The fact that it was my birthday didn't bother me so much in that I don't think too much about getting older; it was just another day to find the Good, to count my blessings despite all I was feeling, to keep up the daily routine I'd created for myself.

In the twelve months since my last birthday, I have gained more than another tally mark on the wall. The bits and pieces of my experiences this year have come to rest right in the front of my brain where I can cull from them lessons on life and on living. I take them on my morning meditation walks, on my solo camping trips, when shopping for steel-cut oats and toilet paper. I even take them with me for odd errands, like when I had to go to the laundromat to wash my bed's comforter and the quilt I had just taken camping. (Side note: the laundromat is a very lonely place to be, especially when one is laundering things that should be shared.) I took those lessons with me down to the beach after spending $4.75 in quarters and watched a wind surfer move through the water, at times becoming airborne. It was mesmerizing and unsettling at once, mostly due to the lack of rhythm: there are times when he would get stuck in one spot, unable to turn or glide away, and then another burst of air would lift him up off the surface of the lake.

Isn't that how life is? How birthdays are? Such a confluence of emotions? So grateful for so much, yet a heavy, desolate sadness for what's gone or lacking? I wish sometimes that the Universe would hand me my lessons in school primer form, composition book along side: Read the following passage. What did you learn? Explain.

I feel like I'm on a plateau. It sounds so much more gentle than being "stalled" or "stunted," and life in the past year has found me heavily relying on my network of friends to sustain my ego, to help allay my general funk. I wanted sunshine and clear skies on my birthday, yet I can't deny the beauty in the overcast-ness of the morning here by the lake: the greys and blues of the water and sky, the sand and marsh grass browns, the regularity of the waves, spots of white on the water's surface, Nature reminding me I'm not in charge. This soothes me, in a way: I am tired of being in charge.

And this brings me to the idea of self-care. I had someone tell me recently that I did a good job of taking care of myself, that even though I'm a single/un-partnered parent, it looked like I was still balanced, that my life was busy and full and complete. I'm not sure if this was a compliment or not. While I've always maintained an independent life, doing what I want to do pretty much when I want to do it, I don't ever feel like I'm taking care of my self purposefully; I'm busy tending to others, trying to keep them happy and healthy, distracted, comfortable. My talent lies in scrounging what's left from the care of others and making it fit into the care of myself, in making it seem like whatever was left over was exactly what I've wanted and needed all along: Scavenger. Giver. 

I would very much like to be taken care of, if only to have the experience and see if I like it. I think I could learn to like it, I don't know. I know the importance of being true to yourself and what makes you, but doesn't everyone need a respite from that? At least now and again, anyway. A permanent check-out isn't what I'm advocating- that's the dangerous part of our relationships and commitments, isn't it? That we unmindfully relinquish "Self" in favor of "We," the collective?

So.

I've written about my propensity for crying, and how it seems to be useful. It is cathartic, yes, but the problem for me is that this catharsis never seems complete. It seems like, rather, the cycle of my emotions and issues doesn't get moved aside with the tears, there is no denouement, it just gets moved back to the bottom of the hill. Sisyphus ain't got nothin' on me. Your facade is built thusly: the scraps from the lives of others are swept up and mixed with an epoxy, pressed together and pressurized to resemble something like Real Happiness. And you continue to hope that one day soon you will be able to move in from the periphery of your own life, towards the center where you can be fully appreciative for Self. And you cling to this belief, this idea of Happiness in the collective sense and its ability to keep you. And so that's where this Scavenging comes in: What is left when the initial stark rawness of your independence subsides? What is left when everyone else's needs are met, Giver? Who is there to attend to your needs? What are those lessons stuck in your frontal lobe trying to teach you?

I feel like a fool, often, for believing that hoping for happiness is enough, that I'll be able to sustain _________. I struggle very much with the feeling that the joke is always going to be on me; that I shouldn't allow myself to relax and be cared for because I should be prepared for the worst- or at least the opposite of what I'd like- to come my way (history has taught me as much); that I shouldn't be focused on my wants and needs because those will take care of themselves. Eventually. After the others. When I finish the task at hand. When there is a pause, when the brain is resting, perhaps. 

This brings me to the title of this post, to the very particular sadness that comes with recognizing your constant hope for personal happiness has yet to be fulfilled. The plateau you're stuck on is the acceptance of not being where you'd like to be, despite your work on Self, despite that new awareness, despite the quality or quantity of the scraps you Scavenge. On your birthday, even. 

I needed to physically have my feet touch the ground, to allow myself the gift of my visceral energy connecting to my limbs, to experience the calm that comes from hearing the water and feeling the wind on my cheeks, eyelashes and -lids fluttering with the gusts. And yet the wind was howling outside my door, and it is still constantly in my thoughts no matter where I go or what I do; I could not get out of the car, I was too tired and chilled to even attempt it. My routine was broken.

And yet I feel obligated to find One Good Thing about this place, about this broken routine, about this expanse. What have I learned? 

At least there's no regression. Until next time, friends.