(a)lone

Something is happening here and I am afraid.  There is too much afoot… are far too many coincidences for it to be a coincidence.

And yet…. What am I so afraid of?  I seem to be floating between two separate, but very real, realities of “I don’t want to be alone” and “I don’t want to get involved with anyone”.  My soul misses having someone to coexist with. It is the unequivocal “grass is greener” situation, because yes, while I thoroughly  relish having my own house and my own space, I also long for those gentle, intimate times of togetherness and interaction, of hand holding and eye gazing, and the morphing into a beautiful contentedness.  

But…why?

On our way to a Brothers Comatose concert the other night, friend of mine said, “Wow, you really think about this stuff, huh?” and he’s right, I do.  My instructor said some profound words in class the other night, “Our wounding comes from relationships, therefore our healing must come from relationships” and I couldn’t agree more.  It is no mistake why I am now in graduate school, for an MFT therapist’s degree: it is to recapture and repair the family I lost so very long ago.  Nonetheless, I simply wish I wasn’t trying to heal a lifetime in a 2 month period. 

In a stirringly haunting song by Hanni El Khatib, he  cries out, “Wait!  Wait!  Wait!  ‘Cause nobody wants to be alone.”  He moans this with that same desperation and loneliness I feel in my heart every time I see two happy people together, two people dancing closely together, their bodies united with the knowledge of oneness, or just walking hand in hand.  It’s been so long since my heart smiled from being in love with another human.  

About a year ago, I was told by someone to make the list of what I was looking for in a person.  I did this with every attempt at being ‘honest with myself’ and handed the assignment in.  He read the list with a smile on his face and told me ever-so gently that I needed to lower my expectations.   Sigh….

I have met some beautiful men recently, in real life, not this ‘wink system’ (which has lead to more marriages than any other dating service, by the way). There’s that guy whom I was married to for a decade. He’s a super guy and after our divorce, we shared with one another that we shall always love each other.  Then there’s the next guy.  He’s been a super wonderful person in a many different ways.  I’ve learned so much about myself and my (many) imperfections with this man.  I think, I hope, we will always have a good friendship.  Then, there’s the beautiful ‘text’ guys… helping my Ego realize that how I see myself  is not how others  see me and to just have fun. Let go.  It’s Life, not brain surgery….

Ok, so I do try to interact…I winked at a guy on that stupid Match.com.  I’ve actually forced myself to wink at many, because I can’t say I tried unless I participate, right?  Then... one of these winks responded.  Aw, hell.  I’m not sure I’m willing to go as far as actually meeting someone for coffee (except that world photographer who lives in Luxembourg….I’d meet him), but I’m forcing myself to at least get $15 worth of winks out of the $60 I spent on this stupid, stupid idea.

Well, shit.  What, then, shall I do?  Stay in my room and focus on yoga, school work, blogging and take Mabi to the park every day?  What kind of a life is that?  Everyone  tells me “As soon as you quite looking for it, it’ll happen.”  Well, dammit!  That’s a psychological mind-fuck if I ever heard one.  I’m not thinking about it, I’m living it?  Somewhat “coincidentally”,  I read a quote from R. Schuller which goes as follows:  “If you listen to your fears, you will die never knowing what a great person you might have been.” 

 If I have learned anything, it is that my fear permeates most of my decisions and stops me from doing those very actions which help me grow so that I may become the person I want to be.  I don’t want to hurt any other people, and yet, I am afraid: afraid of getting hurt, afraid of making a mistake, afraid of being alone, perhaps afraid of finding happiness?   Afraid of that desperately uncomfortable feeling I get when….  Picture the scene:  Nevada City, a freakin’ activist film festival, so there are hundreds of gorgeous young men with that scruffy facial hair, long, tangled hair, just pure deliciousness from my point of view.  So there I am, shooting pictures, when the one man to approach me is the very rotund “Bob”, in his early 60s, with breath that could be improved with a Tic-Tac.  He has decided we are going to be dance partners, pulling me right in front of the stage and we begin swing dancing; he’s swirling me in my fishnet stockings and cowboy boots around (trust me, there were hippies & activists everywhere, the outfit worked).  I haven’t danced like that since Billy Bob’s in Ft. Worth 20 years ago.  Wow.  He kept pulling me so close to him, pressing me into him, swirling me around him and then dipping me.  <groan>  WHY???!!!    

Well, I’ll tell you why.  Because tonight, my question to the Universe was answered with somewhat of a chuckle:  Just stop. Stop wishing, stop longing, stop searching, stop,stop, stop! 

 It (he) will find you and hopefully it isn’t Bob, but if it is, there ya have it.  The Universe has always provided me what I need when I needed it, so I must quit thinking I know and instead do my footwork; my studies, my Chandra Namaskar and my Tribe. 

I’ll leave the rest of it alone.

Home Less

It is 32˚ degrees outside. I have a heater two feet away from my frog-flannel-sheeted, duvet-covered bed, trying to make sense of this ridiculously stupid Match.com error I participated in, while outside, maybe 20-30 feet away in (I am assuming) the carport, there sits a human being.   Cold and coughing, he is undoubtedly shivering uncontrollably, and I am wishing I hadn’t given our extra blankets to the homeless camp two weeks ago, just so I would have had something for him here.

I surreptitiously attempted to find him this afternoon, to confirm my beliefs, but I saw nothing and I’m not foolish enough to go blazing onto someone else’s property to look for another trespasser.  I may be naive, but I’m not stupid.  Well, I’m usually not stupid.

It’s difficult to be sitting here in this semi-warm room (about 66˚ now) hearing his constant coughing as I wonder what his story is.  Why is he there?  What happened to put him there?  Drugs, alcohol and mental illness usually play a tremendous role in the lives of the homeless population, but some, like the father of someone I know, simply prefers to be homeless.  He says the streets are his home and he doesn’t want any other.  Ok, so there you have it.  But why?  What made this gentle man so fond of living without a roof over his head, to protect him from the rain, and walls, to shelter him from the wind?  What events in his life, which dominant forces drove this man down his Path?  What is his story? 

 I have always interested in people’s stories.  As a child, an adolescent, a 20, 30, 40 year old, it’s always been a wish of mine to approach a random stranger and say, “Tell me your story!  What was your greatest joy? What was your most heart-wrenching moment?” yet I’m not sure how kindly people would take to that, especially the homeless population.  It isn’t “safe” to tell a stranger those secrets which you, yourself, do not even dare think of.  What analgesic event took place and numbed the inner-fight of their Human Spirit? What diminutive words were said that erased the last vestiges of self-esteem?

There is rarely only one event in the lives of this self-discarded, feared, misunderstood population.  There is a circular causality in which many different variables play a hand in the outcome.  And, if there is no positive loop in the feedback system, signifying a need for change (i.e. taking that community college course to keep the job, go to that clinic to stay on the medication, asking for help to quit drinking), then the system remains in homeostasis, and the losses; of home, vehicle, job, support, simply continue.  Until all that is left is…nothing.  

It is difficult to climb out of that hole.  I was a fortunate one and can see how difficult that might be for a man in his 60s who has a serious addiction to alcohol or a long undiagnosed/untreated mental issue to even attempt a change.  We give up sometimes, because after countless vain attempts, we see little, if any progress. “Get a job!”  People say, but how?  Would you give a homeless man a job in your workplace?  How should he apply?  Just go into Wal-mart and sit at the computer?  Hmm?  Which “home” address would he put down?  As previously mentioned, it isn’t so easy, because along with those rudimentary things such as home address, another prominent need is the desire to participate.  

So, I’m sad. For him, for all of them.    I wish still I had those blankets.

My Beautiful Body

I looked at my Body today. I looked at her with a different perspective than I have become accustomed to per media influences (too chunky, too flabby, too wrinkly, too uneven, too saggy, too rough, too callused, thin nails, bad cuticles, gray hair, not enough hair, too much hair there, short hair, thinning eyelashes, discolored skin, ad infinitum).  Today, I looked at my Body with gratitude and honor, with respect and admiration.  This Body has taken me places.  She has done so much for me and it seems the only thing I do for her is complain.  

Sigh….  When will I learn?

When I was three, this little Body sat on a tricycle and rode it out of our gated driveway down Cardinal Lane to Midkiff, then all the way down to Loop 250 (which was a Farmers Market road then)before she was found by a neighbor.  That’s about two and a half miles on a tricycle.  

This Body was knocked down by the metal gates to our house, with the gate crushing the ankles under it, pinning me down.  I remember this well (I was 4 then).  Yet she held steady.  No crushed ankles.  This Body was flown off a bucking mare, face first onto the street when I was seven, with gravel stuck to my face, but no broken bones.  The left leg of this Body withstood the weight of that same fully-grown mare, who knocked me down and stood on my thigh for 5 minutes as I lay screaming. She simply looked down at me with disdain. Again, a nice horse-shoe shaped bruise, but nothing broken. At this point, my Body consulted with my mind and convinced it to stay the hell away from that mare.

When I was 16, this Body survived a crash into a house one beautiful Sunday afternoon in March. There was no pulse and no heartbeat for a moment, according to witnesses, but then she remembered her manners and sprang back into Life, with a head injury, collapsed lung, cracked collar bone, one broken rib, lacerations, contusions, concussion,  etc.  Five days in a coma gave her time to gather her spark and zest before she ventured back onto the highway of Life.

And that was the easy stuff.

I then subjected my Body to years of poison; of alcohol and any other substances I could find…again and again and again, trying to fill that desperate hole inside my soul which would not be filled.  I did this for years. I placed my Body in many precarious situations… in drunken, black-out situations…some involving knives from offended parties, headlights facing me as I was in the wrong lane, desperate rides in a car full of strangers, just to get that next drink.  In the middle of this liquid suicide, my Body carried a child, a blessed child who did not deserve to live in this self-created hell.  So I found his mother, and on September 16, two days after I had given him life, my Body almost died inside as I handed him to his real mother, the one who could give him what he needed.  My Body survived that, but barely.  For over the next two years I tried in every way possible to kill this beautiful Body:  alcohol, drugs, pills, razor blades; constant emotional, physical and sexual assaults from another Lost Soul.  Yet, she stayed true.  She refused to give in to my demands, because she knew better.  She knew there was still so much to do, so many more things to accomplish.  

My Body wanted to give me those gifts I had so long dreamed of…children, adventures, freedom from Self.

 

Eventually she gave me those glorious children; basking in the indescribable joys of Life within.  She held them and protected them from me, even as I took that which was not good for me.  She gave them Life and was overjoyed in the blessings of nursing them.  My Body exalted in the Miracle of Womanhood.

My Body knows.  My Body has separated herself from my mind, which was so often my downfall.  Consuming foods which were not good for me, I reached a point where the weight was painful and I had to do something to heal my poor Body.  I am grateful this recognition happened at thirty pounds, rather than more.  So many people seem to ignore their Body’s cry for help.

She has so often given in to my demands of fitness, despite physical issues which limit her.  My fallen barefoot feet have pounded the pavement, crying out in pain, yet she continued. My body enjoys the Life brought by yoga, a mindful existence with mind and spirit.  A blissful harmony which doesn’t violate, yet nurtures, instead.

Recently, my Body held another Life.  Yet she knew something was wrong as the connection between mother and child was almost completely silent.  My Body once again had to suffer the pain of giving up a life, yet this time before his truly began, as she screamed in anguish in the loss her Last Child.  She mourned immeasurably, though this time with her children, and the bond between the two children and herself became even stronger.

 

I can only hope my Body will endure much more as I work to change my treatment of her.  I intend to begin honoring her, for all she done for me and all she has given me.

 

I love my beautiful Body.

Generational Force

This evening the Tribe & I decided to re-watch the Star Wars series as it has been a few years since we’ve seen it.  The initial plan was to simply begin with “A New Hope”, however, I become much too excited and simply had to watch my very favorite of the series, “The Empire Strikes Back”. 

When I was a kid growing up in Midland, Texas, my family was very close friends with Ann Clough. Ann’s son David was a couple of years older than I and was obsessed with Star Wars, so I therefore became very familiar with “The Empire Strikes Back” upon its release in 1980.  

 Our Saturdays together were spent reenacting that movie line by line (I had the book and read it numerous times).  David was Han Solo, I was Princess Leia and my sister was usually Chewbacca (or Luke Skywalker).  This may have been where her  resentments started, I’m not sure.   I was so good at imagining myself as piloting the Millennium Falcon that it is truly difficult for me to think back to those years and not perceive it as a reality.  I knew the ships, the weapons, every part of that movie. 

The three of us(David, my sister and myself) were attending Trinity School, a parochial school with a chapel service every day.  At some point in the service (I forget when), Reverend Peterson would say “May the Lord be with you”, to which we all replied, “And also with you”, and he would close with, “Let us pray”.  At that point in my young life, “The Empire Strikes Back” was such a paramount part, that I melded religious services with the Force, and every time I hear “May the Force be with you”, I instinctively reply “And also with you.  Let us pray”.

What I appreciate so much about Star Wars and other movies released in the 80s is how meaningful they seemed to be.  There seemed to be a some sort of a lesson or point in all of them, whether it be E.T.,  Indiana Jones, Tootsie, Ghostbusters, Ferris Bueller or Rocky.  Even Die Hard wasn’t simply a mass of explosions…there was an actual plot.  I look back at my youth and see meaning.

However....

What makes us think that our youth was better than the youth of today?  Yes, they won’t get to save their texts and read them in 30 years the way I have saved notes from friends.  You know the “W/B/S!!!  PRIVATE!!!” little note folded up “just so”, handed off in the hallway between math and bio.  No, they didn’t have the Walk-Man or know how to make a mix tape (or splice a cassette).  They don’t know about phone cords and how tangled they would always get, or how super cool MTV was when it actually played music videos!!!  The most popular video game was Super Mario Bros and the goal was to save Princess Peach!  No blood or raping on that game, and everybody seemed to love it.  Remember Trapper Keepers?  Oh, man…. I think I’m talking myself out of making my point.

Those times were such a joy, so filled with excitement and amazing things, and yet, who is to say it’s worse for our kids now? They have never not known a world without the Internet, cell phones, visible bra straps (eww), but this is their reality, just as imagining I was piloting the Millennium Falcon was mine.  I know our parents were shaking their heads with similar feelings.  Remember, they were the children of the 60s and 70s and had seen a life and youth much different from the one we faced.

It is a cyclical, generational “Rite of Passage” that kids must experience.  I know I wouldn’t want to be a kid today, but how many of our parents would have wanted to exchange childhoods with us?  There is a saying about experiencing someone else’s problems and how quickly you would give them back and take back your own. This same concept is applicable to youth.  It is each generation’s path.

I, however, am grateful my generation had the Force.

A beautiful year

I had initially started a different post about my kids; how they love each other, despite their fussing and nagging and fighting, yet when  went through the Facebook posts this morning, I was amazed at so many “A new beginning!”  “Thank God 2012 is over!”  “I’m glad I got through 2012!”  Wait, what??

No. 

Folks, time is a human thing.  The kids and I spent a good half hour discussing that very topic last night at 12:45, when all of us (including the dog) were in my full size bed.  I brought up that now in the bed (12:46 a.m., January 1, 2013) was really no different than then (11:59 p.m., December 31, 2012), when Ethan and I were yelling the countdown and giggling that Maggie took that opportunity to go for a pee and was missing the “bridge” into the “new year”.  It turn out she wanted to call my cell from the house phone at 12:00 to wish me a happy new year & be my first phone call of the new year. 

Time is relative.  It is not absolute or complete.  I have heard more times than I care to remember that I can start my day over anytime I choose.  Granted, we can’t “technically” be in whichever year we’d like, or I’d be in 1988, I think.  Sigh…the 80s were amazing…all those rad hairbands.

Back to the point:  Last year was beautiful – they are all beautiful years, if you choose to make them so. Certain events are difficult, guaranteed, but we live through them, we learn, and most importantly, we grow. One of the sayings my mother repeated far too much was “Life isn’t fair”, and it isn’t!  There is no way we can expect life to be the way it is in a movie.  As a living, conscious Being, we are subject to births and deaths,  tragedies and joyous occasions, happiness and sorrow, along with all those other things which make Life what it is: an Experience.

On our way home last night, in the final hours of 2012, my son and I (Mags was asleep in the car) decided to stop by the river where we had said goodbye to baby Ryan’s ashes the year before.  It was icy cold outside; 29 degrees and so motionless.  The river was moving gently, as if she, too, was chilled and a flock of geese slept huddled by the shore.  Ethan and I saw a quiet mist hugging the water, trying to blanket the river, yet the water rushed hurriedly on, trying to get downstream to a warmer place.  The once-full moon looked mournfully over our shoulders, giving us light to say ‘hi’ to Ryan, and so we did. 

Once we were in the car again, Ethan asked where the river ended up, if it went as far as the ocean.  He wanted to know if Ryan’s ashes were in the Pacific.  Talking in that warm car as we headed home those last hours of 2012, it was a beautiful conversation about Life.  Yes, my heart hurts sometimes, because I missed out in the birth & life of Ryan or because my father is no longer here.  Yet others are here, right now in this beautiful Life. So while they are here, while I am here, let us all Live.