Friday, February 12, 2016

Excerpt

I love/feel/adore this piece so much:


"I want a woman’s revolution like a lover.
I lust for it, I want so much this freedom,
this end to struggle and fear and lies
we all exhale, that I could die ju
st
with the passionate uttering of that desire.
Just once in this my only lifetime to dance
all alone and bare on a high cliff under cypress trees
with no fear of where I place my feet.
To even glimpse what I might have been and never never
will become, had I not had to “waste my life” fighting
for what my lack of freedom keeps me from glimpsing.
Those who abhor violence refuse to admit they are already
experiencing it, committing it.
Those who lie in the arms of the “individual solution,”
the “private odyssey,” the “personal growth,”
are the most conformist of all,
because to admit suffering is to begin
the creation of freedom.
Those who fear dying refuse to admit that they are already dead.
Well, I am dying, suffocating from this hopelessness tonight,
from this dead weight of struggling with
even those few men I love and care about

each day they kill me.
Do you understand? Dying. Going crazy.
Really. No poetic metaphor.
Hallucinating thin rainbow-colored nets
like cobwebs all over my skin
and dreaming more and more when I can sleep
of being killed or killing.
Sweet revolution, how I wish the female tears
rolling silently down my face this second were each a bullet,
each word I write, each character on my typewriter bullets
to kill whatever it is in men that builds this empire,
colonized my very body,
then named the colony Monster.
I am one of the “man-haters,” some have said.
I don’t have the time or patience here to say again why or how
I hate not men but what it is men do in this culture, or
how the system of sexism, power dominance, and competition
is the enemy, not people — but how men, still, created that system
and preserve it and reap concrete benefits from it.
Words and rhetoric that merely
gush from my arteries when grazed
by the razoredge of humanistic love. Enough.
I will say, however, that you, men, will have to be freed,
as well, though we women may have to kick and kill you
into freedom
since most of you will embrace death quite gladly
rather than give up your power to hold power."
-Robin Morgan, excerpt from "Monster"

Wednesday, February 10, 2016

Looking back

Every once in awhile, I look closely at the stats on my blog to see what people are reading. Lately, someone has found past posts, like from 5 years ago, and I've been revisiting those too.
I have never considered myself a writer...more of a person who has taken up a writing practice in some form or another to clarify thoughts, explore ideas, and dig deeper. My writing practice has been rather inconsistent over the years, since I've written through the birth of a child, much making of things, and a divorce that re-ordered everything.
But it is still good to have it there. I look back at what I've written with the eyes I have now: the perspective of age and an extremely painful transformation. Sometimes I wince at what I've written and think, "Really? Why on EARTH would you write that? And put it out for others to see!" Other times I look with curiosity. Sometimes I actually like something I've written. There is still some of me that is very much the same person I was five years ago, and there is some of me that has drastically changed. Sometimes I've had my voice and sometimes I've written hundreds of words without saying anything.
My divorce was (and is an ongoing) trauma, as were many things in my marriage. I did not realize the depth of that trauma until I got myself educated about what the situation was. Trauma changes you in deep ways. Understanding trauma and coming out of denial has been huge. This hasn't been a "normal" divorce wound. I am trying very hard to not become cynical and embittered, to not be completely mistrustful of caring people who come into my life, and to not completely give up faith in people.
That seems strange to write, because I wonder if most people grapple with these questions, and if they have ever had people in their life who truly enjoyed causing drama and distress in a target person, and who truly do not care how their words or actions affect that person. Sometimes it is still difficult for me to completely grasp.
Luckily, there are so many others who "get" it who are on similar paths to growth and change, and who are committed to healing. This has been invaluable to me for learning to trust my own perception and keeping a grip on what is loving and normal.
Yes, trauma changes you, and it has changed my focus and the way I perceive and move in the world. Softness of heart has to be a choice now, and protecting that softness is a skill borne from all the dysfunctions I have been part of in my life. It's not pretty to look back, but there is hope waiting.
From one post of the past: "It hurts to illumine one's misguided humanity". This is still true for me today, and my hope is that I will continue to write through all of my humanity...misguided, divinely guided, other-guided, self-guided.
I am mostly shy about writing this blog. I don't want a lot of attention drawn to it (will I come across as neurotic? Will I be able to articulate anything meaningful? Will my insights resonate with others?), although I do have a few regular readers. I have blogs I love to read and "lurk" around and admire the writing.
So many of those writers say that writing has kept them sane and helped them through their divorces and life traumas. In turn, their expressions of their journeys has helped me feel not so alone.
All that to say, I'm glad I am still writing.

Wednesday, January 20, 2016

Perfect

I've written here before about my longing for family. That is no secret.
It's one thing to write something down, as if in the act of exposure and vulnerability through writing it is suddenly healed, as if the insight is the healing.
But that is not so. Last week, I met a very sweet family. It was one of those moments where you cannot explain it, but you felt it. I felt love in this house. I just KNEW that this was a house of love, of family, of arguments and fussing over dinner and glasses of wine after the kids are in bed and missing each other and birthdays and long hopeful talks and short irritated glances and the ever-present bedrock of glowing warmth, of devoted hearts, of myriad simple kindnesses braided into constant memory. Everyone welcome, everyone safe, everyone cared for.
Then earlier this week, a colleague showed me calendars students had made. In the calendars she showed me, the children had drawn pictures of their families, their intact families. Seeing those sweet second-grade crayon pictures of families was bittersweet. These children were having a happy life. They were experiencing the world as good and whole in the height of their innocence. I silently prayed they would always remember their innocence, and then I went home and cried.
This grieving and desire for a loving family of my own haunts me, haunts what I wanted for all of my children. Sometimes, I have compensated by loving too loudly, by shouting love when I also needed to be whispering it, letting it fill the room like a warm perfume, a sweetness of air, a knowing gleaned from atmosphere.
Compensation or not, this longing will haunt me for a long time. In reality, I can no longer look to that picture of a perfect, intact family, for that is just not how my life has gone. I have to distill this longing to its essence, over and over again, find out what it means. I keep coming back to love.
I thought love looked a certain way, performed a certain way. I thought love was a dance of what you do, what you give, how well you mastered the steps, how well you followed the rules, how much you guessed what is expected, how well you avoided treading on landmines; being perfect and proper and giving till you drop. I could never keep a perfect house. But I could keep a perfect spirit, a compliant spirit, a sincerely-trying spirit, and that eventually became a severely broken spirit, a taken-for-granted spirit.
None of that bullshit is love. None of that obsequious housewife routine, I'll-take-care-of-everything routine, I'll-do-whatever-you-say ritual is love. It is a coping mechanism for not being heard or having no reciprocity or not being treated like a human being, but it is not love. It wants to be love so badly, wants to have love. Yet no one can make themselves perfect enough to gain their mate's love, nor should they. It was, for me,  a way to distract myself from the obvious lack of love that was happening in my house. You can't heal that by performance, cooking, cleaning, or acquiescing. If no love is there in a person, then no love is there, and we who sincerely love can't do a damned thing about those who don't.
The perfection of love is what it is. You can't gild it with a clean house, and you can't fake it with a sharp mind. You can't put prescribed social elements in place and call it love. You can't enact a shallow charade and call it love. Love will not show up during a fit of pretense. Love is too real to fool with fakery.
 Love simply IS, and will act with all empathy and humility and generosity and humanity and presence just to be with you.
This is yet another layer of healing and it's awesome. It means now I know, now I can bring myself to what is real. Unpretentious Love: I welcome you, I embrace you, I strip you away of preconceived notions. I am here, filled and hopeful.

Monday, January 18, 2016

The Softness of a Woman

We had our Goddess Girls group and spoke of our bodies, our beautiful girls' and women's bodies. I hoped to infuse in my  daughter a loving appreciation of her body and of valuing inner beauty, and her character...who she is inside, above externals.
And who am I kidding? I grew up hating my body. I hated my big belly. I hated my small breasts. I had stretch marks even before I had babies. I was the last one picked on the bench for kickball because I was so insecure and awkward in my movement. I couldn't dance.
I thought of these free-floating and ingrained messages about women's bodies: how a woman should look, how youth should be worshipped, how certain attributes are undesirable. So many women grow up hating their bodies. Tethered to the belief that there is a thinner, better, more beautiful person inside, they starve them, whip the into shape, and deprive them of sleep and proper nourishment.
Yet I have marveled at history's notions of beauty through art. I have looked on women's bodies depicted as soft and full, or at least what seems to me more "real" than the images I am presented with today.
There is of course Ruben:

And then photographs of women from the early 1900's from anonymous photographers:



Danae, a favorite Klimt:



 The softness and fullness of a woman is not a new concept, for it has been revered throughout history, many times a symbol of abundance and fertility. and oh, how beautiful! Those soft round bellies...those curvy lines, those fleshy rolls.
What if...what if it symbolized more? What if it symbolized the essence of what is female?
We live in a hard world. Every day we are given a roadblock, another "no!"It's a man's world in so many ways, and while there are times we need the strong masculine "no!"we cannot forget the soft, feminine, "yes": the parts that yield in their softness, the parts that embrace with comfort, the place that one can rest in acceptance, safety, and grace.
We starve that away and we deprive ourselves of something essentially human. Why does culture hold up and celebrate images of unhealthy women? To subconsciously deprecate and subjugate women only with more sophistication? Why would we want our young women to emulate this disappearing act...this diminishing of the fullness of who they are? Why would we want them weakened through starvation and looking like ghosts that haunt instead of living human beings? Why do we not accept a woman's body for what it is and what it is supposed to do?
And then there is thinspo:


Which leads to this:
Which really says, make me less...make me practically disappear. Jonatha gets it:




There are so many hard places in this world. There are people and situations and hearts that are hard and unyielding. There are disappointments for which there is no comfort or fixing. There is a world locked into intellectual pursuits at the expense of the human heart. And there are pseudo-intellectuals who explain away feelings, or call women irrational for having feelings, and will not accept any sort of influence since they are so hardened in their thinking.
It goes deeper than the current and ongoing love affair with thinness. It is about health and vibrance, the health and vibrance of all that is feminine in our culture.
I have days now, where at age 47, my body is doing things it didn't used to do, and it is softening in places and stiffening in places and strengthening in places, My body is a hard, dependable worker. And every once in awhile, I will actually go by a mirror and say "my body is good". "I love my body". "I feel beautiful". I give myself permission to feel this good, to ease into myself with love and not criticism. I've grown tired of beating up on my body...it is a weary, useless energy suck. Better to invest in self-care and love.
As I appreciate my own softness, and claim my mood of gentleness with myself, I think, we need this; the softness of a woman, to spoon us and shhhhhhhh deep into our hair, to tell us  it is going to  be alright. We need the softness of a woman as a symbol of vital strength, for it is only the strong who can stand against large grief. We need the softness of a woman; we need woman and all that she is. We need this for her health and for ours.
I need this.


Comfort with Emptiness

There are soundtracks for break-ups, singer-songwriters who become your best friend during a divorce because they express your pain and make it beautiful, whole albums that soundtrack a tie in your life.
One such album for me was "Angel in the House". One line from the title track keeps haunting me, even to this day: "my mother moved the furniture when she no longer moved the man"
My mother took on jobs. I took on projects and jobs. I put on a pretty face. I got craft projects published in a magazine. I knitted furiously.
But none of it changed my outer circumstances. Instead of healed, it just made me busy, and added to the noise of my life the noise I created, the whirlwind tunnel I wanted to hide myself in so I did not have to face the terrible truth.
The terrible truth began with me. I thought the terrible truth was that I was not good enough, not worthy, not loved. No wonder I tried to cover up those messages with white-noise whirlwinds. 
But the deeper truth was not about me. Oh sure, I chose unwisely, and I allowed myself to become my wounds, to bare them to people who only wanted to deepen them and see me bleed. The wider truth was that in my tight circle of daily life, someone had proclaimed themselves my enemy and set out to snuff out my basic human rights and live hatred towards me while shouting love. 
This realization has stuck with me for awhile. While on the surface I have now grown past the naive belief that people are, deep down, good in their hearts, part of me still behaves as if those very people who have shown me such vitriol are capable of change and goodness. They are not, I remind myself, and kick myself when I am once again duped. I see them laughing at the prospect of causing me yet another round of pain and I shake my head.
I shake my head and turn away. I am my own refuge now. I am refuge for my children. 
"My mother moved the furniture when she no longer moved the man"
The haunting emptiness of that phrase, the longing and sorrow, the resignation to a fate not wanted...this is what I latch on to some days.
And then I realize that emptiness is good. Instead of filling my hands with busy-ness, my head with overthinking, my heart with worry and sorrow, my minutes, days, and hours with words words words, I am growing closer to emptiness. Instead of an anxious flurry, I am learning to be still. Oh sure, the grief still comes and it hurts, but I can handle it now. 
I am cultivating emptiness, and stillness, and just shutting my damned mouth for a minute or two. I need to listen to what others have to say. 
For in the emptying out, in the calming stillness, I am convinced there is deeper connection with people and life. Pain and insecurity and self-consciousness and grief can be heavy-hearted clutter. It is important to let those pleading children have your assurance that they are cared for and loved just as they are. 
Let me be myself this year. Let me be present and ever so curious about the experience of the Other. Let the wisdom that flows into my emptiness guide me. 

Sunday, December 27, 2015

Guest post-The Little Red Hen

This post was written by my soul-sister Laura Byrd. Thank  you Laura for your wonderful writing and I hope you all enjoy!

The Little Red Hen is one of my favorite children’s stories.  Just like some of my other favorites, when I reflect further on its meaning, I understand more about the value of the story.  One night while reading, I asked my children what they thought about the little red hen eating her bread all by herself.  One son said, “good for the little red hen, she does not need to share with them.”  My other son said, “Aw, she should share her bread with them anyway.  They look so sad watching her eat that bread.”  That was the start of many conversations in which I became acutely aware of their stark differences.

To me, this is a story about takers.  We all know them; always looking around for what they can get from a situation or what they can take.  They have little awareness or concern for the impact they or their actions have on others.  They have a real block to having any insight into themselves but every once in a while they will express a desire to change.  This can be a seductive glimmer of hope until it becomes clear that it is only because there is something they believe they can take in return.  Expressions of this desire to change become short lived; especially after someone finally figures out they are dealing with a taker.

I appreciate and relate to my child’s sensitivity when he said, “Aw, she should share her bread anyway.  They look so sad watching her eat that bread.”  Unfortunately, I feel less worried about my other child who said “good for the little red hen, she does not need to share with them.”  He will be better equipped to handle the takers of this world.

Some argue the takers are people who utilize government assistance.  In my experience, takers are way too savvy to resort to such measures of taking.  The takers I’m referring to are much more dangerous.  They prey on people’s sensitivities and often blame those from whom they take.  One could also argue that our economy has been built on the savvy of such animals; paying manual workers minimally yet blaming them for utilizing necessary resources.  The culture of poverty is real and does include an entitled attitude, but let’s be clear. The real takers are the ones who have the power to create a new culture and choose not to.

This story is dedicated to all the little red hens.

There once was a little red hen.  One day she found a grain of wheat.  The little red hen asked some animals she thought to be friends, “Who will help me plant this wheat?”
“Not I,” said the cat…”unless you plant it next to this tree that I like to climb.”
“Not I” said the dog…”unless of course you plant it next to the cat’s tree.”
“Not I” said the pig, carefully taking direction from the others.

The little red hen thought the cat must really love her to take such interest in where she planted the wheat.  The dog seemed so cheery, she must also know of the cat’s love, so the little red hen planted the wheat next to the cat’s favorite tree.



The little red hen watched the wheat grow.  Soon it was tall and golden.  She asked her friends, “Who will help me cut this wheat?”
“Not I” said the cat…”.unless you pay me for my time.”
“Not I” said the dog…”unless you pay the cat.”
“Not I” said the pig as her knees wobbled in fear.

So the little red hen paid the cat for cutting the wheat.  She was so busy cutting the wheat herself, she did not notice that the cat just lounged in his tree watching her cut the wheat all by herself.

It was time to make the wheat into four.  “Who will help me take this wheat to the mill?”  asked the little red hen.

“Not I” said the cat…”unless you clean up your house.”
“Not I” said the dog…”unless you clean up your house and put my furniture in it.”
“Not I” said the pig…”unless you do exactly as the cat and dog say.”

The little red hen was starting to read and talk to other hens about the situation that saw things differently.  They told her to be careful of the cat and dog and even the pig and not to lose herself or her wheat when dealing with such animals.

So the little red hen decided to take the wheat to the miller herself.  The miller ground the wheat and put the flour in a sack for the little red hen.

Now it was time to bake the flour into bread.  “Who will help me bake this flour into bread?” asked the little red hen.

“I will” said the pig quickly.  So the little red hen and the pig baked the bread together.  The little red hen was comforted by this since she had started to learn that both the cat and the dog’s behavior were not loving at all but controlling and abusive instead.  “At least the pig is a real friend” thought the little red hen.

The entire time the pig and little red hen baked the bread together, the pig tried to convince her to do as the cat and dog said.  She sympathized and even agreed with the little red hen about how it felt to live under the thumb of both the cat and dog, but made it clear she would not speak up for her.

When the bread was baked, the little red hen took it out of the oven.  It looked delicious.  “Who will help me eat this bread?” she asked. 

“I will” said the cat, as he lounged in his tree overlooking the wheat.
“I will” said the dog, as she busily prepared a very pristine nest in the cat’s favorite tree.
“I will” squealed the pig; relieved that both the cat and dog had finally agreed to help the little red hen.


The little red hen was at a crossroads.  Would she share her bread with those animals or eat the bread herself?  The little red hen sat by the fire as the cat, dog and pig pressed their faces to the glass window outside.  She knew they were takers yet somehow still grieved the loss of them.  She longed to return to the days before she found the grain of wheat and pretended not to know the truth. Slowly, the little red hen began to eat the bread all by herself.  She ate as she noticed the anger well up inside of her as she thought about the cat lounging in the tree, taking her wheat while refusing to work.  She felt so empty and found temporary comfort with each piece of bread.  She ate as she remembered earlier times as a child when she felt so sad, confused, and rejected.  She ate as she felt the fear about not being able to protect other little red hens from such animals.  And she ate as she looked at the faces of the animals pressed to the glass window.  When she finished eating she felt so full she thought she might burst.

The little red hen slowly began to feel all those same painful feelings; all the anger and sadness, confusion, rejection and fear.  Overtime she ate less bread and even managed to use the wheat as a source of income for herself.  She found herself ministering to other hens, sharing her story and her pain.  Other hens began to open their eyes to the truths in their own lives.  They felt much comfort from the little red hen who was now filled with so much love and compassion.

The little red hen often wondered if life would get better.

AND IT DID.


Tuesday, December 22, 2015

Fearless

When I was a little girl, I remember going out to eat with my family. I was five years old, chatty, and like most five-year-olds, enjoyed taking the hand of an adult and gamboling alongside. To this day, I love that picture of children beside their parents, smiling and happy in their own world.
And their world is good. Adults are to be trusted. They have none of the hardness of the world and all the softness of a hopeful heart. That day, when we left the restaurant, I took the hand of a man I thought was my grandfather. I chatted happily and walked off with this man, not even looking up to notice this wasn't my grandfather until I realized his silence. In that brief moment, I was embarrassed and scared and ran back to my family, who had been watching and wondering what I was doing. They laughed, I sought hugs and comfort and found my grandparents.
Last night, in celebrating the solstice, I took a friend and we arrived late to the bonfire among rather magical mist and stones. We separately, and hurriedly, wrote on a small slip of paper what we wished to let go of...what no longer served us...for this coming year. I didn't hesitate, since an aching awareness has been coursing through me for some time now. I was aware that my situation, my being made an enemy and scapegoat, had reordered everything I thought I knew about people. I realized the places where I had given the benefit of the doubt, where I never believed that people could deliberately be so cruel, where I deemed them wounded instead of angry. The awareness that people exist who actually enjoy the suffering of others is a painful grief, a loss of hope for all of us.
The current rash of cruelty towards fellow human beings in the news seems far away and detached from my own life. I cannot feel as one with people who are hell-bent on dominance, punishment, and destruction of life. But there was a war and it happened in my own circle, in my own life; it keeps going, and it broke me in a way that I have struggled to explain and process ever since.
I used to say it would take a crowbar to open my heart, and that was for good reason. I still cannot fathom exactly why someone would betray a one-beloved to such a degree, what river of anger never ceases to flow, what causes such an extreme compulsion to dominate and control, indeed, to show, on all levels, how you simply do not matter, not even as a mother, what motivates someone to make an enemy out of a co-parent. I cannot understand how the moments of my own life are so casually distorted to fit the purposes of a controlling, angry man and his family. I am condescended, judged to be lacking credibility simply because I am the narrator. Whatever the cause of their vitriol, the river flows on, seeking to flood and wreak havoc, and I must adjust.
It made me afraid, this betrayal of trust, this turning of love into hate, this faking of a relationship. If I could so completely be drawn in and, well, utterly duped by a person and a family...if I could give my love and my whole self to a relationship and the building of a family only to be turned against, mocked, and cruelly betrayed...what hope is there?
And so I adjust by returning to the softness of my heart, toward finding compassion for myself, and opening myself to the compassion of others. I realized that my heart is still tender, but the tenderness could be loved, could be open to love. I could not let the lack of integrity of a group of people, whether it is a group hurling their venom towards me, a group seeking to destroy those they do not agree with, punishing an ethnic or religious group, or shooting innocent children in a school, keep me from holding on to hope. These blights on humanity do not define humanity, and someone declaring themselves my enemy does not define me or name my life in any way.
I wrote "fear" on the slip of paper, folded it neatly, and placed it into the fire. I will be open, soft, and vulnerable, in the right places. I will be fearless in my voice, will take chances, will love this hardened, broken world with all my heart and will seek to not add to the brokenness of the world through my own blind spots and humanity, will allow my huge love for my children to be infused with resolve.
Goodbye, fear. I slip my hand out of your hardened, gnarled fingers and into the soft hand of courage.