Saturday, February 2, 2013
Saturday, January 19, 2013
Prague: Day One - 9.7.09
It's 8:15am in Prague, at the Clown and Bard Hostel.
9hrs behind is Seattle, WA. 11:15pm, yesterday.I am reading a book Jenni lent me called, Off the Path. It's about two American girls who escape to Europe seeking redefinition of their selves and their lives. The first paragraph defines the timelessness of travel, how once you're on a plane with nowhere to be or to stay on the receiving end of that plane, you are essentially free.
Timelessness is delicious, and in my opinion, essential in moderate doses to the mental well being of the species.
Prague seems simple, and beautifully basic. Practical. What is needed is here. The trains and buses go where people and sights are. There are small stores full of essential items underneath floors of soft cemented flats all blended together, differentiated only by varying shades of pastel paint colors.
It's so quiet here. My six-block walk from the train to the hostel produced maybe five people. No sirens, no rushing, no beeping cars, no zooming bicycles, no blaring tv's or radios. Just stone-cut sidewalks and a gentle chilly breeze gracing the towering endless soft concrete flats. It seemed like they could all be empty.
I discovered the TV tower om my walk to the hostel. It is almost the most absurd public structure I have ever seen. It ranks up there with Seattle's Space Needle, the gigantic Peach on a post on the side of an Interstate in Georgia, the Eiffel Tower, and those millions of agent-orange frames with matching flags that graced New York City's Central Park one fall. The TV tower looks like a massive melted Lego wrapped around a red cell tower with, I shit you not, steely grey sculptures of giant infants crawling up and down the legs of the tower.
I love absurd public art, especially when two elements are present:
1) It's functional. The structure being graced by the art provides a service to the greater community, therefore the community is then committed in some fashion to pay its grateful homage to said structure. If, by neccessity it needs to be a massive and intrusive thing, it might as well be decked out and made original. Turn it into a spectacle or an amusing conversation piece. The Space Needle barely makes this cut for me, as it's only current function is to serve wealthy tourists a view of greycoated sky and an expensive meal and provide a modicum of uniqueness to Seattle's skyline.
9hrs behind is Seattle, WA. 11:15pm, yesterday.I am reading a book Jenni lent me called, Off the Path. It's about two American girls who escape to Europe seeking redefinition of their selves and their lives. The first paragraph defines the timelessness of travel, how once you're on a plane with nowhere to be or to stay on the receiving end of that plane, you are essentially free.
Timelessness is delicious, and in my opinion, essential in moderate doses to the mental well being of the species.
Prague seems simple, and beautifully basic. Practical. What is needed is here. The trains and buses go where people and sights are. There are small stores full of essential items underneath floors of soft cemented flats all blended together, differentiated only by varying shades of pastel paint colors.
It's so quiet here. My six-block walk from the train to the hostel produced maybe five people. No sirens, no rushing, no beeping cars, no zooming bicycles, no blaring tv's or radios. Just stone-cut sidewalks and a gentle chilly breeze gracing the towering endless soft concrete flats. It seemed like they could all be empty.
I discovered the TV tower om my walk to the hostel. It is almost the most absurd public structure I have ever seen. It ranks up there with Seattle's Space Needle, the gigantic Peach on a post on the side of an Interstate in Georgia, the Eiffel Tower, and those millions of agent-orange frames with matching flags that graced New York City's Central Park one fall. The TV tower looks like a massive melted Lego wrapped around a red cell tower with, I shit you not, steely grey sculptures of giant infants crawling up and down the legs of the tower.
I love absurd public art, especially when two elements are present:
1) It's functional. The structure being graced by the art provides a service to the greater community, therefore the community is then committed in some fashion to pay its grateful homage to said structure. If, by neccessity it needs to be a massive and intrusive thing, it might as well be decked out and made original. Turn it into a spectacle or an amusing conversation piece. The Space Needle barely makes this cut for me, as it's only current function is to serve wealthy tourists a view of greycoated sky and an expensive meal and provide a modicum of uniqueness to Seattle's skyline.
Beginning.
September 8th, 2009...it's been 1,228 days since my last posting.
I had been thinking about blogging again for some time. When I started blogging many, many moons ago, I wasn't quite sure of The Point, or if there was only just One Point. If there was just One Point, or any Point, then I didn't know what it was. Perhaps there were many Points. Hence, the crux of my quandry: am I doing this right? Do I even have a right to do this? Do I belong out here?
My ex-therapist mentioned that these might be some of the questions to which everything in my life boils down. This statement of hers is not the direct reason for why she is now my ex-therapist. She's my ex-therapist because my then-not-ex and I saw her for couples' counseling consistently for over a year and a half. My then-not-ex and I were doing what adults are supposed to do in shotty, mismatched relationships: stay in and work things out. The therapist, reflective listener that she was, pulled these questions like perfectly wound cotton candy cones out of the nauseating Tilt-O-Whirl of my process about the relationship. As my then-not-ex sulked on the other side of the rusted orange Ikea couch, practicing any number of Jedi mind tricks that might have me spontaneously burst into flames and be consumed on the spot, I began to unravel in the most life-saving way imaginable. I began asking myself the same questions yet again, but the landscape upon which I stood gave me an entirely different perspective.
Am I doing this right?
Do I have a right to do this?
Do I belong here?
The answers I was waiting to receive, however, were now no longer in limbo, nor were they outsourced. I was no longer waiting for some random action of some random person to whom I had randomly assigned value to approve of me and my actions. For the first time, I actually cared to consider what my own answers to these questions would be.
In regards to the relationship, when I heard the answers I actually had to those questions, I groaned out loud. I held my head in my hands, and pinched the bridge of my nose for a long time. I opened my eyes and swore. It was a happy, bright Sunday in Seattle -- one of those rare gems that made everyone slightly manic and overenthused. I had just gotten out of a cranio-sacral appointment with my friend, Teresa. I had been telling Teresa, probably for the 87th time, about how crappy things were going with my then-not-ex, when I got this time-warping flashback of every time in the last three years I had had that exact conversation. Every practitioner and sympathetic friend: Nona, Mykol, Janel, Kjersti, three different doctors, two different therapists, and yes, Teresa, more than once. In one sudden and wild snap, everything got clear.
And since then, everything has been clear. I broke up with my now-ex. I moved into an urban farm house with two great roommates. I started writing more than ever. I started reading and watching other people's poetry for fun and interest. Even though I practice naturopathic and shamanic medicine by trade, I uncovered a fact long hidden underneath decades of misguidance: I am actually an artist. I have wanted to do/make/create/live/breathe/become Art from the get-go. While I got encouragement for nurturing my "hobby," it was clear from my observations that a scientific academic focus was my best shot at getting the love I wanted. Now, a half a million dollars in higher education later, here I am.
Nowhere else I'd rather be.
This is an important place for me to be right now: I struggled for nearly two decades with terrible feelings of great intensity, confusing and terrifying to myself and everyone around me. As I came of age in the 1990's, that decade responded with its first waves of psychiatric medication in teenagers. Labels of bipolar disorder, borderline personality disorder, schizoaffective disorder were offered to me and my parents as if they explained something. The labels explain nothing except that many academic white coats have thought long and hard about the wild flames of danger they have captured and studied. The labels offer this double-edged sword of Access to Services and a weighted Stigma to carry through a lifetime.
I'm in the process of dropping the stigma. Me dropping the Identity of Crazy, and instead picking up the Identity of first Doctor,then Artist is a Revolution. An Act of Resistance. A Liberation Movement.
But do I belong here?
Do I have a right to call myself Artist?
Am I doing this right?
Things were ridiculously busy for me this week. I had been back in Miami, visiting my folks and my hometown for a few weeks. Upon return to Seattle, I found that my business rent was raised, I had food rotting in the fridge, the oil used to heat my house had run out, and all the bills would be due at once at the end of the month, effectively speaking for every dollar I would earn between now and the 31st. Oh, and did I mention that it was dark and cold? Miami in winter: lows in the 80's, sunrise/sunset 7am-6pm. Seattle in winter: lows in the 20's, sunrise/sunset 9:40am-4:40pm. Needless to say, I felt swiftly and simultaneously crushed, drown, and tossed down an abyss.
My inner Writer did not give a shit. She stood off to one side, impatiently tapping her foot, watching my pathetic ass writhe, squirm, plead to God to save me from impending doom as I leaked snot and tears all over the nice rug.
"Get the fuck up and write."
"But I can't. I don't have time, it doesn't pay me anything, and besides, you saw those YouTube videos. My work is nothing compared to those hot shots. There's really no point..."
She glares at me down her nose, and I know in my guts that if I don't do what she says, she will End Me. She will photobomb every linear thought I try to have regarding marketing analysis, client follow-up, roommate negotiation, food selection, scheduling decision, etc., with poetic metaphor, couplets spun from sunrise and chickadee song. She will glide alongside next to me as I drive frantic all over town, loaded on coffee, running the errands of half-hearted mundacity in hopes that my life will continue to turn without major disaster.
Am I doing this right?
Already she is pissed that I chose last-minute to take this weekend-long homeopathy class, when I had promised her hours of solid writing, reviewing pieces for submission, culling the free-write notebooks for gems. So I made this date with her tonight to do some of that.
Instead, after spending two hours of Facebook promoting the Reiki class I will be teaching next month, checking emails, and catching up on gossip, I made cookies. They are gluten-free, dairy-free, egg-free, and soy-free. I didn't know such a thing could exist, but honestly, being of the breed that made cookies out of box mixes their whole life, I hadn't thought much about what actually goes into homemade cookies to begin with. Recipes work well for me: they are extensions of high-school chemistry experiments. Someone has already done the math and the measuring. I am simply a conduit of elements and circumstances colliding.
While the cookies are in the oven, I recall this blog I started years ago. I can't imagine it would still be active. I still remember the name. I couldn't remember the last time I had posted.
September 8th, 2009...it's been 1,228 days since my last posting. I scan back through the blog, realize that I have been trying to be a poet for years. That I had been offering my Artist the space to get free and messy over three years prior.
That I had been doing things right.
That I had a right to write.
That I belonged here.
So here I am. Thanks for reading. Here's to messy, creative solutions and the liberation, beauty and light they shed on struggle. Here's to the right question being asked at the right time. Here's to keeping promises to myself. Here's to not knowing a damn thing about anything, and doing things anyway. Here's to beginner's luck -- may I always be a Beginner.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
What's on my mind this morning...
It has been a long time since I published here...perhaps I will pick it up again sometime soon. For now, though, this is what is on my mind this morning. I found myself mourning my first lover yet again, after 12 years. I found myself wondering if grief ever goes away, or if it just collects faces like ribbons added to the breast of a soldier committed to fighting the good fight until its own untimely death, until grief succumbs to itself and chooses its last breath?
Nature's first green is gold
Her hardest hue to hold
Her early leaf's a flower
but only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf
So Eden sank to grief
So dawn goes down to day
Nothing gold can stay.
From: http://drtony.blogspot.com/2005_11_01_archive.html
If Ford built a truly defective vehicle that didn't meet federal safety standards or in some other way caused the death of this young man through no fault of the operators, such a financial punishment might be merited. But Lance Crossman Hall died in a 1997 traffic accident not just because the Explorer can be tipsy when swerving, but because his friend and the driver of the vehicle, Melahn Parker, fell asleep at the wheel.
Parker, who was charged with reckless driving, awoke and tried to regain control of the Explorer. But a “handling problem” caused the SUV in her care to turn sideways and roll over.
The fault in this accident begins with a young motorist asleep at the wheel and ends with a tragic fatality. A contributing factor was the type of vehicle being driven - which probably could just as easily have been a Chevy Blazer or Isuzu Trooper or almost any other SUV.
Does that make Ford primarily liable for Lance Crossman's death? Not at all, certainly not to the tune of $61 million.
This case had a more tragic ending, and thus asks more important questions and is a more worthy court candidate, than the infamous lawsuits filed by those who pour hot coffee in their own laps or who eat themselves into obesity. But the end result in this game of my lawyer vs. yours all too often is the same: Massive financial awards by juries to individuals (or their victims) who first shirked their own responsibilities.
Nature's first green is gold
Her hardest hue to hold
Her early leaf's a flower
but only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf
So Eden sank to grief
So dawn goes down to day
Nothing gold can stay.
From: http://drtony.blogspot.com/2005_11_01_archive.html
If Ford built a truly defective vehicle that didn't meet federal safety standards or in some other way caused the death of this young man through no fault of the operators, such a financial punishment might be merited. But Lance Crossman Hall died in a 1997 traffic accident not just because the Explorer can be tipsy when swerving, but because his friend and the driver of the vehicle, Melahn Parker, fell asleep at the wheel.
Parker, who was charged with reckless driving, awoke and tried to regain control of the Explorer. But a “handling problem” caused the SUV in her care to turn sideways and roll over.
The fault in this accident begins with a young motorist asleep at the wheel and ends with a tragic fatality. A contributing factor was the type of vehicle being driven - which probably could just as easily have been a Chevy Blazer or Isuzu Trooper or almost any other SUV.
Does that make Ford primarily liable for Lance Crossman's death? Not at all, certainly not to the tune of $61 million.
This case had a more tragic ending, and thus asks more important questions and is a more worthy court candidate, than the infamous lawsuits filed by those who pour hot coffee in their own laps or who eat themselves into obesity. But the end result in this game of my lawyer vs. yours all too often is the same: Massive financial awards by juries to individuals (or their victims) who first shirked their own responsibilities.
Friday, February 27, 2009
2009 Talent Show Spit
Connection, remembered.
a place outside of time and dead lines
a space outside in the cool silence of the night
out there
on the sidewalk surrounded by black woods and cracked cement
the icy stars were watching, twinkling with anticipation
the damp air was holding its breath, fresh and clear between us
My heart met your heart.
like two mirrors facing each other
a candle alight in between us
reflecting into infinity
We beamed infinity at each other
and I noticed these golden somethings, soft and joyful
reach out from our beings and find one another
embracing in between our reflections
the handshake of honest hearts
you said you hoped that i would follow my dream
that it is necessary and essential
to our people
to our children
Your words fell through my ears,
and tumbled down into this space in my heart
Your words became a rusty key
that met a dusty lock
I had kept upon this dream of mine.
A lock, turned over by words
A portal, unlocked by honest reflection
I step through to
move beyond the spaces and places that exist only in thought,
move under the skin of assumption, rubbed raw and exposed
by words
slicing shredding sweeping back to reveal
a golden something that is wordless and wild,
that is truth, exposed
the potential of a dream unlocked by words
The words of my dream say this:
remember the dreams
the ones that seem dangerous and unkempt
the ones vicious and fierce
the ones that seem too big
the ones brimming with wildness and soul
the whole essence beyond words and reason
yells treason throughout the ranks of the mind
remind the mind of its place of service to the soul
Meet the eyes of others
what awaits you when you discover yourself holding a key to
the portal of the another's soul, Humility
is profound and bound to trust and release
whatever you thought you knew about anything
Rise with the swelling tide of ties undone
this is no time to hide, in fact we can't wait for you to come out
and step into the fire with us
we are strong, yet stronger still with
your sacred authenticity by our side
Listen closely for those keys.
Recollect the keys to your hearts, dear ones.
the average was never you
oh black sheep of your time, your day
has come to lead without followers
and to follow the beating of a drum
distant yet distinctly palpable within your chest
fingers to the throat you can feel
the thing that makes all of this worth it.
My dream, unlocked, and now she is here
standing with us
out there
in a place outside of time and dead lines
in a space outside in the cool silence of the night
out there
on the sidewalk surrounded by black woods and cracked cement
where the icy stars were watching, and
the damp air was holding its breath.
Where
My heart met my heart.
And I became connection, remembered.
a place outside of time and dead lines
a space outside in the cool silence of the night
out there
on the sidewalk surrounded by black woods and cracked cement
the icy stars were watching, twinkling with anticipation
the damp air was holding its breath, fresh and clear between us
My heart met your heart.
like two mirrors facing each other
a candle alight in between us
reflecting into infinity
We beamed infinity at each other
and I noticed these golden somethings, soft and joyful
reach out from our beings and find one another
embracing in between our reflections
the handshake of honest hearts
you said you hoped that i would follow my dream
that it is necessary and essential
to our people
to our children
Your words fell through my ears,
and tumbled down into this space in my heart
Your words became a rusty key
that met a dusty lock
I had kept upon this dream of mine.
A lock, turned over by words
A portal, unlocked by honest reflection
I step through to
move beyond the spaces and places that exist only in thought,
move under the skin of assumption, rubbed raw and exposed
by words
slicing shredding sweeping back to reveal
a golden something that is wordless and wild,
that is truth, exposed
the potential of a dream unlocked by words
The words of my dream say this:
remember the dreams
the ones that seem dangerous and unkempt
the ones vicious and fierce
the ones that seem too big
the ones brimming with wildness and soul
the whole essence beyond words and reason
yells treason throughout the ranks of the mind
remind the mind of its place of service to the soul
Meet the eyes of others
what awaits you when you discover yourself holding a key to
the portal of the another's soul, Humility
is profound and bound to trust and release
whatever you thought you knew about anything
Rise with the swelling tide of ties undone
this is no time to hide, in fact we can't wait for you to come out
and step into the fire with us
we are strong, yet stronger still with
your sacred authenticity by our side
Listen closely for those keys.
Recollect the keys to your hearts, dear ones.
the average was never you
oh black sheep of your time, your day
has come to lead without followers
and to follow the beating of a drum
distant yet distinctly palpable within your chest
fingers to the throat you can feel
the thing that makes all of this worth it.
My dream, unlocked, and now she is here
standing with us
out there
in a place outside of time and dead lines
in a space outside in the cool silence of the night
out there
on the sidewalk surrounded by black woods and cracked cement
where the icy stars were watching, and
the damp air was holding its breath.
Where
My heart met my heart.
And I became connection, remembered.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
What is it about me
that doesn't seem to get
how to be with other people?
Or is it them
and their wounding
hurting themselves on me
my intention is pure
yet apparently deviates
from the standardized
sanitized
offical
rulebook
of human interaction
This is dangerous territory
I feel like there's a lot at stake.
I feel like I have yet to learn
how to maintain safe boundaries for others
and maintain my sense of authenticity
simultaneously.
I don't even know what happened yet
and I feel so sad that someone was hurt by my actions.
that doesn't seem to get
how to be with other people?
Or is it them
and their wounding
hurting themselves on me
my intention is pure
yet apparently deviates
from the standardized
sanitized
offical
rulebook
of human interaction
This is dangerous territory
I feel like there's a lot at stake.
I feel like I have yet to learn
how to maintain safe boundaries for others
and maintain my sense of authenticity
simultaneously.
I don't even know what happened yet
and I feel so sad that someone was hurt by my actions.
Monday, July 7, 2008
thoughts of July 7th and starting the clinic
i can't sleep
i can't be slowed
i haven't been quiet
in quite a long time
changes are afoot
spinning me quicker faster deeper
into myself
the attachment between
my head and the rest of my body
is killing me
doubt flares
the past shows up on my door
with flowers and wine
forgetting to acknowledge
that I got back on the wagon
clung to it for dear life
i'm moving
i'm becoming my own impossible dream
i'm gripped in fear and doubt and humility and honor and gratitude
it's time to pray
and pray hard
it's time to let go
of everything
I have faith in
and jump
or fall
it looks the same
from the ground floor
anyway
i am illuminating faith
i am solid underneath the soil
of compost
i just tend to forget sometimes
you know how kids are
i can't be slowed
i haven't been quiet
in quite a long time
changes are afoot
spinning me quicker faster deeper
into myself
the attachment between
my head and the rest of my body
is killing me
doubt flares
the past shows up on my door
with flowers and wine
forgetting to acknowledge
that I got back on the wagon
clung to it for dear life
i'm moving
i'm becoming my own impossible dream
i'm gripped in fear and doubt and humility and honor and gratitude
it's time to pray
and pray hard
it's time to let go
of everything
I have faith in
and jump
or fall
it looks the same
from the ground floor
anyway
i am illuminating faith
i am solid underneath the soil
of compost
i just tend to forget sometimes
you know how kids are
Friday, June 27, 2008
100 Thing Challenge
Oh, yeah. It's on.
I was poking around the Web this evening and found this guy who is doing this challenge to only own 100 things for one whole year.
http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,1812048,00.html
www.guynameddave.com
So, given the unique opportunity I have to slowly, consciously and deliberately move items from one living space to another, I've decided to give this a go. Why not? I seem to always desire a challenge in my life. And I do have a desire to live as simply as possible, and this sounds like a reasonable however arbitrary place to start.
A lot of people seem to ask, "What counts as one thing?" A pair of shoes? Or the category of "Shoes" itself? I don't know what it means to me yet. It was recommended to simply start first by setting out an intention or a vision of what I would like my life to look like. Then as I go through the stuff, keep aligning myself with my vision of the way I want to live, and decide if that thing in my hand can support me in that.
I am hoping to find a way to incorporate the box of paper journals I have kept for years...I would like to type them up and get them published. I wonder if they'd be useful to anyone...well, hmm. Best I start with the vision, and go from there.
"What is the vision you have for the life you want?"
Simplicity. A simple life, that is uncomplicated.
Peaceful success. A space to come home to where I can unwind, work through my struggles and celebrate my acheivements and transformation into a physician, a healer, and a lover of life.
Space to breathe. Time to breathe. Space and time to enjoy space and time.
"What do I need for this space?"
Well I will start with the things I'm obviously attached to, and then try to talk my way out of attachment to them:
1) the car -- it gets me where I want to be, and slightly essential for a student who lives 14 miles from school and 8 miles from clinic. Although I am very hip to riding the bus, I am not quite ready to ditch the car.
2) the bedframe -- I'm a fan of this bedframe because it doubles as 6-drawer storage. No need for a dresser with this baby around.
3) the bed mattress -- Yay for comfy mattress.
4) pillow
5, 6, 7) stuffed animals from childhood -- nostalgia and the visceral sense of safety is a hard one to argue with.
8) Clothing -- oh hell. If each article of clothing counts as one item, then I'm basically fucked. Let's see if I can break it down a bit.
* hats
* t-shirts
* clinic clothes (what if I limit myself to a few outfits? say 5? or maybe a few cool combo things...)
* shoes
* the bathrobe
* flannel jammie bottoms ( I can get rid of all but one of these, I'm sure)
* scarves
* socks
* sweaters/ sweatshirts/ jackets
* ehh...next topic
9) Books - it's almost unfair to make a medical student count each book as a separate item. One kind of doesn't know what kind of resources they'll need in a few years, a few months or a few hours.
10) the computer
11) the papasan chair
12) the desk
13, 14, 15, 16) bookshelves -- is this any hint of how many books I may have? no fair.
17) the medical bag and all of its contents -- this just has to count as its own one thing. there's kinda no way around needing the 20 or so items in there.
18) For a couch, I'd love to purchase one of these: http://www.pillowfurniture.com/Loveseats.html
19, 20) coffee tables -- one for writing and eating and using the computer on, and the other as an altar in the bedroom.
21) my drum -- can all my shamanic stuff count as one thing? I can condense it...oh dear this is getting challenging, I can see.
Things that fall into the "I-may-need-it-someday-as-a-practitioner" category
9) Books -- see above
22) the massage table
23) the manip table
the other option was to give away one thing a day for an entire year...I wonder if I could do that instead...give up 365 things in one go. maybe I'll give that a shot. Perhaps I'll try doing both during this purging process, and hopefully my efforts will psh me through towards a new way of thinking about the stuff I keep in my life.
I was poking around the Web this evening and found this guy who is doing this challenge to only own 100 things for one whole year.
http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,1812048,00.html
www.guynameddave.com
So, given the unique opportunity I have to slowly, consciously and deliberately move items from one living space to another, I've decided to give this a go. Why not? I seem to always desire a challenge in my life. And I do have a desire to live as simply as possible, and this sounds like a reasonable however arbitrary place to start.
A lot of people seem to ask, "What counts as one thing?" A pair of shoes? Or the category of "Shoes" itself? I don't know what it means to me yet. It was recommended to simply start first by setting out an intention or a vision of what I would like my life to look like. Then as I go through the stuff, keep aligning myself with my vision of the way I want to live, and decide if that thing in my hand can support me in that.
I am hoping to find a way to incorporate the box of paper journals I have kept for years...I would like to type them up and get them published. I wonder if they'd be useful to anyone...well, hmm. Best I start with the vision, and go from there.
"What is the vision you have for the life you want?"
Simplicity. A simple life, that is uncomplicated.
Peaceful success. A space to come home to where I can unwind, work through my struggles and celebrate my acheivements and transformation into a physician, a healer, and a lover of life.
Space to breathe. Time to breathe. Space and time to enjoy space and time.
"What do I need for this space?"
Well I will start with the things I'm obviously attached to, and then try to talk my way out of attachment to them:
1) the car -- it gets me where I want to be, and slightly essential for a student who lives 14 miles from school and 8 miles from clinic. Although I am very hip to riding the bus, I am not quite ready to ditch the car.
2) the bedframe -- I'm a fan of this bedframe because it doubles as 6-drawer storage. No need for a dresser with this baby around.
3) the bed mattress -- Yay for comfy mattress.
4) pillow
5, 6, 7) stuffed animals from childhood -- nostalgia and the visceral sense of safety is a hard one to argue with.
8) Clothing -- oh hell. If each article of clothing counts as one item, then I'm basically fucked. Let's see if I can break it down a bit.
* hats
* t-shirts
* clinic clothes (what if I limit myself to a few outfits? say 5? or maybe a few cool combo things...)
* shoes
* the bathrobe
* flannel jammie bottoms ( I can get rid of all but one of these, I'm sure)
* scarves
* socks
* sweaters/ sweatshirts/ jackets
* ehh...next topic
9) Books - it's almost unfair to make a medical student count each book as a separate item. One kind of doesn't know what kind of resources they'll need in a few years, a few months or a few hours.
10) the computer
11) the papasan chair
12) the desk
13, 14, 15, 16) bookshelves -- is this any hint of how many books I may have? no fair.
17) the medical bag and all of its contents -- this just has to count as its own one thing. there's kinda no way around needing the 20 or so items in there.
18) For a couch, I'd love to purchase one of these: http://www.pillowfurniture.com/Loveseats.html
19, 20) coffee tables -- one for writing and eating and using the computer on, and the other as an altar in the bedroom.
21) my drum -- can all my shamanic stuff count as one thing? I can condense it...oh dear this is getting challenging, I can see.
Things that fall into the "I-may-need-it-someday-as-a-practitioner" category
9) Books -- see above
22) the massage table
23) the manip table
the other option was to give away one thing a day for an entire year...I wonder if I could do that instead...give up 365 things in one go. maybe I'll give that a shot. Perhaps I'll try doing both during this purging process, and hopefully my efforts will psh me through towards a new way of thinking about the stuff I keep in my life.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Why am I moving?
Why am I moving?
I have been asked that a lot recently. I have more positive reasons than negative ones, for sure. The positive reasons are neat: my friend will be next door, there is private garden space, the place is small and cozy, and I have the time to move in slowly, picking the things I really want to take and be very conscious of what I am taking and why. And very consciously releasing that which I am choosing to let go of.
The negative reasons are, well, negative. The foot traffic around the place frankly has me nervous: I feel generally uneasy about walking through my own neighborhood, and I hate that. I get hollered at when I work in the garden. I get ignored or glared at when I go to the dollar store. The car speakers rattle my windows. I have walked through police lines to get home. The cops are always circling the block. Hoodies like to collect on the other side of the street, dropping their wrappers down the sidewalk. I walk through the neighborhood, and feel the possession within the houses: there is some nasty shit that had been called up and is lurking throughout the houses in this neighborhood. It kind of hurts my heart to live here, because I don't feel strong or safe enough to protect myself as I become more and more of my authentic self.
I feel like I have failed this place. Like I was brought here to help heal this place, to clear it out, to help heal and beautify the neighborhood. Instead I just kinda dumped my stuff here: some of it is still in the boxes I packed up over a year ago. And then I wonder if that is my own sad delusion of grandeur and martyrdom. This is a sick neighborhood, one that is possessed and one that is at war with itself and with "progress". Me living here doesn't melt away injustice or poverty or prejudice. It doesn't erase sexism, classism, or racism. Especially if all I do is either be at school or be inside the house. Maybe that's why I came here. To readdress all of these feelings and expectations and senses. These are all familiar feelings I had growing up in Miami. And what I have learned is that I don't have to live anywhere when I don't feel comfortable. I know that often I don't feel comfortable and I blame my environment for it. I know one day I would really like to settle down and find a place that I totally am in love with and would stay there forever. I don't know when that is or will be. I guess I was kind of hoping it would be this place, and I wonder if I gave it enough of a chance.
This house is in transition as well, as is it's tenants and owner. Everything is changing.
I have been asked that a lot recently. I have more positive reasons than negative ones, for sure. The positive reasons are neat: my friend will be next door, there is private garden space, the place is small and cozy, and I have the time to move in slowly, picking the things I really want to take and be very conscious of what I am taking and why. And very consciously releasing that which I am choosing to let go of.
The negative reasons are, well, negative. The foot traffic around the place frankly has me nervous: I feel generally uneasy about walking through my own neighborhood, and I hate that. I get hollered at when I work in the garden. I get ignored or glared at when I go to the dollar store. The car speakers rattle my windows. I have walked through police lines to get home. The cops are always circling the block. Hoodies like to collect on the other side of the street, dropping their wrappers down the sidewalk. I walk through the neighborhood, and feel the possession within the houses: there is some nasty shit that had been called up and is lurking throughout the houses in this neighborhood. It kind of hurts my heart to live here, because I don't feel strong or safe enough to protect myself as I become more and more of my authentic self.
I feel like I have failed this place. Like I was brought here to help heal this place, to clear it out, to help heal and beautify the neighborhood. Instead I just kinda dumped my stuff here: some of it is still in the boxes I packed up over a year ago. And then I wonder if that is my own sad delusion of grandeur and martyrdom. This is a sick neighborhood, one that is possessed and one that is at war with itself and with "progress". Me living here doesn't melt away injustice or poverty or prejudice. It doesn't erase sexism, classism, or racism. Especially if all I do is either be at school or be inside the house. Maybe that's why I came here. To readdress all of these feelings and expectations and senses. These are all familiar feelings I had growing up in Miami. And what I have learned is that I don't have to live anywhere when I don't feel comfortable. I know that often I don't feel comfortable and I blame my environment for it. I know one day I would really like to settle down and find a place that I totally am in love with and would stay there forever. I don't know when that is or will be. I guess I was kind of hoping it would be this place, and I wonder if I gave it enough of a chance.
This house is in transition as well, as is it's tenants and owner. Everything is changing.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
the beginning of the darkness
it is a new day dawning
outside my window
it is the first night
of the longest day of the year
from here on out
we plunge into darkness
it is the beginning
of the descent into darkness
it is a good morning
and I say so to the clouds
collecting luminously above my head
emanating gentle blue intensity
and purpose
the rose is opening
more and more each day
the gift of a gift
reveals itself deeper
each moment
as each day passes
the light sings grace
and night whispers faith
our hearts are being held beloved
listen
outside my window
it is the first night
of the longest day of the year
from here on out
we plunge into darkness
it is the beginning
of the descent into darkness
it is a good morning
and I say so to the clouds
collecting luminously above my head
emanating gentle blue intensity
and purpose
the rose is opening
more and more each day
the gift of a gift
reveals itself deeper
each moment
as each day passes
the light sings grace
and night whispers faith
our hearts are being held beloved
listen
after watching 14 consecutive episodes of "24" in one sitting...
contrived entertainment
that breeds hypervigilance
suddenly everything is important
even Facebook and open windows
is it silly to desire escape?
selfish to indulge?
manipulate my creative force
into whatever you would have
suck on it
my attention serves no purpose to you
it is all my own
and i give it over willingly
to you
the screen
the machine
convince me of your perception
of my naivety
rock me back to sleep
within unconscience
it serves you none
it is simply what you are
teach us to use responsibly
and with intention
that breeds hypervigilance
suddenly everything is important
even Facebook and open windows
is it silly to desire escape?
selfish to indulge?
manipulate my creative force
into whatever you would have
suck on it
my attention serves no purpose to you
it is all my own
and i give it over willingly
to you
the screen
the machine
convince me of your perception
of my naivety
rock me back to sleep
within unconscience
it serves you none
it is simply what you are
teach us to use responsibly
and with intention
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Creative Family Love
So it's time to write today. It's been an easier, gentler reminder since I've changed my homepage to the blogger site.
Today was a day of slowness. There was all the time in the world to be taken. I rushed for maybe half an hour when I thought I was going to miss a bus, and then I wound up being twenty minutes early for it. Lazily I crocheted a baby blanket on the fifty minute bus ride to Kirsten's house. We loafed around there, taking time for conversation and music. She and Will and I stopped for coffee and sweet treats on our way to Tamar and Sarah's baby shower. Our friends were there. My family. And there was sweetness and laughter and comfort and space and support and all kinds of yummy food and delightful children and so so much to be shared.
I do love a list. On a morbid note, I used to make lists of who would come to my funeral. Today, to honor the sincere joy I felt today in having remained alive to experience this day exactly as it was, I'd like to make a list of my "family", those who were present today that impressed upon me all the love and care and sweetness aforementioned.
Tamar Blau, Sarah Berrier, and Little Boy Blau-Berrier
Bill Walter, Margot Lovinger, and the fabulous Elliot Graham Walter
Kirsten and Will Schaeffer
Matt and Katie Carlson
Ryan and Melissa Campbell
Elias Kass
Wendy Hueners
Ryan Robbins
Akiko Kato and the little angel Kazuma
Phil and Rebecca and Xara
My brothers and sisters, I love you. You make my world safe and rich and my days worth living. You are a blessing to my life and a light in my heart. A light I carry close as I traverse the darkness. A light that guides me to a place I call home.
Today was a day of slowness. There was all the time in the world to be taken. I rushed for maybe half an hour when I thought I was going to miss a bus, and then I wound up being twenty minutes early for it. Lazily I crocheted a baby blanket on the fifty minute bus ride to Kirsten's house. We loafed around there, taking time for conversation and music. She and Will and I stopped for coffee and sweet treats on our way to Tamar and Sarah's baby shower. Our friends were there. My family. And there was sweetness and laughter and comfort and space and support and all kinds of yummy food and delightful children and so so much to be shared.
I do love a list. On a morbid note, I used to make lists of who would come to my funeral. Today, to honor the sincere joy I felt today in having remained alive to experience this day exactly as it was, I'd like to make a list of my "family", those who were present today that impressed upon me all the love and care and sweetness aforementioned.
Tamar Blau, Sarah Berrier, and Little Boy Blau-Berrier
Bill Walter, Margot Lovinger, and the fabulous Elliot Graham Walter
Kirsten and Will Schaeffer
Matt and Katie Carlson
Ryan and Melissa Campbell
Elias Kass
Wendy Hueners
Ryan Robbins
Akiko Kato and the little angel Kazuma
Phil and Rebecca and Xara
My brothers and sisters, I love you. You make my world safe and rich and my days worth living. You are a blessing to my life and a light in my heart. A light I carry close as I traverse the darkness. A light that guides me to a place I call home.
Monday, June 16, 2008
riddle
is this some kind of joke?
i identify with the tortured poet
the homeless wanderer
the dejected street punk
misunderstood
rebeling against all things community
i
am
so
confused
there is room inside of me for all of these things
i can be anything
so who am i then?
anyone i want to be?
do i have to choose?
only for the sake of others
they confuse easily
these humans
who seek consistency
when there is none to be had
someone said
create nothing
if you do, it will stick to you
follow you around
bite you in the ass
as others lay waste to your dream
to your creative being
we are all so fragile and destructive
ignorant and asleep
what is this place I am in?
what is my role here?
who can connect in a place as violent as this?
I need help, spirit
i know you know this
i don't know what i am doing
aside from my fierce independence
rearing her ugly head
looking around for acceptance
and support
therein lies fear
if i am truly who i am
then i am by default
unlovable
which fire shall i throw this one into?
what will it take
for me to fall in love
with myself?
i whisper sweet words of passion and joy
to myself
the words fall on
ears that doubt
and breasts that repulse
you do not know of which you speak
you have been mistaken
misguided
silly little ignorant schmuck
youre a clown
a fool
your mask is a pretty one
yet unimpressive
what
am
i
?
i identify with the tortured poet
the homeless wanderer
the dejected street punk
misunderstood
rebeling against all things community
i
am
so
confused
there is room inside of me for all of these things
i can be anything
so who am i then?
anyone i want to be?
do i have to choose?
only for the sake of others
they confuse easily
these humans
who seek consistency
when there is none to be had
someone said
create nothing
if you do, it will stick to you
follow you around
bite you in the ass
as others lay waste to your dream
to your creative being
we are all so fragile and destructive
ignorant and asleep
what is this place I am in?
what is my role here?
who can connect in a place as violent as this?
I need help, spirit
i know you know this
i don't know what i am doing
aside from my fierce independence
rearing her ugly head
looking around for acceptance
and support
therein lies fear
if i am truly who i am
then i am by default
unlovable
which fire shall i throw this one into?
what will it take
for me to fall in love
with myself?
i whisper sweet words of passion and joy
to myself
the words fall on
ears that doubt
and breasts that repulse
you do not know of which you speak
you have been mistaken
misguided
silly little ignorant schmuck
youre a clown
a fool
your mask is a pretty one
yet unimpressive
what
am
i
?
movement
Poets of war
gather now
amidst the blood and smoke
pine for me
fawn over me
convince me to stay
for your party
serve sushi and chocolate
off my naked body
seduce me into believing
i am special
and especially for you
what would that mean
to you?
how do i serve you?
with my innocence
with my labial connections
perhaps i should start walking
and see you follow me
down the dark alleyway
everything is illuminated
in time
and time is its own
darkest secret
what hearts speak of
fairy tales
and connections beyond the trees
the same hearts that speak of love
and solidarity
and all things beautiful
what rubbish they spew
what deceit
what lies
who told them the truth
what is truth
but a commitment to a perception
there is no such thing
as truth
what hatred lies beneath the pinkness of my skin
what vile acidic treachery
who will i be when i truly step foot into
the toxicity of my perception
what is there to gain
by turning and embracing the shadow?
i am beginning to think
that it won't magically disappear
like they say in the fairy tales
yet here she is
shadow
present on my doorstep
wanting to come in and play
the place is already a mess
so why not?
I'm not interested in impressing her
more than id rather entertain her until she is tired
and requires rest
perhaps i can choke her in her sleep
violent even for me
i know i cant
i am too curious
in her inner process
wretched bitch that she is
she is here until she is ready
to show herself the door
the rapids are rising
and moving faster, so they say
we are to lose everything
whatever that means
what palpable doubt i experience
what clear perception
like the glass shards like rain upon me
in the crisp memory of a cold
blue day in Tulsa
looking up
feeling my lungs being ripped to shreds
and my intestines boiled alive
as i walked hand in hand
with my grandmother
around the swan lake
nothing seemed sacred ever again
it all changes
it all falls apart
what is dependable
is only independence
and chaos.
my lungs recoil at the memory
i thought we had been through this
why are we here yet again?
can't you get over yourself?
you don't want to be this person
i have never wanted to be this person
and yet here i am
this person
can it be ok now?
how about now?
a poet as a physician
a charlatan
spirit you are writing this through me
what are you saying
to the world?
why did i come first for you
and no one else?
oh is it true?
or just me interrupting your flow?
we can dance all night
you know you will win
i will tire
i will always tire
before you
i am exhausted and refuse sleep.
i am mourning the state of the world.
its blackness drips out of my heart.
i am a toxic product of this planet.
What was i thinking,
coming back here?
Did i really commit to so much agony?
What good is this doing
for you, Spirit?
what good is this doing for the planet?
please
i am begging you
get me the fuck out of the (your) way
i cant do this alone
i don't even know what I'm doing
its so clear that you are driving
and I am simply in the passenger seat
with no seat belt on
trying not to vomit
gather now
amidst the blood and smoke
pine for me
fawn over me
convince me to stay
for your party
serve sushi and chocolate
off my naked body
seduce me into believing
i am special
and especially for you
what would that mean
to you?
how do i serve you?
with my innocence
with my labial connections
perhaps i should start walking
and see you follow me
down the dark alleyway
everything is illuminated
in time
and time is its own
darkest secret
what hearts speak of
fairy tales
and connections beyond the trees
the same hearts that speak of love
and solidarity
and all things beautiful
what rubbish they spew
what deceit
what lies
who told them the truth
what is truth
but a commitment to a perception
there is no such thing
as truth
what hatred lies beneath the pinkness of my skin
what vile acidic treachery
who will i be when i truly step foot into
the toxicity of my perception
what is there to gain
by turning and embracing the shadow?
i am beginning to think
that it won't magically disappear
like they say in the fairy tales
yet here she is
shadow
present on my doorstep
wanting to come in and play
the place is already a mess
so why not?
I'm not interested in impressing her
more than id rather entertain her until she is tired
and requires rest
perhaps i can choke her in her sleep
violent even for me
i know i cant
i am too curious
in her inner process
wretched bitch that she is
she is here until she is ready
to show herself the door
the rapids are rising
and moving faster, so they say
we are to lose everything
whatever that means
what palpable doubt i experience
what clear perception
like the glass shards like rain upon me
in the crisp memory of a cold
blue day in Tulsa
looking up
feeling my lungs being ripped to shreds
and my intestines boiled alive
as i walked hand in hand
with my grandmother
around the swan lake
nothing seemed sacred ever again
it all changes
it all falls apart
what is dependable
is only independence
and chaos.
my lungs recoil at the memory
i thought we had been through this
why are we here yet again?
can't you get over yourself?
you don't want to be this person
i have never wanted to be this person
and yet here i am
this person
can it be ok now?
how about now?
a poet as a physician
a charlatan
spirit you are writing this through me
what are you saying
to the world?
why did i come first for you
and no one else?
oh is it true?
or just me interrupting your flow?
we can dance all night
you know you will win
i will tire
i will always tire
before you
i am exhausted and refuse sleep.
i am mourning the state of the world.
its blackness drips out of my heart.
i am a toxic product of this planet.
What was i thinking,
coming back here?
Did i really commit to so much agony?
What good is this doing
for you, Spirit?
what good is this doing for the planet?
please
i am begging you
get me the fuck out of the (your) way
i cant do this alone
i don't even know what I'm doing
its so clear that you are driving
and I am simply in the passenger seat
with no seat belt on
trying not to vomit
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Thoughts and Musings of June 15th
I just wanted to write.
I thought I'd continue using my recently neglacted online journal for a change. I type faster than I write, and it's more legible, too. Besides, my intention is to put just about everything I write onto a computer at some point anyway. My hand doesn't cramp or misalign. I can think and write simultaneously. I can read what I wrote. So many good reasons to type up thoughts onto an online journal.
But no. Not today. Today my computer wants me to delete temporary files and cookies instead. I've only go an hour to write. By default, I grab an old notebook and begin scribbling.
What I wanted to write about was moving.
I'm taking part in this ceremony called Wilderness Quest.
At one point, our teacher Sarah explicitly stated for us not to make any significant changes in our lives, such as breaking up with a partner or changing residences.
So, in response to that, I am moving. Moving out of my space into a new one. It's just up the street, really, only abot a mile away. There are more trees and space in between houses. More privacy, I guess, and more sunshine in the form of windows. A small private garden with an established trumpet vine and a bench and some patio chairs. Exposed beams.
The space I am in now is great as well. Mostly. I've never been 100% happy here, and I've wondered if I'll ever be 100% happy anywhere, really. The place I'm in now is so big. Almost too big for me. I can't seem to fill it. There's extra stuff in here, and not all of it belongs to me. Maybe I'd be happier if I had gotten the space cleared out, but oh well. It is full of unfinished projects that I would like to have the time and the space to do. There is also a lot of foot traffic outside my place. People lurking about, clearly up to one thing or another. Men gathering on street corners. I get hollered at when I work in the garden or walk down the street. The cops are constantly patrolling the block. It doesn't feel safe, and I've decided that I don't have to live in unsafety if I don't want to.
The place I am moving to is smaller than the space I am in now, which is encouraging to me. I wish to flush a bnch of stuff out of my life, and here's the perfect opportunity to practice letting go in a big way. To discover where and in what my loyalty lies. And my friend lives in the pther part of the house. She has an intention of creating communal artspace, and weekly arts and crafts days. A-ha. Time and space to create with people. Perfect.
This is what I wrote about it this morning:
giving up stability for a dream
uneasiness rests on either side
it seems not to matter
whether or not action is taken
there are always challenges
and discontent
there are always trials
and tribulations
no matter where you live
no matter what you do
no matter who you know
Damn, Life is annoying at times
And what should be the focus
within the annoyance?
What should I resort to
instead of apathetic dissonance?
Art? Love? Peace? Prayer?
I thought I'd continue using my recently neglacted online journal for a change. I type faster than I write, and it's more legible, too. Besides, my intention is to put just about everything I write onto a computer at some point anyway. My hand doesn't cramp or misalign. I can think and write simultaneously. I can read what I wrote. So many good reasons to type up thoughts onto an online journal.
But no. Not today. Today my computer wants me to delete temporary files and cookies instead. I've only go an hour to write. By default, I grab an old notebook and begin scribbling.
What I wanted to write about was moving.
I'm taking part in this ceremony called Wilderness Quest.
At one point, our teacher Sarah explicitly stated for us not to make any significant changes in our lives, such as breaking up with a partner or changing residences.
So, in response to that, I am moving. Moving out of my space into a new one. It's just up the street, really, only abot a mile away. There are more trees and space in between houses. More privacy, I guess, and more sunshine in the form of windows. A small private garden with an established trumpet vine and a bench and some patio chairs. Exposed beams.
The space I am in now is great as well. Mostly. I've never been 100% happy here, and I've wondered if I'll ever be 100% happy anywhere, really. The place I'm in now is so big. Almost too big for me. I can't seem to fill it. There's extra stuff in here, and not all of it belongs to me. Maybe I'd be happier if I had gotten the space cleared out, but oh well. It is full of unfinished projects that I would like to have the time and the space to do. There is also a lot of foot traffic outside my place. People lurking about, clearly up to one thing or another. Men gathering on street corners. I get hollered at when I work in the garden or walk down the street. The cops are constantly patrolling the block. It doesn't feel safe, and I've decided that I don't have to live in unsafety if I don't want to.
The place I am moving to is smaller than the space I am in now, which is encouraging to me. I wish to flush a bnch of stuff out of my life, and here's the perfect opportunity to practice letting go in a big way. To discover where and in what my loyalty lies. And my friend lives in the pther part of the house. She has an intention of creating communal artspace, and weekly arts and crafts days. A-ha. Time and space to create with people. Perfect.
This is what I wrote about it this morning:
giving up stability for a dream
uneasiness rests on either side
it seems not to matter
whether or not action is taken
there are always challenges
and discontent
there are always trials
and tribulations
no matter where you live
no matter what you do
no matter who you know
Damn, Life is annoying at times
And what should be the focus
within the annoyance?
What should I resort to
instead of apathetic dissonance?
Art? Love? Peace? Prayer?
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
A new era of healing begins...NOW!!! (Part 1)
So, in the midst of the insanity of last quarter, my friend and fellow NESH compatriot, Angie, took my case for a constitutional homeopathic remedy. I didn't take it right away, because I was already giving my body a ton of healing input: 5E acupuncture, a detox diet, sweat schedule, craniosacral, extraction work, etc etc etc. But now, after a make-shift deep evening movie night at the House of Home and Family (Ryan lives here too), and after coming through crisis relatively unscathed, Angie went ahead and gave me the remedy. She, being a good little homeopath, didn't tell me what it was. What I will do is journal about what I notice about myself over the next few weeks, and then report back to her.
The initial report: when she tossed the pills under my tongue, I got the distinct picture of tiny bright flashes of light. In my interpretation of felt-sense, brightness equals goodness, ie stuff I want inside of me, so that was a neat image to have acknowledged. I also got pretty thirsty right then, as well as a mild but sudden headache spanning the whole front of the forehead, and lasting only a few minutes. I was able to drive home just fine. I had a bowl of granola and some cranberry juice split with mineral water as a late-night snack, half-hour after taking the dose. I feel kinda sparkly, uplifted, enlivened, and bright right now, underneath the sleepiness. There's a sense of connection to Spirit, like I feel when I'm on the Big Island, something like really being in the flow, having let go of everything that binds. The sense is faint, but I felt it, just a glimmer of it, as I was getting into my car to come home. I just ate and I still feel hungry, although that's pretty normal for me. My left hand is really cold, and my right hand is really warm. Otherwise, I'm just good and tired, so off to bed I go.
The initial report: when she tossed the pills under my tongue, I got the distinct picture of tiny bright flashes of light. In my interpretation of felt-sense, brightness equals goodness, ie stuff I want inside of me, so that was a neat image to have acknowledged. I also got pretty thirsty right then, as well as a mild but sudden headache spanning the whole front of the forehead, and lasting only a few minutes. I was able to drive home just fine. I had a bowl of granola and some cranberry juice split with mineral water as a late-night snack, half-hour after taking the dose. I feel kinda sparkly, uplifted, enlivened, and bright right now, underneath the sleepiness. There's a sense of connection to Spirit, like I feel when I'm on the Big Island, something like really being in the flow, having let go of everything that binds. The sense is faint, but I felt it, just a glimmer of it, as I was getting into my car to come home. I just ate and I still feel hungry, although that's pretty normal for me. My left hand is really cold, and my right hand is really warm. Otherwise, I'm just good and tired, so off to bed I go.
Monday, March 24, 2008
This was not a wasted day
This was not a wasted day.
Three days prior, there was crisis. Drama. From seemingly out of nowhere. Yet upon reflection, the vague lines leading to probable contributing causes revealed themselves. The half-day of sugar indulgence. The practice of stripping away ego roles in class. The heightened blessing of perfection in a walk in the woods with a sweet being. The stepping out onto a limb, bearing a raw confession of love interest. The exposure of being authentic. The stepping into a physician's role, ever more realizing what it means and what it takes. The sudden disbandment, the loss of structure.
Flailing.
Gratitude and blessings to all who stepped in to check in on me. Ironically, they were all men. I think it was only men I called that night as well. Perhaps this is why:
I have been wanting to enter a relationship with a man (or men: as a theoretical polygamist, I am open to not counting) for some time now. Curious as to what needed to happen in order to manifest this, I did a reading on it this morning. The main message I got was to go easy with the analytical aspects, to continue healing the heart, and to focus on the family. I interpreted "family" to mean my inner family. Checking in with my inner man, I found him beyond exhaustion (poor guy). When asked what he wanted, he merely wanted to sleep. So, instead of packing up and schlepping off to volunteer at a homeless clinic today, I slept off and on for ost of the day. I didn't change out of my PJ's until 6pm and that was only to go to the grocery store (my inner woman was like, "Dude I know you're tired, but you also don't have anything to eat").
So I had to get over the notion that laying around in PJ's, doing Tarot readings, sitting in silence, and blogging are not wastes of time. I'd argue that is no such thing as wasted time. It's all a manifestation of one's priorities. Whatever you're doing, wherever you're putting your energy, those are your priorities. And I think today I showed myself that my priority to myself is still intact.
And now, a poem about relationship:
I am craving
I am craving that one
I am craving that one who is strong
I am craving that one who is strong enough
I am craving that one who is strong enough to hold me
I am craving that one who is strong enough to hold me to my word
Take me down,
back into my body
Take me home,
straight into my heart
Take me back,
when I have been brutal
Take me over,
when I have dissolved
Take me in,
when I am full
Take me up,
in your embrace
Take me and
give me back again.
And may I offer you
the same.
Three days prior, there was crisis. Drama. From seemingly out of nowhere. Yet upon reflection, the vague lines leading to probable contributing causes revealed themselves. The half-day of sugar indulgence. The practice of stripping away ego roles in class. The heightened blessing of perfection in a walk in the woods with a sweet being. The stepping out onto a limb, bearing a raw confession of love interest. The exposure of being authentic. The stepping into a physician's role, ever more realizing what it means and what it takes. The sudden disbandment, the loss of structure.
Flailing.
Gratitude and blessings to all who stepped in to check in on me. Ironically, they were all men. I think it was only men I called that night as well. Perhaps this is why:
I have been wanting to enter a relationship with a man (or men: as a theoretical polygamist, I am open to not counting) for some time now. Curious as to what needed to happen in order to manifest this, I did a reading on it this morning. The main message I got was to go easy with the analytical aspects, to continue healing the heart, and to focus on the family. I interpreted "family" to mean my inner family. Checking in with my inner man, I found him beyond exhaustion (poor guy). When asked what he wanted, he merely wanted to sleep. So, instead of packing up and schlepping off to volunteer at a homeless clinic today, I slept off and on for ost of the day. I didn't change out of my PJ's until 6pm and that was only to go to the grocery store (my inner woman was like, "Dude I know you're tired, but you also don't have anything to eat").
So I had to get over the notion that laying around in PJ's, doing Tarot readings, sitting in silence, and blogging are not wastes of time. I'd argue that is no such thing as wasted time. It's all a manifestation of one's priorities. Whatever you're doing, wherever you're putting your energy, those are your priorities. And I think today I showed myself that my priority to myself is still intact.
And now, a poem about relationship:
I am craving
I am craving that one
I am craving that one who is strong
I am craving that one who is strong enough
I am craving that one who is strong enough to hold me
I am craving that one who is strong enough to hold me to my word
Take me down,
back into my body
Take me home,
straight into my heart
Take me back,
when I have been brutal
Take me over,
when I have dissolved
Take me in,
when I am full
Take me up,
in your embrace
Take me and
give me back again.
And may I offer you
the same.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
For the Love of...
Thank God for punk-ska, public pillow fights, Remedy Tea, and the grace of Spirit in the presence of a friend.
Melting down in the face of Change.
You Mother Fucker.
You and your hundred and eight
different shades of reality.
You and your consistent
double-standard.
You and your bossy
overbearance
forcing choice upon me.
forcing me into authenticity.
forcing me to sit with duplicity
and contrasting colors
I am nauseous and weak from the practice.
Dammit.
Where's the mercy?
I already fell in love with life
What good is it to put all the good things
on the same day?
Perhaps I should delve into
the rock-hard passion of
Your bindings and beatings
Learn to take it like
a bitch in heat to life
bent, sweaty, on all fours
There is passion beneath the pain
There is passion beneath the pain
Passion is pain, and painful
rubbing raw
now there's a wound to lick
to serve as a reminder
of the gift of manifestation
and patience
Delirious and exhilirated
Change forces me off my center
face-down into the mud
so that my heart may sprout roots
and begin communion with the Earth
amidst the change, oh yes, change
perhaps you can carry my trust
after all.
Melting down in the face of Change.
You Mother Fucker.
You and your hundred and eight
different shades of reality.
You and your consistent
double-standard.
You and your bossy
overbearance
forcing choice upon me.
forcing me into authenticity.
forcing me to sit with duplicity
and contrasting colors
I am nauseous and weak from the practice.
Dammit.
Where's the mercy?
I already fell in love with life
What good is it to put all the good things
on the same day?
Perhaps I should delve into
the rock-hard passion of
Your bindings and beatings
Learn to take it like
a bitch in heat to life
bent, sweaty, on all fours
There is passion beneath the pain
There is passion beneath the pain
Passion is pain, and painful
rubbing raw
now there's a wound to lick
to serve as a reminder
of the gift of manifestation
and patience
Delirious and exhilirated
Change forces me off my center
face-down into the mud
so that my heart may sprout roots
and begin communion with the Earth
amidst the change, oh yes, change
perhaps you can carry my trust
after all.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Sitting with Sadness
Sadness breaches the glassy stillness
like a humpback who has been traveling
for miles without a breath
again, you return
or is it only more
from where the last tsunami
came?
from a different epicenter, perhaps
or maybe the same
does it matter?
it all seems to wear the same coat
of desperation, of pain that is indescribable
because of its depth and
lack of physicality
"I don't know how you do it" he says
in reference to the needles and the burning
and the ropes and the beatings
that I mention, I request, I crave.
I said I didn't know either
but on second thought, of course I do.
Where emotional pain can be made physical
there is relief in the knowledge
that all things physical can and will pass.
There is a palpable
beginning
middle
end
Not the continuous breaching
of drowning whales.
There is grace in trusting the process of
emrging emotional pain into the physical.
Grace in trusting another with your body, your process, your pain.
Grace in trusting enough to be held, and
Grace in recollecting yourself when the container gives in under the pressure.
We are all only human, after all,
and some of us push harder than others.
Some of us go deeper than others.
Some of us expand greater than others.
Some of us are too loud, even for our own comfort.
It is grace that can hold us.
It is the ocean and the sky that can take it
that can hold us all.
Sadness enjoys the writing. It is learning to paint with words.
It is learning to leak gently out in small manageable breaths.
So on the surface, I may seem sadder longer.
But perhaps this time, you won't be frightened off by the explosion,
cowering in your own fears of inadequacy,
thinking "Shit, I can't hold THAT!"
Instead you can be quietly concerned in your own spare time,
stroking your ego into thinking that you may have something to offer.
Just to let you know,
I will take what is useful.
I take care of my own.
I trust myself.
I trust my process.
I trust that the label of "Crazy" exists for your benefit, not mine,
to make you comfortable and separate from what you long to ignore...
...but more on that, later.
Labeling makes Sadness even sadder.
It shows Sadness unacceptance.
It shows Sadness that you acknowledge her
as something incomprehensible, unacceptable, wild.
Boo on labeling, especially the label of Crazy.
Ouchness.
Sadness, what else would you like to share with the world?
Yikes, fear? Brokenheartedness? I am so gentle and fierce
I am so many dualities, all crossing in the center.
I am seeking integration between grief and love.
I am confused, getting tripped up in the process,
when I stumble, and hit the ground, I cry out of frustration.
Seeking flow and grace and a peaceful heart.
I pray, I stand up, I keep moving.
My life is full
of processing.
The large, complicated doughnut that I am.
Please don't fret, Mom.
Please. Have faith in me and my process.
Sadness is not a death sentence, like it seemed to be a decade ago.
You have raised such a strong, committed, loving daughter.
I may do things with my life that you would never imagine or wish for me,
but it is mine to live, and I follow only the voice of Spirit
and our ancestors.
Sadness mingles with Love and Grace on occasion,
when she is well enough to receive visitors.
They share a laugh and a good cup of tea,
in light and peaceful laziness.
It is 11:11. Think happy thoughts.
like a humpback who has been traveling
for miles without a breath
again, you return
or is it only more
from where the last tsunami
came?
from a different epicenter, perhaps
or maybe the same
does it matter?
it all seems to wear the same coat
of desperation, of pain that is indescribable
because of its depth and
lack of physicality
"I don't know how you do it" he says
in reference to the needles and the burning
and the ropes and the beatings
that I mention, I request, I crave.
I said I didn't know either
but on second thought, of course I do.
Where emotional pain can be made physical
there is relief in the knowledge
that all things physical can and will pass.
There is a palpable
beginning
middle
end
Not the continuous breaching
of drowning whales.
There is grace in trusting the process of
emrging emotional pain into the physical.
Grace in trusting another with your body, your process, your pain.
Grace in trusting enough to be held, and
Grace in recollecting yourself when the container gives in under the pressure.
We are all only human, after all,
and some of us push harder than others.
Some of us go deeper than others.
Some of us expand greater than others.
Some of us are too loud, even for our own comfort.
It is grace that can hold us.
It is the ocean and the sky that can take it
that can hold us all.
Sadness enjoys the writing. It is learning to paint with words.
It is learning to leak gently out in small manageable breaths.
So on the surface, I may seem sadder longer.
But perhaps this time, you won't be frightened off by the explosion,
cowering in your own fears of inadequacy,
thinking "Shit, I can't hold THAT!"
Instead you can be quietly concerned in your own spare time,
stroking your ego into thinking that you may have something to offer.
Just to let you know,
I will take what is useful.
I take care of my own.
I trust myself.
I trust my process.
I trust that the label of "Crazy" exists for your benefit, not mine,
to make you comfortable and separate from what you long to ignore...
...but more on that, later.
Labeling makes Sadness even sadder.
It shows Sadness unacceptance.
It shows Sadness that you acknowledge her
as something incomprehensible, unacceptable, wild.
Boo on labeling, especially the label of Crazy.
Ouchness.
Sadness, what else would you like to share with the world?
Yikes, fear? Brokenheartedness? I am so gentle and fierce
I am so many dualities, all crossing in the center.
I am seeking integration between grief and love.
I am confused, getting tripped up in the process,
when I stumble, and hit the ground, I cry out of frustration.
Seeking flow and grace and a peaceful heart.
I pray, I stand up, I keep moving.
My life is full
of processing.
The large, complicated doughnut that I am.
Please don't fret, Mom.
Please. Have faith in me and my process.
Sadness is not a death sentence, like it seemed to be a decade ago.
You have raised such a strong, committed, loving daughter.
I may do things with my life that you would never imagine or wish for me,
but it is mine to live, and I follow only the voice of Spirit
and our ancestors.
Sadness mingles with Love and Grace on occasion,
when she is well enough to receive visitors.
They share a laugh and a good cup of tea,
in light and peaceful laziness.
It is 11:11. Think happy thoughts.
Monday, February 11, 2008
Breaststroke Meditations
So I think I got a handle on the chest pain. At least for now.
I had another session with the fabulous acupuncturist today, and we came up with this: that the grief that was being released (gratefully) was simply overpowering my typical fiery joy. Perhaps the movement of grief was also pulling chi away from Earth, the deficiency resulting in the increased anxiety I had been feeling for the past three weeks. The deficiency carried through to the heart again, coupled with the grief release from the lung, causing the chest pain.
To be honest, I just took a wild stab at processing it all within a 5E model. I've got to let my acupuncturist off the hook. He actually told me to quit analyzing it and just tell him what was going on (which is exactly what he should've done).
I was having a hard time being present for the session today. There was a part of me fighting the treatment, leaving my body, wanting to leave the room, to not get better or move on.
I attribute a bit of that to the two Guinesses I drank last night at the bowling alley. That was the first time I have drank in well over two years, and it made me nervous that I was craving alcohol that way. I packed them both down, and barely felt it. It's been a day already and I'm still doing good. Sweet! I suppose that was helped along by the triple dose of NAC and B-vits I took upon coming home, along with the 5 glasses of water I downed that night. But the numbing effects of the alcohol carried over into today's session. At one point, I was getting needled essentially in my armpit, and it wasn't going and wasn't going and wasn't going, and then I realized that I was so far away from my body that the guy could've punctured my lung and I wouldn't have noticed. I had to catch myself and invite myself back into my body. As soon as I came back home, the needle tugged and the point released. But it all really came home when I got the needle in the middle of my inner wrist. Like sudden divine inspiration, all of the sudden EVERYTHING got clear and present and real again. It felt miraculous.
I went home and just sat in silence for about twenty minutes then crawled back into bed for a hour-long nap. It's a struggle to get up because once again I've let my place get all piled up and grubby. Grrrr. There just doesn't seem to be enough time or energy to get everything done.
Anyway, I made it over to the gym for some laps and sweating before class. God, I love swimming. Doing the breatstroke is like flying. It's like I'm an eagle soaring through a stiff breeze. No surprise that Eagle is the animal that has come forth to help carry me through this grief-relief process. Everytime, and I mean EVERY time I go to acupuncture, my practictioner and I always see a bald eagle soaring around outside. We've both been seeing them on occasion outside of treatment as well. It's great because we're both so giddy to see them.
So Water element, coming after Metal, is giving the grief somewhere to go, in my eyes. But that's not why I swim. I swim because I love it. It's quiet, meditative. My body is surrounded in secure, cradling pressure. I can push myself as hard or slack as I want, I can daydream, I can breathe deeply, I can process, I can pray. I did all of that today. As I pushed off the wall and soared through the water, grabbing it with my hands and shoving it past me, pushing myself through, feeling every part of my self, gliding to the surface for a breath, I felt a relief that I had been waiting for for three weeks. I couldn't believe how long it had been, how bad I had let it get. The self-disgust, the self-loathing, the insecurity, the abuse I suffered at my own hands. At what point did I forget that I am made of light? Where did I get stuck between the words "I am" and "a miracle"?
I'm so grateful for this healing, and the pain and process that led me to it, scary as it was. My perceptions of this lesson was that when the going gets tough, pray harder. And I got a new list of things to pray for.
A piece of poetry:
"Hopeful I raise my bow and release my heart into the night sky. I'm aiming for the stars, and maybe I'll hit one. More likely, I will find the dark matter, and be graced another opportunity to embrace the shadow of the universe. Either way, I am a better person because of my efforts."
PS: I adjusted my first neck all on my own tonight!!!! It was so amazing, because it came from a very instinctual place.
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