Rain, Tears, Gray Skies and Wonderment

I was awakened by a dream of having three children in an Eastern culture. I was leading meditation practice with the natives in a hill tribe. Authorities did not like having the populace learning to drop the drama, to step away from the story and to turn inward for peace.

deconstructing beauty

They swept down upon the village and took each person and cut off his or her hair by scraping the scalp with a sharp sword. I said to my children,” This will hurt. Turn within to find a place to be that cannot be touched.”

When I was fully awake, I realized that much of what has been playing out in the world had permeated my dream state. The urge to believe that weather systems, earth quakes, governmental repression is somehow new and ultimately destructive was obviously leaving its dirty tracks on the clean floor of my existence.

I follow what is going on politically and international. Attempting to share events with others who are cut off by reposting information appearing on twitter and facebook, is an urge I follow out of a desire to help. Imagining what could be going on is always the path into even greater drama despair.

darkness and light

Those times when I have stood up in the classroom or at staff meetings; or during professional development days to say, “This is bull shit,” are from a deep place in my soul. The other aspect of my personality is the good girl. I want to be stroked by the powers that be and told I did every single thing properly. I want a sticker on my chart.

Well if that isn’t a game plan for internal conflict, I don’t know what is. So I share what I believe to be accurate information. I watch my mind and my thoughts. Taking positive action so that I can live “as if” becomes easier as I grow.

But the dreams that come out of an unsafe and war zone childhood can awaken me. My mind is telling me that I am not protected in the world and that speaking out is dangerous.
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My sub-conscious habits have lead to isolating myself and staying quiet until I burst into some Joan of Arch speech and immolate myself upon my own burning stake.

I stepped out of bed with the dream still clothing me and attended to the rituals of self care. I attended a class on self development.

And ultimately, I mused on how much of North America is just growing up. We have not had our country over run by famine, by attacking hoards (an experience of the Native Indians). We have not seen our government overtly shooting people in the streets in a systematic manner. Europeans, Asians, South Americans and Africans have survived every type of stressor that can be named. But my generation, the baby boomers and after have not had a depression before. Some escaped the Viet Nam war experience and were too old for the Middle Eastern experiences.

So in the long run, perhaps much of what is happening now is part of the process of learning responsibility. It is about seeing that life is challenging. There is a wisdom that grows when hardship comes. And it is the kind of wisdom that can lead people to tweet, “The electricity is out, can’t leave the apartment.found out I have a boy friend living here with me.”

So when our world is shaken up by earthquakes or anything else, we turn to one another. We turn within to find a place of peace. We learn to see the brilliant, shining every day beauty of what we once thought of as a boring normal day.

look closely

The dream taught me that I don’t have to live in fear and that I don’t have to worry about “authority figures” changing my identity. Those are all images from my past, from my dark places. There is no drama. There is only turning to find who is there to love.

Always, always the question is, “What am I learning?”

What to do when you are doing nothing?

Yesterday I had another nothing day. I went out to an appointment and had the car loaded with books I intended to read and take notes from. I had a list of what I call the “this and that” of life in my head. Small things left undone end up like an assembly line at a factory just filling up until it ceases to move. When there are enough items that only take a few minutes, then I tackle them all on the same day. So I had that intention.

I returned home, sat down and could immediately feel the last two nights of short periods of sleep in my body.

Somewhere in between seasons hung outside. It wasn’t raining. It wasn’t snowing. The sun wasn’t shining. The air was a dripping dull gray. My mind kept circling back to, “I can start now.” But I was hungry so time for late breakfast at 1 pm.

maple leaves sudden shift to autumn

After reclining on the couch watching crap TV for a while, my mind started its tick tick the list again but I couldn’t work up enough enthusiasm to even check in and see what mind was putting on a list. It was like some background furnace noise blowing through my head space.

I read a bit of my book, I fell asleep for a while, I spent two hours on Facebook, I took the nail polish off of my left thumb then lost my focus. Thank God I had to pee because that got me up to clean the bathroom since I was already there and couldn’t be bothered to sit down and then get up AGAIN to clean. Walking past the washer, I started a single load before I sank back into the warm, worn flesh of the leather couch.

Thinking about marketing, my web presence, my web site, how I needed to “feed the blog” this week, make a poetry video, clean up some poems for the reading Saturday night. Oh! Now the things that I was not doing were becoming more clarified. The shapes through the mind fog were starting to sharpen into discernible entities.

My body was sore from working out every day for five days. So I fell upon the default rescue thought. If I am building muscle then not doing anything is what my body needs in order to repair. So while I am thinking I am not taking action, by not taking action I am allowing my body to take action.

intense colors signal an ending


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There! I did it. Like a magnificent athlete, trained and conditioned. My mind can create a doing out of not doing. It is not about resisting the busy body music. It is a care taking.

But I wasn’t buying it. My internal dialogue was continuing the argument. The only thing you are successfully doing is converting time off into yet another item on your list. So you are trying to be working toward your goals even when you are not. Impressive.

At this point, I was exhausted by not doing anything at all with my day so I went upstairs to bed to read a motivational book about focus, commitment to goals and daily effort. Yes. You heard me. Even as I was rolling over in the down covers to take a nap, my mind was saying, “Good job. You are motivation yourself.”

If there were a gold medal for cognitive dissonance, I am in contention for it. Because I am always in contention with myself. I was even too blecky to sit meditation. The last thought before my second nap was, “Well this is some kind of meditation, isn’t it?”

So today I feel that I can get so much done because I rested yesterday. I have a list in hand. The “this and that” items such as buying a tiny bulb for a dark lamp are all written out on the notebook page. I have inventoried my web presences which I intend to realign to one another, reconstruct my marketing plan.

veins like river beds on the earth surface of the leaf

Are these days of no action easy for me? No. The guilt and the internal nattering are not relaxing at all. But I say to myself as if I were a space traveller that it is what the other earthlings do. It doesn’t seem to set them back that much. And after all, I can cross “rest up” off of my list now.

Better get out and rake those leaves.

What is it all about? Face into wind, words carry

Intention, attention, detention. Each day born like a chick. Pecking away the shell of sleep.

So shaky on first legs. Aware that each thought is creating the web lines I will walk each day. Visioning out, creating the universe my orb will rotate through before I can make it to the bathroom, or even put my floor into reality by placing feet upon it.

To catch myself, right then. To catch myself gently by taking my mind in hand is the goal.

When first waking, I place one hand on the scars where my three surgeries were for ridding me of cancer. The other hand I place on my heart and let both my chest and my hand warm one another.

Each day, I lay flat before the universe is constructed and I say to my mind, “You are radiantly healthy and you give and receive love easily.” Each day, I use Reiki or affirmations, or magic on my body in the two places that have to be calmed and assured. “You are radiantly healthy and your heart is full of love.”

Only after those moments do I stand, shake off the unbeing of night and sleep. Where ever I have travelled, I am back into the habit of mind-body connection we call awake. As I walk to the bathroom, I watch my thoughts. My mind has already made up the holodeck I am stepping into for the day.

“Whine, whine, whine,” the song goes in my brain. The hard stone of loneliness is still below my heart and above my belly button. Still there, I can feel the dark, heavy spot. Parents dead; children moved away; marriages done one after one. The house is quiet with only the blowing heat in winter or air conditioner in summer breaking into the white, clear silence.

I turn my mind to gratitude as one would help a child learn to tie shoes for the first time. I am patient. I talk to myself with compassion. “Let’s see. We will make a list. Wow, you had 8 hours of uninterrupted sleep. Your body feels good. You are not afraid that someone in your environment will hurt you, will be sneaking around betraying you. No one is criticizing you. Your body feels strong and rested. The bed is comfortable, the tree outside your window is beautiful, your car purrs when you turn the key, ….” On I go chanting to the trembling gray feathered bird which has broken from the shell of night, chanting that the world is a safe and wonderful place.

The coffee is excellent, the best and freshly ground. The orange juice is golden. I drink it standing at the window so I can see the brilliant color in between sips. I take my pills that help me build strength and optimism. They work for me. I congratulate myself on everything that I did to advance my sense of safety and confidence in the world yesterday.
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The stone of past oppressions; of a war zone childhood; of bad choices and loss is still there. But I notice that it is getting smaller. I make friends with its presence as if it were a mole or a scar, only it is one which I carry within.

So many times during the day, I reach “no story” status. It is the top of the mountain for me. Something happens. My car needs $700 worth of repairs. And I say, “thank you,” to the universe for the mechanic’s catching loose bolts and a rusted arm that would have lead to an accident. Within one hour, I drop it and do not weave it into the cloth of thorns that I could choose to wear throughout the day.

Sometimes, I have no body or personality or thoughts. The sense of floating comes to me at times while I sit meditation on the deck. The feel of the sun melts the dimensions, my physical body, my aura of jagged thoughts away into no thing. It is beyond pleasure. It is just space.

The result of watching my self through the day is that I can see the four year old; the frightened 38 year old with two children to care for; the woman who ran bleeding after love appear in my thoughts. And whatever age my shadow self is, I see her. I know exactly where it is coming from. I know exactly why she wants to start the story, the drama, the cliff hanger, the adrenaline of anxiety which is her addiction. Sometimes, I am even able to soothe her and step away from her pull on my hand. “Follow me into victim land,” she will call out.

What has been most exciting for me in this process is that I am learning that I am not good or bad. I am human. I have a personality, a soul, a history, habits of mind, self destructive patterns and even cognitive dissonance that has me eating sugar while trying to become radiantly healthy. But I am learning.

By God, by all that is Holy the gifts this life has brought to me are starting to be evident. I can watch myself with love. The struggles with arrogance, judgement, social anxiety, over control, failure to allow myself to be close to others are on going. Even when I had past life regression, I could see the same lessons appearing. So how can I expect to “get it” in this life if I have been doing the work on the tendency to isolate myself since 1053 B.C.? I mean really, let it go sister.

When I awake with my feathers so young and wet they look like fur, and I lay among the shell fragments of dreams, I recreate my life. Each day is a new universe, a new energy field, a new web I weave with my thoughts. What is my life about? It is about learning how to live. It is about learning what I have created and taking full responsibility for each thought I use to speak to my self. I am after all brand new, unsure, trembling to be here.

I see myself so strong and soaring in the sky with no weight of darkness. I see myself light in light. So I touch my scars and my heart, and I talk to myself each day. I am teaching myself how to live. It is why we are all here. To understand. To live with no story, no drama, no victim/villian mentality. But thank God we are reborn each day, new, fresh face into the wind with our words carrying out into the world our intention to be loving.

And sometimes the sun shines.

Craig Jones, Wade Davis and Kevin Baker

It has been a whirl-wind lately. As the unmarked days of heat passed, the sense that all time was now and unchanging was pervasive. Now every day I awaken to some seasonal death. The flowers in the pots sitting on my deck are frosting dead limp in a way I can’t figure out. Why this pot’s Nastursiums are translucent strings holding onto dead flowers and fists of seed pods and the one next to it is still sporting the coarse, common flags of color I cannot understand.

Maple in background a fallen leaf from tree

The leaves are just starting to fall from the freshly pruned Maple tree. I have dug up all of the garden beds and shaken the soil off of the bulbs and corms and transplanted them for greater vitality in the coming spring. It is rather like an easter egg hunt because I inevitably forget where I hid the iris, crocus and tulips. When hope is reborn in the garden, I will be surprised and probably talking outloud. “Oh there you are!”

Old ties have been cut, letters, pictures any reminder of a life three years past are gone from the house. It is a new season.

Getting out the door is a promise that I made to myself and I have continued my efforts to establish new patterns. The public library brought in the author Craig Jones to speak. He was the government lawyer for the Bountiful trial against the Mormon polygamist community in British Columbia.

His book was the result of research which demonstrated that the effect of the Mormon lifestyle of polygamy was to increase violence within the Mormon community. His research lead him to explore the very nature of family structures and various cultural interpretations of “family.”

In 1947 Bountiful, B.C. did not exist. Harold Blackmore, who was a liberal leaning man moved there with his wife. Later he included her sister in their “family”. And thus it began. Harold was driven out for his left leaning views which included such abhorrent doctrines as the equality of men and women. Two generations later the society which brought 12 year old girls across the border to be traded as commodities was in full force. The Bountiful trial took 42 days and the result of the trial was determined not on the basis of religion but rather on Craig Jones’ evidence that the society as manifested in Bountiful was corrupt and violent.

Because only a few of the ruling males had many wives, there was no “breeding stock” left for the younger men and these men were driven out. It was a basic failure to provide a place for the very young that a culture creates in order to perpetuate itself. There was literally no place for the majority of male children to live within the cultural structure.

Craig quoted Robert Reich’s study which demonstrated that the way to dampen down violence in young men is by mating them to a wife. Craig pointed out that when the militaristic society in the Middle East wanted to disband and they had a group of young men trained to go to war which they no longer wished to use, the organization used social psychology. In the 1970’s parties were held whereby the men were introduced to single women. The newly married men were given jobs and bonuses to settle down.

In our society, Craig continued, we have effectively the same dynamic of entitlement as in Bountiful but it is not as pronounced. The rich men have serial relationship with women who deliver them off spring and take that breeding opportunity away from younger men. A primary example was when Newt Gingrich had three wives with overlapping periods of infidelity in which he had essentially taken two women out of the mating pool.

Monogamy was structured to ensure “paternity certainty”. To demonstrate the value of creating a child with known paternity Jones presented the hazards of the “step father” syndrome. One of the difficulties with step parenting is the statistical evidence of risk. A child of a woman who is living with a man who is not the child’s father is forty to one hundred times more likely to be killed. It is the most risky situation for a child to be placed in in North America. It is essential that the father and the society know the clear lines of paternity in order to protect and provide for the child.

Another interesting study within the Mormon community was that children of rich Mormons were more likely to die because the richest men were the most polygamist. If a man had forty children, losing one or two did not ultimately matter. The sexual abuse that occurred in a situation in which young men were guaranteed not to have a mate was another difficulty within the society.

In the end, the increase in violence, the control of who can and cannot take a wife and fulfill the promises of adulthood were the major factors to dismiss polygamy as an unhealthy social practice in Bountiful.

I came away with a lot of ideas in my head and a list of psychologists that I wish to study. Tod Shackleford whose area of expertise is the psychology of domestic violence has a wonderful web site with a detailed bibliography of every article and book he has written. I emailed him right away and said his work had been revealed to me from the Craig Jones case preparation study. Tod had no idea that he had made such an impact. It was news to him. I copied his list of articles onto facebook for some of my more scholarly friends to enjoy.

Two nights later I attended Wade Davis’ lecture which was an extension of his Ted Talk on the effect of global warming on Indigenous cultures. His combination of intellect, compassion and beautifully crafted language made the evening a transformative experience. Once I posted about him, many of my facebook friends reacted by saying, “You don’t know Wade Davis?” I have two friends who are on the Shamanic path and they have studied his work in detail. Wade has entered many ritual doorways into the exploration of the unseen universal forces behind form.

At the end of his lecture to a packed house at the Kelowna Community Theatre, a young girl got up to ask a question. She was moved to hear that environmental changes such as the end of ice, the massive destruction of the rain forest, the greedy striping of pristine land for the passage of oil pipes was resulting in the passage of native people from the earth. She asked, “If there is one thing that young people can do, that I can do to help the environment and stop this destruction what would it be?”

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What amazes me is I feel like life is such a huge four dimensional puzzle. Sometimes I think I get a moment of clarity or I know that I have figured something out and then, for instance during this week, things just reform and new pieces fall into place.

The study of culture; the study of the framework of belief; of how we see ourselves and the universe that we construct in our heads is endlessly fascinating. There is self; there is self’s relationship with self; there is the state of mindless zombie existence based on habit and social ritual; there is self’s relationship to belief; there is the relationship with the culture and always, always the challenge of relationships to others. It is complex, shifting, challenging and provoking to be alive.

I went to Chapters on Thanksgiving day because I did not want to be alone in the house again on a holiday. Public places that provide a sanctuary for the lost, the seekers, the travelers are becoming harder and harder to find. There were two street people who smelled and had soot all over their clothes; a group of five Asian students who are in Kelowna to study English; a dying, insane woman who was spilling copious amounts of beer out of a paper bag she was carrying (almost immediately escorted out by the mall security) and me. I bought myself a rare treat coffee latte and sat taking notes on books. I stumbled upon an article by Kevin Baker in the Harper’s. “Why Vote? When your vote counts for nothing.”

Kevin early on stated that, “democracy… turned against us. Its institutions now reinforcing the triumph of money and fueling the growth of nihilistic and anti-democratic movements.” His analysis of the structure is that “Democracy is at its heart an exchange…”

In the early times when the system was young hard cider, whiskey and shoes, picnics, turkeys, no show jobs were offered in exchange for a vote. Tammy Hall handed out $2 “walking around money” in broad daylight. The political parties were no more than “machines perpetrating mass poverty.” After long years of struggle to repress the pay for vote system and with the growth of the social safety net, John Lancaster could say, “The most admirable societies that the world has ever seen…” are democratic societies.

The author quotes Naomi Klein in her book The Shock Doctrine as understanding that the governments have utilized ” crises… to roll back democracy.”

Baker summarizes his analysis of today’s governments. “What we are witnessing is the use of democratic institutions to degrade and disassemble democracy itself.” And it was Reagan who lead the way. “The move to uncouple campaigns from any true intentions came into its own during the Regan years.” In other words, promise them anything and then do what you want once you are in power in order to accumulate more power.

Regan was elected on the platform of fiscal caution and he tripled the national debt.

In England the recent coalition was blatantly not about politics or ideology. The new government was formed to create class solidarity.

The reaction of the people is to rebel against the disconnect between political promises and the dismantling of democracy. In France the workers have hit the streets to protest the raising of retirement age and the curtaling of worker’s rights. In Spain the indignados are demonstrating. Germany has the enraged citizens or wutburgers marching. And in North America Occupy was making its voice heard.

Baker calls for a solution. “These are rational reactions, for the people who now control most western political parties have already isolated themselves from their constituents in order to enrich themselves and their class. … Massive reconstructive surgery is needed. We will have to build the new political parties from the dried out husks of the old ones.”

This week, I have been given information and sources to study, I was asked to consider how societies form alliances in order to ensure the protection and survival of children. I have attended a lecture by a man who has visited 50 different societies and is calling out to say that the environmental degradation is resulting in the ending of societal diversity. And I have read about the political stalemate whereby citizens no longer have input into their democracies in order to fashion the society.

How does man fit on the earth; in his family; within the belief systems of his society? How can a person alter or change those things which threaten a rich, varied, tolerant wisdom which guarantees survival on the earth? There was so much to think about this week. Blessings to the brilliant creative thinkers who came into my life in five short days.

The leaves are turning red. We are in the driest, hottest weather in 113 years, governments are becoming more repressive. Ice is melting back. Oh yes. We are headed into a season of change that we can only imagine. Creative thinking will be the way out.

In my personal life I am learning to open to questions, to sit in the sun in stillness, to let go of that which does not serve me and most of all to reformulate my sense of reality. There is much more in the universe than the constrained window that our family structure and our society has given us through which we view the grandure.

Energy is the language of the universe

Living full out, baby! Full out.

Today Cody Tree Service showed up to prune my maple tree. It is a huge, gorgeous tree that dances and sings in the wind. Much of my time at night is spent in a bedroom that is about ten feet from the swirling branches. The two men who were working on the tree joked, laughed, teased one another the entire time they were up in it. The one from New Zealand said, “It is like being a kid. You know when you were young and just climbed a tree and played on a sunny day.”

They worked rapidly, cleaned up without leaving a trace; however, the happiness they brought was left behind. They have created a safe place to be as they swing precariously from branch to branch. It is in the relationship between them. While I don’t “get” the comaraderie which comes when two men poke fun at one another, I do understand that it is a sign of affection. Women don’t work that way. If you told a woman she should eat crock meat because it is low fat, it would be pretty much over.

Last night, two other poets and myself held a poetry reading at Pulp Fiction Coffee House which is a treasure. Max, the owner, took me through the amazing rooms filled with a lifetime of his collecting impulse. He has purchased books, posters, china figures from the 40’s and 50’s from around the world. It is not plastic. It is not mass production. Each of the pieces is strange, exotic and unusual. Like us: Jane Eamon, Rawle James and me. We are perfect in that space.

Each of us has spent a lifetime working on what we are meant to be and without effort, without intention we are all unusual. But different. We are so different from one another that it is a delight to all of us.

We are hoping to build something at Pulp Fiction for ourselves. We don’t know where it is going yet, but we felt it last night.

This summer when I attended the Naropa University Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poeics I was blow out of my little hidey hole of comfort.

But you should also go and have the tests viagra no prescription fast performed for artherosclerosis. learningworksca.org viagra fast Also, ensure to maintain an utmost height and weight ratio. All the men were put for the questionnaire http://www.learningworksca.org/a-golden-opportunity/ tadalafil 20mg price regarding their sexual performance during the sexual intercourse. Couples must work together in generic cialis mastercard order to deal with erectile dysfunction. It was being in the presence of Thurston Moore, Anne Waldman, Amiri Baraka, Tracy Morris, Laurie Anderson, I learned that instead of waiting for the stork to deliver the baby of opportunity, a person has to just make it happen. Amiri admonished us to speak out, to read on street corners, to witness. While I was viewing You Tube videos about the Beat Poets I was impressed with one of the poets who said he went to macho bars and stood on the pool table to read. He either got “beat up or got $50. Most of the time I got $50.”

My issue of safety keeps resurfacing. How do I wear the corset of constraints, play small to guarantee a secure existence when it drives me insane. My soul cries out to stand on a stage, to say what I have to say about early abuse; about being an intellectual in a sleeping world; about the damage I see to the fragile ones. My soul cries out to witness for those who cannot protect themselves by my giving a voice to that broken life.

I love the Buddhist practice that I read about lately called, “FUCK IT.”

So I continue to do weights frequently to build a stronger body; I continue to write my poetry and blogs. I post my videos of my reading of poetry on You Tube.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4YzBo-PAjmw&list=UU1sbb545hr0EwWCwEsntUNA&index=2&feature=plcp

And when I want to censor myself and say, “No. Don’t talk about it,” I know this is the script from my childhood. When my body was bruised and my spirit was damaged I was kept home so no one would see. When a child’s life is damaged, he or she learns to close the mouth and pretend.

Our society is damaged and its spirit is broken. We are encouraged to buy plastic copies of objects. We are bringing plastic, manufactured food home. We use our plastic cards to trance ourselves out of depression. And our faces are plastic objects which can be cut into to create a mask.

But I met people this week that are living full out. Two young men hung from my Maple Tree being outrageously silly. A man with a dream has opened a quirky treasure trove. And two other people stood up with me to read poetry.

Sometimes you just have to dance and say ,”Fuck it. This is who I am.”

Here is a great blog about the history of Naropa:
http://www.dailycamera.com/news/boulder/ci_20873629/poets-authors-gather-naropas-summer-writing-program

Defriends and New Friends

Losing a friend on facebook always makes me sad. I go through the same kind of self questioning that I do in real life. I ask, “What did I do wrong? How did I fail that person as a friend? What can I do to make it up?”

wanting to be validated

Basically, I am very sensitive to criticism and reluctant to alienate anyone. However, there is the warrior woman in me and I can be very judgemental. My habit of self-criticism and criticism of others I think is so strong that it must have been with me many life times. Combined with a hyper-sensitivity to incursions to my boundaries, it is a wicked combination.

In the last two years, I have become much better about resisting the urge to step up to some poor unsuspecting schmuck and shove the golden fish oil solution to his or her problem between the still moving lips. Forcing choices upon others does not help them or me. It is like a feudal lord riding into another’s territory and rewriting the laws of that country. It is high handed, unasked for and, basically, arrogant.

Wanting to be right, wanting to be perfect, wanting to be loved are all deeply motivating energies. The problem is they are mutually exclusive. I have been guilty of knowing what is best for others most of my life. And damned if they don’t thank me for it!

Don’t get me “wrong” (excuse the side laughter here), I frequently see much of what others don’t see. When I first heard of the aids virus in the ’70’s I cried. I knew what it meant. I could see clearly in my mind’s eye the devastation that the disease would wreck upon the entire population. In that moment, the vision appeared to me.

When I went to work, others called me ridiculous, alarmist and dismissed my reaction.

So often, I can see the trajectory of a political action, or a personal decision. However, having that vision is isolating. When you look at another person and say, “Watch out,” you are basically treating him or her like a child.

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So in this tangle of wanting to be seen as one whose vision can be trusted, I end up leaving the act of having myself validated to out side forces. Yes, I was correct about the aids virus, about Nixon, about the rise of alcoholism and many other things. So do I speak out, offer advice, stand up in the room where others do not speak my language and still expect them to love me?

My born again friends won’t like my Tarot readings. My passive, spiritual friends won’t like my political postings. My non-consumerist friends won’t like my loving fashionista publishing.

being strong means taking risks

I can criticize myself for not being perfect in a universe where all times exist simultaneously and my alternative selves are living in a slice of reality just on each side of me. But what would be the point?

Trying to figure out what my body is registering; trying to stay in the present moment; trying to be kind to my fragility in insecurity is all I can really focus upon. Being authentic, speaking out when I feel it is important to my own self-respect to offer witness; staying out of other people’s boundaries as I find my own personal territory takes self compassion. I am an infant. I fall. I hit my head. I lose balance. I want everyone to love me and respect my opinion. I want to be right.

But these desires are unachievable. I will be defriended. Finding out who I am and what my truth is will mean alienating others at times. It will also bring people to me who are also openly falling, losing balance and smacking their own heads. People who are not afraid to say, “I am learning how to walk on this earth. I am learning how to be.”

Being open is the only strategy that has worked for me. And sometimes it can be lonely.

August Fades

The clouds overhead today floated in a brilliant light tone of prussian blue sky. At the start of day the clouds were muted but as the sun moved across the sky to flare the blue to a vibrant pastel the clouds burned white. Now, as the sun sets the edge of all the clouds is neon rayed. Like the last days of summer, for a few lingering moments the intensity of smudged color hangs in the air.

long shadows moving on summer lawn

The sky is shifting. Grays in multitude of shades hang in the silver air. Seasons shift. Lights shift. Colors shift in this period between seasons.

I mowed my lawn today with my wonky, cartoon-wheeled lawn mower. The axel is bent on all of the wheels so they roll around at various positions of 45 % angles. It works. It cuts the grass. And it didn’t cost me much. The green kingdom with its six mum plants and the last two roses waving their orange flag looks orderly. The care and attention I put into my lawn is easy to see.

I have trimmed back the lavender bushes so that a body can pass up my walkway to the front door without having to kick back the seedy stem heads. All that was trimmed, I am placing in net bags to give to friends. Their purpose is to promote tranquility.

Squeezing the bag causes the air to fill with the memory of the purple blossoms swarming with bees in the warm air of summer. The pollinating, the creating of blossoms are instantly recalled as the thumb sinks into the tiny pillow of dried plants.

I love summer and inevitably go through a kind of reluctant farewell to the heat and brilliant colors. There is sadness in the chill air after sundown.

The beginning of summer always holds promise. This year I will play more. This year I will find the loved one. This year I will be the carefree child creature I am at core.

As the promise of summer passes away, I recall which promises I have kept to myself.

being aware t

my choices help to create who I am

I have gotten the yard in shape; painted the fences; painted the deck; renovated the kitchen; dug up and replanted my garden beds; gone to school in Boulder, Colorado where I earned an A on my M.F.A. course; maintained my commitment to body building; connected with new people in order to build friendships. My nearly 4 thousand kilometer trip from Kelowna to Boulder, Colorado; on to Denver, Colorado; visiting Portland, Oregon and returning home was out of my comfort zone and an accomplishment.

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However within myself, I have carried with me a certain sadness that has been there most of my life. Some days it is active and pressing on me. Others I just ignore it by getting busy and moving toward my goals. Feelings of not being safe when I was young, not being loved are smaller and less insistent.

Roses my neighbour bought for my birthday

What I have learned in this last year is to ask for help. I am going out the door more often to be in the company of friends. I stay calm in difficult situations and can solve what needs to be solved without drama.

My body is healthier. My outlook is more optimistic. I am finding it much easier to understand what is happening when negative emotions arise. It is very rarely that I find myself justifying my behaviour or condemning myself for a stupid error.

Body building, eating well and eight hours of sleep

What has helped me the most in my journey is the idea of no story. Things just happen. The sun has set. The sky is now edging turquoise to navy blue clouds. It just is.

companionship in the falling light

I am proud of myself for not sinking down into distracting negative behaviors to deal with emotions which come up. I have seen what drinking alcohol does to the mind, to the ego, to the personality. I have observed my financial tail spin when I tried to buy my way out of distress. So standing emotionally “undressed” in the wind of what is, is my choice. Ultimately, it is easier.

Why did that happen? Why did the relationships not work out? Why am I feeling stuck or lost in a particular moment? It just is. When the cold water of the lake is moving up my ankles and then drawing back again, I watch the movement and feel the temperature and texture. It just is.

We all have our own lessons. We are like children sitting in school with a worksheet, head resting on a hand. It is hard, so hard that we stick out our tongues, we hold the pencil awkwardly. We try an answer. We hope.

May you continue to dance through the autumn with a smile upon your face.

Golden Girl and Golden Buddha on to Portland

Some moments driving the flat lands were dramatic. The heavy rainstorm that obliterated my view as the side winds whipped the semi-trucks around as I passed was what I remember most. The knowing that every journey will not be of a piece is helpful in these moments. The dreadful, frightening weather will not be perpetual. The obstructed mountain pass will not be eternal. Every moment begins and ends.

In Portland where I was born, I always feel at home. The mix of buildings from the 1880’s and 1920’s with contemporary towers is fascinating. Trains cross the town and free transit will take a visitor throughout the downtown core for free.

My favorite thrift shop is Buffalo Exchange just across from Powell’s Books. The lectures and cultural events that are hosted in Powell’s makes it a hub for meeting people in the arts.

I recently read an article which stated that the Willamette River which was notorious for pollution has been the focus of a clean up campaign. It is now suitable for swimming.

http://eugeneoutdoorprogram.wordpress.com/2011/10/12/the-great-willamette-river-clean-up-of-2011/

There is a real feeling of leisure in the city. People do not push pass you or pound the pavement. Most stop to engage in conversation along the sidewalk.

One thing I noticed in most of my travels was the willingness of complete strangers to engage in a conversation. It made me feel at home because well basically it is where I was born. The gregarious and curious nature of Americans is frequently seen as nosey by British Columbians. I made note.

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Returning home was difficult. The adventure was over. I had a yard, a garden, weeds to attend to. How could I find new experiences in a town I have lived in for over 20 years and a place I have lived in for over 30 years? It is a challenge.

For now, my birthday is coming up and I am practicing gratitude for what I have. The handy man is coming in to finish the kitchen which was left with holes in the wall and ceiling. It will be another large debt on my line of credit. But it will mean the list of tasks is done.

Once my knee is operated on to have the torn meniscus vacuummed out from between the joints I am clear of all I have been waiting for. Do I stay here, sitting like a broody hen on my line of credit debt or do I find a destination?

Step by step. I am working on my body, on my blog and I have my first you tube posting of me reading my poetry.

I am praying for guidance and a sense of certainty. I am asking for purpose and passion and prosperity to re-enter my life.

And I bought a sequin animal print H & M swimming suit at a thrift shop in Kelowna. Now that is a good sign.

May you dance joyfully even while waiting for the music to appear.

Naropa and on to Denver

The Master of Fine Arts students had two days to complete a written response and submit a manuscript of the works that they created during the intensive week of study. I selected to begin as soon as classes were over on the Saturday night. By persistence, I had the assignment complete before the 1 pm Sunday check out from the Snow Lions.

Vernon reading with sound support from rest of class.

What fascinates me is how efficient I am under stress and how when there is no hard deadline, or imminent show looming like a shadow being in my direct sight line, I tend to sink. I sink into the little, daily rituals of cleaning, looking on face book, repeatedly expecting my email to bring a personal or human spark in my dull existence.

A psychic once told me that I make progress from stone to stone but at times I just sit down and look at the river in despair imagining that I will never make it across. Was this a polite way of saying my manic depression is mild?

I finished the assignment; hit send; packed the car and headed to Denver. I don’t know why but I was feeling pretty challenged by the highway and the traffic at this point. I can always tell when I am beyond my comfort zone because that is when I start talking to myself. “Are you sure this is the correct turn?” Or I talk to others who cannot hear me. “Move over buddy. I need to get in that lane. What is your hurry for pete sake, it is Sunday afternoon?”

fire makes a beautiful sun set

I wound around my brother’s neighbourhood not quite getting where his house was. Finally, after three loops I drove up. It was only when I was upstairs with my baggage in the room that it hit me exactly how tired I was. The long drive to Boulder. Everything new. Not being around objects and places I had lived with for over 20 years was a stretch. It was good for me. It was a full on challenge when I hadn’t been in a challenging situation in terms of work since 1999. Plumpt. I sat down.

well groomed neighbourhoods in Parker, distant hills, tangible sky

My sister in law arrived the next day and I spent my days cleaning up and sharpening my pictures and posting them on facebook. I went for an hour walk every day and worked out every day. In the evening, she and I watched chick flicks and would exclaim to one another when we saw a cute purse, a fun dress or awe inspiring shoes. Our focus was on the fashion and the romance. It has been years since I had seen a girly movie with a friend and talked about what we were viewing. The altitude sickness was definitely effecting me.

benches in outdoor mall, art everywhere.

One day I took the train into Denver and was again swept up in the sharp, vibrant masculine energy of the place. I shopped a bit but I found that I am losing interest in spending my time shopping. Last time I was in Denver I walked the entire town and went to the State building, the art museum, and sat in a Catholic Church to pray. I was still bleeding grief. But this time, my body was tired from lack of sleep, unaccustomed stimulus and long drives. So I found The Tattered Cover Book Store and was home. I felt like I could live in that book store. Is it wrong to choose a place to live based on its book store?

Some places just feel “right”. Hand written signs above books.

sit, read, take your time. old couches all around.

I fell in with a guide who was giving a tour of the city. I asked if I could eavesdrop and he said, “For only a little while.” So I set my watch in my head for “little while.”

This is the new financial district. Glass towers $400 for 600 square feet. In Vancouver, B.C. it is a million for 600 square feet.

He explained that the new “downtown” of the city was under construction. The outdoor mall that cut through the city was being extended. The glass towers that he pointed out were $400 grand for 600 square feet and sold out in a few weeks after they were put on sale.

One of my favorite pieces… the dancer.

In the future, the train station would have mass transport taking people to and from the airport to downtown whereby they could get on another train, take the free service throughout the downtown or jump off and walk or ride a bike all the way across the river. He pointed out of sight. Over there he indicated through the construction site. He informed us that they were already a year ahead of the target date of 2016 and if things kept going that well estimates were that this new more user friendly downtown to burb hub would be done as early as 2014. The city is vibrant.

donated pianos along outdoor mall. painted by artists. people practice here. I heard classical music as I walked.

big city, financial district but keeps heritage buildings

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The horizon and my friend the semi-truck.

I drove 14 hours one day and 12 another. In Vancouver, Washington where I had grown up, I stayed in a motel across for the one that was in my other life. When my mother was dying, I drove down and camped out in the Extended Stay. When my step-father was dying, I was there as well because it was close to my childhood home and to the hospital. Now I couldn’t afford such a luxury place since the financial settlement from my divorce. I can definitely delineate between a lower middle class motel, a middle class motel and the $50 a night places I was lucky enough to get on this trip.

Middle class:

towels are thick and the floor mat and towels look different from one another
there is a coffee maker
the bed spread is made of fabric and not plastic spun from orange fruit bags
all of the lights work on the first try
the heat and air conditioning does not sound like a super jet landing
there is a steel stopper in the bathtub that allows it to fill up (rubber stopper is lower middle class and no stopper is to discourage you from using the bathtub at all to save money. I found a prescription bottle cap works fine for this)
there are shampoos, creams, soaps in bottles not in two squirt plastic sleeves
the Bible is not out in an obvious place but discreetly tucked away

I booked the hotel for two nights because I arrived very late. Again I was lost. It was almost 9:30 and I circled a few times then asked a couple of young men at a Kiosk Coffee place for directions. Again the magic phone came out. He pointed the way for me. Laughing, I told him the story of the Chucky Cheese Angel He offered me a free large mango drink so that ,” I can be the bigger angel.” Men are so competitive. I gratefully took my directions and my large cold mango drink and found my hotel.

The next day I, in my usual manner, went for the 10 minute drive to downtown Portland and ended up driving for almost an hour. The bonus was that I saw a section of Portland that I had never seen before. The older houses with beautiful, copious drappings of green plants, tree limbs and vines stood along the curving road on both sides and spoke of a history that extended into the 1800’s. It was spectacular. I parked once in what I thought was a lot but then could see was private. I got out of the car once and went into a dealership of automobiles and was told I was in the wrong part of town. So eventually, I got into a parkade about a block from Powell’s Books.

What did I learn about the experience? I learned (again) that when I am very tired I become disoriented and have difficulty finding my way. Perhaps it was the early chaotic environment in which I spent my childhood. But the way for clarity and quelling confusion for me is to be fully rested. Being lost is not just a physical result. There have been times I have lost my sense of where I stood emotionally and spiritually. The work that I did on this journey was to understand when I was lost, to realize that my assessment of how well I was functioning was in error and then to calm myself down. I knew I could not starve to death, drive until I was out of gas and end up on a deserted planet far far away. (Worst case scenario.)

Walking in Portland is always a treat. First I went to Buffalo Exchange and tried on many, many items of clothing. Next I went to Powell’s Books and read a few books in the coffee room. Stump Town Coffee called me. Up the street from Powell’s is a hotel with Stump Town Coffee, a large reading room with a huge, low table at the centre and couches around it. It provides people with the opportunity to sit face to face and encourages conversation. As I was standing in line, I saw a business man wearing the shoe gloves that fit over each toe like a glove on a person’s hand. I asked him if they were comfortable. His friend looked down and said, “I didn’t even notice them.” We all laughed because they are screamingly obvious.

I was so excited about being in Portland that I started to riff. I suggested he get foot gloves with press on nails for women. I suggested ankle chains, toe rings. Oh I just started…. His friend said he thought those were great ideas so I made them both pledge to not steal the ideas. That was the first conversation I had had with another person for three days and was I ever “parched” for words.

Meandering was the theme. This time I was not driven as was my last visit to Portland. I couldn’t seem to find my way down to the linear park along the river but did stumble on an art gallery, a nice restaurant and discovered another park I had never seen before. My body was tired so I headed back to Powell’s and read books again for four more hours. Walking upstairs to put my books back, I found that a speaker was about to begin.

Evil Knievel Days

The writer was an English teacher from Lewis and Clark college was a PhD from Standford. He was modest, shy and had gathered around him on the floor a flock of fascinated students. The blocks and barriers that I have created in my life became so obvious. Why did he have the self esteem to push through and get his advanced degree. He had won prizes for his short stories. This was his second novel. What had I been doing? Cleaning. Weeding. Waiting. I was both inspired and tired after the reading.

The illusion of time running out has always been with me but because I am about to turn 68, there is a sharpness to that vision now. What have I actually done in my life that I set out to do? It churns in my brain.

In Parker, a tree with smiling roots.


Such a small, careful life that has left me open for incredible damage. The safe choices I would tell myself. But they weren’t safe. They were triple blind studies. Not seeing why I chose alcoholics. Not seeing why I refused to make large moves. Not seeing why I isolated myself. All the time I churn around in the bay in my tug boat, I dreamed of heading out to sea. To see.

sky along the Coquihalla as I returned home.

When I returned home after a 13 hour drive, I felt a let down. Back to the same routine. Back to the small haven. Always my brain talks to me about how lucky I should feel. I am radiantly healthy. I have good friends. My children are both alive and have families. But where is the juice?

If impatience could be a rash, I would be red all over. Next. The next thing. The sense of walking through a door. But I want it to be safe. I want the door to be open so I don’t bang my head. Is that too much to ask, universe?

Naropa Buddhist University: What is the Summer Writing Program?

When I arrived in Boulder, the journey of several days was over. I had opened up to change, to challenge and to creating a new future for myself. The journey was about releasing fear, bodily tension and watching the anxious, limiting thoughts arise.

Every time I passed a semi-truck, I talked to myself about how wide my lane was, how protect I was by universal energy. I thanked the driver for safeguarding me and being aware of the presence of my 2003 golden Nissan with the Buddha on the dash board.

“Drop your tongue down,” I would tell myself. To release the energy in my jaw, to keep my face from clamping shut in fear, the tongue drop works beautifully. “Soft hands, ” I would tell myself. My hands upon the wheel would loosen and I noticed the tension in my neck and back would lessen. The car engine, the universal field were the power and it wasn’t my grabbing instinct that was keeping me safe.

The tomtom got me to Naropa and from there I asked directions to Snow Lions. The mix up was amazing. I had been assigned three different room numbers over a few weeks. But I got the contract to fill out for my room and was told to come back after three.

Moving my suitcase into my room seemed rather awkward. It was full (because I am always packed for survival on the moon, after a nuclear war or stranded on an island). So I left the suitcase in my car trunk as a chest of drawers and stuffed underwear, makeup and jewelry into my back pack. Vital survival items. Oh and the four dresses and three pairs of shoes. Also very important for a Leo.

The Snow Lions was not an up to date, meticulously clean environment; however, my university friends tell me this is typical. My OCD started kicking in right away. Walking past the two large white lions at the entry way, I thought about where I could get glue to reattach one of the corners that had been knocked off. I eyed the central patio area and wondered how long it would take me to sweep the area clean. I had to quell the OCD fairey’s voice.

“Just do what you came here to do, ” I told myself. “Let everything else go. Let it go.”

I was in the dorm for two days before I figured out how to use the magnetized fob thing to get me in the door. I tried making one of the room keys work. So for the first two days, I stood outside the door and waited for someone else to open the door until I could observe how to work the gizmo on my own. What a metaphor for the last two years. Standing in front of a door and just not being able to figure out how to work it. Yes. That is it!

The beds were small with a thin mattress but I didn’t care. The classes were inspiring. The people that surrounded me were creative spirits who had made a voyage out of their lives. Some were from small towns in Alabama, Texas, California. Some had grown up with racial discrimination with learning disabilities, with an angry household and yet each of these people had kept writing, had kept learning and had honed his or her skills. I felt as if my entire body was on fire.

Tracie Morris was the instructor for my section and when the short, fit African-American woman walked into the room we were in for a surprise. Her power revealed itself over the week. She was unfailingly kind and sensitive to each of the students in our group. There was no attempt to establish status. Her knowledge of writing, of performing, of the academic background of all that she presented simply poured out of her as she answered our questions. Twenty minutes into class, I felt as if I were in an Alice in Wonderland experience. Tracie’s stature just kept growing. At the end of the week, I captured some pictures of her and was astounded at the fact that she is fairly short. We lost that sense of her early on.

Her compassion and commitment to others is what most struck me. She genuinely wants to best for those around her. In my thirty years as a teacher, I can honestly say that I was blessed to be in a class with such a natural excellent teacher. She informed us that her meditative practice had taken much of the “edge” off of her personality. However, one knows that if it is needed she will step up and defend her beliefs with whatever it takes.

What did she teach me? She taught me that stature, status, reputation are irrelevant. She taught me that what is most important is to network with other souls on the same path as myself. Being open to working closely with others with an attitude of humility, is the quickest way to become better at the skills I have been given. Leave the ego behind and edit that sucker. Slice and dice. Go for the gut. Punch it out. But at the end of the performance, don’t leave them bleeding. Offer an after dinner mint with sweetness on the lips to complete the experience.

Be there for others, Tracie showed through example. Be fully and completely in the moment. Listen to others. Take classes. This woman has many prestigious degrees and yet she is constantly taking classes. Learn. Sit at the feet of others. Be open.

She taught us about breathing so there is power behind our words. She taught us about breathing so there is a strong connection to body passion in our words. She taught us about breathing so we can hear what our bodies are experiencing.
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One of her exercises was to connect with an organ and talk to it. Many in my class connected with the liver: seat of anger. seat of stored grief. seat of unfair treatment. Poets…. yes it makes sense. Poets are called to speak out the grief and beauty of life. It makes sense.

My pancreas talked to me. According to Louis Hay the Pancreas is affected when life has lost its sweetness, when one is rejected. I have been like a Victorian heroine these last two years. Trailing through mind fog trying to find my purpose, passion and power, I picture myself in wafting gowns locked in a stone fenced territory. My pancreas I envisioned as a kind of meat baby, curled in fear under my heart.

This was a very powerful exercise and surprisingly clear in the message that we all experienced. After the visualization and breathing exercise we each wrote a poem message to the organ that was “talking” to each of us. The poems were powerful, lucid.

Tracie completed her lesson to us through her performance later in the week. Her rendering of “I’ve got you under my skin” with the voices of those sexually abused at Penn State was electrifying. She brought us to our emotional knees. I kept thinking it was more than I could take and yet it went deeper. She was merciless in her mercy.

Another influence on all of us was to spend the afternoon listening to panels or presentations by other artists. There was never a sense of the usual academic hierarchy. And I noted how incredibly effective it is to have someone stand before me who had simply made a choice to be who he or she wanted to be. To strike out into the world and make the heart’s statement without waiting for validation had been a choice. Thurston Moore of Sonic Youth put together his band and ruthlessly toured the world. Find others, say what you have to say, keep moving!

Laurie Anderson was so simple, direct, unassuming in person as she stood on stage in front of us. And then she performed. It was watching a kitten become a dragon. Her power and presence was transformative. She had one number in which she described her obsessive experience with a ouija board. In her first life…. pause… she was a raccoon. In her second life…. so gentle the voice…. she was a hat. The people in my row were laughing together. We looked at one another, we bent over with laughter. It opened us up. It opened us up to saying whatever came to mind, to standing on a stage saying whatever came to mind, to one another, to the flow of energy in the audience, to and from the stage. Laurie is a catalyst. She creates magic. Period. Period.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gXyisdc6ggc&list=UU1sbb545hr0EwWCwEsntUNA&index=5&feature=plcp

The other teachers each took the stage: Caroline Bergvall, Toi Derracotte, Jena Osman, Bhanu Kapil, Bobbie Louise Hawkins, Brad O’Sullivan, Claudia Rankine, Roberto Tejada, Anne Waldman and Matvei Yankelevich. It was like watching the Olympics of creatives. They each made it look so simple.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PAIY_v8rzew&list=UU1sbb545hr0EwWCwEsntUNA&index=3&feature=plcp

The ability to take the gifts that the universe gave to you, find shelter in friends/networks and feed your flame was demonstrated for the students. Skill. Pushing through. Listening to your inner voice. Seeing setbacks as lessons. What better way to encourage students than to be authentic and open about your own journey?

I was filled with energy. I felt as if I had been hit by lightening, light en ing. When I read out my poetry in front of the school, teachers and other students came to me to tell me they liked my work. I sat in the audience with tears pouring down my face.

I was so grateful for the encouragement. I was so grateful to feel as if I was in the right place, with the right people doing what I was born to do. The stimulus was challenging and overwhelming but for the first time in almost three years I felt fully alive.

Finally, the message that Amiri Barake delivered stayed in my consciousness. Make it happen. Get out there and witness for a better world. Speak your truth. Be who you are without fear. Passion is a gift. Intensity is a gift.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wIpAOGHW8T4&list=UU1sbb545hr0EwWCwEsntUNA&index=2&feature=plcp

Thank you Anne Waldman for creating and sustaining this transformative haven. Thank you fellow Naropa students for your diversity, your imaginative genius and your loving kindness. A creative center founded on compassion and keeping oneself humble is exactly what is needed as a “spark” in today’s world. I was lucky enough to be a part of that for a short period. Gratitude.
http://naropaswp.blogspot.ca/p/week-4-course-descriptions.html