Musings from the Moment

Following the Energy

2012-03-15T09:33:00.006-07:00

My process painting teacher used to tell us to go where the energy is. Is there energy for it? she would ask, of a color, an image, a particular aspect of the painting we were working on. If so, awesome, keep going, if not, find where the energy is and follow it.

It's a good life lesson, for sure. Maybe even the gold standard. And for art, no question. But what I'm thinking these days, is that it's most likely also a good barometer for blogging. Because the truth is, and as much as I do not want to acknowledge it, the energy for continuing this blog is not there. Has not been there for some time.

Sometimes we have to close doors for others to open. Even when it hurts or is sad or represents the letting go of a particular hope or dream. If you've been a reader here, it is no secret how much I love to write. Also, how much the ability to write has been eluding me. You also know that other creative things are birthing themselves. And there is so much energy there for these things. I scour thrift stores and flea markets and flower shops looking for the perfect ingredients for photos. I work hours editing, sometimes until my eyes literally give out and I have to close my laptop. A certain vase, a particular rose, the way the afternoon light comes in through the window turns me on the way a turn of phrase or particular word or sentence has in the past. I hear Chris' voice echoing from the nether regions of years ago... follow the energy... Still, I resist...

I began this blog as a place to write myself through the most grief-stricken, difficult, painful, confusing, lost period of my life. It has been my friend and companion along the way. Here I have shared, processed, gained insights, tended my wounds, been vulnerable, found my voice, gained confidence, practiced radical honesty, and so much more. After a year on the market, my house in Sonora has finally sold. A seriously difficult chapter closing. The week after I moved all of my stuff out and into storage, I bought myself a bicycle. Traded my house for a beautiful little Nirve comfort cruiser called "Island Flower." (Whose pink rims practically made me swoon when I first spied them in the bike store...) Riding for the first time in over two decades, I am aware of a feeling... a joy, a bliss, a serious contentment, that I have not known in years. A thought occurred the other day, as I rode on a trail that follows a sweet little creek near where I live: I feel like I am getting my life back... It was fleeting, but that did not make it any less welcome... or any less precious.

It does feel as though I am starting to recover. Though I shake in my boots just a little at the uttering of the words. Yet there has come a certain level of seeing and perspective, which tells me there is already enough space from the deepest black of the dark night to get a glimpse of its gifts, to appreciate that it's been a slow, deep, hot burn that has fundamentally altered me, in huge ways, that I am blown away by and seriously grateful for.

I don't understand this call to surrender the want to write. To close the door and let it go. I don't understand or like it, but I do trust it. Because though the desire is great, the energy isn't there, and because just go with the energy always seemed to work; blocks disappeared, pathways became clear, new and vital things arrived on the scene. Whole, amazing paintings happened simply by following the energy. It is so ironic, I look back and see that things only really began to shift with the dark night after there was total surrender, after I got the message to trust it, to honor it, after I began to fight for it instead of fighting against it with every breath in my body - weird I know and yet it is true - I fought for the dark night (though I'm sure what I was actually fighting for was my soul... )

I love this blog. Have loved it from Day One.I've loved putting myself out there and I have loved that people enjoyed it, were inspired by it. But it does feel--though inexplicably--that leaving it behind is the right thing to do. To go with the flow of what is, to see that as I recover, it might actually be appropriate, good and positive even to give up the (cyber)space where it all played out. Just as I had to give up the home where I had become life-threateningly depressed, leave it behind in order to more fully recover and move on to what's next, so, too, here...

...at least for now. Because we really just never know...

God knows I had no idea that I would, in my 60th year, overweight, out of shape, climb onto a bicycle again... or that the first words I would utter, as I cruised around the parking lot of the bike shop would be, OH MY GOD, I AM IN HEAVEN............

We just never know.

Oh, and p.s., you can still find me HERE at my Flickr account. And maybe later elsewhere... who knows... maybe a travel blog or one dedicated to creativity. Maybe I'll be inspired to return here and muse some more... endless possibilities, really, when we don't grasp, and insist on any given one.

Anyway, I close for now...
With serious love, gratitude, and appreciation,

Debby Rose

Broken

2012-03-01T12:13:00.006-08:00

This pitcher was a gift from one of my sisters decades ago. She bought it for me at the Smithsonian on a trip to D.C. I have loved it from day one, both the pitcher and her thinking of me, knowing the exact right thing for me, so much so that when one of my girls was fooling around one day and knocked it down breaking the handle, I glued the pieces together, glued it back on (unusual behavior for me, as something so broken could not be saved), placed it back on the shelf, and have continued to love it.

I think of how each of us from our little family, parents included, have been broken. I think of this sister, the one that I've wished my whole adult life to have a closer relationship with, and her unexpected call the other day. Hearing her voice, her laughter, bringing back such family memories. Thinking of her own unexpected, unique and serious life challenges over the past few years opens a space in my heart that distance, differences, and misunderstanding oftentimes closed.

Aren't we all broken in some way? Even those of us for whom it is not so apparent on the surface? I love the metaphor of this vase... how life breaks us, no bad intent, just part of this earth walk, and we glue ourselves back together and march on. The scars becoming part of the fabric of our beings; a place of more vulnerability and tenderness for sure, but part of the beauty that makes up the whole. Part of the mystery that doesn't just mark our journey, but creates it, most often unknowingly, and only in hindsight, like gazing from the mountain top we didn't know we were climbing to the sudden vista, looking out at all that we had traversed; the switchbacks, the steep hills and deep valleys, peaceful meadows, the detours and long stretches of isolation and wilderness, darkness and light, the streams forged and rivers rafted, looking back on it all and seeing that truly, we could not have arrived any other way.

And p.s., a few hours after posting this I opened a new book I received in the mail today and found this quote:

Life breaks everyone... but some grow stronger at the broken part. ~Ernest Hemingway

I love life's synchronicities.

Life Is Messy

2012-02-14T11:19:00.000-08:00

This is what happens when I try to create a photo in the "soft and dreamy" style that seems to be all the rage right now. Or, when I'm given an assignment, like I was recently, to create a photo where "less is more." It makes me want to laugh out loud... because for me, in just about every way possible, I've always, and I mean always been a more is more kind of girl.

It's sobering, really. And not so little heartbreaking. Because I've also always been judged, shamed even, for that. I came into this life with big energy. Big passions, longings, feelings, needs; I drive fast, walk heavy, laugh loud, crank up the music, think, feel, and love deeply. There is a huge thirst to live life to the fullest. Growing up it was never okay. And I did my darnedest to change myself; shrink and twist myself into all kinds of shapes and sizes to try to fit in the little box that I thought would bring love and approval. And of course, as all kids do, I internalized the message, and learned to detest the very things, the powerful, and actually pretty awesome things that make me who I am.

And so, as this photo was creating itself (really... we so think we're in charge...!) I began to see it as the symbol it is... We are all made up of layers and layers and layers. As is life. It hits me that this is probably why I've fallen so in love with processing with layers; it is such a beautiful representation of what is. The messier this photo became, the more I fell in love with it, and the more I saw myself in it. Especially the soft inner core, because here's the thing that most people don't know--because I'm afraid to show it and therefore it is most often not seen--that inside this big rough-around-the-edges exterior, lies an exquisitely tender and vulnerable being.

Thank goodness we are not one size fits all. Try as I might (and believe me, I've tried), I cannot create those dreamy images. And that's okay. More than okay, even. In fact, the messier this photo got, the happier I got; the riskier it felt, the more excited I began to feel.

At retreat this weekend with my teacher Isaac, I watched as more and more of the trying to be what I'm not fell away, growing in it's place, a bigger seeing, acceptance, and appreciation for what I am.

Hallelujah.

Feasting

2012-02-01T06:37:00.000-08:00

Love After Love by Derek Walcott

The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other's welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.

Sometimes, when the word well is dry, there's nothing to do but find inspiration in other people's creations. This has been one of my favorite poems since the first time I read it years ago. It hits me in the deepest, least visible places, in the land of mystery and tenderness, knowing and soul.

I miss writing. It's been my go-to thing for so long. A way that I express myself that comes pretty naturally. But I realized today - and I can't believe it's taken a while to see this - that what is not happening right now with words is happening with images. I spend hours each day creating with my images. In short, I am finding, seeing, and expressing myself through my art! Whoa... Not only has this been a dream for so long, but I have known intuitively, have written about it here in fact, that somehow, in some way that I cannot know or understand, a huge part of this dark night journey has been and is about creativity.

My sister said something amazingly wonderful to me the other day. She said that when she looks at my latest photos, they look like me.

Wow.

And it brought this poem to mind... as I greet myself arriving at my own door... As I get it to stop bemoaning the absence of words and throw out the welcome mat, open my arms, sit and feast... It's almost too much to take in.

Art and Life

2012-01-25T09:27:00.000-08:00

That sweet night; a secret.

Nobody saw me;

I did not see a thing.

No other light, no other guide

Than the one burning in my heart.

~John of the Cross

I am hooking up today for the first time in a while at The Creative Exchange. What I love about Lisa's approach is the emphasis on love; your camera in one hand, she says, your heart in the other.

Yay.

In a way, I guess, I'm celebrating. It's been exactly a year since I began learning Photoshop Elements. It was a huge curve for me, and over the year, with the help of some online courses, I've gone from pretty much daily wanting to throw my computer across the room to becoming a fairly competent user. Along the way, I've had hits and misses, successes and failures, some good photos, some bad; I've watched my art grow; but the one thing that has eluded me is a sense of my own creative vision and my own unique style; what was missing was some invisible thing that longed to be expressed, a feeling maybe, something that I could not have articulated, but knew the moment I saw it.

In the past couple of weeks I've started to see it. Something's coming together, it began with a simple thought to photograph the things that I love and that I've been surrounding myself with for years. The books, vintage dishes and painted-peeling things, candles, shells I've collected on my travels, the flowers I buy each week when I grocery shop; all that I love to look at and be around, that float my boat and even better, feed my soul. It seems simple, but somehow I'd been missing it.

How can we go wrong when we move toward what we love? Not just art, but in our daily lives (which are also art, the blank canvas of our everyday lives...). I was told on Moloka'i that the very foundation of the native Hawaiian spirituality is discernment. To pay attention, to discern what does it for us and what doesn't, and make a conscious choice to move toward one and away from the other.

As in art, so in life. Or is it the other way around? Not that it really matters. And here, another gift of the dark night.

Thanks Lisa...

Gifts of the Dark Night

2012-01-16T10:40:00.000-08:00

If nature can handle the destruction and reconstruction

of a caterpillar into a butterfly,

why shouldn't I surrender and trust

that it can handle what is happening to me?

~John Moriarity

The book I've been reading, Dark Nights of the Soul by Thomas Moore, has been serious food for this soul. I find myself wondering if it's possible for a book to change one's life, and my answer is I truly think so. A book, a poem or quote or song, an offhand remark, coming at the right time, when by some grace there is even a crack in the veneer, can, indeed, shift things substantially.

I can't say that it has cured me. Obviously, since as I read it, I slipped again farther into the darkness. But I can say that I now have a container in which to hold this experience. One that helps give me patience and tolerance. One that adds depth and meaning, that offers sustenance, hope even, and that provides a sense of understanding, without having an actual clue why, this might possibly be happening.

I have learned that this is a journey of the spirit and soul, as much as, if not more than it is of brain chemistry, circumstance, lifestyle, or genetics. I have re-learned what I've known for a long, long time but had lost sight of; that we live in a world that is myopic and lacks balance, a "solar" world, where light and brightness and happiness are valued over the lunar, which is dark, inward, still, mysterious, fertile. Where pain is avoided, where quick fixes and the hero's outward and upward journey are both preferential to the slow, deep, internal burn necessary for true transformation and rebirth. In short, we live in a world that values the yang, but not so much the yin. And if you've dappled at all in eastern spirituality or philosophy, or for that matter simple gardening, you know that there must always be a balance. That life cannot, does not thrive when it's out of whack. We only have to look around at our world to see how true that is.

Already I am glimpsing gifts from this dark night. I am reconnecting with parts of myself that through no fault or blame have been lost along the way. I have turned to creativity, some days as the only possible way to get through the next moment, and see my vision and art evolving in a way that I could not have imagined. For these things, I am grateful, if not for the dark night itself, and maybe even that is around some invisible corner I've just not quite yet arrived at.

Thomas Moore says it better than I could ever hope to~

The black of the dark night comes from ignorance, not knowing what is happening and where life is taking you. The only choice... is to remain in the present, not bound or deluded by the past, and not imprisoned in a fixed and defensive idea about the future. The worm has to let the transmutation take place. It would do no good for him to plan his wingspan and colors or to wish to remain in the snug safety of the tiny world he has known. The most difficult challenge is to let the process take place, and yet that is the only release from the pressure of the dark night.

Taking A Risk ~ Take 5

2011-12-31T08:07:00.000-08:00

I’m pretty sure I’ve written this here before… but it bears repeating, if for my own ears only. When I first fell into the black hole, my therapist at the time kept telling me that the antidote to depression was risk. I argued with her every time, citing the entire eighteen months before, where I had done nothing but take huge, life-altering risks. Leaving my marriage and home. Going to Moloka’i alone for three months. Buying my own home two hours away from Bay Area, where I’d lived my whole life. It actually appeared—to my eye anyway—that taking risks might have in fact led to the major depressive episode that I was experiencing.

Now here I find myself, over a year later, back in a seriously dark hole, having a conversation with my daughter, who agrees that risk can indeed be the antidote to depression. As we talk about it, she tells me her belief, that it’s not about taking the huge, life-altering risks so much as the smaller, every day ones. Where could I begin, she asks, in her uncanny way of getting directly to the most important point. And the answer is immediate; I can start right here in this blog. Where I haven’t been writing. Where I’ve been isolating, avoiding the truth. Where I’ve been hesitant/reluctant/afraid to say—again—how depressed and numb I am, and conversely, how sad I am feeling, how much pain I am in. After all, how many times can one say it? How many times is too many times? And won’t folks, at some point, just get tired of hearing about it?

Which brings me back to what I’ve also written again and again… I don’t write what I write here for other people, I write primarily for myself, as therapy, as a place to explore and discover and let it all hang out. It’s where I can be real, and not have to pretend or sugar coat or out-and-out lie. And sometimes, when I’m lucky, it’s where I can come to understand or be inspired, when the words just lead themselves there all by themselves, not as a plan or by will or orchestration; the momentary gift of a pinpoint of light; frosting on an invisible cake.

So here it is. My truth. I am suffering more deeply again. Some days, seriously so. And I know that I am no where near the only one. We all suffer. Some more than others, maybe, but it is without question part of the human condition. Right now, my best friend and her daughter and their families are in deep sorrow over a loss. My sister and her family are suffering as a loved one struggles. I, we, don’t have to look far… and it’s a common denominator I think; and often it can be our own suffering that opens our hearts so completely to the suffering of others.

Whatever opens our hearts more fully is a gift. Though I do resist -- unconsciously for sure, but nonetheless, and though I know better, I find myself again and again beyond reluctant to let the pain just take me. Hence the numbness, I suppose… self protection, fear that if it starts in earnest, it might never stop, or, might take me somewhere so out of my control, I might never find the way back. Which, ironically I believe, is the whole point...

This morning I came across this beautiful quote by one of my favorite authors, and it speaks perfectly to why it is I am drawn again and again to words, and it inspires me, to keep going, to keep coming back here, keep taking the risk, first and foremost for myself, but also, in the hope, the dream, that what I experience, what I am able to write here, might also touch someone else out there.

Writing, real writing, should leave a small sweet bruise somewhere on the writer... and on the reader.

~Clarissa Pinkola Estes

2011-12-25T12:44:00.000-08:00

Christmas

This year
I let Christmas in.

And it occurs to me that
every year
the spirit of Christmas goes wandering
looking for room at the inn
of my heart

turned aside
by the hurry of business
the demands of desires
the walls of grudge, bitterness

but when at last
a door of willingness opens
there comes inside
each year
a newborn spirit

of hope
joy of this life
the courage of kindness
the warm embrace of forgiveness

so powerful,
it draws shepherds,
wise ones, some who hold sway in this world,
even humble animals respond,
look up to the silent chorus
of shimmering angels
among the stars, bending
low, to welcome again this
simple

overwhelming
grace.

- Scott O'Brien

Hekate

2011-12-01T09:00:00.000-08:00

Today I read about the night goddess, Hekate, whom author Thomas Moore calls The Dark Angel. I am reminded of a time years ago when I first began the healing journey, when I discovered the goddesses of old and found profound nurturance there, in their archetypal stories, and ways of being. It was like suddenly finding parts of myself that I had only a vague sense of, that I had no idea were missing until confronted with them. They became revered companions, and I found the beginnings of healing and wholeness in their midst.

It feels like there has been a serious shift in the past week. Following on the heels of two weeks full of moments of such despair it scared me, I finally picked up this book I've had for a couple of months and began to read it. They say when the student is ready, the teacher will appear, and I'm assuming the timing is perfect because Thomas Moore's words have found their way straight into my being. I now truly get that what I am experiencing is a true dark night of the soul, and the shift is in the honoring, and seeing that this is not merely depression that needs to be overcome, but a time of spiritual journeying, a soul's night, an opportunity for emptying and renewal, that is to be experienced. I've also heard that when suffering is seen to hold meaning, that it is much easier to bear. Moore's words, his deep understanding, respect, and acceptance of this life passage have made a huge difference.

Reading about Hekate today, learning what she has to teach us about the night journey, feeling her support, the ancient wisdom, I felt myself coming home again. For the first time in years, I felt touched by the sacred, that intangible something that defies articulation, that grounds you, puts you face to face with the mystery, that takes your breath away, that fills you up, and empties you out all at the same time. And in the arms of that, I long to let go, dive as deeply as is necessary, float on my back in its currents until it is finished with me and tosses me back up onto the shore once again.

Thank you Hekate, and thank you Thomas Moore for bringing the goddesses back into my life today.

2011-11-16T08:54:00.000-08:00

I sometimes wonder how I can feel so crappy in a season that holds such beauty. Everywhere I look, even here on the west coast, trees are doing their fall thing. Right now, looking out the window, among the majority of evergreens and trees that have yet to begin to turn, is this one tree, that is blazing the most incredible orange in the morning sun. It's the same tree in this photo, that I took as the sun was setting last night; how different it looks at different times of day and sunlight.

Last fall I was still in Sonora, deeply depressed, but still holding to the dream of a life there, in the almost mountains, in my own home with my own garden. Walking Jasper every morning, agape at all the different oranges and reds and yellows splashed among the pines and firs; the persimmon winning hands-down as the most beautiful orange I had ever seen; nearly tripping over my dog because I could not get enough as we walked by. I remember riding the train between Albany, NY and Boston with my husband a few years ago. Our first trip to the east for fall color and we mostly missed it, it coming late that year, except our last weekend, when it erupted. Rolling through the backwoods, my eyes glued to the window, not wanting to so much as blink for missing even a split second of it. And truly, I had not known, until that moment the unbelievable spectrum of color possible.

Today is Day 55 of my 365Grateful Project. It's one of the most depressed weeks I've had in a long while, and some days it's been hard to find one thing that I truly feel grateful for. I don't mean that in my mind I can find gratitude for because those are plentiful, I mean truly feel gratefulness. There's a difference, and for me, that difference is crucial. So I look to what it is that captures my attention. What it is that is able, even for a moment or two, to take me out of the darkness, and it is, without question, fall color.

And maybe that's the whole point, as we head into the season of darkness, where days are short and nights long, that time steeped in mystery and the unknown, of turning inward and holding up inside, earth gives us one last promise, a true spectacle, beauty so amazing, to fill our ragged hearts and tired souls. How is it that one tree can so capture my attention, so that for an instant all else is forgotten? I have no idea, but I will take it... and feel grateful for it.

Turning My Life Around

2011-10-31T13:49:00.000-07:00

This is my fourth day home from Moloka'i. I am happy to be home and, already, I miss it. It's a strange and beautiful place with a strange and beautiful hold over me. There's no question that my time there changes me; knowing that is one thing, understanding or articulating it is another.

That said, I do realize that I've come home knowing it's time for some much needed restructuring of my life. It's time to stop pissing away my moments and days, and start committing myself to the things that I say constantly I want. Things like art. And writing. And movement. And meditating (or really, just stopping long enough to smell the roses). The things that bring me back home to myself. I want to stop wasting time on the internet. I want to stop driving all over three counties to see friends. Not that I no longer want to see friends, I just want to stop using being social as a distraction from myself, to somehow prove to myself that I am likable, even friend-worthy, to reassure myself that if I died today, there might be more than just a handful of people at my memorial; I want to start being more discerning, I want to create the space to bring the discipline back into my life that was there for the year and a half that I wrote daily - and produced a three hundred and fifty page manuscript. I want to burn sage and candles, listen to chanting and Loreena McKennitt, do a simple yoga pose or two, stretch, eat well, get back into my body, and be. From there I want to create an alive and beautiful work space, somewhere that I long to come each morning, that will feed my soul and nurture my spirit; where being - and its offspring creating - will flow naturally and spontaneously ~ just like I want to believe it is supposed to.

Maybe it's safe to say I've come home with a renewed sense of purpose. Which is ironic, because purpose is something I have struggled painfully with over the past few years; its seeming lack the source of great despair; then yesterday, sitting in satsang with Bentinho Massaro, hearing him say that our only purpose is to be who we are. I don't even really know what those words mean but I do know that something inside me let go, breathed a huge sigh of relief, and relaxed.

Nothing more is necessary than to be yourself. Wow. Simple. Profound. A no-brainer, really. And since I'm never quite sure what or who that is, I can reduce it to even simpler terms. Nothing more is necessary than to be... And here we are... full circle. Creating not just the intention, but the space, literally and figuratively, to help me just be.

I ALOHA MOLOKAI

2011-10-25T20:39:00.000-07:00

Moloka'i is a unique island. It is a land of powerful prayer and powerful energy. I have felt that energy personally and have been gifted enormously by it. Moloka'i has the largest percentage of native Hawaiians of any of the major islands. Her people are strong and powerful, and the spirit of aloha is palpable here. In ancient times, they kept conquerors from landing on their shores by the power of their chanting alone. In modern times, they have successfully resisted big change and tourism through their passion and grassroots activism. Their motto, Don't change Moloka'i, let Moloka'i change you is apt. She will, she does, if you let her.

Today they are fighting big business and the State of Hawaii to keep giant wind turbines from being erected on their small island. The energy from these wind turbines will go by undersea cable to support tourism on Oahu. Here on this particular island electrical costs are the highest of anywhere in the United States, yet not one drop of the energy from these turbines will be realized locally. Not only that, they will be erected at great cost to this land and her people.

Today I am using this space for something I have never done before and would not ordinarily do... I'm going to ask you to take five minutes to watch a short film... if you are moved to do anything beyond that, well, that would be great, too.

If you are interested in learning more, or even in supporting their effort with a very small donation (they are asking for donations of $10), please go to I-ALOHA-MOLOKAI and watch the short film, beautifully crafted by PF Sterling, a Moloka'i resident, who in his "past" life, spent thirty years at the White House as a photojournalist for Time Magazine.

Please don't be put off by the commercialism of indiegogo.com. My understanding is that it's turned out to be the best place for the actual fundraising. I have had the privilege while here of meeting and spending time with many people intimately involved in this cause. Some have become true friends. It is legitimate, and they can use all the help they can get. These wind turbines have been approved at the highest level, though it is far from a lost cause. It is not the first time the people of this island have fought hard for their home. I'm guessing it won't be the last. I am told that this first film has landed on the Governor's desk and he has sat up and taken notice. Contributions will help fund continued films that will help to fight for this cause.

Aloha nui,

Debby

The Greater White-Fronted Goose and Me

2011-10-18T14:06:00.000-07:00

A few mornings ago I was out on Kepuhi Beach and noticed this goose. It was all alone, and judging by the footprints in the sand, had been having a nice long walk on the beach. The only goose that I know of that's home to the islands is the NeNe, a beautiful little endangered species found mostly in the "up country" areas; and I was pretty sure this wasn't a NeNe. It was aware of me but not frightened, and ambled slowly, stopping occasionally to preen for me as I took photos. I found out later that this is a Greater White-Fronted Goose, that it's likely from Siberia, and that it took a wrong turn during its long migration and ended up here.

I'm thinking this goose and I might have a lot in common. Though I don't know that I necessarily took a wrong turn, I do know I've ended up on this small island feeling alone and isolated, and very much challenged. Despite my first rush of excitement when the plans to come here were made, it has not been as I had hoped. Two years ago I spent three months out on the remote west end and not only did I never feel lonely or isolated, I experienced a huge amount of opening and joy. Last time I was grieving and feeling incredibly lost, but had not been clinically depressed; this time, with depression still lingering, day by day I feel it moving once again closer, blowing in like thick gray fog on a strong onshore breeze. I've moved from one living situation to another hoping that would change things; but the second one is not working out either.

I'm not sure what today will hold. I left the new digs not planning to stay another night. I will either have a new place to stay, one nearer the ocean, or I will have changed my reservations and will be home earlier than I expected.

We just never know what life will bring. And in spite of what we most often think, we are never in control of what it brings. It's probably even true that we are never actually lost. Ever. What made this goose turn and land on this island? What was it that made us meet a few mornings ago on the beach? How will it know when it's time to fly off again? How will I know...? Are we puppets being animated from some large, knowing hands above? What about our own instincts, our own internal knowing, that if we stopped long enough might reveal itself? Today it seems is more a day of questions than of answers. And surprisingly, I'm okay with that.

Moloka'i Again

2011-10-12T14:43:00.000-07:00

The after yoga rainbow...

Yesterday I went to yoga on the beach. I lay there, unable to keep my eyes closed in various poses because I was more interested in watching the clouds constantly changing form as they moved across the island and back out to sea. How beautiful they were! Pure white against a deep blue sky, then the moist gray ones moving through, letting go of a few drops, then back to wispy white. I remembered suddenly how as a kid I would lay on the grass and watch the sky, seeing objects form and then unform, as my mind wondered about all sorts of things. But what I remembered most of all was the sense of absolute wonder that would accompany something so simple.

I’ve lost that sense of wonder. Decades ago, I think, left behind along with skinned knees and roller skating too fast down hills. Though there have been respites; sitting in my garden watching the birds splash in the fountain, when the all too rare tiger swallowtail or monarch butterfly would happen through, when the true perennials would poke their little shoots back through the soil again in spring; my daughters’ fingers and toes when they were babies; starring into Crater Lake or standing on Happy Isles in Yosemite. Still, if mere clouds drifting across the sky can induce it, why then has it become such a rarity?

Moloka'i is a good cure for lack of wonderment. Though even here, I have whole days where it is absent, nearly whole days where I miss the beauty, where the challenges seem infinitely greater than the gifts. This is an altogether different trip than my first one. Last trip was about true retreat, about just being, about opening the door to begin healing. This trip seems more about getting lessons, and they are abundant, and sometimes difficult. Some days just staying is the success. Still, once I got it that even this is her divine grace, possibly even perfectly orchestrated, I could bow in humbleness, even to the wonder of it all.

Some of the many moods of Moloka'i

For more photos of Moloka'i, click here for my Snapshots blog.

Light in the Darkness

2011-09-29T14:41:00.000-07:00

Sometimes what there is to be grateful for is the mere specks of light in the otherwise dark sky. Yesterday was a dark day... today the beams of light came in the form of a couple of friends reaching out, one all the way over cyberspace from Belgium, plus her post about bringing fresh flowers into her home. That got me off the couch and to the store and there, completely out of season were the most beautiful tulips. Which reminded me of Elke (Belgium friend) because Belgium is next door to Holland and in Holland, I saw the most beautiful tulips ever. Once home, the artist in me, who frankly doesn't give a hooey about whether things are light or dark, who doesn't even understand those words, went to work, and became one with the mysteries of the creative process as she spent a couple of hours photographing and then post processing.

Two years ago Moloka'i was an incredible light in the darkess; a place some invisible wisdom took me; when all I wanted was to survive the despair I had fallen into, she gave me days of incredible and boundless joy; the energy there impossible to articulate; and that I've heard you either bask in or cannot tolerate it. I basked, and began to call her home. Once back on the mainland, the darkness returned... but she remained always an enormous speck of light on my horizon. It's hard to believe that in three days I will be returning, hard to fathom that my next Musings will be from there, my other heart home, Moloka'i.

See you there.

2011-09-23T12:00:00.000-07:00

Mt. Shasta, Northern California, part of the Cascade Range that runs north all the way to Washington, and one of my most favorite places on earth. A mystical mountain, a powerful earth vortex, I have loved her since I first laid eyes on her as a little girl; feeling like John Muir who wrote~

"When I first caught sight of it over the braided folds of the Sacramento Valley, I was fifty miles away and afoot, alone and weary. Yet all my blood turned to wine, and I have not been weary since."

Today begins my year of finding one thing that I am grateful for each day and photographing it. Leading up to this day I have experienced many and varied feelings. Today what I notice is that I am surprisingly grounded, a little in awe, and like a traveler packed and ready, standing at the pier, stepping onto the boat, destination not quite known. Wow, how unbelievably symbolic, as this is my truest desire in actual life as well...

This morning I am anxious about the well-being of someone I love very much. What an opportunity (challenge?) this year is going to be to find one thing a day that I am grateful for even when the waters are not necessarily calm or life sailing smoothly along, even when I am worried or scared or sad or overwhelmed or depressed. I think this has been my hiccup above all others... how to be able to hold more than one thing at a time, how to mix the positive with the negative, the oil with the water.

And yet, I'm pretty sure that's the actual point.

As friend-on-the-journey, Elke, reminds us in her post about getting started on this project, it's really all about the practice. A wonderful reminder. Something I need to repeat again and again.

It's taken me a long time to get to this point, where I am open to this, and for me, anyway, it's a fine line between bypassing or resisting what is real and authentic in any given moment and being open to something different. I'm not interested in crossing that line toward the former, even by a toe's length, and the only way I could ever have undertaken this is to be genuinely in a place where I can feel gratitude. And seeing that that shift has happened, somewhere along the way crossing some invisible threshold, I truly am grateful.

My Day 1 Photo~

Autumn Equinox = Gratitude

2011-09-19T13:11:00.000-07:00

New banner for my Snapshots blog...! I think I love it :)

So this week I begin my own personal 365 Grateful Project. I appreciate all of the support and encouragement I got here to move forward with it. I'm excited, nervous, cautious. And thrilled that two friends will be joining me and that we are embarking on this journey together (yay, Elke and Jill. :)) We've timed our start to coincide with the autumn equinox, and it feels so appropriate to begin as one seasons ends and another is beginning. I am dedicating my Snapshots blog to this project, my goal being to post a photo a day there. I'm sure I will also post updates here as well.

Speaking of grateful. Moloka'i is now growing larger on the horizon, and as I write this, I am exactly two weeks from being on a plane heading westward into the middle of the Pacific. Though it still isn't quite computing in my brain, my body is starting to get it... and I am awash in somatic memories of driving down her quiet country roads, diving headlong into her warm waters, my ohana there. It's close enough that I am making mental lists; shorts, check; bathing suits, check. snorkeling gear, check, check. There's been an interesting development... more on this later, I'm sure, but for now, all I can really say is that I am seeing AGAIN how nothing is really in our hands, in spite of how it all may appear. And I'm humbled and blown away at how life sometimes unfolds.

Surfing the net a couple of days ago looking for inspirational images for autumn equinox, I came across the creations of Carol Wiebe, and was especially moved by her poem "Broken," and the connection I felt between revere and grateful. I hope you enjoy it, too. My appreciation to Carol for permission to post the poem here. You can find her unique and beautiful art at Silverspring Studio by clicking here.

Broken
by Carol Wiebe

Passing from Wholeness into
Brokeness is a journey every one of us
has taken. The border between them is tissue
thin, often invisible. It is a delicate
balancing act to maintain your grip
on sanity after an event abducts you, then
leaves you broken.

Some of us travel deeper into Wholeness, others fall headlong
into Brokeness but none can claim they have not carried
baggage between them. And believe it
or not, there is a certain fulfillment in being
broken ~ when striving has ceased
and life is realized as something
to simply revere, no matter what

state we find ourselves in.

Love and Peace

2011-09-11T14:16:00.000-07:00

Today I'm participating for the first time in a new online photo opportunity, Photo Art Friday, "an artistic showcase using photos as your canvas," hosted by Bonnie at Pixel Dust Photo Art (who btw, makes and generously shares some fantastic textures for use in transforming photos!) I love the inspiration for Photo Art Friday, the Jackson Pollack quote, "Is it really art? Your opinion is the only one that matters." Bonnie stresses that this is not a competition, but a friendly showcase of creativity and inspiration. I love that!

I chose this photo for a couple of reasons. First, it's one of my most favorites since I began learning photoshop earlier this year. And second, and most importantly, because roses symbolize love. And on this, the tenth anniversary of 9/ll, I want to send out love and wishes for healing and peace to our entire beautiful planet and all of her beings.

So thanks, Bonnie, for this opportunity. Click on the badge below to check out other beautiful and inspirational photo art.

Mother Love

2011-09-08T07:43:00.000-07:00

Beautiful Crater Lake, Crater Lake National Park

There have been a few really great things about my daughter living out of state for a couple of years - surprising as it is to hear myself say that. I have loved being able to go for visits a few times each year. There's an intimacy in waking up under the same roof, hanging out in a whole different way than just heading across the bay for lunch and an afternoon. There's all the roads we've been able explore on our many drives between here and there over the past couple of years. And I've gotten to know Boyfriend so much better, and have felt our love for each other deepen and grow, have felt us become family.

This trip was bittersweet. I helped them sort through things, pack boxes, get the house ready for its new owners. Then we packed her car to the roof and set out, just she and I, but with all of our hearts in our hands, waving goodbye, tears running down all of our cheeks, she heading closer to her dream of the writing life, he and sweet Lola (four-legged child) to a new job on a mountaintop, an hour and a half from his home town in Colorado. The plan, to do the long distance thing for the two years that she's in school, then after that, who knows...

I am in awe of them. The way they have processed and worked their way through this. Having the hard discussions, making the heartrending decisions. He honoring her dreams, she honoring his.Taking the risk to follow those dreams, loving each other enough not to hold the other back, trusting that what they have is real enough, strong enough to see them through. And if it isn't, they'll find that out, too, and be better to have found it out.

It's a lesson for me, all this letting go into the unknown following your dream stuff. It's my constant edge. And on a whole different level, to watch my daughter in this process, one of only two people on this earth I would willingly give my life for, setting out on her own for the first time in years, growing her dreams into being alongside the sadness of leaving her home and her family to do it, unloading her car, seeing for the first time her little room in the messy house full of other college students, watching my baby grow up again, my heart breaks in that mother way, and the poignancy of it is just too big for words.

And Crater Lake, well, also too much for words. It was a gorgeous afternoon when we passed through. The light and clouds and mountains just beautiful, and the lake itself stunning, one of those ancient, amazing, indescribable things, like mother love I guess, that cannot really be explained, only felt and experienced and revered.

Posted at The Creative Exchange - thanks so much, Lisa!

The 365 Grateful Project

2011-08-30T08:01:00.000-07:00

Speaking of what's meaningful... and enough here to be grateful for my entire life...

...and because I've lamented so in this space about how difficult a transition it's been having my older daughter living out of state these past two years, I will share the good news also: tonight I leave for maybe my last trip ever to Seattle, to help her move back to California (to UC Davis, a short hour and forty-five minute drive away!!) to pursue her lifelong dream, graduate work in creative writing. Not only that, but last weekend, I helped my younger daughter move from SF to Berkeley, closer by only about fifteen miles or so, but when considering traffic, crossing the bridge, traffic (!) it feels like a whole world closer.

I know now how precious this time of close proximity is, and I will never again take it for granted. To be able to hop in the car and drive up for lunch, no checking baggage, no taking off the shoes, jacket, and scarf to get through security screening, to have her able to easily pop in for the occasional weekend, to be able to spend birthdays together again, not to mention watching her dreams unfolding, just feels incredible, and I am so excited and so grateful...

Speaking of which. Here's something I've been wanting to write about for a few weeks now. There is something I want to do but that feels like a huge undertaking, a serious commitment requiring daily awareness and effort and discipline that I'm not sure I will be able to see all the way through, and I just want to begin to articulate it, to put it out here, to maybe get some feedback, encouragement, support.

A few weeks ago I ran across the blog 365grateful. It's possible that I'm the last person in cyberworld to find it, but oh well, once discovered, I haven't been able to stop thinking about it. The 365 Grateful Project started simply as one woman seeking to help her depression through finding one thing each day that she was grateful for and photographing it. For a year. She began posting her photos on Flickr, they began to be noticed and before long, folks around the world were doing their own versions, it has taken off, and lives are changing forever.

I am not one to jump onto the latest, trendy bandwagon. But there is something here that feels so meaningful, and it seems a wonderful way to put into daily practice that shift in attention I wrote about a couple of posts ago. It seems simple and huge and risky all at the same time. Can I do it? What if I can't do it? What if it's too much? What if I fail? What if I do it and it doesn't change my life...?!

And yet I SO want to do this. And it strikes me that as with anything that feels large and intimidating and possibly impossible, it's all about one step at a time; here, one day at a time. Forget the 365 part, just find one thing each day that I'm grateful for and take a picture of it. What could be simpler, really?! One thing. Each day. Snap a pic. Right?

What do you think?

Living the Questions: A Bit of a Dark Ramble

2011-08-29T12:54:00.000-07:00

I've been saying for years that we can trust life, trust the things that are happening; trust that there are no mistakes or accidents or coincidences. How do we know the right thing is happening? Because it is happening. This I've heard over and over from people who seem to have experienced true awakening and observed life and our world from that perspective, from authentic knowing and seeing as opposed to intellectual conceptualizing.

I've also seen from the years on the spiritual path - and to my surprise - that the more I learn and think I "know," the more I see that I don't know, and the further the mystery deepens. I've always loved this, it's felt like its own brush up against the mystical and sacred, and an invitation, as Rilke put it, to live the questions now, rather than the constant quest for the illusion of security I think answers might provide.

Until the dark night that is...

Because the truth is, I have no idea what is truth and what is not. No idea if the right thing is happening, if there are mistakes or not, if it's even in our power to make lemonade when life hands us lemons; if life is the canvas to the imagination. (Though it sounds great, oui? though on second thought, maybe Thoreau had stumbled upon some wild mushrooms out there on Walden Pond :) I used to think so, I used to think we had much more control... before the Dark Night. Sometimes Life takes away even our ability to decide how we respond to things. This I do know from first-hand experience.

I think again of telling my teacher Isaac that I no longer have a clue what's true... and knowing his answer as surely as I know my own first name... Congratulations. And there is a sense that Life is not finished stripping it all away, any ideas, thought, beliefs about what is true or what should be, anything that stands in my way (of what...??), that as I go through my possessions and jettison ever more stuff, as my house continues to fall in value and I lose more and more money waiting for it to sell, as my mood rises and falls like waves on a stormy sea, I am left wondering what it's all really about, pondering the whole idea of mistakes and regrets and security, of what we know and don't know, can ever know or not know, of what is of value and what is not, what, if anything, can truly be trusted.

Living the questions... what choice do we really have? Well, other than making art - and even that doesn't feel like a choice, it seems to just happen - and enjoying the hell out of how people put words together to form a poetic and lovely and inspiring whole.

It could even be, couldn't it, that the Dark Night is a true and real, even necessary part of the path? That any idea of it being bad or wrong exists in the mind only. That what we can see, what we can know, pales completely in comparison to all that goes on in and around us invisibly, the tip of the iceberg being all that can be seen with our human eyes, all else lying beneath the surface, dark, mysterious.

Things We Love

2011-08-22T14:23:00.000-07:00

This photo has four of my favorite things: turquoise blue, pink, a tiger swallowtail, and the word joy. As a kid, there were few things I loved more than butterflies, and especially the large, beautiful swallowtails. They were magical to me, how they changed so mysteriously from an ugly and ungainly caterpillar into such colorful, graceful little beings; how they danced, flitting from one thing to the next; the joy they brought then, and still do today when I am lucky enough to spy one, how both my attention and my breath are held in such rapt wonder.

I think about those things that are closest to my heart, the ones that make my soul sing, if even for a brief moment, if only a tiny parting of the gray veil. I'm talking things, not people, the people being obvious and foremost of course. And I'm wondering as I write, what things light you up? What takes you from the normal realms into something quite spectacular, warms your heart, sings to you?

Other than butterflies, for me, it's dolphins, Moloka'i, Maui, the ocean anytime, anywhere, and in any whether, snorkeling, my friend Sharon's mountaintop, a beautiful and profound poem, the music of Lono, a perennial flower garden, taking pictures, Mt. Shasta, Happy Isles at Yosemite.

Speaking of, I still can't quite believe that in six weeks I will be back on Moloka'i. I have never known such sustained joy as I experienced my three months there, the last month in particular. Here on the mainland, real life has intruded once again, the doors of the excitement that animated me as I watched unexpected things fall into place and I made my plans drifting invisibly shut. Sleeplessness, fatigue, the things I long to do but can't quite get going on, the chronic low-grade depression all returning.

Thank goodness for the people and the things that we love. Because life can be hard. I look around at my friends and my family and I see that we all struggle. In our own ways. Like the butterfly must struggle to leave the cocoon. My teacher Isaac has been saying this for years, in a different way maybe, but I get it's the same thing. He says, just find something, one thing, that you can enjoy in this moment. I often resisted, because for some strange reason, I wanted desperately to hang on to whatever the problem was. And yet, except when I was in the darkest of holes, there has always been at least one thing. The vase of flowers sitting on the table next to him, the pink rose in particular; the small stained glass window in the old craftsman style building where we meet; my friend sitting on the floor next to me making jewelry. Right now, my cat Sassy Girl sleeping on my lap, the picture on the mantel of my daughters, the absolute silence, except for the soft hum of my computer.

Getting that it's all part of life; that we walk hand in hand with every bit of it, the good, the bad, the easy, the hard, is my constant learning. And knowing the lesson is also, inexplicably, to no longer favor one over the other; but also, paradoxically maybe, to take the idea of enjoyment - gratitude even (maybe they're really one and the same?) - more to heart. Not as preference, but as practice... not to resist what is, but to make room for more breadth of experience, more totality in each and every moment.

For the first time, I'm posting at Lisa Gordon's Creative Exchange, where the theme is, "Your camera in one hand, your heart in the other." (I love it!) Click the icon below to visit and see others beautiful photos from the heart.

Big News

2011-08-07T13:03:00.000-07:00

East Side Moloka'i, the silhouette of Maui in the distance

Follow your bliss. If you do follow your bliss, you put yourself on a kind of track that has been there all the while waiting for you... you begin to meet people who are in the field of your bliss, and they open the doors to you. I say follow your bliss and don't be afraid... Follow your bliss and the universe will open doors for you where there were only walls.
~Joseph Campbell

The last few weeks have been flat out amazing. Awarenesses have shifted, possibilities have appeared, doors have swung wide open, incredible love and generosity has flown in, emails and phone calls have been exchanged , reservations have been made, and in eight weeks, eight weeks, god willin' and crick don't rise, I'm going back to Moloka'i !!!

Probably my Number One Secret Dream...

It is too early to even begin to really articulate what these weeks have been like, the completely unexpected things that have happened, and the very real feeling I have that the entire trajectory of my life may well be shifting. I am still walking around dazed, a bit blown away, and in the serious process of integrating. Though I can say that I am more excited than I have been in a very long time. The feeling buzzes up and down my body, takes my breath away in a good way, and leaves me in awe again, AGAIN, at the magic and mystery of how life can work.

My heart is blowing wide open... a strange effect Moloka'i has on me, and I'm not even there yet.

Getting Real

2011-07-29T12:50:00.000-07:00

Do you have secret desires? Are there things you would do or ways that you would be if there were no obstacles?

A few posts ago I wrote about the revelation I'd had with the help of a group of friends that I needed to stop "waiting" and start living the life I dream of living. (Hell, start living period some days....) Now, thanks to another friend (a wonderful new friend... hi, MeMe :), I'm being more specific about what that might entail. It's one thing to say I'm going to start living, it's another thing to say, okay, these are the specifics. And yet another thing entirely to start taking steps to open the door to these things manifesting.

What is it, if anything, that stands in the way of your greatest longings?

I tend to keep my secret desires secret. And vague. And locked away in some vault inside because what if I speak them and they never happen. What if I try and I fail? How embarrassing and humiliating would that be! But what good are they isolated in the dark, without the light they need to grow, where they can't be fed and watered and nurtured into being; helped along by the loving energy of friends and family and life itself?

What if our dreams are beacons, lights whose purpose it is to show us the way to the life we came here to live?

So today, I'm going to speak one of my top secret desires. There are three that rise like cream to the top when my friend says pointedly, what's next, Debby? There seems to be a conspiracy of late, one arrow after the other pointing me in a certain direction, too many to ignore, including my own thoughts that in spite of depression and fear and the other things that seem so real that stand in my way, if I wait until the conditions are "perfect," I may in fact be waiting forever.

What if, on some level that we are rarely if ever aware of, anything might be possible? Anything...

This is not a bucket list. That's a whole other post altogether. These are my secret (or not so secret) personal, heart-and-soul-felt, she-lived-the-life-she-came-here-to-live-epitaph things. These are the things that, if I live a long life, on my deathbed, I will seriously regret that I never gave a go. They are my personal edge right now... and just the act of making them public is a step off the big cliff, a climb out onto the fragile fruit-bearing limb, a swan dive deep into the ocean of possibility.

What if we actually have the power to visualize into being that which seems not just improbable, but impossible...

So today the dream I am owning and honoring is my desire to write about my journey. Going as far back as I can remember, every "hopes and dreams" list I have made up includes writing a book. Whether it is or ever becomes a book or not is immaterial; the important thing is to begin the writing. I recently did a week-long creativity ecourse, and our assignment for the week was to create a book cover. Other than that parameter, it was wide open what we did with it. Oh My Goodness... could there have been a more perfect prompt for me right now? What came out of me was the front and back cover of my own book. Shocking to see it in reality. And inspiring. And scary. And weirdly, in creating the cover, an opening happened wherein I could actually begin to visualize the writing of it... feel its texture and format, see its chapters, discover its energy and potentials, know it as the creation that Yes! can actually be birthed and brought into being.

What if this "book" could actually come into being...........

Coming soon, numbers two and three (and btw, they are all top of the list, not in order of preference).

Do you have a secret desire that longs for the light of day? Are you willing to climb out on the limb with me and share it?

My Sister's A Keeper

2011-07-20T08:45:00.000-07:00

My sister Cindy

Today I am privileged to attend my sister's graduation from a program which trained and certifies her to be a Certified Nurses Assistant and a Home Heath Assistant. Her goal, to work caring for the dying in home hospice.

To say I am inspired by her courage, her enormous heart, her resilient and hard working spirit, her life's journey, is an understatement. She has not been dealt an easy life; from spousal abuse to panic and agoraphobia, raising two kids alone, helping support her grandchildren, being forced to resign from an unsafe work environment, being unable to find employment in her field (600 applicants for one position), I have watched her walk through fire again and again, and come out not just stronger, but like the phoenix rising; with a heart more and more open; more in touch with who she is, the gifts she has to give, and what, for her, comprises a life worth living.

Never have I seen a person more suited to the work they are drawn to do. She doesn't just bathe, shave, change diapers, braid hair, she respects and loves her patients. She feels honored to be able to work with them. The work is hard, it is grueling, it is emotional. And yet, and even, knowing there's a good chance she'll never make what she did at her former job, that she may not even really make a living wage, but because it makes her soul sing, she can't wait to get at it.

Today, Nin, you are my hero. I am so proud of you. I am so in awe of you. To watch you meet, oftentimes shaking in your boots, all that life has offered you; each new heartache, every new adventure; leaving a husband who beat you, an employer who abused you; paralyzing anxiety; watching your children suffer their own serious hardships; learning to trust life (and men!) again; terrified of flying, but getting on that little plane anyway to visit me in Moloka'i; the fear of going back to school at the ripe young age of 56, then learning anew how smart and capable you are, and a whole new trajectory and meaning to life. And now, oh the irony, valedictorian... I can't wait to hear your speech, knees buckling, voice quivering and all, cuz I know it will come straight from the heart, it's the only way you know to do it - lucky us - and I'm sure there won't be a dry eye in the place.

See you soon! Thank you for all that you are. I love you so much.

New Beginning

2011-07-16T11:07:00.000-07:00

Creativity is hard right now. I feel the black hole pulling at me... and then I opened an email yesterday with this poem. There is no way my own words could have captured so precisely and exquisitely where I am right now. I do know there is big change on the horizon. Maybe dancing with the darkness again is part of the shift. For me, it's a weird poem in that I can't seem to find its rhythm. Perhaps that's by design... so that its beat does not take away from its words, which frankly, turn me inside out and completely undo me.

For a New Beginning

by John O'Donohue

In out-of-the-way places of the heart,

Where your thoughts never think to wander,

This beginning has been quietly forming,

Waiting until you were ready to emerge.

For a long time it has watched your desire,

Feeling your emptiness growing inside you,

Noticing how you willed yourself on,

Still unable to leave what you had outgrown.

It watched you play with the seduction of safety

And the gray promises that sameness whispered,

Heard the waves of turmoil rise and relent,

Wondered would you always live like this.

Then the delight, when your courage kindled,

And out you stepped onto new ground,

Your eyes young again with energy and dream,

A path of plentitude opening before you.

Though your destination is not yet clear

You can trust the promise of this opening;

Unfurl yourself into the grace of beginning

That is at one with your life's desire.

Awaken your spirit to adventure;

Hold nothing back, learn to find ease in risk;

Soon you will be home in a new rhythm,

For your soul senses the world that awaits you.

I love even just the last lines together:

Waiting until you were ready to emerge

Still unable to leave what you had outgrown

Wondered would you always live like this

A path of plentitude opening before you

That is at one with your life's desire

For your soul senses the world that awaits you.

The line that grieves me the most is about still being unable to leave what you had outgrown. What I have outgrown. There is so much sadness and loss in those words I can't even begin to write about them. Not right now anyway. I know that once again I sit at the crossroads of security and growth. Dancing. Waiting. For what my soul senses is the world that awaits.

Something New

2011-07-11T07:47:00.000-07:00

This is my first attempt at photo collaging. There are things I like about it, things that aren't quite working for me, but one thing is for sure, I enjoyed the challenge.

I had a "scary" realization a couple of days before I did this. I was bored creatively. Bored with photos and photoshop. Just sitting and fiddling with a photo wasn't floating my boat anymore. This is how it can be with this double Gemini system. Easily bored. On to the next thing before "I" am ready to give it up. I don't want that to happen here, with something that feels so important to me. I realized that I need to challenge myself more. That I need to dive more deeply in to my creativity. Have more of a focus. Take more risks. The collage above was born of that, and whether I love it or not, I was very much engaged in the process. I need freshness, the stimuli of learning something brand new to invigorate me.

And once again, hmm, surprise, surprise, I see that as it is with art, so it is with life. I realize also that I am deep in a process around being bored with life. In the past few days, I realize that I am living life on hold; waiting... for my house to sell, for my depression to lift, for my boat to come in, so that I can get on with life. It's been brewing under the surface, just out of reach of consciousness until yesterday, when I was sitting with friends and it came bubbling up - out of their mouths, not mine - debby, stop waiting, start living the life you want to live...

Wow, big pause and holding of breath........... then huge exhale. The hitting of truth somewhere deep inside the belly of my being.

"Coincidentally," I had just put together this next collage for an Unraveling assignment. It's a photo representation of all of the "adventures" I've had since stepping outside the box six years ago when I went to swim with wild dolphins. Right here in beautiful color is the life that I dream of living... the life that was manifesting, the life that now feels on hold. Jeez, no wonder I am bored. NO WONDER I am depressed. Looking at the photos, I am reminded that these trips were all made on faith. On huge slabs of trust that they would come together, that the money would be there, that I would, in fact, be able to jump off the side of the boat and not drown in the warms waters of the Caribbean; that I could in fact fly alone all the way to Europe; could drive a car by myself through France; that I would not die of aloneness on Moloka'i. I realize that I am waiting for it to be easy... that having white-knuckled it through these early experiences, that I could now sit back and it would forevermore flow effortlessly. I am struck with the irony of it... how boring that could actually turn out to be...

I feel the quickening of my breath just thinking about it. Stepping outside the box I once again find myself cramped inside of. Going once more out on a limb. Making plans as if. Hmm... I like it. It's fresh, it's new, it's completely invigorating. Diving more deeply into life. Taking risks once again. Living life as the adventure that it actually is. Like the creative process in art, stepping (or falling) into the unknown, and letting it live itself into being one mysterious moment at a time.

I feel the tingling of possibility.

Unplugged

2011-06-28T10:10:00.000-07:00

Finding a new way... writing long hand at a coffee shop in Seattle's sweet Fremont district.

I 'm just home from three weeks in Washington State. While there, on the first day of ten days that I was alone grand-dog sitting, my computer crashed. Aside from something happening that was actually serious, it's the worst thing I could think of that could happen, and it sent me into a huge tailspin, wondering what the H I was going to do up there for ten days, all alone, WITHOUT my computer. No writing, no uploading my photos, no photoshopping, no emailing, no flickr, no musings, no Unraveling, no spider solitaire. Nothing but me and Lola and gray and cold and rain. For ten long days.

I'll be writing more about this later, I'm sure, but what I discovered is that Life could not have sent me a greater gift. It put my computer addiction (I prefer to use the term "misuse"... :) squarely into my face in a way that I could not ignore. I was confronted with ME, in a way that I haven't been in quite some time, probably since I bought my first laptop many years ago. I was face to face with the knowledge of how dependent I had become, how I've used the computer to deaden the pain and cope with depression (possibly also extending it at the same time), how much of my precious life time and energy I waste on the computer, how it takes me away from myself, my loved ones, my world.

Talk about drifting. Talk about edges. Talk about watching what you ask for. (I'm pretty sure one cannot be danced while one is buried in a laptop...) It was a time of some serious withdrawal; of depression, eating too many comfort foods, and lots and lots of Netflix streaming. But thankfully, there was also discovery; a new and different voice as I started writing long hand, experimenting with drawing, and making art on the dreary, endless-seeming days; there was the joyful relief when on a couple of occasions the sun parted the heavy cloud cover for half a day and I could get out and explore and take pics. And a big, nostalgic reminder of what it's like to simply sit, and be present with whatever it is that is revealing itself in the moment. By the time I got my computer back eight days later, there was - there still is - a huge desire to find a greater balance, to use it - as opposed to misuse - as the great and wonderful tool that it is, to learn, once again, what it's like to be alone, with myself, and to return to those things that in the past, pre computer, nurtured and fed me; simple things like heading outdoors in the early summer mornings, visiting a garden or the ocean, watching the world, picking up an actual pen, or the big one, just being.

The depression has hung on... I realize that though I'm no longer living in the black hole, I am balanced precariously, and it takes just the slightest breeze to nudge me into the real gray again. I'm trying not to resist, I'm trying to look the other way when the negative voice of depression whispers that I'm never really going to get better, that I have no life, that I'll never manifest as I truly desire to, etc., etc., yada, yada. Some moments it is easier than others. Sometimes just being is the ultimate challenge, or, as I've known from the past couple of years, just getting out of bed or up off the sofa. But one thing is for sure, I've come through this latest experience with a great desire not to deaden myself even more with this machine. To use it wisely and with consciousness, rather than the numbing drug of choice to take me ever further from myself and the world.

Letting go, taking risks with pen and paper.

Ledges and Edges

2011-06-10T10:19:00.000-07:00

For me, the edge is always about the heart. To let mine be open and exposed, to feel its torn edges and rawness, to not turn and run, to allow love (rather than fear) to flow through it and around it and in it. Always the moment to moment challenge. Lately, more and more, the moment by moment longing.

I made a huge realization this week. There's a way - sometimes subtle, sometimes hanging out like laundry flapping in the wind - that I walk this life feeling picked on. It was one of those OMG moments of such clear seeing. And understanding. And compassion. I feel picked on because I was picked on. I learned to expect it. I grew a skin that was both thickened by it and ultra sensitive to it.

I love these epiphanys as much as I hate them. In them is potential for regret and sadness, sometimes shame. But also - gratefully - opportunity, potential freedom, glimmers of grace, doorways to pass through, ledges toward the edges.

I've been saying it for years... that I want to learn to live life from the offensive rather than the defensive. The offensive I get now, being love, the defensive, fear. My first therapist used to tell me there are only two things, love and fear. My spiritual teacher, Isaac, would no doubt say they are opposite sides of the same coin. My friend Sharon says it's all consciousness... indeed, and they dance in me, sometimes a slow waltz, other times a chaotic frenzy, but here's the truth, they have both been my greatest teachers, both ripped my legs out from under me, and each has had me crawling on my knees toward that edge.

And one of these days, who knows, maybe the great leap will happen. Or, maybe it's actually happening, invisibly, one breath, one moment, one day, one seeing at a time.

I'm curious what it is that might take you to your edges...

Big love,
Me.

Today I Am...

2011-06-07T18:30:00.000-07:00

This is how I'm feeling after the first full week of the Unraveling course. The photos, and what I've written, are not part of the course. They're my way of expressing what the experience has been like so far.

Today I am...

unraveling

thinking I should be careful what I ask for

raw

vulnerable

in pain

Today I am...

feeling young

on the outside looking in

scared

isolated

overwhelmed

Today I am...

remembering

for the first time

seeing

understanding

opening

Today I am...

wanting

to reach out a hand

be met

connect

heal

I'm wondering... what are you today? I'd love to hear...

Unraveling

2011-05-30T08:16:00.000-07:00

We Have Come to Be Danced

By Jewel Mathieson

We have come to be danced

Not the pretty dance
Not the pretty pretty, pick me, pick me dance

But the claw our way back into the belly

Of the sacred, sensual animal dance

The unhinged, unplugged, cat is out of its box dance

The holding the precious moment in the palms

Of our hands and feet dance.

We have come to be danced

Not the jiffy booby, shake your booty for him dance

But the wring the sadness from our skin dance

The blow the chip off our shoulder dance.

The slap the apology from our posture dance.

We have come to be danced

Not the monkey see, monkey do dance

One two dance like you

One two three, dance like me dance

But the grave robber, tomb stalker

Tearing scabs and scars open dance

The rub the rhythm raw against our soul dance.

We have come to be danced

Not the nice, invisible, self-conscious shuffle

But the matted hair flying, voodoo mama

Shaman shaking ancient bones dance

The strip us from our casings, return our wings

Sharpen our claws and tongues dance

The shed dead cells and slip into

The luminous skin of love dance.

We have come to be danced

Not the hold our breath and wallow in the shallow end of the floor dance

But the meeting of the trinity: the body, breath and beat dance

The shout hallelujah from the top of our thighs dance

The mother may I?

Yes you may take ten giant leaps dance

The olly olly oxen free free free dance

The everyone can come to our heaven dance.

We have come to be danced

Where the kingdoms collide In the cathedral of flesh

To burn back into the light To unravel, to play, to fly, to pray

To root in skin sanctuary

We have come to be danced! We have come.

I LOVE this poem. Love it with a passion, love it with the part of me that longs to be danced, the part of me that has known, in fleeting moments anyway, what it's like to be danced. Every word, every word of this poem hit me with pure resonance and knowing. Every word had me thirsting for the next, and the next, had me breathless in the way that we are breathless only when Sacred Truth punches us in the gut; had the heart pounding in anticipation and excitement, the feet practically tapping. This poem has me trembling, with longing, with desire; has me weeping with melancholy and missing; awakens some ancient I know it in my bones memory, of the deepest sorrow, the most radiant joy. This poem has me feeling more alive than I have felt in eons, maybe ever.

This poem is going up on my wall.

Today.

Today I start a new ecourse called Unraveling. I know... isn't it possible - likely even - that over the past couple of years I've unraveled enough??? But apparently not, because the minute this course was recommended to me, the minute I went on Susannah Conwway's website and read about her and her journey through grief and sorrow, read a little about the course, I couldn't wait for registration to open, couldn't wait to pay my 97 pounds, couldn't wait to get started.

(And how cool is it that a poem with the word unravel arrives in my mailbox the day before I begin...?)

Today I get started. Today we get started, women from all corners of the globe, and those in between, in cyber community... together, with picture-taking and journal-writing we will unravel. I'm so excited. Though here's the one hiccup, for me anyway: we are asked not to share the course in our blogs. I completely understand the why and I will honor the request, but it will be different for me, to not share the journey here; where I pour my heart out, where I chronicle the ups and downs, the goods, the bads, the uglies, the progress, the stumbles, where I find balance, understanding, insight. I can post snippets here and there... and I probably will... I can talk about the impact the course is having on my life... and I probably will; I just won't be sharing all the particulars; and who knows, it might even be good for me... to practice a little self-containment...

How much unraveling is enough? Is there ever enough? Like fine silk thread from a large spool, one delicate strand and revolution at a time, the spool being this lifetime, the thread the journey, I hunger to unwind, to unravel until there's nothing left... nothing that stands in the way, past the pretty dance, beyond the self conscious shuffle, opened-hearted, unafraid, uninhibited, away from the shallow end of the dance floor into vast emptiness, into boundarie-less-ness; like a ragdoll, a marionette, a tree swaying in the wind, a wave churned by the ocean, a soul longing to move and be moved, I have come, I know I have, I feel it... haven't we all in fact come... to be danced.

Next word ~ Beauty

2011-05-26T09:16:00.000-07:00

This is a travel week. A two-day road trip with my oldest daughter, Seattle to the Bay Area, along the coast. I SO love road trips, and also, visiting a place where blooms are happening that have already spent themselves here! It's like a second chance. So, for beauty, three pics of cherry tree blossoms in my daughter's neighborhood, straight from the camera, with my brand new lens, a birthday present to myself. I'm SO excited about the lens now that I've seen these pics. Oh, be still my heart... here I was saying that dogwood is my favorite spring tree, but I'm not sure even dogwood can top the feeling that these lovely cherry blossoms give me!

Off next with my sisters to Calistoga for a couple of days to hang out, shop, and soak in some warm mineral pools. The three of us haven't been together like this in over twenty-five years... wow, where does the time go...

Joy

2011-05-21T20:16:00.000-07:00

The deeper sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.

Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.

And the selfsame well from which your

laughter rises was oftentime filled with your tears...

When you are joyous, look deep into

your heart and you shall find it is only

that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy

When you are sorrowful look again in

your heart, and you shall see that in truth

you are weeping for that which has been

your delight.

From Khalil Gibran's The Prophet

This has been one of my very favorite quotes or as long as I remember--my first favorite quote actually. Joy is our third word for our third week. Something I've definitely experienced, but not much for the past three years or so (except for times during my three months on Moloka'i). Maybe this project and remembering this quote will help bring it flowing back into my life again....

This is my first attempt at creating a collage that includes one of my own photos. I'm excited about it... I've had this vision since I started getting serious about photography but had no idea how it all might come together. I really enjoyed doing this. I'm pretty sure it wouldn't have happened without the creative nudges of this ecourse. And for that, I'm grateful...

Raining Umbrellas Week 3 Assignment

2011-05-20T11:39:00.000-07:00

Winter is an etching,

spring a watercolor,

summer an oil painting

and autumn a mosaic of them all.

~Stanley Horowitz

This week's assignment, Changing Seasons. I wanted to collage, but am having a hard time figuring out how to print square photos so... I decided to not stress myself and to just post them here. This was a great challenge, to find photos that not only fit the season, but that somehow went together, then when post processing, to keep in mind that they are a "set." And then I decided to up the creative ante, and be even more vulnerable by adding some haiku which I'm brand new at but am finding disarmingly attractive. So much can be said and conveyed in seventeen tiny syllables. An awesome challenge for this normally very verbose person.

I hope you enjoy.

A frosty morning

awakes the long winter night

sun sparkles on leaves

Ripe blossoms offer

the brightest and sweetest pinks

my soul awakens

Long dreamy summer

meanders thoughtless and sweet

fearless heart opens

Earth’s gorgeous hurrah

in silent preparation

wails her deathbed song

Growth

2011-05-19T15:03:00.000-07:00

Tell me, what is it you plan to do

with your one wild and precious life?

From Mary Oliver's poem, "The Summer Day"

As I've come to see it, it's all about growth. I heard the other day that matter is either growing or it is decaying. Those are the only two choices. Of course, as a long-time gardener, I know that, I've just never seen it put so succinctly or scientifically. And now I know why something else that I heard years ago made so much sense. It was a famous television therapist (who will go unnamed for many reasons) who once said that in a year, a person would either be worse off or better off, but they wouldn't be the same. He further explained that if a person was in fact the same, that they were worse off (decaying) because positive changes (growth) had not occurred. Serendipitously, I heard him say that the same week that I first read the Mary Oliver quote above, and the same week I turned fifty. Like puzzles pieces coming surprisingly together, these three things combined to alter my life drastically.

Grow or decay... I can only hope that whatever it is that moves this life will continue to choose growth... (until that last breath, anyway, when the inevitable physical decay leaves no choice!)

Happy Thursday.

Adventure

2011-05-17T18:12:00.000-07:00

We're halfway through the Lessons in Creativity eCourse and I just realized that each week we get three words that we are supposed to express somehow through creativity. So, I'm a little late getting started, but here's the first one for this week: Adventure~a word that sends warm tingly feelings up and down my spine...

I've been so lucky in the last six years to have had some incredible adventurous experiences. The first two came out of the desire to step outside the bounds of living a fearful life, and the last one, three months on the small Hawaiian island, Moloka'i, came out of a need to retreat, be alone, grieve, and (hopefully) do some healing. I played with these pictures all day today, literally, so far about ten hours (!). I'm thinking it might actually be kind of cheezy, but whatever, I learned a lot and had a whole lot of fun doing it.

These adventures changed my life. In huges ways. Looking at the photos again, thinking about those times, I realize again what hugely transformative experiences they were. Here's a little peek. Hope you enjoy. (Be sure to click on the pic if you need it bigger to read the text.)

Swimming with wild dolphins, Bimini Island, the Bahamas

Europe ~
Traveling part of the time with my youngest daughter, part of the time alone

Three Months Alone on Moloka'i

See you again soon!

Raining Umbrellas: Notebook & Originality

2011-05-15T22:46:00.000-07:00

I thought since there is nothing creative inside my notebook to share, that at least I could decorate the outside, and not only give myself something to post here, but make it somewhere inviting, that I want to continue to go, that will continue to play a part in my creativity. I had fun decorating it. Then I had fun setting up the shot, though I have absolutely no experience or expertise in this type of still life. Though I have to say that my interest is piqued. This was just a quick shot on the outside patio before the sun started to go down, then a couple of textures added.

I have--of course--been thinking a lot about creativity this week. It's interested me that I've done all collage work when my greatest passion/pleasure is photography. Then it hit me that photography is in a way just simple. It's totally blissful, and yes, I still have much to learn, but there's never the thought that it's too hard, that maybe I can't really do it (except may be to the degree or quality I'd hope); but it's easy, I want to do it and I do. Collage, on the other hand, though it totally beckons me, takes me all the way to my creative edge. I'm never really sure that I can do it, or if I do it once, that I can ever do it again. I'm always afraid to let go, afraid I'll make a mistake, afraid I'll "ruin" it, so I hold back. It dawned on me this week that it's symbolic of the way I "hold back" in so many ways in my life. It's the edge in more ways than one...

Here's where I am challenged in photography. I long to grow my own unique and individual style. Right now I look at my flickr pages and see photos that are all over the map, with no defining sensibility or feel. I know it's because I'm learning and discovering and experimenting, trying new things, heading down different avenues. I know this is a good thing. And people tell me that a personal and authentic creative style will emerge as i continue to play. But it doesn't hurt to put the wish out there...

Here's a fantastic quote I came across yesterday. It warmed my heart immensely, and gave me hope!

At the heart of each of us, whatever our imperfections,

there exists a silent pulse of perfect rhythm,

which is absolutely individual and unique,

and yet which connects us to everything else.

~George Leonard (1923-2010) American writer

It's been a great two weeks creatively. Thanks so much, Vicki, and all of you who have come along for the ride, visited here, and were kind enough to leave comments. I'm looking forward to what the next two have to offer!

Raining Umbrellas Week 2

2011-05-14T11:50:00.000-07:00

I have this fantasy that living a creative life is somehow the answer, the formula, the great curator of all happiness. That at some point, I’ll arrive at this marvelous place, where creativity comes easily and naturally, no discipline involved, no angsty melodrama, no zealous critic working overtime keeping me overwhelmed and full of doubt, and I’ll produce the most inspiring works of art, people will line up in cyberspace to buy them, perhaps there will be a book involved, maybe even some globetrotting, and wala, finally, finally, I’ll live happily ever after (in my sweet little home on the shores of beautiful Hawaii, maybe even—surprise, surprise—the north/west shore of Oahu, with my gorgeous art studio open to the sea, the symphony of surf, luscious trade winds, the scent of plumeria, and Lono on the stereo, all the muses one could ever possibly need… oh, and did I mention I am looking remarkably young, and thin, and fit... Oh! and that Johnny Depp will be flying in later-sans Vanessa of course-to spend the weekend...?*@&%!).

Haha… and I lament all the time about my lack of imagination…

I want badly to start this next paragraph with Seriously… but each time I write it, I backspace to erase it. Because—though I’m loathe to admit it—I think there’s at least a grain of truth imbedded in that sweet little fantasy, and maybe it’s that nugget of truth that actually gets in my way and holds me back, putting a certain “agenda” or desired outcome on my creativity that in the end only handcuffs me.

I had a long conversation yesterday with my older daughter about this whole creativity thing. She is a writer and artist, no stranger to the joys and challenges of living a creative life. I so value our conversations; she’s never afraid to ask me the hard questions, to poke and prod, be blunt and honest, lovingly, fearlessly challenging me. This morning, after the conversation, followed by my weekly incredible body/breath/healing work, I am feeling much more grounded, less besieged, more open.

And in this receptive space inspiration floated in, on invisible wings, and with it the idea for the piece of art I’d started for this week’s assignment that hadn’t been going much of anywhere. I have seen this phenomena many times; how through some grace or miracle or still moment, efforting eases, the voices quiet, letting go happens, and in fly ideas, visions, knowing, as though the muse is sitting right on my shoulder waiting for me to get out of the way so that she can do her job. Here's what she brought~

Living the creative life I…

Breathe

Let go

Take risks

Lead with the heart

Honor process over product

Practice loving kindness

Practice gentle discipline

Ignore the critical voices

Trust

Dance on the edge

Dream

(but don't leave the moment...)

12 x 12 mixed media on wood. Click for larger view.

On the practical side, I don't know that I'll be posting my notebook. This week has helped me see, once again, that when it comes to creating, whether it's a room, garden, photo, or collage, I work from the gut as I am moved, and it grows organically, pretty much one mysterious step at a time. I've never been a planner, I pretty much don't "see" things ahead of time. It just unfolds. So, the only thing in my notebook is a simple list each day of what I did that was creative. The notebook itself(mine, anyway!)is anything but creative. (Which makes me wonder if I actually missed the whole point of the assigment except that I did create each day, which I think was more the point...?) Though I really did love keeping a notebook, it helped me stay more focused and on track, and I'd like to continue to use it. And who knows, maybe in time I'll let loose and it will grow into its own beautifully creative space!

And btw, after the serious detour into the land of self doubt and sabotage earlier this week, this sliver of understanding and the art that sprang forth from it just makes me want to cry... (or maybe it's that Johnny's due to arrive any moment now... ;)

The Lusty Month of May

2011-05-11T17:24:00.000-07:00

Is it just me, or is May the best thing the calendar year has going for it? I mean really, after the long, dark, wet and chill of winter, after the indecisiveness of April, when the bones themselves (not to mention the psyche) just crave a good, solid dose of sunny warmth, of outdoors, here it comes—finally.

It could be I’m biased. I was born in May, and on the very last day (hint, hint :), so I spent (especially as a kid, but let’s face it, still) the entire month, all thirty-one days, in giddy anticipation. Plus my bday coincided within a day of a national holiday, so it always felt all that more special. There were barbeques, picnics, Girl Scout sleepovers, and back then, even the stores were closed. But birthday aside, May was finally getting back outside; riding bikes, roller skating, hopscotch; shorts, skinned knees, cartwheels, running through waist-high weeds; wild kittens, tadpoles, the first tiger swallowtails. Not to mention it's when irises and roses, my two favorite flowers going way back to when they practically grew wild in our yard, just explode, the tall beardeds rising so proudly, their shimmering petals folding back ever so gracefully, revealing their yummy secret center and subtle scent; and the roses, oh my, the roses, bushes upon bushes covered in stunning riots of color and heady perfume just waiting for you to walk by.

Truly, is there a time of year when a little white picket fence ever looked so sweet? When the sun feels more welcome? The spirit more rejuvenated? Where I’m living right now the houses were built mostly before the sixties (when junipers and nice, tidy, evergreen flowerbeds became the landscaping of choice). Here, there are irises and roses galore, and sometimes I head out in my sun-warmed car and prowl the neighborhoods, pulling over every block or so, camera in hand, recording the month—my month—in flowers, especially the irises, which still, in the old-fashioned way, bloom just this once for the year, unlike roses which now days are serious re-bloomers, though never with quite the same verve of the very first showing. It’s what makes the irises that much more special; I know that they are breeding repeat blooming irises now, but here, I’m a purist; here, it’s all about the wait, the anticipation, the deferred gratification, the rareness, the glorious specialness of my most favorite flower blooming once and only once as the world makes its annual spring turn.

To my eye they are simply the epitome of beauty. So much to savor, and then the relishing of that almost sweet nostalgia when they begin to fade and pass. Right now, in my still-semi-depressed-state, aware of their limited time offer, I just can’t get enough, and how delicious, how lucky, I get to savor them once by looking, twice by photographing, three times by post processing, and a fourth, by sharing them here. Every day for nearly a month. I walk or drive around looking here and there and everywhere, and what runs through my mind, what seems inexplicable to me, oxymoronic even, is that if May and irises can’t cure depression, then surely nothing can.

Maybe Guenevere said (sang) it best in Camelot:

Tra la! It's May!

The lusty month of May!

That lovely month when ev'ryone goes

Blissfully astray.

Tra la! It's here!

That shocking time of year

When tons of wicked little thoughts

Merrily appear!

It's May! It's May!

That gorgeous holiday

When ev'ry maiden prays that her lad

Will be a cad!

It's mad! It's gay!

A libelous display!

Those dreary vows that ev'ryone takes,

Ev'ryone breaks.

Ev'ryone makes divine mistakes

The lusty month of May!

Tra la! It's May!

The lusty month of May!

That darling month when ev'ryone throws

Self-control away.

It's time to do

A wretched thing or two,

And try to make each precious day

One you'll always rue!

It's May! It's May!

The month of "yes you may,"

The time for ev'ry frivolous whim,

Proper or "im."

It's wild! It's gay!

A blot in ev'ry way.

The birds and bees with all of their vast

Amorous past

Gaze at the human race aghast,

The lusty month of May.

Happy May :)

Mother's Day

2011-05-08T14:31:00.000-07:00

Annie and Katie - Oh My :))

Oh My Goodness. Fell down the rabbit hole again this morning. Right on schedule… mother’s day. I think there’s an invisible cloud that just hangs there… waiting for the day. All the bad memories, hurts and sores not in my conscious awareness come raining down, pounding me.

Thank goodness that patterns change… thank goodness for my own daughters, their exquisite wonderfulness, their precious beings, the way love and healing and growth flow between us. What an amazing gift. How they help ME heal… A totally unexpected perk of being a mother.

I can’t fool them. They hear it in my voice no matter how perky I try to sound. Like their love has a special probe or antenna. I am reminded by one of them this morning that I am still in the midst of the darkness, and that in the darkness, everything looks negative, and that thoughts and beliefs that come from this place can’t be trusted. She lives in Washington State, and she wrote me the most beautiful email, and if I was crying nonstop before I read it, the waterworks really turned on as I read it. Then my other daughter, herself in a hard and challenging space, wanting nothing more than to hop on BART for the long ride out here to spend the day hanging with me.

Every year I work to reframe it. Every year my intention is to focus on all there is to be grateful about in the mother-daughter terrain. And there is so incredibly much. Having them, mothering them, how moment by moment they’ve challenged me to be a better person, the way our relationships have grown and transformed as they’ve come into their own womanhoods, all beyond my ability to ever imagine. Ditto that having come from such an unhealthy mother-daughter dyad, that something so completely different has come into being with them. I mean different. By as many degrees as is possible. Mind blowing, really.

I would think that would be enough, but here’s the truth: no matter how much work I do to heal, there is still this little girl living inside here, a sweet, precious shy little being that wasn’t treated well, that had some bad things happen to her, and that was taught to believe she was bad and worthless and good at nothing and good for nothing. So all things considered, I think she’s doing a pretty fantastic job.

So this mother’s day I celebrate her and her perennial, unwilling-to-give-up spirit. I celebrate my own daughters, and more love flowing between us than I ever thought possible. And at the same time, because it’s a big part of what formed me and who I am, I grieve; I grieve for what was and what wasn’t; and I grieve for my own mother, so unhappy and wounded herself, she had little to give that didn’t end up perpetuating her own broken heart and serious life pain.

Creating ~ Assignment I, Raining Umbrellas Lessons in Creativity eCourse

2011-05-07T17:19:00.000-07:00

Double-click for a larger view.

As regular readers of this blog know, owning myself as an artist is a big stumbling block. So, the first part of this first assignment--write down at least one factor that played a large part in who you are an an artist today--had me panicked. It went something like this:

What?… oh shit… I must have gotten myself into the wrong course… this one is for artists… OMG, what am I going to do... I have to get out of it... they'll know I don't belong here... is it too late to get a refund… ???? and on and on until I was practically shaking in my boots.

But titles aside, I do love to create and I am totally in love with the creative process itself. Letting go into the unknown, being lost in the moment, without idea or agenda, and watching something come into being that did not previously exist, is truly amazing.

I so enjoyed making this collage, one of my favorite things to create, and the first one I've done in a long while. I enjoyed the process of looking at the factors that have led to me being the "artist" I am today--namely loss and grief, and my love of nature and flowers and gardens. Then opening the lens wider, and creating the collage of the things that have formed me into the person I am today. A nice reminder of obstacles overcome, gifts aplenty, and a great invitation to deeper understanding, acceptance, loving-kindness.

So thanks, Vicki, for a great personal and creative challenge!

Spring

2011-05-05T09:48:00.000-07:00

I have a friend who tells me all the time that everything is consciousness. No matter what is being expressing, be it love, rage, jealousy, joy, grief, despair, lostness, foundness, it doesn’t really matter because it’s all consciousness. All of it, no buts or exceptions or exclusions; no separation, it’s all IT, in its many different forms, manifestations, expressions.

I like it. It takes a lot of pressure off. Pressure to be, look, sound, show up a certain way. Pressure to change. Pressure from thinking in terms of right and wrong, the good girl or the bad, the unacceptable, the unacceptable. (Ha, now there’s a great Freudian… didn’t catch that on the first few read throughs; that should read—of course—the acceptable, the unacceptable.) But this whole idea of no separation also seems to have some relevance to a conundrum I’ve been experiencing lately vis-à-vis the blogging world and the whole idea that I can split my blogging self into two parts, the writer, and the photographer (plus flickr, which I’ve been using a lot lately with my Photoshop e-coursing).

The wires have already been crossing, of course, but it’s come to more of a head this morning because I’m starting a creativity e-course and am completely stumped as to which of my many sites (wink) to link myself to with my new classmates. And long story short, the answer is simple—really, once I sit and relax and go with the flow—the answer is right here, in this place, except that in the same moment that I know its rightness, there's also a landfill full of doubts and fears.

It’s not that this is the only place where the “real” me hangs out, but it is where the most complete and honest me shows up. Time and again this is where I’ve fought the shame, embarrassment, fear, darkness, demons, and written with as much honesty and candor as I could. Here’s another opportunity to do it again, to be with what shows up as I go into this four-week e-course, to continue to be open and vulnerable, to share my desire to create and do art, to express my doubts, my feelings of mediocrity, of being less-than and different, my tenderness, sadness even, at the hiccup I experience around the notion that I-me-debby can be (is) creative and artistic AND that it’s a worthwhile pursuit and use of time; that it’s enough, that I’m enough, the usual blah, blah, blah mantra that even I am getting bored of. So bored, I’m going to stop listening.

So, in addition to the normal posts where I Muse and post some pics, I’ll be using this space to post my homework assignments for the next four weeks, and I will no doubt also be writing about the experience. Though it does feel like descending (once again) to a new level of the personal… but then I remind myself, oh yeah, that’s what it’s been about all along…

So, I’ll see you this weekend with my very first assignment.

In the meantime, happy spring :)

Aloha Nui,
Debby

Debby Downer Does Haiku

2011-04-26T09:25:00.000-07:00

I worked on this photo for hours last night. A great shot I got walking Jasper around the neighborhood yesterday morning... there it was, the lone bloom on its bush, and I shot it just seconds before the rain came and I had to pull the camera under my sweatshirt to keep it from getting wet.

Hmm... side thought: Interesting wordage... the verb, to shoot... you can shoot a deer or a bird or a person and end its life, yet shooting something with a camera preserves it forever.

I must have been feeling pretty good last night, not like this morning, with the sick knot in my belly, the free-floating anxiety, the sour, dour, the who do you think you are you're no artist look at the art all these other people create that you try and fail to emulate why do you even bother you'll never be them you'll never be an artist blah blah blah running laps in my brain. I wonder as I write how it is that my own mind, housed inside my own body, fed as it is by my own heart, can unleash itself so unmercifully onto its own being? How is it I can go to bed thinking I'd created something pretty cool, then wake up this morning, take one look at it, and decide it's a piece of shit? Or that I wake up to the sun shining for the first day in many, and feel worse than I've felt in weeks?

I'm thinking none of it makes sense. I mean none of it. Ever. I'm thinking it's all random, happenstance, meaningless. I'm thinking there's no rhyme, no reason. Oh! and speaking of rhyme, I've been thinking about trying some haiku. Wouldn't haiku be great set to some images? And perfect for this particular double Gemini with greater than usual concentration issues... all those words to play with, but short, sweet, over quickly, then on to the next. Hmm... (and by the way, I know pretty much nothing about Haiku except that it's three lines, 5 syllables, 7 syllables, 5 syllables, PLUS I don't know if I even remember how to count syllables)...

... but let's see:

senseless random world
we wander we float we cry
each moment born new

Or

double gemini
explodes with heartache and grief
plays with words and sounds

Or

energy shifting
magical words fill the air
peace for weary souls

Though I just read that traditional Haiku is supposed to be about nature (plus, non-rhyming, so never mind "speaking of rhyming..."). Okay, I can do that... Here's a snapshot I took the other day up in my old neighborhood in Sonora. Dogwood, probably my favorite spring tree, all the more because we so rarely see them here in the bay area. This one a small tree, just beginning to bloom the prettiest, most exquisite shade of yellow. Then in post processing, doing what I think I'm going to end up loving most, transforming it with a nice "painterly" effect. (And funny, I still like this one this morning... )

Okay, here goes~

Innocent blossom
greets the tender sun-filled day
selflessly giving

Aloha nui,
Debby

Words and Images

2011-04-18T08:52:00.000-07:00

I've sat and tried to write many times since celebrating One Hundred and the only result has been a blank page. And a lot of discouragement. Though on the other hand, some days, I am sitting for hours working on my photos. I mean hours, absorbed, lost, in the best way possible. More lately, I'm noticing that the words that aren't appearing in Microsoft Word are instead showing up in my art. Since I'm a firm believer that we can trust not only wherever we are, but whatever springs from within (decisions, movement, creative output), I'm going to stop resisting (at least for a bit) and go with what is. In that spirit, here are some of the images and words that have shown up in the past couple of weeks. And just like with writing, or with collage or any other creative process, none of it is an accident, it all reflects in one way or another the inner landscape. So, here are bits and pieces of this particular interior. I want to say that I'll be back to writing... indeed, I hope to be back to writing, but we never actually really know, do we? I certainly didn't know that flying off on my own would lead to such darkness... or that in the midst of said darkness the occasional blinding brightness would appear, often to disappear just as quickly; or that the sweet stuff of romanticism, of wanting and desire, would surprise me by its sudden appearance, that tenderness and the hunger for serious self love would float up and fix itself so firmly on my horizon...

We just never know... and all we can ever do is honor, tolerate, laugh through, accept, rail against, breath with, relax into, cry about, be with, go for each and every moment as it comes along...

and p.s., if the impulse is there, you can click on the photos to make them larger.

All the best,
Debby

Celebrating 100 !!

2011-03-25T17:27:00.000-07:00

Wow. I can’t really believe it. One hundred Musings posts…

It’s pretty amazing to me. It started in June, 2009, a couple of months before I left for Moloka’i, when someone suggested I might want to write about the experience of retreating so far off the beaten path for such a long time. Somewhere I’d never stepped foot. Somewhere that I went on gut trust and okay, let’s face it, no small amount of desperation. My life had crumbled around me, I was struggling to survive, and a small, non-touristy island in the middle of the Pacific sounded like the perfect haven to retreat, to lick my wounds, and hopefully, begin some serious healing. (And indeed it was… read some about the sacred island here)

I wasn’t a blog follower, and I had no idea even how to create one. My oldest daughter taught me how to use Blogspot, and Musings was born. The blog quickly became more than just a place to record my time on Moloka’i. Like all creative endeavors, this one took on a life of its own, and became a place I could go to record, reflect, and process through all that life brought my way. It became the place where I found and then learned to trust my own voice, where I returned to myself again and again, where I took risks with telling my truth, where I poured out the depths of despair and the thrill of joy, where I met inspiration and light and dark and the unknown and courage and fear and tenderness; and where in my writing, in the gamble of putting out there all that I was going through, I was met with beautiful love and understanding and acceptance and support and encouragement. Though the real and only point was getting it out and getting it down, the bonus, the frosting on the cake, was that there were (are) some folks out there that actually liked what I wrote, that maybe were moved or intrigued or provoked or inspired, and truthfully, I would write and blog even if not one soul ever read it, but it’s that much more gratifying that at least in a small circle, it’s been well received and enjoyed.

But of course, there was the secret blog desire that I never voiced. That I would be “discovered,” that I would one day wake up to find that I had been chosen as a Blogger of Note, that my “followers” would rise exponentially from one moment to the next, that they would beg for more, and that I would rocket instantly to the blogger hall of fame… maybe get a book deal… and on and on… oh my. Tongue partially in cheek, right, and yet, isn’t there that part of most of us that yearns or hopes for some sort of bigger recognition? Or is it just me? And all the stuff in the tenth house of my natal astrology chart, the stuff that points to a bigger public life than I’ve so far managed to manifest?

These little fantasies—dreams?—could be embarrassing, or they could be sweet. Today I’m opting for sweet. Same goes when I look back at my very first post (click here if you’re curious!). The honesty, the vulnerability is touching. That first post, as with just about every post, I had no idea what I would write, where it would go, if it would go. I was flabbergasted when all those words found themselves onto the page. And actually made some sense. Since then, surprisingly, blogging itself has become routine. But what is never routine, what knocks my socks off each and every time is how I sit before a blank screen one minute, and sometime later, be it minutes or hours, now and then days, one word at a time, something that did not previously exist is birthed. Somehow, between the first word and the last, something unexpected and quite magical happens; something that feels very much out of my hands, that I could not plan or execute through will alone, and that pretty much astounds me each time. (Not to mention the processing that happens between the lines, and how something so often shifts internally in the telling; the embarking, the journey, the arrival somewhere new.)

And that is perhaps my greatest joy with blogging. (Even if I had a thousand followers :) That it gives me the reason, the form, the space, to watch and participate in this amazing creative process again and again. And also another big thing… Post Number One Hundred gives me a chance to say thank you to those of you who have faithfully followed along; who take the time to read, and when you’re moved to, to respond, who not only have not been shocked by the sometimes rawness of my words and nakedness of my feelings, but have so generously reached back with kindness and acceptance and support; those of you who have let me know how much you enjoy the writing, have fed back when it’s been thought or otherwise provoking; to everyone who’s ever read or continues to read or is new on board, I’m truly grateful and humbled that there’s even one of you…

I thought I’d include my latest photo, “Growing Strong,” both the original and the “photoshopped” versions. Just like the writing, where it’s one word at a time, here in post processing, it’s one step, one layer, level, filter, texture, and something completely new and unique comes into existence.

The joys of creating…

Before~

After~

Thank you all so much again...

All Peace & Love,
Debby

2011-03-21T13:26:00.000-07:00

We are officially in spring now, though two nights ago I drove home from a gathering around 11 at night, an hour’s ride, in some of the stormiest weather I’ve driven in in years. Huge gusts of wind threatened to hurl me from the bridge into the bay, thick curtains of sideways rain pummelled the car, water pooled and then rippled in deep black sheets across the freeway, and time and again I went to turn my wipers up higher only to find they were already on high, though I could barely see in front of me. By the time I got home, I could barely breathe for being tied up in knots the whole way.

Still, I love a good storm. Especially if I can sit home safe and secure, maybe in front of a fire, hot cup of tea in my hand. Which makes me think of all the people in the world who are anything but safe, anything but secure. Japan. Libya. Haiti. The man I watched bed down in a very small alcove in SF the other night, me sitting warm and dry in my car waiting for my daughter to get out of an appointment, him wedged between the wall and his shopping cart. I can’t even imagine what it must be like to not have a soft and warm and dry bed to come home to each night; what it must be like to search the rubble day after day, calling my child’s name; quaking to the drone of the jet fighter planes as they move closer and closer.

Today I wanted to write a little ditty about spring and then post some of my latest pictures. I wanted to get up early, take a shower, get dressed, get moving. Take some photos when the sun comes out. Instead, I sit nearly paralyzed on the sofa, thinking about depression; thinking about the inequities, injustices, down right unfairnesses of this thing we call life. And the juxtapositions that exist side by side day in and day out: Beauty and ugliness. Chaos and order. Light and dark. Sorrow and joy. Sun and rain. Feast and famine. Love and hate. Gratitude and bitterness, forgiveness and anger.

Spring arrives and with it day after day of stormy weather. Still trees and flowers blossom, the hills turn their rich, forest green, the days stretch longer as each one goes by. I watch the thick gray clouds move in one minute, the sun peak through another, birds circle, trees sway. I wait for the impetus to move, for the internal overcast to lift. I tell myself to stop fighting it, to relax, to let go into it. That this current inertia will pass when it passes, just like this series of storms; I reassure myself that spring will come, it will come because it always comes, year after year after year. It will because it has; because it must.

The last time I drove up to Sonora, a couple of weeks ago, the almond orchards along highway 120 were in full bloom, row after beautiful row. Since then I've started my second and my third Photoshop eCourses. Here's some results. I am falling more and more in love with textures... and each time I work a photo, it's like the clouds part and the sun shines, even for just a moment, and with it, at least for that moment, the beauty shines, and with it, all kinds of possiblity.

Ramblings of a Depressed Mind

2011-03-15T09:44:00.000-07:00

There are all kinds of words for today. Sad. Disappointed. Hot. Homesick. Tearful. On edge (okay, two words). Overwhelmed. Disappointed. De-flated. De-pressed.

There’s not much to write about right now that isn’t negative. And since I’m traveling and staying in very close quarters with a very negative and self-righteous and critical relative, it’s hard to escape my own tendencies in that direction. I want badly to point the finger. I have pointed the finger. I am pointing the finger… but as teacher and writer Byron Katie says, when we point the finger, there are always three fingers pointing directly back at us. (Try it, you’ll see…) My judgment of this relative is pretty much no different than the judgments she hurls about and that make my skin crawl and my belly tighten. So what if it is a matter of degree. It doesn’t really matter… though I want it to… desperately.

So much of the time, life just doesn’t make sense. Sometimes, walking around, doing life, I feel like I’ve been dropped into an alien world, one that I don’t understand, that I’m not a part of, that I have no desire to be a part of. Sometimes, I wonder how we go on about our daily business, or how I can even write how sad and disappointed I feel when half a world a way, in Japan, one of the worst natural disasters in known history is playing out, thousands lost, millions suffering and terrified… and now compounded by a nuclear threat of unthinkable proportion. And that’s just the suffering that’s front and center in the news right now…

On a five-day spring training trip to Arizona, sitting at a ballgame, listening not just to my own inner bitching about it being too hot and not being able to see home plate because the guy in front of me has on a big hat, but also to those around me moaning and complaining and angry because the pitcher’s given up a couple of runs (it’s preseason, for god’s sake, they’re practicing, in training for the real thing), I want to run. I want to scream. I want to hide. I want to shout for it to stop. I want to ask how in the world we (and that includes me) can go on about our daily business, how we can shout for joy at a gap triple or a home run or a double play to end the opponent’s inning as though nothing is happening in Japan or the Middle East or right here at “home.” How it is that we can remain untouched by such unthinkable human tragedy is beyond me. How it is that we don’t stop, even for a second, and honor our brothers and sisters, how is it that our flags are flying proudly at full mast when tens of thousands have died, how is it that we stand, remove our hats for the Star Spangled Banner, and sing God Bless America during the seventh inning stretch without one word… without one word… without one single word.

My troubles are not even a blip on the world’s radar. Truly. I’m depressed. And it sucks. I’m on a vacation I thought I wanted to be on but now wish I wasn’t, with people who are very difficult to be with, and it feels like the end of the world. But jesus god. I have a home to return to, my loved ones and neighbors haven’t been ripped away by a raging sea, my air is clean and safe, there is electricity and water and food on the shelves at the grocery store. In a few minutes I’ll get up, take a shower, go downstairs, order breakfast, head out to look for some cowboy boots, call one of my loved ones to complain about my angry and bitter aunt, board the cushy bus to the brand new stadium half an hour away, built on "Indian" land with "Indian" money, order sweet potato fries and pay four bucks for a small bottle of water, stand for the national anthem, and feel that little tingle inside when I hear the words play ball and see my favorite pitcher take the mound. When we return, I’ll have a nice dinner in a nice restaurant, maybe surf the web or read some of my book, Ram Dass's Be Love Now, then come up to the room, turn on CNN, and watch, mind numbed, heart protected, as truly unfathomable events play out on the other side of our earth.

It is a crazy and mysterious world we live in. Full of heartbreak. Joy. Love. Suffering. The kind of Sorrow my traveling companions, my aunt and uncle, have lived through, the likes of which I pray I never even come close to tasting. Maybe it’s what we have to do to live in it: Distract ourselves. Be critical. Be judgmental. Be angry. Be calloused. Be de-pressed. How else does it not blow us up and blow us open? How else do we walk through our daily lives? Although maybe that is the actual point. That we let it all rip us to pieces, shatter us, let it show us the way, coax us to walk this earth with our hearts raw and tender and gaping, bleeding love and compassion and empathy, and not just for our loved ones and our families and our team and our country, but for all beings everywhere, starting, most importantly, right where it can only start, with our own beings, our own confused, bewildered, innocent, guilty, traumatized, terrified, precious selves.

Variations of Gray

2011-03-08T10:02:00.000-08:00

Today’s word is gray. Gray outside, gray inside. Closet full of gray clothes. Always the color of the visiting team uniforms in major league baseball. My favorite color for shoes (well, other than red, of course), and jeans, and soft heathery wool coats; the one color (other than maybe turquoise) that I can’t think of one flower that blossoms in. The color of the river rocks that lined parts of my old garden, of the BIG, heavy rock that I once fell in love with while hiking that a friend carried wrapped in her sweatshirt about a mile for me to the car, my first cashmere scarf and grown-up cat (me, not the cat), the ocean in the fog, the amazing face of Yosemite’s Half Dome, that wide swath of no-man’s land that stretches between the stark black and the stark white in thinking and beliefs and ideals.

I’ve been trying to place the grayness on the depression scale. Definitely above the black hole (thank goodness), hovering somewhere just beneath the dial tone I think… not that it matters, feeling crappy is feeling crappy, lacking the initiative or energy some days to even move sucks, and to never have a parting of the clouds, to let even a smidgen of sunshine or excitement or happiness or inspiration in is more than disheartening.

It struck me the other morning that it doesn’t seem right that just plain living should have to take such effort; that the simple acts of getting out of bed, of taking a shower, of driving the short distance to the grocery store, of doing laundry, of preparing myself food, of smiling, should seem so difficult. I read yesterday that exercise is the number one thing that helps depression. Far better than anything, including meds, and it makes sense, it gets all the juices and brain chemicals moving, but please, when some mornings it’s all I can do to make it from the bed to the couch, when lethargy flows like thick sludge through my body, asking me to get up and do some sustained aerobics is like asking me to suit up and fly to the moon.

Last weekend, on retreat with my spiritual teacher Isaac, I got a new take on it all. I was introduced to the idea that the depression came about as my system was trying to shed something that needed letting go of and it happened too quickly, plunging me into the abyss. And that the black hole, the blackness, is actually the source of everything. Wow. The source of everything. In a way that I can’t even begin to speak, it made complete sense. Back to the source, to emptiness, nothingness, the beginning, the end, blackness. And suddenly, I had a vision, coupled with a heartrending knowing and an intense longing…

What if… oh my god, what if this journey was recognized for what it was… what if this place was welcomed, what if I’d had the arms, the laps, of wise and understanding women to fall into, to be held by through the dark night and terror of letting go, to be cradled as the emptying happened and all that remained was blackness, to be soothed and coached and encouraged, accepted, loved, through the transformation and rebirth process.

OMG.

I think it was Einstein who said that the solution to a problem can’t be found within the system that the problem was created. My eldest daughter (who also, along with my other daughter struggles on and off with depression) and I talk often about how we believe that depression is caused by the way we live; by our culture, by how our society is shaped; how isolated we are at a fundamental level, how separated we are, not just from one another, but from our environment and our earth, from our own bodies and our own inner beings, knowing, wisdom. How there are no structures in place, no wise and loving arms to truly care for the soul and spirit; and how incredibly much has been lost along the way to development and civilization.

At the retreat I also bonded more deeply with a couple of women I’ve known over the years of sitting together with Isaac. Maybe for the first time ever, I felt truly, truly held; like some invisible barrier that's been in place most of my life let down and let go, and I found myself surrounded by and bathed in the loving, caring, healing ministrations of these strong, tender, soft, fierce, wise, powerful, compassionate, women. (One with beautiful gray hair, btw.)

It was a glimpse, a peek into the past, and maybe, hopefully, into newness and possibility and some future not yet realized, but there, definitely there, out in the distant gray shrouded landscape, maybe--hopefully--not quite so lost after all.

And post script, I had no idea until after I wrote this that today is the 100th anniversary of International Women's Day. We've come a long way, baby, yay!... and yet, with so much further to go, in possibly a completely different direction.

One Word, One Photo, One Step at a Time

2011-03-03T10:24:00.000-08:00

Each month I get an email from NaBloPoMo about the blogging theme for the month. This month the theme is “in a word,” and it was a good reminder, in this stuck place I’ve been in around writing, that that’s where it all begins—with one word. Reading the email, I took a deep breath, getting it for about the millionth time that it’s all about back to basics. Beginners mind, or pen, or keyboard. It’s what I tell the women in my writing group week after week. Just begin. Just put pen to paper. One word is all you need. And willingness I suppose; and maybe a bit of trust; to give yourself over, to let that one word take you to the next, and then the next, surrendering to the process that is oh so much bigger and wiser than we are, getting the magic of it all, letting go, maybe even diving headlong into it. One word, one keystroke, one breath at a time.

It’s exactly why I come back to the “word,” to writing, again and again. It takes me somewhere. Destination most always unknown. Deep into the cavern or flying high or somewhere in between, one thing is certain, I am never the same after I write; I am always someplace new.

Back to basics. Forgetting eloquence or beauty or inspiration or even if it makes sense. In fact, I’m drawn to those writers that just put their thoughts down, don’t have to make a proper essay of it, even a proper sentence, random thoughts, pieces of the puzzle that fit or don’t fit but somehow, amazingly, work. If you follow my drift. I’ve seen it in fiction, too, and it’s been some of my most enjoyable reading, when the writer drops you straight into the moment, no leading up or circling, no extra words, just the middle of a scene or thought. Blows me away.

Here’s some good news in the midst of the current—and seemingly chronic—gray zone. I’m becoming a Photoshop user! Joy of joys. It’s been days now, maybe even a whole week, since I’ve felt the urge to throw my computer across the room. And even better news, it is delivering me to the place that I unknowingly craved being, where my love of taking photographs is merging with my hunger, my compulsion, really, to create art. It’s like I’ve landed where I was always meant to land, I just had no idea where that was, other than vague flashes or ideas, tiny bits and pieces of inspiration, just blindly following where the impulse led. Hmm…

Here are some of my first attempts. And honestly, I couldn’t be more pleased. Learning as I go. And just like it’s one word at a time with writing, here it’s one step, one photograph, one lesson, one application, one texture at a time. Somehow, it’s all coming together, leading me where I was no doubt meant to go all along.

(Only) If It Feels Good...

2011-02-08T14:30:00.000-08:00

It dawns on me, after years and years of therapy, some good, some better, that not in all those years has the focus turned from what’s wrong with me to how to truly take care of myself on a moment-to-moment, radical, self-care, loving-kindness-to-myself sort of way. In fact, I think it’s one of the big pitfalls of therapy. The focus on what’s wrong, and the learning, the conditioning to see everything as the challenge that must be met or healing won’t happen, wholeness never gained. My daughter has been telling me for months that in some situations, maybe more than I realize, the healing is in the walking away. It started in the summer, when steeped in depression, I’d come out of my women’s group worse than I went in, feeling confused, beat up and bruised and in worse pain; feeling like the biggest fuck-up in the world; knowing it wasn’t working, understanding that something there was wrong; yet not trusting my intuition and knowing and going back again and again for more.

Sometimes the kindest thing to do is just be kind to oneself. This seems to be a theme for me here in the new year. And in that spirit, I’m paying closer attention, microscopic attention to how I feel when engaged in certain activities, and to the best of my ability, when there’s a choice, I will choose not to engage in any of them that don’t nurture on a real and authentic level.

More recent case in point, Facebook. Realizing a couple of weeks ago its effect on me; though subtle, it was there, this slight (and sometimes not so slight) shitty feeling I’d get about my own life when I’d log on and see all the "connections" people out there were making. And then more recently, with my photo blog, getting it that the whole “follower” thing was ripe with the opportunity to feel less than, to project “more than” onto those with bigger followings, or to feel bad if I posted a photo I really liked that didn’t get much attention.

Somewhere along the line, I don’t know exactly where, though for sure it was a long, long time ago, the external became more important than the internal. The search for identity, the yearning for approval and praise, the longing for anything that would make me feel like something became the map, the compass, the celestial star I set my direction by. If I have enough “friends,” then maybe I’m okay. If enough “followers” sign on then maybe I’m a success, and if there are enough comments, then maybe, just maybe I’m a good photographer. I know—I mean, I really do know—that these things aren’t real. I know that they mean nothing about me, yet they quietly sneak in, often when I’m just minding my own business, planting seeds of self-doubt and discontent along the way. No matter how much I’ve “worked” on it all in therapy….

It’s all about loving kindness. And tenderness. And gentleness. It’s about what nurtures, what feels good, what truly serves. In this spirit, Facebook is now history (well, for me, anyway). I will be examining my truest desire and making directional changes at Snapshots. And yeah, though months late, I did, a couple of months ago, leave the women’s group.

If it feels good, do it. Could it really be that simple? I’ll let you know…

Emptying

2011-01-31T16:36:00.000-08:00

Most of this week is spent in Sonora, working, working, working, getting the house that I bought ten months ago ready to sell. Three days with my sister (where I would be without her workhorse Capricorn Moon and her Libran generosity I don’t know), then back to the bay area for a night, then back up alone for two more days. Tons of stuff given away—most that I never should have moved with to begin with… or bought in the process… but that provided some misplaced notion of security or happiness; another percentage thrown away, half of what’s left packed and stacked, ever so neatly in the garage, the rest “staged” in a house waiting and eager for its new owners.

I have this crazy idea, hanging out just at the edges of reason: I want to chuck it all. I mean every last bit. Even—or maybe especially—the bits that I’ve thought I could not live without. Really. And truly, except for the two paintings by my oldest daughter, what does it all mean anyway? Except more work, newspapers, boxes, space, muscle.

It’s a thought that won’t let me go. How many plates does one need? Pots? Pans? Bowls? (Oh, and I do love a beautiful bowl…) Mugs, glasses, utensils, baking dishes, serving dishes? And that’s just the kitchen…

Starting over. And I mean really over, sans the three-quart copper-bottomed Revereware pot that my mom cooked popcorn in, the wedding gifts that never leave the hutch, the hutch itself, my mom’s before her death, the shit that I arrange and rearrange and occasionally dust on shelves and mantles and tables.

I love the idea of beginning anew with nothing. Of moving with only the bare essentials. And as a need arises, or as I spy something that I think will fit in my “new” life, that inspires, that will bring meaning or beauty to it, picking it up, a little at a time. (Or not.) Creating consciously rather than loading and unloading, packing and unpacking the past, the illusion, the dream, the agenda.

Clean slate. Bare canvas. Walls, bookshelves, cupboards. Unencumbered. Light. Free. Open.

*******

Lately I seem to be finding myself most often in other people’s words. The current example, David Whyte’s “The Journey”…

Above the mountains
the geese turn into
the light again

Painting their
black silhouettes
on an open sky

Sometimes everything
has to be
inscribed across
the heavens

so you can find
the one line
already written
inside you.

Sometimes it takes
a great sky
to find that

small, bright
and indescribable
wedge of freedom
in your own heart.

Sometimes with
the bones of the black
sticks left when the fire
has gone out

someone has written
something new
in the ashes of your life.

You are not leaving
you are arriving.

Ready

2011-01-22T18:58:00.000-08:00

It’s strange how things happen… and all by themselves, regardless of what we plan or intend or pray or ask for, what we think we choose or want or are ready for…

It’s been months of turmoil about my house and the idea/necessity/questions about moving—again. (If you’re tuned in regularly, you’ve already read it.) It’s been a long, circuitous, depressing, completely confusing, sometimes agonizing, oftentimes overwhelming process that started last July. There’s been some pretty loud moaning and pity-partying, more big rounds of uncertainty, unknown, discouragement, holding on, wondering. Then suddenly, early this past week, I realized, in about the amount of time it takes to draw a breath in and let it out, that I am ready to move on. It was not a decision, it came not through rigorous mental gymnastics or toe-tapping or sweating or laboring, it was just there, like a big ball of light, a clearing in the forest; something had shifted, letting go had happened, acceptance arrived, along with and a readiness to leave this chapter behind and get on with life.

Sometimes, looking back with the ever-clear twenty/twenty hindsight, I wonder what the hell I was thinking. Truly, I don’t just say that. I mean, I do know the things that ran through my mind, the rationale, the thoughts of adventure, the urgency of getting my “new life” started. (Whatever in the world that means…) But could I really have been that out of touch with what I need and want on a primary and fundamental level? Or, has it been this experience that has highlighted and brought more clearly to the surface those things? Is there some invisible, mysterious “purpose”? Lessons to be gleaned? Was it a mistake, a wrong turn, a failure even?

Then I remember when I was learning astrology and I was studying Uranus. One thing that stands out clearly in my mind all these years later was reading how Uranus is the energy of the risk taker. And that to be fully alive, we must incorporate the taking of risks into our lives; the hopping—or crawling—out on a limb, the bolting—or creeping— toward our edge; stir it up, challenge ourselves, get the old adrenalin flowing. And it doesn’t matter the outcome. In fact, the outcome—the idea or notion of success or failure—isn’t even part of the discussion. It’s the act itself that counts. If you put yourself out there, sometimes it will work out, sometimes it won’t. It’s pretty basic, really, the law of averages. The fundamental thing is to act.

So I put myself out there… and I’m bringing myself back in. And through some sort of fortune, I’m no longer berating myself with questions that have no answers. It happened. I moved away. I even bought a house. I found I don’t like it there. In fact, I grew very depressed there. I’m moving back. Where, I don’t know. More questions that as of yet anyway have no answers. And somehow, maybe it’s the anti-depressants, maybe I’m just in a better place, maybe it’s part of what’s been integrated as a result of this experience, whatever, none of it seems to be a problem. Not even the money I’m going to lose by selling the house. A small price to pay, when you really think about it, for a return of peace of mind.

I went up for a night last week with my sister and began the process of getting the house ready to put on the market. I started packing boxes, making phone calls, canceling utilities. I met with my realtor/now-good-friend. It’s one part bittersweet, about a hundred parts eagerness and excitement. And now, because apparently the time is right, I have lots of energy for it. We got what we needed to get done early and decided to spend the day in Yosemite “on the way home” (not really, but close enough… well, not really, but…). It was so beautiful, with snow like a soft white blanket covering the valley, the falls thick and lush, trees both green and bare, reflecting in the lazy Merced, the afternoon sun golden on the huge granite walls. We saw two coyotes in two days… (hmm… going to have to look up coyote medicine). I am going to miss being so close to what, in my opinion and limited travel, has to be one of the most beautiful places on earth. But I'll be back closer to the ocean and the bay, to so many more and varied places, people, classes, opportunities, landscapes. I'll be living in my own space close to family and friends once again.

Can't wait.

As if she needs an introduction: Beautiful Half Dome

The Merced from Sentinel Bridge

Self Portrait at Cascade Falls

Cutting Loose

2011-01-17T08:56:00.000-08:00

Cutting Loose

Sometimes from sorrow, for no reason,
you sing. For no reason, you accept
the way of being lost, cutting loose
from all else and electing a world
where you go where you want to.

Arbitrary, a sound comes, a reminder
that a steady center is holding
all else. If you listen, that sound
will tell you where it is and you
can slide your way past trouble.

Certain twisted monsters
always bar the path -- but that's when
you get going best, glad to be lost,
learning how real it is
here on earth, again and again.
- William Stafford

I love this poem so much. I wonder if there’s another one in existence anywhere that describes so perfectly the place I so often find myself in these days. Or, maybe I should say the place-s; as they vary radically, and nearly as often as there is moments in the day.

This morning I took a drive out Mines Road in the east bay area. The road runs roughly fifty miles between southern Livermore and Mt. Hamilton in San Jose. It’s narrow and windy and hilly, and there’s pretty much nothing out there except the occasional farmhouse or cattle ranch; if you don’t count the creeks, birds, wildlife, beautiful trees. The sun broke through the dense fog, illuminating the oaks that spread out haphazardly at the ridge tops; the grasses are maybe seventy-five percent green from winter rains; birds were chirping, frogs croaking.

It’s not that it’s the most beautiful landscape ever. Yet everywhere I turned I saw beauty. The wonderful sculpture of a bare winter tree, the gorgeous white bark on the grove of giant sycamores, the juxtaposition of cows resting beneath giant electrical towers, the huge bird—I swear it was an eagle, gigantic wingspan, deep brown feathers, white head—that swooped directly in front of my car and then followed me a ways down the road. It’s the gift of photography, this seeing beauty in the everyday; the camera coaching me to open my eyes more fully, teaching me to see “beyond seeing,” challenging me to look beyond the normal boundaries and limitations and expectations, and expanding the very idea of what beauty is. I’m guessing it’s also a gift—in a strange sort of way—of depression, of being lifted out of the black hole, back into the world, where everything has this edge of magnificence, like seeing vibrant color again after having been momentarily—or not so momentarily—blinded to it.

Photography is a big light in the tunnel right now. It gets me up and out many days where there seems no other reason. It’s the only thing that I truly, truly want to be doing, and for hours on end. When doing it, I get "lost" in it; I’m not thinking, I’m not worried, I’m not anxious or hungry or cold. I’m not tired or sad or grieving or alone or lost or confused or depressed, or even Debby. I’m not anything except absorbed in the moment and what is there before me and my Nikon D60. Well, except thoroughly engaged. And inspired. Contented. At peace. Joyful even. It gives meaning and impetus and some much needed structure to my life. No small thing given that I still wake up most every morning chronically—if no longer acutely—depressed, am still overwhelmed with anxiety the moment I open my eyes, am still needing supreme effort and an enormous amount of discipline on some days to just make myself move. It challenges me in other ways too; like being visible and maybe standing out in a crowd; pulling over, walking along the side of a lonely country road, trudging through the sand in my good boots because that’s where the reflection of the bridge in the surf is best. To sign up for—and attend—classes. To be honest about what I don’t know and need to learn, to continue to develop my own personal and unique aesthetic, and to own it as I do. To experiment, take chances, hang in there with Photoshop Elements, even though trying to learn it sometimes makes me want to throw my computer against a wall.

Being back in the Bay Area full time (have I mentioned that here, btw, that I am no longer living in my home in Tuolumne County at all?) I feel like a kid at a carnival (with a camera!), with endless possibilities of places to go, miles to cover, images to capture. Many years ago, when grieving a devastating loss and not beginning to know how I was going to get through it, I walked outside one summer day, sat down on our walkway, and started digging in the dirt. No thought, no plan, just a hand trowel, a small spot of earth, and some unconscious movement inside me toward healing. Out of that grief and desperate need, both a garden and a gardener were born. One of the reasons I bought the home I did was its gardening potential, understandable given what gardening has meant to me, though not being privy to what I know now; that something new and different was waiting to be born, and that that something needs a kind of freedom that the daily tending and loving of a garden doesn’t necessarily allow.

It’s hard to let go of something that has meant so much. And I have fought it. Grieved, too, in a big way, the loss of the sacred, relaxing, nurturing, healing, sensory space that my garden was. I know I wrote about it here way back when I had been away from it for just a few months.There are things I will always miss about that space. The scents, the butterflies, spring, my swing, the very air itself, birds splashing in the birdbaths, the refreshing, soothing sound of water tinkling in the fountain.

Letting go. Even harder when it leaves an empty hole. Easier today when I see what I couldn’t even take on faith during the darkness, that some new seed is indeed sprouting. And here’s the good news - though right now, steeped in the visceral memories of my garden it’s tainted - the world is full of flowers just waiting for a camera. And more good news, I can get lost in a bouquet of flowers, when the colors are perfect, when the light is spilling into through the window just right...

Cutting loose.

A light in the tunnel.

...learning how real it is on earth, again, and again.

Luck of the Draw

2011-01-13T00:16:00.000-08:00

Today I watched a documentary that broke my heart. It's called What I Want My Words to Do to You, about a writing workshop held inside a high security women's prison. Most of the participants are serving very long terms, some life, and most all the crimes were violent, with many of the women serving their terms for murder or manslaughter.

To a series of prompts, and with breathtaking honesty, the women write about their lives, and about the events and choices that led them to where they are. They share with rare and striking openness about their crimes, taking responsibility for their actions, and coming to anguished terms with what they have done, the pain they have caused victims, victims’ families, their own families, and themselves. Their confusion, regret, guilt, grief, and sorrow were real, palpable, heartbreaking. As was their loving feedback to and support of each other. Walls are penetrated and obstacles shattered, and I watched, amazed and completely moved at their sincerity, their remorse, vulnerability, naked humanity. In the end was a “performance” in the prison, where several well-known actresses read the women’s writings. In the audience among many others, the women themselves, tears streaming down their faces as their own and each other’s words echo through the hall.

I was bowled over with love and compassion for these women. One mistake. One wrong choice. One harrowing turn. Life suddenly going horribly wrong, shattered. Who among us has not made a mistake? Who has not been guilty of a bad choice? Which of us has not lost control or our temper or our way? It’s all degree, is it not? It’s all circumstance. It was agonizingly clear to me that none of these women set out this way, not one of them dreamed of becoming a criminal, or fantasized about taking a life or spending their lives in prison. They didn’t consciously set out to bring such ruin upon themselves and their victims. I’m guessing that in kindergarten or first grade, when asked what they wanted to be when they grew up they answered teacher or nurse or doctor or mommy, just like the rest of “us.” That they dreamed of growing up and getting married and having a home, maybe some kids, just like the rest of “us.” That they skipped and ran and sang and cried and loved and played and skinned a knee and had nightmares and hugged their teddy bear and wanted and needed… just like the rest of “us.”

There are so many directions this could take, levels of debate, theories, ideologies, opinions, judgments, dogmas, arrogances. Right now I’m not the least bit interested. I only know how my heart spilled over today seeing their faces, their eyes, hearing their stories, witnessing their pain, watching as something incredible moved and shifted in them. I only know that they are human, as am I. I only know that when life hands out experiences, families, circumstances, sometimes love, sometimes—more often than I like to think about—even basic safety and sustenance, it is anything but fair. I only know, in my heart of hearts, that these are not “bad” women. That they have hearts that have been broken open, too. That through bad luck or bad choice or bad love or bad timing something terrible happened and the price has also been terrible. And I only know that I only have to ask myself once just exactly what I did to be born where I was, who I was, into the family and the circumstance that I was. The answer, of course, is nothing.

Nada.
Not one thing.
Luck of the draw.
Purely random.

Pretty unsettling, really.

It's What's Inside that Counts. Right?

2011-01-05T14:29:00.000-08:00

The sun has disappeared up here in the Northwest. We had three beautiful, glorious days of it. Not a cloud in the sky. Cold as allgetout, but I’m actually learning to love walking around all bundled up in about three layers, along with lined boots, Smartwool socks, scat (scarf/hat all in one piece - fantastic for keeping warm), cashmere gloves for early morning walks, and then, when it gets above about 25 degrees, great fingerless gloves I got for Christmas. Fingerless gloves? I know… what’s the point, except that my hands can still be a little warm AND I can operate my camera without accidentally setting some function that I then don’t know how to unset (and think it’s broken and almost send it away for repair when some nice camera store person sorts it all out for me in, oh, about 10 seconds). Anyway, the gloves. I love them. I love driving in them, I can get change out of my wallet, use my phone, and iPod, plus they’re so comfortable and cozy, sometimes I’m back inside the house for an hour or two before I realize I still have them on.

Here I am, self-portrait-ing, bundled up for a walk with Lola…

I am half embarrassed, half mortified by this picture. In fact, I am embarrassed/mortified by most every picture I see of myself. Have been for a number of years. A combination weight and age, and just general--I know this because I can remember before weight and age settled in--malcontent with my physical being. But I’m putting it up anyway because one of my hopes for this coming year is to do a long and deep process around my feelings vis-a-vis my physical being. It will be part of my private journaling, possibly spilling over here now and then, to work with self portraits in the hopes of gaining insight, understanding, compassion, acceptance… maybe even some love.

I read something the other day that just inspired the hell out of me. Someone sent Gloria Steinem a postcard with an image of an old Chinese woman singing opera on a hill in a Beijing park. Her face is old, and apple-doll wrinkled, but she totally sparkles and radiates. Steinem wrote about it in her book, Revolution from Within.

I have a new role model for this adventurous new country I’m now entering. She is a very old, smiling, wrinkled, rosy, beautiful woman standing in the morning light of a park in Beijing… . Now she smiles at me every morning from my mantel. I love this woman. I like to think that, walking on the path ahead of me, she looks a lot like my future self.

It was another one of those instances where truth cut itself cleanly straight into my being. I want to be like that. I want to be like that old woman, radiant, alive, sparkling, even as my body grows old around me. I want to stop being ashamed of aging. I want to stop judging my arms, my chin, my hands, my thighs, my upper lip, my sagging eyes, my "grandma" skin. I want to stop being embarrassed by every picture that is taken of me, humiliated when people look at me. Like that woman, I want to radiate some inner something, to hell with what is happening with my physical body.

Of course, this is an uphill battle in this looks-youth-oriented culture we live in, where women are wrecked when it comes to physical self-esteem, where we are objectified, and only okay if we starve ourselves, augment our breasts, where we must be airbrushed and reshaped before we can grace a magazine page, where the standard model size today is a Two, where earlier and earlier we are injecting and nipping and tucking and lifting, where we walk around, our bodies contorted beyond the point of ridiculousness so that we can look sexy in our four-inch Manolo Blahniks.

And in the midst of this absurd craziness, I want to love my body?

Many years ago I recognized that there was something inside me that never aged. Do you know what I mean? It’s in there, some place or being or part of me that still feels 12 or 17 or 25, even as the body that surrounds and holds it grows decades beyond that. Years ago, when I started sitting with teachers that embraced more of an eastern spirituality, I got it that this is the part of me that never dies. It is the spirit maybe, or perhaps consciousness, or awareness, or presence—words are limiting here—and it doesn’t age because it is ageless, because it is beyond this physical life here on earth; it is the flame that will never be extinguished, will be there, in fact, watching, observing, as I pass from this life to the next. I don’t know how I know this but I do. I know it from personal experience. And I’m not even sure it’s “personal." Many years ago, as a volunteer at the bedside of an elderly dying woman, it was there, simply, beautifully present, both inside and outside of me, watching her, watching me, the seer, the seen, it was nearly palpable, this unchanging, eternal, everlasting thing and there was no separation between it and me and her; and it was there, calmly, peacefully unphased, as this woman's spirit passed from her body into the realm that we cannot see or feel or touch.

It is astounding, this dichotomy, and I don't begin to know how to find resolution, how to reconcile between these two such opposing exepriences, the spiritual on one hand, and the struggle I experience with my physical being on the other. Or that I can revere the growth and transformation and wisdom that maturing brings at the same time that I disdain the container it is held within. That I can rejoice that I am still around, that I still have all my parts, that though a little slower and sometimes crankier, they work, they get me where I want to go while at the same time dishonoring them because they no longer look like they used to or should or how I'd like them to. That I understand that I and my body have been through so much, things I tend not to write about or talk about, things that have altered the course of my life from early on, that have driven this healing journey; that I can understand its woundings, and I can still, still, judge it, disparage it, feel humiliated by it.

What it is that radiated through and animated the eyes of that old woman in Gloria Steinem's postcard? Is it love? Life? Joy? Peace? Contentment? Spirit itself? Senility? I have no idea, but I want it. I want to shift focus from the outside to the inside. I want to love the skin, the wrinkles, the hairs now growing in the wrong places, the stiff joints, the whole of it. I want it to be about how I feel, not how I look. It feels huge. It is huge. But as with any big trip or journey, it begins one tiny or big step at a time.

Here's my step and it feels ginormous. And just for the hell of it, here's another one. Taken a couple of months ago on my front porch in Sonora.

And yes, I do realize that one can't tell if one's eyes are sparkling or not under dark glasses but those are my glasses. They turn dark in the sun... What can I say?

New Beginnings

2010-12-31T11:52:00.000-08:00

Since Christmas Day, I’ve been thinking a lot about endings and letting go. And the flip side, of course, new beginnings. Focusing on it this way, really understanding that this is the time of year to reflect, to let go, to open to and await the new, has injected so much new meaning into the season for me. It’s been an epiphany, really, which is a bit ironic, given that epiphany is both a regular word meaning revelation, and the proper name given to the official “Twelve Days of Christmas” on the Christian calendar.

For Christians, Jesus is the Reason for the Season. But eons before the birth of Christ, people everywhere observed the season of darkness and celebrated the return of the light on the solstice, and with it, the return of life, hope, possibility. The rebirth of the Sun. The birth of the Son. Hmm… Winter solstice, the Yuletide, The Twelve Days of Christmas, New Year on the Gregorian Calendar are all about endings and letting go, renewal and rebirth.

We talked a lot about the holiday this year when my family and I were together. As non-Christians, some of whom struggle with the materialism we are surrounded with, molded by, and participate in, we questioned, debated, wondered. What exactly are we celebrating and why? And what about all that stuff we wrap so brightly and place under the tree? Are there other ways we could show our love and appreciation for each other? Can we really stop buying things made in China in favor of the handmade, recycled, reused? Are we willing to pay more to support the small business and independent artist? Can we really live without Amazon dot com (sadly, truly, part of the discussion), and for me, even more challenging, zappos dot com? Are we ready to sacrifice gifts altogether? Can we give up the toxic chemically treated and painted wrapping papers? Isn’t being together all that we really need? What about giving more to those in true need? And on and on.

What I really hear, between the lines and specifics, is the wondering, no, beyond wondering, the great desire to live in more consciousness and meaning around this holiday that is on one hand religious, one hand secular, and on another, much broader, deeper, older than we know. I hear us examining our basic ideals and values, throwing it all in the mix; what gives us joy, what heartache; about giving and receiving and celebrating; about letting go and inviting the new in on so many different levels.

Early this morning I dropped my daughter and her boyfriend at the Seattle Airport. As I drove out of the airport, there ahead of me was Mt. Ranier, more splendid than I’ve ever seen and looking almost close enough to reach out and touch; ancient, seeming to rise out of nowhere and nothing as if by magic or brushstroke or some trick of the eye; clear, majestic, snow-covered, superimposed against a fresh, young sky layered with soft, bright, golden, sun drenched clouds. It was so beautiful, both sky and mountain, it warmed me inside; though outside was a frosty eighteen degrees, though the ice on the road made me anxious, though all family had now gone their separate ways except me, who is staying on to take care of their new dog for the week they are gone celebrating with Greg’s family.

Warmed and amazed.

Something really did shift for me this holiday. It’s like a primordial remembering happened on a cellular level and knowing glowed inside me about the true—no matter what tradition you embrace—meaning of this time of year. Something in me opened at the knowledge that for most of human history, for as long as people cognitively observed the heavenly happenings (which I think is much earlier than we can imagine), this has been the turning point, the time, the opportunity for letting go in preparation for new birth. Even my body relaxes as I write this, and I breathe deeper, as I am infused with a feeling of deep and abiding rightness and peace.

New beginnings. I look forward to this week alone in a different part of the country, walking Lola, enjoying the cold, the quiet, finding the new and different to take pictures of, starting to learn Photoshop Elements 9 (a great gift I received), organizing my picture files, writing, doing some art in my daughter’s art space. For some reason that is not yet understood, the new seems to be about creativity. Pretty much never an artist of any sort, I am inexplicably drawn to it, and on a level that feels compulsory. A life-long reader no longer able to read much of anything (except hopefully the Photoshop manual!), it feels almost, on a level that defies articulation, as though its becoming more about images, less about words. A huge shift and challenge for this airy-thinking-Mercurial type…

Tomorrow, New Year’s Day, I think I will do a ritual of some kind to mark the passage. In the meantime, in the spirit of new beginnings, I’ve updated my blog, and it has a whole new look. My daughter created the new banner from a photo I took a few years ago while in Vermont attending a workshop on The Amherst Writer’s and Artist’s method of writing group leadership. It’s one of few photos I kept from that trip. I’d been exploring tiny backroads in a wetlands area as research for my novel and came upon this simple, yet beautiful scene. A perfect image to accompany musing in the moment. I'm still doing some fine-tuning, but it's pretty much up and running. I hope you enjoy the new look!

And speaking of new beginnings: while together here for the holidays, we celebrated my younger daughter, Katie's, graduation from college the week before Christmas. It's been a long haul for her, having to work full time for the last two years to support herself while attending classes. It was hard and she hung in there and I am SO proud of her...

Wishing her and all of you the very best of new beginnings...

Sweet, gentle Lola. Rescued hours before being euthanized, adopted by my daughter and her boyfriend. My companion for the week.

Perfection

2010-12-18T10:15:00.000-08:00

Oh, the delightful complications of having more than one blog… For example, I have this blog right here, where I muse, and pretty much pour my heart out, and I have my newer blog, Snapshots, dedicated to photography, and growing as an artist in that arena. (Big step, btw, to use the word artist… .) I still post some pictures here, mostly more personal ones, but for the most part, I haven’t overlapped, because I don’t know if folks out there check out both blogs.

So, apologies if you’ve already seen this picture. But I wanted to post it here also, partly because I love it and think it’s really beautiful, and also, mostly, because I love the title that presented itself, along with its stirring and thought-provoking implications for life.

UNFOLDING

Everything unfolds. Life unfolds. Moments, hours, and days unfold. Seasons unfold, as does weather. A wave in the ocean unfolds. A piece of writing, a work of art, unfold. The universe is unfolding, as are we, individually, collectively, as a species. Journeys, paths, directions, unfold, like maps, revealing the way as they do.

I was struck by many things as I stared at this photo. How simply perfect the flower is. How beautifully it unfolds. The gentle sweetness of its petals, how they curl so gracefully, over time, away from the middle. The way the center is protected, merely a suggestion, a potential, an idea; a mystery until it is revealed. Yet it exists, in its fullness, from the very beginning. Or does it? Do we know if it lies there, perfectly formed, waiting? Or, is it altered, created by the very process of unfolding? And the center itself, the grand finale, once exposed, not only a marvel to look at, but a miracle in itself, lush, nurturing, life-giving and sustaining.

In psychotherapy, the metaphor of an onion is often used to describe how in the process of therapy, layers and layers open and fall away, accessing deeper and deeper parts of our selves, our psyches, our most "true" beings. But right now, I am lovin' the idea of a rose so much more. For one thing, a rose smells oh so much better than an onion (not that it doesn't stink, sometimes to high heaven, lying on the couch, those layers being pried reluctantly off...). Unlike an onion, if a rose makes me cry, it's from the sheer beauty of it, not the overwhelming sting invading my eyes, nose, mouth, sinuses. I like that as a rose unfolds, it stays intact, whole, as it peels itself away, there to hold, witness, help contain, continue as part of the beauty and process.

I "blame" all my current troubles on the dolphins. (Pardon the lack of segue, but don't worry, we'll come back around...) Tongue-seriously-in-cheek, of course (about the dolphins, not coming full circle.) Five years ago, when I challenged just about every fear I had, and traveled by myself across the country, over to the tiny little Bahaman island of Bimini, to live for a week on a very small boat with nine perfect strangers (and swim with dolphins :) , I likened the process then to stepping outside of a box. A very small box that I had kept myself folded neatly inside of, a severely cramped space, where because of fear, conventions, ignorance, fear, ideas of right and wrong and survival, fear, needing to be good, accommodating, selfless (though try as I might, I always failed pretty miserably at this last one), and where I'd stayed most all my life (except a few semi-rowdy teen years), without even knowing it.

The experience changed the entire trajectory of my life. Though I had "worked on myself" for years, it was the first really major step in beginning the process of unfolding in a whole new and very radical way, and the movement, the changing, the stretching continued and continues, many steps along the way, separating from a marriage that I could no longer fit myself into, the biggest, hardest, most painful to date. And I guess it makes perfect sense that having lived so twisted up, so "cramped," there would be pain and struggles and discomfort and uncertainties and imbalance and undeveloped muscles, all that take time, use, movement to grow, develop, become accustomed, made stronger.

I love looking at this rose, and revisioning the journey and process of unfolding as something beautiful and perfect and graceful and right; somehow, in some big picture, and in ways that I'm blinded to. I love that no part is actually cast aside or cut away, that it merely curves itself out of the way, one row, one lovely petal at a time, to make way for the next and then the next and then the next, to reveal, in right timing, the center and core and purpose. And it doesn't stop there, but continues on, the big, full circle and cycle of life. One petal, one bud, one blossom, one millimeter, one gigantic or small or minuscule step at a time.

Ramblings: Joy Comes in the Moment

2010-12-15T10:06:00.000-08:00

Last night I cried watching an old episode of The West Wing. I mean really, serious tears, so much so that it was all I could do—because I wasn’t alone—not to just let it loose and sob out loud.

It was the last five or so minutes of the Season One Christmas episode. It cuts between two scenes, a boy’s choir performing at the beautifully decorated White House, and a military funeral for a homeless veteran who had frozen to death on a bench at the Korean War Memorial. At the White House, the President, closest staff members, and scores of others, all dressed in their holiday best; at the funeral, four people, including the man’s mentally disabled brother, also homeless, and the White House Communications Director, who had never met the man,but whose donated coat—with business card in the pocket—the man had been wearing. The only narration, the haunting crescendo-ing melody and harmonies of the boys' choir singing "The Little Drummer Boy."

The West Wing is, in my opinion, some of the best television ever created. It is intelligent, fast moving, fantastically written and developed, passionate, engrossing, serious, sometimes humorous. It raised the bar, it was always excellent, and sometimes, like the episode last night, it stepped beyond excellence and into the realm of pure, unadulterated art, with the ability to capture, stun, amaze.

Last night’s tears were really good news. Some thawing happened, maybe is happening? and it felt so good, to feel something other than burning irritation, resentment, anger, to be moved, to experience the kind of aching that accompanies the heart opening, that is so different from the pain that happens when the heart closes up, is walled off, put away in some unconscious and misguided attempt to save itself from the anguish that in reality, it deepens, perpetuates, creates anew. To live so free of fear and self-protection, to have the heart rubbed raw… broken open… again, and again, and again. How glorious it would be to live in that state.

I remember reading a book in my late teens called Joy Comes in the Morning. For me, lately, I’m becoming acutely aware that joy comes, actually, not so much in the morning, not so much at some distant time, when things change, when I am cured, healed, all better, but in random unexpected moments. Walking out of Trader Joe’s to a sky on fire, not just ribbons, but yards and yards of red, pink, coral taffeta thrown against the still, blue sky. A lone pink and white fushia blossom hanging delicately, covered in fresh raindrops against a gloomy, gray landscape. The way my dog prances through the leaf-littered sidewalk; my timid and fearful cat licking my face; a quote, or poem, or even random words that inexplicably move me; a fictionalized television program welling something deep from inside.

I remember my favorite Hawaiian singer-songwriter Lono telling the story once of a couple of big, old, strapping Hawaiian men coming up to him after a performance, tears streaming down their faces, thanking him for his music, for the way that it just hurts so good. Indeed. There is sometimes a fine line between pain and pleasure, between sorrow and joy, and I know the experience these men spoke of, of something touching so deeply, that is experienced as so extraordinarily beautiful, it feels literally like it rips the soul open, and in the ripping, there is such enormous sensation, it is often labeled as pain. I have that experience with Hawaii in general, and with its music, with the Brothers Cazimero, Keola Beamer, and yes, Lono, the first time I heard him perform, tears streaming inexplicably over my own cheeks. Hurts so good. I sometimes think this is my issue with Christmas. There’s just something about it, the mix of warmth, love, mystique, family, candles, fog, music, the sacred, joy, fear, disappointment, excitement, surprise, loss, tragedy, heartbreak; a depth of feeling all intertwined inside, layer upon layer, until I don’t know moment to moment, one from the other, which to trust, how to open myself to one without fear and memory of the other.

It's in the little things. The big, little everyday things. And to opening. Or being opened, for I'm not at all sure it's something that can be decided upon and then accomplished. It's not like I can wake up one morning, decide to be more open, and wala, it happens. It's in that edge, in the intimacy, the intertwining of the two, pain and happiness, joy and sorrow, that are, in fact, not so separate at all. Khalil Gibran speaks of it in one of my favorite quotes from The Prophet:

The deeper sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.
Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.
And the selfsame well from which your
laughter rises was oftentime filled with your tears...
When you are joyous, look deep into
your heart and you shall find it is only
that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.
When you are sorrowful look again in
your heart, and you shall see that in truth
you are weeping for that which has been
your delight.

Singing in the Dark

2010-12-12T17:25:00.000-08:00

In the dark times will there be singing? Yes. there will be singing about the dark times.
~Bertolt Brecht

I immediately loved this quote when I saw it couple of days ago. I can't say why exactly, except that it filled my heart with a weirdly good feeling. Like oh, thank god, it's all okay...it's all acceptable... whatever it is... we will not lose our voices, we will honor it, speak of it, sing about it. It inspired me, it helped me get started writing after being away from it for a week, and it gave me the push that I needed--again--to just write what's true...

...even if it's dark.

I have been feeling so grumpy. And dial-tone-y. And over all, most of the time, really crappy. And in the rare moments that I’m not quite so bad, it takes the barest push, the breathless whisper, a look, a tone of voice, a signal light, an inconsiderate driver, someone talking to me when I long to just be still and quiet, to send me tumbling back over again.

I know that irritability is a big component of depression. Still, it's been a long time since I've felt this acutely/chronically irritable. Sometimes I'm so irritable, I can hardly stand myself. I can only imagine what it's like for others to be around me. It's like I just want to be alone, and left alone... And yet. I know I need to be with people right now. Ironic. So I guess the oxymoronic deal here is that I need to be around people, I just don't want to have to interact with them.

Hmm. Conundrum.

I guess now is as good a time as any to just be out there with all the unpleasant feelings I've been experiencing of late. Along with irritability, there has been some big time resentment. Not that I'm happy about it, or particularly proud, but it's there, so why not come clean about it. In fact, resentment is one of those feelings/words--like tenderness a few weeks ago, and more recently chaos (more on that later)--that out of nowhere showed up and camped on my doorstep until I had no choice but to get up and let it in. An unpleasant house guest shadowing me, both the reality of it and the concept.

Me, resentful? You bet. And at first, when I realized just how resentful I could be, all I could feel was the shame of it, like I'm the only one in the entire world guilty of harboring this noxious, odoriferous, offensive weed. This old, hardened, crystallized anger; the low-grade bitterness which, according to Buddhist teacher Pema Chodren, is the greatest obstacle to experiencing joy. But then something happened, and as I watched it, once again I gained some appreciation for how Life sometimes works. Because I realized that tenderness showed itself first; by some accident or fluke or design or miracle, it was there already, had been there for a couple of weeks, a soft pillow to cushion the full onslaught of feeling at seeing how resentful I can sometimes (often?) be, and it neutralized the shame and embarrassment, freeing up space to investigate. And in the investigation, I got it that resentment, for me anyway, is/was simply, merely, a natural, yet unskillful response to having been hurt. It says nothing about my character. It doesn't mean I'm a bad person. It simply means there is unresolved pain. Oh, what a relief. And it went further than that. Because tenderness is tender, because it has the capacity to soften whatever it touches, because it's gentle and benevolent, it stretched itself out, gathered up mother, father, sister, lover, in-laws, old friends, and cast them in a new light, and I saw, as clearly as I saw in that moment that I had not intentionally manifested resentment, they had not intentionally, not once, not ever purposefully caused me pain.

My teacher Isaac harps on this all the time. And it's one of those things I've gotten as a concept. But the morning that all this was stirring so radically inside me, I got it, I truly saw that this was the case. That not one of the people on the short but passionate list of those that have wronged me had done so casually, purposefully, vengefully. In fact, for the most part, it was innocent, and a result of their own pain, confusion, limitations, wounds.

With their faces swimming all around me, I understood I was experiencing a powerful moment of grace. Will it change anything? Who knows. Nonetheless, it was a lovely note in the middle of a big patch of darkness.

Moving On...

2010-12-04T13:40:00.000-08:00

Here's the bummer about blogging publicly. The words end up out there, a permanent, irrevokable record of thought, beliefs, ideas, the truths of the moment. And then when change comes along, when new words are typed that contradict the old ones, it just looks, you know, bad... like I don't know what I'm talking about, like I'm wishy-washy, like I can't make up my mind.

And maybe what the record reflects is actually more right than I want to believe...

Anyway, the latest change: in spite of what I wrote not long ago about a nice wintery retreat here where I will meditate, write, walk, take pictures, and art and fart (really, I'm so embarrassing sometimes, the way I can wax about things), I find myself on the cusp of "abandoning" my home. I get clear messages constantly that I am not supposed to be here. It's more than the sadness and emptiness and aloneness and isolation and depression (like I should need more...) but it's actual concrete things that happen that tell me that I really need to hit the road.

I had a friend once who ignored a serious feeling of unease as she boarded an airplane. The vibe just felt really bad, and she had a strong feeling to get herself and her son off the plane, though she ended up choosing not to make the waves or look silly. A little over halfway between Hawaii and SF the plane lost an engine. They made it safely to LA (the closest airport at the time) but she never forgot the feeling, or that she didn't listen to it, at the possible peril of she and her young son.

From the time things first began to go sour here, beginning about a month in, when yellow jackets invaded my bedroom, I have had an unwavering gut feeling that I was being communicated with. And the message was: get the hell out of there. Truly, and it felt imperative. You can ask people I've communicated with about it along the way. My sister, Ex, my daughters. It's not that I actually feel in danger... but the feeling, when it's been there strongly, has felt urgent. As in, head for the hills! And yet, because there's no where else to really go, because there are things that I really do love about my home, when things would go smoothly and I'd relax, begin enjoying my surroundings, and think, maybe I really could/should/might stay here, it would be almost immediate cause and effect. Thought, water heater goes out. Thought, water heater goes out again the next day. Thought, rain starts drop, drop, dropping into my hallway. I kid you not. Friends have been here as it has happened and they've been amazed. I'd verbalize my thought, and within thirty, sixty minutes, something big would be go wrong.

It's not that I'm slow on the uptake. It's just that this is major... I bought this house. Moved all my stuff in. And I love being in a space that I've created, with the things, the energy, that I love. Like it or not, it's become my home, where I--most of the time anyway--eat, sleep, write, etc., etc., where my animals and I live.

If I wasn't already depressed, it could be very depressing...

After the rain leak, I never vacilated again about keeping the house. Though I did think that I'd stay until it sells. Now I'm not so sure. I am uncomfortable here. In a big way. As I wrote before, coming home has become really hard. Being here once home, really hard. Thinking about staying any length of time, really hard. For the most part, even though I feel that in general I am starting to do better, I'm very depressed when I am here, in a way that is really difficult to find words for. I don't know if it's the season, which is traditionally hard for me, or the depression, or, simply that I truly with all my being want to be back in the bay area, around the people, things, places I know and love, where if I want I can mingle, or have a photo field trip or take a class or meet a friend for a movie or try Restorative Yoga or buy books for fifty cents at the library sale or go to a year-round farmer's market or sit with a teacher or hop across the bridge to see my daughter or hear the ocean or watch the sun setting on water or see the bridges lit up or the Xmas tree in Union Square. Or, if I wanted, which I usually do during December, because it makes me feel good, I could hit four or five TJ Maxx's or Marshall's, a Cost Plus or two, an art store, Whole Foods, Trader Joes and Target all in a single aternoon.

I didn't know how much I would miss all that. And for the year plus that I lived in Oakland after moving out of our home and before moving here, I pretty much didn't do any of that stuff. But I was also in shock, and I think the whole time I lived in that apartment, I was just trying to stay on my feet, adjust to something that seemed impossible, right the equilibrium, stay afloat, grieve, make sense of it all, grieve some more. Now I think I'm feeling more ready to start getting out. To put on my nice Levi's, my boots, actually fix my hair, maybe brush a bit of color on my cheeks, and head out on the town. Well, maybe a slight exaggeration, maybe I will begin a wee bit smaller, say with a butterfly shoot meet up next Saturday at Ardenwood historic farm...

So there's the antidote to the sadness about giving up my new home, the sense of having failed at this adventure; I will be able to start living again in a way that apparently suits me better than small town America where I know no one, the sidewalks roll up at six, there's nothing that attracts me, no where to wear my nice jeans, and pretty much the only place to shop is dreaded, and I mean dreaded, Walmart. And yes, it's the ending of another idea or dream and there is a significant pause here. My depressed mind wonders out loud if I'll ever be able to have a home again, if I'll ever be able to create this coziness, have my own special space, again. Why it looks at it that way, instead of the sunny side, the opportunity to find an even better space, one that suits me far more, is beyond me.

Beyond everything, I really need to be with people right now. When I'm with people, be it staying at Ex's, or with either of my daughters, or when my sister is here visiting me, despair is kept at a distance. When I'm alone up here, it arrives as if my special invitation, like it's waiting as I pull into the garage, and stays at will, until I get in the car and head back. So today I'm heading back, today when I leave my house, I do so knowing I'm in the beginning stages, no, actually solidly in the middle ones, of letting it go, of moving on, of continuing this mysterious thing we call the journey.

My New So Called Life

2010-12-01T19:55:00.000-08:00

The sun setting on San Francisco Bay. Taken from the San Leandro Marina Monday evening.

I’ve gathered up all my courage and signed up for a Meet Up group. It’s the Bay Area Photography and Exploration Society, and I’ve RSVP’d for their next outing which is photographing butterflies at Ardenwood Farm.

This is exactly the kind of thing that I’ve wanted my “new” life to consist of, and that I love in thought, but not necessarily when it comes to deed, and that I more often than not chicken out of-usually at the last minute. The last time I lost the $298 fee for a photography workshop at Point Reyes that I ended up not attending. It’s the whole group thing, me projecting that they all know (and of course like) each other, me standing on the sidelines, me feeling lost and awkward, ~~fantasizing~~ knowing that they are all fantastic photographers with smart equipment and savvy portfolios. Of course the good news here is that I don’t need to talk to anyone to take pictures. And we won't be sharing work. In fact, if need be, I can hide behind my camera, and inhabit my own little world; just me and the butterflies. Or, me with butterflies. Oh, and more good news, it’s not going to cost hundreds of dollars.

I’m writing about it because I want to be held to it. It’s a week from this coming Saturday, which is perfect since Saturday is a blogging day. I can - I will - come home and write about the experience. I’m hoping that because I'm telling people I’ve signed up, then I’ll have to go. I also posted it on Facebook. I can’t believe I did that… I don’t ever post on FB, but there was the little button called share and before I could think about it, I'd already hit it.

Hmmm...

It was suggested that I set an intention, so that an “unintentional” intention that might include fear doesn’t accidentally get set. So, here's my intention for the day: to be excited yet calm, eager yet confident, to be me, to have fun, to meet a few people, and of course, to get some ~~good~~ great photos.

Today I also posted my writing groups on craigslist. (check out my website here.) Big step, and another thing I desire in my new life: to grow my writing group business; to expand the one group I currently facilitate, begin daylong workshops once a month, eventually expand to weekend retreats, and heart of hearts desire, week-long writing retreats on Moloka'i. Another thing that is not easy for me... marketing myself...

I did both of these things when I got home today after being away ten days. Every time I leave, coming home gets harder and harder, to the point where I sometimes wonder how many more times I'm going to be able to do it. I get used to being with people, then coming home feels hundreds of miles away from where I want to be. It feels like solitary confinement. It feels like Siberia. So it was good to take some concrete steps, ones that are hard for me right now, but that hopefully will bring me one or two steps closer to the life I thought/hoped/envisioned I want(ed). Because I didn't want the other one... or so I thought; or maybe what I wanted was for the other one to be better, except that it wasn't, and now I'm here... where I really don't want to be either, and where the other one seems infinitely better except that it's too late, that ship having sailed; not that I want to turn back, because I don't, I can't, I wouldn't, I couldn't, except sometimes, especially when I first get home and feel alone in the big middle of the big unfamiliar sea, the thought of home, of sharing warm space sounds so damned appealing.

...though the moutains did welcome me home with a beautiful sunset all its own:

Thanks-Giving

2010-11-28T13:17:00.000-08:00

“There are four questions of value in life... What is sacred? Of what is the spirit made? What is worth living for, and what is worth dying for? The answer to each is the same. Only love.

~Don Juan DeMarco, played by Johnny Depp

There are so many things about my life today (well, almost all of it really) that if you’d told me three years ago would be this way, I’d have thought you had either gone completely mad, or were from another planet entirely. And now, here’s the latest: snow twice in one week, AND in two different states. Yep. First at my home in Sonora, then on Thanksgiving when we woke to the most beautiful snowfall at my daughter and her boyfriend's in Washington. It fell all morning, a good two or three inches of wet, fluffy, powdery, beautiful white stuff, more than enough to be excited about and grateful for.

In fact, this Thanksgiving there has been so much awareness of what there is to be grateful for. Maybe that's the gift of loss, and having to let go of so much; traditions, ways of being, structures, securities, things that have been usual, customary, counted, on; all that’s been taken for granted for decades. When stripped down to the raw, bare essentials, it is truly simple to see what remains, what has never actually been lost, what is the core and foundation of everything, and the only thing truly meaningful.

Only love.

My teacher Isaac often speaks about the Beloved, which he says is the strongest and most pure love that can be felt. Like the love you feel for your daughters, he tells me, unencumbered by daily life and issues that arise; the purest, most unconditional love imaginable. For the past few years, deep in the dark forest of so much change, the words had no way to reach me. But this holiday time, by some grace or magic, and for the first time in a long while, maybe ever, letting go of agenda, expectations, sadness, grief, and longings has happened, and in their place, has slipped a soft, natural, unefforted, profound feeling of love. Try as I might, I can't begin to describe it. The best I can do is to say it feels like a swelling and opening of the heart, a stillness, a deep appreciation, a vast acceptance, a sweet and gentle vulnerability.

Most often I have found love encased in a solid shell of worry, fear, grief, and leftover defense mechanisms, desperate to break out, but not knowing how. Though my guess is, that just like consciousness, it is ever present, and all that is required is to soften and surrender, to get out of the way. Yet even that seems not to be in our power. It happens if and when it happens.

For the past couple of months, it's been pointed out repeatedly that the healing path for me is all about vulnerability. Just writing the word, I feel the energy of it, of anxiety and excitement, flow all the way to my feet and toes. It might just be the scariest thing I've ever faced; far more frightening than leaving my marriage, going to Moloka'i alone for three months, moving away, because the hard shell is how I learned so long ago to protect the helpless little one in the face of need, abandonment, abuse, and I've dressed it up, fixed its hair, and worn it all these years like an armor. Though piece by piece it seems to be falling away and this weekend I was aware of the tender exposed places, and the love that was there, ready and waiting to fill them up.

When something is rare, it becomes all that more precious. For us, it's time together. It's been ten months since my daughters and I have all been together. Our awareness of that, our joy at being in each other's company, opened something palpable in each of us, and I felt our bond as I've rarely experienced it in the past.

My youngest daughter and I flew into SF late last night, a plane full of others returning from long distances to spend those cherished hours and days with loved ones. Katie was met by her new boyfriend, whose arms she practically flew into she was so excited to see him, and him her, so much so that he parked and walked as close as he could get to our arrival gate. I was picked up by Ex, who drove all the way to the city at night—something he hates to do, the city and the night—so I wouldn’t have to make the long, tiring ride on public transportation.

Another thing to add to the list of all that I am grateful for: that we walked through the dark and unknown separately and together and have come out the other side officially uncoupled yet more grounded than ever in deep love, caring, and respect.

Beauty for the Soul

2010-11-21T11:02:00.000-08:00

After a wild night of pouring rain, gusty winds, thunder, and some flickering lights, I woke this morning to the most awesome sight. Opening my curtains, there was white everywhere; falling from the sky, covering the trees, the road, the birdfeeder, the rosemary, the late season rosebuds. I sat down in the rocker by the window, my body going completely still, and for the first time since I left Moloka’i a year ago—where it happened nearly every day—my soul sang.

I didn’t grow up around snow. And the times I’ve seen it fall I can count on one hand, usually while driving through the mountains and the absolute last thing I wanted to be encountering. But sitting here this morning I just stared and stared, completely mesmerized at the lacey curtain of white descending from the heavens, and I wondered if there’s anything that transforms a landscape like snow does. It is magical the way the sky lowers itself right onto the earth, smudging the line between it and the hills and mountains, gently releasing millions of one-of-a-kind crystalline flakes, brush painting everything in a soft blanket of downy white. And it’s more than just the visual. There’s a feeling to it, especially when it falls as quietly gentle as it did this morning. I could feel it in my bones, and it rang in my spirit; the peace, the tranquility, the stunning dream-like otherworldliness of it.

After two hours it stopped, then turned to a soft rain. It’s surprising how quickly the rain drops melt the snowflakes clean away, leaving me wondering if I'd dreamt it all. But it’s okay. It was everything I’d hoped for moving up here. Plus it looks like it will clear up in time for me to make the drive to the bay area this afternoon.

Perfection. All the way around...

(...well, except that blogger has totally changed how everything is done and I'm having a hard time with it... i.e., pictures no longer fitting in the boxes... ugh)

Grieving... Again~Still~Again...

2010-11-20T09:50:00.000-08:00

I honest to god do not understand what goes on inside me. And I don’t know if it’s connected to the depression, or if it’s still a part of the grieving process. Maybe both, but based on past experience with each, I’m going to assume, am assuming, it's more the latter.

I don’t get how I can write a post like a did last Saturday, that is full of strength, hope, perspective, inspiration even, or Wednesday’s post, where the suffering of others obliterates the personal I nearly completely, and then do a swan dive wherein for the past couple of days, I am swallowed up by grief again to the point that this morning, I’m having trouble moving more than about an inch at a time, and the waterworks flow like snow melting in spring.

I forget that grief is like this. That it comes in big waves that pound and rip at the shoreline, storms of varying intensity and longevity, before quieting, before receding back once again into the greater, calmer ocean. Either that or I think that surely it’s been long enough, surely two years of its coming and going should have done it, should have rendered me done, healed, should have put me squarely back into the normal category, flung me back into that greater, calmer sea once again. Though in truth, I have nothing to base this idea on, no idea what is “normal” in my situation, if there even is such a thing, which I doubt, because it is nothing if not intensely personal, one-of-a-kind, unique to each and every person that might be experiencing their own something similar.

All I know is that it’s the holiday season again and I miss my home, and being surrounded by family so much that it's overwhelmingly painful. All I know is that right now Sonora feels like the loneliest place on the planet. I know that night feels way, way longer than day. That I feel isolated and thousands of miles away from where I want to be. That I feel way more alone here that I ever did on Moloka’i, that tiny little island in the middle of a huge ocean, even though in reality I am a mere two hour drive away.

All I know is that once again, I question everything, everything, including how in the world I could have made such a wrong turn that landed me so unhappily isolated… though it hits me that maybe, no matter where I am, it’s just that it’s the holidays… and nowhere, nowhere that isn’t our family home, the space that I know and love, that was filled with each other whether we were physically present or not, will ever be enough.

And it’s not even that I am facing the holidays without them, because I’m not. We’ll be in Washington, the girls and I for Thanksgiving, and the four of us for Christmas. And I am so happy about that. But in the past few days, I’ve realized that for me, anyway, the “holidays” incorporate far more than a couple of days. It is the season, that almost mysterious time between now and New Years, when time seems almost to stand still, when the days darken and the sun can no longer keep us warm, that are filled with a strange quality of longing and anticipation; the holiday season that was, I’m realizing more fully than ever now, my favorite time as a family. The tenderness, the coziness, the security of being together, all hunkered down in our cave, preparing for celebration, listening to Johnny Mathis and Perry Como and John Denver, candles burning, cookies baking; shopping together, decorating the tree together, wrapping presents, mailing cards. That time of year that is day by day, moment by moment, warmest, fuzziest, because of family and home.

It shouldn't surprise me, then, to find myself flattened by grief once again. And yet it does. It's the hardest wave I've had in a while. Old traditions have died and been buried and I am grieving them... again, still, and yet again.

It Is All So Effing Relative

2010-11-17T21:51:00.000-08:00

Today I read that 15 percent of US households experienced “food shortage” in 2009. That’s 17 million families, approximately 50 million people, including at least 17 million children. I try to get a grip on the number, but know only that it is staggering. I try for some perspective. I realize it is 13 million more people than live in the entire state of California. So, that would be every person living in the most populous state in our union, plus another 13 million. It’s 15 out of every 100 people, it’s 17 million, 17 million children. And that’s just in our country, the self-proclaimed richest country in the world.

It’s a horrible statistic and reality, one that makes me feel completely helpless, that makes me want to cry, and brings a flood of shame at how I complain about my life. It’s stone cold sobering, and it gives me huge pause. I have no idea how to digest it, much less write about it, much less rectify it with my own life; never mind writing a post about the miseries or revelries, the grief, depression, longings, celebrations, pettiness and pity of said life.

So, I’ll leave it at that. As I lay down to sleep in my comfy bed, in my warm, safe house, with cupboards and belly full of not just food, but good, organic, fresh, healthful food, I’ll think about how completely unfair life is. I’ll imagine what it must be like to live with “food insecurity” (great government term, isn’t it?), how it must feel to go to bed hungry, to get up hungry, to have to find my way to a church or community food bank and hope they’re open and pray they have food, to rock my child, hear her tummy growling, know she’s hungry and in pain, to wonder, to worry, to agonize over where our next food—any food, never mind what I like or prefer, never mind what might be good or healthful, how it might have been grown, what it might have been sprayed with—will come from; and know that I can't begin to imagine it, can't begin to imagine what it must be like to know true hunger, the pain of hunger, the fear of hunger, and not be able to go to the fridge or the pantry or the store; how I can't begin to imagine it when I can't even fathom it... when numbers like that fly beyond me because they are simply so inconceivable.

Fifty million people... and that's just here, in the "great" U S of A. Politics, religion, platforms, ideals, policies, debates aside, it's simply unconscionable. That food, along with air and water, the holy triad of what a body needs to survive, and beyond surviving to thrive, is not an unailiable right in this country that is so proud of its many unailiable, self-evident, natural, and universal rights.

Art Imitating Life... or is it Visa Versa?

2010-11-13T09:22:00.000-08:00

Fall is fully here in Sonora. Nothing near the east coast, but our own little version, with leaves of every color, shape and size (the persimmon is by far my favorite – gorgeous corals and oranges), clear, crisp mornings and nights, and the wonderful smell of wood burning in fireplaces. This week we’ve hit 32 degrees overnight, and I can feel winter closing in. It, too, is in the air, though it’s more subtle and mysterious, difficult to articulate. It's a stillness, a quiet anticipation, almost like earth softening herself, preparing for restful barrenness and sleep.

Surprisingly, on good days, anyway, I find myself really looking forward to a long winter here. On those good days, here is my sense: I am here. It looks like I’ll be here for the winter. Maybe, because I’m here, there really is a reason I am here; maybe my being here, though it looks from pretty much every vantage like a colossal mistake, is somehow part of an invisible rightness, maybe being here is actually perfect… the perfect retreat, all winter, nothing to do but be… in my little cave in the almost mountains. Each day my sense grows stronger that maybe, just maybe hibernating here might be not just good, but very, very good; might in fact, be exactly what I need; the next step in resting, recuperating, renewing… and healing.

Here’s how I envision spending my retreat days:

Writing
Meditating (I’m getting pretty good… over 20 minutes sometimes… it’s a miracle)
Walking
Taking pictures
Doing art (mixed media collage)
Eating fresh, healthy food (part of any good retreat… more on this sometime later)
Sitting on my sofa with my animals staring out into the trees

The desire to create has burned inside me for many (mostly frustrated) years, and I am feeling the heat of that flame again, the hunger to give myself over to creativity. In the creative process, you surrender and let go, go out on a limb, take risks,plummet, soar, expose yourself, lose yourself, find yourself. Lately I have found myself reading inspiring blogs and buying books by amazing creative women. Two weeks ago I moved my dining room table closer to a window and turned it over to art. The table is now strewn with paper, paint, brushes, scissors, the current project. It’s a mess and I love it. I can sit and work as I am moved, with no need to get everything out and clean up each time. A whole room, albeit small, and smack in the middle of my home, not tucked away in some obscure bedroom, dedicated to the messiness, the chaos, of creativity. What freedom. It flaunts convention, and it fills me with a feeling that I can't even find the words to describe, except that there's something about it makes me slightly breathless. What symbolism, art in the center of my home reflecting my deeper desire for it to be the center of my life. And collage seems like the perfect thing right now. Take a piece of this, a scrap of that, throw some paint here, some images there, maybe some words. It’s chaos until something does—or does not—emerge from all the bits and pieces. Just like life. Sometimes a thing of beauty is born and it is joyful, other times it is a hugely sad disappointment, you throw it away or paint over it and begin again. Just like life. It is alive. It is stimulating. It transports. Regardless of outcome, it is always, always about the act; the process, not the product, the journey, not the destination.

Just like life. And don't get me wrong, it is a big process this learning to accept what does or does not emerge, this letting go of or redefining the idea of beauty, of outcome, of identity, of what "should" or "shouldn't" be, to not question, second-guess, judge, critique, evaluate.

Again, just like life.

Which has brought me here. For some mysterious reason that only It knows. With, some would say, have said on more than one occasion, an amazing opportunity. No job, obligations, places to be, things to do, people to take care of. As the seasons turn, I will take my que from them. A time to retreat. A time to be. A time to surrender and let go. A time to create.

As in art, so hopefully, in life.

I always think of spring as the beginning. But in truth, it is winter. Fall marks the dying away, then winter the internal resting; the dark, quiet, solitude, where the decay transforms itself magically into the rich compost necessary for creation, birth and new growth. Without winter, spring could not even be a thought, much less a possibility. I feel myself reveling in the anticipation of this wintertime. The fire is burning, the table set...

Spoiler Alert: It's a Downer

2010-11-10T11:29:00.000-08:00

It poured last night. I used to enjoy few things more than a good soaking until a couple of weeks ago when my roof leaked. Now I watch the gray ceiling and storm clouds approaching with serious butterflies in my stomach.

In all my years, from crappy apartments and duplexes to fairly nice houses, I’ve never had rain water dripping inside my house. It was a gloomy Sunday afternoon, in a place where I know no one except my realtor. It unhinged me in a way that was shocking. I wanted nothing more than to get in my car and head to the safety and security of the Bay. But I couldn't... because my roof was leaking.

I’m back to the love/hate relationship with fall. Driving home from the Bay Area late yesterday afternoon, forgetting about the time change, it was almost dark—and already lonely—when I pulled into my garage. Note to self: Drive home from now on in the middle of the day. I was already in a terrible mood. My women’s group is going shitty. Transference and Projection, the psych 101 twins, have thrown us all back into the chaos, abandonment, abuse and pain of early, early childhood. All of us with our humungous mother wounds practically bleeding on the beige carpet, going for each other’s throats, thinking somehow that will assuage the overwhelming, and I mean overwhelming-I need-to-kill-something pain. This morning it was all I could do to unravel myself from the fetal position I’d spent the night in. Then I pried my swollen eyes open and for the first time in years, turned on Beverly Hills 90210 reruns.

You heard me right. Kelly, Donna, Brandon. Smoldering Dylan. Mr. and Mrs. Walsh. The Beach House.

I started watching the show when my oldest daughter was fifteen and she wanted me to watch it with her. Anything to bond with a teenager. In a few months, she’d grown tired of it and I was hooked. Of course it’s fiction, crap soap opera-ish tv, but I envied them their friendships, their urban family. I still do. Same with Sex and the City. That tight intimacy of I’m-always-there-for-you friends. Their midnight calls to each other, Sunday brunches, the arguments and tear-filled reunions; swimming through the big sea of life. Together

I long for that kind of community. I always have. Though never more than now, when I feel alone and isolated so often. I’ve had quasi-groups. A work community I was never quite a part of. Church groups where I clearly didn’t belong. I tried PTA when my kids were in school. It fit about like a shoe two sizes too small. Even in my spiritual community, I more often feel like an outsider, than one who truly belongs. I read people’s blogs who seem to have everything anyone could want: meaningful work, a family their life revolves around, garden, art, friends, community. A sense--an actual fact of--belonging.

Ugh.

I keep trying to make meaning out of this time in my life. When I face each day as a long highway with no stops, nothing to do, see, accomplish. Nowhere to be. No one in the car for the journey. I keep thinking there must be some reason why now, at a time when one would think I’d need it most, I am so un-peopled.

Nothing to do, but be. A serious spiritual opportunity here, I know. And I do better with it some days than others. Some days, I welcome it. Some days I nearly throw my arms around it, pull it to me, and embrace it. It's just that today isn't one of those days.

Tenderness

2010-11-07T21:49:00.001-08:00

Ever since I wrote the word in my last post, I can't get it off my mind. It is with me constantly, like the invisible presence of a new love, and like a new love, it's opened something in me.

When I think of tenderness, I think of babies, puppies, daughters, the delicate sprout of a tiny seedling folding itself out of the brown earth; things that are new, helpless, sweet; things and beings that are pure and untarnished; that are vulnerable, and need warmth, care, and nurturing to thrive and grow.

It never dawned on me what an amazing act it would be to be tender toward oneself. Even though I've bandied the idea of self-love about with the best of them, until recently, until the word tenderness became my new and constant companion, it was always a concept from the head rather than a knowing of the heart. It started a few weeks ago when the idea of radical self-acceptance dawned on me, self-acceptance toward all the things in me and about me that are flawed and imperfect, that make me wholly human, that might be hard sometimes to be around, that I've been shamed for, that I've been ashamed of. And it was huge, this bright new notion, like the shifting of earth's tectonic plates, and it opened a new doorway, and in the past few days something has been melting, and tenderness has flowed in and out through that passage, and with tenderness, automatically streams its counterparts, love and compassion and kindheartedness, and they are all glowing in me, like a soft yellow lamp on a gray winter's day.

Tenderness. How fascinating that it refers to both the hurting and the healing. These places in me have been tender; raw and painful, an achy, bruised, chronic tenderness. And now tenderness comes along... and wraps the vulnerable, innocent one in its loving, caring, affectionate tender arms.

Wow.

Changing Course

2010-11-06T09:43:00.000-07:00

Is it just me, or does NaBloPoMo suck? I have to say, here at Day 6, I’m not bowled over. The writing is not doing it for me. Rather than arising from some spontaneous and true wellspring inside, it feels forced, unnatural, coerced. When I sit, I wonder what I’m going to write about, instead of going effortlessly with whatever’s on my plate; what’s on my mind. Everyday it feels like efforting; like a big pressure, a cloud over the day, and not the joyful thing that I had hoped for.

So…

Sitting here this morning, listening to that one dang bird—when I feel like I could really use the cacophony—I am wondering… I am wondering if just like in photography, there isn’t a particular style, a specific, distinct way (which includes timing), that I alone am supposed to write. It’s a rhetorical question, of course. I know that over the year and a half I’ve been writing this blog, I have found that; over the course I have discovered and tapped into my own unique mode and rhythm of expression. And finding it, exploring it, practicing it, putting myself out there in it, has been as satisfying as it has been exhilarating.

So…

With the blessings (urgings, actually) of my writing coach and mentor (my wise-beyond-her-years-writer daughter who has so had my back year after year on this writing path), I am officially giving up NaBloPoMo. Already, on Day 6, there has been great seeing and learning. If I were involved in a big writing project, that would be one thing. If I were writing a piece of fiction, or a memoir (which I would still love to do someday… I’ll just put that out there…), a singular entity that requires continuous nurturing, that would be different. And in that case, in my opinion, as much as possible, it simply must be done every day. But for this particular kind of writing, for the purpose that this blog serves, knowing my style and cadence, doing it every day does not work.

I do know what drew me to it. In my depression, I was not writing as much or as often as I wanted, and I wanted to light the fire under myself so to speak. So, as is also in my “style,” I went straight for the hatchet. Not writing enough?? Then you’ll write every single day, by golly. Well intentioned, but a bit ludicrous when seen from some perspective. In my life, baby steps have never really been my MO, though I am learning. A really nice baby step—in fact a very sane approach—would have been to pick two days a week and commit to posting on those days.

So…

That is my new pledge. To post a minimum of two days a week. More, if the urge authentically hits, if there’s more that is bubbling to the surface. But not less. And because I am taking baby steps trying to get more discipline in my life, I will pick two days, say Wednesday and Saturday, that I will post. Ah, today is Saturday. Perfect.

This feels so good. In fact, the breath that I didn't know I'd been holding all week, just let itself out. It feels gentle and nurturing. And at the same time, there is still the intention and the commitment around that intention that I will hold myself to. It is good to meet myself with tenderness, to be able to be graciously open to changing my mind, to letting myself off the hook that I see already isn't serving. It is liberating, to hoist the sail mid journey and to change course, with the wind solidly at my back now, rather than struggling daily against it.

Photography My Way

2010-11-05T17:07:00.000-07:00

New Books~
Expressive Photography: The Shutter Sisters' Guide to Shooting from the Heart

inner EXCAVATION: Explore Your Self Through Photography, Poetry, and Mixed Media

I got these two books in the mail today and I am so excited. Many times I've tried reading books about photography, and I've never gotten past page one. Most of them out there are dry and technical and scientific. Which, on one hand, photography is. But it's also unquestionably so much more. And here are two books--whose type I didn't even know existed, that I didn't know I was looking for until I found them--that spoke to that so much more. Taking them out of the box, flipping through them, I could feel the energy of excitement and knowing and recognition moving through my body.

I ran across The Shutter Sisters Blog by happy accident one day and felt immediately as though I'd arrived exactly where I belonged. Here's part of what I read about their philosophy:

Shutter Sisters is committed to honoring and celebrating the beauty that women behind cameras can capture. We embrace the belief that we are all creative equals, eager to share with one another our work; our art. It is in that sharing that we thrive and grow not only in our creativity but in all facets of our lives... . A great image is a great image whether it happened by beautiful mistake or meticulous calculation.

Most of the pictures that I take that I end up really loving belong more in the happy accident category. I don't seem to have the capacity, the knowledge, the patience, the whatever, that is needed to meticulously set up a shot. I know that about myself. I know that I'd rather take two or three hundred shots and hope for a few exciting ones (thank goodness for digital...) than to take the same amount of time to set up the shots and take just a few. Not only that, I don't think I'd even know how. And, because of that, sadly, I've been under the assumption that because I don't do it "properly," I would never be very successful. Yet now, here is a blog and a book, with contributors that are both professional and amateur photographers, that tell me otherwise, that honor that there are different ways of accomplishing the same thing, and that there is no one way that fits everyone.

Yipee.

For me, there is a thrill to just shooting that would be lost if I took a more scientific approach. It works for me. It excites me no end to come home after shooting and have so many pictures to go through. It's just how I do things. When gardening, there was never a master plan, as is suggested by all the books out there. I just started someplace and it grew and evolved from there. Same with decorating, with road trips, with so much of what I do.

It doesn't mean that I don't have a shitload to learn. It doesn't mean that I don't crave growth and transformation as a photographer. I want to learn more about light and meters and filters and tripods. I want to experiment with composition, be more creative, step more outside the box. There is so much on the technical side that I need and want to learn. And slowly, it is happening. In my way, in my time. But even more than technical knowledge, I want to discover and then develop my own unique style, and beyond that, to learn and practice the art of photographing from the heart.

I can't wait to get going...

Oh, and p.s. I've created a new blog, Snapshots From the Moment, for my photography. My goal, eventually, is to post a picture a day, and maybe to write about the learning and the experience of taking pictures. To visit the site, click below.

Visit my new blog here!

See you tomorrow.

Who Do You Miss?

2010-11-04T17:27:00.000-07:00

Back in Sonora, looking out my big picture window, I see how every few minutes, a subtle breeze comes through and blows dozens of tiny oak leaves from the tree across the street, and they fall like a graceful curtain of gold snowflakes to the ground. Watching it, I imagine what it will be like when snow falls here in the winter. It’s a primary reason I moved up here, the idea of snow, just enough to enjoy the experience, not enough to impact my daily life. Growing up in the Bay Area, snow is not an experience I’ve ever had. Yet I can easily picture it: Sitting with a fire in my big gas fireplace, a soft blanket covering me, dog's warm body on one side of me, cat's on the other, drinking a cup of hot tea, writing or reading a book, plump crystalline flakes falling magically from a gray sky.

As soon as that tinge of crisp edge hits the air, I anticipate fall and winter. It happens every year automatically, my cells light up, and I am like a naive kid looking forward to so much. I’m sure I’ve written about all that I love: the leaves, the cooler weather, the warmer clothes, the coziness of hunkering down, the rain, the first storms, holidays—forgetting each year, with near total amnesia, that the season also brings its shadow side: darkness, and its emotional counterparts: losses, memories, melancholy, missing, grief.

I was reading some prompts on the NaBloPoMo site and one caught my attention: who do you miss, it asked. Who do I miss? I didn’t have to think, because the answer came instantaneously. I miss my friend Tanya. Maybe because it’s fall, and I have so many fall memories that have to do with her. Halloweens together. Fall Festivals. Holiday boutique-ing. How we used to drop our kids off the first day of school in early September, autumn already in the air those early mornings, then we’d head to the local café for breakfast. Every year for years it was our tradition. Summer with the kids was over, routine was back, and we’d have a morning to ourselves--finally--once again. We’d spend hours over our food and talk and laugh and enjoy each other’s company like really good friends are supposed to.

We met when her oldest and my youngest started kindergarten, and our friendship lasted fifteen years. There aren’t many people in my life now or ever that I remember the first time I ever saw. But I remember her. There she was outside the classroom door, much younger than I, cute, perky, waving goodbye to one kid, pushing the other in a stroller, electric blue eyes, a lovable, insecure smile, and a rare and engaging sweetness. We gravitated toward each other, and our friendship grew until we were almost inseparable; No one made me laugh like she did. Few people forged their way into my heart the way she did. No one was easier for me to be with, talk to. The boundary between us melted away, we saw each other daily, and talked on the phone at least once a day. There was little, if anything, that we didn't and couldn't talk about. We were there for each other,through good times and through hard times, as our families evolved, as our kids grew and changed, as we grew and changed; until, I guess, one change too many, our friendship suffered, and over the course of about a year, it cracked, crumbled, and finally broke for good.

It's been years but I still think of her more often than I ever thought I would. Mostly when the season turns, the days shorten and grow cooler, life turns more inward. The beauty and the melancholy of fall. Two edges of the same sword. Two sides of the same coin. The leaves at their most stunning just before they die.

I could wax philosophical. I could talk about how people come into our lives at certain times, for certain purposes. How few people hop aboard for the long haul, most for a chapter or two. How to everything there is, as they say, a season. And it's all true. And she was in my life for a big and important chapter; a long, enduring season; she was a huge and wonderful part of my life. And... I miss her. Always, but most poignantly, in fall.

Time to Celebrate

2010-11-03T17:32:00.000-07:00

Aubrey Huff and his rally thong! ~From Yahoo

I am way too tired to write. I got up at 6:45 to take BART into San Francisco for the World's Series Champion Giant's parade and ceremony. Me, my sister and her boyfriend, my aunt and uncle, and hundreds of thousands of others. A crowd estimated to be the largest ever in San Francisco's history.

BART was overwhelmed. The line snaked all the way out the station, down the walkway, and into the parking lot, with people waiting over an hour just to buy a ticket. We gaped at the line, and headed to Safeway, bought our tickets there, and were back at the station in about 10 minutes, where we boarded a train immediately and were on our way.

I've never been in the midst of so many people in my life. Not in Times Square, not walking the SF Bay to Breakers, not ever. So many that seeing anything beyond the people in front of us was not possible. So many that when one moved, everyone moved, like a big wave in the ocean. So many that if you stopped to think about it, it could actually be frightening.

But I didn't stop to think about it. I didn't think beyond the fun, the excitement, the festive feeling. We walked, we stood for hours, we caught the tiniest glimpses of our heroes. We screamed, we waved, we whistled. We were mobbed, cramped, pushed, shoved, jostled. It was long, hot, exhausting. And... I would do it again in a heartbeat. At a time when there is so much that is difficult, sad, disheartening, wrong, unfair, painful on our personal and collective plates, it was nice to take the time and make the effort to share the love; to support this team that has brought San Francisco its first ever World Series title; to be part of the party, to be with so many other people, across every imaginable spectrum, with one goal in mind: to savor, enjoy, and celebrate; and to thank the team that showed us that dreams can, indeed, come true.

Giant's President, Larry Baer, said it best, "The triumph of this team allows us to flash back and connect to our past, to experience the beauty of our memories and shared experiences with unbridled joy."

As they say in the church of baseball, amen.

WE WON!!!

2010-11-02T07:17:00.000-07:00

Well, the Giants are making my first few days of posting easy. I promise, after I attend the parade downtown tomorrow, that I will get on with the more "serious" business of life and blogging!

But for now...

the nail biting, the hair pulling, the high blood pressure, the serious anxiety, is over, and torture has turned to rapture. That incredible moment, with the last out, players running from the outfield, pouring from the dugout, coming together near the mound, high-fiving, fists pumping, huge hugs, rolling around on the ground, jumping into each others' arms, until finally coming together in one large, coalesced, gyrating circle of ecstatic celebration. Their reaction, and the look on their faces will stay with me for a long, long time. Shock, surprise, awe, and then the pure, unadulterated joy. A personal height few of us will ever experience. And on my face, the smile stayed until my jaws hurt, and I stayed up way too late because I wanted to watch every interview, hear every word about what the experience was like for each and every one of them.

This team has captured a city's heart. My daughter, who lives in San Francisco, was telling me during the series that she was amazed by the vibe. She was loving how strangers were talking to each other, how nice people were to each other. She said it reminded her of how people react when something bad happens, how the energy changes, the illusion of separation is erased, and there is a new-found sense of being united. How great it’s been, she said, to walk around without that wall that generally separates the million plus that live in the big city.

I love that baseball is non-contact and non-violent. I love that it is a “thinking man’s” (and woman’s!) game. I love that there is so much history and lore, such romanticism attached to it. I love the anticipation of each pitch. I love all the sensory experiences of the ballpark; the sound of bat on ball, ball on glove, the ump calling balls and strikes, vendors hawking peanuts and cotton candy, the roar of the crowd. The smell of popcorn, hotdogs, garlic fries, beer. The sight of a ballpark at night, with the diamond, the grass, the stadium, the seagulls, all shimmering under the bright lights. The feel of the bay breeze, and the cool San Francisco fog on your face.

And last, I love that baseball is/was maybe the only positive connection between my dad and I. He loved the game, he taught me about the game, he took me to the ballpark, and passed his passion for the game on to me. For most of my life, he was an angry, bitter, confused, toxic alcoholic. Most of my memories of him are painful. But not baseball. And I’m not at all sure I would have come to the game any other way.

I am reveling in this time, and there is a heightened appreciation of just how special it is. Time and again I’ve heard this sentiment, from players, broadcasters, sports-talkers, fans: Savor this. It is a rare gem. It is a gift. It is incredible. Enjoy it, savor it. And to be basking in such positive, joyful collective energy is also an incredible gift.

To a man, from Bruce Bochy, the manager, on down, I LOVE these guys. So many amazing stories. Such fun personalities. So much exhuberation and an amazing collective effort. I am proud of them. I am grateful to them.

Congratulations!! Way to go, 2010 World Champion Giants!!

Thank you, thank you, thank you!!

.

Here We Go... One Day Word at a Time

2010-11-01T21:18:00.000-07:00

Well, I couldn't help myself. Shamelessly starting this post off with my team's logo. And why not... they've now won three out of seven, and with one more win (in three more tries), we'll--okay they'll--be World Champions.

Though not to get ahead... as they say, anything can happen in baseball. As they say, it's one day--one game--at a time.

* * * * *

I now have an "I am a member of NaBloPoMo" badge front and center on my blog. It looks so official. And intimidating... It means I have to write. If I skip even one day, I can no longer be officially participating. For the past few days, I've felt like a cornered, trapped animal, acitively wondering why in the world I publicly made this commitment, how I can possibly do this; essentially making a very big psychological mountain out of a molehill. It's writing for goodness sakes. Something I really love doing. Something I want to do more of! It's not like I promised to run five miles a day for thirty days, it's not like I promised not to swear, or always drive the speed limit, or keep my kitchen clean... you know, the really challenging things. Still, if I think about it too hard... my god, thirty posts in thirty days... yikes.

Though last night, watching my much-loved team, with their can-do attitude as responsible as anything for their success, I felt something shift. Sitting poised at the starting gate, I began to sense possibility. I began to taste a wee bit of excitement; I felt some wonder, about the empty slate of these next thirty days; curiosity about words and pages and posts... and just where this month might take me.

Hmm... excitment, wonder, curiosity, possibility...

I tell the women in my writing groups that when we write, it's like getting on a train whose destination is a mystery. Our job is merely, simply, to hop on... Beyond that, if we're lucky, we are given over completely to the ride; thought stops, everything around us fades, words are scrawled onto paper. Beyond that, if we are lucky, we stop worrying about destination and surrender to the thrill of it. I tell them to trust their pens, trust their words, their hearts, themselves; trust whatever it is that wants to be written, wherever it is their words take them.

One day at a time. The Twelve-Step mantra. Also the ballplayers, in their own words these past few days and weeks, not thinking about winning the series, but focusing instead on playing one game at a time. I will take my cue from them. I will forget about the bigger picture, the intimidating one wherein I am supposed to write and publish a post a day for the next month. Instead it will be about today... Today I will write. Today. I will only think about tomorrow when it becomes today, and not before.

In fact, beyond that, and in the spirit of mindfulness, I will only think about the day's writing when I'm actually sitting down and doing it. Not just one day at a time. But one word at a time. Each day I will hop aboard that train, destination unknown, and give myself over to words. It's the heart and soul of the creative process. It's what I love about the prcoess. It's what I love about writing.

It's what I LOVE about writing.

Yipee, the wheels are moving and I'm on the way!

See you tomorrow... oh, yeah, and GO GIANTS!

Preparation

2010-10-30T12:31:00.000-07:00

November 1 is looming. Two more days until I begin—anew—my quest to make 30 posts in 30 days. In preparation, I am now officially a member of NaBloPoMo. I’m not sure what that means or how it all works, but I have a few days to figure it out.

I’m nervous. Just writing this post, I feel how shallow my breath has become with the anxiety of it. What in hell’s name will I write about each day? Most days the well seems dry as a bone. But then, that’s the idea, isn’t it? Wetting the whistle. Priming the pump. Getting it going so that it has a chance to start flowing. Living.

I know I’m afraid of boring my “readers.” Ugh… reminding myself again and again and again that it’s not about it being read. It’s not about impressing or entertaining or intriguing anyone. Maybe what I’m really afraid of is boring myself. Cuz if I’m bored, then what hope is there? And yet. I remember when writing my novel. Some days it energized me, some days it moved me to tears, other days it bored me practically to sleep. Maybe that’s just how it is; maybe it’s all part of the process. Some days I’d write awful, terrible, truly shitty drivel for hours and then suddenly, without warning, wham, with one sentence I’d hit the vein and it would gush. It was like I'd written all those hours to get to that place; a place that couldn't have gotten to otherwise. All part of the creative process. It’s not a mystery or rocket science. It’s pretty simple, really.

Just do it.

And yes, I see the correlation... (I hear my friend Linda whispering in my ear)... perhaps the creative art process is no different than the life process. That each day we live brings us to the next and the next and the next. Of course. It's obvious. But looking deeper, at this time in my life, with the inertia, the day in and day out seeming absence of meaning, life, purpose (think boring words for hours and hours), that it's possible, even probable, maybe even assured, that this is living me to the next day, the next thing, to that one sentence that sets it on fire, changes the course, renews, transforms, and brings a new level of living.

Just do it.

So, starting on Monday, I’ll just be doing it. Writing every day. Posting something every single day.

See you then.