Yesterday was my birthday…59. I got lots of emails and calls and balloons. My son and his father came over with cake and cards. It was really a wonderful day.
Then my son’s dad told me that he got the eviction notice and has to vacate our (my former) home in 5 days.
Now, this has been a long time coming, and we both knew it was going to happen sooner rather than later.
However, the news of it…
With the exception of our son, our home is one of two crucial physical components that are keeping us in relationship. It is a powerful symbol of our coming together in partnership… our names side by side on paper. Our official sanctioned relationship.
When I left two years, three months, and thirteen days ago, I told my son’s dad that I was not closing the door to having a relationship with him, but I was closing the door to the relationship that we had created. To be completely honest, we decided that even though I would be physically leaving the relationship, our intention was to get back together (after we had worked out our crap).
In my mind, it was simple:
1. Work out crap
2. Move back home
3. Get my family back
Now, there’s not going to be a home to move back into. Maybe there isn’t a relationship to move back into either.
And maybe that is the best thing that can happen at this point. Could I really move back into that house and not see the ghosts of our former selves all over the place? Could I really move back into relationship and not just pick up my former self where I left off?
I honest to God don’t know.
What I do know is that I have allowed this turn of events take the wind out of my sails and deflate me like one of my birthday balloons.
I can barely keep my eyes open. I am, all of a sudden, seriously exhausted, so I am going to go close my eyes. Just for a while.
I promise; I will look at reality after my nap.
Friday, May 21, 2010
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Heavy Hearted Woman
This blogging thing…I highly recommend it.
I realized yesterday that I have blogged, on at least three occasions, about my experiences in the 6th grade (sharing my secrets with my best friend, the group weigh in, and discovering college). I began asking myself, “Is there something else especially significant about my life at 12 years of age?”
As I sat trying to contact this part of me, I recalled a memory of being in my bedroom at my parent’s home. I was 35, on vacation for a few weeks, and it was raining so I decided to go through my dresser drawers to see what was in them. I used to do that periodically because it seemed that I always found something about myself that I had forgotten, and I got a strange sense of comfort rediscovering and holding items from my childhood (I used to go through the attic periodically too, especially when it rained).
In this day of the omnipresent computer, does anyone else remember typing on a Royal Electric Typewriter with a replaceable ribbon where we actually had to listen for the “ding” and press a RETURN button or the text would go off the page? In any event, I found a letter/essay/journal page that I had written to myself on the thin onion skin paper with the pink margins that we used with those dinosaur Royals. Written on this paper, in great detail, was The Story of Me as a Successful Actress. The day I rediscovered that dream page (and still to this day), I had absolutely no recollection of writing it. I do remember looking at the date after I read it.
I was 12.
When I was growing up, the roles my brothers and I were given were very specific and well defined. No cross-pollination allowed. My older brother was the “Handsome Athlete,” a very gifted baseball player (among other sports). He constantly received well-deserved accolades for his athletic prowess and compliments for his rugged good looks. My younger brother was the “Cute Gifted Entertainer.” He was adorable, funny and social, a natural actor (he played Shakespeare’s Scottish King in the 5th grade) and comedian. I was the “Book Smart” one. I worked very hard in school and thrived on escape through books.
The day I found my actress letter, I had just completed a well respected and intensive 6 week summer actor’s training program for Deaf professional actors at the National Theatre of the Deaf. That spring, I had completed my Master’s work in psychology and a very intense 12 month Psychodrama training program in Washington, D.C. My intention when I started the acting program was to learn more about drama, so I could be a more skilled Psychodramatist and all around better therapist.
My intention when I left the program 6 weeks later was to become an actress.
So here I am at my family’s home after my first foray into acting, and I found this letter that has been sitting in my dresser drawer for 23 years. And yet, I never noticed it…until today.
WOO-WOO. Right?
At 12, I still had a conscious desire to express myself as a performer. That little girl dream didn’t really die when I left that ballet class at 8 years old. It was still there in my heart.
But my brain must have refused to listen. Maybe it didn’t feel that performance was my thing. After all, that was my younger brother’s territory. And, I was very much ensconced in accepting the role given to me: The Good Student, The High Academic Achiever, The Teacher. Also, I wanted out and maybe I saw this as the most sensible and achievable route. Maybe I still felt bad about myself for leaving that dance class. Who knows??
For whatever stinkin’ reason, at twelve years of age, I made the decision that the only way out was academically. I did not know (as I have talked about ad nauseum in this blog) I had other talents and gifts wanting to be released.
WOW.
My 12 year old was gracious enough to come to me this morning. It felt wonderful to connect our breath and our hearts. My heart, a bit older and hopefully wiser, and hers carrying a faint but persistent downward pull. It's the exact same feeling I get every time I watch GLEE and SO YOU THINK YOU CAN DANCE.
And my 12 year feels just awful about it. She asked for my forgiveness this morning. Isn’t that just like a child to take on the blame? I reminded her that I did pick up acting at 35 and even went to school to get an MFA at 46. I have been lucky enough to do quite a bit of stage work in L.A., and I have done film and television. And I’m not done. I know I will do more.
I even re-introduced her to our 8 year old singer/dancer. They’re in a deep discussion right now trying to figure out a way to get us cast in one of the song and dance numbers on GLEE.
I realized yesterday that I have blogged, on at least three occasions, about my experiences in the 6th grade (sharing my secrets with my best friend, the group weigh in, and discovering college). I began asking myself, “Is there something else especially significant about my life at 12 years of age?”
As I sat trying to contact this part of me, I recalled a memory of being in my bedroom at my parent’s home. I was 35, on vacation for a few weeks, and it was raining so I decided to go through my dresser drawers to see what was in them. I used to do that periodically because it seemed that I always found something about myself that I had forgotten, and I got a strange sense of comfort rediscovering and holding items from my childhood (I used to go through the attic periodically too, especially when it rained).
In this day of the omnipresent computer, does anyone else remember typing on a Royal Electric Typewriter with a replaceable ribbon where we actually had to listen for the “ding” and press a RETURN button or the text would go off the page? In any event, I found a letter/essay/journal page that I had written to myself on the thin onion skin paper with the pink margins that we used with those dinosaur Royals. Written on this paper, in great detail, was The Story of Me as a Successful Actress. The day I rediscovered that dream page (and still to this day), I had absolutely no recollection of writing it. I do remember looking at the date after I read it.
I was 12.
When I was growing up, the roles my brothers and I were given were very specific and well defined. No cross-pollination allowed. My older brother was the “Handsome Athlete,” a very gifted baseball player (among other sports). He constantly received well-deserved accolades for his athletic prowess and compliments for his rugged good looks. My younger brother was the “Cute Gifted Entertainer.” He was adorable, funny and social, a natural actor (he played Shakespeare’s Scottish King in the 5th grade) and comedian. I was the “Book Smart” one. I worked very hard in school and thrived on escape through books.
The day I found my actress letter, I had just completed a well respected and intensive 6 week summer actor’s training program for Deaf professional actors at the National Theatre of the Deaf. That spring, I had completed my Master’s work in psychology and a very intense 12 month Psychodrama training program in Washington, D.C. My intention when I started the acting program was to learn more about drama, so I could be a more skilled Psychodramatist and all around better therapist.
My intention when I left the program 6 weeks later was to become an actress.
So here I am at my family’s home after my first foray into acting, and I found this letter that has been sitting in my dresser drawer for 23 years. And yet, I never noticed it…until today.
WOO-WOO. Right?
At 12, I still had a conscious desire to express myself as a performer. That little girl dream didn’t really die when I left that ballet class at 8 years old. It was still there in my heart.
But my brain must have refused to listen. Maybe it didn’t feel that performance was my thing. After all, that was my younger brother’s territory. And, I was very much ensconced in accepting the role given to me: The Good Student, The High Academic Achiever, The Teacher. Also, I wanted out and maybe I saw this as the most sensible and achievable route. Maybe I still felt bad about myself for leaving that dance class. Who knows??
For whatever stinkin’ reason, at twelve years of age, I made the decision that the only way out was academically. I did not know (as I have talked about ad nauseum in this blog) I had other talents and gifts wanting to be released.
WOW.
My 12 year old was gracious enough to come to me this morning. It felt wonderful to connect our breath and our hearts. My heart, a bit older and hopefully wiser, and hers carrying a faint but persistent downward pull. It's the exact same feeling I get every time I watch GLEE and SO YOU THINK YOU CAN DANCE.
And my 12 year feels just awful about it. She asked for my forgiveness this morning. Isn’t that just like a child to take on the blame? I reminded her that I did pick up acting at 35 and even went to school to get an MFA at 46. I have been lucky enough to do quite a bit of stage work in L.A., and I have done film and television. And I’m not done. I know I will do more.
I even re-introduced her to our 8 year old singer/dancer. They’re in a deep discussion right now trying to figure out a way to get us cast in one of the song and dance numbers on GLEE.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
So You Think You Can…WHAT!?
I hate watching the television programs GLEE and SO YOU THINK YOU CAN DANCE, yet when they are on, I somehow find myself in front of the tv.
Exactly where I need to be.
I love the energy of GLEE. It’s like watching a piece of musical theatre every week (Did you see the take-off of Madonna’s song, Vogue? Hilarious! Youtube it).
I love the sheer beauty of SO YOU THINK YOU CAN DANCE. The way those young dancers move their bodies in partnership with each other and the music moves me to tears on a weekly basis.
I hate those stinkin’ shows, and I love them. I laugh, and I cry with each viewing because the fun and beauty fill me with joy while the ache they generate inside makes me sad (because I am not a part of it).
I ache for that little girl who gave up her joy of dancing and singing because she felt fat, ugly, and untalented, like she didn’t belong there, and, worse, that she never would.
I gave up on a little girl dream that I did not even realize I had.
Growing up, I felt the same way I did in my typically too small clothes…constricted. I wanted to see and experience more. When I was in the 6th grade, I discovered this thing called “college.” It immediately became my ticket out, and I worked very hard for the next six years to board that train to a bigger more exciting life.
I lived with blinders on. I was purposeful and charged up by higher education to be sure. It “turned me on” as we used to say in the day, but I denied huge parts of myself to stay on that train.
My son’s father is an extremely gifted musician and composer. Honest to God, he sits at his piano and He (God that is) comes out of his hands. I left that relationship after 25 years because I refused to continue to carry the burden of providing for the family. I admit; my own insecurities fueled most of my over-responsibility, but I also did it because I believed (and still do) in my son’s dad’s off-the-charts talents.
I eventually started to resent that he was unable to make any kind of living and pretty much refused to “find a real job.” I, on the other hand, would have thrown my dreams away in a New York minute (because I had had such good practice) in order to put my own dreams on the back burner and go clean toilets if necessary.
He refused to do that.
It pissed me off big time because he was not contributing his share to the relationship and our little family (which was partially his responsibility after all).
And it pissed me off that I so easily assumed more than my share.
It further pissed me was that he actually had the integrity, the intention, and the sheer stubbornness to pursue his calling no matter what.
But what really pissed me off the most was that I had to admit that I admired the sheer ferocity of his commitment.
And I didn’t have the kind of ferocity, or couldn’t find it, or was afraid to look for it.
We made an interesting pair.
I was obsessed with sacrificing my own desires and needs for acknowledgment as pretty and talented and deserving enough to belong in this song and dance troop called life. I did it through 3 Master’s degrees, multiple jobs (at the same time), and taking care of everyone and everything. I, and I alone, held the family afloat. Applause please.
And he was obsessed with sacrificing his marriage and his son in service to his single minded determination to silence his demons. He did it through creating amazingly beautiful, rich, and soul-resonating music. Applause please.
On the surface we both thought that we were “doing the right thing” for ourselves and our family. After all, we were both fully engaging our God given talents, skills, capacities, and qualities.
But the thing is, it wasn’t necessarily about what choices we made, it was about why we made those choices. It wasn’t about what we did, it was about where we were centered in ourselves when we decided to do it.
We were living out of fear and I am convinced that is the reason that we, individually and as a couple, crashed and burned. Our full out embracing of who we were came from an effort to keep our worst fears about ourselves at bay.
Neither of us made heart/soul decisions to release, without agenda or result, a beautiful contribution to the evolution of the world.
So what does this mean for me now? I am going to be 59 in two days and, once in a while, I admit, I fall into that cultural idea of being too old to pursue my dreams.
However, when I am centered in my heart of hearts I have the courage to share with you that my 8 year old and I are currently WOWING them on the Salsa dance floor… and singing lessons are not far behind.
So I think I can…WHAT!?
So I know I can…well, do just about anything that calls to my heart and soul…that’s WHAT.
Exactly where I need to be.
I love the energy of GLEE. It’s like watching a piece of musical theatre every week (Did you see the take-off of Madonna’s song, Vogue? Hilarious! Youtube it).
I love the sheer beauty of SO YOU THINK YOU CAN DANCE. The way those young dancers move their bodies in partnership with each other and the music moves me to tears on a weekly basis.
I hate those stinkin’ shows, and I love them. I laugh, and I cry with each viewing because the fun and beauty fill me with joy while the ache they generate inside makes me sad (because I am not a part of it).
I ache for that little girl who gave up her joy of dancing and singing because she felt fat, ugly, and untalented, like she didn’t belong there, and, worse, that she never would.
I gave up on a little girl dream that I did not even realize I had.
Growing up, I felt the same way I did in my typically too small clothes…constricted. I wanted to see and experience more. When I was in the 6th grade, I discovered this thing called “college.” It immediately became my ticket out, and I worked very hard for the next six years to board that train to a bigger more exciting life.
I lived with blinders on. I was purposeful and charged up by higher education to be sure. It “turned me on” as we used to say in the day, but I denied huge parts of myself to stay on that train.
My son’s father is an extremely gifted musician and composer. Honest to God, he sits at his piano and He (God that is) comes out of his hands. I left that relationship after 25 years because I refused to continue to carry the burden of providing for the family. I admit; my own insecurities fueled most of my over-responsibility, but I also did it because I believed (and still do) in my son’s dad’s off-the-charts talents.
I eventually started to resent that he was unable to make any kind of living and pretty much refused to “find a real job.” I, on the other hand, would have thrown my dreams away in a New York minute (because I had had such good practice) in order to put my own dreams on the back burner and go clean toilets if necessary.
He refused to do that.
It pissed me off big time because he was not contributing his share to the relationship and our little family (which was partially his responsibility after all).
And it pissed me off that I so easily assumed more than my share.
It further pissed me was that he actually had the integrity, the intention, and the sheer stubbornness to pursue his calling no matter what.
But what really pissed me off the most was that I had to admit that I admired the sheer ferocity of his commitment.
And I didn’t have the kind of ferocity, or couldn’t find it, or was afraid to look for it.
We made an interesting pair.
I was obsessed with sacrificing my own desires and needs for acknowledgment as pretty and talented and deserving enough to belong in this song and dance troop called life. I did it through 3 Master’s degrees, multiple jobs (at the same time), and taking care of everyone and everything. I, and I alone, held the family afloat. Applause please.
And he was obsessed with sacrificing his marriage and his son in service to his single minded determination to silence his demons. He did it through creating amazingly beautiful, rich, and soul-resonating music. Applause please.
On the surface we both thought that we were “doing the right thing” for ourselves and our family. After all, we were both fully engaging our God given talents, skills, capacities, and qualities.
But the thing is, it wasn’t necessarily about what choices we made, it was about why we made those choices. It wasn’t about what we did, it was about where we were centered in ourselves when we decided to do it.
We were living out of fear and I am convinced that is the reason that we, individually and as a couple, crashed and burned. Our full out embracing of who we were came from an effort to keep our worst fears about ourselves at bay.
Neither of us made heart/soul decisions to release, without agenda or result, a beautiful contribution to the evolution of the world.
So what does this mean for me now? I am going to be 59 in two days and, once in a while, I admit, I fall into that cultural idea of being too old to pursue my dreams.
However, when I am centered in my heart of hearts I have the courage to share with you that my 8 year old and I are currently WOWING them on the Salsa dance floor… and singing lessons are not far behind.
So I think I can…WHAT!?
So I know I can…well, do just about anything that calls to my heart and soul…that’s WHAT.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
All Hell Breaking Loose
Do you think your ideas about the desires you have for your life are grandiose? If so, are you able to shut down that kind of thinking? I think my ideas are grandiose but, honestly, I can’t stop them (and don’t know if I want to).
I believe I am here for a bigger calling than I am currently pursuing. No, I don’t have a clear idea what that calling is. No, I don’t know what it will mean for my life. Yes, I know that if I step into it, it’s almost guaranteed that, for a while, it’s gonna feel like all hell breaking loose. I can accept that.
Because I realize that, maybe, just maybe, all hell breaking loose is exactly what has to happen to birth a life of Heaven on Earth.
It is the ferocity that will be required of me to fully commit to that first step into a bigger life that feels like hell.
Because of what it may mean.
Please hear me out on this one. I am processing as I go.
I am willing (I think) to let go of the small insulated idea I now call my life. I am willing to see where my calling takes me. What I am not willing to do is follow a calling that could potentially hurt, harm or endanger my son in any way.
But how can I be sure that my life isn’t causing him harm or hurt now?
If I really let go of my life to see what else is there for me, I won’t have control of what is going to come in to push me or lead me or cajole me into a bigger space, a larger life context, a potentially impactful place to cause the uplift of the consciousness of humanity.
But do I have control now? No. I just pretend I do by keeping my life small.
And isn’t living a bigger life why I started this blog? Just read the column over there to the right. I wrote that intention. I’m pretty sure I was awake when I did it.
I SAY I want to uplift the consciousness of humanity but am I really willing to let go of my life (which at the moment includes my son) and actually DO it?????
Or am I just a big fat blowhard?
Or maybe I should wait until he graduates from high school? (that gives me another year to put off making a decision)
I have made some big changes in my life in the past nine months as has each and every one of the women who are with me in this work. The results of clearing out my own obstacles to uplift my little life have been joyful. Yes. But I experienced great pain to get to the other side. It was all worth it, and I think, in the end, my work benefited the lives of those around me too.
However, if I am totally committed to accepting a larger (ok a HUGE) life mantel, what kind (and how much) of my own still lying-inside-waiting-to-attack dormant crap is left for me to deal with? How much more am I going to upset my own apple cart?
But, more importantly for me right now, how much of my son’s apple cart will I be upsetting?
Am I being grandiose again by thinking I have that much influence on my son’s life?
Or am I just using my son as an excuse to step away from a life that could really mean something…to me.
The only thing I know is that I can and I need to choose how I want to spend the rest of my life. And as Marianne Williamson said to her audience last week, “It’s nice to see some young people here who are curious about the idea of choosing a conscious life. However, most of us are older and, frankly, we don’t have another 5 years to screw up anymore. It’s now or never.”
Crapsticks.
I believe I am here for a bigger calling than I am currently pursuing. No, I don’t have a clear idea what that calling is. No, I don’t know what it will mean for my life. Yes, I know that if I step into it, it’s almost guaranteed that, for a while, it’s gonna feel like all hell breaking loose. I can accept that.
Because I realize that, maybe, just maybe, all hell breaking loose is exactly what has to happen to birth a life of Heaven on Earth.
It is the ferocity that will be required of me to fully commit to that first step into a bigger life that feels like hell.
Because of what it may mean.
Please hear me out on this one. I am processing as I go.
I am willing (I think) to let go of the small insulated idea I now call my life. I am willing to see where my calling takes me. What I am not willing to do is follow a calling that could potentially hurt, harm or endanger my son in any way.
But how can I be sure that my life isn’t causing him harm or hurt now?
If I really let go of my life to see what else is there for me, I won’t have control of what is going to come in to push me or lead me or cajole me into a bigger space, a larger life context, a potentially impactful place to cause the uplift of the consciousness of humanity.
But do I have control now? No. I just pretend I do by keeping my life small.
And isn’t living a bigger life why I started this blog? Just read the column over there to the right. I wrote that intention. I’m pretty sure I was awake when I did it.
I SAY I want to uplift the consciousness of humanity but am I really willing to let go of my life (which at the moment includes my son) and actually DO it?????
Or am I just a big fat blowhard?
Or maybe I should wait until he graduates from high school? (that gives me another year to put off making a decision)
I have made some big changes in my life in the past nine months as has each and every one of the women who are with me in this work. The results of clearing out my own obstacles to uplift my little life have been joyful. Yes. But I experienced great pain to get to the other side. It was all worth it, and I think, in the end, my work benefited the lives of those around me too.
However, if I am totally committed to accepting a larger (ok a HUGE) life mantel, what kind (and how much) of my own still lying-inside-waiting-to-attack dormant crap is left for me to deal with? How much more am I going to upset my own apple cart?
But, more importantly for me right now, how much of my son’s apple cart will I be upsetting?
Am I being grandiose again by thinking I have that much influence on my son’s life?
Or am I just using my son as an excuse to step away from a life that could really mean something…to me.
The only thing I know is that I can and I need to choose how I want to spend the rest of my life. And as Marianne Williamson said to her audience last week, “It’s nice to see some young people here who are curious about the idea of choosing a conscious life. However, most of us are older and, frankly, we don’t have another 5 years to screw up anymore. It’s now or never.”
Crapsticks.
Friday, May 7, 2010
Peanut Butter and Jelly
I’m kinda concerned.
I haven’t felt like writing, and I don’t know why. My heart has not been in it.
I have been going through all the possible reasons in my head, but nothing is resonating with me.
Honest to God…no lie…it just occurred to me while writing this…maybe that’ s the problem…I’m back in my head.
I have written three blogs since my last one, but I didn’t post them. They weren’t fun or exciting to write. They sounded robotic (like this one?). I couldn’t express what I was trying to say in a wavy, curvy, flow-y kind of way. I was pushing ideas that weren’t ready.
There! See what I'm doing? I’m in my head again. Trying to think up an answer instead of feel into one.
On Tuesday night I had the pleasure (and the challenge) of interpreting for Marianne Williamson. I don’t think I have mentioned this before, but I am fluent in American Sign Language. Anywho… it was a pleasure because MAW (as deaf people refer to her) is amazing. It was a challenge because the job was two hours long (7:30-9:30 pm) after a long day at my “real” job, and I was interpreting solo. In the interpreting world, interpreting anything over an hour, especially in a situation like this, requires a partner because it is extremely taxing mentally and physically. ASL and English, linguistically, are as different as Japanese and English, night and day, and peanut butter and jelly. It’s not the hands so much that fatigue; it’s the brain.
About an hour and forty minutes into the gig, my brain started to give out. MAW was in a question and answer mode with the audience, and although the questions were heartfelt and MAW’s responses were brilliant….let’s just say people love to tell their story, every single stinkin’ irrelevant detail (starting from the day they were born). I was doing the best I could at that point, but in my head, I was screaming “Shut up! Shut up!” over and over again.
I wasn’t trying to be mean. I just wanted them to stop so I could rest.
I bring this up because I realize my brain has been very active lately. It is as if it is making up for lost time. You see, being in the Mastery program, I started to be able to consistently listen to my inner voice and think with my body. The program is on a hiatus until June and my brainiac egoic voice has come back with a vengeance. It’ s screaming “Shut up! Shut up!” over and over again trying to quiet my body and still that small voice of my inner knowing that became quite prominent for me over the course of the last nine months.
No wonder I’m exhausted. No wonder I’m not digging deep. No wonder I feel out of the flow I found. My ego is trying to reinstate my running monologue, my to-do list, and the General who is more interested in getting things done than in being who I am while doing them.
This is who I used to be, and quite contentedly thank you very much.
It’s just not where I live anymore. However, this experience has shown me a crucial contrast that is as different as ASL and English, night and day, and peanut butter and jelly.
This experience is telling me to feel the difference between living in who I was and living in who I learned to be.
This experience is telling me that it's time, for once and for all, to make a choice.
I haven’t felt like writing, and I don’t know why. My heart has not been in it.
I have been going through all the possible reasons in my head, but nothing is resonating with me.
Honest to God…no lie…it just occurred to me while writing this…maybe that’ s the problem…I’m back in my head.
I have written three blogs since my last one, but I didn’t post them. They weren’t fun or exciting to write. They sounded robotic (like this one?). I couldn’t express what I was trying to say in a wavy, curvy, flow-y kind of way. I was pushing ideas that weren’t ready.
There! See what I'm doing? I’m in my head again. Trying to think up an answer instead of feel into one.
On Tuesday night I had the pleasure (and the challenge) of interpreting for Marianne Williamson. I don’t think I have mentioned this before, but I am fluent in American Sign Language. Anywho… it was a pleasure because MAW (as deaf people refer to her) is amazing. It was a challenge because the job was two hours long (7:30-9:30 pm) after a long day at my “real” job, and I was interpreting solo. In the interpreting world, interpreting anything over an hour, especially in a situation like this, requires a partner because it is extremely taxing mentally and physically. ASL and English, linguistically, are as different as Japanese and English, night and day, and peanut butter and jelly. It’s not the hands so much that fatigue; it’s the brain.
About an hour and forty minutes into the gig, my brain started to give out. MAW was in a question and answer mode with the audience, and although the questions were heartfelt and MAW’s responses were brilliant….let’s just say people love to tell their story, every single stinkin’ irrelevant detail (starting from the day they were born). I was doing the best I could at that point, but in my head, I was screaming “Shut up! Shut up!” over and over again.
I wasn’t trying to be mean. I just wanted them to stop so I could rest.
I bring this up because I realize my brain has been very active lately. It is as if it is making up for lost time. You see, being in the Mastery program, I started to be able to consistently listen to my inner voice and think with my body. The program is on a hiatus until June and my brainiac egoic voice has come back with a vengeance. It’ s screaming “Shut up! Shut up!” over and over again trying to quiet my body and still that small voice of my inner knowing that became quite prominent for me over the course of the last nine months.
No wonder I’m exhausted. No wonder I’m not digging deep. No wonder I feel out of the flow I found. My ego is trying to reinstate my running monologue, my to-do list, and the General who is more interested in getting things done than in being who I am while doing them.
This is who I used to be, and quite contentedly thank you very much.
It’s just not where I live anymore. However, this experience has shown me a crucial contrast that is as different as ASL and English, night and day, and peanut butter and jelly.
This experience is telling me to feel the difference between living in who I was and living in who I learned to be.
This experience is telling me that it's time, for once and for all, to make a choice.
Friday, April 30, 2010
The Redheaders
I don’t know how to interact with men anymore. I don’t know how to flirt anymore. I don’t even know when a man is coming on to me anymore.
Recently, I had an eye opening experience. I was bike riding through my town on a beautiful Sunday morning, as I often do, when a bright electric blue t-shirt sitting at an outdoor café caught my eye. The t-shirt had the name of an organization I had recently begun supporting written on it, so I was curious to find out more. This poor unsuspecting t-shirt almost choked on its Sunday brunch frittata as I came up behind it and startled it with a big “Hello!” We chatted for a few minutes about how we came to know and connect with the organization. Suddenly, mid-sentence I gazed up and away from my new t-shirt acquaintance and noticed there was a man in the t-shirt… handsome, nice blue eyes, athletic build, open energy, and my age. I didn’t think anymore about him other than a passing, “Oh he’s cute” (like we women tend to do). (Okay I admit it; I do believe my eyes took a quick peek at his left ring finger...nothing there.)
As the conversation about the organization came to a close, I started to roll away on my two wheels. He stood up, said that he loved to bike ride, and asked me if I rode my bike often. I responded affirmatively, got on my bike, and started off down the street. Then he asked (a bit louder) if I liked Frisbee golf. I tossed my affirmative reply over my shoulder as I began to put some distance between us. Finally, he asked (louder still) if I liked jazz, of course, followed by my second toss-back remark of an affirmative nature. Half way down the street, I stopped mid-pedal, turned my bike around, enthusiastically pedaled up to him and asked, “Hey, do you like horseback riding?” He jumped up and eagerly replied that he, in fact, loved horseback riding!
I hopped back on my pedals and sped away with a final shoulder toss, “Great! I love it too! Well, I bike ride around here quite a bit. Maybe I will see you again sometime!” And went on my merry way.
I had happily pedaled down the street for about 20 minutes when my brain kicked into 10th gear. I pulled to the curb, thought for a second and asked myself, “Was that guy hitting on me?” DUH. I had had absolutely no clue.
I haven’t seen him (or that great electric blue t-shirt) since.
I didn’t pay any attention to this attractive and, perhaps, available man, I have since realized, because I had automatically placed him in a certain group of men I call the “Redheaders.” For some reason about 5 years ago, I decided that men who give me any attention at all do so simply because they love women, any woman, with red hair. A man smiles, says hello, offers to help me somehow, and I think to myself, (with a certain condescending tone), “Redheader!”
Talk about deliberately taking myself completely out of any part of any equation that might equal relationship. What the hell?
And not only that, but why do I feel a certain distain for the Redheader instead of inwardly congratulating him on his excellent and sophisticated taste in women? Furthermore, why would I judge men (well, at all) but especially those who are attracted to one of the physical characteristics I absolutely love about myself? I mean, seriously, how many times have I mentioned my curly red hair in this blog alone?
Just because Patty Stanger on the Millionaire Matchmaker rejects women for her bachelor millionaires simply because they are redheads (which, by the way, really pisses me off) doesn’t mean I‘m not worthy of male attention and a whole lot more.
And finally, how come I get mad at Patty Stanger for rejecting redheads, but I don’t get upset with myself, basically, for rejecting my redheaded self through men?
Get intimate with my thoughts about this right now? Sorry, not tonight, I have a headache.
Recently, I had an eye opening experience. I was bike riding through my town on a beautiful Sunday morning, as I often do, when a bright electric blue t-shirt sitting at an outdoor café caught my eye. The t-shirt had the name of an organization I had recently begun supporting written on it, so I was curious to find out more. This poor unsuspecting t-shirt almost choked on its Sunday brunch frittata as I came up behind it and startled it with a big “Hello!” We chatted for a few minutes about how we came to know and connect with the organization. Suddenly, mid-sentence I gazed up and away from my new t-shirt acquaintance and noticed there was a man in the t-shirt… handsome, nice blue eyes, athletic build, open energy, and my age. I didn’t think anymore about him other than a passing, “Oh he’s cute” (like we women tend to do). (Okay I admit it; I do believe my eyes took a quick peek at his left ring finger...nothing there.)
As the conversation about the organization came to a close, I started to roll away on my two wheels. He stood up, said that he loved to bike ride, and asked me if I rode my bike often. I responded affirmatively, got on my bike, and started off down the street. Then he asked (a bit louder) if I liked Frisbee golf. I tossed my affirmative reply over my shoulder as I began to put some distance between us. Finally, he asked (louder still) if I liked jazz, of course, followed by my second toss-back remark of an affirmative nature. Half way down the street, I stopped mid-pedal, turned my bike around, enthusiastically pedaled up to him and asked, “Hey, do you like horseback riding?” He jumped up and eagerly replied that he, in fact, loved horseback riding!
I hopped back on my pedals and sped away with a final shoulder toss, “Great! I love it too! Well, I bike ride around here quite a bit. Maybe I will see you again sometime!” And went on my merry way.
I had happily pedaled down the street for about 20 minutes when my brain kicked into 10th gear. I pulled to the curb, thought for a second and asked myself, “Was that guy hitting on me?” DUH. I had had absolutely no clue.
I haven’t seen him (or that great electric blue t-shirt) since.
I didn’t pay any attention to this attractive and, perhaps, available man, I have since realized, because I had automatically placed him in a certain group of men I call the “Redheaders.” For some reason about 5 years ago, I decided that men who give me any attention at all do so simply because they love women, any woman, with red hair. A man smiles, says hello, offers to help me somehow, and I think to myself, (with a certain condescending tone), “Redheader!”
Talk about deliberately taking myself completely out of any part of any equation that might equal relationship. What the hell?
And not only that, but why do I feel a certain distain for the Redheader instead of inwardly congratulating him on his excellent and sophisticated taste in women? Furthermore, why would I judge men (well, at all) but especially those who are attracted to one of the physical characteristics I absolutely love about myself? I mean, seriously, how many times have I mentioned my curly red hair in this blog alone?
Just because Patty Stanger on the Millionaire Matchmaker rejects women for her bachelor millionaires simply because they are redheads (which, by the way, really pisses me off) doesn’t mean I‘m not worthy of male attention and a whole lot more.
And finally, how come I get mad at Patty Stanger for rejecting redheads, but I don’t get upset with myself, basically, for rejecting my redheaded self through men?
Get intimate with my thoughts about this right now? Sorry, not tonight, I have a headache.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
(Not So) Tiny Dancer
I am in powerful denial about my body.
Like a lot of women, I have issues. I am short (5’3” give or take ½ inch), “well endowed,” and hour glassy with smallish hips. I’m going to be 59 soon, and people tell me I have a “rockin” body. That’s fine. They can tell me that until they’re blue in the face, but I still look in the mirror and can’t figure out what the hell they’re talking about (even though I weigh less now than I did in the sixth grade).
I was an overweight child and still remember the humiliation of that fateful 6th grade year when my class was escorted to the auditorium where we lined up to be weighed in by the school nurse…in front of each other. I was horrified of course. My best friend, who was right in front of me, was first on the scale. When it was my turn, I closed my eyes, and I heard my “number” reverberate through the semi-empty auditorium. To my surprise, I jumped for joy. I was elated because I weighed the exact same as my best friend. I thought to myself , ”What was I so concerned about? I’m fine!!”
It didn’t occur to me until many months later that she was a good 4 inches taller than I was.
Denial…it was powerful then too.
The first time I remember feeling different because of my weight; I was 8 years old in my first ballet class. It was me, a rolly-polly redhead in a pink tutu, adrift in the middle of a sea of little teeny tiny blonde girls (at least that is how I remember it but there must have been a brunette in there somewhere). The other little girls were nice to me. They didn’t seem to notice or to care about my size, but I did. However, I did love dancing, so I stayed with it for about six months until the recital came around. I quit the class a week before the performance. I couldn’t bring myself to be on stage with beautiful little fairy girls.
By the time I reached my freshman year in high school, I weighed 160 pounds. I was miserable, had had enough of the teasing and the struggle with clothes fitting properly. I went on a diet and lost 45 pounds. That was in 1965.
How ridiculous is it that I still (often) see myself as a person with a weight problem?
I have recently come to understand that it is not the memory of garder belts snapping open in the middle 7th grade English, or blouse buttons being launched from my chest when I raised my hand too high, or being sung to with “fatty fatty 2 by 4 can’t fit through the bathroom door,” or a host of other embarrassing moments I endured because of my weight. What has its unrelenting grip on my self-image is the lack of acceptance I still carry for that little rolly-polly redhaired girl.
I never accepted her as a part of me, and she feels it. We have no relationship. And, clearly, her hold on my self-image is much more powerful than any I have been able to generate. She is insisting I see her, acknowledge her, fold her into my Self.
I decided to spend some time with my 8 year old me last weekend. I acknowledged her to both of us and let her know that I was sorry. I talked to her for a long time about all the wonderful things she has given me: my absolute abandon and joy when dancing, my redheaded sassiness and playfulness, and a whole pot of sunshine whenever she comes out to play.
No response from her. Her denial of me was powerfully palpable.
I have continued talking to her as I go through my days just to let her know that I am not a woman who asks for forgiveness without expecting to earn it. This morning out of nowhere, while in meditation, she emerged and sat on my lap…just sat there looking around my home. She eventually turned around to face me. In her eyes, I saw that pure forgiveness that I sometimes think only children are willing to radiate out. We looked at each other for a long time.
I told her that in looking at her I recognized there was so much to love about her (no pun intended). And we laughed at the ridiculousness of my sorry attempt at a joke and my denial of one of the absolute brightest parts of me.
She head hugged me, cautiously. And I head hugged her back.
Then I signed us up for a Salsa class this weekend. We can’t wait.
Like a lot of women, I have issues. I am short (5’3” give or take ½ inch), “well endowed,” and hour glassy with smallish hips. I’m going to be 59 soon, and people tell me I have a “rockin” body. That’s fine. They can tell me that until they’re blue in the face, but I still look in the mirror and can’t figure out what the hell they’re talking about (even though I weigh less now than I did in the sixth grade).
I was an overweight child and still remember the humiliation of that fateful 6th grade year when my class was escorted to the auditorium where we lined up to be weighed in by the school nurse…in front of each other. I was horrified of course. My best friend, who was right in front of me, was first on the scale. When it was my turn, I closed my eyes, and I heard my “number” reverberate through the semi-empty auditorium. To my surprise, I jumped for joy. I was elated because I weighed the exact same as my best friend. I thought to myself , ”What was I so concerned about? I’m fine!!”
It didn’t occur to me until many months later that she was a good 4 inches taller than I was.
Denial…it was powerful then too.
The first time I remember feeling different because of my weight; I was 8 years old in my first ballet class. It was me, a rolly-polly redhead in a pink tutu, adrift in the middle of a sea of little teeny tiny blonde girls (at least that is how I remember it but there must have been a brunette in there somewhere). The other little girls were nice to me. They didn’t seem to notice or to care about my size, but I did. However, I did love dancing, so I stayed with it for about six months until the recital came around. I quit the class a week before the performance. I couldn’t bring myself to be on stage with beautiful little fairy girls.
By the time I reached my freshman year in high school, I weighed 160 pounds. I was miserable, had had enough of the teasing and the struggle with clothes fitting properly. I went on a diet and lost 45 pounds. That was in 1965.
How ridiculous is it that I still (often) see myself as a person with a weight problem?
I have recently come to understand that it is not the memory of garder belts snapping open in the middle 7th grade English, or blouse buttons being launched from my chest when I raised my hand too high, or being sung to with “fatty fatty 2 by 4 can’t fit through the bathroom door,” or a host of other embarrassing moments I endured because of my weight. What has its unrelenting grip on my self-image is the lack of acceptance I still carry for that little rolly-polly redhaired girl.
I never accepted her as a part of me, and she feels it. We have no relationship. And, clearly, her hold on my self-image is much more powerful than any I have been able to generate. She is insisting I see her, acknowledge her, fold her into my Self.
I decided to spend some time with my 8 year old me last weekend. I acknowledged her to both of us and let her know that I was sorry. I talked to her for a long time about all the wonderful things she has given me: my absolute abandon and joy when dancing, my redheaded sassiness and playfulness, and a whole pot of sunshine whenever she comes out to play.
No response from her. Her denial of me was powerfully palpable.
I have continued talking to her as I go through my days just to let her know that I am not a woman who asks for forgiveness without expecting to earn it. This morning out of nowhere, while in meditation, she emerged and sat on my lap…just sat there looking around my home. She eventually turned around to face me. In her eyes, I saw that pure forgiveness that I sometimes think only children are willing to radiate out. We looked at each other for a long time.
I told her that in looking at her I recognized there was so much to love about her (no pun intended). And we laughed at the ridiculousness of my sorry attempt at a joke and my denial of one of the absolute brightest parts of me.
She head hugged me, cautiously. And I head hugged her back.
Then I signed us up for a Salsa class this weekend. We can’t wait.
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