tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19189225268102720392024-02-19T08:09:01.673-08:0012x12The art of living in cramped circumstances with expansive spirit.Dwellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16836832009656845180noreply@blogger.comBlogger130125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1918922526810272039.post-75944223160069840382012-07-11T21:57:00.001-07:002022-10-22T05:03:43.497-07:00there is always a response.Yesterday my ego got dented a little because we met two mothers and their children at the Annenberg beach house. One of these mothers removed her beach cover up and the other mother exclaimed gushingly about her gorgeous, youthful, runner's body. Later when I removed <i>my</i> beach cover up there was a very conspicuous silence. Shallow, oh how I know, but still. I went to bed convinced that I am both old and ugly and will <i>never</i> have a clean bathroom.<br />
<br />
But when I woke today...the morning was charmed. The boys woke happy and we had a lovely dream-sharing session; I cooked garden omelettes for them which they not only ate, but ate with <i>appreciation;</i> and then, even though we left the house twenty minutes late, we caught a bus immediately and arrived at our destination on time. The bus was not crowded. We got our own seats. The boys did not whine or kick the other passengers; instead, we entertained each other with homespun stories about dragons and unicorns and brave fish-children. Both children hugged and kissed me and told me they loved me as they stepped off the bus to meet their father (okay, so I got my head stuck in the door. It was a little bit embarrassing. But the driver opened the door again, my children love me, still a red-letter day.) <br />
<br />
High on the love of my children, and higher still from being free of them for four hours, I wandered through the Santa monica farmer's market. A gorgeous organic farmer met my eyes. "Hello, beautiful," he said, and handed me a free peach, winking. One of those Segue-straddling city ambassadors hailed me to ask if I needed anything. "You are such a beautiful woman," he said. "That smile! You remind me of Diane Lane." (Yes, I admit that the minute I got home I googled Diane Lane to see if this was a compliment. It was.)<br />
<br />
I giggled to myself. What was going on? The more I laughed, the happier I felt, the more ridiculously responsive the world was. I stopped into Wells Fargo to use the ATm. Actually, I had no money to withdraw, I just knew that on Fridays Wells Fargo hands out free water and coffee and I wanted some. One of the banking representatives walked up to me. <i>Uh oh</i>, I thought. <i>They're on to me</i>. No, no, not on this charmed morning. He'd simply seen my yoga mat and wanted to ask me where I do yoga. He chatted with me longer than strictly necessary and as I was leaving I heard his coworker ask him excitedly "<i>did you get her number</i>?"<br />
<br />
WHAT WAS GOING ON?!? Please understand, this NEVER happens to me. I mean, I made it through my twenties without being picked up ONCE. (I never even went on a <i>date</i> until I turned thirty one. And even then, I had to pick up the tab.) I had twenty minutes before yoga class. I was, apparently, gorgeous. I decided to buy myself a cup of tea to celebrate and write in the sunshine. The moment I sat down the phone rang.<br />
<br />
It was my lawyer. I developed an instant Pavlovian stomachache. He's a lovely man, but almost always the bearer of bad news.<br />
<br />
"Are you sitting down?" he asked.<br />
<br />
Now I understood. I was about to be knocked flat yet again by the unenlightened @#$%@#s at the Santa monica Family Court. The Universe felt slightly bad about this and was throwing me the bone of one charmed morning in recompense.<br />
<br />
"I got the evaluator's report this morning," my lawyer said. "He's going to recommend that you be allowed to move away and also be granted sole custody. He could see indications of emotional abuse in the father's behavior and recommended that he not be allowed to even visit the children for longer than two weeks at a time. It's a slam dunk. Congratulations."<br />
<br />
I levitated a little bit. I really did. The guy sitting next to me put down his newspaper to gawk at the spectacle of my butt hovering over my chair. Oh wait, maybe it was that charmed morning thing again, just making my butt irresistible on top of everything else. <br />
<br />
The whole world opened up to me in brilliant color. I loved everyone I saw. And it dawned on me...everyone wants to be seen and loved. All morning I'd been shooting love out at people, sharing my joy, and they'd been responding. There is always a response. <br />
<br />
In this long, agonizing, painful fight for my children, I've lost faith at times, because it took so very long to come. But in the end, there was a response. I just loved my children and held on as hard as I could to what I wanted and now...there has been a response. <br />
<br />
Hallelujah. I am so very very grateful. We are North Carolina bound in two weeks. Dwellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16836832009656845180noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1918922526810272039.post-24355136547442679032012-06-14T12:52:00.000-07:002012-06-14T20:29:21.438-07:00Toothy Decision, Part TwoSo. Despite almost-daily oil-pulling and much-increased decisiveness in many areas of my life, the pain in my tooth got so bad that one day Anainn said to me: "why do you look like a devil?" I was drinking lemonade at the time, making a sort of tube with my tongue to try to keep it from hitting my sore tooth. I went through these contortions unthinkingly every time I ate or drank something too hard, too hot, too cold, too sweet, or too...well, anytime I ate or drank. <br />
<br />
It was time. I phoned up the UCLA dental clinic and decided to come in as an emergency patient to avoid all the x-rays and scans they would require otherwise. <br />
<br />
So there I was, in the waiting room, reading my book about the Feeling Body (yeah, I know, I know, there are other genres besides soft psychology) and feeling oddly excited. I checked in to make sure---yes, what I was feeling was not dread, but excitement. It was exciting to be here at the dental clinic, having stepped WAY outside my comfort zone and chosen to follow through on self-care. They ushered me in after an hour's wait, back through room after room of empty dental chairs, into a tiny little warren where they'd packed, for no apparent reason, everyone.<br />
<br />
My student-dentist introduced himself nervously and rapidly began to tell stories---about Ludwig's Angina, a rare but spectacular condition in which one's molar migrates down into the neck and starts to throttle the jugular...and a rare case, experienced recently by his colleague, in which a wisdom tooth migrated into the brain and caused modifications in personality. Wow, I thought, dental psychology...never a field I had considered! I expressed how interesting I found this and my dentist seemed mildly astounded to have found an appreciative audience. "I talk a lot," he confessed. "I'm a nerd." <br />
<br />
"Me too!" I exclaimed. "I'm a plant nerd, totally obsessed. I can't tell you how happy I am to be in nerd hands." He pulled down his dental mask and grinned at me, and I knew I was going to be okay.<br />
<br />
Nerd Dentist and his supervisor gently explained what was going on with me---a rogue wisdom tooth was growing sideways instead of down, drilling into my jawbone ("and headed for your cheek! Imagine if it pushed right through!" said Nerd Dentist, wide-eyed) and abscessing a molar in its selfish journey to freedom. Something had to be done about this, of course, since if I left the problem unchecked I would "explode with pus and die" in my Nerd Dentist's elegant description. I decided to have both suckers pulled. This was not a popular decision. They called in reinforcements---five people, by my count---to try and convince me to have a root canal instead. I have read about root canals. They are dangerous, have longterm health effects, and cost lots of time and money. They frequently have to be redone. I heard nothing to contradict this from any of the people who spoke to me, except for the possibility that my bottom molar might "migrate upward" in search of its lost mate. That actually sounded rather romantic. I've been trying to "migrate upward" for some time, myself. Teeth, apparently, mate for life.<br />
<br />
"So what you're telling me," I said (though I was partially numbed so it sounded less erudite in person) "is that the difference between a root canal and having it pulled is basically $1000?" "Pretty much," said Nerd Dentist. "Yank it," I said. Decisively.<br />
<br />
I had an odd sense of creative euphoria. I wanted to talk about so many things. I wanted to write a poem comparing lying in a dental chair to waiting for a bus. I wanted to invent a little dental-chair projector that a patient could operate while she is being operated on, projecting books and pictures up onto the ceiling. I wanted to hear more about spectacular tooth disorders. Some of this may have had to do with the anesthetic.<br />
<br />
The little machine they put in my mouth to separate the rogue tooth from my jawbone sounded exactly like R2-D2. I wondered, "is this why nerds become dentists?" I giggled a lot. I kept reminding my body to relax, consciously unshrugging my shoulders and breathing deeply. The surgery went on and on and on. Apparently my tooth had "curvy roots". Sample dialogue:<br />
<br />
Nerd Dentist: "No, I had success with this that one other time, remember? I just elevated and elevated it distally and corkscrewed the sucker out."<br />
<br />
Assistant #1: "I've <i>never</i> seen that work."<br />
<br />
Nerd Dentist: "Well, it only works if it's REALLY elevated. Well, I'm gonna try it. Maybe I'll make a believer out of you with this one."<br />
<br />
Assistant #1: (mumbling) "I doubt it." to me: "You okay?"<br />
<br />
I wanted to tell them they were like good cop and bad cop, but there was so much gauze and equipment and so many hands in my mouth that I felt a little like I did when I was giving birth to Xir. Like, "that part of me isn't supposed to stretch that far, I'm pretty sure."<br />
<br />
Eventually, after I'd mentally composed the tooth/transit poem and memorized the stucco pattern of the ceiling, they got all the little pieces ("corkscrewing the sucker", apparently, hadn't worked this time) and sewed me up. I told them I wanted to see my tooth. It seems that no one asks that, because they seemed confused and rooted around for awhile.<br />
<br />
"Why?" asked Nerd Dentist, handing it to me.<br />
<br />
"Maybe the tooth fairy will come and defray the cost of this appointment!" I joked. But really, I just wanted to see this little trouble-making part of myself, this tiny bit that had the will to strike out on its own. It had a crazy hook on the end, where it had climbed over the jawbone, but otherwise it was a perfect little pearly baby tooth. I kind of loved it.<br />
<br />
I checked inside again. I wasn't feeling excited anymore. I was feeling tired, and in pain, and a little sad. I let these feelings be. I realized how rarely I allow myself to mourn a loss. <br />
<br />
"You okay?" asked Nerd Dentist. I realized that up to now I'd probably been the perkiest patient of his life. <br />
"I'm sore," I said. "But I'm also sad to lose this tooth. Doesn't it represent wisdom?"<br />
<br />
He looked right at me. "Yes," he said. "But now it's on the outside, where it can be seen."<br />
<br />
He warned me several times not to smoke while I was healing. "I don't smoke!" I finally shouted. He leaned in meaningfully. "Not even marijuana," he whispered. I rolled my eyes. Why does <i>everyone always </i>think that? Is it because of being a plant nerd? Or the perkiness? Anyway, he gave me his card and told me he wanted to see me again.<br />
<br />
I think he meant for a follow up visit, but I'm not sure. <br />
<br />
<br />Dwellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16836832009656845180noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1918922526810272039.post-22173780797610974042012-05-15T21:57:00.001-07:002012-05-15T22:08:33.158-07:00A Toothy DecisionI've been having some problems with my teeth lately. This could have something to do with the fact that the last time a dentist saw the inside of my mouth, Bush Sr. was in the White House. Or it could have something to do with the legal system of Santa Monica, whose insane delaying tactics (going on a three year custody battle here people, and of that, two years have been bureaucratic delays) have caused a fair amount of tooth-grinding in moi. Or there's an eensy weensy quite negligible chance that my diet (sugary tea, homemade brownies, and hazelnut chocolates) might have something to do with it. But really it's none of these things. It's because I'm indecisive.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
No, really, it is. Decidedly. I read this in <u>You Can Heal Your Life,</u> courtesy of the amazing and multitalented <a href="http://www.theclothesstory.blogspot.com/">Laura Alvarez</a>. Teeth, according to author Louise Hay, symbolize our ability to make decisions. When we are struggling with choices in our lives, our indecisiveness can manifest as tooth trouble. Well hmm. I'm pretty sure that the Wikipedia article on "Indecisiveness" has my photograph as the illustration. And if not, it's just cause you just can't trust those damn internet sites. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
As fate would have it, the visit to Laura that introduced me to this fascinating book came hot on the heels of a session with my MFT. She, too, had given me a book to read, titled <u>Addiction to Perfection: The Still Unravished Bride</u>. It's a Jungian analysis of the Medusa complex, and I have been unable to put it down. The Medusa complex is a series of symptoms that manifest when our ego and our spirit/unconscious are out of tune with each other. Although I've yet to finish the book, from what I understand it is easy to "freeze" (or be turned to stone, hence the name) when faced with the dark entirety of our shadow selves. Often this complex afflicts women who try to hard to attain ideal states---spiritual or physical---and ignore or cut off their feeling body to do so, regarding it as weakness. Eventually the feeling body revolts, and at the point when the strength of this revolt matches the will of the ego to maintain the "ideal", total paralysis ensues. There can be no forward motion because the forces oppose each other perfectly. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Well gosh, that sounds familiar too. Remember that whole long marriage to the spiritual teacher and the six hours of meditation a day? Yeah, me too. TOTAL PARALYSIS. Indecision. Tooth problems.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But the universal unconscious has my back! Flitting about the internet the evening before these momentous events, I had happened upon two articles. One discussed oil pulling, the Ayurvedic practice of swishing pure oil about in the mouth for several minutes and then spitting it out. Apparently the oil draws impurities and bacteria from the teeth. The other held forth on the healing properties of amber, specifically its use as a "teething" necklace. These ancient resins, according to the article, have both sedative and antibacterial properties as well as being mildly analgesic. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So this morning I woke and did several minutes of oil pulling with coconut oil. Instant pain relief. Amazing. I followed the oil pulling with an inspiring and revitalizing yoga class in Santa Monica with <a href="http://www.gigiyogini.com/">Gigi Yogini,</a> whose facebook post, in that beautiful Jungian synchronous way, had initially led me to the oil pulling article. During the class Gigi asked us several times to set an intention. Again and again, I affirmed my intention to be decisive. (Although I have to admit there were a lot of other options that would have made REALLY good intentions, so it was REALLY hard to be decisive about decisiveness.) Again and again, we joined breath to body to intention, linking body and mind as allies, pulling spirit and ego together. And afterward, the brilliant <a href="http://adventuresinpleasuredating.wordpress.com/">Briana</a> (more synchronicity) and I headed next door to the bead store, where I decisively purchased some rather expensive but undeniably beautiful amber. Two strands. (I got one for my son too. Ahem, SEDATIVE qualities)</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
When I decide what I want, when I state it and believe it and follow through, it is truly amazing how quickly it comes to pass. And my teeth? I've decided they'll make it until the universal health care kicks in. Which I've decided will be soon. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>Dwellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16836832009656845180noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1918922526810272039.post-47124835539759164342012-05-12T21:46:00.001-07:002012-05-12T21:46:22.216-07:00So...another year, give or take. The figs are getting ripe, the grapevines are crawling toward the top of the pergola, the boys are getting bigger and the 12x12 is still 12x12. This morning I turned the compost and shoveled forkfuls of it around the tomato and broccoli plants. I bribed my offspring with quarters to gather lemon balm and mint leaves for tea. I plucked nettles for my morning eggs and then stood with my chin in my hand and looked, really looked, at this space that has been my home for so long. Had I known I would be here for two years, wouldn't I have put in fruit trees? A pond? Built an outdoor room? Sewn curtains? Covered the cinderblock walls with murals?<br />
<br />
If I had known I would be here for so long, wouldn't I have made a greater effort to build community? To volunteer, start a nonprofit, involve my children in the workings of this ecosystem? To create a band, a babysitting co-op, a couple of beehives? To learn to sail or surf? To run for city council? What on earth have I been DOING?<br />
<br />
I've been twiddling my metaphorical thumbs, waiting for the life I expected, somehow feeling OWED, subconsciously assuming it will find me. HA! Wanting so many things that I am afraid to select one, finding that I am, in effect, choosing to have nothing.<br />
<br />
I have been feeling a ferocious need to roar into focus, gather up the beads and string them, LIVE. If here is where it is, so be it. Leave the wasted time where it lies and move forward. <br />
<br />
Did you know that nettles heal their own sting? It's true: squeeze the juice of a nettle over a nettle rash and it will disappear. The problem is the solution. So if my problem is a lack of focus, wanting too much, then I shall give myself EVERYTHING. I shall strike out in every direction that gives me pleasure: painting, surfing, hiking, sewing, gardening, traveling, making love outdoors, having dinner parties, doing yoga, writing, creating necessary changes, learning. I am going to have it all. I am going to make a sincere effort to have it all. Because fearing that I will somehow fail in having it all has held me captive long enough.<br />
<br />
And I owe this world my full, glorious, LIVED life.<br />
<br />
My last post, written nearly a year ago, featured this song. I wrote it in a depressed daze, feeling I'd left myself behind, praying that I would stop wanting so much. I remember thinking that if I could just forget how much I'd wanted, dull down my frantic desires, I would be at peace.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/qG6r8nrjD8g?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<br />
I know better now. Our appetites are beautiful. Our gargantuan, articulated, immense WANTING is the fuel that drives us to create, to innovate, to heal. When we stop dulling our desires with pastimes and rubbish and self-recrimination and invented drama, maybe we will start feeding ourselves---and by extension, our world---with the deeply nourishing things we truly want. <br />
<br />
<br />Dwellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16836832009656845180noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1918922526810272039.post-39574357551582293632011-07-26T11:08:00.000-07:002011-07-26T11:20:24.719-07:00making art of everything<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyMG49kvKh647dGReaIMkfWrePzSEn-ZTaKDD3jiVBARRJFOhzKbdGzYnJefeNoXqPXjPJGEFvpQy7DohJZ-w' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><div><br /></div><div>recently i found myself at the end of a day with the strong feeling that not only had i not accomplished anything, but that i had actively made the world worse. i was miserable. </div><div><br /></div><div>but i had determined to record every night. so i took all of my mawkish misery and wrote this song. over the next week, i spent some time recording the sounds of the day-to-day dreary things i find so oppressive, as well as the beautiful things i love to do, like watering the garden or snipping herbs into a salad. i looped these sounds into the recording and turned it into a celebration: both of a terrible mood, and of ways to get oneself out of it. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Dwellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16836832009656845180noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1918922526810272039.post-52024331570084942082011-07-23T14:19:00.000-07:002011-07-24T21:36:53.660-07:00cupid and psyche<div>i'm sure you are all familiar with the story: it has different faces, beauty and the beast, east of the sun west of the moon, the polar king. it has been haunting me lately. nearly every culture has some version of it; mustn't it then hold something very important to learn?</div><div><br /></div><div>she leaves the safety and familiarity of her home to wed a monster. he has either been threatening her family or promising them great wealth in exchange for her; either way, she does it out of duty. there is the suggestion that she never really fit in with her family anyway. she perhaps had no clear enough dreams of her own. does she accept this marriage as a sort of assumed purpose, hoping it will give some direction or definition to her life?<i> </i>she is young and strong and wants to test her powers. she feels she could take on a monster, perhaps even redeem him. she is eager for the chance to test herself. it is a relief, in a way, to have something to do.</div><div><br /></div><div>her optimism and enthusiasm win him over. he treats her kindly. she begins to identify with him despite his repulsive appearance/invisibility. she feels she can be his ally, though everyone else misunderstands and fears him. it makes her feel important, special, to be the one who sees through his roughness.</div><div><br /></div><div>but she longs to see clearly. she is confused by others' opinions and projections and needs a definitive answer about who this creature really is. has she been misled? is he truly as terrible as others seem to think? or can she trust in her own perceptions of his kindness and character? is he fooling her? is she offering her most intimate self to a monster? </div><div><br /></div><div>so she takes her mother's advice, though he warned her not to. in the night, when he lays himself beside her in darkness, she holds a candle up to his face. she wants to see him clearly. that is not too much to ask, surely? but she is violating an unspoken agreement, the understanding that she should never look too clearly, too directly, that she should only perceive him in half-light and fumbling, that too clear an answer, too objective a look, would destroy the half-truth half-world they had established. illusions would fall in the face of what was really there.</div><div><br /></div><div>but of course what was really there, what she sees by the forbidden light of the candle, is BEAUTIFUL. that vulnerable sleeping center of the beast, undefended and unmasked, is a god. and for the first time she knows, without illusion or pretence, that she loves him. </div><div><br /></div><div>but a drop of wax falls and wakes him. he is furious to have been seen so clearly. it defeats him, his need to be a powerful beast, to hide behind the terror and the half-truths. he wanted to be the only one seeing. he did not want to be seen in return. so he casts her out. he takes everything with him: her possessions, her very home and the land it stands on. her daily context is gone. her illusions are gone. the monster/lover has flown and left her bereft.</div><div><br /></div><div>she has nothing. she is cold and heartbroken and hungry. yet somehow she forgets all else, she forgives his unforgivable actions, she begins a wrenching and heroic journey in pursuit of him. </div><div><br /></div><div>but why? why should she seek him now? why, in the face of his clear abandonment and cruelty, does she not go on and build a life for herself in other lands? isn't the onus on him now, the weight of proving himself, winning her back? </div><div><br /></div><div>whatever her reasons--embarrassment to face her family, a lack of any other perceived purpose for her life, love--she follows him. she is told by everyone in authority that the journey is impossible. she is told that her physical body cannot go where he has gone. in some versions she learns to fly on the back of the wind. in others she is sent to the underworld, to meet the queen of the dead.</div><div><br /></div><div>having made it to these unreachable kingdoms, she has one more battle to join in order to win him. in one version she must resist the temptation of great beauty or she will stay forever in the underworld. in another she must defeat a hideously ugly rival for her lover's affections by tempting her with beautiful dresses and golden combs. either way, vanity seems to be the final hurdle. once she has overcome it he is there, waiting to be rescued from (in one version) life with his mother or (in another) marriage to a she-troll. </div><div><br /></div><div>her devotion has liberated him. but she has grown older and worn in her journey. she is no longer perfectly beautiful, or perfectly innocent. she has changed. she is no longer a fitting decoration for the illusory pleasure palace of their first wedded days. will he love her?</div><div><br /></div><div>he will. they are wed. he has shed the guise of the monster forever. he brings her to the heavens to share the cup of immortality.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>so who is she? (wisdom, womankind, the soul, the human spirit?)</div><div><br /></div><div>who is he? (god, truth, man, ego, the shadow, the mind?)</div><div><br /></div><div>why does he forsake her for looking at him clearly--although it is this action that eventually leads to his freedom?</div><div><br /></div><div>and why is it that she is the one who must fight for his liberation, why doesn't he have to overcome any obstacles on his own? or if he does, why don't we hear about them?</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Dwellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16836832009656845180noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1918922526810272039.post-12066034693095106622011-06-19T21:40:00.001-07:002011-06-19T21:53:15.208-07:00preparation/transformation<div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>so...tuesday night is the big gig at the viper room, and i alternate between bouts of bonecrunching anxiety and an almost untethered euphoria. the mantra that works is this: it is one night, one night, one night. </div><div><br /></div><div>if i turn out to be a miserable flop, well then at least i had the bravery to try. if i find that i love it and am well-received, then perhaps it will be the beginning of something beautiful and new. whatever may happen, it will be a party, a wild ride, with friends attending from all phases of my past---multitudes of unexpected last-minute developments have this show shaping up more like a piece of performance art/drama than a musical set. there may be many many musicians backing me, some of whom i have never met. there may be an actress, and a lost native woman from the past, and a librarian, and time portals. ....no, really. <a href="http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=231588156867897"> you should really, really be there</a>. </div><div><br /></div><div>i have learned this about myself: the more that is piled on my plate, the happier i am--both literally and figuratively (laura can vouch for this one!). i LIKE organizing summer classes and pulling together a band and learning new songs and raising children and putting eggshells 'round the tomatoes and working on a book and mapping out a similarly multi-coursed future, all at once. it is the moments when i find myself at a loss for purpose that i grow tired. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Dwellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16836832009656845180noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1918922526810272039.post-10436791224919547022011-06-14T11:04:00.000-07:002011-06-14T11:16:20.651-07:00woman and weakness.<div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>i found that poem in the course of clearing out loads of old papers from their demonic nesting place beneath my sink (betcha anything that if i looked up feng shui, under-the-sink would be my area for mental clarity or something along those lines. maybe prosperity? sanity? forbearance?)</div><div><br /></div><div>i also found a journal, started and then forgotten. i knelt in the carnage of papers, cleaning supplies, and general undersink guts, reading. it didn't sound like my voice. i didn't remember ever thinking these thoughts i'd committed to paper. there were 12 entries, distributed over the course of a long-ago month. each had something to do with being female.</div><div><br /></div><div>i left the piles on the floor and began setting the words in the journal to music. i tried not to edit too much. it was more pleasant by far than organizing under the sink. though i suppose i'll have to return to that eventually if i ever want to regain the use of my kitchen.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://soundcloud.com/arlie-cat/woman-and-weakness-vers-2">http://soundcloud.com/arlie-cat/woman-and-weakness-vers-2</a></div>Dwellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16836832009656845180noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1918922526810272039.post-4678503609901253592011-06-11T22:38:00.000-07:002011-06-11T22:57:03.429-07:00being born!<div>I just found a poem I wrote soon after Xir's birth. It is chillingly honest. I was really hurting at the time, so thrown by the direction my life had taken, so unprepared for the reality of motherhood in isolation. </div><div><br /></div><div>When I remember that time, all I feel is an overwhelming gratitude that all of that anger somehow resolved itself without anyone getting mauled! There were years when anger was my primary motivating force. I suppose most of it arose from the tension between my very stringent expectations of myself and the reality of who I was. These days, though I am constantly at work on ways of blooming, I find strength in the truth of what I am rather than punishing myself for all I am not. It sure frees up a lot of time. And a lot of love. </div><div><br /></div><div><div>Being Born!</div><div><br /></div><div>Before we left the desert, where the hammock hung---there---strung </div><div>Between the silvered drought-dead locust and the lush singleleaf ash—</div><div>Those first warm days of spring I’d rock my worldnew baby boy there,</div><div>Watching through a sketch of leaves the nest-building begin.</div><div><br /></div><div>A mourning dove was nesting in the ash’s head-high crook</div><div>So diligent and patient as she waited through the hours—</div><div>She could fly! Yet she refrained! How my hurt heart learned to hate her</div><div>As I struck out, angry, lost, across the hills.</div><div><br /></div><div>She had wings! Yet she refrained! She remained there, resolutely,</div><div>untouched by the ambivalence that raged always in me.</div><div>I was beating at the cage. She was beatific, unconflicted,</div><div>motherhood her paramount and perfect-met concern.</div><div><br /></div><div>How I envied her her patience. How I hated her for staying.</div><div>How I raged, and walked, and rocked, and surged, and paced the desert ground.</div><div><br /></div><div>Then one of those horrid days, when if mothers could, I’d quit,</div><div>I soothed my screaming baby in the hammock’s lilting arc</div><div>And gazing dull-eyed over out of habit at her nest</div><div>Saw her hatchlings—born! bedraggled! quick with life!</div><div><br /></div><div>She was my ally after all. I turned away. My vision blurred</div><div>to see the nest builder succeed: it was so terrible and grand.</div><div>I held my son to see the ones who—being born!—</div><div>Did what he’d done</div><div>But he slept, sweet-heavy, safe, between my arms.</div></div><div><br /></div>Dwellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16836832009656845180noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1918922526810272039.post-5173198032783523372011-06-06T21:10:00.000-07:002011-06-06T21:41:50.577-07:00onward and upward<div><br /></div><div>It takes my breath, the way the world has conspired to pull me bodily from my latest heartbreak and shake me awake. Old friends I thought lost materialize from nowhere, old boyfriends try to reconnect, music winds tendrils through everything. Long-forgotten wishes come true. There are handmade gypsy wagons parked in friends' driveways. There are mountain cabins to live in.</div><div><br /></div><div>I was so lost. I don't know why I do this, but I tend to fold myself into the ones I love. I lose my equilibrium; it is so easy to become the girl I think my lover wants that I slip dangerously and inevitably into someone else, an imagined someone, and then wonder why it is that I no longer feel authentic, or happy. If the relationship ends (and of course it does, how could I stay in a relationship of which I am no part? How could anyone want to stay with someone who isn't there?) I feel a double loss, the loss of my beloved and the loss of the person I was when I was with him--the person that came alive only for him, and will never live again. </div><div><br /></div><div>strange how I can learn this, and learn this, and yet the cycle repeats, new twists each time:</div><div><br /></div><div><i>repeal, revisit, these things repeat</i></div><div><i>she's coming alive!--here we go, plant your feet</i></div><div><i>there's always one change to reel you in--</i></div><div><i>genius. joy. (took the bait, pull her in!)</i></div><div><i>change takes a second after years of resolve </i></div><div><i>and it's often the saddest moment in the world</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>I know I must be getting something out of it to continue such a pattern in the face of so many obvious drawbacks. Is it the intensity? The chance to try out new personalities, new lifestyles? My very wise friend suggested that I might be externalizing, using relationships to befriend part of myself I could never acknowledge otherwise. It is true that this last heartbreaking encounter left me with a whole album's worth of songs and a renewed commitment to my music. Goodbye, careworn single mom, hello, freewheeling rockstar! I mean, it's better, right?</div><div><br /></div><div>But I have got to learn to do this on my own. I cannot be putting myself and my children in danger on the constant quest for novelty and adventure. There must be love out there that is steady without being dull, all-consuming without being...ummm.....all-consuming. Well, obviously I need to redefine a few things. Right now I would just like to say how very, very grateful I am. For strong friends and serendipity. For resolution from within. For a body strong enough to climb mountains, when that is necessary. For enough space, and time, to work things out in writing and song. For possibility. For transformation. </div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://soundcloud.com/arlie-cat/new-wine-vers-2">soundtrack for this post:</a></div>Dwellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16836832009656845180noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1918922526810272039.post-69352074960365404612011-06-01T22:00:00.000-07:002011-06-01T22:32:29.471-07:00self promotion.<div><br /></div><div>Several opportunities have fallen into my lap recently, truly wonderful ones: to live in a cabin in the mountains and manage a cherry orchard. to play my original songs at the Viper Room. to run classes and workshops out of my friend's new studio space in santa monica.</div><div><br /></div><div>But there's always a catch, right? The world does not grant our desires without requiring growth in return. Each of these opportunities requires me to promote myself. And self-promotion is just about the most distasteful activity I can imagine. I operate on the assumption that there are probably loads of people who are better than me at nearly everything I do. And although I love to talk about myself, I prefer that someone else bring the subject up!</div><div><br /></div><div>I know this is anomalous behavior in this entertainment-driven city. And it's especially poor timing: I've been acting irresponsible and cruel lately, for no reason I can discern besides perhaps exhaustion, and it is hard to promote oneself when one is pretty sure that one is a hot mess. </div><div><br /></div><div>How do I inform a non-existent fan base of my gig in June so that I can fill that room with an audience? How do I convince a gentleman farmer that a 30-something single mom is the ideal orchard manager? How do I advertise basket-making and songwriting and book-binding courses so that I can make a living doing the things that I love? This is not my world or my skill set. But nevertheless, the excitement is carrying me along, and I am determined to move through it.</div><div><br /></div><div>So far I have set up a facebook page as a musician (<a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/Arlie-Cat/212251388806108?ref=hnav">here it is: like me, like me! </a>) even though I feel embarrassed every time I think about it. My friend and I have begun to think up really fun publicity stunts---stilts and puppet shows and busking in the streets---to promote the gig on June 21st. I am eating a lot of cherries. And although I've not yet figured out how to promote my studio classes, I have been to the studio in question. Baby steps.</div><div><br /></div><div>Wish me luck. And, of course, if you have any advice for me, I'm all ears.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Dwellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16836832009656845180noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1918922526810272039.post-27281665807300597662011-05-20T19:46:00.000-07:002011-05-20T21:05:09.047-07:00invention.<div><br /></div><div>Yesterday evening my <a href="http://www.paradisoarts.com/">friend</a> took me to venice beach for an art show featuring <a href="http://www.mayetorresart.com/">Maye</a>, an artist she met in Taos. Maye is the sort of woman who never meets a stranger. Immediately I was being introduced around as 'her friend, the artist' and being drawn into conversations that were way over my head. It was glorious to breathe the ionized air of the glowing seaside, talk fabricators and galleries and museums and light, drink free wine, and find my place amidst so many whose lives revolve around art and music. </div><div><br /></div><div>I have learned again and again that the world is just as we choose it to be. We say we are in love and we are in love. We say we are unresolved and so we are unresolved. We say we are conflicted about motherhood and so we are conflicted mothers. We say we are artists, and we are.</div><div><br /></div><div>It is just this power that has made me so indecisive of late---nothing less than the power of invention, the creative force. I know that whatever I decide will come true, no matter how poor the decision is. And that paralyzes me--I know how poor my decisions can be! But by choosing not to choose, I am choosing to be indecisive. And then that comes true. There's no out. We're inventing all the time. </div><div><br /></div><div>As the wine loosened my tongue last night I found myself collaring strangers, musicians mostly, and asking them about the bravest thing they've ever done. I have been brave before. I'd like to be brave again. It helps to talk about it. It helps to watch the bravery of my friends: Maye, living alone in the desert fiercely getting by on art; Laura, opening her dream studio; Michele, walking from Canada to Mexico with only her guitar and a backpack; M.J., leaving her business to hike the Pacific Crest Trail. </div><div><br /></div><div>Late into the night I walked out to the bus, summoning my kung-fu glamour around myself to ward off trouble. As quickly as I had become a bohemian artist, I transformed into a no-nonsense warrior with a don't-mess-with-me stride. All the way home, I watched my reflection in the window, flickering like a firefly: wife. mother. single woman. musician. farmer. nomad. teacher. charity case. wisewoman. pushover. writer. friend. enemy. ascetic. glutton. chameleon.</div><div><br /></div><div>Aren't we all.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Dwellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16836832009656845180noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1918922526810272039.post-74540673321984989662011-05-17T12:04:00.000-07:002022-10-22T05:07:31.551-07:00eras.<div>They define themselves, I guess, leaving us entirely out of it. So I collapse back into the softness of this weather, letting life pass by for a while, letting decisions rest while I try to change pain into art. Or maybe not art--vindictive folk-hop would be a better name for it. </div><div>
</div><div>A long time ago when I was trying to learn the greek dance Kritikos, my teacher explained it this way: "you lose your balance at the beginning, and you stay just off-balance all the way until the end."</div><div>
</div><div>amen.</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" face="arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><b>
</b></span></span></div><div>
</div><div>
</div>Dwellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16836832009656845180noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1918922526810272039.post-87442611359954799062011-05-07T23:33:00.000-07:002011-05-07T23:41:46.160-07:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiswdpWJaqtNXy-DCM6GThGdppxfSBHoxguHkklbQjM6UKRVs7U8wGbxRrfqUPjB8UOADjmCpU3jSBogI32SDqRGfGxtx4XM5amq3PXFMthTN-QtfEVgLznvNlqsgKzjPQNW1EaXdj8gaym/s1600/IMG_2387.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiswdpWJaqtNXy-DCM6GThGdppxfSBHoxguHkklbQjM6UKRVs7U8wGbxRrfqUPjB8UOADjmCpU3jSBogI32SDqRGfGxtx4XM5amq3PXFMthTN-QtfEVgLznvNlqsgKzjPQNW1EaXdj8gaym/s200/IMG_2387.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5604230076671782658" /></a> I love my mother.<div><br /></div><div>I can be so hard on myself, measuring out the moments with Xir and Anainn by my miserable moods, or thinking of all I could do better, or noticing how much I have let go.</div><div><br /></div><div>And yet, when I think of my mother, I do not remember moments or moods. There is just an overall continuity of love. And as I contemplate drastic moves and sudden changes, it is good to bear this in mind. This constancy of love is such a simple thing, such a good one: enough to just be there, to try, to keep things going even when all I have to offer is the bare minimum.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Dwellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16836832009656845180noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1918922526810272039.post-35927178213349397402011-04-27T18:27:00.000-07:002011-04-27T19:08:43.908-07:00Party.<div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>It would seem that many of us are going through transitions, dreaming and wondering and working steadily on what is going to happen next.</div><div><br /></div><div>Here is one immediate happening: two Thursdays from now, the 12th of May, I am going to hold a gathering here at the 12x12. There will be drinks and desserts and a driftwood fire. Paints and collage materials and instruments and paper will be available. The idea goes something like this: we all get hyped up on sugar (and fermented sugar) and then get into the making of art. Anyone can make anything: collage, painting, poetry, music, pottery---just to mark this year gone by and work out some ideas about what we want to happen in the next one. I am thinking around 7 pm. 3549 Wesley St. Culver City, near Venice and National. Let me know if you plan to come! Bring art supplies/poetry books/anything that might inspire you.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>And the greatest is sublimation, for through sublimation our pain and our mental confusion may be transformed into great works of art, into the very guideposts that may help others to avoid these same miseries...</i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Dwellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16836832009656845180noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1918922526810272039.post-10804389331466930172011-04-22T20:23:00.000-07:002011-04-22T21:04:30.071-07:00wrought in a yearAs I begin to overlap the months--- watching now-familiar trees bud out for the second time, picking bouquets of the mock-orange whose fragrance first greeted me upon moving in this time last year---I feel a strange tenderness toward this home. Very little, outwardly at least, has changed for the better in our dwelling-place. Our habitation of it has worn bare spots into the floors, greasemarks onto the walls, flaking spots into the paint and splintered bits into the sills. The door no longer fits cleanly and has to be wrestled with whenever one wants to leave. The stucco of the ceiling looks dingy. Drawers don't quite close. The oven doesn't work. Anything that was breakable has long since broken.<br /><br />And yet---<br />What was once bare dry grass is now a garden, with tomatoes and herbs and salad and beets and figs and lemons. There is a fireplace where once a plastic lounge chair sat quietly moldering. Soil that once could not hold water has now been fortified with a full year's eggshells and vegetable peelings and stays in place, drinking thirstily, when it rains. Not only that: there are earthworms! We never saw a one when we first dug the garden. Now the earth is teeming with them. <br /><br />Still, the best changes are invisible. I moved here, not as a conscious choice to be HERE, but simply to flee something else. I spent a lot of time licking my wounds. And now, at the close of a year's residency in this admittedly tight cocoon, I am fully ready to move TOWARD something. For its own sake. What felt sterile and afraid in me is now quickened and reaching. There are earthworms in my soil now too! (uhhh...not to put too fine a point on it.)<br /><br />I will probably keep writing for a time, because I love to write, and because this blog/confessional/vanity press doesn't feel quite finished. But I want to pause and thank those of you who have journeyed with me this far. I remember biking past Culver Studios in April of last year and seeing that unknown man skipping down the steps, joyful, and feeling so certainly that I was home. Yesterday I passed the same spot. But this time I was traveling with a friend, someone I'd never met this time last year, someone now dear. The streets were full of people. Near the place where, a year ago, I wrote of my conversation with a stranger at a traffic light, I watched the president of the united states pass in his caravan while the inhabitants of my city cheered and waved. Overlap. Things grow deeper as we pass over them again and again.<br /><br />I don't think any of this would be so clear had I not documented it here. Thank you for being the anonymous audience that helped to form my memory. These lines that link us all together, we who share this stretch of time on earth, the only ones who ever will---I can feel the connection more keenly for having written these things down, and for your reading of them. Does that make sense? A stranger so quickly becomes a friend. A strange place so quickly becomes a home.Dwellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16836832009656845180noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1918922526810272039.post-10077027583182951772011-04-18T22:21:00.000-07:002011-04-18T22:30:08.043-07:00music for a full moon<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyY2VTPS3kLiJtkdQJLQP52g2srtuEbKMmKVq8lvtH_3jcIfC3xg2cZBSW2f6fp0wZBuNlTHcgXvbp5JnwH9A' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe>It has been an extremely rough day. Knocked the tar right out of me, enough so that I am now feeling limp enough to post a few of my songs here. These are the kind of songs I write. Not rock star material, really. But kind of nice to listen to under the light of the moon. Anyway, being brave is a great tonic.<div><br /></div><div>(this next video is just a song, no picture. i couldn't figure out any other way to upload it. c'mon, after the day i've had, the fact that i am staring at a computer screen instead of the bottom of a whiskey bottle is testament to the doggedness of my puritanical upbringing!)</div><div><br /></div><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzFdN_kCNa4ody_CEb3wxKJJaN9QiOjAKpI-uDSjTZ_pg7OR0kuDtkjm1kgbQSlHOnsE2WeTZJYbQpDrxEl4w' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe>Dwellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16836832009656845180noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1918922526810272039.post-63131869799696271382011-04-17T21:16:00.000-07:002011-04-17T22:06:02.581-07:00how we love<div><br /></div><div>it is evening, so sweet, the last warmth of the day carries the scent of jasmine and roses and just a touch of woodsmoke over from the neighbor's. the boys are sleeping through my obsessive amp exploration. ( i got an amp last week! it has so many settings! yippee!) i have been writing love songs. i keep thinking about love.</div><div><br /></div><div>this summer i was visiting a friend as she prepared a birthday present for her beloved. she had contacted all of the important people from his past, touchstones in the timeline of his life, and asked each of them to contribute a recipe. she then selected an ingredient from each recipe---corn, say, or onion---and used this ingredient to make the paper upon which she printed the recipe. then she assembled all of these beautiful handmade recipe papers into a sort of personalized memoir of a cookbook. amazing, right? genius. artistry. love.</div><div><br /></div><div>i don't know if i can love like that. i have been questioning my ability to love, lately. i seem to put a lot of conditions on it. i seem to be rather locked up. and the gifts i give seem to be, mostly, for me: the men in my life are nearly always the i-don't-celebrate type and the things i supposedly do in their honor are really so that i can feel good.</div><div><br /></div><div> xir, lately, has been begging to go to church with his friends, and so we spent the morning at a more evangelical place than i would normally feel comfortable attending. i listened to a heartfelt sermon about how, for christians, there is no more work to do, how all the work has been done. there is no checklist of things to do to be acceptable. all of that was accomplished on the cross, and all that remains is to live a life of what the minister called 'glory'.</div><div><br /></div><div>i was thinking all day of a love like that. a love that required nothing, that accepted all, that found no fault, and wanted only for the beloved to find the fullest expression of his or her self. how we all long for that, and how rarely any of us provide it for anyone else. i mean really, what would it look like? it's not practical! we don't set up our lives to accommodate that sort of love! even for our children, there are so many conditions that must be met. even for our friends. when i look honestly into my heart, i know that none of my relationships are unconditional. i look for benefit in all of them. when the benefit ceases, the relationship ends.</div><div><br /></div><div> i felt so much resistance listening to the minister this morning. it seemed way too easy. no code of conduct? no commandments to follow? no special exercises to do every morning? no dietary restrictions? buddha's last words were: 'strive without cease!' jesus's, apparently, translate roughly to 'paid in full!'</div><div><br /></div><div>it's different. a different way to love. trusting someone to do what is best for them, to live according to their highest calling, instead of trying to get them to behave according to code. for one thing, i find it unlikely to succeed. maybe i am projecting, but try as i might, i find it hard to grasp that, given freedom from ethical and moral codes of conduct, a majority of humanity would aspire to anything besides rank individualism.</div><div><br /></div><div>but there are so many ways to love...and i am always surprised. what do i know? it has been a wonderful day. despite an interminable-at-the-time meltdown from my youngest this afternoon, the rest of the day stretched long and golden. how little we need! everything in my life is up in the air: i may leave the state at any time. i am not sure what i want from myself, or the world, anymore. i am out of money. nearly every relationship i find myself in feels all-consuming and out of control. the hours i used to spend on laundry, housecleaning, garden maintenance, and mending are now unapologetically consumed by electric guitar practice. i feel crazy to myself. there is nothing solid in me to love!</div><div><br /></div><div>and yet---i am loved. out of this chaos i continue to give love.</div><div><br /></div><div> i keep learning. it amazes me, how little any of us ever actually need. so much of what i thought was necessary turns out to have been a crutch. ah well. learning to love. it was never going to be easy, was it?</div>Dwellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16836832009656845180noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1918922526810272039.post-63366014773180698302011-04-13T07:22:00.000-07:002011-04-13T07:26:37.561-07:00anniversary.<div><br /></div><div>i just realized that my first post to this blog was april 20th, 2010. my original plan was to write for one year about the experience of living in this little house. things changed, as they do, and this blog became more of an online chronicle of my experience of life in general. and i certainly did not write every day. or mention the house that often!</div><div><br /></div><div>but still. i believe occasions ought to be marked, and i'd like to mark this one. i think i'll have a party in the yard, with a fire and libations and conversation about all of the things that life throws at us. those of you who live nearby (whether i've met you or not!) and/or think you might want to come, comment with suggested dates and times, and i'll put something together!</div><div><br /></div><div>love, dweller</div>Dwellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16836832009656845180noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1918922526810272039.post-80782833741691103142011-04-09T21:33:00.000-07:002011-04-09T21:45:54.663-07:00criticism.<div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I used to think that people who criticized me were smart--the only ones who could see through me. I used to believe that listening to negative feedback would help me become a better person. I was once convinced that being told my faults would help me eliminate them. </div><div><br /></div><div>But oh! IT IS NOT TRUE. Criticism cripples. I don't care how unenlightened it sounds. It can kill beauty and happiness outright. It is the 'bitter glass' Yeats writes of in <a href="http://www.poetry-archive.com/y/the_two_trees.html">The Two Trees. </a> </div><div><br /></div><div>Keeping the company of those who genuinely like me is a fountain of youth. Inspiration flows. Love burgeons. Ideas and laughter and insight abound.</div><div><br /></div><div>Keeping the company of those who find fault with me is like a slow withering. I start to believe in my own darkness. I start to live it out. I begin to lose faith in myself.</div><div><br /></div><div>I have been feeling this so strongly lately that I feel the need to eliminate criticism entirely. Even the 'constructive' sort. (Ha! Constructive. Seriously?) If I have nothing nice to say I will not say it. Even to my two year old.</div><div><br /></div><div>And as for that most insidious kind, self-criticism, I'm going to yank it out by the roots. Mercilessly. </div><div><br /></div><div>As I navigate the storms and changes that seem to pursue me like winged GPS-equipped battering rams, I also pledge this to myself: I will keep company only with those people who seem to enjoy mine. Simple as that.</div>Dwellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16836832009656845180noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1918922526810272039.post-53855903149251667762011-04-02T23:32:00.001-07:002011-04-02T23:51:51.933-07:00relationship, in poetry.<div>because i am too exhausted to write prose.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>vanishing point</b></div><div><br /></div><div>mad rejoinders, wonders, </div><div>eyes and hearts forward, brothers:</div><div><br /></div><div>the changes may come coldly now,</div><div>unending, overwhelming.</div><div><br /></div><div>if you have dreams, write them down.</div><div>let no openness go closed.</div><div><br /></div><div>let each petal of each rose</div><div>be lined and counted.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>daily bread</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div>punching through paper walls, seeing stars--</div><div>dizzying work, shifting walls--</div><div>we do not enter these rooms to stay.</div><div><br /></div><div>it could not be another way.</div><div><br /></div><div>help your friends and sons get fed, spin the wheels for daily bread,</div><div>you cannot ever win this game.</div><div><br /></div><div>could it be another way?</div><div>--we do not enter these rooms to stay.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>voice in the wilderness</b></div><div><br /></div><div>honeyed and wild-eyed</div><div>no rock: a storm, a madness,</div><div>a tearing-down of</div><div>the made ways and clean days </div><div>of the wide world.</div><div><br /></div><div>unstable as they come, this bravest one:</div><div>to pave the way for love so great</div><div>a world must be unmade.</div><div><br /></div><div>who loves the unmaker?</div><div>who praises change?</div><div><br /></div><div>so, lonely goes the prophet.</div><div>now who could bear such weight?</div><div><br /></div><div>~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~</div><div><br /></div><div>well, one thing i can say for the (ahem) tumultuous relationship i have been fully and passionately engaged in for the past month....at the cost, perhaps, of just about <i>everything else</i> in my life....is that it has made for a surge in creative output. five new songs, dozens and dozens of rather awful poems, lots of sketches, several batches of naturally-dyed herbal-scented playdough to keep the kiddies happy, and so on. also i now have an electric guitar. </div><div><br /></div><div>that counts for something, right? sublimation or bust.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Dwellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16836832009656845180noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1918922526810272039.post-58093184224291522502011-03-15T14:02:00.000-07:002011-03-15T15:03:42.829-07:00second chances<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Are there others of you who practice this ridiculous and addictive habit of self-sabotage? I seem to have almost a fear of succeeding: when I put my finger on it, pin it down, it is because each choice made is an un-choosing of countless other things. Floating around in my subconscious is the idea that if I am admitted to Naropa, if I go to Colorado and become a wilderness therapist, I will not be a midwife, or a rock star, or a nomadic poet, or a neurosurgeon. It seems, also, to be irrelevant whether or not these are even things I want for myself. I simply cannot stand to watch the choices go away. There is a reluctance to ACT in my own life, to CHOOSE, that I do not understand. Recently someone observed that I've lived my life like a multiple-choice assignment, not carving out my own direction or answers, taking only what is handed to me and not asking for what it is that I truly want.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">But what DO i want? Oh, isn't this the question! What do any of us want? The story of the Green Knight would have us believe that what we want is to have our own way. But to have our own way is the most dangerous thing of all. As per the Dalai Lama: </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"Remember that sometimes not getting what you want is a wonderful stroke of luck."</span></span></div><div style="text-align: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', sans-serif; color: rgb(41, 48, 59); font-size: 13px; "><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><br /></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; "><table cellspacing="0" width="100%" style="margin-top: 5px; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; "><tbody><tr><td colspan="2" class="sqtdq" style="background-color: rgb(237, 241, 247); padding-top: 5px; padding-right: 5px; padding-bottom: 5px; padding-left: 5px; "><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">And George Eliot chimes in:</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">"And certainly, the mistakes that we male and female mortals make when we have our own way might fairly raise some wonder that we are so fond of it."</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I have been so hesitant to follow my intuition. The last time I went with my gut, I dropped job and love and security to swan off to California. We all know how that ended: stuck in Los Angeles for 7 years in an oppressive, loveless marriage. At least, that's the way I've been spinning the story. But what if I looked at it this way: I followed my intuition and left the world of D.C. and empty politics, became a landscape designer and solar installer and art teacher, made some of the dearest friends of my life, learned kung fu, had two beautiful and miraculous children, and discovered that so far, there is no hardship I cannot survive. What if that were my story? Would it help me continue forward instead of always holding this wish for revision?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I see it as both a weakness and a great strength of mine, the ability to meet someone where they are, to give infinite chances to those who have hurt me, or lost their way, or made mistakes. I hope the world will extend me the same allowance----and, usually, it does. But I rarely extend the same allowance to myself. It would be interesting, I think, as an experiment, to try being harder on others and easier on myself for a while. Or maybe nix the harder on others part. Maybe just be easier on myself.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I am back in Boulder for a second attempt, the first having gone sour in every conceivable way. I left my work, my children, my taxes and housecleaning and responsibilities in California. Here, I wake and recite my dreams, sip cappuccino whilst murmuring poems back and forth with my beloved, graze on chocolate and salmon, follow my whims and appetites. The mountains are to the west, snowy and sleeping. It is easy to befriend others. When I return, I cannot help but feel that everything will have changed.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman'; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; "><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; ">tides</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; ">rising here, i am</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; ">unafraid, expanding. aware of the</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; ">inevitable contraction.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; ">(there is a tide)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; ">there was an answer in the sheets</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; ">a story being told somewhere to which i knew the ending</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; ">(in the affairs of men)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; ">there was laughter for a morning, snow melt, singing</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; ">letting life in, still, despite the warning,</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; ">(which taken at the flood)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; ">there will be a reckoning, and yet</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; ">everything has already begun.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; ">(leads on to fortune)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; ">it is past time.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; ">it is time.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; ">“There is a tide in the affairs of men, Which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; ">Omitted, all the voyage of their life is bound in shallows and in miseries.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; ">On such a full sea are we now afloat.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; ">And we must take the current when it serves, or lose our ventures.”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; ">-William Shakespeare</span></span></div></span></span></span></div></td></tr></tbody></table></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>Dwellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16836832009656845180noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1918922526810272039.post-425030639703275992011-03-07T21:41:00.000-08:002011-03-07T22:02:36.107-08:00children and time<div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>it is an endless string of requests. <i>can we stop and play tag? could we pull over and look at the fish in the neighbor's pond? will you tell me a story on the way? where is my cape? come outside and splash in the hose too, okay</i>? i feel put-upon, exhausted, stressed. i see a long tunnel of errands: bus trip, groceries, unpack and put away, laundry, homework, cook dinner, wash up, return phone calls, plan trip for grad school interview this weekend, renew library book. the light at the end of it is me, alone, with a cup of tea, SITTING DOWN. i just want to get to that moment. i ignore and snap and hedge. <i>no, there's no time. we'll see the fish later. i want to concentrate on getting there. i don't have time to look for your cape, keep track of your own things. i've got a lot to do in here, can't you just play by yourselves for a while?</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>but today xir turned to me and said <i>you are always in a hurry. what are you rushing for? why can't we just have fun?</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>suddenly i could see myself through his eyes. THAT mom.<i> </i>Somehow i have become THAT mom.</div><div><br /></div><div>yesterday we biked to the movies, the ones by the lovely lion fountain in downtown culver city, and the boys wanted to run through the streams of water while we waited. i fussed and went on about sitting in wet clothes in a cold movie theater and meanwhile the fellow i've been all gushy about in the posts below laughed and told them <i>yes, be careful, you might have too much fun! oh no, don't have too much fun, get out of there! </i> and ran through with them.</div><div><br /></div><div>that used to be me. what on earth happened? what am i so afraid of? since when did i care about damp clothes in movie theaters? since when did i pass up a chance to play tag, or look at fish swimming?</div><div><br /></div><div>i suppose there are no easy answers. dinner, after all, does need to be cooked, and the clothes do need to be washed. but a life that leaves no room for impromptu games of tag or running through the hose is not a life i'm interested in living.</div><div><br /></div><div>where is the time we thought we would have? the time to sit and look at the moon and work out a song on the guitar, the time to lay in the grass and doze, or browse through several books of poetry, or play long involved games with your children until the shadows grow long and you've lost any sense of the hour? have we really spent it on dishwashing and grocery shopping? but how else could it ever be? i am at a loss.</div><div><br /></div><div>how i love you, xir, and your ability to cut through your frustration and speak to me clearly. how i love you, anainn, and your laughter and flexibility. i want to take care of you, but not at the price of never really knowing you. what is to be done?</div><div><br /></div><div> </div>Dwellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16836832009656845180noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1918922526810272039.post-11813326189228705422011-03-04T17:06:00.000-08:002011-05-17T12:54:17.228-07:00numinous beginnings<div><i>"The numinous beginning, which contained everything...." Carl Jung, 1957 </i></div><div><br /></div><div>A few months ago I wrote this in my journal: </div><div><br /></div><div>"You just can never tell. Every unfolding day throws life into a new perspective, or adds an ending that turns what you thought was an anecdote into foreshadowing. Things just KEEP HAPPENING. So the past is mutable. There can be no conclusion, so there can be no story, and no story line. What freedom!"</div><div><br /></div><div>It has been a strange week, a week almost out of time, nesting and dreaming and allowing life to surprise me. Not building up defenses to lessen the shock. Letting myself ride this, to see what will happen. Trusting my intuition, one more time. </div><div><br /></div><div>So, suddenly, I love someone. It is as though I have known him for ages. I <i>recognize</i> him. And knowing him now throws my entire history of love into a new light: he very strongly resembles my first love. his manner of speaking and his smile are reminiscent of the boy who drew me all the way across the country. and his birthday is one day off from that of the boys' father.</div><div><br /></div><div>Might these similarities have been what attracted me to all those others in the first place? Echoes of this yet-unknown person that I somehow knew was out there, shadowy reminders of a love I would one day experience?</div><div><br /></div><div>(Well, as I said to my friend on the phone this evening, you simply cannot talk about things like this without sounding dippy. I apologize.)</div><div><br /></div><div>And if I am making all of this up--as I feel, sometimes, I must be--well then isn't it wonderful to know that I have the capacity to imagine something this sublime. That it is there, in my heart, the potential to love like this. It gives me renewed faith in myself and in my ability to negotiate a path through this wild world, a path that stays close to the heart of things. </div><div><br /></div><div>It is a time of great changes for me. This weekend I am flying to Boulder to interview for the wilderness psychology program. My life here in California is drawing, one way or another, to a close. And wherever it is that I may go, I know that I will go with renewed resolve to live this life as if it matters. Whatever else may come of this, I know for certain that the days of setting the stage--living on the surface--are over.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Dwellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16836832009656845180noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1918922526810272039.post-33525296748484593432011-02-25T21:29:00.000-08:002011-02-25T21:54:40.677-08:00cocooning<div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>this has been a week of poetry for me; poetry and music making and that first desperate blur of falling-in-love. </div><div><br /></div><div>i spent the morning writing poem after poem after poem, and though i happen to think they are quite good, i am not going to print them here because they are all about sex. ahem. </div><div><br /></div><div>so this afternoon i sent my new love off in the rain and welcomed my children back home, and here we are, cozy and safe, the boys dreaming, mama processing what the heck just happened.</div><div><br /></div><div>i so often describe, here, the difficulties of living in a small space that i want to take a moment and list the lovely things.</div><div><br /></div><div>1) i have such a low overhead that i never feel any financial pressure.</div><div>2) a thorough, no-holds-barred housecleaning never takes more than a day.</div><div>3) when one is in love, one's beloved is never out of sight.</div><div>4) since i need work only a few days a week to cover my bills, the rest of my time is devoted to family, creativity, sunlight, development...and i do not feel limited or defined by the work that i do.</div><div><br /></div><div> i feel such gratitude lately for this warm, dry nest. and also...</div><div><br /></div><div>remember the list i made on new year, detailing the three things i wanted for 2011? well, one of them, naturally, was to meet a wild gypsy musician who would adore me and write songs with me and feel the adventure, the poetry of life just as keenly as i. </div><div><br /></div><div>so: he's here. (next time i maybe won't put quite so much emphasis on the 'wild' part. i'm just saying.)</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Dwellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16836832009656845180noreply@blogger.com2