Joel and I recently completed a 7-week series of birth classes based upon the book "Birthing from Within."  The instructor said something that I've been musing upon.  She said that in labor, you will be tempted to just lose it...to forget your breathing, your pain-coping practice, your mental endurance required for full relaxation during rest periods.  She then said, "So just lose it."  Something about this notion of fully embracing the fall into the abyss resonates true in my being.

There is no appropriate way to birth a child.  There is no appropriate way to mourn the death of your mother or mitigate a divorce or face terminal cancer.  All there is is the bottom dropping out, our own personal dark cavern of fear that we all must face, and face alone.  No one can bring this child into the world for me.  No one can mourn Denise for Jessica.  Maybe we should stop trying so hard to grasp at the sides of the cave, to stop desperately reaching for that hand of help.  Maybe we should stop looking all around us to see ourselves in other's eyes.  Maybe in this dank space, there is no welcome mat for the ego.  We are all degraded to our primordial selves through pain and grief.  Why is it when we feel like screaming that we instead gently weep?  Why is it when we feel like scratching out the eyes of our soul, instead we make to-do lists?  Why, in god's name, when we feel like dying, do we politely sip our hot tea by the fire?  We keep ourselves so tightly wrapped up in all these civil emotions and try to sell others on our facade of health and inner peace - even in the hopes that we will believe ourselves to be evolved beyond primitive despair.  Perhaps, in the imagination of our souls, what we really need is just to fucking lose it.  To scream bloody murder, to scratch and scratch until we bleed, to die - bit by bit as we fall into the well of our worst fear coming true.

Wouldn't it be a relief to hit that bottom and feel solid ground again, despite our nursing broken bones from the fall?  It is only in being at ones lowest that we can, in any possible way, forage a way out.  There are beautiful organisms that can only thrive in wet, dark conditions.  There are things we will never discover about ourselves and others if we spend our lives avoiding and repressing the realities of pain.  Once we stop being so damn afraid of the engulfing blackness, then, and only then, can we realize that our eye-sight has keenly adjusted and we can see more clearly than ever before.  That sight will no doubt reveal that you are indeed strong, that you are humbled to being a collection of particles, and that there is great comfort in ultimate release.  That sight will be the very thing we need in order to climb out of the abyss.

Additionally, when we see our loved ones bordering on their own soul-drop, we must let them.  I will keep watch at the entrance to ward off predators.  I will yell down often to encourage your return, for of course the abyss is no place to stay - there is more life to live once you emerge.  But I refuse to advise you to avoid your fears.  I will let you go and trust in your strong soul to give you what you need.  Once we stop trying to save others, keeping them from doing what they need to do because we ourselves have the greater need of being helpful in crisis, then will we know our true substance as friend, wife, mother, daughter, teacher, human.

That substance, fellow humans, is a gorgeous, miraculous mix of hydrogen, oxygen, and carbon atoms.  That this amalgamation can have the awareness of self, much less the evolved ability to endure and grow from personal suffering, blows my mind.

Looking up at the stars, I know quite well 

That, for all they care, I can go to hell, 

But on earth indifference is the least 

We have to dread from man or beast. 

How should we like it were stars to burn 

With a passion for us we could not return? 

If equal affection cannot be, 

Let the more loving one be me. 

Admirer as I think I am 

Of stars that do not give a damn, 

I cannot, now I see them, say 

I missed one terribly all day. 

Were all stars to disappear or die, 

I should learn to look at an empty sky 

And feel its total dark sublime, 

Though this might take me a little time.” 

― W.H. Auden

I've felt really stuck inside my head this last week.  Finally on Friday night, before Joel left for a long business trip, we had a meaningful conversation that drove me past my fear of communicating to him all the ways I was stuck, just terribly stuck.  In his normal unflappable manner, he assured me that not only were my thoughts acceptable, but that because of them, he found me more attractive than ever.  He then left, and I've been ruminating all weekend upon us.

That and baking, nesting, wandering around my neighborhood, talking with Jess, and trying to give my thoughts a reprieve.

In life, I am still surprised by how damn good it feels to express something to someone.  I have been seriously scared shitless to say some of those thoughts to Joel, asking hard and hurtful questions of our relationship and if he hadn't the internal strength to handle it, to handle whatever I can throw at him, I would be a lesser, sadder, broken-er version of myself.  He has buoyed me to a place of such confidence and love that I am now secure enough to doubt.  Lucky him.  In a way, it reminds me of my relationship with god (or whatever/if whatever). I've been given enough security that I can throw it away and know I'll still be caught.

Loved enough to question, strong enough to doubt.

But it doesn't feel very good, and I've been terribly hard on myself.  One thing I cannot seem to shake is the judgement of my feelings.  I cannot control how I feel and this eternally pisses me off.  I can control WHAT I do with how I feel, how I treat people with what I feel, but I do not possess the power to stop feeling what I feel - dark or otherwise.

So we are left with an internal battle, a viscous mental game of repression and anxiety.  I am slooooooowly learning that I need to just stop trying to control the feelings at all...my insides, my reactions to the world, my relationships, my heart.  I feel how I feel that that's just that.  I'm tired of asking hard questions, tired of being scared - but that's my reality right now.   I must have to learn to let it be, otherwise there will be no peace, and worse, no honest discovery, no pure answers.  We do not get to change how we feel.  I keep raging against this notion, and I'm getting very beat up in the process.

My insides quietly whisper, "Leave me alone."

Apparently August has come and gone.  The traffic on the bridge can only be explained by the influx of students and parents back to the daily grind.  I've noticed myself looking back a lot these last few days, trying to assimlate new information, new faces, and new feelings into my daily doings.

I believe one of my greatest strengths is in analysis.  Also, as an introvert, my natural tendency is to look back and assess my and others' behaviors and words (read: obsess).  Both of these personality traits combined makes for an anxious aftermath to social events, and I often feel that I severely mirepresented myself, wish I would have not said ___, wish I would have done ___, etc...and suddently, that swift and severe axe of self-judgement comes swinging down upon my head.  Now, I'm bleeding and blind.  I wonder if other people do this?

It reminds me of a year or so ago after a particularly grueling ladies' night.  Lots of wine had us loosed-lipped and  unabashedly weepy.  I remember waking up the next morning not only nursing a nasty headache, but feeling particularly sheepish about my vulnerable behavior and spent a few hours replaying everything I said just in case I needed to apologize to someone.  I desperately wished to go back in time and regain the composure and control I then seemed so eager to rid myself of.  I comforted myself with the notion that the other girls were probably feeling the same way and wrote one of them a letter to that effect, encouraging her not to succumb to false insecurities, to not berate herself for something she may have said,  and to take all parts of the others into her being with willing acceptance, gracious forgiveness, and fierce loyalty.

In the end, there is nothing to do with my analysis of people other than to love them.  This includes myself.  I am human.  You are human.  We can be decidedly virtuous and altruistic. We can be atrociously maleficent and grotesque.  Even the most composed of people have hurt someone else with a flippant, impulsive comment.  Lord knows every single one of us has been hurt by the same.  We can spout off so much of our bull shit and soapbox about our arbitrary opinions that can crush others around us at worst, or (at best) keeps them from sharing their own opinions.  We do not listen well, we do not speak carefully.  We intimidate and dominate and in our eagerness to be known, bulldoze those in our company.

All of this to say that I feel this great need to analyze and obsess and ultimately forgive.  I also feel the need to assure myself of people's affections for me.  But in the end, my acceptance of Candace is what is really in decline.  I could easily demand assurances from others, but I know, oh dears, HOW I KNOW - this is my battle.   It is no one's job but my own to be confident and to trustingly accept people's words at face value without criticism or manipulative self-deprecation.

Speaking of insecurities, I have recently been stopped short by fear.  Many of you know I am working on a humble collection of poems for self-publishing.  I am in the editing stages, and I have to tell someone - the poems are total shit. They are simply not good enough to put out into the world; a world I love, a world of Plath and Rilke and Shakespeare and Donne.  I do not think the world needs another mediocre poet.  For the most part, I am a confident writer and care little about how my work is received (coming from someone who has received only positive feedback, so I realize I am lacking in the character formed by artistic rejection).  Now that I am really looking to put myself out there, fear is taking hold of my throat. I feel it very physcially.

One one hand, the fear makes me pissed and frustrated.  On the other, I see it as a necessary birth pang.  What mother wasn't afraid to give birth?  What artist wasn't terrified to put their canvas on display?  Fear is a right of passage, and I'm beginning to trust its presence and leave it alone.

"Oh hello Fear.  I forgot you were there.  You may go now."

(a small adaptation of Doc Holliday in Tombstone)

I am sick of the portayal of artists and designers and stylists online who chose to convey an overly-white, overly-simple, overly-amiable, overly-clear, and annoyingly overly-painless process to creating.  Even if it sometimes gets muddy for them, it seems they are unable to express the sheer disgusting ugliness that comes from birth.  Have you ever seen a woman deliver a baby?  It's completely violent and gross.  It's also the most naturally beautiful occurance.

What I am saying here is that creating is ugly. I am prepared to work hard on these poems and puke them up and be doubled over in labor pains and fight like holy hell to bring forth that which has been placed inside of me.  I am on the verge of something wanting out and it's gagging me and tearing me and I am not sure I will survive it.  

Here's the front room...I am just over the moon about that glass!

Turn left to face north, and you'll see these curtains covering a floor-to-ceiling window.  The light in this place is divine.

Do an about face to the south, and you'll enjoy a view of the mantel.
We are toying with placing the TV in the fireplace, but for now...it's just a jumbly mess.


Little Miss Octavia is settling in more quickly than expected...though she is an now a hybrid outdoor/indoor kitty, we'll keep her inside for a week and then she can start to explore outside.  She's been rather frisky because she usually exerts quite a bit of energy outside...but she's literally a caged cat. Well, not literally.  But kind of.


A lovely kitchen scape, one to replace my favorite part of the trailer.


And the other kitchen windows.
I guess they'll do.
[smirk]


The view of the light cascading onto the bed (and unpacked shiz)
from my bedroom.  It has another (two) window(s).
[double smirk]


Here's an example of what happens when a girl packs way too late at night...after working 8 hours...when that girl is unaccustomed to the energy necessary to work again.  She forgets how to spell some of her favorite things, and then proceeds to use proper proofreading symbols to correct it.  On the box.
Sidenote: Don't you think jewels and letters make such a dreamy combination?

Well, this week I am only working a few days...so I'll be unpacking, sitting in this cafe until our internet gets installed, and soaking up the last week of leisure before it's back to work full time next week.

I'll be keeping you posted on the house and the state of my soul as I attempt to put into practice all my self-care tools without the free time to spare.  I think it's entirely possible, but I admit that I am daily swimming in a pool of fear...

And it may be all the surprising and shocking transitions of 2010
(learning that anything can happen at a moment's notice)
but I feel as if I am standing over a trap door, gasping for one more breath with every inhale,
as if it will be my last chance before I plunge into an abyss
and the floor falls out under me.
It's a dread...something making me feel like another transition (good or bad) is just around the corner.
That good news will be reneged.
That bad news will reoccur.

I am grabbing blindly for anything to hold that won't come crashing down with me.
Call it paranoia, call it portent,
or call it self-fulfilling prophesy,
I am just noticing a continual need to remind myself to
breath, stare at light, and get plenty of rest.
Plus,
Milk Duds.

The end.

"How to describe this beautifully heavy silence.  I sit and the only thing I hear is a steady, faint drip of rain...an occasional whoosh of trucks driving by.  Stress and fear have returned this week in drastic measure and I am left to doubt myself, questioning if the peace of the last year was due only to the fact that I had leisure time.  God I hope not.  I am so afraid of losing myself again...but if I examine it without the fear, if I can imagine it all being sucked up by an existential, infinite vacuum (I just watched "I Heart Huckabees") then there is nothing left...no stress.  Truly, I fear the fear more than the actuality.  In the moment, I am quite capable, and all I need is strength for that particular moment, not for the rest of my foreseeable future.  Back again to the ease of the moment."

In the next few weeks, I am transitioning back into fulltime work.  I've been racked with personal questions...Am I capable of going back to work and still being a writer?  I do think so, but God...I am scared.  Can I figure out a work/life balance that still allows me to write, take pictures, meet friends?  I do think so, but God...I am scared.

But that's today.  Yesterday, I found a moment of ease.  I close my eyes and cling to the mental picture of me sitting at the kitchen table, reading a letter from her, grabbing my journal, scribbling peace, and realizing that I am still quite capable of taking care of myself.

Self, there is really nothing to fear.

I sit here at my antique desk, an emerald green and chartreuse hummingbird just perched himself on the cherry tree sapling.  It's gray and cozy.  My Sulawesi swirls black and rich in my basic white mug.  My skin reaches out to feel the luxury of my pashmina.  The permanence of finally being back in my home with no prospect of having to live elsewhere ever again fills my soul and gushes in excess through my tear holes.  As the sights and sounds of this place remind me that I am a strong, rooted willow, I think upon one word.

||  courage  ||

It cannot be coincidental that courage finds its way into my thoughts so soon after I've spent the last few months swimming in the theme of suffering.  I notice their intrinsic connection.  

I have watched one of my best friends move from our shared daily life. Then, a week before she moves 800 miles away, she is diagnosed with breast cancer at age 29.  My pain at not being around her during this time aside, I have marveled been absolutely flabbergasted by her courage.  Her courage does not stop at facing the threat of mortality younger than expected, but it extends to her desire to push through this stage and grab all the richness it has to offer.  That it will inform her art, I have no doubt.  That she has decided for it to inform her soul, I am deeply inspired.  

As they jump, I freeze time and look inward.

Would I have what it takes to jump with such courage?

I suppose I have no way of knowing unless I were asked to jump.

But I do know that a paddle has been offered to me:

A choice to climb into that precarious raft alongside them, 

A request for help.

And somewhere I find the courage inside to row with all my might.

Because we are all connected.

And courage cannot be mustered alone.

~crm

[friday]