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Building on a Good Beginning

November 26, 2016 //
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Thanksgiving is over, and the holiday season has begun. Black Friday is a memory.

Thanksgiving was simple, quiet, intimate and amazing – unscripted, and as it turned out, entirely unplanned. We’d made dinner reservations to go out. It seemed the better choice at the time we made our plans; I have a very small kitchen, and although more than a year has now passed since I moved into my own place, my kitchen efficiency is still somewhat limited by the loss of some favored gadgets and appliances that I have not yet replaced… like my Kitchen Aid mixer, which I miss greatly.

I’d had my mixer for decades; it was a wedding gift left from my first marriage. It had become redundant when I moved in to the big house “with everyone”, and the newer mixer on hand won out. Mine became someone else’s cherished favored kitchen appliance (I no longer remember who). It was a painful moment to move out with the hurt and anger of the break-up flavored by the poignant loss of an appliance I’d never have given up except – love. It’s strange to me that the intense feelings over the break up have diminished, but the irritation over allowing myself to be so short-sighted as to be persuaded to give up my mixer, when there was ample room to store it more or less forever, somehow persists, particularly as this kitchen, now, is so small that there is neither space to store it, nor space to use it. lol Silly primates, emotions lack substance. Better to let such lingering ire just go; it serves no purpose now save to remind me that I do want to replace that mixer – which, I am well aware of, without the emotional reinforcement.

My Traveling Partner and I planned to be spending the afternoon and evening together. At some early point in the day, we agreed neither of us was particularly enthusiastic about our dinner plans, although the restaurant is one we both enjoy. I canceled the reservations. Hell, frozen waffles and powdered hot cocoa shared with my traveling partner in a tent in the dead of winter, wrapped in love and enjoying each other’s good company would still be a Thanksgiving to cherish; it isn’t about the venue or the menu. I looked over the pantry, committed to using what I had on hand. The drenching rain that had fallen all night, and continued through the morning was ample discouragement from any grocery shopping, and most places were closed. Could I pull off an unplanned Thanksgiving dinner for two? Neither of us had any specific expectations beyond sharing the time together and enjoying each other. I would do  my best. My best would be enough.

It was a simple meal. Chicken breasts baked in foil, seasoned with sage, onions, and chives from my container garden. Steamed baby Nero di Toscana kale, and savory baked heirloom carrots, from my autumn vegetable garden. Canned corn and box stuffing; durable staples always on hand from my pantry. I even had a solitary can of cranberry sauce left from… whenever. It was a lovely meal. We had a great evening. Around the time that our friends next door returned home from dinners with family, we were also settling in to relax and we all gathered together over music and friendly conversation. It was appropriately festive and joyful. It never needed to be elaborate.

I slept in Friday morning, and woke to my Traveling Partner awake ahead of me, working on his set list for a gig later in the day. We had coffee together. A bite of lunch a little later. When the time came he packed up his gear and I played roadie helping load it into the car. Then he was gone and quiet filled my solitary space, along with happy daydreams of love, and good intentions about housekeeping that never quite came to fruition. 🙂

I did my traditional Black Friday thing, which is to say, I stayed home and did not participate in the retail frenzy that exploits so many workers on a day of the year when they might like to be at home with their loved ones. (Go ahead and take a moment to reflect on how few potential four-day weekends exist for most “entry level”, retail, restaurant, or service industry employees, and then reflect on how much you have valued and needed that precious limited down time in your own life…I’ll wait.Do you suppose you really needed that discount on a crock pot more?) I’m okay with paying a reasonable price for goods and services, and I’m more than okay with doing my part to refraining from adding to the literal Black Friday body count that seems unique to American greed.  It is my tradition to spend Thanksgiving weekend setting up the holiday tree, lights, baking holiday treats… it is a long weekend, suitable for all those things. I didn’t do any of that yesterday, I just relaxed in the happy glow of being well-loved, reading, meditating, daydreaming about the future, and just generally enjoying myself quietly and in a state of great contentment. It was lovely. It was enough.

Misty mornings seem to offer the potential to remake the world, differently.

Misty mornings seem to offer the potential to remake the world, differently.

This morning I woke from a night of peculiarly interrupted sleep, and feeling rested, in spite of that. I gazed out over the misty meadow, considering where to the put holiday tree, sipping my coffee, watching the Canada geese stepping through the meadow, feasting on whatever it is they pull up from the mud along their way. My squirrel visitor returned, too, and enjoyed breakfast while I had my coffee. The Northern Flicker who comes by regularly joined us, taking a few moments to enjoy the seed bell and the suet feeder before departing. A flock of red-wing blackbirds took his place. There is nothing spectacular about this gentle morning, nothing to exclaim about, nothing I am inclined to change. I am content. As it turns out, contentment is quite every bit of “enough”, and far more easily reached than “happily ever after”.  I smile, and sip my coffee; it has grown cold in the morning chill of the room. I pause my writing to consider lighting a fire… later, perhaps. A lovely long walk on a misty morning, first, sounds like just the ideal thing to precede a hot shower, a mug of cocoa, and a crackling fire in the fireplace. 🙂

As with most things, even "enough" is a matter of perspective.

As with most things, even “enough” is a matter of perspective…

...What is "within reach" depends, too, on our perceptions, and our tools...

…what is “within reach” depends, too, on our perceptions, and our tools…

...We are each having our own experience.

…We are each having our own experience.

I’m still sitting around in comfy clothes, sipping my now-cold coffee, smiling out over the meadow whenever I glance out at the world. This feels good. I feel safe. Content. Loved. I have enough to get by on – and not that “oh fuck what now, it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay, we’ll all get through this, just breathe” level of “enough” that requires real commitment to staying present in this moment. (We all have those moments, eventually, it’s part of the human experience.) This morning it is the “oh hey, nothing to fear, nothing to want for, it’s all good my friends, can I pour you a coffee?” level of enough, and those times can feel so delicate, so precious and rare… I think because it has taken me so long to understand that they must be enjoyed with the same deep commitment to savoring them, lingering in that headspace, and revisiting the recollection again and again, as one might do for some grave challenge or anxiety-provoking moment, otherwise they seems to slip away. So, this morning, I’m here, enjoying now, enjoying me, and even enjoying my cold coffee in this chilly room, before I do something different – just to be sure I don’t forget how awesome this moment here also is. 🙂 Today, this is enough.

Merry Everything, everyone, and Happy All-of-whatever-the-fuck-this-is-right-here! May your day be merry and bright; it’s not holiday-dependent. Enjoy this moment, too. 😉

 

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Categories autumn, Brain Injury, Free Will, gardening, Healthy Living, Love, Metaphors, Mindfulness, Moments, Parables, Perspective, Post Traumatic Stress, Relationships, The Art of Being, The Big 5

Language Functions by Agreement

November 24, 2016 //
2

It’s a true thing; language functions by agreement. We understand each other because we believe we share definitions of terms. It’s often true that we do (more or less, individual subtleties and variations notwithstanding). Language also fails to function – by agreement; we often implicitly agree that in order to “keep peace”, to avoid “starting shit”, to evade “drama”, we overlook failures to explicitly clarify our meaning, even though we’ve seen that we are not communicating with clarity.  Well, damn, people, don’t do that. Just saying.

My idea of a beautiful Thanksgiving holiday and yours may differ – it’s generally not the sort of difference that causes terrible heartache, unless someone defies some commonly held familial, tribal, or community tradition based on novel (or merely outside the group) thinking. What about words like “equal”, “truth”, “non-biased”, “fair”, “considerate”, “honest”…? Our dictionaries differ, and we do tend – as human primates – to give our own point of view a great deal more weight than someone we perceive as “other” than ourselves. We find a lot of words to fight over.

It's hard to unsay the words.

It’s hard to unsay the words.

Last night OPD made a special delivery to my place, unexpectedly. My peaceful evening was shattered by angry voices. Not just angry – the sort of enraged fury that seems unique to people who are frustrated, struggling, emotionally invested, feeling unheard, and coming from a place of learned helplessness and impotent rage. Domestic violence makes that sound. It’s that bit just beyond lovers quarreling, that scary place where imminent violence seems highly likely…. and it’s not okay. Entirely unacceptable to treat love in that frightening, disrespectful, and callous fashion. It’s entirely unacceptable to treat one’s neighbors to it, either. It was after 10 pm, after community “quiet hours” begin, and completely audible through the walls. I could have put in earplugs and turned up the stereo to mask it… but I was acutely aware of two very important (to me) things: firstly, those are my friends over there, treating each other in that shabby fashion. Secondly, and most importantly, many years ago I promised myself I would not be a bystander to domestic violence. No excuses, no fear, no “it’s not my business” – no standing by and letting someone go through that, the way I once had to, isolated, frightened, hurting, injured, and without emotional support.

I threw on my coat, and went next door. We have a shared understanding on the knock we use; a roommate opened the door, knowing it was me. He had that “I’m staying out this, sorry about the noise” look of apology and discomfort on his young face. I nodded as he opened the door ever so slightly wider, and I walked purposefully past him toward the ongoing screaming. I could feel my symptoms surging from my own stress; this particular kind of verbal violence, emotional violence, the screaming at each other with such relentless deaf fury triggers my PTSD just about faster than anything else can – and I needed it to stop. For me. I stepped between them and began the process of separating them, helping them de-escalate, reminding them their behavior is simply not acceptable adult behavior (and no, I don’t care who you are, or who did what, or who is “right”, or the why of any of it all – knock that shit off, it’s not okay).

He had asked her to leave. It’s his place. I backed him up on that, knowing they definitely needed some moments or hours to calm the fuck down and get their heads right. She threw drama “I’m not taking anything! No one will ever find me! I’m never coming back!”. It was bullshit and drama, spoken from an emotional place, feeling hurt, angry, frightened, stressed out, not heard, treated badly… all of the things. Still unacceptable drama and bullshit, and I really wish someone had firmly said as much to me when I was a much younger, very volatile woman, myself. (Boundary setting is a useful skill. I am grateful to have survived my first marriage to undertake to learn some.)

She left, he was still storming, wanting to justify his anger, to explain himself, to demonstrate how his reaction was understandable. I didn’t argue those points, just kept reminding him the situation was not about “right”, only that it was an emotional situation in which his behavior was not appropriate. I pointed out how much time he has taken to grow as a man, to become the man he most wants to be, on his terms, and that this behavior was no part of that. I reminded him that his own dignity and self-respect were at stake here. I reminded him how young she is, and that we are each having our own experience. I reminded him that I, myself, for my own reasons, cannot tolerate that kind of violent behavior in my vicinity, and that indeed I do consider that emotional and verbal violence to be “violent” and that it causes human beings great pain. Hell, he was obviously hurting, himself. He was hurting himself. Hurting her. No one needed to raise a hand in violence; the damage was being done quite efficiently using only words.

I went home, hoping things would stay quiet. Already pretty stressed out to be exposed to the drama and bullshit. Triggered, aware, sad for them – hoping I’d done more good than harm, and hadn’t burned bridges with friends over it. Would I choose to intervene if I knew with certainty it would end my friendship with someone? Yes, I would. That shit is not okay – and its high time people (all of us) were more committed to saying so, each and every time it comes up. Violence? Not okay. Racism? Not okay. Exploitation? Not okay. Being a dick to people on mass transit? Not okay. Small stuff and large stuff. None of my business? Well… I suppose if I am content to watch the world burn, maybe that would be reasonable. I think we can do better. I think we can treat each other well; there are verbs involved, and a shared responsibility for the quality of life for all our neighbors and brothers and sisters and strangers and “others” who are not like us. The screaming and abuse has got to stop though. Non-negotiable, at least for me.

I heard the door open and close next-door, a little later. Quiet voices. I sat with my memories. It was a long time before I slept. I woke this morning, Thanksgiving Day. I woke this morning, grateful. I’m grateful to be alive. To have survived domestic violence – to have survived hell – with a heart still capable of loving, and eager to see my Traveling Partner; the first person to look me in the face in a moment of emotional violence, utter hysteria and rage (years ago, early in our relationship), and say “this is not okay, and you have to stop”. Thank you, Love.

Love matters most.

Love matters most.

Today is a good day to be grateful for the easy stuff – and the hard stuff too. Today is a good day to appreciate love and lovers and moments of profound change of perspective. Today is a good day to be honest, to be frank, to be compassionate, to listen deeply, and to love well. Today is a good day to change the world. ❤

Thank you for reading. Thank you for everything you do to become the person you most want to be. If you’re feeling up to it – let’s change the world. 🙂

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Categories Anxiety, Brain Injury, Free Will, grief, Logic & Reason, Love, Mindfulness, Moments, pain, Parables, Perspective, Post Traumatic Stress, Relationships, Sleepless Nights, The Art of Being, The Big 5, Words

Contentment or Perfection?

September 11, 2016 //
0

It is a lovely morning. I woke rested and feeling content and comfortable in my skin; it’s a nice feeling with which to start the day. I breathe the cool morning air deeply. I sip my coffee. I think of friends. I think about my traveling partner, wishing him well wherever he is this morning.

I eye my fitness tracker suspiciously, irked by an obvious lie; it says I slept well, continuously through the night*. I didn’t at all. I was up a number of times because I foolishly drank 3 glasses of water in the last hour I was awake! I start down the path of troubleshooting that, reading user reviews and forums, and finding myself “inactive” on my tracker – so much so that a hummingbird lingers for some time at the feeder, watching me not doing anything. I have a thought, at that point… am I really investing time teasing apart this puzzle, now? Does it matter that much? No, seriously – am I actually going to require atomic-clock accuracy from a value-priced piece of wearable technology I bought on a whim primarily to count steps and monitor activity? (Well? I’m really asking here…) Do I actually need that to achieve my goals? (No.) Is approximate relative precision enough for my own purposes? (Of course it is.)

This image is not "accurate"; it was taken on a different day, at a different time, and it is not "now".

This image is not “accurate”; it was taken on a different day, at a different time, and it is not “now”.

It’s funny/not funny how easily I can be tempted by discontent. How quickly “enough” can become seemingly inadequate – over expectations and assumptions. I was surprised by the sleep feature yesterday, because of the level of detail. This morning I woke having assumed it would reliably do precisely that, daily. It didn’t. I could curse the device, become dissatisfied, cling to wanting more until it feels like I need more, then rush to spend more money on a more expensive device because it seems like more is necessary to achieve “enough”. It’s a trick. A lie. Enough is actually enough – that’s sort of how sufficiency works, actually. 🙂 For me, and it is very much an individual thing, it is enough to be mindfully aware of how my devices are actually working, and account for that in my understanding of the data they provide. Done. Troubleshooting over. Satisfaction with my morning restored. So easy. 😉

(No, it isn’t easy. Yes, it takes practice. Sure, there are verbs involved. Of course, your results may vary. It may  not be obvious, but it  is worth the practice…well…it has been for me.)

Isn’t it funny how easily misled we are by marketing, by the media, by the stories we tell ourselves about what is, what isn’t, and what we think we have to have to get by? Something to think about…

Today is a lovely day to let go of untested assumptions. Today is a good day to be aware that my expectations have no effect on reality. Today is a good day to walk away from arguments – even with myself. Today is a good day for brunch with a friend… It won’t change the world, but I do like brunch. 🙂

 

*Followup note: as of some three hours after I woke (well, that’s when I noticed), my devices are now all fully synced, and the sleep tracking has updated. I’m pleased by that, and more pleased that I managed my primate drive for immediate gratification with some skill this morning. We become what we practice. 🙂

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Categories health, Healthy Living, Logic & Reason, Metaphors, Mindfulness, Parables, Perspective, Sleepless Nights, The Art of Being, weight loss secrets, Words

However Long the Night

August 16, 2016 //
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Morning comes. I’ve not experience one morning yet that hasn’t arrived precisely on time. Each new day is exactly that, new. We can begin again – every morning, if we need to.

One new day, approximately infinite possibilities.

One new day, approximately infinite possibilities.

The smallest of my choices still matter, if not to the outcome of my circumstances, then at least telling of who I am. I think that over for a moment; even if the choice I make, action I take, or words I express don’t actually appear to change what’s going on around me, they are a reflection of who I am. I take time to consider who I want most to be, what my values truly are, and how I can best express them.

What matters most?

What matters most?

Last night as I opened the patio door to cool evening air, and closed the screen door, I noticed a young praying mantis hanging from the inside of the screen, about to be trapped inside. I gently coaxed her onto my hand and slowly carried her outside. I did my best to be quite gentle and move slowly to avoid stressing her out more than necessary. Initially, she sought escape, then held very still, watching me from my hand. I placed her with great care in the taller roses in the patio garden – plenty to eat, and seeming relatively safe, I took her picture while she continued to watch me. I looked for her this morning, but she had gone, or had hidden herself too well for my pre-coffee eyes.

It doesn’t matter much at all what I say about how I feel about life. (You either) Words are words. It is our actions that reflect our values. Our rhetoric is meaningless next to our vote. Our keywords are  not relevant to our choices. The books we read are not the human beings we are. We become what we practice. There are verbs involved.

Every day, I can begin again. 🙂

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Categories Free Will, gardening, Healthy Living, Love, Metaphors, Mindfulness, Parables, Perspective, Relationships, Summer, The Art of Being, The Big 5, Words

You Had to Be There

July 3, 2016 //
0

Well…actually, we share a lot of experiences in common, don’t we? I mean, as human primates, generally, we do. We are each having our own experience. We are each pretty well consumed by the experience we are having, and see the entirety of the world through that lens – or is it a filter? I meantion it, because even looking back on myself, I sometimes find myself surprised by what has changed – and what has not.

In 2012, toward the end of the year (December) the news filled up with shock and horror, and set off my PTSD on this whole other level than I could have been prepared for. I found myself teetering on the edge of suicide, and because I struggled to communicate through the fog of all the other things going on in life, I was also largely emotionally unsupported during this time. I planned to end my life, I got my affairs in order, and I committed to making one last attempt at seeking help through therapy (mostly as a courtesy to my traveling partner, who had expressed concern that having gone off all the psych meds over time, I might need some assistance sorting myself out, which seemed reasonable). If you’ve shared this journey with me, here, you may recall that those early months of 2013 were dark times, indeed.

I practiced new practices, though, and I was still waking up every morning, by July 3rd, 2013. It wasn’t easy, and I struggled a lot. My demons fought me every step of the way. Still… I held on to hope, and kept practicing, studying mindfulness, and waking up each day to a new beginning. It was at least something.

I kept at it… practicing good basic self-care, working through my issues, building emotional resilience, beating back the darkness…. I learned to reach out for help when I needed it, with more ease, and more honesty, less fearfully. Trusting can be so hard sometimes. Life wasn’t perfect, and I understood that it wouldn’t be. I began to learn to tear down the heartbreaking foundation of my chaos and damage: the assumptions, expectations, and attachments that allowed the demons in the darkness to so easily call the shots. I began learning to love – to really love, not merely express affection associated with demands for the same to be returned to me. I learned some handy verbs, and began practices that seemed to improve my experience in amazing new ways. I began learning to listen. I began learning to listen to my own heart. I began to understand and I began to open up to new understanding. I began to set very firm boundaries regarding how I can be treated by others. It was an exciting and complicated time, and I had begun the frustrating process of embracing life, of diving in enthusiastically… and was forced to recognize that we’re not all working on that together, and to decide whether I would give up becoming the woman I most want to be… coming to terms with the reality that not everyone wanted me to be me, at all, was another piece of that puzzle.

I ultimately chose to end one relationship that was causing me great pain; we simply were not able to support each other, or grow together, and we didn’t really share any common values. It was painful, and ugly, and hard – moving on from it was harder than I wanted it to be. Sometimes I still feel that poignant moment of heartbreak, the awareness that love is not reciprocated is painful. Taking that step freed me from so much stress! I started thinking perhaps I was ‘well’ at long last, and all would be… effortless. lol Not so. There are still verbs involved. My first really trying emotional challenge after I moved into my own place caught me by surprise…but I had come a long way from 2012… I took care of myself with great care, and tenderness.

It’s a journey, isn’t it? This whole ‘life’ thing is pretty astonishing. When I ended my employment at the end of April, I wasn’t sure at all that I was making the right choice…but it felt a lot like that moment when I looked my first husband in the eyes as I hung from a balcony on a cold spring night – the only ‘safe’ way out of my apartment in that moment of pure terror. “Don’t do this!” he demanded angrily, looking down at me, still holding the knife he’d been threatening me with. “I have to.” I said quietly, just as I let go. Life changed. I’ve got this busted up back now. My scrambled brain is a complicated mess resulting from multiple head injuries – including the concussion that night. My perspective changed. It would change again, many times. Now, here I am, taking care of this fragile vessel on my terms, making things right with the woman in the mirror, nurturing this being of light on this strange journey without map. No idea where this goes, you know… I still have challenges. I keep practicing.

No good segue, sorry, this is… abrupt, but the the ideas that follow are connected, and the sequence I am offering them seems… adequate. I regret how awkwardly I’ve handled it, however. So. Moving along…

At one point, many years ago (decades), in what feels like another lifetime, I’d bought a battered bass guitar in a pawnshop and begun learning to play. I didn’t quite notice when the heartbreak of losing my guitar in the messy divorce also resulted, some-strange-how, in me simply never even picking up another guitar to play, ever. I just… let it go. I didn’t cry. I didn’t grieve. There were worse things to lose – worse things were lost. I told myself any number of things minimizing the importance, value, significance… and with some measure of success. I didn’t play guitar. Didn’t even try. That entire chapter of my experience was shut down. Shut off. Put away. Left largely undiscussed except as ‘once I…’, ‘there was this time when…’, ‘I used to have an awesome bass guitar…’

Some handful of weeks ago, I don’t recall precisely when, I started thinking about music differently. My fingers itched to play guitar. My heart would jump when a favorite bass groove got my attention during the day. I started ‘feeling it’ – the way I did when I first bought my bass, in 1987. I didn’t actually have it that long, when I look at the year – it was lost to me by 1995? 1996? (Do I have even one existing friend who ever saw it? My life broke like a dry twig in 1995 – a clean break with everything that had been, even what few friends I had (all but one) were cut off by drama, and change.) I started shopping around for anything at all bass-guitar-wise that I might be able to afford on my limited resources…  A dear friend had said, recently, when I discussed these feelings with him, “It’s never too late.”

She came home with me yesterday.

She came home with me yesterday.

I’ve been thinking a lot about mortality lately… I’ve long been aware that time is precious, finite, and really – there’s none to waste. It’s defining ‘wasted time’ that’s the challenge, isn’t it? What is worthy… what is not? I’m 53. I’ve started working out again. I’m not likely to get my 21-year-old body back, but it feels good, and being healthier is a win. Is the time wasted? Fairly clearly not. I’m 53. I’m learning to play bass guitar again. I’m not likely to become some esteemed ‘bassist’s bassist’ or renowned musician in the time between today, and whenever Death decides to make an appearance on my timeline. Is the time wasted? Perhaps it might seem so if my goal was fame and fortune… what if my goal is to learn another way to give voice to those things I don’t know how to say with words? Is my time wasted then? If I am doing it solely because it gives me pleasure to do so? Is my time wasted? If it helps me continue to rehabilitate my TBI, or soothe the chaos and damage? What is the value in the things for which we have passion? What is our time worth to us, ourselves?

My perspective is that everything I undertake to do, to learn, to experience, and to explore, has the potential to take me closer to being the woman I most want to be. I’m not sure that I have any other purpose as a being, other than to grow, and to become. Certainly it isn’t about reaching a particular bank balance, or owning a particular style of house, or living in a particular neighborhood… We all die human. Death doesn’t play favorites.

I didn’t understand how hurt my feelings were that I’d allowed a madman to take my guitar from me. I didn’t understand that I delivered that hurt, myself, and held on to it for decades, unaware that I was continuing to hold on to that pain, to build it and to nurture it and to defend it from being healed.  It mattered, and I ignored my pain. What a shitty way to treat the woman I was then – and the woman I am now.

Long post today. 🙂 It’s a good day to take another look at why I’ve held myself back, and to take a step or two on the path of making that right with me. What about you? It isn’t too late to do what you love – or what you yearn for. There will be choices to make, verbs involved – your results may vary. Good luck on the journey ahead – and remember, when you stop to ask directions, that other person doesn’t have a map, either. 😉

 

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Categories art and the artist, Brain Injury, Free Will, grief, Healthy Living, Love, Metaphors, Mindfulness, pain, Parables, Perspective, Post Traumatic Stress, Relationships, Summer, The Art of Being, Words
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