Archives for category: women

I like a bit of dessert now and then. Yesterday pie sounded good, and the blueberries in the front hedge are plentiful this year. By day’s end, I didn’t really feel like making a really good pie crust, but still wanted that fruit + baked-something-or-other experience. I knew I had options. Cobblers, buckles, crumbles, slumps, Betties, pandowdies… there are quite a few simple, rather home-y, baked goods that combine something a bit biscuit-y (USA ‘biscuit’ rather than UK ‘biscuit’ fyi) with some fruit. All so similar, all so simple…and so many words that describe them, each potentially something subtly different.

A cobbler is fruit, in a baking dish, with biscuit or dumpling on top and baked. Yum.

Put the fruit on top, before it is baked and it becomes a buckle.

Bake that cobbler on the stove-top and it becomes a slump.

A crumble is a cobbler sort of thing, but with a streusel topping, often using brown sugar. Also, yum.

Add oatmeal to the streusel topping, and that basic crumble becomes a ‘crisp‘.

A fool is something very different, being fruit folded into custard or whipped creamy goodness. Again, quite yummy.

It’s just a bit as if each cook met a need, tweaked a recipe, found a way – and gave it a new name, and made it their own.  There are so many words for ‘fruit baked with biscuit’. The words themselves don’t change the experience, and as I learned last night, the words themselves don’t even offer an assurance of recognition, understanding, or shared meaning. I discovered that in the discussion of tasty baked goodness that I shared with my at-home partner last night. “What’s a cobbler?” was quickly followed by “what’s a buckle?”, “what’s a slump?” and “what’s a fool?”, very nearly throwing me off course from actually preparing dessert!

Cobbler was made, and eaten; shared and enjoyed over conversation it became more than a meal. We enjoyed the cobbler together, savoring the berries from our own garden, and the good company, and friendly conversation. It became a moment of connection. It became an experience. I enjoyed baking for the two of us. We enjoyed sharing the experience of eating tasty cobbler together, and talking, and sharing the time as well as the dessert. It’s a small thing, in the bigger picture, but I can’t help wonder how much more peace would be in the world if we were each and all more focused on the small pleasures we can all share than on ‘being right’ about something, or pushing our ideology on the world. ‘Being right’ is highly over-rated, compared to ‘being close’, ‘being connected’, or ‘being content’.

I’m sure there’s a metaphor in here somewhere… I know I’d have had to put more work into baking a pie from scratch, and the joy of sharing the dessert would have been no greater. Even the flavors themselves, of baked fruit and pastry, wouldn’t have been so distinct from each other as to justify the additional work, late in the evening, after a long, hot day. Sometimes ‘easy’ is the way to go. Sometimes sharing matters more than what is being shared. We can choose easy. We can choose sharing. We can choose to savor the lovely simple moments of connection in our busy lives. We can choose to nurture ourselves, and our loved ones.

No matter how hurt or angry we are, it’s not productive – or healing – to bomb the @#$^*&!! out of everything around us (metaphorically speaking), and certainly it gets us no closer to being understood, or understanding others; we’d be better off baking a cobbler, and sharing some conversation.

Why choose conflict, when cobbler is a possibility?

Why choose conflict, when cobbler is a possibility?

Today is a good day for dessert. Today is a good day to share the bounty of life. Today is a good day for smiles, and hugs, and compliments. Today is a good day to change the world.

It’s 5:48 am. Nothing spectacular about it, it’s just a moment in time, and I happen to be living it. I woke to the alarm, with a stuffy head, a headache, and a feeling of resentment (over the headache, mostly). “Aliens.” Yep. That was the first word to drift recognizably through my consciousness. I frown at that thought, and realize it’s my brain reminding me we still have a house guest, and one whose preference is to sleep with the bedroom door open; wandering sleepily down the hall with bare feet, naked, and hair in disarray would be…inappropriate. I paused long enough to let my consciousness catch up to me a bit, before I headed down the hall. A shower. Yoga. Meditation. Facebook…and utterly  shameless about prioritizing that; a very dear friend had a baby late yesterday, and that’s where the updates are going to be. Now, here I am. 5:48 am.

I’d like to have more to say this morning. I could fearlessly share the subtle sadness that goes with seeing someone so dear to me, who is so exquisitely skilled at motherhood, and whose partner so clearly adores and supports her, having a baby with this person she loves so deeply…it’s not an experience I will have. Motherhood isn’t just a big deal culturally, and it isn’t merely necessary to further the existence of the specie, it’s a unique individual emotional experience and biological function of femaleness – at least until science goes somewhere different with that. I’ve been pregnant, sure. 5 times, actually. No babies. At this point, the equipment is offline, and it isn’t likely to come up short of a potentially religion-changing miracle. I don’t have a clear regret about it; I knew when I was 18 that the path of motherhood wasn’t the one I cared to choose. Still…when I look into my traveling partner’s eyes, when I am in his arms, there is this incredible yearning to have the experience of motherhood with him. It’s very biological. Very emotional. It is profound. I see the picture on Facebook welcoming this tiny new life into the world, already so loved, and I ache – it’s not just any baby that trips that circuit, only babies held in arms of exquisite encompassing love. I would so do that with him. Any time. Ever. I’d quit my job, I’d change my life…it’s the most peculiar thing, because outside the context of loving this particular man, I rarely experience this particular feeling.  Neither he nor I actually wanted to have a child, when we got together, and I was already old enough that raising a child to adulthood would inevitably be a cruel test of a child’s love for a dying parent…and now, the opportunity, the choice, is simply off the menu.

Why am I crying? This is a life I chose… Eyes open. I knew the responsibility, the emotional grandeur, the intense financial and logistical commitment, the lifelong dedication to the life of another human being, were not for me.  I miss my traveling partner very much right at this moment; being in his arms, feeling his love and understanding, go along way to sooth this particular subtle sadness.

I find myself contemplating life, lives, connections, relationships, values, meaning…looking at a picture of this man I so adore. Choosing love has been the most singularly wonderful choice I’ve ever made. I don’t actually regret not choosing motherhood, this is the woman I am. I do feel sufficiently moved to want to choose wisely, and choose love; this is my life.

Daybreak has lightened the room, and my mood.  Emotional profundities ideally don’t linger at this hour; it is too early to swim in the deep end. This quiet moment is precious all on its own.

Today is a good day to savor each moment.

Today is a good day to savor each moment.

Today is a good day to welcome new life. Today is a good day to love, to share, and to connect. Today is a good day to recognize the complicated beauty in who we choose to be. Today is a good day for good choices. Today is a good day to change the world.

I woke gently and feeling decently well. The morning is quiet. Yoga felt good and I’m not in much pain. The pale sky slowly turning blue suggests another lovely summer day, probably hot.  I pulled an exceptional double shot of espresso this morning, rich and dark and topped with a dense crema. I’m having ‘a good hair day’, and the clothes I picked for work fit well and I feel beautiful – which still matters even at 51. So…what’s with the tears?

It started while I was meditating, big hot tear drops began welling up, and sliding down my cheeks. First just one or two, then a torrent, and finally sitting quietly, shoulders shaking ever so slightly, still focused on breathing, tears falling… Why am I crying? There’s no mistaking it now. This is not weeping, although it is not sobbing either. I’m not in hysterics. I don’t feel anxious, or afraid. It’s almost as if…it’s all just ‘too much’, and here are the tears, spilling over because there’s just no more room for emotions to be kept packed away behind a veneer of resolve, control, and ‘appropriateness’. I even ‘feel okay’ inasmuch as I’m not in much pain, slept decently well, and don’t even have the usual headache. Still…the tears fall.

Instead of lashing out at the world like a frightened animal, or panicking and throwing an hysterical tantrum built on anxiety, fear, and assumptions, this morning I simply let the tears fall. Plentifully. Even continuing to meditate. This morning, instead of paying my tears no heed, and saying or thinking something powerfully dismissive like ‘pay no attention to the fluid leaking from my face holes, I’ll get that checked out’, I gave my attention over to my emotions for a moment, still breathing, still present, and compassionate. Something pretty wonderful happened…I feel ‘loved’ and cared for. There’s no one here but me. One partner away, taking care of his own needs, resting and taking comfort among friends. The other, somewhere else in the house, possibly sleeping; it’s very quiet this morning. It’s just me, as I said, and yet… I feel secure, nurtured, comforted…I can do this for me? Myself?

The tears stopped. Meditation continued. A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth now and I feel the small crinkles at the corners of my eyes – the sort I’d expect if I’d been happy all my life – and I feel grateful for this strangely cleansing morning. I still don’t really ‘understand’ the tears, but maybe I was just ‘full up’ with emotions and some had to spill over. It’s been a very trying week so far, and my heart feels altered by it somehow. Being surprised about the depth and richness of my emotional life doesn’t occur to me – then I wonder why. (Go, Brain! lol Can I get just a little constancy, please? No. No, I can not. It’s not how we’re wired, is it? 🙂 )

Interestingly, having finished my espresso and my email, I’m not only no longer crying, I feel just on the edge of … ‘merry’. There’s something important about taking care of my heart, and treating myself well, that was slipping from my grasp, and I think I am understanding more right now than I ever did previously… it’s not just take care of my body well, or maintaining good self-care, and an orderly comfortable environment. Taking care of me also has a specific emotional component that I missed, something very specific; treating myself with real compassion, with acceptance, with kindness.  These aren’t just keywords in a search about meditation, mindfulness, mental health or menopause… They are real experiences, that provided to myself, by me, actually do result in real feelings of being cared for and valued. (Can you see the light bulb over my head?)

Choices along the way change the journey.

Choices along the way change the journey.

This feels good.  It’s a bit as if I’m standing at a point on my path with a sign post… one way leads to greater self-control through rigid habit building, and skilled maintenance of those habits, and a certain tolerance for misery… the other… says only ’emotional self-sufficiency’, leaving me to guess at the nature of the destination.  One direction paved, heavily traveled, landscaped, manicured, well-mapped, reviewed often… and in the other direction, more of a trail, cut into the underbrush, shaded with a dense overhang, disappearing around a bend into the unknown… I recall an oft-repeated quote from a Robert Frost poem than never really resonated with me before. “…Two roads diverged in a wood, and I, I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.”  I look it up and read the entire poem, taken a moment to really savor the relevance in the moment.

Continuing my journey...walking my own path.

Continuing my journey…walking my own path.

Today is a good day for poetry, and a good day to be moved. Today is a good day to treat myself well without reservations. Today is a good day to feel content, strong, and whole – and to enjoy this moment that I do feel that way. Today is a good day to change the world.

I’m sitting here staring into the monitor. My espresso slowly going cold. Looking a blank title bar, just sort of stalled in mid-thought. “Speechless” – first thing in the morning? That’s rare for me. My dreams often fill my thoughts and kick off my writing at the start of my day. Other times, I wake still considering something that troubled me the day before. Sometimes I wake with a sensation or emotion that seems to drive my experience and inspire me, or the studying, reading, email, or yoga do the that, instead. This morning? I am sitting here, staring into a title bar – with no title. That’s generally where I begin, the focal point of what is to come – a title. Not this morning. Could be the product of the short night; it was past midnight before I slept, and I woke again at 3:00 am.

I finally type ‘TBD’ into the title bar, and jot a quick reminder to myself to connect with a librarian friend of mine and get some remedial schooling on semicolons and quotation marks. I suspect I’ve gone far astray of whatever rules may exist – and I do want people to read my words with some comfort and a sense of familiarity, with my punctuation and syntax if nothing else.

It has been an oddly difficult week. I’ve certainly been having my own experience. The OPD [Other People’s Drama]  levels in life seem pretty high, lately, too. Funny thing…a partner returned home from a recent event, and shared a short story someone cool had shared with him. The Egg, by Andy Weir. I was incredibly moved. It seemed very consistent with threads of ideas that already exist in my contemplation of what is, and what isn’t, and maybe why. He shared it with me almost shyly, I consumed it with great delight; I was moved. I was moved as much by the sharing, and the tenderness in that gesture, as the I was by the story – and that’s saying something.

I am just finishing off a re-reading of Stranger in a Strange Land.  An interesting connection, a thread of coincidence and meaning exists; throughout the book the main character, Valentine Michael Smith ‘The Man from Mars’ refers to himself as ‘only an egg’ in moments of doubt, troubling curiosity, and confusion. It’s a pretty powerful book, and at one time highly controversial. I suspect most people who read it get hung up on the representation of poly amorous love, or being affronted by perceived religious blasphemies, and miss some of the other insights and profundities. On this particular read through, I am far less interested in those portions of the plot than I am in hints and references to mindfulness, perspective, sufficiency and choice. This is a book that says a lot about free will, accountability and consequences, but I doubt most people reading it notice those elements; it is also an amazing story.

I’ve been eager to hear about my partner’s festival weekend, and realize with a touch of sadness that he’s had basically no chance to really share his traveler’s tales with me. Today he leaves to spend a few days with a cherished friend, doing meaningful things and taking time out to take care of needs of his own. We take few opportunities to actually ‘miss each other’, love is amazing stuff and we enjoy each other’s company greatly. There is growth and healing and progress in also taking time for the things we love that we don’t share, or don’t do together, and these things are also part of who we are. I’ll miss him, and when he returns I will eagerly listen to his tales of adventure. As I think on it, I realize he’s probably in the same situation; we haven’t actually had much in the way of conversation about what we did with our time, and what our experiences were, while we were doing our thing last weekend. I’d ask ‘where has the time gone?’ but I know the answer to that one; the minutes, hours, and days of a lifetime wasted on OPD can’t be calculated easily, but drama is as time consuming as child-rearing is costly.

Walking my own path.

Walking my own path.

So. A few quiet days without this being who is so dear to me; the world with benefit from his time with others, no doubt so will he. I will focus on taking care of me, studying, meditation, asking questions, and living quiet life, content and productive, and becoming the woman I most want to be. Today is a very good day to change the world.

 

I’m sometimes quite astonished by the will people can bring to hurting each other. I’d rather not contemplate it more, at least not right now. Hell, right about now, I’d rather be thinking of almost anything besides right now. Damned awkward, what with all the mindfulness practices, and meditation, and taking care of me, and such. lol I’m feeling very present, very aware. I hurt, and although a lot of it is old pain, and old baggage, some of it is far less so.

I am learning to deal with anger – new anger, never before shared anger, bright white-hot precise anger – and learning to be more open to the honest information in the feeling of it, what set it off, why it matters, what underlying value it speaks to. That underlying value is pretty significant. I’ve been surprised more than once by what was truly driving my anger, and often by how small a thing it really seemed to be. This time? Hurt feelings drive my anger. Disappointment that a friend to whom I gave significant emotional support and nurturing during a difficult time, never seems able to return the favor, worse – my friend often seems to be in the midst of some intense drama about something somehow more urgent or more important, that pretty reliably comes up after I make a point of setting clear expectations about ‘where I’m at’ or what I’m struggling with, asking for support, or expressing limits or boundaries.

I look at those words with some astonishment. They’re true. Honest. I feel vulnerable admitting to hurt feelings over something so small (we are each having our own experience, and the pain we feel ourselves hurts the most, generally), but a little embarrassed to realize the words I wrote apply equally well to the way I’ve often treated myself: without consideration, without compassion, without kindness. I have no particular say in how someone else chooses to behave, but I have endless choices how I see things, how I respond, and what I do to meet my own needs best, over time. Better still – just knowing how much it hurts to be treated so poorly, and to see with such clarity that these are things I have done to myself, feels like a huge opportunity, a gift, a new perspective and a chance to see a bit farther along my journey; new choices are now open to me, and one is the everyday opportunity to treat myself well – more well? Better. To be considerate of my own needs. To respect myself, my body, my values, my experience, my voice. To be compassionate with myself, because I am still quite human. To be open to trying something new, and practicing something that works, and understanding that building skill takes time. Even choices to reciprocate the kindness of others, and the support offered to me when I needed it most; there is always someone else who could use a hand, and the value of kindness isn’t in recognition.

A trestle bridge along the Banks-Vernonia Trail, and a lovely metaphor for making a connection.

A trestle bridge along the Banks-Vernonia Trail, and a lovely metaphor for making a connection, crossing a bridge, along a journey.

A moment of anger somehow becomes a lesson in perspective, and emotional  self-sufficiency, and a gentle end to a trying afternoon.