Archives for category: women

I woke this morning with a headache, aching knees, aching ankles, aching back… funny, the thing that is on my mind is not the everyday pain of aging, or paying for youthful mistakes. I am thinking about love. Love is precious and peculiar, and for all the years I daydreamed about love, while dismissing it as fanciful bullshit for children, I had no understanding of what it might actually be, if I had it, practiced it, or experienced it. Love is a verb and a noun. Love demands much of us as beings, and the penalties for poor decision-making are very high. Totally  worth it, though, totally worth it.

Love is not what we think it is; love is what it is.

Love is not what we think it is; love is what it is.

So sure, I woke in a lot of pain this morning. That seems irrelevant every time I glance down at the orange knotted-cord bracelet one of my loves fashioned for me as we sat talking, while he packed his hiking kit.  Love isn’t a diamond tennis bracelet. Hell, love isn’t even this bright bracelet of sturdy nylon cord. Isn’t love the movement toward giving, the inspiration, the desire to take someone’s needs, interest, fancy, and delight and make them important to one’s own experience, and then taking action?

How is this orange knotted cord bracelet not the most precious of ornaments, simply because it is love?

This token of love doesn’t go with anything I wear regularly. It stands out boldly from my flesh. I don’t generally wear bracelets at all; I feel it as I move through my morning.  I am moved by, and aware of love with every small motion that brings the orange back into my view, or shifts the cord against my skin.  I feel a little silly, a little giddy, no different from feelings I might have were I 16… love excites me.

This morning, the pain vanishes from my awareness most of the time; because I am reminded so simply, so frequently, of how much I am loved. Love, and loving, are a pretty nice distraction to deal with on a Wednesday morning. I’m sure not complaining about it.

How often do we mess with the goodness in our experience at one moment or another because it isn’t what we expect, or what we dream of? How many tender joys are lost because they were one thing, and not another? Would you turn down orange knotted cord because it isn’t something fancier that you dreamt of longer? Are you truly open to love? To being loved?  I have to admit, to be fair to love itself, all those bitter years of certainty that love was a lie, a pretty illusion, a pointless treasure hunt – I wasn’t open to love, or being loved.  I had defined ‘what love is’ and because it wasn’t presenting itself to me in the form I demanded, I couldn’t see it when it did turn up. That is one of the saddest things about being lonely; it’s often a choice.

So, this morning I am aware of my pain, and in spite of that, I’m choosing love.  Taking a moment to feel the connection to a love nurtured, shared, grown over time; connected by a simple orange knotted cord, on a very early Wednesday morning.

Today is a good day to love.

Are we all secretly counting on miracles to make things right? Are we all after some sort of patent nostrum, magic potion, or a pill to make everything better? It’d be damned convenient, wouldn’t it? I mean, compared to having to build skills, habits, work through baggage, be accountable, and make good choices… a pill seems much simpler.

I’ve tried the pills; they don’t work. Well, they work, if by ‘working’ we agree to mean ‘have an effect of some kind’ for ‘some people’. Sometimes the effect they have fits the loose definition of ‘working’. Pharmaceuticals didn’t work out for me, personally. They tended to be too much, or too little, or had other more pronounced effects that were uncomfortable, unacceptable, or needed medication of their own. Over time I ended up taking a lot of pills, and for a net effect in improvement so slight that I was little more than a poster child for giving the medical community ‘a chance’.  I still struggled. I still suffered. I still hurt. I had a level of emotional volatility that wasn’t comfortable for anyone who had to live with me, and threw tantrums rivaling the most highly irritable three-year old, and did so with a ferocity and frequency that raw honesty requires me to admit was abusive to live with. I wasn’t okay.

This past weekend was a walk down memory lane, and serves to highlight how generally good the past year has been. Practicing mindfulness, meditating regularly, and learning different skills to identify and communicate my emotional experience in an appropriate way has done far more than any pharmaceuticals ever did. Still. This is a journey – and I’m far from reaching my destination.

So… pills don’t work. How about those miracles? Well, frankly, after this morning, I’m wondering if I should sign on to the miracle side of the argument… I woke early, damned early, crying in my sleep. The hot flashes the last couple weeks have been… extraordinary.  Over and over again, I find myself drenched in sweat, and right on the edge of freaking out because I’m overcome by feeling ‘too hot’.  Beyond being socially a bit awkward to be dealing with it so openly, it’s just seriously uncomfortable.  Take something for it! Sure! Except that medical science lags so far behind the hopes, dreams, and needs of women that it is little more than comedic at this point (are scientists even trying?). I mean, seriously? ED drugs are widely available, but in spite of the pure misery of billions of women dealing with their hormones and the effect that has on their relationships, there’s not shit of any real effectiveness available to deal with symptoms of menopause. Nope, we can all collectively go fuck ourselves, science is content with ‘bitches are crazy’ and leave it at that. Sorry. I’m feeling a tad bitter about the state of medicine and womanhood just at the moment.

I got distracted… by hot flashes. Go figure. The hormone thing is pretty attention consuming, honestly.

So. How about those miracles? Yep. Sitting here this morning, finding a moment of comfort staring at my monitor in the dim light of early morning, just sitting.  Taking a few minutes to calm myself and shush the infernal demons that woke me ahead of schedule. Feeling very alone. Feeling incredibly insecure about the future. Feeling pretty sad and overwhelmed. Wondering what the hell I could possibly ever do to make it up to people who love me, then feeling mired in suppressed rage that being female should feel like something I need to make up for… it was a rough start to the morning.  There was a quiet scratching at the door; at 5 am we’re all pretty cautious about keeping things quiet; everyone in the household has their own sleep challenges, and we all know how much it matters to get the sleep we can.  A wakeful partner checking in, a quiet ‘how did you sleep’ and a follow-up ‘are you up?’ from me.  Ordinary love, aside from Love never being at all ordinary… he headed back to bed, hoping for more rest. I resigned myself to continuing to face my challenges until the time came to leave for work.  I was settling in to breathing, being, meditating… and he quietly returned, crossed the room, and just stood near enough to touch, his tenderness palpable.  He said “I feel so helpless to do anything to help you with the menopause thing.” Honest. True. Loving. He headed to bed, and now I am writing about miracles.

It was a simple enough miracle of love; I felt lonely, my love connected with me, intimately, gently, honestly.  I need that, more than a cure, and feeling it matters so much this morning.  My demons have no real defense against love.

Today is a good day to love.

What time is love?

What time is love?

No pictures, please.

It’s been a difficult weekend. Hormones, fatigue, poor choices, the consequences of broken routines, the inevitable truth that we are each having our own experience, and no doubt any number of small other circumstances distilled into a weekend wrought of pure misery.  I could go on at greater length, say more than that it mostly sucked, but it seems unnecessary, really; although we are each having our own experience, the experiences we are each having remain human experiences, and given a moment to do so, they are experiences to which any one of us can likely relate all too easily.

I brought souvenirs from Las Vegas: t-shirts, playing cards, anecdotes, and photographs.  I also brought less tangible souvenirs: exhaustion, frustration, physical discomfort, and PTSD teetering on the edge of emotional disaster. Life is like that, isn’t it? Things we see, things we miss. Things we accept, things we reject. Things we desire, things  we have. The destination, the journey itself.  So often, there is more than what is obvious, and being aware really matters.

I’ve brought souvenirs from life along with me, just as I did from Las Vegas.  I’ve brought a pretty vicious and chronic case of long-term frustrated anger with regards to how I perceive my place in the world in the context of the culture I live in, and how I have been treated, myself, as a woman.  I’ve also brought years of unresolved pain over trauma and abuse at the hands of people who claimed to love me. I’ve brought extra tickets on the ride to Hormone Hell.  I’ve brought nightmares, quite an assortment of them, and the tantrums and mood swings that sometimes complicate my life because emotionality is a common consequence of disturbed sleep.  How is it these are ‘souvenirs’ and not just my baggage? Well… if they were just my baggage, wouldn’t I just shut the fuck up about them, and get to unpacking the bags and putting shit away? I would think so… Instead, I find that I have no particularly successful methodology for that process, and a great deal of real talent at sharing the pain.

Souvenirs. I bring it. You endure it. For what it’s worth, I’m working on me with indescribable devotion, but nothing about that makes amends. Sometimes it is hard not to lose my way in the fog of fuck ups, discourtesies, moments of inconsiderate temper, misplaced hurt feelings, frustration, and failure upon failure upon failure to treat people (who matter) like they matter (because they do), including me.

Yesterday started well, ended calmly, but in between those two points… yeah. It wasn’t good. I woke this morning still feeling the sting of it, the sorrow welling up inside me, ready to spill over a new day. Then something went right. For the first time since I started having difficulties with my right knee, I was able to fold comfortably, gently, into the crossed-legged sitting position that feels best to me for meditation. First one breath, then another – not just relaxed, and not ‘doing‘ meditation – meditating.  I felt lighter.  Another breath. Thoughts were just thoughts again. Another breath. The future began to unfold less like a hinged box or difficult puzzle, and more like … spring.  Another breath.  Attachment to emotional outcomes fell away.  Another breath.  Calm. Just calm. Just being. No timer, no limits, no fear or doubt.  I felt centered. Safe.  I felt awake and aware of how far and how quickly I had drifted from my heart’s safest shore… and I held myself, my heart, within my own compassionate awareness for a time.

Hours later, I heard the household beginning to stir. A new day. A new experience. My skin shivered with the ripple of other emotions on the current of my sense of ‘home’.  I felt a moment of understanding, and acceptance; living with me has some very difficult moments. I took a moment to appreciate the will and love that must go into that commitment, and honored the effort my loves bring to our relationships and our life together. I sat down and finished the manuscript I’d been fussing over rather pointlessly for a few days (weeks?). It seemed the least I could do to treat myself well in the aftermath of so much hurting, to finish something I started to meet needs of my own, on time, and as a high priority for myself.  It feels good to have the moment, and take advantage of it.

Hell of a weekend… I’m not sure I’d call it ‘recovering from the trip to Las Vegas’ in any accurate way, but today, for now, I feel as if I am at least ‘recovering from tripping’. lol

It’s a good question, I think. What matters most? It’s right up there with “what will best meet my needs over time?” and “based on what?”, which is another exceptional question for figuring things out.  I like ‘figuring things out’, although I doubt I’m particularly skilled at it.

Figuring things out along the way.

Figuring things out along the way.

These are important questions for other reasons, too. What we don’t know about ourselves, we can’t share.  This becomes incredibly important for me, in my everyday life, pretty regularly these days. It’s a matter of change and growth and love; I have changed, and grown, and I love.  How will my loves treat me well with any ease if they don’t know me, too? How will they know me as I grow and change if I don’t share? So. Yeah.

When we are explicit about our needs and desires, it is easier to fulfill them.

When we are explicit about our needs and desires, it is easier to fulfill them.

Let’s talk specifics. I headed home with eagerness some nights ago, and had built expectations of being received with similar eagerness, based on earlier conversations via email. I was excited to be heading home, and looking forward to the evening at home. I punched in the door code, stepped over the threshold and called out a happy greeting to… silence.  I stalled a little, emotionally, and felt real disappointment; there was no one there to greet me…but…I was expected that similar eagerness for the evening, and had in my recollection explicit expressions of desire to enjoy  my company. I felt a little hurt, and foolish over that on top of it, because it seemed rather a childlike level of heartsick disappointment for so small a thing. A closed door at the back of the house quietly advised that my loves were busy with love elsewhere. No stress there, I was focused on getting settled after work, and content but for the poignant twinge of sadness over not being welcomed home. Over a few minutes, as it lingered, I felt irritated with myself because I was also unavoidably aware I’d never said to any partner, perhaps ever, that the moment of being welcomed home after being away – for a day, a week, for work, or play – really matters to me. It’s meaningful. For me.  Having not said so, and given my partners a fair opportunity to choose to meet that need, I left my heart out in the cold. Sad. It got me thinking about how I do or don’t communicate what matters, and why I make the choices I do, and other partners, in other times, whose choices were different from my own, and what the outcomes where of those choices, too.

From lattes...

From lattes and hardbound journals…

Who am I? Do my partners know me, really know me? So much growth and change in less than two years –  hell, over the course of a lifetime!

...to black coffee and blogging.

…to black coffee and blogging.

I took a work seminar, based on some Franklin Covey material, many years ago. It was called ‘What Matters Most‘, and was structured around the huge day planners so many of us carried at the time, and using that tool to really live life well. I remember being surprised that it was considered ‘work-related’ – afterward, I really wanted to head right out, quit my job, and live unfettered by professional concerns, sleeping late, painting, making love, sipping espresso and watching the world go by. lol It didn’t enhance my work productivity in the slightest, but it was an early warning that I was on a path heading for change.

I am still contemplating ‘what matters most’ to me, about me, in my own experience, myself.  What matters most to me has changed, as I have changed myself. I think it makes sense to communicate more of that than I do. I’d rather not mope around feeling wounded because something of great importance to me is overlooked, and I don’t see that there’s much potential in some of the little things that do matter having their day if I don’t actually say they matter.  (Am I stalling? It could appear that way, and I did grow up in circumstances under which the fastest route to losing something loved was to say it had value or importance; it would be immediately used a resource for punishment, point-making, or torment. Then is not now, and there is no reason to fear, now.) So, for practice, some simple things that matter to me a great deal, in my now.

I enjoy being welcomed home when I return from work, or from traveling. It feels warm, loving, and inclusive. It matters to me very much.

I enjoy sharing my rose garden, showing off the latest blooms, talking about plans, or sitting quietly and breathing the scents of the season, and watching small birds at play. This too, really matters to me.

I enjoy hugs, long, close, lingering hugs, body to body, timeless moments, no rush. They feel amazing, and fill most of my day-to-day needs for contact and closeness. Oh yeah, also – matters a lot. I wilt without it.

I enjoy walks. Long walks. Short walks. Walks through floral gardens. Walks through industrial areas and construction sites. I love what my thoughts do while I walk. I enjoy conversations about life and philosophy and love while I walk.  Very few bad moods survive a pleasant walk, in my experience. Walking matters to me beyond the mechanics of movement, like sleep, it restores and heals my soul.

I enjoy being touched, but loathe the unexpected touch of strangers. This one, explicit about touch, is implicit about boundaries – and perhaps it is my boundaries that ‘matter most’.  I am only lately learning to respect them myself.

My loves matter to me, and that they are easily able to love me in return also matters to me. I love to delight them unexpectedly. I love to devote some measure of time to humble service to hearth and home, to nurture our family as a family, to build a solid foundation for life together – a long life together.  Indeed, this one matters so much to me, that small everyday frustrations that threaten my sense of family cohesion and harmony easily leave me feeling damaged and alone.

Now… it matters, too, to share what matters with the ones who matter to me. 😀  There’s a lot of matter in the universe. lol (Thank you, I’ll be here all week…)

Today is a good day to take the time to see what a good day it is.

Today is a good day to take the time to see what a good day it is.

Today is a good day to love, to love well, to love wholeheartedly, to love fearlessly. Today is a good day to change the world.

 

It was an interesting weekend. Hormones, a homecoming, and the fun of a traveler’s tales wove a narrative with some ups and downs, some challenges, and some real delights. Spring in the garden and along the shorter walks I can manage on this knee gave up some wonderful pictures to enjoy, and some perspective on what matters most that helped me stay balanced and grounded as much as I could manage with the choices I made.

The loveliness of spring is, whatever else may also be.

The loveliness of spring is, whatever else may also be.

I am an imperfect being, human, alive, and more fragile than I expect to be. I suspect we all are.  I don’t make my best choices under stress; more stuff causes me stress than seems rational, necessary, or wise. From a distance it is comical, up close it is as likely to provoke tears of frustration. Hormone hell? Yeah, I still deal with it. I’ve got just 55 days now until I can ‘officially’ say I have ‘gone through menopause’. More hilarity; that doesn’t actually offer any real guarantee I won’t ever ever ever have a period, or that my hormones won’t turn some invisible corner and wreak havoc in my life for hours or days… just that it is less likely by far, and I am easily labelled ‘past my child-bearing years’. lol.  Not a great demonstration of medical precision. Still… 55 days left, and I am eager to be done with it.

A single raindrop doesn't say much about the weather.

A single raindrop doesn’t say much about the weather.

I’m excited that my partner returned from his getaway with restored enthusiasm for getting out into the world, into the wild, for hiking, camping, fishing… and I’m jealous, more than I want to share, more than seems fair.  I’d like to share those experience with him.  Arthritis. Knees. Ankle. I’m struggling with pain and mobility on a level that would likely make any sort of challenging hike not even a little bit fun for either of us to ‘enjoy’ together, at least for now.  The irony of it seems more than a little cruel to me. Damn, though, I love seeing him interested in something fun and energetic, and ‘all his own’. Newness and learning open the doors to fantastic conversation and connection; everyone needs to have their own thing, their own experiences, otherwise – what is there to ‘share’?

We serve love best when we are more than a reflection of each other.

We serve love best when we are more than a reflection of each other.

I approach life more fearlessly these days… which apparently has a down-side I had not anticipated.  For so many years I’ve kept my anger in check with fear… so… now what? It’s a scary question with some amount of urgency behind it because… I’m angry a lot.  I’d like to think not abusively so, but… anger is nasty shit. How is anger ever not at all abusive? I don’t know many people who don’t find someone else’s anger at least uncomfortable, and often ‘too much’ or ‘inappropriate’ to the circumstances or magnitude of the event. So… it’s now time to work on anger, and not just that, time to work on Anger, too. The big A. The anger that doesn’t die. The Anger that has festered over years. The Anger as a meta-emotion.  Rage. Fury. The thing that takes over and escapes my control; now is the time to unchain the beast and teach it some manners.

Stormy weather...

Stormy weather…

It’s a little scary to know that it’s time to face the Anger, best it, and move on to other things. Like a fearless hero in a legend, I am facing a foe and uncertain of the outcome – this is the big one. This is the demon I must conquer to take a next step to healing the worst damage, because that ‘worst damage’ to which I refer is the source and well-spring of that vast untamed sea of Anger. To set foot on that damaged shore, I must find a way to safely navigate that sea.

Vast, but sometimes not everything it appears to be.

Vast, but sometimes not everything it appears to be.

I wanted a more relaxed, gentle, calm weekend than the one I had, however as a student of life, and perpetually a beginner with practicing mindfulness, I value the lesson. I benefited from the opportunity to examine old problems from new angles.  I appreciate the real experience of being supported by my partner, and also seeing what that demands of my partner and that there may be more I can do for myself to alleviate the burden. A weekend with less easy delight and charm that I allowed myself to look forward to (and expectations are the motherfucker of all good times, without question), and a lot of intimacy, vulnerability and depth of connection, and opportunities to share, get close emotionally, and talk through hard stuff.  I’m inclined to call it a ‘great weekend’ in spite of the opportunities for tears.  Anyone taking the quantity of my tears personally, who wasn’t around in the 60s, 70s, and 80s is probably missing the point of my tears.

In general, life is quite lovely.

In general, life is quite lovely.

I miss my other partner, and it’ll be nice to have her home and hear her tales of adventure in the big city.  I allow myself to look forward to it with real delight, in spite of that wee demon whispering in my ear about things and other things.  We choose so much of our reality. Today is a good day to choose joy. Today is a good day to choose compassion. Today is a good day to remember – every time – that we are each having our own experience, and the irritability of that person over there (whoever, wherever) isn’t about us.

Perspective. Mindfulness. Sufficiency. Savoring the small delights more than I rail about the disappointments makes an important difference.

Perspective. Mindfulness. Sufficiency. Savoring the small delights more than I rail about the disappointments makes an important difference.

I feel pretty close to understanding something…