Archives for posts with tag: OPD free zone

A nightmare about work woke me this morning, 5 minutes ahead of the alarm. It was a garden variety sort of ‘end of days’ nightmare, wherein small details communicated the end of…something. Something work-related, or perhaps the work itself. I woke feeling aggravated to find that work was now encroaching even on my dreams.

In the process of nudging my consciousness into the context of ‘now’ and letting the dream fade, I chose to check my Facebook feed. It’s been a very positive place lately, in spite of the rampant garbage political posts, and occasionally trollish nonsense that occurs; we’re all primates, each having our own experience. I figured a quick check in with friends, and some fun weekend pictures of goings on elsewhere would be a pleasant distraction from my nightmare. I notice that someone dear to me has commented on something I posted the day before.

(what I had posted)

(the post I shared, on which a friend commented)

 

My post was a share of a positive post from a page I follow that tends to be exactly that – positive posts, and often mostly affirmations of one sort or another, done rather well. The comment startled me right out of any sense of lingering nightmare, no doubt. The comment was angry [or sounded so to me] and was followed with another similarly angry comment [same commenter] that was rounded off with what very much appeared to be [possibly] a bit of actual accusatory name calling, and an angry demand that I change my behavior to reflect their [the commenter’s] worldview of [apparent] self-loathing. It was unexpected and peculiar. I walked away from it to make coffee.

I patiently and mindfully prepared my coffee, turning over the comment in my head. It was clear and specific on only one detail; the commenter disagreed with the proposition that there is value in loving oneself. He stated that love exists solely to be given away and asks how could we love ourselves (or be upset with anyone else) when people just suck so much? We all suck equally – so love the other person in spite of that, but don’t lie to yourself by loving yourself – because you suck, and we all suck, and no one deserves love but give it to them anyway. A harsh message delivered with an apparent demand for compliance.

I sip my coffee and continue to contemplate the words of an old friend, a while longer. First I am angry with his words – I don’t feel well understood to have it inferred that I am lying to myself to take the approach that I am worthy of my own time and affection – am I not? I certainly seem to be benefiting from taking better care of myself, investing in my own needs and desires, living beautifully, and showing myself real affection. My own experience suggests that these things are necessary, and that I am more easily able to love others because I value and appreciate myself as a human being, and take care of both this fragile vessel and the being within it. Why would I replace my experience with his words? His anger, so raw and recent, finds me self-conscious about simply saying I love this woman I am becoming – but I do, and it doesn’t harm anyone that I feel this way. Quite the contrary, my relationships with others are also improved.

I get over being angry and feel concerned for him, to be so angry about a positive message about self love that it inspired him to comment, when I ‘almost never’ hear from him at all, seems quite peculiar to me. It seems to be suggesting that he seeks to overcome self-loathing by forcing himself to go through the motions of loving others. It’s a perception as likely to be incorrect as any. I reconsider his words without the perceived anger – I don’t know that he felt anger when he wrote his comment, it’s an inference of my own – and I recognize that he, too, values love and is having his own experience. He expresses, however appropriately or inappropriately, concern and affection for me as a human being, and the path I choose. By itself, that’s a positive thing, although I find the demanding tone taken, and the insistence that I choose another way, both uncomfortable and unwelcome. It isn’t for him to make demands on me.

I think of a woman – this woman, the one in the mirror – from the perspective on life, self, and love that I had a decade ago, at 42. Could I have taken this path then? Would I have welcomed the suggestion that ‘being love’ and that choosing to love myself in order to love others wasn’t selfish at all, but necessary? Would I have accepted that suggestion and been able to make use of it at all – or would I have rejected the notion of taking care of me, because I didn’t value or love the woman in the mirror, and because ‘people suck’? It’s hard to know… It’s been a journey, and as with so many journey’s ‘skipping ahead’ isn’t really something we do so easily. I doubt I was ready then, for ‘positive’ messaging about my self. I have taken my journey in steps, in incremental changes over time, in moments of wonder, and the practicing of practicing that were chosen with great care for their successful outcomes – and I am the sole decider of success in the realm of my experience. My commenter friend is similarly choosing his own choices, walking his own path, and finding his own way. At least for now, it doesn’t sound like a very comfortable journey, and I wonder about his choices and who he has become… or is becoming.

His words aren’t worth lingering anger. His words don’t change my choices, or alter my path; they belong to him. Listening deeply matters, even in text – our written words communicate so much more than the handful of nouns and verbs suggest they might. We communicate emotion. We communicate shared experience – and we communicate our differences. We communicate warnings when we feel alarmed or frightened, whether that thing that alarmed or frightened us was real or not – as with a nightmare, perhaps. We are very human, my friend is correct on that point. He’s right, too, that what matters most is love. He is right that love is a verb, to be acted upon, and given – our only disagreement seems to be that I would further suggest that I am also worthy of my love, of my time and attention, of my care and consideration, because I too am human, and worthy, and that there is enough love for me to share some with myself.

I sip my coffee, smiling. I feel good today – I feel loved. I start the morning treating the woman in the mirror well, and I can expect that I will likely continue to do so throughout the day; it has become a practice. I’m human – that won’t be changing – so mistakes along the way are likely. I am worthy of the same consideration in the face of error that I would give anyone else – and I didn’t learn to give others that consideration until I had learned how to treat myself well. It’s a puzzle. It’s a puzzle with some verbs and a whole lot of practice. One practice I don’t need? Taking what other people say personally – they are also having their own experience.

It is a rainy spring morning, like so many; I choose my perspective, I choose my path, and I choose when to begin again.

It is a rainy spring morning, like so many; I choose my perspective, I choose my path, and I choose when to begin again.

Today is a good day for perspective and consideration. Today is a good day to walk my own path without concern about what path – or perspective – someone else may choose. Today is a good day to listen deeply, and follow my own counsel. Today is a good day to build the world I most want to live in. There are verbs involved.

I arrived home last night quite exhausted. I made it a gentle evening, and crashed out quite early. I slept well and deeply, and woke comfortably to the alarm. In all regards, quite a nice way to finish off a challenging work day and move on. I woke this morning having forgotten about the closet doors. When I moved in, there were no closet doors at all. They were still on order and not yet installed. They arrived, and were installed yesterday (with the exception of the closet door in my bedroom, at my request). I had inspected the work when I arrived home, and not given it another thought. This morning I awoke without having closet doors in mind, and was a bit startled when I stepped into the studio to write… closet door. Big broad, vast, visually impressive, white sliding closet door… across the entire end of the room, where previously the shelves with my art gear, and the top shelf with not-yet-unpacked breakables sit safely, had been ‘part of the view’ since I moved in. It was a bit odd. Different. More… ‘finished’.

I find myself thinking about ‘finishing touches’ generally, you know – those items, tasks, elements, and moments that really round out an event or experience in a way that feels ‘complete’ and satisfying, or fulfills some specific aesthetic. Love, too, has some opportunities for ‘finishing touches’ – and that could be quite a literal thing, as with tender contact, touches, and afterplay following sex, or something deeper – like the unexpected love note days later, found tucked away somewhere undiscovered, found in passing during a difficult moment, filling a tense emotional space with love and recognition. Finishing touches seem to be more about an awareness, a perception, than about the thing themselves… and I continue to contemplate finishing touches as I sip my coffee.

Reflecting on a turn of phrase or a metaphor provides new perspective.

Reflecting on a turn of phrase or a metaphor provides new perspective.

There are ‘finishing touches’ along the far reaches of the negative spectrum of my emotional experience, although I generally don’t call them ‘finishing touches’ so much as ‘the straw that broke the camel’s back’ or ‘the deal breakers’. The ‘finishing touch’ on my first marriage was how my spouse treated his son, and his mother (in both cases, badly). The finishing touch on the long-term relationship that followed was a complex singularity – an evening of trampled boundaries, disregard, unexpected violence, inconsiderate nastiness, and intimidation; it was a hell of a finish, no doubt, and quite a sudden cascade of deal breakers in one seemingly endless evening. The finishing touch on a relationship that followed – a ‘long term’ relationship characterized after-the-fact by its brevity (less than 3 years), was the development of a peculiarly chronic neglect, disregard, and emotional weaponry launched by a mentally ill partner; I was in no shape to provide the support she needed, and I needed day-to-day simple decency from a disordered partner unable to provide that to anyone, in any relationship (at that time). When I think of those events in the positive terms of ‘finishing touches’ rather than the negative terms of ‘deal breakers’ and ‘last straws’, I find myself feeling more settled and content with the way things turned out; it makes sense that those relationships ended, and the events that finished them off do settle things, in a fairly ‘completed’ and ‘finished’ way, providing a ‘why it makes sense’ that they ended. I find myself aware that a ‘finishing touch’ is a form of closure – and it is found within, requiring no assistance from another party, no ‘last words’, no ‘parting gift’, no give and take; it belongs to me, and exists as part of my own understanding of myself, and the context of my life in which I exist. The ‘finish’ of a finishing touch is a perception, and as such, also beyond the realm of argument, requiring no validation. 🙂

The closet doors do result in a more finished look here, generally. The paintings hanging in the hallway provide a similar sense of things being ‘complete’ and ‘finished’. It feels comfortably grown up, and properly a residence, in a way that differs slightly from #27, which I so recently adored, and moved from. It is a similar feeling to moving from the barracks as a young soldier, into housing ‘on the economy’, or moving from a college dorm, into a ‘real apartment’. My previous apartment was set up for artistic live/work…but so small and compact that it was very nearly a studio apartment, and felt rather like a spacious bedroom sometimes. This new space feels very like a house, from the inside, and having separated my studio and creative work space from the rest of the residential spaces, also very comfortable… and sometimes strange. It seems more… finished. I’m still getting used to it, and sometimes find myself simultaneously delighted and vaguely uncomfortable with the spaciousness, or feeling both relieved and uneasy to have it generally all to myself. I remember as I write those words that growth itself often feels very uncomfortable indeed. I smile. I am okay with where I am in life; that feels really good.

Begin again; the finishing touch in one moment becomes a cherished reminder of the beginning for another.

Begin again; the finishing touch in one moment becomes a cherished reminder of the beginning for another.

The leisure morning at home nears its end. I notice when I check the clock. Finishing touches are possible here, too; there is time for some housekeeping, and those are the finishing touches on my morning that become my beautiful welcome home at the end of a long work day. 🙂 It’s a very good day to treat the woman in the mirror well, and to live my values authentically. It’s a very nice day for finishing touches.

It’s a quiet stormy evening. I’ve gotten most of my laundry done, bringing it in warm and dry from the laundry room between rain showers. Between loads of laundry I’ve spent time meditating, as storm clouds and passing showers crossed the view out the patio window. I enjoy seeing the sky, a horizon, a view, and so placed my favorite cushion for meditating just there, where my view of the park beyond the patio is unobstructed.

Potted miniature roses drenched by passing showers don't seem to mind the rain at all.

Potted miniature roses drenched by passing showers don’t seem to mind the rain at all.

Tonight had been planned for love and loving, but love had other needs, elsewhere, tonight. Love isn’t always easy, and needs considerable investment in respect, in consideration, in compassion, and yes, even openness and reciprocity. I’m sure I’ve never felt truly loved in their absence. (That’s why they are my Big 5 relationship values!) Still, I don’t feel any lack of love for love’s lack of proximity tonight. I feel heard, cared for, respected, valued – I feel wrapped in the comfort and warmth of a strong partnership, signal boosted with clear communication and explicit expectation setting. I find myself feeling compassion (his are complicated circumstances), and hoping very much that the evening goes well for my tested traveling partner; his relationship building skills are considerable – love still requires that everyone involved make an equal investment of heart, and will, and effort. No one human being can hold an entire relationship together alone. There are so many verbs involved…mindful loving uses many more of them than I had imagined (and I still have so much to learn). Listening deeply is a practice worthy of practicing – and then practicing more; I’ve learned so much more about love in the silence between my words that gives my lover room to be heard, than I ever did in one moment of something I said myself. Still; verbs. It isn’t enough to wait to talk. It’s the listening that counts, and doing it skillfully requires more than a little practice.

Listening deeply is like looking at something distant, requiring attention, focus, engagement and presence; this is not a picture of branches.

Listening deeply is like looking at something distant; it requires attention, focus, engagement and presence. (This is not a picture of branches.)

The television is off. No background slide show, no cartoons or animation, no favorite series or new hilarious YouTube video, science documentary, or nature show to pull my focus from the quiet evening. I am giving myself my time and attention. There is music playing, but that too is subdued; jazz (‘fusion’) tonight, bass heavy, relaxed, complex, rich, and joyous, and turned down low enough to feel the quiet of evening nonetheless – the sort of easy, inspiring sounds that apparently compel considerable overuse of adjectives and adverbs – the musical equivalent of poetry, but the sort of uplifting simple thing easily remembered and happily shared.

Too many words. This is too many – isn’t it? Is it? I’m not sure. I think I’ve gone a tad overboard here, just now, but I feel content and filled with warm joy and a feeling of security. It’s pleasant – and I don’t feel quite this way very often at all. It’s the security, I think – a sort of calm strength just beneath the surface of the contentment and joy. It’s nice. I’m sure I ‘worked’ to get ‘here’…but I didn’t plan it, or seek it out, I’ve been busy on other practices, other verbs, other concerns in life. Maybe that’s the point of what I am saying tonight; I didn’t chase this down as an outcome. I simply arrived here. Practicing good basic self-care, treating myself truly well, practicing practices that build emotional resilience and self-sufficiency, learning skills that support my emotional balance – whether I am home alone, out in the world, or faced with a moment of someone else’s drama – each incremental change over time has been a step on a journey that brought me here. ‘Here’ is very nice, I must say…and it’s enough.

One moment of many. I am here. I am okay. This is enough.

One moment of many. I am here. I am okay. This is enough.

Today is a good day to enjoy what is – whatever it is, however much it can be enjoyed. Today is a good day to learn from what hurts. Today is a good day to watch storms pass over head, and to recognize the difference between ‘climate’ and ‘weather’. Today is a good day to take a step back from the world, and listen deeply in a quiet moment.

Fatigue still seems to be catching up to me unexpectedly easily. I wake comfortably this morning after a restful night, and not overly concerned about it, but it turns my attention to a number of life’s details that were quickly shifted to ‘later’ during the move, and attending to them makes sense, certainly putting them off indefinitely is a poor choice.

After yoga, a shower, and making coffee I remember that the quantity of coffee on hand is quite low. I order coffee, and recall that the wall heater uses considerable energy (costly) and that I had planned to get a second oil heater to keep the more spacious apartment comfortable; I make a note for later. While I am involved thus, I make a point of identifying assorted other quality of life details that need to be adjusted or refreshed for the new living space, and if nothing else, I give each sufficient consideration to have an idea what I will do about them, and when. I take time to consider my ‘breakables’ – a collection of delicate glass, porcelain, and crystal objects that I enjoy displaying and using; I made a point of boxing them all up for safety when it was clear that the environment was putting them at risk (before I moved into Number 27), and they have remained packed up since. No curio. (They used to ‘live in’ my sideboard, unless they were out, here and there.) I’ve bookmarked a couple lovely pieces to finish the dining room – a lighted glass door cabinet, and a cute chest with drawers that will serve well as a smallish sideboard; they compliment the light wood of the table. I find myself regularly brushing my hair out of my eyes and recognize that the more immediate need is for a haircut; I have Monday off, and book an appointment.

The day starts in this very grown up way, taking care of the needs of the moment, planning out the future quality of life improvements, and smiling that there is any sense that my quality of life actually needs any ‘improvement’. The smile pulls my attention, somehow, back to the quality of my life, generally, and the moment of contentment and appreciation finishes, rather amusingly, with the recollection that I don’t have a good mop for the much larger kitchen/dining room floor. I order one; that’s a ‘sooner than later’ detail, since a dirty floor will render a home seemingly filthy even when that is the literal only messy detail. (I am no longer that woman who has no will or energy available to live beautifully; I have the verbs for that.)

I feel relaxed and confident in my space and in my experience – and this feeling doesn’t feel ‘alien’ or unfamiliar. It feels more as if something treasured that was missing has been found. I think over my recent nightmare, still clinging to my consciousness, and the epiphany that followed and weave it together with the recollections of times past when I felt my most whole, my most adult, my most capable, and the when/where of those experiences – unsurprisingly nearly all of them at points in my life when I was living alone, however briefly… (with one notable exception; my relationship with my traveling partner, which tends generally be to very adult-to-adult with the exception of an extraordinary period of care and support when I needed it most, struggling to wean myself off of poorly chosen psych meds, and later when we were both working through issues associated with my injury, or my PTSD).

Trying to force myself to live comfortably in a pair-bonding cohabitation model of existence hasn’t worked out well for me, in any relationship. Attempting to cohabit with multiple adult partners (and their multiple very human issues) didn’t work out very well, either (although I could see myself trying again with a more rational choice of partnerships – a choice of more rational partners?). I find myself again and again allowing myself to be lead into over-compromising my needs, my values, or my quality of life solely to avoid confrontation, when I live with other people. It’s silly – and not a very efficient way to live harmoniously. Festering resentment is super unpleasant to live around, and to be quite reasonable about it, my anger is not something to be trifled with, but that’s a truth that is often not heard between primates until shit goes really wrong. Then it’s all neighbors on the news with quotes like “well, she always seemed very pleasant, I’m very surprised…”. It’s not a place I want to find myself, frankly. So. Other choices.

I am still getting used to the spaciousness here. Gone the utterly necessary compactness of … everything. Am I rambling? If I am, is it because there is so much additional room here? More than enough – which feels a tad strange very often, still. The roominess here, for one person, is ‘ample’. Perhaps even ‘ideal’ (for me). The idealness of it is taking some getting used to, and there is some point in my consciousness I occasionally catch discontentedly searching for ‘the worm in the apple’. Freaking human primate negative bias issues – like I need that bullshit! 🙂 Meditation works well to address that… I think I’ll do that.

Begin again... And then again. Each dawn is a new beginning.

Begin again… And then again. Each dawn is a new beginning.

Today is a choice day to begin with good choices. Today is a lovely day to spend the day on loving, and being love. Today is a fine day to reflect on the woman in the mirror, and the opportunity to live well that stretches ahead. Today is a very good day to take care of me, and in doing so I am changing my world.

I woke to the sound of rain this morning. I also woke to the sound of rain a number of times during the night, briefly, returning to sleep quickly – since there is nothing about the sound of rain that is at all alarming for me. When I last woke, realizing the downpour might have consequences for driving later, my fretfulness about driving in torrential rain – which does cause me some anxiety – prevented me from returning to sleep.

It’s been a strange morning. I started the morning anticipating a fun morning fixing Barbie dolls with some neighborhood girls of Barbie doll age, while sipping tea with their mothers. It seems a very ordinary sort of thing to me, a remnant of a past I grew up with that no longer exists in many places – one in which neighbors know each other, talk in passing, and care. It fits in here in this little community; we help each other out now and then, talk to each other, share how things are going. (I am not the person I was at 25, or at 40 – I wonder sometimes if these simple moments of connection would have had the same value for me then?) It matters to me that Maribel and Anna, down a few doors, have colds today. It matters to their Mother that they not share them with me, or the other older ladies in the community. Simple consideration, simple courtesy, simply neighbors. These things don’t really have a season, you know? They can be done all year. It starts with being present, with being aware, with taking an interest – it starts with smiles and greetings. It doesn’t have to end at all.

The change in my plans slows my morning down quite a lot, and I take time on a variety of small tidying up sorts of chores to make my traveling partner’s time hanging out on Giftmas Eve and Giftmas Day more comfortable. People with allergies are often challenged by apartment conditions that don’t trouble most folks – like ancient abused carpet potentially releasing allergens into the air with every new footstep. Vacuuming, damp dusting, and taking care with details like little corners and covered surfaces. all matter greatly and improve an allergic loved one’s experience. Totally worth a bit of extra time and effort – anything that improves his comfort prolongs my own joy in sharing his company. 🙂 (Verbs again, and always – what we want routinely requires our action.)  This is also not some aggressive agitated drive to reach ‘perfection’ – the love is in the intent, the will, and the effort made. That my lover’s comfort matters to me such that I take action is the important piece of the puzzle. There’s no score or report card, or financial gain, or praise expected – or criticism; it’s not about removing all the allergens from the world, it’s about saying ‘I love you’.

Be love.

Be love.

Slowing the morning down offers more value than extra time to tidy up; I am less anxious about driving in the rain, later. Slowing things down is often a game-changer with my anxiety. A great many things that cause me anxiety are worsened if there is also a sense of immediacy or urgency also associated with them. Slowing things down reduces any sense of urgency by making whatever it is less imminent. There’s a missing step – and it’s an important one; I don’t use that additional time on growing and nurturing the feeling of anxiety. Once basic planning and healthy expectation-setting is managed, I simply move on to other things. “Simply” – it gets easier with practice, it’s not ‘effortless’, it’s just not complicated. 🙂

Today is a good day to practice good practices, and a good day to share them. Today is a good day to say good morning to a neighbor in passing, and to smile at strangers. Today is a good day to recognize how human we each are, each having our own experience, each on our own journey – still so very human that we easily overlook how similar our experiences may actually be…and if we don’t share, we won’t know. Today is a good day to step outside my comfort zone, and be a welcoming presence in my world. Today is a good day to be love. 🙂