Saturday, March 17, 2012
Feelings. Plus Toaster Oven Fires.
Once, when I was in college, I started a fire in my grandparents' kitchen. Two fires, actually. One in the toaster oven, and one in the microwave. I'm not quite sure why I still remember this day so clearly; the fires were small and easily contained; my grandparents never even knew; nothing was ruined save for a piece of toast and a leftover cup of coffee. Still, when I think about my grandparents, and, especially, the house in which they lived for nearly sixty years, among one thousand memories, complete and disparate, is this one: my nineteen-year-old nervous self, trying to be helpful by making breakfast, waving a dishtowel at a smoking toaster oven, hugely embarrassed and desperate to keep my clumsiness, my mistake, hidden.
Keep myself hidden. Keep my mistakes, awkwardness, embarrassment, sadness, pride, silliness, ignorance, jealousy, judgement...hidden. Is this a good thing? Writing this blog seems to embody a kind of all-out opening to me; a stripping of veils and curtains and comfortable clothes. Each time I sit down to write, I am eager; I feel like I'm finally tapping into the core of who I am, of what I like to do, and this is wonderful, of course. It's also a little selfish, and it's a lot scary. My blog-post writing regimen goes something like this: 1) Get an idea in the middle of (grading papers, going for a run, cooking dinner, cleaning the bathtub, walking the dog, eating oatmeal, teaching class, running errands...any activity that requires me to be focusing on something else). 2) Sit down at the computer and write (slowly, quickly, in bursts of clarity and distraction). 3) Re-read every single word--several times--to at least rid myself of the gnawing notion of a word missed or spelled wrong. 4) Post. 5) Feel good. Feel good because...I'll say it: I'm a writer, and I've just written. What comes next, after that thirty-minute window of warm glow, is this voice: Who says you're so special? Who says that what you've just said hasn't been said a thousand times before, in a thousand better ways? People who read this are going to think you are: long-winded, redundant, unoriginal, pompous, irritating; they're going to think that you spend way too much time contemplating how you feel.
This last one is the one that sticks at me the most, and I've come to believe that the insults (imagined or real) that cut us most deeply are the sharpest knives because somewhere way back (or not so way back) in our minds, we know them to be true. We think them, ourselves. I do spend way too much time contemplating my feelings. I am, as my father would say, a 'naval-gazer'. I worry and wonder, endlessly, at my own shyness, my own seeming lack of confidence, at my desire to hide away all mistakes (oven fires and bad haircuts included). I spend inordinate amounts of times trying to figure out the feelings of myself and others; I read self-help books; I practice arm-chair psychology. A part of this may be because I'm a woman (a generalization I feel I'm allowed to make since, well, I'm one of the guilty party), but the other part, I've come to realize, is that I was born of a family of naval-gazers. Why then, if it's in my blood, do I often feel so apologetic when some of that self-analysis gets out in the open?
I have a wonderful family; we love to talk, debate, analyze, figure out. We are also--almost every single one of us--incredibly introverted. We love to talk, sure, but mostly with each other, and even then we catch ourselves apologizing for taking up so much of each others' time, for 'bogarting' the conversation, for holding forth or making proclamations, even if we might know exactly what we're talking about. We're talkers; we're also 'I don't know-ers'. I was born to it. It's in every cell of my being.
Which is why, of course, I feel such a heady mix of joy and remorse when I sit down to write here, in this space. This space is my holding forth, my grand proclamation, my ultimate bogart. Why should anyone want to know what I am feeling or thinking? I actually don't really know why, but the truth is: I don't really care (right now, at least.) For sure, there are things about ourselves we ought to grapple with silently; my jealousy doesn't do anyone any good (especially myself), so I'm not going to talk about it. My judgments are misplaced, and they never, ever, come from a place of love, so I'm not going to talk about them. In my life, I want to strive to be humble (even while writing a blog all. about. me.), so I'm not going to talk about how great I think I am. I've come to learn (after too long not seeing) that you can't change anyone but your own self, and shouldn't ever try, so I'm not going to complain about anyone else. There are also things, though, that I'm coming to think are important to admit, to stop hiding from. We're all awkward. We're all clumsy. We all think we're uncool. We all worry that what we're saying might be wrong. (Right?) One of the reasons I love my family so much--and why I love the close circle of friends I've cultivated in my life--is because in the midst of our analytical, long-winded, often emotionally charged, often alcohol softened conversations, no one tries to pretend like they've got it all figured out. We may take turns holding forth, but we laugh at ourselves while we're doing it, and we give thanks afterwards.
I'm not really sure what to say now. I've got a cat on my lap, vying for my affection, a dog scratching at the front door, and the nagging feeling that I started off this post by writing about lighting a kitchen on fire, which really relates in no way to anything I've just said. Undoubtedly, after I finish this post, my blog-pride hangover will be immense, but I'll go for that 'not caring' thing and try to bring it home:
Once, when I was in college, I started a fire in my grandparents' kitchen. Two small fires. Easily managed, when you got right down to it, but at nineteen I left their house feeling awkward and sort of dangerous and irresponsible...over a toaster oven fire. Over a flame two inches high. Over a ruined piece of toast. When I remember that nineteen-year-old girl, I want to look at her and say: laugh. I want her to make a noise in the kitchen instead of silently fanning the flames; I want her to say: "Oh dear. I seem to have started a fire in your kitchen!" She says this. She says this, and in comes her grandmother, who loves her. Together they put out the fire, throw away the charred toast, dump out the scalding coffee. Later her grandmother will say, "I do that all the time. I know exactly how you feel."
Thanks for reading.
Beth
Monday, March 12, 2012
I Don't Know
Admission: I am terrified that I am going to do something wrong. I am terrified that I'm going to make a mistake, to miss a sign, to choose wrong. I often feel--physically, mentally, emotionally--quite caught, tangled up in a web of my own making. These days, this web is barb and wire and when I move in one direction, I'm pricked by some painful memory, some jolt of fear, some wave of sadness or regret or longing. Which way do I move? What choice do I make? Admission: I am so tired of trying to figure it out.
My mother, who has always been and will always be one of my greatest soul mates, said this to me on the telephone last night: "Just do what you want. Do anything you want. Do all of it." She said it with a laugh, which made me laugh, and lighten up a bit, and lightening up is a good thing to do: remember--it's not all so complicated. When you're in the middle of huge transition, it's okay to spend a good amount of days waking up too late, going to sleep too late, doing this, not doing that, writing that person a letter, not writing the other letter, bailing out and mailing neither, choosing yes, choosing no, simply because you want to in that moment. Deep in transition, it's nearly impossible to see far down the line; what's visible is really only the next moment in time, and the tenor of that moment--all its specific desires and sour tastes.
It's really damn easy to say "I don't know". In almost all conversations I have, I have a tendency to follow up my thoughts and statements with a reflexive "I don't know". This has often bothered me about myself, because these three words seem to negate my own authenticity, my own experience, knowledge, and curiosity, which, in fact, I do know, and well. On the flip side though, I like to see this refrain as a symbol of something else I always want to have, and something I deeply respect in others who have it: an open and welcoming mind. The capacity to admit limits in understanding, ability, and intellect. Those who can do this are those who are humble. I like them best, and I want to be like them.
Still, saying "I don't know" and feeling--living--"I don't know" are two very different animals. One can be tossed off the tongue unconsciously, instinctively; the other is much deeper, and it cuts to the quick of what transition is--a period utterly swathed, no room for breath, in not knowing.
All of this sounds rather depressing and hopeless, and there is that, too, but I'm also coming to believe that there's simplicity in this state of being; maybe even a bit of lightness, as my mother reminded me. If we can own up to what we cannot do--right now; if we can admit to feeling paralyzed by indecision--right now; if we can simply make choices--moment to moment, and train our minds to feel some brand of tough love for the not knowing...then I think we'll be okay. I think the web will loosen.
Admission: I am terrified that I am going to do something wrong. I am terrified that I'm going to make a mistake, to miss a sign, to choose wrong. I often feel--physically, mentally, emotionally--quite caught, tangled up in a web of my own making. These days, this web is barb and wire and when I move in one direction, I'm pricked by some painful memory, some jolt of fear, some wave of sadness or regret or longing. Which way do I move? What choice do I make? Admission: I am so tired of trying to figure it out.
My mother, who has always been and will always be one of my greatest soul mates, said this to me on the telephone last night: "Just do what you want. Do anything you want. Do all of it." She said it with a laugh, which made me laugh, and lighten up a bit, and lightening up is a good thing to do: remember--it's not all so complicated. When you're in the middle of huge transition, it's okay to spend a good amount of days waking up too late, going to sleep too late, doing this, not doing that, writing that person a letter, not writing the other letter, bailing out and mailing neither, choosing yes, choosing no, simply because you want to in that moment. Deep in transition, it's nearly impossible to see far down the line; what's visible is really only the next moment in time, and the tenor of that moment--all its specific desires and sour tastes.
It's really damn easy to say "I don't know". In almost all conversations I have, I have a tendency to follow up my thoughts and statements with a reflexive "I don't know". This has often bothered me about myself, because these three words seem to negate my own authenticity, my own experience, knowledge, and curiosity, which, in fact, I do know, and well. On the flip side though, I like to see this refrain as a symbol of something else I always want to have, and something I deeply respect in others who have it: an open and welcoming mind. The capacity to admit limits in understanding, ability, and intellect. Those who can do this are those who are humble. I like them best, and I want to be like them.
Still, saying "I don't know" and feeling--living--"I don't know" are two very different animals. One can be tossed off the tongue unconsciously, instinctively; the other is much deeper, and it cuts to the quick of what transition is--a period utterly swathed, no room for breath, in not knowing.
All of this sounds rather depressing and hopeless, and there is that, too, but I'm also coming to believe that there's simplicity in this state of being; maybe even a bit of lightness, as my mother reminded me. If we can own up to what we cannot do--right now; if we can admit to feeling paralyzed by indecision--right now; if we can simply make choices--moment to moment, and train our minds to feel some brand of tough love for the not knowing...then I think we'll be okay. I think the web will loosen.
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
Places, Part One.
Salem, Oregon.
Tiny apartment. Two year old running up and down the hallway after her bath. Mother with second baby in her belly. Tawny dog named after a Montana town. Nearby there is an ocean, and a beach cabin with dirty windows and a hand on the sill. There are sand dollars, none of them pure, lined in a long wooden boat on the ledge inside the stairwell. In this cabin, they recall, they took the best nap of their lives. This is what they remember clearly: rest.
Helena, Montana. House on Breckenridge.
That I do not remember. The stories: the time the basement flooded, water over earth four feet deep, and the girl peering down at its depth. The Halloween that was twenty below zero, but the girl, then five, dressed in costume and snowsuit and took our father's hand for one block of trick-or-treating. "After three houses, she was done," our father recalls, still. We imagine him how we cannot remember him: slim and black-haired; heavily bearded. Our mother married a handsome man. They fell quickly.
Helena, Montana. House on Winne.
Enter: Sally. Blonde haired and blue eyed, grey eyed, our father's eyes. In this house, before the remodel, the basement rooms were cement and filtered light. Were dark corners and uncovered wooden beams, bones. A white mouse named Mary is kept in a cage next to the washing machine. In winter months, on the braided rug that tries to warm the space, we play with our rabbits--feeding them bits of turnip and celery and always fearing them, just a little--their hard teeth and strangely silent faces. We were brought up as timid children, a product of greatest love. Too much shelter.
Missoula, Montana. Apartment.
In this place, I live alone. There is a small black cat and an anxious orange dog for company. The water heater is finicky and the shower too small--I wish to be three inches shorter, again. I make do. This apartment leaks heat in the winter like a cracked cup, but there is always light in any season. My father--no longer a black-haired, bearded man, though no less loving--he calls this place 'the garret.' It is not a garret in the true sense--no attic eaves or dirty windows overlooking a mad city. It is still a space tucked away and tiny, and I understand that in his unspoken way, my father is envious of this part of my life--the utter autonomy I have. His advice to me has always been two-fold: find a desk and a hard-backed chair and do your work well. Afterwards, he says, 'stuff yourself'--with everything your town, your youth, has to offer you. As a young man, before marriage, my father went traveling. In school he discovered politics. He discovered history and law and what it meant to really talk with his fellows--to debate, argue, consider, while drinking beer. Then he met my mother and his life was stuffed with other stuff. Love. A two year old running down a hallway. A woman with a growing belly. An ocean and a dead-limbed nap; everyone sleeping, even the babies. Flooded basements and white mice. Turnips for rabbits. A child. Two. A third. A little girl who still wanted to trick-or-treat with him in below zero weather in her costume and snowsuit. One block was all she needed, he still remembers. Then she was done.
Thanks for reading.
Beth
Salem, Oregon.
Tiny apartment. Two year old running up and down the hallway after her bath. Mother with second baby in her belly. Tawny dog named after a Montana town. Nearby there is an ocean, and a beach cabin with dirty windows and a hand on the sill. There are sand dollars, none of them pure, lined in a long wooden boat on the ledge inside the stairwell. In this cabin, they recall, they took the best nap of their lives. This is what they remember clearly: rest.
Helena, Montana. House on Breckenridge.
That I do not remember. The stories: the time the basement flooded, water over earth four feet deep, and the girl peering down at its depth. The Halloween that was twenty below zero, but the girl, then five, dressed in costume and snowsuit and took our father's hand for one block of trick-or-treating. "After three houses, she was done," our father recalls, still. We imagine him how we cannot remember him: slim and black-haired; heavily bearded. Our mother married a handsome man. They fell quickly.
Helena, Montana. House on Winne.
Enter: Sally. Blonde haired and blue eyed, grey eyed, our father's eyes. In this house, before the remodel, the basement rooms were cement and filtered light. Were dark corners and uncovered wooden beams, bones. A white mouse named Mary is kept in a cage next to the washing machine. In winter months, on the braided rug that tries to warm the space, we play with our rabbits--feeding them bits of turnip and celery and always fearing them, just a little--their hard teeth and strangely silent faces. We were brought up as timid children, a product of greatest love. Too much shelter.
Missoula, Montana. Apartment.
In this place, I live alone. There is a small black cat and an anxious orange dog for company. The water heater is finicky and the shower too small--I wish to be three inches shorter, again. I make do. This apartment leaks heat in the winter like a cracked cup, but there is always light in any season. My father--no longer a black-haired, bearded man, though no less loving--he calls this place 'the garret.' It is not a garret in the true sense--no attic eaves or dirty windows overlooking a mad city. It is still a space tucked away and tiny, and I understand that in his unspoken way, my father is envious of this part of my life--the utter autonomy I have. His advice to me has always been two-fold: find a desk and a hard-backed chair and do your work well. Afterwards, he says, 'stuff yourself'--with everything your town, your youth, has to offer you. As a young man, before marriage, my father went traveling. In school he discovered politics. He discovered history and law and what it meant to really talk with his fellows--to debate, argue, consider, while drinking beer. Then he met my mother and his life was stuffed with other stuff. Love. A two year old running down a hallway. A woman with a growing belly. An ocean and a dead-limbed nap; everyone sleeping, even the babies. Flooded basements and white mice. Turnips for rabbits. A child. Two. A third. A little girl who still wanted to trick-or-treat with him in below zero weather in her costume and snowsuit. One block was all she needed, he still remembers. Then she was done.
Thanks for reading.
Beth
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Frankly, what you want to be and to love...
1. Perfect. Which to me means calm. Means eternal generosity. No guilt. Peace at every corner, anger at none. What is anger? Me feel anger? Never. No. Perfect means no upset. Perfect might be he with a lobotomy. Perfect. Doesn't exist. Damn.
2. Want to be young forever. An optimist and dreamer at heart, someone has recently introduced me to the idea that not everyone looks at the world in this way. Some see reality. Some see darkness. Some can't escape the fact that we. all. die. This is harsh, yes, but also a push to remember that we. all. live. And are living now.
3. Want to love everything! But I don't. I don't love the sound of Ira Glass's voice. I don't love Februaries. I don't love January second. I don't love grey skies. I don't love holes in socks. I don't love black coffee. I don't love licorice. I don't love competition. I don't love spotlights. I don't love the fact that life requires toughness and thick skin. My father has a saying: "You've got to put on your iron underwear". He's right. I don't love it.
4. Want to feel gratitude, every day. A nice notion, and certainly one to strive for. But some days are just waking up and doing what needs to be done and brushing your teeth and getting back into bed and waiting for another day to come. This is enough.
5. Want to love my enemies. But...I don't love you for a reason...right? I am not a saint. Clearly, you're not either.
6. Want to do it all! Write! Every single day. Suffer for it. Read every book on the shelf, regardless of its ability to pull at me. Accept every invitation. Do everything on the 'needs to get done' list. Gift and gather and learn and forgive and move the fuck on. It will always take forever to do it all. Do some.
7. Want to love, myself. Many days, yes. Many days, not so much. There are still yes days. If there have been some, there will be more to come. More love. More toughness. More writing. More books that pull, more forgiveness and forgetting of anger, more living saints and broken human beings, more brushing of teeth and getting in and out of bed, more new socks and cream for coffee, more sun between clouds, and more gratitude, coming as a gasp from nowhere, for it all.
Thanks for reading.
Beth
1. Perfect. Which to me means calm. Means eternal generosity. No guilt. Peace at every corner, anger at none. What is anger? Me feel anger? Never. No. Perfect means no upset. Perfect might be he with a lobotomy. Perfect. Doesn't exist. Damn.
2. Want to be young forever. An optimist and dreamer at heart, someone has recently introduced me to the idea that not everyone looks at the world in this way. Some see reality. Some see darkness. Some can't escape the fact that we. all. die. This is harsh, yes, but also a push to remember that we. all. live. And are living now.
3. Want to love everything! But I don't. I don't love the sound of Ira Glass's voice. I don't love Februaries. I don't love January second. I don't love grey skies. I don't love holes in socks. I don't love black coffee. I don't love licorice. I don't love competition. I don't love spotlights. I don't love the fact that life requires toughness and thick skin. My father has a saying: "You've got to put on your iron underwear". He's right. I don't love it.
4. Want to feel gratitude, every day. A nice notion, and certainly one to strive for. But some days are just waking up and doing what needs to be done and brushing your teeth and getting back into bed and waiting for another day to come. This is enough.
5. Want to love my enemies. But...I don't love you for a reason...right? I am not a saint. Clearly, you're not either.
6. Want to do it all! Write! Every single day. Suffer for it. Read every book on the shelf, regardless of its ability to pull at me. Accept every invitation. Do everything on the 'needs to get done' list. Gift and gather and learn and forgive and move the fuck on. It will always take forever to do it all. Do some.
7. Want to love, myself. Many days, yes. Many days, not so much. There are still yes days. If there have been some, there will be more to come. More love. More toughness. More writing. More books that pull, more forgiveness and forgetting of anger, more living saints and broken human beings, more brushing of teeth and getting in and out of bed, more new socks and cream for coffee, more sun between clouds, and more gratitude, coming as a gasp from nowhere, for it all.
Thanks for reading.
Beth
Saturday, February 25, 2012
The Job.
For the first time in what has probably been years, I stayed up last night until almost 4 a.m., drinking wine, eating food, and talking with good friends. I don't think I've had such a late night since graduate school, maybe since college. I'm tired today, and didn't get out running until noon, but I'm glad for the night I had.
I've recently lost someone from my life--not entirely, but in a certain, specific capacity--and among the myriad reactions I've had to such an experience, one thing I've been surprised to discover myself feeling is a sense of expansion, an aura of release from certain duties in my life. Relationships, no matter their genre, require work. If we want to keep close our friends, our lovers, our siblings, our co-workers, we have to do the work of keeping them close; we must be kind, we must share of ourselves and our time, we must make space and set boundaries. This work doesn't always feel like work if the relationship is a good one, but it's work we do nonetheless, happily and yes, sometimes begrudgingly, because we want to do it, we want to keep the relationship alive. What do we do, though, when we want to do the work, but the other person lets us go? Takes away our duties? Leaves us...jobless?
Most of my weekends over the past few months have been devoted to one person. I had a difficult time accepting other invitations or extending them myself because what I really wanted to do was spend a precious 48 hours with the person I didn't get to see much during the week. I looked forward to these weekends. Now I find myself in a different place, and in this place, I'm pulled between two conflicting truths: one, I miss my weekend partner, the 'us' that filled up and gave comfort to Friday and Saturday evenings; and two, I am unabashedly thankful, this first weekend at home and alone, for the fact that I can do whatever it is that I want to do. I used to spend my weekends like this all the time when I was single; I slept late on Saturday, went for a long run, and came home to write, or clean, or cook. On Sundays I would go to church or spend the entire morning reading, not getting out of my pajamas until late afternoon. Some weekends the only time I'd leave the house was to take the dog for a walk. I was lazy; I turned down invitations; I became my most beautiful hermit self, and I loved it. I also worried. What if, I'd ask myself, I'm incapable of sharing my time fully with another person? What if I'm doomed (and blessed) to spend my life this way, only finding true peace when I'm truly alone?
While I still feel this worry at times, itching at the back of my most analytical mind, I've nourished enough good relationship work to realize that my worry is misplaced. In fact, more and more, I've nourished enough living work to realize that most of my worries are misplaced. There are two sides to every worry, every truth. I like being alone. This is truth. I like doing things with people I love. This is also truth. Sometimes what I owe someone is my time and attention. Sometimes what I owe myself is my own time and attention. Both true. Sometimes, as much as we might want to do something, to be with someone, to make something work, we simply cannot. The world, time, the other free-willed, fully deserving person says No. We've been let go, released of our duties. There is heartbreak and utter disillusionment in such release. There is also a great lifting off of weight, an opening of space, time, attention.
This weekend, I stayed up until 4 a.m. I slept in until noon. I went for a long run. It is now late afternoon, and I won't get to many of the things I'd had planned for the day. I've accepted some invitations, but I've also declined others. Tomorrow, I will probably spend my entire day alone, and there is great peace in that. All of this is true. What is also true is this: I miss the job that I just lost. I miss the person who gave it to me. It was work, yes. But it was work that I often enjoyed, and I was dedicated. Today, I'm just going to sit with these truths. I'm going to give them space and let them reside. I'm going to do the work they're asking me to do, which really, is to simply let them be. There's no getting around them, and there's peace in that, too.
Thanks for reading.
Beth
For the first time in what has probably been years, I stayed up last night until almost 4 a.m., drinking wine, eating food, and talking with good friends. I don't think I've had such a late night since graduate school, maybe since college. I'm tired today, and didn't get out running until noon, but I'm glad for the night I had.
I've recently lost someone from my life--not entirely, but in a certain, specific capacity--and among the myriad reactions I've had to such an experience, one thing I've been surprised to discover myself feeling is a sense of expansion, an aura of release from certain duties in my life. Relationships, no matter their genre, require work. If we want to keep close our friends, our lovers, our siblings, our co-workers, we have to do the work of keeping them close; we must be kind, we must share of ourselves and our time, we must make space and set boundaries. This work doesn't always feel like work if the relationship is a good one, but it's work we do nonetheless, happily and yes, sometimes begrudgingly, because we want to do it, we want to keep the relationship alive. What do we do, though, when we want to do the work, but the other person lets us go? Takes away our duties? Leaves us...jobless?
Most of my weekends over the past few months have been devoted to one person. I had a difficult time accepting other invitations or extending them myself because what I really wanted to do was spend a precious 48 hours with the person I didn't get to see much during the week. I looked forward to these weekends. Now I find myself in a different place, and in this place, I'm pulled between two conflicting truths: one, I miss my weekend partner, the 'us' that filled up and gave comfort to Friday and Saturday evenings; and two, I am unabashedly thankful, this first weekend at home and alone, for the fact that I can do whatever it is that I want to do. I used to spend my weekends like this all the time when I was single; I slept late on Saturday, went for a long run, and came home to write, or clean, or cook. On Sundays I would go to church or spend the entire morning reading, not getting out of my pajamas until late afternoon. Some weekends the only time I'd leave the house was to take the dog for a walk. I was lazy; I turned down invitations; I became my most beautiful hermit self, and I loved it. I also worried. What if, I'd ask myself, I'm incapable of sharing my time fully with another person? What if I'm doomed (and blessed) to spend my life this way, only finding true peace when I'm truly alone?
While I still feel this worry at times, itching at the back of my most analytical mind, I've nourished enough good relationship work to realize that my worry is misplaced. In fact, more and more, I've nourished enough living work to realize that most of my worries are misplaced. There are two sides to every worry, every truth. I like being alone. This is truth. I like doing things with people I love. This is also truth. Sometimes what I owe someone is my time and attention. Sometimes what I owe myself is my own time and attention. Both true. Sometimes, as much as we might want to do something, to be with someone, to make something work, we simply cannot. The world, time, the other free-willed, fully deserving person says No. We've been let go, released of our duties. There is heartbreak and utter disillusionment in such release. There is also a great lifting off of weight, an opening of space, time, attention.
This weekend, I stayed up until 4 a.m. I slept in until noon. I went for a long run. It is now late afternoon, and I won't get to many of the things I'd had planned for the day. I've accepted some invitations, but I've also declined others. Tomorrow, I will probably spend my entire day alone, and there is great peace in that. All of this is true. What is also true is this: I miss the job that I just lost. I miss the person who gave it to me. It was work, yes. But it was work that I often enjoyed, and I was dedicated. Today, I'm just going to sit with these truths. I'm going to give them space and let them reside. I'm going to do the work they're asking me to do, which really, is to simply let them be. There's no getting around them, and there's peace in that, too.
Thanks for reading.
Beth
Sunday, February 19, 2012
Free to Be. You. And Me.
I have an affection for quotes and poems. Sayings. Passages from novels that are small moments of brilliance. I am always clipping these out of books or printing them from the computer and pasting them in different places around my apartment. They often keep their power for a few days, but they just as quickly fade to background, becoming only squares of white paper accenting the wall paper and paint. I will remember to pause and read them now and again, enjoying their cadence but never again fully feeling the meaning that they held at the first, when their discovery seemed somehow destined, a sign from the Gods. These are my latest discoveries:
"What will dissolve is the residue of the past idea of the self; and with it the story that there is anything to prove."
cast off
the past idea of "self"
and ascend
to the true name
that lives deep within.
While the idea does challenge me--and perhaps always will--I have decided lately, to try and overcome my frustration in lieu of my own mode of figuring out. I'm going to quiet the neat word bundles that try to tell me what it's all about. I'm going to ignore those who say 'just be yourself', as if this were the simplest task in the world. For me, for now, it's not a simple task. It's a daily, conscious decision. Maybe some would tell me that I shouldn't have to work so hard at it; that's fine. That's their 'should', not mine. I am not going to task myself with the pursuit of some unrealistic, golden plane where all else falls away and I am forever, purely my 'self', no matter my environment, its people and business and weather. Instead, I am going to work daily to be my most centered self--the one who gets the lucky work of strength, peace, love, and faith. All of my other 'selves' are no less real, no less authentic, they're just a bit less fun. They're the selves who do the work of fear, sadness, anger, pettiness, vanity, and weakness. When we're being guided by them, we might not like it, but they take their jobs seriously too. How do we get them to quit? We can't. We can only take away a bit of their power.
What does make sense to me is this: In order to find--again and again--our most centered selves, we must go to the places, the things, the people, the pursuits that make us feel most 'real'.
Here's my working list:
Sarah, Robin, Anna, Sally.
This place: 48.07 N. 114.08 W.
And this: 46.35 N. 112.02 W.
Writing. Running. Reading.
The moments just after yoga class. (Though not necessarily the moments during it.)
Cooking in my tiny kitchen.
Dancing in my tiny kitchen when I hope no one's looking.
Laughing with my sisters on the phone.
Listening to my father's voice, reciting, as we stand in a church pew.
Looking at my mother's hands. They are mine, mine are hers, years between.
Walking in sunshine, in rain, in falling snow, on frozen, or melting, or fertile ground with a small orange dog.
Holding my cat--when she'll allow it--and letting her purr vibrate through me.
Carole King. James Taylor. My parents' vinyl collection.
The drive east, over the Divide towards my childhood home. This drive in the bleakness of a Montana winter.
The east side shore of Flathead lake.
Sylvan Road.
Plaid shirts. Worn jeans. Woodsmoke.
Raking leaves. Shoveling snow.
Molding pie crusts.
Harvesting my garden.
Gin and tonics in summer.
Old Fashioneds in winter.
Giving my touch to others. Giving a listening ear. Giving my patience. Giving my love, ever fully.
Thanks for reading.
Beth
I have an affection for quotes and poems. Sayings. Passages from novels that are small moments of brilliance. I am always clipping these out of books or printing them from the computer and pasting them in different places around my apartment. They often keep their power for a few days, but they just as quickly fade to background, becoming only squares of white paper accenting the wall paper and paint. I will remember to pause and read them now and again, enjoying their cadence but never again fully feeling the meaning that they held at the first, when their discovery seemed somehow destined, a sign from the Gods. These are my latest discoveries:
"What will dissolve is the residue of the past idea of the self; and with it the story that there is anything to prove."
cast off
the past idea of "self"
and ascend
to the true name
that lives deep within.
"But I always think that the best way to know God is to love many things." (Thanks to my dear letter-writing friend Rob for this one).
It is always the case that when words discover me (or I discover them), we find each other because we have something to offer each other. I give the words admiration and a square of cabinet space, and the words give me that which they've been trained to give: a nice, neat (and more often than not, miraculous) little bundle of clarity. Here is what you've been trying to muddle through, they seem to say. Here is what you've been attempting to express. Yes! I say, and go to find my scissors and scotch tape. Thank you.
Lately, though, my search for these neat bundles seems to have become a bit frantic. I am a tidy person, a perfectionist at heart, and I don't like the messiness of emotion, though I am, ironically, a person given to very strong emotion. Words have always been a way of nicely organizing any unruly feelings, any confused notions, and when even words seem to fail me, I am at an utter loss. How will I figure it out if I can't tie it up neatly in a sentence? A paragraph? Ten pages?
Even now, as I work on this post, I find myself drawing a bit of a blank. So I'll aim for simplicity and directness. What I find myself confronted with lately, is the idea of self. Or rather, the totally confused and still forming idea of self. The idea of self has long been one I've grappled with, but in recent years (and growing at an ever accelerating rate in the past few months, weeks, and days) it is a notion that doesn't want to leave me alone. Try as I might, I can't seem to find the perfect quote to encapsulate the idea for me. Even those above only touch upon pieces of what I've been trying to figure out.
I suppose my question is: what are we really trying to do, to be, when we give ourselves the challenge of 'just being ourselves'? What is someone really saying when they charge you with the crime of trying too hard, or with the inability to ever really be yourself? I am often confused and frustrated when people tell me to 'just be myself'. I want to ask them: Who do you think I am trying to be? The notion of a 'self', cognitively and psychologically, is such a complex one; it is as if we've been charged with the task of taking on another life, another being, aside from the one that encases us in skin and bone, and charged with scripting it into view.
While the idea does challenge me--and perhaps always will--I have decided lately, to try and overcome my frustration in lieu of my own mode of figuring out. I'm going to quiet the neat word bundles that try to tell me what it's all about. I'm going to ignore those who say 'just be yourself', as if this were the simplest task in the world. For me, for now, it's not a simple task. It's a daily, conscious decision. Maybe some would tell me that I shouldn't have to work so hard at it; that's fine. That's their 'should', not mine. I am not going to task myself with the pursuit of some unrealistic, golden plane where all else falls away and I am forever, purely my 'self', no matter my environment, its people and business and weather. Instead, I am going to work daily to be my most centered self--the one who gets the lucky work of strength, peace, love, and faith. All of my other 'selves' are no less real, no less authentic, they're just a bit less fun. They're the selves who do the work of fear, sadness, anger, pettiness, vanity, and weakness. When we're being guided by them, we might not like it, but they take their jobs seriously too. How do we get them to quit? We can't. We can only take away a bit of their power.
What does make sense to me is this: In order to find--again and again--our most centered selves, we must go to the places, the things, the people, the pursuits that make us feel most 'real'. Here's my working list:
Sarah, Robin, Anna, Sally.
This place: 48.07 N. 114.08 W.
And this: 46.35 N. 112.02 W.
Writing. Running. Reading.
The moments just after yoga class. (Though not necessarily the moments during it.)
Cooking in my tiny kitchen.
Dancing in my tiny kitchen when I hope no one's looking.
Laughing with my sisters on the phone.
Listening to my father's voice, reciting, as we stand in a church pew.
Looking at my mother's hands. They are mine, mine are hers, years between.
Walking in sunshine, in rain, in falling snow, on frozen, or melting, or fertile ground with a small orange dog.
Holding my cat--when she'll allow it--and letting her purr vibrate through me.
Carole King. James Taylor. My parents' vinyl collection.
The drive east, over the Divide towards my childhood home. This drive in the bleakness of a Montana winter.
The east side shore of Flathead lake.
Sylvan Road.
Plaid shirts. Worn jeans. Woodsmoke.
Raking leaves. Shoveling snow.
Molding pie crusts.
Harvesting my garden.
Gin and tonics in summer.
Old Fashioneds in winter.
Giving my touch to others. Giving a listening ear. Giving my patience. Giving my love, ever fully.
Thanks for reading.
Beth
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
The House of the Heart
I often assign a small essay by writer Brian Doyle to my students. This essay, "Joyas Voladoras", tackles many scientific things: hummingbirds and their 'race car' hearts; blue whales and their 'piercing yearning tongue'; mammals and birds and heart chambers. Ultimately, though, "Joyas Voladoras" is about one elemental thing: the fragility and complexity of life. In the final paragraph to his essay, here is what Doyle tells us:
"So much held in a heart in a lifetime. So much held in a heart in a day, an hour, a moment. We are utterly open with not one, in the end--not mother and father, not wife or husband, not lover, not child, not friend. We open windows to each but we live alone in the house of the heart. Perhaps we must. Perhaps we could not bear to be so naked, for fear of a constantly harrowed heart. When young we think there will come one person who will savor and sustain us always; when we are older we know this is the dream of a child, that all hearts finally are bruised and scarred, scored and torn, repaired by time and will, patched by force of character, yet fragile and rickety forevermore, no matter how ferocious the defense and how many bricks you bring to the wall."
I have been thinking of this small essay a great deal lately, and reconsidering what it might mean to me at what has become a delicate, transitional time. Here is what I've come up with: I believe that Doyle is right. I also believe that I don't want to believe him. I want life to be a fight--a fight against locking down. The world is harsh--we are constantly being tested, turned away, not wanted, taken for granted. We are also constantly in communion with the world--out in it, experiencing it right alongside everyone else. No one is ever alone, yet we are always alone. It is the recognition of this contradiction that gets us fighting to open 'windows' to our hearts. It is too easy to believe that we are islands, that if we seclude ourselves or run away we can stop trying, because we won't have to worry about anyone else. I say: bullshit. All life is a trial--each day is an attempt, at its very heart.
I want life to be a fight. Every day that I am lucky enough to wake up, I want to fight to feel gratitude. I want to fight to overcome my hermit tendencies--I want to ask for help. I want to help others. I want to fight the urge to be swallowed up by one thing--one emotion, one bad moment or decision, one relationship; I am all of my pieces; I am every single one of my moments alive--beautiful, ugly, mundane. Most of all, I want to fight to keep my heart open--I want to find the people who will look inside and treasure what they find as a gift, because that's what human connection is; that's what an open heart is--a gift. Someone doesn't see it? Someone turns it away? No matter. Seek out others. Don't close the window. Lock it up and you'll never find what you're fighting for. Keep it open--be desperate to keep it open, whatever weather may enter. This is my wish for you.
Thanks for reading.
Beth
I often assign a small essay by writer Brian Doyle to my students. This essay, "Joyas Voladoras", tackles many scientific things: hummingbirds and their 'race car' hearts; blue whales and their 'piercing yearning tongue'; mammals and birds and heart chambers. Ultimately, though, "Joyas Voladoras" is about one elemental thing: the fragility and complexity of life. In the final paragraph to his essay, here is what Doyle tells us:
"So much held in a heart in a lifetime. So much held in a heart in a day, an hour, a moment. We are utterly open with not one, in the end--not mother and father, not wife or husband, not lover, not child, not friend. We open windows to each but we live alone in the house of the heart. Perhaps we must. Perhaps we could not bear to be so naked, for fear of a constantly harrowed heart. When young we think there will come one person who will savor and sustain us always; when we are older we know this is the dream of a child, that all hearts finally are bruised and scarred, scored and torn, repaired by time and will, patched by force of character, yet fragile and rickety forevermore, no matter how ferocious the defense and how many bricks you bring to the wall."
I have been thinking of this small essay a great deal lately, and reconsidering what it might mean to me at what has become a delicate, transitional time. Here is what I've come up with: I believe that Doyle is right. I also believe that I don't want to believe him. I want life to be a fight--a fight against locking down. The world is harsh--we are constantly being tested, turned away, not wanted, taken for granted. We are also constantly in communion with the world--out in it, experiencing it right alongside everyone else. No one is ever alone, yet we are always alone. It is the recognition of this contradiction that gets us fighting to open 'windows' to our hearts. It is too easy to believe that we are islands, that if we seclude ourselves or run away we can stop trying, because we won't have to worry about anyone else. I say: bullshit. All life is a trial--each day is an attempt, at its very heart.
I want life to be a fight. Every day that I am lucky enough to wake up, I want to fight to feel gratitude. I want to fight to overcome my hermit tendencies--I want to ask for help. I want to help others. I want to fight the urge to be swallowed up by one thing--one emotion, one bad moment or decision, one relationship; I am all of my pieces; I am every single one of my moments alive--beautiful, ugly, mundane. Most of all, I want to fight to keep my heart open--I want to find the people who will look inside and treasure what they find as a gift, because that's what human connection is; that's what an open heart is--a gift. Someone doesn't see it? Someone turns it away? No matter. Seek out others. Don't close the window. Lock it up and you'll never find what you're fighting for. Keep it open--be desperate to keep it open, whatever weather may enter. This is my wish for you.
Thanks for reading.
Beth
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