.today.

I listen to these words…

Where have you been,
My long lost friend?
It's good to see you again.
Come and sit for a while
I've missed your smile*

and my heart aches.

Today, I would have picked up the phone.
The feelings stacking up inside…pushing up into my chest and throat.

anger. whys
sadness. fears.
confusion. assumptions.
grief. truths. untruths.

I wanted to just say it. All of it. Out loud. To you.

As I drove away from Starbucks with my chai latte, trying to find warmth for a body that has never so hated the chills of the wet weather here than it does this day, my heart cried to tell you, to tell someone, all of it.

Instead I drove home.

I drew a bath, lit a candle, and sat in the hot, hot water with my hot chai.
My body found warmth.
And I told you all of it.
Without the phone or your voice or your presence.
I came back to my practice.
The one that sometimes creates winding paths of tears.
The one that forces me to speak the truth.
I came back to my practice and told you everything.
All the stacked up feelings poured forth with the tears and snot and truth.
I sat in the warmth and told you everything.
I hugged myself and dipped face first into the water.
Releasing one hands grip on fear.
And sat up and sang a lullaby to me.
Then I found my breath.
And stood and salt-scrubbed through to the next layer.
I chanted winding, repeating rhythms to Ganesh.
And held onto the hope of beginning and pushing through.
Pushing through all of it.

Tonight, I sit here, listening to these words

A sense of joy fills the air
And I daydream and I stare
Above the tree and I see
Your star up there
And this is how I see you
In the snow on Christmas morning
Love and happiness surround you
As you throw your arms up to the sky
I keep this moment by and by**

and my heart aches.
The ache of truth and missing.

I try to find my center in the midst of the ache, in the midst of the confusion, sadness, assumptions, untruths, and all that cannot be.
I try to find my breath.
I try to find my truth.
I try to find my center.

I breathe in.
I breathe out.
I breathe in.
I breathe out.

*lyrics from "Stay" sung by Alison Krauss
**lyrics from "Wintersong" sung by Sarah McLachlan

growth.

We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations.

Anais Nin

a post where i ramble a bit

breakfast for dinner, dinner for one. 3 november 2007.

it seems a bit serendipitous to be somewhat unexpectedly spending this evening alone.

i made myself breakfast for dinner and ate it on our wedding china and drank apple juice from one of our wedding goblets. making this dinner and "plating it" felt like a sacred moment of alone time. (a sacred sunday moment on a saturday.)

then, i settled in for a dvr'd episode of this guilty, campy pleasure (i did say campy, but could have just as easily said eye candy-filled).

it is that darn song at the beginning of this show though that sticks with me always, for hours. it is a fun song really that plays on repeat in my head. but tonight, i listened to the lyrics a bit differently as i realized that elvis is singing a version of my mantra of late:

a little less conversation, a little more action.

yes, yes, yes to this. i spend a lot of time in my head. and, i spend a lot of time thinking about the word "begin." i have spent a lot of time talking about the importance of beginning, but i have realized that my beginning seems a lot like thinking and talking and not a lot like action.

last year, i thought i was beginning something. but instead, i ended up spending a lot of time thinking instead of doing. and, i was sick for a bit, and life well, let's just say that last november life turned upside down for a bit.

and i have spent most of the last twelve months, not every moment, but a lot of moments in my head, twirling in circles a bit for various reasons because of several different things that have happened in the last year.

at some point in 2006, i had this realization that the grief i was experiencing over my grandmother's death had become a new beginning of sorts. a rebirth of the little unafraid, creative, fearless girl inside me. i began to think of myself a bit like a phoenix. and i often turned to deb talan's lyrics, as i have mentioned in this space many times, because it was as though that was my song. but, i always paused at the rest of the line that often quote:

Dry your wings in the sun
You have only begun to understand
When it's time to move on there is no one
To hold your hand.

i guess i have always felt a bit annoyed that she is saying that there is no one there. because, i always thought there was supposed to be someone there.

tonight, after i watched a little tv, i spent time creating a new design i have been thinking about for a while. i pieced bits of fabric together for a long time, listening to my ipod on shuffle. i paused a bit when cass fox started singing "army of one." something about the repetition of "you gotta feel it, you gotta want it, you gotta own it" along with this image of being an army of one...something about it made me stop. and think.

the idea that we must realize we are our own army of one. the idea that after you have been "reborn" as the phoenix is, just after, when your wings are drying and you are remembering to breathe, this is a time for sacred alone-ness.

i have been missing this point a bit. or at least i spent time this past year forgetting what i already know to be true.

long ago, i recognized that i am one of those people who feels lonely at times. and, i have learned that this is a lot more common than i once thought. still, i have sometimes mistaken the letting go of things, whatever those things might be, as loneliness. but, now i realize that maybe i have instead been given opportunities to spend time in this sacred alone-ness.

and, of course, part of the beauty of all of this occurs when you suddenly realize, after you pull yourself out of it (whatever it is for you), that you are not alone. not even a little bit.

this is where i am. i am inviting myself to stop the thinking and swirling of unhealthy repetition. i am inviting myself to realize that the stopping itself is action. i am inviting myself to realize that the more i worry or assume, the less i am moving forward. i am inviting myself to realize that it is okay to spend time in the thought, as this is who i am, but that moving forward is indeed the plan. i am inviting myself to realize that i am not alone. i am inviting myself to realize the power in being alone. i am inviting myself to let go and begin.

a little less conversation, a little more action.
(thanks elvis.)

heavy lifting

the moon rises over puget sound, 25 october 07

Yesterday, I had a conversation with a friend about a situation in my life that I am having trouble letting go of. Although it happened several seasons ago, when I was in a different place on my path, I am having trouble moving past it and the confusion and pain it invited into my life. My friend said two things to me that keep resonating. The first was that maybe I didn't have to focus so much on letting go of it, which made me think that this experience still has much to teach me. The second was an echo of my own words back to me: my triggered feelings about this event are really about something else.

Today, in the middle of my shower, I had a need to sit on the floor and let the water beat down on my head, neck, back. After a few moments, I found myself chanting, "om namo bhagavate vasudevaya" – a chant that my teacher says turns the petals of your heart.

My chanting increased in volume and speed and I began to rock along with my voice's rhythm. I plugged my ears in an effort to stop all thought and just focused on the sounds vibrating around me.

I chanted until I thought of nothing else. I chanted until Millie stuck her nose around the shower curtain to check on me. I chanted until the water ran cold. I chanted until I felt my heart crack open.

And as I stood up, these are the words that poured into my mind:

I send compassion.
I send apologies.
I send gratitude.
I send compassion.

These are the words I will try to return to when my mind is pulled back to the feelings of confusion and hurt. These are the words I will remind myself to send out into the world.

And the truth is, this is the hard work. It is easier to just wallow in being misunderstood. It is easier to just think ill thoughts about others even when you know there was a reason you felt a connection with them in the first place. It is easier to pitch a tent inside the shit because often we refuse to notice that the shit smells. It is easier to blame instead of honoring that we all do the best we can. It is easier…

The hard part is admitting your need to apologize. The hard part is admitting you are grateful for the experience because now you know more about yourself than you did before. The hard part is admitting what you really feel. The hard part is realizing that you need to forgive yourself. The hard part is admitting...

This is why I call it doing the heavy lifting. This is why I say I will try to do it. This is why I force myself to remember that we are all doing the best we can.

(Deep breath.)

I am doing the best I can.

love and truth

I cried my way through parts of today's Oprah as I listened to:

Phrases like "The kids think they have to keep things stable"
An 11-year-old boy saying, "when I found out they were getting divorced, it was like a dream died."
A mother saying about her (at the time) 9-year-old daughter, "We treated her like an adult. We didn't even think it affected her."

Yesterday, a post started writing itself in my mind and watching this show today has pushed me to write it here. Previously, I wrote about my feelings leading up to my trip back to the Midwest in April. I wrote about how "stuff" from my childhood, thoughts about my parents' divorce, feelings of anger and deep sadness were what came up for me when my dad told me he was going to get help for his drinking problem. The level of these emotions surprised me as I thought I would feel only relief if I were to ever receive that phone call. (I won't go into the details of my reaction again here; you can read it more in context in that past post.)

When I went to what is called "family week" back in April, I had very low expectations about the experience. I did not want to be there, not even a little bit. The counselors gave the family members homework for that first night. Mine was to write a letter to my dad that would explain my feelings about his alcoholism and how it affected me, along with a whole long list of other things. When I called my friend Heather to tell her about the homework and all the items on the list, she said, "So, this is due in a month right?" It felt like I was supposed to write the thesis of my life or at least of my childhood.

That night, I sat in my hotel room and let the emotion pour out of me as I sobbed through each sentence. Today, as I write this, I realize that I had actually never put on paper the feelings I wrote about that night, let alone said them aloud to someone who needed to hear them. Though, I have to credit all the writing I have done on this blog with giving me the courage and "clearness through emotion" to write what I wanted to say. When I finished writing, I felt I had accomplished sharing the truth of my experiences without placing blame but instead by just saying what it felt like and what my experience was.

As I wrote in the post here last May, being a child of divorced parents fractures you. This does not mean that as an adult I have a need to place blame (because I know I do not have this need) or that I am not thankful my parents are not together (and I am thankful for this) or that I wish my life had gone differently (because I am happy to be in this place and know I would not be here without my experiences…all of them). What is does mean though is that I will not apologize for the feelings I had then or the ones I have now. Those feelings belong to me. They are all about me. And, the experience of writing that letter helped me to realize that my need to play a certain role or protect the feelings that I perceive others have needs to stop being more important than the truth of my experience. Meaning: It is time I start being honest with myself.

Part of the letter I wrote my dad included the assignment of setting specific boundaries. Goodness me. If I had a dollar for every time I have encouraged other people to set boundaries or said I needed to set them…but to be forced to write, "When you do this, I feel this, so I am going to have to do this to feel safe" was quite an experience. To read it aloud was one of the most powerful moments of my life.

I read the letter to my dad on the last day I was there (family week is only three days long). I shared my experience of being a child in my family. I shared what it was like for me when he left. I shared pieces of who I am now. I set boundaries I needed to set. And, I asked for what I needed knowing I may not receive what I need.

It was possibly one of the hardest things I have ever done.

But, it is one of the things that makes me the most proud of me. Because I knew that it actually didn't matter how my father reacted. I had finally shared some of the heavy stuff I carry around in the backpack that is the baggage of my life.

And, something incredible happened that day. My father heard me. He heard me and listened to me. And, part of what I said resonated deeply enough that what he said in response gave me a true gift. Someone in my family, the last person I expected to, understood what it was like to be me when my family broke apart. Someone who most needed to understand, understood, even if just for that moment.

God lifted something off my heart that day.

Watching Oprah today, hearing M. Gary Neuman say how important it is for parents to simply listen to their children when the family is breaking apart, invited me to think about part of what I said in my letter to my dad. I said something about how even though my feelings leading up to this moment were filled with anger and resentment because I had to talk about all of this now because he had decided to get help (so things were once again on a parent's terms and not mine), I knew that I had been given the gift of this moment to share how I was feeling. Because the truth is, I have been wanting to share what I said that day for over a decade. And, today, after watching Oprah, I realize how that was the first time I had been able to really share the truth with someone in my family.

We must be able to tell our stories. We must be willing to listen when someone needs to share her story, even when it is about us, even when it might hurt us. We cannot forget that we have our own truth of the experience regardless of what the other person says her experience was.

Even though I have my father's blessing to share what I want and need to here or with others, I haven't talked much about my experience in April for many reasons. One reason being because it feels like it sits in a sacred bubble back in April, and I, probably like any child of a recovering alcoholic who experiences family week, worry that to talk about it with my family, my dad, others, might make it not real or might take away from the experience or might make my dad's recovery not real somehow. I worry as I write this that if I honor the experience publicly here, I might affect my life in ways I cannot anticipate.

But I want to say this: No matter who you are—a parent, a child, a partner, a friend, a sibling—you never know what might happen if you tell your story to someone in a way that is from a place of love and truth.

Because in many ways, I think this might be what it is all about: love and truth.

Thank you for reading…