Fresh Spaces

If you are curious about the new space I've stepped into, please visit me at What's Blooming.

Today's Page

White spaces to fill,

another life to invent,

moment by moment.

in Yosemite National Park

I return to this blog to say good-bye, not wishing to leave my little pod of online friends hanging (as I would not wish to be left), wondering whether I intended to return.

I began this blog almost four years ago in an effort to find my authentic voice again after retiring from employment and moving over two thousand miles away from my lifelong home in the South, and, glory-be, that has happened (though it remains a work-in-progress, along with everything else about myself). 

For now my efforts involve being present in my body, in this place where I live, which is no easy trick for me, as I have very strong tendencies to want to RUN AWAY (in my imagination, in traveling, in the next project for which I've gathered all the supplies). So many conflicts still exist within me about writing, about these public Internet sharings, that I think I need to withdraw and find (more) healing around the issues. And then, if I choose to return, I'll do so from a fresh perspective. 

I especially want to thank those of you who publicly "joined" my blog (Anita, Peggy, Christine, Heather, White Witch, Suki, Carole, and Sharon), following along and sometimes commenting as I heeded my inner tuggings with the sincere hope that someone might benefit from my heart-filled (and sometimes----I recognize---head-tripping) efforts. Thank you, too, to all of you who have added to the conversation with your comments and occasional e-mails. What richness you have added to my life with your relationships and your generous sharing of yourselves.

It's my birthday today: the last year of my 50s, a day of great joy (I never expected to live this long, mostly from my lack of imagination----I couldn't see myself as "old") that is also tinged with a sadness that I've come to see as inevitable for me: the opposites meeting, the grand paradox of life, the seed of death (thank you again, Peggy) that has been planted and will bloom one day. . . .

I know that as soon as I post this, I will have a tugging feeling of regret because I will miss you all, but most of you are blogging, too, so I will visit you from time to time in your places of opening to the world.

And so I repeat how grateful I am to be walking the path with you (sorry to use that cliche, but it feels right, regardless). I look forward to continuing to learn from you, and, who knows, I may return to the blogosphere myself one day! After all, there doesn't seem to be any issue with space. . . ;-)

Thankful

My mother liked to tell me that I was a "good" baby (in contrast to my older brother, anyway, who was apparently colicky and cried a lot), one who didn't awaken crying, and who seemed content entertaining myself in the crib until someone discovered me awake. I like that story of myself as it bolsters my confidence and reminds me of that basic goodness we all have.

Yet I'm also aware (especially understanding my mother's propensities in tale-telling) that it's simply a story, one that clears away like smoke in the wind, leaving me----still----with. . . well . . . me and all my fears and anxieties and depression . . . and happiness!

Lately I have felt so grateful, so filled to bursting with happiness that I'm frightened. Happiness is so fleeting and our typical response is to try to clutch it dearly to our chests and shout "Mine, mine!" (like those seagulls in one of the Toy Stories). To be able to breathe deeply and feel peaceful and content amazes me with its simplicity and wonder.

Why is it difficult for me to write of these good feelings? Is it a kind of superstitious avoidance of looking happiness in the eye for fear she'll disappear sooner? Is it because so many are suffering and I don't want to rub their noses in my own (current) happiness? 

Yes. 

Smith River's high now at Panther Flat, and we hear the constant hush of its rushing by 

RWin, our faithful camping steed

A peek inside. . . 

Gingersnap/toasted pecan crust sweet potato pie that will cap off our meals 

Picking huckleberries for a cobbler 

"As If Thinking Makes Things So"

That lyric from Joni Mitchell's "Borderline" serves as the thorn that can puncture my own hot-air-balloon of (often) egocentric stories and remind me of compassion when others also become entwined in their own tellings (or what I may perceive as "mis-tellings). I recognized----and released----the potential ridiculousness of words as that twelve-year-old animal lover who went along with my friend's joking about something we'd never consider actually doing (as I am almost-regretting trying to express in my last entry), yet we were able to laugh at the (sometimes) perversity and incongruity of language and actions.

"As if thinking makes things so" is also an example of the other side of a coin----both sides of which I "believe" (even in their opposition) or that are pertinent to me at one time or another. The other side of that coin states that intentions can be powerful (the self-fulfilling prophecy, among others).

This sense of flipping a coin, of living with the nature of paradox, of walking the tightrope of ordinary reality/nonordinary reality, is all part of  "the continuum of awareness," another term I am happy to use to remember how multi-faceted our lives are, even as they can also sometimes appear quite. . . simple.

Finding Balance

In the seventh grade, a new friend and I seemed to become aware at around the same time of how ironic and paradoxical the universe is, and we reveled in its absurdity, sometimes saying things in a sing-song exaggerated voice like, "Oh, what a cute little puppy; let's kill it" and then laughing uproariously at the utter ridiculousness of such a statement (and you, dear reader, may be thinking at this point----oh, my, these were future serial killers!). Fortunately, we were both merely budding English majors, but, to me, walking the tightrope of paradox continues to be one of the most interesting aspects of negotiating this life we are tasked to figure out how to live (as we simultaneously go about the business of dying).

Some of my favorite paradoxes include:

Everyone is incomparably unique. We are all alike.

Seek and you shall find. Desire is suffering.

Don't hide your light. Don't brag.

Become as a little child. Learn as much as you can.

The kingdom of heaven is within you. 

And the silly seriousness of our animal friends embody a similar feeling. . . 

Mauser (our dear furniture-shredder), napping

Kipper, trying to nap, as his "mom" tries a halloween mask on him

Gratitude

For a perfect pair of blushing pears,

blackberry cordial now steeping in the cabinet, stirred weekly, with anticipation of special occasion sipping in dark December,

agates in the blessing basket, and a fall bounty of squash.

Versions of Home

When my husband lost his job back in August, I dealt with the onslaught of sudden insecurity by diving in, head first. That is, I immediately pictured us getting rid of almost everything and starting anew in a more ideal place, a simpler, smaller, closer-to-nature place where I'd keep bees, a big garden, goats and donkeys, lots of cats and dogs, sheep (for spinning my own wool to knit), a cow, chickens.

Sure. All that in our new, ideal home, with a new ideal ME!

I exaggerate only a little, and----perhaps fortunately----not one person made a serious inquiry about our house here in town while we had it up for sale for six weeks before we decided, almost simultaneously, that we aren't going anywhere right now, that we're happy where we are, that we cannot afford a farm!

Yet as I dove in, I saw myself acting (again) as if life is merely a series of questions answered with confident finality and accompanying problems resolutely solved while ticking them off the checklist (as I brush my hands together afterward and let out a loud sigh of relief: "So glad that's taken care of!").

Home has been a kind of trigger point for me for many years (not to mention the concept of ideal), which has hurt me (nothing is ever perfect) and helped me (by giving me a wall to hit my head against; yes, my head is hard).

Considering what home has meant to me thus far allows me to see my propensity for living in my head, for dreaming my life away. . . for enjoying the thought of something more than its reality. I think that makes me somewhat of a voyeur. I like reading about people who climb mountains and work hard at being exotically independent, yet I seem not to have the energy or will to actually accomplish all of that myself because I also like to feel free and sometimes to travel at a moment's notice (and who would care for all those animals?).

Yes, I was told many times growing up that I like to have my cake and eat it, too. To continue the diving metaphor, just picture me face down in a cake (chocolate, preferably).

The photograph shows an embroidery project I completed while impatiently waiting for my only child to be born when I was 25 (1979) and imagining an ideal home, along with a decades-later mosaic glass version of the same scene, and a little needlework house that my grandmother sewed and gave to me.

Blame

I've been noting lately how much I seem to believe that if I can BLAME a certain entity for what I view as an "unfairness," then my life will somehow be better. But it goes beyond blame and on to punishment. I wanted the person who unfairly fired my husband from his job of 26 years, where he excelled, to suffer.

And what good, really, does any of that do? It is all merely my desperate clenching to a view of reality (that things should be fair [i.e., the good rewarded/the bad punished], and if they are, then I can be happier because [surely] the world is a much better place to be) that is rather black and white and assumes that a world with no suffering is somehow "better."

Yet I can acknowledge that suffering, that "bad things," (in contrast to the "good") can enhance our appreciation for the good. Long days of dreary fog and cold days suddenly punctuated by clear blue skies and mild temperatures certainly cast us outside, looking up and singing praises.

A tendency to such easy categorization may be a trait of the Gatherer in me, the one who loves to pick blackberries, bring them home, and cook up a sticky cobbler. As the many photos and words in this blog attest, I love sifting and sorting through pebbles for agates. Finding the wheat among the chaff----makes one feel, well, "special." I (and no one else) found this!

I do believe that each of us is special and unique, just as I also believe that we are all the same, and it is my simultaneous beliefs in opposites, my propensity to live in paradox, that has caused me to feel rather uncomfortable much of the time, as if something is wrong with me ("Get off that damn fence," I'm told, again and again). This tendency to think that something is wrong causes me to feel depressed. . .

Clenching these ideas to me with their comfortable patterns of familiarity ("comfortable" is good, isn't it?!; "depression" is bad, right?!!) reminds me that I keep THINKING that through my careful reasoning I will somehow come to The Answer (the One that will settle it all!). Hah!

Yet my experience tells me that answerS tend to come from surprising elsewheres, and that I must let go of my desire for blame and punishment and focus instead on my own part in this new reality: I wanted a new life with my husband; I hated his old job as much as he'd come to hate it.

Oh, my. My poor little brain sure likes to spin round and round in those old trenches. But the sun is shining out there, too.

Jon holds a perfect honey crisp apple plucked from our tree (note his guitar-string calluses)

Transitioning

Bits of song lyrics float through and become iconic: "Worlds. . . they rise and fall"----as I've been noticing how I've clung to certain aspects of my world, like the security of having health insurance. Though I never took it for granted and felt compassionate for those who weren't able to afford it (the majority of us Americans, I think), I didn't realize how my feelings and thoughts about having health insurance had become entwined with all sorts of issues: my perceived "independence" as a woman, for example.

Before marrying again sixteen years ago, I made certain vows to myself (based on having survived an abusive prior marriage), one of which was that I would maintain my ability to support myself in every way. However, I ended up dropping my retirement system's health insurance and using my husband's instead (which he's now lost with his job), as it was more comprehensive and less expensive. And so now I am having to let go of that illusion, too, which is----on the largest scale----the illusion that I am so "together" that I can plan for any eventuality, and that if I fail in this, I "deserve" what I get.

That's perverse, isn't it.

And so, I'm reminded how we've been conditioned to believe the claim that Health Insurance and Modern Medicine can heal almost anything, extend life indefinitely, and make all Secure and Worry-free. Then, the flip side from my personal experience: my father's life after a colon cancer diagnosis was miserable, and it was the chemo that finally did him in; my mother's breast cancer and her vain (in every sense of the word) attempt at "reconstruction"; my own bout with "precancerous" cell-removal.

I think----what's the worst that might've happened without modern medicine? What about the best? Perhaps Dad would've had a happier end; Mother might've died before the Alzheimer's set in; and who knows about me. . .

So many aspects of "Modern Life" have been engrained in us as necessary, as what "Responsible" members of society MUST DO in order, presumably, to avoid sleepless, worrisome nights when we consider the Dire Consequences of NOT having insurance, yet the stress of earning the money for all those aspects (including insurance) may be the cause of many of those ailments we suffer from and thus use modern medicine to treat us for.

And so my mind and body are still churning, churning, as I wear away more and more of the old to make room for . . . something else!

Front entry to our house (which we're trying to sell), with the door I stripped and the wool "bell-ringer" I made who warns of unwelcoming spirits who might try to enter.

Perched on cliff's edge
overlooking clear aquamarine
water tinted by serpentine rocks
creating surface ripples,
writhing intertwining ropes,
or wrinkly skin from gentle wind,
I am grateful, yet hear, too,
my dog's uncomfortable whining---
like my own undertones
of insecurity---wanting change
yet fearful when it happens,
looking back to solid ground,
forgetting the freedom
of this edge and the clarity
of the overview,
the soothing hush of rushing water
just around the bend.

What an interesting journey life can be. . . and sometimes, just when I am wondering whether I've settled in for a while and nothing big's going to happen (and the old question "Is this what I really want" begins to haunt me again), my life is upended.

An early interest in the Simplicity movement back when I was working full time and setting up a big house and yard and buying clothes (to play the working game) kept me asking myself, with regularity, "Is this all there is?" (collecting stuff, eating out because there's no time to cook, never feeling I had enough time to BE). Of course, I knew it wasn't, which is part of what fueled my anger toward our culture, toward myself.

And now, I will have a chance to actually use what I know to be true (and what I've visualized through unexpected fires or simply walking away)----that sometimes it's good to clear away all of the extraneous stuff in order to make room for who we are now.

We finally received news from the Big Corporation that my husband has lost his job. We are fortunate that we were only four years away from planned solvency and his own retirement and that, even having to discard that plan, we can pay our debts and probably survive well enough on my little retirement earnings, though likely excluding health insurance, which is a concern. My studying Healing Touch and Reiki may have had more than an esoteric purpose.

We will be selling most of our possessions (and letting go of many more things we've been clinging to for too long----like college papers, like too many books and furniture), and then finding a small place in the country near the Smith River. Or so our plan goes now. 

Okay. I can do this. I think. After all, it's what I've been wanting, in many ways. I've been missing my pal, my husband. I've been hating the noise of the town. I've been wanting to try my dream of living with less in the country, gardening more and having more animals around.

So now----my husband's former sense of Responsibility----has been wrenched from his once-clinging hands, and we are released to live another dream, one with less security, fewer possessions, and a great deal more SPACE! Tipping over into elderhood is not necessarily a time of sitting on the porch and rocking away one's remaining years, checking off failing body parts one by one (please forgive me for being facetious).

Stay tuned if such adventures interest you, my dear handful of blogging friends.

Smith River, near Rock Creek Ranch

More Paradox and (with Advance Apologies) Too Many References

Lately I've been spending a great deal of time sitting (not in the sense of "meditating," though I'm doing some of that, too), teaching myself to crochet again (an idea that began with failure in being able to knit squares of any consistent size and then began to, ahem, hook me after seeing one of my favorite blogger's efforts at crocheting, along with wondering whether crocheting might be less painful to my arthritic hands), and bringing me in closer touch with my grandmother's spirit (she usually had a crochet project going and often had the television on, too) and my dear friend who crochets.

And so, I have watched what sometimes feels like too many Netflix movies (we no longer have TV) and documentaries, with my latest choice four DVDs (titled EARTH AT RISK, Building a Resistance Movement to Save the Planet) I purchased after we walked, with Kipper, to our tiny local bookstore downtown for a talk given by a friend and writer, Derrick Jensen.

So far, I almost always get very depressed after reading or seeing Derrick's work and usually feel overwhelmed and weighted down by the fast-talking layering upon layering of facts (the number of species continuing to die, women raped, in this deadly industrial civilization we live in) presented by him and writer-friend Lierre Keith.

But I will continue to watch these DVDs, which also include a talk by Arundhati Roy, among others, and to crochet (jury's still out on whether my hands are less-pained by crocheting than knitting).

This morning, though, in following what is often my routine of reading from blogs and munching on my breakfast, I came across a reference from another favorite blogger to Tara Branch's work (which I'm also still sampling from via my Kindle) and followed it to this lovely piece, which brought to mind another favorite song of mine that perfectly describes yet another paradox of life.

Are you out of breath? Please, read:

Alter Boy, by Rickie Lee Jones
A monk with a hard on in a lavender robe
That scratches his thighs for the height that he strode
As he follows a path filled with harried desire
And mimics his footsteps and sets his prayers on fire
Glad to have chosen that which left no choice
To sing without loving in a solitary voice
To observe with passion each careful denial
The protrusions which give my life meaning for a while
Sometimes I see you in embarrasing ways
You're brushing your teeth with licorice seeds
Standing too close, holding your clothes
Smiling at God, the meaning of life grows
No, no I'll never tell and I'll never know
What candles you light after the show
And I'll never tell and I'll never ask
The meaning of life after mass

The Paradox of Practice

I've clutched tightly the idea of "practice," repeated so faithfully through Buddhist texts, even though as a child, I avoided everything that demanded it, refusing to learn piano, and giving up if any smattering of competition entered into my choices (as when I began to learn the guitar but put it down when my older brother picked it up).

As an adult, to practice meant I'd released the idea of a goal, of any end in sight, and was simply focused on this moment. Just what I needed. Yet under that momentary pretense (that I have no goal), I do recognize the assumption that my life will "improve," as the practice will reveal through my own experience. If it does not, why would I continue to practice?

Yet as a child, it was the idea that "Practice makes perfect" that scared me, as I was quite aware of all my perceived imperfections, made even more clear through my dear young parents' efforts at childrearing and their own Christian upbringing, where humanity's imperfections are focused upon to greater reveal the need for a Patriarchal God. I decided I wanted nothing to do with that guarantee of failure.

Of course, "perfection" is a subjective term, as is all of language, I suppose. Dictionaries lend us some agreed-upon terms, but fluid language refuses to remain in those tomes, just as we humans cannot be contained by definitions.

The concept that we are perfect as we are (with all our imperfections), that "the kingdom of heaven is within you," is easier to believe when things are going well.

There is no tidy ending to these thoughts, but somehow, rereading the following makes me feel better:

The Five Remembrances

I am of the nature to grow old. There is no way to escape growing old.

I am of the nature to have ill health. There is no way to escape ill health.

I am of the nature to die. There is no way to escape death.

All that is dear to me and everyone I love are of the nature to change. There is no way to escape being separated from them.

My actions are my only true belongings. I cannot escape the consequences of my actions. My actions are the ground upon which I stand.

[a Buddhist chant, tr. Thich Nhat Hanh]

Shadow Self

Those two heart-shaped stones on my little alter are part of this year's theme for me, something I felt significant back in January at a Candlemas ritual: addressing my "shadow." At the time, I couldn't know what this would mean for me (though I've read enough Jung and others to understand the basics) or how it might play out over the year, or even why this presented itself as important.

Right now, the heart stones are being interpreted  rather literally. My heart's beating has become so irregular (it's had a skip that would show up occasionally for almost as long as I can remember) that I'd guess it's at least half the time. (And, yes, I have an appointment with a cardiologist on Friday.) But what this has made me aware of is how much I fear not being "myself," mostly healthy and able to do whatever I want. This fear is not only of aging and physical decline, but also of having to live in some reduced way (a possibility with heart conditions), as my father did after a stroke and then the cancer that finally killed him.

Others write eloquently about aging, and I'm grateful to read their perspectives, and to be reminded of my gratitude for what I have now.

But it is a practice not to "borrow trouble," to let "tomorrow take care of itself," and all those cliches that serve to remind us of what we know in our hearts to be true.

Those two imperfectly shaped hearts, one pink, one grey, both exist as different aspects of the same thing, just as my shadow is part of me. That shadow grew large and ominous as my granddaughter visited and I was confronted with aspects of my child-self I wasn't proud of, the child that learned to be hard and sarcastic, the one who shielded herself from her sensitive nature by pretending not to care, who would tauntingly say, "Sticks and stones will break my bones, but words will never hurt me," knowing I was lying, knowing that I'd choose broken bones any day. Eight was barely different from fifty-eight for a time as I looked down the well and felt as if I were falling in.

All the granddaughter seemed to want was the familiarity of home; she was homesick. And her grandmother? The same----comfort, stability, beauty, strength, freedom. Finding that within oneself, within the time and place we find ourselves, is no mean trick, and my own failures can become comical in their momentary drama ("You want to mock me? Let me mock you and see how you feel!"), though sadness prevails. I want to love this imperfect self, this whole self, but my tendency is still to turn her away with disappointment, to point the finger away from myself, to try to forget that it is I who mocks myself while purporting to work for wholeness.

It's not fun to catch yourself lying to yourself.

A Walk in the Redwoods

We took a Sunday hike in Redwood National Forest, not far from home, with a cloud fog lingering close, large loud droplets hitting leaves around us as if against cardboard, the occasional birdcall from on high adding another layer of sound----but I'm not mentioning the nearby summer (much of it tourist) traffic from Highway 101, which we walked a good distance to muffle.

Temperatures felt warmer, but the car's thermometer registered 55 at close to noon, when we began our walk at the Damnation Creek trailhead, which also leads to where Old Highway 101 intersects, an easier stroll than the continuation to the ocean on the other trail (which is also lovely, but Jon was lugging his tripod and on a more "serious" photo expedition today). 

The duff trails in these old growth forests have a silencing effect and walking on them feels like you're walking on a huge body, on someone's chest.

Drawn back and forth from the large overviews to the closer ones, I love these little trampoline webs but didn't spot the spider who lives here.

Columbia lilies are the main reason we hiked today; they're in full bloom in dense numbers along the busy highway but not as prolific in the forest. But it's much safer to get close to them here.

I'd just wondered where all the banana slugs were. . . 

This photo doesn't capture what fascinated me about this group of ferns: their thin dark lines of stalks sketched boldly within their lovely green fronds.

Nettle's blooming. . . 

A large maiden-hair fern with their beautifully shaped leaves. . . 

Fallen columbia lily petal curled among duff. . . 

The more serious photographer I frequently left behind. . . 

. . . as I held my little camera beneath the subjects. . . 

. . . the lilies underneath their foggy canopy of redwoods . . . 

Dewy spiderwebs catching a breeze as gentle as a breath. . . 

. . . and redwood sorrel's green palate punctuated by a glare of white flower,

their purplish undersides reflecting against sticks, turning pinkish.

I think this pink, lavender, and white flower is a type of vetch.

As we began the return trip a couple of hours later, the sun began to break through, blue skies to shine, and our day retained the polish of fog against trees, of clear forest breathing.

Getting Out

Summer's buzzing energy

pulls me out and up, or

skimming the ground low

with my dog's short legs

close to warm rocks and 

steady ground.

Not the intruding swarm

of anxiety, imagined loss

exhaled, nor the desire to attach

to a hand, the balloon

tethered, held tight----

but the one that was let go,

bobbing against the

roof-tops, gingerly touching

that sharp old TV antenna

and miraculously not popping,

moving out of sight 

along with the anxiety

and my wanting to know

what’s next.

Outside the labyrinth in Ashland, OR

Wild sweet peas, another one of my favorites

Looks like the dog's driving, but it's an old Mini, straight from Britain. 

THE WHITE SNAKE, our Sunday afternoon's entertainment

Why? Why Not?

As my mother continues to decline, I find myself using her as an object lesson (and I'm aware of how awful this makes me sound). A few years ago, I thought that she might be more fortunate than her father, who became paranoid and violent toward the end of his life, that she might find herself "merely" silly, eccentric, and harmless as the disease progressed. This was not to be, however, though she is not the imposing figure her father was and so not as frightening physically, her verbal barbs nevertheless come sharp at her two children, now her enemies.

And so I recognize her----and our----continual tendency to set up opposing forces in our minds----someone, anyone or anything, to blame for our suffering, as if naming blame can somehow allow us more control over our lives, can allow us to fix, to correct, to alleviate our suffering. Yet taking this one step further, we can see that assigning blame changes nothing for the better, it only demonizes the blamed one, projecting onto the Other what we ourselves need to look at, to sit with, to heal from.

My brother and I both felt we were disappointments to our parents, that no matter what we did, it was never good enough. Of course, they felt the same toward their parents, and we----as parents----likely caused our own children to feel this way at some point. I can't tell you how many times my mother has told me that my brother "never" visits her (he lives within a half-mile of her), even after my brother tells me that he was just there. Mother simply can't get enough of him, it seems, and so she focuses on the lack, not what has been given, especially in her Alzheimer's state, when she simply can't remember what just happened. (And Mother tells my brother stories of how I disappoint her when she speaks to him.)

How often do we walk about focusing on what's wrong rather than living the life that we have at this moment, sipping the warm tea, watching the clouds clear away, noticing how green everything looks after the rain? Being aware of these tendencies allows us to wake up, at least for a moment, and see that our thoughts are simply that, and that reality doesn't have to be a constant churning in the stormy darkness of what isn't but can be those infinite clear blue skies, too.

Mont St. Michel's top spire