Everyone has a soundtrack, maybe more than one. You think of the soundtrack of your life as the music you grew up to, your favorite artists and songs, the songs that played during the events and times that later became fond memories. I have one of those, but I’ve also got a different kind of soundtrack. I call it “God’s soundtrack.” I say God for short: it’s consciousness, maybe spirit. Maybe it’s my ancestors. Sometimes I know who it is. Sometimes it’s a deceased loved one, usually my Mother or my brother. It’s from “beyond…”
It happens when I’m praying, or talking to someone invisible, or to spirit. And it comes out of nowhere, unexpectedly. And I know it isn’t my invention because it addresses a specific question or subject – and because it is often a song or artist that I would never listen to to. I’m not a fan.
It happened yesterday morning. I was in a snit, to put it mildly. I had logged into my bank account to balance it after being away and…what the heck?! I had a huge ($200.) charge I wasn’t expecting and hadn’t authorized. So I got to the bottom of that, but it wasn’t easy or quick. It was theft, and I was not guaranteed that it would be returned; an investigation is pending. I was mad. I threw what I call a “spiritual temper tantrum.” God got a piece of my mind. And when I prayed, (let’s just say, in a spirited manner,) I specifically said: “You tell me you heard this and that you are on this! You hear me?! I want to know I’ve been heard!”
It wasn’t long as I went about my house cleaning routine that a song began to play in my head. I didn’t know the words, but I recognized some of them, and the tune. I didn’t know who the artist was. It had been grocery store background music at some time in my life. As I said, not a fan. It took a bit of investigation to find it. I found a couple of similar songs with similar words, one by a country singer and one by a heavy metal band. And then I tried a different sequence of words and found it. I hope you comprehend…
Are you a recovering people pleaser? I know I am. It’s not pretty. Let’s just say that self care was never a priority and boundaries were barely even in my wheelhouse. O-blivious. I’ve often joked that I’m Rita Van Winkle, the great granddaughter of Rip, and we fall asleep for 20 year increments in our lineage. But it really isn’t funny.
So, I was this many years old when I learned that sociologists refer to self-aware people as unicorns. Because, rare. Did you know this?!
Now the pendulum seems to have swung to the opposite extreme and I’m an “introspector.” I’ve established and continue to renew my commitment to self development. I want to become a unicorn. I’m just smart enough to know that I don’t know how to do that. It’s an experiment. The stumbling block for me, where my defensiveness fails to serve me, is that I don’t give a flip what others think of me. With the exception of a few people I’m close to and respect enormously, nope. Not interested. You have to be equally committed to your own self development or stop wasting my time.
But I do know one thing for sure: ain’t no way out but through. And so we might as well get to it, shall we?
when I’m dancing…I am free. I want Bill Nighy as my anxiety. But not really. I want free. Anxiety and pain have gotten the better of me this week. The lab tests came back, still and again, positive for Lyme. I’m not able to do much. Back on meds…ugh. These two remind me that art is the only way out of this mess – mine or yours, physical or emotional. And art is whatever you decide it is; whatever empties you.
I have to remind myself not to let fear take away my peace. This short film was made to help support the artists of Ukraine. Don’t we all feel helpless in the face of the world’s oppressors? And aren’t they oppressing to the best of their ability? My body can’t seem to fight off the bacteria from a minuscule insect, let alone war.
I think I broke a couple of toes last night, tripping out of bed. And I just started laughing (through the tears!) Oh my, how I take life all too seriously. Dear spirit will do whatever is necessary to get my attention. I will put on some music today and dance around if it kills me…and empty out my body and my mind of the debilitating anxiety. Get present. Get here now.
So what can we do in the face of oppression, of illness, of anxiety and worry? How do we switch off the solution driven thought machine and act creatively? Be our souls? We empty, we get outdoors, we go back to the old drawing board, we allow ourselves to be just a teensy bit more generous than feels comfortable right now…we expand.
We B R E A T H E….ahhhhhh. ‘Cause, don’t you wanna call it off?
Heart pounding anxiety woke me up at 3 a.m; which is not unusual anymore. I managed to talk myself off that ledge in about a minute. I’m getting better at it. My goal was freedom. The goal is always going to be freedom. Because I feel like my dream world, my rest, was hijacked. It’s mine. I want it back.
My friends and I are all worried about our adult children. They are struggling to find their footing in a culture that is undermining them every step of the way. And we are not sure how to help, or if we can. Mind you, they were raised as we were, in decent middle class families. We were well educated, but our current incomes are not cutting it. We don’t have the financial security we thought we were building all our work life. Our children left school in debt with no guarantee of a job, let alone a living wage. I read a news article last week that shocked me to my core: recent studies have shown that at least fifty percent of the baby boomers in the U.S. are financially supporting adult children. In many cases it’s the adult child and their family. They came home to get their feet back on the ground – in one case cited, 13 years ago.
Children or not, everyone I know is struggling. We are all trying to figure this out as we go along. We have no role models. We’re outliving our parents, and we are in entirely uncharted territory. We are the first generation that is openly talking about the abuse our parents and grandparents kept secret. No one was consciously dealing with narcissistic abuse 20 years ago. Or 10. No one recognized that past generations were being groomed for sexual abuse. The culture tolerated it, they tolerated verbal abuse, even laughed about it. They tolerated bad behavior, made excuses for it. Hell, we’ve voted it into the White House. Taking accountability for your behavior was optional. Do you wonder we have an epidemic of dementia?! (Help me forget!) Addiction? Of narcissism? Of sex trafficking? Of all manner of spiritual bankruptcy? Can no one connect the dots here?! That pandemic was no accident – it was a physical manifestation of a spiritual problem. It’s time to pull our heads out of the sand.
Meanwhile, I’m struggling with my health. Last week I called for a doctor appointment and was reminded that I have to be interrogated by a nurse over the phone to determine whether or not I am sick enough to qualify for a precious appointment. I have to beg just to be seen. Then before I can be given the necessary antibiotic I have to endure a week’s worth of tests. Meanwhile, I was prescribed a temporary superficial treatment. Medicare doesn’t cover that prescription, so I didn’t fill it. I can’t do that and buy groceries. And I’m angry about that.
Now, lest you think me ungrateful, or just a whiner, I am aware of opportunity hiding here in plain sight. When worry and anxiety seem to steal my peace I know my training is not yet complete. And I’m not havoc-ing it anymore (see blog post of March 15th.) Intellectually I know that the way out of angst is gratitude. But my intellect is not easily coerced. I can’t expect to start pontificating about big, general platitudes and get myself free. Those old affirmations aren’t working anymore; this feels like spiritual warfare.
But. I can start small…go back to basics. I’m sure glad I bought an orange desk chair instead of black. Orange is the happiest color. Wow, I love my bed. I love my wide Frodo feet. I walk to the bathroom in the middle of the night, and I say “Thank You” to everything I pass (yes, out loud) – the floor, the countertop, the cat, the doorway, the moon outside. Try it. There are big things I am grateful for, too – like my son having survived cancer. He is struggling through his self-proclaimed “mid-life crisis”…but he’s here for it. Not all of his friends have made it past 40.
I can re-member myself whole. I have resources in my spiritual tool box: friends, some of my family, a loving therapist, tarot cards! At 3 a.m. with a racing heart I call in invisible help: “Christ Jesus, Archangel Michael, Ancestors! Any and all available light workers.” That’s step one. I am NOT TO BE TOILED WITH here. Neither are you – know that. God didn’t make a mistake. You were not a cosmic afterthought. You do not need to “find your purpose”…you ARE your purpose. Live like you belong here. There are no qualifications you haven’t fulfilled. You have exactly the same right to be here as 8,019,876,189 other people. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.
Since that has been established, I can be the narcissist’s worse nightmare. My home, my mind, and my body – my sanctuary – is a no tolerance zone. No talking down to anyone. I carry an expectation that you will be on your very best behavior around me and show up as present as possible. Don’t ever settle for anything less from anyone. Not your teacher, not your boss, not your doctor, and certainly not your family. I can laugh at myself with the best of them – when I’m silly or wrong. But don’t make fun of me at my expense. Don’t ridicule me. I’m a fucking spiritual Jedi, and I’ve trained my boundaries to be stronger than my empathy. Everybody sing along now…
You will see the name of this blog change soon, to A Painterly Life. Let’s face it, it isn’t a blog about home so much as about life. And the content will broaden. We will venture out to explore the beautiful nature I am grateful to live in and near. We will continue to explore lifestyle, particularly through the lens of an aging woman…a creative woman who has survived incest, near-death experiences, growing up in an extremely dysfunctional family in the wild sixties, profound loss, decades of narcissistic abuse, and who is surviving chronic illness. But mostly, a woman who wants to live as open-heartedly as possible moving forward. Moving life forward will be the theme here.
Like most of us, from all walks of life, we are figuring it out as we go along. Our culture is changing fast – as it must. It’s archaic in so many ways. Those of us who long to see a new far more sustainable world for future generations must make serious and often difficult changes – and quickly – to keep our lives moving forward. To feel relative. We must learn to live as a verb rather than a noun.
“I want to learn to live my life as a liquid.” – Cody, Dinner At the Homesick Restaurant by Anne Tyler
These days my body and my psyche require an unreasonable amount of rest. I do resist, albeit futilely. I have so much to do. I find myself wondering how anyone works and does everything else, but in truth, we don’t. I didn’t. I ignored more than was healthy to ignore. I lived in a constant state of overwhelm. I suffered in silence, but I also caused an unnecessary amount of suffering in my bull-in-a-china-shop charge through life. But I survived. I’m a survivor.
So are you. And I maintain a foundational premise I have adamantly defended since adolescence – that creativity is the only way through this chaos. Art, to be specific. And art is not a thing, it is a process, a way of life.
And so I aver: ULTIMATELY, IT WILL BE THE ARTISTS WHO SAVE US. You’re not an artist, you say? I beg to differ. Do you problem solve? Art. Cook? Art. Sing when alone in the car, maybe even off-key? Art. Notice the lichen on the fallen log? Artist! Love crisp, clean sheets? Know when something just feels “off”? Have a favorite color? Savor coffee with dessert? I can go on, oh, and I will…stick with me.
Let’s talk about this plaque of deep fatigue, physically and psychologically. Perhaps more so psychically. Don’t think you’re psychic? Well, I will prove that you are that, too. And it is required of us now to acknowledge and develop this atrophied gift. It is part of living artistically. It is part of living.
We are human. We are alive. We are artists. We are now.
A Painterly Home 