One of the rabbit holes I’m down lately is longevity. Of course, I follow Peter Diamandis, and have for over a decade after reading his book, Abundance: The Future is Better Than You Think. His TED talk of 2012 is life changing. As he often says, just try to not die from something stupid. Apparently advances in medical science are about to give us the ability to live much longer. With improved quality of life…because, well, who would be interested in anything else.
On the surface at least, it would seem this improved quality of life and lifespan are intricately intertwined. And relatively simple to replicate for even us struggling masses. Diet and exercise are key. And good mental health. One of the basic things the doctors agree on – get outdoors every day as early in the day as possible. Hmmmmm….
First of all. Where do you live, Doc?! Here in rural Michigan, well…I’m up 3-4 hours before daylight. Not walking outside then. I have bears, wolves, coyotes, bobcat…inside my fenced back yard. They go wherever they want. Here at the mid-mod ranch, I’ve had to fight off a pair of bald eagles with a snow shovel. They were using my low-pitched roof to hunt from. And at five foot six and 175 pounds I looked like lunch. They were actually swooping low over my two small dogs, but they were staring me right in the eye. I felt endangered.
Never mind the microscopic deer tick that almost did do me in. Didn’t see that coming at all. Does that count as something stupid? I suspect it would, as being bit by a tick is somewhat preventable if you are careful and know what to look for. Aware, as I certainly am now. My son was aware but still got bit and contracted Lyme. Fortunately he caught it right after infected. He had the bullseye rash show up and was able to get immediate treatment. They take this seriously where I live.
Okay. Enough with the doomsday report. Do check in with Peter Diamandis every so often. He will keep us focused on a hopeful future. He is undaunted by my negativity. He talks about a science called Longevity Escape Velocity. It is the study of how to extend our lifespan faster than we are aging. He says we only have to live a little longer in order to live a lot longer, and therefore “don’t die from anything stupid,” meaning anything preventable. I’ll be staying indoors this morning…
“Not knowing when the dawn will come, I open every door.” – Emily Dickinson
Baptized Mary Katherine Crawford, my maternal grandmother Mimi was born in Little Rock, Arkansas. She lived most of her adult life in Michigan after marrying my grandfather, but she never lost her southern accent. Or charm. Or that great cooking gene that I did not inherit. When you came to her house she was not happy unless you were eating. Breakfast always included biscuits and gravy. From scratch. You smelled the pies cooling coming up the street.
In grade school I wrote her a book of poetry. I remember tying together the pieces of paper into a hand made tome and penciling the title on the cover: Mimi Beanie Bellie-Beenie (chocolate cake or ice cream-eenie?). Dear woman, she was never not kind. We children absolutely adored her. As the first grandchild on both sides…well, let’s just say I was a little spoiled. I credit having had four grandparents around as my salvation. Hind sight being what it is, I have no doubt they all did their best to be a positive influence. They had to be watching my parents descent into addiction with horror. And they didn’t see the half of it.
When you are my age and you discuss your lifelong depression with your doctor at your yearly Medicare physical (they have to ask), they recommend therapy. And so, I gratefully have a weekly session via Zoom. I love my “care manager.” I’ve always said that I have to be in therapy to cope with all the people in my life who aren’t in therapy. Long ago I’d confide my frustrations to Mimi more than anyone else in my young life. She would say, “you’re alright, kid. The world’s all wrong.” Hooo boy, she was not just whistlin’ dixie…
She had a funny way of talking that I attributed to being from the south. If you asked her a question and she didn’t know the answer she would respond, “I am not knowing.” I was still in grade school when she was diagnosed with uterine cancer and told she had about six months to live. I certainly don’t remember any of that ordeal. I know she went through surgery, chemo and radiation, but I was entirely unaware of her suffering. She lived another lifetime again, into her 80’s – before the cancer would finally take her. When asked about it, she would simply state that she would rather die than go through that treatment again. I’ve heard that said by almost everyone I’ve loved now, myself being one of the lucky few who hasn’t had to face that demon.
What makes one person luckier than the others around them? Of the seven members of my biological family I am the only one to escape the long evil tendrils of substance addiction, of cancer or heart failure, of crushing depression. At 70 I haven’t had cancer or heart problems, knock on wood. In spite of scoring 8 out of 10 on the Adverse Childhood Experiences test (no to #6), I manage depression, I am functional, and sane. I am fairly happy most of the time. The simple pleasures of my days far outweigh the occasional difficulties. I am truly blessed and highly favored. But I do look back and long for a deeper life, a more authentic connection. I wish I’d known more of what I didn’t know, at least how to ask the questions I wish I’d known to ask. What was that like for you, Dad? What do you really want, Mimi? What would you do differently now, Mom?
My grandfathers were building railroad tracks in Detroit and across the country during the boom of the automobile industry, and my father inherited that business. But he was a frustrated artist. When my parents 27 year marriage broke up after raising 5 children together, my father would come out to us all and confide that he had always been living a double life as a gay man. He never had a choice back then. Neither did he have the choice to be a musician instead of a contractor. It wasn’t gonna pay the bills. My mother’s choices were even fewer.
Like most middle class parents in the 1950’s post war economic boom, they sheltered we children from any hardships we accidentally caught glimpses of. We didn’t watch the news. We watched Ed Sullivan; he had a really big shoe. They made up stories about where people and pets had gone when we were confused by their absence. If Mimi had bad days during cancer treatment we certainly didn’t see them.
Our every physical whim was met with all the food and comfort and luxury my parents could possibly provide. Music and merriment were abundant. Holidays were exaggerated celebrations always full of people and gifts and singing and dancing and games. I remember asking why we needed so many televisions and record players; there was one in almost every room. Some nights they were all going at once. Our house was full and loud and chaotic. We had a somewhat tongue-in-cheek saying in our household: “life is a party.”
But some precious opportunity was lost in my parents’ utopia. Something is always lost in any falsely contrived utopia. It manages to keep life humming along quite superficially, and it tends to create the side effect of anxiety. Especially when eventually faced with any challenge and realizing that reality wasn’t so real. There’s a reason they say ignorance is bliss, and it’s because awareness is painful. Growing up is hard to do.
That said, it’s the only dance in town. There is no way out but through. If there is any more meaningful reason for being here, now, well…I am not knowing.
Nearing the end of 2024 I am wondering if I will ever “bounce back” from the pandemic. Have you? Do you think there is any bouncing back? I think we are changed forever. I know I am. There are two distinctive reasons I will never be the same, and I would like to share them if you will indulge me. I’d like to hear how it has affected your life. Even if the changes aren’t obviously attributable to the pandemic itself. How has your life changed in the last (almost) five years?
This morning I am needing to chew on the left side of my mouth. I am going through a series of periodontal treatments in an effort to save my teeth. The first treatment was originally scheduled for March – 2020. That didn’t happen. It was cancelled due to the shutdown. By the time we seemed to be coming out of that horrific nightmare scenario and the dentist called to reschedule, I was battling Lyme disease. My face was disfigured by Bell’s Palsy and I was beginning a series of acupuncture treatments for that. Thankfully those worked to restore most of the muscle use in my face, although not completely. Acupuncture is not covered by Medicare insurance. Neither is periodontal work, but they’re both necessary.
The other event that was cancelled that spring was a huge luxurious and much needed mental health vacation. It was a workshop I was scheduled to attend near Scottsdale, Arizona. Led by two of the most revered influences in my life, Elizabeth Gilbert and Rob Bell, the spiritual retreat was titled How to Imagine.
One of my closest friends lives in Tucson and had decided to attend after I told her about it. She offered to share her room at the resort hosting the weekend. But I didn’t think I could come up with the workshop fee, let alone the air fare. When I spoke about it another friend offered an airline credit. I was yet undecided. It would be a stretch financially and I would have to arrange in-home pet care for my elderly dogs.
Meanwhile, it was a local friend’s January birthday and we met for dinner. She was so excited to tell me all about the workshop she had just registered for…you guessed it. By this time I knew I had to go. It was meant to be and I would beg, borrow, or steal to get there. I did a little of each and managed to get registered in time for an early bird discount. Now I had two close friends who would be there, and something inside me knew this held profound healing opportunity.
When the airlines shut down the workshop was cancelled. I’m not sure why, but I have never gotten over the disappointment. Something inside me snapped. All manner of magical synchronicities had occurred to allow me that gift and I suddenly felt like a child whose dreams were never to be. I must have transferred a basketful of grief to this because I was disproportionately leveled. It was the straw…
Subconsciously I had decided that trip would be a pivot point in my life. By making that commitment happen, I could then give myself some unearned or undeserved permission to live creatively that I would not otherwise permit myself to have. I have not yet recovered that authority. Perhaps I won’t.
And here I sit, almost five years later, chewing on the right side of my mouth, still feeling like I’ve missed something. My Mother would say, “move along smartly.” And she was a very wise woman, so…watch this space…
Lately I feel like I’m stuck in a 1980’s Nickelodeon Opposite Sketch. You might have to have a middle-aged child to get that! Not this, nope, not that…no, thanks. All of a sudden nothing fits. I’m an outsider in my own life. It isn’t as if this strange phenomenon hasn’t occurred many times throughout the years; I’m sure you’ve experienced it also. It simply means we are growing mentally and spiritually, and our circumstances/home/work/relationships are not as natural as they once felt. We’ve slipped in our skin.
I knew this would happen because I have been ill. As I’ve disclosed recently I had a few rough weeks in August where I was quite sick – always a precursor to a big wake-up call. If you survive an illness, you will move through some transformation to do so. It’s similar to travel, although not as fun – if you’re as present as possible through the experience it will change you. That doesn’t mean I am consciously aware of what that healing means, at least not yet. But I’m noticing now that I don’t feel very attached to the past, to my life up to now. Everything is nebulous, kinda floaty, not securely grounded, fluid. That serves as a signal to pay attention. New opportunities will be revealing themselves as I move forward – but don’t make any fast moves. Respond softly. Remain reverentially curious.
Another way of describing this might be to say that I am letting go of everything and everyone and observing who stays, what stays, how things settle in the coming weeks and months. Sickness has an organic way of doing that. For right now at least, I’m less interested in efforting. What happens, happens. I have to drop expectations. For starters, I can’t expect anyone to get it. I don’t have the strength to hold up my end of any obligation, to show up any certain way…to be who you think I am. I want to live, and that’s about all I know today. What happens next remains to be seen.
Your opinion of me is none of my business. The politicians can manage without my input. The creditors will have to wait. The house isn’t clean. I’m empty. This is a good thing, this empty. It may sound dramatic, but I have a sense of renewal, of anticipation. It is time to re-evaluate priorities, set some new goals, be specific, focus. What do I want?! Where do I go from here…?
When my son was 15 I began teaching him to drive. At that time you could get a “student permit” one year before you were old enough to get your license, but then you could practice driving as long as there was an adult in the car. Driver’s training was a required class for all sophomore high school students. That year for Mother’s Day my card contained a Backseat Driver’s License, officially signed by then Secretary of State, Mac U. Nervus. My son is nothing if not funny! I carried that in my wallet for years, and I do not know what happened to it. Probably wore it out.
My son is a good driver, which I cannot say about my former husband. He reminds me of the cartoon character Mr. Magoo. He was declared legally blind about the age of 2 and wore thick “Coke bottle” glasses taped to his head throughout childhood. And with a ‘Little Man Tate’ genius IQ, he graduated college at the age you and I were graduating high school. In retrospect, we now know he is autistic. I used to marvel at how I could rattle off numbers to him, my own human calculator, and he could add them in his head and give me an accurate total faster than the computer. But he couldn’t change a lightbulb. That task, like many others you and I do daily, would frustrate and overwhelm him.
Shortly after he and I met lasik laser surgery became readily available. With that miracle and a regular pair of glasses he qualified for a driver’s license. Just because the state issued him one does not mean he can drive. He’s a menace on the road, but he has never been in an accident. I’m sure he’s caused a few…
Last week we met for lunch in the city where he lives, about an hour from me (yes, by design.) I had mentioned in a phone call that I had an appointment that was bringing me in to town. During our lunch conversation he asked about the tires on my new (to me) car and offered to purchase a set of tires if I would follow him to the shop up the road. You know where this is going? Ha! Wait for it…
We met at his favorite restaurant, Big Boy. Leaving the restaurant, we would have to turn left onto a busy 55mph five lane highway. He pulled right out into oncoming traffic and zoomed out ahead miles before I could safely turn…and…he lost me. He would say I lost him, and he’s right – I can’t keep up. But as I frantically searched for the tire store and finally turned in, relieved to be alive, he called. Where the heck was I? What was taking me so long?! And I looked and looked and couldn’t see him anywhere. I sat still two minutes knowing he would call back. He did. He couldn’t see me, either. It occurred to me to ask him what he could see (we’ve been at this over 30 years) and of course, we were NOT in the same location.
He had driven to the place of my appointment – NOT the tire place at all. My appointment had nothing to do with him and we had not discussed it. (I had mentioned it in our previous phone conversation.) It was an entirely spontaneous decision on his part, but he thought I was right behind him, and would follow him in…so, no need for communication. But now he was angry with me; I hadn’t kept my part of the agreement – which was to follow him. And now I would have to turn left out into heavy traffic twice again, once toward the appointment location where he waited for some unknown reason, and again leaving for home. It was nerve wracking to say the least. By the time I got there about 20 minutes later I declined his offer to wait for me and then go buy new tires. By this time I was a nervous wreck. He wasn’t. He was just confused. After all, he was just trying to help. If this sounds a bit like senility, I must tell you that it’s been this way the entire time I have known him. It’s just SOP with Magoo. Obviously he must be an enlightened master because he is cool and collected in the midst of chaos. Even if he did cause it.
Here I sit at seventy wondering why my nerves are shot. I’m not saying this is my former husband’s fault; far from it. He was one in a loooonnnng line of crazy-makers I have lived with all my life. You know about crazy-makers, right? (We have one running for President if you need an obvious example.) People who have some innate talent for wreaking havoc all around them without being affected. They’re everywhere; every family has them. My family was full of them. Grandfather, father, aunt, sister to name a few. Of course I attracted them in my adult relationships; they were familiar. The less susceptible you are to gaslighting, the more covert their passive aggressiveness becomes. But I’m by no means immune, and maybe never will be.
As I have talked about in former posts, I’m not havoc-ing it any more. It takes a varying degree of upset for me to register the crazy making, but the moment I catch it happening, I’m out. I will still love them, just from a distance. Will my nerves ever heal? I’ll keep you posted. Meanwhile, Going Home is my new old theme song, from the greatest movie soundtrack ever written. Close your eyes and listen. Everything will be alright.
Part of me feels like I should come clean about something. All this soap box espousing about raising our consciousness and waking up and becoming more self aware sounds inspiring, doesn’t it? Did I forget to mention that it makes life harder? Yes, that’s right. Not easier. Harder.
When you are committed to personal growth, or perhaps you naively just want to live a more creative life, things are gonna get rough. You’re a boat rocker. You want more than the other people around you want for you, or believe you are capable of. Those people you lived with growing up are not going to like this. The people you work with are not going to like this. The friends you know you can count on aren’t going to like it. They have an agenda, consciously or not, and it is not your agenda. 99.9% of the time it will not leave any space for you to stretch your wings – it will be all about slowing and deferring any change. To the best of their ability.
In an interview years ago, I remember Oprah talking about her friendship to Gayle, saying that she stayed “after the leap,” and that the majority of people will not. But she didn’t know that would be the case when she decided to up her game and strive for success. None of us realized what it would mean to develop healthy boundaries, to speak up when we became aware of dysfunction around us. We didn’t know that it would be so challenging for those around us. We didn’t know.
Heads up: your relationships are going to fall apart. There is a popular tarot deck called This Might Hurt. Haha! While I am not a fan of the artwork and don’t use this deck, I sure love the name of it. Yes. The tarot is a brilliantly designed tool for self development. Practicing with it will open you up and make you more self aware and much more intuitive. And it will hurt; that’s a guarantee. That genie ain’t goin’ back in that bottle.
I remember at one point in my 20’s thinking all my families’ troubles were caused by my father’s alcoholism…and then a decade or two later realizing that some of us are autistic or had ADHD. And then learning about narcissism. And it goes on and on. You see it and you can’t unsee it.
The truth will out. What you think today is the cause of your frustration, or your unhappiness, or your illness will open a can of worms. Today is the tip of the iceberg and it is melting faster than you can imagine. And you are going to have to take responsibility for having started the fire underneath. Oh, and learn to swim…
I was in my sixties when my father died and my four siblings stopped speaking to me. I was recently divorced, grieving and more isolated than I ever could have imagined. My son wanted little to do with me. When I lost my elderly dog I grieved like never before; I suspect it was a cumulative grief. I could justify all of this discord; I had learned through hardship how to set boundaries and they did not like the new me – the person they could no longer gaslight and manipulate. I had been told one too many times that I would never be able to take care of myself. I had better stay. I had better be quiet. I had better be nice.
My darling Mother used to say to me, “It must be lonely at the top, Susan…” It was leveled as an accusation. She didn’t understand why I was so different, so confrontative. Obviously I thought I was better than the rest of them. But that wasn’t true. I saw them as remarkable, brilliant, so very full of potential and settling for so little. I wanted them to join me on this journey. I didn’t want to be lonely; I still don’t. Please don’t leave me…yet in truth, I was leaving them. I had seen through the superficiality of their choices and I wanted deeper connection. I wanted to matter. I wanted them to know that they mattered. Really, really mattered. But they didn’t see what I saw.
Almost every person I have ever loved has struggled with addiction. Eventually I have lost most of them, either to death, or by extricating myself from their insatiable neediness in order to have some semblance of peace. I stopped housing them. I stopped driving them. I stopped working for them for almost nothing. I stopped giving them money. I stopped defending them. I stopped allowing them to use me.
Codependency is my addiction. It is theirs, also, masked by alcohol or drugs or gambling. By the grace of God I have not had those to overcome. But once I realized this and stopped tolerating bad behaviors, I woke up and saw the part I played in the destruction. And I can’t do it anymore. I’ve had to re-evaluate my values, my priorities, my own behavior. And yes, it is lonely at the top. But something deep inside me knows that this is the only dance in town, this seeking for the truth, this prioritizing mental health, this commitment to growing up.
Decades ago in meditation I heard “do not squander your father’s inheritance.” I dismissed that as I knew my father had no money to leave his children. What the heck did that mean? Now I wish I could remember when I heard that, but it still applies today. Today I would write that sentence differently: Do not squander your Father’s inheritance.
“You don’t have to be a genius. You can just be honest.” – Yulia Mahr
Can I? Before I can possibly be honest with anyone, I must be honest with myself. I have so many blind spots in my psyche, so many un-self-awarenesses. It’s not for lack of trying. I do want to grow up before I outgrow this life. Now at this late stage I tend to be repulsed by immaturity, by any lack of humility or gratitude in anyone I meet. The second I sense an inkling of entitlement I am frantically searching for an exit. And yet I catch myself expounding my entitlement in the most unaware statements of idiocy. And cringe.
And so I am drawn to humility like a moth to flame. I also know from a lifetime of experience that false humility is the narcissist’s favorite coat. The wolf has gutted the sheep and stolen it’s skin, and it is dangerous to get too close. As life threatening for me as the dis-eases I have battled these past few months – Lyme, Covid and E.Coli. Deadly.
Yes, I do believe there is an equal psychology to every pathology. The truth will out; which is to say that our unconscious and unresolved childhood hurts will eventually kill us. Every one of us. Even you. Science informs us that the unstressed human body would live far longer than we do, that number being somewhere between two and five hundred years, debated in the higher echelons of biology. But we don’t.
And while I did learn studying Neuro-linguistic programming that “the reason is always a parent.” (- Virginia Satir, Peoplemaking, The Emotional Hostage) we cannot blame our parents for this. They were just as embroiled as we are, perhaps more so. They had far fewer resources and opportunities. That is not meant as an excuse for their hurtful behaviors. But I am increasingly convinced that there is an entity responsible, and it is an unhealthy culture.
There is no actual biological justification for war. Or famine. Or poverty. Or control of any kind. Again: OR CONTROL OF ANY KIND. It is entirely unnecessary and it is unhealthy. Here we are in the 21st century of recorded history just beginning to catch a whiff of the fact that perhaps the indigenous tribes of the world were doing alright without colonial intervention…they lived in a culture of cooperation. What was good for an individual was good for the collective. They lived instinctively, intuitively. They didn’t need weather radar. They sensed inclement weather and acted accordingly. We built defenses.
I am not about to go live off the land at this age. I am unequivocally uninterested in surviving any major disaster, natural or manmade. I fear pain and suffering, not being dead. How do we heal our culture? Hell if I know. I do know, however, that we are not getting out of here intact without exercising our creativity. I know it’s the way. Remember, ultimately, it will be the artists who save us.
“Artists love other artists. Shadow artists are gravitating to their rightful tribe but cannot yet claim their birthright.” – Julia Cameron, The Artist’s Way
Since I have been ill the past few weeks I have been binge watching a British show called Portrait Artist of the Year. Fortunately it has 11 seasons, each with twelve episodes. It’s so nerve-wracking, and so inspiring. Free to watch through YT. It’s ‘The Voice’ for visual artists; it launches careers. I couldn’t participate in anything like that; I’d fall apart. That is a clue about the psychological pathology I spoke of in yesterday’s post. I simply live too close to the ledge of grief to be so exposed in public.
I do remember one season where they chose to advance an artist who had behaved, to my eye, totally inappropriate in the first round. She was irritable with, and demanding of, the model – to the point of rudeness. She ignored the other two fellow artists who were also painting the same person from other angles. Never mind what they wanted! She micromanaged the group like a herding dog with a flock. The judges must not have caught the bad behavior which showed up in the editing room later. Had I been in that panel of artists I would have told her to sit down and shut up. And maybe decked her, who knows…I’ve never been violent. Yet.
Back in my twenties, going through a divorce from my abusive husband who is the father of my son, I sought counseling. I had experienced it first when a schoolmate in college recommended I see her psychologist sister. It was eye-opening and, of course, I’ve been an advocate since. Counseling is self care. You go to the doctor when you have a health issue, why on earth wouldn’t you get help sorting out the psycho-pathology? Don’t you want to experience your wholeness? If nothing else, this trained professional can offer some objective feedback and tract your emotional health just like a doctor does your physical health. That said, I’ve met some mighty dysfunctional and just-plain-wrong therapists throughout the decades. There are quacks in that field, too. But you don’t give up.
I’ve told this story before, about this talented and insightful therapist I would later study with at Wayne State. When she posed concepts that were foreign to me, I often told her, I need “tangible evidence.” In other words, I wanted proof – preferably in advance – that this crap would work.
Here’s the thing about therapy. And medicine. And art. The evidence takes time. It comes after the healing. As Steven Levine writes in the life changing book Who Dies?, terminally ill patients sometimes die and sometimes recover, and healing has little to do with it either way. Healing means becoming conscious, and it’s an ongoing process. It requires tremendous courage, because no one is coming out of that transformation as the same person they were when they went in. I remember being told that once, when my son was going through cancer treatment. He was going to attend Camp Make-A-Dream in Missoula, Montana. One of the attendant counselors warned me, “your son will not return home as the same person who left.” I was okay with that. I’d have been okay with any part of that bargain, whether I understood it or not. Just keep him alive.
So here’s the deal, McNeal…you have to let go first. You force the exhale before you’re ready…knowing you might run out of air. It’s called faith. That is the main ingredient of healing, of consciousness. Julia Cameron knows it. She calls it spiritual electricity. No lights without it. And it isn’t part of her 12 week process – it’s in the Basic Principles – prior to beginning. Before any tangible evidence that this will work.
You have to consciously decide to trust the process. You pretty much have to be at the point of no return, left with nothing to lose. Sickness will do that for you. Trauma. So will art. They rip you open and lay bare your entire being. Only by being raw and vulnerable do we realize any true healing. ACIM (A Course In Miracles) says it best: In my defenselessness my safety lies. That’s the only place any safety lies.
As far as any art I’ve ever shown, or writing for that matter, it has rarely met with any encouragement at all. I had one instructor who marked my essay “don’t give up your day job.” And a close trusted friend who I showed a drawing to respond with: “I don’t get it. But then I’m not one of your groupies.” I’ve also had some amazing encouragement from other instructors, both in writing and art. A grade school teacher entered a painting into the Detroit News Scholastic Art Awards contest unbeknownst to me and I won. I was in 6th grade. Again in 12th grade a teacher entered a poem into a student contest run by The Atlantic Monthly magazine, and they published it. If you don’t consider that tangible evidence, I don’t know what is.
And yet…here I am, at 70, wondering how and why I never pursued any practice in the creative arts. I couldn’t care less about fame or fortune, but some supplemental income would have been great. Some sense of confidence. Some joy. Obviously I am fragile of ego and easily led astray by others’ opinions.
But this ramble is to attest that the faith comes first, called blind because we have to face the unknown without the evidence. I want to heal my root chakra. And my throat chakra. I will speak the truth as far as I know it, always. And I will TRUST that I am safe – not in spite of my vulnerability, but because of it. I’m not done yet – but I am done living in the shadows.
I had the great good fortune of meeting and taking a class with my favorite artist, Elaine Dalcher. She isn’t done yet, either. A kinder, smarter person you will never meet. Nor a better teacher. Wow, has she got a healing story for us. Visit her website: https://www.elainedalcher.com/
Watching YouTube videos about these artists has been fascinating. It’s been heartwarming and inspiring. And I am wondering if maybe I could be an artist. In her classic (or should I say epic) workbook, The Artist’s Way, Julia Cameron tells us about shadow artists. I remember identifying with this immediately, which would take me back to somewhere around 1993. I’m a shadow artist. For whatever reason I don’t believe I could ever be a real artist. And so naturally I have never worked at any art form – including this one – seriously. But this morning I pulled my original copy of the book out to investigate further. I treasure this book; we’ve been through a lot together for more than thirty years now. I was surprised to find all kinds of cards and notes, and even some of my small paintings, stuffed inside. The pages have yellowed. I can document how my handwriting has changed over the decades in the notes and scribbles throughout.
But what actually shocked me this morning was looking up shadow artists in the index and turning to the page. It’s the entirety of WEEK ONE. As in, start here. And the title of the chapter is Recovering a Sense of Safety. Hit me like a ton of bricks.
For those who don’t know me well, I have been in bed for the past three weeks quite ill. I’ll keep it short here, but what began as an upper respiratory infection led to a diagnosis of E. Coli. On my third trip to the doctor in as many weeks she wanted to admit me to the hospital. My body doesn’t seem to be responding to the antibiotics, which have increased in strength the past week. I objected to being hospitalized and agreed to being monitored every 24 hours this week. I am getting better, it’s just slow. The respiratory infection is gone, albeit leaving behind an annoying cough.
But the doctor is more concerned about the E. Coli. She told me “it is rampant here right now.” Again, oh the joys of living in a resort area where hundreds of thousands come from all over the world to swim in the pristine lakes. I mentioned this to my therapist the day after the diagnosis as she asks to have health updates to keep tract of in her notes. Come to find out she knows 2 unrelated young people who are in the local hospital with this, one in intensive care.
So of course, because I believe that every physical pathology has a psychological/spiritual pathology, I asked in meditation several nights ago; what is at the root of this? And I got it! ROOT. The answer was in the question. That was fast! This is a root chakra blockage. What is the root chakra all about? SAFETY. Not feeling safe in the world.
Am I in any actual real danger? No. But when I ask my sweet innocent inner self if I feel safe? Absolutely not. And I’m old enough and maybe just wise enough to know that affirmations are not going to turn this around. Some internal archeology is required. Joni said it first: “when you dig down deep you lose good sleep and it makes you heavy company.”
So here we go! This is my theme for the coming week – to investigate and report to you dear souls everything I can glean about healing with yet again an ever deepening exploration. I try to suss it out – when did I originally feel unsafe in my environment as a child? I was cared for; I was loved. I was also sexually abused, only snippets of which I have any vivid recall of. That inquiry was quickly shut down by my family and I was gaslit to doubt those memories. Only with the help and wisdom of many counselors, insightful physicians and gifted bodyworkers have I realized over the course of several decades how truly unsafe my childhood home was – and how I unconsciously recreated that environment in my adult life. Never mind waking up to the realization of the macrocosm – that I live in an unsafe culture.
I do know that this exploration, guided by the infinite wisdom of The Artist’s Way, will bring us full circle. You heard it here first: ultimately, it will be the artists who save us. Let’s see if we can become healthier on every level. Let’s heal our bodies and our psyches and then our culture. We owe it to ourselves and our children.
Who said “Remember, ultimately, it will be the artists who save us.”? I did; I said it. You’ll recognize that quote if you’ve known me any length of time. I’ve been saying it for decades, in conversations, on social media, in my writing. I mean it, too. Let me tell you why I believe it is true, and why I think history proves it.
Artists are the truest reporters of the culture they are living in. They have never fit in, and they never will. They observe subtle, often unspoken, patterns. Long before we see them in everyday life. I’m not sure why that is the case. Perhaps by the very nature of the traits that make them artists they are slow moving, intuitive, and sensitive to nonverbal communication. They find ways to communicate that will bypass the obvious, that will sneak in the backdoor of our mind and get the point across before our beliefs have had a chance to object or rationalize. Think of all of Joni Mitchell’s brilliant lyrics. “Richard got married to a figure skater and he bought a dishwasher and a coffee percolator and he drinks at home now most nights with the tv on and all the house lights left up bright.” You instinctively know exactly what is going on.
This vulnerable transparency is true of visual artists; it is certainly true of musicians, and it is true in the healing arts. Where intellect and education will stretch to conjure a solution, a cure…intuition picks up and extends a loving offer: try this. It doesn’t have to make sense. And something inside us, and our body, recognizes the truth of it.
I remember a fever induced dream. Convalescing in my bedroom during a long illness, I looked longingly out the window – and saw a horse walking down the street. Oh, dear, I thought, someone’s horse has escaped. I grabbed an apple from the bowl on the dining table and ran down the stairs and out into the street, extending my arm to lure the horse. That’s when I realized it was wild, ghost-like, not from around here. The horse smelled the apple and nodded for me to eat it, and I woke. I knew I would begin to heal now, and that apples held some nutritional element I needed for that. I’m not sure that has anything to do with being an artist; however I did get right up and eat an apple. An artist trusts their intuition. They inherently know that God, or whatever you want to call spirit or a higher power, is at play in our lives all the time. And the more we honor that the healthier we will be.
Whether history being unearthed on cave walls or Lady Gaga telling us God makes no mistakes and we were born this way, the artists carry the declaration of our existence, of our why, of our “YES, and I will not be denied.” Because as the poet David Whyte reminds, the world was made to be free in.