A funny little moth flew in my living room window yesterday. At first I stared at it, wondering how it could be real. I cut a stick and some greens from the garden and let the ephemeral wisp sit in their shade before attempting to coax it gently outside again. It disappeared (doesn’t like sweet peas, perhaps?) but showed up later in the evening perched on the back of the sofa, staring at me. Softly as possible, I placed the stick in front of it to crawl upon. And slowly walked it to the door. It flew back in past me and I lost track of it. It’s stubbornly hanging around…and I apologize for being so slow to count my blessings; so reticent to pay attention. It struck me how it’s papery wings looked just like the pencil shavings I had created only seconds ago. I’m drawing again after a very long hiatus…could this be coincidence?
Then it surprised my son this morning and he caught it on a slip of paper, walked it out front to the planter box. He filled a tiny saucer with water and set it nearby – and it climbed up and drank! He is the one who looked it up: Haploa climene, the blessing moth.
My Mom’s mom, my Mimi, was born in Little Rock, Arkansas. They were dirt poor, meaning the floor was dirt in the one room cabin their father had cobbled together from found materials. He was often gone for days or weeks at a time following any work he could get. When Mimi was seven years old her mother died giving birth to a baby boy. Unable to care for him, the infant was adopted by a neighboring family and my grandmother, Mary Katherine, was raised by her older sister, Nellie, who was 11 at the time. The two girls were alone most of the time and had to trade or forage for any food they couldn’t grow.
That is all of their childhood story I know. I sure wish I knew more, but I was young when told this little bit of history. I didn’t know to ask more questions. Neither side of my family talked much about anything. Bits and pieces of that scarlet thread wended through conversation occasionally, only to be quickly brushed aside. There is so, so much I will never know.
I do not know how Mimi ended up living in Michigan, or married to my grandfather. Mimi retained somewhat of a southern accent all of her life. We kids teased her about it, but we loved it as we adored her. Whenever we did ask a question she couldn’t answer she responded, “I am not knowing.”
What is the question I didn’t want to ask? Oh, there were many, and I want to ask them now. Now that I am not afraid. Now I want to know everything. Every little thing about you, Mimi. Everything about you, Mom. Dad. I want to know my darling brother’s thoughts. Surely he had hopes and dreams he never shared. I never heard them; I never asked. Why didn’t I ask?
I can look back from the wisdom of today and know that I was always defensive. I was always being picked on, ridiculed, told that I was stupid or silly. In many ways I’m sure I was. I filled the role of family scapegoat exquisitely. They’re called family dynamics for a reason. They were not a safe space for me. I was not a safe space for them. Certainly I realize now that perhaps a braver approach would have shifted the dynamics, but hey, I guess we were all doing the best we could.
“They” say you have to drop your attachments to gain enlightenment. I don’t believe it. But I don’t believe much I hear anymore. I believe my body, my sweet animal body. Now I want all the stories. The happy, sad, true, or imagined stories. I don’t need to hold them, I just want to feel them move through me, to deepen my love for you, to know you better. I am not in the habit of asking. Please tell me.
Years before GPS existed I drove from my home in Traverse City, Michigan to stay with friends in San Fransisco. You know, I went to the AAA office and picked up my maps and itinerary. As I was getting close, I called for directions through the maze of suburbs to their home. They instructed me to meet them at a restaurant at the highway exit. It would be easier to follow them back. We came from 3 different directions and met for dinner. As we were leaving the restaurant one friend said, “oh, I have to stop at the hardware. I need an adapter to plug 2 phones into the same phone jack.” I reached into my purse and pulled one out. “Like this? Will this work?” After the laughter died down, they said, “who are you – Mary Poppins?!”
Yes. I am the real Mary Poppins. I’m magic. When you live just a tiny bit more curious than scared, life works like that. Synchronicities abound. Daily. I have more stories like that than you have time for. Thousands. In many ways it seems I have lived a charmed life. Not an easy life, but a natural life, in accordance with the laws of nature. When I can stay out of my own way, that is…
So while we are on this subject of enlightenment (…wait. what?) let’s listen to another hour long video. I promise not to make a habit of it, but these 2 are important. Because honestly, last Sunday’s video with Liz Gilbert and this one with Kyle Cease will get us free. I WANT FREE.
When I was in high school my Mom taught me to spell guru: G-U-R-U, saying that I would never need one. But I do love these two teachers. They are readily available any hour of the day if you have access to a streaming device and internet service. Here Kyle Cease describes the life experience of our culture, across generations to today. Listen all the way through to get all the gifts – to find why youare my Mom.
Because being free now sure would feel good. That’s a joke…now and free are the same thing. Do you think I’m funny? Well, jump in, let’s get on the road to enlightenment. And we will stay in our lane, I promise. We’re taking the local…
Kyle’s 12 Principles: 1) You are loved; 2) God hears you; 3) You are love; 4) You are free now; 5) You are safe; 6) You are worthy; 7) You are abundant; 8) You are magic; 9) Others forget they are loved; 10) It’s always passing; 11) Everything is perfect; 12) You are light.
Freedom is our promised birthright. Freedom. What does that even mean? I can’t speak for you. For me it means enlightenment – a lofty, etherial sounding concept – which is exactly the same thing as mental health.
My entire 70+ years I have been in a personal battle for my mental well being. Against the insanity, the slavery, of trying to live up to so many expectations. Yours. My own. My father’s, my mother’s, my loved ones, my teachers, the adults I looked to for guidance. Religious leaders, spiritual counselors, co-workers, employers, the creditors and people I owe money (phew!)…the list goes on. And on.
When will I be enough? When will my debts be paid? Well, I’m here to tell you. This oppression stops today. Say it with me: “All my debts are paid, both seen and unseen.” ALL MY DEBTS ARE PAID. I have an eternal flame in my soul and from today forward, I am throwing anything on the fire that tugs at holding me back from absolute freedom and well-being. If you feel that I owe you anything at all, monetarily or physically or emotionally, write it off now. Stop looking for me to come through for you. It’s not going to happen. I’m spent. And I am forgiving myself TODAY.
Does this mean I won’t be paying my bills? Of course not. It isn’t a negation of any responsibility. If anything, it’s stepping up for it. Does this mean you can’t count on me to keep our agreements? Of course you can; our agreements are just that. But I will behave with integrity because I can, not because I should. No more shoulding on myself. As Liz Gilbert says here, she’s done being the orderly in her family’s mental institution. I am announcing my retirement. Consider this my two minute notice.
For church today, let’s listen to Liz Gilbert. She’s figured it out ahead of us, and it might save your life. It’s an hour long video and I highly recommend you find the time any way you can. Especially if you are tired, owe money, have a stack of paperwork or emails waiting in your inbox, feel the least bit obligated anywhere. I am telling you truly – you cannot afford to wait. You can thank me later, but you don’t owe me a thing. I free you to show up in my life any way you choose.
All the “spiritual” people are talking about jumping time lines and living in fifth dimensional reality. Since about 1980 you’ve heard me saying, “on the road to enlightenment, I’m taking the local.” So are you, btw. If you are reading this from the confines of a human body, you are very much localized. Deal with it.
In this intimate, if globally public, venue here I have written about a few of my out-of-body experiences. I have travelled through time and space all of my life, waking from sleep or meditation or deep tissue bodywork into different situations fully conscious of what is happening, senses intact. It’s what some call quantum leaping I guess. It began as early as any conscious memory I have, so before I entered grade school. It’s perfectly normal to me and you will not convince me that I am unique or special in this. (I’ve seen some of you out there.) I just happen to remember. I’m sure it serves some purpose, but I’m not sure what that is.
You don’t want to get me started talking about purpose. There is a subject. A big, fat load of colonial cultish crap rolled into one brainwashing scheme if I’ve ever heard one…but I digress…let me give you the short version: the concept of PURPOSE does not interest me a whit. Just effing drop it. You’ll be happier, I promise.
Now that we’ve established that…let me explain how unique and special YOU are. Because we all are, actually, just not for the reasons you might think. In fact, thinking might just be the problem. In a recent post I confided that I am often lonely. Today I am not, and I want to talk about the difference. The difference is a shift in consciousness, in my state of mind, if you will. In my locale. I’m present today. And I woke up this way – because it is, in fact, a state of grace. We don’t make that time line shift or quantum leap into 5th dimensional thought by willing it to happen. We make it by surrendering.
Being lonely is a form of grief. Had we not known love and companionship and true connection, we could not experience loneliness. It’s a contrast. And remember I’ve said that we must be just 10% more curious about our future than afraid of it? I didn’t invent that awareness, btw, I adopted it from author Elizabeth Gilbert. You know it’s true. Your body feels it. To put it into buzz language, it “resonates.”
And herein lies the path, the local highway to enlightenment, to lightening up: my body. I cannot be fully present without being acutely aware of my body. It’s my barometer. And I was born this way. And there we have it – nothing needs to be done or learned or gotten. We were born this way.
Were each and every one of us born in exactly the right time and place? Could it possibly be otherwise? If so, you’ll need to prove that to me. Seventy plus years of life on earth have shown no evidence that it could possibly be any other way.
So, get out of the express lane. Travel with me on the local highway and let’s take every exit that looks interesting. You will lose your loneliness, your separateness, your pain, your grief. The way out is through, it’s local. It’s here now; we ride today. Come along on this adventure…this sacred, perfect now. HERE WE GO:
It’s the weekend; let’s lighten up. Here are two of my very most favorite designers, Alexandra Tolstoy and Butter Wakefield. They each have a unique style and a lot in common to my eye. They have an unapologetic love of color. And they insist on comfort. Those are my two priorities…oh, and how happy their homes are. Happy, exuberant, whimsical and personal style. Dare we say dopamine style? Our homes should delight us first thing in the morning, last thing at night, and especially after an outing, long or short. If you don’t walk in your front door and feel your shoulders lower, let’s talk.
Now both of these women are decidedly maximalists. As am I. Full disclosure, I cannot understand anything else. Everyone I share my enthusiasm with often responds with something similar to “well there’s…just…so…much…stuff.” Well, yeah. Hence the genre called maximalism. I call it a good start. But truthfully, it absolutely tickles my fancy.
I dream in maximalism. I actually dream of walking around inside strangers houses and taking note of the paintings on the wall and the patterns on the fabrics. It’s my idea of a good time. But don’t be fooled – it’s not an easy style to pull off. I work at it and never seem to get the relaxed result these two women have achieved. I have a theory about that, but I’ll save that for another day. I will tell you this: I have watched countless hours of maximalist house tours and not a one of those homeowners is glum. They seem genuinely chuffed.
Yesterday I confessed the sadness I am suffering through right now. I am grieving. And it doesn’t seem to ever completely leave me. I guess that is the truth of grief. It peels away in layers. It’s the onion of life. The brief visit with my former husband, less than 90 minutes over an awful breakfast at a greasy spoon, really triggered me. The triggers remind me that there is still hurt hiding deep in the bone and sinew, needing to be coaxed out and witnessed through the eyes of love until it flows out with the tears. With MERCY. Oh, mercy.
My adulthood has been rife with the grief of loss and dysfunction. I remember going to see a therapist after a breakup in my late twenties. The counselor told me not to come back until I had been to a few ACOA meetings (Adult Children Of Alcoholics.) So I found a meeting to attend in a local church. I remember the first time I went vividly. It changed my life. I walked in timidly and picked up the handout on the seat. And read the first line: Adult children of alcoholics guess at what normal behavior looks like. Well shit.
At that point in time I was already divorced from one alcoholic. Today at the age of 70 I am still dealing with the effects of alcoholism, despite the fact that I don’t drink – and I always will be. It’s affected every aspect of my families’ mental and physical health.
But yesterday was an especially difficult day for me because of the memories raised by Tuesday morning’s visit. I am acutely lonely. I say acutely because I am chronically lonely, and I suspect most of us are. We all feel like we are missing something much of our waking hours and throughout our dreams. Because we are missing something. We are missing the connection of truly being seen, of being witnessed within the nurturing boundary of acceptance, of mercy. So when I say acutely lonely, I just mean I am consciously remembering people and events and actively feeling the loss. As in crying my eyes out all day. If we’ve gotta feel it to heal it, bring it on.
I was actually missing a friend of 20 years who I went no contact with around the same time my marriage was ending. Both she and my husband were alcoholics who were unwilling to face their demons and I was sick (literally) and tired of cleaning up their messes. So it happens that I practiced going no contact decades before it was a thing. Before anybody talked about it. And I have been on the other side of that, of course. Had people I thought were the best of friends cancel me, block me, refuse to talk. I can be a mean, ornery mother. Usually it’s because I see that beloved putting up with abuse and I speak up, out of turn, in a state of rage. I was born with an internal Justice switch. I am ugly when it gets flipped. There is no weapon on earth that’s a match for my vocabulary or fortitude when my psyche declares war. And then I behave poorly, if it is with the best of intentions. You might like having me in your corner…if only I would wait to be asked…
I had a dear friend come to me in earnest seeking advise about whether or not to force their spouse into therapy. Exasperated when faced with her codependency yet again, and after decades of gentle coaching, I lost my shit. I told her that her husband did not need a therapist – he needed an exorcist. And I believe that to this day. But she dropped our friendship like a hot potato. That has happened more than once I must confess. It doesn’t mean I don’t grieve the loss. Codependency rears it’s ugly head in many ways on a daily basis. It’s a monster of an addiction to wrestle. Believe me, I get it. But I am not playing with it. I am serious when I say that it will kill you. It is a far more dangerous dis-ease than cancer will ever be.
In many ways, it seems the older I get the less I know. But what I do know, I know for sure. Denial would be futile. I’m not playing anymore. Life is not a game. No one is getting out of here alive. Your death may or may not be negotiable, in terms of the timing or the method – that is one of those things I do not know. The quality of your life experience is knowable. That is the ONLY THING you have any control over. And as I was told almost 50 years ago by my therapist Jo – the quality of your life experience is directly determined by YOUR ABILITY TO COMMUNICATE. And you can tell the truth or you can lie. There is no gray area in between. I am never going to lie to you because I’m afraid of losing you. It’s a compromise that inevitably injures us both. Codependency is straightforward. It’s an attempt at denial. It’s a self betrayal. AND IT IS A SET UP. It is a flagrant criminal act against the laws of nature and your soul will not tolerate it. Not for one minute.
Dear God how I would love to have a friend or friends nearby to do stuff with. How I miss going to the garden center early in the morning for our annuals, sitting in shallow water in our foldable beach chairs, laughing on the sofa with popcorn and a movie, meeting halfway for coffee. And decorating our homes together. You bring me a new picture you happened across at a garage sale and I’ll get out the hammer. I’ll come help you pack for that move and bring lunch. May the exchange ever even itself along as our mutual interests deepen.
I absolutely treasure the friends I have now. They are far more present mentally and emotionally, but they are not available physically. They are still working full time or no longer live nearby. This often happens with age, after retirement. The husband wants to move to a warmer climate; the adult children need us more than we imagined they would. Health concerns take precedent; finances are different. The balance of life has become trickier and harder to manage. No one is to blame for my current loneliness. I moved 2 hours south after the divorce to make a fresh start, and five years later moved back north to a resort town on the edge of nowhere. I missed my son. It’s beautiful here. And remote. That has it’s advantages (it’s not in the “drop by zone” for one thing) and disadvantages.
But today is a good day. I am far more curious than scared. There is a new paradigm coming into awareness, and it brings exciting energy. I am healing. You are healing. Our culture, our mutual reality, is healing. I am ever expanding and becoming more and more willing to live from my cracked-open heart. Can you come out to play?
Yesterday I wrote about my former husband, and about how sad I was, and still am, that we could never seem to be friends. If I have learned anything at all in this life, please God, it’s how hard friendship is. And how priceless. David Whyte says it best, of course, in his poem on the subject: “The ultimate touchstone of friendship is not improvement, neither of the self, nor of the other. The ultimate touchstone of friendship is witness.”
My former husband would often admonish me for being so hard on him, for holding him to such high standards, and implore me to simply “accept me as I am.” He could never understand why that was difficult, and quite frankly, neither could I. Neither could I. It’s lonely at the top.
I understand it a lot more in retrospect. And I now believe that my standards were not too high, but in fact, too low. That if I had been emotionally intelligent, more mature, more self aware – healthier – I would never have entered into a marriage with someone that I was not, in fact, friends with. I no longer think marriage is necessarily hard. But friendship certainly is.
There wasn’t anything wrong or bad about either of us; we were just too different. We had different values. We wanted different things from life. And that has also proven true in many of my friendships, once we really got to know each other. There are few friends still around these days, but how precious they are to me.
One of the hardest qualities to come to terms with in both myself and others is an unwavering commitment to personal growth. I want someone to call me on my shit. Not because they aren’t getting their way, but because they recognize that I am making unhealthy compromises. Tell me when I’m making decisions based on need rather than strength. Help me become more self aware, and then when I know better, help me to do better. Lead me back to the high road whenever possible. Remind me of who I am.
“The point of a marriage is not to create a quick commonality by tearing down all boundaries; on the contrary, a good marriage is one in which each partner appoints the other to be the guardian of his solitude, and thus they show each other the greatest possible trust.” – Rainer Maria Rilke
Any chance you might have an issue with authority? If so, I’m just sure we can be friends. To say I am resistant to suggestion would be an understatement, and yet I am constantly seeking advise, input, more input, ideas, opinions and help from any number of sources.
My dearest friends will attest that I directly – and regularly – say to them, “Tell me what to do.” They think I’m funny. They have known me long enough to know that telling me what to do is futile. Even when I ask, there’s maybe a 30% chance of follow through. Maybe.
Now let us not confuse my fierce independence with any remote understanding of healthy boundaries. Those close to me have also seen me make absolutely stupid decisions just for the sake of being contrary. What can I say? Growing up is hard to do…
Just this week I had a bit of a tete-a-tete with my past. My ex called and wanted to talk. This would generally send me into a tailspin of anxiety. What was he up to?
We met a few days later for breakfast. It was quite pleasant. He is 17 years older than me and has had some serious health challenges. So, he is face to face with his own mortality. That is humbling. But it was just a few hours later that he called again. Strange. This time he barked at me to pull up a website on my computer. He wanted me to look at a car for sale. He had asked about my Jeep at breakfast. The previous time we met for a “catch up” the Jeep had limped into the restaurant parking lot squealing and lurching. It’s the old car I had from our marriage, now 13 years dissolved. It’s on it’s last leg before the scrap heap and I’ve been trying to figure out how I will afford to replace it.
When he asked about it I had quipped, “It’s running well. It’s about time to think about looking for a car.” Ever-so nonchalant. Pardon me, but I’ve had more than 30 years with him to learn to generalize my answers. I give out very little information. It’s not so much a conversation as an interrogation, or a relationship as a transaction. He is never without an agenda.
Sure enough, several hours later and he’s found me a car. Mind you, we had not discussed anything about my looking for a car. No details were asked for or volunteered, no direct inquiries, no interest feigned. This was entirely based on his assumptions. He found me a car. Another Jeep (I had not been considering buying another Jeep. For one thing, I can barely climb in and out of this one anymore.)
This is how that second phone call went: “Hi. What’s up?” I was taken by surprise. “Get to your computer! Look at this website!” I had no idea what this was about until my laptop had booted up and I asked for the website name. It was a car dealership. “Look at this Jeep! If you’re interested I could go drive that for you tomorrow.” As if I don’t drive…or he has any mechanical prowess. But I do forget sometimes how utterly incompetent I am. He sounded like he was on speed (what is in those Manhattans?) He desperately needs a project, and he needs it to be me.
Wait. What? S L O W the heck down…why are you directing me to look at a car? Well…he could “help me” buy that. Sadly, I’ve also got 30+ years experience knowing that this is going to be a long, convoluted process that will somehow end up costing me sleep, peace of mind, money, and self respect. I graciously declined. I have learned a little over the decades. For better or worse, I have learned to be my own hero.
I thanked him for his concern and generosity. I don’t want to generate any animosity. I’m careful not to invite the repercussions of his wrath. I am struggling with my health also, but unlike my ex, I am also struggling financially. There was no room for partnership in that marriage, nor fairness in the divorce. I receive spousal support (the new word for alimony) which is a small fraction of his income and 90% of mine. Less than law would allow, but as much as I was willing to fight for. I wanted out intact. Okay, that’s not true – I wanted out alive. It was too late for intact.
My former husband is not a bad man. He is charming, highly intelligent and extremely like-able. There are many wonderful things about him, and I wish I knew how to have him in my life. He is what is known as a vulnerable narcissist. He would do anything to help. It’s just gonna have a few little almost invisible strings attached…kinda like walking into a spiderweb. Sticky.
Now with the hard-earned wisdom of distance, all of this simply makes me enormously sad. We are both alone in our old age. But I know my true value. Not only will he never know mine; he will never know his own. We are all so very fragile. As Maira is inclined to notice, we are all striving, and we are all heroic.
Maurice Sendack died in May of 2012 at the age of 84. What an extraordinary ordinary life he lived. I was 10 years old when he published Where the Wild Things Are, but I would not learn of it until raising my own child over two decades later. And I did not really begin to fully appreciate him until recently.
He lost many of his closest family members in the Holocaust. He spent 50 years with his beloved partner, Eugene. But what strikes me as most remarkable is to hear him talk about how much he loved his life, how he valued the love he had and the work he enjoyed. A simple man, a simple life, a sacred life. As he says here, a transcendent life. May we all find that we do not need to be “earth shakingly important…” and have the peace and clarity to clear the decks, and to learn not to take ourselves so seriously.
A Painterly Home 