April 13, 2016: No Words

No words.  I am still reeling from the death of one of the characters in All the Light We Cannot See, by Anthony Doerr.  

The book is small vignettes - the chronology initially out of sequence, but moves forward and backward in time until they meet and move forward from that point on.  The words were so strong that I kept seeing them play out in the way a foreign art film might: images, few words, but images that appear, stay, and then move to others.  The flick of an eyelash, the color of a dulled sky, descriptions that made my heart pour open and left me weak with no thoughts present.  Only emotion.  A sad heart.  Weeping for my fellow humans and the atrocities that are committed.  How can we be so?  It left me aching for those who are victims, and aching that it seems so difficult for us to draw lines in the sand, offering excuses rather than saying no.  And then aching for those who did say "no" and suffered the dire consequences, but perhaps died feeling like they had lived.  I don't know.  I simultaneously felt sick and empowered at the same time.

This left me vulnerable in a way that was good, for I had to meet with a student who verbally went off on one of my faculty in front of her peers in the classroom. 

Oy.  She was so upset and out of control that she really doesn't seem to understand how she was perceived, nor does she remember it the way that the teacher does.  I don't know how her peers perceived it.  All of them victims - her peers and teacher victims of her unharnessed and unregulated tantrum, and she of herself - victim of her inability to reign herself in.  

And yet, her tears...her distress...her anxiety did not sway me.  "I sort of lost it," she said.  "No," I replied.  You did lose it.  No sort of - you lost it."  I wanted her to know that this pattern of losing it, apologizing, feeling ashamed and embarrassed and disappointed, and then moving on was not going to happen this time.  The pattern would stop - or at least not be functional - in this situation. 

I know it was right action.  For me to have smoothed things over - to have accepted her apology and feelings of remorse - was to be less than honest.  It reminded me of the "abused" forgiving the "abuser"...the abuser's remorse is so strong, and they are so busy beating themselves up, that the abused feels there is little left to do but forgive the one that hurt them.   And so goes the pattern...

I know not yet what will happen.  I will be reporting this to the Student Affairs office.  Her behavior broke at least 4 of the 20+ behavioral guidelines for students on campus.  It needs reporting.  All I know is that the book somehow prepared me to stay in an open, vulnerable place - and that coming from "there" was what gave me the strength to say "stop."  

With all of the work that I have done over the past several many years...with my learning and practice in avoiding "idiot compassion" and naming what is there with true compassion...well, I feel like I passed a final exam of some sort today.  And while I still feel the emotion of it all - am still living in that soft tender spot of being human - I feel proud and humbled and human.  I can't think of a better place to be.

And this morning?  My daughter called.  The bunny that lived in our yard last summer, and looked like some sort of adolescent, seems to have had at least one baby, which peeked at my daughter from behind the kyak that leans up against the fence.  

And are you seeing Simba standing on Pride Rock,

lifting his new born baby for all to see?...With the "Circle of Life" playing in the background?  I know I did...it brought me to tears this morning, hearing the joy and wonder and thrill in my daughter's voice at her discovery of the new bunny.  And can I say?  I'm not overly fond of bunnies - yet I still got a lump in my throat when she told me.

And now, I am tired.  Zzzzzzzzzzzz.........

March 30th: Very Early in the Morning - Actually in the Middle of the Night

Went to bed early - fitful sleeping as my stomach was upset. Woke up at 1:30 and ate a bowl of cereal.  When it was clear that I was going to be awake for a bit, I went to my default: reading.

I have been reading The Lacuna by Barbara Kingsolver. Already I want to begin at the beginning and read it again. It spans the history of the McCarthy era, and how people can be crucified on truths that have been twisted into lies...how people in power use fear and ignorance to control so many...how the press and media use and abuse their reach to play a hand in that control. In so many ways it reflects the politics and the fear that still is so ever present in our society now.

Her book has left me feeling "rode hard and put up wet"...somewhat raw...a sign of genius writing and a well-told story. It leaves me overwhelmed with the truths that it tells through its fiction. We, as a species, are so capable of great love - yet allow the slightest bit of fear to rule and we can turn into hateful creatures - worse than other living things because we have the ability and intellect to choose differently, but more often than not succumb to the fear and hurt others instead. For the love of Pete - reading about children being burned, people being killed, reputations being ruined - all by our own hands. Oy.

Nothing much

left to do at this hour but have a good cry and try to get some sleep, and maybe practice some h'oponopono.

March 28th: Note to Self: Remember to Read Old Postings

Ahem-Ahem...

"Well, I just re-read my post of January 30th, where I was trying to bind my heart and head together," she said sheepishly.  

That post continues to be reflective, I think, of this space I am in now - where I am striving to stay in my body and balance this physical vessel with my heart and head.  

The Almighty Spiral of Life, always coming back to remind

and gently poke and prod us forward - or to show us how magnificently far we have come.

Yes...the journey has been far.  And yes, the journey is now - well, NOW.  

And with that thought, along with this ordinary act of taking time (which borders on being a miracle) and putting words to virtual paper (not so miraculous), I can feel myself moving back into balance.  
                                    
                            

 
Yes indeedy - 

Simple Acts

ARE

Sacred Deeds.

With Love,

Deborah

March 27, 2016: Journey to the Center of the - well, WHAT?!?

This is one of the strangest feelings I have felt.  This feeling like I need to cry - but having such a hard time getting to the tears because all seems to be so well.

So - what to do?  I took myself into the city yesterday - on my way there I saw this: tulip trees seem to be the rage

 here.  They are everywhere.  Even when the sun is hiding and the weather is more gray, they are still gorgeous.  And then - onto the the Metro North, which actually, would take me south into the city.

 
First stop:  Daddy Long Legs (off-Broadway).  My daughter had recommended it. She cried during the whole first act, she said.  And it was sweet...one of the sweetest

productions I have ever seen - and there were a few points where I cried - well, even sobbed - but had to do so very, very quietly.  There I sat, with my belly heaving in and out, and shoulders jostling up and down, and not a sound coming out of me.  And I cried for the transformation of both of the characters - and for the message of the importance of living in the now.  Innocence and faith.  A good start - but such a long way to go.  

After the show I went to a Cuban Diner that a friend had taken me to previously - Coppelia - and it was very, very good.  Salmon with purple mashed potatoes and mango salsa - and a bourban pecan chocolate tart with whipped cream.  Perfect for stoking up before the contra dance.  

The dance was fun.  There were a few others there who were willing to play with me (e.g., a birdman face during a

gypsy - and one other who actually dipped me and held me there rather than doing a courtesy turn - both quite fun!).  Then - just like Cinderella - I needed to leave the dance, change from my skirt to pants, and skedaddle to the subway so that I could catch the 11:20pm Metro North back to Tarrytown.  Well....I guess it wasn't exactly like Cinderella since the wardrobe change didn't happen automatically - and guaranteed, a subway is not a pumpkin.  The ride home was a ride - but as I walked home from the train station, I was met with the most glorious sight at the village library.

I am calling it "Daffodils by Streetlamp."  I had to turn off the flash to get the picture right.  Somehow it seemed so right that I started and ended my day with pictures of flowers.   

So - again - hard to cry when there is beauty all around me...people willing to play...good food...and I have the good fortune to be able to afford trips to the city and theater and contra dances and going out to eat.  It is amazing, really...with flowers to boot.

Today - a new Quaker Meeting across the bridge - again, its own strengths and weaknesses - and again, nice people.  I did feel a little more able to talk about "real" things.  I could say to someone, "I feel very good, yet still feel a need to cry.  I'm aware that I need to figure something out - how to tend to it."  Someone else said, "Yes - if we don't get it out, then it takes residence in our body."  So - I felt understood by two women.  I don't think I would take a risk saying something like that at some of the other meetings I've been to....just not sure. 

After the meeting, I drove a long way in search of Hook Mountain.  At one point, the Siri voice in my GPS told me to park my car as I would have to walk to my destination.  I finally found it - there was a wonderful river walk there - and a trail that went up to an upper picnic area.  Off of that trail there was a side trail that ended in a wonderful

 almost closed area with trees and rocks - and, of course 

the pre-
requisite beer cans and broken bottles around a fire pit.  I cleaned it up as best as I could using two plastic grocery bags that I found there as well.  The fact that I felt sick about it - like the place had been defiled - like someone had shit in the temple - let me know that I'm getting to where I want to be - even if I'm not crying yet.

There was also a long walk along the Hudson River - the River Trail...lots of families out having food and fun time at picnic tables that were scattered along the way.

Now, I am back home, listening to a mix of music from the tail end of Bones episodes that my daughter made me.  All of those songs are touching me deeply - and still no tears.  Vexing, it is.   

And things to do...I did get laundry done before I left for my Easter Saturday Adventures this 2016.  And I have to start bickering with insurance companies, as the new doctor I am establishing with does not seem acceptable to my insurance company - or maybe the diagnosis that was put on the form is not acceptable - who knows?  Dealing with that - doing my taxes - getting my car registered with the state of New York - getting Maya's Financial Aid form filled out after I get the taxes done - getting a budget planned - figuring out if I will move over Labor Day or the 4th of July - and so many things at work, too.  No wonder I'm in my head - no wonder it's hard to get to those tears.

And I notice that my mom's birthday is tomorrow....let me say that again....I notice that my mom's birthday is tomorrow....and maybe that's where I need to sit for awhile....sitting with her absence.  Even after all these years (what's it been - almost 30?), her absence still has the ability to stun me.

 


 

March 6, 2016: Oh My - How Time Flies

I just looked at the date on my last post.  January 30th.  My, my, my.  February was filled with many things: a move into my own apartment; a weekend of dancing; a weekend in La Crosse; expanding work responsibilities as I grow into my new job; more... 

And I can feel it.  I'm not feeling as integrated or connected (both to earth and spirit) as I have been.  I have noticed that this past week or two I have been spending more time at work.  The work has grown in size.  As I have come to know it, piece by piece, everyday something new, the enormity of it has slowly dawned.  Still, I am excited at the prospect.  And still, I must be careful that it does not crowd out the other growing that I need and want and feel led to do: establish new patterns of doing other than work alone.

What I am most aware of, though, is how I have become a little more distant from living in the fullness of the "middle," of what I might call the "center of the dichotomy continuum."  It's that place where opposites live side by side in the fullness of what is.  Energizing.  Draining.  Simultaneous.

I have created enough pathways that I am no longer struggling to find my way in getting what I need: food, water, sleep.  I have enough few routines established that I no longer have to think about each and every step.  Enough has been laid down in my neuronal networks that survival activities no longer require intimate focus.  And therein lies the dilemma.  

One of the offerings of an "intimate focus" is "presence."  There really are no other choices except right here, right now.  It's sort of like rock climbing.  Or being in the presence of death.  All of the static goes away except what's right in front of you as you find the supportive nitches and crannies, your body and mind synchronously and smoothly waltzing in place simultaneously with forward and upward movement. Energizing.  Draining.  Simultaneous.

Now, the waltz is not so smooth - nor synchronous.  There has been more challenge for my brain, and less challenge for my body - and I'm not sure how to help those two find the beat.  I am falling into more work habits and less play habits - which is understandable given my hectic February schedule - yet perhaps not really what I want nor what I think I was led here to do.  I wrote the last time of my head and heart moving together.  I forgot to include this wonderful container that houses them both - and now, as I notice its weariness and co-existing fog in my thinking - I realize that I may be unconsciously falling into some "habits of the now" that may not be so supportive in the long run.  Hmmm...

Funny: I am watching myself get caught up in wanting decisions to be made.  Should I paint the apartment?  Should I purchase new furniture? I need to get signed up for the retirement plan.  My daughter and her dear friend are coming to visit - I need another twin mattress and sheets, I need another bowl and set of eating utensils, the towels that I shipped last week (and seem to have stopped in New Jersey last Wednesday - will they ever leave?) need to arrive, it would be good to find a place for some of the things that are still lying around in my hallway and empty apartment rooms....and it goes on.  

And I watch my mind fill up with these things, and am puzzled, because I have been fine without them - without the "things" and without thinking about them.  I have been living without the trappings and accouterments of what most folks have for everyday living, and I have been fine.  In fact, it has been like an extended camping trip in some ways.  Why am I thinking I need them now?...why here?...why now?  Well, in the words of my Gramma Lena, maybe I'm not supposed to know.  Better, at least for me, to simply notice, accept, and listen for the next leading.

And having said that, I arrive at what, perhaps, is the root: I have spent less time listening - in listening and discernment for the "next steps pathway."  

I'm smiling.  Again I find myself in that sacred, precious, filled-with-grace place in the middle: where opposites meet and communicate through the conflict of their differing natures, while at the same time existing enmeshed - all part of the same big "One."  

No pictures in the post today.  I am torn between wanting to write for the product - to have a nicely "posted post" that has a sense of "ending,"  and I also want to get to Meeting this morning - still unsure of which one I want to attend.  

Best thing: move forward.  Walk, bathe, eat...then follow the lead. 

I just saw what I wrote.  I guess I'm going for a walk.  Blessings on your day...blessings on mine.

January 30, 2016: No Independent Travelling for my Head and Heart...

I was lying in bed this morning, thinking about my time here at Chez Daisy.  Now, I am at my computer, still "full" both physically and spiritually from the dinner I had last night.  Daisy invited me to have dinner with her and her husband Karl's family who had come for an evening visit.  There were 7: a sister, a cousin, and their spouses, Daisy and Karl, and me.  Daisy had been cooking since Wednesday, with the results being a delicious shrimp and vegetable dish, some sort of stuffed meat, and some tomatoes that were stuffed with meatballs and other goodies.  She knocked on my door and said, "Would you like to come to dinner?  You can eat Philippine and see how it tastes."  It was wonderful.

  The talent with which she paints was directed toward the food and its presentation: a little dill sprig here, a splash of vegetables and color there. It was beautiful. 

I helped her put the finishing touches on the food and bring it to the table.   Then I sat and had conversation with strangers about their travels to other countries, about children and grandchildren, about literature from a Senior enrichment class, about my move.   It was delightful and delight-filled.  I feel like I met new friends - and even traded phone numbers with one couple who had many books on hikes throughout my new State of NY.  I hope to run across them again.  Enid, the wife of Karl's cousin, bolstered me, commenting on how brave I was and potential excitement and fright in my move.  And I assured her, it is both.  All of them still had a lust for adventure, and continued to feed that lust in many ways.  I was the Lucky Duck who got to listen to the stories.  It was wonderful.
 
This morning, I woke up longing for my mom. Everywhere

I look, I think I am seeing people that I know.  While my brain first flickers from what it thinks is a similarity, it is only a split second before it also tells itself - "No, that can't be so-and-so because this isn't La Crosse."  

Now, after this has happened several times, I realize that my brain is looking for those familiar faces that it hasn't seen in awhile.  And it just isn't La Crosse - I'm seeing folks from Urbana, from Kincaid, from Albuquerque.  Some part of myself is beginning to look for those familiar faces, those who have been a part of my life.  I feel an ache when I hang up the phone from a conversation with my son.  My daughter and I both are crying over the phone.  I nearly burst into tears when my new smart phone reminds me that it is time for Women's Salmanori Korean Drum Ensemble.  And recognition hits:  my brain is longing for something familiar - for something that it hasn't seen in awhile.  If it can't find the familiarity, it will create it.  Then, when I can pause long enough to become an observer rather than a participant in the new scenes and challenges I am discovering and facing,  I realize that my heart wants to be held by something or someone familiar.  My heart needs a respite. 
This timing, I am sure, is not without reason.  Today, I leave for my new apartment.  I spent last evening packing up my "one car load" of "stuff."  It is not packed as efficiently as it was for my trip from Wisconsin, but it is packed none-the-less.  My new apartment awaits me in Tarrytown.  It is so close to what I imagined my living quarters to be that it is scary.  However, those familiar, everyday things that have anchored me to this new life's shore are being left behind as I set sail and move on out to another.  

"Simple Acts are Sacred Deeds."  

The meaning of those words are discovered again and again as I leave and begin again; leave and begin again; leave and begin again.


Here's my discovery today, from this simple, sacred act of

journaling:  It is time to find a Spiritual Director who can help me tie my heart and brain in synchrony as I move forward.  Letting my brain move forward in its love for novelty and new challenges while my heart is in another place is a disservice - a lack of respect for my "Self." Setting aside sacred time to sit with someone who can witness and help bring to my consciousness what I already know is important.  It is time for - well, simply put - taking time.  I don't want either my brain or my heart to go it alone.   



   

January 22, 2016: Car Mechanic Out of Nowhere

First things first.  As I wrote the date above, I realized that is is the day after what would have been my mom and dad's wedding anniversary, had she lived.  They were wed in

1955, with me living in my mother a mere three months at the time.  The thought of me being present at their wedding - no matter how small I was - brings a smile to my face.  They would have been married 60 years.  Not quite Bogart and McCall - but still pretty cool in their own way.

Next: a car mechanic has appeared.  My broker (yes, I now think of him as "my" broker (rather than "the" broker), who was the go-between for my rental apartment), has lived in Tarrytown for 20 years. When I reached the end of

Wednesday, and realized I had forgotten to find a mechanic to look at my "check engine" light which had blinked on as I drove to work that morning, I emailed my broker.  Yes, he did know someone he trusted to work on his car.  He asked me what time I could go in, how long I could leave it, etc.  I'm thinking, "Why doesn't he just give me the name of the place?"  No matter - I answered him, and he talked to his mechanic, and then talked to me, and I was told to bring the car in at 11 that day.  George (the mechanic) would work me in.  It was important to talk to George and tell him that Ricardo sent me.  Okies - that's what I did. 

I understood once I got there.  There was a deli on one side (not George), and a gas station.  The pumps are not in this picture which pretty much hide the two bay doors where cars are doctored.  There was a very small door on the other end of the building - which was George. It looked like a 2-person gig: a

young man in the front end, and George hidden somewhere in the back.  The young man took care of the pump and register/cash (yes, there is actually service at some of the pumps - I haven't yet figured out when to self-serve and when to not) - and George worked on the cars in a little two bay area.  I did not see a schedule anywhere.  The room was very small.  The young man asked me how he could help, and I explained about Ricardo, and the arrangment I'd been told.  He took my keys and brought the car around.  When George came to meet me, I told him Ricardo sent me - and he smiled and said, "Oh yeah - I talked with him this morning."  When I told him that the "check engine" light had come on - and I was afraid that things might be unsafe, he explained that he would have to hook it up to the computer to take a look.


His helper took my car in, then George hooked it up to the computer, and was back out in a few minutes.  "There is something wrong in the engine...something with how air is being taken in, perhaps a leak...a hose... somewhere."  He spoke English, but it seemed like it was his second language.  "Like the carburetor?"  I asked.  "Oh no," he smiled.  "The carburetor?  No more.  It is past...nor more

since maybe the '80's?  Before?"  "Oh no," I said sheepishly. "I am showing my age and my ignorance.  But something with how the gas and air is mixing, yes."  "Yes...maybe a leaky hose...may something loose...it can't be fixed today - I am very busy."  "Is it dangerous?" I asked.  
     "No - no danger.  But it needs to be fixed."  "Can I make an appointment in a few days to have the work done?"  His eyes traveled skyward, as if he were looking at the schedule in his brain.  He said, "Well...Monday?...Maybe Tuesday?  No, I think Monday...Yes, Monday.  Bring it in Monday morning and leave it with me.  Tell him (pointing to his helper, who was outside)."

I told his helper what George had told me and asked how much I owed.  He said, "Whatever he says."  He was nodding toward George who was going back to the garage to pull my car out.  I asked George what I owed him, and he said, "Well...we'll add it in next Monday...well, $30 - but we'll add it Monday." 

I better understood why my broker had to "broker" my appointment. George doesn't keep a written schedule - at

least that's my thinking.  I think his helper does some of the details that George can't.  I'm not sure how the "pick-up" will go on Monday once George is done - or even if George will have to keep the car until Tuesday.  This much I do know:  Monday morning, bright and early, I will be in Sleepy Hollow at a gas station that has a small deli on one side (not George), and an inconspicuous garage on the other (George).  There are no signs advertising - just a place which may be where the "Pete Conway" of Sleepy Hollow* works his magic. 

QUACK-QUACK!!!

*(For readers living in La Crosse, this description will need no explanation.  For others, know that Pete Conway was a master mechanic who could fix any car due to his almost god-like ability to trouble-shoot.  He and one of his colleagues would ask questions about car sounds and behaviors that one would never thing to listen for or notice - and he was dogged about fixing whatever it was.  In addition, he never gouged you.  If it didn't need fixing, if it was something you could live with and still be safe driving - Pete would tell you to leave it alone.)