Aubergine

gratitudes

 

   1.    Facing a situation that hurt, gracefully.  Being gentle with myself afterwards.
    2.    Finding my Riley cat curled up just inside the front door waiting for me when I got home so late last night.
    3.    Gorgeous clouds in a blueblue sky as I walked along the edge of the ocean this morning.
    4.    At dinner last night, while I talked about what’s going on with me to one friend, feeling the two friends across the table *holding* me, as clearly as if they were laying their hands on my skin.
    5.    Knowing that I’m good at my job, and I love doing it.
    6.    Driving home over the mountain into a full moon that lit up cloud fragments like little opals scattered across a black sandy beach.
    7.    Looking forward to spending the solstice day with a friend, with no specific plans but lots of options, and knowing the company will be excellent even if we do no more than sit still.
    8.    Getting the registration confirmation for a week-long silent retreat in the fall.  Doing this is something on my 100-things list, but one of the scarier ones.
    9.    My “powerful woman” playlist that brings me back to center no matter how blue I’m feeling.
    10.    Trusting that I know my right way, if only I have the courage to listen.

I like to wear boots

Is There Life After Feminism
(or how to wear boots and still be politically incorrect)
Maude Meehan

I like to wear boots.
I like the noise they make.
I walk real uppity in boots.
I walk strong.
If pressed
I can land a punch, a kick,
demolish a rapist,
and if I want to
I can go to bed in boots.

I cook without Tofu or eggplant
and I hate alfalfa sprouts. Call it heresy.
I hug my husband, my sons,
and send my daughter radical feminist literature.
I hug her too.  I hug my gay friends,
and don't apologize for being straight.
I hug my friends of color
and won't apologize for being white.
How can we stand up together
if we're putting each other down?

I am a senior citizen. 
There are advantages.
I get ten percent off on pancakes at Golden Wist
and a dollar off at the Nickelodeon.
Sometimes I wear lipstick, mascara
and don't ask anyone's pardon.
I wear a dress when I visit my mother.
She's ninety-six, I'm sixty-five.
Spare me your arguments.  Where is it written
that any one of us has all the right answers
for anyone else?

I am a good citizen.
There are disadvantages.
I write to presidents and politicians
and they do what they want anyway.
I go to marches, to meetings, to jail,
and I have a file in Washington in my very own name
which I refuse to send for.
I know who I am.
Even when I do dishes, mind kids or wear high heels
I know who I am.
But what I like about wearing boots is,
there's no confusion.
Everyone knows who I am.  Watch out!

For Kirsten, a fellow boot-wearer, on her birthday.  Happy birthday!

read

I read a whole book yesterday, cover to cover.  I started it at lunch time, sitting in the back yard with my feet in the sun after eating half of my turkey sandwich.  I look an hours-long break, left it splayed face down on my bed, while I finished a status report, my emails, went to the store, made dinner, watched companionable TV with Lisa.  But it called me back after the TV began to bore me and Lisa headed to bed so I stretched out on the couch with it and sank back in.  I finished it just an hour past my normal bedtime, eyes only heavy for the last chapter.

The only problem with reading a whole book in a day is that now it is done, and I already miss the characters, though I feel like I barely got a chance to know them.

The book was The Monk Downstairs, by Tim Farrington, which I found recommended on the lovely Magpie Girl blog.  I pass on the recommendation, but only if you have a day or so that you can dive in uninterrupted, for it is that kind of story.  Sweet, gentle, good.  And characters you will miss when you leave them.

I see she has  more recently reviewed Notes from an Exhibition, by Patrick Gale, which I bought when I was in London in March, and has been returning to my mind regularly since I read it weeks ago. 

Next on my reading list is Divisadero by Michael Ondaatje, though really I should finish American Pastoral from bookgroup first, though I have to admit its pace is a bit slow for summer day reading.  It seems to require a fire and a blanket and a *very* long evening, when I'd just rather be outside.

In the garden

Recently, when I was talking about working in my garden, a friend said to me, "I sense that you are someone who gets a lot of healing from gardening."  And yes, that is true.  It calms me, slows me, to have my hands in the dirt.  I find a great deal of joy from communing with the plants while I water, while I groom, or just check in on them.  Notice which have new leaves, new flowers, which are struggling and which are flourishing.

My garden was feeling a bit overwhelming for a while there.  Gardening was something Lisa and I would do together.  But she's lost interest, or doesn't want to work with me in this way, and tending to a large yard solo is a pretty daunting task.  But my mom has been helping, and having a helper caused my manager side to kick in.  I broke it all down into tasks, made lists, prioritized.  Made a repeating reminder on my calendar to water, to fertilize.  The lists are still only half done, but I can see such a difference in the yard already, and I so much enjoy going out there in the mornings and checking in with the plants. 

The basil that I thought wasn't going to make it is putting out lots of new leaves, getting lush and bushy, though still only about 3 inches tall.  The sweet peas that are probably too much in the shade are reaching tall for the hairy twine wound around the trellis they are to grow up.  The tomato plants are all strong and green-smelling and starting to show signs of setting fruit.  The oregano and sage that had grown wild and lanky over the winter and which I cut back hard a few weeks ago are putting out new and healthy branches, smelling sweet and strong, and making me imagine the meals I can make with them.  It is hard for me to cut back plants that have gone lanky, as I'm often afraid that I'm going to kill them.  But more often than not, they come back stronger, healthier, more lush.

There were a few plants in my back yard container garden that survived the winter, though they never really did well last summer.  As a gardener, I'm not a good editor.  I have too much empathy for plants that are struggling but still showing signs of life.  I felt especially protective of these particular plants.  I have struggled through winters.  I have struggled to thrive in an environment that wasn't quite right.  These two or three that were valiantly a hanging on were rewarded with fresh soil, new pots, fertilizer.  I rearranged them so they got more sun.  And each of them is now thriving.  One has put out the burgundy blossoms that were the reason I purchased it in the first place, a fact that I had forgotten because it never flowered last summer.

It is hard not to draw parallels between my life and these plants.  And so I love on them, and in so doing, love myself.

How ironic is it

that when the California courts finally make gay marriage legal in this state, I no longer want to be married to my same-sex partner?

tiny, powerful

I started this tiny journal on March 1, just a few days after Lisa and I decided to end our marriage.  I wanted to have a place to create some focus in the midst of the emotional turmoil that I knew I would be experiencing for a while.  I set an intention to write in it twice a day - once in the morning, before getting out of bed, and once in the evening before sleeping.  The morning would be about creation.  I remembered reading an interview with Elizabeth Gilbert a while back, and she talked about a journal she kept after the end of her marriage where she asked herself, over and over, "What do I really really want?"  The list changed every time she asked the question, but she began to see some patterns which allowed her to focus on the life she wanted to create for herself.  So each morning, I ask, "What do I really really want?" And then I list the 5 things that are most pressing for me right then.  In the evening, I record my gratitude - 5 things I was grateful for that day.  On bad days, this is really hard, but also when it is most needed.  It helps me to clear my mind of all the things I regret, or that didn't go the way I wanted, or that hurt, and take into my dreams only the things that brought me joy, or peace.  And I can always summon at least 5.  Sometimes there are many more.

I've filled about 2/3 of the book at this point, and last night I read through the whole thing from the beginning.  I haven't managed to write every single morning and evening, but I haven't missed very many days.  Some days I only do either morning or evening.  The creation list is on the left page, the gratitude list is on the right.  When I do record both morning and evening, it is interesting to see that sometimes the gratitudes directly relate to the morning intentions.  Some of the entries are cryptic, and I can't really remember the event or interaction that prompted them.  Some are strongly evocative of a particularly good or bad day.  There are definitely patterns forming.  I'm often grateful for sleep, for deep connections with several people who mean a lot to me, for finding and exercising my strength and authenticity, for books, for the times when I face something hard or scary and come out OK.  On the creation side, I long for simplicity, for the time and emotional space to move at my own fairly slow and introspective pace, for deep connections with good people, for feeling centered and grounded, for continuous growth, for the courage to set and maintain my own boundaries, for peace and joy.

I've been having a particularly hard week this week, drowning in sadness and feeling lost and lonely.  It has been a good week to re-connect with my little journal, refocus on what I want and what I am grateful for.  And it was good to read through the last couple of months of entries and find that I am following a steady path, even with all that is swirling around me.   And to remember that all I need I already have, right here inside of me.

vows

It is a Hindu wedding tradition for a bride to put red bangles on the day of her marriage, red being symbolic of life and joy.  If her husband dies, the bangles are broken and all other symbols of the marriage are removed. 

I put these red bangles on one day in January last year, when I was in Rishikesh, a quiet symbol of a vow to myself to find my joy again.

Today is the anniversary of a marriage that has ended, and my left finger no longer wears the symbolic reminder of those vows.  But I'm still seeking my joy.

when I didn't have my camera

You looked up and caught me watching you from across the table.  Your smile started in your eyes and then warmed your whole face like the sun coming out from behind a cloud.

I was in the back of a pickup truck with a group of volunteers just after dark on a cold, windy night, way out on an organic farm up the coast. There was a light shining on the clouds at the crest of the hill above the farm, like headlights from a giant's car.  It wavered and grew, teased by the clouds scudding along the hilltop.  As I sat there wondering about it, someone asked, "What's that light?"
"It's the full moon rising."

Driving back down the hill through a stand of eucalyptus trees, standing in the wind in the back of the truck, the moon has cleared the hilly horizon, but is hidden behind a small dense cloud, creating a bright white aura that we glimpse through the branches.  Just as we exit the tree tunnel, the moon breaks free, lights up the neighboring clouds, the sky, the hills that roll down toward the ocean, and our upturned faces.

She was sitting at the other end of the dining room table from me, energetically discussing divorce and the ethics and emotions of separating entwined lives.  The baby was nearly asleep, relaxed against her chest, spine softened into a deep C, the way only baby spines do.  One tiny hand was wrapped up in her long dark hair at her neck, and the other arm was flung around her in a hug, small head tucked in against her collar bones.  She supported him steadily with one strong arm crossed under his bottom and one hand on his back, fingers splayed to cover the breadth of his chest.

At the barn dance I'm standing near the fireplace, facing down the center aisle between two rows of dancers.  This dance involves the lead couple reeling down the line as part of the pattern, a complicated series of spins back and forth across the aisle with each other and each dancer in line from one end to the other.  A mother is carrying her young son in a piggy back ride for this dance, coupled with a man across the line.  When they reach the head position and start the reel, she doesn't set the boy down, but does the reel bent over to balance him all the way down the line.  When they reach the end she bounces to shift him higher on her back and pulls the his arms up over her head so that when she joins her partner's hands to form the arch for the next formation, the small family is joined for the rest of the dancers to pass under.

getting the blood moving

Because I was having a bit of trouble getting going this morning, I kickstarted myself by putting on some Nine Inch Nails and Tool (loud, because that's the only way you can listen to that music) and then dancing around the house. 

I woke up both cats.  Now they are both sitting in the middle of the floor in my room, looking balefully at me.  "Mama.  What the hell.  That's LOUD."

Look, you guys.  I'm the one with opposable thumbs around here, and I'll listen to the music loud if I want to.

turning away and toward

I have been finding it so hard recently to come to this portal and write about my life.  And yet, doing so seems somehow necessary.  But where to start?  Just start, my therapist would say.  And so.

I am getting divorced.  There is no way to ease into saying that.  There are sideways ways I could come to it and I have tried them all out in the seemingly endless times I have needed to announce this change in my life to all the people I interact with in all the different aspects of my life.  But it all boils down to that statement, whether I say the words, or I just see it dawning in the eyes of the person I'm talking to.  Divorced.  It is so final.  And yet not at all tidy.  It is the hardest thing I have had to face in my life thus far.  And I both do not want to talk about it and I need very much to talk about it.

Healing, I think, is a very personal journey.  And for me, healing requires talking and writing and painting my way through it.  And yet, dividing two lives that have been joined requires the healing of two people, and that means that I can not talk about my personal experience without involving hers.  And it feels unfair to write openly here about what for her is private.  But I will do my best to write my way through and also protect her privacy.

Elizabeth Gilbert wrote about this conflict a bit in her book Eat, Pray, Love, and I liked the way she handled it.  I have no interest in airing the disputes or the fights or the pained words, or creating a list of where we tried and where we failed and what was whose fault.  I'm interested now in healing and moving forward.  The decision is made, the marriage is over.  Now I have in front of me a whole big life, and I want to step into it.  With big, confident, brave strides.  I want to inhabit my life fully, all the way out the very edges.  Live bigger than I ever have before. 

In the last few weeks I have found that I am both reaching in and reaching out.  I seem to know intuitively what I need to heal, and the process feels so authentic that I'm surprised at myself.  I have gone through painful breakups before, and I dealt with them so differently.  I isolated myself and fell into deep depressions, I drank too much, I wound up in bed with people I didn't even like because I was lonely.  I just sort of expected that I'd walk some of that path again before I pulled myself out and moved on.  But I haven't been doing those things.  I have created a safe, soft, nurturing space for myself in my home, for when I need to retreat, but also I am reconnecting with people I have been out of touch with for far too long, as well as opening up and inviting new people with new energy into my life.  I realized how lonely I have been these last couple of years, and have simply decided to change it.  I have had hard conversations with Lisa and found my strength and courage and truth and words to express them. I have found a deep well of love for myself that has allowed me to hear the voices of doubt and fear and hurt, and hold them, then let them go.  I am letting myself see how people respond to me - with interest and respect and attraction and affection - and am slowly learning to trust that, not question it.  I'm letting people take care of me, and also feeling clear about how I need to take care of myself.  I am remembering what it feels like to fully inhabit my skin.  I am a sensual and curious and affectionate woman, and I have kept that strongly under wraps for years, for what I believed was the good of  my relationship.  But I lost a part of myself that way and now I'm finding her again, and I really missed her.  I am saying no when I need to, and feeling comfortable with my boundaries.  I am facing some big decisions in my life that are scary and daunting, but not allowing myself to feel pressured to make any decisions before I know completely what I want.   I am learning to trust my intuition and my ability to feel my way to the right decision and then to say it clearly.

Is this the balanced place that I always seem to be seeking?  Was I always just working to hard to find it, when all I really needed to do was make some space, be still and feel it?