Continuity of Experience

47 seems to be a year of reconnecting with my past. This summer will be my 30th high school reunion. 30 years. I dove into the rabbit hole of my high school year books and cybersleuthing to find those whom I remembered and cared about. Some have died. I'm reaching out to set up a Zoom reunion with my fellow Thespian officers from my junior year. 

And a poet I loved once passed away this summer. I re-entered a closed chapter of my life at his memorial. So strange to be remembered. And cared about by people who have kept me in amber as a twenty-something fun person in their memories. 

Umea had just asked me about my past - how often had I done drugs, was I ever cool, was I fun? I tried to explain to her that if you live long enough, you have eras in your life. Your own experience of yourself is continuous, but you are constantly changing, growing, pruning, shedding parts of yourself and what you used to care more about, what you used to do more of. And it's not just life and time that spurs these changes. Every person brings out more of this or that in you, the alchemy of connection or repulsion. You learn from it all. Learn about life but also yourself. What you like. Who you like. Why.

I drank a bottle of wine this week with a friend made during that poetry era. I liked who she loves. She sees the steamroller in me and knows it can make paths for those I value - like poets, like community-makers and storytellers. 

I dine tonight with my oldest friend, who came to every birthday since my 2nd ever through high school. We drifted apart in college but reconnected when we both ended up in Seattle after the turn to the new millennium. And stayed in touch through her saying goodbye to her father in a prison hospital. We grew life at the same time, gave life within a month of each other. We had girls, then, later, boys. We have lived our lives in parallel. Not the same. Not even together. But coming together every so often to witness, to share, to commiserate, to wonder and take turns feeling lost and confused.

And after finding pictures of our parents enjoying games and drinks, I sent them to my childhood neighbor friends. In some ways, those are my strongest memories. Because they were my first memories? Because they were so full of love and fun and joy? All of that. 

And this blog is filled with me realizing again and again that I don't remember if I don't write it down. And weeks and months and years pass, and the continuity of my experience means I don't learn, don't note the passing of time and lessons and love and joy. So, here is one. I am so grateful. I am so full right now of the bigness and strangeness of life. 

"Finding Your Own North Star" - Martha Beck

 Martha Beck - we carry 2 different selves in our heads, some speaking more loudly than others.

• Social self - learn from our families and cultures about what's "good" and what we "should" want. But also provides the skills that carry us toward our goals.
• Essential self - get from your genes. our inner child. helps you to know what you "really" want (even if no one else benefits).

Meditation

 Be here, be present. At peace with what is, and if not, pushing in the direction I want, if things can be changed, and if they can't, pushing back on my want to change me so that I can be at peace with what is. 

Retirement Planning

 Talking to my friend this morning about how he fills his days, since he's retired (and has been for 6 years, starting at age 56).

It's got me thinking about how I would spend my days if I wasn't on the treadmill of all that I have to do - driving kids to school, going to work, driving kids to therapy, cooking "dinner" that everyone will eat. There's probably 2 hours of "family time" that's either watching something together, doing homework, or playing games (not as often as we should, but supposedly every Tues/Thurs eve). Then there's 2 hours of time that I can read or watch something that I want before sleep. Too often that's falling down the rabbit hole of news or Seth Meyers or Stephen Colbert while I play Yukon solitaire or do an online jigsaw.

Good nights are when I do a 20-minute Yoga with Adrienne. Or walk the dog. Or read when I go to bed. Or fall asleep early.

And if I don't make great choices most nights with my 2 hours of me time, what on earth will I do with a whole day? A whole "rest of my life" of days?

So, to set some intentions or imagine the world I want to birth with possibilities, here's an ideal day:

I wake up when I wake up. No alarms. Go for a run or walk. Yoga. Meditation. Puttering/picking up. Put something in crockpot for dinner. Lunch with a friend. Head to volunteer job at church or around town. Reading with kids? Working in the church office? Then dinner with my husband. Watch a little something. Yoga or meditation or walk before bed. Maybe a little reading or journaling. Sleep when I want. Wake when I wake.

That sounds SO GOOD. 

What we pay attention to makes up our lives. What we practice grows stronger.

Morning Meditation - Jonathan Lehmann

 Video

Affirmations:

1.      I make plans but remain flexible. I try to say yes as often as possible.

2.      I cultivate patience, and by doing so, I cultivate self confidence

3.      I welcome the opportunity to step outside my comfort zone, and I do not let myself be guided by fear.

4.      I love myself unconditionally because it’s essential to my happiness. I love the person who I am, and I do not need other people’s approval to love myself fully.

5.      I’m going to drink water, eat fruit and vegetables, walk, take stairs, and exercise. Today, I’m giving love to my body.

6.      I give everywhere I go, even if only a smile, a compliment, or my full attention. Listening is the best gift I can give to those around me.

7.      I try to be impeccable with my word and to speak only to spread positivity. It’s counter productive to speak against myself or others. 

"Sorrow Is Not My Name" (poem) - Ross Gay

- after Gwendolyn Brooks

No matter the pull toward brink. No
matter the florid, deep sleep awaits.
There is a time for everything. Look,
just this morning a vulture
nodded his red, grizzled head at me,
and I looked at him, admiring
the sickle of his beak.
Then the wind kicked up, and,
after arranging that good suit of feathers
he up and took off.
Just like that. And to boot,
there are, on this planet alone, something like two
million naturally occurring sweet things,
some with names so generous as to kick
the steel from my knees: agave, persimmon,
stick ball, the purple okra I bought for two bucks
at the market. Think of that. The long night,
the skeleton in the mirror, the man behind me
on the bus taking notes, yeah, yeah.
But look; my niece is running through a field
calling my name. My neighbor sings like an angel
and at the end of my block is a basketball court.
I remember. My color's green. I'm spring.

—for Walter Aikens

"Wait" (poem) - Galway Kinnell

Wait, for now.
Distrust everything, if you have to.
But trust the hours. Haven’t they
carried you everywhere, up to now?
Personal events will become interesting again.
Hair will become interesting.
Pain will become interesting.
Buds that open out of season will become lovely again.
Second-hand gloves will become lovely again,
their memories are what give them
the need for other hands. And the desolation
of lovers is the same: that enormous emptiness
carved out of such tiny beings as we are
asks to be filled; the need
for the new love is faithfulness to the old.

Wait.
Don’t go too early.
You’re tired. But everyone’s tired.
But no one is tired enough.
Only wait a while and listen.
Music of hair,
Music of pain,
music of looms weaving all our loves again.
Be there to hear it, it will be the only time,
most of all to hear,
the flute of your whole existence,
rehearsed by the sorrows, play itself into total exhaustion.

"To the Young Who Want to Die" (poem) - Gwendolyn Brooks

Sit down. Inhale. Exhale.
The gun will wait. The lake will wait.
The tall gall in the small seductive vial
will wait will wait:
will wait a week: will wait through April.

You do not have to die this certain day.
Death will abide, will pamper your postponement.
I assure you death will wait. Death has
a lot of time. Death can
attend to you tomorrow. Or next week. Death is
just down the street; is most obliging neighbor;
can meet you any moment.

You need not die today.
Stay here--through pout or pain or peskyness.
Stay here. See what the news is going to be tomorrow.

Graves grow no green that you can use.
Remember, green's your color. You are Spring.

Mary-Frances Winters - 4E Model of Inclusion

Exposure

Experience

Education

Empathy

Then audit / scan for Effectiveness.

Winters Group - Inclusion Solution

Everyday Grace (poem) - Stella Nesanovich

It can happen like that:
meeting at the market,
buying tires amid the smell
of rubber, the grating sound
of jack hammers and drills,
anywhere we share stories,
and grace flows between us.


The tire center waiting room
becomes a healing place
as one speaks of her husband's
heart valve replacement, bedsores
from complications. A man
speaks of multiple surgeries,
notes his false appearance
as strong and healthy.

I share my sister's death
from breast cancer, her
youngest only seven.
A woman rises, gives
her name, Mrs. Henry,
then takes my hand.
Suddenly an ordinary day
becomes holy ground.

Meditation - Isn't This Surprising? - David Steindl Rast

Tonight’s meditation come to us from David Steindl Rast, a 96 year-old author, scholar, and Benedictine monk. 

He offers, “we [need to] wake up. Wake up to what? To surprise. As long as nothing surprises us, we walk through life in a daze. We need to practice waking up to surprise”. 

He suggests as a meditative practice, a simple question – used as a type of alarm clock: “Isn’t this surprising?” 

[and] “Yes, indeed!” will be the correct answer, no matter when and where and under what circumstances you ask this question. 

After all, isn’t it surprising that there is anything at all, rather than nothing? 

Ask yourself at least twice a day he says, “’Isn’t this surprising?’” and you will soon be more awake to the surprising world in which we live”.

As we sit in silence with one another – you’re invited to reflect on where you experienced surprises today.

For Joy by Jan Richardson (poem)

 

You can prepare

but still

it will come to you

by surprise

crossing through your doorway

calling your name in greeting

turning like a child

who quickens suddenly

within you

it will astonish you

how wide your heart

will open

in welcome

for the joy

that finds you

so ready

and still so

unprepared.

Chalice lighting - Kristin Famula

 

(quoted parts from “The Aesthetics of Joy”)

 

“Research shows that small bursts of positive emotion 

can help reset the body…”

“can reset …[our] physical responses 

to stress…”

Joy.

Research says

and yes, somehow we already know…

that joy…prepares our bodies.

JOY makes it possible

for us to show up

and show up…

to keep showing up.

 

Oh joy. 

Sometimes hidden.

Sometimes found in unexpected places.

joy… silly and small.

The free flowing sweetness,

and unbridled giggling.

sometimes even found in overwhelming sadness. 

Oh joy. 

Let this light be a reminder.

That “JOY is resistance” .

Oppression

 Last Friday, I received a check to pay me for 8 years of work that I did but was paid less than a man working at the same level. The check was for a considerable sum. When the receptionist told me the amount, I was floored - thankful but then murderously angry. How dare they underpay me for so long and only pay up when forced by a class action lawsuit (with really good lawyers)?

And then I went back to work, back to overtime, back to caring more than anyone else and pushing others to work and care more, too. 

Ten minutes ago, I was listening to the We Can Do Hard Things podcast with Tricia Hersey about how rest can libertate us from the grind culture by giving us space to imagine a different world and as an act of defiance against the systems - capitalism, white supremacy, and misogyny - that would turn us into cogs or robots or underpaid workers by separating our minds from our bodies. Rest does the opposite. Rest is when the body heals, learns, and generates new ideas. When thoughts get coded into cells. 

Tricia asks in the podcast - are you perpetuating grind culture? Are you pushing others? Demanding and setting inhumane expectations? Trying to live up to an ideal of perfection that you didn't dream?

Yes, yes, yes, yes. 

This all compounded with the expectations of a kiddo birthday and Christmas and creating holiday wonder and cheer and memories. Now with cash to spend for presents. 

And all I want to do is work. Use my brain in a subject I know. And then eat. Watch a movie. 

What does rest look like for me? A run on the weekend. Yoga - in person! - for the first time in YEARS last Sunday. Poetry with friends. (Although even that is turned into a to-do to prepare for reading at Sunday Chatter in the New Year). 

How do I do this? What do I do? My Christmas cookie list is 12 recipes, entered into a spreadsheet so I can sum the eggs. (Really?!? Really. Shakes head at self.)

I think I need a new tapping meditation. 

Forehead: I am complete and a full human being, worthy just as I am.

Right cheek: I deserve rest; I look forward to my dreams.

Left cheek: What I bring is enough; it does not have to be all I am or all I can do.

Chin: When my body meets my mind, I am liberated; I am myself; I am whole.

Chest: Honoring others' boundaries supports the world I want to live in; some things can wait or not happen at all. 

Become a lighthouse (poem) by John Roedel

after you survive
your storm
you simply must try to
become a lighthouse

my love,
your scars are
meant to burn so bright
that they will help a person
lost at sea find the shore
every wound you carry
has a 1000 watt bulb inside of it
that preaches the gospel of the coming dawn
one burst of daybreak at a time

my love,
it's the circle
of survival
you have endured
to help others endure

you have outlasted the dark
to become a disciple of light

this is your calling now
~ to plant your feet
in the same shore
you washed up on
~ to insult the darkness
by vowing to stand against
~ to save as many others who
are lost amid the storm
and - of course,
~ to ignite

my love,
it’s time
ignite
ignite
ignite

Speed (poem) - Lynn Ungar

One thing you might love
is the way all things move,
the varied pulse that drives
beings to grow. The moss
creeps forward season by season,
but lichen takes what you and I
know as generations to make
its mark upon the rock.
The bark of the cedar expands
at the rate of millimeters per year.
Mountains move much more slowly,
although a mound of rubble
at the foot of a moraine
might have crashed down
in a single catastrophic moment.
The wings of the hornet
beat too fast for you to see,
and it will magically appear
where you least want it.
Why do you imagine that you
should be moving any faster
or slower than your personal beat?
Listen. Breathe. Move graciously
as salt water touching sand.

Driving Meditation

 [Tapping forehead] I am smart and can bring value if I stay present.

[Tapping right cheekbone] I can stay present and accept what's here for me.

[Tapping left cheekbone] I can stay connected to others and offer what I have to give.

[Tapping chin] I can stay grounded and trust myself to know what to do next.

[Tapping sternum] I am grateful for all I have, and I can be generous to others.

Searching

 I crumpled into tears at Sunday Chatter last week. V.B. Price was doing the spoken word portion. He read his Christmas poems for this year. They were based on a quote by William James:

"The art of being wise is the art of knowing what to overlook."

This is, of course, making the very large assumption that otherwise, a wise person is noticing all the other important factors that should NOT be overlooked but rather meditated on, distilled, integrated, decided, etc.

After hearing Barrett's wisdom, which he shared so generously and unguardedly, I fell into existential angst. I am so confused by my life. I do not know what to overlook, and lately, I'm so tired that I'm overlooking EVERYTHING just to try to be peaceful.

I do not understand who I am, what my gifts to the world should be, what I know, what I don't know, how to act, how to show up, how to support others. It's as though I am living in reverse, since when I was younger, I knew all these things with a vengeance... or thought I did. Maybe it's better to have a little uncertainty to keep one humble. But I am well beyond that into just spinning. 

I have had several long conversations with friends lately, remarkable because they are the exception to my rather insular, homebound life. 

• With my very oldest of friends, who has been my friend since we were both 2, I could see my life as a mother and a woman. How 47 is a turning inward kind of year. Yet still middle age enough to be plenty angsty. 
• With my college friend, I could see my life through my college-age eyes. He asked me what I do for fun. Ummm.... no good answer. Enter crises here.
• With my poet friend, I could see my writer self, ignored, discounted, and underfed. She probably has things to say if we were brave enough to face some hard truths or have enough rationalizations ready for all that we admit we should be doing but ... can't (for good reasons!).
• With my neighbor friend, who was my friend when I was 8 through college and then again now, I see my reader self - not the one who knows anything but the one who reads because I don't know nearly enough. 

All of these parts of me are more interesting to me than my mother self (perhaps because things are rutted) or my wife self (who is mellowing but not all that engaged) or my work self (who has recently been trounced by political winds). 

And is it the failure of my mothering and my working that have led me to question myself? Or have I paid attention only to those most important aspects, to the exclusion of all the other parts of me that I actually like more? 

I think COVID let me hide from friendships in not-good ways. I think I'm more isolated at work now that my work-wife is no longer there. And Terra seems far away, too. 

I've lost my gear. Lost the thread. Lost. 

I'm not sure what to do next. 

Grounding (meditation) by Jess Reynolds

On my worst days, it is gravity I am most grateful for: the way the earth pulls at me from her core, yearns for me, keeps me pressed tightly against her surface. When my own core is hollowed out, when I have no more mass than a leaf dead on the branch, still this is enough for the earth to find me. She reaches for what little I have and says, stay.

Every meditation I have ever done begins by asking me to ground myself. This is not so much an action as it is inaction. Surrender. A voluntary abandonment of my own edges and tidy packaging.

Sit with me now. Press the soles of your feet back into the ground you sprang from. Feel the weight of your body and know that it is glorious. You are born of soil and sun, and all the heaviness of the earth is a call to you. The earth is reaching for you. Reach back. Reach back.

Why am I here?

 

Because I signed up. 

Because I sign up.

Because I need help and support living well, finding meaning. 

Because I find meaning here.

Because I find myself here.

Because I search. 

Because it's lonely to search and not have answers.

Because I like the way I show up here. 

Because I have skills that can be of service.

Because I believe in spaces that support searching and holding answers lightly and sharing them tentatively, as you share poems, as though they may be of use, and if they are, what gifts.