An intent to redirect my musings to an audience that's interested
Ok ya’ll . . . I’ve been dry on the blog site for a long while now, as you’ve probably noticed.
I think the reason is the things I’ve wanted to write about lately are private.
That said, I intend to continue blogging, but for now I’m going to check the pretty little box marked “Private.” That way I can blog freely.
I promise to uncheck those posts that feel appropriate to share.
Otherwise, I’m curling up solo in my writer’s cocoon for a while.
Thanks for visiting in the meantime.
~Tessa
The last time I met with Carl he invited me to consider what creates my psychological identity. He suggested I consider it in terms of percentages or a pie chart and ask myself, “What percentage of my identity comes from relationships? From career?”
I was intending this post to be an active exploration of that, but as I come closer to actually doing so I’m encountering some resistence. Suddenly I am more aware of a slight headache, of my waning interest in blogging in general, of the books tempting me from my nighstand . . . Could it be that I am experiencing avoidance?
Ok, ok, I’m pushing through it. Identity, identity. . . where do I derive my psychological identity . . . ?
The first thing that comes to mind is, “From being nice.”
Now, that’s a little ironic because, honestly, I’m not all that nice all that much of the time. But I know how to be when I want to be and I actually am fairly often, so we’ll go with that. I’m nice.
I’m going to put “nice” in the Relationship and Image wedges of my pie, overlapping. Relationship, because being nice usually involves another person; and Image because . . . well, I suppose I like to be perceived as nice (I am getting entirely sick of this word). Kind of scary, huh? I’m letting it out that my niceness may not always be 100% selfless, which I find frankly frightening to consider and scare. Moving on to the next identity statement to surface:
I am a Naropa graduate.
This goes under Achievements and . . . what, Status? I’m aware that I egoically believe that by attending and graduating from Naropa I moved into a different bracket than someone who didn’t necessarily choose a contemplative education.
Maybe I’m exposing a little more than necessary to the world here (watch, I’m about to do a great job of changing the subject and avoiding further identity exploration).
It’s the holiday season and people keep telling me I’m easy to buy presents for. I think that’s “nice” and all, but I’m also beginning to wonder about my transparency and how I feel about it.
I think in the past I’ve prided myself on being completely open and available for all to see and share in. But it appears that may be changing, which excites me–and has made blogging more difficult. How can I write about personal observation, growth and insight without giving away the whole cow (horse? Gold? What the frig is that you give away . . . ? The show! No . . .)?
I’ll keep mulling that over and in the meantime, we’ll have to be satisfied with an identity pie consisting of two pieces, Nice and Naropa, Relationships and Achievements. May I truly get to the rest of it another day.
Today was an exceptionally cozy day. Mom and I reorganized the upstairs living area to incorporate and decorate the sweet little Christmas tree Dad and I brought home earlier in the week.
While we steadied the trunk and strung the lights, we sang loudly along to the melismas of Handel’s Messiah (believe me, you are very sorry you missed this performance!) and then Pandora Christmas radio. It was all quite like the movies, our trimming the tree, except for me occasionally utterly phrases like, “These lights look shitty.” Sorry, Ma.
She’s used to my not-quite-Hollywood behavior, at least. One year Ty and I stayed up into the wee hours of the night decorating our silver tip tree with countless strands of carefully placed white lights. When Mom awoke to the surprise the next morning she oohed and cooed and called us her “little elves” (name inspired in part by the red button up union suits we both wore; union suits: onesies for adults with functional back flaps, if you know what I mean). It became one of her favorite Christmas memories until she learned we’d smoked a smidge of “weeds” while executing the labor of love. Again, sorry Ma . . .
Another year, Tyler and I were in his room on Christmas Eve wrapping presents and again poofin’ a little toof. Dad knocked on the door and we tried to gently deter him by explaining, “No Dad, don’t come in. We’re wrapping!” But, Dad being Dad turned the knob oh so slowly, easing the door open; then with his eyes squeezed shut poked just his head into the room. After a few seconds Dad’s nose began to twitch like a rabbit’s and he asked innocently, “What’s that smell?”
As I recall, Christmases were relatively devoid of such scandal during my adolescence; but delve into the single digits and you’ll find little Tessa creeping into the closet, behind the couch and into closed paper bags. I snooped all over our house every year and repeatedly ruined surprises for myself. Once, I found an awesome Spirograph set which I oddly never received (karma . . . ?) and when I was about 11, I found two Boxcar Children books my brother bought for me. For some reason discovering that gift early has always caused a little twinge in my heart. I think I may have changed my ways after that.
Unfortunately, my ways-changing didn’t happen in time to salvage the candy ornament Ty made in third grade. At four years old I neatly crawled under the tree, retrieved the sparkling rainbow swirl dangling dangerously low on a limb and took it back to my bedroom where I ate it under my bed.
Ahh, confession never felt so sweet. Merry holiday season, everyone!
Apparently, I have a weakness for being codependent.
I’ve been told as much before in the context of no context; then in Ennagra-speak: Twos are the type most inclined towards codependency; and tonight my friend Kristina shared that a Priest told her that priest-ing (note: and priestessing) is the perfect codependent career. Hm. Some food for thought (although perhaps not so interesting as the question, “What context on God’s green earth led to a priest sharing his thoughts on codependency with Kristina!?”).
From what I understand off the top of my head, codependency is what occurs when the needs of two people become so intertwined that one cannot be fulfilled without the other, which is not nearly as romantic as it sounds (or did that only sound romantic to me . . . ?). Codepency can be a vicious cycle of enabling, ripe with furtile grounds for frustration and resentment. Becoming codependent is the exact opposite of actually being helpful to someone.
Yikes.
Kristina (a psychology major and wise woman to boot) also suggested that codependency is essentially self-forgetting. But if that is the case, how does codependent self-forgetting differ from spiritual self-forgetting–the kind advocated in nearly every spirtual tradition I’ve studied thus far?
All along I’ve been hearing the messages: think of others before yourself, give more than you feel you can and it shall be returned to you, as you give, so shall you receive. Could it be that giving to myself might actually be a way for others to receive, too?
My Enneathought today alterted me to to possibility that “One of [my] sure-fire ‘hot buttons’ is to resent other people’s boundaries;” then asked me to consider, “how can you accept the reasonable limits set by others?”
Although this doesn’t pertain exactly to our topic of codependency, it does give me a tactic to use that is at least in the general vicinity. So, if i feel like I can’t figure out this whole codependency schtick and thus I continue to be codendent with people without any boundaries. . . at least I might begin reconsidering my behavior with those with “reasonable limits.”
There’s hope for us all.
One of the biggest benefits I reaped from the REAL program was the acknowledgement of “small successes.” The idea is relatively simple and probably nothing you’ve not heard before, but the phrasing was such that this time it sank in. Or, I suppose I was ready to hear it.
Small successes were not explicitly defined during the workshop, but what I gathered from the stories and conversations about them, a small success is any moment or event in your life during which you feel wholly whole (or centered, calm, joyful, in the flow; you get the idea. . .). The purpose of identifying small successes was primarily so we could incorporate them into our individual compasses (a concept I hope to revisit with ya’ll at some point). It was also (this is likely the part that may sound familiar) to shift one’s focus from problems or conditions to what is right with life.
See, not so unique of a concept, huh? Yet I have embraced it and each day find myself saying outloud, “A small success!” This has a whole slew of positive effects on my life. Recognizing small successes removes pressure to always do and become more, more, more. It eases doubt and worry. It can be reassuring in the sense that I am usually able to note some progress and growth, no matter how minute. It can also make big scary deals seem littler.
For example, today I met with my therapist, Joan, for the first time in over a year. We have begun working on some of the deeper, thornier issues in my life—things that for the most part I have gotten very good at compartmentalizing and ignoring.
Although our meeting went well and I have been taking good care of myself since, it can be overwhelming to think back to the topics we covered, to consider where I am and where I’ll end up. But you see, rather than struggle with overwhelm, I can choose to consider the small successes.
I took myself to see Joan in the first place. Small success! I took a walk and sat cross legged in a field facing Mount Shasta for an hour after our session, therefore taking another step towards my own healing. Another small success. For a trickier situation to assess: I bought myself a big mug of hot cocoa and a hunk of pumpkin pecan streusel bread. Although this may appear to be an unhealthy choice, I still vote “small success” because I gave myself a little gift of comfort food (yes, and sugar).
In the Enneagram book most recently gifted to me from Carl and Kathy, there is a description of Twos at a healthy level that says, “Healthy Twos let go of the belief that they are not allowed to care for themselves. Thus they can own their feelings and needs and are free to love others without expectations.”
I would say the three examples of today’s small successes that I gave you would put me (for a moment, however brief) into the category of Healthy Twos. And you know what that means. . . another small success. May the trend continue.
The following is an offline blog I wrote on the first day of that workshop I attended that caused me to be “out of the office” for a solid week. I believe the date was November 12, 2009 . . .
Today was the first of a four day workshop I am attending called the REAL Life Optimization Program. They passed out homework at the end, three assignments with the instruction to choose a minimum of one to complete.
The first option was “Tell three people that you are doing this workshop.” Since three is just about the number of people that read my blog daily 
I figured this was a perfect way to complete my assignment.
As I understand it, the purpose of telling people about our involvement in such a program is to strengthen our own understanding of why we’re doing it. I suppose it also spreads word of the REAL program, but even if that’s the case, I don’t mind doing a little advertising. I feel good about supporting the people behind this project.
I heard about it in the first place from Tyler, who went through the program with his betrothed last June. He found it highly relevant and encouraged Mom, Dad and myself to go. I probably wouldn’t have, being the high and mighty (and poor) Naropa graduate that I am. I felt like I’d gotten a lot of this “getting real” at the contemplative university where I earned my degree, and I just plain couldn’t afford it.
Then, local therapists John Cunningham and Doug Carter decided to offer the program as a gift to the Mt. Shasta community for a pittance of $200. It was an opportunity not to be turned down; and my folks and I all decided to take it.
That my parents would be participating also made the opportunity a greater one. I saw participating in the REAL program as a chance to develop and hone a common language to use within my family unit. We’re close and we get along well most of the time, but there are fissures, of course, which I ache to see fused.
I mentioned once before how to the town of Mt. Shasta I appear to be a very happy and positive person, but that my parents, obviously are privy to a different perspective that allows them to see me sad, angry, critical and disrespectful.
It’s ironic, and I don’t think I’m alone when I say that the qualities I aspire to most are the least apparent when I interact with my family. Sensitive, kind, loving, compassionate and respectful I am not always, when I’m with the people to whom I am closest.
I think that’s in part precisely because we are close and all the details fuzzy from a distance come into clear focus when they’re near. I think it’s because we’re comfortable and all pretences are put aside. With my family I can push away from the dinner table and undo the top button of my jeans if I’ve eaten too much. The same is true for my emotional jeans.
The difference, I suppose, is that the tendencies I contain with my top button in public can hurt the people I’m close to—the very last thing I would ever want to do. Yet I unintentionally did so again tonight, in the vulnerable and tender aftermath of the REAL program.
. . . which is why I’m still a very real work in progress. Thanks for listening.
Grael, the woman behind the Flying Lotus dance studio and instructor of Galactic Groove recently invited me to join a circle of women as part of the AvaSha Clan. She asked me if I wanted to attend Priestess school.
The request certainly intrigued me, although my first reaction was, “No, thank you. Still, curious and not knowing a thing about the Clan or their actions, I chose to inquire further before making a decision. At the next Galactic Groove ecstatic dance gathering, I asked Grael about AvaSha and why she thought I was a match. “To put it simply, I felt in your aura that you had done this before; and often when we’ve done something in past lifetimes, we want to do it again,” she explained. She provided me with a handout called Return of the Priestess.
As I read about modern day priestesses, women committed to “deep integrity and tremendous dedication . . . courage and grace to journey the continuous ascents and descents of life’s spiral . . . deep inner work . . . confronting, clearing, healing past wounds. . .” I did feel a certain resonance in my core. Conflicted, I said a prayer that my feelings would be clarified and confirmed and then dove into that night’s dance.
Spinning, I wavered back about forth about the invitation to join Grael’s Priestess school and decided “no” most every time. But the next time Galactic Groove rolled around and I saw the sparkling light of a woman, Grael’s excitement and joy was so contagious that I agreed wholeheartedly to at least attempt the path. “I will see you Sunday at our first meeting!” she said, squeezing my hands. “Check your email for homework assignments.”
One of the assignments was to write a Priestess Intention, which I did passionately. I connect deeply with many of the aspects of being a priestess as I understand them–namely, being “dedicated to serving the beauty, love and spirit in all life.” I brought my intention to share with the 13 other beautiful women in the circle and enjoyed a powerful exchange of energy and love.
Yet in the days to follow, I found myself resenting the “homework” we’d been assigned. I’ve been meditating almost daily and using positive affirmations consistently, but somehow at the proposition that I was to do a joyful gratitude meditation every morning as partial fulfillment of my role as “Priestess,” I found myself feeling resentful. More books to read, more ideas to examine, more concepts to grasp–my shelves are already overflowing!
Suddenly, miraculously, I recognized that I am full to capacity. Along with that, I noticed a pattern I have been enacting. I open my heart and arms wide and attempt to absorb every aspect of wisdom of every tradition. I did so when I began studying Buddhist thought and eventually attending services at the Abbey and again when I began to explore the miracles performed at the Christian mega-church Bethel. There are other examples as well.
I have decided not to continue with the circle of AvaSha priestesses. I can’t say if it will always be the case, but at this point in my life I have a deep conviction that I must follow my own path, and not one laid out by someone else.
I remain respectful and grateful to Grael and her priestesses. My entire life people have asked me what “Tessa” is short for. Even as I deny the title officially, I love to consider that my full name might be Priestessa. If you’re inclined to explore what that means to me, please read my Priestess Intention which remains true even as I choose to adhere to my own nameless truth.
It should be easy to write on days when my designated topic is obvious. Yet the contrary appears to be true, especially with a full tummy and tryptophan brain.
There’s a bizarre squeaking noise coming through the floor. Maybe I ought to blog about that instead of gratitude?
Today is Thanksgiving, or Turkey Day as some (rather annoyingly) like to call it. I always enjoy the holiday a reasonable amount, although I also consider every day a day to give thanks. Still, it’s lovely to take time out together to show gratitude for what we’re thankful–and consume mass quantities of glorious food! (If “Turkey Day” is the equivalent of “x-mas”, food is equivalent to presents in holiday meanings’ misinterpretations).
For some years now my parents have been invited over to a good friend’s house to spend the holiday, since all of our extended family lives elsewhere; and for the past two I’ve had the privilege of going with them. At Terry and Happ’s we are spoiled with exquisite versions of traditional favorites, always including hors de vours to satisfy a king, stuffing to die for and three kinds of cranberry sauce (authentic, canned and DELICIOUS mixed with creaminess and pretzels). Terry spends a great deal of time on every tiny detail and the result is a spectacular spread with a beautifully decorated table to lay it down upon. Then a group of loving, happy, warmhearted people converge around it and we dine graciously together.
At this particular Thanksgiving celebration there is an added tradition of playing a game. Usually it’s Cranium, but tonight we took a stab at Mad Gab, a game in which players read nonsense sentences that eventually sound enough like common catchphrases that other players are able to guess them.
The game playing is always a highlight, especially, it seems, for the women. Every year we split into male vs. female teams, and every year the game persists with the women shrieking in unison, laughing uproariously and clutching one another, while the men mostly sit and watch the women, semi-amused.
Could this have something to do with freedom of expression in sexual stereotypes? Or female bonding being more easily faciliated? Do women just care more about winning silly board games?
I’m not sure of the cause of the phenomenon. I do know that every time we play I have great fun and laugh my flippen fanny off (and hopefully two pieces of pie). It is downright delightful and tonight I am thankful for that.
Grace
Thanks & blessings be
to the Sun & the Earth
for this bread & this wine,
this fruit, this meat, this salt,
this food;
thanks be & blessing to them
who prepare it, who serve it;
thanks & blessings to them
who share it
(& also the absent & the dead).
Thanks & Blessing to them who bring it
(may they not want),
to them who plant & tend it,
harvest & gather it
(may they not want);
thanks & blessing to them who work
& blessing to them who cannot;
may they not want – for their hunger
sours the wine & robs
the taste from the salt.
Thanks be for the sustenance & strength
for our dance & work of justice, of peace.
—-Rafael Jesus Gonzalez
Today is my dad’s birthday. Some years it falls on Thanksgiving, others not; every one we’re thankful for him anyway.
Mom and I took Dad out to dinner at a local sushi restaurant called Vivify. It’s a sweet little establishment with tasteful decor, creative entrees, beautiful dishes and a contientious business model. If not for the unfortunate online R&B radio station that always seems to be playing in the background, it would be near perfect.
Despite it all–the good restaurant, the good company, the good cheer–I still had trouble staying present tonight. My mind was all over the yesterdays and tomorrows. One minute I was thinking about how the last time I was at Vivify was with David; the next, I was ten years in the future with an income to support fine dining on a regular basis. I had to keep bringing myself back to the sweetness directly at hand, which, I suppose, is meditation in action. The mind wanders and we come back to the breath. The mind wanders and we come back to life. . .
An idea for relaxing the mind came to me while settling into savasana (“corpse pose”) during yoga this morning. Often, during this phase of the class, the instructor will talk students through a tense and release process which typically begins with the feet and legs. “Inhale and tense up your toes, calves, thigh muscles; squeeze! Now, lift your legs slightly off the floor, tight, tight, and . . . release.” Moving up the body, this is repeated until all of the major muscle groups have been tightened then relaxed.
While this is an effective way to help the body deeply relax more quickly, I find that my mind still runs amock in such a way that “final” relaxation is actually quite difficult to achieve. (I’m not alone in this. As simple as it appears, savasana is recognized as perhaps the single most difficult pose in yoga to actualize, precisely because of the fickle nature of mind). So today, as I lay still with a quiet body and a chattering mind, I thought to myself, “What if I tensed and released my mind as well?”
I reasoned that if tensing a bicep means using every portion of the muscle and all available energy there at once, then tensing the mind would logically be covering every topic my mind mulls over these days in a few brief seconds. And then, release!
If I recall correctly, today’s attempt went something like this:
What will I eat for breakfast? I have to get to work by 11. Should I replace my lost cellphone? Nathan is out of town so we’ll have to meet next week. When will Joe let me know about dancing this weekend? I wonder if Isaac’s party will be fun. What will I wear to the party? It’s almost time for another haircut. It’s dad’s birthday! I’ll take him out to dinner. I need to balance my budget! How much can I afford to pay Grael for Priestess school? And . . . Release!
I don’t know whether the technique actually worked or not. I’ve sort of forgotten what happened after that–which could seem like a good sign, hm? If I remembered all of those bothersome thoughts and then nothing afterword, that must mean something.
As for “Priestess school?!” Just another one of those secrets I’m not quite ready to let slip, an enigma of a topic I will likely choose to elaborate on . . . eventually. . .
Have you ever had many people in a row tell you look tired?
Such was my lovely morning today. Although, it actually was a lovely morning and despite that I apparently looked wretched, I felt rather chipper and exuberant.
I spent the a.m. chatting with various townspeople, baking and attempting to blog with a VERY slow internet connection (I gave up). The afternoon I spent reorganizing the garage with my pops, and the evening, d-a-n-c-i-n-g!
It was African dance tonight, with a wonderful teacher named Kimberly who was once upon a time my Hellerwork practitioner–a topic for another day.
I took African drumming and dance while attending Naropa U and adored both. The passionate teachers and earthy beats always take my soul on wild adventures! I eventually joined a dance troupe called Logo Ligi and at one point was $100 in and a word away from going to Ghana for a month with the group. Alas, I backed out in the end–which I tell you, makes me wary of my current longings to go to Latin America and dance. There shall be no shying away from the passion this time!
“Passion”-another of the cards that came up in my tarot reading yesterday afternoon. “Courage” was the one I referenced before.
So, dance was fabuloso as usual and thanks to my experience, dedication and excitement about it all, I can safely say that other than the teacher I was the “best” dancer in there.
Meaning of “best” in this case? Able to pick up and mimic the moves most quickly and closely.
Another aside: David used to dislike the way I fixated on the definition and connotation of words. He thought I was being new-agey and picky. I happen to find it endearing and important, for the record. Although I will admit that it does interrupt the flow. . .
. . . As I was saying, I was the “best” dancer in the class; my point in saying so was that as I tossed my head and waved my arms widely from side to side, I had a sweetly profound revelation. My “best”ness was coming from practice, persistence and passion and was carried on by more of the same. And for once in my life I was able to embrace it without worrying about superiority in one way or another.
One of my absolute favorite passages is Marianne Williamson’s Our Greatest Fear in which she powerfully claims:
Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.
Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.
It is our light not our darkness that most frightens us.
We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented and fabulous? . . .
Then of course she goes on to pose the question, Actually, who are you not to be?
I have been hiding in my own expansive shadow for a long time. It was a blissful thrill to realize that tonight I was dancing my light.
