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The universe puts us together in such interesting ways.
Yesterday, Michael and I spent an afternoon at the lake, then ran into Joseph downtown on his way to call me from a payphone. I invited him to come to the house with us and then to the potluck at Carl and Kathy’s. He agreed and on we went.
At first, all went basically beyond well. Joseph was inquisitive and kind towards Michael, despite experiencing a smidge of discomfort; and the Celtic music concert set a sweetly peaceful stage where Joseph and I could enjoy each other. No, no not like that. We laid together on a blanket and snuck peaks at one another and held hands. Joseph was hesitant to fully engage with me and at the time I attributed it to shyness. Now I know better, or more . . .
We left the event at intermission, saying warm goodbyes to my adopted Godparents. Joseph gave Kathy a kiss on the cheek and I thought, he must love me because I love her and he is showing her love. And again we’re back to yes he does love me but not in the be-with-me kind of way, or at least not in the be-with-only-me kind of way and certainly not in the be-with-me-long-term way at all. . .
Anyway, that night Joe told me I looked so fine in my blue dress he’d have to carry a cane anytime I wore it to ward off other men. Truly, I felt pretty and wanted to enjoy this lovely man in my elevated state, so I suggested we go to the city park for a minute before heading home. There, we delved deep into conversation about “us” and love and commitment.
It’s hard to synthesize and summarize what Joseph suggests to me on said topics. I guess it’s something like this:
He loves me.
He’s loved other women before me just about as much as he believes he could love anybody.
–Apparently, he loves everybody like this.
He’s afraid that I’m falling in love with him.
He’s afraid that I’ll consume his life.
He’s afraid that he’ll hurt me because
He has never wanted to settle down.
He learns most through direct, intimate relating like we’re doing “right now.”
He is 99% sure that he will want to move on from me eventually.
Clearly, in response to this, questions arise:
Can I be with him anyway?
Joe doesn’t really ask; I do, because I realize that I love and enjoy him presently.
Can I stay in the present? Is it worth it? Can I be content within the bounds of romantic love that lacks commitment? He thinks not and thus pushes me away out of fear and guilt. But for me. . .
The answers today are yes and yes and yes. As I went off to work early this morning, I said hello and goodbye to Savannah Belle Bones in the laundry room. I hadn’t seen her in days and it was a genuine joy to rub her loose furry skin between my fingers and listen for the gutteral groan that emerges when she’s really satisfied. “I love you, Bonsey” I murmured into her soft, floppy ears.
Then, as it does nearly every day, the thought of her inevitable death crept into my mind. As humans with lifespans sometimes 100 years long, the short lifetime of a pet can feel needlessly cruel. Yet I realize on some conscious level far removed from my emotions that we are able to learn so very much about love and loss through our relationships with our pets. And there is absolutely no question of whether I would ever take away one day of loving Savannah while she’s with us, even knowing that one day all too soon she won’t be.
It didn’t take much for this thought pattern to shift over to Joseph and considering that our time together might be equally fated for seemingly premature severance. With that connection, it became obvious that if Joseph asked me again, Could I be with him knowing one day soon he will leave? that my answer would again be yes.
Despite that, my ego still says, “No way, uh uh. That’s a shitty arrangement,” because it feels like he’s waiting for something better. Meanwhile, my heart sings, “Yes, go with it! He loves you and he’ll realize it more fully with time,” although my brain knows better–or is it the other way around? And when I listen to my body, I hear something sink deep in my belly and leap high in my heart. . . and I realize I cannot really go back. I’ve already spent months attempting to leave this man for various reasons and all to absolutely no avail.
So, it appears I’m headed onward into the wide open spaces where I can and probably will be hurt more than once at any moment. But I’m choosing this path, right? Or anyway, it’s choosing me. Either way, Joseph certainly wouldn’t be to blame.
I now release all attachment to feeling victimized and abused.
I now affirm that I can let go of loved ones.
I now affirm that I cooperate with grace.
I now affirm that I cooperate with grace.
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.
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.
I broke down in the middle of the freeway this morning.
No, not my car, me; I broke down.
I was on my way to an early appointment in Medford to get the timing belt on my VW bug changed, driving and singing along to the Walin’ Jennys again. I was alternately tapping the wheel and my thigh to the beat of the music and scanning both sides of the highway for obstacles, cops and the like. I had already said prayers in passing for two animals choked by their own entrails on the side of the road when I saw a fleeing doe.
On this particular stretch of I-5, the north and southbound lanes are divided by a grassy strip about ten feet wide. It was there on the damp and dewy ground separating asphalt that she ran.
She passed me at a frenzied pace, her feet flying as fast as they would move, her soft brown eyes stretched wide. Her gaze was starkly forward; I felt sure she knew not where she was going nor how to get back from whence she came.
Before the sight had time to translate to thought, a groan rose in my throat and I was crying. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I clutched the steering wheel harder and the image replayed in my mind. Like a lucid dream, I kept part of my focus on the road and let the rest explore the emotion erupting from within me. I gasped and hiccoughed and finally decided to get off at the next exit where I lay my forehead on the steering wheel, wailed and exhaled.
My meditation practice came into practical play as I watched thoughts stream through my mind and felt the rise and fall of emotion. I was aware that my reaction could not only have been about the deer, although I ached for her safety and struggled to imagine her away from the string of streaming headlights.
No, somehow the doe reminded me of my brother, myself, and anyone else who was ever caught in anxiety’s wake, has ever felt like the only option is to run and that there is only one direction to do it in. Far from such feelings as I have been lately, guilt for not having enough compassion for those who are wrapped within them crept up instead. I studied those, too, and said a little thank you for the opportunity to more deeply understand.
Hours later, I am still saddened and sobered by the memory. I wonder at how life can touch us so unexpectedly. As uncomfortable as it can be, I’m usually grateful because it’s at such moments that I feel like I can really touch life back.
Sweet precious doe; sweet precious people. May we all be shown a way off the medians between freeways and onto paths we can trod in natural harmony instead.
Two concepts have been catching my attention lately that I just saw to link this morning: anger and discipline.
I mentioned in the post Emotional Catharsis something about enjoying and indulging in emotions other than anger–and at this point I should probably use the term “hot” anger and take the time to distinguish it from “cold.”
It’s fairly simple, really. Of course, both will feel different to everyone, but essentially hot anger results in yelling, fighting, and aggressiveness. Outrage is an excellent synonym for this kind of anger. Cold anger, on the other hand, usually manifests as glowering or even being expressionless, and ignoring someone out of anger–giving someone the “cold” shoulder.
I was going to say I could accept cold anger more than hot, but I realize now that I was confusing containing or controlling anger with cold anger. In reality, cold anger can be just as cutting as hot.
Anyway, I saw the detrimental effects of hot–and undisciplined–anger this morning walking the two little dogs I am sitting for. One is part Jack Russel terrier and blatantly aggressive towards other dogs. I was warned of this by his owner, obviously, but I was still shaken when, as we were strolling along peacefully in the autumn a.m., he suddenly howled and leapt all over a gate with a dog behind it. First of all, I’m used to taking care of bigger, better behaved kanines– mostly labradors–and secondly, I was raised in a family where mistakes and punishments were nearly always handled with a calm and somber conversation (“Tessa, we need to have a talk. . .”). Needless to say, angry outbursts of any kind (or any species, apparently) are not anything I’m accustomed to.
Lesson #1 learned, I shortened Teddy’s leash considerably and we walked on. I mulled over the experience and held the lesson begrudgingly in my awareness. I didn’t like this having to be on the constant alert to the behavior of this dog. Although not such a terribly big deal, it became a little bigger when we passed the empty lot across the street from my parents’ house. Our yellow lab, Savannah, was doing her morning exploration of the property with her nose to the ground and her whole backend wagging in delight. It was all I could do not to call “Bonsie!” and watch her do her best impression of a gallop across the grass to greet me. But, knowing I had an unfriendly-to-other-dogs dog in tow, I was forced to let the opportunity quietly pass.
My anti-anger button was pushed again moments later. I was looking forward to taking one of my favorite shortcuts in town down a single car country lane lined with autumn hues, old farmhouses and an exceptional view of the mountain. But as we turned left to take the path, I had a sense that we would be unable to. Sure enough, down at the end of the road I could just make out the wiggling body of another little dog. We detoured instead.
Cradling my own frustration so as not to let it grow out of proportion, I recalled the words of Teddy’s owner. “I could probably train him not to act out this way, but I don’t have the . . . it just hasn’t happened.” Rethinking the conversation helped me realize that we all have a choice to literally train ourselves not to act in certain ways. “Training the mind” is a frequently used phrase in regard to meditation. Thus I made the connection between anger and discipline.
I considered that perhaps it isn’t anger, per se, that I have the problem with, but rather undisciplined anger. Undisciplined sadness, too, which when allowed to spiral out of control can lead to people actually taking their own lives.
Of course, discipline is it’s own double edged sword that I’d like to explore in some depth. Another day.
