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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!
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.
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. . .
Joe and I had a fabulous time dancing in Ashland again last night! Things went much more smoothly than before, as we worked it on the floor both together and separately.
If I am still going to parallel such experiences with movies about dancing, last night’s events would have comprised the lovely montage midway through where the female lead finally begins to show signs of significant improvement! Joe commented that I was “at least twice as good as last time,” (adding that I seemed to have gotten over my nagging neuroses about the beat) and a stranger walked up and complimented my moves! No matter that at first I thought he was asking me to dance and so responded, “Sure! I’d love . . .” and then, “. . . er, thank you!” So much for suave.
Anyway, what I actually intended to write about was seeing This is It with my pops this evening. After the most glorious of Sundays–packed full of lounging around in front of the fire first with a cup o’ joe (no pun), next a guitar and eventually a blanket as I cat-napped, followed by the most peaceful venture to Shastice park with Savannah–Dad offered to take me out for a brewski and dinner at the Goat and then to see the recent tribute to Michael Jackson.
I’m a little intimidated at the prospect of trying to write sensitively and eloquently about the film. So, I’ll try to settle back to my heart point at Four, where our tragic and remarkable musical hero M.J. almost certainly lived, and just let it flow. . .
Although I was running on very few hours of sleep, I was mesmerized by the movie as Dad (watching for his second time) said I would be. With my current passion for dance, what I found catching my eye consistently were technicalities like Michael’s impeccable turns. The way that man could spin on a dime and come back to the exact same millimeter of space in a second is astounding. I aspire to do the same!
I might say that the breadth of his talent–in addition to its excellence–is what I find most profound about the King of Pop. Watching the movie we get a chance to observe all the other incredibly gifted people who worked alongside him, but their expertise appears limited while Michael’s spreads as wide as the stage he shines on.
Of course, so does the air of tragedy that surrounds him; and an instability I sensed in his character that had nothing to do with the gory details gnashed on by the media. I just felt nervous that Michael might crack each time a request was made of him, despite that he never responded anyway but respectfully.
It all makes me want to hold him, cradle him like the little Earth Girl tenderly does the last flower. I wonder who the last person to do so, to really touch Michael Jackson, could have been? Did the composer of Human Nature ever receive any real human nurture?
My heart also breaks for everyone involved in the production of what would have been a pinnacle tour, for all the performers who opened the film weeping tears of joy for the opportunity to dance with the living legend.
I suppose that is the mess of life that any good Four will tell you is necessary in order to appreciate the beauty.
I appreciate the beauty of all that Michael Jackson created during his time on this earth–even if he did name one of his children Prince Michael II, a.k.a “Blanket!”
In honor of Michael Jackson, God bless you all.
I’m typing at the Snowcrest Internet Cafe today because the internet is still down at our house. If only they’d had broadband in the park, I would have stayed there to blog after the delectable picnic lunch Mom, Dad and I shared.
As usual, I didn’t know what would drip out of my fingers onto the keys once I sat down to type on this particular Tuesday. Stumped, I said to my folks in the car on the way here, “If I’m not careful, all I’ll write about is having my period and being hormonal.” Mom laughed and told me that would make a good opening line. It probably would have, better than the in between line I just used it as . . . especially because new inspiration struck pretty immediately after I got here, making that whole awkward topic rather irrelevant . . .
(Or did it?) When I arrived, I paid for my coffee and made my way back to the restroom. Snowcrest Internet Cafe is located right in the middle of main street and like many of the businesses in the area, it shares a hallway, bathroom and additional entrances with some neighboring shops.
When I exited the cafe proper and entered the shared hallway, I was suddenly struck by the funky details of it. Directly across from the cafe door is a hair salon I can’t imagine anyone ever remembering exists–other than the bathroom-using Snowcrest customers, that is, who are gifted with a full view of the salon’s interior thanks to indoor windows covering the whole north wall. A woman with dye smeared across her forehead smiled at me quirkily from the hairdresser’s chair as I entered the hall.
As for the hallway itself, green shag carpet adorns the floor with a decorative drip stain running the entire length of it. Plywood shelves collapsing under the weight of Highlights and hair magazines line the multicolored sponge-painted wall opposite the Mane Event. No, that’s not a dog grooming business. It’s the salon I mentioned previously . . .
I felt like I was in some foreign town as I pushed the door open to the florescent lighted bathroom; and that’s when I encountered a new twist on the idea of wherever you go, there you are.
I’m somebody who loves to travel, partially because I like to experience little nooks and crannies of faraway places. What I’m not sure I realized until this afternoon is that there are lots of curious corners even this town of 5,000 I’ve spent most of my life living in. Not to mention the slew (I use the word loosely) of opportunities to study psychology, practice my Spanish and (you know I have to say it) even to dance salsa!
Don’t get me wrong, I am by no means implying that traveling or moving elsewhere at certain times in life is not necessary. Not even close. Instead, I’m exploring my options as I find myself still living in three-stoplight Mt. Shasta. I’m looking to give life a little flair, or to acknowledge the flair that’s already there. As it turns out, it’s not all that hard to do. And I didn’t even have to go into describing all the ecstactic dancing I did last night. Maybe tomorrow.
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.
Deep breath.
I think everything good starts and ends and exists within a breath.
“As long as you’re breathing, there is more right with you than wrong.”
That’s a quote from the guided meditation c.d. that accompanies The Mindful Way Through Depression: Freeing Yourself from Chronic Unhappiness, a book co-authored by John Kabat Zinn and others.
I found both the book and c.d. hugely helpful last June when I was fresh off of antidepressants and struggling a bit with franticness and fear. Listening to the c.d. is good when all you want to do is lie in the fetal position. You can still breath there, and that’s all we ever absolutely need to do.
Of the two of us, my brother bears the bigger burden of depression. I can pinpoint a few years of my life when I experienced prolonged phases of despair, but it hasn’t been my norm. Ty has had to work a lot harder for happy.
I didn’t expect to write about this today . . . you never know what might come up while you’re breathing . . .
We spoke today and he told me this weekend was one of the hardest he has ever experienced. He’s doing better though, taking good care of himself in every way he knows how.
As for the rest of us, the many, many people who love and have been touched by Tyler. . . I think the best we can do is send an outpouring of love his way and stay attentive to timing. It’s a big temptation to jump right in and try to be Ms. Fixit right away. Especially as an ET2, I often feel like I have the perfect suggestion for anyone hurting. Sometimes I’m on the right track and what I have to say might be of great benefit; but unless the moment is right, I promise you that perfect suggestion will fall on deaf ears.
As Ty told me about all the steps he’s been taking to stay strong–no caffeine, no alcohol, exercise consistently, meditate daily, and others–I did feel compelled to remind him go easy on himself when he skips a morning meditation or misses a dose of fish oil. I wrote a little bit about my experience of overdoing in an early post, Human Doings, inspired by talking with my brother the same day.
The post begins with a poem; the first line of which is, “You don’t have to be good.”
I don’t want you to be good, Ty. I just want you to be.
* * *
One of my favorite feel-better-even-while-you-cry songs came on as I typed this post, right after Billy Joel’s “Sadness and Euphoria” and in time with me typing the words, “you never know what might come up while you’re breathing.” It’s “Heart of Life” by John Mayer and it goes like this (<—–click there to listen, Mom!):
I hate to see you cry,
lying there in that position.
There are things you need to hear,
so turn off your tears and listen:
Pain throws your heart to the ground
Love turns the whole thing around.
No, it won’t all go away, it should.
But I know the heart of life is good.
I dedicate this post to you, brother. And even though John Mayer says, “turn off your tears,” I say, just keep being you, however you may be. We’ll love you no matter what that looks like. Love and hugs, your Seester.
27 October 2009; 9 p.m.
Helloo-oo everybody. I am without internet again. It’s bazaar how much it affects my blogging when I know you all won’t be reading my post within minutes. For all my talk yesterday about writing for myself, I sure derive a lot of inspiration from the prospect of posting the latest happenings for the world to see immediately. Something to do with instant gratification, I guess.
This evening’s latest is that I’ve stayed up well past the witching hour for the last four consecutive nights and my eyes are burning from lack of sleep. My mind is also moving muchhh slowwwer, so I can only hope this post will be coherent (there’s the upside to no internet! I’ll get to proof and post this tomorrow when I can think straight again).
I’ve only had this little sleep and stayed this positive a few other times in my life. One in particular comes to mind. It’s also relevant to my doings as of late, because it involves salsa dancing and sultry latin men
At the ripe young age of 18, my dad gifted me with an opportunity to go to Cozumel, a small and spectacular island just a boat ride away from Cancun. He came along, as did Mom for the second portion of our ten day trip; and my fabulous friend Nichole met us there as well. Not your typical 18 year old circumstance for letting loose in Mexico, but I still managed to have a smashing good time . . .
We stayed at a small bed & breakfast (or is it “cama y desayuna”. . .) located closer to the center of town than the majority of touristed hotels on the main strip. The personality of the American woman running the B&B left something to be desired, but beyond that, Amigos was a perfect accommodation for us: comfortable, practical and magical.
People living in Mexico don’t necessarily place much emphasis on curb appeal, but often what you find once you’re off the streets is a pleasant surprise. Amigos B&B is no exception. Entering the luscious grounds requires unlocking an enormous squeaking gate with a clumsy key. Once within the courtyard, the sweet scent of hibiscus fills the air, and fresh mangos, papayas and starfruit color the soft, moist ground. We ate these fresh fruits each morning for breakfast when, no matter how early we rose, the humidity already covered the skin like a warm washcloth.
After breakfast, most days we would spent hours snorkeling in some of the clearest, bluest, most colorfully populated waters in the world. We even went for a recreational scuba dive, “recreational” being an option for anyone not scuba certified that wants to sink just up to 50 feet below the smooth surface of the sea. But whilst the mornings and afternoons were lusciously relaxing, it was the nights in Cozumel I ended up living for.
There are two clubs, Carlos & Charlie’s and Senor Frog’s, on the oceanfront of Cozumel that cater directly to people coming in off of cruise ships, These chain establishments are as unoriginal as the premise they operate on: to give mostly American tourists the time of their lives while leaving them under the impression they are truly experiencing Mexico. Yet even as I am turning my nose up at them, I was beyond delighted by repeated opportunities to jive in a crowd of, yes, tourists, but also local foxes prowling the dance floors.
I’ll tell you that it didn’t take much of being bumped and grinded by stumbling vacationers to realize that engaging the foxy locals was the better way to have a good time. These men had moves, patience and an affinity for American women.
On the second night out with Nichole, one particular fox caught my eye, then my hand. He wasn’t particularly a physical Don Juan, but he was a real live Latin dancer with the patience to lead me and teach me the subtleties of the dance. “No, no, no” Antonio would scold with his chin tipped down and his eyes trained on mine, “You must use your salsa eyes!” Then, with a toss of his bleach highlighted blond hair we’d be off again.
Nichole was considerably less enthralled by the scene (apparently, her idea of a good time isn’t dancing in conga lines past men pouring diluted margarita from jugs into open mouths night after night); but my faithful friend still escorted me to Senor Frog’s every single night of her trip. Only once did she fail to follow one my fancies, much to my father’s dismay. After leaving the club at 2 a.m. Nichole returned to the B&B and I opted to ride away with Antonio on his scooter (Dad wasn’t dismayed until 4 a.m. when I eventually returned home). I ended up all alone with Antonio in the painted school bus where he lived, smoking Mexican marijuana and listening to him serenade me on the guitar with his own rendition of Pink Floyd’s “Wish You Were Here.”
I suppose I was lucky nothing terrible happened–especially considering that after spending further benign evenings with seemingly respectful Antonio, he eventually revealed his intention to experience the ease of an American girl like me and yet never really pushed his agenda. But risque as I suppose it all was, I also consider myself incredibly lucky to have had such an experience to enhance and color me and my life; and I don’t regret it! On the night Nichole chose to return to the hotel and I declared I was going off into the wind with my Antonio, I felt like I was on to something. Even though I realized the risks involved to some extent, I wasn’t scared sitting in that strange old bus with a lanky Latino strumming his guitar and trying in vain to help me relax into the rhythm of a coffee can drum he placed in front of me. I was exhilarated!
Alright, maybe you wise ones are thinking I made a series of crazy, stupid decisions (probably because my frontal lobe wasn’t developed. We can use this excuse for at least another 13 months) and should be counting my blessings. I am, honestly! Just for a broader set of reasons. . .
Anyway, the premise of this post was to share a story about staying up even when my physical condition should well have been down which is only be possible because at such times I am led, and fed, by something greater. Man can not live by bread alone!
And as much as I hate to admit it, I don’t think woman can live on only dancing, either. I had better get this body to sleep! Buenas noches.
This afternoon I am having trouble finding my ground.
My morning was delightful. I worked in the Berryvale deli again. I’m learning quickly with the upward arc of the curve and feeling confident and fulfilled in my new position.
When I got home I was welcomed with the unfortunate news that my big and only brother is not doing as well as he could be. For years he has been struggling off and on with a depression that runs in our family; and lately the “noonday demons” have worn him down and run him ragged.
It always stirs up all kinds of thoughts and emotions in me when this happens and I’ve been having a hell of a time trying to write about it. Now finally, after a good hour of killing my babies (relax; it’s a term writers use to describe deleting words and phrases that don’t quite work), I find myself breathing more easily.
I’m a enneatype 2–and I’m choosing to use box this into the enneagram framework because without a container this subject will spread all over the screen. It is my nature to shape-shift and adapt to any situation, or more accurately, to the energy output of anyone else. So when my mother is struggling under the weight of worry and my brother is battling the darkness, it becomes very difficult for me to continue gliding through life as has been my way for these past few weeks. You see, it doesn’t feel right for me to be content on my own when the others around me are not. 2′s bear the dual burdens of guilt and shame; and both rear their ugly heads at rough times like these.
So for the past hour, I’ve been spitting out sentences like “I haven’t always been so happy” and “Last year at this time, I was overwhelmed by anxiety and sadness” in attempt to commiserate, become more relate-able, justify my happiness and still try to help and inspire. Gross. I even began a post where I was going to pluck downer sentences from my old journals so I would sound more “real.”
It is perplexing to think that I would consider such things to be potentially helpful to the situation. Although, to be fair, the frame of mind I have been experiencing lately is new. Feeling like it might actually be my duty to reap the happiness life has sewn for me is . . . different. . .
As I walked along that glorious forest lane yesterday, I had a thought, “Your first priority is to take care of yourself.” This idea in and of itself is something I’ve been toying with a lot over the past year. Especially, again as a 2, because of my compulsive need to give and give and give in attempt to feel worthy of love.
But yesterday the thought went a step further, into the territory where logic actually confirms a more esoteric truth. I thought, If I were a mother with a newborn baby, certainly no one would expect me to take care of anyone or anything before tending to the needs of my child. That would be absurd. And then came this: I am my own newborn babe.
I have struggled in the past, truly. There have been days when I couldn’t stop crying and times when if not for the arms of a friend wrapped around me, I would have broken in two. And even though I’m happy as a lamb most of the time nowadays, the clutches of darkness are only at bay. As easy as it has be to forget, I am not immune to despair.
Yet when my brother is sad, I get confused as to whether I’m supposed to be sad, too. I wonder if I need to be doing something, something important, and doing it NOW to try and make things better.
But what if all I really need to do is to gather the seeds of gladness sprinkled before me and hold them tightly? Because if I don’t have them, I can’t plant them. If I don’t plant them, I can’t reap the fruits they will grow. If I don’t sew, I can’t reap, if I don’t reap, I can’t share . . .
