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It’s Halloween and I’m feeling resentful.
Most people around are excited about dressing up and having places to go. But I do that every weekend! Must I tonight?
Actually, it’s the knowledge that darling little kiddies will be arriving at the house I’m housesitting any moment calling out for tricks or treats and I will have nothing to offer. Nothing tangible anyway. . .
My ego is jumping back and forth with solutions: Go to my parents’ house and hide; run out and buy some candy; ignore any ringing doorbells; open the door with a smile but tell the niños I’m candy-less . . . Does this sound like I’m in the midst of choosing whether to fight or fly? I’d rather just sit here and listen to Spanish guitar music than do either. Bah humbug, I know . . .
Halloween has never been a big holiday for me. I had some really cute costumes before I was old enough to pick them out myself; then for some reason, in 6th grade I decided to be a “black and orange girl”. Really. I wore some combination of black and orange clothing and painted each half of my face one of the colors. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but now kind of makes me sad . . .
I was a gypsy one year, in San Francisco. That was fun, feeling beautiful, exotic and vagrant. In high school, my sweetheart and I dressed up in pillows and these ridiculous chubby cheeked masks and actually went trick or treating. That was fun, too. The only other time I remember being particularly excited was the year I was a cheerleader, but the excitement was much less about dressing up as a cheerleader than it was actually being a cheerleader; I’d been accepted to the squad not long before and was wearing my own uniform.
Maybe I don’t love Halloween because as a Two, I already employ the masterful skill of shape-shifting on a regular basis. I have a hard enough time putting on the real me to waste any putting on some other guy’s face.
All humbugs aside, I did decide to dress up as Shirley Temple this Halloween. I a-d-o-r-e-d her when I was wee and insisted quite fiercely that certain people call me Curly Top. I don’t know what it was about Shirley that I envied so . . . her button nose and perfect curls couldn’t have stolen my heart at that age, could they? No, I think it was her consistently playing the poor orphaned child who always manages to find love in the arms of a beautiful stranger in the end. This probably has something to do with my unloveability complex, too. If only I could be like Shirley . . . .
Anyway, I appreciate the opportunity to vent. Writing served one of its many therapeutic benefits on this shining fall evening (the kiddies will be happy it’s so warm out!) and I, now at 5:05 p.m. feel ready and willing enough to go out and buy candy (if there’s any left at the store), blush (for my soon to be rosy cheeks!) and dinner (because I love to eat and no one’s here to make me any :p).
Have fun ya’ll. Do report back on any spectacular costumes you create or encounter, if you’re so inclined. XO
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.
Yesterday I went to another dance class, although in a different genre than you’re used to me discussing. This one is offered at the Flying Lotus dance studio; it’s called Galactic Groove and the medium is ecstatic dance.
I’m not sure what the technical definition of Ecstatic Dance actually is. To me, it means turning inward and upward and connecting with Spirit in whatever form that may take. Sometimes I hug the floor or roll around on it, others I stand and let my body shake like I’m seizing, expelling something unwanted. Probably most often my movements are more fluid, more typically dance-like. Often, I sway, undulate and make use of my hips.
What’s wonderful about dancing this way is that I access parts of my body and being that I don’t on an everyday basis. What’s not is that other people watch me access them.
For once, it’s not the being seen or evaluated that bothers me. It’s the sense of having my privacy invaded. I realize the experience takes place in a public setting, but the people there refer to the dance floor as an altar for God’s sake. It’s supposed to be a sacred space, not a stage.
Is it setting my sights too high to expect that the other men and woman in the class would be touching Spirit, too, and so focused on doing so that no one would notice anyone else? I hate to believe it’s as lewd as a male friend put it to me bluntly this afternoon, “Most men in a dance class like that are there to either check out the women or try and pick one up.” But he has a point . . . one man lurked behind me across the entire dimly lit room like a shadow that couldn’t be shaken.
I posed my problem to the dance leader, Grael, when I saw her today at Berryvale. She suggested that Galactic Groove is an exceptional time to stand in my full power without leaking any. “Imagine your energy in a giant colander! Where are the holes? Is your power dripping through where you don’t want it to?”
I like the idea of the tactic. I also like the idea of people respecting people and becoming more sensitive to the boundaries of others. But as with all aspects of the spiritual path, *sigh* I can only do my part, no one else’s. So, it’s off to become a gyrating, connected colander with holes only where I want ‘em.
Wish me luck.
It has come to my attention that having a focused intention for my blog would behoove us all greatly. Today I’d like to write about just that.
I’ll start at the beginning (even if to say so is redundant). My initial inspiration for starting a blog was both special and rather unoriginal. I decided to treat myself to the luxury of a matinée one late summer afternoon. So I took a quiet walk down to Mt Shasta Cinemas and bought myself a ticket for Julie and Julia.
For the most part, I enjoyed the movie; but there was also this whiney little voice inside of me (probably my ET4 heart point, otherwise known as a “soul child”) that was actually quite jealous of Julie and Julia alike. “Why should Julie get to do what she loves and then have a book published and a bit fat feature film made starring Meryl Streep?” it demanded. “When will I be loved?”
Lurking there, just behind the jealousy and whinging, was also sadness and a feeling of disconnect from my own path. It had been more than a year since graduating from Naropa, yet still I was “transitioning and integrating” (my words, spoken so many times) and not feeling like I had made any real progress. Somehow, watching Julie and Julia up on that screen touched this tender area of my being and as the credits rolled at the end of the film, I stayed in my seat and wept. (I’m laughing now. I knew there was a reason I named this blog Carry Kleenex, Carry On).
As I walked home, the urge to create a blog of my own crept up inside of me and gradually grew. What’s amazing is that it didn’t dwindle. I wrote my first blog within a week of seeing the movie and the love affair hasn’t fizzled yet. Yes, it’s only been a month, but a month is a long time to do something consistently, first of all, and secondly, I’ve heard that it takes 30 days to establish any habit, good or bad. Given that, consider Cocoa (:acronym CKCO shortened and cute-end) established!
When I actually sat down to write my first post, it all seemed to flow naturally. I came up with the topic and title relatively easily, thanks to a little help from my mom. I even think my initial intention was fairly clear from the start, with the original subtitle: An attempt to redirect my musings to an audience that’s interested. (I’ve since altered that heading slightly, changing “attempt” to “intent” because of the importance I believe the concept of intention to bear; I’ll elaborate on both in a minute).
I am a person who analyzes life and my own behavior on a regular basis. While I find such a quality endearing, it’s easy for me to make the leap and realize that such is not likely the case for every person I encounter. But, I thought, there must be somebody out there who would enjoy and perhaps even benefit from hearing my thoughts on life. So I decided to share them, realizing I might also get some of that particular energy out of my system and into an environment where it would at least have the potential to thrive.
My hope was not so much to entertain or enlighten as to simply offer my thoughts and myself and allow them the chance to be received. I also realized, on some level, that by writing things down I would have an opportunity to get to know Tessa better. I don’t know if it sounds weird that I needed to get to know me, but I honestly did and I do . . .
The point is that, yes, I am writing this blog for people to read it; but my primary intention remains to stay focused on Spirit, both mine and the great one and to see what pours forth. This becomes increasingly challenging as hits to the site and comments on it increase–and not just comments, but comments, filled with integrity and heart. Seeing such things makes it really tempting to try and lure more loveliness into the light, but I realize that the reason this whole process is actually working at all is because I’m not doing it for anyone else. I think that’s an important thing to remember for anyone following a passion, that if you’re not doing it to fulfill you, you probably won’t be fulfilled.
In any case, the reason I changed the word “attempt” to “intent” was to further focus the direction of this offering of mine. I believe in the power of the spoken (or in this case, written) word and I felt that by using the word “attempt,” I was weakening my . . . I hesitate to say “resolve” because to me that feels rigid and closed. So, I was weakening the strength of my . . . well, intention to make a genuine and positive change in my life and to pursue a passion.
Writing daily and opening myself wider than I have been to a even broader range of observation has truly enhanced my life and increased my happiness. The birth of this blog was a genuinely “beautiful dawn.”
I encourage you to listen to the sweet and profound song entitled as such and to pay attention to the lyrics as you do so. I’ve been playing it on my guitar and singing along, and it brings me joy that I want to share. I hope you’ll be inspired.
Learning how to cry is the hardest part
There’s only one way to mend a broken heart.
~Beautiful Dawn, The Wailin Jenny’s
I’m back at home where internet comes easy and now I’m struggling to blog. Then again, starting up is usually a challenge for me; and at least today I have my topic all cut out . . .
As you know, I am currently working as the Gallery Manager/Executive Assistant at the Siskiyou Arts Council (“Siskiyou” being the county I live in). I got the job through a boyfriend a couple of months ago when he decided to move to Michigan without me (ohh, the drama). It seemed like a good idea at the time, my working there, and it has been a great experience in many ways . . .
SAC’s gallery is located on a corner of Main Street on the north side of town. It’s right next door to what locals call “the Cowboy Gallery;” and particularly in contrast to its rugged neighbor, our gallery is a gleaming array of Pergo wood floors, hanging lights and a nice selection of works by local artists from around the county. The SAC gallery is also one of very few places in town a girl can wear heels without receiving weird looks (you’re better off in Crocs or Birks around here). That said, one reason I’ve enjoyed working for the Siskiyou Arts Council has been the opportunity to put my newly found fashion skills–thanks to What Not to Wear–to good use. What a perk!
The job has also been fab’ in that it’s pushed me past various edges of my comfort zone. Mainly, I’ve been forced to make phone calls. For some reason, although I am relatively comfortable with people, making phone calls has always made me feel kind of nervous and stupid. Half of the time after I hang up I make a gagging face and mutter the last few words I spoke during the call outloud, sure I’ve just made some kind of fool of myself (maybe a post on confidence should be next in line).
Working for SAC, I’ve also had exposure to the inner-workings of an Non Profit Organization, worked in close proximity to artists and their art and been truly welcomed into the loving arms of this little community as I upkeep one of Mt. Shasta’s finest storefronts.
Have you wondered why I keep talking in past tense?
Some two months ago a great opportunity came up to apply for a friend’s old job in Santa Barbara. As I worked out the logistics of driving down to interview mere days before my big (and only) brother’s wedding, I had to consider how I would handle the situation with my current employer. Should I tell them why I need time off? Do I keep it hush-hush?
Being a 2 on the enneagram and being me, I opted to be 112% forthright and considerate. I not only told my boss where I was going and why, but went so far as to add (after not getting the job), “I only expect you to be as committed to me as I am to you. . .”
My honesty is both a blessing and a curse, so it seems. Today, my boss Lauri politely informed me, “Consider this your two weeks’ notice.”
Oh . . .
I can’t say I didn’t see it coming. In fact, I even blogged about seeing it come. Still, I remained in minor shock for some time after receiving the news. Post conversation, I spent the afternoon on the mindless task of archiving newspaper clippings mentioning SAC. The day was as rainy as they come. Eventually, I slumped to the floor, wrapped myself around my dog Savannah Belle Bones and cried–for approximately seven minutes.
Two minutes after that, an Austrian woman came into the gallery and . . . I sold her a painting! Now, that’s what I’m talking about when I say carry kleenex and carry on!
On that note: I’ll keep you posted. And thanks for listening.
Written last night, offline . . .
Today has not been a good day! I don’t like to affirm such things, but honestly, all day everything has felt out of whack. Well, except for waking up. That was smooth and savory. The sheets on the bed I sleep in when I housesit here must be at least 600 thread count. They are so cool and delectable against my skin. An-n-nd they’re sage green.
I’m writing my blog using “TextEdit” on my mother’s Mac until I can figure out how to get online again. For some reason the administrator on the wireless network here decided to get picky and not let me connect, even though I went through the same three steps probably one hundred times.
Am I the only one who repeats attempted solutions when working with computers? Well, I know I’m not because I’ve seen my father do it. I wonder, what is it about the computer world that makes us think in it we can overcome obstacles and outsmart the machine by clicking, “Try Again” just one more time . . . ?
Wait a minute, here’s a thought: Is that how we always function, using the same fix-it tactics time and time again, and it becomes more obvious when we’re working with inanimate objects? I think I’m going to run with this.
Yesterday I implied I might be discussing romance in my next post. I’ll stay relatively true to that and examine my personally unoriginal methods of trying to make romance work.
I’m going to do a quick rundown of a few of the relationships I’ve been in–ones in which an “administrator” for some unforeseen reason “decided not to let me connect”–and then consider whether there might be a metaphorical “Try Again” button I repeatedly click in such instances, too. My guess is yes.
We’ll start with D.P., or Cart Boy as I tenderly referred to him before I learned his name. I spotted blue eyed, blond haired Cart Boy driving a cart of golf clubs across the Mt. Shasta Resort parking lot when I was a freshman in high school. Long story short: I tracked down his name, number and a short personal history, and began casually stalking the boy (in my defense, this town I grew up in is very small. Tracking and stalking take very little effort . . .). The charade ended with me tearfully composing one of those letters you write but never send to the elusive Cart Boy, with whom I never even actually spoke.
Case two: My high school sweetheart. And this boy was a sweetheart. He pursued me for about six months before I finally succumbed to our first kiss–a forbidden one in the den where I was baby-sitting. We dated for nearly two years, the last months of which were strained by jealousy and immaturity. Sweetheart thought I was into just about every male we both knew, including my man-loving friend Michael. On top of that, he set in place a very ugly double standard by spending evenings alone with female friends of his, sometimes in bedrooms, sometimes in hot tubs . . . So after much hurt and hard work, I finally suggested we take a break. This resolved sometime after I threw myself repeatedly on the ground (I specifically recall doing this on the concrete steps ascending to his front door and in a snow bank across the street from my house. I’ve always had a flair for the dramatic) and him eventually beginning to date the girl he would eventually marry (now whose dramatic!? Teehee).
The common “Try Again” thread so far? Excessive pushing to get what I want followed by dramatics (also employed partially in hopes of getting what I want).
Eventually, there came along Olympic Snowboarder whose name we’ll shorten to Olympian. Sounds strong and mysterious, don’t you agree? 
Olympian was tall, dark and handsome, slightly older than I and a semi-regular customer at the drive through coffee hut I worked at the summer before I left home for College. His mom was a coworker of my mom, and his eventually told mine that he thought I was “cute” (told you this town is small)! After a few flirtatious and fluttery exchanges of smiles and money for mochas, Olympian left town for training, I left for college, and somehow we jumped to communicating via email.
After a few months of this, I learned that Olympian would be competing in Tahoe, a mere 4 hour drive from my school (I discovered this information on the website listing his snowboard schedule. I’m stalking again!?! Not sure I like this common thread . . .). Within days I’d asked Mom if I could borrow her car to make the drive, roped my Dutch friend Cecile into tagging along, and demurely, I’m sure, run the whole shenanigan by Olympian. He agreed to the plan . . . and then ended the whole fiery romance in a sauna in Tahoe before it even had a chance to spark.
The list goes on. With Yoga Man I used my best debate tactics to convince him he was wrong in keeping us apart; with Team Leader I tried all manners of seduction (including massage, chocolates and developing a keen interest in all music on his iPod), only to have my hard work come crashing down when I cried because his embrace reminded me of an exes . . . whoops. Finally, with Ex-Fiance (yes, sad but true) I practically tore my eyes out and care-packaged them for him in an effort to get him back.
It seems to me that when it comes to relationships, the “Try Again” buttons I push again and again–and again–are the following three Over-E’s:
Over-Exertion (in attempt to attract and hold the attention of the object of my affection)
Over-Extension (of my time, my gifts, my mind, myself)
Over-Emotion (expressed in tears, sobs, letters, care-packages, and various forms of flinging my body onto uninviting surfaces)
If I were to take an educated [enneagram assisted] guess as to why I over-exert, extend and emote, I would have to say it’s because of my Over-Expectations. On some level, I believe that the connection between myself and my partner will fulfill me. And even as I am truly beginning to believe and know otherwise, it still makes any sort of budding romance a bit risky. . .
At least now we know I’m armed with a little more self-awareness.
Phew.
