lost and found

Things have been so dark for me lately that it seems too much trouble to sit and write.  Too difficult to meditate, to read much at all, to do much at all.  I will feel better for a bit, but the pressures of just living take all of my time and energy.  My Jeep is broken down, in the shop.  Tam is laid off.  I am still working at WH, slinging hash.  It’s really all I can do right now.  School is postponed till after the move.  WH offers me insurance, which I absolutely must have for the Crone’s.  I don’t make enough to survive, really, but I make too much to get any real help.  So I limp along and try to stay positive, try to remember that my livelihood plans are on hold for now, that there will be a better day.

What has me in a spin right now is someone that I love who is trapped in a seriously unhappy, unhealthy and abusive relationship.  She is pregant with her fourth child, due in about 3 months.  She is sleeping right now in the next room, having been up all night.  I picked her up from the hospital, where she had been since her asshole boyfriend kicked her off her bed and onto the floor.  She landed on her belly and had to be taken to the hospital in an ambulance and given drugs to stop labor. 

She has tried to end this relationship untold times.  Before she became pregnant, she was ripe with optimism.  She worked like a dog and went to massage therapy school.  She went and took the test and has her licence.  But, like me, her career is on hold.  She is not working now.  She feels financially rocky and has three children to look after.  Getting free of this parasite seems impossible to her right now because of money.  I’m wondering how I am going to be able to be around him if she isn’t able to muster up the courage to have him clear out of her house.  I’m wishing I had something to offer her, some way to help her with money.  I have the sense that she is at or at least nearing her line in the sand.  I think she is beginning to see that it is up to her to bring about the change, that only she can make the decision to be free. 

How do we get stuck like this?  Her father is so frustrated with her that he sees only negative, holds no positive view of her future.  This makes me crazy.  She is young, beautiful, intelligent and ambitious.  Battered and emotionally scarred women aren’t always easy to pick out of the crowd.  D is strikingly beautiful and presents herself as a confident woman.  One would never guess that she is living in such a crippling situation.  She has given her power away, but is just now beginning to see that, I think.

She takes after me in a lot of ways.  I can’t help but wonder at my shitty example.  Why did I always lose myself in relationships?  Each time was a horrible battle, making it through to the place where I could find myself again.  With Tom, I lost myself more than I ever had before, lost myself not only to him but also to the church.  It has been a hard battle reclaiming myself.  I’m still working hard on it after over two years.  Did I teach this to her?  Did she learn from me how to give herself away?  Why do we do this?  Is it that it feels expected?  One wants to be happy, one wants to be in love, one wants to be everything that the other person wants. 

Is there anyway for her to learn from me now?  She has watched me struggle to be free, watched me as I fought with the ties that bound me and clawed my way out of the cage I was in.  She has watched me and rejoiced with me as I came out, as I made choice after choice that brought me closer to freedom, closer to becoming authentic.  She has also seen the dire consequences of falling asleep, of letting myself be lulled into decades of ghost-walking.  She has seen my financial struggles, my emotional fallout.  Can she learn from this?  Can she be encouraged by this?  I have a peace and a happiness even in the midst of my pressures, health issues and grieving that I hope speak about the wisdom of breaking free, of becoming master over my fear.

Perhaps she won’t get free just yet.  I’m prepared for that, I think.  I have compassion that wells up for her and for women like her.  Some people don’t get it.  I do.  It can seem so simple from the outside.  It can be so frustrating to watch someone push away the hand extended from the boat, to watch them slowly drowning.  But there is a process.  Some women never do the work they need to do inside of themselves, the work that we all have to do in one way or another to be free.  Some women make the change because of their children.  And some just get to a place one day where they finally realize that what is happening to them isn’t a dip in a hot tub, it’s a raging storm far out to sea.  They finally and often suddenly recognize the severity of the woundings, the fury of the consequences and the desperate, intense need to survive takes over. 

When will D get free?  I’m not sure of that, but she will.  I am certain of that.  She has so much depth in her, so much untapped potential.  I know her sense of self is severely marred right now, but I feel confident that her inner wisdom is still there, still perculating deep down.  I can sense more self-awareness from her lately.  She has seemed drawn and worn down, but I can’t help but think this is at least partly from work that her inner person is doing on her behalf.  Sometimes we are only vaguely aware of all that is transpiring under the surface.  Then, one morning, we wake up and just “know”.  We see.  And we begin from there to bring about the changes that need to happen for us to survive and then to thrive.

All right.  I’ve spewed enough of this to feel a bit more settled.  Thanks for listening to the couple of dozen who come here (why, I don’t know, since I’ve been mostly MIA.  Sorry about that) and the 2 or 3 who actually talk back to me.  Who, by the way, have saved my life in the last few months.  One kind word, one nod of understanding and encouragement can save a life.  Thank you is too weak.  But it’s all I have.

What solitude teaches

 

 The distinction between alone and lonely

Awareness and clarification of inner dialogue

How to listen into silence

The need of establishing a calm and abiding Center

An untroubled courage in the face of unraveling

The joy of uninterrupted reading

The rewards of personal inquiry

The clarification of intention

The pleasures of puttering

The solace of stillness

The release from performing

How to expurgate the soul’s detritus and hubris

How to throw aside assumed identities

The depth of emotion’s wells

The grace of gratitude in small things

The power of simplicity

To move to the metronome of the soul’s natural rhythm

The ability to relinquish struggle

The value of connection with a kindred spirit

The harmony of uncluttered personal space

Compassionate recognition of the commonality of suffering

The folly of grasping attachment

Disenthrallment with the gospel of More

Disentanglement from the pressure of popular opinion

Gladness in a moment for its own sake

The joyous unwinding of the illusory knot of neediness

The necessity of balancing doubt and certainty

Trust in Mystery in the absence of sentiment or proof

hoping to hope

It’s been ages since I’ve sat down at the computer.  I just haven’t had the heart for it.  I seem to be in a bit of a funk.  I wish I were rich enough that I could have come home from the funeral and got into bed for a few weeks.  You know, be devastated in style.  This way sucks.  Having to cope, go to work, try to pay bills.  Try not to be such a downer for Tam.  I think if I could just take a few weeks and watch sad movies and eat cookies in bed I would be better sooner.

I don’t like being in the world without my dad.

My thoughts have been so dark lately.  Sometimes I wonder if this is all really worth it.  So much suffering in life.  So much pain and hardship.  Then you just get old and fade away and die.  What’s it all for?

Dad had a tough hand dealt to him.  He lost his leg at 15.  Broke it playing football with the college team.  Doctors set the cast too tight, gangrene set in.  His life was changed forever from that one afternoon.  No more sports, no sports scholarship.  No college.  He married, divorced and married again.  He had 9 children.  He also had a dream, a dream of living in the wild west.  Of living in the mountains in a log cabin.  He made it as far as a farm in Kansas. 

I wonder if he had regrets.  I guess we all do.  I wonder what his were.  Did he regret not going to college, finding a way?  He was brilliant, self-educated.  He read constantly.  My most prized possession is his list of books read over the last several years of his life.  He rated them.  Lovely.

Did he regret having so  many children, with the expense and sacrifice it cost him?  He never made it to the mountains, did he regret that? 

What things will I regret when I come to the end of my days?  Will I regret leaving home at 15 and becoming a mother at 16?  Will I regret not staying home, not going to college?  Will I regret the marriage to the abusive dick who made me run to Florida to escape his clutches?  Will I regret having more children, becoming trapped by poverty in the deep south?  Will I regret not coming out at 19, or at least not staying out?  Or will I regret staying in the closet in my late 20s out of fear of losing my children?  Will I regret the 2 decades I spent in a fundie church?  Will I regret the 4 marriages?  Will I regret the sacrifices I made for my kids, sacrifices that left my dreams in a dusty shoebox on the closet floor?

Ah, I have regrets, yes.  But I don’t regret my kids.  Any sacrifices I made for them I would make again.  So I’m guessing Dad didn’t regret us, even if it meant he never made it to that log cabin.  Still, it makes me sad to think of him sitting in his chair, reading about the west.  It makes me sad that that chair and that book were the closest he got to his dream.  And now his life is over.  No more chances. 

What about me?  Do I have any more chances?  Or am I too used up, too old, too poor, too defeated?  I don’t know the answer to that.  I don’t really have the strength to hope much right at the moment. 

Anyway, at least I have Tam.  She is my light, my laughter and everything good.  And I have my children, even though one of them is driving me crazy at the moment.  I’m not dead yet.  So I’ll hope for the day when I have hope.  I can do that.

death revisited - again and again and….

All This Egoby David Budbill

All this ego
all this drive
to get somewhere
when
at the finish line
death sits

one leg
over the other
hands folded
in his lap
a little smirk
on his face.

 

It’s Now or Never by David Budbill

Eat, drink, and be merry, for
tomorrow you will surely die.

Get together with your friends.
Enjoy the pleasures of the flesh.

I’m pretty sure this is all we get.
I can’t be absolutely certain, but

of all the people I have known who
have passed over to the other side

not one has sent back any news.

 

I’ve been thinking lately about my preoccupation with death.  It has gone on for months and months now.  I keep coming back to it.  This morning I was asking myself some questions:

• what does it mean to live a life that will stop?
• what am I here for?
• Am I living my life in a way that I can die without regrets?
• How much of what I do is compromise?  Do I keep postponing what I really want to do until a more favorable time?

Questions like these force me to examine my attachments to physical health, financial independence, friends and family.  These may all be easily lost.  Is there anything I can depend on?  Maybe all I can rely on is the integrity to keep asking questions like these and then act on them.

And how do I act on them?  Funny, meditating on death seems to jolt me into the sensuality of existence.  I begin to see the changing, transient nature of all things and it makes my relationships and experiences deeper, it evokes a sense of poignancy and pleasure. 

Time to dress for work at the Waffle House now.  I’ll share my morning gatha with you before I go.

 

Waking up this morning, I smile.

Twenty-four brand new hours are before me.

I vow to live fully in each moment

And to look at all beings with eyes of compassion.

Thich Nhat Hanh

just thinking

Siting at the kitchen table this morning, my mind dull and body listless, I suddenly remembered being intrigued by Buddhism before Dad died a few weeks ago.  Since then, well, I guess I’ve been on auto-pilot.  Getting through the days, some hard, most not so bad, a few really nice.

I’ve not had the concentration to read or the desire to pursue thinking at all, really.  So it was pleasant to have some thoughts this morning.

I was thinking of the difference between knowing a thing and taking action on your knowledge.  I’ve been guilty so often of becoming interested in a thing and trying to make it mine without action.  It doesn’t work.  If understanding is isolated from action it tends to stall at mere intellectuality.  Scratches the surface is all it does.

I don’t know shit about Buddhism, really.  Just read a tiny bit here and there.  Scratching.  Some of what I’ve read leaves me confused.  I’m not bright enough, probably.  Or it may be like knowing the ocean.  I can drift on the top and feel content, while what lies beneath may confuse or frighten me.  I could face a wave with fear and run and be driven down by the power of the surf, or I could dive into the wave and find only water.  I get the sense of Buddhism like this, like water.  Easily known on the one hand, while also being endlessly bursting with new ideas, realities, life.

The hope of Buddhism, for me, is that it doesn’t seem to be a belief system that you have to follow to be “saved”, but rather a method to be investigated and tried out.  It seems to offer an authentic way of being in the world.

Anyway, this morning gave me hope that I will soon be coming back into a place where I can begin to think deeply about life once again.  I miss that. 

On grieving

The Fool recommended that I choose one thing from my little list of things I want to get back into doing…and just try to do that one thing.  So I chose meditation, it being my strongest lifeline.  Several days over the last week I’ve sat for 10 or 15 minutes.  Not successfully, if having a peaceful mind is success.  But I DID sit.  So that is something. 

My mind is just so scattered right now.  I can’t seem to read much or write much or do much of anything except veg out in front of the tube.  That isn’t like me.  I’m usually only like that when I’m sick.  I can’t help but think this is part of the grieving process.  Another little gift from death that keeps on giving.  I find it hard to care about things I normally care very much about.  I feel listless, sluggish and endlessly sad.  Even my miraculous and wonderful sex life has been altered.  Tam and have gone from 5-6 fun times a week to 3-4.  Like I told her, that makes us damn near normal.  (Smile)  Still, I know if it was left to me it would be even less.  I just don’t have the energy for much of anything. 

I want to get back to myself, but I don’t know the way.  So, here I sit, waiting.  Maybe if I could cry a bit more it would help.  My beautiful picture of Dad and I that Tam framed for me still sits in the drawer, waiting for me to be able to bear looking at it.  I think for a few moments about Dad, remembering, then my mind shuts the door with a firmness that lets me know I need to leave it alone for just a bit longer.  It seems I can handle deep sadness only a little at a time. 

So I wait.  And wonder.  Am I normal?  Is this the way it’s supposed to go?  Should I force myself to grieve more quickly, force myself to look at pictures and cry and such until I can’t bear it any longer?  Or should I just wait and trust that this will work itself out in its own time and way?

Ah, Dad.  I miss you so much. 

the uphill climb

Putting forth your best effort relieves the ego of its need to justify its existence.  The strenuous push is equalled by internal effort.  The uphill climb, like orgasm, leaves little energy remaining but to cry, laugh, or love everything without hesitation. ~ Janine Pommy Vega

Since returning from my Dad’s funeral last month, I haven’t been able to rouse myself back into yoga or meditation.  This is getting frustrating.  I’m not sure if this is part of the grief or just laziness.  Plus, I keep trying like hell to slow down smoking in preparation to quitting, but that is a bust as well.  I’m just eating any old thing and not reading much, either.  I feel really unhappy about all of this, but also feel almost powerless.

 I really need to get my life back.  I miss the struggle and the joy of yoga and meditation.  I feel out-of-sorts.  People are irritating.  Life seems harder.  I need that uphill climb, that giving of myself to living my best life possible where I am, right here and right now. 

Taylor

One of my sheros is my granddaughter Taylor.  She is 9 years old, going on 100.  No, I swear, she is one of those children of which one would remark, “She has an old soul”.  I remember her as a baby having those wise eyes babies sometimes have, as if they haven’t yet forgotten the lessons of a past life.

 This is why she is one of my sheros:

*She loves animals, all animals.  I seem to be missing this gene.  I kind of LIKE animals, but love them?  Not really.  This makes me feel like I’m lacking in love.

*She told me she wants to be a hippie when she grows up.  How could I not love that?  When I asked her what she meant, she replied, “You know Grandma, where I love people and animals instead of money and care about the earth and all that”.

*A couple of weeks ago she organized, on her own, a charity run for Cancer Research and the local Wildlife Org.  She got a bunch of kids together at a local park, a few teachers and the Principal, organized the race, along with a homemade trophy for the winner, etc.  She raised 60 dollars.

*Last week she went to the salon and had 12 inches cut off her hair for Locks of Love.

That is just a small example of why she is one of my sheros.  Plus, she is funny as hell, smart as a whip, and real.  I’ve never known anyone just like her.  Not even two digits yet and already making the world a better place.

A Brief for the Defense

Sorrow everywhere.  Slaughter everywhere.  If babies

are not starving someplace, they are starving

somewhere else.  With flies in their nostrils.

But we enjoy our lives because that’s what God wants.

Otherwise the mornings before summer dawn would not

be made so fine.  The Bengal tiger would not

be fashioned so miraculously well.  The poor women

at the fountain are laughing together between

the suffering they have known and the awfulness

in their future, smiling and laughing while somebody

in the village is very sick.  There is laughter

every day in the terrible streets of Calcutta,

and women laugh in the cages of Bombay.

If we deny our happiness, resist our satisfaction,

we lessen the importance of their deprivation.

We must risk delight.  We can do without pleasure,

but not delight.  Not enjoyment.  We must have

the stubbornness to accept our gladness in the ruthless

furnace of this world.  To make injustice the only

measure of our attention is to praise the Devil.

If the locomotive of the Lord runs us down,

we should give thanks that the end had magnitude.

We must admit there will be music despite everything.

We stand at the prow again of a small ship

anchored late at night in the tiny port

looking over to the sleeping island: the waterfront

is three shuttered cafes and one naked light burning.

To hear the faint sound of oars in the silence as a rowboat

comes slowly out and then goes back is truly worth

all the years of sorrow that are to come.

Jack Gilbert

back from the edge

Long time away.  My sweet father died February 28.  He had been slowly disappearing for some years now, yet it threw me down and held me.  I guess it’s impossible to be ready to lose a parent.

Tammy and I scrambled to get up to Kansas when I got the call he was doing poorly and hospice had been brought it.  While I was making arrangements to leave, he died.  We left the next day. 

I feel a strong need to chronicle this whole process, but not yet.  In a few day, maybe. 

When I returned from my week in Kansas, Tam and I had to immediately pack up our home and move.  So it has been a harrowing month, all around.  I’ve been without the internets for weeks, so glad to have this connection up again.  I spent several cups this morning catching up on my absolute favorite place to visit - samsara asylum.  I saw this poem lately and it screamed, “Wendy !!!” to me.  Thank you for the keys you have dropped over the last few years, Wendy.  You are a lifeline to me just now. 

The small man
builds cages for everyone
he
knows.
While the sage,
who has to duck his head
when the moon is low,
keeps dropping keys all night long
for the
beautiful
rowdy
prisoners.
Hafiz, 14th century Persian poet/Sufi mystic