Excising a Lily-Liver

As part of my personal work, I am called to amend relationships in my life that are in need of clarity and repair.

As part of that work, I broke down my list of these people into three categories: People I fall out of touch with; Men I intrigue with; and My dad.

I’ve begun the work on those I’ve fallen out of touch with – it’s usually out of a habitual belief that I’m not good enough to show up for relationships and I self-prophesize that by allowing relationships that I value fall away. These are relatively easy to repair, and by doing so, I get to challenge these false and long-held beliefs by being consistent, responsible, and focused on the truth.

Amending my relationships with the second set of humans is more … well, I was going to say more difficult, but it’s not more “difficult,” it’s just harder because I have more invested in those. If you don’t know what intriguing is, it’s those little flirtations, vaguely flirtatious texts or conversations, or over-active “likings” of someone else’s Facebook page in a "winking" kinda way. It’s, for me, engaging in flirtatious behavior with people I don’t want to go any further with, and sometimes with people I have no interest in, but who I know I can reach out to when my self-esteem meter is low for a little infusion of “See, I have value: he wants me,” and a little hit of adrenaline from the oblique exchange.

This is a very old habit. And it’s excruciatingly unfair to both the men and to myself, especially any of those who think there’s still a shot. It’s unfair to me, because I continue to feed the delusion that my self-esteem comes from others, and to crowd the field of actual potential partners with distractions – albeit often very handsome, talented and hilarious distractions.

Since the time that I wrote down the half dozen or so names of those with whom I was actively engaging in this behavior, about half have simply fallen away through circumstance and lack of my engaging. They’re intrigues, not relationships usually, so they don’t require some big conversation like, “Hey, I’m trying to be more clear in my relationships, and I just want to say that I really appreciate you as a friend, and that I see us just being friends in the future.”

The funny thing about saying this is that, when I’ve given that speech in the past, usually the response is, “Yeah, totally! I don’t even know what you’re talking about.” Which is fine. I love you and your egos, and I will help preserve them too; I’m not here to bust your balls. I’m just here to offer us both some clarity and let us both off the carousel of “Will we/Won’t we” so that we can get on with our lives.

But. For some of the people on my current list, that conversation is necessary, and in a truncated, “light” version, I had that talk with one of these men recently. And the backlash from it was … well, people don’t like when you change the rules in the middle of the game. And I’m having to show up for the fall-out of that, even though I just want to avoid it. I participated in the game, I should participate in the dénouement.—Oh, but how much easier to Cut & Run!! Oh, old M.O., how I love you! … and miss you.

Because I don’t really do or want to do that anymore. See: first subset of humans: retracting from relationships because I don’t believe I can show up.

It’s the same underlying belief in this second category. 

More will be revealed, and I have some writing to do and a conversation to have with some for whom I’ve changed the rules. It’s not comfortable, but neither is predicating a relationship on false hope.

The final category, I see now, has its foundation in the self-same belief that I can’t show up for relationships. In this case, with my dad, I’m being asked to be honest with him in a way that frightens the shit out of me.

I would LOVE to lie, avoid, detach, retreat, and retract. But each and every day since the invitation to his wedding came in over the phone, I’ve been called to take a different course. Because, I have been using the above mechanisms for how to manage this relationship. I’ve been detached and retracted, and avoidant. And, much like with the men, I’ve created a game that I don’t want to play. One in which my dad thinks I want or can have a relationship with him.

To tangent:

This morning, I will get an ultrasound of my liver to confirm or disconfirm cirrhosis. About two months ago, my liver enzymes came up elevated, and although I simply think it’s my body’s reparation from 6 months of chemo a bit more than a year ago, I am also very aware that in Chinese medicine, the liver is the seat of anger. And two months ago, I was very angry. For a long time. And this dad stuff only serves to aggravate it.

I was at my therapist’s last Wednesday, and I told her that I would really love to be able to forgive him, but I am not able to do that. I’m terrified that my lack of forgiveness for him is perpetuating the problems in my life, and creating holes in the foundation of my life and relationships and happiness -- and my health.

I told her, it’s astonishing to me that I can have forgiveness for my rapists, but not have any for him. Compassion, I have in crateloads. I know how this person came to be, and it’s a sad state of affairs. But, no matter what modes of self repair I try, I can’t find my way to forgiving him, and I feel that I need to in order to move on with my life.

She said something critically important: You can’t manufacture forgiveness.

If I’m not there, then I’m not there.

“But what about that he’s getting older, and what if he dies and this is unresolved?”

You can’t manufacture forgiveness.

I can’t bully or force myself into a feeling that I don’t have. She said that I have some word she couldn’t place that indicates deep disappointment. And betrayal. And this is true.

And I would love to “get over it.” But I’m not there yet, and beating myself up for not being at a place where I’m not doesn’t help me get there quicker.

I honestly don’t know if I’ll get to this place this lifetime. The very last time I was vulnerable to him and depended on him, he used it as a later opportunity to shame me for not being the daughter he wants. This is a Catch-22 relationship.

But. It’s not.

The catch is that I have to be willing to show up with my truth, which, like my friends and like those men, is that I don’t like who I’m being in this relationship, and it’s harming me. I don’t like to show up in a falsetto range “happy” conversation with him, when that’s not at all true for me, and so I avoid the conversations. But, he’s pressing now, and there’s a deadline.

The truth will out, as Shakespeare wrote. The work on my part will be to get ready to deliver it. To get ready by remembering I’m acting in an esteemable way by showing up for my part of the relationship. I’m also working on steadying myself for the fallout, of which I anticipate there will be much.

Again, people don’t like when you change the rules in the middle of the game.

But this was a game I started playing when I was a child. The rules have changed. It’s time for me to let the other players know. 

To let them know I've stopped playing. 

Hum a few bars?

There’s a famous story in our nuclear family history:

My brother was maybe five years old. He swaggered into the room. Feet planted, arms wide, he opened his lips and belted, “GOTTA DANCE!... Gotta Dance, Gotta Dance, Got ta Daaance.”

This, friends, is a move from a song in Singin’ in the Rain. My family trades in musicals. Broadway and movie musicals. On frequent rotation in our VCR were Singin’ in the Rain, Meet me in St. Louis, Calamity Jane, On The Town. Eventually, there’d be Chorus Line and Cabaret with their more "adult" themes; even Flying Down to Rio and Top Hat, from in the Fred Astaire/Ginger Rogers oeuvre. My mom, brother and I would trade lines like currency, like code, and for us, they were.

All four of us together, with my dad, weren’t a family of deep conversation. Instead, we’d throw these bones of reference to one another as a note of connection and a wink. One commonly used phrase in our house was, “What’s that from, again?” We were almost always speaking in movie lines, not just musicals. Watching movies was what we were able to do together, to spend time the 4 of us, without having to talk, but able to be in the same room at the same task.

Unknown is what might have happened if we'd allowed my dad to join in on the impromptu a cappela fun. We always cut him off, because he couldn’t sing a bar; the trees weeped. But he could whistle, and play the harmonica, and there’s even an old banjo lying around that apparently was his in his younger days.

But, for the most part, it was me, mom and Ben. Trading lines, lobbing tunes to one another, volleying them back, and joining in. So much of my growing up, I see us, in and around the kitchen bursting into a melody. Me, on the melody, actually, and Ben on the harmony. I never had quite the ear for harmony, and he did; still does.

For my bat mitzvah party when I was 13, instead of the DJ party most of my friends requested, I wanted to see a musical with my friends. We lived a short drive from Manhattan, and many of my friends had never seen a Broadway show.

We went to Phantom of the Opera. In a short party bus, about a dozen of us rode into New York City with Nightmare Before Christmas playing on the thick, boxy t.v. screens, since it was mid-October, right after my 13th birthday.

My mom and I’d created gift packages for my friends, little heart shaped wicker boxes with a fake rose with a plastic water droplet on it; a cassette tape of the soundtrack; and a mug with the Phantom mask on it that turned from black to white when you filled the mug with something warm.

I was extraordinarily lucky to have been to some shows already, my aunt, a stalwart New Yorker taking me to see Guys & Dolls and later, How to Succeed in Business without Really Trying starring the inimitable Matthew Broderick (if you think him singing Twist & Shout in Ferris Beuler was something… well, I assure you, this man has charisma. And talent.)

But the Phantom theater was magnificent. There’s an enormous chandelier that crashes into the stage during the middle of the play, and we were sitting right behind it, this wide, gold, frail thing about to murder the ingénue. For a group of giddy, hopped up tween girls, this was a pretty cool experience. Well, for me it was, anyway ;)

Musicals are in my blood. I was raised on their fervor, their simplicity, their saccharine lyrics. And I love them. I know they can be cheesy and I know it “doesn’t make sense” that people bust into song all the time. But, you see,

In my house, we did. 

Fulcrum

(No, sorry, this has nothing to with the group of evil spies on the t.v. show Chuck.)

Ever since I listened to this podcast on the development of energy efficiency, I've been thinking about developing a process to create more while expending less.

In "olden times," the podcast said, a day's work could earn you an hour, maybe, of candlelight. Imagine having to work an entire day, just to get one hour of power to your iPhone, let alone your refrigerator or car.

In contrast, through scientific achievement we now, through a day's work, earn a whole lot more power through our effort.

... I can't remember how many days it reported precisely, but to give perspective to it: I pay on average $12 a month for my PG&E bill. (Granted I have most of my stuff attached to power strips I turn off before I leave, and never leave things plugged in that I don't have to.) But, if I earn more than that per hour of my work, I've earned myself over a month of power in 60 minutes.

The point is, science has created a system whereby we work less to produce more. Our efforts are magnified through efficiency -- we don't have to work as much or as hard to get what we need. Science created a fulcrum, a point on which we can pivot our efforts to enhance them exponentially.

In my life, I am in a process and a pattern where I work a lot, like most of us, and what I earn from that pay supports a life that is getting by. I'm not saving much. I'm not spending much. I'm pretty much working to get by.

And I've decided I'd like a fulcrum.

To be specific, I'd like to work less and earn more. (Wouldn't we all? But yes, isn't that the point -- perhaps we can.)

I did some calculating this weekend, and I can earn what I'd like to be earning (more than a "getting by" amount) by working half the time, 20 hours a week, if I triple my hourly wage. Sounds far fetched perhaps. But stranger things have happened. And the rate I'd need to earn isn't outrageous. It's actually pretty attainable for a skilled service.

The question now is, what will the service, my fulcrum, be?

At various times, I've teased the idea of throwing caution and (my own) morality to the wind and thought of prostitution. I'm sure I could earn there, but at what other cost? Result: rejected.

Other thoughts:
Consulting -- in what?
Counseling -- perhaps -- more schooling then?
Coaching -- maybe -- more schooling, too.

But, we're back to the point of the fulcrum -- I can expend energy now in creating my fulcrum. It'll likely take time and effort, but boy howdy! The results!

I don't know yet what the outcome of this line of thinking will produce, but I like that I'm thinking this way, out of the box of where I usually look. Instead of looking again at the job sites I always look at to get a higher paying job but work the same number of hours, I'm realizing I need a different way.

Because I need to be available to the projects that ignite me, and I have to give myself the time and space to do that. ... Without being a starving artist -- I simply refuse to struggle more than I have to. It's not fair to me anymore, when I know there can be another way.

So, if I can find a kind of steady-ish, scheduled-ish vocation that allows me to produce more while expending less, ... well, as Archimedes said when demonstrating the lever:

"Give me the place to stand, and I shall move the earth."

Card Reading

I had very specific plans for when I came home last night: watch Apollo 13, “take care” of myself, and go to bed by 10.

Only one of these happened.

For most of the day, I was out & about in lots of conversation with lots of people, expending lots of up, outgoing energy, and I wanted to counter it with some quietude. Before coming home for the evening, I was in a coffee shop, finishing up some extra work, and addressing cards for some friends.

I didn’t have the address for one, so I texted her for it, and told her that I must have 10 of her envelopes at home with her address on it; in fact, I had one of hers on my mantle.

She asked me which one, but I couldn’t recall exactly, and told her I’d send her a photo of it when I got home.

This, was the first domino toward the hijacking of my evening.

I did come home, take a photo and send it to her, a lovely decorated envelope with stickers and curly-cues and kind words, like all of hers. Next to it on my mantle (well, the top of a bookshelf, really) were a card from the director and one from the assistant director of the play I was in in April, with deliciously glowing, appreciative, complimentary, and supportive words. Such kindness and such a reflection of my being “seen” by them, in one of my aspiring avocations. The last one up there was a thank you card from my best friend on Long Island’s wedding, thanking me for being there and what a treat it was to have me there, literally in her bed, the night before the wedding, and helping/watching her get ready the next day; that it wouldn’t have been the same without me.

You can see why I keep these things.

But, it was also time to probably pack them away, do some cleaning. And I wanted to send more photos of my friend’s envelopes to her, since I knew she was in a space to need her own (literal) sparkle reflected back to her. 

And, down the rabbit hole we go, into the desk drawer where I keep cards, envelopes so I can remember return addresses (yes, I know there’s a better way), and art inspiration bits, like postcards from galleries or pages torn from magazines.

I’ve known this drawer needs attending to. If, god forbid, I were to croak, it would be hell for the person cleaning it out, and I know they’d just trash the lot, since, who keeps someone else’s old greeting cards.

But, also, it’s unusably full at the moment. Because in it, too, are all the cards I received when I was initially diagnosed with Leukemia in late September 2012, and also a host of them came in around the Hanukkah/Christmas season that year.

I’ve been avoiding having to carve through them. Because how can you discard those messages?

When I was sick, I lined all the cards up on the walls of my hospital room. I taped every single one up around me, to remind me of the network of support and love that I had. Each card, a message of love, faith, healing, fortitude, just for me. You couldn’t come into my hospital room without immediately knowing that I was loved. And how f’ing important was that.

This was not the room of a dying woman. This was not the room of a woman told she had a 40% chance of living through the next 5 years, even with treatment. This was not the room, either, of a woman who looked like a patient, despite the baldness, weightloss, and IV stuck into my arm and chest. I wore jeans and a sweater, like everyone else. I was a human, not a patient. I was a woman loved, not a pity case.

How rallyingly important was that to know, feel, and remember every single day.

But, when the trips to the hospital were finally over, and it was time to reacclimate to living in my apartment full-time, what to do with those cards?

I’m a keeper of things. Sentiments, magazine pages, interesting rocks I find on a mountain or beach. I wouldn’t say I’m a hoarder, but I do have a bag of gently used tissue paper in my closet … but it’s folded neatly and in color blocks, so it’s okay, right?!

I also have a bag in my closet of the covers to theater booklets of plays I’ve been to; movie stubs; plane tickets; the brochure for a place I went camping or an attraction I toured.

The trouble is, I’m not a scrap-booker, so I just kinda carry this bag of non-chronologically ordered “crap” with me from home to home. But, that’s okay. One day, like the cards, I’ll go through them.

But, last night was for the card drawer.

It was slow-going. I had to take a deep breath before taking the rubber band from around the batch of 2012 holiday cards. I knew this was going to take a while and probably bring things up.

But I began. And with each card, I was reminded of why I’d kept them until now.

Here’s the one from my college classmate, now in LA, saying she’d enclosed a gift card to Trader Joes.

Here’s one from a former colleague saying she loves getting the bloggish updates I was posting then to my lotsahelpinghands website.

Here’s one handwritten from an Etsy company saying “a friend” was thinking of me and wanted me to stay warm. This, I remember, accompanied a package of 6 “chemo caps” ranging from thin to thick, the one I wore most, a fuzzy leopard print that kept me feeling fun and warm. I still don’t know who sent those, as there was no name. Thank you, whoever you are.

Last night, with each, if I knew the sender and their cell number, I took a photo of the card, and sent it as a text with a note of thanks to them. Each text, a reminder to us both of what friendship means, even for people who aren’t close.

It was nearly 11 when I finally decided to stop. I’ve barely made a dent into the drawer. But was able to cull a few things out, deciding that with some, having a photo of them now is enough.

At the closing of this activity, I found myself in soft tears of gratitude. So many people surrounded me with love. With funny cards and sentiments, with crazy wacked-out envelopes, with heartfelt messages of hope and healing. And only a handful of these folks were people I keep in regular touch with. So many people came out of the woodwork to support me.

I was told once during the time I was sick, that I had no idea how many people were rooting for me. I agreed. I knew I had no idea, and I knew that was astounding and one of the greatest showings of human generosity that I’ve witnessed.

I had priests, rabbis, Muslims, and Buddhists praying for me. My mom’s hairdresser and my Aunt’s student. I had a class of kindergarteners praying for me.

I remember, too, when I was sick, trying to figure out how I could send thank you cards to everyone who’d contacted me, but I could only handle a few.

In this retread through the cards, in sending them back out to their sender with my note of thanks, I hope I am closing that loop of love, and letting you all know:

Your prayers worked, and I love you back.  

Aesop was a Scientist.

Chances are, like me, you’ve heard a hundred versions Aesop's fable, "The Oak and the Reed," wherein we're taught to bend like a reed in a storm, instead of remaining stalwart as an oak which will be blown over.

The moral is to remain flexible in the face of challenge or adversity, instead of becoming rigid and unmoving. To move with the times, to let things shift around you without trying to control them or how they’re affecting you. To be at ease with how things are, because when the storm does pass, if you’ve remained reed-like, you’ll stand up into the sunlight again.

Yes, we’ve all heard this, and again if you’re like me, you vacillate between these flora’s coping mechanisms, flexible to rigid and back again. Sometimes within the same hour.

However, one story I didn’t know was one I heard on the little audio book I’m listening to now: The Biodome Moral.

(Unfortunately, this has nothing to do with the Pauly Shore movie, but it’s valuable nonetheless.)

Scientists in the 80s, the book reports, created a perfect replica of Earth and Earth’s atmosphere within a dome. They then sent 8 scientists into the dome to live there for 2 years. Among their findings was what happened to the trees.

Inside the dome, there was no wind and no storms. The scientists assumed that without the challenges of storms to damage the trees, they would grow taller and stronger and faster than those outside the dome.

Indeed, the trees grew faster and taller. But not stronger.

The trees were weak, and easily uprooted. The scientists discovered that the trees needed the challenge of the storms, of withstanding the storms, in order to become strong and healthy. By eliminating all adversity from their lives, they became big and tall, sure, but they also became hollow and weak.

Remind us of any other species?

I am not an advocate for adversity. I bristle vehemently when told that adversity is "a blessing," as I’m occasionally told about my cancer.

Which, by the way – never tell someone that. If they want to say that to you, great; listen, nod, be compassionate. But never be the one to tell them that it makes them stronger, never tell them that there will be a gift from it, or that it is itself a gift. All these things may be true, but fuck you, healthy person, for telling me to look on the bright side of leaking out my ass for a month. Even though you mean it authentically, lovingly, and truthfully.

I happen to know these things are true. I write here that they are; that having had that adversity has impelled and propelled me to engage in my life and in activities that I’d procrastinated on; necessitated my creating new relationships and boundaries that I’d been too scared to create before. Having had and survived cancer has irrevocably changed the rest of my life and given miles of perspective to every other storm I may encounter.

But if you haven’t noticed, sometimes we get tired of encountering storms, and I’d really prefer for you to not steal my lemons to make your own lemonade. -- And I still wouldn't call it a blessing. An opportunity, I'd concede. But I'm sure no one ever said: Bless me, father, with life-threatening illness. 

... I guess I still have some letters of complaint to write to the Universe's customer service department.

So,

The absence of storms makes us weaker. But, the preponderance of storms makes us exhausted.

To continue in fable-speak then, I suppose it’s appropriate to quote Goldilocks on the merits of balance and the middle way. To endeavor to create, withstand, be free from and grow from challenges that are not too big, not too small, but “Just Right.”

In case you weren’t sure, I was the one dancing.

Last night, I got an email reply to my inquiry about volunteering for a day-long community social action project in the Fall. The call was for artists of all types, and if I’m anything, I am an artist of all types!

The email came back: YES! We’d love to have you; here are some painting projects: Create a mural; touch-up-paint a building; paint a wall; help kids decorate bags for food that will be donated.

If you read my blog, Men at Work, about circumstances that have come to fruition since being put in my “G-d box,” you may remember (as I do, since it’s now tacked to my fridge) that in that box was a list of things I wanted to do, accomplish, or participate in. The second on the list, just after "being in a band," is painting a mural.

At the time I was writing my blog about it, the mural didn’t seem so important anymore. In fact, I reflected, "Sure that’d still be totally rad!" but that doing a mural doesn’t feel as prioritized as some of the other items on the list, like finding a creative job I enjoy, or being in a musical.

And yet. Here’s an opportunity I would never have thought would come to be an opportunity!

The email said the mural would be in collaboration, and there’s more info that I’d gather from the committee members, so I wouldn’t be doing this in isolation at all.

However, I notice, too, that my typical/habitual reaction is to say, "I’m not an artist on that scale or level, so I’ll take the job of helping the kids decorate lunch bags."

I know that’s my automatic response. I know that’s my fear response. But, I also know that there’s validity in saying, I’ve never done this before, and I would love to help, but I’d also need help.

And, so, that’s likely what I’ll say. I’ll be honest with where my talents are, but also where my aspiration is. I mean, if I never, ever step out of what my comfort zone is, how will I ever know what I am capable of, hm?

That doesn’t mean taking risks at the detriment of a community project just to say, “Of course I can do it.” It's detrimental to me (and to them) if I take steps that are developmentally inappropriate out of fear or pride. That doesn’t mean not to stretch out of my comfort zone (which, FYI participating a mural at all is!!), but it does mean that I start with a 5 mile hike, not 10.

This all feels very parallel to the job of the lead role in the play I was offered. I know it’s a stretch of my talents. I know I’ve never done it before, but unlike the play, the mural is something I’d really love to do. I appreciate the organization, their mission, and think it would be a lot of fun.

More will be revealed. I will let them know my truth, and be willing to say, "I don’t know if I can take the lead on this project, but I would love to be 'second in command' or co-chair of it -- truly involved in its creation and completion."

Instead of playing it safe with the colored bags (something I know I can land easily, have fun with but not be learning much), I think the way to “dare greatly” here is to offer to help out on the mural however I can, and learn a whole lot on the way. Then maybe next time, I can confidently say Yes to taking the lead.

Here’s to being willing to cross more items off that list! (And here's to my "daring greatly" in the first place by writing to them that I wanted to be involved at all.) 

"Person-To-Person"

Of course it is a pity that so much of all creative work is so closely related to the personality of the one who does it.

It is sad and embarrassing and unattractive that those emotions that stir him deeply enough to demand expression, and to charge their expression with some measure of light and power, are nearly all rooted, however changed in their surface, in the particular and sometimes peculiar concerns of the artist himself, that special world, the passions and images of it that each of us weaves about him from birth to death, a web of monstrous complexity, spun forth at a speed that is incalculable to a length beyond measure, from the spider mouth of his own singular perceptions.

It is a lonely idea, a lonely condition, so terrifying to think of that we usually don't. And so we talk to each other, write and wire each other, call each other short and long distance across land and sea, clasp hands with each other at meeting and at parting, fight each other and even destroy each other because of this always somewhat thwarted effort to break through walls to each other. As a character in a play once said, "We're all of us sentenced to solitary confinement inside our own skins."

Personal lyricism is the outcry of prisoner to prisoner from the cell in solitary where each is confined for the duration of his life.

[...]

Of course I know that I have sometimes presumed too much upon corresponding sympathies and interest in those to whom I talk boldly, and this has led to rejections that were painful and costly enough to inspire more prudence. But when I weigh one thing against another, an easy liking against a hard respect, the balance always tips the same way, and whatever risk of being turned a cold shoulder, I still don't want to talk to people only about the surface aspects of their lives, the sort of things that acquaintances laugh and chatter about on ordinary social occasions.

I feel that they get plenty of that, and heaven knows so do I, before and after the little interval of time in which I have their attention and say what I have to say to them. The discretion of social conversation, even among friends, is exceeded only by the discretion of "the deep six," that grave wherein nothing is mentioned at all. Emily Dickinson, that lyrical spinster of Amherst, Massachusetts, who wore a strict and savage heart on a taffeta sleeve, commented wryly on that kind of posthumous discourse among friends in these lines:

       I died for beauty, but was scarce
       Adjusted in the tomb,
       When one who died for truth was lain
       In an adjoining room. 

       He questioned softly why I failed?
       "For beauty," I replied. 
       "And I for truth,—the two are one;
       We brethren are," he said. 

       And so, as kinsmen met at night,
       We talked between the rooms,
       Until the moss had reached our lips,
       And covered up our names.

Meanwhile!—I want to go on talking to you as freely and intimately about what we live and die for as if I knew you better than anyone else whom you know.

TENNESSEE WILLIAMS, preface to Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, 1955.