Y E S Sleep Til Brooklyn!...

Hey folks. So, I'm going on hiatus from the post-a-day once more. Until I get settled back into the school routine, I'm making the choice to let this outflow close for a little while.

Thank you for reading, it's always a pleasure to know you're there - but, ;) you're there anyway.

So, cheers, and may the schwartz be with you,
Love and Light,
M.

Two-Way Street

The phrase I hear in certain spiritual circles, You have to give it away in order to keep it, has always bothered me. So, lately, knowing I’m coming up against this as a block, I’ve been altering it to, I have to share it in order to keep it, just to make myself feel better about it.

I made a few realizations recently about my reluctance to share. Notably, in each case when I’ve been “down on my luck” financially, and have gone into what I call “lock-down mode,” I’ve been forced to surrender, and let go of my pride, or my ideas, and let other people know what’s going on, and let them help me.

It occurs to me that lock-down mode is a closed circuit. It says, anything that I get, I must hold on to fiercely, because I don’t know if I will ever get more (this goes for love, and finances, and jobs, and creativity, and more, I’m sure).

Lock-down mode is also a closed circuit because it is like battening down the hatches of a ship, bracing for a storm. Don’t move, or you’ll be swept overboard.

In these circumstances when I’ve locked-down, it’s been like increasing the speed of a flushing toilet, I realize. It’s gotten worse, not better, faster.

Abundance, community, love, creativity, require an open channel, an open circuit, one which allows energy in, and allows energy out.

I reported on here a little while ago about a meditation where I noticed that although still reluctant to do so, I allowed energy to pass through me into those behind me, instead of, as I’d done in a previous version of this meditation, simply fill others from my own bucket, denying and absolutely refusing to take in from those sending to me.

Either ends of this constriction is a closed circuit, depleting, and ultimately self-defeating.

Whether I choose to lock-down, and absorb, reach for, demand everything I can, and horde it; or, whether I choose to close off the inflow, and simply – and resolutely – give to you from my own bucket. This, is not a channel.

When someone had mentioned to me recently that I have to close these holes in order to be able to hold abundance, that there are places where I’m letting it seep from me, and will never in fact be able to hold it, this is a place of that fissure. Seems ironic that in order to have abundance I must begin to stop holding it, but, such is the paradox of spiritual axioms.

To quote what I’ve heard, There is enough time, there is enough love, there is enough money. Therefore, if there is enough, then I don’t need to hold on to it.

And, I need to address the other side too, the part of the inflow. Like in Tuesday night’s class when I’d recognized how little I’d been letting other people “give” to me.

In the moments when I’ve been broke, looking at the price of Ramen noodles in the discount grocery store, I’ve let go. I’ve stopped folding the end of the hose, and let it open, fear or not. And, miraculously, I’ve been taken care of … abundantly ;)

So, there are two sides of this constriction that I would like to address. The part that says, I can give to you, but you can’t give to me. And the part that says, once I’ve got anything at all, I’m holding onto it for dear life.

The “dear life,” it seems, occurs only, only when I do let go of strangling it. 

Say Yes.

Oh dear reader, as quickly as they flit in, they flit out.

Remember so recently my choreographing a ballet as a part of my thesis? Well, perhaps not. Or, simply, perhaps not now.

My new thesis idea is a book of art with poems. Not novel, but novel to me.

My dad’s voice is readily in my head, “You’re paying $100,000 for THIS?!?” Yes, Dad. Yes.

But, to address first things first, yesterday’s intro to EMDR was much gentler than I’d anticipated, as my therapist had mentioned to me. And we’re starting small, gathering positive resources, grounding in safe space, assembling Team Molly, as it were. I cried only the teeniest bit, and did not get struck by a streetcar. In fact, I cried only that bit when I was recalling something really lovely actually. ~ I am grateful to have a woman as gentle as she is to guide me through this. And she’s consistently reminded me that her experience is not that patients have dramatic, radical shifts, but rather subtle changes they may not even notice till later when they realize they’re holding these things differently.

That said, the first thing I said to her yesterday when I arrived was that I was terrified, but we did the groundwork anyway. Because, yes, it is time. (insert Rafiki's voice from Lion King here – “Eet ees time.”)

To return to the thesis though. (First draft due Feb 15^th… Insert Marisa Tomei’s stamping foot from My Cousin Vinny … lol, I could do this all day...)

On Wednesday night, I had a wonderful experience. Having bought a copse of new, brilliant markers from Blick Art Supply store on Sunday, I sat down and began to experiment with these new, saturated, luscious, dripping, succulent colors. You can perhaps tell how much I enjoyed them.

I felt almost as if I were getting to finger the crevices of the greatest gemstones of all time. Basking in their glow. Delighted at how they caught the light, how they were able to instantaneously create something out of nothing.

I experimented for a while. With the different points and pressures and textures and shapes. I felt so calm and exhilarated. Like, this THIS is what it feels like to be engaged in what you want to be doing. And moreover, it feels like finally breaching the surface of the water after you’ve been under for too long. Relief in a way that makes you want to cry.

After I’d done a few of these just luxuriating in the experience of manipulating these colors and markers pages, I turned a page, and began to write a part of a story. Portions of the words fell right off the page, and the next line began somewhere a few words in, as if the others were being written … invisibly, on the other side of the page, on a bigger page that got cut, or weren’t actually written at all and there aren't any words to connect what you’ve read.

With my markers, I wrote a few more of these partial stories. Then I put them up on the wall in my kitchen. The drawing before I began writing continues to arrest me when I look at it. Something about it captures me. And it is under this one, that I’ve taped the first story piece, both are in red.

Perhaps, this is the beginning of a book. Perhaps the image and the story, or poem, relate.

And, perhaps as I thought about it this morning, perhaps there are blank pages for you, reader, to write your own story. Or perhaps blank pages for you to draw above the stories. Perhaps it's children's book-like. Perhaps the content isn't though. 

Maybe. Maybe not. But I sure like the idea. The idea of collaboration, of interaction, of experimentation, and creativity.

I’m currently reading a book by Thomas Moore called, A Life At Work: The Joy of Discovering What You Were Meant to Do. And as I also look at some of the work I’d done in response to What Color is Your Parachute, I am faced again with the notion that my work demands to be integrative, collaborative, fun.

This new idea, whatever comes of it, is part of this discovery process. It’s part of the milemarkers on my path to my path. (And, I will tell you, Thomas Moore agrees with me about not needing to "CHOOSE ONE" life path.) ;P

I’m going to play with this new idea. A little more implementable than the dance. We’ll see what happens. I may stick with all the work I’ve got and “Make it work,” or I’ll head here for now, and “Follow the fun."

Light Dispels Dark

Methinks I may need to reread the Lighten Up! blog again before I head out this morning, or at least take heart the theme.

Today, I will be beginning a process called EMDR (eye movement desensitization and reprocessing) with my therapist in San Francisco. It’s a therapy that is used to reintegrate and desensitize traumatic memories by stimulating both sides of the body, either with eye moment, as the name suggests, or tapping on both knees with your hands, or little alternating vibrations in each hand in order to help store those charged memories back in a way which more resembles the way we hold non-traumatic memories. 

Perhaps you can imagine, I’m a little … freaked out, is the “lightest” word I can use at the moment.

I have resisted her suggestion to do this for several years. But, it seems, and in fact is, time to do this. I’m terrified. I terrified I’m going to hysterically cry and leave her office a mess and get struck by a street car in my haze. I’m terrified I’m going to find out things that I really don’t want to know. I’m terrified, mainly, and most likely, that I will cry, a lot, and then I’ll be walking around for two weeks til our next session with all of this “up” stuff.

To be true, though, a lot of the work I think we’ll do today is actually about grounding in some positive resources. i.e. if we’re going to talk about the most disturbing memories, we’re today supposed to talk about the most positive and joyous memories. In fact, I was supposed to write them down, but have felt like even that was too big a step toward “the final product.” So, I’ll head into the city shortly and sit at a café and write my 10 best memories.

There was the option to also write the 10 most disturbing, and when she saw my trepidation (and terror), she said there’s always the option we can do it in her office together, and so we will. I’m relieved for that.

As a blog, I feel that there’s some responsibility to care-take your feelings, reader, and let you know, don’t worry, it’s all okay, this is all “normal” trauma, and I’m just particularly invested in spelunking my inner caves and gutting them. But it’s okay, I’m okay.

But, I won’t.

I know that it will be okay. I know that in this moment it is all okay, and I am safe. I know that somewhere under my solar plexus and behind a sheet of iron walling, but outside of that? I’m … scared. And, that’s okay. Feels normal. I trust my therapist. I trust the work that I’ve done which has pointed me in this direction, in the direction of working on, and through, and ultimately OUT of this stuff.

It’s just like anything else. Light dispels the dark. This is a particular area of bogeymen who are particularly vocal and wear neon-green shark teeth as necklaces around their craggy and sagging skin. They are bogeymen. Just rattlers in the dark. And like anything else that I’ve addressed and faced and dispelled, like the soldiers in the BART blog, they’re a protection agent.

Underneath my terror and fear and hesitation and reluctance, I know there’s safety and compassion and freedom and light. I know, as my teacher says in meditations, “It’s safe to go here because of all of the work you’ve already done.” I know, as my post-it in my kitchen says, “I am able to go to scary places because I have a firm foundation of love.” And I know too, that this is a wound. My therapist is a doctor. And I can trust a doctor to help me heal. 

The Gaze.

So, despite my declaration (or desire to adhere) to a cozy, yummy 9 pm bedtime, there will of course be exceptions.

Like, every Tuesday night. My new poetry workshop ends at 9:15 on Tuesday nights, and my painting class begins at 9 am on Wednesday mornings, so these are going to be quick turn around days, and I’ll have to learn how to work within these parameters. Mainly, sleep enough within them!

Also, despite my saying yesterday, “Theater, I lay you down,” … my poetry course is mainly, almost entirely focused on performance. Not just poetry, but, performance art. I’m SO freaking excited. Like I said, this teacher is a pretty big deal (Guillermo Gomez Pena, look him up, you’ll get what I mean), and his methods are NOT your typical poetry workshop, where everyone brings in a poem, reads it, murmurs comments of assent or dissent and move on.

This, will be much different. And I can’t wait. Last night, we did all kinds of spontaneous verbal exercises, then some pretty awkward and intense physical interactions with each other, the other students. It was a series of looking into another student’s eyes for minutes on end, with different attendant variations – to explore the gaze and being fully present with another human being. It, as you can imagine, could get a little awkward. These were not the ice-breaker activities we did in summer camp! It was weird, and telling, and opening, and closing, and awkward, and just interesting to notice the experience.

Further, I had training for the artist’s modeling yesterday for about 2 hours in the city, and the facilitator said that there are two reasons that people get out of the business. 1) it’s too physically demanding. (and after actually running through some 1 minute, 5 minute, and then a 20 minute pose, I assure you, I completely agree – my muscles are going to be learning a thing or two about what works with my anatomy… and blood flow – yes, my fingers are numb if I hold them over my head for 5 minutes…!)

The 2^nd reason he said people get out of the business is because they can’t take “the gaze” anymore. That although, in reality, the artist and students drawing the model are really only seeing what they want to see, that mainly they’re interested in form and shadow and contour, the model can begin to get hyper-sensitive to the gaze, and feel too vulnerable underneath it.

He said to remember that what they’re seeing is only what you’re giving them. That still, we’re in control, even if we’re nude, and eyes open, we still, like most people walking around fully clothed all day, get the chance to allow people to see only what we want them to see.

In one of the exercises last night, the 3^rd woman I “stared” at, well, I’ll tell you, she was pretty powerful. And after so much outflow, which is my natural setting (“She’s gone from SUCK to BLOW!” … Spaceballs reference), it was interesting to feel that actually, she was going to be the one with the outflow, and I could choose whether to let her in or not. (And if you’re rolling your eyes right now, and being like, "Molly, you are sooo Woo-woo hippie shit,” meh, c’est la vie.) So, I did let her, and several minutes into the exercise, I actually began to cry. Not on purpose! But because, I could feel that as exhausted and raw as I’ve felt over the last month or so, I’ve still been outwardly focused.

Like with the 2^nd girl, I could feel her pain and loneliness, and she actually said afterward that she realized how little physical contact she gets these days (we were holding hands as well as eye contact in this one). And I was sending her all kinds of love and healing.

But with the 3^rd girl, I tried to send it out, but it was like, no buddy, This Bud’s for You. And she sent that healing, and that love, and that gaze into me. And I felt myself seen, and held by it. And just let go, into her power, and saw my own vulnerability and raw places by riding into myself through her gaze. I told her afterward, to explain why I'd cried, that my energy had been so outwardly focused and I’ve felt so raw lately, that to let someone else in, to allow the energy to go the other way ‘round was really powerful for me, and a relief to let myself sit in it.

So, yeah. Although I’m not trolling the casting call website at the moment or going on auditions, I’m pretty sure the HP is arranging for me to engage in my body, my emotions, and my performance in a variety of new ways. Even woo-woo hippie ones.

I cannot do everything all at once.

Bummer.

I can perhaps do most things, and many things, and maybe even “all” things in turn, eventually, in time, but all at once? Not so much.

I met with a beloved teacher of mine on Sunday, and she said something which my dear friend Chris had once said to me, You’re going to have to choose.

OH! How I Hate To Hear That!

To give some grounding information to this broad proclamation about the reality of physics (unless it’s quantum physics, in which case they can be in more than one place at once, but I digress). Yesterday, I had to cancel the final of my 4 scheduled auditions for this month. A) I was pooped. Too much outflow energy, not enough restorative. b) in contemplating whether to go to the audition or not (by two buses in the rain), I read the performance details, and the performance overlaps day for day, word for word with the month before my graduation. Which means rehearsal is right then too, which means I’d be doing school, writing a thesis, and rehearsing for a real play? (Assuming ofcourseofcourse I got cast.)

It was all too much. And I asked myself that if I were my own best friend at the moment, what would I tell myself about going to the audition? I would tell myself to take care of me. And so I did. I wrote and called the casting director, full of chagrin and appreciation, and then went to meet up with my fellows. Which is really what I needed to do anyway.

There, I was given the divine opportunity to hear a woman in pain, and asked her to coffee after the meeting, and now we’ll be meeting on a weekly basis. Werd. Go G-d.

In reference to Sunday, and Patsy’s comment about having to choose; she was saying this because I came to her exhausted already. I've learned there’s a lot of externally flowing energy involved in theater auditions. And until you’re working with the other folks in rehearsal, or on stage with an audience, it’s really one-sided. Once you’re with those folks, it becomes symbiotic, and you exchange and feed off and are buoyed by one another's energy, but, it’s been too much all at once for me.

I also told Patsy that I was already overwhelmed by this HALF CREDIT class I’m taking, the 2^nd half of the workshop I’m implementing on Creativity and Spirituality (um, someone ring an irony bell?). I was feeling ALL kinds of WHOA BUDDY, it’s a half a fucking credit, back off with your emails at midnight demanding information.

None of my business when other people want to send emails (though my judgey judgerson wants to be like, hmm, lady, that can’t be healthy). But hey, some people work best at midnight. I’m not one of them.

In fact, I’ve gotten into the wonderfully cozy habit over the last few weeks of going to bed around 9pm. Yep. Lame, but I really really don’t feel that way. I realized it’s about 3 hours after the sun goes down, or after it’s dark, and my body and brain are like, alright, shutting down now. It’s been nice to not force myself to stay up till some “normal” hour, which is what I usually do.

So, that’s a form of self-care. So was canceling the audition. So was not emailing my professor back a snipey email in answer to her questions.

It’s all information, I guess is my point. And however loathe, really truly so uninclined to admit it, I can’t do everything.

I can’t audition for plays, rehearse for the one I’m in, start working with a woman on my financial stuff (which I begin this morning, in fact), meet with the girls I need to meet with, go to class, prepare and facilitate a workshop, write a thesis, do my homework ….. (without a car at least, sneaks in the thought). But, with or without a car, I have to choose where my energy will be going, and choose places where it’s not just outflow, but inflow.

Like my painting class yesterday. *Joy incarnate.* We, or I, practically shoved my hands into the paint and began to finger paint with it. I was so relieved and thrilled to be back to it. I love it. We were doing some, "Don’t think too hard about it" exercises, and it was marvelous. I could spit rainbows I was so … in my element.

I know too, from having taken a similar class last year, that by the end of the semester I was done with painting, that there’s, with me, a burn-out with everything. I used to say I need crop-rotation for my brain. A few months art, few music, few cooking. Give my brain a new toy, let the land rest, refuel.

But, friends, I hate to not be able to do it all. The painting, and the acting, and the writing, and the modeling, and the running in and out of the city, and the meeting up with folks, and going to see music, and keeping my home orderly. Mostly, I can’t do all the art at once.

This does not mean I cannot do all the art – I just don’t agree – my constitution is not made that way. My friend Chris had said, choose one thing, and that’s it, you do it, and you’ll succeed at it. I don’t work that way, or maybe I don’t work that way yet. I like crop rotation. I like playing in all these pockets of my brain’s creativity. I just can’t do it all at once. In order, one season of crops at a time, perhaps. One at a time, I can.

So, theater, for now, (as I head into rehearsals and my acting class, lol), I’m going to lay you down. For now. I thank you. You’ve been thrilling and helped me be brave, and open, and walk through fear, and have fun anyway; but for now, you’re moving down my speed dial. I’ll call you when the season has turned. 

The Hero's Journey

See, perhaps it’s not that San Francisco is actually cold. Perhaps it is the proliferation of single-paned windows and inadequate heating. The wonderful high ceilings don’t do much to trap in the heat either. So, solution? Munchkin houses. Winterized. lol. See, there’s even a word, “Winterized.” I’m not sure that the Bay Area has much acquaintance with this notion, as we all sort of seem to believe that it doesn’t actually get that cold, or that we’re more like Southern California. Perhaps this is what they meant when they said “California Dreamin’.”

In any case, drafty as my home is. Grateful for it. Especially on what are Bay Area winter days.

There is a big part of me that wants to write an addendum to yesterday’s blog. To somehow mitigate and soften the “I haven’t had a great sex life” theme. Most of that is because I want you to see me “better,” some of that is that I don’t want to insult anyone I’ve slept with who might be reading this and tell them of course there are occasions when it’s been marvelous. But, that’s only wanting them to like me too, another way of “seeing me better.” So, I will leave the truth as the half-truth it is, because, for certain, there are the good experiences, and there is the truth that it’s less about them, and more about my inability to ask for what I need (in most areas of my life).

And, I will hold the truth that, still, I feel naïve and unexperienced or uneducated in this way, and am holding that with compassion, and an intention to head in that direction. There’s a fair amount on one of my collages that’s the phrase, The Joy of Kissing, and I wonder if perhaps part of that is a call to start again at the beginning, you know? To start with one of the most tender places, and just meditate there, pause there, let myself savor it, and not skip to the main course.

Also, I want to soften the “this is not an invitation” line, because although it’s not a plea for you, reader, to initiate me into the softened world of pleasure, I actually DO want to offer an invitation into the world/Universe. This IS an invitation from me to the machinations of the world to head there, to gentleness, and intimacy, and … well, whatever else I feel I’ve been missing in this area. So, Universe, this is an invitation, written in velvet, in loopy script, and something less intimidating than red for experiences of physical intimacy on a softer plane.

Speaking of physicality, I had my orientation for the art modeling guild yesterday, and 12 year old girl that I still am, it was hard to not giggle when the facilitator said, “And men? No Erections! Ever.” Lol. “Any man who tells you he can’t control it is lying. And if he really can’t, then he shouldn’t be a model.” It’s nice the systems of protection and comfort that they have set up, which is why I’m really glad to be doing it this way, rather than freelance, which can be ICKY (see former blog about older man with vagina skulls).

After the orientation, I went directly to my audition for a Shakespeare company, and guess what? Not that bad. :) THIS TIME, I didn’t blank out in the middle of the monologue. I futzed a few things, but, if you didn’t have a script in front of you, you’d never know. Point being, I actually did better than my last spoken word audition, and really, “Better than last time” is all I’m lookin’ for. I also, miraculously, ran into a girl I have just been beginning to see around lately over here in Oakland with some of the financial healing folks. She’s been doing this circuit for a long time, it seems, and knew nearly everyone who walked in and out of the building, and chatted with another girl about, "Are you working with David? No, with Bobby." and other such insider speak that I am totally novice of. But… now, we both have an ally. Someone showing up and letting go of the results, and also some who’s willing to sit with me and initiate me in some of these lingos, and people, and classes, and companies. She even suggested a company she thought I’d do well with. :) Go G-d.

Finally, for today’s blog. I had a very vivid dream last night about an older friend of mine who I found out – in the dream – had killed herself suddenly. I was shocked and devastated, and went out from where I was directly into her funeral. It was packed. And yet, even her husband, who was shocked was actually not as shaken as you’d expect.

Part of Saturday’s spirituality workshop included a story about Minos and the Minotaur, using the myth as a frame for us to see perhaps what part of the story, what part of our own hero’s journey we are in. Minos made a deal with Poseiden. Poseiden said that Minos would become king if he sacrificed this gorgeous white bull. Minos said sure. Became king. … And then decided the bull was too special and meant too much to him, and so he sacrificed 50 goats instead. (This did not go well in the end.)

I said that I feel like this is the part of the journey I’m on. In order to ascend to the next level, the next stage, the next iteration of myself and my life, I have to sacrifice my attachment to what it had been, aka my bull (dying we awaken to a new life, kind of stuff). Instead, I’ve been hemming and hawing, and saying, well, what if I give you this instead, what if I sort of dance around the issue, and lop off my foot in the process – won’t that give me the result that I ultimately need?

No dice.

I also said, that I also felt like the part of the story when they kill the Minotaur, when this beast that cannot be a part of society, but it’s really not his fault, is killed. With this spirit of sadness and also with relief do I … intend? to kill my bull.

I think that part of my dream was about that, the death of these attachments to my past. I put up a whole host of new (to the blog) poems, and as I was editing what work I had, I felt like all the family stuff, all the blamey stuff and most of the trauma stuff didn’t need to be up anymore.

Which leads me to wonder: if what I wanted my thesis to be was an excavation of old stuff, a laying to rest of it, haven’t I already done that? In the very writing of it, and even in the sharing of it with my professors and classmates, haven’t I given voice to this? Is this actually what I need to say anymore? Is this anymore where the charge is for me?

I’m not sure. Well, no. Actually, the answer is no. But I’m not sure what that will mean for this specific piece of writing I have to hand in.

But, I also said in the workshop on Saturday that despite my reluctancy to sacrifice the bull, my reluctancy to grieve for what was lost and misplaced in my youth, the fact is, I’m already in it. It’s no use saying, I don’t want to. Or I won’t. Or I can’t. Because, baby, I already am.