Hold the Space

It’s a very good thing I don’t have to do this on my own, that I’m connected to friends and fellowships, and to a Higher Power that can help me to hold the space for others. Because Lord, if today is not the day of expanding that capacity.

Already today, I have sat and listened to the chaos and pain and sadness of several people’s lives. I have been on the phone with someone who asked to be given the space, for me to hold the space, for her to share her grief. And then I sat one-on-one with someone in chaos and pain, and offered action steps, encouragement, and hope.

I’m ... well, I guess I’m not exhausted, because I haven’t been doing this on my own power. Luckily, I have enough experience to know that I cannot hold others’ grief all by myself, and so I’ve taken moments here and there during this morning to call upon the inner resources of strength to help me be present – not to check out while they’re sharing, or to be in judgment of them, or think about my opinion about what they're saying – but to really be present and listen.

I found it hardest first thing this morning, when for an hour that was the theme, and there were a few people grounded in their chaos, feeding on it, and looking for relief in a way that felt toxic to me. That’s always the hardest type. A friend informed me that Eckhart Tolle (whom, by the way, I cannot stand…but that’s a story for another day), but that he had a concept called the “pain body,” and it goes something like, when someone wants to share their pain in a way that they want you to get stuck in it too – that they want you to take it on. To stand nearby to someone, just aching to share their pain body with you.

You probably know people like that – perhaps you are even related to them. But they don’t want you to “hold space” for them; they want you to become mired in it with them. A misery loves company kind of thing.

It’s hard to stand on top of the quagmire of trauma and grief and sadness and suffering, and not get sucked down by it. One thing that helps, and which has helped me today is gratitude.

For all the drama around school and finances, and even around my trauma recovery, I am not where those people are, just for today. For today, I am grateful that I woke up early, got to meet my commitments, and will head this afternoon to the chiropractor and later to meet up with a lovely group of cityfolk.

For today, there isn’t active drama or chaos or grief in my life. And I am hugely grateful for that. I’ve heard it said that it’s a good thing we’re not all crazy on the same day. Sometimes people hold the space for me when I am in it. When I’m snot-bubble sobbing the Ugly Cries and I can’t see the end of the abyss. And people hold the space for me to cry it out, and likely sit in compassion and gratitude themselves.

We’re not all crazy on the same day, nor are we all grieving on the same day.

The other thing that I’ve found helpful today as I sit and let the grief of others dissipate from around me, is that I did my dishes. All of them. I vacuumed my apartment. And I will eat some healthy lunch before I head on my way. Because no matter what resources I have available to me from a Higher Power or from my community, if I’m not taking care of my basic needs, I’m not at all available to others.

Water, Food, Recovery, Compassion, Gratitude. It’s been a big day, and it's only noon. But tomorrow someone may do it for me. 

Magical Accidental Orgasm

In The Vagina Monologues, there is a piece in which a woman comes to the realization while in a “Vagina Workshop” that she had avoided finding her clitoris. That she had believed that orgasms happen to her, that they weren’t something she should… have a hand in. She was occasionally the recipient of magical, accidental orgasms (on horseback, or in water, she says), but had never actually made one happen herself.

When she was instructed in the workshop that it was time to find her clitoris, she noticed she began to panic. She had to now give up the idea that someone would come along and give her orgasms, she had to now give up the idea that someone was coming to live her life for her.

Her lines occurred to me as I walked toward yesterday’s professional development seminar for writers. The sense that I was having to give up the idea that someone would come along and live my life for me – that someone else would make the decisions, take the actions that would enable me to be a something. A writer, an artist, a worker.

I have magical, accidental thinking too. And as I noticed I was experiencing a strange sense of sadness on my way to the seminar yesterday, I realized this was why. It is becoming time for me to “find my clitoris.” To stop waiting for someone to do this for me, to stop waiting for someone to hand me the roadmap for my life, and time for me to begin actually taking action if I want results.

This brought grief. The death of my magical thinking. The death of my hope that I could float along on half steam. Because I have floated along on half steam, the recipient of magical gifts from the Universe. The problem with floating along without my own power is that I now come to approach the job market, the work world, with no sense of self-esteem. What have I done? Where have I been a real asset?

Sure, I have a long resume, with a host of attributes, but none of them have anything to do with what gives me fire. When a friend suggested recently that once May comes along, I’ll find my “fuck yeah” job at 40 hours a week with benefits… I thought I would vomit. Or rather, my whole internal organ system went momentarily into a freeze. FUCK NO. 40 hours a week with benefits sounds like a prison sentence. But it’s always what I’ve fallen back on. I’m a good little worker bee; under half-steam I can coast along on charisma and menial labor.

That is not my “fuck yeah” job. So what is? Because I have ultimately avoided finding my “spot,” I have no idea.

But, I have now realized that I’ve been wishing that someone would make those decisions and take those actions for me. That I would magically and accidentally end up in the career, field, job that I love.

And I’ve realized that this is not true. And further, back to the self-esteem thing, it doesn’t build it. Being gifted by the Universe has been wonderful; I’ve been able to walk through the fire of dramatic uprisings in finances and personal relationships. I have done this with as much work as I thought was necessary, but not much more.

I am frightened. I have never really done much of the showing up wholly and fully, and so I don’t yet have the experience that I can. But, I know for absolute certain that if I don’t let go of my magical thinking, I will “end up” in another cubicle, and I have promised myself, sworn to myself, and begged myself to not do that.

This means accepting that I am worth the effort; and that I am worthy of the effort. That I am worthy of my full attention, and don’t need to be dependent on or subject to the random twists of fate. 

It’s time to take matters into my own hand.

Standards

Yesterday as I was walking to catch my bus to the movies with friends, a young man walked out of a nearby store and was walking just a few paces next to me in the same direction. It was obvious we were going to be going the same way for a while, so I asked him what he’d bought at the store – it’s a little Italian food and cheese shop.

We ended up chatting and laughing a good bit on the way, and as my bus came into sight, and he was going to continue on his way, I introduced myself and held out my hand. He did the same, and then he asked, Do you want to get together some time?

I smiled, and said, Actually I’m not dating right now, but thank you. And he looked a little quizzical, but accepted it, and as we crossed the street, I said maybe I’ll see you around. And I got on my bus, with a grin on my face.

This young man, about my age, attractive, and I picked up a Jewish vibe (my Jew-dar is pretty good with men). But, he was about 5 inches shorter than me. (I'm close to 6feet tall, if you didn't know.)

I told my friend about the interaction later, and she said, "he wasn’t up to my standards, no pun intended…" But, unfortunately or not, it’s true. I’ve tried to make good enough good enough, and it just doesn’t work for me. I’ve tried to make almost the right fit into the right fit, but it’s like Cinderella’s sisters’ bleeding toes. Eventually, the truth will out.

I felt glad that I was approachable and attractive. I felt bummed that it wasn’t the right fit. But, I suppose it’s progress that I’m approachable.

I still think about the Catholic and our incredible first date in January – like something out of Before Sunrise. I've been noticing I really do have a type, a physical type, at least. Blond and blue eyed. So, a blond blue eyed, tall Jew. Right… But, as someone once told me, the Universe will either fulfill your desire, or take it away. Or, as I've also heard, G-d has three answers: Yes, Not Now, and I have something better in mind.

For my reluctance to write this in an open forum, before I met my last boyfriend, I felt like and said that I felt ready for “the one before ‘The One,’” that I wasn’t quite ready for white-picket fence land, or to be fully emotionally available – but that I was ready to try for the almost.

And believe it or not, I believe that’s exactly what happened. It was almost right. It was in many ways also very not right. But I got to practice being in a relationship; noticing my patterns, my alternation between a desire to control and be approved of, and a desire to reject. I got to see that I wasn’t a half-bad girlfriend, which was good, considering my self-esteem's attachment to my sordid promiscuous past. And, ultimately, I got to see that the difference between “almost” and “yes,” though small, is also a canyon. Not easily crossed or bridged by any amount of force or desire.

I’ve had a few approaches by “almosts” in the last six months or so. And I’ve gotten to play the tape – the recent tape of trying with an almost. It included tears, pain, “breaks,” coercion, frustration, despair. (Of course, it also included joy, humor, contentment, and creativity.) It was not enough. And so, I’ve had to practice saying no.

I’m not sure that I like using the phrase “I’m not dating right now,” which had been true for the last few months, not being emotionally available to date. But I feel that that’s changing. So, we’ll see. Maybe I will get the opportunity to say Yes sometime soon.

(And, by the way, part of the reason for today’s blog is all a ‘note to self’ about the inappropriate dude-I-feel-like-a-13-year-old-lost-in-my-gawky-body-when-I-talk-to-you crush I have on an blue-eyed acquaintance, who is non-jewish, short, taken, but oh so … yummy.) ;)

My Life is in Harmony and in Perfect Living Order

My Body is in Harmony and in Perfect Living Order

My Home is in Harmony and in Perfect Living Order

My Finances are in Harmony and in Perfect Living Order

My Time is in Harmony and in Perfect Living Order

My Family is in Harmony and in Perfect Living Order

Now that you’ve vomited, gagged, or simply stopped reading, this is the phrase that occurred to me this morning. Particularly around my family.

These are affirmations, which means that they may not be precisely “true” at present, but the point is to work at believing them, and to bring them into being. Affirmations have a long history, with me too, of being thought of as poppy-cock, and nonsense, and sooooo gushy icky lovey for only the really far out hopeless cases of wishful, magical thinkers.

And, be that as it may, what harm can they do.

It’s like the removal of the paintings of women hidden from the viewer. What harm can it do? It’s like seeing a holistic chiropractor who recommended gargling with (diluted!) apple cider vinegar because I was getting sick. What harm can it do? It’s like believing that my parents will behave themselves when they see each other at my graduation.

Like the anxiety/control bug will do, this parasite will glom onto anything to maintain its existence. And, currently, now that it looks like I may well graduate (WHEW!), it looks like my parents are coming out to see me “walk” for graduation.

I’m… anxious in advance. My parents were not the fighting kind when they were married. They were the not talking kind, speaking, toward the end especially, only about who has a dentist appointment that day, or when they’ll be home, etc. So, it’s difficult to imagine a reality in which they talk less, but, I’m in it. We’re in it.

In fact, it’s worse. Because now, there’s rancor and distrust and dislike. There’s resentment basically. And for the most part, since their divorce ten years ago, a) they do not talk, email, communicate (except through my brother and me), and b) if they mention each other, it’s with bile.

So, my anxiety bug has been glomming onto the event of their being in the same place at the same time, and how uncomfortable their tension makes me.

It’s been suggested that I can let each of them know that this is on my mind, and that I look forward to a happy occasion. They don’t have to be best friends - they never really were – they just have to get along enough to celebrate a happy occasion. My happy occasion.

My therapist said yesterday that it’s typical for people who have had to take on adult responsibilities prior to adulthood to get a little paralyzed and fearful when faced with adult rites of passage, such as graduation. That we have put on such a show and action of being adult before our years that when we’re actually faced with real acts of adulthood, we don’t really know what to do with that. There’s a feeling that we haven’t in fact grown up enough to take on the responsibilities we’re being asked to take on.

The fact is, I didn’t graduate undergrad with my friends and roommates. I was in a mental institution at the time, coming off a combination of drugs and alcohol, most of which noone knew I was abusing so much. I remember my fear of what would happen when I graduated. This fear of going home to live with my dad (my parents had only divorced that year) and knowing that he and I were at odds. Seeing that my roommates and friends were all getting ready to prepare for it, and I was in some bar, occasionally some bar in Philly, miles away from school and responsibility.

And in a final act of “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing – H E L P!!!,” I shaved my head - bicced it - in a moment of defiance, rage, and desperation. I didn’t know why I was really doing it then – it seemed … logical? It seemed like my only recourse. It felt like I was on that electric walkway at the airport, and its moving along underneath me, but I’ve lost my footing, and its dragging me, scraping me apart as others stand so calmly heading toward their future.

I did graduate, and “walk” a year later, once the chaos all settled. But, certainly, it’s been on my mind as I set to graduate this May. The same sense … or maybe it’s just a similar sense – of not knowing what I’m doing; that I don’t know what’s on the other side of this change; that don’t you know how lost I am still, and I’m not sure I’m ready for this.

However, the truth is much different. It’s different than my fear, and it’s much different than the reality of 9 years ago. The truth is, I’ve been told by my academic advisor that this fear is normal. I’ve been told by my therapist that this fear is normal. And, I’ve been told that I am certainly not who I was 9 years ago. That the resources and foundation that I’ve worked to build is actually quite solid, and my fears are no more than that. Just fears.

Just worries that Molly doesn’t know how to do it perfectly. That Molly is at a different place than some of her high school and college peers with their children, spouses, and minivans. I’m just worried that I’m still a foundering vessel – but I’m not. I can let myself be. I can let myself fall into the abyss of despair, worry, and self-pity. But that really doesn’t take into account the facts.

The fact is, I’m much more capable to take care of myself and my life than ever before, and I have a host of people to help me when I feel like I’m failing at it. And, the fact is that whatever happens between my parents when they come visit is not a reflection that I have somehow failed. That their tense relationship is an outside reflection of my inability to have a normal, sane, happy life.

Not true. And, so I will repeat the above mantras, in their purpose to solidify from wish and desire to truth. And maybe even get a little excited and proud that I have accomplished something rather remarkable. :)

Back to Basics.

Sorry folks, for the interruption in my daily musings. I have been under the weather, and yesterday morning slept in right until I had to run out to do ‘first things first,’ and then over to school. This morning was similar. So, thanks for your patience ;) and for reading. :)

Yesterday, I had to run over to school in order to get my painting professor to sign my “drop form.” Yes, I am dropping painting. A number of things contributed to this decision. One of which was that I was unable to do my morning practice on those Monday and Wednesday class mornings – the commute to class was at an ungodly hour to me.

Another of which was that it wasn’t fun. It came as a surprise to me to realize that I was feeling pinched by the instruction and parameters that the class was offering. Surely, part of it was that my work wasn’t being “well received” and my ego was being hurt. But part of it was that I wanted to do the work I wanted to do – to have fun – and I wasn’t. I was being told things like “not formally correct” and at this stage of my painting game, I’m not concerned with things like that. I’m concerned with expression, not correction. When she signed it though, my professor did tell me I have good instincts and to follow them, but that I need some development on my ideas (which I concur, and will do so with more "play").

Lastly, for dropping painting – the class I was so looking forward to taking – I have to focus on my “real” thesis. Despite my mental flights of fancy into ideas for the thesis such as a visual and language art project, or a 20 minute ballet, my flights have been grounded. For now.

The reality is… that I’m in an MFA program and that program has certain prescribed requirements. This is not a free-for-all, however much I’d been playing it as such. So, I have to play within the rules for now.

As I mentioned in the Reluctant Poet blog, I’m going back to my original school work and am going to flesh that out. In truth, some of the poetry I’m producing for it now could not have been written any earlier. I wouldn’t have had access to writing about this a month ago, and certainly not anytime before that. I’m doing a lot to free my voice and self, and it’s showing up in the writing… now that I’m being forced to go back to it.

So. It turns out maybe this isn’t such a bad thing after all. This “having to write a formal poetry thesis” thing. Which is good, since I’m having to do it anyway, I may not as well see it as torture.

With the graciousness and generosity of the Universe, yesterday before I went to get my drop form signed by the painting instructor, I went to see my academic advisor for her signature, and to check in. This woman, is NOT the same as my “thesis advisor,” and has known me and things about me for almost 2 years. I have a wonderful rapport with her, and I value her immensely. She’s like a guidance counselor for grad students ;P

And, that was precisely what I needed yesterday. The first question she asked was “how’s the thesis,” and although at first I was reluctant or cagey about the state of distraught I’ve been in over it, it eventually all came out, tears and all.

She smiled. Kindly. She said that if the work wasn’t pushing me, if I wasn’t coming up against blocks against it, if I wasn’t kicking and screaming and being activated by it – then I wouldn’t be doing good work. I wouldn't be changing as a writer. She said that this reaction is normal; she said that she had an all out break-down during her own dissertation. (Which, btw, she’d shared about briefly at our student orientation, which is why I then asked her to be my advisor. Her own journey and humanity made her feel like the right person for me.)

She said that I needed to tell my thesis advisor what was up with me and the work – why it has been so hard for me to reapproach it. What’s been going on. And I sort of freeze up, and say, Yeaaahh….. I know…..

And she says, I’d be happy to write her an email note as to what’s going on. A short note, just to inform her. The relief I felt was palpable. I had an advocate. I didn’t even know I needed one, but I said yes. That I feel tender around all this, and get defensive, and that yes, I’d really appreciate that.

See, my last interaction with my thesis advisor was that I’d bring her all my work on Tuesday and we’d see if we can cobble something together. So, I show up on Tuesday, and spend the half hour before our meeting on the floor of the hallway with all my poems spread out, and I shuffle them into an order, and I realize, I really do have a “body of work” that makes sense – that has a theme, is coherent, and has a message, or a story arc. A theme that is in perfect alignment with the work I’m currently doing.

And then, at 2pm on Tuesday, I knock on her office door, and she’s not there. I wait. I fume. I’m all defensive in advance. And she doesn’t show. … Turns out, she meant next Tuesday, and I thought this one.

But, it all works out. I get to work through my resentment some more before I see her; I get to have my academic advisor as my advocate, helping to calm the waters; and I get to see that I might actually have something to say. In poetry. 

The Art of Progress.

In considering ways to accrue and earn funds, I read that I should make a list of things that I could sell, but not anything associated with hobbies. It’s a good thing that was written there, because at first, I immediately go, well, I guess I can sell my bass amp. Which I’ve been lugging around for 5 years, and the bass guitar for … gosh, since college, almost 10 years. The bass which I do not know how to play – not really. I fuck around with it, sometimes even plug it in (which make my insides all joyfully trembly), and I have this bass riff that I enjoy to play that I made up. But, I don’t know any songs or the scales (yet).

So, luckily it was written not to sell hobby things, because I have a lot of such hobby items I’d start to list, like putting my disowned children on the chopping block.

Then, in another book, the author told the story of a man, an artist, who had several paintings around his home with a woman turned away from the viewer. The person visiting his home said, I think you may have trouble in your love life. The artist was shocked – yes, he did indeed. And she pointed out that all these paintings, which he had made, were of women turning away from him. And through her suggestions, he painted different, new paintings – at first with multiple women in them together with a man(!), and later, of just one man and one woman. Guess what happened.

So, I look at the art piece I have above my bed – 7 paintings of women, the central one of a man kissing a woman, and she’s looking out at the viewer. The others are all obscured, obstructed, partial views of women. As if you can never see, or have, all of her. Just these parts you have to put together yourself in your mind. Sexy though they may be to me, I’m very reminded of the above story of the artist.

This art piece reflects detachment, a “you can’t have all of me” just the parts I choose to show you. I think it’s interesting to think on it this way. As that’s certainly my M.O. in love and relationships. Particularly around sex – I’ll give you my body, but like the woman looking away from her lover and toward the camera, I won’t give you my self, my attention, my all.

Therefore, it occurs to me, that perhaps it is time to let this piece go. It represents a way of being that I want to move away from, and perhaps… though I am terrified to begin the process – perhaps someone else might want it – Might want to buy it.

Now, I realize this moment, that I ought not sell it to someone who’s read this blog! G-d forbid I hand another person a scene of loneliness! – but that’s my association. Other people have said, sensual and really good and creative.

I’d written previously about my reluctance to sell my art, art that means something to me – particularly one piece I sold very quickly without much thought to its importance to me, or to a price that would honor that importance. But, this feels like I’m doing the work to let this one go. That I am prepared and preparing to allow this piece of me to go out into the world.

There’s a café around the corner from me with a sign by the cash register: “Are you an artist? Then you should show here!” or something like that. I think I’ll ask them what they think. 

"Find Me - Take Me". Watercolor&mixed media. Nov '12.

Asking Price $1500.00

The Reluctant Poet

I had the wonderful opportunity yesterday to sit in a park with one of my best girl friends in the SF sunshine and shade and download the mental vomit of my thesis bananas.

She had some interesting perspective too. She said that it seems like I’m meant to be a poet right now. That I’ve tried to hand in and do something else, and I’m being blocked, and that perhaps, I’m supposed to write poetry right now.

I don’t want to. I have ALL these “thoughts” and “opinions” about “poets” and “poetry.” I can’t tell you how rankled I am at conversations that have included the following after I reluctantly reveal what it is I study at school:

Oh, I hate poetry. (my dentist's receptionist...)

I don’t really like poetry.

I don't know any poetry.

What are you going to do with that?

There’s no money in that.

Uh, I don’t know anything about poetry.

I hated poetry in high school.

I think I read Walt Whitman once.

I. Don’t. Give. A. Fuck. I don’t give a fuck what you think about poetry. And, further, I ought to not give a fuck at the moment what I think about poetry.

I have some messed up ideas and beliefs about poetry. Like it’s not cool; nobody likes it; nobody cares. Why can’t I be a painter, or a musician, or some other “acceptable” form of artist? Why do I have to write like that?

So, yesterday before I met with my friend, I went into the nearby indie bookstore, and I went to the poetry section – which although toward the back, was not underlit (!). And I began to pick up titles that interested me. I got to put some back ... skip over the Walt Whitman, and … buy two I’d skimmed and thought I’d like. I bought two books of poetry.

I never buy books. Ever. (Well, unless you count the Harry Potters, but they’re always OUT at the library!) I therefore never buy books of poetry. I’ve had the opportunity through school these last 2 years to read a lot of books of poetry, and buy a lot of books of poetry. But, they’re not “for me.” They're not ones I’ve chosen, ones I’ve looked at and been sparked by. My hand, like Moses, was being pushed away from the gold. And I burned my tongue -- I lost my taste for it.

I’ve been so steeped in poetry, and the language of poetry, and the analysis of poetry, and the conversations around poetry that I could probably puke enough letters to make poetry.

Therefore, it is not suprising that I have not been all that enthused to reapproach the project I’d vaguely been working on. I know what I was working on. I know that it’s raw, and honest, and revealing, and vulnerable. I know that it talks about trauma, and I don’t really want to talk about trauma. I know some of it is revealing of my parents' human fallibility and I don't want to come off as a thirty year old woman blaming her parents. 

My friend asked me what the work wants or needs right now. I said … it wants to be honored. I thought it would be enough to write some of it out, have some folks read it in class, and shove it away as random pages in random drawers. But apparently this work wants to be held differently. Apparently, it wants more of a laying to rest than that. That’s what the work is. It’s an honoring of the past. Like the purpose of a funeral to provide a space and a container for grief and letting go, this work wants to be compiled, honored, and set to rest. Not left as it is, scattered parts of a whole.

Which I suppose is its own metaphor.

So, I, the reluctant poet, got to read some really good, funny, poignant, clever, honest poetry from my newly purchased book yesterday, one which I bought with my own sense of attraction and desire, not assigned, not suggested reading, not a professor's newest book. I got to sit on that train with a slight grin, reading art with a perspective shift about my own work that I’m not completely on board with yet, but which apparently is happening anyway.