Was Blind, But Now

"... I formed my consciousness by turning pages ..." 

--Sue Monk Kidd, The Dance of the Dissident Daughter

"... being in the fog does not mean being altogether lost."

--Joan Anderson, A Year by the Sea

I've been living in (and writing about) the in-between place for some time now, hovering between life-chapters, biding my time. But I crossed a threshold recently and there has been a shift inside.

"... I have rebounded from a sense of loss to a feeling as new as the morning."

--Joan Anderson, A Year by the Sea

On the eve of Easter, I was standing at the sink brushing my teeth when I was suddenly aware of this new idea - an epiphany, really - coming up from my core to the center of my conscious mind. I watched it emerge, like the thought itself was a bird flying by my window. I saw it come toward me out of the corner of my eye and stop once it reached my line of vision, hovering, humming and singing its song.

I am not The-Woman-Who-Lost.

As this idea floated and fluttered before me, I watched my life play out on a movie screen, as if I was seeing it for the first time. I watched with rapt attention when the most painful ten-year period of my adult life unfolded – the time during which my firstborn died, my health deteriorated, and my marriage disintegrated – and I saw those experiences in a different dimension. Gaps in my memory were filled with the visceral reality I was coming to grips with. I am not The-Woman-Who-Lost. Though I often felt terrified, desperate and utterly alone during those years, those feelings were not the whole story.

That night, I saw what I couldn’t before see – in bold relief. I saw how those tragic experiences pressed me up against a belief system that needed to be dismantled. I saw that I am not the sum total of all the hard things that I have been through, that I am not a helpless woman waiting to be rescued, not a victim to be pitied.  

I am not The-Woman-Who-Lost.

That belief system had perpetuated a deep sense of helplessness, and when my life continued to veer off the path of “what I thought it would be,” I was given the opportunity to re-evaluate what I believed. Instead of waiting for something or someone to intervene on my behalf, I took the reins of my life back into my own hands, and I began to learn that passivity is far scarier than action.

"Being able to say that one is a survivor is an accomplishment ... And yet ... [there is a] time to go to the next stage after survivorship, to healing and thriving."

--Clarissa Pinkola Estes, Women Who Run With the Wolves

Shedding that damaging belief structure has been a process that has unfurled over the past several years – the clarity that I am not The-Woman-Who-Lost was its natural by-product.

My Easter Eve experience was so valuable because it is a touch point in my journey toward wholeness, a place to return to when clarity wanes and the familiar feelings of victimhood want to settle in again.

That way of relating to my story and my world – interpreting every hard event through the lens of loss – had worn a deep groove in my brain. When I was living in that space, even a glass of spilt milk was a catastrophe – further proof that nothing would ever go my way, despite how hard I tried to will “the good” into being.

That’s why - though I no longer believe it – The Woman-Who-Lost story feels true when I am vulnerable or run down physically, emotionally, or mentally. When those feelings resurface I remind myself of what I know. I remind myself that it was not the hard things in my life that caused the crippling depression and hopelessness that for many years had become normal for me; it was my belief that the hard was all there was and all there ever would be.

I am not The-Woman-Who-Lost. 

 
This new reality is settling in in waves, and each time one crests and crashes over me, I feel undone by the gloriousness of it all.   

I was blind but now I see, is not a trite cliché, but a perfect description of what has been happening.

I am not the Woman-Who-Lost. I never was. And I never will be.   

Open Spaces

"All is ripely quiet."

--Joan Anderson, A Year by the Sea

In an early stint of spring cleaning a few weeks ago, I cleared off the bulletin board in my bedroom, full as it was with favorite quotes, stick picture drawings, postcards and other relics that remind me of the things and people I love. I sorted through what I wanted to keep--things that whisper to me from the other side, items that remind me of what's deep and true and sacred to me--and put the rest away for safe keeping.

After the chosen few went back on the board, I moved them around a bit, deliberately leaving an open space for the next wave of inspiration. It was an act of faith. I sometimes fear the river of creativity has dried up whenever I am in an emotional drought, and I needed a visual reminder that I would yet uncover other trinkets of beauty, moments of synchronicity, further nourishment.

I've been taking pictures of open spaces lately. Seeing the world this way takes my heart back to a place of magic. I try to capture of glimmer of something pretty as a I snap a shot, but what really moves me is what is just outside the borders, what can't be seen. I'm delighted by the notion that my walk through the park, a quick shot of my front yard, a lazy day at the beach, can hint at the possibility of an enchanted forest, a secret garden, a deserted island.

It's exactly how I feel about my life right now. I like what's in the picture, but I'm most invigorated by the possibility of what's not in the shot.

Forecast

In honor of the 11th anniversary of Josiah's death (one day late).

"... it is possible a great energy

is moving near me.   

I have faith in nights."

--Rainer Maria Rilke, A Book for the Hours of Prayer

I am the turning page.

I am smack dab in the middle of chapters, pressed together between a strong forefinger and thumb, suspended in the air, waiting for what's next. I want this pause to be over, to be able to move on to the next part of the story, but it just isn't time yet.

"I am the rest between two notes...

And the song goes on, beautiful."

--Rilke

My heart is like a trick knee that senses when there's a storm coming. The aches have been coming on extra strong this year, and I want to believe that the rain that's ready to pour will be the cleansing, not the flooding, kind.

But the truth is I have been practiced at preparing myself for the worst, and it's not lost on me why. 

"We have been taught that death is always followed by more death. It is simply not so, death is always in the process of incubating life, even when one's existence has been cut down to the bones."

--Clarissa Pinkola Estes, Women Who Run With the Wolves

So I am bracing myself for what's ahead, knowing it may come soft and quiet, like a gently turning page or a drizzling rain.

The clouds have gathered and I don't know what's coming. So I wait. I'm still waiting.

Turning

Cover, Contents
Title, Intro.
I'm opening
a new book.
Just before
I turn
the page
I pause
breathe deeply
and linger.

Between the pages
the chapters
the story, the plot
there's a pause
a moment
when the heart 
says Stop.
Fingers pinched
holding the paper
I wait
for the turning.

The first word
of the first paragraph
of the first chapter
will wait.
I can't read it yet.
My fingers know
it's not time
to turn
the page.

2013

"The winter has barely passed. The spring has not begun... 

In other words, we can't see the fruit yet, 

but we are celebrating the process of growth itself. 

And most of this process we can't see 

 because it's beneath the surface of the ground... 

trees are no longer nourished by last year's waters 

and begin to be nourished by the 'new' year's waters. 

It is a time that is in between the winter and the spring, 

not quite day or night. And when we look at the trees we are meant to think 

of ourselves in that same place, between the past and our future 

and opening ourselves up to more opportunities for growth

 as the sap rises and the new water flows."

 Sara Debbie Gutfreund

I haven't had much to say lately because I have been in the in-between place. After I wrote and published my last post about filling in the canvas of my future, I took a break from painting. 

I've got the brush in my hand again, and I'm dipping it into paint, though I don't know yet what it is that I'm creating. I only know that I want to make it from a place of peace, a place of rest, a place of hope. 

I'm the tree that Gutfruend describes. No longer nourished by last year's waters, but beginning to be nourished by the waters the new year brings.

Last year, I chose a word for the year to guide me, to remind me of what I needed to focus on, of how I needed to position myself during a time of daunting change. STAND served me well. I needed a strong directive to carry me through a season of fighting to find myself again. It's a word I will carry with me always.

STAND came to me; I didn't have to go searching for it. But this year's word has not been so. It's a word I've had to wait for, to dig around a bit to find.

I feel like I lost my way recently and I've been groping around in the dark, waiting for a light to appear. But one thing has remained clear. In the midst of uncertainty, this I know: when the light is dim and the future is unclear, I must be kind to myself.  Love always brings me home.

I posted a note on the inspiration board above my desk to remind of this. I've seen it daily and it has helped me to recalibrate and refocus on what's important.

It reminds me that every day I must do something to nurture the deep parts of myself. Nothing complicated, nothing time consuming, but something that leaves me feeling full. It's been up on my board for several weeks now, but it didn't occur to me until today that it contains the word I need to guide me this year: Nourish.

Every time I look up at my board and see it there, I feel awash with a sense of hope and anticipation. When I accept its invitation, I feel invigorated, and I've been taking bolder steps into my future because of it.

So while my tree isn't yet in bloom, and my branches are still naked of their leaves, I am going to Nourish myself. Last year's waters can't feed me anymore, so I'm letting my roots go deeper into the soil to drink up the new. The sap is rising and new water is beginning to flow.

Have you chosen a word for the year? Care to share?

The Canvas

"Painting is just another way of keeping a diary."

--Pablo Picasso 

In the midst of moving over the summer, there was something I knew I had to do.

Several years ago, when I was in the throes of Project Redecorate My House, I purchased a large square canvas and painted it with a saying I had coined during that season, a mantra that kept me grounded in the midst of change. The letters were white and the background a soft sky blue.

I loved that canvas. It reminded me of the sense of strength and inspiration I experienced daily during a time of shifting.

But when it was time to direct my energy toward a new home, a new space, I knew I couldn't take it with me. Not in that form. As much as I savored the truth it contained, I needed to stay close to the new truths that were unfolding. Because I hadn't decided which one I wanted to capture on it (nor did I have the time to do so), I knew it needed to come into my new life blank.

I set the canvas on my kitchen counter and passed over it with several coats of glossy white paint. I spilled the paint directly onto the canvas so it formed little puddles and then took my roller and smoothed it around. I went back and forth and back and forth until all of the blue was covered with a bright white finish.

This process was therapeutic. I have often wanted to discard relics of the past in the hopes that the pain associated with them would be simultaneously washed away. Though I loved the truth it contained, that canvas also reminded me of circumstances that pierced me not long after I painted it.

As I rolled each fresh layer of paint over it, it was healing to acknowledge the kernel of hope the canvas still embodied. Letting it come with me into the next season of life felt right, like an act of acceptance of all that had happened and of what was ahead.

After several coats and lots of dry time, faint reminders of my mantra remained. The outline of the letters was still slightly visible, as if they had been engraved. There was no way to cover over this, it was simply a result of how it had been painted the first time.

I found this trace of what was there before comforting, further evidence that my goal was not to erase the past, but to carry it with me in a way that strengthened and inspired me.

The blank canvas made the trek with me into my new space. Then it sat, perched on my dresser and leaning against the wall, for almost three months. I knew I wanted to fill it with something, but I wasn't sure what that was.

One day I knew it was time, and I also knew that painting it--filling it with something new--was as much an act of faith and acceptance as covering it over had been.

I gathered my materials and--with no real plan except a vague picture in my head--I went to work. I tried a new technique, using several layers of different colors of paint in soft, broad strokes.

As I added each coat of blue, gold and brown, I thought about the sea, the sun and the sand and the emotions these things evoked in me.

I questioned myself through the process, feeling the pressure of "doing it right," but I kept at it. Deep down, underneath all my fear, I knew that it would all work out. 

When the background was done (and I had to admit that I loved how I felt when I looked at it), I added another layer to it: the words of one my favorite poem by Rilke--broken into bite-sized pieces--appropriately titled "Moving Forward."

The canvas now lives in my new space. It hangs there as a tangible reminder that though my future is still blank, in due time I will fill it with colors and words that inspire me. I may feel insecure, I may feel confident or I may feel a little bit of both as I do this. But I will know when it's time to pick up the paintbrush and what unfolds will be just what I need.

Soaked

Yesterday it was cold and cloudy, damp and dark outside. That’s exactly how I felt inside.

On rainy days, I want to be very still. I want to put on my coziest clothes—my short furry robe, my fuzzy socks, my super soft yoga pants—and I want to crawl under the covers and do nothing but read or nap or watch delicious movies.

So that’s what I did yesterday. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that my heart needed something more than sweats and sappy movies. It needed space to breathe. It needed air.

I knew I needed to get outside and I was hopeful that a warm shower would refresh me enough to shift my mood to get me there. But when I got in the shower, I just wanted to sit in the tub and let the hot water run all over me.

I plugged the drain, laid flat on my back, and with the back of my head touching the tub basin I let the water fill up around me until it was just touching—but not covering—my earlobes.   

That was then the tears came. They didn’t come easily. They were pooling on my bottom lids, hovering and willing themselves not to come out on their own. I had to press them out. I had to say, “You can come out now. I won’t hold you back.” And I had to give them a little push and shove.

I didn’t make myself cry, I let myself cry. I needed to.

Every time I pushed out a tear, I felt like I was pushing out some pain that had been encapsulated and lodged in it. I was conscious of this as each drop rolled down the side of my face and landed in the water I was soaking in.

When there were more no more tears to press out, I lingered in that water for a long time.  I put my hand on my abdomen and felt it rise and fall with each deep inhale and exhale. In through my nose, out through my mouth. Rise and fall. Inhale, exhale.

All I could think about as I laid there was tears. Tears, tears, tears.

How I needed tears. How I resisted tears. How I stifled tears. How good it felt to release tears. Tears. Tears. Tears. Long-awaited tears.

I exited the tub more refreshed than when I climbed in, but I didn’t leave the house as I had planned. Instead, I crawled back into bed and opened my favorite book and began a new chapter, a chapter I had bookmarked a few days ago even though I didn’t know what it was about. In stunned silence I read the first three sentences:

“Tears are a river that take you somewhere. Weeping creates a river around the boat that carries your soul-life. Tears lift your boat off the rocks, off dry ground, carrying it downriver someplace new, someplace better.”

--Clarissa Pinkola Estes, Women Who Run With the Wolves

Tears. Creating a river, a current, a channel for me to get from where I am to where I need to go. Tears. Oh, why do I resist the tears?