I just heard Harry Belafonte singing this - slowly, prayerfully.
It made me cry;
and then, it made me hope.
Kind of like a psalm....a soulful expression that does not minimize human tragedy, violence, pain, sorrow, injustice, but.....it doesn't leave you there. While it stirs hope, incites a redemptive stance, it doesn't white-wash reality. It lets both stand, side by side - broken reality and redemptive hope. We get to choose how to align ourselves....each and every day; with each and every action. Both are true. Like the incarnation - God and man, occupying the same space.
"I heard the bells on Christmas day
their old familiar carols play;
and wild and sweet the words repeat
of peace on earth goodwill to men.
"I thought, as now this day had come,
the belfries of all Christendom
had rung so long the unbroken song
of peace on earth goodwill to men.
"And in despair I bowed my head.
There is no peace on earth, I said.
For hate is strong and mocks the song
of peace on earth goodwill to men.
"Then peeled the bells more loud and deep.
God is not dead, nor doth he sleep.
The wrong shall fail; the right prevail
with peace on earth goodwill to men."
Hopeful Christmas to you all.
May we choose - purposefully; incarnationally.
Ring a redemptive bell.
Friday, December 18, 2009
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
A Jolly Holler-y Christmas
One of the definitions for schizophrenic is -
a state characterized by the coexistence of contradictory or incompatible elements.
Do you have any idea how discordant Il Divo and Rascal Flatts are?
All of my household goods are stored in a POD - including my Christmas music. We all have those standard CDs we slip into the background as we decorate, wrap, bake....emotionally enfolding ourselves into the season with each jingle bell melody. By the end of the holiday we're sick to death of the little drummer boy and the twelve days of Christmas, but until we've reached that saturation point, we hum along merrily. It's part of the way we manage a gambit of yuletide minefields.
Because my Christmas music is unavailable, I'm depending on the radio, and there's always a station somewhere that plays non-stop Christmas music. The trouble with remote areas like the coast, is that what's available is static-y and limited......and in my case, country-western. I somehow didn't associate the coast (fishing industry, fishermen) with cowboys. I wouldn't have been surprised with, oh, I don't know, Burl Ives, Gordon Lightfoot oldies, Irish ditties.....but, country-western?
So, as I'm navigating this emotionally loaded season differently, I thought, why not? Why not Dolly, Reba, Sugarland, Brad Paisley, and Keith Urban? The standards are there in mega-supply, White Christmas, Frosty, O' Little Town of Bethlehem, and O Holy Night in twangy harmonious variations. Every once in a while, a little Bing Crosby or Nat King Cole is tossed in for merry measure. And while the holly-jollyness does create a festive atmosphere to set up a teeny weeny tree in the window seat, hang a stocking just for me thank you very much by my cozy fireplace, wrap presents (well, I stuff them now into decorative bags with all that sparkly tissue paper), and arrange displays of pine cone and greenery, I noticed something. I miss my music.
It's not that I'm anti-country-western. It's just there's so much about this season of my life, this season of the year, that's requiring a foreign experience. My traditions have collapsed upon themselves. Others who have been through this kind of transition have encouraged me to create new traditions for myself; and my country-western venture is a stab. But there's only so much of a Texas-swing arrangement of Deck the Halls that I can take. New, different, diverse is great.....but now and then, I just need a dose of familiar, to feel like Christmas.
So I drove up the coast to Fred Meyer in Warrenton and bought myself the Il Divo Christmas CD to kind of balance things out. Big, bold voices.....deeply textured orchestration.....arias that bust down the ceiling.....and after several listens in a row, I felt both satisfied and, irritated? I can't explain the conflict, other than to chalk it up to this crazy time in my life. But I definitely could only take so much of Il Divo. So, I'd turn the radio back on......and believe me, the shift from Panis Angelicus to grandma got run over by a reindeer was like being jerked from one reality to another in one swift yank. Kind of schizophrenic.
And you know....that's a pretty good definition for the coexistence of contradictory or incompatible elements reflecting my state. On the one hand (now picture Teviah in the Fiddler on the Roof), I want tradition; while on the other hand (Teviah again) "tradition" is changing. I want the traditional, family stuff of Christmas, and yet, I've intentionally isolated myself from my precious, wobbly, family structure to sort things out. I feel the edgy rawness of wanting, needing, both - what's been familiar, and what I must create anew. Everything is redefined; weirdly juxtaposed. What fits? What doesn't? I'm swung from the far edges of Ave Maria to Honky Tonk Christmas. Where's the mid-range in all this ripping back and forth?
........the other day, while sitting in Sweet Basil's, a little lunch spot in Cannon Beach, enjoying a robust cup of portabella/onion soup, I noticed the background Christmas music. Well, I didn't really notice it at first. What I noticed was that I was tapping my fingers, in a really involved way, and that made me notice the music. It was bluesy.....rhythm and blues Christmas music. And I thought....hmmmm....why not?
a state characterized by the coexistence of contradictory or incompatible elements.
Do you have any idea how discordant Il Divo and Rascal Flatts are?
All of my household goods are stored in a POD - including my Christmas music. We all have those standard CDs we slip into the background as we decorate, wrap, bake....emotionally enfolding ourselves into the season with each jingle bell melody. By the end of the holiday we're sick to death of the little drummer boy and the twelve days of Christmas, but until we've reached that saturation point, we hum along merrily. It's part of the way we manage a gambit of yuletide minefields.
Because my Christmas music is unavailable, I'm depending on the radio, and there's always a station somewhere that plays non-stop Christmas music. The trouble with remote areas like the coast, is that what's available is static-y and limited......and in my case, country-western. I somehow didn't associate the coast (fishing industry, fishermen) with cowboys. I wouldn't have been surprised with, oh, I don't know, Burl Ives, Gordon Lightfoot oldies, Irish ditties.....but, country-western?
So, as I'm navigating this emotionally loaded season differently, I thought, why not? Why not Dolly, Reba, Sugarland, Brad Paisley, and Keith Urban? The standards are there in mega-supply, White Christmas, Frosty, O' Little Town of Bethlehem, and O Holy Night in twangy harmonious variations. Every once in a while, a little Bing Crosby or Nat King Cole is tossed in for merry measure. And while the holly-jollyness does create a festive atmosphere to set up a teeny weeny tree in the window seat, hang a stocking just for me thank you very much by my cozy fireplace, wrap presents (well, I stuff them now into decorative bags with all that sparkly tissue paper), and arrange displays of pine cone and greenery, I noticed something. I miss my music.
It's not that I'm anti-country-western. It's just there's so much about this season of my life, this season of the year, that's requiring a foreign experience. My traditions have collapsed upon themselves. Others who have been through this kind of transition have encouraged me to create new traditions for myself; and my country-western venture is a stab. But there's only so much of a Texas-swing arrangement of Deck the Halls that I can take. New, different, diverse is great.....but now and then, I just need a dose of familiar, to feel like Christmas.
So I drove up the coast to Fred Meyer in Warrenton and bought myself the Il Divo Christmas CD to kind of balance things out. Big, bold voices.....deeply textured orchestration.....arias that bust down the ceiling.....and after several listens in a row, I felt both satisfied and, irritated? I can't explain the conflict, other than to chalk it up to this crazy time in my life. But I definitely could only take so much of Il Divo. So, I'd turn the radio back on......and believe me, the shift from Panis Angelicus to grandma got run over by a reindeer was like being jerked from one reality to another in one swift yank. Kind of schizophrenic.
And you know....that's a pretty good definition for the coexistence of contradictory or incompatible elements reflecting my state. On the one hand (now picture Teviah in the Fiddler on the Roof), I want tradition; while on the other hand (Teviah again) "tradition" is changing. I want the traditional, family stuff of Christmas, and yet, I've intentionally isolated myself from my precious, wobbly, family structure to sort things out. I feel the edgy rawness of wanting, needing, both - what's been familiar, and what I must create anew. Everything is redefined; weirdly juxtaposed. What fits? What doesn't? I'm swung from the far edges of Ave Maria to Honky Tonk Christmas. Where's the mid-range in all this ripping back and forth?
........the other day, while sitting in Sweet Basil's, a little lunch spot in Cannon Beach, enjoying a robust cup of portabella/onion soup, I noticed the background Christmas music. Well, I didn't really notice it at first. What I noticed was that I was tapping my fingers, in a really involved way, and that made me notice the music. It was bluesy.....rhythm and blues Christmas music. And I thought....hmmmm....why not?
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Oddities
I've noticed a couple of things, walking the beach......
Like, how when my face is totally relaxed, my lower lip hangs loose like an orangutan's. I had no idea it did this. I felt it drooping there the other day, keeping time with each step. Dangle, dangle, dangle. And I thought, good grief, when did that happen? What if I wore dentures? They'd plop right out of my mouth, drop to my feet and stare back at me wondering what the heck they're doing down there instead of up in my mouth. I'm wondering if this looseness has to do with all that collagen-loss magazines harp about regarding, you know, women my age? Never in my wildest thoughts did I ever think I would wonder about dentures, sloppy lips, or botox.
I've also noticed while walking ~
Dead things:
Cannon Beach has souvenir T-shirts with touristy slogans, one of which is, I walked Cannon Beach and Poked at Dead Things with a Stick. And there are dead things; all kinds of sea-life washed up with the tide, waiting to be prodded and examined. Most of what I've seen has been pre-assaulted by gulls. They tend to precisely poke out the eyeballs of fish, other gulls, seal, pelican, and various other bird-life I don't know how to identify yet. When I see these critters I can't help but to feel a kind of sober awww-that's-sad, moment. Except when it's a crow, and then I can't help but feel a kind of, yes!
Disgusting things:
I wonder how much dog poop is laying just below the sand surface? Cannon Beach loves dogs. It's a great place to let your best friend romp in sand and surf, and most dog owners carry their little blue baggies with them, scoop the poop, bag it, and dump it appropriately. But, there are other common methods I've observed as well. Like the, aw shucks, I forgot the baggie shoulder-slump, quick look around, dig a hole with your heel, push the pile in, bury it, and tamp it down method. It works. No one's the wiser; it's natural, and the tide is a good accomplice. And then every once in a while there are those proud little piles left right there on the sand.....waiting.
Other things:
A muck boot; a pair of men's briefs; a glass float from a fishing net. And tennis balls. Lots and lots of tennis balls in various stages of life. Remember, this is a dog lover's beach, and in particular, for dogs who live to fetch around the water. Some balls are still lemony, nappy, and bouncy. Others are soggy and grayish; and then there are those that look as if they've bobbed around the sea for ages, a thread-bare mushy mass of retrieving-memories.
But, circling back around to the kind of observation that startles me into the self-aging-upkeep-awareness thing ~
The oddest thing I thought I noticed while walking the beach was a boob. I could see from a distance, this geletaneous mass, protruding, nice and perky, looking exactly like a saline implant. Now, I knew there were bits and pieces of jellyfish strewn here and there, and I was pretty sure that's probably what it was. But, this was different. The other jelly masses flatly blobbed on the sand. This was perky. Shaped, well, it had that, you know, just right protrusion at the tip. And I thought, what in the world? How on earth could someone lose a breast implant? What kind of horrific impact or sea accident could cause such a thing to, pop out? And when I stooped down to examine it, there, just as perky and perfectly shaped as any C-cup boob could be, was a jellyfish blob perched on the top of the domed lid of a Slushy cup.
These are some of the oddities, the other kinds of things I notice and wonder about while walking the beach....what does that tell me?
Like, how when my face is totally relaxed, my lower lip hangs loose like an orangutan's. I had no idea it did this. I felt it drooping there the other day, keeping time with each step. Dangle, dangle, dangle. And I thought, good grief, when did that happen? What if I wore dentures? They'd plop right out of my mouth, drop to my feet and stare back at me wondering what the heck they're doing down there instead of up in my mouth. I'm wondering if this looseness has to do with all that collagen-loss magazines harp about regarding, you know, women my age? Never in my wildest thoughts did I ever think I would wonder about dentures, sloppy lips, or botox.
I've also noticed while walking ~
Dead things:
Cannon Beach has souvenir T-shirts with touristy slogans, one of which is, I walked Cannon Beach and Poked at Dead Things with a Stick. And there are dead things; all kinds of sea-life washed up with the tide, waiting to be prodded and examined. Most of what I've seen has been pre-assaulted by gulls. They tend to precisely poke out the eyeballs of fish, other gulls, seal, pelican, and various other bird-life I don't know how to identify yet. When I see these critters I can't help but to feel a kind of sober awww-that's-sad, moment. Except when it's a crow, and then I can't help but feel a kind of, yes!
Disgusting things:
I wonder how much dog poop is laying just below the sand surface? Cannon Beach loves dogs. It's a great place to let your best friend romp in sand and surf, and most dog owners carry their little blue baggies with them, scoop the poop, bag it, and dump it appropriately. But, there are other common methods I've observed as well. Like the, aw shucks, I forgot the baggie shoulder-slump, quick look around, dig a hole with your heel, push the pile in, bury it, and tamp it down method. It works. No one's the wiser; it's natural, and the tide is a good accomplice. And then every once in a while there are those proud little piles left right there on the sand.....waiting.
Other things:
A muck boot; a pair of men's briefs; a glass float from a fishing net. And tennis balls. Lots and lots of tennis balls in various stages of life. Remember, this is a dog lover's beach, and in particular, for dogs who live to fetch around the water. Some balls are still lemony, nappy, and bouncy. Others are soggy and grayish; and then there are those that look as if they've bobbed around the sea for ages, a thread-bare mushy mass of retrieving-memories.
But, circling back around to the kind of observation that startles me into the self-aging-upkeep-awareness thing ~
The oddest thing I thought I noticed while walking the beach was a boob. I could see from a distance, this geletaneous mass, protruding, nice and perky, looking exactly like a saline implant. Now, I knew there were bits and pieces of jellyfish strewn here and there, and I was pretty sure that's probably what it was. But, this was different. The other jelly masses flatly blobbed on the sand. This was perky. Shaped, well, it had that, you know, just right protrusion at the tip. And I thought, what in the world? How on earth could someone lose a breast implant? What kind of horrific impact or sea accident could cause such a thing to, pop out? And when I stooped down to examine it, there, just as perky and perfectly shaped as any C-cup boob could be, was a jellyfish blob perched on the top of the domed lid of a Slushy cup.
These are some of the oddities, the other kinds of things I notice and wonder about while walking the beach....what does that tell me?
Life Illuminated
Lord, have mercy.....I'm on sensory overload.
It's not very often, in Oregon, from sun-up to sun-set, for days in a row, to have spectacular light and clarity. I mean, this is the northwest. The land of low cloud ceilings, fog vapors hanging in shrouds, misty gray upon grey upon blah.
But winter on the coast is another matter. Though it is cold, temps in the 30's, I can see. For miles upon gorgeous miles, all the way to the horizon. No matter I have to layer about sixteen times, have all but my nose and cheeks exposed. The wind's minimal; the sky Montana-high; the water so sparkly that light jumps and jives wave upon wave; and the dark, volcanic ruggedness of Haystack juts out against deep turquoise, white foam crashing at it's base. The color has always been here - blues, whites, greens, blacks, but all tinted dim. Now though, the intense, low winter sun acts like a theater flood light. Everything pops - life illuminated.
I need times like these. A season to absorb. To let my eyes soak it and plaster it on the back of my brain like a mural for those days I know are ahead - the dull season. The season that drips and drones, and drains. The season where you have to remember what intensity is. Where you must trust there really is such a thing as, sha-zam!
So, I'm finding it hard to do anything else these days. I just stare. Sit and stare. Walk and stare. Find a tucked away warm dune, and flop and stare. Stare to the point where it seems my eyeballs just can't take any more. So by late afternoon I'll head back to my studio, putz around tidying, folding laundry, and then out my window I'll notice the sunset making ready - like an orchestra tuning up. It starts with a tease...a peachy glow, one long violin-like note bleeding into indigo. Then, building, a grandioso, the sun flames into hot tangerine, bursting rays of red-orange against deep purples, throbbing against it's reflection in surf and shimmering sand like deep pulsating cellos. And suddenly, a kettle drum explosion of gold bursts, sinks, and disappears into a wash of magenta....trembling, quivering, like the last viola.
And there I am, suspended, laundry in hand, staring out the window. Stunned by the music; the dance between light and dark. And I will remember. Life illuminated.
It's not very often, in Oregon, from sun-up to sun-set, for days in a row, to have spectacular light and clarity. I mean, this is the northwest. The land of low cloud ceilings, fog vapors hanging in shrouds, misty gray upon grey upon blah.
But winter on the coast is another matter. Though it is cold, temps in the 30's, I can see. For miles upon gorgeous miles, all the way to the horizon. No matter I have to layer about sixteen times, have all but my nose and cheeks exposed. The wind's minimal; the sky Montana-high; the water so sparkly that light jumps and jives wave upon wave; and the dark, volcanic ruggedness of Haystack juts out against deep turquoise, white foam crashing at it's base. The color has always been here - blues, whites, greens, blacks, but all tinted dim. Now though, the intense, low winter sun acts like a theater flood light. Everything pops - life illuminated.
I need times like these. A season to absorb. To let my eyes soak it and plaster it on the back of my brain like a mural for those days I know are ahead - the dull season. The season that drips and drones, and drains. The season where you have to remember what intensity is. Where you must trust there really is such a thing as, sha-zam!So, I'm finding it hard to do anything else these days. I just stare. Sit and stare. Walk and stare. Find a tucked away warm dune, and flop and stare. Stare to the point where it seems my eyeballs just can't take any more. So by late afternoon I'll head back to my studio, putz around tidying, folding laundry, and then out my window I'll notice the sunset making ready - like an orchestra tuning up. It starts with a tease...a peachy glow, one long violin-like note bleeding into indigo. Then, building, a grandioso, the sun flames into hot tangerine, bursting rays of red-orange against deep purples, throbbing against it's reflection in surf and shimmering sand like deep pulsating cellos. And suddenly, a kettle drum explosion of gold bursts, sinks, and disappears into a wash of magenta....trembling, quivering, like the last viola.
And there I am, suspended, laundry in hand, staring out the window. Stunned by the music; the dance between light and dark. And I will remember. Life illuminated.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Beach Comforts
There are two really good comforts while walking the beach. Let me amend that. There are three.
Peanut M&M's.
A good cry.
And a dog.
It was an M&M kind of walk a couple of days ago.....where I lolly-gagged, scavenged around the tidal debris, popping the nuggets into my mouth as I poked around, soaking in the sun, the sounds.....ruminating. An M&M moment is carefree and chocolaty.....simple, childlike pleasures. This morning I found the torn edge of the M&M packet in my pocket as I searched for a tissue. I didn't expect to need a tissue this morning as I started out. I didn't expect anything.....but the crying just came out of nowhere.
Well, maybe somewhere. Yesterday, in my not-a-care-in-the-world spontaneity I stopped by Mo's restaurant, spoke to the assistant manager, and applied for a cashier/hostess position. She called me back. I have a 2 p.m. appointment with her today. And I have a lot of odd feelings.
Yesterday, I felt really smug, delighted.....like, hey Carol, that's a courageous thing to do - you went for it, seized the moment, stepped outside the box, didn't over-think it, etc., etc......all those gazillion self-motivating cliches rah-rahhing me on. Why not? Maybe it can lead to something permanent. Something that eventually supports a chance to really live here, long term. Like, forever. Then you could get your 4WD, your dog, connect to the local life....have a life. Sounds really good. Do-able.
Then later, as I'm sitting on the couch watching the Beaver/Duck civil war game on TV (while unconsciously surfing animal shelter websites on my laptop in my dreamy dog-gooeyness), I all of a sudden feel, dumb. So, Carol.....this is what all that education and school loan payments are about? Sure, this beach life is peace-able, uncluttered, slow.....oh god, it's slow, like deep, gorgeous breaths.....it's simple, M&M simple. But, how in the world is this sustainable? A cashier/hostess? What about health care? What about job satisfaction? (Oh, this is hilarious, like I can afford to be picky.) What about, what about....? My mind's racing at bedtime - again.
So, as I'm walking the beach this morning, I settle back into the idea, gingerly. Just look around you, Carol. It's ridiculous not to try. Just try. You don't have to build a whole future out of one step. Just take one step. For today. It's only today. It's not forever......
.....and that's when I started to cry.
I want to know about forever, today.
Sometimes, I'm just tired of being courageous. Tired of trusting in the day by day. I want to get lost in those M&M moments, where I haven't a care, where I am a child; where I can play, be innocent. At first, I didn't want to let my tears go....I kept choking them back. Oh, you're just feeling sorry for yourself; in comparison to how some people are suffering, this is nothing. And then I remembered something I learned from the Life After Divorce group - don't minimize your legitimate confusion and pain by comparing it. So I let it rip. Like a frustrated, frightened, freaked out child, I cried. Nice big boo-hoos.
And when I looked up, there coming toward me, waddling in the way only they can, were three, low-slung, lop-eared, tail-wagging basset hounds. And they greeted me with big luscious dog kisses as I stooped to pet them; licking and grinning in all their squat, wiggy-waggyness. And as we parted, I noticed....
.....I felt really good.
Peanut M&M's.
A good cry.
And a dog.
It was an M&M kind of walk a couple of days ago.....where I lolly-gagged, scavenged around the tidal debris, popping the nuggets into my mouth as I poked around, soaking in the sun, the sounds.....ruminating. An M&M moment is carefree and chocolaty.....simple, childlike pleasures. This morning I found the torn edge of the M&M packet in my pocket as I searched for a tissue. I didn't expect to need a tissue this morning as I started out. I didn't expect anything.....but the crying just came out of nowhere.
Well, maybe somewhere. Yesterday, in my not-a-care-in-the-world spontaneity I stopped by Mo's restaurant, spoke to the assistant manager, and applied for a cashier/hostess position. She called me back. I have a 2 p.m. appointment with her today. And I have a lot of odd feelings.
Yesterday, I felt really smug, delighted.....like, hey Carol, that's a courageous thing to do - you went for it, seized the moment, stepped outside the box, didn't over-think it, etc., etc......all those gazillion self-motivating cliches rah-rahhing me on. Why not? Maybe it can lead to something permanent. Something that eventually supports a chance to really live here, long term. Like, forever. Then you could get your 4WD, your dog, connect to the local life....have a life. Sounds really good. Do-able.
Then later, as I'm sitting on the couch watching the Beaver/Duck civil war game on TV (while unconsciously surfing animal shelter websites on my laptop in my dreamy dog-gooeyness), I all of a sudden feel, dumb. So, Carol.....this is what all that education and school loan payments are about? Sure, this beach life is peace-able, uncluttered, slow.....oh god, it's slow, like deep, gorgeous breaths.....it's simple, M&M simple. But, how in the world is this sustainable? A cashier/hostess? What about health care? What about job satisfaction? (Oh, this is hilarious, like I can afford to be picky.) What about, what about....? My mind's racing at bedtime - again.
So, as I'm walking the beach this morning, I settle back into the idea, gingerly. Just look around you, Carol. It's ridiculous not to try. Just try. You don't have to build a whole future out of one step. Just take one step. For today. It's only today. It's not forever......
.....and that's when I started to cry.
I want to know about forever, today.
Sometimes, I'm just tired of being courageous. Tired of trusting in the day by day. I want to get lost in those M&M moments, where I haven't a care, where I am a child; where I can play, be innocent. At first, I didn't want to let my tears go....I kept choking them back. Oh, you're just feeling sorry for yourself; in comparison to how some people are suffering, this is nothing. And then I remembered something I learned from the Life After Divorce group - don't minimize your legitimate confusion and pain by comparing it. So I let it rip. Like a frustrated, frightened, freaked out child, I cried. Nice big boo-hoos.
And when I looked up, there coming toward me, waddling in the way only they can, were three, low-slung, lop-eared, tail-wagging basset hounds. And they greeted me with big luscious dog kisses as I stooped to pet them; licking and grinning in all their squat, wiggy-waggyness. And as we parted, I noticed....
.....I felt really good.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Stringing Shells
Today is one of those drop dead gorgeous coastal days.
Air crisp;
clarity all the way to the horizon;
the sea sparkling, shimmering with sunlight;
the sky solid blue without one wispy cloud to mar its canvas.
Takes your breath right out of your lungs.....and fills it with dreams.
On days like this, I stuff a quick breakfast into my mouth, put my weather gear on right over my p.j.'s and head out. Don't even brush my teeth. No makeup. Don't run a comb through my hair. Lord, it's liberating. Of course, I'm pretty well assured I'm not going to be chatting with anyone. But, even if I did, tough. This is what beach-bumming is all about. And I could do this.....I mean, do this. Like, forever. For a living. So, as I'm walking, beach-combing, shell-seeking, sea-gazing, I'm wondering....how can I make this happen?
And like any beach-inspired person surrounded by brilliance, all kinds of scenarios dart in and out, tumble through my brain as if, well, anything is possible. I imagine stumbling upon a couple of rare sea-washed doubloons, dimpled into the sand, teasing a New York Christie's auction scene, bidders frantic, guaranteeing my dream come true. I quickly dismiss any counter arguments of logic, like, when in the world would a Spanish fleet have sea-wrecked off the northwest coast of the American continent? Quiet, I tell myself....this is my dream. I can have it any way I want.
And then there's the thought that I'll apply for a counter job at Mariner Market in Cannon Beach, become such a valuable employee that I'll soon be managing shifts, and while networking with local merchants I bumble into a magnificent career opportunity as an events coordinator at the Hallmark, or hell, why not, the Stephanie. This is my show after all.
Of course, the topper is the HUGE grant I receive to start a non-profit, a coastal youth hostel, a place to shelter wayward youngsters running away, running to, something.....these kids have already left their mark; angst-ridden transients scraping messages on the tumbled down walls of a shanty barely clinging to the edge of a sea-cliff.....and I would prepare a safe place for them to come and go, and rest, and be listened to, and fed, and hugged, oh yes, deeply hugged by me - the little grandmother (with my hair in a bun)....(oh lord, that's too much).....with my hair in a pony tail....and connecting them to resources, and I'd be writing....oh, yes, can't forget that part...and writing in my little cottage (like the one in The Ghost and Mrs. Muir) that sits adjacent to the hostel....or, maybe is a part of the hostel.....anyway....and writing, while I'm sheltering, and feeding, and listening, and hugging, and walking the beach (oh yes, with a dog).
Oh, I've got it all planned; the whole bit. That's what you do when you walk the beach, collecting shells and thoughts; stringing them together in the magnificence of hope....and a crisp, clear, brilliant sea-scape.
Air crisp;
clarity all the way to the horizon;
the sea sparkling, shimmering with sunlight;
the sky solid blue without one wispy cloud to mar its canvas.
Takes your breath right out of your lungs.....and fills it with dreams.
On days like this, I stuff a quick breakfast into my mouth, put my weather gear on right over my p.j.'s and head out. Don't even brush my teeth. No makeup. Don't run a comb through my hair. Lord, it's liberating. Of course, I'm pretty well assured I'm not going to be chatting with anyone. But, even if I did, tough. This is what beach-bumming is all about. And I could do this.....I mean, do this. Like, forever. For a living. So, as I'm walking, beach-combing, shell-seeking, sea-gazing, I'm wondering....how can I make this happen?
And like any beach-inspired person surrounded by brilliance, all kinds of scenarios dart in and out, tumble through my brain as if, well, anything is possible. I imagine stumbling upon a couple of rare sea-washed doubloons, dimpled into the sand, teasing a New York Christie's auction scene, bidders frantic, guaranteeing my dream come true. I quickly dismiss any counter arguments of logic, like, when in the world would a Spanish fleet have sea-wrecked off the northwest coast of the American continent? Quiet, I tell myself....this is my dream. I can have it any way I want.
And then there's the thought that I'll apply for a counter job at Mariner Market in Cannon Beach, become such a valuable employee that I'll soon be managing shifts, and while networking with local merchants I bumble into a magnificent career opportunity as an events coordinator at the Hallmark, or hell, why not, the Stephanie. This is my show after all.
Of course, the topper is the HUGE grant I receive to start a non-profit, a coastal youth hostel, a place to shelter wayward youngsters running away, running to, something.....these kids have already left their mark; angst-ridden transients scraping messages on the tumbled down walls of a shanty barely clinging to the edge of a sea-cliff.....and I would prepare a safe place for them to come and go, and rest, and be listened to, and fed, and hugged, oh yes, deeply hugged by me - the little grandmother (with my hair in a bun)....(oh lord, that's too much).....with my hair in a pony tail....and connecting them to resources, and I'd be writing....oh, yes, can't forget that part...and writing in my little cottage (like the one in The Ghost and Mrs. Muir) that sits adjacent to the hostel....or, maybe is a part of the hostel.....anyway....and writing, while I'm sheltering, and feeding, and listening, and hugging, and walking the beach (oh yes, with a dog).
Oh, I've got it all planned; the whole bit. That's what you do when you walk the beach, collecting shells and thoughts; stringing them together in the magnificence of hope....and a crisp, clear, brilliant sea-scape.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Rules - Or, Bumping Into Grace
One of the best things I did for myself (regarding this blog) was to make myself a rule....the "one square inch rule" - write something, anything, a square inch worth, everyday. You know, give myself structure. A discipline. A rule.
One of the next best things I did for myself, was to break it.
I know, I know. Rules are necessary. Structure, order, goals....yes, yes I understand. I am a military child and have been a military spouse. Believe me, I get it. More than once I have packed up and moved an entire household in a matter of days. I know how critical it is to break down a big project into small, daily segments to accomplish the mission - how to eat the proverbial elephant one bite at a time. I appreciate organization, systemization; especially in the midst of chaos. I am not anti-discipline. I'm just not good at it for long periods of time. In spurts, I am dynamite. I've got it down. I can accomplish a lot. But it's that daily thing, day after day, that starts to choke something inside me....that I start transforming from an aide, into a noose.
I have taught classes on the Classic Spiritual Disciplines, and I think my biggest take-away in preparing and teaching the material, was the impossibility of living by discipline. There's something audacious about the human psyche that believes it can master chaos; that it can order an internal/eternal cosmos. We do possess a kinship with order; we are created in sync with macro and micro systems that astound and dumbfound us in their orderliness. Just think about the atom, or a galaxy. Our craving for systems, for rules that make sense, that demonstrate how things work, satisfies an innate part of our beings. We love to manage; we are made for it. But managing is not the whole of living.
Living is about the breath of life. It is about being. It is about partnership with Creation. By it's very nature, it is about origins - originality, uniqueness, something that's never been before. There is no pre-existent system, order, rule, or discipline that is the base-line structure for creative power. Creation is. The biblical Creator said it best. I am that I am. And we also possess this we are that we are, kinship. We have this raw, random urge that defies structure; that yearns for beautious expression; that seeks to explode into existence. We are existential - we are akin to this free wildness that creates existences. This is the very nature of choice; to choose is to create.
And so, I'm walking the beach, surrounded by a power-punch of creative beauty. I'm captured. And I'm struggling; feeling guilty that I'm spending way too much time absorbing this raw majesty. My little self-imposed discipline starts yelling. I should be setting aside time for writing....I didn't write yesterday, or the day before.....you know Carol, you're doing it again....you start something....yada yada. The louder my cry for order, the deeper my resistance - and the more tangled up I become in my guilt. Until fed-up and frustrated, I shout back at myself - aw, just forget it! This is impossible. You cannot NOT break rules. And when I gave myself permission to accept my limitations, I discovered something deeply liberating. I bumped into grace in a whole new way.
Colliding into two truths, two opposing truths grating against each other like tectonic plates, I discovered - grace resides on the grinding edge of paradox. It seems the place where order and originality smash into each another, there exists a crack in the universe. It is the place where Grace abides, and holds it all together. And that is where I am designed to live, and breathe, and find my being as I choose how to create and manage my cosmos.
One of the next best things I did for myself, was to break it.
I know, I know. Rules are necessary. Structure, order, goals....yes, yes I understand. I am a military child and have been a military spouse. Believe me, I get it. More than once I have packed up and moved an entire household in a matter of days. I know how critical it is to break down a big project into small, daily segments to accomplish the mission - how to eat the proverbial elephant one bite at a time. I appreciate organization, systemization; especially in the midst of chaos. I am not anti-discipline. I'm just not good at it for long periods of time. In spurts, I am dynamite. I've got it down. I can accomplish a lot. But it's that daily thing, day after day, that starts to choke something inside me....that I start transforming from an aide, into a noose.
I have taught classes on the Classic Spiritual Disciplines, and I think my biggest take-away in preparing and teaching the material, was the impossibility of living by discipline. There's something audacious about the human psyche that believes it can master chaos; that it can order an internal/eternal cosmos. We do possess a kinship with order; we are created in sync with macro and micro systems that astound and dumbfound us in their orderliness. Just think about the atom, or a galaxy. Our craving for systems, for rules that make sense, that demonstrate how things work, satisfies an innate part of our beings. We love to manage; we are made for it. But managing is not the whole of living.
Living is about the breath of life. It is about being. It is about partnership with Creation. By it's very nature, it is about origins - originality, uniqueness, something that's never been before. There is no pre-existent system, order, rule, or discipline that is the base-line structure for creative power. Creation is. The biblical Creator said it best. I am that I am. And we also possess this we are that we are, kinship. We have this raw, random urge that defies structure; that yearns for beautious expression; that seeks to explode into existence. We are existential - we are akin to this free wildness that creates existences. This is the very nature of choice; to choose is to create.
And so, I'm walking the beach, surrounded by a power-punch of creative beauty. I'm captured. And I'm struggling; feeling guilty that I'm spending way too much time absorbing this raw majesty. My little self-imposed discipline starts yelling. I should be setting aside time for writing....I didn't write yesterday, or the day before.....you know Carol, you're doing it again....you start something....yada yada. The louder my cry for order, the deeper my resistance - and the more tangled up I become in my guilt. Until fed-up and frustrated, I shout back at myself - aw, just forget it! This is impossible. You cannot NOT break rules. And when I gave myself permission to accept my limitations, I discovered something deeply liberating. I bumped into grace in a whole new way.
Colliding into two truths, two opposing truths grating against each other like tectonic plates, I discovered - grace resides on the grinding edge of paradox. It seems the place where order and originality smash into each another, there exists a crack in the universe. It is the place where Grace abides, and holds it all together. And that is where I am designed to live, and breathe, and find my being as I choose how to create and manage my cosmos.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Launchng the Queen Mary
I just came out of my first four-way divorce meeting; his lawyer, my lawyer, him, me. Four chairs cozy-ed up around a small, round table. The first thing I noticed when I walked in, was the box of Kleenex smack dab in the middle of the table. Hmmmm.....I told myself. You are NOT going to need those. Not today. You've cried enough to launch the Queen Mary.
But I did. Not a lot of blubbery boo-hooing, just an initial, sniffle-y episode that managed to streak my mascara across my cheek - unbeknownst to me. I was not aware until almost the end of our two hours (or in lawyer lingo - our $200 per hour, times two, session), when my (what term do I use? I don't like "ex;" we are still espoused, but not maritally functioning, at all)......(let me start again)......when the man I've been married to, reached over and gently wiped the mascara smudge off my cheek.
And I let him. I didn't recoil and hiss "don't you dare touch me!" I didn't pine for more contact. I didn't register anything. And I've been thinking about that all day. I didn't register anything. During our separation I have registered everything. Anguish, fear, heart-break, loneliness, rage, forgiveness, un-forgiveness, confusion, hope, cynicism - the whole melodramatic roller coaster. I've groaned great, spasmodic, gut-ripping sobs. In fact one time my crying came from such a deep, animalistic place (and I had no idea how loud I was), that my neighbor asked me the next day if I had heard that strange howling the night before. Oh, I have felt, registered, deeply.
And there I was....he touched my cheek, and I was ok. Really, OK. I am in another place. I don't exactly know how to define it, but it is different; distinguishable; a new direction.
Launching the Queen Mary; indeed.
But I did. Not a lot of blubbery boo-hooing, just an initial, sniffle-y episode that managed to streak my mascara across my cheek - unbeknownst to me. I was not aware until almost the end of our two hours (or in lawyer lingo - our $200 per hour, times two, session), when my (what term do I use? I don't like "ex;" we are still espoused, but not maritally functioning, at all)......(let me start again)......when the man I've been married to, reached over and gently wiped the mascara smudge off my cheek.
And I let him. I didn't recoil and hiss "don't you dare touch me!" I didn't pine for more contact. I didn't register anything. And I've been thinking about that all day. I didn't register anything. During our separation I have registered everything. Anguish, fear, heart-break, loneliness, rage, forgiveness, un-forgiveness, confusion, hope, cynicism - the whole melodramatic roller coaster. I've groaned great, spasmodic, gut-ripping sobs. In fact one time my crying came from such a deep, animalistic place (and I had no idea how loud I was), that my neighbor asked me the next day if I had heard that strange howling the night before. Oh, I have felt, registered, deeply.
And there I was....he touched my cheek, and I was ok. Really, OK. I am in another place. I don't exactly know how to define it, but it is different; distinguishable; a new direction.
Launching the Queen Mary; indeed.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Storms -n- Such
Another storm series is getting ready to smash into the coast. We'd lost our power; regained it....now, it looks like we might lose it again. So in between these blasts, there's a lot of scurrying around. Quick trip to the market, to the laundromat....grab some nice hot coffee before it's the last you might have for a while.
And, I'm wondering....should I be concerned that the KATU news truck has decided to set up it's crew to capture the "big storm story," right outside my window? What don't I know?
A part of me is tempted to feel a bit smug; as if I'm some kind of seasoned coastal-lubber. I mean, the first storm's 40 mph sustaining winds (see, sustaining winds, a very nautical term) and 70 mph gusts were just child's play. Even though those first raging howls literally sent me under the covers, it was the next storm, with 60-70 mph sustaining winds (and I mean, sustaining, as in, ALL DAY) and 90 mph gusts, that determined whether I was going to be a weak-kneed land-lubber and scramble for the nearest exit out of town, or earn my muck-gear as a true storm-blasted resident. More than once I bolted up bug-eyed, clutching covers, positioning pillows to protect my head in case things came crashing in.
It's un-nerving how a house breathes. It kind of knows how to let air in, and out; how the windows don't really rattle, but contract and expand in sighs and groans. And the eaves....they actually sing in melodious whistles - if you can hear them in between the screaming blasts. The part of me that rode this out, that finally fell asleep during the howls, that geared-up the following morning to beach-comb the debris in between tides, that part of me wants to thump my chest.
And then, there's the other part of me that's keeping an eye on the KATU truck. What don't I know about these coastal storms? Probably plenty.
And, I'm wondering....should I be concerned that the KATU news truck has decided to set up it's crew to capture the "big storm story," right outside my window? What don't I know?
A part of me is tempted to feel a bit smug; as if I'm some kind of seasoned coastal-lubber. I mean, the first storm's 40 mph sustaining winds (see, sustaining winds, a very nautical term) and 70 mph gusts were just child's play. Even though those first raging howls literally sent me under the covers, it was the next storm, with 60-70 mph sustaining winds (and I mean, sustaining, as in, ALL DAY) and 90 mph gusts, that determined whether I was going to be a weak-kneed land-lubber and scramble for the nearest exit out of town, or earn my muck-gear as a true storm-blasted resident. More than once I bolted up bug-eyed, clutching covers, positioning pillows to protect my head in case things came crashing in.
It's un-nerving how a house breathes. It kind of knows how to let air in, and out; how the windows don't really rattle, but contract and expand in sighs and groans. And the eaves....they actually sing in melodious whistles - if you can hear them in between the screaming blasts. The part of me that rode this out, that finally fell asleep during the howls, that geared-up the following morning to beach-comb the debris in between tides, that part of me wants to thump my chest.
And then, there's the other part of me that's keeping an eye on the KATU truck. What don't I know about these coastal storms? Probably plenty.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Truisms
I love some of the lines my youngest son comes up with....I plan to steal some of them. Like, the one about his brother - "I'd rather have him Jewish than a junkie." Priceless. A truism.
Late last night he sent me a text. He was aching through another layer of pain - grieving the loss of Parker, his four year old son, my grandson; wrestling with a new tumult - a baby girl, possibly his daughter, my granddaughter, due in February. My dear boy, I have been troubled too. Submerged feelings, that had been trickling up and were once manageable, containable, will not stay put. For some powerful reason, they've started rolling in, through memory triggers - smells; the way light falls; a laugh; watching a child walk down the street. And time and again, irrational as it seems, what erupts with the raw loss and confusing hope, is guilt. Right or wrong, appropriate or inappropriate, it's there. It demands a hearing, insists upon examination. It has something to say - it's an emotion attached to some kind of truth.
Kind, meaningful platitudes and scriptural proof-texts do not help, not really. They are a temporary comfort, but can easily become anesthetize-ors, like wine, work, food, or altruism. The temptation to ease the agony, rather than face the irrationality, the insanity, only postpones the process toward truth. I believe the truth does set us free, but here's the rub. What is the truth for me, in this? What is the guilt trying to tell me? What is it I don't see that enslaves me, that keeps me from being?
My son's text reaffirmed the necessity of this process, of this journey into the messiness of self. He expressed the conflicting nature of his struggle with loss, hope, pain, absurdity - that he wasn't sure if he was cracking up, or finding himself. And there it was......a truism.
Maybe it takes a little cracking up, to find yourself.
It was too late to text him back. So hugging my pillow, I rolled over and prayed for my boy. And me. Let us not get stuck here; may we become.
Late last night he sent me a text. He was aching through another layer of pain - grieving the loss of Parker, his four year old son, my grandson; wrestling with a new tumult - a baby girl, possibly his daughter, my granddaughter, due in February. My dear boy, I have been troubled too. Submerged feelings, that had been trickling up and were once manageable, containable, will not stay put. For some powerful reason, they've started rolling in, through memory triggers - smells; the way light falls; a laugh; watching a child walk down the street. And time and again, irrational as it seems, what erupts with the raw loss and confusing hope, is guilt. Right or wrong, appropriate or inappropriate, it's there. It demands a hearing, insists upon examination. It has something to say - it's an emotion attached to some kind of truth.
Kind, meaningful platitudes and scriptural proof-texts do not help, not really. They are a temporary comfort, but can easily become anesthetize-ors, like wine, work, food, or altruism. The temptation to ease the agony, rather than face the irrationality, the insanity, only postpones the process toward truth. I believe the truth does set us free, but here's the rub. What is the truth for me, in this? What is the guilt trying to tell me? What is it I don't see that enslaves me, that keeps me from being?
My son's text reaffirmed the necessity of this process, of this journey into the messiness of self. He expressed the conflicting nature of his struggle with loss, hope, pain, absurdity - that he wasn't sure if he was cracking up, or finding himself. And there it was......a truism.
Maybe it takes a little cracking up, to find yourself.
It was too late to text him back. So hugging my pillow, I rolled over and prayed for my boy. And me. Let us not get stuck here; may we become.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Machetes, and Other Anger Management Tools
There are some things only a machete can handle.
Shortly after I moved in with my mom, I helped her landscape her front yard. About the same time, I was deliberating whether to link up with a Life After Divorce support group. I did not want to be a part of one of those groups. It wasn't that I doubted their usefulness, or that I was anti-social, or, heaven forbid, judgmental. It's just that....I did not want to believe that this was where I actually was at this stage of my life......getting divorced. If I actually went to one of these groups, then I was actually identifying with this demographic. I would be a LAD - a life after divorce person. I don't know how to be a LAD.
So, I put it off. I ripped my mother's yard apart instead.
I tore out yards of overgrown ground-cover, chopped off root stumps, hacked out a few shrubs, and cleaved away at hardened, clay soil. And I grew very comfortable with a macabre gardening tool - a machete. It felt powerfully good to hack and chop and slice away. With each whack I sweated out a silent, simmering anger, and in some ways, the hard labor relieved a level of tension. But, it seemed the more I dug into the project, the more fury that machete over-turned and exposed. It was like once my anger found an outlet, it wanted to rampage; and this was kind of productive, for a while. I mean, constructive anger is very akin to creative energy. My mom's yard was taking shape - a little dry river bed, a defined path, groomed beds. But while her yard was coming along nicely, I was a mess. It seemed that with the deluge of wrath, a whole other dammed up emotional reservoir just wanted to sob it's way out.
So, I made an appointment with one of my counselors. (I need more than one.)
And in that session, I blubbered, and howled, and vented, and realized - this was just the beginning. I would have to align myself with a community of support that I wouldn't exhaust if I was going to let myself travel to the depths I needed to become healthy. Processing the reality of divorce, all the layers of loss it involves, is taxing. It can wear down a support circle of family and friends - so I'd hold back. What I needed required a certain camaraderie, a kind of mutuality. I thought a divorce support group would be a self-feeding environment. But I was challenged to see it as a way to move forward; a way to not hold back; a way to go - fully, deeply.
So, I went to LAD.
I still don't know how to be a LAD person, but I'm learning. I'm learning that it's OK to feel lost in denial - for a while. That all denial isn't bad; there are parts that are helpful to survival. That anger is OK, justifiable, even righteous and needs to be expressed appropriately. I'm learning that a community of broken people can be a safe place.
And I've put down the machete.
Shortly after I moved in with my mom, I helped her landscape her front yard. About the same time, I was deliberating whether to link up with a Life After Divorce support group. I did not want to be a part of one of those groups. It wasn't that I doubted their usefulness, or that I was anti-social, or, heaven forbid, judgmental. It's just that....I did not want to believe that this was where I actually was at this stage of my life......getting divorced. If I actually went to one of these groups, then I was actually identifying with this demographic. I would be a LAD - a life after divorce person. I don't know how to be a LAD.
So, I put it off. I ripped my mother's yard apart instead.
I tore out yards of overgrown ground-cover, chopped off root stumps, hacked out a few shrubs, and cleaved away at hardened, clay soil. And I grew very comfortable with a macabre gardening tool - a machete. It felt powerfully good to hack and chop and slice away. With each whack I sweated out a silent, simmering anger, and in some ways, the hard labor relieved a level of tension. But, it seemed the more I dug into the project, the more fury that machete over-turned and exposed. It was like once my anger found an outlet, it wanted to rampage; and this was kind of productive, for a while. I mean, constructive anger is very akin to creative energy. My mom's yard was taking shape - a little dry river bed, a defined path, groomed beds. But while her yard was coming along nicely, I was a mess. It seemed that with the deluge of wrath, a whole other dammed up emotional reservoir just wanted to sob it's way out.
So, I made an appointment with one of my counselors. (I need more than one.)
And in that session, I blubbered, and howled, and vented, and realized - this was just the beginning. I would have to align myself with a community of support that I wouldn't exhaust if I was going to let myself travel to the depths I needed to become healthy. Processing the reality of divorce, all the layers of loss it involves, is taxing. It can wear down a support circle of family and friends - so I'd hold back. What I needed required a certain camaraderie, a kind of mutuality. I thought a divorce support group would be a self-feeding environment. But I was challenged to see it as a way to move forward; a way to not hold back; a way to go - fully, deeply.
So, I went to LAD.
I still don't know how to be a LAD person, but I'm learning. I'm learning that it's OK to feel lost in denial - for a while. That all denial isn't bad; there are parts that are helpful to survival. That anger is OK, justifiable, even righteous and needs to be expressed appropriately. I'm learning that a community of broken people can be a safe place.
And I've put down the machete.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Ain't No "Ex," Blues
The other night I went to the Coaster Theater and listened to Linda Hornbuckle wail. Got a ticket - all myself; walked in and sat down - all by myself; tapped my foot, nodded my head, clapped my hands - all by myself. Well, me along with 200 others. Hallelujah, Jesus.
It was appropriate that my first date with myself was a flat out, let-her-rip, blues session. I have taken myself to dinner before, and made my way through a I-will-not-feel-lonely-even-though-I'm-alone mood. But that was about being hungry, and out running errands, and oh.....I don't know, momentary necessity. But this I planned for two weeks. I knew this was a full-fledged date, because this was an event, it was the kind of thing you do in groups or couples. I love the blues; I enjoy Linda Hornbuckle. So I told myself - baby, go public; go ahead, cry yourself the blues.
So, I'm sitting there, all tucked in and getting cozy, watching people file in, mill around, and I over-hear these women sitting behind me. Four of them, about my age; talking just loud enough to make their conversation all inclusive. Then two other women, about my age, find their seats next to mine, and their chatting becomes a part of the over-flow of the women behind us. I figured this was a girl's night out group and it was hard not to get drawn in; so I'm sorta-kinda participating as a fringe entity. At first the conversation revolves around that weekend's art festival, and then moves on toward other local events, and then becomes one of those let-me-figure-out-where-I-fit-in-this-crowd kind of thing. They were all local residents, not a part of the weekend touristy crowd, and this, it became evident, was a significant identity marker. As they jockeyed around, deftly attempting to self-rank (as only women do), an odd thing happened. The significant identity marker changed. The most repeated phrase these women began using was - my "ex."
Oh Lord; help me, Jesus.
I'm on a date by myself, with myself, attempting to discover how to become "me" without "he," and I'm surrounded by mature women, who it seems have been at this a lot longer than me, and yet, whose greatest sense of self is in relation to an "ex." I start to feel a rumble-y kind of panic churning around in my belly, a frantic ache....oh lordy, lordy....is this how it is? And then Linda Hornbuckle takes the stage.
She belts; she croons; she jives; and oh, help me Jesus, she wails. There's something powerful that happens when a woman sings the blues. A man can play the blues, but a woman, she can sing them. A woman gets way down past the pain, past the agony, the self-defeat, the depression, and she hits - righteous anger. She wags her head, stomps her foot, thrusts her finger to the heavens; she demands her say. I ain't gonna be no "ex;" "ex" ain't gonna be my say.
By the time she was finished with us, we'd been to church. Oh, lordy; thank you, Jesus.
It was appropriate that my first date with myself was a flat out, let-her-rip, blues session. I have taken myself to dinner before, and made my way through a I-will-not-feel-lonely-even-though-I'm-alone mood. But that was about being hungry, and out running errands, and oh.....I don't know, momentary necessity. But this I planned for two weeks. I knew this was a full-fledged date, because this was an event, it was the kind of thing you do in groups or couples. I love the blues; I enjoy Linda Hornbuckle. So I told myself - baby, go public; go ahead, cry yourself the blues.
So, I'm sitting there, all tucked in and getting cozy, watching people file in, mill around, and I over-hear these women sitting behind me. Four of them, about my age; talking just loud enough to make their conversation all inclusive. Then two other women, about my age, find their seats next to mine, and their chatting becomes a part of the over-flow of the women behind us. I figured this was a girl's night out group and it was hard not to get drawn in; so I'm sorta-kinda participating as a fringe entity. At first the conversation revolves around that weekend's art festival, and then moves on toward other local events, and then becomes one of those let-me-figure-out-where-I-fit-in-this-crowd kind of thing. They were all local residents, not a part of the weekend touristy crowd, and this, it became evident, was a significant identity marker. As they jockeyed around, deftly attempting to self-rank (as only women do), an odd thing happened. The significant identity marker changed. The most repeated phrase these women began using was - my "ex."
Oh Lord; help me, Jesus.
I'm on a date by myself, with myself, attempting to discover how to become "me" without "he," and I'm surrounded by mature women, who it seems have been at this a lot longer than me, and yet, whose greatest sense of self is in relation to an "ex." I start to feel a rumble-y kind of panic churning around in my belly, a frantic ache....oh lordy, lordy....is this how it is? And then Linda Hornbuckle takes the stage.
She belts; she croons; she jives; and oh, help me Jesus, she wails. There's something powerful that happens when a woman sings the blues. A man can play the blues, but a woman, she can sing them. A woman gets way down past the pain, past the agony, the self-defeat, the depression, and she hits - righteous anger. She wags her head, stomps her foot, thrusts her finger to the heavens; she demands her say. I ain't gonna be no "ex;" "ex" ain't gonna be my say.
By the time she was finished with us, we'd been to church. Oh, lordy; thank you, Jesus.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Captains and Lovers
When I was a kid, an old 1947 black and white movie captured me - The Ghost and Mrs. Muir. I don't know how old I was when I first saw it, but it must have been on one of those dull Saturday afternoons when nobody could come over and play, and old TV movies were the best company anyway. It was a romance, a fantasy. The kind that young girls weep over. What made it heart-wrenching, and absolutely enrapturing, was it's impossibility. The lovely young widow, Lucy Muir, fell reluctantly but deeply in love with a ghost. And the ghost, crustily handsome sea captain Daniel Gregg, was unashamedly smitten with Lucy. And the setting of course, was the charming old sea-cottage of the Captain's, perched ever-so-perfectly above a cliff-y cove overlooking....the sea.
I think it was here where several romances began for me. Deeply layered metaphors that have both anchored, and set my heart to sail.
The sea - the beach, the ocean. As Lucy Muir walked the beach in her wind-swept tweedy cape and sensible shoes, her face searching the far horizon for her ethereal lover, I could feel the sea pulling her, and me. She was land-locked, mortal; but her heart yearned for what the sea offered. Something in the current, the horizon, the salty air intoxicated her, wooed her, incited her desire. The sea and her Captain seemed synonymous. As a youngster I could smell the ocean long before I saw it, and it was like foreplay - an emotional, sensual titillation promising ecstasy and relief. Lucy's romance with her sea-side existence was her stimulant and her comfort. It's been mine too.
And then there's the writing. The Captain inspires, almost demands, Lucy support herself and young daughter by writing his story, which he dictates to her. The memoir, disguised as a novel, is a success providing for Lucy to stay put. What a seductive image for me as a young girl already in love with words and ideas. Writing....ahh yes, why not? I remember my first writing-love. The first kiss. The first time, I knew. It was my senior year in high school - a British Literature class. A lot of the love affair, I'm sure, had to do with my teacher's skill - after all, how possible is it to get senior girls and boys excited about Shakespeare? But even so, I was in love.....the creative process, words on paper, shaping paragraphs, and the metaphors! Oh, Lucy.....in my most intimate desire, I wanted, like you, to walk the beach, live by the sea, and write.
But I think the most profound, deeply layered romance is tied to the Captain - the lover. The relationship between Lucy and the Captain was not a simple romance - he's a ghost, she's not. It's deeply textured and complex, and like any good love story, steeped with tension. They start off terse, adversarial - we know they are destined. They become coy, teasing; eventually meld into a satisfying companionship, and then abruptly are separated by the barrier of space and time. Lucy spends her remaining life comforted by a wispy memory that lingers like a vapor - she had experienced the love of her life and she was waiting for something; for someone. It's a story of seemingly unrequited love - yet, not at all....just, postponed eventuality. For, as an old woman sitting in her chair, looking out to sea, sipping her evening dose of warmed milk, we watch her hand drop the glass; we know she's slipped away, and then, we see her rise up, ethereal-like, young again, and reaching out, she grasps the hand of her Captain, and they walk away, in each others' arms, gazing joyfully into each others' eyes. (This is where the tissues get very snotty.)
I've re-watched this movie several times through the years, and it wasn't until a recent viewing, as I sobbed away, that I realized something. Identifying with Lucy, I surprised myself with a deep cry - who is my Captain? Is this impossible relationship with an unobtainable lover about the longing within my marriage? Or, is this yearning for a deep lover, who seemingly cannot be completely obtained until some ethereal moment, about God?
Today as I stood on my wind-whipped deck, the sea still frothing and foaming storminess, scenes from that old movie flashed back. Looking out to the horizon, I felt this impulse to cry out "Oh Captain, my Captain - come to me!" And I come inside, sit down, and write.
To watch the movie on YouTube go to: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CsJFY92QSLY
I think it was here where several romances began for me. Deeply layered metaphors that have both anchored, and set my heart to sail.
The sea - the beach, the ocean. As Lucy Muir walked the beach in her wind-swept tweedy cape and sensible shoes, her face searching the far horizon for her ethereal lover, I could feel the sea pulling her, and me. She was land-locked, mortal; but her heart yearned for what the sea offered. Something in the current, the horizon, the salty air intoxicated her, wooed her, incited her desire. The sea and her Captain seemed synonymous. As a youngster I could smell the ocean long before I saw it, and it was like foreplay - an emotional, sensual titillation promising ecstasy and relief. Lucy's romance with her sea-side existence was her stimulant and her comfort. It's been mine too.
And then there's the writing. The Captain inspires, almost demands, Lucy support herself and young daughter by writing his story, which he dictates to her. The memoir, disguised as a novel, is a success providing for Lucy to stay put. What a seductive image for me as a young girl already in love with words and ideas. Writing....ahh yes, why not? I remember my first writing-love. The first kiss. The first time, I knew. It was my senior year in high school - a British Literature class. A lot of the love affair, I'm sure, had to do with my teacher's skill - after all, how possible is it to get senior girls and boys excited about Shakespeare? But even so, I was in love.....the creative process, words on paper, shaping paragraphs, and the metaphors! Oh, Lucy.....in my most intimate desire, I wanted, like you, to walk the beach, live by the sea, and write.
But I think the most profound, deeply layered romance is tied to the Captain - the lover. The relationship between Lucy and the Captain was not a simple romance - he's a ghost, she's not. It's deeply textured and complex, and like any good love story, steeped with tension. They start off terse, adversarial - we know they are destined. They become coy, teasing; eventually meld into a satisfying companionship, and then abruptly are separated by the barrier of space and time. Lucy spends her remaining life comforted by a wispy memory that lingers like a vapor - she had experienced the love of her life and she was waiting for something; for someone. It's a story of seemingly unrequited love - yet, not at all....just, postponed eventuality. For, as an old woman sitting in her chair, looking out to sea, sipping her evening dose of warmed milk, we watch her hand drop the glass; we know she's slipped away, and then, we see her rise up, ethereal-like, young again, and reaching out, she grasps the hand of her Captain, and they walk away, in each others' arms, gazing joyfully into each others' eyes. (This is where the tissues get very snotty.)
I've re-watched this movie several times through the years, and it wasn't until a recent viewing, as I sobbed away, that I realized something. Identifying with Lucy, I surprised myself with a deep cry - who is my Captain? Is this impossible relationship with an unobtainable lover about the longing within my marriage? Or, is this yearning for a deep lover, who seemingly cannot be completely obtained until some ethereal moment, about God?
Today as I stood on my wind-whipped deck, the sea still frothing and foaming storminess, scenes from that old movie flashed back. Looking out to the horizon, I felt this impulse to cry out "Oh Captain, my Captain - come to me!" And I come inside, sit down, and write.
To watch the movie on YouTube go to: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CsJFY92QSLY
Friday, November 6, 2009
One Square Inch
Mesmerized; thrashing
sea absorbs each second
ascribed to the day.
No allotment for words;
frozen in her presence.
There!.....
Anne Lamott would be proud.....I almost gave it up, but yes!...my one square inch!
sea absorbs each second
ascribed to the day.
No allotment for words;
frozen in her presence.
There!.....
Anne Lamott would be proud.....I almost gave it up, but yes!...my one square inch!
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Seaside Hope, Bedside Panic
Good grief. How quickly hope fades to anxiety.
I walk the beach, am inspired by brilliance - laughing gulls; the breeze-kissed top of a softly curling wave; velvet sand. I'm soothed, cradled. I can breathe deep. God, it's been so long since I've been able to take a deep breath. The kind that's just a part of living; not the kind that comes in sighs that just can't get down there and empty things out - that shallow kind of grasp. Deep breathing is.....peaceable. It's like a floating helium-filled balloon. And yesterday, I was a dirigible. Not a hot-air balloon, but a flat out Goodyear blimp.
I soared. I could believe in anything and everything. I did not feel speck-like next to oceanic vastness, but rather, largess infused me. Tidal rhythm became my own pulse. I felt tethered to Creation - to a Sea-Mother pumping umbilical cord Life, inflating my very cells. Of course! Now I could see it. Dreams were the point; hope was the avenue. The present absurdity of my life was irrelevant. In this incubator of Creation, nothing was impossible.
And then I went inside.
Moving into the routine of tending - clicking on the TV, chopping tomatoes, setting my plate - helium started hissing. The Dream of a few hours ago now seemed so, fantastical, ridiculous, impossible. What the heck am I doing? This is reality, Carol. You are living over a garage, for Pete's sake. You need a job. You are 57 - you are aging; you gotta figure how you're going to take care of yourself. You are crazy! This is not the stuff of dreams, this is plain ol' husbandry - roof over your head, food on the table, an occasional trip to the beauty salon.
By the time I crawled into bed, a heavy-duty, northwest coastal storm began whipping and screaming outside. Like a startled child, I pulled the covers over my head to muff out the squalls and I heard instead, my own muffled cry. A panicked tantrum, insisting on battle lines - that something's got to win out. It's either hopes and dreams, or practical reality. I want the soaring of hope to banish the fear of an uncertain life. I want the dream to rub out the storm. I don't want the storm. I don't want the storm.
But this morning, the storm is still here....raging in gusts over 70 miles an hour. I pull up the shades and face the howls, and realize - both are true. Storms and dreams. Practicality and hope. Fear and peace. Husbandry and provision.
Now the question - how to live the paradox? How to live out a redemptive dream in the midst of a storm-ravaged dwelling?
I walk the beach, am inspired by brilliance - laughing gulls; the breeze-kissed top of a softly curling wave; velvet sand. I'm soothed, cradled. I can breathe deep. God, it's been so long since I've been able to take a deep breath. The kind that's just a part of living; not the kind that comes in sighs that just can't get down there and empty things out - that shallow kind of grasp. Deep breathing is.....peaceable. It's like a floating helium-filled balloon. And yesterday, I was a dirigible. Not a hot-air balloon, but a flat out Goodyear blimp.
I soared. I could believe in anything and everything. I did not feel speck-like next to oceanic vastness, but rather, largess infused me. Tidal rhythm became my own pulse. I felt tethered to Creation - to a Sea-Mother pumping umbilical cord Life, inflating my very cells. Of course! Now I could see it. Dreams were the point; hope was the avenue. The present absurdity of my life was irrelevant. In this incubator of Creation, nothing was impossible.
And then I went inside.
Moving into the routine of tending - clicking on the TV, chopping tomatoes, setting my plate - helium started hissing. The Dream of a few hours ago now seemed so, fantastical, ridiculous, impossible. What the heck am I doing? This is reality, Carol. You are living over a garage, for Pete's sake. You need a job. You are 57 - you are aging; you gotta figure how you're going to take care of yourself. You are crazy! This is not the stuff of dreams, this is plain ol' husbandry - roof over your head, food on the table, an occasional trip to the beauty salon.
By the time I crawled into bed, a heavy-duty, northwest coastal storm began whipping and screaming outside. Like a startled child, I pulled the covers over my head to muff out the squalls and I heard instead, my own muffled cry. A panicked tantrum, insisting on battle lines - that something's got to win out. It's either hopes and dreams, or practical reality. I want the soaring of hope to banish the fear of an uncertain life. I want the dream to rub out the storm. I don't want the storm. I don't want the storm.
But this morning, the storm is still here....raging in gusts over 70 miles an hour. I pull up the shades and face the howls, and realize - both are true. Storms and dreams. Practicality and hope. Fear and peace. Husbandry and provision.
Now the question - how to live the paradox? How to live out a redemptive dream in the midst of a storm-ravaged dwelling?
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
To Dare
There are some things you just don't talk about. Like.....dreams. You keep them tucked. There's a place, a soulful pocket, that collects such things.
Every once in a while, I'll tumble my fingers down in there. Tinker around, fondle those things. Like smoothed stones, caressed; my fingers know them by heart. Rarely do I take one out and examine it. To look at them, to pull them out, exposes me.
Exposing a dream is horrifying. To dream is to dare. Webster's says: to dare is to have the courage to try; to meet defiantly; to venture or hazard. Such words conjure up images of North Pole expeditions, Congo jungle treks, or starting life over at 57.....things way too big for me. I'm a suburban mother and grandmother for god's sake...what do I know about daring? My life has been safe. Crazy, but safe.
But....today, walking the beach, something happened. I dared. I shoved my fingers deep into that soulful pocket, felt around my familiar pebbles, and bumped into a boulder. A dream so big that it declared itself; said, this pocket can no longer contain it. And I took it out. I sat on a driftwood stump and held it in my hands - a dream that I could not have imagined for myself. A dream that is way too big for me, and yet is so true to me. And now, I've looked at it - squarely. Not quite examining it, but daring to hold it in the light. And it thrills me.....and terrifies me. A holy kind of terror - a pure and powerful existential connection that whispers, destiny.
As I stood up from my driftwood pew, I scooped up a yellowish stone from the tidal debris and set it on the stump, like an altar. My dream sits there; declared.
Every once in a while, I'll tumble my fingers down in there. Tinker around, fondle those things. Like smoothed stones, caressed; my fingers know them by heart. Rarely do I take one out and examine it. To look at them, to pull them out, exposes me.
Exposing a dream is horrifying. To dream is to dare. Webster's says: to dare is to have the courage to try; to meet defiantly; to venture or hazard. Such words conjure up images of North Pole expeditions, Congo jungle treks, or starting life over at 57.....things way too big for me. I'm a suburban mother and grandmother for god's sake...what do I know about daring? My life has been safe. Crazy, but safe.
But....today, walking the beach, something happened. I dared. I shoved my fingers deep into that soulful pocket, felt around my familiar pebbles, and bumped into a boulder. A dream so big that it declared itself; said, this pocket can no longer contain it. And I took it out. I sat on a driftwood stump and held it in my hands - a dream that I could not have imagined for myself. A dream that is way too big for me, and yet is so true to me. And now, I've looked at it - squarely. Not quite examining it, but daring to hold it in the light. And it thrills me.....and terrifies me. A holy kind of terror - a pure and powerful existential connection that whispers, destiny.
As I stood up from my driftwood pew, I scooped up a yellowish stone from the tidal debris and set it on the stump, like an altar. My dream sits there; declared.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Welcome To My Room
This year has been tough. Just about everything in my life has been stripped down, turned inside out. It's been destabilizing; a period of deconstruction - the implosion of a hard-fought-for 37 year marriage and loss of family structure; the confusing residual impact on my children and grandchildren; the heart-breaking loss of my four year old grandson, Parker; the loss of my home; unemployment and the job-search circus; living out of a suitcase (gratefully at my mom's, but all my personal belongings are in a POD somewhere in the netherworld of storage); a diagnosis of melanoma (thankfully caught in time) with my health insurance hanging in the balance; and probably most unearthing, an intense spiritual sifting spawned from my late-in-life seminary experience (my unfinished thesis still pulsating in the background).
I have plenty of raw material whimpering for a roll-over-and-just-the-hell-die attitude. But something deep wants to fight back, take ownership, to create new life out of a landfill - something redemptive. This is my place to hash it out - through my writing. Many of you through the years have urged me to write. I have always written, privately mostly, but its been years since I've published. And the publishing world has changed. Now, editors want to see if a writer has already established a marketable platform - a captured readership. So here we are.
I will fess up - I have certain objectives in mind for this blog. First, its a cathartic journey. I'm taking six months away from life as usual (or unusual) and renting a studio-over-a-garage at the Oregon coast to heal and write. The level of writing here will be one step above my journal - a kind of stream of consciousness. It won't be quite the unedited raw-guts-laying-on-the-floor as my journal, but it may be "raw-ish." Second, I need to get back into the practice of disciplined writing - what Anne Lamott calls the "one square inch" of text EVERYDAY. Third, I want to eventually shape this material into two directions - a memoir, and the grist for short story writing. And finally, I need to capture an audience; I invite your participation. I encourage you to visit often (each click is counted for those potential editors), to comment on the shared experiences, to critique the writing, and especially, to invite your family, friends, and colleagues to join in as well.
Welcome to my room of my own - my place to unravel.
I have plenty of raw material whimpering for a roll-over-and-just-the-hell-die attitude. But something deep wants to fight back, take ownership, to create new life out of a landfill - something redemptive. This is my place to hash it out - through my writing. Many of you through the years have urged me to write. I have always written, privately mostly, but its been years since I've published. And the publishing world has changed. Now, editors want to see if a writer has already established a marketable platform - a captured readership. So here we are.
I will fess up - I have certain objectives in mind for this blog. First, its a cathartic journey. I'm taking six months away from life as usual (or unusual) and renting a studio-over-a-garage at the Oregon coast to heal and write. The level of writing here will be one step above my journal - a kind of stream of consciousness. It won't be quite the unedited raw-guts-laying-on-the-floor as my journal, but it may be "raw-ish." Second, I need to get back into the practice of disciplined writing - what Anne Lamott calls the "one square inch" of text EVERYDAY. Third, I want to eventually shape this material into two directions - a memoir, and the grist for short story writing. And finally, I need to capture an audience; I invite your participation. I encourage you to visit often (each click is counted for those potential editors), to comment on the shared experiences, to critique the writing, and especially, to invite your family, friends, and colleagues to join in as well.
Welcome to my room of my own - my place to unravel.
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