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.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
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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