A week later - fighting the fear

I've had my writing out on public display for about a week now and a few friends, acquaintances and influences on my writing have received notice of its existence, one and two at a time.

While the responses, when I've received them, have all been positive and encouraging, tonight I'm feeling a little "stupid". My analyst would cheer to hear me say that word - because she insists that anytime one gives the title of "stupid" to a thought or feeling, one is skirting the edge of deep, vulnerable, gooey territory - the place in the psyche where the real work starts to happen.

But I feel "stupid" and silly and afraid - because I have let myself be vulnerable. Enough people know about this space that I no longer have complete control. The writing I've already posted reveals me in a way I'm not usually willing to reveal myself. Most anyone who reads it will see a side of me that normally stays mostly under wraps. To me, that is scary.

In Anne Lamott's "Bird by Bird" she talks about the voices that she fights down while she is writing. I hear those voices too. Right now they insist no one wants to hear anything I have to say, the way I say it leaves much to be desired, my words will reveal parts of me that no one can possible like or love, and that this little venture is pointless and inflated.

I want to take it all down and just pretend no one has ever seen it. I want to put up 1000 caveats about how my writing is really not any good. I want to jump in a hole and hide. But I wrote a week ago that this experiment is for me - it isn't about who reads what I write, if anyone does. It's about courage and a voice and wings. So instead of suffering silently - I'm going to disempower those voices in my head and my heart by exposing them to the light. I'm going to try to accept the encouragement I've received as genuine and meaningful. I'm going to be brave and leave my words out here on the blog and trust that I am not going to die of exposure. Because if my words are to ever have any meaning for me or for anyone else, I've got to learn to be brave enough to let them exist somewhere besides in my head.

So, as I start the second week of this adventure, I'm fighting the fear - and for now - I think I'm winning.

Thanksgiving

Tonight, the pies cool in the kitchen, smells of cinnamon, ginger and cloves fill the air.
Glass and stone and metal gleam in the lamplight, polished and waiting.
Tomorrow, the turkey will drip its juices while mouths water in anticipation.
Family and friends, food and fellowship generate expressions of thanks.

But yesterday, tears flowed recalling brutality towards body and soul.
Frustration mounted with the pressures of care-taking an ill parent.
Fear welled up with the utterance of the words cancer and HIV.
Families fractured because the gap between perfect fantasy and imperfect reality could not be overcome.

Juxtaposition of these worlds jars to the bone and sets teeth on edge.
Grateful and heartbroken, independent emotions felt together.
How to hold both, all, at the same time, in the same space?
Seeing the world from two sides stretches to the limit -
and in the moment I give thanks for the pain.

Just for Fun

Poetry used to be fun.  I remember learning "Sick" by Shel Silverstein to recite in elementary school. And then in Jr. High, learning "Jabberwocky" by Lewis Carroll. My fellow students moaned about being forced to learn the nonsensical poem, but I loved every minute of it - the way the sounds rolled off my tongue, the images that stirred in my imagination. I've had other fun encounters with poetry - including the publication in an internal newsletter of a poem I co-wrote while working a 24 hour shift at a technology company. I won't bore you with the blow by blow rendition of our attempt to find humor in the midnight tweaking of computer code to the tune of "Twas the Night Before Christmas" - but it was fun.

Somewhere along the way, I lost the fun. Partly because in poetry, I found an expression of the deep, sometimes painful, things within my soul. Poetry became an outlet for the pain I couldn't express any other way. But there is more than just that. Somehow, I became afraid. Terrified really. Ashamed and frightened to be seen in the way poetry revealed me to the world. The fun-loving poetry of my childhood was seen as just that, a children's game. The profound power of poetry to illuminate feelings scared the adults in the world around me, and as I grew older, they encouraged me to invest in more practical endeavors. And I lost the fun.

And now, maybe, just maybe, I'm beginning to find the fun again. The beauty. The power. Without the terror. It has taken hours of patience and encouragement. It has taken many gentle responses of "beautiful" to the words I've put on paper from people who see me to the depths of my soul and love me anyway. It's taken many repetitions of heavy lifting to build my courage against the rejection and criticism I so fear. But I've made a start. This public forum is my attempt to regain the joy in an art form that came so naturally to me as a child. My wish is that someday a child would read one of my poems, maybe memorize it to recite, and smile.

Dream Big

Dream big dreams, little one. 
Explore the far reaches of your imagination.

You can do anything, be anything, go anywhere.

Don't listen to the voices that want to constrain you, to narrow your choices, to fit you into a mold.

Taste life, the sweet and the bitter, the salty and the savory –
and the endless combinations of them all.

Stretch yourself to embrace the challenges life will bring.

Learn to look at yourself with playful curiosity not harsh judgment.

Be gentle with your soul.

Your life overflows with possibility. 

Have the courage to jump into the rushing river and be carried along to undiscovered destinations and unexplored regions.

And know that wherever you go, whatever you do, I will be right here,
cheering you on, encouraging you, holding you in spirit, loving you.

You will never be alone.

Dream big, little one – dream big.

When I Grow Up, I Want To Be....

I refuse to put a video player in my vehicle, because the most profound conversations with my children occur when the rhythm of the road lulls them into a state where they willingly share their most intimate hopes and fears and dreams.  We had such a moment last night.  At 12:30am, well past any normal bedtime, they chattered away behind me.  I expected them to fall sound asleep to the lull of the road, but not this time.  Instead, their imaginations sparked, and I enjoyed a window into their souls.

One of them asked my husband - "Daddy, how many jobs have you had?" and he began to count, listing each one in chronological order.  He arrived at the number 10, not counting his high-school efforts to have a bit of cash in his pocket.  "Wow, that's a lot of jobs, Dad" - my oldest responded.  And then the little one piped up with a list of things she wants to do, to be:  dog groomer, school counselor, pastor, police officer in the K-9 unit, mother, cashier at Target and a donut shop, soccer coach and maybe one or two others that have slipped my mind this morning.  This list does not include options - her intent in the moment was to be ALL of these things.  She has big dreams - and last night, we did our best to encourage all of them.

Did I have dreams like that at six years old?  If so, I certainly don't remember them.  And if I had somehow found the courage to articulate such a list, I suspect the reaction would have been one of narrowing options and discouragement from impossibilities rather than an encouragement to explore and embrace.  I am 38 years old.  And I am just beginning to recapture a bit of the enthusiasm of my six year old toward the possibilities my life holds.  Just beginning to see that maybe I can be a mom, and a technician, a healer, a lifelong student, a writer and more - all at the same time.  My life has been channeled by the idea that I only had enough for one thing at a time.  And that mom had to be at the top of that list.  My older daughter has internalized that thought; her response to her sister's list last night included a caveat that in order to be a mom, she might have to reconsider her other dreams.  I tried to assure them that there is room for both, for all - but they need to see that in action to believe it.  Breaking out of my assigned role has been a slow process - but a completely necessary one.

I spent my 30th birthday mired in depression because I had no idea how to fill in the blank of the title question.  As I approach 40 - my life has a different dimension, a new energy, purpose and direction of a much less singular sort - and I'm beginning to finally figure out what I want to be when I grow up.

Honoring the Longing

A month ago, I attended a retreat/conference in the gorgeous woods of Northern North Carolina.  Big picture windows lined one wall of the main meeting room and leaves fluttered through the air outside as the keynote speakers engaged us in thinking about dreams and self and spirit and soul.  I wish I could have stayed forever.  Every minute of my time there softened, shifted and shaped me.  I returned a different person, more of who I really am, than I could claim when I left.

But the most important moments of my time there, the ones with the most profound impact, happened in the most unexpected place.  I selected a workshop on Saturday afternoon called "The Transcendent Function of Longing" - a big title I didn't completely understand and I am not at all sure I really understand it yet.  The small room filled up quickly and we crowded together, making the best possibly use of the cramped space.  I ended up in the back, behind the AV equipment, which only worked in fits and starts, and required much shuffling and shifting around from two gentlemen seated next to me.  Under most circumstances, the setting itself would have been enough of an annoyance to distract me from the presentation. On top of the physical uncomfortableness, I was keenly aware of several people in the room, including one outspoken woman whom I'd found myself disagreeing with several times over the course of the conference (mostly internally) and my own analyst.  Tess' presence, both at the conference and in the room that afternoon, turned out to be a gift to me, but I felt her presence acutely each time I found myself sharing space with her that weekend.

I wish I could capture the presentation in words.  I can't.  It simply defies description.  But that two hour time slot now resides on my list of top five most important moments in my life.  As soon as Donnamarie Flanagan, the presenter, opened her mouth, all of the oxygen left the room - yet at the same time I inhaled the deepest sort of breath.  She told the story of the reed flute, and read us a translation of Rumi's poem, and in my soul something clicked into place.  I recognized myself in every sentence.  Deep within me, my self wept with relief at finally being understood.

All of my life, I have searched for a way to fill the longing inside of me.  Sometimes my choices lead me to places where I can take a drink, and quench the thirst for a moment.  But always, invariably, the searing thirst returns with a vengance.  And the longing seems strongest just after the moments in which I've had a glimmer of hope that satisfaction was near at hand.  When the longing returns after a mountaintop experience, the only framework I've had to evaluate my own process pointed over and over again to some monumental failure on my part.  "So close, but not quite there.  What is wrong with you?  Why can't you find something and just be happy?  You let it get away again.  You must not be worthy.  That feeling you want is God you know - and if He won't stay with you - it must be because you are broken - too broken to ever be fixed."  So whispered the voices in my head and my heart.

But in Donnamarie's simple offering of grace, I felt something shift inside of me.  She hovered over the jumble of puzzle pieces of my life, and slightly turned several of the sections already under progress, and gently tapped the connecting pieces into place.  And suddenly, right there before my eyes, the picture made sense for the first time.  The sense of longing I feel is the presence of the divine.  Occasionally, the flutes all play in symphony, and ecstatic connection occurs.  But only for a moment, not permanently.  And just on the other side of that experience of community and connection often come the loneliest moments, filled with the most longing.  Not a failure, but a contrast - one with awesome power.  Because in those moments, creativity sparks.  So the very thing I've fought against all my life, the swift switch from mountaintop to valley, holds the most potential.

The key, the trick in it all, comes in honoring the longing.  Instead of trying to escape it, fill it with all sorts of business, I must simply sit with it, and find what needs to be expressed.  For me, that expression comes most often through writing.  So this morning, I am at my keyboard.  Yesterday held connection and community.  This morning brings the ever so familiar wash of emotion.  But rather than give those shaming voices purchase - I choose to honor the longing with words.  I choose to sing my reed flute song hoping that in it's music, there is hope and healing and wholeness - for me and for anyone else who hears.

Diving In

I'm taking the plunge.  I signed up for a blog site two years ago.  And I put out a single test post.  I've written numerous poems, a fairytale, reflective journal entries and editorials enough to fill a small book in that time.  But I've let very little of it out for human consumption.  Writing is not something I WANT to do.  But it's something I have to do.  It's like breathing, and when I forget, things start not working right.  I've written poetry on and off all of my life.  Some of the things from way back when are gone, not put somewhere safe for permanent keeping and now lost to time.  There are other pieces I will add to this sight as I have time and courage, from days long gone but still available to me.  But mostly, this place is about a repository for my thoughts.  Somewhere I can save the random writing I'm doing.  A place I can try out my writing voice.  Room to spread my wings.

I want to post caveats about how I am not really a writer.  But in the past few months, I've been challenged by an exercise that had me define who I am with nouns, not adjectives and distill that list to its essence.  Writer and poet are on that list, as you will see in the profile, and I can no longer deny that fact.  So, whether anyone ever reads a word I write, write is what I must do - and this seemed like the perfect place to do it, because if I don't - I simply may explode.

I MUST WRITE!

Somewhere in a place too deep for words
- a dark and bubbling place
the pressure builds.

Fears and hopes, dreams and promises cook there
- in the gooey depths
simmering just below the surface.

Pressure and heat, bubbles popping faster and harder and louder - demanding release.

I feel the explosion coming and I am afraid.
There is only one way to stop it.
There is only one way to release the pressure slowly and avert impending castastrophe - one chance.

I must find words for what is wordless.
I MUST WRITE!

Hidden Dreams

“Who do you want to be?” they ask.  Early and often.  Demanding an answer.
Decide, make a choice, work hard so good things will come your way.

But where are the wants, the wishes, the hopes, the dreams?
Those tiny bits of light tucked deep into her soul. 

She hides them.  Afraid.
Afraid to speak them lest the wind of her voice puts out the flame.

If she actually wraps words around them, someone will expect…
Expect a determined path, success, perfection…
Things she fears she cannot deliver.

So she hides them, deep down inside, buried under more acceptable goals.
Hidden under other endeavors in which her chances for success are high.

Silently they smoulder, flickers of light hidden from view. 
But embers covered over by ash don’t die.  They lay waiting.
Waiting for a breath of air, a single piece of tinder.

Waiting to burst into all-consuming flame.

Great Mother

Oh Great Mother, Giver of Life
Arms reaching out to me, to us, to all of your mothers
Surround us, hold us, love us, nourish us now
As you nourished each of us, in your womb, with your blood
The water of life flows from your breasts
We drink until we thirst no more
Your milk fills us, strengthens us, empowers us
One we were before we were born
One we become again as we consume you
Take our pain, the pain of the world, Your pain
Hang it in the sky as a sign
Surrounded by you, held by you, consumed by you
We are whole
Our blood mingles with yours
The world springs to life from the flow
Clean, pure, and free
Fertile and green
Clothed in garments of white
Now, we are Givers of Life too
By the blood

Grandfather Fire

I offer you my incense, my delicacies, and the sweet sap from the wood that feeds you.
Thank you for being in the midst of our circle tonight.
I offer you my laughter, my fears, my shame, my deepest longings and my silence - as I feed you from my hand.
Consume all that I give you in your red hot flame and your showers of sparks shooting like stars into the black night.
Transform me from within until I am like the embers that smoulder with your passion and healing.
Light my way, warm me, surround me, and engulf me into your heart - the very heart of God.

A Divine Space

She holds a space between us where I can breathe,
where pain and fear can peek out from the fence around my soul that pens them in.
She invites all the players in my dreams, the ones I try so hard to deny,
into the warmth, into the light, where they can play their parts.
Unflinching, she helps unwrap the bandages that reek like death wraps,
covering the life buried deep
knowing that light and air will aid the healing I so desperately need.
She witnesses the slow uncovering of deep things, gently unfolding layer after layer
without hesitation, shock or surprise at what is being uncovered.
She holds a space between us with light and life and love
and it is divine.

  

Pure Gold

Light - and fire - burning fiercely.
Changing me into more than I am.
Transformation in the Refiner’s furnace.
Who am I to see these things?  For what purpose this change?
Visions unfolding my destiny.
What price will I pay?

The Cost

What did it cost, this lesson you’ve learned? 
A friend of mine asked me one day.

It cost me much more than I ever kept score…
More than I’ve wanted to see.

It can’t begin to equate the price that I’ve paid
in all of the ways I love and relate, back then and even today.

It cost me the chance to laugh and to dance
while the music of youth brightly played.

It cost me my smile, at least for a while,
but I found it again on the way.

It cost me my voice and it cost me the choice
to do just as I pleased.

But some choices come back and my voice does not lack
the power I know it now needs.

It cost me the faith, the hope, and the love
that I had been taught must come from above. 

But faith, hope and love, I’ve discovered since then,
are found at their best when they come from within.

It cost me my friends, some old and some new,
because I was silent and sullen and blue.

It may cost me yet, much more than I’ve bet,
more than I’m willing to pay.

But the friends that I’ve gained, and the lessons through pain,
and the joy that I’ve found deep within…
May not merit the cost of all that I’ve lost,
yet there’s no way I’m trading them in.

They stand as the prize for the race that I’ve run,
I carry them wherever I go. 

They give me the strength to stand and to speak
and to stay on this journey, be it ever so slow.

What did it cost?  I can’t really say.  There’s no way to turn back the clock.
I have no way to know where I might be today
without this detour I’ve been forced to walk.

But onward I go, and as I do I just know
that the beauty I’ve seen can’t compare.

The things that I’ve lost and the price that they’ve cost
will forever be counted and weighed.

But given the choice,
I’ll take what I’ve gained through the suffering and pain
and treasure the lessons I’ve learned. 

They stay with me now, polished and prized,
as bright badges of life that I’ve earned.