this is the woman i want to be:

a woman who breaks out in vibrant glory

regardless of the season

or of the colors that surround her.

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sometimes cloth makes a better page,

thread a better ink.

Second helpin's:

1. it’s scrying time again
2. knots

i’ve been dreaming lately.

i love it when i do that.

i’m still trying to decipher some of them.

like the one 2 nights ago about eyebrows.

yes, eyebrows.

eyebrows: hair that protects the eyes by acting as an umbrella, barring entry to would-be vision villains like sweat and dandruff and rain.

eyebrows: those hairy communication tools that are so supportive in strengthening expressions like surprise and anger and disapproval.

i spent the entire dream plucking my eyebrows, and let me tell you: i was giddy with glee having thinned my overpopulated brows and rid my face of strays and runaways.

am i freeing my vision?

altering the way i see things?

getting rid of the superfluous without erasing the necessary?

or do i need/want to pay more attention to my physical appearance?

or maybe get my eyes checked?

(i’m never more indecisive than when it comes to interpreting dreams.)

i spent last night’s dreamtime preserving – funneling hot, gooey, colorful future nourishment through metal wide-mouthed funnels into scalded bell jars.

again, i was giddy with happiness.

honestly, i’d kinda’ hoped for something a little saucier to write about in my dream journal this morning after seeing the movie “inception” yesterday. but no, i just ladeled food into glass jars all night long.

but still, there’s much to chew on . . .

summers spent in my grandmother’s kitchen peeling, boiling, stirring, ladeling. the summer my sister and mother joined me at our farm. we picked pears off the tree that morning and by bedtime, we had jars and jars filled with pear preserves – the best i’ve ever tasted.

is this a dream about memories? i can’t think of a single word or incident in my entire yesterday that would’ve triggered a dream about summertime memories.

women providing sustenance for the winter – is there a message there?

is this a harbinger of famine?

a call to focus (my f-word) and funnel?

sigh.

for me, dream interpretation is best left to the dark early hours, those marvelous, magical hours when anything – anything at all – is possible. my life has been so different in those hours. i am such a different person in those hours.

then the sun makes its presence known, and the magic melts away, though i’m no longer sure why it has to.

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No related posts.

they’re never on my packing list,

but i never leave home without them . . .

hot flash strikes.

out of the blue

no warning

no discernible trigger

just the teensiest little ole’ warning i’ve come to recognize

from paying close attention to myself:

nanoseconds before a hot flash arrives

i can breath more clearly.

my breathing passages just flat-out open up

heralding the arrival of

the intense heat that spreads rapidly through my body,

not discriminating against any one particular area.

i feel like i’ve just been wrapped in plastic wrap -

not the kind you buy in the store -

this plastic wrap sticks.

no air can get to me.

moments before, i could breathe expansively

now i can’t breathe at all.

while my brain races

frantically looking for an exit sign,

my body quietly points to the exist sign

and my brain calms down,

settles in.

i toss out the dismissive, overused phrase “this too shall pass”

replacing it with

“more women than i can count have survived hot flashes. i will be fine.”

then i tune in and notice my body like never before.

this amazing body

that has long been a source of embarrassment

instead of a place of refuge and strength.

on any given day and for far too many years

i scold it, scoff at it, ignore it.

and now, during this wildfire,

i find my way to appreciation.

breath holds my hand

until the hot flash recedes,

regrouping for next time

it will show up unannounced and uninvited

to beam me into my body,

into the present.

~~~~~

This post was birthed by my participation in Bindu Wile’s 21.5.800 project, and (even though it’s officially ended) Dian’s Self Evidence project (self-awareness).

Technorati Tags: #215800, #SelfEv

Second helpin's:

1. yoga, betty crocker style
2. small things/big things
3. diving in, at last

back in the day, betty crocker and some of her friends baked cakes from scratch, and they never had all the ingredients they needed, which meant baking a cake took nearly all day long what with all the trips to the grocery store and all. so they got smart and developed a cake-in-a-box mix. only women wouldn’t buy it, the corporate fable goes, because it was too easy. they didn’t feel like they’d really baked a cake by just opening a box, so betty revamped her idea to include adding water, milk, oil, and/or eggs. women liked that. it was easy, convenient, and they had contributed just enough to give them the satisfaction of accomplishment.

for years, i’ve been dreaming of my days as a bowl filled with yoga and writing and walking and reading. years, i tell you. dreaming.

this year i stepped things up a notch and created a collage around the beginning of the year. it was my way of telling the universe about my plans so she could take care of it.

and eventually, she – in the form of bindu wiles – did take care of it. betty crocker style. bindu put together a plan that stirred writing and yoga into every day. easy peasy. she even brought in marianne who has a yoga for writers video. all i had to do was open the box, add words, stir, and bake for 21 days, only 21 days – just the right amount of time it’s said is needed to develop a habit. twenty-one days and my life would be soooo different. soooo much better. i would be leaner and stronger. i’d have clarity. i’d be able to set old roosters to rest and stand other things on their head. when my friend angela kelsey and i finally meet in person, we could do a yoga duet. (when we’re not swapping stories, doing metaphysical diagnoses of each other, or comparing bags and electronic gizmos, that is.) shoot, i might even have a book i hadn’t exactly expected to have.

but here’s the thing: in a scant 4 days, the timer chimes, indicating the end of the 21 days. the program will be done, and i’ve done yoga, what – maybe 3 non-consecutive times now and written a blog post or two (also non-consecutive). (oh, sure, i’ve written more in my head, but i don’t need to read the directions on the box to tell me that writing in my head does not count. in fact, head-writing is precisely what i want to get away from.)

then yesterday, bindu announced a 10-day extension. what? an extension? was this a coveted second chance to bake the cake of my dreams or was it a dreaded second round of opportunities i’d let pass me by? would my cake rise or would it fall? would it burn from staying in the oven too long or would i take it out before it’s done? well, didn’t i just stick my toothpick into this cake, and when it came out with some of the batter sticking to it, i decide: to put it back in the oven for another 10 days.

now for years, i’ve been going to bed every night vowing that tomorrow will be The Day I Get Up And Do Yoga Then Write before anything or anybody has a chance to derail my day. and, well, i just told you how that cake turned out. but the funny thing is, it was yesterday afternoon when i decided to stick this cake back in the oven, and last night, i plumb forgot to drift off to sleep thinking about how marvelous my tomorrow was gonna’ be.

this morning, i got up, did a few things, then popped in the yoga video. i didn’t make it nearly all the way through. my knees cried foul and my wrists quit in protest. my ankles walked right off the mat and watched the remaining video from the sofa. but i did enough to make my entire body smile with satisfaction and possibility, and i’m writing minutes after turning off the tv, choosing to reheat this topic out of the plethora of topics (some half-baked) (sorry, couldn’t resist) that are vying for attention.

that part of me that loves to distract and derail, that part of me that thinks thinking is the only way to go, wants to know why i didn’t bake the cake the first 21 days and what makes me think the next 14 days will be any different. my heart, that part of me that thinks in ways the brain cannot ever understand, already knows the answer . . .

two nights ago, i was treated to a phone call with danette, emma, and julie, the loverlies known online as oliveandhope, pleasurenotes, and unabashedly female. that phone call had all the ingredients for baking the most delicious cake ever, and one thing emma tossed into the mix near the end of the call has stuck with me. in the midst of vowing there’d be no more self-bashing around our campfire, emma pointed out that sometimes saying that we didn’t quite accomplish what we’d hoped to could be cathartic. when we say i didn’t do this or i didn’t do that, it takes the power away so we can move forward. when things stay hidden in the shadows, they grow, feasting on shame and embarrassment. there was something so freeing about that. not admitting failure or defeat, not hanging the head or wringing the hands, just saying i didn’t do quite what i’d intended to do then moving on.

it’s so simple, and surely it’s something i’ve known for a while, but those words on that phone call came at Just The Right Time. like julie says: “Now this might be Life 101 for many of you, but in my experience, the truth comes around again and again and again until I realize it deeply and profoundly. And then it comes around again.”

and with that, my friends, i’m shoving my cake back in the oven to bake for another ten days. then we’ll see. we’ll just see.

~~~~~

This post is part of  #SelfEv, #215800

Second helpin's:

1. damned if i know
2. the persistent stowaway
3. coming to terms with our grips

“i just feel so sorry for her.” those words just chap my butt – they really do – and i just now figured out why: feeling sorry for or pitying somebody holds them back. “i just feel so sorry for her” = “bless her heart. she just can’t do any better.”

now bring on empathy, and we’ve got ourselves a different ball of wax. empathy is a way of saying “i feel your pain” or “i know, sugar, i’ve been right there myself.” empathy supports. empathy props somebody up till they can push themselves off the couch and get on with it. pity stops em cold and mashes them down.

okay, now that we’ve got that cleared up, let’s move on to giving and receiving . . .

if you’re like me, you’d rather have a root canal without anesthesia than ask for help. but you know, i’ve been rubik-cubing this around, and i’m sensing that while helping others can sure enough be a gift, asking for and accepting help can be a sure-enough gift, too. sometimes, it seems, the gift is in the taking, in the allowing others to experience the satisfaction and all the other fringe benefits of helping someone else.

short, sweet, and sassy, succulent and succinct are my little lightbulbs – my s’es – du jour.

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a few weeks ago, the amazing, engaging funny one called bindu wiles threw out an idea: c’mon everybody, she said, for the next 21 days, let’s do yoga and write 800 words at least 5 days of every week.

it was a mantra from the mantra fairy.

for about 2 years (times, oh i don’t know – 5 maybe), i’ve been fantasizing about doing that very thing. and the fantasies had whipped themselves into a veritable frenzy a mere 2 days before bindu revealed her idea. (that’s when i was SURE she loves me.)

i was all over it, sending out tweets encouraging others to jump on board. if you look at her site, you’ll see my name beside #6. it says something about how wholly jeanne is leaping, grand-jeteing, or maybe just jumping off the porch. i bought marianne’s yoga 4 writers and made sure it was on on my computer and my spanking new ipad. i researched writing apps for the ipad. i was ready. eager. frothing at the fingertips. i could hardly wait the 5 days or so till day one.

but here’s the embarrassing truth of it all: i watched the yoga video once. one single time. it’s wonderful – that has nothing at all to do with it. i just haven’t done it. i go to bed everything and see myself doing yoga on the deck as the sun rises. i took the ipad with me to the falls a couple of weeks ago, imagining how fantastic i was going to feel after doing yoga beside the falls.

and writing? oh my goodness, i’ve written way more than 800 words every day . . . if you count checks and emails and thank you notes and grocery lists. some days i’ve written 800 words . . . but only in my head. listen, i have a masters in transformational language arts, i lead writing workshops – i know better. i absolutely know better.

and when i think about where i would be if i had done these 2 smallish things every day for the past 21 days. shoot, when i think of how i’d feel and the size clothes i’d be wearing and how many books and plays i’d've finished by now if only i’d sat myself down 5 days a week for the past umpteen years that i’ve been thinking about doing it. some days a memory lights, and i ache to sit down and reread an old journal to refresh the details and see how i felt about it all . . . but there are no such journals because i’ve been doing everything else.

i have ideas, people. ideas. for plays (4), books (2), films (1 – book first, then film.) ( yes, i’m unabashedly milking it.) and i can see myself smiling uncontrollably at the thrill of having the spigot on full blast because we all know that creativity begets creativity. i’ve been carrying around the seeds for decades – and the good news is that they still intrigue me, but the bad news is: they’re still just seeds.

i tell a few people about my plans, about the book i’m working on, but i don’t tell them how i’m just piddling around. “how can i help you?” friends ask . . . friends who would do anything – anything, i tell you, to help me get these things written. but we all know that, as we say around here, can’t nobody do this but me.

then why don’t i do it? why don’t i avail myself of the marvelous yoga video and sit myself down at one of the numerous inviting (and never used) spots i’ve created here at home that beckon-to-the-point-of-begging me to stop and drop?

damned if i know.

and damned if i want to waste any more time trying to figure it out.

Second helpin's:

1. this changes everything
2. yoga, betty crocker style
3. rightful sound

with each passing day, i become more concerned.

i struggle to keep concern from turning into full-blown worry.

i battle worry for fear the object of my worry will materialize.

see, the thing is:

i don’t care any more.

it’s alarming how i don’t care any more.

am i losing my ability to empathize if

i’m not brought to my knees with shared, imagined pain?

have i lost all self-respect if

i don’t flare into full-blown despair in response to criticism?

has my dignity completely disappeared if

i don’t get angry?

what’s wrong with me?

have i succumbed to acedia?

are my hormones drying up?

is it time to set aside concern and move into out-and-out worry?

wait.

wait just a minute . . .

what if it’s something as simple as,

i mean,

could it be that i’m just developing

patience?

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when you wrestle with a pig, you both get dirty and the pig likes it.

she’s just jealous.

turn the other cheek.

play nice.

be good.

behave.

rise above.

i’ve dealt with enough bullies in my lifetime to be absolutely certain that there is no one single right way to deal with a bully. there are bullies who will push you into a wall, backing down only when you stand straighter than ever before, look them square in the eye, and say “enough.” there are bullies who will back off only when you scream and shine a light on them for all to see. there are bullies who will wrestle you to the ground, twisting your extremities into unnatural and painful positions and holding you there until you cry “uncle, already.” there are bullies who never get tired and never run out of tactics. there are bullies who will never backdown. ever.

when it comes to guidelines for conduct becoming a female when dealing with bullies, i’ve heard it all. most of them sound real pretty – noble even. but my best how-to-deal-with-a-bully advice came from a kenny rogers song about playing poker: you’ve gotta know when to hold ‘em, know when to fold ‘em.

i dealt with a bully last week. a man who’s old enough to know how to behave himself. a man who has enough letters before his name indicating rank that’s impressive enough to make me think he was out the day they taught the Army Core Value of respect. all that talk of wrestling with pigs and turning the other cheek and rising above flew right out the window as i dealt with this guy in what sure felt like my native language. i wasn’t rude, wasn’t aggressive, didn’t bully him, but i didn’t let him wipe his feet on me, either.

and it was exhilarating. it felt good.

afterwards, two men who overheard the conversation commented on how i’d conducted myself with “civility, discipline, and showed great restraint.” those were conversations i played in my head the rest of the day – to the point that i felt silly that i even remembered it, let alone put that one 15 minute period on such a lofty marble, diamond-encrusted pedestal. why did it feel so good? why were these 2 incidents of validation so incredibly important to me?

[insert lightbulb]

years ago, as a teenager still learning how to navigate my way through life with non-related others, i was in an abusive relationship. every minute of every day was a huge eraser as i made myself invisible to others because for something as simple as talking to another person in the hallway between classes, there was hell to pay. the confident, carefrree, kickass girl i had been up to that point had to go.

it was the ultimate ambush makeover, and vestiges die hard.

so last week when the bully started into me with his condescending tone and his berating, belittling words, my spirit said “never again a doormat” and balanced all those admonitions about pig wrestling with what i learned – what i still carry: visceral memories of from that one abusive relationship.

when the bully on the phone interrupted me, i called him on it, then finished my sentence. when he smartassed me, i asked him to choose different words and use a different tone. when he asked, “are you finished?”, i answered “for now.” and i did it from my core so there was no hysteria (even though he resorted to the dominating eraser phrase “calm down” more than once.) i never raised my voice, i never cried, i never wrung my hands. though i had never spoken with this man before and had no idea what he was like, i intuitively stood up at the beginning of the phone call when he uttered his first words.

one thing that abusive relationship taught me is keen sensitivity as a means of self-defense and survival.

though it seemed endless, the phone call actually lasted only about 15 minutes, and when i hung up, i smiled. big.

okay, self, i said later that day, i get why you feel such a rush having dealt so efficiently and effectively with this man. but why do you continue to shamelessly replay the comments from the two men who were impressed enough with the way you handled conducted yourself on this phone call to say something?

[insert another lightbulb right about here]

when i look back on that abusive relationship, i realize that he was one of the most congenial, affable, friendly guys you’d ever want to meet . . . publicly. but in reality, that friendly, affable persona was methodical, designed to make me a liar before i even thought about talking to anybody. with his public image of mr. congeniality, he made quite sure that nobody would ever believe anything i said about the way he behaved privately.

but last week, two men whose opinions i happen to value saw this man through my eyes. with no convincing from me and without hearing his side of the conversation, they recognized him as a bully – their positive remarks about my side of the conversation proved it. they didn’t dismiss me or erase me, they validated me.

with their words of support and validation, i’ve turned a page in my life story. it’s big, i tell you: big. that validation is so big, it’s all i can do to resist the urge to embroider their words on a pillowcase marking the day i was a pencil with no eraser.

Second helpin's:

1. not a good girl . . . yet
2. coming to terms with our grips
3. diving in: 2