epizoodiks...

Thirteen Moons.

noreply@blogger.com (Libby) — Thu, 30 Jan 2014 23:46:00 -0500

Thirteen Moons by Charles Frazier

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I cried for 20 minutes when I finished Cold Mountain on my back porch at my shitty apartment back on Dooley Avenue in Richmond, VA. First, because I had finished the book and didn't want it to end. Second, because I couldn't believe it ended the way it did. Third, because I had never read such a deeply heartfelt love story in my young life. I felt like this man had grown up as a part of my family, researched my family tree, somehow acquired their voices, and then written a book about them.

Upon finishing Thirteen Moons I cried again. Not as melodramatically (anyone passing Dooley Avenue the day I finished Cold Mountain would've thought someone had died) but just as achingly. I opened the back flap of the book and stared long and hard at this man. At this artist who had created this novel. And I hated him. And I loved him. I work like hell to be a writer, and in my wildest dreams, the ones I have at night when you lie awake and just let your mind wander and think sure, that could happen, I think maybe I could be a great writer. A great writer like my favorite author William Kennedy. Someone who creates stories about people who lived. People who loved and hated and died and struggled and people you care about and connect to.

But I hated Mr. Frazier. The jealousy I feel when I read his words knows no bounds. Because I know no matter how hard I work I'll never be able to write like him. Not only does he create kick ass stories, but he does it with a poet's heart and sensibility. Imagine Hemingway as a poet. Every word has its place. Every sentence is its own music. Not only is this an astounding story, one that pulls you in from its very first pages, it is a musical story, one I feel might even be more profound if read aloud. I kept hearing Kevin Spacey's voice as I was reading, lilting over every syllable, slowly drawing out the story as if he was rocking in a chair on a porch and had all the time in the world to tell it to you. God it's beautiful.

As for the story itself? I loved it even more than Cold Mountain. There is a love story here, but it's only a part. Will Cooper is an old man when the book begins, and he spends the rest of the novel telling you the adventures he's lived through. How he was orphaned then indentured to a store owner in the Wilderness of the North Carolina mountains in the early 1800's. How a Cherokee tribe adopted him as their own son. How he fought for them, for his adopted family, for the right to their land when the US Government ordered them to leave. And all the adventures in between. Who cares if most of it is fiction. It's a great fucking story.

I'll admit I'm biased. I love reading books like this - long, meandering sagas told by a single narrator who has lived a LIFE and has a story to tell. It's probably because I love meeting and knowing people like this. It's probably because I want to write books like this. But damn you Charles Frazier I wish I could just mind meld with you for 30 seconds so maybe some of that ability to knit an incredible yarn while at the same time weaving poetry all through it would sink into my psyche somehow. Please write another book. Take your time. I'll wait as long as it takes. And thank you for lifting me up with your words. My life is better because of it. My ambition to write is larger because of it.*

*Yeah, I know this review is kiss-ass adulation to the nth power. Don't give a shit. The guy fucking rocks. And I don't think I'll ever look at the full moon in the same way again. In fact, I'm going to buy some sort of "Moon Calendar" so I know which one is shining. THAT is the effect this book had on me.

View all my reviews

Why Dogs Stopped Flying.

noreply@blogger.com (Libby) — Thu, 5 Sep 2013 23:04:00 -0400

Before humans, dogs flew everywhere.
Their wings of silky fur wrapped hollow bones.
Their tails wagged like rudders through wind,
their stomachs bare to the sullen earth.
Out of sorrow for the first humans—
stumbling, crawling, helpless and cold—
dogs folded their great wings into paws
soft enough to walk beside us forever.
They still weep for us, pity our small noses,
our unfortunate eyes, our dull teeth.
They lick our faces clean,
keep us warm at night.
Sometimes they remember flying
and bite our ugly hands.

----Kenneth W. Brewer

Derick Van Milford.

noreply@blogger.com (Libby) — Wed, 3 Jul 2013 17:34:00 -0400

On this day 26 years ago we lost someone truly special. Derick, the world is less without you in it.

When I was 20 years old I moved in with a couple of friends I’d made at a party on Monument Avenue. I’d gone with a friend of mine who was my sister’s boss, and I remember feeling nervous and scared because I didn’t know anyone there. No worries though because everyone at the gathering was friendly, outgoing, and raucously funny. Most of them were gay and all of them were drinking. It was a fabulous time. I started talking with Graham, found out it was his and his boyfriend David's apartment, and they needed a roommate. I jumped at the chance since I’d recently moved back home after a truly awful breakup.

The next week I moved in the few things I owned and explored where I’d be living. I noticed a framed snapshot of David on their mantle and was overjoyed to also recognize a good friend, Derick Van Milford. Derick and I had gone to high school together. He always called himself “Van” Milford but to this day I don’t know if that was his name or an affectation. It suited him though. He was wonderful, totally gregarious, friendly, over the top funny and charming. He was also the star of most of our high school productions, the official ones, as well as the non-official ones he persuaded the school higher-ups to allow him to perform. He was two grades ahead of me and I loved him, not only for his humor and grace but because I envied his courage. He was fearless, loud, and popular. Everything I wanted to be. Holding the photograph and smiling to myself, I casually mentioned to David that I knew Derick and asked about his whereabouts. “He’s a good friend. But he died last year. Car accident.”

I was stunned. I actually remember a sharp pain entering my heart right then like a stab. Imagine the soaring hope of being connected with an old friend you adore followed by the frightening crash of learning you’ll never see him again all in the same moment. I got spots in front of my eyes and felt faint. I couldn’t believe it. I still can’t. That someone so vibrant, vital, and with so much energy and passion for their art would be snatched away like that.

Back in high school I loved theater and movies and wanted more than anything to be an actress. Just one problem. I was painfully shy and suffered from severe social anxiety. Just the thought of speaking aloud in front of a group of people made me want to puke. Or stab myself in the eye. Or puke. We performed the musical Carnival in my sophomore year, and I hid in the chorus as always. It was only when Derick, who was acting as Assistant Director to our Theater teacher Miss Sanchez, announced he needed someone to play a puppet in a key scene with him, that I saw my chance. Here was my opportunity! I could play a major character, an actual speaking role with lines. And those lines could be spoken BEHIND A WALL. I’d never be seen. It was ideal.

Except it wasn’t. In practice I failed time and again. And each time I stumbled I feared replacement. If you’ve ever acted in live theater you know projection to the back of the room is important. Now imagine doing that behind a puppet theater. Now imagine doing it with severe social anxiety. What the hell had I gotten myself into? I was flummoxed. No matter what I did I wasn’t loud enough. I wasn’t boisterous enough. My opera singing wasn’t up to par. The character was supposed to be an opera singer who sings REALLY badly but who thinks she sings great. I was accomplishing neither. Instead of being a cartoon, my character came off as a half-ass robot.

Thankfully Derick possessed major amounts of patience as well as talent. As the other puppet in the scene of course he was flawless. After hours and hours of practice under his direction I began to notice slight changes in my voice. I got louder. My voice got more rounds and edges to it. It got fuller. And under his direction I really learned to let go. I allowed myself to make mistakes in the opera singing and then to amplify them times ten. To let go of the fear of not being perfect that always prevented me from speaking up. To really belt it out and to do it badly. On purpose. To say fuck it and just go for it.

Acting with him was something I’ll never ever forget. We played off each other’s lines so well the audience was howling. It was and is the best role I ever had, not just because we made the audience laugh, but because he taught me it’s okay to speak up even if it makes you look like an ass. It’s okay to make mistakes. In fact it’s a good thing. It’s only by biting the bullet and actually TRYING that you find out what works and what doesn’t. In teaching me to be a puppet, he also taught me to find my life’s voice. Now? You can’t shut me up if you tried. And for that I’m grateful.

It’s hard to describe but often now I’ll find myself in a social situation where I’m scared beyond belief, but instead of hiding I’ll just bust out in a really loud, gregarious and hopefully funny comment to mask my fear. Nine times out of 10 it works. And when it doesn’t? Eh, fuck ‘em. Just keep going to the next line in the play. Maybe they’ll catch up. Derick taught me that.

Lois in June.

noreply@blogger.com (Libby) — Wed, 19 Jun 2013 18:06:00 -0400

Almost 10 months ago, my dog Lois was diagnosed with colon cancer. Since we think she’s almost 12 years old (a rescue, so we’re not sure) we opted to not have her endure treatment, but to make her “last days” comfortable.

I put last days in quotes because here it is, almost 10 months later, and she’s doing so well she may outlive us all. I’ve learned over the past 10 months to take each day as it comes. I wake up, gauge how she’s feeling, and go from there. Some days she’s bounding out of bed before me, a big grin on her face, tail wagging, giving me body slams to get me up, licking my face. Other days I’m up first and she looks at me forlornly, her chin on the ground, big eyes gazing up as if to say, “Sigh. . . Mommy I sure wish I felt better. I feel like shit today. Why do I feel so bad?” On those days I take it easy with her and stay home if I can, giving her extra pets and love, extra treats if she’ll take them, walking a little more slowly with her around the yard. Hoping that she’ll feel better tomorrow and that this isn’t indeed the beginning of the end.

But seriously, the “bad” days (also in quotes because every day with Miss Lois is a good day) are few and far between. Sometimes I forget she’s sick. Sometimes I look to the sky at whatever god may be there (take your pick) and ask, “Are you granting me a reprieve? May we have her just a little bit longer than we thought? Is this all really just a bad dream or a misdiagnosis?” Then another bad day happens and I’m reminded of how precious every day is, every moment is really. Every second with her that she feels okay I’m eternally grateful for. I’ve learned through her to not just be grateful for the big stuff, a house, a car, a loving husband, but the little stuff. The moments, the seconds, the minutes when she’s lying beside me in the early morning and I can hear her breathing. Every second.

On her bad days I’m reminded of the fluidness of time. Nothing stands still, we’re all moving, changing, flowing, getting older. I’ve noticed little changes in her during this time beyond the diagnosis. She moves slower, has a cloudy blueness to her eyes, has a calmness, a resignation that wasn’t there before. She doesn’t react as psychotically to thunderstorms and fireworks, but resignedly goes to a closet or the shower. “Not again. . . sigh,” she seems to say, her paws padding on the wood floor clicking away from me. “Not again.”

I have days, weeks even where I think it might always be this way. She will always be okay, we’ll always be together, everything will always be fine. Time stands still. Then something happens to remind me that nothing stands still. Everything moves and changes. Her salivary gland blocked up a month ago and I knew this was the end. I prepped myself for it, steeled myself to feel the pain. But after overnight minor surgery? She’s a new dog and again I’m looking at the sky in gratitude.

This past week, my good friend lost her beloved horse to cancer. Blue had been diagnosed almost the same month as my Lois and over the past 10 months my friend and I had consoled each other and talked with one another about our fears and our hopes for our loved ones. In a weird way every time Lois did better I thought maybe Blue was going to do better too. Sometimes this was the case, sometimes not. When he passed suddenly I was reminded like a savage blow to the head that nothing stays. People and pets pass. Time passes. Hope isn’t always enough to keep the ones you love with you for as long as you’d like. The anger and frustration I felt, the sadness I felt for my friend was overwhelming. I felt hopeless to help, was at a loss for words when I called her, just felt damn mad that someone I cared about had to go through this. The hopelessness was a like a tight collar around my neck, choking the hope out of me. It made me hold Lois a little closer every time she walked near, gripping her around the belly in a tight hug, smelling the beautiful doggy smell of the fur on her neck, vainly trying like hell to just hold onto one damn moment of good against all that pain.

Not too sound too “guru” or anything, but because I’ve been meditating a year now, in a weird, strange way I’ve been able to relay all of this shit into my practice, which has been struggling as of late. Since Lois’s diagnosis my distraction has reached new levels of hilarity, getting so bad that I was actually reaching for my phone to check email during my 20-minute sessions. It was weeks before it dawned on me that maybe this wasn’t the way to go about things. I put the phone on a high shelf, backed my minutes up to 5, and started again.

Now I’m up to 12 minutes as of today and am slowly building up to where it was before Lois got sick. It’s okay I did that, obviously I needed to. No beating up of the self allowed. And it’s okay I get frustrated I can’t hold onto anything. Everyone does. You’re not supposed to be able to hold onto anything in this life. And you’re supposed to go through frustration after frustration until it hits you like a Tyson blow that maybe this is the point. There is no holding on. You have to let go. Of everything. Every minute. Every minute of life is a free fall. Loosen that gut you’re holding in during meditation. Loosen the grip on your doggie’s neck. Loosen your breathing. Loosen your thinking. Breathe. Loosen the criticism in your head about how you can’t help your friend. Let go of it all. Every minute. Every second. Instead of holding onto the moments with your beloved doggie daughter, practice just BEING in the moment with her. Lightly. And when it’s time (and yes, in my head I’m thinking, please don’t let it be time anytime soon), breathe. Then let her go.

Grateful 5/6/13.

noreply@blogger.com (Libby) — Mon, 6 May 2013 22:52:00 -0400

Tonight the gratitude is hard to find through the worry and anxiety. My girl had surgery today for a salivary mucocele and has to spend the night at the vet. I'm SICK to heart because I want to hold her and hug her and tell her it will all be better soon. She hates the rain and it's raining hard right now and it's dark. Sending my love and light to her with every fiber of my being. And I'm grateful that:

She came through surgery okay. She's old, and I was worried the anesthesia would be hard on her heart. But she's a strong girl. We wouldn't have even done the surgery except it's been bothering her a lot, she's having trouble breathing and sometimes swallowing. If we can get through this, my gut tells me she'll be much better.

I have Lois in my life. She's my best friend, my confidante, the one I tell all my troubles too when the demons come and I doubt myself and my choices and my abilities.

I was able to write today. As emotionally sick as I feel, at least I was able to write.

Grateful 5/5/13.

noreply@blogger.com (Libby) — Sun, 5 May 2013 18:42:00 -0400

Today I'm grateful that:

I sat and composed a list in Spotify of my Top 100 songs. My essentials. The shit that gets me uplifted when I'm sagging. The ones I sing loudly to in the car, car dancing the entire way. The ones I lean on in troubling times. Like right now. These are the songs that make up who I am. At this moment in my life at least. Subject to change at any moment of course...

My lilacs finally bloomed after 3 years of waiting. The smell, light, airy, sweet, like Springtime flower petals dropping onto flagstones dappled in sunlight. Or something like that ;)

An afternoon nap on the couch with the window open. My first of the year.

Sweeping the deck and listening to Taj Mahal's 21st Century Gypsy Singing Lovin' Man and getting a clear image of my mother dancing. She loved the blues. She loved Taj Mahal. And my grandmother's loved gardening. In one moment it felt like 3 generations of women were living through me. It was lovely.

Grateful 5/3/13.

noreply@blogger.com (Libby) — Fri, 3 May 2013 23:38:00 -0400

I've been feeling like shit lately and remembered that sometimes this makes me feel better. So here goes...today I'm grateful that:

Even though I'm scared to death Lois has to have surgery Monday, I was able to have several peaceful, happy moments with her today. Napping in the dappled sunlight, her soft breathing and the cawing of crows the only sounds. Her smile as she ventures forth to dig in the dirt and chew grass. Her soft snore as I rub her belly in the evening.

I'm able to grasp nanosecond moments of peace in between all my "feel like shit"-eyness. Noticing the Spring, the colors, the breeze, how the azaleas are fuller this year. Feeling grateful for that.

I can realize that this feeling won't last forever, even though sometimes it sure feels like it. I will feel good again someday. Maybe even someday soon.

Sit. Repeat.

noreply@blogger.com (Libby) — Thu, 8 Nov 2012 19:30:00 -0500

A year ago November 1st I began meditating. Slowly at first, just 5 minutes a day, adding a minute at the 1st of the month. When I got to 10, I added 2. Now I’m “comfortably” at 20 minutes. The 1st of January I’ll revisit, maybe 20 minutes twice a day. We’ll see. It’s a lifelong practice after all.

I put comfortably in quotes because meditation is never comfortable. You sit and hope this time MAYBE, just maybe, you’ll get through it without having to scratch your nose, adjust your cushion, pull a wedgie out of your ass, make a grocery list in your head before bringing yourself back to the present with the word “thinking”.** This time maybe you’ll be in the now, even if it’s only for a few seconds.

It’s frustrating, but the rewards are great. And I’ve learned a few things. . .

1. It’s Okay.
The most important wisdom I’ve obtained is that it’s okay. It’s *ALL* okay. It’s okay to scratch your nose, it’s okay to think of all the things you could be doing instead of sitting. The idea of meditating is NOT to empty your mind, just the opposite. Allow those thoughts to come up. Glance at them objectively, without judgment, as if they were leaves in the wind. Then let them go. Bring yourself back to the present moment. Again, and again, and again. With practice, this becomes easier. Some days you’ll have piles of leaves, others just a few. There will always be leaves. And that’s okay. Your leaves are your practice.

What’s great is this “okay” realization translates directly into your life as well. It *IS* okay. It’s all okay. Who you are, right now, in this moment, is okay. It’s who and where you’re supposed to be. Start from where you are. Work from that. Because it’s your practice. As Pema Chödrön says:

“The desire to change is fundamentally a form of aggression toward yourself. Our hangups, unfortunately or fortunately, contain our wealth. Our neurosis and our wisdom are made out of the same material. If you throw out your neurosis, you also throw out your wisdom.”

2. Every Day.
For it to become easier, you must meditate every day. Every. Single. Day. Three times a week won’t work, twice a week, every other day. Nope. You’ve got to get on the cushion. You’ve got to sit. Then sit. Then sit again. Of course, if something comes up preventing you from sitting, that’s okay. Just get back to it tomorrow. Meditation is not about beating yourself up for missing a day. It’s about ALLOWING yourself to be yourself.

3. Self Acceptance.
The most profound change I’ve realized is true, deep love and respect for the person I am. Right now. Meditation slowly but surely removed that imaginary person with the clipboard I used to envision standing behind me and marking a big, red “X” every time I fell on my face. Sure I still beat myself up, but I’ve gained an awareness of self hatred when and as it happens. I’m sometimes, not always, able to recognize it, observe it for what it is without judgment, then let it go. Just like the leaves. I say sometimes because again, this is a practice. A lifelong practice.

Remember, all beliefs are just thoughts.

And thoughts are not facts.

4. Awareness.
Meditating daily carries over into the rest of your life, becomes a part of who you are, and can affect how you observe and interact with the world. This is major because eventually, it’s like you’re meditating while walking around. Sometimes :)

Let me explain. During meditation your thoughts bubble up, swirl around like leaves. You allow it, observe it, then let it go, bringing your mind back to the now. You can do this in your life as well.

For example, I’ve found myself angry in traffic and sometimes now I’m able to catch it. I stop, observe, “Wow, you’re really pissed. What’s that about?” I allow the anger to bubble up in all its ferocity. I feel it, really feel it. Feel how sucky it makes my body and mind. Then I breathe it out, letting it dissipate. Where before I would just blindly feel rage before covering it up with either a cigarette, a loud catchy song on the radio, or a trip to Starbucks, or maybe a drink when I got home, now I’m able, sometimes, to actually feel emotions flow through me. I’m not holding onto anything.

I’m groundless and it feels great. Like those dreams where you fly. It never lasts for very long, but when it does I feel like I can conquer anything. Meditation has opened me up so rather than stuffing feelings down blindly, I can sometimes (not always) allow them to just flow through.

Again, I say sometimes because like life meditation is a PRACTICE. If you rage and head for a double cinnamon dolce, it’s okay. Because maybe next time you’ll be more aware. Every single minute you are is a victory. But if you don’t, that’s not defeat. Just another opportunity to practice.

5. Slow Down The Car.
Meditation awakens you to positive, joyful moments as well. Where before I might inhale a piece of cake, now, SOMETIMES, I’m really awake to how it tastes. I savor the moment rather than living in fast forward.

Most of my life has been spent in fast forward: what will I do this weekend; where will we spend the holidays; where do I see myself in five years; what do you want for your birthday; where should we go on vacation? Always looking ahead so you’re blind to what’s in front of you.

Meditation can’t slow down time, but it has slowed my sense of time. It’s made me more aware of the now. This moment. Right now. I’m typing these words, right now, and hopefully, you’re reading them. Not to get too “Cosmos” on your ass, but that’s all we have. The right now. Meditation, sitting, has helped me to appreciate the precious gift of that.

6. Warriors Come Out and Play.
You’d think with a year of meditating under my belt I’d be this free and easy floaty hippy guru. Nope. Here’s the hard truth: meditation isn’t easy. It’s built for true spiritual warriors, beings with the courage to tackle all the shit from their past they’ve been previously too fearful, unwilling, or unable to face.

Of course every person’s life journey is different, but for me, meditation brought up a ton of crap I’d been ignoring. I’d been stuffing memories, feelings, raw emotions, so far down into myself for so long. By just sitting and getting quiet, after a while my psyche realized it was okay to open that door, release that seal, turn that key. All these horrible feelings decided it would finally be okay to unravel themselves and come to the surface. Like a space bag with the vacuum released. Or a stuffed closet that someone opens by mistake. A real shitstorm.

At first, there were a few weeks of calm, but then the real work began. All that old stuff came up and I had to feel it all over again before letting it go. And it really sucked. I had nightmares. I got physically sick. Some nights it felt like the flu, vomiting up all these old feelings and memories I’d buried. I cried some nights and some nights punched the cushion I was so pissed off. It totally, completely, sucked. I wanted to give up, and did for a few nights. But I always came back. Because in the end, feeling emotions FEELS better than stuffing them. It really does. If you have the balls to do it.

Again, meditation is not about changing who you are, but about becoming more awake to ALL life’s experiences big or small, positive or negative. It’s about being able to face and handle all of life with a peaceful smile and a warm heart.

I sit here 1 year later profoundly changed. I’m still the same person, but I see things differently. What I know is no matter what, I will continue to sit. For a very long time. Every day. No matter what. Namaste.

** There are many methods of meditation. I used Pema Chödrön’s, When Things Fall Apart. Wherever You Go, There You Are by Jon Kabat-Zinn is another great resource.

Gratitude 9/25/12

noreply@blogger.com (Libby) — Tue, 25 Sep 2012 15:41:00 -0400

I'm grateful for music which can lift me when nothing else on Earth can even come close. I let it take me away and for just a moment I surrender and am no longer groundless but am clinging to the notes, and not beating myself up for clinging, just enjoying, laughing, floating, and reveling in the happiness it brings me. Whether it's STAX, Leonard Cohen, Francis Dunnery, bad House Music, '80's New Wave, '70's Soul, '90's Quiet Storm, or any of the other thousands of kinds of notes I let sink in my ears, it's all good. All of it heals. It makes the groundlessness easier.

I'm grateful for another good Lois day, her laughing face giving me kisses, urging me outside, reminding me that there's much to be learned.....outside.

I'm grateful for friends calling from afar, just to say hi and remind me I'm not alone in this unpredictable, crazy atmosphere and existence. We've all got our life to breathe through and even when I feel alone, I'm really not.

I'm grateful for unexpected kindness. You brace yourself for a lashing and instead receive goodness and generosity and kindness. So grateful and so much more valuable because you guessed wrong.

I'm grateful for birdsong. Just that. Trilling, rolling, lilting birdsong. Precious and beautiful. I want to hold onto it for the days in our winter woods when it's completely silent. Too damn silent. For when I long for the song of birds. I take it in and hold it, before letting it float back onto the fall breeze. Surrendering it for someone else's ears to cherish.

My Girl.

noreply@blogger.com (Libby) — Mon, 24 Sep 2012 16:47:00 -0400

On August 27th, my doggie daughter Lois was diagnosed with colon cancer.

I savor every quiet moment with my girl, the good as well as the not so good. She roams our woods searching for a good place to do her business, walking through our forest floor, ferns brushing our legs, mushrooms of every size and shape and color dotting the leaves. Brown tiny-tree like stalks peeping out, and huge white mounds the size of bread loaves or flat like dinner plates. Tiny red umbrellas, and lacy orange fluttering down the side of a stump. Once a tiny pink elfin mushroom, and once, even a magical blue too bright to be real.

She hunts for the perfect spot and I breathe through the fact this might be one of our last days together. I hope we get to roll in the snow one more time. She so loves the snow. My beautiful girl.

My favorite moments of all are when she sleeps by my side early in the morning after The Hubby has gone to work. On her back with her legs splayed out snoring softly. I lie there and listen to the birds and breathe and try to hold onto it, to remember what it feels like to hear crickets chirping, dogs barking in the distance, their echoes calling for my girl to come play, to actually hear the sun rising and to hold onto and remember what it feels like to be loved by Lois. Her gentle eyes telling you everything will be okay Mommy, I’m here, everything will be okay.

Her koala smile tucked into her closed mouth, turned up ever so slightly at the corners, such a small grin conveying such huge happiness. Her soft snore, the way she softly barks in her sleep, her paws tap-tap-tapping on the sides of her crate in the night as she chases rabbits or deer or runs with the direwolves chasing shadowcats. I read, listening to her and The Hubby snore in tandem, each one on either side of me and I am content.

When I first read “The Unbearable Lightness of Being” many years ago and Tereza described to Tomas her love for the dog Karenin, how she might just love Karenin more than she loved him, I rolled my eyes and wrote her off. She’s just a dog. Tomas is your husband.

Then I fell for Lois and my whole world changed. I understand how a dog can make you see the world differently, can make you see yourself differently and teach you things about yourself you never knew. They look at you in such a simple, pure way, with such a clean love and never, ever do they expect anything back. What little you have to give them they will take gratefully and never begrudge you a single thing in return. They never resent you or feel threatened by you. You can hate them and even beat them and they will still crave your love.

It is such a purity of spirit, such a generosity, love at its essence. It makes all other forms pale in comparison. You give them love and they give you the world.

You have so many things in your life, your family, your job, vacations, cars, hopes, dreams, goals, anxieties, fears. All they have is you. And that’s all they need.

You never see a dog with self esteem problems. Sure they might be afraid or shy, but a dog never goes around hating herself. Lois just smiles, wags her tail, and looks at you with those big dark eyes as if to say, “Aren’t I cute? Aren’t I just the greatest? Don’t you love me? I sure love me. I sure do. You do too, right? I can see it. You’re DYING to give me a pet. And a treat. And a belly rub. You loooooooove me. You really do. I can tell. Who wouldn’t love me?”

Lois has taught me more about life than any person ever did or will. Dogs have the uncanny ability to act as a mirror. We look into their eyes and they reflect back onto us that which we love most about ourselves. And for most of us, it’s a shocking sight, one we’ve never seen before. For many, including me, it’s the first time we haven’t felt indelible self hatred from reflected images.

Instead of walking around this planet beating ourselves up, dogs remind us why we should love ourselves and each other. I feel better about myself knowing Lois. And by being her Mom, she has taught me to finally get rid of the self-hatred I’ve been carrying around since I was a child.

Taking care of her has been my greatest honor. Loving her my finest gift. And each day I have left with her will be my best.

Gratitude 9/12/12

noreply@blogger.com (Libby) — Wed, 12 Sep 2012 17:06:00 -0400

Today I am grateful for the late summer sun warming my face as I take my girl out for her afternoon constitutional. The crickets sigh their end of summer song longingly, drawing out their notes in hopes to make it last. The air is still and quiet, holding its breath, waiting for that moment that change in the air when you wake up and notice the leaves have started to turn.

I'm grateful for words and the trickle of them that have started to drip through my fingers after so long a drought.

I'm grateful for photographs and the very few I take where I can say to myself, "Yes, that's it. In that photo my eyes were open and I really captured what I saw. I was able to look beyond the immediate to something more."

I'm grateful for the people who care about me in this world, who check in, ask how I'm doing, and really make an effort. Because it can be a big, ugly world at times and friends very often are more family to me than family. I'm grateful for their love, and for their complete and utter acceptance of the flake I can be. It makes me feel like I can handle anything.

I'm grateful for wonderful morning dreams, the kind that take you outside yourself to a better, dreamier place. Would be so easy for me to cling to such dreams in times of trouble but I must remember like everything they are only air, just a mist that drifts away.

Gratitude 9/11/12

noreply@blogger.com (Libby) — Tue, 11 Sep 2012 17:18:00 -0400

Today I am grateful the blanket of summer has been lifted....the air has come rushing in and the day is so bright and sunny the very air is edgy with relief and joy....it feels like a little girl squealing with delight on a carousel and sounds like a whisper of silence and crickets. I am grateful my girl Lois remains asymptomatic and a reflection of the joyful weather, her bedtime bodyslams are forceful and committed, utter bliss and ecstatic doggie laughter behind every one. I'm grateful for hot coffee milky and warm smiling to itself and saying, "Remember me?". I'm grateful for the need to somehow capture this gratitude in words. Every moment is fleeting and yes, one day far in the future perhaps I'll read this again and remember, but I know the memory will be soft-edged and fuzzy like the inside of a sweatshirt. It won't have the clarity, the committment, the prismatic light that this very moment has. I have to breathe it in and let it go, breathe it in, and let it go. And I am grateful for the courage to do that. Lastly I'm grateful to have traveled here today to find 2 quotes from strangers, wonderful, uplifting quotes that made me feel buoyant, lifted, full of light. Much like the weather. Namaste.

Listening. And Melancholia.

noreply@blogger.com (Libby) — Thu, 14 Jun 2012 20:56:00 -0400

When I started my writing life almost 2 years ago, I charged forth, eager to create “WRITING” in all its artistic glory, in all capital letters each and every day. I said yes to every opportunity that came my way and ran like hell at every chance that presented itself. I was going to be the best, the biggest, the brightest. Basically, I attempted writing as a job. With every job I’ve had since I was fifteen, I charged forth and swore I would be the best and outshine everyone else. The first to get promoted, the first to get accolades. In development, as a teacher, office manager, even a bartender. I charged forth, got there early and eager and excited. I finished projects, or got the biggest tips, or earned gold stars before going on to the next challenge.

But writing isn’t about product, it’s about process. In most jobs you’re working towards a finished goal, it’s linear, you have an endpoint in mind, whether that’s making a drink, raising a certain amount of funding, or getting a student’s SOL scores up, that goal is always at the forefront of your brain. With writing, there is no endpoint. Sure you have projects, but writing is circular, amoeba-like. You write a little here, snatch some time for a journal entry or vignette there, come back to your main project here, post a blog there. It’s like raindrops of paint falling on a Pollack canvas, where my other jobs were linear, concrete shapes like Miro or Calder. Point A to B. Writing is point A to Z to G to H and every point in between.

In my eagerness to get to point Z, I forgot to get quiet and listen. But my muse, the lady with her hair up in a bun who wears overalls and paints pictures in the basement of my mind reminded me that to create you have to listen. And if you’re charging and achieving like some AP high school student with an Ivy League in mind, it’s hard to listen. It’s much easier when your neck is injured and you can’t move. When you can’t move, all you can do is listen. So that’s what happened.

My body broke. I hurt my neck and it felt as if somehow I’d been broken right down the middle, like a tree that’s been struck by lightning. My insides charred and died. The bolt tore through the middle of me, tearing away the old as it went. And from the smoldering ashes a new me has gradually begun to grow. My neck injury was just a physical manifestation of what I’m feeling emotionally and creatively.

The lightning struck and my body broke and it was all I could do to sit or sleep or lie or do much of anything EXCEPT listen. My body broke which felt physically terrible, but even more awful emotionally. I felt like a job failure. I canceled engagements, stopped writing, and was convinced that while I had been successful at every other job known to man, in this one I would fail. I just didn’t have the discipline.

But my body breaking was the best thing that could have happened. Because I began to listen. It was the only thing I could do. And when I listened, I discovered my muse. I began to meditate, to get really quiet, to simplify, and I discovered that in fact, I was stronger than I had ever been. My body healed and as it did, the gash created by that lightning bolt remained open rather than healing over like a scar. It remained open allowing the light to come in. It kept me awake. Where before I traveled through life covered in blankets of junk food, liquor, video games, and shopping, now I was able to stay awake and aware and really HEAR what life had to offer. I have a strong flow of creative river that runs through my soul, and if I had never injured myself, I never would have realized it.

Now I know that to write, all you have to do is listen. You are not creating anything. The life force, your muse, has the creations. You only have to take dictation, to listen for her, for it, and to write down what is said. I sensed this so strongly after my injury, and when I by chance happened to read it in Julia Cameron’s book, the hair on the back of my neck stood up. It resonated so much in me. And it was so validating because my gut knew this all along.

As I healed, and listened, I also discovered life presents things to you only when you’re ready for them. You only have to listen. I read books about meditation and Buddhism, about getting quiet and as I did, I discovered friends who meditated but had never told me. Kismet. I read books on writing that so closely paralleled my study of meditation, books that talked about writing as prayer, writing as play, writing as no big deal, that it made me stop and say, “WHOA”. As my dad always says, it’s all too random to be random.

These books, these moments came to me now, in this time, because only now did I have the ears to hear them. Only now did I understand what to do with the information.

For so long I’ve looked for comfort in outside things to quell my anxiety and sense of doom and fear that constantly permeates my every cell every time I walk out the door. I put on a shell of courage and pretend I’m all right. But by getting injured, being forced into retreat and solitude I was able to get quiet and learn you only have to listen. Listening give you strength. Listening to the world, it will tell you what you need.

By listening I was finally able to give up the notion that I’m a bad person. That little voice inside me was silenced. I always compare her to a woman standing there with a clipboard, checking a big red “X” every time I do something wrong. For the first time in 40 years she was silenced. I’ve stopped looking for validation from my family and friends. Or learned to stop looking, can’t say I’m there yet. But of course if I was, I’d probably be enlightened. We all look to others for validation. But I swear, I’m learning that just by getting quiet, by listening, we will hear all we ever need to hear.

All those criticisms and suggestions people give you that make you feel bad about yourself? They are only beliefs. Beliefs are not facts. They. Are. Not. Facts. To finally realize this was huge.

The BIGGEST obstacle I’ve overcome by listening is finally becoming comfortable with groundlessness. I hate it, as we all do, but now, if I can remember to be aware, when I confront a situation where I feel uncomfortable, where I feel groundless, I say to myself, “This is the perfect moment,” even if I don’t believe it. Then I just listen. I listen to what my gut is telling me to do about it. And usually it’s to do nothing. What will be will be. All I have to do is breathe.

Today I watched the Lars Von Trier movie, “Melancholia”. Talk about being groundless! A planet is careening toward Earth. What do you do? There is nowhere to hide. The only thing you can do is gaze at the sky and watch as this big blue ball gets larger and larger with each passing day. Your breath becomes struggled and shallow as the interfering planet takes your atmosphere. Hail falls at odd times, snow in the middle of summer. Birds freak out then go deathly quiet. Electricity emerges from your fingertips. And you know you’re going to die.

The dynamic of how the characters react was fascinating. Where the most melancholic, “crazy” (note the quotes) sister turns out to be the most steadfast, the most comfortable with this most groundless and uncomfortable of situations, the calm, collected scientist is the one who goes mad and kills himself before the big event. The “fixer” character, the sister who’s always in control and making sure everyone is having a good time, ends up being hysterical, and the roles are reversed with the crazy sister taking care of her at the end. Only the child and the melancholy sister are able to breathe through the groundlessness. This most ultimate of fates.

I won’t lie, the movie gave me the creeps. It freaked the hell outta me. I’m learning to get comfortable with uncertainty, to listen. To breathe. But I ain’t quite THERE yet, and I don’t honestly know how I would react to something like this. Something tells me I’ll be up many many nights thinking about this movie. And listening. I’d love to talk about it with someone, but then I ask myself, what would that accomplish? You already know what would happen, how you would react. You deep down already know, and you don’t need to validate your actions and reactions by discussing it with another person. That’s just security blanket talk. That’s something to grasp, something to hold onto in the event a planet is somehow whirling you toward your ultimate demise. In the end you know what happens. You only need to get quiet to find out what that is. To listen. You know in your heart that’s the case. Right?

Tower of Security.

noreply@blogger.com (Libby) — Tue, 21 Feb 2012 21:08:00 -0500

I had the most vivid dream recently. Actually, it’s been one of several. Since I’ve started meditating, all sorts of weird matter is vomiting itself out of my subconscious almost nightly. All with a good dose of Dada weirdness of course, and every single one highly charged emotionally. I awake feeling exhausted, yet refreshed. Like I’ve just run 10 miles. Or taken a gigantic shit.

In the latest one I’m in a room, faced with a gigantic tower of boxes. And when I say gigantic I’m talking “Martin Scorcese’s-Hugo-in-3D-materialized-in-a-CGI-Lab” huge. Not occurring anywhere in nature. Willy Wonka huge. Only occurs in dreams huge. I can’t even see the top of this box tower. But I know at the bottom, under all that brown cardboard, there is a trap door. Under that trap door is the secret I’ve been protecting all of these years. Under a mountain of boxes, under lock and key, is either a situation I can’t yet face, an emotion I won’t even attempt to fathom, or a painful memory I’m blocking. And the only thing to do is start unpacking.

So I do. Methodically, agonizingly slowly, I begin picking up boxes and unloading their contents, placing them off to the side. No matter how many boxes I remove, the tower never shrinks. But I plod on confident that someday, I will unlock that trap door.

Each box is labeled, things like: “Alcohol” or “Drugs” or “Music” or “Sex” or “Shopping”. These are the boxes at the bottom. Ones at the top are labeled with things like “Momma” and “Lois” and “Family” and “Career” and “Video Games” and “Chocolate”. There are multiple boxes all over the tower labeled “Sleep”.

What does it all mean? When I awoke, I knew instantly. Here, vividly depicted for my understanding (I am a visual learner after all), was every single security blanket I’ve ever used to avoid feeling groundless. To avoid pain. As Pema Chödrön says in her book, “When Things Fall Apart”:

“The most precious opportunity presents itself when we come to the place where we think we can’t handle whatever is happening. It’s too much. It’s gone too far. We feel bad about ourselves. There’s no way we can manipulate the situation to make ourselves come out looking good. No matter how hard we try, it just won’t work. Basically, life has just nailed us. . . . . Most of us do not take these situations as teachings. We automatically hate them. We run like crazy. We use all kinds of ways to escape---all addictions stem from this moment when we meet our edge and we just can’t stand it. We feel we have to soften it, pad it with something, and we become addicted to whatever it is that seems to ease the pain.”

This is me all over. Depending on whatever period in my life I happened to be in, I was always addicted to something. Early on it was the obvious stuff, the contraband, the liquor. Then it became my mother after her accident. By focusing on her care I could avoid facing my own problems. That turned into saving EVERYONE I knew. Whether family member or friend, if you had a problem, I would listen, then lie in bed and worry how I could help. Spend money and time I didn’t have just to have something real to grab onto.

Then it was my job, I piled on the hours, worked three jobs at one point, all just so I could avoid facing that trap door. And the boxes kept on piling. Sleep? I’ve always dove into bed at any hour of the day to avoid pain. The bed is my ultimate “blanky”.

All these boxes are real, all of them my way to grab something. When you feel pain, when you face your fears, when you come face to face with something uncomfortable or fear-inducing you are groundless. You feel the breath rush out of you, you feel light-headed, your emotions start to run rampant. It truly feels as if you’re going to fall off a cliff. The wind is knocked out of you. You’re looking around for something to grab, a branch, anything. Anything at all. And nothing is there. Well, there’s these boxes...

Those boxes were and are my security. Now that I’m becoming more comfortable with that groundless feeling through meditation, I’m ready to unpack. To travel lighter. What’s under the trapdoor? I’ve got some idea, but right now it only remains in shadow, a dark, fearful, horrific vision. Those are the nightmares I’ve been having. I’m not even sure it happened, but my gut tells me it did. And my gut is never wrong. I’m just grateful I didn’t come to the end of my life without trying to become comfortable with groundlessness. I may never finish unpacking this tower of “blankys”. But I’ll sure as hell try.

The Four Maras.

noreply@blogger.com (Libby) — Tue, 14 Feb 2012 20:10:00 -0500

In my last post, I made a big show about how I encountered an ugly situation occurring in my life, and successfully diffused it through meditation. An email was sent to me, from a person obviously suffering from sadness and anger, and all of it directed toward me. Like a bodhisattva warrior I stood tall, deflecting the arrows, turning them all into flowers. Feeling the anger, dispersing it, sending out love to the person suffering, as well as to anyone in the world at that moment suffering from anger or hate or pain. Afterwards, I floated off the cushion, “cured” of my ugly email through successful implementation of Buddhist tonglen and loving-kindness practice.

Except it was all a lie. Sure, in those first hours I felt lighter than air, cleansed of the situation. But slowly, assuredly, old habits crept back in as they tend to do. I felt so proud for having dissolved the hard edges of anger and turned them into flowers of joy. What I realized was I had sapped myself of every ounce of energy in the process. Rather than deflecting, I had absorbed.

So much so when I arose the next day I was completely useless. I spent the next two days in an emotional and physical tailspin, unable to do much of anything except get out of bed and shower, but unable to eat, unable to write, unable to do anything except obsess about why this person could possibly be so angry with me. What had I done? The possibilities, the thoughts, the stories we so often create, spun and spun around in my head like an out-of-control psychotic loom.

I was deep in the Buddhist notion of “mara” or how we react to obstacles in our lives. What do we do exactly? How do we fall apart? There are four maras, and much to my chagrin, I found myself acting out all four at the same time like some insane play.

Devaputra mara involves pleasure seeking. In other words, any time we feel uncomfortable, we run toward the nearest thing that will make us feel better whether it’s food, sleep, drink, shopping, whatever will help us forget we’re hurting. Let’s see, Zappos.com and a whole bowl of queso and chips anyone? Devaputra mara – check!

In skandha mara when pain occurs you automatically re-create yourself into the person you WISH you were. Paint on that smile girlfriend. Pretend it doesn’t hurt. Tie on that emotional girdle and protect your emotions. Tighten those strings. Gird your emotional loins! You don’t need any help, you’re fine. Bury those feelings deep, deeper. And yes, this was me all over in the wake of my incredible meditation experience. Instead of feeling gratitude toward the amazing MOMENT I had just had, I felt proud. And that pride turned into skandha mara. I was fine. I would be fine. All will be well – FROM NOW ON. No more pain, no more drama. You’d think I was Mary J. Blige the way I was walking around.

With klesha mara, strong emotions are the order of the day. You feel pain and because of it, you’re going to stir the pot, and stir it, and stir it, until what was a cup of turmoil is suddenly an entire seething cauldron of anger, hate, and pain. If you hurt, so is everybody else. No need for you to go it alone. No need to suffer in silence – shout it from the rooftops! Not only will it get you sympathy, but maybe your friends will light some torches and go on the witch hunt with you.

The next day, deep in devaputra mara, this is exactly what happened. I stirred and stirred, obsessed and thought and conjectured, until my story was so illogical and out of control anger took over. I lashed out in my mind, on the written page, to everyone and anyone who cared to listen. I was being hurt didn’t anyone care? Like a wounded warrior fishing for compliments on his valiant courage I was unstoppable.

Finally, there is the beautiful and talented yama mara, maybe the most diabolical coping mechanism of all. Yama mara stems from feeling if you just did all the right things, you’d be perfect. Exercise, meditate, eat right, get enough sleep, never be angry, volunteer at a shelter, pat your dog on the head every day, and never yell at your spouse. Except perfection doesn’t exist. And neither does security. You can do ALL of those things, but eventually things still fall apart. You change. You fall apart. Life is flow. Life is change. There is no security blanket to hold onto and until you get comfortable with the groundlessness that is this life, you will suffer.

Boy, is this me! I keep lists, or I used to, checking off the amount of time I spend writing, did I take my vitamins, did I call my Dad this week, did I exercise? And you know what? It never fails to make me feel bad about myself. It’s never enough. In the wake of my incredible meditation moment I once again thought, “Well, I just didn’t meditate LONG enough. If I sit for at least 30 minutes, it will be easier, I will be better, and this anger will all go away. For good.” Except it won’t. Because life isn’t stagnant. Life flows apart, and life flows together.

So what did I learn from this experience? Holding on to maras is TIRING. It’s a struggle to put up roadblocks to your emotions (queso and Zappos) and very exhausting to wear that fake, painted smile. That much anger and hatred and stirring of the cauldron feels like an enormous weighted pack of lead on your shoulders, and the checklist? Who’s it for anyway? I’m learning to have AN UNCONDITIONAL FRIENDSHIP WITH MYSELF. Why do I need a checklist for that?

Thank god I had this experience of maras. What a blessing. What a moment to learn! Even though it was shocking to discover I do these things, now I’m AWARE of them. The more I read, the more I realize, awareness is key. It’s the whole shebang in fact. And this is way they call it meditation PRACTICE after all. Surrender is a wonderful gift. And life is about being comfortable with groundlessness. As Pema Chödrön says:

“The essence of life is that it’s challenging. Sometimes it is sweet, and sometimes it is bitter. Sometimes your body tenses, and sometimes it relaxes or opens. Sometimes you have a headache, and sometimes you feel 100 percent healthy. From an awakened perspective, trying to tie up all the loose ends and finally get it together is death, because it involves rejecting a lot of your basic experience. There is something aggressive about that approach to life, trying to flatten out all the rough spots and imperfections into a nice smooth ride.

To be fully alive, fully human, and completely awake is to be continually thrown out of the nest. To live fully is to be always in no-man’s land, to experience each moment as completely new and fresh. To live is to be willing to die over and over and over again. From the awakened point of view, that’s life. Death is wanting to hold on to what you have and to have every experience confirm you and congratulate you and make you feel completely together. So even though we say the yama mara is fear of death, it’s actually fear of life.”

You think I could get that tattooed somewhere? ;D

The teachings on the four maras can be found in Pema Chödrön's book, "When Things Fall Apart: Heart Advice for Difficult Times"

Rug Pulled Out.

noreply@blogger.com (Libby) — Tue, 7 Feb 2012 18:33:00 -0500

Guan-Yin, The Bodhisattva of Compassion.

I had the most vivid dream. I was doubled over, cramping in agony, puking my guts out. The kind of puking where you seriously don’t think you can take it anymore, you want to die, kiss the cool porcelain, cut out your stomach, anything to end your pain. Except it wasn’t food I was throwing up. It was emotional garbage, which oddly enough looked like bits of cardboard, paper, actual objects. Shit I’ve been holding onto for way too long.

I heaved and cramped and heaved again until there was absolutely nothing left. My two friends, Melissa and Jacque, sat hunched over me, rubbing my back, whispering consoling words. Melissa whispered, “Don’t worry honey, when this is over, you can go absolutely anywhere you want to go.”

I awoke in tears, feeling light. Like a feather. Like the weight of the world was off my shoulders. Like I had just puked up 25 pounds of who knows what. And that felt just fine.

Four months ago I dove headlong into some pretty strong meditation practice and Buddhist study. I was so tired of feeling tired, and in pain, and while I never feel hopeless exactly, I am on just this side of apathetic. And all I can say is, thank god for Pema Chödrön. If she’s taught me one thing, it’s that groundlessness, those moments when the rug is pulled out, when you feel like you’ve got nothing to hold onto, are okay. They are the moments when you become stronger. They are the moments when you train as a warrior bodhisattva.

And god, if it’s one thing I absolutely abhor, it’s feeling groundless. Feeling like nothing in your life is solid, there’s nothing you can count on, and you’ve got no creature comforts to grab onto. You are completely out of your depth, drowning, overwhelmed, with nowhere to go and no one to talk to who understands, and no solutions presenting themselves. These are the moments when I hide. In my house, in bed, in movies, in video games, in food and drink and daydreams.

I hide so I don’t have to face the things I fear. Like new opportunities. Family drama. Meeting new people. Public speaking. Being recognized somewhere and being asked to do something I don’t want to do, or am not willing to do, or am scared to do but can’t say no. You name it, I’m probably scared of it.

I hate change. Except change is the only constant. What then?

So I’m learning. Slowly. When you’re presented with moments where you feel uncomfortable, or angry, or scared, or sick to your stomach, if you can do the following four things – EVEN FOR JUST ONE SECOND – before you relapse and go running for the chips, you are training as a warrior bodhisattva. You are successful.

1. Don’t lash out
2. Don’t run away
3. Don’t blame yourself
4. Don’t blame someone else

As Pema says, life every day presents us with opportunities to practice training during difficult moments. Traffic. Long lines. Bitchy co-workers. Family drama. Then there are times when huge crises present themselves and you get BIG opportunities. Like what I seem to be experiencing these days. It’s scary and I hate it. But I’m also learning not to beat myself up about it, and not to run away. Because running TOWARD is so much healthier. Even if you can only do it for one millisecond.

I had an experience last night I can only classify as huge. I was sent an ugly email. Emotionally ugly. Full of anger, pain, resentment, accusations. This person is really suffering. A type of email I had received from this same person before and lashed out against. Which of course didn’t help. And once again my chest felt tight, my stomach began to ache. I wanted to curl up in a ball and hide under the covers. This person was so angry at me. Nothing I could write or say would diminish this anger. It was there, right there in my face. I wanted to run.

Instead I tried what Pema suggested, even though I had tried it many times before and it had never worked. I sat in meditation with this ugly feeling. And I REALLY felt it. All up and down and around. Underneath and up top. Every angle of ugly. I breathed it in. Then I breathed out purity. And contentedness, and peace, and healing, and joy. I directed it toward this person, my family, and to anyone else who had ever received an ugly email. Breathed in ugliness. Breathed out joy.

For several minutes I did this. And for the first time, I felt something. A softening. The hard edges of this feeling began to soften and the feeling itself began to slowly dissolve. After several more minutes all I was left with was joy. I felt my face dissolve into a gentle smile (I was reminded of Sheldon Cooper’s “Koala Face” :D and tears formed at the corners of my eyes. It was so lovely.

I can’t explain in words what I felt. It resembled how proud you feel when you accomplish something, the minute you accomplish it. But it also felt like the warm sun on a spring day. Gentle and hugging and light. The feeling surrounded me and when meditation was over I floated off the cushion.

And sent waves and waves of gratitude to Pema Chödrön. Because for the first time I understand – TRULY – what she is talking about. For the first time I know working with anger and fear is possible. Having the rug pulled out from under you, feeling groundless, is okay. It can even be a good thing.

Meme for 2011.

noreply@blogger.com (Libby) — Wed, 28 Dec 2011 17:28:00 -0500

Guan-Yin Bodhisattva Who Hears Every Prayer

I kind of can't believe I only wrote one epizoodiks entry in 2011. Had my mind focused on food I guess. I'm still going to do a meme for 2011. Because something about stopping to reflect at the turn of a new year feels very right to me.

1. What did you do in 2010 that you’d never done before?
So many things. Attended a writing conference by myself. Re-launched my blog. Did my first podcast. Began two books. Went to Rome. So many wonderful things...

2. Did you keep your New Year’s Resolutions, and will you make more for next year? I've decided the only resolution I ever need to make is to find balance. Continually seek balance, strive for balance, and be happy when I find moments of balance. Easier said than done. <---this was my statement in 2010, and it still stands. Although I'd simplify it even more. Just be good to your body. Eat well, sleep well, exercise well, meditate well. Everything else will follow.

3. Did anyone close to you give birth? No, but two cousins are pregnant!

4. Did anyone close to you die? In April, I lost my dear friend Michael Veazey suddenly. His death was quite a blow, and I wrote about him in this very space. I still miss him terribly and I'll never forget him. Visiting New York won't ever be the same in that I won't ever be able to go without throwing a warm thought his way...In July I lost my grandfather. Even though our relattionship wasn't always the closest, even strained, after his death he did something so generous it restored my faith. And helped me to help myself, and some friends when I didn't think I'd be able. Which made me so happy.

5. What countries did you visit? Italy, specifically Rome, for our 10th anniversary. And I'm having a love affair. I adore every nook and cranny. I want to move there. I took over 500 pictures of the place...........sigh............

6. What would you like to have in 2012 that you lacked in 2011? Friends that live in the same town. All my friends seem to live someplace else. More discipline for my writing and my meditation, and my exercise. <-----I wanted this last year, and am still working toward them :)

7. What dates from 2010 will remain etched upon your memory, and why? April 22nd, the day we lost Mike. November 21st, our 10th wedding anniversary. December 6th, the day I fell in love with Rome.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year? Finally facing the fact I'm a writer, and nothing else. I finally began the steps, the growth that I needed to become an actualized person, a dedicated writer, a contented human being. I stopped lying to myself and to others - to get them to like me. I finally started learning who I am and who I want to be. Being honest like this, after a lifetime of going along to get along is so difficult, but so necessary. <----I am still in the midst of this journey, and feel no need to change it from last year. I would add that I traveled alone to NYC to attend a writer's conference even though I was scared to death. Told a group of writers my book idea (SCARY!) and they liked it. Phew!

9. What was your biggest failure? Not being able to figure out a way to live with my chronic neck and shoulder pain. It still threatens to run my life at times and has prevented me from accepting some pretty great opportunities. And canceling others. I never like to burn bridges, especially when I feel like there has to be SOME way to cope with this. Sigh...

10. Did you suffer illness or injury? I have two cervical discs that are damaged, bone spurs, and frozen shoulder. Since December 10, 2010. It's a year I've had this now and although I'm healing slowly, it's just that. Very very very very slowly.

11. What was the best thing someone bought you? My husband bought us a week in Rome. A trip of a lifetime. I'll never forget it and cannot wait until the day we can live there for some length of time. A month at least :)

12. Whose behavior merited celebration? My sister-in-law Pam. In the face of some pretty drastic and horrible health news and family drama, she has somehow contained herself with grace, strength, happiness, and laughter. Someone to emulate.

13. Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed? I find it so hard to understand people who cannot see the big picture, but instead focus on tiny details, things they think are MAJOR problems, and blow them up all out of proportion. If they would just step back, maybe find some gratitude for the blessings they DO have in life, maybe those things they think are problems would shrink away and become the tiny minute obstacles they really are.

14. Where did most of your money go? Toward bills, student loans, items to build my writing career like software, conferences, improvements to the blog. Then there was the occasional Zappos purchase :D

15. What did you get really, really, really excited about? Having an actual New York literary agent tell me that my novel idea is great and that I should send her my manuscript the minute I'm finished! No other words could be more exciting!

16. What song will always remind you of 2011? "Give Up and Let It Go" by Francis Dunnery. I heard this song for the first time when I was so stuck and frustrated. I heard this and cried and cried. Happy tears of joy and surrender. Now every time I'm down I put it on. Love love love love... Runner-up? M. Ward's "Chinese Translation" - if there is a happier song out there I don't know it.

17. Compared to this time last year, are you:
Fatter or thinner? THINNER!!!!!!!! I lost 20 pounds this year! Hip hip hooray!
Happier or sadder? Happier. Infinitely happier because I'm doing what I've always wanted to do. I'm so grateful to be writing. I'm so grateful for everything that is my life.
Richer or poorer? Poorer. The paycheck isn't steady when you freelance, but no matter. I'm infinitely happier.

18. What do you wish you’d done more of? Yoga. The only thing that seems to calm my anxieties and fears. I seem to say this at the end of every year, and this year is no exception.

19. What do you wish you’d done less of? Worrying. Being afraid. Punishing myself with unhealthy foods and drink to push down or mask the fear and worry. It's better to move through the worry, the fear, and reward yourself with foods that make your body feel good. Easier said than done when you're "in it". <----this answer was so great last year I'm using it again :)

20. How did you spend Christmas? My niece Amanda came to visit The Hubby and me. We ate a lot, went to visit my family in Richmond, opened presents, ate ham biscuits, drank bourbon and eggnog and hot chocolate and cider. It was a drama-free zone. Awesome.

21. Did you fall in love in 2011? I've been in love since the day I met my husband in 1999.

22. How many one night stands? Not since I fell in love, and not much before.

23. What was your favorite TV program? Game of Thrones. Because the ladies in it are kick ass, and because I started watching just to have something to do, and discovered it was REALLY GOOD! I hate fantasy, but Game of Thrones is fantastic. Cannot wait for May 2012!

24. Do you hate anyone now that you didn’t hate this time last year? Hate is such a strong word for someone who tries to meditate and practice yoga. There are definitely people whose choices I really can't understand.

25. What was the best book you read? "On Writing" by Stephen King. I've been meaning to read this for years, but for some reason I finally picked it up this year. And when I did I got chills. It's that good. And something told me I waited because I was SUPPOSED to. I wasn't ready to read these words until now. Best line? "Write your first draft like you were The Gingerbread Man".

26. What was your greatest musical discovery? Really got into the soundtrack to "Pirate Radio" this year, then proceeded to download every 60's groovy English pop song I could get my hands on. Lovely to bake bread to. Or clean the house. Or just dance around :)

27. What did you want and get? An iPad :D Also, in October more than anything during my trip to the writer's conference in NYC I wanted to spend an entire afternoon in The Met. I got that and it was wonderful. Like church. It's where I took the picture above..in the Asian wing.

28. What did you want and not get? Really wanted to finish NaNoWriMo, but only lasted 6 days. Very very difficult to write that fast that long when you haven't your entire life. Will try again next year...go for 7 days :)

29. What was your favorite film of this year? Without a doubt, "The Tree of Life" Amazing story, cinematography. I cried and cried. For the beauty of it, and for the nostalgia because it brought up a lot of childhood memories. Terrence Mallick has created another masterpiece.

30. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you? I turned 44. We went to Zynodoa in Staunton for a nice dinner. It was wonderful :)

31. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying? To have had close friends in the same city as me. So when I was going through major periods of frustration, growth, and change, I could call on them for support. Or at least go out for drinks.

32. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2011? I continued to dress the way I WANT to dress, not the way I think people want me to dress. Started this in 2010. I also realized a uniform of jeans, a cute top, and heeled boots isn't necessarily tired if you always look good in it.

33. What kept you sane? My husband, my dog, and music. Watching the sunsets out my kitchen window. Listening to mooing cows at sunrise. Meditating to the cicadas and the crickets in the summer.

34. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most? Javier Bardem. Leonard Cohen. John Slattery. Ewan MacGregor.

35. What political issue stirred you the most? Gay marriage. People need to relax and let people, all people, find love where they can find it.

36. Who do you miss? Mike Veazey. I think I'll probably be missing him quite a while...

37. Who was the best new person you met? Craig Hartman, the chef at BBQ Exchange. After years of Facebooking and Tweeting, and missed opportunities, I finally got to meet the man! He's warm, funny, fond of big bear hugs, and a master at cooking pork and pork products. Need I say more? doing his podcast was one of the highlights of my year...

38. What was the best thing you ate? Cacio e pepe pasta at the Cul de Sac in Rome. It's just homemade spaghetti, oil, pepper, and romano cheese. But in rome. And perfect. And scrummy yummy yummy yummy........

39. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2011? Two lessons: 1) No food, drink, or pill can take away your anxiety or fear. It only blankets it. and 2) In this life, you should strive to have an UNCONDITIONAL relationship with yourself. I read this in Pema Chodron's book, "Comfortable With Uncertainty" and it cut through me like a knife. Yes, yes, yes.

40. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year:

Give Up And Let It Go

by Francis Dunnery

I was only 15 years old and full of fire
I was a half a pound of bacon and an egg on the side

She got all the good looks, and I got all the war
She was everything I asked for, and a little more

It wasn't until much later I find my whole life down
Storming around the town with insecurity in my pocket, and worries in my bed
I was forced to see the doctor, and the good doctor said

Give up and let it go
Give up and let your life flow

Give up and let it go
Give up and let your life flow
Give up and let it go......

....and I open my heart and I let all the summer breeze in.....I was looking for my story and my story said.....

Give up and let it go
Give up and let your life flow

Give up and let it go
Give up and let your life flow
Give up and let it go......

Michael Veazey.

noreply@blogger.com (Libby) — Fri, 13 May 2011 20:15:00 -0400

Rest in peace. Rockin' that bowtie. Elsa Klensch is so proud.

I’m supposed to be writing. An article about hot dogs of all things for a local weekly. Then there’s my novel, which is in pieces, and my semi-workable treatment for a nonfiction book. Instead I’m looking through old photo albums and listening to cassette tapes full of abominably bad dance music from 1987. Because my friend Mike died. He up and died suddenly, tragically, without so much as a whisper. The one in our group who looked forever 15, without a wrinkle or shadow of age upon him. Just a glimmer of grey at the temples to remind us he WAS there back then, and not just born in 1996.

Incredulous, I didn’t find ONE picture of us. All those years spent as friends, roommates for Chrissakes, and not one picture? Sadly realizing this was a reminder of just how much partying I really had done. But on further reflection, I cracked up laughing. We must’ve had a pretty good time to forget to record it.

It seems only yesterday I was writing about a reunion my friend David put on which brought us all together again. Now I’m writing about one of us dying. I’m starting to feel like Ender in Orson Scott Card’s Speaker for the Dead because every time someone I love passes away I sit down and eulogize. Which can be good and bad. When you eulogize you forget the reality and paint over everything with a rose-colored gloss. The person might have been a total asshole, but if you cared about them at all the eulogy becomes a glowing A+ report card of all their best qualities.

But with Mike this is the truth. He truly was a great guy. You hear that a lot, but seriously, I have never met anyone who ever had a bad word to say about him. Ever.

He was quiet, well-dressed, always a part of the conversation and yet just a “skoche” off to the side. Mike seemed to prefer the outer edges to the raucous middle where all the action lives. I got that so well and often joined him. Speaker of dry humor, lover of fashion. The eye roll, the head tilt. His “What are ya gonna do, that’s just how it is,” shrug of the shoulders. In his black plaid Willi Smith blazer. That’s how I’ll remember him eternally – he wore that jacket everywhere.

Through the years I’d run into Mike every so often. I found it wonderful that even though he was alone, he always seemed content. And now he has gone and there are almost 200 people on Facebook wishing him well. So he wasn’t really ever alone. Not really.

I kind of can’t believe I won’t ever hear his voice again because I still hear it in my head, the way it would lift and fall, the way he drew out his vowels. I loved it so. Musical and lilting like he was always on the verge of saying something scathing, sharp, and dry. But not quite yet just to keep you in suspense. It was lovely.

Mike was a guarded person, very private. But the neat thing about him was in every conversation he made you feel like a confidante. Like the two of you shared secrets. Like you’d known him for decades even if you only just met. Like it hadn’t been 15 years since you’d seen him last, but only a few days. He made you forget you really knew very little of his past life. Unlike me, who tends to go on and on about every little injustice done in her childhood should the moment present itself, Mike rarely did that. He was very present. In that moment, with you, right then.

There’ll be a lot of compliments thrown around at the memorial next weekend, a lot of fuss. He’d hate that I think. He’d be so embarrassed at all those accolades. “Y’all! (drawn out like taffy) It’s just me!” he’d say, hands on hips with a little laugh. And then give you his signature look of feigned pissed-offed-ness, that one eyebrow raised in mock anger. Classic Mike.

Thinking about it all makes me tired. And so sad. I thought there would be time. I thought there would be time for all the plans we’d made, the cocktail lunches, the antiquing trips. Mojitos on the porch when we were both old. Fuck, we’re old now. I was looking forward to seeing Mike again, in Carytown, or at parties. I was always looking forward to seeing Mike again. He put you at ease that way. He made you feel like the conversation you were having right now was great, but the one you’d have over lunch......someday......would be even better. He left you with a bubble of hope.

Eulogies exaggerate. But there aren’t many people I would venture into hyperbole for. There just aren’t that many people whose passing would or will affect me the way his has. And I'm not even sure why. We were friends. Friends who'd lost touch, but hadn't. Friends who hadn't seen each other in a while, but in some weird way, were still in each other's lives, if only in our thoughts. We will miss you Noodle. You hated that nickname, but there’s something I never got to tell you. And I wish I had. Only the most beloved friends get nicknames. Peace and much love, Jenée.

Meme for 2010.

noreply@blogger.com (Libby) — Thu, 30 Dec 2010 13:14:00 -0500

A great meme I found a few years back. Something about stopping to reflect at the turn of a new year feels very right to me.

1. What did you do in 2010 that you’d never done before?
Thanks to Leni Sorensen, I learned canning, and successfully put up 4 jars of tomatoes and 8 jars of hot peppers. Could feel my grandmothers smiling down at me as I worked.

2. Did you keep your New Year’s Resolutions, and will you make more for next year?
I've decided the only resolution I ever need to make is to find balance. Continually seek balance, strive for balance, and be happy when I find moments of balance. Easier said than done.

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?
My friend Angie gave birth to Annabelle Claire. :0)

4. Did anyone close to you die?
Thankfully, no.

5. What countries did you visit?
In 2010, none. But in late 2009 I had the great good fortune to visit Mexico for a wedding. Fell in love with the coastline, the people, the cuisine, and the tequila. Came home with a promise to myself to learn Spanish, and to learn how to make tamales.

6. What would you like to have in 2011 that you lacked in 2010?
Friends that live in the same town. All my friends seem to live someplace else. More discipline for my writing and my meditation, and my exercise.

7. What dates from 2010 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?
July 9th. That was the day I finally decided to dedicate all my strength and being to writing.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?
Finally facing the fact I'm a writer, and nothing else. I finally began the steps, the growth that I needed to become an actualized person, a dedicated writer, a contented human being. I stopped lying to myself and to others - to get them to like me. I finally started learning who I am and who I want to be. Being honest like this, after a lifetime of going along to get along is so difficult, but so necessary.

9. What was your biggest failure?
There were so many times I was angry. And even though I know anger can be a signal of growth and change, I still have a hard time not seeing it as failure. Want to learn to face difficult situations with love and acceptance and surrender and peace.

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?
Yes, a chronic issue with my back that I'm learning to accept and love and not be angry or frustrated about. It's very challenging to accept pain and to accept growing older.

11. What was the best thing someone bought you?
My husband bought us a week in OBX. Even though it was cut short, it was the most fun, peaceful, incredible 4 days of this year. Later on at Christmas, he bought me a book of Leonard Cohen's poetry. Lovely lovely lovely.

12. Whose behavior merited celebration?
Congress. For finally getting rid of Don't Ask, Don't Tell.

13. Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed?
There's so much hate and anger on the news. I wish they'd make more of an effort to share uplifting stories instead of all the scare tactics they love to use to build up ratings.

14. Where did most of your money go?
Toward bills, student loans. But I'm trying to set aside small amounts for small presents to myself that don't cost very much. Trinkets from Etsy, soaps, makeup, a pair of gloves, some watercolors. Little things to cheer me up when I'm sad or frustrated.

15. What did you get really, really, really excited about?
Seeing Leonard Cohen's last concert in Las Vegas, December 11, 2010. It was stunning. To quote another writer, "I'd like to describe the concert, but how do you describe a religious experience?"

16. What song will always remind you of 2008?
"A Thousand Kisses Deep" by Leonard Cohen. It was definitely his music that colored my entire year. And in this year of internal growth and change, this song described my state of mind the best.

17. Compared to this time last year, are you:
- Fatter or thinner?
Fatter. Damn desk job. Damn slow metabolism. Spanx have become my best friend, and I'm trying to be on speaking terms with "Esther Roll" (Wanda Sykes's name for her belly).

- Happier or sadder?
Happier. Infinitely happier because I'm doing what I've always wanted to do. I'm so grateful to be writing. I'm so grateful for everything that is my life.

- Richer or poorer?
Poorer. The paycheck isn't steady when you freelance, but no matter. I'm infinitely happier.

18. What do you wish you’d done more of?
Running. Yoga. The only things that seem to calm my anxieties and fears. I seem to say this at the end of every year.

19. What do you wish you’d done less of?
Worrying. Being afraid. Punishing myself with unhealthy foods and drink to push down or mask the fear and worry. It's better to move through the worry, the fear, and reward yourself with foods that make your body feel good. Easier said than done when you're "in it".

20. How did you spend Christmas?
Hubby and I visited my family Christmas Eve. We sat and talked, ate ham biscuits and takeout Vietnamese food. Opened presents. There was no yelling or drama. It was wonderful.

21. Did you fall in love in 2008?
I've been in love since the day I met my husband in 1999.

22. How many one night stands?
Not since I fell in love, and not much before.

23. What was your favorite TV program?
Mad Men. Nothing else comes close and here's why.

24. Do you hate anyone now that you didn’t hate this time last year?
Hate is such a strong word for someone who tries to meditate and practice yoga. There are definitely people whose choices I really can't understand.

25. What was the best book you read?
Duma Key, by Stephen King. Read aloud by John Slattery (Roger Sterling on Mad Men). It took me months to get through this book. I loved it, not only for the scary escapism, but Slattery's voice is commanding and comforting at the same time. He becomes the characters. During my months of high drama, when I was quitting regularly-paid work and striking out on my own, it was comforting to know I'd hear his voice once I got in my car.

26. What was your greatest musical discovery?
Really dove into old-school hip-hop this year. EPMD, Snoop, Wyclef Jean, Notorious BIG. Jay-Z got me up some humongous hills when I was struggling to run.

27. What did you want and get?
I grew my own Swiss Chard in pots this year. And sunflowers. After years of talking about it, I finally did it.

28. What did you want and not get?
Really wanted to win that Foodbuzz blogging contest, for the exposure, and also so I could give some of the prize money back to my community. No worries though, my blog is better by leaps and bounds because of the experience.

29. What was your favorite film of this year?
Two. Both DVR'd. "Elegy", starring Ben Kingsley and Penelope Cruz. Probably the most beautiful love story I've ever seen. So real. I cried for 20 minutes when it was over. And "The Wind That Shakes the Barley" an historical drama based on true events. All about the British massacre of the Irish in the 1920's. Painful to watch, yet so powerful. I was thinking about this film for days afterward.

30. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?
I turned 43. But for the life of me I can't remember what we did. Probably went out for a nice meal somewhere. Sure sucks getting old...

31. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?
To have had close friends in the same city as me. So when I was going through major periods of frustration, growth, and change, I could call on them for support. Or at least go out for drinks.

32. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2010?
I decided most of my clothes either didn't fit, or were too "old". I cut all my hair off and started dressing the way I WANT to dress, not the way I think people want me to dress. I also realized a uniform of jeans, a cute top, and heeled boots isn't necessarily tired if you always look good in it.

33. What kept you sane?
My husband, my dog, and music. Running. Watching the sunsets out my kitchen window. Listening to mooing cows at sunrise. Meditating to the cicadas and the crickets in the summer.

34. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?
Javier Bardem in Eat, Pray, Love. And Leonard Cohen :)

35. What political issue stirred you the most?
Gay marriage. People need to relax and let people, all people, find love where they can find it.

36. Who do you miss?
I missed my Nana a lot this year. Just had many experiences where I found myself thinking, "Nana would've loved this."

37. Who was the best new person you met?
Two people. Leni Sorensen, food historian and all around awesome broad. She taught me how to can tomatoes. I'm grateful to be her friend, and so glad to be called a "student" in her kitchen. Allison Tyler, on a trip I took with my friend Melissa to NYC. So damn creative. Wish I could be more like her.

38. What was the best thing you ate?
The chicken and waffles at Bouchon in Las Vegas. Thomas Keller is an effing genius.

39. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2010?
No food, drink, or pill can take away your anxiety or fear. It only blankets it.

40. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year:
It was a tumultuous year for me. One of growth and change. I'd get four steps forward then drop two steps back. Just when I'd think I'd learned a lesson, something would show up to tell me that I hadn't. This song sums it up perfectly.

A Thousand Kisses Deep

by Leonard Cohen

The ponies run, the girls are young,
The odds are there to beat.
You win a while, and then it’s done –
Your little winning streak.
And summoned now to deal
With your invincible defeat,
You live your life as if it’s real,
A Thousand Kisses Deep.

I’m turning tricks, I’m getting fixed,
I’m back on Boogie Street.
You lose your grip, and then you slip
Into the Masterpiece.
And maybe I had miles to drive,
And promises to keep:
You ditch it all to stay alive,
A Thousand Kisses Deep.

And sometimes when the night is slow,
The wretched and the meek,
We gather up our hearts and go,
A Thousand Kisses Deep.

Confined to sex, we pressed against
The limits of the sea:
I saw there were no oceans left
For scavengers like me.
I made it to the forward deck.
I blessed our remnant fleet –
And then consented to be wrecked,
A Thousand Kisses Deep.

I’m turning tricks, I’m getting fixed,
I’m back on Boogie Street.
I guess they won’t exchange the gifts
That you were meant to keep.
And quiet is the thought of you,
The file on you complete,
Except what we forgot to do,
A Thousand Kisses Deep.

And sometimes when the night is slow,
The wretched and the meek,
We gather up our hearts and go,
A Thousand Kisses Deep.

Thank You Leonard Cohen.

noreply@blogger.com (Libby) — Thu, 16 Dec 2010 16:56:00 -0500

"I'm just another snowman, standing in the rain and sleet. Who loved you with his frozen love, his second-hand physique. With all he is, and all he was. A thousand kisses deep."

You brought peace back into my heart.

It's been empty for quite some time. I walked around the world in my false hope, in my false peace, thinking everything was just fine. It wasn't. Until you began to sing last Saturday at Caesar's Palace in Las Vegas I realized what I thought was hope was pretend. You sang and the light came in. You sang and I was saved. Imagine yourself in a beautiful world, a perfect bright world. But you suddenly realize it's all a sheen, a sham, a false front. You find a door on this stage and step through it into a blindingly white light. It was kind of like that. Not to venture into hyperbole (I've been known to dabble), but I was changed.

Now I sit here, attempting to describe how I feel and sounding for all the world like a turn of the century hausfrau who's just returned from her first tent revival. I can't stop humming "Who By Fire?" I can't stop smiling. I feel calm. My dreams are more vivid. Not sure how long this can last. I know it can't. Change is the only constant after all.

Why am I even writing? Because I looked for a decent concert review and found none. Just a half-hearted attempt from the local paper full of song quotes. Not written by a fan or someone even remotely knowledgeable about your musical gifts. Of course you could listen for years and not begin to understand. It's a very "You had to be there..." kind of thing.

You sang for four hours. Four hours of song that's indescribable. Chelsea Hotel #2, Bird On A Wire, Anthem, they all threw my heart up to the rafters, then down to the depths until I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. I felt exhilarated and exhausted. Mr. Cohen, you're a man in love. So deeply in love with women, and love, and sex, and life that every song reflects it. You're the Pablo Neruda of pop - all your songs dripping with so much innuendo I found I needed some air when intermission rolled around. When you're not singing love, you're singing justice, and spirituality, and loss, and death, and wonder, all the things philosophers have been pondering for thousands of years. In your fedora and suit, skipping around, going down on one knee to pray, then arising to sing and skip some more. You're a playful mix of Pan, Tom Jones, and Zen Buddhist priest all rolled into one. A dash of Bugs Bunny. With a little bit of superhero thrown in for good measure because you sang for FOUR HOURS.

I don't even know why I'm attempting to describe my experience. Maybe it's because 5 days later I'm still on a high, still feel saved, still feel full of pure light and love. Which is rare for me. I wanted to write about it. I needed to. I wanted a written record to say YES.

YES, I saw the flowers covering the stage.
YES, I saw your fans singing "Just Passing Through" to anyone who cared to listen during intermission. Swaying to the music. Willing you back onstage.
YES, I saw the young lady rush the stage to embrace you.
YES, I saw the blouses flying during "It's Closing Time".
YES, I saw my tattered tissue and my tears so many times during your performance.
YES, I saw my own jealousy emerge when I realized I'd never write as good as this. And yes, I saw it dissolve in surrender when I realized it didn't matter. All that mattered was the right now.
YES, I saw my heart explode in wonder when you performed "A Singer Must Die" alone, with just a guitar as accompaniment. Poetry. Conviction. Simply the best live performance of a song I've ever seen anywhere.
YES, I saw your gratitude. You wear your heart on your sleeve Mr. Cohen.
YES, I saw the faces of the people afterward as they filed out into the din and blare and ping of the casino. Their faces beamed. Their hearts were full. They'd been changed as well.

That night I had a dream. You are wearing a tracksuit. Hatless. In disguise, sweeping the casino floor while all around you people file past, leaving the concert. The noise and the blare and the ping-ping of the slot machines leave you unfazed. All of it rushes past in a flood as you quietly sweep. I step closer. I thank you for the peace you have brought. You just lean on your broom, beaming. Your face beaming beatific in its gratitude, in its grace. So pure. So simple. What is your secret Mr. Cohen? What hides behind that smile? How can I have that smile too?

After something like that you cannot help but be changed. I just wanted a written record to exist somewhere. To say with the full gratitude of my heart and soul that I was there. I experienced what might be your last show and I'll never forget it.

Thank you Leonard Cohen. You brought peace back to my heart. Got rid of the darkness, at least for a awhile. And that feels so good.

Running Realizations.

noreply@blogger.com (Libby) — Wed, 10 Nov 2010 17:25:00 -0500

I hate running. Really hate it. It feels alien to my body and I'm always short of breath. At the same time I love it. I forget how great it makes me feel afterward. Like my husband says it feels so good when you stop. I also forget the realizations you have while running. Your body, your breath is struggling, your mind is focused on the struggle so it frees itself and all these realizations come rushing in.

I love those realizations, but fear them too, because usually they pick me up out of my complacent little slot in the world and throw me somewhere else. Inevitably after a run I'll have to actually DO some major life-altering thing because while I was chuffing along I realized no, I actually didn't want to have kids. So what now?

I'll never forget that cold, foggy morning in Pittsburgh running around the reservoir near the zoo, listening to the lions roar their disapproval in the dawn and realizing that no, I didn't want to be a teacher anymore. That Vietnam-humid summer morning when I realized I hated my job in fundraising. I wanted to write. That other morning when the first warm breath of Spring was in the air and the first green buds appeared when I realized how very much I loved my husband, my dog, my life. Tears rolled down in gratitude when I also realized I didn't have to do anything with that realization. I just had to feel it for awhile. Then remember what it felt like when times were bad.

This afternoon as the sun set and the last of the trees hit their fire-red peak while others gently let go of their leaves without a sound, I realized much to my horror that I was living my mother's life. All my life I've fought against it. When she wanted me to be a ballerina I balked. When she wanted me to keep studying violin I yelled. I hated cooking. And I absolutly HATED..........running. She ran marathons. I cheered her on from the sidelines. She urged me to run and I complained. I would NEVER run. I'm fifteen dammit! I know everything!

Now at 43, I'm learning to love running. And I'm a freelance food writer which means I cook a great deal. I bake a great deal. And I love it. The realization, the irony of it all was not lost as I tried in vain to make it up our neighborhood's giant hill. But as I ran down the other side I also realized, if I was living Momma's life, did that also mean I had to live all of it?

While I've been struggling with my identity the past year, what it means to be a writer, to finally do what I'm supposed to do, what it means to not have kids, what it means to be this person I find myself to be, I've also been struggling with an unknown, un-named fear. It lurks off to the side and I find myself preparing for it. I don't know what it is, but I'll be ready for it when it gets here. I lift weights, I run. I meditate. I pray. I write. All in an effort to get strong for whatever this fear could be.

My mother, in her 40's, was violently attacked in her home. They never found the guy and even though we all urged her to get counseling she never did. She insisted she was strong enough. She kept running. But she also started drinking. And at 49 she crashed her car into a tree. Ten years of brain trauma followed, until at 59 she died within 3 months of being diagnosed with esophageal cancer.

Now certainly there were happy memories in those years, and I don't mean to come off all Anne Sexton-confessional, but this was my realization today. I don't fear living my mother's life. But I do fear that part of it. If I'm living my mother's life, does it mean I have to live it all? Facing that kind of mountain makes me very afraid indeed.

I can hear my mother insisting that I'm silly, this is my life. Not hers. Of course I can make different choices. All I know is this running realization rushing in to my brain today stopped me cold. It made me cry. And I swear to God if I make it to 50 with all my body parts and my mental faculties intact I'll be very grateful indeed. Hell, I'm grateful right now. For a lot of things. But today mostly for running. Because with every step I'm letting shit go.

Running to me is "selah" meaning I stop. And I listen.

Chelsea Hotel.

noreply@blogger.com (Libby) — Wed, 15 Sep 2010 20:48:00 -0400

Well, never mind. We are ugly, but we have the music.

I'm a Writer.

noreply@blogger.com (Libby) — Sat, 21 Aug 2010 13:15:00 -0400

In high school, I was on the editorial committee that decided which poems and stories would make it into our literary magazine. Every submission was anonymous, and the committee would first have someone read the piece aloud, then the rest would comment. My junior year I submitted a poem, one I was proud of because it stated my deepest longings, my most deep-seated fears, my hopes, my wishes. It was angst-ridden. My cry for help. After it was read aloud, the committee frowned. "It's pretty obscure," someone commented - the nicest comment of the ones that followed. For what seemed like an eternity the group tore apart my poem, line by line. The criticism was not constructive, but cruel. They gorged like lions at a fresh kill while our teacher looked on, silent. I never submitted another piece again, and from that point on, I kept my writing hidden from the world.

Writing was my life, my reason for living, but I pushed it down, pushed it away, because obviously I sucked at it. It didn't help my parents never encouraged my writing, but instead pushed me into music, art, dance, anything else. After high school, I pursued a degree in illustration, which pleased my mother to no end. When that didn't work out, I tried every other job imaginable: store manager, barista, bartender, receptionist, typist, copy editor, proposal writer, newsletter editor, English teacher. You'll notice those last few jobs incorporate writing. I like to think of them as "writing adjacent". Even though I feared writing, my gut couldn't get away from it, and so I took jobs to get NEXT to writing without actually touching it.

Even if the job didn't involve actual writing, I made damn sure it involved my time. I said yes to every project, forged ahead with every new plan and proposal and development at whatever job I happened to have. I wanted my entire day (and sometimes night) FULL, so unconsciously I didn't have to think about the fact I wasn't writing. For a time, I even worked two jobs, 16-hour days, which only left me enough time to come home and drink myself into a blackout stupor before starting the whole merry-go-round of denial once again.

But recently, I endured what I like to think of as an existential crisis of conscience. My last job involved some writing, so it was "writing adjacent" but it took up so much of my time. Not only that, the circumstances of the job were so stress-inducing I often found myself lying awake at night - ALL NIGHT - trying to think of ways to make the job better. How could I get up in the morning, go to this job, and not go into the bathroom stall and cry every day? How could I make it more endurable? When you're describing your job as "endurable" it's probably not a good thing. Not at all. I had buried my fear, my desire to write so deeply that here I was trying to figure out how to turn a job I hated into one I could at least endure another day. It was a breaking point for me.

I quit. I had to. I was so deep within it, I couldn't see I was pushing my desire to write away, allowing my fear to act as a wall against it. I would rather die of stress at this job, constantly fighting to make it better, constantly denying my love of writing to sneak into my psyche, rather than just letting it all go. It took a good friend to show me what was going on - to take me by the hand, pull me outside of myself, and show me the scene as it was playing out. She was like the Ghost of Christmas Present in that Dickens tale, her hand around my shoulder, showing me the scene. "Do you see what you're doing to yourself? Why are you fighting so hard?" Isn't it funny how someone outside can see the solution so easily when you've been banging your head against the wall for years? I remain grateful for her insight, and her swift kick in my ass.

So I cut all ties to that job. Now I was unemployed, untethered, like a balloon set aloft except there's no wind to carry it anywhere. It's just there, floating, waiting for someone to blow on it. Waiting for direction. It's incredibly frightening to feel like that, but exciting-frightening. The anticipation, the faith you have in yourself while you're untethered is what keeps you aloft.

Elizabeth Gilbert said when you begin a major life journey, when you finally let go and do things differently for the first time, heading into a direction you've never been in, you have to have faith the truth will be revealed. And everyone you meet on your journey is a possible teacher.*

This is the truth I keep coming back to. My truth. I have no idea where to go or what to do next. But I keep reminding myself the truth will be revealed. I have been listening to "Eat, Pray, Love" again on audio. It's amazing how her journey for balance parallels mine for purpose. Because that's what I'm looking for - purpose. What am I supposed to do? Who am I supposed to be? In Chapter 30, when Liz finally decides not to become a mother she asks herself, "Okay, so who am I now?" It was like an arrow of light went right into my heart. Because that is me. That is so me it hurts. I say "arrow of light" because it was so validating to HEAR another woman state what I was feeling. I had read these words two years ago, but hearing them now, it really sunk in. I heard it with my heart, not my head.

My husband and I tried to have children, and then when it didn't work out easily, we decided not to pursue it. We are happy as we are. And even though we didn't really talk about why, now I know. Both of us, having had happy childhoods, also still possess a huge amount of painful memories and demons we're still working through. It would be so unfair to bring up a child, the hardest job of all, without having worked through this. Without letting this go. While I might not know my purpose, I do know we were brought together to take care of each other in this life. And that's more than enough purpose. Except it isn't, is it? Taking care of my husband is so easy, and my greatest joy. I'm still left with the question, "What now?"

Recently, someone asked me what I did for a living. "I'm a writer," I replied. The words felt awful in my mouth, like I had just decided to find out what rocks taste like. They rolled around on my tongue like maggots and it took all my force of will to get the words out. I wear a bite guard at night, and frequently I have dreams where I'm trying to speak, but because the guard is blocking my talk the only thing that comes out are squeaks and inhuman noises. This felt just like that. I was like Helen Keller discovering water, except I heard the words and I didn't believe them.

For the longest time I was a quiet mousy girl, but because of all the shit I've gone through in my life I blossomed into a mouthy broad. You can't shut me up now, and you better not even try unless you want your ass kicked. Now I just need to learn to open my mouth on the page. To get to the point where writing is as easy as talking. So for the time being I'm an untethered balloon. Floating and silent, but emitting a squeak here and there. And that's fine for now. I have faith.

*I'm paraphrasing, can anyone find this quote for me? I gave my copy of the book to a friend who really needed it.

Chinese Translation.

noreply@blogger.com (Libby) — Sun, 4 Jul 2010 20:34:00 -0400

I haven't been able to get this out of my head all day......how does a (wo)man like me remain in the light? :0)

Greatest Mashup Ever.

noreply@blogger.com (Libby) — Fri, 7 May 2010 19:52:00 -0400

Today, a musical epizoodik. The greatest mashup ever. Jay-Z and Jimi Hendrix. Crank it.