“Trust the instinct to the end, though you can render no reason."--Ralph Waldo Emerson
I love Emerson. I love his transcendental point of view, his affirmational writing style in Self-Reliance, his awe of nature, his conviction that there was a better way for society to progress and that we, as members of it, were the key to that success. Not just our elected officials or representatives, but we ourselves were the voices and vehicles by which change must occur.
But this quotation, this concept of trust, is rankling me tonight. I am a woman of faith, more active now in that regard than I have been since my childhood, and I am a woman of forgiveness, believing that in order to move forward, to progress, I have to forgive the transgressions of those who have hurt me if only so that I can be set free from the pain of their prior acts. And yet, despite my faithfulness and forgiveness, I am grappling with my own ability to forget the things that have happened in the past and so trust is taking a back seat to Doubt which, it turns out, is a pretty loud and ominous passenger.
Doubt climbs into the car with all of its bags haphazardly packed and won't let you throw them in the trunk or in the backseat. Doubt carries all its baggage in its lap, right out in the open. Doubt's bags make it hard to see out the side mirror, to maneuver the air vents, to change the cd or radio station.
Doubt takes up so much space; don't even think about using the cupholder.
Doubt does not want to talk to you. Or, more accurately, Doubt doesn't want you to talk. Doubt sucks up all the air in the car and sets loose on a long and winding story that never seems to end, circling back again and again to that point in time that led you to invite Doubt in in the first place, a time so dark you don't remember what day it was, what the weather was like or whether or not you remembered to eat.
Doubt has no interest in current affairs, future plans, or the good news of the day; Doubt wants to rehash the past, to scratch and claw at those old wounds until the scars left behind are jagged, weeping welts of pain, oozing and open to the elements, unable to heal without immediate and expert attention that you, driver, cannot see to just now.
I want to kick Doubt the hell out of the car. I want to go back to the rest area where I fist met Doubt and avert my eyes when Doubt looks my way. I want Doubt to sit in the rain, cold and lonely, waiting for some other poor sucker to come along and pick Doubt up. I want to, but I am having the damnedest time making it happen and that may be because Doubt is one rational son-of-a-bitch. All of Doubts arguments make sense. Doubt says, "this happened before, it could--and probably will given your luck--happen again, so don't get your hopes up." Doubt is a master of empirical and anecdotal evidence. That's what makes Doubt so popular at conventions.
But, I am sick of Doubt. I am sick of the way Doubt smells--sour like laundry you forgot in the washing machine overnight--and I am sick of Doubt's heavy breathing when Doubt sleeps. Mostly, though, I am sick of being unable to hear myself think as Doubt huffs and puffs and sighs through our journey together, so I think it's time to pull over, open the door, and run for my life, trusting I'll find a path worth taking before too long.
I never liked that car anyway, and besides, I feel like walking.
31 October 2011
30 October 2011
The Thread
This morning, at church, my pastor read a William Stafford poem to end his sermon. He spoke on the nature of the relationship between God and ourselves, that we are called to hang on to the thread that connects us to God, that keeps us even and steady even in the midst of great suffering and storms.
I have not always had an easy time feeling that thread. I have always felt a pull to something greater than myself, but I spent some years in a state of serious doubt brought on by academia and personal trauma that seemed to be impossible if God truly existed. But, then, the moment of faith came--the one that showed me nothing but prayer and belief was going to make me feel better--and I knew, deep in my bones, that my faith was one that belonged to me. That it wasn't just a faith I was raised with or of my parents and grandparents, it was and is mine.
I have a hard time with my faith, often wondering how the miracles God has worked in my life can be given that some of them seem in such direct opposition to biblical teachings, but I have never been one to take the Bible literally, and so I am working on it. It is hard to love your neighbor as yourself when you struggle, on occasion, to do the latter. It is hard to turn the other cheek when they've both been slapped so long, and it is hard to practice perfect love and compassion in a world so intent on revering fear and isolation.
But, I am trying. I am trying to hold on to the thread that connects me to God, to answer His call in my life, to have faith not only in Him but in myself and in the actions and words of those around me. I am stuck, today, in a particular relationship that is not moving as I would like it to, but I need to let go of my attachment to the outcome and trust that--as He has seen fit to do so far--God will lead me where I am supposed to go. Until then, I'll keep holding on to the thread.
The Way It Is, William Stafford
There’s a thread you follow. It goes among
things that change. But it doesn’t change.
People wonder about what you are pursuing.
You have to explain about the thread.
But it is hard for others to see.
While you hold it you can’t get lost.
Tragedies happen; people get hurt
or die; and you suffer and get old.
Nothing you do can stop time’s unfolding.
You don’t ever let go of the thread.
I have not always had an easy time feeling that thread. I have always felt a pull to something greater than myself, but I spent some years in a state of serious doubt brought on by academia and personal trauma that seemed to be impossible if God truly existed. But, then, the moment of faith came--the one that showed me nothing but prayer and belief was going to make me feel better--and I knew, deep in my bones, that my faith was one that belonged to me. That it wasn't just a faith I was raised with or of my parents and grandparents, it was and is mine.
I have a hard time with my faith, often wondering how the miracles God has worked in my life can be given that some of them seem in such direct opposition to biblical teachings, but I have never been one to take the Bible literally, and so I am working on it. It is hard to love your neighbor as yourself when you struggle, on occasion, to do the latter. It is hard to turn the other cheek when they've both been slapped so long, and it is hard to practice perfect love and compassion in a world so intent on revering fear and isolation.
But, I am trying. I am trying to hold on to the thread that connects me to God, to answer His call in my life, to have faith not only in Him but in myself and in the actions and words of those around me. I am stuck, today, in a particular relationship that is not moving as I would like it to, but I need to let go of my attachment to the outcome and trust that--as He has seen fit to do so far--God will lead me where I am supposed to go. Until then, I'll keep holding on to the thread.
The Way It Is, William Stafford
There’s a thread you follow. It goes among
things that change. But it doesn’t change.
People wonder about what you are pursuing.
You have to explain about the thread.
But it is hard for others to see.
While you hold it you can’t get lost.
Tragedies happen; people get hurt
or die; and you suffer and get old.
Nothing you do can stop time’s unfolding.
You don’t ever let go of the thread.
29 October 2011
Light
"The poem...is a little myth of man's capacity of making life meaningful. And in the end, the poem is not a thing we see--it is, rather, a light by which we may see--and what we see is life."--Robert Penn Warren
Tonight is our last performance of The Laramie Project at LHS. Directing this show has been an incredibly emotional experience for me not only because of the subject matter but because, during this process, I have come to appreciate a part of myself that I do not always see as positive.
I am a very emotional person. Very. Commercials, movies, stories people tell, stories I read, the look on a sad dog's face, just about anything can make me tear up. I have a heightened sense of empathy--I learned there's a word for this, it's called being an empath or being an empathic person--which means I soak up the energy of those around me and reflect it back, sort of like an emotional mirror. This is great when I am surrounded by joyful, creative, positive energy--as I have been much of the past few weeks--but it can be exhausting, too, when the energy surrounding me is negative or anxious or fearful.
Any time I direct a show, I try to settle the students on the nights of performances with a positive message that, sometimes, takes the form of a guided meditation. I ask them to close their eyes, hold hands, breathe deep, and focus on the light within them, the positive message they're sending, the joyful act of creation of which they are a part. As I say these things to them, I am, of course, speaking to myself, my voice rippling over them in waves, carrying them to what I hope is a more centered, peaceful place from which to bring the show we're working on to life.
And now, after weeks of nervous anxiety, elated successes, tearful worries, and joyous celebration, it is almost over. I find I am terribly tired and--while happy to have been the director of the process as well as the overseer of the product--I am grateful the end is near. This does not mean I haven't enjoyed the work--I have, immensely--it's actually been one of the best processes I've been part of in that I gave up so much control and just let it all breathe itself into existence that I never totally lost myself, which is a first. But, like the Robert Penn Warren quotation at the beginning of this entry, I am ready to allow room for something else to make my life meaningful. And that something is me. I want to find meaning not just in the work I do, but in myself. My shining, emotive, overly sensitive, often anxious little self.
I am ready to accept the myth of myself as poem, as poetry, as motion, as music, and see what kind of light will shine once all the other noise and light quiets and dims. So, tonight, when the final bow is taken, the last set piece struck, the lights turned out for the final time on this run, I believe a new light will begin to sparkle in the distance. May it be just bright enough to shine me home.
Tonight is our last performance of The Laramie Project at LHS. Directing this show has been an incredibly emotional experience for me not only because of the subject matter but because, during this process, I have come to appreciate a part of myself that I do not always see as positive.
I am a very emotional person. Very. Commercials, movies, stories people tell, stories I read, the look on a sad dog's face, just about anything can make me tear up. I have a heightened sense of empathy--I learned there's a word for this, it's called being an empath or being an empathic person--which means I soak up the energy of those around me and reflect it back, sort of like an emotional mirror. This is great when I am surrounded by joyful, creative, positive energy--as I have been much of the past few weeks--but it can be exhausting, too, when the energy surrounding me is negative or anxious or fearful.
Any time I direct a show, I try to settle the students on the nights of performances with a positive message that, sometimes, takes the form of a guided meditation. I ask them to close their eyes, hold hands, breathe deep, and focus on the light within them, the positive message they're sending, the joyful act of creation of which they are a part. As I say these things to them, I am, of course, speaking to myself, my voice rippling over them in waves, carrying them to what I hope is a more centered, peaceful place from which to bring the show we're working on to life.
And now, after weeks of nervous anxiety, elated successes, tearful worries, and joyous celebration, it is almost over. I find I am terribly tired and--while happy to have been the director of the process as well as the overseer of the product--I am grateful the end is near. This does not mean I haven't enjoyed the work--I have, immensely--it's actually been one of the best processes I've been part of in that I gave up so much control and just let it all breathe itself into existence that I never totally lost myself, which is a first. But, like the Robert Penn Warren quotation at the beginning of this entry, I am ready to allow room for something else to make my life meaningful. And that something is me. I want to find meaning not just in the work I do, but in myself. My shining, emotive, overly sensitive, often anxious little self.
I am ready to accept the myth of myself as poem, as poetry, as motion, as music, and see what kind of light will shine once all the other noise and light quiets and dims. So, tonight, when the final bow is taken, the last set piece struck, the lights turned out for the final time on this run, I believe a new light will begin to sparkle in the distance. May it be just bright enough to shine me home.
26 October 2011
Having It All
For the past five weeks or so, I have been directing The Laramie Project at the school where I work. The cast and crew are some of the most incredible kids I've ever worked with, genuinely kind and full of compassion, truly committed to the material, and tomorrow night we will open what I think is easily one of the most powerful plays ever written. I could not be more proud of them.
But, even in the middle of all the enthusiasm and excitement surrounding the show, I find myself sad. Heartbreakingly so. Each night, I come home to my sweet dog who I love, crazy though she may be, and we play for a bit, I feed her, we go to bed. I try to sleep but don't always manage it. This is one of the most hectic weeks of the year for me, juggling job and rehearsals. My house is a wreck, Z threw up sometime today so I had to clean that up when I got home, by the time I emptied the dishwasher and reloaded it, I was too tired to do laundry so I took a bath...and promptly fell asleep in it for ten minutes before hauling myself out to go back to rehearsal. And, now home, I'm exhausted but all I want is someone to talk to. I could crawl into bed, but I don't want to just yet because it's so damn lonely.
I have a good life, a full life, a life with friends and family and people who love me, students who make me laugh and think and care more than I ever thought I could. I do. I like being me, but I want to share my life with somebody. I really want to. I want to talk about my day and hear about his, I want to laugh and joke and feel so right next to someone that it never occurs to me to want to be anywhere else. I want companionship, friendship, love, listening, sharing, presence. I want someone here when i come home and am so tired to ask what they can do for me, to care for me, to treat me with kindness and concern. I want that.
I used to think admitting that I wanted all of that would make me seem weak, that somehow I had to just put my head down and do it all by myself and pretend like that was enough because wanting support was weakness. I know now that it isn't. Weakness stems from asking for no help. For trying to do it all on your own. I know I need help, I just don't have any at the moment.
I'm trying to have faith. Hope. I want to believe I'm going to get to have it all. I really do.
But, even in the middle of all the enthusiasm and excitement surrounding the show, I find myself sad. Heartbreakingly so. Each night, I come home to my sweet dog who I love, crazy though she may be, and we play for a bit, I feed her, we go to bed. I try to sleep but don't always manage it. This is one of the most hectic weeks of the year for me, juggling job and rehearsals. My house is a wreck, Z threw up sometime today so I had to clean that up when I got home, by the time I emptied the dishwasher and reloaded it, I was too tired to do laundry so I took a bath...and promptly fell asleep in it for ten minutes before hauling myself out to go back to rehearsal. And, now home, I'm exhausted but all I want is someone to talk to. I could crawl into bed, but I don't want to just yet because it's so damn lonely.
I have a good life, a full life, a life with friends and family and people who love me, students who make me laugh and think and care more than I ever thought I could. I do. I like being me, but I want to share my life with somebody. I really want to. I want to talk about my day and hear about his, I want to laugh and joke and feel so right next to someone that it never occurs to me to want to be anywhere else. I want companionship, friendship, love, listening, sharing, presence. I want someone here when i come home and am so tired to ask what they can do for me, to care for me, to treat me with kindness and concern. I want that.
I used to think admitting that I wanted all of that would make me seem weak, that somehow I had to just put my head down and do it all by myself and pretend like that was enough because wanting support was weakness. I know now that it isn't. Weakness stems from asking for no help. For trying to do it all on your own. I know I need help, I just don't have any at the moment.
I'm trying to have faith. Hope. I want to believe I'm going to get to have it all. I really do.
23 October 2011
Church
I'm getting ready to head out to church this morning for the first time in, I think, about two months. I have listened to the sermons online or on the radio each week, but I haven't been able to go. In part, my reluctance has been because I hate sitting there alone, and in part it's because I have had some crises of faith over the last six months.
The being alone part...well...when I was growing up, even if my dad had been out playing with the band the night before and reeked of cigarette smoke and booze, even if his eyes were blood shot and he hadn't had more than three hours of sleep, my mom hauled his ass out of bed and made him go to church with us. It was a family affair. And the two churches we went to in Salina--First Christian and Belmont--were both the churches my grandparents went to, Grandma Olive (dad's mom) to the former, Nanny and Grandad (mom's folks) to the latter. So, I associate church with family.
Or, when we moved and went to Falun Lutheran, it was for family but also for me. I loved the husband and wife pastors there, her sermons were always relevant and made me think God was listening to and watching me. I knew when I was there in that small country church that I wasn't alone.
But, in this big building, I feel alone a lot of the time. I don't know many of my fellow congregants, and I joined by myself a few months after my divorce became final last year because I knew I needed a place to feel safe and I knew I needed to be in a space each week where God and I could find each other more readily than we do in the car, in the shower, in my classroom, at the grocery store (all places I pray).
My crises of faith over the last few months left me breathless. I kept wondering how I could feel God so strongly and then events that I thought He had set in motion could fall so wildly apart. Now I see that all the falling apart was steps along the road to His plan and I have to trust Him completely if I am to navigate the world in any meaningful way.
So, today, to church I go. I'm announcing our fall play, The Laramie Project, and asking the congregation to support this message of hope in a difficult time. It occurs to me that while I'm doing so, I'm also asking God to give me back my hope, to see me through the rest of my life, to help me practice love in the face of moments and obstacles that threaten to break me.
As long as I have faith, as long as I believe, I know I will be okay.
There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love. We love because He first loved us. (1 John 4:18-19)
The being alone part...well...when I was growing up, even if my dad had been out playing with the band the night before and reeked of cigarette smoke and booze, even if his eyes were blood shot and he hadn't had more than three hours of sleep, my mom hauled his ass out of bed and made him go to church with us. It was a family affair. And the two churches we went to in Salina--First Christian and Belmont--were both the churches my grandparents went to, Grandma Olive (dad's mom) to the former, Nanny and Grandad (mom's folks) to the latter. So, I associate church with family.
Or, when we moved and went to Falun Lutheran, it was for family but also for me. I loved the husband and wife pastors there, her sermons were always relevant and made me think God was listening to and watching me. I knew when I was there in that small country church that I wasn't alone.
But, in this big building, I feel alone a lot of the time. I don't know many of my fellow congregants, and I joined by myself a few months after my divorce became final last year because I knew I needed a place to feel safe and I knew I needed to be in a space each week where God and I could find each other more readily than we do in the car, in the shower, in my classroom, at the grocery store (all places I pray).
My crises of faith over the last few months left me breathless. I kept wondering how I could feel God so strongly and then events that I thought He had set in motion could fall so wildly apart. Now I see that all the falling apart was steps along the road to His plan and I have to trust Him completely if I am to navigate the world in any meaningful way.
So, today, to church I go. I'm announcing our fall play, The Laramie Project, and asking the congregation to support this message of hope in a difficult time. It occurs to me that while I'm doing so, I'm also asking God to give me back my hope, to see me through the rest of my life, to help me practice love in the face of moments and obstacles that threaten to break me.
As long as I have faith, as long as I believe, I know I will be okay.
There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love. We love because He first loved us. (1 John 4:18-19)
21 October 2011
Being a Woman
I teach about gender a lot in my classes--what it means to be female or male, how society views the sexes, how we view each other, etc.--and it always gives rise to some f my favorite conversations.
Here are a couple gems I've found over the past few months that speak to where we were and, hopefully, where we're headed in terms of understanding what it means to be a woman.
Despite the above, though, I don't need society to tell me about being a woman, I don't need television or magazines to sell me an image or an idea of what it means to be a woman because I know, as sure as breathing, what that means for me.
Being a woman means being compassionate, hopeful, loving. Being a woman means high heels and lip gloss and pencil skirts and push-up bras. Being a woman means lingerie no one knows I'm wearing but me, pedicures, hearing a song that makes me cry, loving someone so much I can barely breathe if they are in pain. Being a woman means loving God, myself and--should I be lucky enough to have it again someday--my spouse with passionate devotion, total encouragement, and unconditional love.
Here are a couple gems I've found over the past few months that speak to where we were and, hopefully, where we're headed in terms of understanding what it means to be a woman.
Eve Ensler, Embrace Your Inner Girl, 2007 TED Talk
Despite the above, though, I don't need society to tell me about being a woman, I don't need television or magazines to sell me an image or an idea of what it means to be a woman because I know, as sure as breathing, what that means for me.
Being a woman means being compassionate, hopeful, loving. Being a woman means high heels and lip gloss and pencil skirts and push-up bras. Being a woman means lingerie no one knows I'm wearing but me, pedicures, hearing a song that makes me cry, loving someone so much I can barely breathe if they are in pain. Being a woman means loving God, myself and--should I be lucky enough to have it again someday--my spouse with passionate devotion, total encouragement, and unconditional love.
17 October 2011
Changing the Subject
Lately, while I grading essays, I've noticed an odd pattern emerging. My students, low ability to high, have begun--for no apparent reason--to move the subject of their sentences to the end, beginning with the object or a modifying phrase, anything that isn't what the sentence is about. I don't know who told them this was an interesting writing technique or that it would somehow make their sentence construction more enjoyable to read, but I'm guessing it must have been taught by someone at some point given its widespread usage among my classes.
And while this disturbs me to no end, I can't seem to stop them from doing--and I've started doing it, too. What happened to good old declarative sentences?
I am hungry. I am going to eat a sandwich. It will be made of meats and cheeses. I am referencing the film "Bridesmaids." and so on.
While my students are mixing up their words in a vain attempt--I think--to sound smarter than they are, it occurs to me that we--collectively (all you humans out there and me)--have become so complicated in our rhetoric, so intent on moving things around, so skilled at changing the subject, that we may not have real conversations much any more.
I'm focused on this because I have, of late, had some of the most real conversations of my life. Hard ones that have involved tears and clenched fists, averted eyes and whispers. The kinds of conversations people have to have, absolutely have to have, if meaningful change is ever going to occur--but they're also the kinds of conversations no one and I mean no one wants to have willingly. It's just so damn much easier to joke and laugh, to evade and hedge, to hide and keep silent.
Maybe what my students are doing is burying what they really want to say because they are afraid of saying it wrong, so they've concocted this twisted structure that allows them to ease you into their point of view, to seduce you with a subordinating conjunction and a prepositional phrase before hitting you with a statement so wildly true that it nearly knocks you breathless. Maybe they are trying to show me how hard it is for them to say what they feel or think because no one has ever allowed them to do that before. And maybe, given my own recent conversations, I really get it.
I know the impulse to apologize for having a feeling, to ask for forgiveness for expressing myself, to dismiss my own needs and wants as unnecessary, to change the damn subject just so that I don't make anyone else uncomfortable, but I don't want to do it anymore. I want to be uncomfortable, I want to squirm and itch and worry and wonder and say what I need to say anyway, certain that the receiving ears won't shut down, walk out, turn deaf. I want to stick to the subject, to be brave, to put my feelings first and to believe I am enough, just as I am, and that anyone who can't take what I have to say isn't worth the effort.
And I want you to feel that way, too.
Imagine how lovely the world could be if we all just sat back, open our hearts and minds, our mouths and ears, and vowed to listen as well and as hard as we spoke, and to never, even when it gets hard, change the subject.
And while this disturbs me to no end, I can't seem to stop them from doing--and I've started doing it, too. What happened to good old declarative sentences?
I am hungry. I am going to eat a sandwich. It will be made of meats and cheeses. I am referencing the film "Bridesmaids." and so on.
While my students are mixing up their words in a vain attempt--I think--to sound smarter than they are, it occurs to me that we--collectively (all you humans out there and me)--have become so complicated in our rhetoric, so intent on moving things around, so skilled at changing the subject, that we may not have real conversations much any more.
I'm focused on this because I have, of late, had some of the most real conversations of my life. Hard ones that have involved tears and clenched fists, averted eyes and whispers. The kinds of conversations people have to have, absolutely have to have, if meaningful change is ever going to occur--but they're also the kinds of conversations no one and I mean no one wants to have willingly. It's just so damn much easier to joke and laugh, to evade and hedge, to hide and keep silent.
Maybe what my students are doing is burying what they really want to say because they are afraid of saying it wrong, so they've concocted this twisted structure that allows them to ease you into their point of view, to seduce you with a subordinating conjunction and a prepositional phrase before hitting you with a statement so wildly true that it nearly knocks you breathless. Maybe they are trying to show me how hard it is for them to say what they feel or think because no one has ever allowed them to do that before. And maybe, given my own recent conversations, I really get it.
I know the impulse to apologize for having a feeling, to ask for forgiveness for expressing myself, to dismiss my own needs and wants as unnecessary, to change the damn subject just so that I don't make anyone else uncomfortable, but I don't want to do it anymore. I want to be uncomfortable, I want to squirm and itch and worry and wonder and say what I need to say anyway, certain that the receiving ears won't shut down, walk out, turn deaf. I want to stick to the subject, to be brave, to put my feelings first and to believe I am enough, just as I am, and that anyone who can't take what I have to say isn't worth the effort.
And I want you to feel that way, too.
Imagine how lovely the world could be if we all just sat back, open our hearts and minds, our mouths and ears, and vowed to listen as well and as hard as we spoke, and to never, even when it gets hard, change the subject.
16 October 2011
Cycles
As I pulled into my driveway this morning after running errands, I saw two impatiens blossoms, white and open as full as any jazz trumpet, waving in the morning breeze to greet me. Add these gracious hosts to the still vibrant lilac blooms on the butterfly bush by my back gate and the lurid pink mouths of the sweetheart roses near the door, and no one would believe we were midway through October.
These flowers and their extravagant shocks of color woke me up this morning to an idea that's been tickling at my brainstem for awhile but wouldn't quite come into focus until now. I've been thinking so much about timing lately, about seasons, about the cycles we follow by rote, the ones we follow blindly, the one we adhere to without even realizing they exist, and the ways those cycle dictate a life to us that may not be the one that is most authentic to us as individuals.
Katherine Anne Porter wrote: “There seems to be a kind of order in the universe, in the movement of the stars and the turning of the earth and the changing of the seasons, and even in the cycle of human life. But human life itself is almost pure chaos. Everyone takes his stance, asserts his own rights and feelings, mistaking the motives of others, and his own.”
If she is right--and my life over the last couple of years certainly dictates that she is--and we are all living lives of almost pure chaos, then our feigning rightness, order, and certainty must be a huge part of what contributes to humankind's general unhappiness.
I have many friends in the throes of crisis today, personal, professional, internal, external, tangible and intangible, and at the heart of all of that suffering--and at the heart of my own--lies an overwhelming need to do what we all feel we "should" as opposed to doing what we want. I keep wondering what it is that has convinced us all that we don't deserve the joyous lives we envision for ourselves, what keeps us running around the track, chasing a mechanical bunny that never slows down, that always eludes us, that never ever ever satisfies.
And then, I think about my flowers. The rose and butterfly bushes are perennial, meant to return each year, but they are both far past their blooming season, and by all practical calculation the impatiens, an annual flower I plant each spring because their bobbing blooms always seem like nature nodding yes to me whenever I want to scream no, should really be dead by now. But they're not. These flowers aren't adhering to any cycle that seeks to see them wilt, die out, shrivel, or go underground for another year. These flowers are blooming--blooming!--right here by my door, reminding me that the only limits to my own blossoming are the ones I set for myself.
Today, I choose color and life and beauty, joy and brightness and blooming. I hope you, dear reader, do the same.
These flowers and their extravagant shocks of color woke me up this morning to an idea that's been tickling at my brainstem for awhile but wouldn't quite come into focus until now. I've been thinking so much about timing lately, about seasons, about the cycles we follow by rote, the ones we follow blindly, the one we adhere to without even realizing they exist, and the ways those cycle dictate a life to us that may not be the one that is most authentic to us as individuals.
Katherine Anne Porter wrote: “There seems to be a kind of order in the universe, in the movement of the stars and the turning of the earth and the changing of the seasons, and even in the cycle of human life. But human life itself is almost pure chaos. Everyone takes his stance, asserts his own rights and feelings, mistaking the motives of others, and his own.”
If she is right--and my life over the last couple of years certainly dictates that she is--and we are all living lives of almost pure chaos, then our feigning rightness, order, and certainty must be a huge part of what contributes to humankind's general unhappiness.
I have many friends in the throes of crisis today, personal, professional, internal, external, tangible and intangible, and at the heart of all of that suffering--and at the heart of my own--lies an overwhelming need to do what we all feel we "should" as opposed to doing what we want. I keep wondering what it is that has convinced us all that we don't deserve the joyous lives we envision for ourselves, what keeps us running around the track, chasing a mechanical bunny that never slows down, that always eludes us, that never ever ever satisfies.
And then, I think about my flowers. The rose and butterfly bushes are perennial, meant to return each year, but they are both far past their blooming season, and by all practical calculation the impatiens, an annual flower I plant each spring because their bobbing blooms always seem like nature nodding yes to me whenever I want to scream no, should really be dead by now. But they're not. These flowers aren't adhering to any cycle that seeks to see them wilt, die out, shrivel, or go underground for another year. These flowers are blooming--blooming!--right here by my door, reminding me that the only limits to my own blossoming are the ones I set for myself.
Today, I choose color and life and beauty, joy and brightness and blooming. I hope you, dear reader, do the same.
14 October 2011
In This Moment
Anyone who tells you life is easy once you get what you always wanted is both a liar and a genius.
The thing is, once events transpire and stars collide, there's almost always another piece that needs to fall into place, more work that needs to be done, four thousand conversations to still be had, and even after all of that, new crops will grow, reach their needy hands to the sky for sun and rain.
My point is that we are always transitioning.
I know what I can and cannot control. I know who I can and cannot trust. I know when I do and do not feel safe, and I am getting really good at figuring out how to handle all of it, but there are days when I want the future to be right now.
I am a big believer in living in the moment, and lately I have had some pretty spectacular moments. Blissful. Peaceful Easy. Loving. But that doesn't mean my heart doesn't skip a beat when the past rears it's ugly head or that my eyes don't start to twitch when I contemplate possible roadblocks in the future. It's human nature, after all, to plan, to think, to reflect, to wonder, to speculate, to dream. The trick, I think, is to be just as invested in the right now as we are in the before and the what comes next. I just have a really hard time doing that.
A friend once said that living in the moment is great except it means we never deal with the past or prepare for the future, and--if we don't--the past can come up and knock us on our ass and the future can knock the wind clean out of us. I get that. I have knocked out and breathless more times than I can count, so you'd think I'd be better at letting go of the bullshit attached to the residual and the possible, but I'm just not.
Today, I am trying to live in the light of what I know to be true rather than trying to stay in some arbitrary moment that feels like a whole lot of nothing. Today, I know I am loved. I know I am good. I know I am made of joy and truth and compassion.
I am.
And, in this moment, that is all that matters.
The thing is, once events transpire and stars collide, there's almost always another piece that needs to fall into place, more work that needs to be done, four thousand conversations to still be had, and even after all of that, new crops will grow, reach their needy hands to the sky for sun and rain.
My point is that we are always transitioning.
I know what I can and cannot control. I know who I can and cannot trust. I know when I do and do not feel safe, and I am getting really good at figuring out how to handle all of it, but there are days when I want the future to be right now.
I am a big believer in living in the moment, and lately I have had some pretty spectacular moments. Blissful. Peaceful Easy. Loving. But that doesn't mean my heart doesn't skip a beat when the past rears it's ugly head or that my eyes don't start to twitch when I contemplate possible roadblocks in the future. It's human nature, after all, to plan, to think, to reflect, to wonder, to speculate, to dream. The trick, I think, is to be just as invested in the right now as we are in the before and the what comes next. I just have a really hard time doing that.
A friend once said that living in the moment is great except it means we never deal with the past or prepare for the future, and--if we don't--the past can come up and knock us on our ass and the future can knock the wind clean out of us. I get that. I have knocked out and breathless more times than I can count, so you'd think I'd be better at letting go of the bullshit attached to the residual and the possible, but I'm just not.
Today, I am trying to live in the light of what I know to be true rather than trying to stay in some arbitrary moment that feels like a whole lot of nothing. Today, I know I am loved. I know I am good. I know I am made of joy and truth and compassion.
I am.
And, in this moment, that is all that matters.
12 October 2011
11 October 2011
Reading Makes the Waiting Go By
Head over here to read a great little piece by Sharon Randall. I'm in the grading vortex today, but her words are worth posting: Reading Makes the Waiting Go By
After all the essays are done, maybe then I can tell you about my booksale finds and how good life has been lately. Or, maybe, I'll read the books and live for awhile and not have much to say.
We'll see.
After all the essays are done, maybe then I can tell you about my booksale finds and how good life has been lately. Or, maybe, I'll read the books and live for awhile and not have much to say.
We'll see.
10 October 2011
For Good Reason
Even though there are good reasons for me to feel like pendulum Peggy--swinging wildly from one emotion to the next--I hate it. I want to be in a place of complete trust and safety, total joy and belief, a place where I know in my heart of hearts all will be well, but I just can't 100% of the time.
There are circumstances far beyond even the slightest hint of my control, people and places and histories that matter more and deserve time and effort towards an evolution and resolve that has not a damn thing to do with me, but I still wish I could know beyond all doubt that those wheels within wheels and fires within fires would all come to rest, flame out, and the scarred earth left behind would be truly ready for planting again--and soon.
And I wonder if my anxieties are solely about others, or if I've got some residual lack of faith in myself, in my worthiness of happiness, of joy. I know that I am good, whole, full of wonder at the world--I know I am a catch, but my hangups--sometimes--are that I don't always know everyone else knows it, so I get really antsy and irritated.
I hate being that girl.
Nathaniel Hawthorne, in The Scarlet Letter (which I love more very single time I teach it) writes: "[I]t is to the credit of human nature...that it loves more readily than it hates." Many of my students, today, disagreed and said human nature was hateful first because it was easier, that love takes work and most people are too lazy to do that work. I don't think that's true for me, or for them collectively as this year's crop is a pretty loving bunch, but I have to admit their words have haunted me all day in that I think--if not outwardly, towards others--perhaps inwardly we are exactly as they say, hateful towards ourselves because it is easier. Think about how hard it would be to wake up every morning and say, "I am beautiful, joyful, worthy of good things" and then navigate a world where no one else thinks so.
I guess my point tonight, and through all this ramble I swear I have one, is that even if there are good reasons for me to be anxious, afraid, swinging, there are better reasons for me to be full of love because, in the end, as Ryan Adams would say, "Love takes care of love, hate just burns you out." I don't want to burn out; I want to be made of light.
There are circumstances far beyond even the slightest hint of my control, people and places and histories that matter more and deserve time and effort towards an evolution and resolve that has not a damn thing to do with me, but I still wish I could know beyond all doubt that those wheels within wheels and fires within fires would all come to rest, flame out, and the scarred earth left behind would be truly ready for planting again--and soon.
And I wonder if my anxieties are solely about others, or if I've got some residual lack of faith in myself, in my worthiness of happiness, of joy. I know that I am good, whole, full of wonder at the world--I know I am a catch, but my hangups--sometimes--are that I don't always know everyone else knows it, so I get really antsy and irritated.
I hate being that girl.
Nathaniel Hawthorne, in The Scarlet Letter (which I love more very single time I teach it) writes: "[I]t is to the credit of human nature...that it loves more readily than it hates." Many of my students, today, disagreed and said human nature was hateful first because it was easier, that love takes work and most people are too lazy to do that work. I don't think that's true for me, or for them collectively as this year's crop is a pretty loving bunch, but I have to admit their words have haunted me all day in that I think--if not outwardly, towards others--perhaps inwardly we are exactly as they say, hateful towards ourselves because it is easier. Think about how hard it would be to wake up every morning and say, "I am beautiful, joyful, worthy of good things" and then navigate a world where no one else thinks so.
I guess my point tonight, and through all this ramble I swear I have one, is that even if there are good reasons for me to be anxious, afraid, swinging, there are better reasons for me to be full of love because, in the end, as Ryan Adams would say, "Love takes care of love, hate just burns you out." I don't want to burn out; I want to be made of light.
08 October 2011
Simply Beautiful
Today has the potential to be simply beautiful. Gorgeous weather, clean house, new books to read from the Lawrence Public Library book sale, good friends, Bright Eyes & Ryan Adams on the hi-fi...yep.
Great day.
07 October 2011
I Love My Job
I love my job. I work with kids all day long that remind me what it means to be youthful, hopeful, excited about the future, full of the wonder and total joy that possibility breeds in the human heart.
Today I got to tour the C-SPAN Campaing 2012 bus that stopped at our school so that our amazing Student Council kids could interview them.
Later in the morning, a former student sent me this image from Pinterest that reminded her of me--it's spot on and I loved that she sent it.
Another stopped by to hug me in the middle of a class.
After school I learned another former student just became the newest intern at the Art Institute of Boston gallery--I couldn't be more proud of her if I was paid to be.
Do you see what I'm getting at?
I know, every single day, that the job I do touches lives and makes a difference. But, not just for them. Being a teacher helps me to be a better me.
If it weren't for my job, it would be pretty easy for me to turn inward, get dark, and focus only on the things that scare me in my life, but I am a teacher, and I see every day what positivity, joy, laughter, and yep--love--can do when applied in daily practice to the lives of people learning who they are.
Today I got to tour the C-SPAN Campaing 2012 bus that stopped at our school so that our amazing Student Council kids could interview them.
Later in the morning, a former student sent me this image from Pinterest that reminded her of me--it's spot on and I loved that she sent it.
Another stopped by to hug me in the middle of a class.
After school I learned another former student just became the newest intern at the Art Institute of Boston gallery--I couldn't be more proud of her if I was paid to be.
Do you see what I'm getting at?
I know, every single day, that the job I do touches lives and makes a difference. But, not just for them. Being a teacher helps me to be a better me.
If it weren't for my job, it would be pretty easy for me to turn inward, get dark, and focus only on the things that scare me in my life, but I am a teacher, and I see every day what positivity, joy, laughter, and yep--love--can do when applied in daily practice to the lives of people learning who they are.
06 October 2011
Two Things
I'm pretty sure I'll spend forever with the man who figures out these two things are the way to my heart.
I Knew a Woman, Theodore Roethke
I knew a woman, lovely in her bones,
When small birds sighed, she would sigh back at them;
Ah, when she moved, she moved more ways than one:
The shapes a bright container can contain!
Of her choice virtues only gods should speak,
Or English poets who grew up on Greek
(I'd have them sing in chorus, cheek to cheek.)
How well her wishes went! She stroked my chin,
She taught me Turn, and Counter-turn, and stand;
She taught me Touch, that undulant white skin:
I nibbled meekly from her proffered hand;
She was the sickle; I, poor I, the rake,
Coming behind her for her pretty sake
(But what prodigious mowing did we make.)
Love likes a gander, and adores a goose:
Her full lips pursed, the errant note to seize;
She played it quick, she played it light and loose;
My eyes, they dazzled at her flowing knees;
Her several parts could keep a pure repose,
Or one hip quiver with a mobile nose
(She moved in circles, and those circles moved.)
Let seed be grass, and grass turn into hay:
I'm martyr to a motion not my own;
What's freedom for? To know eternity.
I swear she cast a shadow white as stone.
But who would count eternity in days?
These old bones live to learn her wanton ways:
(I measure time by how a body sways.)
When small birds sighed, she would sigh back at them;
Ah, when she moved, she moved more ways than one:
The shapes a bright container can contain!
Of her choice virtues only gods should speak,
Or English poets who grew up on Greek
(I'd have them sing in chorus, cheek to cheek.)
How well her wishes went! She stroked my chin,
She taught me Turn, and Counter-turn, and stand;
She taught me Touch, that undulant white skin:
I nibbled meekly from her proffered hand;
She was the sickle; I, poor I, the rake,
Coming behind her for her pretty sake
(But what prodigious mowing did we make.)
Love likes a gander, and adores a goose:
Her full lips pursed, the errant note to seize;
She played it quick, she played it light and loose;
My eyes, they dazzled at her flowing knees;
Her several parts could keep a pure repose,
Or one hip quiver with a mobile nose
(She moved in circles, and those circles moved.)
Let seed be grass, and grass turn into hay:
I'm martyr to a motion not my own;
What's freedom for? To know eternity.
I swear she cast a shadow white as stone.
But who would count eternity in days?
These old bones live to learn her wanton ways:
(I measure time by how a body sways.)
05 October 2011
Direction
Years ago, in another life, I was an actress. A high school theatre geek, a college actor, a woman of the stage, and I wasn't bad. I played some great roles and felt strong on stage, certain that I could deliver a performance that would move someone, and isn't that all any of us want to do? Put something in the world that will be well received, lauded, celebrated, praised?
Of all the parts I played, Audrey in Little Shop of Horrors was probably the most fun. So many of my then friends were in that little crackerbox of a show in the teeny tiny blackbox theatre of Hashinger Hall. I had a beehive, four inch heels, and one night I skidded across the stage and pulled a set wall down at the end of an act as I tried to keep from falling down.
But the role that challenged me most, bar none, was Meg in Crimes of the Heart. Not only was I terrified to do it--it was a big part and I felt like I knew that character so well, I wasn't scared of failing so much as I was afraid I wouldn't be good enough to do her justice--but the director was also a man for whom I had (still have) so much respect, I can only imagine it must be what working with DeNiro is like.
Greg wasn't just smart, talented, soulful, kind, funny--he was also my savior while I was in college. I was barely a non-traditional student, just two or three years older than my classmates, but damn if I didn't feel like I was living in another world. I'd attend classes and then sneak into his office and sit with him, laughing and talking and exchanging ideas, this man who was my mother's age though I never saw him like that made me feel like a full grown adult woman capable of making astute observations about the world. And he took me seriously. Not in that buttoned down, let's all have a cup of tea sort of a way but in that way that let's you know someone sees exactly who you are and completely digs you for it.
I've been thinking about Greg a lot lately, about the gift he gave me by casting me as Meg, and about all the other ways he helped me see myself in a whole new way. I'd returned to the small town where I went to high school and felt a little ashamed of that, I was in the same graduating class as my brother--this year marks our ten year college reunion (something only a school as small as ours would have)--and it felt a little degrading to be back where I'd started. But Greg gave me something better than direction on stage, he gave me direction in my life. He appreciated my early writing, encouraged me, and saw a spark in me that I wasn't really sure was anything more than a little psychological aurora borealis, my light just a phantom of the other lights that had come before me.
Today, I finished staging the show I'm directing this fall, and I got so excited about the way that final moment is going to look, about the way those kids are going to make an audience feel, and about the way I--hopefully--am going to be able to make those kids feel about themselves: strong, seen, capable.
Much as I loved being actress, nothing has ever felt as good as giving--and taking--direction.
Of all the parts I played, Audrey in Little Shop of Horrors was probably the most fun. So many of my then friends were in that little crackerbox of a show in the teeny tiny blackbox theatre of Hashinger Hall. I had a beehive, four inch heels, and one night I skidded across the stage and pulled a set wall down at the end of an act as I tried to keep from falling down.
But the role that challenged me most, bar none, was Meg in Crimes of the Heart. Not only was I terrified to do it--it was a big part and I felt like I knew that character so well, I wasn't scared of failing so much as I was afraid I wouldn't be good enough to do her justice--but the director was also a man for whom I had (still have) so much respect, I can only imagine it must be what working with DeNiro is like.
Greg wasn't just smart, talented, soulful, kind, funny--he was also my savior while I was in college. I was barely a non-traditional student, just two or three years older than my classmates, but damn if I didn't feel like I was living in another world. I'd attend classes and then sneak into his office and sit with him, laughing and talking and exchanging ideas, this man who was my mother's age though I never saw him like that made me feel like a full grown adult woman capable of making astute observations about the world. And he took me seriously. Not in that buttoned down, let's all have a cup of tea sort of a way but in that way that let's you know someone sees exactly who you are and completely digs you for it.
I've been thinking about Greg a lot lately, about the gift he gave me by casting me as Meg, and about all the other ways he helped me see myself in a whole new way. I'd returned to the small town where I went to high school and felt a little ashamed of that, I was in the same graduating class as my brother--this year marks our ten year college reunion (something only a school as small as ours would have)--and it felt a little degrading to be back where I'd started. But Greg gave me something better than direction on stage, he gave me direction in my life. He appreciated my early writing, encouraged me, and saw a spark in me that I wasn't really sure was anything more than a little psychological aurora borealis, my light just a phantom of the other lights that had come before me.
Today, I finished staging the show I'm directing this fall, and I got so excited about the way that final moment is going to look, about the way those kids are going to make an audience feel, and about the way I--hopefully--am going to be able to make those kids feel about themselves: strong, seen, capable.
Much as I loved being actress, nothing has ever felt as good as giving--and taking--direction.
04 October 2011
Spaces
I am a creature of space. I always have been. Pictures from my childhood bedrooms show them as rooms no one could have inhabited but me. Wallpapered with posters of Kirk Cameron and New Kids on the Block in middle school, then ads torn from Interview magazine in high school, glossy photos from theatre programs I thought I'd attend, quotations I loved.
In college, more of the same. Interview stuck around a long time, Rolling Stone covers, poems I loved, song lyrics, photos of friends and family. I've always needed the place I lived to look, to feel like me. To really reflect who I am. And, I've been blessed that my spaces have--usually--brought me great peace.
The house I'm in now has a copse of trees to the north that rushes in the breeze with the sweetest song, my sky pinks and purples, oranges and blues with each sun rise and set, and inside the rooms reflect everything about my personality from childhood til now.
Today, I was in a new space for a little bit. A space I hope to spend a lot of time in, a space that could--potentially--feel as much like home as this one.
Here's hoping.
In college, more of the same. Interview stuck around a long time, Rolling Stone covers, poems I loved, song lyrics, photos of friends and family. I've always needed the place I lived to look, to feel like me. To really reflect who I am. And, I've been blessed that my spaces have--usually--brought me great peace.
The house I'm in now has a copse of trees to the north that rushes in the breeze with the sweetest song, my sky pinks and purples, oranges and blues with each sun rise and set, and inside the rooms reflect everything about my personality from childhood til now.
Today, I was in a new space for a little bit. A space I hope to spend a lot of time in, a space that could--potentially--feel as much like home as this one.
Here's hoping.
03 October 2011
Spotify
With a special thanks to Jamie over at Mojo, etc., I have become a lover of Spotify. It basically makes your music collection available anywhere you have the application downloaded. All of it, as far as I can tell (every little dirty secret in your iTunes--Britney Spears, Foreigner, Oran "Juice" Jones, what have you). And you can look up new stuff and share playlists with friends. It's pretty badass.
These are just a few of the gems I've uncovered in the past few days. Enjoy.
These are just a few of the gems I've uncovered in the past few days. Enjoy.
Katie Herzig, "Oh My Darlin"
Lanterns on the Lake, "You're Almost There"
Fun featuring Janelle Monae, "We Are Young"
Andrew Belle, "The Ladder"
Bon Iver, "Towers"
02 October 2011
I Won't Let You Go
James Morrison. Amen.
when it’s black
take a little time to hold yourself
take a little time to feel around
before it’s gone
you won’t let go
but still keep on falling down
remember how you save me now
from all of my wrongs, yeah
if there’s love, just feel it
if there’s life, we’ll see it
this is no time to be alone, alone, yeah
i won’t let you go
say those words
say those words like there’s nothing else
close your eyes and you might believe
there is some way out
open up
open up your heart to me now
let it all come pouring out
there’s nothing i can’t take
if there’s love just feel it
if there’s life we see it
this is no time to be alone, alone, yeah
i won’t let you go
(won’t let you go)
(won’t let you go)
if your sky is falling
just take my hand and hold you
you don’t have to be alone, alone, yeah
i won’t let you go
(won’t let you go)
(won’t let you go)
and if you feel the fading of the light
and you’re too weak to carry on the fight
and all your friends that you cared for have disappeared
i’ll be here not gone forever holding on
if there’s love just feel it
if there’s life we see it
this is no time to be alone, alone, yeah
i won’t let you go
(won’t let you go)
(won’t let you go)
if there’s love just feel it
if there’s life we see it
this is no time to be alone, alone, yeah
i won’t let you go
(won’t let you go)
(won’t let you go)
i won’t let you go
i won’t let
i won’t let you go
i won’t let
i won’t let you go
i won’t let you go
when it’s black
take a little time to hold yourself
take a little time to feel around
before it’s gone
you won’t let go
but still keep on falling down
remember how you save me now
from all of my wrongs, yeah
if there’s love, just feel it
if there’s life, we’ll see it
this is no time to be alone, alone, yeah
i won’t let you go
say those words
say those words like there’s nothing else
close your eyes and you might believe
there is some way out
open up
open up your heart to me now
let it all come pouring out
there’s nothing i can’t take
if there’s love just feel it
if there’s life we see it
this is no time to be alone, alone, yeah
i won’t let you go
(won’t let you go)
(won’t let you go)
if your sky is falling
just take my hand and hold you
you don’t have to be alone, alone, yeah
i won’t let you go
(won’t let you go)
(won’t let you go)
and if you feel the fading of the light
and you’re too weak to carry on the fight
and all your friends that you cared for have disappeared
i’ll be here not gone forever holding on
if there’s love just feel it
if there’s life we see it
this is no time to be alone, alone, yeah
i won’t let you go
(won’t let you go)
(won’t let you go)
if there’s love just feel it
if there’s life we see it
this is no time to be alone, alone, yeah
i won’t let you go
(won’t let you go)
(won’t let you go)
i won’t let you go
i won’t let
i won’t let you go
i won’t let
i won’t let you go
i won’t let you go
01 October 2011
Exorcism
For some, exorcism conjures images of pea green soup and possessed little girls, priests and the seedy underbelly of Catholicism where it meets mystic and demonic ritual.
For me, it's about closets.
I have this passion for tearing everything out of my closets and exorcising the demons of my disorganization, be it clothes or office supplies, shoes (yes, I have an entire closet for shoes--and three shelves in another closet), or bath products, I have closets galore and they are filled with so much stuff that, when I get busy, I often just grab and shove until there's such a mess I can't tell my spaghetti strap tanks from my solid cotton t-shirts.
Everything used to be sorted by color--I still sort of stick to that--but now it's more about like items with like items, and today, digging through drawers and closets, boxes and bags I haven't looked into for awhile, I'm finding all kinds of things I'm just done with. Do I really need a t-shirt from a concert I didn't attend, even if it is a band I like, when I haven't worn the thing in seriously over five years? Or how about that pair of shoes I got way way way on clearance with the killer spike heel that hurt so much when I wear them that I basically always have to be sitting down?
Nope. Today I am the exorcist, sorting and tossing and generally putting things into an order that suits this me. It feels so good to take control of your space, even if I have basically been working on one room for the last four hours. But a woman's bedroom is a sacred space, it's bound to take a little time.
Take heart, though, fans--I am not haphazardly gutting my life. I have held on to the really important items, like the necklace my grandmother had made for me when I graduated from high school and my Ghostbusters eraser from 3rd grade on which I wrote my name and the fact that I was in 3rd grade. Priceless.
Some things have to be let go so that we can move into more open space while others, even if we thought we were done with them, resurface and prove to be the most important things in our lives.
Love, I have discovered recently, is like that, too. Sometimes we have to say goodbye to the love we thought would be our life so that the truest love can take root, hold fast, and grow.
For me, it's about closets.
I have this passion for tearing everything out of my closets and exorcising the demons of my disorganization, be it clothes or office supplies, shoes (yes, I have an entire closet for shoes--and three shelves in another closet), or bath products, I have closets galore and they are filled with so much stuff that, when I get busy, I often just grab and shove until there's such a mess I can't tell my spaghetti strap tanks from my solid cotton t-shirts.
Everything used to be sorted by color--I still sort of stick to that--but now it's more about like items with like items, and today, digging through drawers and closets, boxes and bags I haven't looked into for awhile, I'm finding all kinds of things I'm just done with. Do I really need a t-shirt from a concert I didn't attend, even if it is a band I like, when I haven't worn the thing in seriously over five years? Or how about that pair of shoes I got way way way on clearance with the killer spike heel that hurt so much when I wear them that I basically always have to be sitting down?
Nope. Today I am the exorcist, sorting and tossing and generally putting things into an order that suits this me. It feels so good to take control of your space, even if I have basically been working on one room for the last four hours. But a woman's bedroom is a sacred space, it's bound to take a little time.
Take heart, though, fans--I am not haphazardly gutting my life. I have held on to the really important items, like the necklace my grandmother had made for me when I graduated from high school and my Ghostbusters eraser from 3rd grade on which I wrote my name and the fact that I was in 3rd grade. Priceless.
Some things have to be let go so that we can move into more open space while others, even if we thought we were done with them, resurface and prove to be the most important things in our lives.
Love, I have discovered recently, is like that, too. Sometimes we have to say goodbye to the love we thought would be our life so that the truest love can take root, hold fast, and grow.
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