Zippered Self

ZOELAB DAY 356

Date of Original Post:  August 22, 2013

To return is to begin again.

Sorting out the selves, 

In holdable piles.

I try them all on at once.

They fit, sort of.

But then again, it’s too many selves to know.

Removing them, I start from scratch.

This is the place to begin again.

In between two worlds.

The large culture and the small.

Both, with their imposing language of distraction,

knock me down.

But there is more than that,

there is this thing I am doing, 

something radical and secret and quiet

something so very mine,

that I dare not say it.

Identity is a flimsy and beautiful thing.

It is a symbol suit to wear for others.

I try it on and zip it up.

Not ready yet for meaning,

I lie down, 

ready to receive the rain.

After all, I have a body that speaks to me

inside

with messages that reach beyond cultures.

The body knows more than the

flimsy zippered self.

Chaos & Connection

ZOELAB DAY 154

Original Date of Post: February 4, 2013

Chaos & Connection

Inside

I’m opening up the circles of molecules--

letting the atoms fly out to become their destiny

trust comes later

after surrender 

how could you let go 

unless your heart knew there was something out there to catch you?

Spinning out into the stars--

at one with the mystery.

But I return for the heart that I left behind--

after a hazardous journey home

I find that all our hearts are there

where we left them

scattered over the sick earth

I dreamt of this as a child: 

tidal waves

falling down above the stairs

count dracula

but I daydreamt of this:

forced, because of circumstances,

to have all our hearts linked--

harmony and kindness

I still love it here--

I want bees to make honey

and parachuters to land

and oceans to wave

and frogs to croak

and hearts to rise

together

connected

together

connected

letting what it is

be 

what it is

Breaking The Rules + The Routine

I am a daily practice pusher. A creative crusader, challenger.

But... sometimes you need to break from the routine. Sometimes you need to break the rules and play hooky from your daily practices. Sometimes you need to “be bad” in order to find out the edges of your personality. Sometimes you have to try something different or just take the day off. 

Today has been that kind of day.

Instead of meditating, taking my mountain walk, writing and eating papaya (including the seeds). Instead of sticking to my no-wheat, no sugar, no red meat, (mostly) no dairy diet, I drove to Cabo and went to my favorite bakery to eat their chickpea pesto panini after six weeks with out bread. It was crunchy delicious. Then I wandered around the mall feeling like a tourist in a slick jungle.  When you live in the desert the mall feels you feel like a strange, dirty animal.

And then I decided it was time to change things up a bit with this Museletter. My original intention with this letter back in June was to motivate me to keep in touch with you and to hold myself accountable to communicate once a week. And when I first started, I wasn’t sure if I had anything to say, so I thought I could still stay in touch by sharing links to things to read, listen to and look at.

On the one hand, I have always loved the idea of being a tastemaker, a person who enthusiastically shares art forms that inspire me. I secretly believe I have excellent taste, and have worked for many years to cultivate my taste, so I thought why not? Why not me? I had once sent such a letter last year with links to the creative things my friends and family were doing. And I had so enjoyed it.

But now, I see how how that decision was fueled by an unconscious desire to hide my writing and hide from my writing. The links was my back up plan. I thought: "if I have nothing to say, I can just share some links." But I discovered, week after week, (it’s been 14 weeks to be exact) that I actually had a lot to say. And it seems that perhaps my readers are more interested in what I have been writing about more than what music I've been listening to (especially since I tend to hear about things a little later.)  

Also, I have been looking at the way I spend my time. Because I am a Mom and have so many projects I am currently working on, I realize that I need to be more efficient with how I choose to conduct these projects. I’ve spent many hours every week designing these emails. I realize it would be more efficient and more useful to put my recommendations on my blog with tags so that anyone can find them. My goal with my website has always been to make it a space for creative resources. The blog already is somewhat that way. But there is a lot more to add! 

From now on, I will still be sending you a weekly letter, with a few links at time, but not with the whole fancy sidebar thing. Eventually, these kinds of recommendations, things to read, listen to and look at, will make it up on the blog. If you have an opinion on this shift in format, I would love to hear it! 

Do hold yourself to rules or routines that sometimes need re-assessing or occasional breaking? Do you like to break your own rules just to know how it feels?

I would like to end this email with a poem I wrote last summer in response to my own assignment for the writing class I taught called breaking the rules. I wrote the poem on the back of a print out of an ee cummings poem. 

I said break the rules but what did I really mean?

Holding onto myself.

No more.

Being a good girl.

Fuck that.

Saying No

when I mean YESSSSSS inside.

Letting the exclamation points

pile up until they look like pick up sticks.

Letting the handwriting be as erratic as it needs to be.

Rhyming sometimes.

And then 

not.

Not practicing what I teach.

Like honesty, badness, goodness and not holding back.

Here’s another way we can do it.

Write on top of the holy words

of your favorite poet.

Get odd when it’s time to play doubles.

Brag about your high score and don't let someone shame your points.

Don't forget to be a social climber,

and a bad one too,

who drinks too much and doesn’t introduce herself.

This can be about anything

as long as you don’t follow my instructions.

Get wise when you feel the boldness coming.
Etch it out in clear plastic,

ink it out,

your story 

that used to rhyme.

Forgive your sentences for being sincere and seductive.

Forgive your boss for laying you off.

Don’t tell her off.

Tell her on—thank her

for pushing you towards destiny.

She might thank you some day too.

For igniting her last moment of history.

The rule breaking 

goes on and on.

Way beyond pen to paper. 

Pencil habits.

Backwards
Words back 

Back Woods

Dirt Circles

I know it’s okay to write beside you com ings.

Come in.

Into me. You 

taught me

how

to love the in-betweens

And the rules

 that are so beautiful 

when turned upside down.

That’s what we are doing with our pen hearts

our holdovers our chicken scratched fingers.

Don’t have the poem hate the poet

who wants to alter you and marry and divorce you

until you are no longer who you used to be.

Until you are wholefingers 

growing out 

of your childhood gloves. 

Those don’t fit me anymore, you say,

and I believe you.

I believe your worthiness.
Your soul rise.

I’m a late bloomer too.

Born in the 70’s.It took me a while to

shine my sun on.

It too me a while to 

Rise on.

It took me a while to hear the true story

that was covered in dust.

It took me a while to reach conclusions.

wisdomwaiting

wholehearing

death becoming

random showing

old gloating

rhythm floating

Georgian Poet + Storyteller 

approaching

just when you thought you knew how to teach 

unteaching.

Never. Never. Never.

Say Never.

Unless you believe death has a say

in how your soul speaks.

Creatures Night and Day

ZOELAB DAY 94

Original Date of Post: December 3 2012

There is something to be said for peeing under the stars. Where the crickets can see you. I can hear them now with their staccato siren call. A surround sound symphony easing me into night.

And the stars, they are here to remind me how empty I am, that there are star-sized spaces inside. And the moths, with their lamp worship, inspire and disgust me with their number and their diligence. In the morning, they are still there, calmer now, just sleeping through the day, where all light is equal.

To really arrive here, at home, is a relief. Living with the creatures, I find my way towards acceptance. We both can be ruthless. 

Today I destroyed a black widow nursery. Maybe. The tiny soft sacs cradled in web nests under the seat of the wrought iron chair. I poked them with the tips of the gardening shears I found yesterday. Then I saw the mamma, but I could not identify her in the book. I stomped on her with out knowing if she was dangerous. I, with my foot and my gardening shears, was dangerous. I spoke to her as I killed her, and I felt it. The brutality of nature. It’s that way sometimes, when we have someone we need to protect. 

Don't Let The Bastards Get You Down

ZOELAB DAY 334

Original Date of Post: August 3 2013

A poem written to my inner child.

Don’t let the bastards get you down, my little one.

Be strong, and bring forth the parts you know to be true.

For if you do not, you will have not lived the life you were blessed with.

Little women are lucky to have a strong and principled mother.

I have been with shaky principles, shaky sense of self.

I have been a prisoner in a tomb of outside aggrandizement.

I have been asleep and dreaming of darkness.

I have been so so asleep, so very small, in the worst way.

So very blind to the ways of darkness.

I have suddenly become greatful for the gift of words and clay.

I am alive with my own mistakes.

My mistakes are my past prisons, but are now my truths that set me free.

I am no longer waiting to die.

I am reliving my birth.

I am relieving my forgetfulness by accepting my disconnected heart.

I have refound my heart.
I have refound what is lost daily, but remembered 

through looking away for a moment.

My eyes are focused only by slowing down. Only by seeing my own disappointment and frustration.

There is no difference between truth and art.

The difference is discipline and honor. To honor truth with discipline is art.

There is no truth except that which is.

Come to me, little one,
Hold my hand. 

You have reason not to trust me because I have ignored you for so long. 

But you can see and feel that I am here right now. 

I have come back to you with my midnight mirror and my telescope.

I have come back just to hold your hand, 

and to listen to your most intimate secrets. 

To be the friend you dream of.

To be yours.

Only yours.

All yours.

I cannot promise anything because only this moment counts.

All there is is now.

All I can be is here.

You and I. 

I love you with deep truthful compassionate unconditional love.

My gift to you is to accept you exactly as you are with no judgment.

I see your great heart’s desires. I see your frustrations with your limitations.

To imagine is to be limitless.

It is the word of god.

Befriend your imagination.

And trust yourself. 
Accept yourself.

No matter how bad you think you may be.

What ever it is. It is,

And it must be.

When The Going Gets Tough

When the going gets tough,

remember to paint a picture

of your heart

where the tiny voice speaks

to you

in its sorrow, and in its rage and its wanting.

It says:

“It is never too late to hear me.

But if it has been a long time,

Then you might need to approach

Gently,

With a compassion that is

Just beyond your reach,

And requires you to jump into an empty, dark space.

But if you take that courageous leap,

you will win me back,

and your will

becomes aligned

with mine.”

Why I must write

To write

before they wake up

before the sun rises

before the tea boils

before my thoughts become practical.

To write before I say why I shouldn’t

before I eat something,

before my stomach settles,

before I take a shit,

before I take off the layers of me that I put on for other people,

before

before

before.

Because if I do not write, something in me will surely die.

What is it? This something?

It is rain.

It is paradise.

It is the smallest voice of the surest truth.

It is the part that cannot speak.

It is the part that needs protection.

It is the part that saw me grow into a woman.

It is my voice.

Of invisible knowledge.

Of inside celebration.

Of inner heartache for the invisible and indescribable and untouchable.

I must get others to join me—in this waking up of the voice. 

In this holy act that no one will ask us to do.

I must lead the way for the others who are even quieter than me.

I ask you to wake up your own voice!

Let this voice

lead you to faraway places

allow you to end jobs and relationships and situations

that squelch this voice.

Or, at the very least,

if you cannot leave anything,

Make a space for yourself:

It can be a very small—

Small enough for you and your hands, and whatever you need to express your voice.

But, by all means, express this voice inside of you.

Because if you do not,

Something in you will surely die.

You will find it again, one day, when you return to the gentle listening,

But the voice will need some thawing and some massaging.

Something to WAKE IT UP!

So instead of waiting, 

Just do it now.

Okay?

Do it first. 

Before the kids wake up.

Before the sun rises.

Before the coughing stops.

Before you feel alright.

Before the other voices call you away.

Because I have a secret to tell you:

you were born an artist.

Because you have a soul,

and that soul speaks.

Your soul speaks!

It speaks in languages that are quieter and complex and sometimes unseen.

The language it speaks

is a kaleidoscope of pain and longing

And celebration.

The soul is eternal, as is art.

Which is to say, it exists outside of time.

Your job is to become alive to this language, this voice.

To ride inside time,

Like a mother attuned to her child’s quiverings and stirrings.

It belongs to you, but it belongs to the world.

Your soul doesn’t care 

If your voice sounds good.

It only wants to sound like itself.

Combining Poetry & Music Inspired by The Open Reading

This year I inherited a community event--The Open Reading. The woman who ran it for 8 years, Susan, called me in the fall and told me she was done with hosting  and asked me if I would like to take over. I was honored. The Open Reading is an event in Todos Santos that was started twenty years ago by another woman, now in her 80's, as way to bring the English-speaking writers together in the area of Todos Santos. My goal, ultimately, would for it to become a bi-lingual event--as the first Mariposa Night was.

I hosted the last open reading of the season in May at Taverna Dominique--which has since closed.  Even though I had brought my microphone and amp that day, our voices could not be amplified because the electricity was down. Instead, we sat closer together than usual, and read from our seats. It was more intimate than other open readings, and the first women who read asked for feedback--which I had never seen happen before. This prompted everyone to ask for feedback. The discussions and the lack of amplification made the event feel more like a workshop. This felt right to me, as it often feels strange after a reading to not receive feedback. Reading your writing in public is vulnerable, and it is important to get a sense of how people respond to your work.

I read last, as I always do since I became host. I read my piece about Mariposa Night. I wrote it in a more experimental style that I've been trying lately, which is a combination of an essay, a story & a poem. After reading it, I received some very positive feedback. One person told me that it made her want to go to Mariposa Night--which was one of the goals of the piece. One writer, Michael, suggested that I record my voice speaking the piece, and add music. I really liked that idea. I had already been experimenting with this idea in a collaboration with my amazing & talented therapist/musician/artist friend Holly Mae. In our collaboration, I wove two different poems together, thus masking them. You can listen to it here. It's called Open Up The Space.

I have yet to make a recording of the Mariposa Night piece. But instead, I recorded myself reading one of my recent poems that I like, called A Spider's Poem. I read the poem in three different voices and then layered the voices in different ways--even though they overlap, the repetition of the same poem highlights the lines rather than masking them.

Here it is:

Aesthetic responses?

What is the feeling of this piece?

What images does it bring?

Is it hard to grasp because of the layering or does the meaning come through?

(inspired by the gift)

The poets of past knew something worth knowing.

To value that which is invisible to the eye and to listen
with the open throats of baby birds.

There are secrets written
That hold truths unwritten
That live already inside.

We have unlearned listening
Because our minds are borrowed by
Our technology.

Free your mind to what is already here,
What you already sense.
The smallest voice
tickling
your smallest ears.

These secrets feel like dead language at first.
Foreign to the point of obsolete. But look again.
Take some time to open slowly,
like a morning flower.
Hold all calls.
Suspend all will.
It will do you no good here.

Let the words revolve around the brain spiral
getting closer and closer
the central heart
that beats in rhythm with the poets and the saints,
the givers of gifts,
that spoke of a kind of knowing.

We think religion is bad.
Religion is not bad
And it’s not good either.

It is time to design your own--
To value nothing is to be ungrateful.
Find your value. Your values. Unearth them from rocks.
Dig them out from ant hills.
Look for them in the sky. Touch them on your skin.

Create them out of the compost of the living.

Use what you have and then go make more.

Give what you have and you will be empty/full.

Knowledge of God does not help you here.

What helps is
what your toes are already touching. Let the floor’s voice speak to you

And in this tiny listening
A revolution will occur
In the part you least expect.

How to Sing or Do Anything

Way back when I was in college in the 1990's, I wrote a poem called "How to Masturbate." It was a racy title for a spiritual type of experience in nature. That started a new form of poetry for me, that I like to call "Instructive Poetry." Since then I have written a few more. I hope to someday publish a book of instructive poems.

Here's one I wrote recently about my experience of training myself to sing. The more I learn about my journey of creativity and art, the more I see that art is a process of training ourselves to be free.

The art above is an ink drawing/painting I made last week with Emilio, my five year old.

HOW TO SING or do anything

Give up all hope, all memory.
Give up all strivings for greatness.
And find yourself
here.
Empty of that great illusion
that splits every body, action and thought into
two.

And from here,
this spaciousness,
deliver the sound
that already exists in the future. Go to meet it with
your devotion
your heartache
your infinitely unique vibrations.

Open up that channel
of body
and mind
and spirit.

and let the light shine through to all darknesses.
Straighten and flex your spine.
there are endless secrets
duplicating in there.

Release them through your heart and hands and voice.

Let them reach who they need to reach.
Paying no mind.
If the vibrations reach someone,
you will know at some future date.

Come Forward with Your Art

Come forward with your art,
come share the truth of  your decay,
your ultimate humility.

come forward with your art,
with your seed gifts
    which sacrifice ego
and amplify soul.
The only real sin is
    being un-whole. Unholy.

Fragmented-like
a bird
  flying
with out a wing.

Come forward with your art,
I will bless you
  with bubbles
and manifest your heart
 into its proper dimension.

Come forward with your art,
     and feel how big you can be.
Just how much space
a soul is
when laid out
   against the world.

Come forward, my love,
with your art,
   and experience
 the rebirth of time.

Come forward with your art,
and you will learn
  (from scratch)
how to
     become one.

It is the mind that disappears
   when we awaken to our thousand
         mysterious destinies.

Come forward with your art,
           and you will look your most secret
most dangerous
   fear
 in the face
and feel your unfathomable
                                     darkness grow
into veins
     of gold.
Extending you outwards,
   tree branches
     fed by the ground and the sky.

And here, as golden tree,
   your rootedness meets its celestial mirror.

   And oneness is felt
as one tiny speck
 in the center of it all.

This speck—-
    this is your he(art).

I will meet you there.
                                

Poem Inspired by Andrea Gibson

                                                                  Video still by Mathew McNamara

What would I write

if I did not feel a need to sensor myself?

that I have the deepest love 

for my own body.

for my self 

that spills  out  everywhere, 

in spite of 

and past the 

shame 

that has kept me 

under wraps.

i am so tired 

of the hiding—-

it takes 

so much out of me.

and then what is left?

the skin, with its half truths.

my stuff has been spilled 

all over the floor

with the shit

and the grape juice

and the garbage 

from the storm.

the rigid inadequacies

swallowed whole 

rotting in the belly:

the pretending to be smaller 

quieter

prettier

sweeter

stupider

than i am.

where can i lie awake in this festival of hiding?

underground—

worming my way through the dirt

finding the bones of yesterday

announcing themselves

as living free.

down here

it smells like 

the love of everything.

Everyday/Everynight

Every night I die.
Every day I am reborn.

This wasn’t my plan—

but I stopped being able to shrink 

from its truth.

Why is it that the trees 

that surround me do not take in my fear?

They have no use for it—bending to the will of the wind.

Their roots know that fear is the opposite of shelter.

The trees are not self-hating, 

and have no magazines

telling them how to seem

or catalogues telling them what to want.

The self that dies dissolves

into the dreamless sleep

darkness its master.

I have learned to surrender.

After all,

it’s not my doing or undoing—

The passage of the planets, 

and their posses of playthings.

What is up to me is

already quite enough—

all five senses

keeping track of their inward knowledge,

unfolding to

art.

And the sixth?

the free agent organ.

the heart.

The brain has no business there.

And the heart —is it my doing or undoing?

Or is it simply my friend—when I remember.

I remember

in the morning,

when I am reborn,

and have just had my first sip of dew

and am stretching my fresh, fine pair

of wings.

These wings may get clipped today—

by fear.

The air has not yet determined it.

Or they may 

lead me to flight—

but only by keeping my wandering eye

here,

on my heart.

The Spider's Poem

I have been a sealed up hermit, since the hurricane, and poetry is what has been coming out of me. Maybe one day soon, I'll try to publish some of my poetry.

The Spider's Poem

And she, 

of the eight legs

rushes into the night

making

others

dreams

happen

with a flick of the wrist

turning away

from her knowledge of

the spider’s poem.

Makeshift

simultaneous

slower than summer.

Upright

in its need to tell the truth

The truth—

where does it lead her?

Away from brown packages.

Away from city living.

Away from the prized possessions

of the other side

of the world.

The other side

of the world

where

Emotion—

has been drugged down

into the underworld

& 

there is no place

to weave her poem

because there is no space

to live a dream

that is larger than

one poem

one web

one history

one voice.

The other side

of the world

where

Machines—

are drumming up the business

of human hands

which still work

in conjunction

with the needs 

of the grids & the grates

keeping fires

in check 

and electricity 

flowing

on the other side of the world.

Togetherness—

this is the

underlying

revolutionary

experience

of the cells & 

the stars & 

the machines even.

Don’t call her away 

from the matters of weaving

seed-started destinies

growing out of garbage.

She won’t have it any other way.

Poems by New Yorkers in Massachusetts

Sunday, May 25, 2014

When my brother and I were in Massachusetts this summer visiting my parents, we decided to take a hike one day on Monument Mountain. Monument Mountain is a beautiful piece of Berkshires landscape that is famous for having inspired writers. "On August 5, 1850, Nathaniel Hawthorne and Herman Melville enjoyed a well-chronicled picnic hike up Monument Mountain. A thunderstorm forced them to seek refuge in a cave where a lengthy and vigorous discussion ensued, inspiring powerful ideas for Melville’s new book, Moby Dick, which he dedicated to Hawthorne." 

Alexander and I climbed while we chatted fervently (as is our style) about writing. On the way up the mountain, he told me about the novel that he has been working on and his excitement about being dedicated to a project outside of academia. He listed off all the books he has been reading to help him focus on the task of actually writing a novel. On the way down the mountain we talked about the memoir I have been struggling with for the past year, and how I really want it to be a story I tell on stage, but am having the hardest time finding "the story" within my life. He suggested I make fun of myself a little--and the first thing I thought of was my embarrassment about my secret and shameful desire for fame.

We tend to lose our connection to our surroundings when we get deeply in a conversation, which is what happened, as we neared the end of the 90 minute hike. Suddenly we had no idea how to get back to the car where we had parked. Luckily, we saw a hiker walking confidently down the path and asked her for directions. She pointed us in the right direction, and we chatting breathlessly with her as we walked back to our cars together. She told us that her trail name had been "the happy hiker" but was considering changing it. She asked us for advice--we tried, but we were unable to offer anything useful. She told us she was doing a project called 365 poems by new yorkers, where she asks people on the New York Subway to write a poem, which she then publishes on her site. I was immediately drawn to her. She, like us, is a born and bred New Yorker in Massachusetts visiting her family. She asked us if we would participate in her project. We agreed. When we got to the bottom of the hill--we each wrote a quick poem in a little notebook. She took a photo of each of us, and we exchanged email addresses. She is also a filmmaker and writer. And teaches children and has twin daughters. I found her utterly compelling.

The day after hurricane Odile, she emailed me letting me know she was ready to publish my poem alongside Alexander's but she had lost the second page. She asked me if I could re-write the second part of my poem. I had no memory of what I had written, so I added what came to me on the spot. Unfortunately, our poems are not side by side as I was waylaid from internet because of Odile (which my friend Holly Mae told me is the name of the Black Swan (the shadow of the Swan Queen from Swan Lake). Here are the two links to the poems and the project:

Alexander's Poem

Zoë's Poem

Here is my poem (with the newly-fashioned ending):

I am famous to the trees

who look over me 

who have known me 

before 

before

I was born

before 

the terrible 

act of birth

before the DNA

fought for its right to be seen.

Under their patient arms

I grow

and let go

of the need

the pressing

need.

To become 

something

beyond the destiny 

of trees.

Whole

Here is a poem I wrote a few days ago after a particularly rich, self-facing, nature-emergent day.

I

Throw your ego to the wolves

and the sparks of your youth will fly towards you.

You go to meet that ancient child—

you, 

as future self.

Imperfectly perfect

with your secrets 

worn as flowers in your hair.

II

I lay on the ground today,

bits of it still lie on my back

as I sit here

remembering

the touch of it

the feel of it

the weight of my body—

like a fallen tree

and then

I lay on the cement,

and watched the clouds undress

the moon.

This morning I read that clouds

weigh as much as 20 elephants.

I weigh as much as heaven when I’m upside down.

III

I faced my self underground—

she had ribbons as roots

and no desire

other than to know me

exactly as I am.

Future and past,

lion & queen

madly mated in holy ritual.

how to be an artist

ZOELAB DAY 74

how to be an artist

Let everything in you count

(even shit storms) 

     and carry a pen.

    especially softness. 

listen for it, 

   its voice waits to be heard.

    paying special attention 

to the child.

Don’t judge the different parts, 

     love them or let them be.

After all, we are letting our hearts matter. 

We are daring to live from the right side of the brain.

Don’t be lazy 

unless you are trying to be lazy.

Let the child inside

live out its course. 

Follow her closely, 

delight in her delights, 

cradle her rage, 

listen to her lessons. 

Most of all, respect her, 

for she makes the artist in you.

Everything you have ever been and will ever be 

is right here in the room with you.

Don’t chase it,

let it come to you when it is called for.

You are becoming: 

1. desire/love (ego/egoless, wants something in return/wants nothing in return)

2. belief

3. courage

4. commitment

5. stubbornness

6. grace

Dare to take up space in this world. 

           You are only practicing the art of being yourself.

Turning Against The Self

ZOELAB DAY 68

Buddha was said to have said: 

“not getting what you desire and getting what you desire 

can both be disappointing.”

Sometimes we get what we want, and we rejoice.

Sometimes we get what we want, and fear makes us recoil.

Sometimes we don’t get what we want, and we learn and grow.

Sometimes we don’t get what we want, and we turn against ourselves.

There are times when my heart opens up with desire. Especially around my birthday. But if things don’t go my way, sometimes I identify with the child in me, and let it be about the ego. I tell myself a story that makes it all about me. This is how children are in the world. Not only do they easily get disappointed, but they personalize, they think there must be something wrong with them, and that’s why they didn’t get what they wanted. As the story that I tell myself continues, as a balm for the disappointment, I see the cause to be direct action against me. As if the world wanted it that way. And then, instead of soothing the hurt child, I turn against her, unconsciously aligning myself with my projected view of the world. This is perhaps an adolescent response--thinking the world is paying attention to our disappointments. And that we are the only ones feeling that way. When really, the world is in a constant flux of a totality of disappointments and triumphs, as well as everything beyond.

You may be wondering, what kind of disappointments am I speaking of? They are the same disappointments we all feel in a daily way: we didn’t receive the phone call we were expecting, our favorite tea cup broke, our life doesn’t look quite like we want it to. But, when I really think about it, the greatest disappointment is usually in myself. Ultimately I am disappointed by my own abandonment--by not taking care of myself, not keeping my life in balance, not giving myself enough rest, not taking care of my own needs. It is a disruption of function within the inner family of the psyche. It is easy to blame the world, but it is impossible for the world to take responsibility. It is more effective, and far more empowering, to take responsibility for my own feelings, and my own actions or lack of actions. Of course sometimes events happen that are beyond our control, but still, we always have a choice in how we respond. And in how we care for ourselves. Often, when the heart is vulnerable and full of longing, it is a sign that the inner child is needing attention, and the inner adult self, whose job is it is to take care of the child, is wrapped up in the outer world that seems to have no room for those quiet soulful needs.

However, that is not the end of the story. Even after I’ve caused further suffering from turning against the little self while it already feels vulnerable, I realize that as soon as I start to have compassion again, and show kindness, the little self didn’t actually come to any permanent harm. It never seems too late to show kindness. Again, like a child, the self is resilient. It can endure great suffering, and responds well to compassion. It is soft, yet strong, like a jelly fish. Maybe it stings a little in self defense, and instead of breaking when poked, it gives just a little, and then its body fills back into the space after the aggravator is gone. 

I notice with three year old Emilio, whose ego is not yet fully formed, that he does not yet personalize his disappointment. If he feels disappointed, which sometimes happens several times a day, his response sometimes is to go into arage, but more and more often, his response is to go into a corner of the room and hide. He goes under a blanket or a desk or a table. Perhaps this is how he tends to the hurt part of himself, or perhaps he is ashamed. Or perhaps a little of both. Either way, after only a few minutes of hiding, he returns to his world of play, bounced back in full recovery (just like the jelly fish.)

Another way to see this cycle of separation and reunion is as a spiritual longing for connection with the The Self. Here is a poem by Rumi to illustrate:

Love Dogs

by Rumi

One night a man was crying,

                                                Allah! Allah!

His lips grew sweet with the praising,

until a cynic said,

                             “So! I have heard you

calling out, but have you ever

gotten any response?”

The man had no answer to that.

He quit praying and fell into a confused sleep.

He dreamed he saw Khidr, the guide of the souls,

in a thick, green foliage.

                                        “Why did you stop praising?”

“Because I’ve never heard anything back.”

                                                                   “This longing

you express is the return message.”

The grief you cry out from

draws you toward union.

Your pure sadness

that wants help

is the secret cup.

Listen to the moan of a dog for its master.

That whining is the connection.

There are love dogs

no one knows the names of.

Give your life

to be one of them.

Storm

ZOELAB DAY 59

With the east coast of the United States on my mind, I remember a poem I wrote in 2001 when a hurricane hit New York. It is strange to now be the one far away from the storm. I fear for my friends and family and all people under the monster storm. Sending love...

The invisible signs of summer

Switch me over to September style.

There was a hurricane in

New York City last night.

It knocked upon my window panes.

It murdered seven people.

It made me late.

It made me cry.

It created a space in heaven

for the insane

(which today includes the nearly-sane).

At night,

that’s what I become:

terrifyingly frozen in time.

Nearly hit by storms.

Nearly Sane.

How did it get this way?

ZOELAB DAY 52

The freedom is inside, the outside is a mess. The life I see before me is not the life I ever imagined. It surprises me daily with its fiction, its ability to tell stories.

Don’t worry about me. I’m okay. I still have nothing. And that’s everything. Embracing what I don’t like is a new exercise that brings the same kind of comfort that rocks bring.

A transformation from city mouse to country mouse where the city mouse lives inside the country mouse. And this little mouse is busying herself. She is still making her nest. She’s surprised at how long it takes, by how far she has to go to find the right materials. She busies herself and then she rests. She rests for days. And after the dreaming, she is back at it again.

How strange to have lived a life so far away now. How beautiful to be suspended between memory and newness. How comforting to rediscover beauty.

It is said that deliverance is dead. I say let death deliver us.

Let us be delivered. Let us be returned to our own hearts who cannot hear unless they are heard. And cannot be heard unless they hear.