5 posts tagged “soul renovations”
A few weeks ago, I stumbled upon this post by Kyran over at Notes to Self on marriage. At the time that I first read it I was stunned by the beauty of her writing and the honesty with which she told her story. I appreciated it for the literature it is.
Today I went back to it. I had meant to send it on to a couple of friends who themselves are struggling with their less than perfect partnership. I thought the empathy in her piece would be good for them, that the happy ending would give them hope. Just to be sure, I read the piece again, along with the long string of comments from readers who agreed that Kyran had just captured the beautiful essence of marriage.
Again, this piece of writing moved me, but in a way that surprised the hell out of me.
I wanted to throw up. For what I felt was not hopefulness, empathy or joy. No, what bubbled up inside of me today was raw, unadulterated, spitting envy, cynicism and derision.
Unlike Kyran and so many of those who left comments there at Notes to Self, my experience was not one of finding my way back to each other--I did not have that if you sit down and work hard and focus and negotiate it will all be beautiful fairy tale ending. Like them we worked hard at saving our marriage but ours was a journey of great pain, heartache and profound disappointment with no sunrise on the other end. A love that didn't exactly die but just in a fit of desperation gave up.
And I realized a few things about myself. I am completely comfortable in the company of couples that have healthy strong relationships, who dwell in a place of love and respect for each other. They give me great hope. I also have tremendous empathy for those whose true loves fell apart or who are struggling and not sure where it will all end up. But those people--the ones who were terribly unhappy but then figure out how to make it work and find their love again--the ones who are able to say they went to the edge of breakup and made it back--sometimes multiple times over--those couples make me want to spit with envy and call them things like smug. They make me a bit uncomfortable not because of anything else other than that they succeed where I failed. Because they have what I wanted. Because they won and I lost.
When you catch a glimpse of your wounded self in the mirror of your soul it is never pretty.
Every once in awhile something happens that causes me to shine a spotlight around the dark corners of my heart. The places where the air is stale and the cobwebs are thick. Today Kyran's piece surfaced in me the small jealous ugly self, the part of myself I rarely see anymore but who hasn't (much to my chagrin) disappeared completely.
More upsetting that the discomfort of the envy was actually realizing that this ugly part of myself still exists. Between my recent brush with insecurity and now this I am having some real quality time with the parts of myself I had hoped I'd outgrown.
Now the question is what to do with them now that they show up.
There was a time, not too too long ago when I would have given voice to my ugly self--when I would have given her permission to just go to town. I would have ranted and raved about the stupid smug people who actually believe in love and who think that kind of struggle is beautiful. I would have thought unkind thoughts. I might have even spoken them aloud.
Over the last few years, however, when the uglies have shown up I have been on a mission to lock them out. Their kind are just not accepted here in MY heart. I give them a good talking to and tell them why they are not welcome here anymore. I tell them exactly what I think about them and smack 'em around a bit too. I remind them that they are no longer part of me--thank you very much.
But tonight, driving home in my car, (the place where this drama all played out) I was too damn tired. I didn't have it in me to buzz with anger. I didn't have the energy to beat myself up either. So instead, I just stood on the edge of my emotions and put my arm around my ugly self and sat in silence--uncomfortable silence mind you--but silence. There was nothing else to do but sit with her and listen to Bob Dylan.
I am told that it is here, in moments like these, when we can actually feel grace. I'd like to say that something, someone came down and touched me and I cried tears of joy for finally loving my hurt and icky self. Or that my ugly, mean self kissed me goodbye and left.
None of that happened. Instead I drove to Target and bought some nylons for a wedding I will attend this weekend. But by the time I got there, the tears that had welled up in my eyes had dried. And when I got home, I had room in my heart to greet my ex who was playing with Max. I also had room in my heart to feel empathy for those who have been to hell and back. Empathy and envy mixed together in a murky muddy shade of gray.
And right now, that kind of a shift is enough. Its really just fine with me.
I am back from another magical romp in the woods.
The children self organized and made the campground their kingdom. While they ran about feral and free, we adults did the important work of cooking, tending the fire and napping. This morning after breakfast we sat around the campfire all of us, strumming guitars and singing. A pastoral Von Trapp family moment twisted only by the children's choice of songs. (I couldn't help but wonder what Child Protective Services would think about the fact that all of our children know this Johnny Cash tune by heart). No matter.
I am unpacking now. I carry the camp chairs in and put them away for the season. They smell like smoke, smoke from the glorious fire, tended by Eric, a blacksmith-wanna-be stoking a furnace fit for smelting. We sat around this fire as the night grew chilly, laughing, telling stories, nursing stout and tequila, sneaking brownies the children never knew were baked, sneaking cigarettes they never knew we smoked.
The little children have been tucked into bed in the Tent-Mahal, lulled to sleep in by the whispers of a father who's own children have grown too old now to be comforted by the cadence of his voice. Teenage fears are not easily chased away by fairy tales but here in this tent at this moment, he is a hero to seven wee ones, a hero with the power to keep the darkness at bay. Covered with children and sleeping bags he is able to relive a memory and to relieve those of us who are too weary of nightly stories, who just need a beer and some quiet. It takes a village...
The little ones are sleeping now. Soundly. The smoke blows in our face as the wind shifts direction and so do we, moving around the circle, shifting positons to talk, to pour a drink, to play. We laugh and sing to homemade music, two guitars, one harmonica. Red wine. Tequila. A few contraband cigarettes. Shake thoroughly. Instant bliss.
One by one sleepy people get up and drift away to our tiny tent city. They drift away until it is only three of us, the roaring fire turned to bright cooking coals now. My dear friend and I lay on our backs in the dirt and gaze at the seven sisters twinkling overhead. Another friend fingerpicking a guitar, Texas blues for the girl with boots, bending strings that connect right to a piece my soul.
And then it is just me, I sit at the fire, shifting the coals around, encouraging them to cool now. I breathe in the smoke, feel the soot settle on my face. I sit in the space of gratitude watching the embers. I am thankful for this trip, for the laughter, for the new people, for the joy my son felt when running free, for the easy hike, the communal dinner, for my dear friend and her family, for all the families together, for the music...for the sweet sweet music.
I lay back, the seven sisters on the other side of the sky now. I can't help but feel that everything is exactly as it should be at this moment. That I, sitting alone by the fire, am exactly where I need to be. That I can relax here in this space. That neither the past nor the future really matter all that much. That the now, these warm coals, this autumn wind, this feeling of rightness is what matters. I think this feeling is called grace. I touch it and wrap my fingers around it. I tuck it into my hair.
I hear my friends stir, shift in sleeping bags. I wish them deep sleep and sweet dreams while I stir the coals. Then, minutes or hours later, I pour water on them and watch the steam rise.
I am so gritty, so grimy from this trip. I have finished unpacking and slip into a warm shower, before I head out to pick up the take-out we will have for dinner tonight. Before I throw in the laundry. Before I check my email.
The smell of smoke wafts through the bathroom--it is washing out of my pores and running down the drain. I want to stop it and capture it. I do not want to let the smoke go. I want it to cling to my skin forever.
We just returned home from West Virginia. The house is quiet now, the unpacking of dirty clothes, of camping gear and photos has been done in a burst of efficiency. Max is fast asleep. The crickets alone keep my company.
Last week when I woke to my 7th straight day of a migraine I knew something had to change. It wasn't just the migraines however that had me shaking. I felt like I was struggling, that nothing I did was enough to make it work. The balancing of work and parenting and being a good friend all seemed to be too much. I felt myself tightening from want.
It must have been the Universe who inspired my dear Jackie to call me and invite us to the woods. At the time she offered it sounded as though it was the only thing I should do. We dropped everything and ran.
I should know now that there is nothing that grounds me like eating and sleeping outside among the trees. The energy of the woods, the mountains, the river repairs me even when I am at my most frayed. Over and over again I rediscover this about myself. I am not sure why I forget so easily.
Indeed it was everything I needed to soothe my tired brain, my achey grouchy soul. It was like an amazing power nap, a kind of (in the words of Eric) reboot for the brain. I feel as though I have been away for weeks, I am so refreshed. The stresses that seemed to paralyze me last week have floated away, like leaves carried away by a stream. Joy is now running circulating freely once more--no longer stuck in the muck am I.
Indeed I feel the entire universe conspired to make this weekend perfect. The sky was the most intense cloudless blue, the air temperature was perfect. It felt as though the forest was in cahoots with our merry band of travelers. The river was perfectly refreshing for us. There were long stretches of little children laughing, shrieking, falling down from silliness. And beautiful moments of silence. And music. And endless firewood. And the perfect amount of yummy food.
Alone and together in shifting combinations we moved about the day, collecting, observing, creating. Each moment unfolded effortlessly as both chaos and community flowed as sweetly as the Potomac around the bend, rippling and bubbling and smoothing out the edges of our lives.
I feel so inspired in so many ways but I feel I cannot unpack it all just yet. I struggle here, tripping over my own bliss as I try and write about it, about the way I feel somehow knit back to together around my frayed edges. I just know that I am. And that at this moment is enough.
For more photos of our adventure, click here.
I recently read this post over at the wise and funny Notes to Self. I love Kyran's writing - its not unusual for me to leave that site teary eyed. This time however, it wasn't just the deep honesty and beautiful pose that moved me but a deep sense of empathy about living without margins. I read the post with tears dripping off my chin, falling shamelessly into my lap.
Kyran was writing about living on the financial edge. This is something I can relate to all too well. When Juan left me with a child and one income it didn't take long for my social justice salary to leave us struggling. I remember nights staying up sorting through Max's beautiful grandma-purchased clothes trying to figure out what we could consign to help pay the babysitter or emptying out the spare change jar that Juan and I had started when we started dating and cashing it all in to pay for food and gas for the week. The rollercoaster of panic (will we make it this week?) and relief--all the effort that went into figuring out how to keep it together left me depleted and a shadow of my best self. I was so scared to ask for help from anyone afraid of what it would say about me (Would it mean I had failed?!?) but bit by bit the universe worked its little chisel on my pride and finally one night I was on the phone with my dad, choking back tears and asking humbly for a little help to get over the hump. Not too much longer, I was on my knees sobbing praying for a little help from anywhere.
I am glad to say that I am writing this from a better place on the financial front. Ask and you shall receive is a truth I can attest to. We are still living paycheck to paycheck over here and savings are a luxury I can barely afford. We don't splurge much on movies or pretty things and when we do I often reeling from it for weeks. My budget has very little margins for excess or comforts. But we are making it and I am no longer sick to my stomach each time I need to visit the cash machine. I am comfortable that as long as I stick to the basics the money is there.
But I wish I could say that about 2 other critical resources: time and energy. I am now in a similar desperate place that feels eerily similar to how I felt about my finances not that long ago.
I feel I don't have enough time for even the basics--like the laundry and cooking dinner or picking up the mess that has become our house. I feel I have cut out all the fat I can (no mindless TV, no relaxing baths) but it is still not enough. My schedule operates with no margin of error. I drop Max at childcare at the earliest possible moment and rush in to the office and maybe make it to work on time but often am late to a meeting. I rush through my work day and need to leave at 5 on the dot. God forbid there is traffic because I need to be home at 5:30, not a minute later. We barely unpack our days before it is far too late for dinner. On too many occassions, I am dragging him out to run errands at the time most children his age are in pjs in bed. The mad dash and the fact that I go to sleep each night with so many loose ends dangling leaves me feeling edgey and like a top spinning out of control.
My energy too is at an all time low and this is making this time crunch thing all the more troubling. I move so much slower these days. I fall into bed too early and wake too late. Precious hours are lost while I hit the snooze button or sleep through my alarm. I cannot multi-task anymore. I need to focus every bit of energy I do have on simply accomplishing one thing at a time. When I do pretend that I can move faster, things start to fall apart at the seams. This past week I had no childcare for Max so I thought I could bring him with me into work. In the effort to get him packed up to spend the day with me I forgot to pack my own purse and ended up with no wallet to pay for our lunch and parking. On good days I laugh light heartedly about the aburdity of this--my turtle pace, the chaos exploding around me, my inability to keep it all together. But at night when all is quiet I shiver a bit thinking about it all and pray that tomorrow it may feel a little bit better and I pray--please don't let it get worse.
Every day is an exercise in pushing the limits of my comfort zone. How much stress and time pressure and "rock and a hard place" choices can I live with today? I laugh thinking about how I was three or four years ago--how little I could take. I simultaneously feel like a champion (what a victory to keep surviving in this climate!) and a loser (why can't I just keep the kitchen clean or feed my son a real dinner?)
The time/energy crunch-its become a noose that I feel tightening around my throat--sometimes I have to remind myself to breathe. There are moments when I feel I am drowning from the stress of it all and I realize--I am holding my breath. Just the other day I thought if my life was a story written on a page I am spilling off the page. There are no margins on my paper. There is no room for errors, no room for scribbled comments--no place to put a forgotten word. I wonder when am I going to lose it living like this? I smile because clearly its not going to be today so if I can just focus on today I can loosen the noose a little. Yes...now I am breathing on my own. Good girl.
And yet I feel so silly even worrying about this all. Today my friend told me a story about a friend of hers--a woman who's has struggled with so much more. Her story makes me understand just how wide my margins really are--or rather what its really like to live with no wiggle room. Hearing her story I hang my head in shame and embarrassment that I fret so when my life is really so precious and blessed. For God's sake...I am writing a blog. Its not that bad when I have time to write a blog, is it? But the thought of giving up this newly reclaimed creative time feels like a dealbreaker. My journaling, my creative friendships they are keeping me afloat, they are keeping me sane. The laundry will just have to stay dirty and I will just have to forgive myself--but can I?
But I remember today this week when it has felt so loosey goosey that asking for help is magic and so I get down on my knees and ask the universe to deliver it in whatever way she sees fit. A cure for my energy blues? That would be nice. Someone to help me get organized and together? That would also work. A new way of working smarter not harder? Brilliant! A giant huge serving of perspective? That would do me just fine. Something I haven't even thought of? Yes. Any help--any little bit of help at all. Its hard to ask for help but its the only way I know to expand the margins even just a tiny bit.
Today I am filled with a yearning. A sort of mellow sadness. A tightness around my heart.
Last night I slept a deep, delicious sleep. But in this deep relaxation a dream came to me—a dream which won’t let me go.
It is a dream I have had before. I am fixing up a new house, a house I bought in a burst of enthusiasm full of hope and expectations. It was so much bigger than my old one—so beautiful and spacious. But now I stand in all the construction rubble and I don’t know why I left my old one. This house that held the promise of being more is a disaster. Rotting plaster, rooms that seem so suddenly small, an old kitchen and bathrooms that barely work. It is dark an chaotic and smells musty. I miss my old house, cheery and warm. I am angry that I sold it—that I let it go. I want it back. I don’t know why I paid so dearly for this mess of a house, this house I only sort of want now, this house that seems like it will never rise to my expectations. I wake up with the taste of a longing in my mouth. I can’t shake it.
I have this dream only when I am at peace. It is though, only in these quiet and happy moments when my heart is most relaxed that I can face the truth. I am in the middle of soul renovations and I am feeling a bit restless and regretful, wondering why I started on this project--why I dare to look within.
My heart, my life—it is being reconstructed after the hurricane that was my failed marriage destroyed the place where my heart last dwell. The blueprints laid out are ambitious plans—plans that hold promise of space and beauty, but seem so far from completion. I am tired of construction that never ends. I am impatient. I am questioning this new dream of a house—the wisdom of it all. I want my old one back. Sure it was too small. But it was comfortable. It was home.
I have sat with this dream all morning, all afternoon as the children catch frogs and feed ducks. As I pack up our cabin to ready ourselves to leave tomorrow. As I run errands and watch the wind blow through the pines and whip up waves on the lake. I don’t know what to do to shake it and so I don’t. I sit with it until I am at last ready to let it blow away in the Maine breeze, the comfort that I can recognize what is going on in my heart at last what allows it to fade.
