after dropping j3 off at the airport last night.

instead, i did this:

and this:

because sometimes it’s just easier to bring order to the chaos of physical space

than to bring order to the chaos of emotional space.

~~~

p.s. i have the best husband: he sifted through the 2532 screwdrivers that had found their way into my space; he decided which ones i might really need/use one day; then he adopted the rest. but most especially, i thank him for leaving my 3 hammers alone.

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today, instead of straining myself to make complete sentences, i’m going to just share a (blessedly) little word jewelry. little sparklies i’ve picked up here and there along the way. feel free to bauble amongst yourselves . . .

itinerant: nomadic, wayfaring, roaming. (un huh. yep.)

vug: small cavity in a rock. often lined with crystals of a different material. (the meaning sounds better than the word sounds, don’t you think?)

upsilamba: from Nabokov’s Invitation to a Beheading (which is something i’ve been thinking about doing a lot lately.) (beheading, i mean.) (with or without an invitation.) a fanciful word meaning “a bird or catapult with wondrous consequences.” (which is what we would be enjoying right about now were i not so self-disciplined.)

gnostical turpitude: also from Invitation to a Beheading. a vague crime that apparently has something to do with a disregard for matter. the only reason for invoking this decree is to force conformity. it is a crime committed by those who insist on being different, who refuse to assimilate. (yes, i have already paid my fine.) (okay: fines.)

antevasin: sanskrit word meaning one who lives at the border. (if you happen to go there and if you happen to spot my brain, tell it i said hey and maybe point in my direction, will ya?)

opsimath: one who begins learning later in life. (i’m still waiting to be an opsimath.) (or should i say, i’m still waiting to opsimath?)

tiferet: hebrew meaning beauty, a reconciliation of opposing forces. (check back tomorrow to see it used in a sentence or fourteen.) can represent the place where spiritual and physical realms meet. (it’ll be used in a different context tomorrow, i assure you.)

eu: good. (i tell you what: when we say ewwww around here, we do NOT mean good.)

koru: the unfurling as of a fern; new beginnings; good things. (here’s hoping we’ll see a post filled with a little more koru here tomorrow.)

Second helpin's:

1. my day, in 1 (well, 5 actually) sense(s) of the word
2. costume jewelry
3. the graveyard shift

what i saw:

this picture of my mother taken last summer. i was driving the boat. i think it’s easy to see why i ran into that dock.

what i tasted:

crispy, crispy, crispy bacon done just right. wasn’t burnt, didn’t move when i picked it up.

what i heard:

laughter.

lots and lots and lots of laughter – my sides required ben gay –  as my brother and i visited our own special planet and conjured up images and tales of a gang of 3 geese who are bad to the bone . . . i mean, feather.

i guess you had to be there.

what i felt:

the cool, smooth silk hand-dyed by my talented friend glennis.

what i smelled:

my leftover christmas candle burning. who says sugar cookie scent is seasonal?

Second helpin's:

1. the speed of day
2. word jewelry
3. catching up (again)

i’ve never been more sure of anything: i needed a breather. needed to take out my pencil; pen; permanent indelible marker and draw boundaries around my life, around my time, around my desires. now maybe i couldn’t take a full-fledged sabbatical just now, but i could put some space between me and the constant demands on my time and energy. maybe i couldn’t check myself into a monastery, but i could choose how to spend my hours, my words, my attention. in just two short days of saying things like “not now, i’m writing” and “no thank you” and “yes, i would like that” – interspersed with saying absolutely nothing at all – i felt different.

i saw things – ordinary things, things that are undoubtedly there on any given day, just covered up with a flurry of commitments and responsibilities and who knows what all. thoughts came together with delicious ease and clarity. in their relaxing, my shoulders peeled away from my ears. i smiled more.

i’m already looking forward to another, extended quietcation. perhaps next time i’ll take the plastic off my new zafu.

Second helpin's:

1. self-portrait, take 2
2. yoga, betty crocker style

lately the whole world’s a mirror.

for the past month,

i’ve been showing up with pen in hand

every single day

to write no less than 1000 words.

that kind of mindful consistency

changes a woman.

(thanks, bindu & angela & julie)

Second helpin's:

1. self-portrait, 3 (because yes, it’s all about me)
2. self portrait
3. diving in: 2

i’ve been dreaming lately.

i love it when i do that.

i’m still trying to decipher some of them.

like the one 2 nights ago about eyebrows.

yes, eyebrows.

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

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

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

am i freeing my vision?

altering the way i see things?

getting rid of the superfluous without erasing the necessary?

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

or maybe get my eyes checked?

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

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

again, i was giddy with happiness.

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

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

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

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

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

is this a harbinger of famine?

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

sigh.

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

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

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they’re never on my packing list,

but i never leave home without them . . .

hot flash strikes.

out of the blue

no warning

no discernible trigger

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

from paying close attention to myself:

nanoseconds before a hot flash arrives

i can breath more clearly.

my breathing passages just flat-out open up

heralding the arrival of

the intense heat that spreads rapidly through my body,

not discriminating against any one particular area.

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

not the kind you buy in the store -

this plastic wrap sticks.

no air can get to me.

moments before, i could breathe expansively

now i can’t breathe at all.

while my brain races

frantically looking for an exit sign,

my body quietly points to the exist sign

and my brain calms down,

settles in.

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

replacing it with

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

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

this amazing body

that has long been a source of embarrassment

instead of a place of refuge and strength.

on any given day and for far too many years

i scold it, scoff at it, ignore it.

and now, during this wildfire,

i find my way to appreciation.

breath holds my hand

until the hot flash recedes,

regrouping for next time

it will show up unannounced and uninvited

to beam me into my body,

into the present.

~~~~~

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

Technorati Tags: #215800, #SelfEv

Second helpin's:

1. yoga, betty crocker style
2. self-portrait, 3 (because yes, it’s all about me)
3. small things/big things

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~~~~~

This post is part of  #SelfEv, #215800

Second helpin's:

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

with each passing day, i become more concerned.

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

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

see, the thing is:

i don’t care any more.

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

am i losing my ability to empathize if

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

have i lost all self-respect if

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

has my dignity completely disappeared if

i don’t get angry?

what’s wrong with me?

have i succumbed to acedia?

are my hormones drying up?

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

wait.

wait just a minute . . .

what if it’s something as simple as,

i mean,

could it be that i’m just developing

patience?

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