be a good girl.
think about others first.
don’t be selfish
or stuck up
or conceited.
play nice.
share.
wait your turn.

it’s your turn now.
go for it.
who cares what other people think?
if it pleases you, that’s enough.

i’m so confused. i’m so damn confused.

write the book you want to read.
comes a time when you have to consider your readers.

so which is it?

if i do something just because i enjoy it, that’s okay, right? well, what if i want somebody else to like it, too?
what if i want somebody else to value my work, my creativity, my contribution?

back in the days when i was trekking around speaking professionally, some high falutin’ fella made money hand over fist by saying something like you can accomplish anything – anything at all – as long as you don’t mind who gets the credit. to which i always thought: bullshit. i mean maybe that’s true on paper, but if i do the work, make the effort, create something that didn’t exist before, by golly i want credit for it.

then somebody throws “ego” into the mix and scolds me for having one.

they remind me that i’m supposed to look the other way, turn the other cheek and all that but hey, let me tell you something: according to my cousin who is Somebody Who Should Know, to turn the other cheek was actually a call to civil disobedience back in the day. it wasn’t rising above and refusing to wallow with pigs knowing that you’d both get dirty, it wasn’t letting yourself be a doormat or a booster seat for somebody else, it was a means of entrapment.

maybe it’s supposed to be enough that i value my own contributions, but maybe that doesn’t always play out in real life. maybe that’s why i’m so angry lately when i get to stewing about aging and leaving a legacy and not having one to leave on account of i’m supposed to be downright giddy with happiness that somebody else took the credit for something i did or said pffffft to something i created or overlooked me cause let’s face it, unless it says something real cute, how many people actually look at the doormat anyway?

sigh.
whoever said aging isn’t for sissies
sure knew what she was talking about.

No related posts.

when a friend
told her it was
something
practiced by
a foreign
religion,
she dropped
out of the
meditation class,
forfeiting
her registration fee
on account of
such short notice,
even though she’d
signed up for it
because it
sounded like something
she could do to
relax and
fall asleep easier
since the lavender-scented eye mask
and the hot milk
and the bubble bath
didn’t work
and the sheep
kept running around
the room,
hiding under the bed,
and jumping out the window,
refusing
to be counted.

and when she
learned that
the little bronze-ish
statue she liked
so much when she
first laid eyes on it
so many years ago
is actually
a buddha,
she gave it away
for fear she’d
been inadvertently worshipping
a false god
all these years.

scoff if you will,
chuckle if you can’t stop yourself,
but me?
i admire
her unwavering conviction,
her abiding allegiance,
her deep faith,
her commitment
to live what she
believes.

///

365 Altars: honoring our deepest sumptuous selves. 8/365
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Second helpin's:

1. ripening

In the past, I’ve skirted around grieving, sashayed away prematurely (though outwardly nobly) because I didn’t want to endure the muck and messiness, the tenacious, persistent roller coaster of emotions. I am a planner by nature, and to not know how I would feel from one moment to the next was just not something I could bear gracefully. At least I didn’t think so. Plus I didn’t want to burden others who prefer to be around a funny, lighthearted me.

Grief unattended is a tar baby, a sticky gooey mess of emotional debris.

In the short tenure of my dedication to see my 2012 words – stay and surprise – made flesh, I’ve been treated to all sorts of inexplicable, delightful happenstances. Or, as Quakers say, “Way opens.” Like this: last night as I muddled around in my journal about grief, as I tried to stay with the tumultuous emotions without falling into the familiar patterns of pointing fingers and defending myself and all that, I happened upon an online article about Ho’oponopono. Today, despite several hours worth of trying, I can’t find that link anywhere. Did it come from a friend’s Facebook posting? Did I stumble upon it? Why doesn’t it show up in my history?

I am perplexed.

And intrigued.

I google, and though I can’t find that particular article, I learn that Ho’oponopono is where we take responsibility for and clean with anything we perceive to be a problem. It’s the ultimate emptying, done with gratitude, openness, willingness. It’s a way to clear the tar baby of all old dramas, resentments, agonies such as things I wish I’d said. The theory is that it’s only from this point – called the zero point – that there’s room for new to enter . . . new ideas, new ways, new inspiration. It’s a way of accepting responsibility, expressing gratitude, letting go, making way by holding the emotion/situation/person/whatever and saying four things with utmost sincerity:

I love you.
I’m sorry.
Please forgive me.
Thank you.

Though being fluent only in English and Southern I know I’ll never be able to pronounce it, Ho’oponopono seems just the ticket now: a process resulting in detachment from the junk of the past, in clarity, in freedom. Things I seek. And so today I begin to create a new way of being, even if my tongue trips and tangles in the process.
///

365 Altars: honoring our deepest sumptuous selves. 7/365
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When we moved last spring, we dumped a lot of stuff on our daughter – things she could probably use, most of it good stuff, but still it was enough stuff to fill her garage, leaving her to park outside. Today we waded through the boxes and bags, tossing, giving, putting up.

Funny how good it makes my daughter and me feel to bring order to the physical chaos that surrounds us . . . now. Up until today, she has scoffed and called me anal. Up until today, I have made unilateral decisions about what stays and what goes, telling myself it was in the name of expediency.

Just at 5 p.m., while my smile remained strong but my energy waned, I looked up to see the sun setting. And just like that I thought of Naples, Florida where people applaud each sunset, dazzling or no. And I thought of Retreat – of the bugle that played every evening at 5 or 6 p.m. (depending on the season), of how everything and everyone came to a halt and stood in silence as the flag was lowered and the cannon fired. And though I am not on a beach and no longer on a military college campus, I stopped, snapped a couple of photographs, and in my own way, saluted the changing of the guard, sun to moon.

It was a good day, a good start. We cleared many layers of junk. We cleared more than a garage. It is a good and satisfying tired, and there is much to place on my altar today.

///

365 Altars: honoring our deepest sumptuous selves. 5/365
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Second helpin's:

1. quests and questions

What do I want next?

These are questions asked by Sally G. at her altar today, questions I ask myself regularly – questions I have asked myself for a long, long time. These are the questions at the top of the list of questions that enkindled 365 Altars.

What do I know, not What degrees do I have, but What do I know?

Who am I now – not who have I been, but who am I now?

What can I contribute, and not just in terms of money?

How does this longing look dressed in words?

Where do I go from here?

What does the culmination of all the things I’ve done look like?

and the ever popular: What is the purpose/Why am I here, anyway?

I look for clues in my childhood – what did I like that got shoved aside in the mad rush to adulthood? What did I want to do with my life when my life was the only thing that mattered, the only thing I was responsible for?

Inspired by Sally G, I place on my altar today a recording of the first record I purchased with my own money. I moved into the basement apartment that my daddy’s daddy declined to inhabit, and I took the record player that was replaced by a fancy new console entertainment center. On any given day, I’d put this 45 rpm record on the turntable, lower the diamond stylus onto the vinyl, and skate around and around and around the unfinished basement just outside my door, feeling completely free, completely in charge of my own destiny, completely sated. Anything was possible. I was capable, on the ready, and darn near invincible. It was enough just to be me.

It’s how I feel now only in the dark thirty hours on the occasional day.

It’s how I long to feel again on any given moment of any given day (minus the roller skating part, mind you).

As I skated, I knew with my entire being that this song was written for and about me. It’s still necessary to escape occasionally to go downtown and get lost in the crowd, to see brightly lit organized spaces filled with colorful goods that promise to make my life perfect (whatever that is). But I no longer want to leave home to dance. It’s no longer comforting, reassuring, or convincing, this notion that I can crawl through some escape hatch and leave all my troubles and worries behind. I am tired of being encouraged to live for the future.

I don’t want to have to leave myself to be myself.

So maybe I’m a wee bit further along on my quest to self definition, to self determination. And while the lyrics don’t hold what they once did for me, the music still beckons me to get up and dance right here, right now. (Which is good ’cause I’ve vowed to move more this year – preferring the word “move” eversomuchmore than “exercise.”)

And with lingering questions that outnumber answers, I leave you with Petula Clark singing the first record I bought with my own money: Downtown . . .

///

365 Altars: honoring our deepest sumptuous selves. 4/365

Second helpin's:

1. maybe
2. a funny thing happened on the way to
3. enough

seems like all my life i’ve had somebody professing to take care of me. and truth be known, i’ve kinda’ wanted somebody to take care of me, someone to watch over me to make sure i don’t misstep or misspeak or miss the boat. somebody to take care of me. and at the same time, i learned during as early as the group projects in elementary school that i am responsible for myself. i have to be.

i don’t have to forage for food or a place to sleep every day, but i do forage for something more.

i am many different people, and maybe i’m just not evolved enough, but my idea of wholeness is not to meld the entire committee into one generic version of self, not to be the same jeanne every single day of every single week of every single month of every single year of every single decade. shoot no. wholeness is welcoming each Committee Of Jeanne Member to the table (with one or two possible exceptions), and go on about my business.

i would like to say there’ll be no more trying to remake myself into an image others will find pleasing and acceptable – i’d love to commit to that – but the truth is, i know me too well by now. there will always be a committee member in search of the gold star, the pat on the head, the atta’ girl. one committee member will always advocate abandoning any idea that isn’t readily met with enthusiasm from somebody outside our committee.

i have committed to walking down this path of 365 Altars, to honoring my deepest sumptuous self every single day, and it is my fervent hope that eventually i will become stronger, more sure of myself, and that i won’t grow another single wrinkle worrying about being found pleasing in the sight of others. that i will stand in front of the mirror and smile at the sight of my self (even first thing in the morning), and that that smile will fill me up.

///

365 Altars: honoring our deepest sumptuous selves. 3/365

///

a most important note: The notion of 365 Altars was fueled by talking with my sister-in-writing-and-more-much-more Julie Daly of UnabashedlyFemale.com and talks with my sister-in-spirituality-and-so-very-much-more, Angela Kelsey of (of all things) AngelaKelsey.com. I love them.

Second helpin's:

1. a funny thing happened on the way to
2. quests and questions

: 1 :
i look at the houses
on that flat, straight 2-lane country road,
not much distinguishing
one house from another
save the
vehicles in the yard,
some resting on concrete blocks,
others simply parked.
waiting.

: 2 :
“i’d like to stop
at every house,” i say aloud,
“knock on the door,
and ask the woman who answers:
‘has your life turned out
the way you hoped it would?
the way you wanted it to?
if not, why
and what will you do about it?’”

: 3 :
the epiphany:
i am the woman
on both sides
of the door.

///

365 Altars: honoring our deepest sumptuous selves. 2/365

Second helpin's:

1. enough
2. quests and questions
3. surprised, again

It’s that time of year again: time to choose A Word. My Word. The One Word for 2012. I struggle with this.

I long.
I wrestle.
I yearn.
I resist.
And then ultimately, I avoid.

I pick up The Call by Oriah Mountain Dreamer, and about 3/4 of the way through wouldn’t you just know I get to a chapter called “Word”. My heart quickens. Oriah says “Look at what does not come easily to you, what you long for but find elusive. Think about what gets you into trouble, what gets you way down the road of doing something you don’t really want to do at a very high price. What internal habit or attitude or tendency repeatedly robs your life of joy?”

Look at what gets me into trouble? Oh, where do I begin? How shall I ever choose?

It can’t be something that comes naturally or easy to us, she says, and I’m fine with that. There are many things I want to learn. Like drumming, for example. And to dance with my entire body instead of just my shoulders and legs. And to sing without emptying a room.

I’m feeling better about this. Smiling. Even feeling a touch of – dare I say it – excitement.

Oriah continues: “Your word, embodying it in your life, in how you are with yourself and the world, is never about doing. It is always about not-doing, about being with what is. Your word is your key to stopping your war with reality.”

I slump again.

Oriah suggests we meditate on it, and since it’s dark thirty and I’d love to go back to sleep before dawn, I find this a fine idea. Staying in bed, I turn and lay on my back, take my three deep cleansing breaths, and before I can even chase away the first stray, unrelated thought, the word “stay” appears. Right out of nowhere it comes.

Fighting the urge to begin a sentence with the word “no,” I thank the sweet spirit of surprise that sent the word then add that I don’t mean to be difficult, but I’m really looking for something a bit jazzier. Something fun, with a kick. Let’s start over, I suggest, and this time how ’bout a word I can really sink my teeth into, eh?

Before the third breath is completely exhaled, the word “stay” makes a repeat appearance. Dammit, I say before I can curb my tongue, I’ve been married 38 years. That’s staying. Now give me something sassy, something sexy. Three more breaths and I hear a voice say with gusto “You’re supposed to be running for office” which I naturally interpret as the word “lead.” I’m encouraged to have another word make an appearance, but I find it pretty boring, and besides, I’ve had my fill of leadership positions, thank you very much. Another three breaths and I hear “Cheetos you have there,” and I think it fairly obvious how that translate into “open.”

But since I’m more than fairly porous, I toss “open,” and by comparison and by amassing points for tenacity, my word for 2012 word becomes “stay.” Once decided, in a rush I remember all the projects, blog posts, and journal entries I’ve started with great enthusiasm then left unfinished in my wake.

I could be onto something.

It’s still quite a boring word, though if you ask me, and even though I know that ego is bad and all, I still desperately want something I can sink my teeth into, something I might be able to teach or write about one day. Something people will find fascinating enough to ask me to find their word next year.

Not likely now.

I think of stay and how it’s synonymous with “remaining” – sticking to it – and how I’ve long yearned to do something every single day. Something like write a blog posts daily and number them so I can see and chart my tenacity. Or maybe fold an origami swan – 1000 of them seems about right. Or meditate daily and enjoy the benefits of having a windshield wiper run over my soul. Hey, do you know how slim and flexible I’d be if I’d stuck to a daily routine of yoga or walking or any other kind of exercise? If I’d gotten my money’s worth from all those gym memberships?

Not nearly the show-stopper I was looking for, but I sense possibility. I think beyond “remaining” and an image of a collar stay comes to mind. Stiffening. Holding in place. Straightening. Stays in girdles and corsets. Could I stretch this into history?

I stayed home. Stayed close to the family.

But I didn’t stick to traditions, and I’ve long felt guilty about that.

I stay stuck in the muck and mire of my relationship with organized religion.

Maybe I can do something with this word after all.

I google “stay” and oh my goodness: the first entry is a movie titled “Stay” about “the attempts of a psychiatrist to prevent one of his patients from committing suicide while trying to maintain his own grip on reality.” Wow. Now we’re getting somewhere.

There’s also a dog hotel, people hotels, so we could venture into stay as hospitality.

Stay safe. There’s safety. Or, more to the point, perceived safety. Physical safety. Emotional safety.

Stay calm.
stay quiet.
stay strong.
stay still.
Stay by my side.
stay home.
stay another day.

The dictionary defines stay as a large strong rope used to support a mast. Sails. Support. Movement. Water. Freedom. Boats. Breezes. Direction.

Thesaurus.com mentions change, divergent, trouble, lucky happening.

Brace,
buttress,
hold,
prop.
Wait,
abide (I like that word: abide),
linger,
tarry (another good and pleasing word).

There’s
sojourn
perch
reside
dwell
live.

And
anticipate
recess
anchor
hold and be held securely
birth
slow
dawdle
amble
breathe.

Attend
bridle
obviate
persist
fritter
dilly-dally
wait.

Over at Dictionary.com we find: to spend some time in a place or in a group and to persevere to completion.

The origin of the word “stay” has something to do with “to remain” (I find etymology most intriguing, but I sure do have trouble translating all the abbreviations and all) and “Stem. To stand. To be.”

So yes:
“stay” could work.
Stay I will do.
Stay it is.

Second helpin's:

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

the call
(in the form of a poem by jan l. richardson that has captured my heart):

Wise women also came.
The fire burned
in their wombs
long before they saw
the flaming star
in the sky.
They walked in shadows,
trusting the path
would open
under the light of the moon.

Wise women also came,
seeking no directions,
no permission
from any king.
They came
by their own authority,
their own desire,
their own longing.
They came in quiet,
spreading no rumors,
sparkling no fears
to lead
to innocents’ slaughter,
to their sister Rachel’s
inconsolable lamentations.

Wise women also came,
and they brought useful gifts:
water for labor’s washing
fire for warm illumination,
a blanket for swaddling.

Wise women also came,
at least three of them,
holding Mary in the labor,
crying out with her in the birth pangs,
breathing ancient blessings
into her ear.

Wise women also came,
and they went,
as wise women always do,
home a different way.

///

and my response:
(in my humble, jumbled, stream-of-consciousness-cause-it’s-christmas-after-all way)

to all the wise women
who stoke the fires
who don’t wait for a star
to guide the way
who walk in the shadows
knowing there
are many paths,
all Right,
all leading home

to all the wise women
who revel in the moonlight
dance in the checkout line
spill music with their words

to all the wise women
who trust their own
internal navigation system,
helping another up
when she falls,
whispering walking sticks
or knitting balms of silence
until she feels restored

to all the wise women
who ask their questions
knowing that sometimes
the only answers
are more questions
and still more questions

to all the wise women
who know
that sometimes
bandages are bindings
and other times
bindings are bandages
and that whether
bandages or bindings,
bands of cloth
can be removed and
woven into something
magnificent

to all the wise women
who come into
and with
their own authority
who sing
their own songs of
praise
and lamentations
who put on socks
of pure, unadulterated
love
every single morning
and dance
for insight
and laughter
who inhale
the goodness that surrounds them
and exhale
gladness and gratitude
who touch
with gentleness, tenderness, confidence

to the wise women
whose hearts
open like colorful
beautiful
sassy
unstoppable
flowers
night after
day after
night
after day

even though you rarely
draw attention to yourself,
i see you
thank you
love you
celebrate you
cherish you,
you and your genuine genius and gorgeous glory.

No related posts.

one, i read:

The summit of the soul is like a mountain top which has been hidden in the clouds, but from which the clouds now melt away, leaving the peak free in the clear upper air through which it receives the full light of the sun.

~ Thomas Merton

two, i see:

and this:

3, i round the curve to :

i love
when a day
comes together
and reaches
a solid
10
before 10.

No related posts.