...and the Days of Black and White

Like an old 1950's movie reel, or photograph, life unrolls in black and white through the lens of Depression. Various shades of grey, blending the whites and the blacks into soft and messy edges muting and distorting the borders of reality. I find myself sort of "feeling" my way through the days that are so filled with shadows. It seems that my eyes cannot really be relied upon, and that I need to use my heart to navigate...blurring my day, my paths, with tears, weeping being the only thing keeping my spirit from exploding away from me in a panic. I need my spirit, and intrinsically will fight for it, knowing instinctively that without it I am just a corpse. Weeping happens, and I am thankful for it, because of the releasing pressure, like a hot water heater's valve, keeping me alive for my child and my days.

On a positive note, hey...I am not dying. So sure that my previous blood draws and medical proddings would prove a cancer, a deadly end to my body, that it would seem an amazing and wonderful new look at life to discover, at this point, I am cancer-free still. Still awaiting the results of an ultrasound, but without fear of the unwanted nodules being found ... I am trying to be celebratory...trying to "join the party" so to speak that I see my husband making. I do have a disease, but like everything in my life, it is common and not that unique or special, and is definitely treatable with the science of medications. Even my disease is mediocre. You would think that my body could do something extraordinary for once!

I have a disease called "Hashimoto's Thyroiditis" which is not a thyroid disease at all, but an autoimmune disease...apparently my warrior-like white blood cells are fighting my own thyroid. Also apparently, I have had this my whole life and it finally makes some sense of my historic craziness. Not that it is an excuse for my many sins and bad decisions, but it does help explain a bit of the actions I have chosen. It is very disconcerting to think I made such huge decisions in my life based on the silent, but heavy, lurkings of a disease. Learning that this disease is a hereditary one, it also gives me a clearer view of my endearing, but totally dysfunctional childhood family. It seems my father suffered greatly from mood swings and depression, and I'm thinking my siblings and I have inherited more than good skin from him. Now I understand his drinking, his inability to stay in one house longer than a few short years, and his seeking to appease some sort of inner wildness that he failed to control. Oh yes. I get all of those now.

Unlike many people who are living with this disease, I had a doctor who knew enough to actually test for it. Many folks are being treated for the symptoms of Hashimoto's without being treated for the disease itself. Depression is tops on the list, along with forms of anemia, inability to fight infections, dry skin, dry hair... and this disease leads potentially to more serious things like Type I Diabetes Melitus, Grave's Disease, Addison's Disease, Crone's disease, Lupus, Rheumatoid Arthritis...and other sobering sufferings. My "Glass Half Full" is certainly thankful for our modern day medical field, and that there are very knowledgeable naturapathic professionals who can educate me with diet and nutritional ideas.

So. I started on a magic pill that is supposed to assist my pituitary gland in regulating my endocrine system, but until this pill's dosage is adjusted just right, I am in the throes of distress not really of my own making. It seemed to take the color out of my world, attacking any hard-earned self confidence (what little I had to start with) and turning it into a muddy black and white film of the empty part of my Glass. Giving me restless nights filled with disturbing dreams of the edges of all nightmares unremembered but deeply felt, long after waking.

Adding to this, I have become the "Night Mama" to a new puppy who really belongs to my son, but-we-all-know-how-that-works. Needless to say, my first weekend on medication was spent in a zombie-like cocoon, filled with Alice-in-Wonderland-tears oozing from my eyes uncontrollably...no way could I function outside of my house. And, wildly crazy, when I DID interact with the general public, I was able to smile and laugh and died a little deeper each time I pretended like this. No wonder Depression is a disease that is scoffed at and frowned upon... we sufferers should have our own country where we could go so as not to affect our families, allowing us to wallow our way through it in peace.

In the past, before I knew that this was a disease, I managed it by simply trying to run away from myself. I did it over and over again by packing up my meager belongings and moved to another place, state, environment in a very natural gypsy-like way that felt more like me than the settled self. The stimulation I received from this crazy-like action was enough to appease the crazy...until the next time. Granted, I cannot tell which of my instincts and actions are induced by a natural craziness and restless yearning, or by the disease that is Hashimoto's. There is an element of stability that I've discovered in the past fifteen or so years since I've met my husband and been able to provide a home for my kids that seems admirable to me, but not really "me" and I have fought my urges to "up and go" for a long time now. It has become such a part of me, that it will be interesting to see what proper medication does. I am not all that sure I want to know who that person is who does not have a bit of craziness left inside. I will give it a shot, but although I will not miss the Black and White days of depression, I think I will miss that bit of color that comes with crazy.

The Waiting Days...

Here I sit. Trying to quiet the pounding of my heart, to still the nervous bouncing of my right foot as it keeps time to the ever-increasing momentum that anxiously announces the end of a waiting period, I sit. After weeks of blood draws and measurements collected, my Doctor's consult is nigh upon me. I have been telling myself "no news is good news" for so long, I hesitate to complete this journey, not wanting to jinx the "good news" part with "news." Two more days to put any considerations and possibilities on hold.

I decided to document this journey, good or bad, in order to share with others who will inevitably be stepping on this path. Of course, in my moments of "Glass-half-full" I imagine myself rejoicing a long and healthy life where future decisions will actually make a difference, but once in a while that persistent, but silent dark cloud shadows my thoughts with all the "what-ifs" of the horror stories of my friends and family who have lost their battles with Cancer and other life-crushing diagnosis'.

It is odd, and kind of funny, what my mind has played with. I went from feeling invincible and strong, given my glorious Boot Camp mornings where I can throw a 14 pound medicine ball around in various positions for half an hour...to more presently, being weakened by imagined or real, sore throats, ear aches, head aches and muscle-joint pain. I am laughing at myself at this point, acknowledging my always-active imagination, but there is that ominous quiet cloud shadow making my chuckles die out with a question mark.

My husband, ever supportive, has been treating me with kid gloves due to an upheaval in our relationship status... (interpreted as: "it's complicated" on facebook... leaving much to the imagination.) My timely condition ultimately includes him as a participant of my "Waiting Game" as well. I recognize his generous sweetness as a willing addition to this game, but I question his motives, interpreting his generosity in the moments of my dark cloud as a pre-determined strategy in the game end, with me as the big "loser." I am a bad sport, and being a "loser" just doesn't sit well.

So, I close my eyes and wait. I try to visualize the workings of my heart, cleaning my life-giving blood and distributing it to all my parts, carrying with it my hopes and my laughter and my prayers...We only have one chance to live this life... I want to embrace the good with the bad, and to be sensitive to everyone around me who shares this human existence. And this is where magic happens. In the game of "Wait" I am drawing the Magic card. Because I can. So I sit, waiting.

The Very Naked Days...

It seems that this part of my journey is to be taken naked. Baring my bones, removing clothes and flesh and the cozy coverings of hiding places. Taking off the pretty make-up that transforms flaws into perfection. How much courage it takes to step up onto a stage alone, to pour one's heart out on a public page, to shear one's head into a camera lens... to be naked. So few of us explore the cleansing and healing powers that come from nakedness of heart.

Life has gotten a bit unbalanced for me recently. Or not so recently, but certainly has culminated in some shaky ground of late, which in turn has uncovered an earthquake fission of insecurities. On the tail of that earthquake, which I am not elaborating on due to the impossible depth and breadth of its source, rides opportunities and possibilities galore... I am hanging onto that tail for dear life, but it seems that all my coverings and clothings are flying off right and left, leaving nothing but pure "me." If I let go long enough to grab at some of my dignities, I will be a goner, so here I am, riding naked....but still alive.

I will start with my passion for the Irish dance. I started Irish dance classes mid-February of this year. Learning Irish dance means UN-learning the things my body was taught about ballet. Most of them anyway. It isn't an easy thing to "un-learn" something. Practice, practice, practice. I practised Irish dance, thought Irish dance, talked Irish dance...making my friends surely a bit annoyed with this topic posting in their faces day after day. I never knew such dancing existed... oh the energy and the beauty and the intricacy of it! And mostly, the history and ancient tradition of this dance that awakened in my blood, my Irish blood that recognized and celebrated its knowing, finally able to express the hidden origin of spirit.

Irish dancers compete. With themselves, mostly, but also with and against other Irish dancers. Challenging their feet to fly higher, faster, sharper, lighter... We compete in an important event called a feiseanna, or feis (pronounced fesh) which incorporates Irish music along with dance in a weekend long competition in which dancers can "graduate" into levels and of course get medals and trophies to prove their gained skills. Most of the competitors are children...very young to young adult. And the dresses, costumes, of the young dancers are simply amazing... almost ridiculously intricate and extravagant... costing upwards into the thousands of dollars.

Well, it isn't so glamorous or even popular, to be a Beginner Adult Irish dancer. It takes work and time and lots of energy and concentration that most adults do not have. We have to make ourselves practice around school schedules, laundry and housekeeping routines, soccer practices, cheer-leading, dance classes and meal preparations, to say nothing of the doctor appts and vet care and things that make up an adult's life in addition to earning a living. So, yeah, there are not many of us out there who are not so exhausted by daily life that we find a wee dance class to be relaxing. Not much thought is given to the adults, in the Feis competitions, although I believe a little more attention is being given nowadays as the adult numbers slowly grow.

After much hesitation, and not a little fear, I joined the small rank of Adult competitors. I felt good about my dances, well, as good as I could being so new at them. Having had quite a nice ballet background, I felt confident in my toe pointing, although I haven't used those muscles in years...the feeling came back soon enough. I felt ready to compete as a beginner. Adults don't get to wear the fancy dresses until they are really really good, so I was happy enough in my little black skirt, white blouse and black tights. I felt it made me less conspicuous, and also able to hide any insecurities I had about body issues... simple is best...black is best...now if I just didn't pee my pants, I would be fine. (there is a fair amount of jumping to do, you know... anyone who is a mommy will know exactly what I am talkin' about)...

Luckily, for me, the competition has accommodated the status of Adult Beginner. This particular feis, my first feis, was in Charlotte, NC and there were only TWO participants competing as Adult Beginner. I was one of them. I looked my competitor over, head to toe, and felt truly satisfied that I would do well... I looked like a dancer (in my mind) and I was confident in my hours of practice. Our turn came. We walked up the steps to the stage. Somehow, I knew what it felt like to be a prisoner walking to the gallows. I could feel my heart beat way up in my forehead. I thought for sure my new shiny headband was expanding and contracting blatantly with each heart beat. I remembered to stand and wait for the music with my feet in Irish Feet position. I looked at the audience and noticed not ONE single face, but a whole sea of faces, standing room only. Naked. I was naked. Everyone could see that I didn't know what I was doing. I focused on a spot on the floor to remember my first step...then heard my teacher's voice, "head up" and my head flung up as the music started. My first step was completed, well done... my feet took over and somehow I got through the Reel and was bowing to the judge. One dance down, three more to go.

A repeat for my Light Jig. I was gaining confidence. Did it. Danced it... kicked high, pointed toes... I was REMARKABLE. I ROCKED. Yay!!! Feeling damn proud of myself I went to my seat. My friend came to get me, excited that the scores were posted for my first two dances. It took forever to wind through the hallways to get to the score board. He was so excited for me, surely I must have gotten first place!

Lesson number one. Do not look at scores until ALL dances are done. I saw 2nd place after my name. Does not compute. My heart fell. My friend is just about jumping up and down (he obviously has a better way of looking at scores, being much more experienced than I...lol) "See? Sheree...you got 2nd place!" I just looked at him and said in a dead voice...."there were only two people dancing. I got LAST place." (I am well recovered this day to be able to write this with such ease...lol)

My third dance was a Slip Jig. Much more difficult than the other two dances for me, since I learned it last and apparently practised it less. With the heaviness of heart that comes with defeat, my lead feet schlumped up the never ending 3 steps onto the stage. Trying to shake off the disappointment, I smiled and squared my shoulders, in Irish Feet of course. The music started, I took a couple of steps into my first step and .... forgot my dance. There was no turning back... I tried to keep dancing but it turned into my Reel, which does NOT flow with Slip Jig music. I folded. Remembering to bow to the judge, I said "sorry" and tried not to cry. She gave me a second chance (I'm sure taking pity on me, and feeling fortunate that I did not throw up on her stage) and I promptly forgot my 2nd step again. That was the end of that. Reduced to the level of Court Jester, I swept off the stage gathering all the dignity I could find in so many levels of nakedness. And of course, I scored First Place in that dance, since I had no competition... if I had known that, I would have stayed up on stage and just did my dance drills from class all across the floor....! All in all I ended up with either 3 Second places and 1 First place score...or 3 Last places and 1 Undeserved First Place sympathy score. Depending on who I want to impress. But nakedness certainly came into play that day.

Following that day, I ended up having a Dermatology Appt for a Skin Scan. Anyone knowing me at all will tell you that I have been a Sun Worshipper since the day I discovered BabyOil and Lemon Sun-In, way back in the 60's. All my life people were predicting my death due to skin cancer. I figured I was naked already, and really really humbled, I might as well know for sure. I was stripped and naked and the doc looked in every hidden place imaginable..leaving NOTHING unscanned or unstudied. Not only did I pass inspection with flying colors, and multiple compliments upon my good fortune to have inherited my daddy's more French-Canadian Olive skin, but I learned such big lessons all weekend...and standing there in nothing but my skin I felt PRIDE. Way to go me... to look at my own internal nakedness and come out stronger. Courage is facing fears in spite of fear.... and little thing or big thing Courage is Courage. These are my naked days.

From Inside the Glass...

When grown children come home to visit, it seems all of our hidden nerve endings emerge into open air. The house becomes full of unspoken, reserved opinions leaving no room for fresh air to blow around. As much as I love to see my grown young man, and as the opportunity to do so decreases, I am okay with saying good-bye too. It brutally came to my attention this past weekend, when my child made his way to our door after a two year period of limited communication via phones or internet. The "obligation" to visit was apparent upon his face, and I understood that he was gracing us with his presence, if mostly only to reconnect with his little brother whom I know he misses terribly.

So many emotions surface, that have everything and nothing to do with the relationship established on the day of my son's birth. Bringing back those roots that were embedded in a bad marriage, a lonely and poverty stricken climb to higher ground, and a struggling self esteem that somehow was supposed to fearlessly protect and nurture a child as well as the world encompassing us. Obligations felt both by myself and my child, to cling to those old roots that had long since changed and grown or withered depending upon the times...and all of a sudden we looked at each other and did not really recognize ourselves. Talk about a storm churning under our roof.

As with most storms, there is an eye of power. And when the eye of power strikes, damage is inevitable. Our words came out in anger and like the high winds of a hurricane...lashing and whipping against the object in the way. So it was this weekend at one point. And damage was done. Tears were shed. But with all damage, comes healing and restitution also. When the eye of the storm passes, and the winds get tired and disperse....the whisper of forgiveness sneaks in. From the depths of that first seed of love planted deeper than the stems of change grew, our vision and perspective cleared as we look at each other, broken from the storm. There he is. My baby, with his clear blue eyes, sad and hurt and all of a sudden I know he sees me too, for his momma that I was. He had always seen me as His Rock, the only consistent thing in the world to him and all he knew. We only had each other in this whole world. For good or for evil, we were all we had. I had always seen him as my child, to be protected and to be loved and to be handled gently while I held tightly to the leash that kept him safe for the while it took to make him strong enough to let go. Letting go is easier said than done. It took a storm for me to set him free.

Dancing out my Soul...

There is something so ancient inside of each of us, so ancient that we don't even recognize the very roots of its origin. It is our own special passion for something that has been solid and present as we slipped and fought our way out of our Momma's womb. Our cries as a newborn were instinctive and primitive, screaming out with the voice of our being, solidifying our distinct personalities and acknowledgement of self. Even the infants emerging in silence, had their own voice be it hidden from the world, in their own way claiming their passion in ways, though quiet, making a deep impression on whomever welcomed them into existence.

As we journeyed, and learned to quiet our souls, to protect ourselves and to start building the walls of societal requirement, many there are who stilled their voice of passion. Pushing it back inside so as to fit in and not make waves in their pool; losing that bit of themselves that gave them fullness and richness and courage and purpose. Maybe a greed for stability, for financial achievement, for power filled up their intrinsic nature that once proclaimed itself in birth...overwhelming their soul, and instead of filling their hearts, their greed turned on them and emptied it instead.

As for me, my cries turned inward, strengthening my muscles, filling my sinews with a music that I heard in my head and my heart all my days...each beat and note moving my fingers, my toes, my arms, my legs... obligating constant movement...tapping, rocking, swaying, jumping, flailing, and expressing my heart. Joyful, mournful, restful, or wild... my passion let loose in my dance.

It has been that way as long as I can remember. Annoying as hell to people around me... my feet tapping out a new dance under my desks at school, rocking faster, slower as I read my novels and fairy tales.. running in fields became a joyful dance culminating in sliding up trees and swinging from branches, toes pointed and hanging on with the minimal amount of pressure I could get away with trying to defeat gravity and earthbinding rules. Climbing rocks as lightly as I could...flying whenever possible. It took me on many adventures, following the lead of my passion... flying on a trapeze, jumping on trampolines, climbing mountains and swinging on ropes over miles of sparkling water just waiting for the perfect moment , the perfect beat, the perfect note to let go and poise my body to fly....

Everything becomes a dance to me. Making breakfast is a dance, and my day is spent perfecting movement and expression... it is the voice I was born with. I dance out my soul.

What is your passion? How does your soul express itself? You need to dig deep inside, way back to that root, that cry that you made as you entered this world.... it is there. Search for it, find it...embrace it.... Cry as you will....find your way to dance out your soul.....

The Many-faceted Heart is like a Diamond

I think it must be in our hearts, that our souls actually dwell... although I feel my soul seep out into my limbs from my heart and my throat and my mind when I dance, it must rest in our hearts to nurture and fill. Maybe when we sleep.

Our hearts are not so different from each other's...not the way they are shaped nor the mechanics of their beatings. But deep inside, there is the diamond. The soul, that is as individual as a snowflake or a sunbeam, or as multifaceted as a diamond when cherished and cut and shaped to bring about the most glorious and valuable shine of all.

Diamonds have a depth where the shadows lie smoldering, and a glittering and smooth surface where the eye can see clearly it's beauty. No one can ever say they know their own soul unless they have delved deep into their heart. My mind and my heart and my soul are all disconnected in parts, yet enclosed within the same world needing the same life force to work...yet, if my mind and my heart stop living, I like to believe my soul will go on as it is... freed from it's bondage of our physical muscle and blood... recycling into something of magic, while regaining a host.

Thus our souls, our diamonds, are as old as the ages. And they have gathered wisdom from the ancient days when all was new...Our souls, like the mountains and the seas, are ever changing and evolving, adding new landscape to their design and burning with the heat of life and love and all things shifting. How wonderful that our bodies get to be the keepers of those diamonds while we live!

Many people believe that our "life force" is our blood and bones and muscle and grit...but I think it is our soul that brings to us our personalities, and our destinies. I never believed, entirely, of "soul mates" and used to "pooh-pooh" the idea of reincarnation, but I am beginning to feel differently nowadays. It is the ultimate recycling plan...it is the way nature works. Nothing really stops "being" ...it just changes, morphs or something, into another form. Why wouldn't our soul just go on and eventually find itself in another generation and another new body to carry on....?

There is something in all of us that speaks and draws us to a passion that is strong and magnetic beyond understanding. I happen to feel like I am still living outside of my "home"... in a new age, and a new place that I don't quite belong. I have never been to Ireland, or to Scotland, or to anyplace where Gaelic and Pagan hearts gather in peace, and yet here I am.... irresistably drawn to all things Celtic. I come to the conclusion that my soul remembers. Like Harry Potter's snitch, my soul has a "flesh memory" that hangs onto it's origin and it's "home"...

This could all be fantasy. An over-active imagination, brought on by boredom wrought from a suburban lifestyle of a middle aged woman who finds herself planted in a vast superficial bubble of soccer moms and pedicures.

I look for adventures and grit whenever I can... it's tough to satisfy my diamond of a soul, craving wild hikes and hunts, and challenges of defeating anonymous and invisible status. I have been known to climb on my roof to read a book, or just gaze at a star, and to climb fences ten feet tall just to feel it when I fly over them...and to know that I am halfway done with this life already...I want my soul to take my body with it this time... I want to go home, with my soul where it belongs. Wherever that is.

Landing on My Feet...

Back in my mind, when our lives were in shades of black and white, I wallow.
The 50's, the 60's, and even the beginning of the 70's when the grays starting showing pastel and the sharper colors of the day redefined photography. My journey had just begun, my bare feet just beginning to form the tougher layers of experience to protect them from the rocks and stubbs of life. Falling down, then, meant learning to push myself away from my father's arms when he caught me halfway down...gradually increasing my strength as his arms allowed me more independence as I grew. I am nostalgic for those days. Yet, I could not wait for those days to be behind me when I lived them. My falls became crashes, with longer and more painful landings, especially once I moved too far for my father's arms to ever reach me again.

There is a lot to be said for "falling down." My folks always told each other that "Sheree always lands on her feet"...not sure what that meant for the longest time, but I know it gave them comfort as they watched me struggle and journey through time. I have begun to believe "attitude is everything." Every single time I fell, I did not rest until I found some way to get back up, brush myself off and continue on my way. Not that getting up was easy. Never was it easy. But it was fulfilling, and my soul always celebrated with joy to be upright and maybe a little soiled, but certainly stronger.

Attitude is everything. It can keep you down, or it can lift you up. It is our choice, and our choice alone. A spirit of rebellion thrown in doesn't hurt, either, when one is on the bottom side of a pile. I think of the stories of Holocaust survivors...the amazing stories of human spirit and strength, both quiet and booming. Down deep in their souls, they were choosing to "land on their feet"... surviving and thriving to tell their stories and the stories of those who didn't have the chance to face the sun again. At great cost, those survivors gained strength and wisdom and learned what it is to cherish the little things.

Attitude is everything. Landing on our feet does not keep us from falling in the first place. It takes such instinct, such experience, and a great deal of flexibility and preparation. As we get older, we learn to anticipate the pot holes, the slippery slopes, the very movements of the earth that once would have taken our feet right out from under us. It is a dance. This is The Dance of Life... our steps chosen with care, and our bodies prepared to balance and flow into the winds, using our world as support and shield all at once.

I share with you the Balance of the World. The good, the bad...the horrible and the sublime. It is a part of our humanity. It just is. With every bad, we see a good that counter balances our footing, and shifts our direction. Dance the journey, folks. Just dance.