The sounds of a spring-time rainy day in North Carolina are soft, and fairly cosy. The greens look greener, the budding trees more full. But it dulls the edges of my heart in ways that bring discontent, as well as a limp laziness of not caring to my day. Unable to shake this off, and just do something, I melt and wilt deeper into my blanketed chair. Hugging my umpteenth cup of coffee to my chest, feeling a bit of the sleepiness from the warmth, without the futile buzz that comes with caffeine. Oh yeah. I am beyond mellow. Starting to slip into the old fetid swimming hole that is depression, I question my emotional maturity.
I had great hopes at the beginning of this year. New medication that was supposed to make me dance with energy and lightness, hope that our life was really making sense to the glories of the future. Chris' new position in his job, that would bring my dearest friend back in place of the stranger his old job created. I felt assured that we were making positive decisions regarding the most important four years of our son's education. Moving ahead with confidence, and the ability to ignore the flagging red tips of warning flags along the way, my heart was hopeful. I still had the ability to talk myself out of the slipped footings as I made my way through my days.
It became apparent to me that I was losing ground, when I found myself deflated and defeated and uninspired with my Irish dance classes, and even my hard-earned place in my Intermediate Boot Camp was making me whine and balk. My joys were turning against me.
Something is wrong. But I don't know what.
Thursday, July 19, 2012
Dan, this one is for you. You are going to be good for my Family.
Wow! It's been a long time since I sat down and actually had something to say. Not that life didn't go on without you, dear Blog, but I found motivation and inspiration in odd times and did not make you accessible to me. So, I am going to attempt to catch up.
This summer as been a challenge, good and bad, as all challenges are. The only thing consistent to ME has been my Boot Camp class, which doesn't sound poetic at all, but has held me together body, mind and soul, to get me through some tumultuous waters. Like the ocean, this summer has had a tremendous rip-tide that could have easily pulled me under and dragged me out to sea.
From the outside, looking in, I can understand how people may think my life is very calm and secure. The very peace of it, however, is exactly what creates my storms. I have never been able to feel truly settled, or calm, unless things around me are challenging and a bit dangerous. As I grow older, less of me is being pulled into the eye of the tornado, and finding peace within an already calm space has become something I want to learn better how to do. It isn't comfortable, as one may assume, and my body seems to crave constant pressure and movement. Sitting still feels stagnant to me, even when I am overwhelmed with the need to "rest."
I am living with two men, one young and one ...well, "old"...(no offense, honey...I am still older than you)...Both of these men are currently very satisfied with staying still. It is within them, a sort of peace that makes me feel as if their calm harbor is where they maintain their strength. It makes me crazy. Period. I feel that I am their "nucleus" and they are pulled magnetically to maintain a close distance to me, and I am afraid to go anywhere outside of THEIR comfort zones. I don't want to shake them up with my own frenetic need to wiggle and blindly jump about.
I am trying to fill my calm space with very active things, that I can be passionate about. It makes me think of a cup of hot water with its energetic ions and protons and neutrons bopping around about and into each other as the water heats up. Maybe I can maintain this calm exterior and NOT burst... so, I am starting up my Irish dance classes again.
My Irish dance academy has a new teacher, who is fast becoming a good friend to me. My friend has one of those "calm exteriors" also, but I sense a kindred spirit inside, and I'm thinking his molecules are ever-moving and keeping up with the frenetic energy I contain as well. His dancing is beautiful. It is powerful, and yet sweetly smooth, as if he has a bit of fairy-light within lifting him off the ground. I will dance like that someday, I think. I can feel it. I have taken only three classes with him so far, but he is teaching me about where the body has the most strength, in the most unsuspected places. Who knew that to lift off, being on our toes would get us higher than pushing off from the very solid whole foot....?
Which leads me to this thought: I wonder if our "power" in everyday living, both spiritually and physically really comes from the often overlooked small places? Never obvious...maybe that's how people who have become very powerfully accomplished and famous, surprise us. Take Mother Teresa for an example: She very quietly, steadfastly, and yes, calmly, took over the world in her own way and learned to contain her goodness and her strength to accomplish outrageously energetic things. In history, there are many people who have learned to move their "cup" of energy without disrupting the calm ... learning to push off from the small places of their bodies, their souls, seemingly to defy the laws of nature...
I know many people who are proud to call themselves "Christians" will determine that it is "God" who is their strength and motivations, inside of their peace. That's good, I think. I accept that. I think we need to use whatever visualizations and imaginations that we can to feed our souls, to heat up our energies. I like to visualize God, myself. I am not sure of His absolute reality, and do not have "faith" in all that seems to be the makings of our society's Christianity... I think it is much bigger than that. And smaller, too. I believe every religion has those accomplishments, and finding the fires within ourselves individually takes an unearthly separation of body and soul... and giving it a name just seems to limit the possibilities.
I am, personally, going to start looking closely at the smaller, more hidden places of my strength...not overlooking every potential therein, nor underestimating the smallest or the weakest. Let's surprise ourselves, and start jumping off from our toes, instead of our whole foot.
This summer as been a challenge, good and bad, as all challenges are. The only thing consistent to ME has been my Boot Camp class, which doesn't sound poetic at all, but has held me together body, mind and soul, to get me through some tumultuous waters. Like the ocean, this summer has had a tremendous rip-tide that could have easily pulled me under and dragged me out to sea.
From the outside, looking in, I can understand how people may think my life is very calm and secure. The very peace of it, however, is exactly what creates my storms. I have never been able to feel truly settled, or calm, unless things around me are challenging and a bit dangerous. As I grow older, less of me is being pulled into the eye of the tornado, and finding peace within an already calm space has become something I want to learn better how to do. It isn't comfortable, as one may assume, and my body seems to crave constant pressure and movement. Sitting still feels stagnant to me, even when I am overwhelmed with the need to "rest."
I am living with two men, one young and one ...well, "old"...(no offense, honey...I am still older than you)...Both of these men are currently very satisfied with staying still. It is within them, a sort of peace that makes me feel as if their calm harbor is where they maintain their strength. It makes me crazy. Period. I feel that I am their "nucleus" and they are pulled magnetically to maintain a close distance to me, and I am afraid to go anywhere outside of THEIR comfort zones. I don't want to shake them up with my own frenetic need to wiggle and blindly jump about.
I am trying to fill my calm space with very active things, that I can be passionate about. It makes me think of a cup of hot water with its energetic ions and protons and neutrons bopping around about and into each other as the water heats up. Maybe I can maintain this calm exterior and NOT burst... so, I am starting up my Irish dance classes again.
My Irish dance academy has a new teacher, who is fast becoming a good friend to me. My friend has one of those "calm exteriors" also, but I sense a kindred spirit inside, and I'm thinking his molecules are ever-moving and keeping up with the frenetic energy I contain as well. His dancing is beautiful. It is powerful, and yet sweetly smooth, as if he has a bit of fairy-light within lifting him off the ground. I will dance like that someday, I think. I can feel it. I have taken only three classes with him so far, but he is teaching me about where the body has the most strength, in the most unsuspected places. Who knew that to lift off, being on our toes would get us higher than pushing off from the very solid whole foot....?
Which leads me to this thought: I wonder if our "power" in everyday living, both spiritually and physically really comes from the often overlooked small places? Never obvious...maybe that's how people who have become very powerfully accomplished and famous, surprise us. Take Mother Teresa for an example: She very quietly, steadfastly, and yes, calmly, took over the world in her own way and learned to contain her goodness and her strength to accomplish outrageously energetic things. In history, there are many people who have learned to move their "cup" of energy without disrupting the calm ... learning to push off from the small places of their bodies, their souls, seemingly to defy the laws of nature...
I know many people who are proud to call themselves "Christians" will determine that it is "God" who is their strength and motivations, inside of their peace. That's good, I think. I accept that. I think we need to use whatever visualizations and imaginations that we can to feed our souls, to heat up our energies. I like to visualize God, myself. I am not sure of His absolute reality, and do not have "faith" in all that seems to be the makings of our society's Christianity... I think it is much bigger than that. And smaller, too. I believe every religion has those accomplishments, and finding the fires within ourselves individually takes an unearthly separation of body and soul... and giving it a name just seems to limit the possibilities.
I am, personally, going to start looking closely at the smaller, more hidden places of my strength...not overlooking every potential therein, nor underestimating the smallest or the weakest. Let's surprise ourselves, and start jumping off from our toes, instead of our whole foot.
Monday, January 9, 2012
Ragged Days of Falling Together...
In crafting home-made paper, one has many options and processes to choose from. Being the kind of person I am, less exacting and more impatient to finish than others, I prefer to create ragged edges as compared to the precise and meticulously framed borders that accomplished artists market.
I find that ragged edges bond more seamlessly when I combine two or more paper sections together when making larger pieces from numerous smaller ones. Ragged edges adhere together with more strength, and also bond as though originating as "one," not being able to tell where one section ends and another begins.
It figures that I craft my life in the same ways. I feel much like a ragged person, whose edges are rough and unpredictable with no semblance of order and planning. I never really know what I will do next. Obviously, I accomplish little due to my many distractions and ever-changing interests. I have the attention span of a puppy. Or so it seems to me.
In looking through a Glass Half Full, I can be thankful for my ragged edges, as I have been blessed with a husband who sees my ragged edges as something attractive and exciting... and of late, my ragged edges shook up his world as well as mine for the sake of a life that, all of a sudden, could be cut shorter than we'd like. My husband is a sweet man whose edges were born less ragged than mine, but I'm seeing that he has intentionally been tearing some of his sharp lines, sometimes painfully, to mesh with my own. That is love.
I understand that I am a frustrating muddle of a mess more often than not. He is a man that prefers to know his boundary and the expectations of life. He likes to plan, even though he isn't particular when plans go awry. He just adjusts his boundaries. And such, he is gifing me with this process, so entirely "him." I see, now, that he is adjusting his boundaries often. He thinks about our next moves very carefully, too carefully for me, but he is meticulous and cautious taking a good long time in his decision making. What I failed to see, before, is that this is part of his process to start tearing bits of his comfortable straight edges off, leaving chunks of himself torn wide open baring itself to the elements. That is love.
We have a ways to go, while creating our "bigger piece" but I am seeing our edges beginning to fade one into the other. I recognize our different textures, and colors, still...and may always be able to discern our differences. But there is certainly more blending and bonding being done in these days than we can yet see with our eyes, but can feel in our hearts. I acknowledge the tearing that it has taken, the desire in his heart that keeps him hanging on to this very amateuristic piece of work that is "me"... I am seeing less and less of the "edge" that comes between us, and look forward to the days when we will be truly "one piece." Happy Anniversary, darling. Thanks for letting me be me. That is love.
I find that ragged edges bond more seamlessly when I combine two or more paper sections together when making larger pieces from numerous smaller ones. Ragged edges adhere together with more strength, and also bond as though originating as "one," not being able to tell where one section ends and another begins.
It figures that I craft my life in the same ways. I feel much like a ragged person, whose edges are rough and unpredictable with no semblance of order and planning. I never really know what I will do next. Obviously, I accomplish little due to my many distractions and ever-changing interests. I have the attention span of a puppy. Or so it seems to me.
In looking through a Glass Half Full, I can be thankful for my ragged edges, as I have been blessed with a husband who sees my ragged edges as something attractive and exciting... and of late, my ragged edges shook up his world as well as mine for the sake of a life that, all of a sudden, could be cut shorter than we'd like. My husband is a sweet man whose edges were born less ragged than mine, but I'm seeing that he has intentionally been tearing some of his sharp lines, sometimes painfully, to mesh with my own. That is love.
I understand that I am a frustrating muddle of a mess more often than not. He is a man that prefers to know his boundary and the expectations of life. He likes to plan, even though he isn't particular when plans go awry. He just adjusts his boundaries. And such, he is gifing me with this process, so entirely "him." I see, now, that he is adjusting his boundaries often. He thinks about our next moves very carefully, too carefully for me, but he is meticulous and cautious taking a good long time in his decision making. What I failed to see, before, is that this is part of his process to start tearing bits of his comfortable straight edges off, leaving chunks of himself torn wide open baring itself to the elements. That is love.
We have a ways to go, while creating our "bigger piece" but I am seeing our edges beginning to fade one into the other. I recognize our different textures, and colors, still...and may always be able to discern our differences. But there is certainly more blending and bonding being done in these days than we can yet see with our eyes, but can feel in our hearts. I acknowledge the tearing that it has taken, the desire in his heart that keeps him hanging on to this very amateuristic piece of work that is "me"... I am seeing less and less of the "edge" that comes between us, and look forward to the days when we will be truly "one piece." Happy Anniversary, darling. Thanks for letting me be me. That is love.
Monday, December 12, 2011
...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.
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.
Monday, November 28, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
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.
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.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
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.
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.
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