Lessons, as we all know, often come in the most interesting packages. Recently, one has come to me in the form of a part-time job. It’s a cashiering position at a busy building supply store. I wanted a job that I could leave at the worksite: a place of employment that gave me money but no extra worries; a job that gave me time and space to write and do my Bodymind sessions with ease and clear mind. But, as they say, be careful what you wish for.
I haven’t done this kind of work in many years, probably since I was a teenager. Back then it would have been easy: new computer programs a breeze and the camaraderie with other staff a bonus. Coming at it from the late stages of peri-menopause with its concurrent foggy brain and perpetual fatigue I’ve discovered it to be a far greater challenge. One of the biggest feats, however, is how to maintain an open heart.
A busy hour can see up to fifty people pass my till. Some shifts are such that those busy hours last all day. I try for the most part to greet each person as an individual and then send them off with eye contact and words of care. I laugh a lot and even bop along to the sixties rock playing in the background. Most people respond in kind with the result that a connection, albeit a temporary one, is made. It feels good.
Ever so often, however, the routine is broken and someone comes in with a combustible mood. Regardless of whether it has to do with something the store sells or doesn’t sell, bad service or whatnot, the cashier is usually the place where the spark is ignited. I’ve been handling it fairly well letting the words slide off me but a few days ago there were just a few too many sly innuendos, despairing looks and plain rudeness pointed in my direction. I came home feeling like my heart had been trampled upon. Thankfully, I was off for a few days but I maintained a listless and melancholy mood for the next 24 hours. In an attempt to self-medicate I retold my tale of woe to three friends and countless times to myself but still felt the same emptiness. It wasn’t until that night while lying in bed that I finally got the story right. It wasn’t so much the fact that people can be hurtful but that one day, I might not bounce back; that one day, I may close myself off and stop caring.
Every day I go into work determined to sing and dance my way through customer interactions with as much grace as possible. I vow to let the occasional bad experience slide off me and open my heart to the next encounter. For the most part my plan works but I am finding it is taking a toll. I feel it in my body at the end of the day as I drag myself home. I feel it in a slow but burning desire to shut myself off when faced with yet another question, another problem. I see it on the faces of those who have done this job for many more years than I: the protective mask that comes down as the customer approaches. Facial expressions that go blank or worse, appear with a pasted smile and eyes that flatten out as all gears shift into neutral.
Initially this mask is used only when there is need but soon takes over with even the most subtle of provocation. At the end stage, it is there with all encounters and may even become defensive. While it is maddening for the customer it is, at times, a survival necessity for the clerk who feels they cannot risk being exposed to yet another irritated client; another hurtful comment. The shield works well. The unfortunate thing is that while the shield blocks out the negative, it also wards off the positive.
The challenge I set for myself is to keep that shield at bay.
A friend humbled me with her response as I spoke of my concerns. She compared it to a family situation in which her attempts at connection were constantly disdained by someone with bonds too close to ignore. She said that for her it was about finding strength of heart to continue despite the pain. I sat with her words. At first I wanted to deny that my trivial work concerns could even compare but then I saw the universal truth in her statement. Life throws us all sorts of challenges whether they be intimate and long term or mundane and temporary. To compartmentalize them and say, this one is worthy while that is not, undermines the integrity of heart-centred living and belies the connection we share with all other beings.
The question is the same regardless of the situation: do we have the strength of heart to continually open ourselves up to the next possible connection?
The Interdependent Life
Wistful thoughts from a codependent heart ...
Sunday, May 20, 2012
Saturday, May 12, 2012
I Yam What I Yam
A few weeks ago I was invited to a potluck. Except for the hostess my eating companions were strangers. Regardless, they were easy to get to know in that informal party way: conversation flowed in and around the joys of life as we talked of eating, travelling and humorous happenstances. I was enjoying myself when, in dialogue with an otherwise lovely man, he asked me how I filled my days. Now while I admit it is neither an offensive question nor, really, an invasive one, it still took me by surprise and made me somewhat irritated. Perhaps it was the energy behind it but what I heard was a variation of the age-old: “what do you do for a living”. Not only did I not expect it but I didn’t want to answer. Oh, sure I could have told him what I did on that particular day: baked bread and went for a long walk but that wasn’t what was being asked. He wanted to know my profession.
When I got over my surprise I felt my vocal chords tighten and my belly do a minor twist. I knew my reactions to be strong and perhaps unreasonable but still, there was something there that bade me to listen to them. In response, therefore, I was vague and then joked about my evasiveness in suggesting I was a gangster—incognito. We laughed but soon my cannot-tell-a-lie integrity betrayed me and I responded that I was a BodyMind therapist and writer. We chatted for a bit longer, me with discomfort, him with nonchalance, until we thankfully drifted away. I let the conversation go and went back to enjoying the business of partying: good food; laughter and other in-the-moment joys.
On the bus ride home I thought back on that particular conversation. What, I asked myself, made my body react so strongly? In answer, and regardless of the man’s seeming innocence, it brought up questions about my identity—who am I? This question is one that has been central to a rather long period of self-reflection. It started last year, a few months before I turned fifty and has gathered steam to the point where I am almost loathe to pigeon-hole myself into anything. I have discovered in a powerfully visceral way that my identity is somewhat nebulous and, specifically, that I am much more than what I do and, paradoxically, much less.
About ten years ago, I did my first “who am I?” exercise. I am sure it is familiar to many of you but to summarize, it is when you sit in front of a witness and answer the “Who am I?” question for about twenty minutes. It is a simple exercise but quite profound. It reminds me of Jorge Luis Borges’ last words in his short story, The Immortal: I have been Homer; shortly I shall be No One, like Ulysses; shortly, I shall b all men; I shall be dead. In other words, if I interpret Borges correctly, we are everything and therefore, nothing; all human traits, all emotions and capabilities lie within us. To identify with one aspect is to potentially negate another but to identify with all aspects ultimately has no meaning.
Since I was fifteen, I have held thirty-six different jobs … in twelve different fields. The longest tenure continues to be my bodymind practice, the shortest was a stint at Safeway for six weeks. If I had to count on working experience as my identity I would be giving Sybil a run for her money. And that does not even include my non-paying identities of daughter, sister, aunt, baker, hiker and lover of good books. The list goes on.
In the past I often over-identified with jobs or career manifestations. I was what I did; I did what I was. This was especially true with my therapeutic work. Then, some years back, I experienced a steep decline in clients: they stopped coming. Without my work, I was, or at least felt I was, nothing. It affected both my mental and physical health; I felt lost, confused and abandoned.
This rather melodramatic event along with some other intense personal relationships was what propelled me into researching codependency. After years of soul searching and then writing and teaching about the subject I returned to health and, funny enough, the clients returned. It is interesting then to note that this return of identity questioning has climaxed into a time that once again coincides with a slowing down of my practice. Who am I?
It was hard at first, this revisiting of an old issue but ultimately, it has proved rewarding. It’s like the return of an old acquaintance who once was tedious but now is tolerable due to stronger boundaries and a deeper trust in the journey of life. Despite the fact that I have had to get a part-time job to support my budget, I am not at the “depth of despair” nor on the door to burnout as I was during the first round when my business slowed down. Oh sure, I went through some periods of self pity and bouts of “why me?” but the bottom line is that my identity hasn’t changed with the vagaries of my practice. As Popeye once said: I yam what I yam. This moment I am a blog writer and later I will be a walker. An hour ago I was a BodyMind practitioner and tomorrow I will bake bread and then go on to my cashier job at RONA. I am many things—a myriad of things—yet, at the same time, none of these things. I am just me.
When I got over my surprise I felt my vocal chords tighten and my belly do a minor twist. I knew my reactions to be strong and perhaps unreasonable but still, there was something there that bade me to listen to them. In response, therefore, I was vague and then joked about my evasiveness in suggesting I was a gangster—incognito. We laughed but soon my cannot-tell-a-lie integrity betrayed me and I responded that I was a BodyMind therapist and writer. We chatted for a bit longer, me with discomfort, him with nonchalance, until we thankfully drifted away. I let the conversation go and went back to enjoying the business of partying: good food; laughter and other in-the-moment joys.
On the bus ride home I thought back on that particular conversation. What, I asked myself, made my body react so strongly? In answer, and regardless of the man’s seeming innocence, it brought up questions about my identity—who am I? This question is one that has been central to a rather long period of self-reflection. It started last year, a few months before I turned fifty and has gathered steam to the point where I am almost loathe to pigeon-hole myself into anything. I have discovered in a powerfully visceral way that my identity is somewhat nebulous and, specifically, that I am much more than what I do and, paradoxically, much less.
About ten years ago, I did my first “who am I?” exercise. I am sure it is familiar to many of you but to summarize, it is when you sit in front of a witness and answer the “Who am I?” question for about twenty minutes. It is a simple exercise but quite profound. It reminds me of Jorge Luis Borges’ last words in his short story, The Immortal: I have been Homer; shortly I shall be No One, like Ulysses; shortly, I shall b all men; I shall be dead. In other words, if I interpret Borges correctly, we are everything and therefore, nothing; all human traits, all emotions and capabilities lie within us. To identify with one aspect is to potentially negate another but to identify with all aspects ultimately has no meaning.
Since I was fifteen, I have held thirty-six different jobs … in twelve different fields. The longest tenure continues to be my bodymind practice, the shortest was a stint at Safeway for six weeks. If I had to count on working experience as my identity I would be giving Sybil a run for her money. And that does not even include my non-paying identities of daughter, sister, aunt, baker, hiker and lover of good books. The list goes on.
In the past I often over-identified with jobs or career manifestations. I was what I did; I did what I was. This was especially true with my therapeutic work. Then, some years back, I experienced a steep decline in clients: they stopped coming. Without my work, I was, or at least felt I was, nothing. It affected both my mental and physical health; I felt lost, confused and abandoned.
This rather melodramatic event along with some other intense personal relationships was what propelled me into researching codependency. After years of soul searching and then writing and teaching about the subject I returned to health and, funny enough, the clients returned. It is interesting then to note that this return of identity questioning has climaxed into a time that once again coincides with a slowing down of my practice. Who am I?
It was hard at first, this revisiting of an old issue but ultimately, it has proved rewarding. It’s like the return of an old acquaintance who once was tedious but now is tolerable due to stronger boundaries and a deeper trust in the journey of life. Despite the fact that I have had to get a part-time job to support my budget, I am not at the “depth of despair” nor on the door to burnout as I was during the first round when my business slowed down. Oh sure, I went through some periods of self pity and bouts of “why me?” but the bottom line is that my identity hasn’t changed with the vagaries of my practice. As Popeye once said: I yam what I yam. This moment I am a blog writer and later I will be a walker. An hour ago I was a BodyMind practitioner and tomorrow I will bake bread and then go on to my cashier job at RONA. I am many things—a myriad of things—yet, at the same time, none of these things. I am just me.
Saturday, March 17, 2012
St. Patrick's Day
Way back when, when I was a wee little lass, I had a speech impediment. It was nothing that a few sessions with the therapist couldn’t clear up but I had problems distinguishing my “sh-es” from my “esses” and my “th-es”. So my mouth became my mouse and I could sink but not think. I also talked way too fast forgetting to take a breath between sentences let alone paragraphs. It was too such an extent that only my family could understand what I was saying: I was a language unto myself. When asked by others why I spoke so … differently, I assured them it was just my Irish accent and immediately backed it up with an Irish Jig. Or at least what I thought to be an Irish jig. I put my hands over my heads and jumped over an imaginary sword a few times while channeling the Irish Rovers singing the Unicorn song. A legitimate replica to be sure.
Funny thing is my Irish ancestry is at least a few generations back. Perhaps my maternal great grandparents came from that emerald isle but then again, I may be pushing it. Regardless, St. Patty’s day holds a special place in my heart even if it is just in my political and environmental leanings.
Speaking of which, I just read in today’s Globe that the federal government has plans to water down the fisheries act. If they succeed it will be easier to push through projects such as Enbridge’s pipeline from the oil sands to BC’s west coast.
I believe letters sent by snail mail are taken more seriously than petitions or email. Letters sent to the following address do not need postage.
Name of MP
House of Commons
Parliament Buildings
Ottawa, OntariO
K1A 0A6
Write your letter to:
1. Minister of Fisheries and Oceans - Keith Ashfiel
Critics
* Fin Donnelly (New Democratic Party)
* Lawrence MacAulay, (Liberal Party of Canada)
2. Minister of the Environment – Peter Kent
Critics
* Megan Leslie (New Democratic Party)
* Kirsty Duncan & Grant Mitchell (Liberal Party of Canada)
3. Your Member of Parliament
Funny thing is my Irish ancestry is at least a few generations back. Perhaps my maternal great grandparents came from that emerald isle but then again, I may be pushing it. Regardless, St. Patty’s day holds a special place in my heart even if it is just in my political and environmental leanings.
Speaking of which, I just read in today’s Globe that the federal government has plans to water down the fisheries act. If they succeed it will be easier to push through projects such as Enbridge’s pipeline from the oil sands to BC’s west coast.
“This government is convinced that the Fisheries Act is an impediment to economic activity, and that is just BS.,” said Otto Langer, former head of habitat protection for DFO on the West Coast. …For more information, read here. I am writing my MP and the various ministers involved. Please consider this action for yourself. To find your MP go to http://www.parl.gc.ca/Parlinfo/Compilations/HouseOfCommons/MemberByPostalCode.aspx?Menu=HOC
The proposed changes, Mr. Langer said, strip reference to “habitat” from the act, and make the legislation difficult to enforce by introducing vague and obscure wording.
Currently the act makes it illegal to damage fish habitat. The new version refers instead to harming “fish of economic, cultural or ecological value.”
“If you can’t prove any of those values exist, you can’t take anyone to court,” said Mr. Langer, who added his former colleagues in DFO were surprised when he brought the changes to their attention.
I believe letters sent by snail mail are taken more seriously than petitions or email. Letters sent to the following address do not need postage.
Name of MP
House of Commons
Parliament Buildings
Ottawa, OntariO
K1A 0A6
Write your letter to:
1. Minister of Fisheries and Oceans - Keith Ashfiel
Critics
* Fin Donnelly (New Democratic Party)
* Lawrence MacAulay, (Liberal Party of Canada)
2. Minister of the Environment – Peter Kent
Critics
* Megan Leslie (New Democratic Party)
* Kirsty Duncan & Grant Mitchell (Liberal Party of Canada)
3. Your Member of Parliament
Sunday, February 12, 2012
Torture: A Fear Based Reaction
On February 7, the Globe and Mail reported that “[t]he federal government has directed Canada’s spy agency to use information that may have been extracted through torture in cases where public safety is at stake.”
On first reading I was shocked. How can we, as citizens of a country that disallows and, from all accounts, abhors torture, permit others to be hurt, maimed or even killed for information that is, at best, dubious? As Bob Rae stated: “The law in Canada has been pretty clear that information based on torture, first of all, is not reliable and, second of all, is not permissible”.
I read the article again. Two quotes stuck out. The Canadian government has directed CSIS to “make the protection of life and property its overriding priority.” This was followed by: “Our government will always take action that protects the lives of Canadians.”
Of course, I thought, the safety of Canadians must be the government’s overriding concern. And thus began a convulsive penduluming as I explored the various pros and cons of allowing information gained through torture.
If I knew someone was withholding life saving information about a loved one, would I limit the methods I use to force it out of him or her? Would I turn a blind eye to someone being threatened, emotionally battered or hurt if I knew it would coerce them into saving another? Would I, as captain of a shipwreck, ask the weakest member to jump ship in an overburdened lifeboat?
It is the age old question: do the rights of one supersede the rights of others or do the rights of the collective override those of the individual? It is also the interdependent question: how can I create a safe and respectful environment that supports my needs, desires and goals while still respecting those same rights in others?
Interdependence requires conscious awareness and, therefore, a creative response to life that is built on a foundation of respect, mutuality and self leadership. Every day we make decisions that affect not only ourselves but those around us. Each decision is an opportunity to show how we can respect and honour our interconnectness. Torture is not a creative response. It is, instead, a reaction to fear—one that devalues both the life of the abuser and the victim. By allowing information gleaned from torture we diminish ourselves.
Please write your Member of Parliament and tell them how you feel. As Alex Neve, secretary general of Amnesty International Canada stated: “The bottom line is that as long as torturers continue to find a market for the fruit of their crimes, torture will continue. Firmly rebuffing torturers when they offer up information extracted through pain and suffering is a critical plank in the wider campaign to eradicate torture once and for all.”
Sample Letter
Dear Mr. Toews:
I cannot understand the recent policy reversal that has information gleaned from torture considered as potentially reliable intelligence. Torture is illegal and morally wrong. The information obtained from torture is dubious in value and founded on the blood of others. There is no hierarchy as to human value: the life of one is not more or less worthy than that of another. Do not let Canada slide down this slippery slope of repugnant disrespect for human rights.
Regards,
Write your letter to:
1. Minister of Public Safety - Vic Toews
2. Critics
Sandhu, Jasbir (New Democratic Party)
Baker, George (Liberal Party of Canada)
Scarpaleggia, Francis (Liberal Party of Canada)
Mourani, Maria (Bloc Québécois)
3. Your Member of Parliament
To find your MP go to http://www.parl.gc.ca/Parlinfo/Compilations/HouseOfCommons/MemberByPostalCode.aspx?Menu=HOC
I believe letters sent by snail mail are taken more seriously than petitions or email. Letters sent to the following address do not need postage.
Name of MP
House of Commons
Parliament Buildings
Ottawa, Ontario
Canada
K1A 0A6
On first reading I was shocked. How can we, as citizens of a country that disallows and, from all accounts, abhors torture, permit others to be hurt, maimed or even killed for information that is, at best, dubious? As Bob Rae stated: “The law in Canada has been pretty clear that information based on torture, first of all, is not reliable and, second of all, is not permissible”.
I read the article again. Two quotes stuck out. The Canadian government has directed CSIS to “make the protection of life and property its overriding priority.” This was followed by: “Our government will always take action that protects the lives of Canadians.”
Of course, I thought, the safety of Canadians must be the government’s overriding concern. And thus began a convulsive penduluming as I explored the various pros and cons of allowing information gained through torture.
If I knew someone was withholding life saving information about a loved one, would I limit the methods I use to force it out of him or her? Would I turn a blind eye to someone being threatened, emotionally battered or hurt if I knew it would coerce them into saving another? Would I, as captain of a shipwreck, ask the weakest member to jump ship in an overburdened lifeboat?
It is the age old question: do the rights of one supersede the rights of others or do the rights of the collective override those of the individual? It is also the interdependent question: how can I create a safe and respectful environment that supports my needs, desires and goals while still respecting those same rights in others?
Interdependence requires conscious awareness and, therefore, a creative response to life that is built on a foundation of respect, mutuality and self leadership. Every day we make decisions that affect not only ourselves but those around us. Each decision is an opportunity to show how we can respect and honour our interconnectness. Torture is not a creative response. It is, instead, a reaction to fear—one that devalues both the life of the abuser and the victim. By allowing information gleaned from torture we diminish ourselves.
Please write your Member of Parliament and tell them how you feel. As Alex Neve, secretary general of Amnesty International Canada stated: “The bottom line is that as long as torturers continue to find a market for the fruit of their crimes, torture will continue. Firmly rebuffing torturers when they offer up information extracted through pain and suffering is a critical plank in the wider campaign to eradicate torture once and for all.”
Sample Letter
Dear Mr. Toews:
I cannot understand the recent policy reversal that has information gleaned from torture considered as potentially reliable intelligence. Torture is illegal and morally wrong. The information obtained from torture is dubious in value and founded on the blood of others. There is no hierarchy as to human value: the life of one is not more or less worthy than that of another. Do not let Canada slide down this slippery slope of repugnant disrespect for human rights.
Regards,
Write your letter to:
1. Minister of Public Safety - Vic Toews
2. Critics
Sandhu, Jasbir (New Democratic Party)
Baker, George (Liberal Party of Canada)
Scarpaleggia, Francis (Liberal Party of Canada)
Mourani, Maria (Bloc Québécois)
3. Your Member of Parliament
To find your MP go to http://www.parl.gc.ca/Parlinfo/Compilations/HouseOfCommons/MemberByPostalCode.aspx?Menu=HOC
I believe letters sent by snail mail are taken more seriously than petitions or email. Letters sent to the following address do not need postage.
Name of MP
House of Commons
Parliament Buildings
Ottawa, Ontario
Canada
K1A 0A6
Sunday, January 22, 2012
How to Empty Out
How to empty out:
Tilt the vessel,
not too much, but enough.
Allow a steady flow.
Too fast and there is a gush, a breakdown of barriers: a flood.
Too slow? Torturous drops: insanity.
Tilt until empty.
Do not refill.
I fear this empty vessel.
Nature does not fear, it hates—abhors a vacuum;
I do too. I want to fill it up,
create a new story, bring in wants and desires;
fulfill my needs by being full.
But I won’t.
I will sit with this emptiness and explore its shadowy depths. I will
relish its rough hidden geography and
savour the crags that scrape my hands and cut my bare feet. I will
run in wild abandon; I will
dance out the pain.
My blood will spell out my name,
capitals all, a flowing script of
indelible ink. There will be no mistake.
This vessel is claimed: the emptiness complete.
Tilt the vessel,
not too much, but enough.
Allow a steady flow.
Too fast and there is a gush, a breakdown of barriers: a flood.
Too slow? Torturous drops: insanity.
Tilt until empty.
Do not refill.
I fear this empty vessel.
Nature does not fear, it hates—abhors a vacuum;
I do too. I want to fill it up,
create a new story, bring in wants and desires;
fulfill my needs by being full.
But I won’t.
I will sit with this emptiness and explore its shadowy depths. I will
relish its rough hidden geography and
savour the crags that scrape my hands and cut my bare feet. I will
run in wild abandon; I will
dance out the pain.
My blood will spell out my name,
capitals all, a flowing script of
indelible ink. There will be no mistake.
This vessel is claimed: the emptiness complete.
Saturday, January 14, 2012
Creative Paralysis
Once again, my age-old refrain is heard: but, but, I have been writing, I really have, just not on my blog. And true enough. I have four stories ready to be sent out by February 1 to magazines that are waiting, I am sure very impatiently, to see my work and publish it. I am sure of it… truly. I am just not so sure they are so sure of it.
Yesterday, I was putting the final touches to a novella I am writing for a local contest. I put the whole day aside for this endeavour and was feeling quite motivated. Well, I should say, on that day I was feeling motivated. It was a different story the morning of, more like trepidation. There were several reasons for this unease but some of it stemmed from how I define “final touches”. The contest rules stated a minimum of 10,000 words. I had 9380. I needed, therefore, 620 final touches. I joked with a friend saying that all I needed to do was put in an “and” or a “but” every 20 words or so and I would be set. She said, nyet. (Her Russian comes out when disgusted).
So, first thing in the morning, with mind prepped, breakfast digested and tea drunk, I settled down to the computer. Immediately my whole body rebelled. Restlessness roared and I couldn’t get comfortable. I readjusted my chair, arranged a warm blanket over my feet, felt all cushy and then hunger arrived, demanding I get a snack. That done, I sat again only to feel a shifty sort of paralysis come over me. A paralysis, that is, which only forbade writing, not other activities such as walking, reading or eating. Prior experience of this strange malady told me there was no cure but to surrender and to temporarily change activities. I picked up my current fave in detective books, sat back in my comfy chair and tried, once again, to settle down. It worked for about five minutes until, strangely enough, the restlessness grew again. And, slowly but surely, I realized that my unease was born of ambivalence: I both wanted and didn’t want to write; I both wanted and didn’t want to revisit this story that had emotions too close to home; and I was both scared to start and excited to begin. The cause was fear and the result was creative paralysis.
My fear is based on a couple of things. One of them, as mentioned above, is revisiting some rather difficult emotions. Although the story is fiction, the feelings are true. The other is the fear that I won’t be able to finish it, that my creativity is limited and I have used up my quota. It is funny admitting this because I worked through this same issue two years ago when I started writing my first blog. I wrote an article describing how this type of fear is based in codependence: that there is never enough and /or that I am not deserving to be bestowed with such an amazing gift as creativity. What I worked through back then was that creativity springs eternal: humans are inherently creative and, therefore, infinite in their expression. Moreover, we are inherently worthy and infinite in our value—it is not a question of whether we are deserving of creativity but whether we choose to manifest it.
With new resolve I sat down again at the computer only to be overcome with a caffeine thirst. Fine, I said, make yourself a cup of tea. I actually like the idea of drinking endless cups of tea while writing even if my body doesn’t. I have this romantic vision of the prolific if not a little crazy writer drinking volumes of tea and pouring out novel after novel from her hermitage high in the attic of a gothic house. Tea made, I sat down once more and bade myself, with threats of never allowing myself to eat chocolate again, to stay sitting.
The tea was comforting but still each word I typed was like trying to slot fifty pound bricks into a perfectly fine mile long wall. I created a sentence, deleted it, wrote it again, changed two words, replaced them with new ones and deleted them too. One sentence took over an hour but, then again, I was fifteen words closer to my goal. I pushed on. The minutes flew by and my brick laying muscles grew. By lunchtime I was half way there and at 7pm I was 15 words over goal. Yowser.
I have put my story aside for a few days and will do the final editing then. But I do know with practice and a lot of self talk, I will make a master brick layer yet. Better still, if the tea is constant and the snacks ever present, I may even win a few contests along the way.
Yesterday, I was putting the final touches to a novella I am writing for a local contest. I put the whole day aside for this endeavour and was feeling quite motivated. Well, I should say, on that day I was feeling motivated. It was a different story the morning of, more like trepidation. There were several reasons for this unease but some of it stemmed from how I define “final touches”. The contest rules stated a minimum of 10,000 words. I had 9380. I needed, therefore, 620 final touches. I joked with a friend saying that all I needed to do was put in an “and” or a “but” every 20 words or so and I would be set. She said, nyet. (Her Russian comes out when disgusted).
So, first thing in the morning, with mind prepped, breakfast digested and tea drunk, I settled down to the computer. Immediately my whole body rebelled. Restlessness roared and I couldn’t get comfortable. I readjusted my chair, arranged a warm blanket over my feet, felt all cushy and then hunger arrived, demanding I get a snack. That done, I sat again only to feel a shifty sort of paralysis come over me. A paralysis, that is, which only forbade writing, not other activities such as walking, reading or eating. Prior experience of this strange malady told me there was no cure but to surrender and to temporarily change activities. I picked up my current fave in detective books, sat back in my comfy chair and tried, once again, to settle down. It worked for about five minutes until, strangely enough, the restlessness grew again. And, slowly but surely, I realized that my unease was born of ambivalence: I both wanted and didn’t want to write; I both wanted and didn’t want to revisit this story that had emotions too close to home; and I was both scared to start and excited to begin. The cause was fear and the result was creative paralysis.
My fear is based on a couple of things. One of them, as mentioned above, is revisiting some rather difficult emotions. Although the story is fiction, the feelings are true. The other is the fear that I won’t be able to finish it, that my creativity is limited and I have used up my quota. It is funny admitting this because I worked through this same issue two years ago when I started writing my first blog. I wrote an article describing how this type of fear is based in codependence: that there is never enough and /or that I am not deserving to be bestowed with such an amazing gift as creativity. What I worked through back then was that creativity springs eternal: humans are inherently creative and, therefore, infinite in their expression. Moreover, we are inherently worthy and infinite in our value—it is not a question of whether we are deserving of creativity but whether we choose to manifest it.
With new resolve I sat down again at the computer only to be overcome with a caffeine thirst. Fine, I said, make yourself a cup of tea. I actually like the idea of drinking endless cups of tea while writing even if my body doesn’t. I have this romantic vision of the prolific if not a little crazy writer drinking volumes of tea and pouring out novel after novel from her hermitage high in the attic of a gothic house. Tea made, I sat down once more and bade myself, with threats of never allowing myself to eat chocolate again, to stay sitting.
The tea was comforting but still each word I typed was like trying to slot fifty pound bricks into a perfectly fine mile long wall. I created a sentence, deleted it, wrote it again, changed two words, replaced them with new ones and deleted them too. One sentence took over an hour but, then again, I was fifteen words closer to my goal. I pushed on. The minutes flew by and my brick laying muscles grew. By lunchtime I was half way there and at 7pm I was 15 words over goal. Yowser.
I have put my story aside for a few days and will do the final editing then. But I do know with practice and a lot of self talk, I will make a master brick layer yet. Better still, if the tea is constant and the snacks ever present, I may even win a few contests along the way.
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Those Were the Days: What it Means to be Human
I just saw what I think is a very clever commercial from Nando’s restaurants in South Africa. You can check out the link but in summary it has several dead dictators playing like kids to the tune of “Those were the days”. I won’t spoil the punch line. Now, I know some will think the video tasteless and perhaps making light of wrongs doings but I ask you to see the other message. Okay, the other “other” message — the one that is not funny and not tasteless. That is, the message that says regardless of the evil committed, a part of our humanity remains intact.
To be human means many things but it includes feeling sad, lonely, fearful and angry as well as the lighter sensations of joy, desire, playfulness and contentment. These feelings may be hidden behind layers of selfishness or cruelty but they are there, however untouched; however unexpressed. Those emotions are part of our humanity.
Every dictator was once a child. They were once a little baby, a new born with only curiosity and innocence to accompany them as they started walking the path of life. Who really knows what makes humans turn against their fellow beings in cruelty and cold-heartedness? What percentage is genetic? How much does the environment factor in? Or depending on your belief system is it part of a spiritual lesson? I don’t have the answers but I do know that everyone was once a baby: naive, curious and innocent. To be human is to recognize that we never lose that childlike essence, however hidden; however denied.
The video reminded me of an energy session I gave to a man in detox about ten years ago. I knew of this man, let’s call him “John”, or at least had heard of him, from his girlfriend, “Mary”. Mary had been a regular in several of the other agencies in which I worked. Through these sessions I heard stories of abuse at the hands of John. I also heard how she loved him and would never leave. Unfortunately, Mary died from complications of a fall… perhaps a push. John was suspected but never charged. About a month after she died, John applied for detox and appeared on my massage table.
It was almost more than I could handle having John in the room. He talked a lot of Mary: of his love for her and how sad he was that she was gone. Although he never mentioned his own failings, in fact, just the opposite, his grief was real; his misery complete. As a practitioner, I knew I had to do something to be present in that room for his humanity. The only thing I could think of was reminding myself how John was once an innocent babe. Connecting with that thought allowed me to see him in another light. I don’t know why or how he became the man he was, but at that moment it was unimportant. It was a small child, a child who lives within each and every one of us, who was reaching out. It was to him I offered compassion.
I never saw John again after that session so I don’t know if my attempt at open heartedness was helpful but I like to think it was. Maybe, just maybe, having that part of himself seen and heard helped him grow. Then again, maybe it didn’t. All I really know is that opening my heart helped me grow.
To be human means many things but it includes feeling sad, lonely, fearful and angry as well as the lighter sensations of joy, desire, playfulness and contentment. These feelings may be hidden behind layers of selfishness or cruelty but they are there, however untouched; however unexpressed. Those emotions are part of our humanity.
Every dictator was once a child. They were once a little baby, a new born with only curiosity and innocence to accompany them as they started walking the path of life. Who really knows what makes humans turn against their fellow beings in cruelty and cold-heartedness? What percentage is genetic? How much does the environment factor in? Or depending on your belief system is it part of a spiritual lesson? I don’t have the answers but I do know that everyone was once a baby: naive, curious and innocent. To be human is to recognize that we never lose that childlike essence, however hidden; however denied.
The video reminded me of an energy session I gave to a man in detox about ten years ago. I knew of this man, let’s call him “John”, or at least had heard of him, from his girlfriend, “Mary”. Mary had been a regular in several of the other agencies in which I worked. Through these sessions I heard stories of abuse at the hands of John. I also heard how she loved him and would never leave. Unfortunately, Mary died from complications of a fall… perhaps a push. John was suspected but never charged. About a month after she died, John applied for detox and appeared on my massage table.
It was almost more than I could handle having John in the room. He talked a lot of Mary: of his love for her and how sad he was that she was gone. Although he never mentioned his own failings, in fact, just the opposite, his grief was real; his misery complete. As a practitioner, I knew I had to do something to be present in that room for his humanity. The only thing I could think of was reminding myself how John was once an innocent babe. Connecting with that thought allowed me to see him in another light. I don’t know why or how he became the man he was, but at that moment it was unimportant. It was a small child, a child who lives within each and every one of us, who was reaching out. It was to him I offered compassion.
I never saw John again after that session so I don’t know if my attempt at open heartedness was helpful but I like to think it was. Maybe, just maybe, having that part of himself seen and heard helped him grow. Then again, maybe it didn’t. All I really know is that opening my heart helped me grow.
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