Wherein you shimmy for my guests while I get out of this trance. [Mwah! Thanks.]

Posted by | July 26, 2011 | 1 Comment

These two guys appeared on my doorstep this morning. They won’t tell me their names so for the moment I am calling them by what’s printed on their T-shirts:

“Is this all there is?” and “What’s the point?”

Ever since they arrived, I’ve had a queasy knot in my belly and my chest is all a-rumble. When I stop distracting myself with things to put in my mouth, links to click, sites to check, worries to fondle, I feel scared. I’m afraid they’re right.

Now you might be saying that I should just throw them out. And I appreciate your idea. Except that it doesn’t really work. Not really.

I know how trying to ignore or get rid of things I don’t like inside myself goes. I did it for many years and it just makes things change clothes and come back in another form. I can totally see these T-shirt guys coming back in drag. Or taking hold of my body and becoming a pain in my neck. Or butt. Things I try to ignore or banish can totally put my back out. Ow! And let’s not forget how they can make me anxious, and how anxious can grind everything to a halt. Including sleep.

Um, no thanks.

It’s just that I need help. I can’t do it alone. So, I was wondering… um, how to say…

Hi!

You: “You talking to me?” [turning around to see if someone's behind you.]

Yes, you! You’re my smart and courageous reader. Please?

You: “I want you to be OK. It’s just, I don’t know what to do, really… ”

OK. Here’s the thing. I don’t want to be alone. I’m scared. But with you? Different story. Then I’m not alone. You and me is two, and there might be others. Plus, I’ve seen your dance moves and your air guitar… You could totally entertain them, I just know. All you have to do is keep them occupied while I remember who I am. And I’ll totally return the favor. One day I’ll do my best moves for you when you need me.

You: “OK. I’ll try. I want you to be OK.”

Oh wow! Thanks man. Now excuse me while I find my curiosity superpowers… I know I left them here somewhere… Oh, it’s been too long… Ah, there! Good.

—–

Donning my curiosity cape, I re-enter the scene. I can move around freely and see everything. Including you! Oh my, you have totally been practicing your shimmies, haven’t you. My friend, you are amazing. If I didn’t have things to do, I’d totally join you. Maybe later. But now, I’m investigating.

Since they haven’t talked to me, I’ll start with what’s on their shirts. The words look like questions. Except they’re not. Because they contain no curiosity. A true question is curious, open minded and willing to listen, to hear. A true question is wonder-y.

My thought-guys’ questions are very thinly veiled conclusions about me and my life. And the implications of their non-questions really scare me when I believe them. Which I am. I’m TOTALLY believing them. Which can only mean:

I’ve Gone. Into. TRANCE!

No wonder! OK. I’ve noticed. Whew! Noticing is crucial. It’s at least, oh, 99%.

Once I notice I’m in trance, then I can send the part of me that noticed, the part NOT in trance (even if it’s just the eensiest bit of me right now) to pull out my sheet of trance procedures trance magics. That’s the other 99%! (Yep.)

ONE. Call yourself only by the sweetest, kindest of names. Sweetheart is good. My love works wonders. Darling drumstick makes you smile. Sweet pea reminds you of people you love.

TWO. Under no circumstances believe any thought crossing your mind while in trance. Don’t try to stop the thoughts. Don’t fight them. But also, don’t believe them. Trust me. Don’t.

Things to do instead of believing thoughts while in trance: You can notice them, you can play Byron Katie with them, you can Veronica Mars them, you can put them in a jar, you can make daisy chains out of them, you can chew on them and blow thought bubbles with them, you can juggle them, you can make soup with them, you can build a tower out of them and lean against it while you eat lunch. But whatever you do: Do NOT Believe Them.

OK, good. Onward:

THREE. Write. Write. Write.

“But I suck. And I have nothing to write about,” says a tranced out voice.

To which I must refer you back to thing ONE and TWO. Also, I’d like to point out that “You Suck” is not a name you like.

FOUR. Get fresh air. Get movement. Find water. Take a shower. Take a bath. Take a lake. Dance. Watch the kids run through the sprinkler at the park. Take pictures of trees. Eat meals. Drink water. Mind your body. Remember animal-you. Remember Mary Oliver: “Let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.” Which reminds me, you love poetry, so… Read it.

FIVE. Visit The Pause. (Dude! The Pause just opened a page a bar on Facebook. Go! Hang out!)

SIX. Do not, under any circumstance, try to make decisions while in trance.

SEVEN. Call a meeting of your Inner Council.

EIGHT. Listen to a Tara Brach podcast.

NINE. With your Inner Council or with Presence at The Pause, consider this: If you weren’t believing those 2 thought-doozies, what would you be feeling? And then do THREE. Or FOUR. Or EIGHT. In any order.

Rinse and repeat. Until the trance lifts.

———–

Oh my. Thank you so much! You saved my butt. Yes, you! I’m going to be pondering the question in NINE… maybe I’ll write about it here, maybe not. But thank you!

Hey, will you teach me that move? The one that had my beefy thought-guys laughing so hard they were crying?

Until next time, maybe I’ll see you at The Pause. In case you forgot, it’s on the corner of Now and Notice, where that old dive Reaction used to be. Presence tends bar. Shots of compassion on me today.

Categories: Getting curious, Mood detective, Self-care | Tagged: | 1 Comment

I am Veronica Mars. On the case of the bottomless well.

Posted by | July 10, 2011 | 3 Comments

I’ve been falling asleep, waking up and spending my days on a lake in a wee cottage north of Boston with Jennie, a German Shepherd. Not just any German Shepherd. Not just any cottage… H’s Jennie, H’s cottage…

“H?” you ask.

Yes H. H of the Love is Not a Victory March post. I didn’t mention him by initial before, but yes, H. He’s away for 12 days and I’m cottage- and dog-sitting.

The great thing is that I get to be by the lake. (Water! My favorite place to be in all the world.) And I get to care for and eat from the garden that we’d planted before things ended. (Yes! The baby basils are all grown up.) And if I wake up early and can’t sleep I get to hop in a kayak and watch the vapor rise off the water as the sun comes up. (Magical!) And there’s Jennie who gets me out into the woods for runs and walks and throwing sticks. (Woods! Sticks! Jennie!) Being here is a retreat for me. A get-away! (And yes, I’m returning to Boston for my beloved clients on massage days).

And it’s been hard. I am reminded of all the things I’ve loved and lost. Maybe not lost completely since here I am still enjoying the lake and the garden and Jennie and sometimes in some ways even H, but lost in the sense of hopes and dreams and plans for a future together… The loss of all that has felt so big I’ve been trying to numb and trying not to numb it in various ways for weeks—oh, who’m I kidding: pretty much the entire month of June.

When I stop watching Veronica Mars all the trying and turn toward what’s inside of me I am met with a big empty well and I’m afraid it doesn’t have a bottom. I’d like to understand the well, but I can’t seem to get close enough. Not on my own. Because, hello! Scared!

So I’ve gone all Veronica Mars on the well. You could say I’ve hired her, if by “hire” we mean that I am channeling her. When it comes to understanding and helping myself, I will stop at nothing. Understanding myself helps me love myself. And when I love myself, I can much better love the world. Also? Channeling heroes? Most exciting thing ever. Not sure why it’s not caught on out there!

~ * ~

I’ve parked my Adirondack chair car within view of the well. My journal fancy shmancy camera with ultra zoom lens is at the ready. I’m gathering evidence. I am Veronica Mars. I have a record to uphold: no case unsolved.

It’s dark. My lights are out. Nothing appears to be happening, but I am not fooled. It is not unusual on a stake out to have to wait many hours for action. You, dear reader, may not appreciate this, given the fact that most likely you’ve only ever watched stake outs on TV where the boring parts get cut.

That said, this is boring! Eff it. I’m going in.

I have donned my invisibility cloak (Veronica Mars and Harry Potter are friends. Of course.) and I am now approaching the well’s edge. I peer over. Rather anti-climactic, I’m afraid. I can’t see a thing.

I walk around the well a few times looking for signs, clues, anything…

Clearly it is time to tune in on a subtler level… The feel of the well is sad. A veh———ry heah——–vy sadness. (You must say those words all drawn out like that to get a visceral sense of the sad heaviness of which I speak).

Conventional investigators might not do this, but I am Veronica Mars and so the next thing I do is call into the well: “Um, hi—!”

I’m met with an echo. “Hel-oh-oh-oh.”

I can now deduce at least two things. Thing 1: the well is very deep—the sound of hello bounced many times—but not bottomless. Bottomless does not bounce. Thing 2: there IS something in there. It’s not nothing. Nothing would not have echoed ‘hello,’ when I’d said ‘hi.’ Duh. Easy peasy.

I sit down at the edge of the well and get comfortable. I feel no sense of danger. Clearly IT, whatever it is, wants me to know it is there but it couldn’t, for whatever reason, come right out and answer me directly. As I sit there I feel sadder. It is all I can do not to fold up into a heap and weep the night away. But I am Veronica Mars. I am not the well. I am here on my client’s case: I want to understand the well. It would not help for me to become it.

“Hello, Sad.”

I hear nothing back but the feeling gets even stronger. I continue: “You must be very sad.”

“I’m not Sad.” I hear this bit in my head, not out loud. Actually, I hear it more in my throat, which feels all chocked up. As a mood detective I know that emotions are often felt in the throat, chest and belly areas.

The voice from the well goes on: “Sad and I are related but I’m much older. I’m what Sad gets when it’s big and grown up.”

“Like grief?”

“Yes.”

“Hello, LikeGrief.”

“Say, who are you? And why can’t I see you?”

“Oh sorry. I’m Veronica. Veronica Mars of Mars Investigations and Mood Detective Services.” I pull off my invisibility cloak as I say this. It’s only polite to let myself be seen. Plus, I sense no danger.

“Hello, Veronica. Why are you here?”

“I’m here to investigate a case for my client, Heidi.”

“Ah, Heidi…” his voice trails off.

“You know her?”

Right then LikeGrief actually chuckles a bit. “Of course. I’m hers.”

“You’re hers?”

“Yes.”

“Hey, do you mind if I dangle my legs over your side here while we talk?”

“I don’t mind but you may not want—“

“EW!”

“I was just saying—”

“EW! What IS that!”

“I was about to tell you. Those are the protectors of Heidi’s fear. They dress up all gnarly and nasty because they want to keep her from seeing through her fears and feeling me. Don’t worry, they’re all show, really… “

“Show and slime!”

“Yes. But harmless. They’ve been sending decoys and keeping Heidi in a general state of distraction watching a certain detective show and eating popcorn… That’s why I’m talking to you with your inside your head voice rather than out loud. I saw you up there and wasn’t sure how I was going to contact you without waking them up. I’m glad you picked up on the echo thing. ”

“Piece of cake,” I shrug.

We sit in silence for a long spell. Some of the clouds have cleared and I see a sprinkling of stars and a waning moon above.

“Say! Aren’t you Veronica Mars from the show that Heidi has been losing herself in for weeks?“

“Exactly. She was smart to hire me, our Heidi.”

“So then… wait! Heidi does want to know what’s happening?”

“Yes. She just needs some help. And not just any help, mind you, only the best. Say, can you tell me who those nasties on the edge of your well are decoys for?”

“A powerful belief.”

“A belief?”

“Yes, a belief Heidi’s been nursing. You know how people have thoughts?”

“Yes.”

“Nothing harmful about thoughts, they happen all the time… they scroll across people’s minds constantly… But sometimes people hang onto a thought and won’t just let it scroll by… they get all ‘attached’, you could say… And when someone gets really attached to a thought, it becomes a belief. Nothing wrong with beliefs either, of course, except they make it hard to keep one’s mind open and to stay curious. Even harmless beliefs tend to obscure full vision. It’s always good to be aware of one’s beliefs.”

“Beliefs can hurt?”

“Well, what people do and don’t do based on what they believe can hurt—”

“What belief of Heidi’s are we talking about here, do you know?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to tell me? Or did I come here and get my feet slimed up for nothing?”

He chuckles and then is quiet for awhile before answering. “I wouldn’t usually do this, but seeing that Heidi hired you and really wants help with this, I will. But I’m not going to say it. And I’m not even going to write it out loud. I’m going to write it for you across the screen of your mind’s eye. You’ll see it there. And then you and Heidi can decide what to do.”

“Thank you so much. I appreciate it.”

I close my eyes and then LikeGrief writes Heidi’s belief across my mind’s eye. It is like watching a movie. Something like the writing on the wall—mene mene tekel… I can see the slimy fear-guards in the margins of my mind and for a moment I feel the intensity of how hard things have felt for Heidi and I shudder.

“OhGod, can I open my eyes? Are you done? Oof! That’s a big one. I will talk to her about it. Hey, thank you so much for your help. Do you need anything from me?”

“Oh, I’d just love for you to get Heidi to come see me. I can help her. And, the thing she is forgetting (because, I know she knows this!) is that once she’s with me, allowing the feeling of me in her body, the whole thing will change. I can’t predict how, but it will. She knows that, but she’s forgotten. You might remind her, yes?”

“I’ll do my best. Thank you so much. Do you have any hints for getting this slime off my legs?”

“Matter o’ fact I do. One of Heidi’s potions will do great.”

“Oh! Which one?”

“Night Queen. She ain’t afraid o’ no ghosts.”

And with that I wave and I’m off. Heidi and I have much to talk about.

Categories: Getting curious, Mood detective | Tagged: , , , | 3 Comments

Periods and commas and questions, oh my! What’s punctuating the page of you today?

Posted by | June 6, 2011 | 11 Comments

I woke up with a big question mark inside… I wish I could say it was a wondering question mark, curious curly and cute… but no. This question mark was bold and lonesome, Arial Black-stark and in my face.

Actually, it wasn’t until I paused and turned toward what was there that I even noticed that it was a question mark. Before that? Queasy uneasy vague discomfort.

Even when what we find upon pausing is not entirely (or at all!) pleasant, there is something relieving about noticing.

Our first response, often, is to turn away from discomfort. We hope it’ll just go away. Maybe we are scared of what it’ll mean. Maybe we think we don’t have time. But ironically, ignoring what is there actually tends to do the opposite of what we want. And when it sees that we have no intention of noticing, discomfort can amp up its volume and pull out all the stops to make us notice.

Sometimes discomfort changes clothes and appears in a different outfit – it’s not uncommon for something like queasy in the tummy to become a kink in the neck or a pain in the ass!

Pausing and turning toward what is going on allows it to change in the way that’s best. Being with something now allows what’s next to unfold.

What if everything hard and uncomfortable in you were simply wanting you to notice? What if instead of turning a blind eye or pushing the hard thing under the rug you turned the gaze of your most loving presence toward it and listened as if to your dearest friend or your most beloved niece in all the world?

What mark is punctuating the page of you today?

Maybe it’s a question mark like mine. Or maybe it’s a period. There are different kinds of periods. Some simply mark space between thoughts. Some are followed by hard returns. Some mark ends of chapters or even books.

Maybe you’ve got yourself a comma in a flowing list of lovely things…

Maybe it’s a playful dash—! Or an unexpected one that interrupts you mid—

Maybe you’ve got yourself some elipses… soft and unhurried like lemonade on a porch swing… Or maybe your elipses are filled with suspense… whatever could come next?!

What’s punctuating the page of you today? I’d love to hear.

Categories: Getting curious, Mood detective | Tagged: , | 11 Comments

Meet me in that field?

Posted by | March 26, 2011 | 9 Comments

My soft friend,

I feel hard, hard like a rock-hard. Cynical and paranoid like poker-faced border guards eyeing your passport, suspicious like security officials patting you down, their calloused hands rough, impervious to your tender.

I feel envious-hard of the people making it, the connected people, the ones that are taken care of, the people that know people that know people. The people with followers, the people on lists, the favorite people and the people that get mentioned here there and everywhere even while I can’t stand them and I’m tired to death of their endless blah-blahs and am wishing with all my heart for what they don’t ever seem to say.

I want to hear that they are scared. That they too wake up in the middle of the night and hold their pillows. I want to hear that they don’t know shit, not really, that they are making it up, and that they are afraid that if they stop moving for one second their security will go the way of fog in sun.

I miss you, my soft friend. Where did you go? I miss all my friends who moved on, my friends who left the noise of the crowded coops of our common places… I miss being where you are and the pockets of skip-a-beat joy I remember feeling whenever you entered rooms where the doors have now been locked or yellow-taped with Do Not Enter as if someone had been shot.

Really I am tired, so tired, but I walk around with this shield of busy, and this other shield of numbness, and this other shield which you could call my Shield of Surely: surely there is something wrong with me, or surely there is something wrong with you, or surely things are not at all OK. Surely. It’s a heavy shield.

OK that’s not quite it either. Really I am tired of the ramblings of this mind. I’d like to find it a home. Do you know of a home for a tired mind? A soft, strong home where the only thing rambling is a porch deep and wide enough to hold the  nothings that my mind keeps chasing? A porch with a swing that will back and forth my mind to sleep and hold me while I rest?

Can I tell you that even my limbs are tired? That my cheeks they hurt from the tight of not crying? Can I tell you that my heart wakes me up in the dark before the world has stirred to remind me of what silence sounds like and that, often, unable to bear it for too long I reach too soon for that hopeless little screen, to restart the checking and rechecking of just one more thing?

Oh my friend. I write this to the olive branch that thinking of you this morning brought me. It’s a gentle, simple, uncomplicated olive branch that never speaks in shoulds, that never acts like she knows better, that is no more moved by pity than by hatred. It’s an olive branch of arms around me, openhearted, an olive branch of here’s a bowl of soup I made it for you my love, an olive branch of tell me what you love and I will hold the mirror for you my darling drumstick, an olive branch that smiles at my dramas and takes my hand all the same, calm and twinkly-eyed, laughing and curly-cued, maybe a few steps ahead but never too far, turning, grinning, C’mon, my sweet! I have things to show you! There are pools in which to skinny dip, there are beaches on which to lie, there are drinks with umbrellas, there are treehouses, there are secret rooms, there are magical delights, and yes, my love, there are lips waiting to be kissed.

My soft friend, quick! Please! Tell me what I love without complication, without drama, without panic? Because oh my but I want to remember.

Surely there is a field somewhere in the world where at this very moment the foggy shadows of the night are meeting the just-stirring rays of morning and the darkness and the light are about to make themselves some tender love— surely. Will you meet me there?

See you soon, I hope,

Your hard friend

Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing,
there is a field. I’ll meet you there.

When the soul lies down in that grass,
the world is too full to talk about.
Ideas, language, even the phrase “each other” doesn’t make any sense.

–Rumi (13th century Sufi poet & mystic)

Categories: Mood detective, Open Letters | | 9 Comments

Some people have to-do lists. And some people have chickens. And secret missions.

Posted by | February 24, 2011 | 5 Comments

I now know why it’s called the red-eye. It was never meant metaphorically, no it wasn’t. Surely it was named by someone who looked in the mirror at the end of said red-eye and freaked the hell out at the sight of her red zombie eyes looking back at her in an airplane bathroom mirror. Surely.

This morning, when my eyes got home, they proceeded to have a red-eyed meltdown which revolved around the sense of nothing feeling like home. In the usual vernacular of meltdowns, the words “anymore” and “ever” figured prominently:

“Everything I thought would be home is not home. Anymore. Like the person whose neck used to smell like home to me, is not the neck of a person I can smell in that way. Anymore. And the person with the neck I would like to smell like home, well, that person and I had a bad day yesterday. And people I have thought of, in some way, as being home, are not. Or not really. Or not here. Anymore and ever amen.”

So, home. I miss it. Always have, I guess. Homesick and I go way back.

Um, Heidi-_ _?

Heidi-_ _?! Who are you calling me that? Show yourself.

Aw, Heidi, I’m your Chicken and I’m just playing with you. That’s what your mom used to call you, isn’t it?

Yah, so?

When she was happy with you–

Yah, so?

Well, she’d never call you that when she was unhappy with you, would she?

No.

Exactly. So, that was just me saying “I’m happy with you.”

Wait! Did you say “chicken”? Did you say you’re my chicken?

Yep. You asked for help, remember? This morning, when you got home, when you were so tired and crying, remember?

Wait a sec… Are you related to Hot ‘n’ Steamy Monday Momma?

[Blushing] Oh my! I take that as a compliment, for sure, though I’m not sure Monday Momma would… though I would like to think I’m sexy, too, in my own way–

So, are you?

Am I sexy?

Are you related! Are you related to Hot ‘n’ Steamy?

Yes and no. Like her, I too am helpful when you are feeling alone in all the world and believing all the thoughts zipping across your tired mind. But I’m a chicken. I come when you need help of the checking-in variety. And also, missions–

So you’re a check-in chicken on a mission?

That’s one way to say–

Wait! Are you related to Havi’s chickens?

Yes and no. You could call us cousins… cousins I like to drop in on to visit on Fridays. But I am your chicken with a capital Ch. And I am here to check in with you and help you in a practical way.

Are you going to give me to dos and all that? Because I don’t think I’m of a to-do list persuasion today.

Oh no, sweetpea. I’m not that kind of chicken. I am a just-for-you chicken. Since today I can tell you don’t need to-do’s, we won’t have to-do’s. Trooth be told, too? [Leans in and whispers:] I never was much of a to-do kind of bird. I much prefer ta-das.

Ta-das?

Yes, as in TA-DA! Voila!

Oh Chicken, you are kind to want to help, but I’m afraid I’m not much into ta-das either.

No worries.

I’m feeling soooo wobbly. And out of place. And sad that every place feels out of place to me. And home is not home. And my insides feel torn up: at once ancient (in an old outworn grooves kind of way) and strange (in an I just moved into this here house and I don’t know where anything is kind of way). And oh but what I want most in all my life is to find home. To feel at home. That all is OK. That I am cared for. Can’t I just find home? Please? I feel like Dorothy when she discovers that the wizard is just some short little old man amplifying his voice from behind the curtain. Also, I feel like the wizard, knowing I’m just an old man amplifying my voice. I’m afraid there’s no way home. And worse than that, maybe there really is no home. At least not for me.

Oh, sweetpea. That is a hard moment: when the things and people that you’d hoped and dreamed would be home, are not… Or when the people you’re with–

Don’t get me. Don’t understand.

Ah, yes, you want to be gotten, really gotten. I get that.

Yes. [crying] And to be listened to, understood. And I don’t have that right now and I know, of course, that no person can ever be all of that to me, and that I’m supposed to be that for myself and blah blah and blah… But that’s what I most want in all the world, to feel truly at home, like I belong.

Of course.

Oh Chicken, I can’t anymore. I miss the people that came closest to being home. And when things get to feeling really hard, I miss the neck that most smelled like home. And I hang on past when I should hang on… It is a very very lonely feeling this homesickness.

[Moves head side to side... listening, making clucking sounds...] Yes, my love.

[A few minutes pass] Heidi, now comes the part where I make a suggestion. Ready?

OK?  [looking at chicken quizzically]

Oh, oops. Let me try that again. [clears throat]: Heidi, prepare to receive your first assignment for Operation Home.

[Heidi's eyes widen]

What? You wanted a veteran chicken?

Uh, I did not even know I wanted a chicken.

Oh, Sweetheart, please, a tiny bit o’ trust, please?

[Heidi raises a brow].

OK. Full disclosure. You are my first assignment, and…  er… there were maybe a few days of Chicken School I missed —what can I say, they were going over horribly boring material and I preferred to be clucking about in the world, finding interesting matters to peck at— and OK… maybe those were the days they talked about how to deliver assignments–

Oh great! Just what I needed! A remedial Chicken on his first assignment–

Don’t worry, Heidi. I think you and I will get on just fine. Plus? I have Chicken supervision making sure I am helping you in the best way possible. And oh but I’ve been dying to get paired up with you!

Come again?

I’ve been reading what you write for awhile and I was crossing my chicken wings that I’d get you. And I did, I did! And too? I got a special commendation letter from the Headmaster of the Chickens I can show you it if you want– [reaches under left breast]

No that won’t be necessary. So, what’s your suggestion?

How about some soft boiled eggs? Two. With salt and pepper. Huevito a la copa, as you said growing up. Or Weich gekocht, as you also said growing up. Eggs in all your languages. Eggs with your words. I know you love to play with words–

[Crying again]. Chicken?

Yes, love?

Could it be that words could become some kind of home for me?

Oh for sure, my sweet. For you, for sure. In many ways, they already are. They’re how you come back to yourself. They’re how you listen to you. They’re also how you connect to the world.

And taste?

Oh absolootely. Ahem. Not for nothing I said eggs.

And smells?

Yes, sweetheart, of course.

[crying again] But I want the people of the smells.

Of course, love. And right now there just aren’t any around, and the people you were hoping to connect with in the home kind of way you aren’t feeling it with… But dare I say there are others that you do feel connected with?

Yes. Like the lovelies I knew only online that I got to meet in person last week and it was just great. And even though my gentleman friend and I had a hard time yesterday, after a hard time last week, well, there are some ways he sometimes smells like home.

Good find.

But I want it to feel that way all the time. And it doesn’t when things are hard, which is especially when I want home. And then, when it’s so hard, my mind goes to all the necks that once were home, and I feel soooo sad. I’m afraid there will never be home like that again.

No, my love, there won’t. I won’t lie to you. That is sad. My feathers don’t mind some tears, really. And I hear that some of your friends have hankies, silken ones. Now might be a good time for those.

[Crying ensues for several minutes].

OK Sweetpea. How about getting to our Chicken Plan for today!

Can you please just tell me what’s next?

I did. I already told you.

You mean the eggs?

Yes, I mean the eggs!

And after?

Well, you’ll just have to come back and check in again. I am a one-egg-at-a-time-chicken.

But you said two eggs, to cook two?

That’s because I know one wouldn’t be enough for you. Just come back after your eggs, alright? I’ll have your next Red-Eye Recovery Operation Home mission for you then.

OK.

Oh! Heidi! I almost forgot. You will need a chicken-code to contact me for your next mission.

Yes?

“Softboiled”

Of course.

Soft boiled eggs, per Chicken instruction.

~ * ~

[punching into keypad]: #7638264533

Yes? Can I help you?

Um, hi! Chicken, it’s me! Remember? I did the code. [Whispers]: softboiled

Lemme see your eye? Bring it over to the Operation Home Mission-Heretofore-Impossible eye scanner, would you, and then look straight ahead?

[digital code confirmation information activation sounds]

OK. Identity confirmed: eye previously known as red, proceed. I will buzz you in and then you must remove your clothes and step into that there softest of all robes awaiting you and then go into the secret sauna where your next mission will be uploaded to your hands and arms, feet and legs.

Hands and arms? What about my brains?

Oh no, sweetpea. Chicken missions require hands, feet and limbs. We bypass the brain, thankyouverymuch. For some missions —many chicken missions, actually— brain power is highly overrated. We chickens know.

OK.

How were your eggs?

Soft and yummy.

Good.

Um, chicken? I’m still on the street here in case you forgot, you going to buzz me in or what?

Oh lordy, of course. Proceed as instructed.

——

I get buzzed in to find a purplebluewithshadesofgreen robe (with silk hankies in pockets) on my right. I put it on and proceed to the chicken sauna to await upload of next step in Operation Home (a.k.a. mission-heretofore-impossible) to my hands and feet.

Later in the day I visit The Pause, my new favorite spot, where my Chicken has an undercover agent relay my next assignment which involves Ninja, Ninja practice.

And tonight finds me writing this here note, which you there, dear reading visitor, now find yourself reading. There is more, of course, but that, like my full agent name, is classified. If I told you I’d have to kill you. And that wouldn’t be good.

COMMENT ZEN:

Hi! Come in, come in! I love company. The kettle’s on the stove for tea. And, of course, there are plenty of soft boiled eggs.

If you’d be so kind, please leave your shoulds at the door (even though I know the advices you might be thinking are oh-so-well-meant!) — they tend to track in winter mud.

What I’d love? Maybe you’ll “get!” what I’m talking about. And maybe you’ll feel less alone with you own hard stuff. Maybe you have your own version of homesickness to tell about. Those are the things I’d love to hear over tea and eggs.

Categories: Heidi's Musings, Mood detective | Tagged: , , | 5 Comments

Pardon all the pronouns but Whitman was right: I am vast. I contain multitudes.

Posted by | January 31, 2011 | 23 Comments

Heidi, for the love of all you love, do not do another thing until you write. And definitely, most definitely, do not talk to him —or anyone, for that matter— until you write. And also? Permission not to believe any of your thoughts, especially the conclusions your mind jumps to when you’re anxious. And, under no circumstances make decisions right now, promise?

OK. But there’s so much and it’s all a-jumble and I don’t know where to start—

That’s OK. Just write it how it is. Just start. That is all.

OK. It’s like this…

~ * ~

There’s how I go all know-it-all on his ass when, thing is, I don’t really know. I mean, I do, but when I get all know-it-all, it’s not Heidi-that-knows, but a part of me that’s scared.

The me that knows is calm and clear, and knowing is not a big deal to her. She is strong, but she never needs to act strong. There’s no need for her to defend or argue, or be pushy and bossy about what she knows. After all, she’s in no hurry and she knows that deep down everything is OK. If she’s not happy with something, she simply moves on. Or changes it, no muss no fuss. Or goes home. Or simply leaves the room. Simply, is key.

But not so with know-it-all me, who really just knows how to sound like she knows. When really, she’s scared. And secretly she wants to cry. Like today, about how much she wanted him to hold her last night.

She’s also afraid she’ll mess up and do something stoopid. And believe me, she knows from stoopid.

And too? She is prone to hyperbole. Basically, she does whatever she thinks it takes to maintain connection. But, her estimation of things is always clouded by fear and the action that comes from that is, necessarily, conflict-ridden. And certainly not clear.

Why hello there, Sweetpea. Come in from the cold. You look like you could use a warm meal. Here… we’ve a place for you at the table. But first, let me get you a cozy sweater and some flannels. Oh my, your left leg is all wet… If I didn’t know better I’d say you’d been lying on your side in the snow!

Then there’s this other part who’s ashamed.

Now, you and I know that shame never helps —not really, although it means well. What shame actually does is make people go into hiding. And there, in hiding, things cannot get better. Know why? Because shame tends to hide in closets. Or attic crawl spaces. Or basements. And, know what all those places have in common? Yep, they’re cramped, for one. For two, there’s no fresh air. Nada. Zippo!

Hiding places of shame are stuffy and damp. Not to mention dark. And there, in the company of shame, one’s thoughts tend to go all merry-go-round. Minus the merry. And there’s a good reason minus-the-merry-go-rounds never made it into amusement parks. Ahem. So, in short: with shame you go round and round, minus the merry, in a cramped, dank, dark space.

Hiya! Come in. The more the, uh… merrier!

“Oh god! I got here as quick as I could. Know-it-all has been up to her shenanigans, and if I don’t take her into hiding quickly she’ll get all dramatic and mess everything up.

Everything?

Yes! Heidi’s relationship, and her work, and her life… I’m so worried. I don’t ever want her to ruin things again. I don’t want Heidi to end up alone, and surely she will if I don’t stop this part.

Ahhh… you’re all out of breath and oh my but you look like you’ve had no sleep in days. Let’s run you a tub. There’s a lovely claw-foot porcelain bathtub upstairs and the towels will be warm from where they’re hanging over the stove by the time you’re done. And then, if you want, you can join us for dinner. We’d love to have you at our table. What do you say? Want to come in for a spell?

~ * ~

Tara Brach taught me to ask it like this:

If I weren’t feeling self-righteous, what would I be feeling?

Powerless. Vulnerable.

If I weren’t being defensive, what would I be feeling?

Scared. Afraid all the love will disappear.

~ * ~

The therapist lady said this:

“Extreme need and distress brings about extreme action.”

They’d been talking about That Thing from more than 20 years ago. That Thing with the repercussions. That Thing with the regret she sleeps with. That Thing she wants to understand.

It wasn’t like she woke up one day and said ‘today I will make this thing up.’ If anything, she was obsessive about telling the truth.

It wasn’t as if she wanted to hurt him. Although for sure, she sees now, she was angry. And anger was not acceptable then.

It wasn’t that she wanted to tear her family apart. It wasn’t that she wanted her parents to stop being missionaries and for her dad to get a job delivering spring water.

It wasn’t like that. And yet it was.

More on this can’t be written out loud, except for that bit. Not yet, at least. But there it is, somehow related to everything. She’s piecing together the clues. She’s the detective of her life. And, if nothing else, That Thing has made her plumb the depths of herself and look in the places where monsters tend to hide.

“Extreme need brings about extreme action.”

~ * ~

The bit that happened yesterday afternoon…

You handed me an olive branch. I couldn’t look at you —I felt shy and I was still licking my wounds from our fight, from being all defensive— but I nodded. It was my best yes to your branch.

Then you rubbed my back with potions. Then you wrapped me in the comforter and I fell asleep, I think. When I woke up you were outside shuffle-ing, as you say it, the remnants of another installment of Winter 2011: the year of the weekly snowstorm. And playing with Jennie, the Shepherd.

I looked out and felt myself soften then tighten again. Then I went to the kitchen.

Two eggs were in the pan sunny side up. A plate of guacamole on the counter. I knew you’d left them for me. I ate quietly, looking at you through the window.

Finally I bundled up and went out and the three of us —man, dog, and woman girl— went for a walk in the snow on the frozen lake.

I was quiet. I felt at the mercy of things very old and I didn’t want another round of reaction. I didn’t want to be defensive. I did not want to be self-righteous. And pretending never agreed with me. So pretty much I was quiet.

And then I felt like crying. So I told you to go ahead, that I wanted to take my time.

I watched you walk away… Jennie, stopping to look back at me every so often before turning back to catch up with you, her master.

And then I lay down in the snow. And I looked at the bare trees in the setting sun. And I thought of Mary Oliver and the line in that one poem about sleeping in the forest, about how the earth took her back so tenderly… And that’s what made me cry: the kindness of it.

And I said, to no one in particular, “I just don’t know how to do it.” I was referring to relationships, of course.

Whoever I was talking to answered back, “Join the club.” They didn’t say it meanly, but just like that, matter-o’-factly, “Join the club.”

I went on, “But it’s hard and I’m no good at it. Pretty much I suck.”

And again, “Join the club.”

I lay there for a few minutes watching the last light playing on the treetops. A secret part of me wondered: Would you notice? Would Jennie ever run back for me?

~ * ~

She’s been around for a while. The me, that is, who wondered those things as I lay in the snow. For sure she was there 20 some years ago. She’s very young. And she so wants to be noticed. To know she matters. For kind eyes to see her. Really, I’m the only one that can take care of her, even though sometimes I wish you could. But it’s not your job. Good thing about My Inner Council. They’re a big help. I wish I’d had them 20 years ago.

Um, excuse us, Sweetheart, but we were there.

You were?

Yep.

Well then why the hell ever did you not speak up! Whyever did you not let me know? I could have used a little help, thankyouverymuch.

Aww, Sweetie, you couldn’t yet see us. You didn’t know how to look inside. And you couldn’t hear us. You really didn’t know how to listen yet, remember? You had no idea. It wasn’t until you read Letters to a Young Poet that day in the bookstore that things started to shift a wee bit. You glimpsed inside, and you got curious. And even though Rilke had written those letters a century before to a young man in the army, he might as well have written them to you. He described the world inside. He got things you’d never talked about with anyone. And he told you about the rooms with the locked doors. And to not worry so much about trying to pry them open. And he told you to love the questions. What a notion that was. And what a relief, remember? Because being desperate for answers when the answers aren’t ready to be understood can take its toll on a girl.

Wait. Rilke is on My Inner Council, too?

You should know. We’re your Council.

But why didn’t you tell me I could call on you for help!

Oh, Sweetie. Remember how literal you were? I mean, you still believed in an actual lake-of-fire hell. And in a heaven with streets of gold and mansions floating in clouds.

True enough.

But we were there.

When else?

Remember the Morning Glories?

Of course. But they were for realz, flesh and blood ladies. Not just inside.

Oh Sweetheart, inside, outside: same, same. You’ll see. You already are.

~ * ~

Postscript. Last night:

You: “I took a picture of you earlier.”

Me: “When?”

You: “You were lying in the snow. I thought you might want to remember.”

~ * ~

Comment Zen:

I would love your company. Pull up a chair, there’s always room for one more at the table. Bring your parts, your me’s, too, if you want. And love notes. And mugs of magical spirits. And stories or thoughts of how you can relate. And feel free to pull out your ukulele. But please, leave your shoulds at the door. Here’s some cozy slippers for while you’re here. Thanks for stopping by.

Categories: Mood detective | Tagged: , , | 23 Comments

Mood detective, heal thyself!

Posted by | December 1, 2010 | 8 Comments

I like to ask my clients how they’d love to feel when they leave their session. In addition to helping us set an intention wave a magic wand, their answer gives me a sense of how they are doing, what they are struggling with, even if we never ever discuss the specifics of their life, which mostly we don’t. (After all, I am not a psychotherapist).

Sometimes they say: “I want to feel calm like you.”

The first time I heard this I’m quite sure I laughed. I thought: “If you only knew!”

These days I don’t laugh. First off, they are serious. Second, it’s not about me. I know this because I too have people that are to me just what I am to my clients and it is a gift for me to recognize calm when I see it. Calm (or any quality) is in the eye of the beholder. For sure. Third, if I look honestly I see that I am calm and present for my clients. It is, after all, no mistake that I do what I do. Learning calm is probably my biggest life learning.

The last few days have been hard for me. I have not felt calm. At all.

If you read my blog, you probably know that I’m a big fan of “channeling” people.

“Channeling?” you might ask, thinking it’s some special or weird quirky thing I can do.

I can assure you, anyone can do this. (Although for sure, I’m quirky).

What I do is keep a mental list of people I admire for certain qualities. During hard times, or even just when I’ve exhausted options of how to deal with something, I bring them to mind. Some of these people, like, oh, Clint Eastwood to name just one, are on My Inner Council, and that simply means that when things get reeeeally hard, I call an inner meeting to which only the smartest, kindest, and yes, sometimes bad-assest, people are invited and we have us a pow-wow.

A pow-wow?

Yep. Although we’ve never passed around a pipe and now I’m wondering why the heck not… But pretty much My Inner Council pow-wows consist of me saying straight up how it is and them listening and every so often asking me the best, get-to-the-heart-of-the-matter question ever, during all of which I am pretty much writing everything down. Because, hello! If the Dalai Lama says something to me, you bet your ass I’m writing it down.

Anyway…

Sometimes I have dialogs with these people I channel. Of course, most of them I’ve never actually met. But, no matter. In fact, even better. Because what these people really help me do is see myself and what’s around me, in a new way. They help me recognize and develop existent, yet dormant, qualities within myself. Takes one to know one, and all that.

(And if I ever do meet Cesar Milan, Clint Eastwood, Mary Oliver, the Dalai Lama, Isadora Duncan, Johnny Depp, Hiro Boga, J.K. Rowling, Maya Angelou, or Leonard Cohen, maybe I will thank them. Probably, I will just be dumb-founded. Or drooling.)

This morning, in a moment that “Losing It” was made for, I began to write, wondering whom to channel. And just like that I knew: I need to channel me. Specifically, how I am with my clients:

Calm.
Listening.
Balanced.
Smart.
Kind.
Sense of humor.
Sensitive.
Strong.
Confident.
Open-hearted.

—————

Me: Hi, Heidi. Come in, come in… How are you doing today?

Heidi: [about to burst into tears] Oh, there’s so much. It’s too much. I look at so-and-so and so-and-so and how well they’re doing, and how together their life is and how happy they are… and when things feel like today, my life just looks shitty… There must be something wrong with me.

Me: [nodding] There’s so much happening right now and it’s all seeming like too much–

Heidi: Mostly, it feels way too crowded.

Me: Crowded?

Heidi: My thinking! It’s crowded! Exclamation points! Flashing billboards on the highway kind of crowded in my head. It’s driving me crazy.

Me: Oh yes, I understand. Sounds overwhelming. Tell me… how would you love to feel when you leave your session today? What quality, feeling or state of mind do you need?

Heidi: I’d like a sense that no matter what is going on, no matter what is coming at me, no matter what, I am OK.

Me: Ahh yes, that is a very wise thing to want. Rather than wanting your circumstances to change, you want to feel that you are OK no matter what.

Heidi: Yes. Whether or not the relationship works out, I am OK. Whether or not my loved ones are healthy, I am OK. Whether or not I get all the clients I need this month before the holidays, I am OK. Whether or not I get all the Aardvark Essentials new things I want to put up on my website up or not, I am OK. Whether or not someone I love ever wants to see me again, I am OK. Whether or not I make my rent, I am OK.

Me: Ah yes.

Heidi: You know what that would be like?

Me: Tell me–

Heidi: That would be like the highways in Vermont, where they don’t have any advertisements or billboards or flashy lights, only directional signs indicating what the exit number is, or the town name, or how many miles to the next rest stop…

Me: Ahh yes. So, things right now feel more like the highway in New York or New Jersey, rather than Vermont?

Heidi: Exactly so.

Me: I wonder if you could tell me how you would know you are OK… I mean, OK could come knocking on your door and how would you know that’s who it is… In other words: how would it feel in your body? How would it be in your mind? In your heart?

Heidi: Well, take I-91 in Vermont. My eyes are free to move about slowly or quickly but without getting assaulted or interrupted by lights and noise and information, which is what it feels like inside of me when I’m overwhelmed… it’s like my attention keeps getting assaulted.

Me: Oof! That is hard.

Heidi: It makes everything be on edge.

Me: I can see that. Tell me more about how would you know that you are OK no matter what?

Heidi: [takes big, gentle breath and slows down to ponder... already there is an observable change]… I would walk confidently, knowing the ground holds me. [laughs] I’m not too heavy for the ground. And I would allow gravity to help me move as I need to.

Me: What do you mean?

Heidi: Well, I’d let gravity bring my shoulders down so they’re not hunched up to my ears. Also, my breathing would be longer and calmer. My heart would feel open and soft. I might cry and that’d be OK. Lately I’ve been too stoppered up and uptight and scared and feeling hard and protected to even cry.

Me: Hmmmm… Heidi, I can see that you know exactly how to feel OK no matter what. Even as you were telling me these things I saw them happen.

Heidi: But why do I feel overwhelmed so often?! There must be something wrong with me.

Me: Sweetpea, I want to tell you a secret that’s not really a secret. Most people feel overwhelmed sometimes. And a good many people feel overwhelmed a lot of the time. They might mask it, but they do. And overwhelm can feed on itself and then that makes it stronger… People do things to keep their overwhelm at bay but those things are temporary distractions, at best. Keeping something at bay doesn’t really make it go away. What do you think all that endless checking and texting and refreshing of screens is all about? Most folks don’t even sit down to sip on a hot cup of something without reading or refreshing some screen or another… Do you really think they are enjoying those things when they do them like that? Just look around, love… start noticing… we aren’t bad for doing those things, but I’m telling you this to invite you to notice, and hopefully feel less unique about the overwhelm…

Heidi: [quiet]

Me: I can tell you really care about taking care of yourself and living with an open heart, Heidi. Could I invite you to consider something?

Heidi: Yes–

Me: When you are feeling overwhelmed, like everything is crowded and noisy and too much… is believing “There is something wrong with me” a kind and helpful thing to think?

Heidi: Not really. It actually makes me spin faster, and then, in addition to feeling the crowdedness in my head, I then start trying to figure out how to fix myself, all because I’m panicked that there’s something wrong.

Me: Exactly.

Heidi: But I can’t help it. I just think it. All of a sudden, there is that thought: There’s something wrong with me.

Me: Right. You don’t make the thought happen. It’s not your fault. It’s actually not anyone’s fault. But you can notice it. And once you notice, amazing things can happen.

Heidi: Amazing things? Like feeling calm?

Me: Possibly. We think we have to change things. To fix them. To make them better. But simply noticing and paying attention is the #1 ingredient of kind, non-violent change. And kind, non-violent change is the kind of change that sticks. Change that’s been forced, always tends to backfire.

Heidi: OK, so I notice the thought, and then what?

Me: Well, you could then do many things. One of my favorite is to say hello.

Heidi: Come again?

Me: “Hello there Thought that there is something wrong with me. Funny you should come by today. Things are rather busy, in case you couldn’t tell. Feel free to sit and make yourself comfy in that chair over there, or you can even hang out with me, but you should know that I can’t entertain you. I have a life I’m dying to live and also, I’m learning to stay calm.”

Heidi: Hunh! That’s interesting. So you aren’t trying to kick the thought out?

Me: Nah. Never works. It’ll come back to bite you in the ass, and probably at some ungodly hour when you’re trying to sleep. But you can say hello. You can laugh with it. And you can treat it kindly. Or you can drop it off at your friend’s house for them to keep an eye on while you do your stuff… But, once you notice the thought, you are onto it, baby, and you don’t have to believe it. So, Heidi, how’d it be if the thought “there’s something wrong with me” popped up but you were totally onto it?

Heidi: Hmm…. I think I’d be able to notice my panic and the crowded billboards in my mind more calmly. Hmm… I’d notice panic calmly. Hunh! Is that even possible?

Me: You just saw it in your mind’s eye, didn’t you?

Heidi: Hmmm… Kind of like the medical people and EMTs who come to the scene of an accident… How unhelpful would it be if they arrived and were all: “Oh noes! You’ve broken your arm! Oh noes. What the hell is wrong with you!”

Me: Exactly.

Heidi: Ahhhhh… Thanks, Heidi. I want to be calm like you.

Me: You’re on your way, Sweetpea, you’re on your way. Now, how about that massage?

Heidi: Oh yes. My favorite!

Categories: Massage Therapy, Mood detective | Tagged: , | 8 Comments

Me, Humpty Dumpty, and His Holiness the Dalai Lama. On a wall. With insomnia.

Posted by | November 9, 2010 | 6 Comments

No to-do list is going to get me there.

There?

There. Where worry ends.
There. Where it feels safe.
There. Where I’m home.

A monster shouts: “You must figure out your mailing list thing!”

And another: “You must get that new page up.”

And another: “Quit being so anxious or everything you do will come from fear.”

And yet another: “What’s the use. You may have good ideas, but you are paralyzed. What’s the use. You will always be a loser, maybe smart, but a loser nonetheless.”

Ah yes. Thanks for sharing. Onward!

Except for the fact that fear has, in effect, grounded all planes.

<Cue sad trombone>

There is nothing to do now but sit and notice. Oddly, just that brings a hint of relief:

There is nothing to do now but sit and notice.

It’s been weeks now, the 4AM-waking-up thing. (Except for Sunday, when the clocks changed and I woke up at—wait for it!—3, which is to say, thankyouverymuch, 4).

<Again with the sad trombone>

At dark:thirty it’s hard to ignore what’s wanting your attention. I mean, you can try, but there’s not much by way of distraction. And you can struggle to sleep, but sleep and struggle were never good bed fellows. (heh!)

Of course you could pretend it’s 7 and get up and get busy. But you’re onto that thought. Plus, you’re a mood detective! And so this morning you sit up in bed, wrap a blanket curiosity cape around you, and try to channel the Buddha. (Some people call this meditation).

You notice how hard you feel: things feel hard and you feel hard. A wall around your heart kind of hard. Numb and brittle-hard. Fragile-hard. Hard all around.

You understand about defending against what you’re scared of. You understand about being afraid of what’s dark. You understand about homeland security. You understand about terror. You know war. It’s an inside job.

You could call in the light brigades. You could bomb the bastards. You could smoke them out of their caves. But we know how that goes. All wars are civil wars.

So you sit. There you are, on a wall. Hello, frustration. Hello, fear. And oh! Hello! If it isn’t…

Humpty Dumpty!

“Hi!”

[He doesn't answer. He's shivering. Let's try again. Maybe let's try un-exclamating and un-bolding the font this time.]

Humpty?

[Still no answer.]

“Are you cold?”

What can I say. When I’m nervous I sometimes state the obvious.

He’s chattering so hard I’m afraid he’s going to go and crack up right on top of the wall here, before ever there being an actual event to report, like a fall. And then, not only would there be a mess on top of the wall, but we, by which I mean I, would be responsible for ruining the age-old nursery rhyme, to boot.

I’m going to be here for a while, I can tell. Plus, I remind myself, I am channeling the Buddha.

I notice I want to save him, to keep him from falling. I want to tell him that the story doesn’t end well if he goes ahead and falls. The experts won’t be able to mend things. The people running the world are, in fact, more f*cked up than he is, and really, it’d just be a horrible mess.

But I bite my tongue. For about a minute.

“Do you need anything?”

[no answer]

Apparently, he doesn’t like questions. They put him on the spot and, I’m cluing in, he’s already on the spot. That, plus, he’s onto me. He knows my questions are much more about me trying to alleviate my own discomfort than about what he might really need.

So I keep sitting. I’m nearby, but not too close. And certainly not in his face. The last thing you want to do is startle an egg on the ledge. I’ve learned a thing or two from police shows.

His eyes dart around. His shoulders are up to the ears he would have if he weren’t an egg, and his head is way forward. (Work with me). His brow is furrowed and his egg-chest is sunken in. His legs are twitching. Classic signs of tension. I notice these things and, am proud to say, say nothing.

It is now a quarter till dawn. We’ve been sitting on the ledge, he and I, for what feels like ever. Egg time moves verrrrry slowly. Especially in the dark.

At some point I stop pretending he’s not right here inside of me, a part of me. I get more curious. That’s about when he starts calming down. His body is still shaking but he seems less agitated.

But he sure does still look cold. I get a soft woolen blanket and very quietly, set it nearby. If he wants it, he’ll get it. I notice that he doesn’t flinch or pull away, and when I am back at a safe distance and seemingly not noticing, he reaches for the blanket and wraps it around him.

I sit and notice the urge to say something smart, to blame something—his upbringing, his estranged family, the Easter Bunny—and I bite my tongue.

Then I notice the urge to leave, to get up, to get busy, to turn on some screen or another. If I can’t fix things inside with my inner Humpty Dumpty and make this fear go away and never come back, then at least I can distract myself, no?

But I stay.

The Buddha, who apparently I’m no longer channeling because he has just come and joined us on the wall and now he looks just like the freaking Dalai Lama, says something to me in Tibetan. Or maybe it’s Pali. Not sure. But either way, I don’t understand.

I raise my eyebrow, as if to say, “Come again in a language I know?”

Notice I say, “as if,” because I don’t actually say that. At least not out loud. I’m catching on to this silence thing and how most things I say when I’m scared are really just blah-blah-blah and, quite frankly, I’m bored. Given the choice of scared and bored, or just scared, I’ll pick just scared. Just. As if! Still. You get my point.

So now it’s me. And Humpty Dumpty. And the Dalai Lama, who, I might add, looks to be smiling.

Smiling? you ask.

I know, right?

To be sure, it’s not like he’s laughing at us or anything. It’s more a smile like he’s onto something I don’t quite get. Yet. The “yet” is definitely implied. Whew! And also? It’s a warm smile. Very warm. As if to say: “all is really truly OK, including you.” As if—get this—he has confidence in me.

I want to say, “But Your Holiness Mr. Lama, I’m very scared. And I don’t know shit. And I’m just one girl. And look! Humpty! Who will put him together again if he goes and jumps?”

But I don’t. Because I’m practicing silence. And sitting. And noticing, by way of writing, which is my way.

Thank goodness for pens, curiosity capes and listening caps. Best secret powers, ever.

Why do you stay in prison when the door is so wide open?
Move outside the tangle of fear-thinking. Live in silence.
Slow down and down in always widening rings of being.
–Jelaluddin Rumi

Comment zen: I heart comments. What my story sparks for you? Your own experience with fear? With waking up at dark:thirty? Encouragement that I keep writing and that you want more? Yesss!

BUT/AND: Please refrain from psychoanalyzing or offering advices. Thank you!

Categories: Mood detective | Tagged: , , , , | 6 Comments

Playing mood detective with insomnia.

Posted by | October 28, 2010 | 3 Comments

Hello, frustration! This morning it woke me up, coursing through my limbs at dark:thirty.

Hard to ignore. Certainly hard to sleep through. When I finally “cried Uncle” and got up, I was tapped ever so lovingly on the shoulder by this line:

tending as all things do, toward silence…

Ahhh. And then I remembered (with a little help from above Google) the poem by Mary Oliver from whence my love-line came:

When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn;
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse

to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;
when death comes
like the measle-pox;

when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades;

I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
I look on time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,

and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,

and each name a comfortable music in the mouth
tending as all music does, toward silence.

and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.

When it’s over I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it is over, I don’t want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.

I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.

~ * ~

Oh my dear body, I have been full of argument. And oh but I have been feeling frightened. Something to do with time and how it keeps passing at warp speed measured in days, even hours, when it used to be years. (Um, what year are we again?)

Something about how I’m doing too much of the wrong thing, and not enough of the love thing. And how the two are all tangled up and I can’t tease them apart. And in all this I need to support myself.

That last thought is so heavy it could crush rocks.

Playing Mood Detective

Sweet pea, shall we play? Want to invite your old pal and superhero Curiosity to play Mood Detective with you?

Yesss!

OK. What happens when you believe this thought? How do you live your life when you believe: “I need to support myself” ?

I worry. And then what I do is motivated by fear.
I feel alone. And I jump into the future and worry about dying alone.

Yikes!

And I wake up early and can’t sleep.
And I spin. Not like in a Sufi dance of joy, no. More like a piece that has sprung loose from a powerful moving machine… it’s still spinning like mad but on its own.

Oof! So hard!

And how does it feel in your body when you’re thinking that thought?

I feel the weight of the world on my shoulders.
It feels like there’s static on the screen of my mind.
Nothing is clear.
Sometimes my neck hurts.
And sometimes I feel it in my butt.

Ow! OK. Could something else be as true or truer than this pain-in-the-butt thought “I need to support myself”?

What do you mean?

Well, as I see it you are an adult and you are running a business and you need to pay bills and keep things moving. But when you are crushed with this thought you are usually only looking at things from one perspective, and, not to put too fine a point on it, that would be the perspective of doom.

Oh yes.

The thought “I need to support myself” really doesn’t seem to be serving you, does it?

Nah.

Because I know for a fact that you’d still work and do the things you love, even without that thought.

Yes, probably you’re right.

Can you tell me about those?

Those?

Those things that you love to do?

Read and write poems and essays and stories.
Connect with people… people I’ve met and people I’ve never met and people I’ve not yet met.
Sing and dance. Pretend I am Leonard Cohen’s female backup.
Be a Massage Therapist.
Play Mood Detective. Teach my clients to be mood detectives so their bodies don’t have to express their stress as pain.

Wow. That’s a lot of things to love! So, what else could be as true or truer than your original pain-in-the-ass thought: “I need to support myself” ?

I need to allow myself to be supported.

Can you tell me about that?

Well, truth is, I am not alone. Not really. I often think I am, but I’m not. Yesterday morning I called my friend at 6:30 a.m., crying. I woke him up and he listened and was there. It was 5:30 for him!

Oh yes. That is support. Not to mention love.

And I have other dears that love me. All over the world.

Yes, you do.

And I have clients whom I adore and by all accounts, they seem pretty much to like me too. They pay me and I get to help them.

Wow, yes.

You know, come to think, how I help them is all about this.

How so?

Sometimes I will hold parts of my clients’ bodies. Like their head, for example. I make a fulcrum with my fingers and place my finger pads and tips right where their head meets their neck, atlas on axis, at the crux of so much of the pressure in their neck and jaw… And I wait. And listen. And hold. All the while their head is resting in my hands.

I can tell how much their neck tension is easing by how fully they let me hold their head. Sometimes, for whatever reason, a client will keep holding the weight of their head. Mostly it’s not conscious at all. Maybe they are trying to help me. They simply can’t, for whatever reason, in that moment allow the full weight of her head to rest in my hands.

Often, just showing up and bringing awareness to how it all is is enough to change it. I can tell when a client rests because I feel the weight of their head–ironically heavier and lighter at once–in my hands. Often their jaw and face softens at the same time. It moves me in a way I can’t explain, to get to be there when that happens.

Oh my, Heidi! Do you have any openings today? I want you to hold my head! OK. Where were we?

We were playing with the thought “I need to support myself.” And I was noticing that when I believe that thought I am not allowing Life–by way of the ground, the bed, the pillow, the figurative or actual hands under my head–to support me.

Gravity comes to mind, too. That fantastic force of this our earth, not letting me up and float away into the la-la-land. When I am worrying, I have usually forgotten about the loving force of gravity pulling me ever back to the ground, back toward darkness, “tending as all music does, toward silence.”

~ * ~

Dear Mary Oliver, dear poetry, dear life, dear Byron Katie, dear ground, dear gravity, and oh dear client-of-mine,

Thank you.

Love,

Your Heidi

Categories: Massage Therapy, Mood detective, Poetry | Tagged: , , , , | 3 Comments

Oh, hello! Clint Eastwood is here. ThankGod.

Posted by | September 22, 2010 | 15 Comments

Sometime last week someone came and turned me upside down. They emptied out what was there and filled me up with green slime-y muck. And then they put a soundtrack in my head that went something like this: I’m not special, so not special, so and so is special, she/he loves him/her more than me, if I’m not special I will disappear…

Ow. Right?

Needless to say, the house of me was not a fun place to be.

For the first couple days, the best I could do was notice that I’d been—uh, how to say—possessed. Not to be dramatic. But yeah, pretty much.

Possessed, you say?

Well, put it this way. If there was any distance whatsoever between me and this Green Monster, it was MINUS10… which mathematically, I suppose, is still something and possibly that something was the bit responsible for the noticing, but still, did I mention that it hurts? It’s been waking me up in the night and making me want to do all sorts of things to get certain people’s love and appreciation.

Ow.

Pretty much I’ve been sitting on my hands not to do anything like contact the people I want to be special-ed by. Which meant pretty much staying holed up in a secret cubby in the basement in the house of me in a spot that Green Monster had somehow not yet found.

There I sat, peering inside, trying to understand what was really happening, doing my best to be kind and writing tapping in code on the wall so as not to keep it all bottled up in secret.

So yeah, ow.

Unfortunately, another monster did know where I was hiding. At first he looked totally harmless, helpful even, and he brought me cookies. But then he started telling me I should keep even my coded tapping to myself because, “Um, hello, having the house of you filled with green slime is the unsexiest thing ever—kind of like bedbugs,” he pointed out. “The people you want to be specialed by, most especially, will think you are the biggest loser ever if they find out.”

He wasn’t finished. “It’s so not badass. So not Sassypants or Night Queen. So whatever you do, do not write about it. Even in code.” This monster was about the shame.

The A Word or Two on Monsters bit

Monsters mean well. They do. That much I have learned. From their point of view, based on what they believe, their ideas are helpful. But acting and doing things as directed by them pretty much is never a good idea. Not that I don’t still. But, I notice sooner. And sometimes I can sit on my hands until things simmer down, or clarity arrives.

Eventually, it seems, all monsters also bring gifts. And sometimes, when all the stuff to do with them having needed to become a part of you way back when is understood, and when whatever need wasn’t met way back then is met or transformed, then they might even get promoted. Which is what happened last week to my Monster of the Monies. He totally got promoted! But that’s for another time.

Lest you get excited about Green Monster’s gifts prematurely, let me be clear: I’m barely just maybe thinking that possibly he might one day have a gift for me. Maybe. Even the possibility of that was completely foreign to me until a few hours ago, when a tall smart handsome bad-ass member of My Inner Council Inc. stopped by for a visit. More on that in a sec.

The Let It Be Said bit

After about a week of green slime, I was worn down. And this morning, the sad. Which looked like a boatload of tears spilling into my tea.

Let it be said, this is not the first time.

Let it be said, too, that it’s got nothing to do with the particulars of who and what is triggering the story this time.

The Same Story, ‘Nother Time bit

Once upon a relationship I said, “You love me?” I was putting into words what I saw in his soft eyes. Oh the happy.

And he said, “Yehhhs.” Just like that, all drawn out. Oh the love.

But then, over the years, the question would pop into my head when I was feeling insecure, and, not being very good at noticing from whence it came nor being very adept at sitting on my hands, I’d ask: “Do you love me?” Even in the middle of the night a few times. Oh the scared.

And he’d say “Yehhhs,” and it was true, but it didn’t do what it had done when my question had come from playful and innocent. Now it came from scared and insecure. And his yes was not enough. It couldn’t be.

I can tell it would be that way now too. If I asked.

So even while I notice how special all the cool kids are, and all the notice they get, and how this one is following that one and so on and so forth, something tells me that getting this person, these people, to tell me I’m special will not do anything for me. Not really. Certainly not for more than two seconds.

Oh! Hello! Clint Eastwood is here. ThankGod.

The Me and Mr. Eastwood bit

He: So, Heidi… What if it were true… what if they loved everyone else but not so much you? What if they didn’t adore you? What if they were tired of you? What if they didn’t want to hear from you again? What if they didn’t read anything you write? What if you weren’t special at all to them? What then, hunh? What then? Would you still write?

Me: Yes.

He:  What would you write?

Me: About that.

He:  And what else?

Me: What else?

He:  What else would you write if you didn’t care who loves you?

Me: I don’t know.

He:  Well, go find out.

Me: But Mr. Eastwood, I don’t want to be alone. I need family.

He:  You ain’t got family, is that true? Make a list right now of people that love you. Go ahead. I’ve got time.

…

How many’ve you got there so far?

Me: 14. But they’re not here. They’re just in my head.

He: Well, where else is there?

Me: Come again?

He:  Where else would they be?

Me: With me in person. Or responding to me in words that I can read.

He:  So if they don’t respond to you in words you can hear or read they don’t love you anymore?

Me: Sorta.

He:  When did you first think that?

Me: Probably at boarding school. Letters from home took a long time to arrive. And when they finally did I’d lock myself in the bathroom and smell the letter and I could hardly read it for crying so hard and and and–

He:  That was a hard time, wasn’t it.

Me: Yes.

He:  You thought they’d forgotten you back home, huh? That you weren’t important anymore?

Me: Yeah, like they were doing all the fun things… without me. I wasn’t a part of them anymore. That’s what it feels like now when the theys-of-now don’t respond. I think they’ve moved on from loving me.

He:  Where are you, Heidi?

Me: Hunh?

He:  Right now, where are you?

Me: Here.

He:  Not really. You’re over in their head, imagining what all they think about you. You’re not here at all.

Me: Hmm.

He:  For all you know they still adore you and love you to the moon, and what do you know? You’re stuck imagining horrible things they think of you or that they’ve forgotten you.

What’s around you, Heidi?

Me: My favorite picture is right in front of me. The Ansel Adams of Georgia O’Keefe looking at the wrangler. They’re both wearing black hats. They’re in New Mexico. And the sky is huge. And the look on O’Keefe’s face is filled with appreciation and twinkle and a touch of mischief. And love. She’s giving the wrangler guy, who seems quite shy, all the space in the world. But you can tell she totally adores him.

He:  Nice. That’s one of my favorites, too.

Me: I want to be Georgia O’Keefe. Giving as much space as is needed and feeling secure and safe and loved in my very own space. And doing what I love to do, regardless of what the world thinks.

He:  Well, you’re on your way.

Me: Hunh?

He:  You saw it, didn’t you?

Me: Come again?

He:  In the picture. You see all of that. It’s in you. You’d not have even gone there if it weren’t. Plus, I see you doing that with your clients.

Me: Yeah.

He:  And sometimes even with the people you right now think you need to be loved by.

Me: Sometimes.

He:  And when you are feeling good and secure you enjoy all the connection there is in your circles. And when other people are noticed and adored you are happy with them and sometimes you jump into the conversation. And you aren’t all second guessing everything.

Me: Sometimes.

He:  Heidi, you are so much bigger than this, you have no idea. And this bit, right now, is important too. Do you think you are the only one ever to feel this way?

Me: I imagine not.

[Mr. Eastwood laughs. A lot, for him.]

Me: What’s so funny?

He:  Oh, I’m thinking of our world and the things people do to be noticed, loved. The ridiculousness and innocence of it, especially when they don’t realize they are doing it.

Me: Glad you think it’s funny.

He:  Oh, you do too. You know it.

[I look away, stubbornly.]

He:  Alright then. I’ll be on my way.

————

And just as quickly as he showed up, Clint Eastwood mounts his horse, gives him a nudge, and they’re off.

Here’s the Ansel Adams picture I love. See what I mean?

Highly recommended!

***

As for comments…

I can’t wait to hear your stories. Monster stories. Clint Eastwood stories. Georgia O’Keefe stories. Inner council stories. Ideas. I’m-onto-the-green-monster stories. Yes!

Ironically though, I am not wanting to hear “Oh, you are so special.” I know, weird, but there you go. And also, no advices please thank you.

xoxo

Categories: Mood detective, Self-care | Tagged: , , , | 15 Comments
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