Standing on the Edge

Where I've Been

2010-06-23T16:56:00.001-07:00

Where have I gone? That student-counselor is now graduated and trying to launch into the wide world of employment and creativity. I blog here and there on other sites, but it all feels fragmented. My anonymous self. My professional self. My constantly-updating facebook self. So may faces walking around it's hard to keep track of it all. I'm hardly ever just me, with my hair hanging down and writing from my own place of authenticity. I haven't done art in a good 6 months (I blame the puppy, but that's just an excuse, right?). I've entered a gloomy summer season directionless, broke and clinging to hope that a net will appear as I believe it always will.

I Love Ozzie

2010-04-20T19:46:00.000-07:00

Ozzie is now a little over 6 months old, and every day I get to spend with him, I am enriched.

"It came to me that every time I lose a dog they take a piece of my heart with them. And every new dog who comes into my life gifts me with a piece of their heart. If I live long enough, all the components of my heart will be dog, and I will become as generous and loving as they are."

--Unknown

Enjoy...

Time Lapse Meditations

2010-03-05T18:46:00.000-08:00

In solidarity with my student-clients, and for the benefit of my own growth, I have been particularly intentional about my mindfulness practice lately. Today I found a unique expression of mindfulness meditation, in the creation of a time-lapse video.

Inspired by a CNN report that featured people from around the world who had created their own time lapse videos using digital cameras, I thought that this would be a fun way to spend my Ocean Shores vacation. Kyle was off conferencing, and so I got down to business.What struck me, during the process, was how intentional and meditative it actually felt. I was sitting on my porch, or out on a sand-dune, and had my camera balanced on a railing or pole and spent time taking the pictures.

click.
click.
click.
click.

The repetitiousness of the clicking lulled me into a zen place, and I noticed that I was split simultaneously, as it often happens during meditation. There was this part of me that looked through the viewfinder and noticed the details, or thought "wow, nothing is changing here, this is going to be a boring video to watch back." I noticed thoughts of how pointless the task was, how tedious it would be to edit the photos, or wonderings about who on earth would even watch something like this. Then there was part of me that got to stand back and observe the goings on. I could see how the waves and the dunes were constants, even in their own change, and how people or cars or birds interacted with the environment...perhaps without really even being aware.

And I was outside of the story, observing, and inside the story, noticing the minutia, the monotony, the change.

It reminds me of working with clients, as we begin to see together how things do change, even if the changes seem imperceptible at first. I know when I've been depressed or sick or anxious, it feels like it has always been this way. Maintaining mindfulness has helped me to see that even when something is uncomfortable, it does change, even if it doesn't mean I'm all happy flowers and rainbows. There are shifts and shades that can be seen when time has elapsed.

So I encourage you all to try this, mindfully create a time lapsed piece...and if you do send me the link!

Don't Get Your Hopes Up

2010-02-14T22:00:00.000-08:00

Seattle has turned back to the grey mushiness that is typical of winter-turning-into-spring. It stands as a stark contrast to the last few weeks of beautiful weather, where the bulbs began to poke upward into the brilliant sunshine. The earth smelled like spring and I have sported my "Jesus" sandals around town. As someone who struggles with seasonal depression, the sunshine lifted my spirits and I wondered to myself 'could this be the end of winter? could this really be spring?' In an atypical fashion, only harboring a little bit of worry that the weather would take a turn for the worse, I embraced every sunny moment...walks with the pupperoni, trips to the dog park, cappaccinos with friends, and plenty of good conversation.

But then, as it is apt to do in Seattle, the rain was back. Winter just wasn't quite through, and while I watched the news of feet and feet of snow covering the rest of the country, I couldn't help but think miserable thoughts about wanting to stay in bed all day, or calling in 'sick' to work.

And then, one day, I had a thought. This thought was about the buddhist and mindfulness idea of acceting what is rather than striving that which isn't. This grasping for sunny days was leaving me miserable...living in the past or living in the future, but certainly not mindfully experiencing the moment...rain and all. It's a theme that has been running through my sessions with students lately and so it is no wonder that I get to experienc the wonderful parallel process.

So I mindfully embraced the gray Seattle skies, the rain pattering down, and my ability to spend the day inside a sweet little coffee shop and write my Master's thesis. I embraced the wet spot in my leather ballet flats, and the absence of convenient parking in the local grocery store parking lot.

And, it was good.

When I began to fall asleep that night I had a thought, a reframe of a childhood memory that has plagued me for awhile. It was the phrase my mom used once, when I wanted an ice cream cone when dad came hom eand she said, 'don't get your hopes up.'

For so long I attributed this phrase to my underlying pessimism and cynicism, the belief that bad things were going to happen and that at all costs I should expect the worst.

But that night I wondered if my mom wasn't in fact embracing a tenet of Buddhism, that somehow she might have been asking me to take a look at life differently, to see that the absence of striving, and living in the moment, in the midst of disappointment or happiness, is what life is all about. Perhaps it wasn't what she intended, perhaps it was an off-hand remark to get a kid to quit whining about dessert, and perhaps I spent too many years thinking her advice meant one thing, when in fact it could have meant something entirely different.

It doesn't matter now, though, does it? The journey has led me to this place, and right now, in this moment, the idea of 'not getting my hopes up' melds perfectly with the ideal of not striving, and so for this moment I will be mindful, even if it's raining.

Puppy Ozzie

2009-12-08T16:39:00.001-08:00

Speak to Me Grandma

2009-11-09T18:25:00.000-08:00

Speak to me Grandma I’m alone in my thoughts
Speak to me Grandma You’re at home with the thought...
There’s a wind blowing off the top of Divide
Through the valley of our old St. Mary
You have thrice earned the rest that you’ve got
And the cross your fingers carry to beyond...
Now, I really can’t believe that you’re gone.

Speak to me Grandma, stories blossom in you
Speak to me Grandma legend blended with truth.
And your words brushed a portrait for us
In the Valley of our old St. Mary
Your eyes were the light for us
When our bodies couldn’t carry us beyond...
Now, I really can’t believe that you’re gone.

You felt the buffalo go
You heard the stagecoach roll
You saw booming Altyn rise and fall
You rode your pony upon
Moccasin Flat at century’s dawn
The trails became roads
and the roads became old...
We listened to the stories that you told.
You wed a man from the north
Then ten fine children came forth
Alex still is your groom.
You were the center of us.
Still in our valley we trust
The vision of St. Mary
appeared upon the lake
And leaves me in this fast-closing wake.

Speak to me Grandma I’m alone in my thoughts
Speak to me Grandma You’re at home with the thought...
There’s a wind blowing off the top of Divide
Through the valley of our old St. Mary
You have thrice earned the rest that you’ve got
And the cross your fingers carry to beyond...
Now, I really can’t believe that you’re gone.

There’s a wind blowing off the top of Divide
Through the valley of our old St. Mary
You have thrice earned the rest that you’ve got
And the cross your fingers carry to beyond...
Now, I really can’t believe that you’re gone.
No I really can’t believe
It’s so hard to imagine.
I really don’t believe that you’re gone.
-Jack Gladstone

Pain Meditation

2009-10-27T12:08:00.000-07:00

Pain is an intrinsic part of being born in a physical body, as the Buddha has taught. In reality, aging and sickness begin the moment we enter the world. Yet we are conditioned to ward off all pain. We are unwilling to allow the pain simply to happen...

Paradoxically, once we are willing to work with pain, we feel that it is not all bad. Pain is a riveting object of attention; to paraphrase Samuel Johnson, it concentrates the mind wonderfully. If we leave the breath and direct attention to whatever physical sensation is in the body, allowing ourselves to be present with whatever has arisen, the mind doesn’t tend to wander very much. If we are truly aware of the sensations, we find that pain can focus and calm the mind. There can be joy that arises with this concentration. We are not scattered. The mind is happily focused.

- Gavin Harrison, from “Working With Pain,” Tricycle, Winter 2002

I am at work, after a few days of not-quite-unbearable-but-pretty-darn-close back pain, that has left me sleeping with the aid of Tylenol PM and awake with hot packs and Aleve. I'm managing, but it's much nicer to be sitting on a couch than in an office at a computer. Ergonomics are not my strong suit, and to try and adjust a computer on a desk that isn't mine, with my chair height (these long legs are annoying sometimes), it leaves me sitting up high and looking down low which leads to a turtle-head neck forward position. And the rest of my time is spent in a chair listening to people (who get distracted if I squirm too much).

So it's my lunch break (and yes I'm blogging instead of eating), and I come across this daily dharma quote over at Tricycle.com and it speaks perfectly into my experience today. The pain is bringing me into an awareness of my body, of my physical being in the room with another person. I notice when they take a deep breath after a long story, and when I am tensing my abs and restricting my own breathing. I am aware of a lump of irritation in my left shoulder and I do wonder, why is it crying right now, and what is it trying to tell me?

I don't know what it would be like to not have some pain, an ache here or there, and while I wish I didn't have to live like this, I wonder if living in the physical experience is part of what it's all about. So maybe, today my focus will be on the pain, instead of the removal of the pain.

We have years and years left together...

2009-10-02T22:44:00.000-07:00

These are my little sisters. I love being in reunion with them, and despite our age gap, I feel like we get along famously. Last weekend I got to spend time with them, and even taught Libby to tie her shoe! Such special memories, and I think that shows in our photo-booth extravaganza!

playing with wax

2009-09-23T19:05:00.000-07:00

Animal Guides

2009-09-10T12:12:00.000-07:00

This summer has been filled with dreams. Normally I pay only partial attention to my dreams, but sometimes there are dreams that impact me so much that I even find myself thinking about them during the day. The dreams lately have involved animals, specifically cougars, wolves and bears. The animals don't appear all at one time, rather it began with cougars just being there, and then a few weeks later it was wolves and then bears. And both the wolves and bears morphed into native american men and spoke to me. So I did a few soul collage cards to just try and put these out into reality, rather than being in my head :)

Early Memories

2009-08-06T13:15:00.000-07:00

We literally have hundreds of thousands of interactions and experiences in our lifetime, so why, when we look back over our life, do we have specific memories. Why, when we think of childhood, do we remember very specific events and don't remember others?

As a counselor I have been exploring this (both internally with myself) and processing it with clients. According to my supervisor, "of the thousands of experiences we each have in childhood, we remember those few that symbolically reinforce our lifestyle and belief system (S. Maybell).

An exercise I have had people do, is think about an early memory, describe it, and talk about how they were feeling in the memory. Because this is my blog, I thought I'd share a little bit about my own experience with this (don't you just love parallel processes in clients and therapists?)

When I was 4 years old I went on a trip with my parents and my little brother through the Redwoods. On this trip, we stopped to see the statue of Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox. Experiencing this tourist trap later put perspective on my memory, but as a child I was completely mesmerized with this statue, who was so tall AND Paul Bunyan talked. Children would come up to the statue and talk to Paul and he would answer them. I remember my parents telling me it was time to go back to the car, and a booming voice said "I will be able to hear and see you at your car." I remember feeling both awed (that Paul Bunyan answered me and said that he could see and hear me) and also a bit frightened (for the same reasons).

Looking back, as an adult, I realize that the statue wasn't really talking to me, that it was the guy in the control booth next to the statue. But somehow this memory has stuck with me...so if we keep and think about certain memories because the reinforce our way of viewing the world, then what does this memory say about my worldview?

There are several different things to look for in a memory:
1) self-image
2) world-view
3) gender
4) relationships
5) values
6) goals
7) achievement of goals (s. maybell)

Not all memories reinforce all areas, but it is fun to try and tease out which ones do apply. In my case, I think the biggest thing that I notice, is that this Paul Bunyan image is similar to how I viewed God. God was BIG and a man and could speak in a booming voice from above, both 'seeing' and 'hearing me' no matter how far away I was. And yet, Paul Bunyan had been silent all the time I had been around him, and it was only when I was leaving that I heard his voice. I see myself as small and unable to make my own choices, as I am directed by my parents. My parents are right and I must comply.

So I challenge you to do one of your own memories. Don't worry about doing it perfectly or choosing the earliest memory. It's a fun experiment, and it's teaching me a lot about myself. Now I can see where I got some beliefs and I can choose, now as an adult, to say "um, those aren't working for me anymore. those were created in childhood from a memory and they no longer apply."

the beat of my OWN drum

2009-07-24T13:11:00.000-07:00

For awhile now I have wanted to buy a drum. while I'm not yet prepared to join a drum circle, I wanted something that I could make music with, as well as something functional and small that I could bring to Sounders games and join in the merry music-making.

I had been perusing online and found a few drums that I liked, but I was on my way to my favorite East West bookshop and saw this shop called Ten Thousdand Villages, and thought "hmm, that looks interesting, I think I'll go inside."

Lo and behold, this shop combined many of my loves and desires all in one place. It is a fair-trade shop that sells hand-crafted pieces from all over the world. At first I thought it would just supply me with my need to Indianify my place, but there was a whole table of drums...and they were so reasonably priced ($25+) that I just had to buy one. So I picked up a goat-skin/mango wood drum made in indonesia, and away I went.

While I had been researching drums, I had also been looking at drawings that people have done on their drums, to add a little flavor. I love henna and in my online research (you know, the internet is truly a wonderful thing in this regard) I found many people who had painted their drums with henna. So while I don't have any henna materials (and was too impatient to go through the whole process...maybe on my next drum!) I used a Pentel marker that is eerily similar looking to real henna.

The process of drawing on the drum was relatively easy. I used a compass and a rule to get the basic circles and radial points, but I mostly just freehanded everything. I was surprised at just how meditative the whole process was. It makes me wish I was independently wealthy and could just draw on drums all day! :)

Here's my "finished" product (I think I want to add a few more embellishments, but I'm happy with how it looks now and I don't want to make it too busy).

Already I love playing it, and I get to break it out in public tomorrow at the Sounders game!

So cheers to following the beat of my OWN drum!

Don't Hold Your Breath

2009-07-07T12:58:00.000-07:00

"Don't hold your breath," is a phrase I grew up hearing. It ran in the same circles as "don't get your hopes up," and "there are starving children in India, so finish your dinner." I always thought the phrase meant not to get too excited about something ala not getting your hopes up (which is a phrase I took too to heart for a long time), but yesterday I noticed a shift, a way of looking at the phrase differently than I had previously.

I have been noticing and focusing on my breath and breathwork in general for awhile now. And yesterday, as I was lying on a massage table (with a cat companion nestled at my feet), I was noticing my breath. Courtney asks me to take deep breaths during the massage, especially when she's working on a particular area. So I was thoughtfully noticing when I don't breathe...when I hold my breath (which is contrary to the advice in 'don't hold your breath.')

I came to two conclusions. 1) I hold my breath in anticipation of pain. When I sense she's getting close to a spot that might hurt, I hold my breath, as if that tensing or tightening and restriction would somehow divert her hands to a less tender spot and help me avoid confronting the source of my tension. This goes for more areas than just in my massage...I hold my breath, in a failed attempt at bargaining...to keep the pain at bay. Of course it doesn't work, but for a moment it gives me a sense of a little bit of control, though my muscles are much tighter afterward... 2) I hold my breath when I am trying to prolong the pleasure. Sometimes a spot feels so good when it's touched, and in an attempt to not miss out on any aspect of the goodness, I hold my breath. It's as though I could make that moment last forever if I just stay completely still and absent of breathing. Rather than truly, fully experiencing the moment, I'm worried about it fleeing, which is also about control, and in effect I lose out on the power of really experiencing the moment.

So, for today I will try not to hold my breath...I will embrace and ride the waves of both pleasure and pain...

Soul Loss

2009-06-27T20:03:00.000-07:00

For awhile now I have been interested in the concept of soul loss (and subsequently the shamanic process of soul retrieval) and how it related to dissociation through trauma. People often say "I lost a little piece of me," when they dated someone and broke up, or some other situation. Sometimes I feel like I sacrifice a piece of me when I don't hold true to my values and am swayed by my peers, or get swept up into behavior that I believe I wouldn't normally do in other circumstances. I feel like all of these little soul losses really affect me as a person...that who I'd be now is very different (perhaps better, perhaps worse) than the person I am...and that looking back there are definitely different lessons that I can learn from all of these little traumas.

So this summer I am enrolled in a Loss & Grief counseling class, and one of our assignments is to complete a project that gives form to some personal loss or grieving experience. When I learned what our assignment was, I decided that I would do an art project...and what better project than Soul Collage? I find it fitting to represent aspects of my soul with aspects that I believe I have lost, or that have changed me. They are there, even if they aren't integrated. These bits of my soul that have left for whatever reason are still connected to me in a very real way.

I have spent the last two days working on these Soul Collage cards, and these are what I have come up with:

The loss of the "who I could have been," if my story had begun differently...or if Elisa had taken route B instead of route A...

The young teenager I left behind when I moved to Yakima. This bit of my soul believed in elves and fairies and talked to animals while walking outside.

When you lose yourself in dysfunctional and overbearing romantic relationships. When you forget you are whole, 100% as a person and begin to believe the lie that you are less-than-worthy.

Friends who leave footprints on our hearts, but because of my inability to communicate, are lost to the "we can't go back" and change it moments in life.

Leaving the small conservative flock to embrace the truth of what I really believe.

I know I have a lot more writing to do to get to the depth of these cards, but I have felt that this is a good start on my project!

Iranian Protest

2009-06-26T16:03:00.000-07:00

I am obsessed with this photo, which I found on CNN.

I'm not exactly sure why it evokes so much emotion in me, but I can't help but stare at these powerful women in awe. It evokes memories of how I felt the first time I saw this photo, in National Geographic:

There is something so powerfully fierce and feminine in these women which resonates in me. I wish I could embody the fierceness and the feminine inside my own soul.

I am "In" this photo

2009-06-16T16:13:00.001-07:00

Courtney, of http://oriart.blogspot.com/ challenged us to: find yourself in a photo you've taken. The catch: you are not actually (physically) in the photo at all. Feel free to post in the comments box and link to your photo w/a statement of how you are "in" the photo.

(click to enlarge)

I am the line between color and black and white.
I am the kiss between fog and ocean waves.
I am that gull, standing alone not swayed easily by the flighty crowd.

Truth

2009-06-03T21:16:00.001-07:00

It feels SO good to be able to stand in front of my peers and speak MY truth...and the truth of my adopted friends. The feedback I got from the presentation tonight was awesome...they all came away understanding that adoption is based on loss for all of those involved...

I am on cloud 9.

Past, Present, Future

2009-05-25T21:25:00.000-07:00

Though he doesn't understand it all, he knows how important it is to me...so he framed and hung my artwork in our hallway.

Divine Feminine

2009-05-21T08:30:00.000-07:00

Recently I joined a meetup group called "A Woman's Spiritual Pursuit," and attended Tuesday night for the first time, as the topic was Soul Collage.

Soul Collage is a "simple creative process used to explore the depth of your soul." In the process you engage "your intuition and imagination" by using "images and personal symbols to create a powerful deck of cards that tap into your inner guidance." The process is not new to me, as I use my intuition in creating art, and have even done some pieces with different archetypes, but the focused intentionality of this workshop was awesome.

We began with an exercise, picking an image that spoke to us, and gave it voice by speaking as the image, saying "I am the one who..." What I loved about this process is it accessed parts of myself that I don't often give voice...and it is something that I know I'd be able to use with clients in the future. A form of narrative therapy is to externalize problems, so rather than saying "I AM depressed," we say "I have depression," or "depression has me." If we are not the same as depression we can separate these parts out and have them talk to each other.

I dare you to try it. Be it anger or depression or simply an image ripped out of a magazine, they are parts and parcels of us, and we can give them voices.

So tonight's intention was to creat a card that represented our divine feminine, and this is what I created:

When journalling my responses, this is what came up:

I am the one who is with you in every stage of your life.
I am the one who provides passion and security, and takes care of you in your quietest moments.

What I have to give you is permission to be yourself, groundedness, and the ability to embrace what comes about.

What I want from you is nurturing acceptance, a place to call home, and recognition in even the smallest tasks.

When we had all finished the process of making our card, we met back as a group and shared our pieces. We then did a group reading, where we drew random cards and asked a group question and let the same process flow through us as we all went around the room answering the question, by giving voice to the card we had drawn.

Our questions were:
How do we embrace the presence of the feminine and how do we bring balance between the masculine and feminine in our lives?

You embrace the presence of the feminine by:
Taking time to nurture yourself, feel softness, warmth, your spirituality through every life phase from birth to death.
By tending to our souls fire by allowing ourselves to bloom, by opening the pages of the mystery.
By letting down our hair, being playful, sincere, opening ourselves to our sensuality, sensitivity, love and playfulness.
Through being sexy, being strong, but soft.
Embracing, nurturing ourselves and others to open our minds to infinite possibilities to be who we want to be in the moment.
Shutting our eyes, throwing our heads back and letting the freedom move us in any way it wishes.
By living fully in the present and seeing beauty in all things.

You bring balance between masculine and feminine by:
Staying centered and being able to be soft and strong and being comfortable in those spaces.
By putting ground under our feet and allowing the air to support us.
By being playful and sincere.
By relaxing and allowing yourself to float through life taking time to smell the flowers.
Let the light in when we feel dark. Complimenting small things with big things.
Feeling the ground beneath us in quiet moments. Recognizing that the balance already is.
By risking vulnerability.

For more information on Soul Collage

La Llorona

2009-05-02T16:13:00.000-07:00

I am La Llorona, the wailing woman who wanders along riverbanks calling for the children she drowned before killing herself. This Hispanic story has always haunted me, and while exploring some deep sadness inside me during a massage, the image of La Llorona came up in my mind (or in my heart?). The children I've lost are really parts of me that have disassociated for various reasons over my lifetime. This incredible sadness, which feels sloshy and wet, like I'm standing next to a cool ocean of sadness feels too deep to even begin to penetrate.

In the last few weeks I have been reading a book by Sandra Ingerman, a shaman who works with Soul Retrieval. Soul retrieval is based on the belief that during trauma (even small traumas) often a part of our soul disassociates from our body. What struck me was how similar this is to working with trauma patients who often experience disassociation. And in the spirit of self-reflection, while meditating, and through my massage, I have been able to identify at least, a few parts of me that I have been missing.

There's my baby self, floating in a basket, screaming into the void, wondering where mama is. It left when I was relinquished. The part that stayed in place was the compliant one, the one that became adaptable and self reliant...never too trusting.

I can see my third grade self, who calls herself Jennie after my great-grandma (my namesake) Jennie died. What sparked this fiesty eight year old to leave?

My thirteen year old self at least came up to me during my visualization. She said "what took you so long?" She is my "Seattle Self," the one who stayed when I sacrificed and chose to vote for moving to Yakima rather than staying in Seattle.

Before I was naive that they were gone, and then I realized that they were, and that was what prompted my deep grief and sadness. Because I miss them...all of them...even the ones I don't know are gone.

Springtime

2009-04-27T19:02:00.000-07:00

Tuesdays with Arty

2009-04-21T20:34:00.000-07:00

My lovely friend Sarah is in from Cali and during our hang out time, she wanted to make art. Apparently she loves that I'm into art, so we listened to some soothing music and diddled in paint and wax and feathers to our hearts content! Our general focus was "Dreams" and boy did we interpret it uniquely!!!

About halfway through our excursion my sister came in from Yakima (she's going on a date and also wanted to surprise Sarah), so she got in on the action as well! It was a blissfully wonderful afternoon!

There we are...and there are some paintbrushes...good times!

Sarah and her lovely piece...

her piece close up!

all of our work on the table :)

When thinking about dreams, I was drawn simultaneously to the image of the camel pose (a very heart opening yoga pose) and the hawk...paired together the hawk just seems to be bursting from my heart, and truly this is my dream. The hawk is so fierce, independant and strong in what it wants. And yet the camel pose is a vulnerable position to be in. Being vulnerable helps me be strong!

A dream of mine is to honor the power inside of me.

Goddess Archetype

2009-04-15T20:04:00.000-07:00

I joined a women's spirituality group the other day, and while I haven't attended a meetup yet, I am really looking forward to getting together with a diverse community of women! One of the online activities was to find my Goddess Archetypes, and while I had some time I decided to give it a try. Now I love personality tests, but this one was totally spot on!

Artemis/Persephone with a twist of Hestia.

Artemis:
-Androgynous nature--containing both feminine and masculine energies--complete, whole in and of herself - her true relationship is with herself.
-Androgynous energy contained within converts to visions, mystical experiences, and a deep, enduring compassion for all of Nature.
-Lover of animals and the serenity found in Nature, on the one hand
-And, destroyer, Artemis-goddess leads the nocturnal hunt deep in the forest.
-independent, strong, autonomous, energetic, born with strong masculine qualities in her nature and, particularly for Artemis, an intense love of freedom.
-Solitary nature teaching her self-sufficiency & independence--prophesy, poetry, music, magic and healing
-Artemis women find that the non-stop presence of others hinders her presence to herself, therefore, requiring retreat into the solitude of natural world and offering reconnection to her inner self.

Some challenges she faces:

-She tends to avoid her vulnerability in relation to others--hiding her emotional needs, even to herself.
-Artemis tends toward emotional distancing--difficulty trusting relationship.
-Growth for Artemis type woman is in developing her less conscious, human relationship side of herself.
-if Artemis is unable to find fulfilling self-expression in her life she will feel increasingly frustrated and depressed.

What was so beautiful in reading this is that even the 'negatives' are worded simply as truths, rather than as personality flaws. For so long I have felt that there is this 'masculine' energy inside me that is combined with my feminine energy, and while I appear outwardly womanly I would say that inside I am more androgynous, at least in how my energies play out. I love animals and nature and freedom! And I that's okay, because it's part of who I am.

But wait...there's more!

Persephone:
-Her nature--sympathetic, highly tuned into people’s feelings and needs
-She is responsiveness to the needs of others - has difficulty saying ‘no’ --difficulty recognizing and asserting her own boundaries.
-Musing and intuitive nature rather than intellectual mind - difficulty ‘explaining’ her reasoning as it is an intuitive perception.
-Strong connection to spirit - deep ambivalence toward outer world & her sense of being misunderstood & alienated from conventional society
-A primarily Persephone type, keenly sensitive, typically possesses a fragile ego structure, therefore, easily overwhelmed by feelings and impressions from her unconscious
-Keen ability to cross over into other realms of psychic consciousness - very at home in the world beyond the physical senses
-Attracted to metaphysics, healing, intuitive, service-oriented work
-By nature she is reclusive/retreating, secretive, possessing a sensitive system requiring time away from external stimulation.
-She experiences episodes of depression, and/or bouts of mysterious, difficult to diagnose illnesses.

Challenges:
-prone to attracting people with severe problems or possibly abusive behaviors
-prone to mysterious illnesses difficult to diagnose or treat
-sense of deep alienation, isolation, depression

People pleaser, depression, strong intuition, musing nature, and highly tuned into other's needs...check, check and check! Wowee, just when I thought my personality had been summed up, it gets even better!I'm noticing a trend, though, of leaning toward the introverted nature-loving intuitive, but wait, there's more!

Hestia:
-Hestia is visualized as a stately yet not intimidating figure; she is pretty yet not beautiful.
-She is kindly yet distant - she possesses the ability to love impartially
-Her demeanor is modest and gentle
-She is self-sufficient and self-directed - inner focused

Challenges:
-Possible difficulties for a Hestia-type woman in today’s world - presenting herself as a ‘non-entity’, in other words--she has no desire to stand out, and not as a result of her own family or cultural conditioning, rather, by her own conscious choice.
-Hestia type lacks assertiveness - she will not speak up - she is out of place in this modern, fast-paced, competitive world
-Hestia type needs to develop an effective ‘persona’ - a social adaptation aiding her in interacting and in getting along in the world when circumstances require
-Hestia type, due to her introverted nature, tends to be undemonstrative with her feelings toward others even though she may care for them
-Hestia’s caring is impersonal, detached - her challenge may be to let those close to her know that she cares

Ah yes, a little twist of Hestia.

To check it out for yourself: http://goddess-power.com/index.htm

Whimsy

2009-04-13T20:20:00.000-07:00

Allow me to introduce you to Whimsy...

I first met her somewhere around the end of sixth grade, on a Girl Scout camping trip. She was "my elf," and I used to draw pictures of her and let her ride around on my shoulder at school. Whimsy was my 2nd elf friend, after Leila (who I released back into the nature-land because her family needed her)and I spent most of 7th grade with Whimsy as my companion.

She stayed when I left for Yakima. Not knowing what the climate might hold I piled some leaves and pinecones underneath the bush on the side of our house and told her I'd come back someday to see how she was, but I couldn't bring her with me.

I moved to Yakima.
I bought my first razor.
I bought Doc Martens to try to fit in...though I ended up with black ones which were so not the in thing.
I grew up.

But today, as I was eagerly prepared to start on my art series for church, I came across this image and it took my breath away. I started diddling with tissue paper and wax and when it all came together I sat back in astonishment and said, "Hi Whimsy, I've missed you."

Past, Present, Future

2009-04-12T21:31:00.000-07:00

"Wouldn't it be fun Diana, if now, as we went home, we were to meet our old selves running along Lover's Lane?" Anne of Ingleside

Today I spent the afternoon in the company of two beautiful women creating art pieces that represent an aspect of our past, present and future, hosted by Courtney (check out her website at: http://thehealingnest.blogspot.com/ )I'm not sure I could think of a more delightful way to spend Easter Sunday!

When I was thinking about my past I kept thinking about the contrast of how secure/confident/beautiful/magical I felt as a child inside of myself and how awkward/lonely/disconnected/unsure I felt in relation to the world. I felt like I belonged somewhere else...a place where fairies and mermaids lived, where I could fly and animals were able to talk to me. So this piece shows who I was, in my mind, and how I saw myself in relation to the rest of the world (the lonely little girl clutching a teddy bear). The star, which carries through all of the pieces, and represents some aspect of me, though I'm not sure what exactly :)

I have been obsessed with the image of the parrot and the hawk as I saw them sitting side by side in this month's NAtional Geographic magazine. As this piece represents my present I was instantly drawn toward the image of the back, since I have been struggling lately with excrutiating back pain from the accident. The birds are placed on the shoulders like the typical 'devil' and 'angel,' but rather than such black/white imagery, these birds both possess qualities I admire and want to embody: sociable, vulnerability, happiness, vitality and adventurous, independent, strong, solitary and driven.

The future is a time when all the puzzle 'pieces fall into place,' and I learn how to "just be." I love the serenity I see on the faces of the girls...they are able to simply be themselves. The purple reminds me of today's sermon about resurrection and living life without fear.

All in all it was a very wonderful day.

sleep

2009-04-05T22:29:00.000-07:00

To sleep, perchance to dream...is this any way to live?

I've been taking a reflective look on my life lately and examining how my goals and dreams line up with my actions...and am finding myself falling short.

Well, not just short, but I guess I haven't even gotten up off the couch to even fall, so I guess I'm realized that I haven't really even begun attempting many of the dreams that I would like to accomplish.

This week I felt like an invalid. I woke up, spent all day working on homework and watching television, and then around 10 decided it was time to go to bed. While I had been productive, I had also not done anything active at all.

Too often I live to sleep. Is that any way to live?

Last night I just couldn't fall asleep, and today I took a nap and am soon shortly heading to bed. When I'm awake I alternately think about the next time I am going to sleep (or eat) and wonder if other people live this way, too. It doesn't seem like living...but I don't know what to do about it.

Practice

2009-03-26T14:58:00.000-07:00

Books and pizza intimately entwined in a love affair. Both are rewards, and thanks to Book It, one leads to another which enforces the first. It's hard to rip these lovers apart. I'm caught in a menage a trois of different mediums and all I want is monogomy.

I've had many encounters with cabbage, but none of them are memorable enough to tell at dinner parties. I can conjur up images of slicing and dicing for dinner salads, and if I sit still enough I can feel the purple squeek between my teeth. I wonder, though, how much of this is all just imagination.

I wonder if I knew I'd marry him, as I stood in his tiny Canadian apartment washing pork chop residue off the dinner dishes. His apartment always smelled like meat and empty coke zero cans. Washing dishes used to be my least favorite chore, which is now replaced with lugging a whirring sputtering vaccuum cleaner around my apartment, balancing the cord while lifting up chairs.When did I begin to recognize the meditative quality of swishing leftover dinner scraps down the gurgling drain?

Real jello is red with raspberries suspended lovingly in every bite. It has power on holidays, but only if eaten with Coscto white rolls or grandma's overnight dinner rolls.

prompts taken from Old Friend from Far Away by Natalie Goldberg

Dreams

2009-03-04T11:34:00.000-08:00

At 5 am the other day I woke up feeling incredibly sad. Normally I feel a complex set of emotions at one time and cannot really tease out what I am actually feeling, but in the early mornings I am the mnost vulnerable to intense emotions.

I had been dreaming. I love living my life in dream-land and find that the waking up part is the hardest for me. And this day was no exception, as I had been dreaming of my best friend, and spending time with her and her husband on the Oregon Coast, and when I woke up I realized how much I miss her, how much I miss the time we spent in college, and how I can never replace her friendship...but I am longing for a similar connection with people that I had with her.

Don't get me wrong, I have friends here in Seattle. Good friends. Friends I feel a great connection with. But I've never had a friendship like I've had with her, and I worry that I'll never have a friendship like that again.

So after I layed there feeling sad and alone, I tapped Kyle on his shoulder and told him I was sad. He rolled onto his back, and I put my head on his shoulder and he put his arm around me. He slept and I cried into his shoulder. The sadness is still there, but it felt so nice to have someone to share in my sadness.

And I thought that sharing my feelings with Kyle and with my best friend would help me feel better, but last night I had another, similar, dream that left me feelingn sad upon waking.

So I wonder what exactly is going on in me. Is this as clear-cut as it seems? Is it symbolic with a deeper meaning than missing a friend and time in my life?

Subtle Shifts

2009-02-26T21:53:00.001-08:00

Subtle shifts. Like tiny green sprouts pushing through the almost-thawed soil. This growth seems to happen overnight. One moment I'm insecure and worried about abandonment and fitting in, another I have a calm awareness of stability, of belonging and safety. One moment I'm lazy on the couch, and the next I am intensely aware of my body's need for movement, for long longed-for yoga. Maybe I'm slowly letting go of perfectionism, because I slipped away into our room and did a simple yoga routine for my aching back, without feeling the need to do a 45 minute intensive workout. I have tentatively come out of my introverted/introspective shell and formed relationships with peers that I was hesitant to form. My heart broke open and forgiveness I had been holding back because of hurt and fear suddenly came pouring out of me, making me feel lighter and more free. And I've shifted the focus of my energy onto intentionally giving to others, in many different ways. It feels springy and hopeful to me. Though I know that I'm seeing little green sprouts, I have to believe that the seeds were working long before I noticed anything happening. Right now I definitely feel joyful about this inner spring happening inside me!

29 Days of Giving

2009-02-19T18:46:00.001-08:00

For awhile now I have been mulling over joining the 29 Day Giving Challenge (http://29gifts.org/ ). I heard about the challenge from Courtney's Healing Nest and thought that it would be an awesome way to get outside of myself. I notice, that as an introvert, I have the tendency to focus inwardly on my own self-care, and forget that there are many others around me who could surely benefit from a little TLC.

But perfectionism reared its ugly head and made me initially hesitate at joining this great cause. I could surely think of a few things I could do for people, but couldn't resonate with giving away "a smile," as being a valid gift. Sounds a lot like legalism, ya know, "if I'm gonna do it right I'm gonna go all the way", thinking. Where to stop, though, is the question. Would I feel justified enough if I gave away my car, all my $$ or all the food items in my cupboard?

I seemed to be missing the whole point of the challenge. And so today I signed up. But I signed up in my heart two days ago, venturing tentatively into this exciting adventure ahead. Already I'm excited about it. I keep thinking about tomorrow, and what I can do for someone else to make their day just a little brighter.

I encourage you to join in the fun. And while you're at it, stop by my page http://givingchallenge.ning.com/profile/Jenna26?xgs=1.

Beech Street

2009-02-18T15:22:00.000-08:00

Beech Street is not an appropriate name, as it is lined with maple trees, whose branches extend over the road making a canopy of red and yellow and orange in the autumn. I’ve often wondered if it was a joke by city planners, to plant maples on Beech Street and leave Maple Street, only seven blocks north, bare except a few patches of marigolds. Or was it an honest mistake by the young men, who were hired to help expand the growing town. Maybe they could not tell the difference between beech and maple saplings and only after it was too late did the town realize the mistake.

I used to wonder these things as I walked home from school. I’ve lived on Beech Street, in the third house, on the right, for my entire life. It is the kind of street they feature in movies, where you could see a young girl riding a pink bike with a wicker basket on the front. From the outside, my house looks the same as most of the others on the street. It’s older, well loved, with faded white paint, and a small porch holding the potted plants I’ve neglected since August. Most of the others on the street are families: Suburban driving soccer moms with 2.5 kids each and of course a dog that is small enough to fit in their purses. I feel their stares as they see me drive by in my 1979 baby blue Volkswagon Beatle that my parents helped me buy when I turned 16. I’ve lived here my whole life, but I don’t fit in, not with the townies at least.

There is an exception to the soccer moms, and that is my next-door neighbor Mr. Pritchard. His first name is Richard and I can only imagine how long he waited for the day where he could go by Mister, instead of Richard Pritchard. I cannot imagine what his parents were thinking, but they are long gone now, and I haven’t had the audacity to ask him the story of his name. Until this last summer he was simply my neighbor, the old man who lived next door, who shuffled to the mailbox in his maroon bathrobe and old slippers. If there ever was a Mrs. Pritchard I never knew her. Since I’ve been here he’s lived alone, with the exception of the stray neighborhood cat who bunks with him during the winter months. He lives alone. I live alone. This is what makes us unique.

Since school has started the social networking sites have been chock full of surveys calling for me to fill out random facts about myself. I’m not sure I entirely trust my peers, but not wanting to be the only one not participating, I recently posted this to my account.

10 Random Facts

1. My favorite season is autumn, when the leaves on my street change color and begin to fall.
2. I am afraid of heights.
3. My full name is Annabelle Naomi, but everybody calls me Naomi.
4. I own four pairs of Birkenstocks.
5. I am an orphan.
6. I enjoy mailing nice letters to random strangers.
7. I plan on becoming professor, like my mother was.
8. I have travelled to six different countries: Canada, France, England, India, Peru, Greece and Israel.
9. I hate wearing socks.
10. My favorite author is Thoreau.

Mr. Pritchard only knows #5, as he was there the day I learned the news. The police officers pulled up to my front door as I was walking up the driveway, home from school for the day. In usual fashion, Mr. Pritchard was standing by his mailbox, his wispy white hair blowing gently in the breeze. Unlike other days, when he’d flash his old-man grin at me, and wave, today he stood motionless as the police officers stepped out of the vehicle. My keys were in my hand, ready to unlock the front door, but I don’t remember much else about the moment. It was slow motion, like they show in movies, with the officers walking up the drive. All I could focus on was the maroon bathrobe standing by the mailbox. I wonder went through his mind, what did he see as I learned the news of my parent’s death? Did he wonder if I had been caught smoking dope behind the gymnasium, or if my father, the banker, was involved in white collar crime? Did he think there had been a mistake and they were at the wrong house?

After identifying themselves, and making sure I was really Dr. & Mr. Sorrel’s daughter, they asked if they could come inside as they had some bad news. Of course I knew what they would say, but it didn’t hit until the words, “your parent’s were killed in an accident,” came out of their mouth. It was like being body slammed after Thanksgiving dinner. My breath felt knocked out of my body and I wanted to vomit all over their shiny black shoes. An accident? My parents? How could this have happened?

Once the officers left, I heard a faint knock on the door. Mr. Pritchard was standing tentatively on my front porch. For the first time ever I was seeing him in something other than his bathrobe. He had put on a pair of faded jeans and a plaid shirt, which strangely made him seem both older and younger. Close up his head appeared more skull-like than head-like, as the skin seemed sunken and dimply, with age spots all over. The smile I had grown accustomed to, had changed into a look of concern as he asked if I was okay.
That was months ago, and it’s been the two of us ever since. My only nearby relative, “Uncle Joey,” was only a few years older than me, and in no place to take care of an orphaned 17 year old. Because I was almost legal age, and my parents had willed everything to me, I was allowed to stay living in my home and attending my school, with the provision that a guardian would check in on me to make sure I was okay. Mr. Pritchard was the logical choice, and he graciously accepted the responsibility.

I didn’t fit in at school long before I lost my parents, but that certainly didn’t help things. For the first few weeks there were uncomfortable glances and even more uncomfortable remarks of sympathy from people who formerly shunned my existence. After awhile people stopped trying to make small talk, and avoided the “girl with dead parents,” but I didn’t mind any more than my 8th grade year when the popular girls spread rumors about my hygiene and sexual orientation. I couldn’t give anything to those relationships anyway. I was lost, and alone, except for the kindness of my next-door neighbor. How does one learn to survive without their parents?

*******************************************************************************
I don't know if I'm done with this story. It woke me up in the middle of the night a few weeks ago and hasn't let go of me. I don't know where they come from, but I do know that I feel bloated and gross until I at least try to begin telling their stories.

Transracial Adoption

2009-02-05T17:58:00.000-08:00

"I'm black but I'm not. It's been a trip to figure out my racial identity. My adoptive parents are white. My birth mother was white and my birth father was black. I grew up in a mostly white neighborhood but tried to find some other kids to hang out with. Sometimes it was hard to be seen with my white parents because then I'd have to explain everything." -Adoptee Wisdom

When I came across the image of the little blonde asian doll dressed in fishnets it immediately made me think about all the research I've been doing on transracial (both domestic and international) adoption. With all my own adoption issues rearing their ugly head I think of my tra friends (and by friends I really mean online acquantences, because I don't know any tra's in real life) who have been raised with an extra set of problems. I can't see Angelina's brood without cringing, sorry if this pops the "omg they're saving orphans from all over the world! how cute!" bubble that most of America seems to be living in. As a white girl I know it was hard being raised by white parents that lacked blood ties, so I cannot imagine being raised by a family of a different ethnic identity. How can one establish a sense of identity, or ethnic identity, when they are stripped of their heritage?

Winter Wedding Nonsense

2009-01-09T22:37:00.000-08:00

Long-time friends could tell you that I've always dreamed of a winter wedding, though as the years went on I decided that having a fur trimmed dress and muff were too much, and that driving off in a sleigh would not only be cold, but also tedious, unless the reception or honeymoon destination was mere blocks from the ceremony site. While I took a brief hiatus from my winter wedding dream during the 'barefoot hippie days' I never lost hope that it'd become a reality.

So when Kyle and I had a conversation around weddings, and the groom's role in a wedding (which I adamantly stated that he should get as much say in the wedding proceedings as me), I almost peed my pants when he said that he had always dreamed of a winter wedding.

A) what guy actually thinks of their future wedding and
B) what guy actually has the very same wedding dream as me?

Though the winter wedding dream did not actually include a blizzard. There must be power in marrying a pastor, as my prayer for "snow" on my wedding day was taken literally...and the week of Snowmaggedon created many hilarious and lasting memories...

December 18, 2008 was the day set aside for each of us to celebrate the last night of singleness, which for me meant a quiet night at Burien's finest Brewery, chilling with my favorite girls. What actually happened was a family dinner including my mother and father-in-law, my parents, my sister, my sisters-in-law, kyle, his cousin, a friend he plays bridge with, a highschool friend of kyle's and her mom, and my two second-ish-cousins who were stranded in the airport on their way to spokane. A Bachelor/ette party like nobody's had before. Because who can say both their groom, father, and father-in-law were present at their bachelorette party? :)

December 19, 2008...less than 24 hours until I become a Mrs. and after spending the whole evening telling Kyle he cannot be hung over for our wedding I proceed to buy champagne at QFC and have a few glasses with my bridesmaids before we head to bed, purely to make up for the lack of bachelorette party, of course. What ensued was many random pictures and waking up at 3 am to eat Eggo waffles with Carlita. Hey, nothing sounds better than freezer waffles at 3 am. Tasty!

December 20, 2008: yes I was hungover, but after eight glasses of water and some french bread & cheese I managed to have a clear head. The excitement of the day overshadowed anything else, well, except for the burned strips of forehead from sitting under the dryer. Yep, the hairdryer at the salon burned my head. Similar to a curling iron burn, there were two welts that went from the top of my forehead and on into my hairline. What to do when this happens? Laugh. And then use just a little more makeup. Because it was my wedding day and nothing was going to ruin it!

Nothing could ruin my day, not even the fact that my dress broke. Oh yes, you know they should use whale-bone corsets, but PETA is all over the dressmakers for this, so the cheap plastic boning in the bodice of my dress snapped. Fortunately it stayed on throughout the ceremony and most of the reception, with the exception of the time my dad spun me on the dance floor and ended up seeing my right boob. Good thing he bathed me as a child, but still, in a room full of people it could have been my worst nightmare. Fortunately with the help of a few resourceful bridesmaids and one fantastic sister-in-law, we made a shawl turn into a great halter and then tube top to cover my indecency.

But wait, I forgot some key parts to the story, like the fact that Kyle and I kissed three times before the pronouncement, or that when the pastor announced Mr. & Mrs. Kyle Fox I turned to my hot maid of honor and frister Allison and gave her a high five. Also, did I mention that after my dad gave me away he secretly videotaped the ceremony from the front of the church? Priceless dad action right there!

The reception wasn't much better in terms off going smoothly, though it wasn't boring in the slightest. Apparently the heater was broken in the room, though I didn't notice as I was doing my best to scramble around and greet all of our guests (who not only showed up to our wedding, but did so in a freaking blizzard). The DJ was great, however we had forgotten to tell him that we were Mr. & Mrs. Kyle Fox and not Mr & Mrs. Kyle Fox and Jenna Powers. Did anybody notice? I think they were too cold to, and at that moment we had actually arrived 10 minutes early and the kitchen staff wasn't prepared for dinner to be served yet.

It couldn't be my wedding or honeymoon without a few adventures, eh?

Most couples turn off their cell phones on their honeymoon, but in true Kyle & Jenna style we were actually hanging out at the Fox family residence the day after the wedding, eating breakfast before we headed up to Whidbey Island. That night was spend timing phone calls to our family and loved ones who had made it home to their destinations or were still stranded in the SeaTac airport. Not to worry, they all made it safe and sound, eventually, and I was pleased with how everyone stepped up to the plate to make things happen while Kyle and I relaxed at the Inn at Langley.

Speaking of the Inn, there's only one funny memory from there, and that was during our first breakfast, where we were sitting in the room, next to our warm fire, and Kyle reached down and popped a yellow triangle of food into his mouth. I stared at him in shocked disbelief and said, 'isn't that butter you just ate?" Looking sheepish he chewed a few bites and then spit it out, claiming he thought it had been a wedge of cheese. Mhmm, sure...a wedge of cheese, eh?

Because family is important, and we married a mere 5 days before Christmas, we made the trek across the mountains to spend time in Yakima and Spokane for Christmas. The first night sleeping in my parents' cabana we had to laugh, as there was no heat, and my mom had done her best to pile blankets on the bed and put the space heater where it would make us warm, but I imagined it was similar to life as Laura Ingalls Wilder. It was a bit like sleeping outside, though the bed was warm and cozy once we got inside.

Spokane provided another set of adventures, including a car that at one point smelled like molasses. Turns out our whole inside bumper was filled with snow and the radiator was overheating. Good times. Did I mention we had almost run out of gas trying to get out of the narrow driveway that was almost whiteout conditions? My makeshift snow removing device consisted of a CWU ballpoint pen and sister-in-law Lisa used the end of the squeegee. We all managed to make it into Spokane safely.

The final leg of our journey left us in Cannon Beach for our real honeymoon, and I'm drawing a blank in the funny-story department, though Kyle was impressed that our biggest purchases included Tillamook Cheese, saltwater taffy, and candy for our respective families.

The honeymoon is over and real life has just begun, though there's been no lack of adventures, like the time we turned the lights off to go to bed and cracked skulls getting into bed (well, his skull, my cheekbone). Fortunately I woke up without a black eye, but it may take awhile to get used to sleeping in the same bed!

Marriage

2008-12-23T20:20:00.000-08:00

Nothing's changed and everything has changed.

A girl in a raincoat

2008-12-10T21:12:00.000-08:00

"Forgiveness is not about forgetting, Mack. It is about letting go of another person's throat." Papa in The Shack

"Hey, what can I get for you today?" "What can I get started for you?"
"I'd like a soy latte" "Drip coffe. And an apple fritter."
"Will that be all?" "Anything else?"
"Yes" "Nope, that should do it for now"
"Your total comes to three-seventy seven" "Carol will ring you up"

Inside the warm coffee shop there was a bustle of people. Students in the corner, hogging the comfy chairs as usual, loudly quizzed each other on biology facts that nobody else cared to learn that morning. Ding. Crash. Passers by stopping in for a spell to get out of the rain that had begun to come down harder. You could spot a tourist by the oversize umbrella they carry. From the warmth of the sunnily lit coffee shop, nobody noticed the girl across the street.

She was wearing a yellow raincoat, the slicker type, and a pair of red ladybug rain boots that were in fashion five years ago. From a distance she could have passed for a twelve year old, as her build was slight, and her face mostly hidden by the dark fringe of bangs that surrounded her face and the hood pulled up tight to shield her from the seasonal downpour. She seemed oblivious to the drizzle that had turned to a moderate downpour. If a passerby stopped for a moment they'd notice she was staring intently at a grave. It's an odd site during the day, especially mid-week, but there she was, standing alone, in a graveyard in the rain.

After years of searching, of enlisting search angels and websites, she ended up here, at the grave, of her mother. Could anything have prepared her for this?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You can kiss your family and friends goodbye and put miles between you, but at the same time you carry them with you in your heart, your mind, your stomach, because you do not just live in a world but a world lives in you. -Frederick Buechner

This girl, with the dark fringe bangs and the yellow raincoat, standing in the cemetary across from the coffee shop has been haunting my dreams and daydreams for two or three weeks. She isn't real in the physical sense, unless I've somehow become a psychic and have tapped into some unknown life-story, but she's real in the sense of a story, how characters from books are little friends I carry around with me. Real friends and imaginary-book friends all leave footprints on my heart. I've hesitated to write about her, as I often don't "get it right," and I don't know what will happen now that I've given some words to her story. Will she stand there in the rain forever looking at her first mother's grave? Will she meet people who come alongside her in her journey? Will she walk across the street and order a peppermint hot-chocolate and tell the barista her story? I don't know. I've only written what I've seen thus far, and didn't do it justice yet. Perhaps there will be more to her story.

And perhaps their won't.

And how do I feel about the possibility of knowing only a little bit about someone, even if she's a character in my mind, a figment of my imagination? And why, with this particular girl, can I not imagine more than I already know? How is it that she is authentically real and her story is unfolding organically, but I am not, as the writer/imaginer/etc. the one in charge of it all?

And how does it relate to my counseling, as I begin relationships with people for a variable length of time? This quarter I had students who I met with for 3 or 4 sessions and then, abruptly the relationship ended. Mini-break ups. Stories unfinished. How will I cope with these unfinished stories?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
An infinite God can give all of Himself to each of His children. He does not distribute Himself that each may have a part, but to each one He gives all of Himself as fully as if there were no others. -A.W. Tozer

Lists

2008-11-14T16:02:00.000-08:00

Fall inspires a sense of urgency, of storing up for winter, and I imagine myself like the squirrels hoarding nuts away for the long months ahead...

People laugh at how hard I've been working lately, saying "the wedding's stil over a month away," but with 9 graduate credits, planning a wedding, packing to move exactly 1 week before the nuptials, and attempting to work at least a few days at some schools, I can't afford to get lacksidaisical, so rather than an actual blog, it's a list of what i've accomplished this week...

1. wrote a paper for my counseling 513 class
2. wrote a paper for my counseling 551 class
3. attended 6 hours of class
4. began writing a paper for my counseling 540
5. bought all of my christmas gifts
6. wrapped all of my christmas gifts
7. baked 8 loaves of pumpkin bread
8. spent 7 hours making centerpieces for the wedding
9. found paper for the programs
10.found the pen for the guest book
11. found an apartment for us to rent
12. packed up all of my books, art supplies and yoga stuff
13. worked out
14. went to the husky game
15. got the marriage license

And that's all that I can think of, but there's so much to do in the next month...school, moving, wedding stuff, internship stuff...

i'm overwhelmed

transitions

2008-10-27T21:34:00.000-07:00

This past weekend I flew to El Paso to be a bridesmaid in my best friend's wedding. Today I've done a lot of reflecting...

As I took her aside, pre-ceremony, into a storage closet to offer up a blessing prayer I couldn't help but cry. I barely choked out words of blessing to her, of protection for her new union, and strength as the two of them move ahead into their new lives together. My best friend means so much to me. In college we sat in the back of her truck and looked out over the tiny city of Ellensburg and talked about life and love and mostly God. We were in the same place. We loved the same things, like playing Narnia in the park, and drinking tea, and working with youth. She has found an amazing man who supports and challenges her, and the love is written on their faces. I can feel God at work in their lives, and so I cried out of joy for the two of them. Even now, thinking about it, I get teary (which is due in part to the walls that are truly being broken down by my new medication. I never knew how good and hard it would be to genuinely feel all these feelings in life.)

But today I got sad. Transitions are always hard for me, and I have tried so hard to avoid the nostalgic longing for days gone by. But I'm sitting here, an engaged woman, waiting patiently for the nuptials that will happen in 54 days, and all around me life is changing and moving in such dynamic ways that it is overwhelming to keep up. My best friend is married, moving to New Mexico, and starting her new family (even if it is just mothering a very active Boxer dog). My other close friend is going on 2 years with her man and marriage (or at least engagement) is surely in the near future. My brown friend has upgraded from an old red tempo to a shiny pearl of a yaris, and we just keep moving forward. People no longer live in The Burg. There are no more after salt talks, or monday night bible studies, or thursday night girls nights.

And I'm heading into my own transition. There was single to girlfriend to fiancee to the-future-mrs.fox. Wife. What does it mean? And where does it leave my friendships? I'm not talking about abandoning my wonderful friends, but as I commiserated with carlita tonight I explained...
-it's like concentric circles. there's the individual level, then spouse level, then friendship or family (whichever is more important or maybe they're the same level) and then there's co-workers or aquaintence, stranger, etc. But for so long my friendships were with people who had themselves at the individual level and the next closest was at the friendship/family level. Now we're all getting those who are closest to us are no longer our friends, because no matter how close and how much I love and cherish my friendships...they aren't my spouse. This transition is hard to explain, but tonight I'm feeling it.

I long for things to stay the same, and while I know that it's not reality, the thing I'm really looking forward to in marriage is having that person in my life forever. We'll change and our roles will evolve (wife, mother, grandmother, etc.), and there will be transitions that we'll experience...but the prospect of having someone to go through those transitions with...that's what I'm looking forward to. And I can't imagine a more compatible companion than Kyle.

But I still miss Ellensburg...

On Being a Boy Scout

2008-10-15T15:28:00.001-07:00

So in the facebook connection to friends from years gone by I ended up tagging myself in an old photo from Boy Scout Camp 2000. Ah yes, for those of you who don't know, I was a Boy Scout.

And if you haven't heard me say it yet, I think it got me into college. You know, I was able to check the box that I was both a BOY scout AND a GIRL scout (which might qualify me for some extra services or something). Well, getting into Central wasn't so hard to begin with, but being a Boy Scout put me over the top...I think.

But this not isn't about camp, or about college, it's about the Boy Scout motto of "Be prepared." (which similarly enough the Girl Scouts ripped off I'm sure, but anywho, I'll attribute it to my time at good ol' Camp Fife).

Be prepared.

It's a motto I took to heart. My mom was the kind that sent me away on basketball trips with enough groceries to feed a small army. When we hiked we always had "The Ten Essentials" in our backpacks and for me...a change of clothes, because I would get hot while hiking and refused to wear pants, so for good measure my mom would make me pack pants in case we got lost wandering in the woods (you know, since I don't know how to skin a deer or tan hide, it was probably a good choice, though we never got lost and I never wore that extra weight...). In college they (meaning my friends) made fun of me for carrying goldfish crackers, a jug of water, a tent, hatchet, and sleeping bag in my trunk, but I said "well, if snoqualmie closes and I'm stranded I could at least chop down a tree, start a fire, and not STARVE." Maybe I was a little melodramatic, but you do hear stories of people living off m&m's and drinking urine, so I thought...hey...why not "be prepared?"

Also, I have this karmic notion that if I am prepared then nothing bad will happen. Silly, yes, but has anything stranded or bad happened to me, no...(except for the time I wasn't prepared, but that's a story for another day and time...)

So with 3 grad classes this quarter, and an ever-growing hump on my back from carrying too much weight in a frilly purse (and REFUSING to become THAT girl who wheels her books around in a milk carton or even worse...luggage) I have reverted to my good ol' Old Navy light blue day-hike backpack. It's sort of embarassing and brings me back to undergrad (or worse, 8th grade), but I have enough tension in my life that I don't need lopsided shoulders and aching scalene muscles, so I've resisted the urge to be ultra feminine and am now a back-pack wearing gal (and truthfully, NOBODY notices, I am on a college campus after all, it's my PRIDE that kep me from giving in sooner...)

And today, that preparation was useful.

No I didn't get stranded on in a snow-bank or fight off a bear, but while I was jaunting down the steep hill toward my class my ankle rolled and there I went...falling...down the hill (with a 50lb backpack on).

Groan.

Not only was it embarassing as hell (only 1 girl saw and was super sweet about it), but the backpack was heavy and so rolling to get up on the hill was sorta like a turtle trying to right himself after being knocked over. It wasn't graceful or pretty, and mostly it hurt.

But, in the spirit of being positive, I thought I'd share that I now own a super cool pair of jeans with a knee rip that looks Abercrombie expensive but cost me nothing more than a little pride and a giant war wound on my left knee.

The other good news is that being the good ex-Boy Scout, I had a first aid kit in my backpack (hey! it was a hiking back-pack, cut me some slack okay?!). So off I went to the ladies room feeling mighty proud of myself that being prepared ACTUALLY paid off. There is nothing like rubbing alcohol pads, guaze, waterproof tape, and anti-sting ointment to bandage up some pride.

Oh, and just in case I needed extra help, I also had a bright orange whistle...

Do you think I could get a merit badge for today's activities?

Tibetan Prayer Flags

2008-10-13T15:29:00.000-07:00

Tibetan Prayer Flags

blue, white red, green, yellow-
each tattered and
fading.
the flags flap furiously
in the breeze, as if to say
"Listen.
Hear our prayers.
Prayers for peace and
freedom."
Not just for Tibet-
for all nations,
for all people.
I wonder if the owners,
of the blue house,
ever get the urge to take them
down
to give up in the face of so much
silence.
or do they cling to hpe,
tattered and fading
but still flapping in the breeze?

-Jenna Powers

what's at the end of the tunnel?

2008-10-12T22:11:00.001-07:00

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" -
do not make any sense.

-Rumi

Rumi's poem is this week's art prompt for Inspire Me Thursday. I sat down to my art table tonight (which happens to double as a kitchen table and present-wrapping station), but my mind is still wandering around aimlessly in the fog and all I was able to do was move scraps of paper around, shifting them from side to side without any real progress. So instead I am sitting with the poem, letting it get inside and live and hopefully begin to inspire, like sunlight to seeds.

And in the meantime I took day 7 of my anti-depressants. After 4 quarter in a mental health counseling program and 10 years of struggling with depression I finally gave in to medication. What tipped me over the edge was that it came out of the blue without any prompting. One moment I'm living my life and the next I'm flat on my back without any reason. Every other time before that I've slipped into these spells there's been a reason to pin it on (be it valid or not) like hating my job or having conflicts with family or friends. Nope, one day I'm good and the next day I'm not. It's how biological depression works. A chemical imbalance.

But I was skeptical about medication, because it hardly ever works on me. In fact, the placebo effect is less likely to work on me than others I'm sure. So I've been pleasantly surprised that after only 7 days I can tell a difference (though it takes 3 weeks to take full effect). I'm still sleeping for hours and hours, and losing hair like nobody's business, but as long as I'm not bald for my wedding I'll be okay...

And the idea of there being a field where my sould could lie down, now that is beautiful and fills me with hope :)

Weariness

2008-10-09T15:50:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure if it's winter weariness that is already set in, or if it's a reaction to stressful life circumstances, but it's taking a toll on my body, mind, and spirit. The words "my soul is weary, even unto death," keeps rolling around through my mind, though take not that this is not remotely suicidal ideations (of the physical, more like my soul is simply longing for something joyful once again).

My monthly yoga magazine showed up in my mailbox this week and I read a story about "Winter's Warmth," which highlighted people who are "darkness lovers," people who "cherish the radually increasing darkness of November," and I longed to have that outlook on life. I'm a light and warmth lover, though I do love the festive feeling of Christmas-time with sweaters and fires and hot-cocoa.

Looking at the calendar I'm aware that it's early in the season and the months of darkness ahead seem insurmountable.

So how do I reframe the season of darkness and weariness? Or, rather than fighting it, should I recognize it as natural (for even the animals this time of year become sluggish and tired), and go easy on myself?

Puyallup Fair

2008-09-19T20:26:00.000-07:00

"Daddy is your daddy, but mommy isn't your mommy."
"You're right, I do have a different mommy. I have 2 moms and 2 dads."
"Yeah, I know."

Kids get it, so why don't adults?

"You walk just like daddy, and he's in his mid-fifties!" (hilarious because he's only in his mid 40's :-P).

This moment

2008-09-15T15:41:00.000-07:00

Absence looms over my head, and I've realized lately that I don't have less to say when I write infrequently, but when I go to sit down and let the words out too much time has passed and I can't figure out how to convey all the little bits and pieces without rambling on for hours and hours. And I've realized that I have been trying to be someone I'm not. For awhile now I have admired those who write infrequently because their words pack a huge punch. But in reality, those who write so infrequently are often the ones who have no lack of things to say on a daily basis. And I, on the other hand, speak infrequently, and lately have been trying to write infrequently...and I feel that it's killing me.

In my absence I have found myself sucked into drama, not in my personal flesh-and-blood life, but in other realities, and it's just not working for me at the moment. I don't want to live in fantasy-land, but I feel that I need to figure out what are my feelings and what is being influencedd by an overflow of emotions from others. I keep thinking about Caroline Myss's Anatomy of the Spirit and how she talks about our culture being obsessed with wounds, and having wound-mates, which ultimately keeps us in a place of...wounds, rather than healing. I wonder sometimes if I am simply picking at scabs on my soul, checking to see if there's progress, rather than accepting that I can't change the past an can only experience this moment. Sigh. There's a lot going on, and on top of that I'm super busy with friends, family, school coming up and subbing in classrooms full of itty bitties.

Forgive me if I post a zillion times in the next short while, I've got a lot of catching up to do :)

Buddha Love

2008-07-30T20:18:00.000-07:00

So when I said I was done with pieces for my class...well...I lied :)

It is difficult to know at what moment love begins, it is less difficult to know that it has begun. - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

That is the quote down the side of this collage.

Hey

2008-07-29T13:46:00.000-07:00

After the writing from my body workshop I strolled on up to East West Bookshop at the recommendation of my spirituality professor. We had talked about poetry in my class, and when I walked into the shope, which was overwhelming (in a positive way) I was immediately drawn to a shelf and on that shelf was a red book enttiled Love Poems from God: Twelve Sacred Voices from the East and West. Whew. Looking at the authors I was flabbergasted: Rabia, Hafiz, Rumi, Meister Ekhart...all these people that we have talked about in class wrapped up neatly in one book of poetry. The best part was the clerk who said "hey, we have that used, do you want that copy?" If I wear more poetic I'd think the book chose me...
Today I did my final piece of artwork for my spirituality class. Here's the poem (by Rumi) that inspired it:

Hey

The grass beneath a tree is content
and silent.

A squirrel holds an acorn in its praying hands,
offering thanks, it looks like.

The nut tastes sweet; I bet the prayer
spiced it up somehow.

The broken shells fall on the grass,
and the grass looks up
and says,
"Hey."

And the squirrel looks down
and says,

"Hey."

I have been saying "Hey" lately, too,
to God.

Formalities just weren't
working.

And here is my artwork:

Body Talk

2008-07-28T13:14:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I attended a wonderful writing workshop that was all about writing from my body. These are two of the experiences that stuck out to me the most:

The voice of my belly says: "Why are you ashamed of me? When did this all start? At the end of the day you sigh and release me. Comfortable yoga pants in front of the fire. At hom you let me be me, but in the world you do everything you can to pretend I don't exist. I can't breathe. You cut me off from feeling. You've made me feel like I don't matter. Conditional love, that I have to somehow prove myself to you. Will I ever be good enoug? How did you let them convince you that I am the enemy? Did their voices get too loud? Is this a right of passage, from childhood belly breathing to the shallow breathing of adulthood? Shallow."

The voice of my heart says: "Wait a minute missy, don't get so close. You get an assignment to ask me what I want after jacking me around for so long. I don't think so. You can't just waltz right in and expect me to be open and vulnerable, I have too much to lose. What you're asking for is a lot and can't be accomplisehd overnight or in this short period of time. I don't trust you or anyone around and there isn't time to build safety. My strength lies in keeping myself back. Love anorexia. What can I withold from myself out of a sense of control? Witholding love is as good as withholding food. I can spiritually and emotionally starved, a skinny and withered heart."

Perceptions

2008-07-25T19:01:00.000-07:00

In class we've been discussing labels, things that we embrace and begin identifying with as being "me," which has left me to wonder...how do you see me?

I certainly have a perception in my head of who I am, what things make me me, but lately I've been encountering the discrepancy between how I perceive myself, and how others perceive me...

Scene 1:
FH husband and I took his parents theater tickets a week or so ago and went to watch a musical version of Huck Finn with his parent's family friends. On the way home the discussion of sleep came up and the man said "you should get up at 6 everyday," and she replied with "you shouldn't sleep so much, you don't want to get in a bad habit." It was the manner in which they stepped into parent role that irked me. In that moment I realized...they don't see me as an adult, they see me as a 'kid' and are treating me as such...which was very irksome to me because a) they are not my parents and b) my parents don't treat me like that...

So what if I wake up at 9? I don't have class until 4 each day, and I end up spending like 40 hours a week on homework, so....I'm not just a lazy bum. Also, it seemed that they, without any knowledge of my life, assumed that I have never had a job or been awake early. I guess I should have let them know that I used to slosh buckets of water to our horses at 5:30 in the morning in highschool, and have had many jobs in my life that required worked early (and late) hours.

Scene 2:
As many of you may know, I'm sort of a hippie and fashion just doesn't come naturally to me. I was discussing hairstyles the other day with my future MIL and she said "well, when you grow up you'll want to spend more time on your looks, especially as you enter a career."

Um...excuse me? Who says that? Was that supposed to be constructive, because it sure didn't feel that way...

The thing that annoys me the most about these sort of comments is how very parent-like they are, which is so strange to me. I can understand why his parents might still slip into a 'parent' like dialogue with him because he's their kid and making that transition could be hard...but why are they talking to me like I'm a kid?

Sure I'm not working this summer, but I do have a job (it just so happens that school isn't in session during the summer). Sure I'm a student but I'm not in high school (hellooo, graduate school). I live alone, pay all my own bills, have a car and a fish and while I don't wear a 3 piece suit every day, but I'm not 12...

And the funniest part is, my parents don't act like this at all, at least not with me.

So that's what's got me thinking...how do others see me?

Only the lower half

2008-07-22T21:31:00.000-07:00

Today, during my massage therapy appointment, I had the most unusual experience. I have become progressively more relaxed each time I go (which I can tell by my involuntary body tics as I become in a state of relaxation), and today, when she moved to massage my lower back and legs I suddenly stopped being aware of my upper body. Now this has happened somewhat in my body scan meditation, where my awareness focuses on one part of my body, but today it wasn't about my mind. It's like my mind was in my buttocks (which is a very weird way of putting it), but it's not really my mind...it's just awareness, which is much bigger than my mind (because i am aware that I am thinking thoughts, so what part of me is that awareness..that knows I'm thinking?). So today I completely forgot about my upper body, if you had asked me in that moment, I was only 3 feet tall, because that was all I was aware of. It was an amazingly cool feeling, though it was very brief.

But the best part is how it coincides with what I have been experiencing in my spiritual dimensions of counseling class and what I've been reading in my Yoga+ Joyful Living magazine. The other day in class we opened with this meditation:

I have a body, but I am not my body.
I appreciate that I have a body.

I have feelings, but I am not my feelings.
I appreciate that I have feelings.

I have sensations, but I am not my sensations.
I appreciate that I have sensations.

I have a mind, but I am not my mind.
I appreciate that I have a mind.

I am pure consciousness.

So when we meditated on the "I have emotions, but I am not my emotions," I almost started crying, which I processed as needing to stop clinging to my emotional states as being a part of me, instead allowing the feelings to be felt, but move through me, like a filter rather than a container. Because the emotions are becoming a stagnant pond, and I'm clinging to them like I'll lose my identity if I let go.

There are so many things that I cling to as a part of my identity, and most of them are just pure nonsense. Who am I deep down beyond all of the labels?

So today was a very good experience, and even though I know I shouldn't grasp...it'd be super cool to have more of those...

More Spiritual Dimensions...

2008-07-20T22:24:00.001-07:00

According to wikipedia, the source of all sources, "in various spiritual traditions, mandalas may be employed for focusing attention of aspirants and adepts, a spiritual teaching tool, for establishing a sacred space and as an aid to meditation and trance induction. Its symbolic nature can help one "to access progressively deeper levels of the unconscious, ultimately assisting the meditator to experience a mystical sense of oneness with the ultimate unity from which the cosmos in all its manifold forms arises." The psychoanalyst Carl Jung saw the mandala as "a representation of the unconscious self," and believed his paintings of mandalas enabled him to identify emotional disorders and work towards wholeness in personality."

I had a conversation about my spiritual journey and was able to see clearly, for the first time, my fear of opening up again and being vulnerable to God. It will make itself clear in a moment:

You can begin in any circle, because who knows where I began the first time, but, like a good westerner, let us begin at the top.

The top circle is enlightenment, the time I saw Jesus as I sat in a suicidal heap on my bedroom floor. I had made bad choices and felt like life was no longer worth living, however the vision snapped me into a feeling of peace and made me do a 180 degree turn. I think this is the very definition of repentance. Rather than thinking I blindly clung to the ideals I had been raised with, fundamentals, which only later would I come to see as being muddled ideas that have come about since the enlightenment and modern thinking.

The second circle, clockwise of course, is my days as a fundamentalist. To turn away from the source of my pain and embrace, unthinkingly, uncritically, the evangelical right wing version of christianity. Black and white like penguins. Carbon copies. However, I was exposed to many different ideas as a SALT intern and found myself growing, questioning, wondering if the Jesus that supported Republicans wasn't perhaps just a tiny sliver of the whole thing. I went barefoot. I saw Aslan in the clouds and finally admitted to others that...yes...I believe in evolution, and that this makes me feel closer to God than a poof theology.

The third circle is my entrance into faith that is not limited by the arbitrary doctrines set up by the church. This is a time of exploration. Reading. Blue Like Jazz. Girl Meets God. Anything by Anne Lamott. Anatomy of the Spirit. A New Kind of Christian. Devouring books. Talking. Exploring. An internal struggle as I begin practicing new ways of relating to God. The blank space between black and white and out of the box is tearing me in two. I never fully settle into a vulnerable faith. I never really breathe into the spots like I do during a vigorous yoga practice. I am afraid and that fear dries me up.

Desert. I'm living in the in between. Sometimes returning to the oasis of spiritual vulnerability, but mostly I'm living in the dry spots. But I am hanging back, punishing myself, forcing myself to wander for 40 more years when perhaps there is a promised land ahead. Why? I long to get out of the 'dark night of the soul,' but am afraid of the pattern ahead...

I am not afraid of the 'enlightenment' or the experience of the divine meeting me where I am. I am not afraid of being opened up and vulnerable. Ok, I am afraid, but mostly I'm afraid of running right back into the arms of the pharisaical way of practicing Christian Spirituality. I don't want to begin measuring my faith by how many things I give up, by being less materialistic than others. I don't want to think I have it figured out and look down and judge others for their 'less than' spiritual way of acting. So I am punishing myself because I've noticed a pattern in my life (it's happened in smaller ways, not just on the big scheme). But then I keep thinking...maybe it's something that I have to experience...that I can't stay in one place forever....

And here is how I spent my time in church today. 1/2 way through the doodle I realized I was drawing someone praying and what I feel happens when we really connect...

Spiritual Dimensions of Counseling

2008-07-07T14:01:00.000-07:00

For the summer I am supposed to pick up a spiritual activity, and I decided to continue to use art as my base for my summer spirituality, with plenty of meditation, contemplation and some time on my dusty-from-lack-of-use-lately yoga mat. Here are the first 3 pieces that I've finished:

On The Other Side was inspired by the image of a housewife peering over her neighbor's fence. Finding an image of heiroglyphs, it seemed a natural fit for the housewife to be peering over, as if to say, "what's on the other side of my spirituality?"

Time and Delicate Flowers is a painting I did the night I learned my grandma was diagnosed with breast cancer. Time is something that shows up a lot in my work and so it didn't surprise me that I found myself adding clocks to the delicate blooms. This painting reminds me of the scripture about how fleeting our lives our, like grass (or flowers) or a passing mist...

Time & Energy. What do you spend your time and energy on?

Cancer

2008-07-02T22:31:00.000-07:00

I once told her that she had to live until she was no longer needed, and that she would have to live forever, because I would always need her.

Tonight I learned that she, my grandma, my "best friend over 67" has breast cancer.

Cancer.

All I can think of is Carolyn Myss's Anatomy of the Spirit and how it talks so much about cancer and energy and how relationships can contribute to physical diseases. I know in my gut that the cancerous relationships in my family are contributing to her health and I, on the outside of the dysfunction (to a degree I suppose) have no power to change this.

Except my own personal forgiveness for the rift I've felt since an incident where she took my uncle's side. That betrayal shattered much of my trust, and it makes me sad. Sad for the time we've lost together. Sad that she might not be around to see ME have kids. She's a great grandma already and I think "but what about me? what about my kids? they should get to know their ggrandma too!"

It's early and with a lack of information about the extensiveness of the cancer I can't jump to conclusions.

But I think it's bad, and I'm not ready to lose her.

She's still needed, you know?

Recognize this?

2008-06-22T22:18:00.000-07:00

Looks are something that many adoptees are obsessed with, and not in a vanity sort of way. I never spend time staring at myself in the mirror, but for most people in the world, they get the privilege of growing up in a family where they see pieces of themselves mirrored back in those around them. I have not had this luxury, though my adad and abro are blonde, and we're all of the white variety :)

So meeting my birthfather (Jim) on Saturday was crazy. It went 8,000 times better than meeting my birth mom, and I'm excited for the years ahead to get to know him and my 1/2 sisters and to see myself mirrored in those around me. Though many in my life may squirm at this mention of me wanting a relationship with my first family. This is not a reflection on my love for my aparents. I love Bob and Lori, my frister (friend/sister) Allison and bro Ryan very much. I can have a lot of love in my heart for everyone. Even Elisa.

And I want to freaking stop apologizing for it. I want to stop feeling the adoptee guilt of loyalty. My parents are excited for me and are even excited to meet Jim, so there....(sticks tongue out)

And here is the magic of digital photography:

A transition from me to Jim (based off a picture of him from like 8 years ago). Eerie, eh? :) I used to be mistaken for a guy, apparently it was my father...picture of me in college and Jim in 7th grade or so...

sibling similarities? me as a wee tyke, and my 1/s sister Libby... family

So it was fantastic to hang out with the Titchenal family. We looked at photo albums and shot the breeze. We talked about choices and where we would be if choices hadn't been made. It was almost 8 hours of goodness, and after dinner I was tired, but sad to go. Jim got teary. We hugged. Oh, and it was also cool to see baby pictures of me. Real baby pictures. With Elisa holding me in her arms and Jim holding me in his arms. It sounds funny, but I now see that I was really born...

I wish I could write this more coherantly, but I'm happy. I feel like both feet are firmly planted on the ground. I feel like my heart is 12 times bigger than before, and my soul is lighter, freer. With stage 1 (if there is such a thing) of the reunion past, I'd have to say that I am very happy. I've taken the good with the bad. The sad with the happy. And I look forward to the trials and tribulations ahead of me.

And I still haven't found what I'm looking for...

2008-06-20T17:54:00.000-07:00

and I still haven't found what I'm looking for, but I still haven't found what I'm looking for...

Her name is Elisa, though I've known that for 25 years. Her hair is bleached blonde and she said she's stuck in 'some era, I'm not sure what,' and I wonder if she's maybe stuck in the 80's, and if the year is 1982. She smelled of stale cigarettes and perfume, which triggered memories of Christmas presents wrapped in cigarette/perfume smelling tissue paper. It's heartbreaking, really, to sit across the table with my first mother and yet to see the empty shell of who she is and who she could have become staring back. A beer wrapped in paper was nestled snugly in her knit purse, and the response she had to certain questions made me mentally rifle through my internal DSM-IV for a diagnoses. Alcoholism is a nasty disease that takes people's lives.

The what ifs swirl around in my mind. What if she hadn't given me away? Would that have helped? Would Jim have married her like he told me? Would they have gotten a divorce? Is her fate inevitable. Is any of our fates inevitable? If not my relinquishment, would there have been something else to drive her to the bottle? Or had she started on the path long before the choice to give me away? From a scrap of non-identifying medical information I know she drank and smoked and smoked pot while she was pregnant, and didn't get a dr. apt. until she was 6 months along. I wonder if I would have had the same fate as her other two, a life with mom, but being bounced around from family members houses and with live-in boyfriends. I wonder if I, too, would have moved out at 15 and into a friend's house? Or, as the oldest, would I have been another little mother in another lifetime, parenting siblings as I've somewhat tried to in my own family.

The questions aren't easy to ask. It's a typical adoptee response, to wonder 'what could I have done?' is it 'my fault that she's had the life she had?' And yet, what person would bestow the responsibility of the world on the shoulders of an infant? Who could blame a child for the fate of the parent?

It was pleasant, not terribly awkward, but not entirely comfortable either. Family and yet, not family. It's a strange situation all around. It's not that I was ever ungrateful to have been blessed to grow up a Powers, it's just that I need to know where I come from, perhaps in order to know where I'm going. There aren't enough words in the English language to adaquetely describe what this is like.

And it makes me angry and sad to be adodpted. But to be honest, it makes me angry and sad that I am not my parent's natural child. Why? Why was she able to get pregnant at 17 and not my parents? This makes me very sad, because they have been excellent parents. I wish I looked like them. I wish I could say that my great grandma really was Anna Christina Wolff, and that I could inherit a portion of the Colfax farm, but the truth is...I'm not. They are my parents but their ancestors are not my ancestors and this makes me very sad. I am sad that I have two moms and two dads, that I have to use 1/2's to distinguish my siblings to others, or to say 'birthmother' in order for strangers to know what the hell I'm talking about. I'm trying to have a large heart and love the situation, but it's freaking hard. No, it's fucking hard.

Me and Elisa:

Elisa and Trisha (my 1/2 sister)

Me and Trisha

The lines, 'and I still haven't found what I'm looking for,' popped into my mind and I thought how fitting it is. And I'm almost positive, that what I'm looking for no longer exists, at least in the way that it could have been.

The best part of it all, though, is I feel beautiful. I'm looking forward to meeting my birthfather tomorrow. This process has helped me feel more real and whole, but meeting my maternal side has helped me feel beautiful. Perhaps it's seeing something of myself reflected in others...

French and who knows what else...

2008-06-10T13:48:00.001-07:00

I often have the ostrich syndrome, the belief that if I wish hard enough, or hide my head in a hole, then I will somehow be...'normal.' Because opening myself up to the tidal wave of emotions that comes with being adopted, is hard. HARD. Harder than living in a 3rd world country or getting my Master's Degree. Emotions are tricky things, and I find that I am much easier at navigating the cerebral...

But yesterday, during my massage, the lovely Courtney (and if you haven't looked her up yet, you should, find her through the link Healing Nest on my page), performed reiki and my outbreaths let go of things like: shame, not good enough, closed off, unworthy, unloveable, unwanted, and on the inbreaths I took in: honesty, love, vulnerability. I'm working on opening my heart and making room in the nooks and crannies for all the various people in my life. My black and white thinking often doesn't allow for there to be more than one, like if I have one mom, I can't have 2 (and adding a third in the form of a MIL). But I can, and I do.

So with a heart open to possibilities, I shakily dialed the number and shakily spewed out "I was adopted in 1982 and I have reason to believe he is my birthfather" (like some episode of Law & Order), and there it was...me...talking to my birthfather Jim on the phone, for the first time.

The emotions are crazy overwhelming, because I already have a 'daddy,' but this man is 1/2 my genetic history and it was good to hear him say that a Dec. 13th didn't go by without him thinking of me, that when I turned 18 he updated his info at the agency so I could find him, and that he was 'so glad' I called. He even said he'd want to meet me.

What's great is that he's stable, married for 14 years, has 2 daughters (I mean, I have 2 MORE 1/2 sibs), and one of them is tall & plays basketball (this is the side of the family I get my height from I guess!). But silly as it is, the thing that stuck out to me the most, and it was good that I have been open and vulnerable and flexible...

Before the phone got disconnected I learned that his side of the family is French. This blows my entire life heritage of believing (because my parents told me this) that I am 100% Norwegian. The upside of this is I get to learn about a new country, as well as the fact that his father's side of the family has been in the country since 1620, in Jamestown...and this could possibly lead to there being some Native American blood ;) Not sure why I've always been obsessed with that, but there's much more likely a chance than my b-mom's side of the family which came from Norway like only 100 years ago.

So in order to stop sitting on the futon freaking out internally, I decided to do some art, which of course is adoption related...

And taking this open heart mentality I called my 1/2 sister and said I wanted to hang out, and I wanted to meet my b-mom, too, which is a huge step for me. Wowzers, so much emotion inside of me...

peace

Sabbath

2008-06-07T15:03:00.000-07:00

When I think of hummingbirds the image that comes to mind is fluttering and a constant flurry of activity. When I stand in front of the microwave tapping my foot impateintly I realize that America is definitely a culture of hummingbirds, whereas life in India was more of a culture of...(the image that came to mind was sloth, but that has a negative connotation and NOT one that I want to convey about my heartland)...it's just different there, slower and more relaxed.

So this week's topic in Inspire Me Thursday was hummingbird, and after playing around with hummingbird colors and not really liking what it produced, I went to Value Village and bought some old magazines (I have picked mine over again and again and am almost out of new things to add to my collage pile), and I came across a National Geographic (my favorite magazine EVER!)that had an article about hummingbirds. When I flipped it open there was this picture, of a hummingbird, just hanging out on a branch.

Ah, that picture of sweet rest made me take a few breaths and realize...it's okay that I haven't finished my cover letter or done any other work today. It's Saturday. It's okay for me to have a sabbath. I can collage and watch tv and hang out on my futon and not feel guilty. This is a good feeling.

More Orange and Purple...

2008-06-04T18:45:00.000-07:00

This week I've been obsessed with Inspire Me Thursday's prompt Orange and Purple, so I ended up with 2 pieces that, together, fit the bill...

The purple one, is entitled "The Ties that Bind" and the orange one is "A Stitch in Time." They convey some deep seeded emotions that have been bubbling up in me this past week or two. I don't have the strength, or the words to write about it tonight. Perhaps at a later date. For now, the pictures will suffice...

Leap

2008-06-02T17:10:00.000-07:00

I've rolled around the phrase "leap and the net will appear" since September. It started as a conversation with a new friend in my Counseling Theories class, and while it was a principle I had tried to live by in the past, only recently did I really leap without peeking over the cliff hoping to have the net hanging there peacefully.

I quit my job last Wednesday, though I had actually put in my application at Highline School District and was told to come to a substitute orientation on Monday (today), which, in some ways is peeking over the edge to see if there was a net, but it didn't feel like peeks in the past. In the past I've had solid proof (perhaps i've climbed down a goat trail to the net and tested its hold of my weight before I scramble up to the cliff and leap).

A side note to making the decision to quit: the authenticity of this decision is something I have not felt in a LONG time. I have never quit a job before, they have always ended naturally, end of school year, end of summer, store unexpectadly went other and I'm stranded on the street begging for change (okay, that's an EXTREME and an exageration) but still, quitting is never been something that I, a perfectionist, would do...

Oh how good it feels, though. To really examine what makes me happy and what was sucking my soul out of my body and stepping on it repepatedly until I felt so downtrodden (and like part of a cult) that I seriously questioned if I could actually do another job right. So authenticity and being honest to myself and what I need, is something that I have been working on lately, and it is coming to a beautiful outcome.

I quit last wednesday (with a final day being this wednesday), and had my orientation today. Not only am I qualified to be a para-educator, I can also apply to be an emergency certificated substitute teacher, which means that in the fall I can sub as a teacher's aid or a teacher, and with that combination of job opportunity, I'll be able to have a pretty solid living that is flexible and will play more to my strengths. Of course it'll be stressful getting calls at 5 am, and the uncertainty of heading into a sub teaching job (gulp), but it's back in the realm of what I know...education...and I am stoked.

So there you go. The motto is, leap and the net will appear. But don't just leap off any cliff, do it carefully you know, with eyes wide open and all the information possible... :)

And can I tell you, that it just feels FANTASTIC. I have never been this true to myself and to see how it is playing out is amazing. I knew that I was gifted in this other direction and so to pursue it and see how all the pieces are fitting in nicely, is just great. Will it be stressful? Yeppers. Different type of stress. Stress more on my own terms, though :) And in an area I love...teaching and education. Woot woot!!

And here's a picture I've done on how yoga makes me feel...fantastic:

Orange and Purple

2008-05-30T12:45:00.000-07:00

This weeks inspiration was based off the colors 'orange' and 'purple.' After painting this little moonscape scene I rifled through my collage materials and this caveman just jumped out at me. Perfect fit, with the desert sands and the antelope skull.

Collaboration

2008-05-28T14:14:00.000-07:00

A few weekends ago I visited my two good friends in Vancouver, WA. It was a restful Sunday full of yoga class and walking through the sunny park and eating some good Indian grub.

Late in the evening we broke out the paints and fulfilled an inspiration that Carlita had been holding inside her for awhile. It was based off a moonlit night she had seen, with dark trees, and a purple sky with a large moon. It was so much fun to sit on the floor, combining our paints together to make the sky, adding golden details to the tips of the trees, and to end up with a painting that looks much like it was inspired by the phrase 'and wild geese that fly with the moon on their wings.' I was truly amazed at how it came together, seemlessly, as we each contributed a little piece of ourselves to the project. Collaboration is not always my strong suit, since I have ideas of how I want it done, but opening up my hands and heart to the process, letting go of the idea of perfection or having something turn out 'exactly' as I would like, was beautiful. This is definitely a project I would want to try again with such good friends.

Learning to Love

2008-05-27T11:00:00.000-07:00

Something about riding the airplane home yesterday from New York sparked me to scribble this down on the back of a magazine subscription card:

Things I love (or like) about myself and why

1) the freckles that begin emerging from hibernation right around this time each year. during a swim meet as a kid i overheard a woman telling her daughter that freckles were 'kisses from angels,' and what kid doesn't want to be kissed by an angel? every time i see my summertime freckles i think of those angel kissess...

2) until the age of 2 or 3 I had fine wispy baby hair that curled in little tendrils. as an adult my hair air dries like i've rolled around in bed all night, so with enough straightening products (or my standard messy bun) I am able to tame my locks into some sort of managable do. However, I try to leave my temple wisps alone. They tend to curl in their own unique way and this makes me feel like a kid again.

3) the white stretch mark grooves above my hip bones. for years i did not know what stretch marks were, though they have lived with me for a long time. when i'm stressed i tend to feel the grooves in my skin and it's strangely calming. i often see ads about stretch marks, and truly am shocked when purple ones appear on my inner thighs, but the white ones i carry proudly, taking me back to a time when i loved myself and was oblivious to the fashion world's disgust with all things lumpy and bumpy.

4) how my eyes are blue or green demending on my outfit or surroundings, and how when i look at them in pictures they seem to be the color of the sea. perfect for a mermaid-lover.

5) during basketball & volleyball practices i used to lift up my shirt, concentrating intently, while sticking my finger in my bellybutton. while i rarely wear jewelry, i always wear my navel ring. just showing my bellybutton some love.

6) my webbed toes. i used to tell people i was 50% mermaid (from the waist up, of course), but with webbed toes I think I could bump that up to at least 51%...

7) my 3 front teeth on my lower jaw. nobody can tell, but i run my tongue along the permananent retainer and think how strange it was to have two teeth fused together with only one coming in to replace it. strange, and fitting.

8) after a strenuous yoga workout i often notice how prominent my veins are in my arm, moving into my chest. the blue against my pale skin intrigues me, and makes me feel powerful.

9) running my fingers through my hair i often stop on the spot of a 3rd grade head injury. we were squirreling around in line, on our way to lunch, when i slipped and fell on a i-beam. stitches and get-well-cards later, i still have the inch long scar. only i know, and my hairdressers, who often ask to tell the story. i sometimes contemplate what it would be like to be bald and see that scar in the mirror.

10) the missing 1/2 inch on my left side. i think this is god's way of simultaneously granting my request to be 6' (ever since i was a kid, i always said i wanted to be 6'), and honoring the part of me that wants to be closer to the average size woman. i think it teaches me the art of balance

Ten simple things that I love about myself. And I was amazed at how good it made me feel to write them, to own them, and to give them the love that they deserve.

2-3 seconds

2008-05-22T08:33:00.000-07:00

Recently I learned that the average dream lasts 2-3 seconds, but I know from experience they feel like reality and it made me think...if we could really live in the moment...how long would life feel? Now this could be a good thing I think, or really bad (if I'm stuck at work experiencing every moment), but even so, last night I was lying in bed quietly, meditating and my mind drifted from thought to thought, and it felt amazing, and then I looked at the clock and it had only been 3 minutes. It's amazing how refreshing even a few minutes of peace and quiet can be.

Since reading The Golden Compass I have been obsessed with the idea that worlds split upon making a decision and that there could be millions of universes existing simultaneously. What I've been mulling over is the me that would be now if I hadn't experienced the move to Yakima. In my idealistic mind I think back to the 'good ol' days' where I didn't know what fashion was, and had friends who accepted me for who I was, in contrast to the move across the mountains where suddenly I realized that what shoes I wore matter (and even then, I didn't buy the RIGHT pair of Docs), or the feeling that I had to change in order to fit in. A few days ago I thought that the answer was that Yakima ruined me, that I would be a fully integrated adult if I had not moved, but I have come to a much more acceptable happy medium now. Because I think the move served a purpose, to break me out of my shell, but also I wonder now who I would be if I would have stayed. I was sheltered and afraid, and in Yakima I got to be confrtoned with culture shock.

But I can't forget that twelve year old self, that loved life and wasn't afraid to be herself. I didn't need tons of friends if it meant sacrificing who I was. I wasn't afraid to be sensitive, which is something I'm trying to re-learn. And it's sort of a neat process for me, because as an adult I can choose the things I want to keep about myself, choose the things I don't, and take ownership in who I become rather than simply laying back and abdicating my own authority to others.

Thought I'm re-learning this sensitivity, I've noticed, too, that my Fool/Clown archetype is hitting back even stronger. In fact, I've already begun a reputation at school as the 'funny' one. Of course I am funny (at least to myself), but is this the image I want to portray in the counseling program? I want to be taken seriously, and yet, I do enjoy laughter...

I'm off to school now since the apartment next door is leaking paint smell into my apartment and I'm feeling sorta high...

Shanti

Ahimsa

2008-05-19T20:56:00.000-07:00

The word ahimsa translated from Sanskrit means 'non-injury' or more my favorite, 'non-harm.' This word keeps sneaking up into my life lately, through an article in a yoga magazine about eating mindfully, to a yoga class I attended in Vancouver with my fellow yogini Carlita, where the teacher opened the class with a discussion on truthfulness, and mentioned ahimsa.

The concept of being true, through actions and words is important to me. Though I am often very non-harming in relation to others, the teacher's words struck a chord in me when she asked about our self-talk, how we react to our inability to hold lunges like our bendable neighbor, or when we fall flat on our face in an arm balance. Truth and ahimsa pointed inside, toward my inner Jenna, because I treat the world much better than I treat myself.

Which reminds me of the conversation I had with Kyle recently about my compartamentalized way of viewing the world and my heirarchical way of structuring human worth. In an attempt to live up to my father's words 'you have no rights, jesus gave up all his rights so that's how we should be' or something to that effect. In my head I heard, though, that I'm not worth anything, and therefore in order to 'humble' myself I have attempted this false sense of humility, which means, for me, self-deprecation and always putting others ahead of myself. The idea that I could be worth something is novel to me, and so I'm learning to treat myself gently. Ahimsa will remind me of this. Non-harm toward myself.

To help us remember this she asked us a few questions, which is a twist on a quote I used to know:
Is it kind? Is it true? Is it necessary? And, does it improve upon silence?

I think if I begin asking myself those questions about my own self-talk, I will be a happier, healthier and more peaceful person.

Om shanti shanti shanti...

Hermitage

2008-05-13T22:42:00.000-07:00

What am I afraid to face?

The last few mornings I have gotten out of bed at 'the crack of noon' as my grandma calls it, but this luxury of late-waking isn't making me feel refreshed and perky. I roll over in bed and stare at my bedmate, loneliness, and bury my head in the pillow once again. 'Five more minutes' I tell myself, and lately it's been 'just one more dream.'

My dreams have been filled with Lake Forest Park. Most recently it was the LFP elementary 10 year reunion, at the same pool we had our 6th grade party. Reunion turned funeral with the car accident death, caused by a peanut allergy, of comedian Adam Ray. Dream grief and making out with my pool boss, who happened to be Kyle, but named Keith. Too many men melded into one. I'm curious as to why my childhood keeps coming up in dreamland, except that perhaps it leads to some sort of context for the childhood phrases that keep haunting me.

Yesterday, while driving home from a fruitless attempt to dive into a new pile of books (and thus procrastinate on my Tests & Measurements class), I almost burst into tears. Almost. I had turned the radio off, finding the dj to be loud and obnoxious and honestly too much stimulus often makes me feel like my skin has been ripped off, but a minute or two (or 12 seconds more likely) and the silence of hearing myself breathing and the rain coming down hard on my windshield, I almost burst into tears. But the shoulders turned inward and I tightened my grip on the steering wheel and I proceeded home, because I could compartamentalize my emotions and I thought that would be the 'perfect' time to cry, to let it all out, but of course when I got home, I....

...turned on the tv. Of course. Noise to drown out the feelings. And it's embarassing to admit to myself how lonely I am here in Seattle. Of course I see my best friend almost every day, but it's not enough. I blame a lot of it on work, and my schedule, but there are things that I could do. My hermit archetype is tired and has been moping around lately, trying to get me to do something. The time on the mountain is over and I need to come out of my shell.

I am praying and hoping and wishing for a new job. I really want something with day hours, something involving people and schools and I'm hoping to become a part-time or substitute para-educator. Sigh. Will this solve all my problems? Doubtful. But maybe it'll get this hermit out of the house...

But deep down I need to really examine the fear of loneliness, and perhaps, the difference between loneliness and being alone. I often talk with my smokers about how cigarettes have become their friend over the years, though, admittedly a destructive abusive friends (cause who lets their friend give them COPD? hmm, I guess I have had some toxic relationships in the past...), but how, in order to quit, they have to start becoming their own best friend. Cigarettes also help pass time through boredom, since many of the people I talk to are shut-ins for some reason or another. I am learning how much my life parallels the lives of the people I am helping. Even as I write this MTV is blaring in the background, and I'm always a click away from my email. Sometimes I check my email over and over again and I've begun asking myself, 'what am I waiting for?"

I'm not coming to any conclusion about this, and I'm exhausted, but I want to explore this loneliness idea. I want to learn to be my own best friend and not have to numb the emotions through noisy stimulation.

That's all.
Peace.

Walking on Eggshells

2008-05-09T09:48:00.001-07:00

During work, as I sit in my recliner taking State Quit Line calls, I find myself doodling to pass the time. Inspired by a comment from my sister, how glad she is to not have to 'walk on eggshells,' around me anymore, I began doodling the idea of what it would be like for a bird to walk on eggshells. This image was really fun for me to imagine. However, the evolution of art is interesting to me, because as I started collaging the piece, it began to take on a new shape in my mind. Inspired by the quote at the top of the piece, "we do not inherit the earth from our ancestors, we borrow it from our children," I thought about global warming and how delicate this life truly is.

Yin and Yang

2008-05-07T12:37:00.000-07:00

One of the reasons I'm going into counseling is my love for listening, and yet one thing that I'm learning is that as a counseling type, I'm good at listening, but not so good at being listened to. How often have I been on the end of a phone conversation making listening noises like, "mhmm," and "yeah," and arrive at the end of the conversation with the person saying "man, this has been such a good conversation, we should talk more often!" The power of listening takes over, and only until after I hang up the phone do I realize that it hadn't been an equal exchange of words. I get the bare minimum out in the first 60 seconds and spend the rest of the time with the 'mhmms' and occassionally a good probing or thought-provoking question.

This one-sidedness has translated over into other areas of my life, and one that I'm exploring is also my tendency to give and unequally receive. How did this unbalance happen? And, if I don't ever figure out the root, can I still move forward into a more balanced listening/being listened to, giving/recieving life?

I think it starts with peeling away some of the layers of fear that have built up around my heart. I've noticed lately how rounded in my shoulders have become lately, as if they were trying to create even more of an encompassing feeling of protection around my heart. And I was struck by a memory, of myself as a little girl, being told (this time by my father) to "stop being so sensitive." In an attempt to obey (though I'm sure, once again, this was probably a situationally specific comment that I globalized), I have grown a defensive wall of bricks and rubble and now even my own body is using itself as a shield.

Awareness is the first small step toward balance.
And here is how it looks for me, as my shoulder roll in, protecting my heart:

Sadness

2008-05-03T14:52:00.000-07:00

For me, sadness is both a yellow square and the color blue.

Impossible Mountains of Hope

2008-05-02T00:16:00.000-07:00

During breaks at work I peruse the Yoga Journal online archives. Yesterday I came across an article entitled Me Talk Pretty (http://www.yogajournal.com/wisdom/2112), and was struck by the question: "Did your parents ever say something that has stuck with you throughout your life?"

"Did your parents ever say something that has stuck with you throughout your life?" The answer to this question didn't even have to come to me, it's been here all along. It is one of my constant companions, gray like a figure of death, it often sits quietly in the corner of my room, unmoving. Shadow-like and affecting everything I do. Enmeshed in its web are pessimism and depression, the thought that this is always how it is, or always how it's been. Hopelessness, though in a maliciously subtle way.

As a rational adult I can look back and see that the power these words have had over me are not logical, rational, and certainly not healthy. In fact, more than likely they were completely situationally specific, but they hit my already untrusting, uncertain young mind that struggled unconscioulsy, quietly, with the truth of abandonment. And the words were: "Don't get your hopes up."

"Don't get your hopes up." Was it about my excitement over an impending ice-cream cone excursion, or my endless chatter about the rides at Disneyland, that prompted her to ever so lightly tap the glass and shatter my hopes? It wasn't malicious says the loyalty inside me, and yet, those words made me grow up in an instant. Those words conveyed the fact that I already knew that this world was not to be trusted, that hopes were not to be trusted, because the truth is, it will all crumble and crash and screech to a halt. If I had any fledgling optimism or idealism about the world, the authority of that command struck me to my core and have shaped my view since then. Because I don't get my hopes up. I have tentatively dipped my toe into the waters of long-lasting commitment through marriage but don't have my hopes up (too high) that there will be fidelity, harmony, or "you complete me" moments. Perhaps I can get my hopes up that there will be functionality, moments of sunshine and hand-holding, and silent breakfasts over oatmeal and the Funnies. I don't have my hopes up that this election will bring any sort of resolution to the wars, or freedom or that my social justice class can make a dent in racism or heterosexism. I don't get my hopes up that my friends will be there when I need them, or that my degree will provide any lasting happiness. Most frightengly, I don't get my hopes up that if there is a God, that He is really Benevolant and Good and the epitome of Love. My life is like life in Oz, with shams just around the corner. I just hope that I will see clearly the reality before me, so that my heart will stay protected.

And so tonight, with the inability to express my words to my lover, I painted how I felt. It's entitled "Mountains of Impossible Hope" or maybe "Impossible Mountaisn of Hope," because Hope is there, but it's dark and scary and almost completely inacessible. And yet, something softly calls to me, like wind through the trees.

Archetypes

2008-04-30T11:13:00.000-07:00

Archetypes have followed me since I took Dan Peters' Myth and the Modern Hero class in high school. In counseling classes we read Carl Jung and so awhile ago I purchased Caroline Myss' Sacred Contracts and her accompanying archetype cards to learn more about myself. According to Myss there are 4 archetypes that everyone has, and then there are at least 8 others that closely shape our personalities. This has been a very fun & eye-opening exercise for me, and has also been fun to talk with Kyle and see what his archetypes are. These are the archetypes that I feel repesent me the best (beginning with the 4 that everyone has)
1. Saboteur
2. Victim
3. Prostitute
4. Child (and I identify with the orphan child)
5. Mentor
6. Damsel
7. Clown/Fool
8. Rebel
9. Student
10. Queen
11. Story Teller
12. Hermit
The most interesting thing for me doing this exercise was how much I resonated with the shadow side (the way the archtype influences us negatively, like always 'playing the victim,' or sabotaging my relationships). I've been working with these archetypes in art, and have found that the two most easily accesible ones (perhaps because within the context of my romantic relationship they rule me the most, or perhaps because I have many fashion magazines with these images in them), are the Queen and the Damsel.

Here's my interpretation of my Queen archetype:

And here's my interpretation of my Damsel archetype:

I'd encourage you to check it out and do it for yourself. You might just learn a thing or two :)

Inner Critic

2008-04-26T16:07:00.000-07:00

A prompt from Courtney to represent my Inner Critic through art, and when I was finished, I looked at it and was like, 'wow, that's her allright."

"Unplanned"

2008-04-26T14:56:00.000-07:00

Inspire Me Thursday's prompt this week was "Medical" and I couldn't help but think of all my friends who have gotten pregnant on their birth control. I've titled it "Unplanned" from it's original "Unwanted," though both titles bring up my own sense of loss and disconnection as I too feel, through my adoption, that unplanned and unwanted means not-good-enough. Flawed. Not completely whole.

Morning thoughts

2008-04-25T11:23:00.001-07:00

I woke up this morning with two thoughts:

1) I believe sleeping too long is, on some level, a wish for death. When I look at the clock and can't bear to to face the world and force myself to sleep so long that I get a crick in my neck, then there is something wrong.

2) Sadness for me is the color yellow and is in the shape of a square. This is a refrigerator leftover from last night's conversation with K. Emotions for him are a all part of one thing, (facets maybe?) and he believes that they speak in order to give him some message, or something like that. I, on the other hand, feel that my emotions are individual entities, separate from my being, and merely dwelling inside. Sometimes they all shout at once and I feel like a mom with screaming kids and all I'm doing is reaching for a popsicle to shove in their mouths to just shut them up for awhile. I feel that my highest potential is the content calmness I feel when I'm completely quiet and still. And that's when I learned another important aspect of relationships...even when you feel like you experience emotions the same way, you don't.

Photographs

2008-04-24T21:43:00.000-07:00

It seems the older I get the more my memories are encapsulated in photographs in my mind. Like I'm not sure I remember how gritty and sweet the ring around my lips tasted after finishing an afternoon treat on a family camping trip. When I touch my hair it no longer conjurs up how strawlike the ends felt after chewing them between my teeth. And I can't remember how I related to my cousin equally, before I started seeing her as the 'pretty one' which left me unappily introverted at family functions. Instead I stare intently at the photograph, of two toddler girls sitting happily on the step of our tent-trailer and wonder, what happened to these memories as living breathing entities jostling around in my head? What did the sensation of warm orange soda feel like sliding down my throat and dripping off my chin? What was the ratio of dust to water to form the mud tracks for my brother's army men? And what did the duct tape holding the canvas sides of the trailer together sound like as pine-needles landed in the middle of the night? Lamott said to begin to write with remembering all the details of small events in our lives, like the first day of kindegarten or our Christmas as a 10 year old. I wonder, if perhaps I can start with photographs, until I can remember some memories...

Earth Day

2008-04-23T12:32:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was Earth Day and I stopped at Target for some Miracle Grow soil for my Christmas cactus that has been sitting in its pitiful pot since...Christmas. I made the mistake of re-potting it in my kitchen (there is still dirt lingering on counters and on the floor) and I was so inspired by this that today I went and bought some pretty gerbera daisies to brighten up my place. And I realized that I garden like a little kid, but it is was so fun. And here is the proof:

Yay for gardening!!!

Both Sides Now

2008-04-21T00:01:00.000-07:00

Music has a way of getting inside my skin, walking around banging on memories, rattling the cages that hold my emotions tightly, and tonight is no exception. With a conversation about wedding songs I began a youtube search that left me watching many sappy love songs. Nostalgia tapped on my shoulder and whispered "bows and flows" and it's one of my options for the father/daughter dance. It's sad and slow and almost depressing, but it's fitting, because it was a childhood lullaby sung by my papa.

The imagery of ice cream castles in the air overshadowed the sadness of really not knowing love at all. So I'm sitting here in the dark tonight, with a touch of sunday-nap induced insomnia, listening to Joni Mitchell croon away. There's something to listening to a song repeatedly, to really get in bed with it and know it intimately. To explore each emotion it conjurs, like the feeling of safety, and my father's touch as he massaged away the growing pains in my legs. If not for any other reason, I may choose this song to dance to. Even if the guests don't 'get it'.

Let it enter your soul, too: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tKQSlH-LLTQ

Little Red Feather

2008-04-20T11:12:00.000-07:00

The little red feather that escaped from the whirring sucking vacuum cleaner is still crouched near the futon, hiding, like I used to, behind the legs of my mother. Little red feather leftover from Halloween wings. It isn't an innate messiness that I possess, but rather an inattention to details. No. Not inattention, just a healthy sense of the picture overall. Forest for the trees. Because in the grand scheme, does the little red feather's presence next to my futon interrupt the overall feeling of my room? These words sound rote and memorized, because of the transportation time between bathtub and computer. Words forced into timelessness without evolution, like our view of the red man, forever standing on the plains of Iowa with a feather headress and a bow & arrow. Perhaps I shouldn't cling so tightly to the inspirations that come in moments of quiet, driving down country roads, hanging delicately in half-sleep, or while concentrating on scrubbing behind my ears. I'm not sure where to go with it all, but there seemed to be a message. Lost in the rote memorization of it all. Shruti gone wrong. But the mere act of listening to these inspirations has caused the antennae on my skin to perk up to the slightest noise or whisper, my eyes to scan my surroundings for similes and metaphors and my eyes to wonder in their most insightful way, what the color of hunger is. I used to think it was merely words that floated through me, sometimes channeled into translation on paper, but the more I learn the more I realize that there are pictures there. Worries. Memories. Imaginations. Ripe for the taking. So I write, and the little red feather hides. And life continues.

My theology

2008-04-19T20:40:00.001-07:00

"I can only speak for myself, from what I know," I kept saying over and over again. It had come up in a Friday-night-without-tv conversation in which I explored (and somewhat revealed) my internalized theology. This morning it was still on my mind and I kept seeing a diagram of a person, like the ones that are always in my yoga magazines, with all of the chakras in their own special colors, and all I could see was black.

Ooozing, pitchy tar-like blackness sticking to all my insides. Radiating from my heart. It was a disturbing picture and I put some pastels down on paper to get it outside of me. What to do about this is a mystery, and even more so a mystery that I don't think others have this inside of them. That's why I kept saying I can only speak for myself, because this is my reality, whether it is real or not.

Reduce, Re-use, Recycle

2008-04-19T11:46:00.001-07:00

While sitting in my recliner pondering the IMT's prompt of recycling, I looked at my fireplace full of ashes, matches scattered about from lighting candles, and my sketchbook open to a page of practicing with colors. The paint reminded me of fire and so I dribbled and dabbled and this is my entry for this week's prompt. Who knew playing with materials like ashes could be so much fun? :)

This I Believe

2008-04-18T12:23:00.000-07:00

This I Believe

I believe that we are all naturally at home in the water. Somewhere between cutting the cord and the initial slap on the back, ushering us into the gritty land of gravity, we have lost the peace and comfort of immersion in a warm body of water. Some of us still have an affinity for water. My webbed toes cancel out my fire sign and I've come across a few throughout my life who also want to crawl inside the sink while washing their hands. Because when life becomes stressful, and the stimulation is hitting me from all sides, I sometimes put my head below the water and feel the warmth spread into my very bones. Under water I feel calm, the sounds from above are muffled and murky and my body is suspended delicately. If I can't manage a body of water large enough for my 6 foot frame I make-do with bathtubs or the feeling of warm water rushing over my hands. I resonate with the sacrament of baptism more than any other. Because crawling back into the watery womb makes me feel safe and when I emerge, even for a brief moment, I feel renewed. And I believe this can be true for all of us.

InkBlots

2008-04-18T11:46:00.000-07:00

I found an inkblot challenge in the Inspire me Thursday website and decided that even a budding artist could participate in this art idea.

When I peeled away the paint I looked at the result and thought to myself, "wow, this is what fear looks like." Inspired, I decided to keep making these neat little inkblots, to get messy and let the perfectionist voice take a backseat for once.

I think this little guy looks a lot like a dad at Disneyland. Can you see the rosy cheeks, the sparkle in his eyes and the silly hat, complete with ears? It makes me smile just looking at it.

And these are winged monkeys.

Feeling down? Feeling stressed out? Pick up some paint and make a few inkblots. You'll be surprised at how fun and easy they are, and how getting a little paint on your fingers does wonders for the soul. :)

One a Week

2008-04-16T21:58:00.000-07:00

At least weekly (though ideally much more often), I am dedicating myself to creating (and therefore posting) something creative and healing, like a poem or a collage or some free-writing mumbo jumbo (as long as it is not my grocery list journal entries that I so often write...) I'm not giving up my Myspace blog, because that's been a part of my life for 3 years, but I feel that I'm in a blogging rut there, the same old rants and raves against the system. Ideally this space will allow me to branch out into my more creative self And this quarter is ideally more conducive to this venture, with Mondays as my free day for personal healing and growth.

The History of a Scar

I'm not sure the scar has really faded, or if I'm just used to its presence on my face. When I'm lazy, often in the winter, it's hidden under straying eyebrow hairs, so when I'm fresh faced after plucking it sits there smiling back at me. When I notice it perched on my brow I think about my father dancing around as a kid with a hotdog, in front of a mirror. In my head it looks like the scene from Risky Business (which is the only scene I've even seen), but that's how my dad got a chicken pox scar: waving a hotdog in front of a mirror and the spare pig parts knocked into his face and the scab flew off leaving a small crater. My scar and his are in similar places and it makes me feel connected. Though the lesson I learned in it all was that you can do everything right, following all the rules (don't scratch, you'll get a scar!) and a scab can fall off in the middle of the night leaving you with a scar anyway. I can follow all the rules and still get hurt. At least it seems to be smiling, now.