Thank you, Alanis Morissette

A couple of months ago my mom suggested I listen to a song by Alanis Morissette.  I hastily disregarded the suggestion, assuming my mom knew nothing about my taste in music, for one, and also because I had some immediate judgement about Alanis Morissette (even though, quite honestly, I've liked a lot of her songs with the exception of You Oughta Know -- and I really only learned to dislike that one because I had seen too many angry, drunk, white girls sing it with all their might at karaoke and I happen to have sensitive ears, so.)

Eventually in a moment when I was missing my mom, I decided to listen to this song.  It moved me.  It shook me up and brought tears to my eyes.  And I know I'm sentimental and love this kind of stuff, but there was something there that was so simple and sweet and willing to love that I, just cried.

One thing I want to acknowledge immediately here was that I was wrong about my mom.  I often am.  She does know me.  And even though she's sometimes just a little off the mark, she's always aiming at the right target.  With this song she reminded me of the sweet knowing only a mom has.

About this song.  I'm going to share the lyrics, but I beg you to release all attachment to proper English, poetic prose, and grammatical accuracy.  I'm going to ask you to please, just loosen up and see it in all it's vulnerability, because that's part of it's beauty.  And, if you've ever tried to write lyrics to a song with all those considerations, you've probably learned that those songs suck and sound like they were written by complete nerds (I know because I've tried to write songs and have always been unwilling to release my attachment to properly formed sentences and unabbreviated words and they have sucked).  Here they are:  (IF YOU'RE ABLE OR WILLING, LISTEN TO THE SONG AT THE SAME TIME, PLEASE)

how bout getting off these antibiotics
how bout stopping eating when I'm full up
how bout them transparent dangling carrots
how bout that ever elusive kudo

thank you india
thank you terror
thank you disillusionment
thank you frailty
thank you consequence
thank you thank you silence

how bout me not blaming you for everything
how bout me enjoying the moment for once
how bout how good it feels to finally forgive you
how bout grieving it all one at a time

the moment I let go of it was the moment
I got more than I could handle
the moment I jumped off of it
was the moment I touched down

how bout no longer being masochistic
how bout remembering your divinity
how bout unabashedly bawling your eyes out
how bout not equating death with stopping

thank you india
thank you providence
thank you disillusionment
thank you nothingness
thank you clarity
thank you thank you silence

I love all of these words, except maybe 'thank you India' but that's because I'm still working through my fear of the sadness that exists there and my judgement of the very stereotypical American's desire to find enlightenment while doing yoga amongst a people's struggle (that's assuming that A.M. wasn't just thanking India for the same reasons I might if I decided to).

What unhinges me is the reminder that I can, and want to say thank you for the hard stuff -- disillusionment, nothingness, silence, sadness, consequence, frailty, terror, unmet needs, grief, letting go.  That these things absolutely carve out space for joy and depth of character and integrity and clarity in seeing self and the world.  They are gifts and they are as welcome as a belly laugh or a joy that erupts from somewhere inside of me that is unknown or the experience of absolutely surrendering to loving something or someone. They are welcome and I want them in my life too.

Gmail saves everything.  I am constantly, accidentally finding some old email or exchange I had forgotten.  Today I found very old and forgotten chat exchanges between myself and my ex-boyfriend (I wasn't looking, I swear!).  My very first love.  The only one I've ever completely surrendered to.  And what I saw was, so interesting.  I've been 'over' that relationship for enough time now to not be hurt by it, but my heart was pried open by something that surprised me.  I saw myself.  I saw my absolute and undeniable willingness and desire to love and accept him.  I saw that he often didn't give me a response that reinforced that love, but that it didn't matter.  I had made up my mind and I was going to love him no matter what.  And I said thank you.  Thank you vulnerability.  Thank you willingness.  Thank you, thank you, kindness.  Thank you, thank you, innocence.

There's something that happens when you say thanks for the things that hurt in the moment. It makes it possible, maybe easier, for that space that we need to be carved out for joy.  It stops us from resisting the inevitable and therefore prolonging it or making it more painful.  It helps us to see the lesson within it and celebrate the learning.

Thank you, thank you fear.
Thank you questioning.
Thank you possibility.
Thank you choice.
Thank you, thank you patience.


Thank you, mom.

Pick one.

I have a gift.  I am certain that I am very good at doing one thing:  filling my calendar with things to do.

There are things I enjoy doing, feel compelled to do, and am curious about doing.  Writing, singing, dancing, becoming a professional something-or-other, helping people, learning about new stuff, practicing yoga, keeping friendships alive, reading, taking long walks, creating art.  I've often thought that if I could just pick one of these things and commit to it, I could do it really well.  I believed that there would be some payout of satisfaction in this choice that I have not yet experienced in life.  If I could just choose the one thing I love the most and only do that, immerse myself in it, I could realize my potential.  As an adult I've found my inability to do this disappointing.

I've been pondering this for the past few days.  I asked myself why I haven't been able to pick the one thing.  I realized that I haven't been willing to set any other thing down.  I am unable to focus on the experience of shining the light on the 'one thing' because I can't stop looking at all the other stuff in the shadows waiting. Well, realizing that made me love myself a little more.  These things I care about --the poetry and the music and the friendships and the desire to learn and grow-- are like my children.  I created them, I take care of them, I nourish them, I spend time with each of them.  I've got a lot of kids and they are all at different levels of maturity and have very different needs and personalities.  They're mine and I can't disown any one of them.  It might be tiring, and sometimes I'll neglect a few, but never intentionally and never permanently.

When I was a little girl, I played the violin.  So did my twin brother.  There's been a story I've been telling myself all my life about the experience of growing up with a brother who dedicated himself wholly to that instrument and was praised for the results of his devotion while I only considered the violin an interesting experiment and was reminded of the results of my lack of commitment by my violin teacher often.  I'm letting go of the story of being in the shadow of my brother.  Really.  Finally.  I'm just realizing that I'm a different person altogether, and I did other things while Aaron practiced.  I learned how to play the flute, viola, cello, piano, I sang too.  I have never, until this moment, acknowledged any of that.  For too long I had been focused on amending what I thought was an injured ego from the experience of not being outstanding at any single one of those instruments.

I'm a curious person.  A seeker.  I don't need to know everything about something.  I just need to know enough to experience it.  There's magic in stopping there, I think.  It feels like an honoring of the 'one thing' and myself.  We all remain intact.  We've known each other but not given ourselves over to each other.  Maybe this tendency in me is what makes loving one person particularly challenging for me.

Today I accept and embrace all of this.  I am a whimsical girl.  I like that.  And if I keep it up, I'll get to know and see a lot of things.  I might not ever perfect any one art or have a remarkable career, but I will have seen and learned and experienced enough to make up for that.  Besides, saying that I'm a poet, dancer, violinist, pianist, singer, writer, and artist feels better than just saying one thing.  It leaves room for the possibility to say more.

Think Smaller

Lately I've been thinking a lot about how I'd like my life to look.  For a long time, actually, I've been considering all the ways I'd like to help people, change the world, do something worthwhile, give back.  I've also been considering all the ways I'd like to 'improve' my life by going back to school or getting a better job or being healthier or more fit and so on.  After all this thinking and consideration, I had quite a list of things to do before I died ranging from getting cavities filled to helping women birth children in Africa and advocating for victims of sex trafficking in the United States and India.  It's an impressive list.  It's also an intimidating list.

Something felt so frantic about the whole thing.  Like, how will I ever get it all done and what am I doing now that brings me closer to these huge goals?  I felt defeated before I had even really begun.  I felt like every day I lived up until now only showcased my lack of concern for others and that I had a lot to make up for.  There was shame in every direction I turned.  I wasn't moving fast enough.  I wasn't working hard enough.  I should have been somewhere else by now altogether.  I started to think about how I might be more effective if I had less friends, or if I gave up doing other things I enjoy.

I was feeling a sense of overwhelm and frustration and then the calm voice of, I don't know, not reason, but let's say my heart, spoke to me.  It asked:  'If in the end it is only you that you'll have to answer to, what would you regret having not done, really?'  And the answer was very simple:  I would regret not enjoying my life.  If in the end, I had accomplished every thing on that list, but did it alone and without joy and frantically, I would regret that.  If in the end, I hadn't felt the warmth of family and friends and love as often as possible, I would regret that.  Quite honestly, when I really thought about it, when I really let myself envision the life I wanted on those terms, my heart's terms, it was so extremely simple.  I want a house with lace curtains and a garden and windows that allow sunlight to make pools on the floor to stretch and lay in.  I want to make tea and bake things and cook healthy meals and have friends and family close by to share those things with.  I want to experience a marriage and love that is mutual and healthy and fulfilling -- nourishing.  I want to feel at peace.  I want to create art and write and listen to and play music.  I want to know that I am safe to give and receive love.

If I think about living in another country and taking cold showers and being away from the people I know and love, my heart aches.  I would love to help the world.  I would.  It comes from a true and good place in me.  But, in this moment, I'm not even fully loving the people who are currently in my life.  I'm not calling my pregnant friends to ask how they're feeling.  I'm not sending my mom a card to tell her she's beautiful.  I'm not sending my niece and nephews packages to let them know that I am thinking of them.  I'm not fully loving the people who are loving me.

I want to start there.  I want to start so extremely small.  I want to make sure that I am giving the people in my life who show up for me again and again, something back.  And if the only thing I ever do is live with love in my heart while I wait tables, or bake cookies, or talk to my friends and family, then that is absolutely enough.  I will have done my very best and I will not regret a thing.

So, I'm starting smaller.  I'm starting with loving myself.  I'm starting with doing something for someone else.  I'm starting with considering someone else's feelings before I speak or act.  I'm starting small.  And I do hope for the house with the curtains and the sunlight and even still hope for the chance to offer myself to a cause that is important to me, but until then, I'm grateful for what I have right now, which is a lot.  And I'm grateful to recognize that just to learn how to love what's in front of me is probably the biggest thing I'll ever cross off that list.

LOVE (noun/verb)

1.  A desire to know someone/something deeply; a ceaseless willingness to do so through intentional observation/study.
2.  Powerful consideration of beloved's needs & desires, at times leading to sacrifice and/or challenging negotiation.
3.  Finite supply; requires replenishment.  Is replenished by return of love or joy.  (Although there is always a secret reserve, LOVE thrives in an environment of reciprocity.)
4.  A warm, gentle, softness of the human spirit.  (Varied levels reveal different characteristics, ranging from tenderness to passion.)
5.  Constant.  Although the expression may change, love, once present, never completely leaves the relationship between the lover and the beloved.  (It unlocks a door to the soul that never is locked again.  It may close, but the soul's knowledge of it's existence never disappears.)
6.  An abandonment of the confined language of right/wrong, proving/disproving;  embraces the alchemical language of understanding and acceptance.
7.  A complete surrendering to one's own desires;  A willful vulnerability; an expression of one's desire to be seen fully.
8.  Can be given and/or received; held and/or withheld; denied and/or acknowledged; suppressed and/or exalted; lost and/or discovered.
9. The artist's brush, the sculptor's chisel, the musician's instrument, the writer's pen;  The way the lover designs and creates her/his life is through the experience and expression of all forms of love;  It is the necessary tool for creation.

A Walk As Reminder

I fantasize often about taking a trip to another country and walking from some place to another place far away.  A pilgrimage, I guess.  I know of a few of these that are very sacred traditions for which people save and prepare their entire lives.
Today I made a pilgrimage from my city neighborhood to the ocean 8 miles away.  I went alone.  I thought a lot about life and love, two pretty broad subjects I realize.
I'm still working on that definition of love, you know.  It's taking me some time.
The start of the walk was familiar and safe.  I felt at home walking through the neighborhoods surrounding my apartment. There were lots of people around and I knew where I was going.

The next leg of the journey was short but very exciting.  I walked through a beautiful neighborhood that I had never explored before.  It was quiet and the houses and trees there were magical to me.  I felt grateful to have seen it.

After this, I came to a crossroads.  I could turn left and walk past miles of fast food restaurants and stores or turn right and take a more scenic route.  The reason I even had to contemplate this was because I have heard more than once that the scenic route was not that safe.  I chose the ugly path knowing that it would end in a prettier spot near the ocean.  Taking this route was a nightmare for me, and the longest part of the journey.  It was ugly, didn't feel particularly safe, and it was boring.  I felt very alone and wanted many times to find a quick way out.  

This road ended very subtly.  It wasn't like I came over a hill and suddenly saw the ocean ahead of me. It just stopped being so ugly a little at a time, and started to become familiar again as I came closer to my destination.  When I made it to the beach, I felt glad.  I felt like I had done something I said I would do.  I didn't feel accomplished or proud, I just felt finished.  And then I felt very very alone.  It was clear, in that moment, that an experience like this is better shared. 

I had romanticized the idea of doing this alone.  I thought that I would gain clarity on myself or the questions I had about life.  I thought that I needed to be alone to hear my own answers.  But the one thing that was clear was that I am tired of doing things alone.  I would like to be finished trying to prove to myself or anyone else that I am able to do this alone.  I am.  I have.  Honestly, I don't want to keep walking alone.  I want someone to hug and have lunch with at the end of any long walks from now on. 

I like analogies.  I can't help but see the stories of living reflected in all these ways around me.   Maybe that's one of the reasons I like poetry.  I saw my own life reflected in this walk today.  The leaving of home, the short bursts of magic and gratitude, the crossroads and choice, the long, ugly part, the aloneness and the desire for company.  I could dig deeper, but I'm not going to right now.  I mean, I already know the story of my life.  I know how it's felt to walk up until this moment.  What I want to know is which path will I take next, and who will join me?  

Staying with you.

I might want to be a doula.  I am considering becoming a volunteer doula for a local non-profit that inspires me.  I did the training this past weekend and walked away thinking about a lot of things, like, how interesting group dynamics can be, and how amazing our bodies are, and that I'm sensitive to people's energy, and that there are a lot of things I just don't know.  

In the beginning of class the teacher asked us, 'What would you do if you witnessed a car accident?'  And after we got past the 911 calls and assessing safety and finally got to the questions about what we would say to the people who are injured and stuck in their car, everyone started to quietly say what they thought they should say, but no one was really sure what the answer was.  

Our teacher, Ann, said, 'You tell them what you know.  You tell them only what you know and only the truth.  You don't tell them everything is going to be OK, because you don't know that it will be.'  She said, 'You tell them that you're there with them and that you aren't going to leave, that help is on the way, that they are out of traffic and that cars have stopped.   You tell them that you hear the sirens, when you hear them, and you keep telling them that you are there, and that you are going to stay.'

This simple lesson moved me deeply.  I thought of all the times I've tried to be present and supportive to someone who is in pain and all the ways I've tried to help them by telling them what to do or how it will be different or what it was like for me when...  but I've never said, 'I'm with you and I'm not going to leave you until you are safe.'  'I'm with you and I can see that you are hurting, I can see that you are in pain, and I am going to hold your hand while you feel what you need to feel.  I am with you and I am not going to leave you.'

I wish I had known sooner that all most people want and need is for another person to just stay with them.  That to live an authentic life we just need to be honest.  Say what we know is true, even though we might want to say more in order to fill the space left by not having all the answers.  Notice what is around you, tell the truth about what you see, commit to staying even when it is uncomfortable, and wait for the answer to arrive, because it will, it's always on the way, I can hear it coming.  

 

I'm not trying to change the world on Wednesday.

Today I saw a lot of beautiful things.  I was reminded of the renewal and inspiration one can find in nature, and of nature's ceaseless willingness to just  be what it is in all it's vulnerability and naked resplendence.  I needed to see trees today.  Trees feel like brothers and sisters of mine, and visiting them fills the place in me that so desires the sense of safety and comfort I feel when I'm with my family.

Heartache & Parking Tickets

Today I'm remembering being someone else.  I'm remembering being 20-something, living in Pittsburgh and having a particular set of friends whose company inspired a certain ease I haven't ever been able to replicate exactly.

For some reason the memory of a late winter's day is with me.  The Postal Service had just released Give Up and Paul Fittipaldi had a tiny record with some magical, hidden track on it.  Tara, Paul, Jadyn, and I were together in Paul's quirky apartment in Squirrel Hill.  It was cold and wet outside and in this memory I can't be sure if it was night or day, but things are different that way in Pittsburgh.  Because you spend more time inside, you aren't ever as wholly aware of what time of day it is, especially considering that gray skies are practically a constant and especially in terms of memories.  The four of us played that record over and over again, dancing in his kitchen, laughing, maybe drinking espresso or bourbon or both.  We weren't drinking a lot of anything.  But we were dancing.  And time didn't matter, and goals or aspirations were spoken in a language we hadn't yet learned, and worry was something that we might have had a fling with and didn't believe we'd meet again.  It was fun and it felt safe and it felt permanent enough to not think about too much.

When memories like this visit me, I am reminded of the absolute impermanence in life.  That even who we are to ourselves will change without us noticing.  I am reminded that people will always enter and leave our lives, oftentimes also without us noticing the exact moment.

So why would our hearts ache, if we know this is true?  And we do.  Everything we know in this moment will become something else inevitably.

I was thinking about the inevitable. The chance involved in finding moments of grace and love.  The loss that is the shadow walking in step with joy.  The varying weights of the commitments we carry.  The burden of the ownership of our choices.  And I thought about parking tickets, too.  I was thinking about how they always surprise us, and annoy us, and come in bunches, and how we never really understand why they're happening to us, even when the streets are clearly marked or the rules are well documented.  I was thinking about heartache and how it's the same in those ways and how we often ignore signs anyway or misread them at least.  You know, it's hard to park in a big city full of people.  And sometimes a girl just wants to get home (or someplace that feels like it).

Yes, parking tickets and heartache are inevitable.  That's where I'm going with this.  I can't imagine I'll remember the parking tickets of my life, even though there is something painful about the expense of poor decisions that leaves a mark no matter how small the infraction.

And being 20-something in Pittsburgh, I'm not sure where that ties in.  Maybe I don't have to know right now.  Maybe it was before I noticed parking tickets and before heartache impetuously cut a tender spot into a permanent scar that I habitually reach to touch with my fingertips to remind myself of my own vulnerability and significant lack of wisdom in the world of love.

But I sold my car.  So that's one less thing to worry about and there's a lot of peace in that.  It's an incredible experience to recondition my response to the sound of a street cleaner.  But heartache happens alone or with another person.  There's nothing I can sell or give up in order to be safe from that.  So, perhaps the wisdom is in reading the signs more closely, or taking a little extra time to find a suitable spot even though a warm bed beckons.  And the wisdom is also in paying the ticket right away, owning the mistake, and forgiving myself and especially the meter maid.

I want to snuff out the flame of believing that anyone means harm and instead build a strong and constant willingness to believe that we all want to love and be loved, and that we simply falter in our expression.  And in relationships when we ignore the signs and then the tickets and the penalties begin to add up and resentment sits at the foot of our bed and reminds us upon waking and before our night's rest and all the moments of restlessness in between that we aren't doing a good job, well, it makes it hard to even get back to a zero balance.

I'm thinking I could go on forever with this analogy.

I'm thinking that the next time someone tells me that they received a parking ticket, I'm going to hug them and tell them I'm sorry, and maybe that small gesture will pay into any deficit in their heart and, maybe that's the best I can come up with in this moment and hopefully for someone it will be worth something.