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an unexpected “heart” found along a trail in Shenandoah National Park

When I was seventeen or eighteen, we had a family friend who had recently lost her husband to suicide. As most suicides go, it was unexpected and devastating. This was a guy who appeared to be more in a slump than an actual depression, and I don’t think anyone ever realized how desperate he was or how determined. In the early weeks after that, it was almost impossible for Catherine* to sleep at night alone in that big bed. She’d go over everything in her mind again and again–the last conversations, the desperate arguments, the final gunshot from the bathroom down the hall. It was too much to hold and not feel your heart crack into a thousand irretrievable pieces.

I don’t remember now how it happened exactly, but at some point it was determined that maybe it would help if our friend didn’t have to go through the nights alone. It seems funny now, to think of farming out your seventeen year old to stave off the grief of young widows, but it made perfect sense at the time, and I didn’t mind at all. Those nights, I’d come over late and we’d drink milk and eat Pepperidge Farm gingerbread cookies like schoolgirls before bed. I don’t remember too much about it, other than lying awake talking late into the night. She told me stories of old boyfriends and how she met her husband, about her college days and all the fun she’d had. I remember thinking how lonely she must be now and how wide the bed must have felt with him gone. Having me there seemed to remind her of the days before that, before everything got complicated and too sad for words.

I know that just me being there to cover over the space in that empty bed really helped Catherine, but the truth is, she was helping me as well–this being *the summer* of the world’s most abusive boyfriend ever. I had so many questions with no answers–problems that no advice could possible address. One night, after listening to the latest episode of disrespect and verbal mangling, Catherine gently asked me: “If someone had a jar of cockroaches and dumped them on your head, what would you do? Would you just sit there? Let them crawl all over you?”

Of course, I wouldn’t, I said, completely grossed out at the thought.

“I think that’s what he’s doing to you with his words. You don’t have to stand there and take it for even one minute.” This was coming from a woman who had had her fair share of cockroaches. If she was saying this now, it must be bad. It took me a whole lot of trauma and maneuvering to eventually take those words to heart, but I did. It was the first step in learning how to internalize some necessary boundaries about how I would or would not be treated. I might have been helping her through the night, but that little story helped me through my life.

Within a year, she met a very nice man, a few years older than she, and not too soon later they were engaged. I always wondered if she loved him really or if he was just the most stable, most solid man on earth, the most unlikely person to leave or die ever. But whatever her feelings, they forged a lovely quiet life together, had a house full of children and a life she never expected. The next fall I went on to college and as our lives drifted off in other directions, we were never friends in quite the same way again, though the bond of shared kindness (and trauma) remained.

Those days feel so faraway in so many ways–it feels like another life. I’m a veritable expert now at keeping myself safe from abusive relationships and cultivating healthy boundaries. Still, there are those moments where I allow some little make-believe cockroach in my head to whisper in my ear some old message that only serves to keep me stuck, maintaining the status quo.

Every now and then, stray sentences like “Who do you think you are?” or “It will never be good enough” or “Some doors simply are not open to you” crawl into my head. Unattended, these little buggers can drive me quietly mad and create a certain approach to my future that I never intended. Do you know what I’m talking about?

I’m learning now, as I began to learn way back then, that simply noticing this phenomenon is sometimes the most powerful thing you can do to get things going in a better direction. That the encouragement of friends can never hurt and that simple things–like hot cups of coffee or gingerbread cookies in bed–are acts of gentleness and kindness that can revive your confidence and remind you that what you know deep down is reliable after all.

It sounds ridiculously simple, but I think there’s something to it. It’s nearly impossible for these little cockroaches to mess with me when I simply pay attention to what’s happening in the powerful light of day.

I hope you’re having a bug-free day, but if not, feel free to use the comments to declare what nagging negative message is trying to chase you around these days. Or better yet! What one kind thing can you do for yourself that just might put that ugly message in a brand new light? I’d love to add it to my list of self-care favorites as I do my own de-bugging today.

*name changed to protect her privacy

painting journal pages, early 2006

Are you noticing a theme yet? More journal pages and more reminders to slow down and immerse myself in simple things in order to totally recharge after such a crazy summer. You’ll notice there is NOTHING about being on the computer on this list? I henceforth banish myself from these tiny boxes for the next 48 hours. Think I can do it?

If you came here, so hopeful for something inspiring to read, I offer these lovelies from my blog past. I hope they delight you.

No Love Left in this World
Wouldn’t it Be Awesome If…
A Girl Can Dream
The Raccoon Story or How the Wild Things Said Goodbye
Omi’s Candle or Learning how to Hold on to Hope

What’s on your self-care TO DO list today?

The prickly stage before the bloom.

I’ve been grouchy lately.

You, dear blog friends, will find this shocking, scandalous even, since I am all sweetness and light in these pages, but my family? They are shrugging right now, clicking back to other sites, with big, heavy sighs. Yes. Grouchy indeed.

I’m not sure what the problem is exactly other than a serious case of not being able to be in the moment, of judging things too harshly, of refusing to be soft or tender about various storms of sadness that have been blowing through these parts here lately. It’s a failure to adjust, to adapt, to say thank you. I circle around the same old issues and don’t respond one bit better the one jillionth time around. Does anyone at all know why this always seems to be the case?

In hopes of jolting myself out of this malaise and for the sake of my dear loved ones, I am making a To Do List for the Crabby and Slightly Insane. Feel free to add your own suggestions in the comments below:

1. Blow bubbles. The scented, edible kind. Catch them on my tongue.
2. Go down the waterslide in the backyard–that gigantic one Patience brought that is just sitting there waiting for me and my big ole bathing suit.
3. Ride my bike to the grocery store as fast as I can.
4. Buy more Red Bull. Drink without shame.
5. Lie in the grass and look at the sky.
6. Clear the floor of my studio of all papers and clutter. Conduct funeral for dead plants.
7. Write letters and send them. A thank you note, a condolence, a blessing.
8. Clean the kitchen really well. Declutter. Release the science projects from their homes in tupperware along the back wall of the frig.
9. Take the kids to the pool. Play Marco Polo.
10. Light a candle. Draw a bath. Do nothing. Read poetry and return to number one. Repeat as often as necessary.

Eleven and beyond are totally yours if you, too, are a lover of the list and need some motivation to move on, move on and quit being such a crab.

I pass this bit of sunshine almost everyday. A few days ago I had to stop and become better acquainted!

This poem has been in my mind lately, whole lines at a time. I love the way poetry does that, seeping down deep into the crevices where my soul needs healing, a little bit of perspective. Today I threw away some misconceptions like old clothes and looked at my life through a new lens. A little spare, a little terrifying, but freeing just the same. I’m always amazed at how the creative life requests that I grow up, do my work and make right the disordered parts of my soul. All the while, this poem runs through my mind like a mantra, reminding me of what’s important. Helping me to return to the truth of things. For this I am so grateful.

Have you ever seen
anything
in your life
more wonderful

or have you too
gone crazy
for power,
for things?

Mary Oliver, from the poem “The Sun”

May every kindness be yours when you wake–most of all the courage to walk in this world empty handed, heart upturned towards the sun!

One of the greatest delights of my life has been meeting and befriending strangers. I don’t care if it’s a cab driver, a homeless person, the coffeeshop girl or a CEO–I totally love the adventure of making a meaningful connection. One of yesterday’s highlights was meeting Stephanie, who probably had no fashion angst or apparent trouble taking meaningful notes on the conference unlike some people who write this blog–she’s just that naturally beautiful and smart.

Tamar, one of my fellow volunteers here at Blogher took one look at my zine and decided Stephanie and I must know each other immediately. Stephanie and I quickly realized we were part of a mutual admiration society, mostly the artist, poet and sage chapter, and that we knew each other oh-so-distantly in the comment section of this blog. My heart was instantly drawn to her kindness and candor. I completely adored her.

During one of the opening sessions, Stephanie’s business partner James stood and spoke about a project they had done for Macy’s that focused on empowering young bloggers as emerging press. I had a real soul reaction to that story because I could see that this guy understood what it meant to hold space so that something transformational could happen. That’s holy work in my book, and I recognize it from my work as a doula and also my role in the world as someone who can bless and call something new into being, just by naming it.

I knew we needed to talk later, and from our brief introduction earlier, James did, too.

I wish I could say exactly what happened in that conversation hours later, but regular readers of this blog will understand when I say that James is kind of a soul repair specialist as well as a soul furniture mover. Every once in a great while–maybe just a handful of times in your lifetime–you meet someone who tells you a story about yourself that changes everything, a story so wonderful and preposterous that you just have to dare it might be true. James told me that kind of story, and I took it straight into my heart.

I think in that moment the conference ended for me. The purpose has been accomplished. I can change out of my fancy-schmancy clothes and go back to being a truer, more complete version of me.

After our conversation, James invited me to dinner with Stephanie and a handful of new friends, including my sister the comedienne with the five week old baby. There are so many things I enjoyed about the night, tiny details I want to remember. As we were leaving I told James that we were friends now, that that’s how it works for me and this conference thing. He agreed. I think we might have even shook on it.

It’s 4:30 in the morning here as I type. I thought I couldn’t sleep at home because it’s so magically silent, but evidentally I can’t sleep in New York either. Maybe I just needed to send you this letter. Maybe I just needed to jot notes to myself, so I can keep the memory sharp in my mind. I’m too sleepy to put the poetry in my heart into words for this post, but I’m sure those words will come soon. Some day after a night when I’ve had a full eight hours of sleep. Much love to you all as always.

Ocean Beach, CA, July 2006–photo by cookie

Dark, dark night has come to my sleepy street. I sit here in my dining room, taking in the amazing quiet and the fact that this house is clean, clean, clean. Not that any of it is my doing, no, no. This weekend Dave gave me an unlimited get-out-of-jail free card, and while I’ve been out and about shopping for my sanity, he’s been puttering around the house, cooking kick-ass meals and putting all my disrepair back in order.

I don’t like to write about marriage too often–mostly because I am not that good at being married, the same way I’m not that great at keeping my house in order. I’m not a very good roommate; I don’t put things away. I’m shocked–truly and honestly shocked–when things don’t go my way. I have trouble remembering Dave is different that I am. I forget almost every single day that I have to say what I’m thinking–plainly and in English–so Dave has an honest chance to understand my heart.

Marriage–like art or parenting or any other passion you devote your life to–requires that you do your soul work or run the risk of a little part of you dying. When you’re young and foolish, this sounds like the perfect kind of challenge. Ten years later, you realize just how much work you have left to do.

Sometimes I like to tell myself that being married means it’s impossible for me to pursue my writing or my art. There’s so much responsibility, so much continuity. I can’t just pack up my backpack and follow a story across the country when it occurs to me. I can’t disappear for a week or a month or a year to do my work and then turn up again like a drifter. These are the little stories I tell myself on bad days. As if anyone has this kind of reckless freedom.

Most of the time what really holds me back from my creativity is my fear of the hard parts. Of finishing something and finding out it’s not so great. Of trying something and finding out I’m not that good. Art, like my marriage, asks me to stay even when it’s scary. Writing, like my marriage, asks me to put it down in plain English even when I’m still learning the landscape of my dark, lovely heart.

Last night I had a dream that Dave was preparing an enormous fire in our living room. He was stacking the wood and the kindling in such a way that all it would take is one spark to create a blaze akin to the burning bush. Across from the fireplace, there was a beautiful bed with linens so lovely, I didn’t even want to touch them. I stood at the doorway of that dream, taking in that scene, feeling how happy Dave was to make that fire for me. I’m making this fire to keep you warm, he said. It was one of the most hopeful dreams I have ever had–about my marriage and my art.

All my life, I have resisted the notion of hearth and home, even as I made this choice my own. So many times I’ve chosen to see my creative life through the flame of the little matchgirl instead of the blaze of a roaring fire and the comforts of a warm dry bed. So far, that’s been enough to get me by, but maybe not for much longer.

My marriage, my soul, my art and even my dreams–each invites me now to put down those traveling shoes, slip into something more comfortable. Let someone else in the picture–maybe the kind one who sleeps in my bed each night. Maybe the secret hidden part of me that knows how to enjoy that much stability. That much wild primal light.

I’m learning how important it is that I listen to this story. It’s about so much more than marriage really. It is the story of gathering the confidence and trust I need to pour out my passion and my art.

+++++

It’s 4:30 in the morning now. The comments serve as confessional this morning for any and all hopes and fears related to your creative journey. Anonymous, you especially–no experience in or out of marriage required. At nightfall, I’ll light a candle and say a blessing as a way of adding some hope to our way.

Sometimes it seems the Universe conspires to not only inform you that you are known and loved, but also to gently suggest that you stop being such an asshole (to yourself and everyone else) and spend a day or two in the Soul Repair Garage, getting some much needed work. I wish I could report that I coast into this situation with much gratitude, so glad for all the loving soul service, but it’s more of a tow-truck operation after a ten car wreck.

The scariest thing for me about getting called in for soul repair is the way I so quickly assume that my case is beyond hope. Too many discouraging words or disjointed moments and the whole Universe is called into question. I wonder if I am imagining divine love and care. I start to suspect I am making it all up. I look at the atheists and think, now there are some people who know courage in the face of darkness. And everything I believe in, every tiny thing I do to bring my light to the world starts to feel silly.

I have a hard time believing that anything will turn out okay when my heart feels fractured and torn.

Today my friend Grace listens to this darkest fear and sighs with me. “I don’t have a lot of faith right now, but I have a little, and I’ll hold on to it for both of us if that helps.” She tells me stories about people feeling hopeful, people letting their grief come to the surface. She tells me about sacred spaces and about feeling close to something greater especially in that silence. I listen to her voice, and to the sound of my breath rising and falling. I listen, and suspect deep down that for now, this is more than enough.