Here I go again...

I know, Whitesnake. 

It is finally summer break. The hardest teaching year so far is behind me and I have saved up enough money to make it through the summer without working. I need this break to rest, to stay home, and to work on creating new curriculum for next year. I am setting a goal for myself to take at least an hour a day to write, be it in my journal, right here in the blog, or on my creative nonfiction piece that one day will become a book. But for now I need to carve out this time in my day and focus on the practice of creating. If one were to scroll through previous blog posts one might see that I have set this goal before. I have it in my habit tracker, and each night I go to sleep without checking off the box next to "journal." Even though I could merely write a few sentences to be able to check off the box, I still manage to ignore the deep need to write. Why?

"I don't know where I'm going, / but I sure know where I've been / hanging on the promises in songs of yesterday, / an' I've made up my mind. I ain't wasting no more time"  (David Coverdale / Bernie Marsden).

Can one be an expert at wasting time? I may just be the poster child for the art of deflection and procrastination. I have put parental controls on Facebook for just this reason. But I know that once I create a routine around a certain habit I am good to go. Each and every morning I wake up, feed all of the critters with whom I reside, meditate, stretch, run, stretch, and head out the door to work. Every Sunday I create meals for the upcoming week. Before bed I meditate again. So it is not really a stretch to add five minutes of journaling into my day. But I don't. Because it feels good. Because the act of writing soothes my soul, calms me down, fills me with hope, and connects me to something much grander than my mind can fathom. It's just too good for me and so I do not do it. But, here I go again. 

Whitesnake sings, "Like a drifter I was born to walk alone." Writing is a solitary practice, yes, but the process of sharing one's writing brings the act from a solitary experience to a communal one. I do not know who reads this, if anyone, but as I sit here with an imaginary audience I am connected. And that is where the fulfillment comes into play. I connect to the solitary experiences of others within this act of allowing words to appear on the screen. I am part of a larger community of writers, of readers, and of seekers. I feel that I am not alone. And maybe that is why I struggle to sit here and write. There is something familiar about being stuck. It is safe here by myself. Nobody can criticize me. Just for today I am going to step into the community because "I ain't wasting no more time." So here we are and here I go again. Hopefully I will be at the blank screen again tomorrow.

Finding My Play Again

When my sister and I were little we had a swing set in our backyard, complete with monkey bars and slide. We would swing across the monkey bars, do front and back flips on the side bars, and spend hours pumping our legs, swinging higher and higher trying to touch the branches of a silver maple which shaded our afternoon romps. Our young bodies became strong and agile while we played, no need for free weights or cardio machines. Years later my adult self grasped onto the monkey bars while working as a camp counselor. I lifted my legs. The little girl inside said go for it. The adult body said hell no. I could not even make it to the second bar. I was not a weakling, I ran, I lifted weights, and practiced yoga (still do), yet I could not support my weight, nor let go for long enough to grasp the second bar.

When did I lose my ability to actively play? I know that many people play sports as adults, amuse themselves at carnivals and other forms of entertainment, but the play that I lost was an all encompassing, total body immersion kind of play. The kind where I hang upside down, twirl around and around on a swing, and run full speed and do a cartwheel in the grass, barefoot. The kind of play where I climb a tree, do a back bend or swing from a tire. I drive by playgrounds today and see adults, supervising little children as they let go and allow themselves to have full body fun, to watch the tree tops as they swing higher and higher and jump when the swing is still 6 feet in the air. I want to be that child again. I have tried, believe me, but my hips get pinched in the narrow swings, the backs of my thighs stick to the metal slides and my arms do not support my weight on the monkey bars.

So where am I going with this? At the risk of sounding like an advertisement (it really isn't,) I tried aerial yoga for the first time a few months ago. Not only was it a killer workout for my upper body, but it allowed me that full body play, which once I gained back I realized I had been missing. The class involved swinging, climbing, and hanging upside down. I left feeling energized, yet like I had a full body workout, to which my screaming triceps the following day can attest. I am not saying that everyone is missing play, but I was. I look forward to my biweekly classes at Berkcirque. I am also slightly tempted to invest in a tree swing in my back yard (while I still have health insurance). If someday you do see a 43 year old woman attempting to cross the monkey bars in the neighborhood playground, don't worry, it's just me, attempting to "play."
In the Berkshires: Berkcirque
Elsewhere: A good Google search will get you where you need to go.

Writing Hiatus

It has been a busy year. I finally landed the perfect job, and spent the last 9 months learning the ropes, preparing curriculum and teaching high school students some of my favorite books, The Canterbury Tales, Othello, The Hound of the Baskervilles, in addition to some modern short stories and poetry. So I haven't been writing.

Summer is winding down, and I am now preparing for a new school year. I have been itching to write, have been jotting down ideas and thinking through posts, but for some reason I have not taken the time to sit down at the computer, login and write. Writing brings me pleasure. Writing helps me to sort out any issues that arise, it helps me to put life into perspective, to make sense of the world and my reactions to the world. But, I have not taken the time to sit down and write. Why? Writing is something that helps me to make sense of a chaotic world and I choose to put it off. I will do it another day. Maybe chaos is just too comfortable. Maybe I don't want to see my part in a Facebook argument, or really look at how I could use a little dose of humility. Maybe I don't want to confront my negative mind.

So this post is my statement to the world (or the couple of people who will read this). I need to write. I do not necessarily need to write the next great American novel. I just need to write this post, insert a picture of the porcupine munching raspberries in my backyard, and hit publish. I need to start, after a long time of putting it off. Hiatus Over.

On Loss and Living

Elisabeth Kubler - Ross, in her 1969 book On Death and Dying, identified five universal stages of the grieving process: denial and isolation, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. To experience and then move through grief, not all stages need to be experienced, nor in a particular order.  We all experience life in our own unique ways.

I have experienced all of these stages when dealing with death, the initial shock, the why not someone else, the tears, and finally the gentle letting go. I remember being shocked at how angry I became after a dear friend committed suicide and the subsequent guilt for that same anger. How dare he do this to his family and friends? How dare I feel that way? Why didn't I notice he was in pain? These extreme tragedies take a toll on the body, emotionally and physically. It is understandable to go through extreme emotion when death occurs. It is the smaller losses that I have a harder time navigating and do not always allow myself the time and space to grieve and mend.

Let me take one small step back. I have been looking for full time, meaningful work for the past four years. Within that span of years, I have pieced together small jobs, usually just enough money to eek through, pay some bills and keep myself stuffed with tofu and kale. On a few occasions, I have actually obtained longer stints of temporary work, work that entailed months of steady work and income. It has been the loss of those longer stints, one just recently, that have proven intensely painful.

Now I am not comparing the loss of a loved one to the loss of a job, there is no comparison, however I am exploring whether the stages of grief can explain the complicated, convoluted feelings that I experience after my employment losses. First the denial and isolation, the initial, "I am so ok," accompanied by a huge smile and race to a far off location to cry by myself. Second, the "fuck you and your mother and all of her distant relatives." Third, the dreaded if onlies..."If only these people were different, or I was a transvestite from Jupiter..." Fourth, the utter ridiculous sadness, that realization that the health insurance is gone, I will have no money to eat and I will be living in a cardboard box (albeit a recycled one) for the rest of my life. Finally the acceptance, the knowledge that God does for me what I cannot do for myself. I cannot leave a place. I cannot even call in sick. I will stay in a situation until the bitter end, the marriage until all cards have been played (and it was a double deck) and only leave when I am broken. I believe that the Universe has my number. I need to be booted. And I need to find that ray of elusive hope fluttering in the breeze. In order to find that hope however, I have to stay with the feelings, to be here, in the present moment, in the uncomfortable, messiness of it all. Throughout the whole process though, I need to ignore the voice of the "You Suck Monster" and listen to the voice of the Divine, that voice that has always guided me, that has always gently kept me from situations that do not serve my Higher Purpose. I need to trust in the process, that gentle unfolding of life.

It is a beautiful day, and as I gaze out the windows I know that I still have a few more months of a paycheck, that maybe I will take that Yoga Teacher Training course this summer, or maybe something else. Fifteen years ago, I would never have thought I would be right where I am today. Fifteen years ago I was struggling to raise my son, battling with addiction and stuck in an unhealthy marriage. The Universe took care of me then, and it will surely take care of me now. I just have to open my hands, ask for help, and be ready to receive the answer.

Beginner Mind

It has been a long time since I have sat down to write; my fingers miss the rhythm of the tapping on the keyboard and my mind misses the meditative state that writing induces. It is a blustery Saturday in the Berkshires; the snow is still piled up in the backyard, but Spring birds have started their morning symphony. All is well.

I have not taken the time to write, I have not given myself the space to prattle off a poem, or even just a few lines, lines that someday will transform into a story, a post, or even just a note to myself. I have been too "busy," rushing about my day, working and commuting while squeezing in runs and yoga and shopping and bill paying and time with my partner. Too often, what is really important, what really brings me joy, those activities are stuffed into a drawer. Out of sight, out of mind. If I were to go back, to read my previous blog posts, I would undoubtedly find a post similar to this one, following months of silence. What is really important to me today? Do I make the space in my day to nurture those things? Probably not.

It is National Poetry Month. Yes, it is already April 4, but I remember last year on April 1 I made the vow to create one poem per day. I upheld that vow and was left with 30 poems, some corny, some nonsensical and a few that made me smile. The act oif creating as a daily practice is intensely powerful. It is within the act of caring for my self and my soul, that I find God. It is within the intersection of self-care, silence, and creativity, that my Higher Power exists.

So right now I gaze at the sun-streaked sky, the balsam pines swaying in the wind, the snow disappearing, and oak leaves floating across bare ground. It is in this moment that I am grateful, for the desire to put my fingers to the keyboard and the space and time to do so. 

Compassion Is For Sissies

I made it through Thanksgiving, and as a long time vegetarian recently turned vegan, it has become increasingly harder with each passing year. I cannot stand to see the freezer filled with Butterballs. But I shied away from writing about the mass of feelings surrounding the deaths of millions of birds and the resulting pictures that filled my Facebook newsfeed. Why? Because sometimes I feel as if compassion is mocked in our society. Men are called sissies for crying, women hysterical. We don't let our sensitivity show lest we are called weak. I do not see mobs of people sobbing in front of the lobster tank at Price Chopper. We kill. We kill people, we kill animals, we value killing. People cheered when Osama Bin Laden was killed. Many of us support the death penalty. And most of us eat dead cows, pigs, chickens and turkeys. Vegetarian Times Magazine released a study in 2008 that stated: "...3.2 percent of U.S. adults, or 7.3 million people, follow a vegetarian-based diet. Approximately 0.5 percent, or 1 million, of those are vegans, who consume no animal products at all. In addition, 10 percent of U.S., adults, or 22.8 million people, say they largely follow a vegetarian-inclined diet" (Vegetarian Times). Not a large percentage of the population. It is 2014 and if that study were repeated it might show an increase of vegetarians out there, but it is still just a drop in the bucket. I admit, I am a sensitive person, and sensitivity seems to be undervalued in our culture. If I were to say that every time I saw meat in a supermarket I felt upset, or that when I thought of baby cows taken away from their mothers to make dairy products, I teared up, you might call me insane. Who cries over milk, spilled or in a glass tumbler? Is there such a thing as too sensitive? I hope not. Dr. Nalini Chilkov explored the process of creating a compassionate society in her article on the Huffington Post. Although the article is based on the practice of Buddhism, she wrote: "The path to a compassionate society arises from the intentions and actions of individuals within that society. One small act of kindness and generosity ... one act of tenderness ... one act of selflessness ... each of these moments makes a difference. No act is too small." Maybe what is important for me today is to value my own compassion, and my own sensitivity. It is a big part of who I am. The trick is to suspend judgement of others, because that is not compassion at all. I choose to eat plants rather than animals. Maybe you are a carnivore. I value compassion today, but that doesn't mean that you do not, although in my mind I am screaming at you. And if you see someone crying in the meat department, please don't judge.

Spiritual Adventuring

I cannot remember where I heard the term, "spiritual adventuring," but it struck me, enough to stop what I was doing and write it down. This blog post has been sitting here, blank, for at least a month, with only the title. As I write these words, I do not even know what the end result will be, but that is ok. By the time I hit the "publish" button, there will hopefully be a fully formed idea. For me, that is part of the fun of writing. I begin and see where it leads. To me, my spiritual life is similar to my spiritual life. I begin with a thought and see where it leads me. Over the years I have tread innumerable paths: from the religion of my upbringing (Christianity), to a place within the Unitarian Universalist community as a young adult, to experimentation in New Age concepts (yes I took a Tarot Reading course and explored Shamanism). I have participated in a past life regression, (don't even ask) and studied meditation and yoga. I have become a Reiki practitioner and have worked through twelve step programs. And I am still exploring.

Lately, there have been controversies surrounding the practice of other religions within a so-called

"Christian" nation. I have read the comments of outrage, how dare we accept people of other faiths, people who do not recognize the "one true God." This outrage lately seems to be pointed at Muslims. For the past 2000 years Christians themselves have been persecuted in this way. At first I was angered, why can't we all just get along, why can't Christians accept others of different religions? But then the anger faded. I sit here as a person who has led a spiritually adventurous life, and you know what? It is pretty cool. I try out different practices, I pray in a myriad of ways, I take what I can use and leave the rest. I chant "Om" after yoga, I meditate, I give and receive Reiki treatments and I partake in sessions with a spiritual counselor. Today the image of my Higher Power is that of a Great Blue Heron and an ancient oak tree. I find peace next to a stream and I talk with my ancestors as I watch the water rushing by. Sometimes I call God a She, and am amused when people get all flustered and self- righteous (yes, that is not so spiritual of me but kind of fun). Tomorrow, my spiritual practice may change, and I may discover a way up the mountain of which I was previously unaware. I look forward to it, a new spiritual adventure. Can I get an "Om?"

Looking For Balance on the Equinox

The autumnal equinox was yesterday, a day where light and dark are balanced. It also signals the beginning of autumn, a season here in the northeast of great change and beauty, foretelling the months of harsh weather and darkness. I asked myself, as I was on my daily run: Am I living a balanced life today? Am I balancing the active doing part with rest and inner searching?

I have written about balance before, on numerous occasions. It is a concept that has always eluded me. Right now I am traversing through the world of underemployment, so I have more time available to meditate, run, practice yoga and eat home cooked healthy meals. But what happens when that forty hour a week position becomes a reality? What will I have to let go of in order to take care of my body's basic needs, such as actually sleeping. It would be nice if I could survive on five hours a night, but alas, I am an eight hour gal. 

If I create a blue print for a perfect day, maybe I can adjust it when I do start working longer days, using a mathematical formula perhaps? If today I spend one hour running and one hour in yoga, if my time reduces by 50%, would a half hour of running and half hour of yoga still meet my needs? Here I begin to overthink and stop paying attention to what my body needs. Part of what the Autumn equinox teaches, is to first come to a place of balance, and slowly, minute by minute, begin to slow down as winter approaches. In this world of doing doing doing, we tend to ignore our bodies and the signals we receive from them. Winter is a time to sleep longer, go within, and find the peace and quiet in the dark. Our cave person ancestors weren't hunting and gathering at 7pm in the middle of winter. They were huddled around a fire, perhaps quietly making spears. 


Perhaps the secret to a balanced life begins with paying attention to the rhythms of my body. To sleep when I need sleep, to run when I am restless, and to sit and meditate when my mind needs calming. But how does one do that in the "real" world? First, when time begins to become scarce, I must look for time drains. Honestly, how many hours a day are spent watching Netflix? These precious hours can be used more efficiently. One hour of yoga versus one hour of "Ally McBeal?" No contest there, the yoga, will benefit exponentially more than mindless television. Just for today I will practice some balance, I will pay attention to what my body needs and maybe I will actually listen. 

Creating a Spiritual Practice

Creating a spiritual practice is much like painting a masterpiece. You sit down at the canvas and just pick up

the brush. Where do you begin? First some colors must be gathered, mixed, prepared...then maybe just maybe you feel as if you should start painting with cerulean blue. Just take a dab of paint at first, try not to go too heavy handed in the beginning. Now remember, this will not be done overnight. I have been creating a spiritual practice for years now. Layers of paint have added, colors mixed, a little turpentine comes in handy when something didn't work.

I am writing this as I am reentering society, "reality" as some might call it, after a week on Cape Cod. I spent this week running, attending spiritual group meetings, walking my dogs, daily yoga classes, eating healthy vegan food, and relaxing on the beach. Most of the week was spent in silence, on my own. It was a beautiful week, and by the end, I began to feel like a person again. It was a week I would have never been able to take had I been hired at my "dream job." It felt as if my spiritual practice was supercharged. I already have a daily practice: prayer in the morning, running meditation, and spiritual meetings with others. I also write a daily gratitude list and eat vegan food (a practice of non violence.) But the week on my own, near the ocean and an abundance of yoga classes and running trails, allowed me to, as Emeril would say, kick it up a notch. And today, as I have no full time employment as of yet, I can continue this daily practice. But what happens when I find employment? The hour of yoga and two hours of running, followed by prayer and meditation and an evening walk with the dogs, might not fit so well when working 8 hours and commuting. Plus, I am adding too much to my daily practice at one time. I have noticed, that a habit sticks when I add one at a time, and a doable goal. If I were to say, plan on adding a full yoga practice while increasing mileage and meditation time while simultaneously juggling a life, a relationship, a grown child, animals, a household and family and friends, I might internally combust. Or the new routine would just not stick.

What color can I add to my canvas today? Might it be a gentle stretch in the morning while I am brushing my teeth, and maybe a few minutes of alternate nostril breathing to calm my mind with the goal of continuing to take at least one yoga class per week?  I would love to end each day, feeling just like I did while on my retreat. But life is what happens when we are making plans. And a full immersion in a complicated spiritual practice might not pay the bills or make my partner happy. Just for today I will add a few small pieces from my retreat into my daily practice, see how the color looks on my already paint splattered canvas. I can always add more paint later. And it only takes a small shift to make a change.

What's Eating You?

"If something is eating you, you got to find a way to use it," said the art teacher from the movie  Speak. This got me to thinking about just what is eating me (because something is) and how I can use it. 

So I have been sending out resumes for the career field I chose since February of 2011, and proceeded to spend 120,000$ on the education needed for said career. It is now March of 2014 and, countless resumes and cover letters and "no thank yous" later, I am still searching. Now granted I am not the only one, and English majors are a quarter per dozen (inflation,) and I know that I would have a job if I was, say a Physics major with a minor in biochemistry. I also know that "rejection is God's protection." But I am also tired of not being able to support myself. So that is what is eating me. So how can I use this frustration / anger / uncertainty / apathy that is beginning to eat away at my stomach lining? Create something would appear to be the answer. As a writer my impulse is to grab a pen and create a sonnet, or possibly a haiku. But I also know that mucking around in the bog of complex emotions won't get me far. I have prayed, I have shared, I have knit hats, I have written poems and blog posts. The act of creating is cathartic, but if a tree falls in the woods, does it make a sound? If the resulting creation is not shared or read or seen, does it exist? 

Today a motivational speaker / life coach came into school to speak with students in our internship program. He talked about just how much we really don't know about the world and how there is a perfect career path for all of us. He had us break down what we loved about our jobs (the students, their internships) and what we don't want in our workplace. He went on to explain that sometimes we can find meaningful work in the unexpected places. I want to be a teacher, but if I were to break that career down into pieces, I would need work that involves teaching, collaboration, creating and connecting the dots. It would involve working with young people (not too young) and it would be a new adventure everyday. I would have autonomy and creative license, I would use my research skills frequently and I would have opportunities for reading and writing. Now a classroom teacher is one way to go. But maybe I am missing something. Maybe in that space of limbo I am meant to cast a wider net. Maybe the frustration / anger / uncertainty / apathy is lurking for good reason. I don't know. But I know that I don't know and I guess, just for today, that is enough.

Running for Meg

I ran five miles today, nothing out of the ordinary. But today I ran that five miles for Meg, a woman who was struck by a drunk driver on her morning run this past Monday. We runners have all had close calls, we have all jumped out of the way just in time to avoid the distracted driver barreling toward us. But this week we lost one of our own. I do not know Meg, but I know a little about her.

I am her: I am a mother, a daughter, a friend, and a runner. I know what it feels like at the end of a run, when all of my limbs are tingling. I know what it feels like to reach a goal, to shave a few minutes off a race time, or to meet a new mileage goal. I know what it feels like to have something to work toward. I know what it is like to stand at the start line with thousands of others, with one purpose, to run. I know what it is like to run through the finish, with bystanders and faster runners cheering me on. Today, I, along with a whole lot of other people ran for a woman we don't know, and will never meet. We ran because that is what we do when we are sad, when we are anxious or when we need to work through a problem. Runners run. We ran after the tragedy at the Boston Marathon. And we will run the next time we lose someone.

Today I also ran for those who have never experienced the silence of a country road after snow. I ran for those who don't pay attention, who have never noticed the bluebirds sitting atop swaying stalks of milkweed, or great blue heron waiting patiently for a fish. I ran for those who have never stretched out sore muscles, who have never felt truly alive as their bodies moved in time with breath down a back road. I ran for those who don't understand. 

Today I attempted to find compassion for those who value their destination or their text messages over my life. I tried to forgive those who find it amusing to scare me by swerving into my path or those who just don't care. I thought of Meg, and of Jim, and of all the others who have been killed or injured doing what they love to do, run. Today I am grateful, I am grateful to have been given the gift of this day, to run, without my headphones on the back roads of Berkshire County, with snow silently falling. I ran past rabbit tracks and a family of deer. I ran because that is what I do. My thoughts go out to family and friends of Meg today and it is an honor to be part of an amazing, supportive community.

Megsmiles Website

Random Acts of Kindness

My weekend ritual includes a trip to my local Dunkin, for a very large super caffeinated coffee. This morning, the young woman manning the drive through told me that she is very happy to see me pull up because I am always so kind, and usually people aren't. This comment made my day, I felt amazing, pulling out and heading home (not because of the lack of kind people out there). The simple act of kindness, of connecting with strangers, is divinity in action. I cherish the "relationships" I have with local workers, the folks who greet me by name at the turnpike exit everyday, and the stories of their lives that I receive, bit by bit, add dimension to my day. I refuse to get an easy pass because it would mean that I wouldn't find out where someone went for their four day weekend, and no one would ask me when my next race was. I was disturbed recently to find that a large grocery store was handing out self scanners. You scan your own groceries before placing them into a bag. This conveniently eliminates the need to converse with anyone while shopping. I enjoy asking cashiers how their day is going, and then listening as they tell me that their grandson is sick or that they have a doctors appointment coming up. I feel as if I am part of a community, I am a thread within the divine web. Technology has both created more and cut many existing connections we have with our fellow man. We are available 24 hours a day to receive phone calls or emails, but we lose the face to face conversations that bring us in contact with other people. So for today I am saying no to easy pass, to hand held scanners and to self checkouts. I cherish the connections I have with people out in the community. I enjoy being someone who makes others smile, it is a gift that is returned to me tenfold. Try it, you might like it.

Ode to a Great Blue Heron

It is foliage season in New England, the leaves are turning their brilliant or not so brilliant colors before dropping to the ground to be come recycled material. It always sneaks up on me, one day I will be standing in the woods and they are awash in color, the next day, or so it seems all that's left are branches. The variances in between are imperceptible. We become accustomed to our surroundings so don't notice the beauty until it is too late. I said good bye to the Great Blue Heron that lives nearby, a bird that somehow, in some way I see almost every day, either flying overhead at dusk, or sitting on the edge of the pond, waiting for his dinner to pop up. Soon he will be leaving for warmer climates, along with the Canadian geese and hummingbirds. But it is this smokey gray bird that I will miss the most as snow starts to blanket my backyard. I live in an area with four seasons, each having its draw points. Autumn with the brilliant colors, fresh apples, pumpkins and breezy bright clear days. Winter has soft white snow, fires in the hearth, hot chocolate and...and what? Shorter days that allow for cozy naps, and (insert your own winter wonder here.) So yes, I may be a little bitter about the end to warmer temperatures and my favorite bird, but I have become accustomed to my surroundings so much that I have failed to accept every season, including the one that is hard on the wallet and snow shovel. Winter is also the season to bundle up, become quiet and go within. The blanket of snow muffles most of the outside activity. Spring's dramatic burst, and autumn's color spectacular make way for a time of solitude and silence. I don't work well with peace and quiet. As November approaches I want to be cognoscente of my internal dramatic self that longs for a little chaos and excitement, a roller coaster ride or two. I can feel her yawn and stretch, to start daydreaming about possible ways to create trouble, to pick a fight or bring a little color to the silence. This winter I want to sit in the silence and learn how to enjoy it, beyond acceptance. The silence is where I find my God, my connection with the vastness that is there.