Hello from the Other Side

 

It is a melancholy morning.

I’m not sure if the weather is affecting my mood, as the various shades of grey float overhead and the street is filled in a sort of half-light.  The green looks green, but all the other hues seem dulled with this canopy of neutral sky where I want the blue to be.

There are days when I think that I simply wake in a mood and the universe follows suit.  That isn’t a delusion of grandeur marking manic episodes, it is just an observation that life is tied in intriguing ways with our environments.  And I don’t know if my mood is tied to my surroundings or my surroundings are tied to my mood at times.  Granted, I understand that I don’t control the weather.  It is less of a fact than a statement of how life feels today.

Close.  Dreary.  And a bit sad.

So, of course a melancholy girl throws on Adele 25 the moment Spotify loads on her computer.  Who better to nurse a mood like this than Adele?

And the first song is Hello.  And it hits me in a way I don’t expect.  It is totally about relationships most days—or at least that is how my psyche interprets it most days.  But today it feels like a signpost of my difference.  Today it feels like that song is meant for me to holler across the chasm between me and others.  Today it demarcates my life from the life of the “normal” person in my society.

Today I feel outside of the lines that are drawn to boundary the “good” from the “bad”.  Today I feel like all of the weight of my situation and my life and my history and my overactive mind and my grief is loaded upon my shoulders.  And I don’t see others carrying that weight.  And it makes me feel not just different, but “wrong” somehow.  Atypical.  Anomalous.  Weird.

At times, I think that others must have this weight too, and maybe they are just better at disguising it.  Maybe their shoulders are a bit broader and stronger.  Maybe the weight is distributed in ways that make carrying it easier.

But I am a woman living alone in one of the most challenged neighborhoods in the City of Big Shoulders.  I should be able to carry most anything.  And I know from experience that I am an expert at covering over the winces and stumbles that the world’s weight can bring about.  I’m so good at it that people believe I am faking or crying out for attention when the winces and stumbles show up, instead of understanding that I am always covering up my suffering and pain.

And I also have this sense that the reason I feel so melancholy today is that I am getting closer and closer to my goals of being mindful in every moment.  I’m letting myself feel whatever comes, and then letting it pass without having to grasp and cling to those feelings.   This morning I woke in a mood that left me longing and saddened and apart.  But I don’t need to cling to that mood.  And I don’t need to cover up that mood.  It can just stand.  It can just be.  It can just happen.

There is much in my life that has been heavy.  There is much in my day that might be heavy.  There are clouds in the sky that seem heavy.  And in some ways my heart is heavy.

With good reason.

My daughter is feeling uncertain about her future.  Someone I care for is dealing with his mother’s cancer diagnosis.  Old friends are slowly saying goodbye to their tiny boy before he is removed from life support.  Destruction and death are touching almost every inch of this little blue planet.  Need has become the hallmark of my life.  Loss is deeply felt.  Struggle lives up and down each block in my neighborhood.  I look down upon it right now, with the boarding up of yet another building and the remnants of last night’s celebrations covering the empty lots.  And there is this all-consuming feeling that I am alone in knowing the expanse of all of this.

There is a feeling that I know pain in ways that others do not or cannot.  There is a feeling that I have been through the most, the hardest, the most devastating.  There is a feeling that my empathy is too great, and my heart is too tender, and I feel too much.

But I also wouldn’t change that.  I wouldn’t change any of that.

If I had the option to not be abused, to not live on the run, to not marry an asshole, to not be a single parent, to not dance for money, to not fight my way through evictions and repossession and shit credit, and to instead have all the good things in life, I wouldn’t choose it.

There is something beautiful about being melancholy.  There is something beautiful about having deeply felt pain and struggle.  There is something beautiful about my difference and my distance from the general public.  There is something beautiful about being able to know this pain and this struggle and to keep on going.  There is something beautiful about my life and my history and my challenges and my neighborhood and my loss and my burdens.  Even if those things weight me, and make the day feel grey, they are still beautiful.

The other day I texted a friend whose brother is going through some challenges, just to check in and see how things were going or if there was any way I could help.  And at one point in our exchange, I texted, “Everything eventually resolves, right?”

It wasn’t actually a question.  It was rhetorical.  And it was true.

Everything eventually resolves.

There is weight.  There is struggle.  There is sadness.  There is loss.  There is death, destruction, and damage.  There is pain.  And there is the promise that this too shall pass.

Nothing lasts forever.  My melancholy mood might lift with the return of the sun, or with a text from a friend, or with the morning tomorrow.  It might hold on for weeks.  But at some point, melancholy will no longer be my mood.  It will change.  It will resolve.

And being mindful helps me to know and to understand and to accept that it will resolve.  It allows me to feel it, but not live inside of it.  There is a way to approach our feelings that acknowledges them, lets them be felt, and then releases them when they do not serve us well.  There is a way to hold on to the promise that things will resolve, and that this feeling isn’t the whole of our situation, or our circumstance, or our being.  It is only a feeling.  And feelings come and go.

So, while I still feel like I am shouting an echoing hello across a chasm to the “normal” in my society, and while I still feel immense weight upon my shoulders, and while I still work through struggle that most never experience, I am at peace with my melancholy mood.  It has come.  It will go.  And I don’t need to hang on to it when it isn’t serving me well.  It isn’t going to be weighting me for long.  It is not here to stay.  It will resolve.

Adele’s album, however, will stay.  It is already saved in my Spotify account.  And I know that playing it tomorrow might yield completely different feelings than it offered today.  Because life develops, changes, keeps moving, comes in waves, and offers us feelings anew.  We just need to let it.  We only need to acknowledge, accept, and release what comes.

Let life resolve.

Feeling

I have embarked upon the KonMari method of tidying my home and my life.  And it is a lot of damned work!  To collect all of your things is, in itself, a huge task.  To go through all of them is even more of a struggle.

But it is also a gift.

This morning, I went through all the stacks of paper that have accumulated on my desk as I sought to cleanse the past from my file boxes.  When I initially began this project, I had five stacks of paper:  theology stuff, philosophy stuff, sexuality stuff, resources, and the pile where things I couldn’t decide upon waited for further consideration.  And I fully intended to neatly file the remaining papers, and felt proud that I had accomplished creating a big bag of items to remove from my space.  After I began the art of tidying, and touched every item, and considered whether or not it sparked joy in me, I took those five stacks and narrowed them to about eleven pages, leaving two huge bags that I cannot carry for the trash heap.

Eleven pages.  That is all that sparked joy out of the mounds of items that I had previously thought I must or I wanted or I needed to keep.

The KonMari method is a way of choosing what you love.  And you do this by physically handling every item.  When I first began the process, and began touching each sheet of paper, I thought this would take me years to get through just the items on my desk.  But I was wrong.  I began to know immediately the things that I touched which touched my heart.  I sprinted through the process of cleaning my desk.  It took less than an hour to find the beautiful Wonder Woman covered work surface, and to feel free of all of that paper.

Just touching it let me know whether I loved it or not.  Just the feeling.

I’ve spent most of my life repressing one feeling or another, and in the process became an unfeeling being—untouched by what surrounded me and dissociating from the world and from myself.  Distance from feelings is sort of the norm for a lot of people in my history.  Somehow stoicism and “strength” have been placed in honor and to not show emotion or break down or cry have been ways that people around me approached life.

But that way of approaching life sucks.

Once those walled off places in my being where all the emotions were being stuffed began to crack, a flood of emotion happened.  And with that flood of emotion came care and compassion and love and passion and desire and purpose.  All of those things are good.  But in pushing back the anger or frustration or fear or confusion in my life, I was also making it impossible to wade in the waters of all those beautiful things.  They are all mixed together.  You can’t hide one and hold another.  You either feel or you don’t.

Feeling things can be really difficult at times … especially those times that bring up the anger or frustration or fear or confusion.  But feeling things can also be amazing and awe-inspiring and utterly fabulous!  And understanding that both are natural and normal, and that judgments of “good” or “bad” or “right” or “wrong” are not helpful or correct, but embracing all of them as a part of the human experience, brings great freedom and joy.

I am finding joy in eleven pages today.  I am finding joy in letting go of what doesn’t help me and embracing that which does.  I am finding joy in accepting that things serve us well for a time, and then we must send them on their way.  I am finding joy in touching and feeling and embracing and releasing.

There is another method that I am reminded of during this process.  Morita therapy is something that my daughter introduced me to, and it has become a great help, which parallels my experience with the KonMari method in some ways.  Morita therapy is based in accepting emotions—recognizing them and honoring them, but not necessarily needing to act upon them.  You feel all of the things, and judge none of them as good or bad, right or wrong, but just let them be.  Then you hold what you wish and release what you don’t wish to hold.  You just let the feelings come and go.  You needn’t act upon them.  So, when you feel anger, it is valid, but you needn’t punch people as a result.  You simply feel the anger, let it be present, and then send it on its way.  When you feel anxiety, or happiness, or fear, or peace, or whatever emotion may be present, you let it be felt and validate its presence, and then choose to act or not to act upon that feeling.  This is a rather simplistic explanation of the method, but explaining more fully would take up too many words and too much of my time.  You can easily find more information on Morita, just Google that shit. (Technology is fabulous sometimes!)

So, I sit at my very clean desk, and I think about feeling.  I think about touching my belongings and how easily I can feel whether a thing brings me joy or not.  And I think about touching my soul, and how it should probably be just as easy to know which emotions and thoughts and actions will bring me joy.  But for some reason it isn’t.

I blame conditioning by a patriarchal heteronormative society.

I blame lots and lots of things on conditioning by a patriarchal heteronormative society.  It deserves to carry that blame. It really screws up a multitude of things.

Somehow “strength” became synonymous with not showing emotion—that stoicism that I mentioned earlier.  And that meant building walls.  And even after they broke and the flood happened I kept trying to rebuild the walls.  Society wanted me to, after all.  Seeing and experiencing someone else’s flood makes your own walls crack a little.  So, avoiding anyone’s emotions seems a safe route to keeping your own walled in.  And when you fight for such a long time to patch walls, it becomes a struggle to do anything but … even when you know the patching is futile and robs you of the ability to fully experience joys and passions and loves.  It becomes a struggle to know yourself and accept your feelings.  It becomes a challenge to keep the walls down.  You keep feeling like you ought to put them back up.  And you feel vulnerable when you are walking around town without walls while all the others around you are locked behind rows and rows of brick and mortar.

But vulnerability is strength.  It brings happiness.  It offers you a more fulfilling life. And it frees you to feel all emotions, and to experience the fullness of humanity.

So, today I am vowing to touch all the things, and to feel everything—every part of my life, both internal and external—and to release what isn’t helping me and to hold what sparks joy.

And it is going to be a lot of damned work!

But it is also going to be a gift.

Edits

It is a weird process that I am embarking upon this winter.  I have decided to purge.

I am cleaning out closets, slowly but surely, and getting rid of things that are not used or that don’t fit.  I’m looking through my home and my life and my psyche and trying to let go of whatever doesn’t spark joy.  Frankly, if I don’t love it, it needs to go.

And the hardest part of this process is not letting go of those fabulous quilted boots I have been wearing and wearing out for the past three years, but letting go of my expectations for my life.

You see, the closets aren’t the only project.  I have been cleaning my office in little increments for the past month or so, and much of that work has been centered around clearing out boxes of files.  Once upon a time, we used paper to hand in assignments and take notes.  And that time left me with stack upon stack upon stack of paper.

It is more of an annoying task than a strenuous one.  I just need to pick up the file and flip through the pages and determine whether to keep or toss the papers within.  And the criteria of “love it, use it, or lose it” should help me to easily make such determinations.  I obviously haven’t used this paper in years, and I likely won’t use any of it again.

But I love this paper.

I shudder a bit at even making that statement, but it is an expression that I cannot get around.  I don’t love the actual pieces of paper, of course.  I love some of the ideas on the pages.  But that isn’t why I have kept them.  I have kept them because I thought I would use them in my future.  I believed that these articles and notes on theology and philosophy and psychology would be useful when I became a professor, or a writer of groundbreaking new concepts, or a preacher.  And today I am dealing with the fact that my belief was wrong.  I am not and will not be those things.  Those things take energy and capability and cognition that I do not have.  And sans miracle drugs, I never will.

I am not just throwing away notes and articles.  I am throwing away the goal that ten years of education was meant to bring me toward.  I am throwing away the ideas of my future self that have carried me through the last twenty years.  I am throwing away expectations and dreams and hopes and promises made to myself.  I am throwing away a life.

And I know that I have the opportunity to fashion a new life, based on new dreams and hopes.  But I still have this moment to cope with—this mourning the loss of what I loved and this struggle of having to find myself anew.  Everything I fought to achieve seems lost to me, and that is a difficult realization.

I am keeping some files.  I am holding on to some of my favorite and most transforming and best loved articles and papers.  At some point, maybe I will read them once more, or use them for my current writing projects, or offer them to others who are in need of the knowledge they hold.  Because I am not able to, nor do I wish to, erase the past twenty years of my life.  Those were good years in many ways.  And I don’t think they were wasted.  I learned.  I grew.  I developed my thought.  I opened my mind to new information.  I believed in myself.  I accepted my intelligence.  I embraced diversity.  I became more and better than the person I had been before embarking on years of study.

I have all of that growth and development to hold, even while I let go of the goals I had made during that time.  And that is wonderful.

But today, I am feeling a bit melancholy about the ways that I am having to change my view of myself and my accomplishments and my goals for the future.  It is a loss.  A deep loss. (And I often feel like I have had more than my share of loss already in life.)

It isn’t an easy process, this editing of my life and self.  Edits to my writing seem easy in comparison.  Rearranging my sentence structure is so much less work than rearranging a life.

There is one comfort I have in this process, which is the feng shui principle of making room.  New things can’t enter into your closet, or your office, or your life, if there is not space for them to move into.  So, a minimalist environment opens up all sorts of possibility, where an environment stacked and stuffed with things has no room for more.  I am tossing my past and my previous ideas of myself, but I am opening up room for the new future and the new ideas of myself to come.

And they will come—eventually.

My file boxes are already beginning to fill with clippings and found objects that would go great in an art project.  My bookshelves are filling with coloring books and meditations and fiction.  My blank pages are filling with ideas of who I am and what I might wish to pursue.  My closet is filling with clothes that actually fit over my ass.  My spare room is transforming into a yoga studio.  My mind is becoming a place of peace.  My heart is becoming more open to others.

And I suppose that I can find joy in the fact that I am editing a life—that it is being improved and perfected and changed and made new—and not ending a life.  There is more to this story.  There is more to come.

Procrastination

I once saw a meme on Pinterest that said something about the idea that you should make your living doing what you choose to do when you procrastinate. That made some sense to me, because that must be the thing you would always rather be doing.

Of course, I can procrastinate in myriad ways. And I will even sometimes stoop so low as to do the dishes before finishing a task I hate, even though if you asked what I hate most the response will often be “doing the dishes”. And I know I don’t want to make my living washing dishes. Done that. So over that. Never want to do that again.

But, I still think there may be some truth hidden in that meme, because right now all I want to do is write.

My “To Do” list includes: the hated washing of dishes, cleaning perishable items out of the fridge, packing food items, packing dog toys, portioning out medications to be sure I bring enough, packing the toiletries, spraying my peppermint oil bug repellant so centipedes don’t take over my house while I am away, packing extra Wii remotes and all the cords and chargers and various items needed to make electronics invade every aspect of life, pack my computer, unplug items that won’t be used while I am away, make my daughter pack the rest of her clothes (I am certain she will forget her bathing suit…the one I have mentioned four times already), put the butter in the fridge to avoid returning to a rancid stick of yuck where the butter once stood, prep snacks for the road, and take out the trash.

All this needs to be done in about 14 hours, and I should also sleep for seven or eight of those hours, at least. And yet I am typing about what needs be done instead of doing it. And maybe that is partly because this is the thing I love. This is my bliss. And when you have a long list of things to accomplish overwhelming your spirit, maybe the thing you love can help to calm and free and care for you.

I suspect that writing cares for me. I suppose that is why I am drawn to it, and always have been.

When I was young, books were a beautiful escape. I made a secret hideaway in the back of my closet and I would sneak back there and pour all of my attentions and affections into story. I loved the library. I loved the search for something new and interesting. I loved the way it felt like finding treasure when something you happened upon while browsing the shelves turned out to be one of your best friends, the story that you could not live without and that you read over and over until the librarian told you to cool it and let someone else check that book out for a change.

As I grew older the words began to come from inside. Mostly in jagged and torn sorts of poems or song lyrics. There was a lot of dysfunction and anger in those poems. So, I also started a journal. I would write out all the madness that was swimming in my head, and pour my struggles and pains onto the paper. It felt like a release. It felt good to get it out. And then, one day, I remembered that I used to write stories, and that I have always loved stories. So, I started to write those too.

Then I wrote flourishy-languaged and well-researched papers for graduate school. Some of them were rather fabulous. I still wonder at my lack of energy toward publishing any of them. I think they would have made great journal articles…might even have changed the world…but I didn’t seem to care and they sit in boxes in my office wondering if they will ever be read, I suppose. While I was writing for grad school, I mostly stopped writing for myself. I still loved writing, but the writing was to prove a point and to pass a class, not to let the stories out.

So now we come to today. We come to the place where almost all of what I write is written to tell my stories. And they are only about eight percent meant for others. They are told for me. They still offer me that release. They still allow me to get it out. Writing brings me peace. It brings me joy. It makes my life richer and more meaningful. It is the thing that I should be doing.

So, do it I shall!

And maybe it can be the way I make my living, or maybe it can be the way I find purpose in my life. Maybe it can be both and more. But what I know it will do now is make me late for my scheduled departure tomorrow, so perhaps I should stop doing the writing just now and start to tackle that list of tasks lazily labelled “B4 trip”

Don’t worry. I’m certain to send you some stories from the road!