Nourishing Self Awareness

I slept for about an hour the other night then woke up with an upset stomach I’ve had intermittently for days and went to the internet to self diagnose.  Could I have an ulcer?  The next morning I found a Pearl Bailey quote from her 1968 autobiography, The Raw Pearl, I believe more thoroughly explains my upset; “There’s a period of life when we swallow a knowledge of ourselves and it becomes either good or sour inside.”  My stomach has been aching all week and I think it’s curdled self knowledge that’s collected heavy and sludgy in the pit of stomach just like milk that’s been left in the refrigerator one month past its expiation date.

Like those who have had chaotic childhoods, I suffer with a subconscious fear of abandonment.  This fear precipitates an unconscious reaction and expectation that my love relationship will fail.  Like a fearful dog masks his dread by barking, I too lash out and growl during an argument with my husband, and once the words have evaporated hold onto this defensive anger to guard myself against the wound I anticipate.

We humans unconsciously seek partners and situations that will help us relive, in order to heal, our childhood disappointments and traumas.  But because it’s a painful area of our psyches, and like a defiant child who touches the hot stove we’ve learned through experience to run from pain, we avoid getting close to someone by being attracted to people who aren’t emotionally or physically available to us, or we unconsciously push others away.  Still other times we pursue intimacy because we crave connection but once we get the relationship we want, either hang on desperately even if it isn’t serving our needs or flee realizing that once again our ideal love isn’t really ideal.  At least these are some of the ways I avoided them.  But the reality is that until we’re in a relationship we can’t work on our relationship issues.

When we first got together, life with my boyfriend was bliss and we seemed alike in so many ways.  We agreed, we talked, and we planned as soul mates do.  Once the symbiotic stage of love evaporated though, as it inevitably does, and we settled into daily reality, we found that we’re entirely different in many ways.  Now in order to be a happily-married couple we have two choices; grow together in intimacy and meet the challenge of courageously looking at ourselves within the relationship, or use all methods of avoidance to coexist yet block the real closeness that can occur if we stare unflinchingly into the mirror our partner becomes.

It takes two to disagree just as it takes two to make love.  Instead of thinking of a soul mate as someone who will always do, be, and say what we think we want and need to hear, never causing us any discomfort, perhaps the definition of soul mate should include, “one who challenges me to know me the best I can.”  Ultimately the responsibility for our safety, as well as happiness, lies within ourselves.

Because I believe as JZ Knight in What the Bleep says, “The only way I will ever be great to myself is not what I do to my body, but what I do to my mind,” I continue to look within myself to find the sweet flowing self awareness that nourishes both myself and my partner—that doesn’t sour.

Ghost or Spirit, of the Kindred Kind

We go to movies to be entertained and escape reality but occasionally a movie jangles our nerves because it brings us face to face with ourselves.  I’m beginning to think that Mickey Rourke is a personal ghost of mine because through the movies he’s in and the characters he plays, he’s haunted me for years.

It started in the 90’s when I watched Nine and ½ Weeks for the first time.  The sexual tension he produced and control he depicted pursued my naive fantasies in the night as they raced around seeking shadows to hide in.  I bought the VHS tape and ten years later I watched the movie again, this time with self-aware eyes, and saw another filmy layer.  His character was sad; he was unable to be emotionally intimate.  The uncommunicative guy on the screen reflected the lonely phantom within my own psyche.   My own failed attempts at connection rose like gauzy ghouls from the dead and after that, whenever I’d rifle through my old VHS tapes, the stark skeletons of my personal shortcomings flashed eerily through my line of sight.  With time and the advent of the DVD player, the soul-withering spook got stashed away.

But over a month ago Mickey Rourke arrived in my mailbox from Netflix, this time in The Wrestler, and I was again brought face to face with decaying pieces of myself.  You’d think I’d relate more with Marisa Tome’s character, the aging stripper, who I did identify with early in the movie when a young customer asks her, “How old are you?” but Mickey Rourke was the one who wrestled, literally and figuratively, with personal demons.   His muscle-bound physique and determination to be the best revived the old bones of my competitive strip club spirit.   And like he within the ring, in my past, I too found applause and accolades that I substituted for love.  Also unfortunately, like he, I returned home at the end of the night to an isolated existence where I oftentimes couldn’t reach out or didn’t have others to reach out to.  When he did try to mend and form relationships, habit, inexperience, and addiction sabotaged his efforts.

This is what happens to many of us.  We pursue fleeing images of what we think will bring us happiness in an externally-focused world, and when we’re chased by fatigue, reality, or age, we realize we’re lonely and lack resources and tools to be present for others, much less ourselves.

For anything to have a lasting affect on us we have to see or feel ourselves in it.  Mickey Rourke says this was the hardest movie he’s ever done because it was physically challenging and in many respects parallels his own life.  It rattles my old brittle bones because I too was a tough guy who mellowed with time.  Fortunately, our endings don’t mirror the movie’s, which I don’t like and won’t spoil for you if you haven’t seen it yet, but perhaps I’ll buy this movie of his as well to remind me where I’ve been and how far I’ve come.  With that said, perhaps Mickey Rourke isn’t a ghost in my life but instead a kindred spirit whose next project I’ll eagerly await.

Giving Pigs a Bum Rap

My husband and I partied last weekend in the San Francisco sun (yes there actually was some) in Golden Gate Park at the Outside Lands Music Festival.  We joked about how in years past our main concern would have been alcohol, either sneaking it in or having enough money to buy beer and wine, but this time our concert accessories included carrot sticks and ibuprofen—young flower children we aren’t anymore.

We had a glorious time and listened to quite a few bands I can enthusiastically recommend like local artists, Loop Station and Eric McFadden, and international bands  JJ Grey and Mofro, Blind Pilot, The Duke Spirit, and Ryan Bingham.  Friday night entertainment by Tom Jones beat out Incubus whose lead singer was unable to sing and Pearl Jam because we couldn’t get close to the stage.  It was feel-good music for feel-good days and for the most part I felt really good.  I laughed, danced, smiled, cheered and walked from stage to stage to listen to the acts we’d selected to hear.

But what didn’t feel good was when Joe witnessed a man next to us throw his plastic beer cup on the ground and when he almost got his toe pierced by a discarded plastic fork that worked its way into his sandal.  Just like Mastodon whose pounding base and dark sounds I felt assaulted by, this trash dropped everywhere and anywhere assaulted me.  Out loud but in a voice only Joe and myself could hear, I condemned all the trash throwers as pigs.  But perhaps I was too harsh on pigs.  Pigs, if they can help it, prefer a clean environment.  And I wondered where their self respect was—they were standing in their own filth.  Ibuprofen soothed my aching joints and head but did nothing to temper the visual attack and disrespect I felt from these trashy concert goers.

Joe and I were too young to be flower children in the sixties, but I wonder if they too left trash behind after their festivals and love-ins.  If they did, I would have hoped we’d evolved forty years later, especially since we hear so much about the environment in this modern day.  I would say that maybe there’s hope for the next generation, but unfortunately I was standing side by side with the next generation.  Maybe next time we’ll say something like, “Excuse me, we think you dropped something,” and let them mutter about the older generation.  Older I may be, but my spirit is young, my dance moves fresh and frenzied and my self respect in tact—we deposited our trash in the clearly marked compost, recycle, and trash receptacles.

Staying True to My Word

What the ….?! My husband yelled last Friday morning as I was reading the paper.

Jolted from my quiet, I rushed to find out what was wrong.

Dismayed, he whined,  “The water stopped,” as soapsuds slid down his body.

While I was dialing the water company I recalled I hadn’t paid the last bill.  The lady on the phone confirmed this.  In defense I tried my own whining, sheepishly. “If it’s okay for Sarah Palin to quit, I figured I could do it too,” I said in a huff after I told him what I’d done—or hadn’t done.  Incredulous, he stepped out and toweled off.

Recently I read that Sarah Palin was going to speak at the Reagan National Library because, the spokeswoman said, she “embodies the values that we hold dear; faith, family, country first and service.”  I was outraged.  How does quitting on the people of Alaska put country or service first?  She made a commitment and she broke it.  She went back on her word.  She erased their trust.

I sent my opinion off in the cyber world to the woman who’d said it.  Later that day I got an e-mail back questioning where I’d read the statement.  The woman claimed she didn’t make it.  I looked back at the article and discovered my eyes had played tricks on me.  The woman I’d accused, the spokesperson for the Reagan National Library, didn’t say what I thought she had.   Someone else did.

I had to reply with an apology.  It was hard to do because I had my foot in my mouth and it got in the way of my typing but I pursued nonetheless stretching my arms around my leg.  I had a responsibility to follow through when I let my opinion be known.

My husband and I committed to each other that if he puts the money into our account, I pay the bills.  That’s our bargain.  We trust each other.  That exists because we take responsibility and follow through on our word.

I must confess the above story about my husband sudsing up but not watering down is a dramatization.  He didn’t have to walk around with sticky residue between his butt cheeks for days because I decided not to pay the bills.  But just imagine if I had.

“No Problem” is a Problem

I like to be cool, especially here in Central California where the temperature has been over 100 hundred degrees five out of the last seven days, and I also like to be “cool,” meaning awesome and with it.  I’m “down with” (okay with, understand) modern-day slang such as “dis,” (disrespect) “phat,” (pretty hot and tempting or rich and abundant) “da bomb,” (excellent or best) and “wack,” (antithesis of da bomb i.e. weak and uncool).  I’ve even used the term “dude” when talking to another woman.  And I’m learning to accept the liberal use of the word “guys” for both men and women because recently I watched a DVD on Woodstock and realize it’s akin to using “man.”  But it’s my forty-something awareness and sensitivity that prevents me from liking some of the new terminology specifically one phrase that makes me “hot” (angry).

In the past week I called two different stores with questions about their service and products.  The two young women I talked with ended our call with, “No problem,” after I politely said, “Thank you.”  Someone even sent me an e-mail that ended with the same words.  In all these exchanges, after hearing “no problem,” I immediately thought that what I had asked them for, and what they had helped me with, was indeed a problem, as if they’d gone out of their way to accommodate me.

The word “problem,” is a negative word that conjures images of mishaps, disappointments and failures.  My on-line dictionary defines it as a matter or situation regarded as unwelcome or harmful and needing to be dealt with or overcome.  “No,” is also a negative word.  As children we learn to view it as a powerful indication of disapproval.  I associate it with a red circle with a line through it.

Wanting to give my best to the people in my life, as well as to be my best, I try to eliminate negativity.  As a matter of fact, knowing words carry immense influence over not only how we feel but also how we act, I’ve learned to say to my husband, “remember to ….,” instead of using the all too common phrase, “don’t forget to ….,” which usually ensures he’ll forget.  The brain only hears “forget,” and more often than not will do just that.  Our minds succumb to suggestions.  If we tell someone not to think about something, they’ll immediately think about it.

“You’re welcome,” is a positive acknowledgment when someone says, “Thank you.”  It indicates that you indeed found it a pleasure to communicate with them and that your interaction was mutually agreeable.  Striving to use language that positively uplifts, empowers and enhances me, I choose to hear “No problem,” for what it may or may not be; a modern-day equivalent to “You’re welcome.”  I do have the choice to determine how other’s language as well as my own affects me, but I don’t have to perpetuate or enable it.

Maybe the next time someone says, “No problem,” I’ll rattle off, “Yo baby, I’m hip to that jive, you know, but your wack slang, you know, is messin’ with my soul’s inner harmony, you dig?” and stick around long enough to see what they say.  They’ll probably think I’m odd or outdated, but they’re welcome to my opinion—to me it sounds “cool.”

Standing By Mickey

Almost two weeks ago I was outside pinching dead flower stalks and a lovely little missy came winding her way around my legs.  With a gentle cry, the all white kitten with three black spots on her head and a solid black tail, said hello.  “Oh,” I exclaimed as I reached down to pet her and noted she looked as if I could have rolled her down an alley; as big as an expectant mother in tight spandex.  I’ve grown up with an endless array of adorable animals following Mickey Mouse’s footsteps like Tweety Bird, 101 Dalmatians, and Nemo to name just a few of my favorites, who have big eyes, cute faces, and loveable human qualities.  It’s was no surprise I thought this particular cutey was asking for help in her delicate state.

“Have you seen this cat before?” I yelled across the street to the neighbor man.

“I think she’s a stray,” he yelled back.

I got her a small bowl of clean water then placed some of our cat’s dry food next to it.

She followed me around after that, plopping down in the dirt by the flowers I was thinning and laying in the grass when I went to fill the watering can by the side of the house.  I assumed she was asking me to protect her from the big male cats that were suddenly hovering close.

“Is she in the house yet?” Joe asked when I called him.  I hadn’t thought of that—now I assumed I had permission.

Later that night in the garage, after we put Frontline flea medicine on her, he said, “This is not how I wanted to get a cat.”

“This isn’t how I wanted to get a cat either,” I exclaimed, “but what am I going to do?  I can’t just ignore her.  She’s so little.  And she cried out to me.”

Usually we tried to scare the neighborhood cats away.  They like to use our flowerbeds as their litter box.  We spy them through the windows as they creep across the road, quietly ease out the front door as they get closer, then run yelling, “Get outta here,” hoping to frighten the bejeebers out of them.  For a while after we lost our Australian Shepherd, we’d bark like a dog.

But this one spoke to me.

I was concerned about the hair loss around her neck so I took her to the vet again only a few days after her spay surgery.  I spent another hundred dollars on antibiotics and anti-fungals because the vet said that her skin was inflamed and irritated from being flea ridden and traumatized.  Because of the cost and my projections that she might be a sickly cat, I started to doubt my decision to take her into our home.  Financial worries that have abated in the last six months, resurfaced, and I awoke with anxiety in the middle of the night.  My past life-long habit was to make decisions then rethink the situation over and over wondering if the scene or my actions could have been different, doubt myself, and worry constantly.  This time though, instead of staying bound in worry and regret, striving to maintain my hard-won self esteem and confidence, I reminded myself that I make conscious decisions the best I can, and if need be, think through the circumstances so if the situation arises again I can choose a different course of action if I like.  I formulated a plan to use the next time a stray wandered into my yard and I thought it talked to me.

A week after her surgery she’s starting to resemble a bowling ball again. “You shouldn’t feed her so much,” Joe says.

“She’s had a hard life,” I tell him.  “If she needs a bit more food to help her relax and feel better then I’ll indulge her for a while. She’ll diet when her medicine is gone.”

Just like I enjoy and am captivated by the myriad of cartoon animals who infiltrated my home—and heart—through television and books, I have fallen in love with KDoe (short for Kitty Doe).  She’s now a member of our family who thinks and feels.  I’m confident of this.  Mickey taught me.

Taming the Hungry White

I heard a noise coming from my office the other day and realized it was my cat, crying.  I walked into the room and like a stealthy tiger, a mass of speckled white attacked.  Centered and diligent, I beat the gregarious papers back.  One of my strengths is that I can be very focused when I have a task to fulfill ignoring everything else around me, but I’m beginning to think it can also be a character flaw.  How long has it been since I’ve seen my cat anyway?

Every single square inch of my office space is covered with either a pile, which I define as anything over two pages stacked on top of each other, or a cluster, two adjacent piles with other items stacked on top of them.  There are homemade CD’s with marketing tips I’ve made to listen to in my car, spiral notebooks filled with class and book notes (the next How-To book I plan to write, not From Sex Appeal to Self Appeal which I’m currently working on) and a January Reader’s Digest sitting under a lamp open to an article about writing.  There’s a pink leather baseball cap I used to wear in the spring when the sun was lower in the sky and shown in my eyes at 9 a.m., but that I haven’t had to wear for at least a month because the trees in front of our house sprouted leaves.  There’s a copy of our marriage certificate, over a year old, and a passport application that has to be completed because of my hyphenated name change.  There’s a library book I thought I should read and another book my therapist suggested I read as a relationship enhancement tool.  (Neither book has been opened.)  From my vantage point on the other of the door, I can also see there’s a cardboard box with blank stickers in them, a nightlight, a purple velveteen bag that a friend gave to me at least seven years ago with a small crystal in it, a can full of liquid air for blowing off computer keyboards, a cell phone, a tiny clock and a Christmas card with some funny rude comment about the reindeer Vixen that someone gave me over eight years ago when I was an exotic dancer and my stage name was Vixen.  This is just what’s on one of my desks—it’s not a very large desk.

I won’t go into what’s on my computer desk but I will say that I have a separate keyboard for my laptop that slides underneath the desk when not in use.  Right now it looks like I have a desktop because the keyboard part of the laptop is covered in book agent info and rejection letters to be filed.  Within this same office I have a futon and another chair that can’t be used for sitting and on top of my very large black four-door filing cabinet, also full of papers, I have a disorderly stack which I define as two inches or higher of loosely arranged papers that could topple over at any moment.

I can justify my lack of paper organization by saying I’m a highly-motivated, type-A, independent entrepreneur who juggles and multitasks her way through books, newsletters, classes and website revisions, multitasking is a modern-day skill you know, but as I peer around the door jamb fearful of being lunged at again, I must admit that I’ve taken this a bit too far.  My eyes are open.  I also see the pulsing papers have covertly stolen onto the dining room and living room coffee tables like persistent ivy.

Many years ago I hired a woman to come into my office and help me get organized.  I learned I’m a visual person.  I need to see things, sometimes to even remember them, and I’m tactile—I like to feel papers.  While this may help explain my insidious creeping piles, I think another explanation may be simply that we live in a hurried, chaotic world and I, like many of us, feel there isn’t enough time.  We prioritize certain duties right out of our lives.  Fortunately, just like I love to pull weeds, I thrive on understanding the roots of my action, or inaction as in this case, if it in any way causes distress to others or myself.

I’ve started reading Momo again, the fantasy story by Michael Ende I mentioned in my first blog, and am hoping this will help me remember to slow down.  And yesterday I had my husband help me assemble a used shelf thinking it will be a great place to arrange neat paper piles.  Then, once I finish with my office I can tame the obstinate clusters in the rest of the house.  I’m excited.  I can do it.  I’ll rescue my cat.  I think he’s still there.  Last time I snuck a look in, I thought I saw something move—which reminds me—I haven’t seen my husband in a while either.

Apologies Bring Relief

Oprah Winfrey recently apologized to James Fry for circumstances surrounding his appearance on her show after she, along with the rest of the world, learned he’d fabricated parts of his memoir, A Million Little Pieces.  I too have apologized recently—to my husband for hurtful comments  Trying to come up with a humorous angle on apologies, I remembered Steve Martin’s catchphrase, “Excuse Me,” first seen on Saturday Night Live, but other than that I had to admit that apologies are a serious matter. 

The floral and jewelry industries would rather have people, usually men, apologize with a brightly colored arrangement or expensive bauble and Hallmark would like those of us without a lot of extra money lying around to do it with a card.  While these are all nice gestures that bring a smile to the offended person’s face, the most effective way to let someone know you’re remorseful is with simple words.  My experience has been that when, “I’m sorry,” is spoken with a sincere heart, it helps not only the person to whom it’s offered, but also helps me feel good about myself.  When I do or say something that causes another pain, it messes with my internal harmony.  

Even, or especially when, the affront is unintentional, I glean strength and am empowered by humbling myself.  The weight of discord between the harmed party and myself, like rope chord with an anchor attached, is removed from around my neck and there’s relief felt in my body similar to using the toilet after a few days of eating too many carbs and dairy and too little fiber.  Without the apology the relationship gets bounds up and I’m, we’re, it’s uncomfortable and strained.  The exception to this is when I’ve apologized for things that weren’t my fault which I did when my self esteem was much lower than it is today.  It was like I was apologizing for merely existing.  I’ve observed this characteristic in other women as well and once worked with a young lady who, when I tried to give her encouragement and let her know most mishaps weren’t her fault, she merely uttered, again, “I’m sorry. “

Obviously something within Oprah felt bound up and needed relieving.  I too felt duped by James Fry, but I’ll never speak face to face with him or even phone to phone.  I just took the thirty dollars sent me as part of the class action lawsuit settlement and considered that my apology.   It brought a smile to my face.

In Touch With My Inner Cat

I walked outside the other day and saw my only cat climbing down from our only tree in the backyard.  I yelled and gave him what amounted to an air swat since he’s much faster than I am, then walked to the other side of the tree.  A pair of doves had been sitting in a nest for almost two weeks and according to my google search, that’s how long their incubation period is.  I didn’t see a bird so I grabbed a ladder.  Getting a closer look, I saw there were no eggs—and no dead baby doves.  In the corner of the yard I thought I saw Skimo licking his lips.

It’s Skimo’s nature to sit patiently and stalk birds and I’m realizing, unfortunately, it’s my nature to push hard and live in the future.  (I’m not going to talk about how the present is a gift—even though it is.)  While Skimo sat nonchalantly under the tree waiting for his opportunity, I was envisioning the little tykes getting their own wings and flying off.

Similarly, every day I accomplish something on the incessant to-do list in my mind and as soon as I do, I’m on to the next thing like a frenetic bunny on speed hopping high into the air in one place until it hits its head on the ceiling and knocks itself out.  While I’ve finally accepted that I’ll never be like the turtle, making progress through sticking his neck out a wee bit at a time, I’ve also deduced that impatience causes me to have lower confidence, feel dissatisfied and unhappy.

Nature has its own course.  Doves instinctually eat, poop, know when the next time they need to find a nest is, and then sit in it until there’s no more reason to.  Skimo’s nature will be to continue to be transfixed by and plot to capture things that move.  Through being aware of my own nature and its esteem-reducing consequences, I’ll be able to tame it away from being either the harried hare or the tedious turtle, perhaps into being more like Skimo, allowing myself to sit back and lick my lips with satisfied accomplishment, before gearing up for the next chase.

Tweeting in My Own Backyard

I’ve been hearing a lot about twitter so last weekend thought I’d give it a try.  The sun was shining gloriously at nine a.m., but as I stood with my head raised, throat exposed, voice chirping loudly in the backyard, my husband walked outside and gave me a strange look, the cat hissed and the birds flew away. 

Obviously I’m a bit confused.

And behind the times. 

I’ve never texted.  My cell phone only makes and receives calls.  When I’m away from home I don’t find it necessary to surf the web, and my car doesn’t talk to me and I can’t talk to it.  (My husband’s new Camry is Bluetooth capable and dials by voice). 

One would wonder how I really survive in the world today.

It’s May, 2009, and this is my first blog.  The rest of the world is twittering, in the self-obsessed mini-blog way, but I’m slow and awkward, especially after doing zumba and yoga, and don’t want you to know about my every move.  In the modern-day twitter definition I will hardly make a peep, but I am sounding off about how time is one of our most important assets and with the advent of all the technologically savvy gadgets that are outdated as soon as they’re released, not to mention the plethora of social networking sights we can join, we have less of it to spend with ourselves, which is essential for inner peace.

Years ago I read a great book by Michael Ende, Momo, published in 1974.  Its central character is Momo, a small girl who shuns societal materialism yet is rich with love and laughter.  She helps others by simply listening to them.  Life is idyllic until the Men in Gray, who purport to bank people’s time and hold it for them for a future date (which never comes), show up.  The well-written fantasy captures your attention, and time, as Momo plots to thwart the Men’s time-stealing ways.

Twittering is a new way of frittering as in “frittering away time,” previously thought of as detrimental to accomplishing tasks therefore a waste of time.  You might even have called it a sin similar to sloth.  Today I consider frittering a luxury and twittering will be a joyous connection—with nature and myself.  Sitting in the backyard becoming one with the birds by observing them from a distance (getting close makes them scatter) and perhaps chirping, or tweeting if you will, when the mood strikes, as long as no one else is around of course, I will listen to the inner guidance that helps me find my ‘real’ truth.  Regardless of what the rest of the world is twittering, I will sit and take my cue from the nesting doves who wait patiently day after day for life to burst forth from their eggs, and think about how I can be more like Momo.