Do Not Hide From Your Shadow

“And what do you find at the heart of fear, dread, loathing, anger, hatred?  You find a surprise.  You find a gift. A gift at the center of hatred?  A gift at the center of aversion.  Could it possibly be?”  Stephen Cope

Could it possibly be?  The knot in the middle of my throat signals, yes.  Yes, I am getting close to the truth.  Can I dive into the burning heart of my anger?  It strikes like a burglar in the night, creeping into my dreams, disturbing my sleep.  My anger lashes out, blaming my husband and others for my unhappiness, my frustration, my lack of enthusiasm, my fear of dying, of getting cancer again and more.  I feel like a Tansmanian Devil howling at the moon, ravaged by an deep desire to destroy every one and every thing around me.  Who would want to live this way?  Why would I invite this intensity into my life?

Instead, I could practice more yoga.  Meditate more.  Go back to my therapist.  Get acupuncture.  Quit drinking alcohol and coffee.  Stop eating sugar.  Take antidepressants, again.  No.  I do not want to do any of those things.

Instead I want to follow the advice of Marion Woodman:

The shadow may carry the best of the life we have not lived.  Go into the basement, the attic, the refuse bin.  Find gold there.  find an animal who has not been fed or watered.  It is you!!  This neglected, exiled animal, hungry for attention, is part of your self.”

I sold my business last year.  Without going in to detail, I will say that I cried more tears than I ever knew could flow out of one person’s eyes.  I filled thousands of kleenex with snot and spent hours wondering if I would ever stop crying.  Then a friend told me, “Your  tears anoint you.”

Wow.  I never would have thought of it that way.  My tears were a baptism, a passage from a long term identity, into the unknown.

I always believed that my anger originated in my childhood, in the abuse I received and witnessed.  It never occurred to me that I could have fresh, raw, newly wrought anger.  The great philosopher, Krishnamurti, talks about staging a well planned prison break only to create another such prison somewhere else.  It is not others who imprison us.  We do it to ourselves.  I constantly set traps for myself and then pretend to be shocked when I step into one of them.  I lie in waiting, lurking in the shadows, ready to attack myself.  After the kill, do I lick my chops with delight?  No, I cry and whine, play the part of the victim, withdraw into my depression and blame the world for my plight.  Not a very pretty picture.

Where is the gift in this rage?  What is my soul attempting to say?  Today, I promise to listen.  I give myself permission to be a mess.  I commit to hear my anger, to give it a voice. Rather than ignore it, or banish it, I will invite it to sit and eat with me.  I will ask it to talk to me, to tell me her story.  I am going to write this story.  The story of my rage.

And maybe, just maybe I will discover that  what Rumi said is true.

The Guest House

This being human is a guest house.

Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,

come momentary awareness comes

as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!

Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,

who violently sweep your house

empty of its furniture,

still, treat each guest honorably.

He may be clearing you out

for some new delight.

the dark thought, the shame, the malice,

meet them at the door laughing,

and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,

because each has been sent

as a guide from beyond.

Give Freely and Abuntantly

Woke this morning feeling  a hint of depression.  My old nemesis self-doubt crept into my bed while I was sleeping.  I awoke haunted by fear.  I thought of Pema Chodron and tried leaning into the darkness, peering into the chasm that has, so often in the past, threatened to engulf me.  Looking back, I see that a part of me wanted to succumb to the void.  I heard it calling me.  “Give up.  You will never figure it out.  You are lazy.  You have no self-discipline.  You give up too easily.  Why even try.  You should not drink alcohol.  You are better than that.”

Did I drink too much last night?   A couple of glasses of wine at a friend’s house.  We ate dinner and came home early, around 9:30.  These critical self examinations have been a part of life since childhood.  “You are too fat.  Look at that belly.  Why did you eat those chocolate chip cookies?”

There is more.  “You must try harder.  You have not done your Ayurveda homework.  Why did you even sign up for that damn class?  And what about your writing?  Always stopping and starting.  Do you ever see anything through?”

All that from inside my head.  And now this damn fly is dive bombing me.

There is such a buzz around Stephen Cope’s book, The Great Work of  Your Life.  What can he tell me that I do not already know?  Figure out what your Dharma is and do it full-out.  Let go of the fruits of all your actions.  Turn everything over to God.  Okay God, you can have it all.

I go on reading and come across a quote from the writer, Annie Dillard.  “One of the few things I know about writing is this:  Spend it all, shot it, play it, lose it, all, right away, every time.  Do not hoard what seems good for a later place in the book, or for another book; give it, give it all, give it now.  The impulse to save something for a better place later is the signal to spend it now.  Something more will arise for later, something better.  These things fill from behind, from beneath, like well water.  The impulse to keep to yourself what you have learned is not only shameful, it is destructive.  anything you do not give freely and abundantly becomes lost to you.”

So there you have it.  I am giving it all now.  I find that this principle applies to everything in life: money, love, material possessions, friendship, time, effort, hope, dreams, commitment….you name it, it you have it, give it.  Do not hold back.  If I know one thing about my self-doubt and my depression, it is that their tape roots lie deep in my fear of deprivation and rejection.  Will there ever be enough?  Yes, there is enough right now.  Take what I have.  If you need more, let me know.

Who is right?

After years of therapy, I still blame my mother for so many of mine own demons.  The Buddhist teacher, Pema Chodron in her book, When Things Fall Apart, writes “Drive blame into oneself.”  The essence of this slogan is. “When it hurts so bad, it’s because I am hanging on too tight.” When we hold on to being right, we shut others out.  We erect barriers that keep us from communicating with others.

As a child, I adored my mother. I worshiped her.  I turned myself inside out in an attempt to be her precious little girl. Time after time, I bit my lip when she scolded me for having hair in my face, eating to many nuts, being whiny, talking to much, being too loud, and always interrupting.

The four of us, Grandma, Aunt Marti, Mommy and me are sitting around Momo’s kitchen table playing canasta.  “You know if you eat any more of those cashews you will be constipated.  You always have that problem when you travel.  You’ll be so miserable and bloated that I will have to give you an enema.  Do you want that?”  Tears rolling down my cheeks, I look down at the table.  I am too embarrassed to reply.  Satisfied, she picks up her vodka tonic and takes a long hit.  “You know I’m right.”

As long as I agreed with her, as long as I said, “Yes, Mother, I know you’re right,” we managed to get along.  But as I got older, I got bolder.

My mother loved to iron.  She made into an art form.  I watched her take the clothes out of the dryer, timing it just right so that the cotton things would still be damp.  She immediately laid them out and sprinkled them with water using a soda bottle she rigged with a shaker top. Like a chef working with dough, she rolled each garment and placed it in a plastic bag  she kept in the refrigerator.  “Mom, why do you put our clothes in the refrigerator?”

“You ask too many questions.  But if you must know, it keeps them damp until l am ready to iron them.”

Later that day, “Mom, would you please not iron my bras.  When I wear my cashmere sweaters, the girls at school make fun of me. The crease you put in the middle of the cup, points right out where my boobs are.”

The iron stops in the middle of the cup of my size C, cotton Playtex bra.  She stands it up on the ironing board.  “You never have appreciated the things I do for you.  What would you look like if I did not take care of your clothes?  You leave all your stuff piled up on that chair in your room.  I ask you time and time again to hang up your clothes.  Do you do it?  No, because you are lazy.  You don’t want me to iron your clothes.  Fine.  Go to school a wrinkled mess.  See it I care.”  She lights a cigarette and takes a long pull on her vodka tonic.  “Here’s is your damn bra.”  She throws it at me and walks out of the room.  We do not speak the rest of the night.

My mother was the perfect role model for alcoholism.  I rarely saw her without a glass in her hand.  A cocktail accessorized her every outfit and accentuated her every mood.  A vodka tonic before and with dinner.  Brandy after.  On weekends, there would be specialty drinks that my step father concocted. My parents would spend hours during the week, deciding which cocktail would be featured.  The drinking started at noon and went late into the night. I was always included.

My mother’s drinks were her armor.  As long as she had a drink, she was invincible.  What a legacy.

I was a year old when she left.  My mother left me and never came back.  Not to live with us, with my Dad, my grandma and me.  She came once a year, pulling up in front of our bungalow in my Aunt’s sleek gray Bonneville convertible.  I remember at four years old, sitting on the cold concrete porch, nose pushed to the glass of our front door, watching and waiting for them to come. 

“Sarla, come and eat lunch.  They are not suppose to get here until 3.  It is only noon.”

“No grandma, I am going to sit here til they come.  I am not hungry.  I will eat later.”

Later never came.  My mother never arrived on time.  The longer I waited the more convinced I became that she would never come.  This would be the time she would forget.  She would just forget to come get me.

“Here they are.  They’re here.”  Even then I knew grandma did not like my mother.  She did not come to the door to say hello.

“Don’t forget your suitcase,” she would yell from the kitchen.  “Brush your teeth every night and say your prayers.”  I loved my grandmother very much. 

“By grandma, I am leaving now.”  I could smell my mother’s Estee Lauder perfume.  Her hair was wrapped in a colorful silk scarf pulled close to her neck and tied in the back.  And there was Aunt Marti waving from the front seat.  The top was always down.  I climbed into the front bench seat and leaned into my mother.  I loved her smell and the feeling of her breast pressing into my face.  She was so beautiful.

Yesterday, reading Dani Sshapiro’s blog, I was reminded that as a writer, I should write what I want to read.  That applies to all of life.  Eat what you really want to eat.  Where the clothes you want to wear.  Who cares what other people think.  Where is the joy in always eating exactly what is good for you or in dressing properly, whatever that means.  One of my favorite people, Mary Seay, has a pair of cowboy turquoise, boots that I have always coveted.  I have, since seeing her in her boots, bought 3 pair of cowboy boots, all brown and boring.  I still want Mary Seay’s boots. 

I hear it loud and clear, “Wear the boots you want to wear.” 

Signing off.  I am going to Zappos and look for turquoise cowboy boots.

More about Mother to come.

Could it be the heat?

I am dog tired today.  Been teaching private lessons all week, rode my bike, swam today and have been working on my Ayurveda homework for the third session coming up in Mid September.  I felt way more energized when my only job was to get up in the morning, eat breakfast, put on the proper clothing for the weather that day and ride my bike 50 miles.  Now that is what I call a good day.  Could also be that a week ago today I was in northern Wisconsin where the high temperature for the day was 72 degrees.

As Dorothy said to Toto, ” We are not in Wisconsin anymore.”  I am in the midst of the dog days of summer here in Memphis, Tennessee and it is a bitch.   The minute you walk out the door, your clothing grabs the skin of your body and molds to you like wet plaster on a paper mache mold.  Uck.  That pretty much describes it in a nut shell.  Riding a bike in this weather is like throwing your body head long into tropical storm.  When I get home and climb off the bike, even the space between my big toe and the next one is wet.  And for all you women out there, what about the feeling of sweat trickling down the space where your breasts (if you are my age, 62) lie on your rib cage.  Now there is a feeling you want to recreate as often as possible and you can it you live in the deep South.

I am grateful that the humidity here keeps our skin, we Southern Belles, hydrated and luminous.  We definitely age more slowly than the women who live in the wild west where the dry air gives your face a wrinkle the minute you leave the house.

Boring…not very illuminating.  What am I talking about?  Not much of anything, but I am writing.  Yeah.  Kinda fun to go on about nothing.

Day 3  Glad to be alive and writing.

 

Be a One Man Army….Fight Social Injustice

Okay, I know it is cliché, but I am going to say it anyway.  “Be careful what you ask for, because you might just get it.”  I did.  Yesterday, I felt a void where once I had heard seen a light.  I was the vacuüm cleaner left unattended, full of meaningless debris, discarded bobby pins, dog hair, nappy carpet fiber, dust bunnies, bread crumbs, cherry pits and more.  I was full to overflowing, stuffed to the gills with no release valve.  Then the unknowing mail woman pulled her truck up the curb and deposited a “little letter” from American Express.  Here it is:

Let me explain.  My husband and I have traveled pretty much non-stop since early July.  In the throes of coming and going, I somehow either misplaced or threw away my American Express bill for June of 2012.  When I returned from Wisconsin on Monday of this week, I found a past due bill with a service charge of $25.00 and an interest penalty of $11 and some odd cents.  I immediately wrote a check for the full amount and put it in the mail.

The very next day, I received the “little letter” above.  Appalled, I called the credit card company.  The conversation went something like this.

“Hi, this is Sarla Nichols.  I am calling about my account.  I inadvertently failed to pay my last months bill.  When I realized my error, I mailed a check, including the interest and late payment penalties.  I did not call and complain about the outrageous penalty charges because I knew I was at fault.  But now you have sent me a notice that my interest rate will go up to 27%.  I have never missed a payment and I have paid every month in full, without ever being late.  Can you please correct this.”

“I am sorry maim there is nothing that I can do.  This is standard procedure.”

“What?  Standard procedure to up the interest rate of anyone who misses just a single payment.  Please let me speak to your supervisor.”

“I am going to put you on hold while I speak with him.”    After a long silence, she come back.  “___________________ is on the phone.  He will be helping you going forward.”

“Hello Mrs. Nichols, how can I assist you today?”

“I am calling to get the egregious interest rate you have instituted on my credit card reduced.  What can you do to help me?”

“Unfortunately, maim, there is nothing I can do until your account is up to date.”

“I mailed the check today.”

“I cannot adjust your account until we receive payment and even then, as a supervisor I am not authorized to make any changes to your interest rate.  The system will have to analyze the account and make that decision.”

Well that was all it took.  When I heard him say that my account was in the hands of “the system,” not a human, but a machine, my blood began to boil.  “So there is nothing you can do to help me?”

“Mam, you are so upset that you are not listening to me.  This is out of my hands.  Until your account it up to date there is nothing I can do.”

“I cannot believe that you can do this to someone who has missed only one payment.”

“It is a federal regulation.”

“Are you telling me that the federal government has a regulation that requires you to commit usury?”

“Mam, if you would just listen.  The federal government requires that we treat each case with the same penalties.  We just sent you a “little letter.”  Why are you so upset?”

“I am upset, because you are being condescending and dismissive.  You must have a hard time sleeping at night, knowing that you have a job that requires you to treat people this way.  I pay my American Express bill in full every month.  I assure you this will never happen again.  I am not calling only on my behalf, but on behalf of all those card holder who you intimidate with the kind of language you use.  Is this what happens to every poor schmuck, who for whatever reason misses just one payment?  You hike up his interest rate, charge him an outrageous late penalty and every month there after, he or she is slammed with a huge interest charge.  Wow.  What a way to make a living.  So what you are saying is there is nothing you can do to help me.”

“Mam, you can check your bank statement to find out when your check has cleared and then call us back, but there is no guarantee that your interest rate will be reduced.  It is up to the system. In cases like these, when payments have been missed, the account is flagged and watched for further abuse.”

“Well, I assure you I will be following up on this and if, when I call back, an adjustment is not made, I will be canceling my account.  I hope this conversation is being recorded, because I want to go on record as saying that this inexcusable.  What ever happened to customer service?”

By this time I was livid.  I kept thinking about the elderly, young people who are new to the world of credit and easily intimidated and those who make so much money that it does not matter what the credit card companies charge.  Who out there will stand up for the disenfranchised?  Why is money more important than civility.

Today’s message….take time out of your busy day to defend yourself and those who are powerless.   Make your voice heard.

Arlo Guthrie said, “No one can stop a one man army.” (or something like that)  I know he said it.  I heard it.  “One man can make a difference.  If everyone speaks out against injustice we will be heard.”  Make yourself heard.  Speak out.

Being and Becoming

The wash machine tumbles, the computer hums. Its automatic back-up system buzzes like a swarm of angry bees in my left year. I sit wide-eyed, empty minded before this screen waiting for the words, any words, to spit out.  Writing is a relationship, between the author and the page, when ignored, it languishes, it becomes dull and fades into darkness.  What brings me back to the page?  Is it loneliness, the longing for a deeper truth, a sense that there is more to living than moving through a day of meditation, yoga, work, time with family and friends, exercise, cooking and eating, TV, reading, studying and eventual sleep.

Enjoyment, fulfillment, and intimacy have never been enough for me.  I say my ennui is due to my compulsion to become one with The Eternal.  The Eternal what?  Do I seek communion with God, Jesus, Buddha, emptiness, Divine Light, peace, compassion, or some unnamed Guru yet to be revealed and worshiped.? No, I am the person who, upon seeing my reflection in the mirror, gazes down afraid to meet the eyes of the one I see? I am the one who has refused to write a single word since December of 2012.

How many times have students, friends and relatives inquired, “Have you written anything lately?  When are you going to start writing again?”  When I started this blog, I was brutally angry at myself, my parents and all of you for turning a deaf ear to my angst.   Yes, I banged my head into the glass wall which I claimed separated the cowards who seek refuge from the truth and the warriors who throw themselves at it without. “Bring down the Damn wall,” I screamed.  “Who gives a shit if anyone is crushed by its demise.”   Did I hurt others?  Some say yes.  But who have I hurt most with my silence?

Now, although I am in many ways happier and healthier than I have ever been, I miss the part of me who spilled her guts, told it all, aired her dirty laundry, who ran into the streets screaming to God above, “Hear my plea.  Free me from the prison of my misery, my shame, my guilt and my fear.” I’ll be damned, HE did as I asked.  I no longer take antidepressants.  Alcohol is not my sole companion.  I have no one to rail against, no one to blame, no one to hate, and nothing to write.

No.  I do not believe that the Muse dies when our pain is gone.  How will I write again?   Like this.  One word at a time until the stream, which has for the last eight months run dry, begins to trickle, to dribble over the rocks of my barren mind moistening the dry hard bed of my creative soul.  I will ride the words of this moment into the next.  My self-doubt, my fear of writing beyond my own pain and suffering will eventually subside and my heart will once again reveal itself to me.  What will I find in the cave of my own heart, the place of limitless possibilities.  Only time will tell.

I have quoted Goethe before, but I believe his words bare repeating.

 “Until one is committed, there is hesitancy, the chance to draw back, always ineffectiveness. Concerning all acts of initiative and creation, there is one elementary truth the ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans: that the moment one definitely commits oneself, then providence moves too. All sorts of things occur to help one that would never otherwise have occurred. A whole stream of events issues from the decision, raising in one’s favor all manner of unforeseen incidents, meetings and material assistance which no man could have dreamed would have come his way. Whatever you can do or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius, power and magic in it. Begin it now. “

I commit today to write every day for the next 40 days.  Day 1