Truths I Learned at a Retreat

Back in August, I went on a retreat to Idaho. I went with my former mother-in-law, a neat 73-year-old lady who loves to laugh. She continued her walk across the United States, and I worked on my novel Herbal Junction.

There were a few moments of truth that stood out to me while I was there. I thought they might resonate with you, too.

(1) Looking at a body of water is the cure.

(2) Listening to music is more intimate than I remembered.

(3) Acknowledge the beginning and end of a day. 

Witness the turning of the earth by observing the sunrise and sunset, when I can.

(4) Watch and greet the wildlife I see. Even if it's a desiccated carcass of a small animal.

(5) Flesh-eating mosquitoes don't seem to matter anymore when I'm taking pictures of red sunsets.

(6) Journaling OUTSIDE. (That's all I'll say.)

A Moment by the Lake

I have forgotten my camera at the tent, and I don't want to disturb the dogs by retrieving it.

I am sitting in dappled morning sun, over-looking Lake Charlton. There are no ripples on its mirrored surface, only steam rising from it. The sun peeks through pine needles on an adjacent tree, and I can almost look at it with my sunglasses.

The silence presses against my eardrums, and then I hear past the silence. Birds, insects buzzing, a camper's slow rumble of a snore, a camp-mate's propane burner for making that first cup of camp coffee.

Soon kindling is being chopped and I wonder again about retrieving my camera.

I've only come out for one night of camping--and it seems both ridiculous to do so, and absolutely necessary.

A micro-adventure into nature to hear The Piper playing his songs. I hear them in the birdsong across the lake, in the breeze that flutters past my ears and dances in the spider webs.

The kindling catches and the campfire smoke floats out to the lake.

My coffee has grown lukewarm and so a trek to the car to get another bottle of propane is next. I will eat instant oatmeal without guilt and make a cup of chai.

There is a half-hearted talk between the only other two campers awake yet of taking the canoe out, but I don't want to move from my spot. I'm enjoying the quiet like I haven't since I arrived yesterday afternoon. Soon enough the quiet will end.

I was hoping for silent epiphany last night, but I was kept engaged with my friends--enjoying the night--and without sleep late until the wee dark hours of the morning.

But maybe this morning's silence by campfire and following the sun rise higher in the tree's needles is enough.

The Piper card from the Faerie Oracle deck said for me to come camping, so I did.

I'm confident that I have received, or will receive, whatever infusion I needed to clear my head and center into me again.

The more I think about it, the more I believe my healing and personal growth were aided by this view this morning. This still lake, this crackling fire, this quiet morning with the scent of infusing each breath.

This moment is why I came out to Mother Gaia--why I'm here today.

A Day in the Life of a Writer

This post is not because I think my life is so super interesting, but rather because lately I've been wondering what other writers' days look like. And in my wonderings, I started looking at my own days.

My hope is that this post will spark others who blog to capture what An Ordinary Life of a _______ looks like. [Insert: plumber, ballerina, lawyer, landscape artist, et cetera.] There are always people who are interested in your lifestyle choices and how it works for you on a daily basis.

For instance, when I home-schooled my children, I poured over home-schooling/creativity blogs to gather ideas of what to do with my own kids at home.

Maybe it's because we are all voyeuristic and nosy, but the fly-on-the-wall-cam is one most people I know would sneak peeks at from time to time.

So, without further adieu, here's what last Friday looked like for me:

• alarm rang at 6:10 a.m.; hit snooze twice
• let dogs out; woke son for school
• showered and dressed
• fed dogs
• made lunches for three people
• checked the garden to see if it needed water
• made myself tea and toast; checked emails

Okay, that was the boring part. Here's where it gets more writer-ly:

• drove my son to school, then went to a coffee shop to meet a friend for chatting
• read a couple blog posts and articles; re-posted them on my author social media sites
• opened up Scrivener files and wrote on novel manuscript while I waited for my friend--1000 new words!
• visited with my friend for an hour
• went home and snacked; read a magazine article and Facebooked a teeny bit (Honest!)
• worked on a manuscript review for a client for two hours

I tried working in the office, but the dogs stood and stared at me until I joined them on the couch.

That was my "work" part of the day. Here's the crazy mom part: (Please note that my work day is considerably shorter than the crazy mom part, which begs the question, "If the majority of my day is spent doing one thing, how can I call myself another thing? I don't think my business cards would be as accepted if they said Valerie Willman, crazy mom.)

• picked up my son and his friend from school

my son, the plague doctor

• stopped at the farmer's market on the way home and picked up my raw juice order
• when home, called the vet because one of the dogs ate my vitamins and supplements that I'd set out to take that morning, and forgot
• vacuumed all the floors in the house--except my children's. You just don't go in there.
• took a ten minute break with wine
• greeted oldest child fresh home from school and watched them perform a dance routine they are learning at school
• lead son and his friend in a snack-finding mission
• unloaded and reloaded the dishwasher and wiped down the counters
• fed the dogs
• started dinner
• texted with a friend trying to get a group of us to go to the movies that night
• watched oldest child again (different dance routine section)
• aided oldest child in snack mission
• checked on dinner
• started baking bread in the bread machine
• contemplated mopping the muddy dog prints off the solid surface floors but yearned for the hot tub long enough that the urge to clean was mostly passed
• swept the carport instead, and took out all the trashes
• wondered if I should clean off the dining room table, but--it being 6:00 p.m.--decided I was too tired for anything boring like that and yearned for Netflix and Hulu alternatives.
• Remembered the hot tub...and then that I was taking my oldest to a play a student friend was performing in, and that I still intended to henna my hair that night. Nix on the hot tub.
• Drank more wine in hopes of an evening plan forming.
• Acknowledged the swiss chard still needed to be prepped for dinner and silently whined to myself. I took another sip of whine--I mean wine.

Here's where I deteriorate into madness--but in a jolly sort of way:

• Craved chocolate; had a small can of peaches instead.
• Craved chocolate and ate two handfuls of chocolate sprinkles out of the baking cupboard.
• Noted that this was all because I wanted to get in the hot tub, but couldn't yet--hot tubbing requiring nudity, and nudity and driving my kid to the Wildish Theater didn't mix.
• Checked the chicken and rice again.
• Tried to find a game for the younger teens to play. They ignored me and listened to weird military cadences on their smart phones. They decided to give the Wii a try.
• I pulled the chocolate sprinkles out of the cupboard, because I hadn't actually eaten them yet, just written about it because it seemed like something I'd so. Recognized that since I hadn't actually eaten them, I could still make the healthy choice to NOT eat them, but told myself that since I'd already written I had, I needed to be true to the original sentiment of the daily entry, and ate them. (That's impeccability of word for you. Isn't that one of the Four Agreements?)
• One dog looked at me as if asking to go outside; I remembered about the chard again. I didn't want to make it. None of the kids would eat it, I was sure. Did I want to make it just for me?
• I let the dogs out.
• I went on a hunt for batteries so the boys could both play with the Wii.

This is what peace and quiet for crazy moms looks like.

• Closed the back door. Remembered my propensity for locking dogs outside and checked the house to make sure all three were inside.
• I marveled at the teens all talking and hanging out together without freaking out and smiled at my 14-year-old's deep voice, then worried that he said "bitch" to his video games too much.
• Checked the dinner again. It was done.
• Decided it was too late to make the chard. Felt lowly and guilty for not eating my healthy greens and hoped that my healthier partner wouldn't find out I ditched my veggies out of laziness again.
• Informed the kids that dinner was ready and convinced myself that my parenting duties were fulfilled for the day and I could be done. WooHoo!
• Closed the back door, because somehow it was open again.
• Checked the house for all three dogs again. One was missing. I let him in. He was looking in the window of the living room for me. <3
• Ate dinner while watching the last half of a West Wing episode I'd already started.
• Dropped off my oldest at the play.
• Knew that this would be a perfect time to henna my hair, but wanted to watch another episode first.
• Craved chocolate again, so I shifted from wine to hot chocolate with marshmallows. 
• Watched two episodes of West Wing waiting for my kid to text me they were done with the play.
• Washed dinner dishes and wiped counters again.
• Changed t.p. roll in the bathroom and took recycling out.
• Henna'ed hair.
• Picked up oldest from the theater.
• Sat in hot tub.
• Showered to wash the henna out.
• Went to pick up partner at airport at midnight.
• We visited a little, then brushed our teeth and went to sleep.

Imagine this, only at 1 a.m.

I was pleased with the day. It really was one of my favorites. I think this was because it was so well balanced. It was long, and I didn't sit down much--except for the West Wing part--but most of the aspects of my life were lovingly attended to. 

I was creative and worked on my book. I socialized. I worked on client work. I hung out with my awesome kids. I cleaned and cooked, looked after my dogs and garden, and still had time for personal grooming and relaxing. It was great! Here's hoping to re-creating that type of balance in future days. [sound of wine glass clinking with a hot chocolate mug]

What do your days look like?

World Hijab Day 2014

Recently I decided to participate in World Hijab Day. On February 1st, people around the world (non-Muslim, and Muslim alike) wear hijab as a statement against religious discrimination. At least that's how I see it.

After making it known to a few people that I was going to do this, one close friend AND my loverloverman both expressed concern that wearing hijab could be taken as supporting a religion that, in fact, hurts women and forces the veil on them (in some cases.) My friend said the choice to wear hijab, or not, was largely based on geography. This is most likely true, actually. Which is shitty.

But I digress.

These responses (even before putting on a scarf) got me wondering actually why I'm really doing this. After some thoughtful moments in the car on the way home from dropping my daughter off at high school, and several more in my kitchen in my journal, I came up with this:

I would like to support women's rights to wear hijab, if they choose, without religious discrimination and fear for their safety, in the United States, because that is where I live.

Maybe I'm doing it because I can't support the women's right to not wear the veil in places like Saudi Arabia or Sudan, because I'm not there, and I don't know how to support that--except to not wear hijab. But it would look like I wasn't making any statement at all, in that case, because I don't normally wear hijab. Most notably because I'm not Muslim or an Orthodox Jewish woman--nor do I belong to any other religion or culture that covers their hair.

I had a negative experience with organized religion growing up. So much so, that for years and years (a decade) I abhorred organized religion of any kind, and looked upon anyone who would belong to one with disdain, seeing them as mindless zombie sheep with no intelligence or backbone. I lived the quote, "Religion is the crutch of society." I even wrote it on my bedroom ceiling with a black Sharpee so that I saw it every day upon waking and going to sleep each night. That's how disillusioned I was.

But now--despite still not wanting to sign up for the next rule-based club for God, I admire how some religions can do good for some people and communities. Can bring some people comfort.

And since I'm for peace of all kinds, I want my human brothers and sisters to be able to openly experience life however they choose--whether they are transgendered, grow their own food in the back yard, wear full body tattoos, or practice a faith that means something to them.

I certainly don't live the life of an activist. Frankly, it would be too hard for me (or on me.) And I'm not a political person. I don't know what role Congress or the Senate play; I don't know how laws are made, or why states can vote for a president but still not be counted towards an election process.

But.

I can buy organic or local food, avoiding Monsanto at all costs.

I can donate money to organizations that build personal shelters for the homeless population in Eugene (the city I live in.)

And I can wear hijab for a day, or two, in order to say something about religious discrimination in the United States.

Dancing With Coalessence

Dancing

Sways from limb to limb, out my fingernails and pores.

My thighs squat and my hips undulate

To the rhythm and the

Underlying percussive beat.

Graceful in jeans and kurta,

Or salwar kameez,

Rolling on the floor, stretching myself.

Spinning, floating, climbing inside the music, opening.

Climbing out of my skin.

The music enters my feet first. Then my brain hears.

My head and hips and shoulders

Find the truth in the song

And I move.

My body curving around the shape of the musical notes.

Sometimes I move in place, my feet rooted.

Other times I walk serpentine through the bodies

Feeling the smooth and dustless hardwood floors beneath my bare feet.

Sometimes my eyes are closed.

Other times I scan my dancing tribe.

And only on brave days do I look into the eyes of my companions,

Seeing their truths and joy or sorrow,

Or madness.

Sometimes I am drawn to others that share a common energetic field,

A matched set of emotions wafting from their centers.

I dance next to them, or sometimes, touch them, dance off them.

But most times I dance by myself, and heal.

Sometimes I cry,

Sometimes I thrash my arms and stomp my feet.

Some songs elicit bouncing and laughing,

Some pound through my heart chakra and I stand still in one spot,

Letting the bass permeate all my meridians and channels and exit my hair follicles.

Moving with intention, with awareness, or with neither.

Moving just to be moving.

Moving because the music makes me.

Letting go of my improper belief that I control anything. Even my body.

Love in Art

 On our way to Penn Station 

 to walk the streets of New York City

 to find, among others, this place ... represented in art

 at the Asia Society Museum and the MET

Of course I was drawn to anything with tiny detail, script, and books. Holy or otherwise. And love. And then I remembered that any work of art is a piece of love. Made manifest. Intangible made tangible.

Look again at the photos. Closely. They all bleed and breathe love.

As should we all. Every day.

Let every day be a work of art for you.

maybe it's not mine after all

despair. a good day turned black fog.
Julia Stone's This Love
brings panic, a scrambling and nostalgia for a time
barely dead.

rising above the smog to the pristine crispness of your face and the firmness of your jaw
I reach for your soul
my own salvation
and turn off the lights to my hope.
maybe it's not mine after all.
maybe I'm hurting us anew.

from dark to light to dark again
my spirit fluctuates
dims and brightens with the sound of your voice
over the miles.

exhaustion is the plain unromantic truth
and sustainability is a mirage.

tsunami and drought
butterflies and grubs
mt. everest and the grand canyon
water and clay.

crushing vascillations,
doubt reproducing like
cell division.

rising above the smog to the pristine crispness of your face and the firmness of your jaw

I reach for your soul

my own salvation

and turn off the lights to my hope.

maybe it's not mine after all.

maybe I'm hurting us anew.

I'm here with you

Hiding under dupatta

Listening to jingles when I walk

Echoes of laughter

Wonderment

Memories

Coming alive

I wish

I want

I learn

I cry

I feel

I swim

I drown

I rise to the surface.

Sleepless nights

Phone calls in darkness

After nightmares.

I’m here with you.

I’m here with you.

I’m here with you.

I’m here with you.

Bouncing on toes

Barefeet

Fingers in the air

Sweating

And spinning

And love

And yearning

And hope

For more days

For better days

For neverending days

With you, with you, with you.

Incense billows and fills in the cracks

Ganesha smiles and reassures

Pink quartz and Namascar

Floating through it all

The room

The bodies

The anxiety

And even pain

It won’t last

It’s transient

Like all other things

Joy and peace

And contentment

With reality

The reality I’ve chosen

The one with you in it

Are coming my way

I’m here with you.

I’m here with you.

I’m here with you.

I’m here with you.

Pulling Myself Up and Out

Crunchy dead Yule tree

Presents unwrapped

House boxed up

Waiting

Waiting

How to wait

In happiness

That’s what I want to know

How to live in the present

And find joy

And have

Gratitude

For what I experience and own and feel and live

Right

Now

Music

Dance

Friends

Entertaining

Watching movies

With

With

With

Those friends

And

Not

Alone

I promise

Uncovering

Self

From under

The snow

Time

With myself

Honoring

Understanding

Loving

Celebrating

With pink cheeks

And cold nose

Breath puffs in the air

I will

I will

I will

I will live

And love

Me.

I’ll be alone

And not alone

Rejoicing in the coolness of me.

The Wind Has Wings With Feathers

In a lot of ways I feel like I'm being born again. I'm ready. Excited. Full of anticipation. Growth, Change. .... but also, the breathlessness of anxiety -- like a gust of wind that takes your breath away. Smack in the face.

I'm going to reactivate my inactive massage therapy license.

And I've challenged myself to a renewed mission of authenticity and self-honesty. And courage. Courage to say what's on my mind.

To live the way I feel inside.

To inhale life and breath out art.

Hope is a Flat Rock

Hope is a flat rock

All shiny and polished

With possibilities.

It sits in your stomach

Wedged in between

Worry and Giddiness.

You skate across it

Wondering and Wishing

Sometimes with double lutzes

And swizzles.

Despair is sometimes there

Flitting across the rock in

Shadows. But mostly it’s

Wondering that keeps the rock

Shiny

Going over it again and again

Like praying with beads.

Should I go there?

What is my motive?

Will it fill a need?

Hope

Giddiness

Second-guessing

Despair

Worry

Wonder

Wish

Hope.

Am I a Bitch, or Am I Real?

Am I a bitch,
opening my fingers
to let loyalty and devotion
slip through?

Do I shush the me
that lingers in trepidation
hovering over a panic attack
of instability?

And then welcome the
confidence of desire and ego

And strut in long skirts with mirrors
And spaghetti-straped push-up tank tops?

Walk with lengthy strides
And swishy hips in
Fuck-me boots
And painted lips
And wear eyeliner
Under Vogue librarian glasses?

Or am I real?

If I close my fingers tight
And let loyalty and love
And all my lover's organs
Pool up in my hands --
Held fast,

Will I preserve my peace?
Will I be accepted?
Will I be honored?
Will I last?

Would I be real?

Am I a bitch,
Selfish and singular,
Or am I real?

Or am I both?

Can I be both?
Do I have to be a bitch to be real?

Can I live with my fingers closed
And still be real?

Self-Description #1

I am a rosey blush with teal sparks,

a curvy goddess

that swirls and bops to 

a jazzy ballad in a smoky room.

I am the number 18, full of beginnings,

a roll-top desk with hidden compartments

living in a sunset

in a sultry, mountainous forest.

I am a deciduous tree

shedding fear each year with

passionate acceptance hidden 

behind my eyes.

A curious conundrum,

I let go of nothing

and everything.

I've forgotten how to forgive myself, 

and then I remember 

that my soul is old

and knows all the answers 

to my questions.

How Am I Not Myself?

"How am I not myself?" ~ I Heart Huckabees

If Art is communication -- and that makes sense to me -- what message am I trying (or what message do I want) to send? What do I want to say?

When there are no words, I go deeper. Feel inside. See in color and texture. See pictures, movements. Do I hear sounds?

Art is also self-expression, though it has been argued that even self-expression is communication. Either by receiver seeing who the artist is, or by the artist receiving as he is creating. Understanding who she is through her own artistic expression, even when no one else sees.

How am I not myself?

Cooking dinner for my family. Cooking -- for me -- is not an expression of love for my family. I don't feel love when I cook.

When I clean house, run errands, carpool and chauffeur when I'd rather be creating art: painting, writing, building with clay.

When I watch my life in a movie or read it in a book, but don't live it.

That's how I am not myself.

To Be Free of the Me Others need me to Be.

Creation channels
the Rage in the Cage.
Battering, fluttering
Held against my will.
Who does the holding?
None other than me.
Set yourself free!
I yell.
To no Avail.
What's keeping me?
Why do I curtail?
Fear.
Of.
Me.
Who Am I?
Will I like what
I discover?
Set Fire.
And banish
The old thoughts
And patterns.
Screaming to be me
To be free.
To be free of me?
No.
To be free of the me
Others need me to be.
What do I want?
To find the hidden spring,
The well that
Holds all my passion
And ernst.
My glorious, cleansing
Complete.

~6/14/2004

The Celebration of Me

At first contemplation, the only times I've been celebrated have been on my last few birthdays where I've invited my friends to congregate around me and share the most precious of things with me ... time. Their time.

But that is not true ... for I am celebrated every day. Every day my son hugs me, every day my husband touches his skin to mine and every day my daughter smiles at me.

I am celebrated because they love me and choose to share that with me.

Whenever I receive an email from Jesse he signs it *Big Jesse Hug* and when I see my friends, their faces light up like they are so happy to see me. And they are. And that is how I am celebrated.

When I read something at a No Shame performance, I receive applause, and (though all do) I see this as a celebration of me. Of what I've shared -- that piece of me.

When I share my writing excerpts to Paul, or my critique group, I receive honest feedback and constructive critique -- and I feel celebrated then, too. Celebrated for my words and honored that I am spoken truth to. That I am worthy of being told the truth.

And so, I celebrate me for being me. Because I am a good person. Worthy of love and compassion and friendship and truth and authentic relationships.

And I celebrate me because I like who I am.

I'm me.

Why I Love Music and Movies

I often wish that I were more musically inclined -- either with playing an instrument or with singing. But not enough to actually put the work in for learning and training. But despite this I feel a great affection for musicians and have at times in my past called them my friends and supported their musical efforts as best I could.

I've had musicians as roommates, friends, and co-workers.

I listen to all sorts of music and, like reading the written word, I find myself moved and swayed through emotions depending on what type of music I'm listening to. This is one of the reasons I've been in awe of musicians -- as well as writers: their ability to carry people on waves of emotions, and usually at their own manipulation. They write sweet melody to sway listeners to love, they write angry rants to instill indignity so people will sit up and listen.

When I listen to music, I remember. And that is why I love it.

If I listen to Frank Sinatra, I think of Paul, my husband and love.

When I listen to The Cranberries and Dishwalla, I think of Mobin and searching and my time spent living at Zach's house trying to find who I was.

When I hear Seal, I think of Tim and our few perfect moments and the more moments feeling not that perfect.

When I hear No Doubt, I remember a restless time in Montana and secrets and a crazy summer working at Blockbuster and riding a motorcycle and a jet ski and flirting outrageously and being the 'other woman' briefly. And oddly, I think of my sister, Leslie.

When I hear eighties music, I'm transported to 7th grade innocence and dreaming of my crush, Mike Spowehn, and discovering masturbation (but not because of Mike), and then later high-school and dating my first real boyfriend and MTV and 'butt rock bands,' like Bon Jovi and Europe, Poison and Warrant.

But Firehouse and Erasure remind me especially of Eric (that first real boyfriend), and OMD reminds me of Kari Martin -- my locker partner in junior year.

And movies. There are certain movies I watch over and over purely for the feelings they instill in me. Like a nurturing friend.

I'll watch Sabrina (with Harrison Ford) when I feel lost in myself and need to feel stronger. I watch Little Women (with Winona Ryder) when I miss my sisters. I watch Jane Austen (especially Pride and Prejudice) when I want to go to a slower time, when I feel like I'm trying to do too much, or that too much is expected of me. Or, strangely, when I feel carried away romantically or sexually with a new partner or crush and I feel I need to slow down -- to take lessons from a time when you only kissed a man if you were engaged to him. I watch Uncorked if I want to remind myself to be authentic. And I watch Serendipity when I want to feel closer to Paul and re-live our early dating days.

And then anything foreign is awesome. :)

Sometimes My Kids Take Better Pictures Than Me