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Looking at places where you and I are not in alignment. Where I am lacking support or respect or truth. Where I am wanting to be seen for the many gifts I bring to the table and the endless resentment that cycles through my being. I am here alone inside my skin. It is deep and dark and painful at times, and to look at you or him or her is to see myself reflected in a sharp and painful space of nothing more than that. I am clearing my relationships for something new to arise.
Looking at my care for the planet, I am shocked when I find that others don’t seem to share it. Egg cartons made of styrofoam? REALLY!? and people /buy/ that stuff? Containers for your lettuce made of unrecyclable plastics? You really want to fill the landfill so that you can have your fancy dinner? Vegetables flown in from the other side of the planet. And you are ‘OK’ with the giant carbon foot-print for your meal? Where are your wings today? How dare I judge you? How dare I get on my high horse? Stop.
Looking inward as I look at when I hold back. I am not interested in a ‘new’ leader. I am not interested in an old leader. I want to rest on my laurels, I want to launch myself into infinity. I want to sit back. Where am I not willing to give myself fully and completely to the truth that is? Where am I not wanting to share what is true and alive and real in my heart? Where is there less than a leisurely experience on this planet or any other? i am.
I am scattered these days, having trouble focusing my attention inward or outward. My mind hops from place to place to place without any rhyme or reason or ability to rest in anything beyond the incessant hopping. Endless discursive mind. I am not sure I want to continue to do the work I am doing, wishing for a way out, wishing for some end to the emptiness that is what it is. I want to fill my heart fuller than it is in the moment. There can be nothing more or less than this today.
Mostly looking at ahimsa. I've spent the day playing a game instead of sitting. I could have spent the day doing something for my spirit -- or was this for my spirit? There was much more play than anything & yet, it was about killing. Downing monster after monster in order to loot her body & acquire what she was carrying. A war beyond all others. For just a few pieces of gold and then that was all. Not my most enlightened. Not my most actively conscious. And yet, love.
Then there has been the communications with A. They don't really feel good -- something about blaming others. I didn't enjoy her tone. I didn't enjoy the blame. I totally wanted a shared sense of every interaction, & I am certain she blames me, & it feels so very strange. I am sad and empty. Feeling like a shell that does not really contain anything. I want to excel at everything, & find myself maybe not excelling at anything. Looking forward to just a little bit more acceptance internally or externally. Just loving myself.
Heavy with regret and confusion regarding interactions with A. It doesn't make sense to me -- some sense of desperation at in particular keeping my agreements. Very confused and -- as I write, not so confused. This is the same dynamic as I have with D&F&A. It is exactly the same, and I get royally pissed off, and they wonder about the size of my response and wouldja look at that! It was just a slip in my schedule, and I'm already beating myself up over it, and already stretching to meet or be met.
Today, wondering about my commitment regarding email. I haven't yet formulated into a clear, doable request of myself, and thus, it seems to drift from doable into -- look, I did it again. Little bit of endless tyranny. I am at a loss. Feeling uneven, and unaccustomed to this or other things. The little generals in the wind are beyond what you thought you might see. If I really want to find a way forward than there must be more mush in the bowl. I do not even know what I'm thinking about.
Looking into the endless cleaning, and looking at the dust on the blinds, and I cannot leave it, and I cannot let it go. I wash with diligence and care, and focus only on this one thing rather than the endless collection of things I could be focused on. I am here, cleaning this one blade on my blinds. There are many blades to go, and a few already done. I am still here, with this one, one that takes a little bit of muscle-power to get the dirt off right here. What more now?
Again the grime is here in front of me. Green, sticky grime that even vinegar and baking soda simply won't strip off. I nod briefly toward the toxic chemicals that still lurk under the sink. Might there be something that would make this more efficient? What will I do with the toxics anyway, if not use them now? I am again faced with a dilemma and lean into my moment here, with elbow grease, and kitchen grease, and 'bon ami' I am on my way to gleaming beauty. There is something healing in this action.
This process of cleaning sounds simple and mundane and sounds very housewifely. I find myself somewhat manically or maniacally scrubbing and creating order and straightening and I know that my insides are longing for this too. I watch them simply roil at the disorder that it my habit, and I watch myself hold myself to an unreasonably high standard. I will be gentle, and I will clean with abandon. My own home, and that of others. Working with others has brought attention to where I do not give my own space the attention of a temple.
A fourth day running, and all I can talk about is cleaning. My friends are starting to wonder about me. They do not know me as a compulsive cleaner, yet this is what I have to report. Truly, I'm lost in this process, wondering what else is getting unleashed. There is contact paper in the cupboard under the sink, there are still many places untouched, even in rooms that have been visited, but it feels responsible and whole. This is what I mean to do. I used to get depressed at Christmas, now I clean.
I finally had my conversation w/ B. It has been a long time coming, and I have long needed to have some kind of opening. I avoid him and making an appointment seems like some form of cleaning -- letting him know I have been avoiding and not wanting to avoid, and not sure what to do about it. The conversation was somewhat unsatisfying, perhaps because I went without a clear goal in mind. I had hoped that somehow exploration would be enough. Clearly I wanted something more. It felt like therapy for me. Blah.
Left myself back at the station. I have some part of me disowned, "not seen because not looked for" (I love TSE!!) not willing to lean forward or be known. What is it? Which friendships do I revel in? Which ones are hardened or not quite as soft as I'd like? Which ones have room for growing, and which ones are ones I will not look for? I always start asking questions when the writing gets tough. Here again, I am at a loss, and so I start to wonder about this and that.
Looking forward to a writing practice that will focus on particular areas of my life. I love that she has a template. I wonder if that might work for me. For the coming month, I'll look at lists (ya gotta love the lists in Buddhism) and see if they can provide me with a structure for my writing. Perhaps holding the
(ok, yoga's got it's share of lists too) and see what they might bring forward. Looking into the heart of introspection, I am simply skating along the surface. I want depth.
Starting now perhaps. Where did that envelope go? Where are the intentions I hold up to the light of scrutiny? Where are the windows into this heart or that one? What happened to the season's changing? I have taught myself to skip along the surface, delving higher and higher and into something other than that. I watch the circus nymph, and wonder at the shapely way she brings the ash to her forehead. Her fingers just skimming the fire before brightly glowing, and greying her eyes. Too many ways the baby might blind.
The title of a book:
If this is your land, where are your stories
caught me off-guard. I stop dead in my tracks. I am certain there is something here for me. Who am I? Where do I come from? and yes, I have stories, I have stories on this land, but they are short lived. I am not from California, though I have lived here many years. I am from nowhere. There is no place whose stories are known to me, and I realize I live as a refugee in a country filled with refugees.
What will the next year bring, I wonder as this one draws to a close. Will the economic downturn really hit all of us the way we believe it will? Will the scrappy ones come forward, as always, or will we duck behind an irretrievable darkness. I am confused about how I believe we will live in the shade of this 'crisis' -- is it really all that everyone has hoped would happen? Are we headed toward some darker times? What do 'dark times' mean? Will we learn where we come from, and where we live?
Sandals or candles does it really matter? Soon the airplane will bring my friend back to the landing place we know. I will again smile through my companion as we live our separate lives. I will mourn that I cannot be for him what he needs, and he will mourn that though he can be a most delicious friend, perhaps he cannot fulfill every hole in my life. I would not want it, and yet, our world seems to demand something more wholely engulfed than what we live. Where is the passion? Is this something we generate?
My bed has a lump at the bottom. It looks like I stuffed my pajamas under the sheets and tried to cover it up with blankets so noone would notice that my pajamas are still there. But when I incline my ear, I hear that it has a cold and is wheezing every now & then. Now it dreams & snorts and shifts, and it will chirp if you touch it. Hardly a blip on the screen, it is still here wanting to be warm like the rest of us. I love the potential for mystery.
The radio has a debate, it will be a debate between Carl Rove and someone else. Harvard style debate. There will be sulfur and brimstone. I don't know if I can stand to hear him, or maybe I can, because of the structure of the program, there will be limits to how I will hear what he says, and I know that he will speak intelligently or I hope he will skimp on rhetoric and sound bites in favor of reasoned discussion. Yes, it appears so. I am relieved though I cannot let myself hear him completely.
I will take the class on class. I think it needs to be. I may feel 'workshopped out' and I may still want to see myself there with my own way forward. I know that BayNVC needs the money, but I think that it makes sense to have the support of my organization to support my growth too. I do not know what else to do about this. I'm solidly of the middle class. I can see it in my expectations and my understanding and the way that I work with people and what I expect.
Everyone thinks they are 'middle class', it's the great myth that we have no lower class, no working class. My family are from working class or 'white collar' background. My people work with their hands, or rise at 9, and watch the clock. They have raised animals, and seen the daily workplace govern their lives. I exercise influence on my workplace in a way that is unexamined really. Through the gift of class, I simply expect to be able to exert influence on my environment to make it work for me rather than me working for it.
In the coming year, there will be hope, there will be some way of seeing differently. I will place my attention upon rising. You make it sound like everyone on the upper-west side needs to fear being sent to reeducation camps in Texas. Someone feared what would happen if they did not stop eating peanut butter. I wonder what it would be like, then watching all those who inclined toward the peanut butter. We'd all watch your diet, we'd all want to be persuaded that we do not discriminate or that we need to see ourselves.
Now it's time to eat. What will dinner be? Will there be a little bit more or a little bit less tonight? I am consistently wanting, looking outside. There must be a nourishing. There must be some way to shift the relationship so that I look not to the outside, but simply forward into my own self. I will warm the pot pie and wash it down with a full glass of water, and this will be this. I need not regularly seek outside. I can bring my meals and love the ancient distortion.
Fresh peas. Crunch, cold, if I could turn the heat up, perhaps I would. The debate has raged on, with a motion about who the worst president in US history might be. I think I have been traumatized over the past eight years, and am so relieved to have change on the horizon that I can hardly contain myself. The effects of the budget cuts will be felt, and we will start to experience what? I just fully trust that it will all work out. I don't know what that will look like, but I do.
A cut on my thumb, made worse in class that was intended to make me feel better. This is fundamentally something other than that. What if we hold true to at least 100 words, and then maybe 1000 per week, it can hardly land as an admonishment, and hardly land as an encouragement. This is definitely doable. This, we can do. This we can hold true to. But it's a new year, and I'll be damned if I'll make commitments at the year's end because most resolutions end by January 18. I will hold true.
Where did that envelope go? What can I read for inspiration each day? I would love to crawl forward with attention to inspiration in the coming days. I will, for just 30 days, read something for inspiration each day. Today I have re-read Neruda, and read a line from st. Augustine that slowed me down just upon reading. I stopped and breathed just a little more fully just glancing across the words. Gratitude to GGG for whatever made him send what he did. It was a gift. I want to remember to notice the gifts.
Sweet green beans, crunch under my teeth. Don't cook them, don't even poach them, just wash them and place them in front of me on a plate and let me pick them up one at a time, one by one lifting it first to my nose -- let me take what I can, in. It is faint, but a faint precursor of the flavor burst to come. The writing leaves something to be desired. Green beans -- the vines in the garden molded and did not move beyond the first crop. Her garden fared way better.
I think about C, and feel nothing but love. It is deep and simple and unquestioned. I feel grateful in a way that I do not know how to express or even explain to myself. It is easy. It is simple, needs nothing to adorn it. I feel easy and happy and relaxed for the most part in her presence. I do not know what created that. It's funny to be appreciated, and enjoyed. Funny and absolutely expected because I feel so fully received and so fully grateful myself. This is quite simply wild delight.
Looking at the little green light of SB on. I wonder about the tension I see just seeing her name, sad that when I mention her name, there is tension, that my other relationship has entered a space of darkness. We can't talk about that, we can't hold that together, though I like how we held it when we were in process. I want to see myself more open, I want to be fearless, I want to be open and I feel a sad sting that is less about jealousy and more about not measuring up to my ideals.
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