Kicking Up My Heels

Yesterday I said, no more sadness. I’d felt the familiar throbbing pain in my shoulders and said, That's it. I’m done. 

The sadness reprieve lasted until late afternoon when the show Claire and I were watching was interrupted for a special news report. There was the congressman from New York, confessing to sending a photo of his bulging penis in a pair of grey boxers to a young woman in Seattle. The week before he said his Twitter account had been hacked. He was crying during the confession, but not overly so, not a steady stream of tears down his face like the current Speaker of the House. 


Claire and I were momentarily transfixed by this man speaking about his lies, I take full responsibility for my terribly destructive actions and want to apologize first and foremost to my wife. Cameras flashing. He didn't flinch; he looked straight into the faces of reporters and continued confessing. 


"Gosh, this is sad,” I said. 
"He was sexting," Claire said. 
"I guess you're right, sexting."
"But at least he's admitting he was wrong."
"Yup," I said.


It's sad how people make such a mess of things. Everyone does, at least once or twice, or a hundred times.


But it was the ancient-looking woman, with the see-through skin, at the community acupuncture room who got me. I watched her, eyes closed, resting in her chair. When her daughter came in and gently pulled white tube socks over her mother's old feet, I felt it rise up.


It = tender connection to other living things?


I'd hoped the acupuncture treatment would poke holes in my sadness but all I could do was twist and turn in the chair while the guy with the Jerry Garcia beard snored, blissfully. I had to bite my tongue to keep from shouting at him, must you do that? Here? Another man came in and sat in one of the leaning-back chairs. He appeared to sink quickly into a peaceful state. His eyes were closed. Mine kept opening. People were resting. I was restless. A Herb Alpert song kept looping in my head.


I keep thinking that my sadness can be massaged away, or needled away, or therapized away. If I slap it around enough, it will leave. But this would be like asking my child to go, nice to know you, kid, but time to move on! My constant attempts to disown this part of my nature, which showed up, a stray dog at the back door, when I was around nine, is a bit like saying the earth is not three-fourths water. It’s dirt and rock, there can't be that much water! There is. 


I thought, what's the big deal? You're watery, fluid.


Which is why by the time I'm done this, I could be swinging my arms out to my side, kicking up my heels.

To Get Into My Uniform

A woman came into my early morning yoga class and headed straight for the scale. Many women come to this spa to rejuvenate and rest. Most of them come to lose weight. I had met her the day before at a previous class. She'd told me she was a runner and had never done yoga. 


"Why are you getting on the scale," I blurted, rolling out a yoga mat. "I mean, weight doesn't seem to be an issue for you."
"Oh, but I have fat thighs, fat hips, and a fat belly," she said, lifting her baggy shirt to show me.
"Oh my," I said, "that's seems a bit harsh."
"Well, I do Civil War re-enactments," she said,"An extra five pounds makes it impossible for me to get into my uniform."
"Oh," I said, pulling another mat off the shelf.
Another woman entered the room, sliding her sandals under the wooden bench. We smiled at each other.
"So, I'm always curious where people travel from to come here," I said to the woman in the baggy shirt.
"Gettysburg," she said, stepping off the scale and onto her mat.

Something Inside

Two weeks ago I sat down and wrote forty-five handwritten notes to people who had come to my writing workshop at the library. 


On Friday, I wrote a dozen more to the students and staff at a school where I'd been the artist-in-residence for three and a half days.




When I told Claire about my morning at the kitchen table, writing letters, I asked, "Do you think people care? I mean, I love doing it, but do you think it matters? Am I crazy?" 


She said, "Mom. It's personal. That matters."


I had a faint hope, but no expectation of hearing back from any of my "library people" until I found a letter in my mailbox from a man I'll call Arthur. 


The first thing that struck me was his handwriting. 


A flourish of cursive.


I sat down and tore open the envelope. Nestled inside were two small sheets of paper that fit in the palm of my hand. The first page was about the workshop, how he'd enjoyed it but was used to much smaller groups. Me too. I read on, hungry, the truest word for how I was feeling, to hear more. On page two, his writing dropped down into the personal...


Memories are another thing. I rarely share those experiences with anyone but my wife - as some of those occasions in my life have been heart-wrenching and on occasion can be highly-emotionally filled and at times I've had to stop to keep myself from crying, but somehow, someway, there is always something inside of me that tells me to carry on - and put it down on paper."


This is the healing piece, the heart-wrenching, yet heart-opening aspect of writing. The act of seeing what lives inside you, what you love, what you fear, what has its talons in you. On the other side of the tears is freedom, connection, a lightness, a homecoming.


The handwritten note is still alive.


Thank you, Arthur, for sharing 


that something inside of you.

In The Ordinary

The great lesson from the true mystics...
is that the sacred is in the ordinary, that it is to be found in one's daily life, in one's neighbors, friends, and family, in one's backyard. 

- Abraham Maslow

The Doorway

Breath is the doorway in ~ 


from A Year of Living Your Yoga by Judith Hanson-Lasater

Turtle Medicine

When I see an animal more than once in a day I think, 


is there a message for me? 


Like my dear friend and fellow writer, Katie, I welcome signs and guidance from all givers:


the night sky
a kiss
a tribe of turkeys
horoscopes 
feathers at my feet
an old-fashioned letter in the mail
a turtle plodding across my path. 


Yesterday I had three turtle sightings.
The first was a huge snapper sunning in the grassy area near our lake. The second was slowly (but steadily!) traveling across the country road as I was driving to pick up Dad for a doctor's appointment. And finally, Washington, the red-eared slider, who lives in a tank in Claire's room.


With the air still thick at ten-thirty last night, (we were laying around like cats with our tongues out), I looked up turtle in my Animal-Speak book and read some snippets to Michael. 


Passing on some turtle medicine for this Thursday ~


TURTLE


Keynote: 


motherhood, longevity, awakening to opportunities


As a group, turtles are more ancient than any other vertebrate animal...a great deal of mythology exists in regard to the turtle. In the Far East, the shell was a symbol of heaven, and the square underside was a symbol of earth. The turtle was an animal whose magic could help you unite heaven and earth within your own life.


In Nigeria, the turtle was a symbol of the female sex organs and sexuality. To the Native Americans, it was associated with the lunar cycle, menstruation, and the power of female energies...


Turtle is the symbol of the primal mother.


If turtle has shown up in your life, it is time to get connected to your most primal essence. Go within your shell and come out when your ideas are ready to be expressed. It is time to recognize that there is an abundance out there for you. It doesn't have to be gotten quickly or immediately. Take your time and let the natural flow work for you.


*Animal-Speak by Ted Andrews


~ turtle by claire

The Things People Tell Me

My name is Betty. 
It all happened because of the accident. I had to have surgery. Afterwards, no one asked me what I wanted. I just ended up here. You could say I feel stuck. Here.


My son and his wife both work so...
I can't live with them.
I had my own home.
A car.
My church was close to my house.
It wasn't a long drive.


If I had a choice, I'd go home.
But my home is gone, sold.
My car, gone.
My son didn't want me driving anymore.


It's okay here but really, I just want to go home.
I guess this is what happens when you get old. 
Your kids decide things for you.
It's okay here, but if I had a choice, I'd go home.


My mother died when I was a baby.
I never knew her. 
My father died when I was twelve.
The strict housekeeper put me on a bus, all by myself. I rode on the bus all the way from Arizona to Massachusetts.
The housekeeper's name was Helen Young.
She was very strict.