Friday, November 18, 2011
Muddy Waters
Minneapolis

in·spi·ra·tion:
a : the action or power of moving the intellect or emotions; b : the act of drawing in; specifically : the drawing of air into the lungs; c : the quality or state of being inspired.

My alarm went off this morning at 6:00, as is usual for Friday.  Most Fridays, I have a bag packed with my yoga stuff ready, the coffee maker set for 5:45, and journal, pens, and computer in my bag, ready at the door.  But last night I was too tired to pack my stuff, too tired to set the coffee maker, feeling the slowing down and coming in that happens in the dark and cold of late-November.

So I hit the snooze, and laid there in the dark, calculating how long it would take me to gather my stuff, make the coffee, and get across town by 7:00.  I didn’t make any decision before the alarm went off and I had to hit the snooze again.  I continued to try and coax myself out of bed, “I need to stretch, need to move my body, need the zen of a candlelit yoga studio as the sun rises  But I just. don’t. feel. like. it.”

(snooze).

But then I had a revelation.  I realized, laying there in the midst of my apathy, “I need to get on my bike!  I need to speed up my heart, get my blood pumping.  I need to inspire and perspire.“  I’ve been enjoying long hikes in the woods with Dharma this fall, letting go of all things cardiovascular for a while, letting myself slow and watch the season fall toward winter.  But there comes a point when I need turn it up, get the lymphatic system flowing, and just breathe heavy.

So I put on my leg warmers, my wool socks, cords, tank top, long-sleeved shirt, hoody, puffy jacket, and winter riding mittens, and threw a dry tank top, stocking hat, and scarf along with my computer and journal in my pannier bag.  As I was getting ready, Paul checked the weather and called happily across the house, “It’s not even cold out!  It’s 36 degrees!”  Oh the relativity of living in Minnesota!

Anyway, as I pedaled my bike along the parkways en route to Uptown, my lungs pushing against my ribs, my ipod blaring, the golden sun taking its sweet time to rise, my shadow biking long across the fallen leaves and tall grasses next to me, I pushed out the stagnation, and woke myself up.

“Don’t ask what the world needs. Ask what makes you come alive, and go do it. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive.”  ? Howard Thurman

This morning, I gave myself exactly what I needed.  Because no one else can do this for me, no one else can make my heart quicken and push the stagnant air from my lungs.  And really, if we do not take care of ourselves, no one will step forward and do it for us.  Only we have the power to breathe life into our days, our bodies, our minds, and our spirits.  Through pushing against our boundaries, waking ourselves up, and asking ourselves what we need, we inspire ourselves first so we may be alive in this world, alive for everyone around us.

Writing does this for me.  It breathes life and reflection into my days, it relieves and awakens me.  But writing is not enough, as is no one thing.  We are responsible for all aspects of ourselves.  We are responsible to take this life and keep it vital.  We each have this power, this possibility.

What we do for ourselves, we do for another–when we are inspired, we become pure inspiration.

How will you breathe life into yours and those around you today?

November 11, 2011
Common Roots Cafe
Sun so bright through the windows, it feels like summer indoors

I don’t mean to brag, but I come from a champion lineage–rampant alcoholism on one side, suicidal depression running a deep, underground river on the other.  There are many gifts to recover from this kind of lineage, if we are lucky enough to meet friends who keep us sane, whose parents invite us over for Christmas Eve celebrations, or have a creek near our house along which we can play “explorer” and escape the thick shame inside our houses. Gifts like resilience, that overused word that means we did not end up drowning in a bottle or offing ourselves; and humor, seeing Life through a slightly tilted lens; and empathy, being able to deeply understand the pain of growing up in near-constant emotional strife.

For all of these gifts I am grateful.

But I am most grateful for the gift that was silently given to me, like it was placed under my pillow one night while I was sleeping.  The gift that was given to me from Up Above, from Deep Inside, which is the simple desire to write.  Not to write for a specific purpose, just to write as a place to lay it all down, to see Life and my place in it, a means through which I can navigate the incessant waves of living.

“You can’t stop the waves, but you can learn how to surf.”  -Jon Kabat Zinn

The implication of this lineage, that I cannot escape or even write away, is that a fight with my husband is not just a fight–it is a state of emergency.  It is here-we-go-again-I-will-be-alone-forever-and-my-kids-will-hate-me-and-I-will-end-up-dying-alone-in-a-hospital-in-Florida-just-like-my-mom.  A simple argument taps into that place of unworthiness, that fear of being abandoned yet again.

But I am learning, through writing, that I can be in this place–be in a place of pain and fear, be sad, be scared, be white-hot mad–and sooner than later, like thunder clouds passing to yet again reveal the sun, these emotions will come to pass.  In the safety of retrospect, I can see how just sitting with myself, sitting with my emotions and naming them, can save me.

Sunday, October 23, I was in this state.  And instead of running, which was the coping technique of my past, I sat with myself and decided to write right through the storm, to feel everything, to be brave, and weather the storm.  In this charged state, I wrote the following poem:

Fear feels like a weakness in my hands
sour feeling in my gut
heavy
lugging a pit
squeezes my stomach
horrible feeling.  I’m lucky I don’t
live with this feeling
all the time.
I live with it time to time.
It comes.  Takes up residence in the pit
of my belly.
It is the opposite of free.
But sitting here in the Treehouse
I see
the things I fear are
imaginings.
I trust myself–no I don’t.  I need to.
I need to know that I will take care of me
In a gentle, reflective, inspiring way.
I always have.
when I am inspired, I am also filled with
hope and love.  The antidotes to fear.

I won’t become the poet laureate anytime soon, but these words got me to the other side of that storm.  And for the simple act of writing, I am grateful.  As I am grateful for my champion lineage.

November 4, 2011
Today I slept in
to snuggle with Lucy
I woke up briefly, and fell back asleep softly
to a pink sunrise

The mission of John Fox’s “Institute for Poetic Medicine” is to “awaken the soulfulness in the human voice.”  How wonderful! What a life well lived on this earth, for him to have set out on this mission.

Thinking about his mission this morning had me thinking about being me, about being a human.  Writing about my life for the past 20 years has stripped me of my skin, made me raw and vulnerable.  I think this is because writing about our lives brings us again and again to the bedrock of our souls, to the place where we feel so acutely, where there is no way to escape the intensity and vulnerability of Life on this earth.

“We are not human beings having a spiritual experience. We are spiritual beings having a human experience.”
Teilhard de Chardin

This morning I meant to write my next “Art of Life” class.  But instead, John Fox’s mission struck something in me, and this is what bubbled up:

We must live
within the soul of who we are
we must allow ourselves to cry when we are hurt
or angry
or frustrated
so we can release the valve, release the pressure
of trying to hold back our humanness.
Be human.  For God’s sake!
Because when we are, we allow others to
be human, be themselves.
Each and every one of us shares the Path of the Unknown.
None of us are immune to hurt, disaster, or tragedy.
For each of us, today may be our last.
So hold yourself with gentle hands, and
hold others with gentle hands.
We are all so vulnerable.
We are all so human.

Be bold and free in your humanness today.  We all need you to be just who you are, so that we can be just who we are.