True North

This is my goodbye post to this blog.  

What does your intuition tell you?  

I honestly don’t recall ever being asked that question, outside of the occasional self-help video or slightly weird yoga teacher.  At some point, it seemed a little dismissive to talk of my intuition, as if I couldn’t also have reason, intellect and critical thought.  I suppose I always knew I had intuition.  I even sometimes listened to it.  (It is the reason I live where I do, after all.)  It rarely occurred to me to follow my intuition so, well, so blindly.  

When I decided to move back home, that started to shift.  I did small intuition experiments, just to see what might happen.  For example, there was about a week or so before the holidays where I kept having dreams about Kali-ma.  I knew precious little about Kali-ma, but I read her story anyway, and got myself a small necklace with her picture.  The man who sold me the necklace said: “If you dance with Kali, you’d better be ready for changes.”  My heart soared, so I actively sought out the changes.  

One of the earliest changes was completely repositioning how I thought about relationships.  When I thought about meeting people just for some fun, casual sex, my intuition did that little crossed-arm, head shaking thing, so I stopped doing that.  If someone wasn’t piquing my interest on multiple levels, I let them go.  

Somewhere close to my heart, my poor neglected intuition started to stretch and grow.  She was quiet, a little disoriented, and sometimes slow to speak.  I tried to quiet down and let her gain her strength.  At some point a few months ago, she started exercising pretty hard, telling me that I the guy I was seeing was not good for me, that he was controlling and manipulative, and that furthermore, I knew it and was just scared.  

I had just heard her — really heard her — when, almost by accident, I met True North.  We were at the same event, talking about books and poetry and Emily Dickinson.  In the quiet of my drive home (alone) that night, I felt my intuition straighten up and point, strong and unshakeable, completely in his direction.  

Over the next weeks, and then months, as I got to know him (as I continue to get to know him), she still points, strong and unshakeable, in his direction.  I said to him, one of the first times we sat in a park (on a bench now known as “The Bench”), that the way Virgos know when they’ve found their person is when their internal chatter goes quiet.  I was kidding about the astrology, but absolutely serious about the quiet.  I sat with him then and listened as the multiple layers of monkey-mind chatter dissolved into silence.  I sit with him now and feel the same thing.  

True North is serene and warm, like the Costa Rica beach at sunrise.  True North is safe and secure, like our own warm house on a snowy January night.  True North welcomes me, whole and entire.  Waking to True North is like walking home.  

So maybe I haven’t traveled the world like Elizabeth Gilbert, and I haven’t embarked on an epic physical challenge like Cheryl Strayed, but nevertheless, I have uncovered and built up my intuition, and through it, I have found my True North.  Every day that follows today is now a chance to live gratitude for all that was, and all that is.  Every day is the chance to think learn and act on how to build our ordinary epic together.

Solid as a Rock

The beaches in Kent are covered with lots of round, smooth stones, worn into their shapes by the wind and the tides along the English Channel.  The tradition there is that the ones with a hole worn completely through are lucky stones, and if you find 14 of them, you thread them onto a string and hang them in your home as a lucky charm.  I think of it as the horseshoe of the British coast.

I was in Kent for a few days, visiting a very dear friend who also used to be my sister-in-law.  One of the days I was there, I took a long walk on the beach while she was working. One of her daughters had a knack for finding lucky stones, and I wanted to see if I could be that observant.  Because here’s the thing:  the stones tumble over and over each other and get handed around by the waves as the tide rolls in and out.  Every single one of them has divots, crevices, or even small partial holes.  But only very few have the small holes worn perfectly through.  (As my friend’s daughter says: “You have to be able to thread a string through it or it’s not a lucky stone.”) 

At first, I must have picked up about 20 stones, only to find the little holes I saw in them didn’t go all the way through.  Gradually, I learned to look at all the layers on the beach, and to walk at the pace of a walking meditation. I started to find lucky stones.  One after the other.  They had a holes formed at an angle or even a series of channels you could only see from a particular corner.  At the end of my walk, I had 10 of them.  Only 4 short for my British horseshoe.

My next days I spent helping out my friend and her husband at a festival booth where they were promoting their business.  My friend and I worked 12 hour days, outdoors under a tent selling their wares. She trusted me with her customers, her money, and even her credit card at one point.  Just like family.

After those long hours, I had neither the time nor the energy to walk on the beach, in search of my last 4 stones.  As I was packing up to leave, I decided to add most of the stones I found to those her daughter was keeping.  I chose two for myself and tucked them into my suitcase.  Because I am mostly a practical person, so I don’t really believe that luck is created by totem objects.  And I wanted to be able to lift my suitcase into the overhead compartment without hurting myself.  

Those two stones, though, remind me of two very lucky things that have opened up in my life:

One — I have learned to slow down and to adapt and in doing so to see opportunity hidden under layers.

Two — More often than not, every time I reach out a hand to someone I care about, I find myself pulled in for a warm embrace.  

  

Angel on My Shoulder

Last November, I signed up for some dance workshops.  At the time, I was practicing regularly, working on specific goals and plans.  I had my choice of Level 1 or Level 2 workshops, and, feeling confident, I chose Level 2.

Time passed, stuff happened, and my dance life fluctuated.  There were always classes or something going on, but my regular practice got jumbled.  I started to lose confidence, fueled by the return of my long habit of body hatred.  In my non-dance life, I was feeling more and more crushed by the essential loneliness of my life.  (That's how I saw it, at least.)  I recognized the gentle settling in of mild depression, so I greeted it and pushed on, feeling more fatigued every day.

In the midst of all this, as I prepared to travel to the workshops, I started to freak out a little bit.  Who did I think I was, signing up for the Level 2 workshops?  I saw some of the names of other participants, and I recognized a few of them as dancers who performed internationally.  How in the hell did I belong in the same room as them? My plan became to go, push through, stand in the back and try not to get in anyone's way.

A couple of days ago, the workshop organizer posted a notice saying that if anyone wanted to level down, there were people in Level 1 who wanted to switch to Level 2.  I sent her a message immediately.  And I breathed a huge sigh of relief.

About a half day later, I got her reply, which started with three simple words: "Are you sure?"

Yes.  Wait -- Was I?

I looked again at the expectations for Level 2 participants and realized that, yes, I met those expectations. I sat for a minute thinking about what I was hoping to get from this whole experience.  I knew that either level would be an excellent opportunity to study with 2 of my favorite teachers, and that I would get a ton of benefit from both.  But I remembered a quote someone posted on their Facebook wall:

If you aren't in over your head, how do you know how tall you are?

― T.S. Eliot

So I sent a message back saying, basically, never mind.  I will stick with what I chose in the first place.  It's not that the self-doubt went away, it's just that I convinced it to come dancing with me.

Thank you again, Hilde, for being the Good Angel on my shoulder, and helping me see the way to jump in feet first.

Nope

You will never know my childhood nickname.  The Ex (with whom I had a 2-decade relationship) never knew it.  What makes you think I would tell you?  Any of you?

I have collected many other nicknames since then.  Mostly short term little things people gave me at various jobs I've had.  Little Amish Girl.  Gretchen.  Science Monkey.  Cute, innocuous things that settled on me with all the weight and seriousness of a glow-stick necklace.

My childhood nickname, though, was created by a particularly clever bully.  One simple syllable that summed up all the ways I could be hurt.  Or all the ways I was repulsive to my peers and therefore forever and always unlovable.

Because it was so clever, people didn't understand that it was also cruel.  Soon, my closest friends and even my family started calling me by this "cute," clever name.  I started using it myself, hoping that maybe it would lose its appeal if I didn't show how bothered I was.  Maybe then I could be my own self again.  But, like many simple clever things, it sunk in and would not go away.  Somewhere in there I lost the chance to get back my own name and it stuck.

I had laughed at it once, thinking that would kill it, and I had to keep on laughing at it lest something worse happen to me.  I smiled when my best friend handed me birthday cards addressed with that nickname.  I answered cheerfully when my mother called me by that name.  I crossed my arms and put on a pretend smile when the person who created that name for me decided that we must be some kind of friends -- so he could sit down next to me and ask me intrusive questions about my body, all in the guise of "being interested."

When I went to high school, I finally found myself in classes mostly with girls who never knew me by that name.  I also found my death glare, and the one time my best friend used that name I stared her down.  I never killed that nickname.  I moved away from it.  And I carried around this hard kernel of hatred for the girl I was -- this physically repulsive creature who earned a clever-cruel nickname and only made it through by taking every hit.  Right in the stomach.

So, no, you will never learn my childhood nickname.  Not from me, at least.  And if I ever hear you use it in reference to me, I can guarantee that I will not trust you again.  I might roll my eyes good-naturedly (old habits die hard), but I will definitely watch what I tell you.  There are some things that just need to stay trapped.

Full Stop

I had a necklace that was an oak leaf with an acorn on the back.  It said "Beginning."  I wore this most days from the time I was first separated up until last October.  It was my ritual.  Remembering every day that the other side of an ending is a beginning.  There were endings and beginnings of all kinds.

In October, I spent some time in California thinking a lot about the self-destructive things I was doing.  Nothing dramatic like binge drinking or driving without a seatbelt.  More subtle things like keeping people in my life out of fear of dying alone and unmourned.  The burden of keeping some people in my life felt heavy, and it started to feel cruel to keep myself available and open to them.

On my last day in California, the necklace broke as I was putting it on.  I was taking a class where we were instructed to think about some kind of ritual to mark our final day.  I hadn't done that yet.  But then, with the strands of the broken necklace wrapped around my fingers, I knew I had a ritual to perform.  On one of our breaks, I walked to a quiet grove built around a prayer tree.  People had come and tied hundreds of prayers, hopes and desperate wishes to its branches.  I read a few of them, struck by how similar they all were -- they could be distilled down to the same few phrases:

Person, love me.
Person, accept my love.
World, be gentle with me.

I found a high branch, as yet unadorned with little prayer papers.  I wrapped the broken necklace around the branch.  Goodbye to these forced beginnings.   Goodbye to cruel continuings.  Time to let some things end.

With the tenderest of regard for my own survival, I let it go.

Decree Day Letter to a Friend

A very dear friend of mine recently got her divorce decree.  I went for a run after she told me and in my head, I wrote her this letter.  Maybe more of you can relate, so I'm posting it here:

My dearest friend,

Because we have always been able to say the hard things to each other, I am going to be truthful with you.  People will hand you metaphors.  Such brightly wrapped, beautiful little metaphors.  The one you will hear most often, I think, is about the phoenix rising from the flames.  I love you, so I am not going to hand you that phoenix rising bullshit.  And maybe you don't even want to hear it because you don't feel like a beautiful bird.

If you don't feel like a beautiful bird, my lovely and amazing friend, it is because you aren't.  You are a wounded creature who just outran a predator and needs a minute to hide and figure out what comes next.  Or -- how about this -- you are a messy, confused, hurting, imperfect and wonderful human.  

You know I've been there, so I can tell you-- that phoenix rising bullshit, it's not like that.  It's more like crawling through a storm pipe full of fetid water.  Or waking up hungover with only 10 minutes to get to work.  Or a factory assembly line.  Or having bratty kids jump in the pool where you were peacefully asleep on a raft.  It is all the metaphors.  

But mostly, it is the reality of your body, mind and spirit fully, officially, publicly removed from the other human you thought was going to be yours for life.  It is an open wound that no one sees.  It is a thing you tried that didn't work out.  Because it is such an important thing (love always is), you feel like other important things are forever beyond your reach.  

I will tell you again what I have told you so many times leading up to this day:  it is survivable.  And even more than survive, you can thrive.  But that is for another day.  Today, let's just live.  

Here's the thing about grief-- you don't "get over it."  You integrate it.  Like a cyborg, you take it in and make it a part of you, and in that process both you and it are changed.  And you are made stronger.  And given superpowers.  (Okay, I'm lying about the superpowers.  Maybe.)  The way you integrate your grief is you accept it and nurture it.  I know you can do this.  I've seen you doing it.  What happens now (and will again at unpredictable times) is that your grief will rise up and try to tear itself away from you.  Don't let it.  You are better together.  Introduce your grief to your fear and the two of them will figure out a way to show you where you need to go.  (Hint:  if you think of doing a thing and both of them start to act up, that is their quirky little way of letting you know it is the right thing.)  

Cry all the crying, and it makes people uncomfortable, fuck 'em.  Do all the inappropriate laughter.  Even allow yourself the gently self-destructive behavior, within reason.  If you forget how to be kind to yourself, ask me how.  I'll guide you until you remember.  And ask me as many times as you need to.  Dog knows, you have done the same for me.  

My dearest friend, you are not being burned to ashes.  You are not a phoenix.  Your heart just got punched, really really hard.  But hearts are tough little motherfuckers -- yours especially.  Isn't it miraculous that something so soft and tender can be so tough?  When you are ready, you will live in love again.  In the meantime, I am here to listen, to rein in self-destructive behavior, and to trade stories of sexual shenanigans.  

In Love and Truth,

Rebecca

P.S. Let's go to Costa Rica and lay around with some sea turtles!

This is Not a Childfree Rant

Recently, at a family gathering, my Dad wondered aloud whether I never wanted to have children because of what happened with him and my Mom.  (They divorced when I was 11.)  I assured him that was not the case.  Just look at how I used to play.

When I was little, I didn't really play with baby dolls the way some girls did.  I had a strong nurturing instinct, to be sure, but not towards the replica baby humans.  I would invent scenarios for my stuffed animals where they needed healing and care -- a clipped ear, a twisted tail, general plushy angst -- and I would provide the care for them.  After they were "all better," they would happily go back on the pile and play with their other animal friends.

I had lots of Barbies, and I would send them on adventures -- traveling, scouting out locations for buildings and movies, hiking in the mountains.  My Barbies didn't really think about taking care of a home and family.  They had strong, supportive friendships with each other and (like child me) often had short hair that I cut myself.

So, no, it wasn't my parents' divorce that made me want to live without my own children.  It was (and is) my nature.  It is my nature to be childfree, much as it is some people's nature to love people of their own gender, or to know that the gender they were assigned at birth is not the one they live in their hearts.

Sometimes this is hard for people (usually men) to understand.  I was born with all the biological parts to grow a human.  Why don't I want to do this?  I am growing weary of explaining it.  I just don't.  It is my nature to love and appreciate children, but to never want one of my own.  This has become a litmus test when I meet men.  The reactions range from "Okay.  Cool.   What are you going to order for dinner?" to (actual quote) "But I think it is in every true woman's nature to want children."

But this is not a childfree rant.  This is a rant about nature.  In dating world, there is a lot of rapid-fire evaluation happening, most of it unconscious.  It centers around the questions of someone's essential nature, and if that could support our own essential nature.  We all walk in with assumptions, and that is where frustration happens.  The assumption that a woman wants (wanted) children.  And that if she doesn't, it is because of some fear or trauma from her past.  No.  Sometimes the answer is as simple as, "It just is."  It is my nature.  It is also in my nature, as revealed in my childhood play, to be nurturing, to want to help others heal, and to keep strong, supportive friendships.  I think this makes me as true as any human, woman or otherwise.

Oblivion

She suffers from anxiety, like many of my favorite people.  She said to me, "I heard that someone had died, and my first thought was, 'Lucky them.'"  She insisted that she had no desire to off herself.  I believed her.

I believed her because I immediately recognized that feeling -- the sweet Siren's call of oblivion.

Probably the same day I saw her, I was walking down the street considering how easy it would be to just . . . not be.  How comfortable to just fall into oblivion.  I pictured a placeless place, through a black hole and a universe away from everything.

Let me assure you, I have no wish to go and seek oblivion.  There are moments, I think, when all that is unsettled in my world speaks with its many-headed voice and gestures with too many hands to count, and the only way I can find a space to breathe is to consider the possibility of Nothing.  Nowhere.

To imagine that emptiness is to clear out just enough room to breathe again.  And to breathe is to take in life itself.  And life trumps oblivion. Every time.

While I was travelling, I heard and thought much about the Buddhist concept of dukkha. (Most simply translated as "suffering.")  Our lives are unsatisfactory at times, this is the nature of existence.  Without dukkha, there can be no happiness, joy or contentment.  Contrast brings focus.  Touching the idea of oblivion illuminates the hunger to live.

So as I continued my walk, thinking of oblivion, I breathed into that space and caught the first whiff of thawed ground and the return of spring.

Greener Grasses

I am walking down a lane in Chiang Mai with some new friends.  We are on our way to our teacher's house.  We are talking about what our plans are when our 3 weeks together are over.  I talk about the dance retreat I am headed to in Costa Rica.

One of them says, "Man, I wish I had your life."

Immediately, I respond, "I wish I had the life everyone thinks I have."

I have been hearing a lot of affirmations and faintly envious well-wishes since I started planning this trip.  This makes me realize, again, how good we are at storytelling.  And how dangerous that can be for us.

We are so good at storytelling that we rarely stop to fact-check.  While this makes us the creative weirdos who change the world, it also makes us seal open doors with nothing more than our stories.

Sure, my life is good.  Much better than it was 2 years ago.  But there are still key things that I am missing, and there are still things in my life that make me the opposite of proud.

****   **** ****

I am at the second part of my trip, tired and sore from a morning absorbed in dancing.  Life is pretty good, as long as I stay in the right now.  But soon I will start storytelling, and see my return to the city I want to leave, the lonely hours at home, the fear that keeps me smaller than I can be.  I'm working on those things -- on having the life that people think I have.

I'm working on telling a different story.

Return to Costa Rica

I came to this retreat two years ago as my "something to look forward to" after the divorce decree.  At the time, it was my first major trip on my own.  Every morning of that trip, I got up early, got coffee, came out to the patio, sat on a comfy chair overlooking the Pacific Ocean and cried.

This time, I arrived directly from 3 life-changing weeks in Thailand.  I am sleeping as late as my body will allow, and I don't drink coffee anymore (for now.)  I feel a lightness which means that I have finally detached from a person who taught me both how to be comfortable in my body and how it feels to be emotionally manipulated.  I am still feeling fragile and unsure of my relationship decision-making skills.  But I am much more sure of my self.  the retreat leader even notices.  She tells me that I look more "in my body" and confident since the last time she saw me.

I am sitting on that same patio, in those same comfy chairs.  The endless ocean still swells in the breezes.  The howler monkeys still call early in the morning and the roosters crow in the afternoon.  I may even be on the exact same cushion, but I am different.  Outwardly, more muscular, wilder red hair, and (I am told) more relaxed in the face.  Inwardly, equipped with a soft, quiet place of infinite strength.

Chaos

I am traveling again.  Much further afield than I ever have before, and I will be gone for longer.  This trip is happening in two parts. The first part is all about exploring my profession, and the second part is about my enduring hobby-that-is-essential: bellydance.  I have barely arrived here in part one of my trip, when I am longing to be at part two.

I have the unique opportunity to spend a couple of weeks learning from a great teacher.  Today was our first day at his school.  I felt unsettled for the better part of the day.  Jet lag.  Lack of sleep.  Too much time in a group.  All of these were true, but the truth came to me at the end of the day.  I think I'm done with my profession.  I love it.  I will always love it.  The thought of leaving it to do something else breaks my heart into a thousand pieces.  But this work does not bring me joy in the same way that it used to or in the way that I need it to.

So I sat in the back of a crowded public transport truck in this foreign country, stuck in traffic for some festival or other, and I sat with the idea of changing professions, to see if it is right for me.  And I realized that I'll never know if it's right for me.  I have to make a decision and prepare to be wrong.

And it occurred to me that this must be how the Ex felt when he finally made the decision to end our marriage.  He loved me.  The thought of leaving me to go and be with someone else broke his heart into a thousand pieces.  But I did not bring him joy in the same way that I used, or the way that he needed me to.

Ah, empathy.

The question now is, am I willing to work on saving my commitment to this profession more than the Ex was willing to work on saving his commitment to me?

And resentment.

Travel is exhausting.

Love My Way

Isn't is funny how someone comes into your life and changes it by ripples and waves in ways he never even intended?  I am feeling grateful all the way to the tips of my toes this morning for a friend and all of the joys and complications he has introduced into my life.

See, he introduced me to his good friend, who then introduced me to her good friends, and all of this is how I ended up eating meals with two very different but equally lovable groups of humans this weekend.  One of those humans got me to read this article.

Such perfect timing.

I have been thinking a lot about love lately.  Wanting it.  Missing it.  Wondering if I am even capable of it.  Wondering if I have it and I just don't see.  And like so many things, the love I am thinking about is a thing constructed of images, curated news stories and formulaic novels.  (I blame you, Jane Eyre, but I will always -- well-- love you.)

I have love.  Bits and snatches of moments of tenderness and connection which can be very satisfying -- if I just pause and live in them.  Like: the other night when the man-whose-status-I-can't-quite-define just held me tenderly through some whacking great cramps.  Like: Friday when I sat at a crowded table for a friend's birthday and really understood what a warm and true-hearted person he is.  Like right now, when I am thinking of my Heartbreak Tour Guide and how much knowing him has changed my life.

I have love, I have warmth, I have sex and sometimes I even have intimacy.  Mostly, this is enough.  What I am still lacking and missing is companionship.  So, the task for my new year is to figure out how to create and define that in a way that suits me.    Let's go.

Karma Train

A wise woman once said to me: "The Karma train makes all stops."  I had just gotten laid off from a job I loved and did very well, and she was reminding me that those who get rid of a good employee might feel comfortable about it now, but soon (very soon, maybe) they would feel the discomfort of their mistake.

I suppose they did, eventually.  But of course it didn't matter much to me by then.  I kept that phrase, though, and I used it whenever it felt appropriate.  Nothing stops the Karma train.

Nothing.

And now the karma train has pulled in to my station.

A few years ago, my grandmother spent some time in the hospital.  While she was there, my dad and I went to her house and did some cleaning.  I took on the bathrooms.  In my righteous enthusiasm, I emptied all the cabinets and I filled multiple garbage bags with things I thought were just taking up space.  Septic system cleaner.  Rug that smelled like cat pee.  Ear cuff shaped like leaves.  (Still scratching my head about that one.)  Multiple tubes of ancient Avon lipstick in various shades of "Unflattering."  By the time I was done, every cabinet was scrubbed clean, inside and out, and things were organized and easy to see.  Oh yes, and the trash pile was full to bursting.

She got home from the hospital shortly before Thanksgiving.  On Thanksgiving Day, I was on the phone with my family and she made a specific request to talk to me.  I hadn't talked to her since she got home.  I kind of puffed up a little, ready to receive her gratitude with appropriate humility.  Instead, she lit into me.  She was upset by what I had done and she wanted me to feel it.  In my gut.  Like a fist.  I can still hear her saying, "You don't do that.  you don't go through people's things like that."  I apologized.  I hung up the phone.  I felt indignant and weepy and chalked it up to her (in)famous lack of gentleness in expression.

The Karma train had me scheduled.

Over Thanksgiving, I invited a friend to stay at my place while I was away.  He was about to move out of town, in that transition where he could either stay at a hotel or couch surf.  Since I was going to be away for a while, I thought it would be nice to let him stay there and take care of my cat in the process.

About a week into my time away, I got a call from the management company about the smell coming from my apartment.  It was so bad, it caused my neighbors to get sick.  I called my friend and found out he had been burning incense and smoking marijuana in my apartment.  To his credit, he didn't try to hide it and he promised to stop.

The next day I got a call from the management company again because the smell was back.  He had been burning a scented candle.  He and I decided that he would leave a few days early.

Two days later, I got home early in the afternoon.  I looked forward to sitting quietly on my sofa, reading , re-bonding with the cat and generally enjoying a quiet couple of days before I went back to work.  I opened the door to find that my entire apartment had been rearranged.  All the furniture had been moved around.  Most of the pictures were moved.  New pictures that weren't mine had been hung up.  My dance practice space had been completely dismantled.  I freaked out.

The apartment was still relatively new, and I had just gotten it to start feeling like my home.  Now it felt like I had to move in all over again.  I certainly couldn't enjoy my last days off.  I would calm down a little then notice something else that would set me off.  He moved my bookshelves (and all my books) and decided to balance the bookshelves by tearing a paperback book in half and shoving the pieces under the shelf.  He dug through my cabinets and pulled out things I didn't want to see and put them out around the apartment.  (My high school diploma?  Seriously???)

I had dear friends to come and help me calm down enough to see how I could put my place back together, and to let me know that yes, in fact, this was a weird thing for someone to do.    He left me a note which I was too livid to read.  I got through just enough of it to see that he thought he was helping me.  Who does this?, I thought.  Who helps by going through people's stuff without their permission?

Then I realized -- Oh yeah.  I do.  Or I did.  The Karma train had pulled into my station.

I get it now, Grandma.  And I am so sorry.

Little Runaway

Ten days in October.  Two weeks in November.  At least a month in January/February.  An unspecified amount of time in September.  I am getting out.

Not all of this is fun vacation.  There are intense classes and long stints of caregiving in there.  But I am getting out.  I pulled out the underused trampoline of my trampoline life, repaired with duct tape and I am jumping like my life depends on it.

People are telling me I need to relocate.  One friend in particular insists I do not belong where I am, and I only need to come to that realization.  He tells me this without pausing for breath or waiting for my reply.  He is only a "friend" because "guy I sort of know slightly" is too much to type.

People are telling me I need to stay.  Friends (real ones) send me encouraging messages while I am away, and gently remind me that I am missed.  They want to hear about what happened while I was gone flying, and they want to hear about it in person.

I am trying on new places, ten days, two weeks or a month at a time.  But the thing is, I respect Science.  Gravity is a real force.  So I know will land.  The Laws of Physics apply as well.  I am changing shapes while I am in the air.  I take off with a heart and soul tattered and worn, and before I go to land they are not just repaired, they are replaced with a shiny new upgrade.  This changes my trajectory and where I land will be different.

Which is just a long long way of saying, the time has come to indulge my inner runaway.  It is the season of restlessness.

To Whom It May Concern

I'm nearing the end of another improv dance challenge, and this song has been in my rotation for the past 90 days or so.  I dread it.  Not because it's a bad song -- I did like it well enough to purchase it, after all.  But because for me this has been a wallowing song.

A wallowing song is a song I put on when I am feeling depressed or overwhelmed and I would like to wallow in it a little bit before I go out into the world as if nothing has happened.  This particular song featured heavily in the Year of Wallowing, right after the divorce.  Because music is a powerful emotional trigger, every time I hear it I am taken back to that year.

The rules of the challenge dictated that once a song was selected for me, I was stuck with it for the entire challenge.  So every time this song came up on my rotation,  I tried to dance but ended up doing more wallowing.  I think I described the quality of my dance as "trying not to cry" every time.

This week, though, I think I finally shed the last edges of wallowing.  The day I danced this song, I was rushed, not thinking much, and I put it on and just started moving.  About halfway through I realized that I felt different.  I finally got to that other quality of the song -- the hopefulness and the optimism.   I relaxed with it because that is really my nature -- hopeful and optimistic.  It has been a weird, ridiculous, bad time in dating world lately, but that is only one part of life.  And eventually, I am sure, it will come around to the rest of my life, which is pretty good right now.

Meanwhile, why not sing about it ---

Bellydance Changes Lives

I love this picture.  This is me just about to do my first solo performance, clowning around with my travel mates who were all ready to go and support me.  The dance technique in this photo is questionable, but the joy is real.

Before bellydance, this picture would not have been possible.  To appear in front of camera-wielding people with nothing covering my abdomen or my upper arms?  And to spin around in front of them while laughing my face off? Unfathomable.

This is just one of the many ways bellydance has changed my life.  I've written about it before in this blog -- how it launched me into a freer exploration of the world around me, how it showed me the way to letting go, how it reopened the door to my other creative loves.

Later this week, troupe and I will be dancing at a festival in fabulous Las Vegas.  Dancing.  In public. For an audience.  In frickin' Vegas.  The me of 5 years ago would not recognize this woman, but she would want to know her.  Thanks to bellydance, I not only know this woman, I am her.

It's not been all flickery sunshine and dancing on rainbows, to be sure.  I've been clawing my way out of a pretty difficult dance rut lately, trying to find more moments of fun than frustration.  Even in the rut, though, I look at this picture and know that my life has changed.

And I have a short number of days and hours to drill some choreography and pack my bag.  Viva Las Vegas.

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Should you be so inclined to support your local blogger and her dance sisters, here's a message from the troupe:

Help Send Zahara Fusion to VEGAS, Baby!

Zahara Fusion, the student troupe out of Hip Circle Studio, is headed out on their first out-of-state performance adventure to the Las Vegas Bellydance Intensive - a festival that pulls dancers in from all over the country! Taking advantage of this great opportunity requires airfare, lodging, costuming, and more. Get in on the action by participating in our fundraiser! Here's the deal...

Donate $10 or more and receive a limited-edition "Bellydance Changes Lives" magnetic bumper "sticker" designed by our very own Desiree!

Donate $50 or more and receive, in addition to the bumper "sticker", an invite to our After-Vegas Bash, scheduled for Sunday, 9/20 from 7:30-9:30 pm featuring nibbles, sips, and a display of our set from Vegas (live or via video, TBD).

Donations can be made in cash in-studio, or via credit card here. (you'll specify the amount)

Thanks so much for helping this Vegas magic happen!

Pictures of You

I am at my mother's house, and on the walk down the hall to retrieve my book, I saw it.  A last remaining picture of myself and the Ex together.  It's a small picture, tucked up on a top shelf of a tall bookcase, and shows the two of us standing together outside the door of the first home we purchased together.  The door is heavy, dark and old.  The place was a vintage condo in a beautifully maintained building and it was on the very edge of what we could afford.  I remember a brief panic when we made the decision to buy it -- I was freaked out by the absolute permanence of ownership and mortgages and all that.

In the picture, I am dressed in the way I dressed for much of my life -- to hide.  A long skirt just a smidgen too big for me, and over it a man's shirt that was so large the fabric only touched my body at the shoulders and from there hung in billows over me.  I am holding a man's suit coat in my hand -- of a similar size to the shirt.  I have one hand on the door, my body is angled toward the Ex and I am smiling freely.  I know why -- because I felt utterly safe.  The frightening permanence of home ownership very quickly got rolled up into the absolute comfort of stability.  A place to live, a stable job at a large company, a partner to share this life with, clothes that covered me absolutely -- it was all part of my need to be and feel protected.

The moment that picture was taken, I thought I couldn't be any happier.  When I saw that picture today, I paused to take it in and remember myself as I was then.  I have a deep affection for that young woman, but I am so glad that I am miles away from her now.  Not only have I (mostly) gotten rid of the ill-fitting sacks I used to wear, but I am decidedly not safe in the way I used to define it.  Renting a place, working for myself, with no partner (yet) to help me with any of it.  In my life now I am more open to being hurt (emotionally, financially, mentally) than I ever have been.  But I am so much happier than that young woman.

At least I am today. Sitting on my mother's back porch watching butterflies and bumble bees cavort in her unbelievable garden, I am happier.  And, unlike the young woman in that picture, today I know that this moment is enough.  So I will celebrate it.

Episode 4 -- Mercury in Retrograde

Let me be clear -- I do not believe my fortunes are governed by the relative position of a planet in space.  But, all the social media chatter about Mercury in retrograde brought me strange comfort when I found out I had to move.  After only 2 months.

It started with a health setback, and ended with a bloodless coup.  His parent had a massive heart attack*, and his other parent (the one with a progressive, debilitating illness) started to decline rapidly.  The family all came together, as families do.  Finances were examined, old hurts reopened, drama ensued.  I sent some concerned messages,  and went on with my plans to build a trellis for tomatoes on the balcony.

Somewhere in the family drama and financial reviews it was discovered that my friend didn't actually own the condo on paper.  It was owned by his parents.  And it was underwater.  Financial powers of attorney were signed and the place was put on the market.

I had to move.  Soon.

Anxious phone conversations happened.  What if.  Maybe.  Could be.  Possibly. None of it was true.  And I realize now, none of it had to do with the very real burden that was being placed on my life.  I asked for radio silence.  I turtled up and tried to think of what to do.  And inside my shell, I came to a realization:

It's over.

And I wrapped myself inside my shell and I wept like I hadn't done for a long time.  Exhausting, ugly, loud, wracking sobs.  Because in that moment the thing I knew I had lost was a true friend.  A person who, with all his faults, cared deeply for me at one time and helped me emerge into the person I am now.  I couldn't see a way to maintain a friendship when such a big part of it was this strange situation with the condo.

Mercury was in retrograde, and this part of my life was falling apart.  Even though I know that the planets had nothing to do with any of it, somehow there was comfort in knowing that just like this unique astrological positioning, this situation was temporary and would change.

*-- identifying details have been changed

Episode 3 -- Move In Day Premonition

My moving day started with a friend bringing me coffee and talking bellydance while I tried not to panic about the movers being late.  It ended with the guy I just started dating coming over with a bottle of wine and taking me out to dinner.  In between, other than the movers, I was on my own.

Once they got to my old place and started carrying everything out, everything collapsed into a blurry montage.  (Theme song, "Titanium.")  After the movers left and before the new guy came over, I had a few hours to myself.  I used up all my remaining adrenaline unpacking a few boxes, then finally paused to lean against my new kitchen counter and drink a glass of water.

I have made a huge mistake.

I shook my head and took a few deep breaths.  I looked out the window at the trees in the courtyard.  I walked out onto my balcony and thought about drinking coffee there in the morning.  But, when I walked back into the unit --

This is a mistake.  This will not end well.

I'm Supposed to Be Done with All This

Before I drove to my hometown for the weekend, I have a text message exchange with a dear friend. We were talking about visiting the places where we grew up, the oddness of it.  I talked about that parallel worlds feeling I always get when I go back to the hometown.  The feeling of --what would have happened if I had never left?   When everything was new and broken, I went back to that parallel worlds place with extreme longing, wanting to find a way to launch myself into that world where I never would have taken the path that ultimately led to this hurt. 

Eventually, though, happiness emerged and I became more and more grateful for the world I am in.  Hurt and all, it has led to some significant changes and cherished friendships.  So I drove home, still peeking at that parallel world, no desire to dive into it.  

For the holiday, we went to see an outdoor symphony concert.  Beautiful music, beautiful setting, and time with family.  I looked forward to it.  Why then, somewhere between the concertmaster walking out and the beginning of the first piece, did I find it so hard to breathe?  Why was I on the verge of tears for most of the concert?  And what was up with the long moment in the bathroom at intermission, breathing deeply into my hands to calm down?  

Radiation recall.  That's what was up.  Symphonies, operas, all things classical music -- that is the Ex's world.  I hadn't been to anything like that since we split up.  And there I was, looking into another parallel world -- the one where nothing changed, and I still listened to backstage symphony stories and scheduled life around the concert season.  Radiation recall made me vulnerable, wanting again to sink into the comfort of an imaginary parallel world.  

Fortunately, although time doesn't completely remove the weakened places, it does teach you how to heal faster.  A little breathing, a little music, a little grounding in the present moment -- and I was able to let the parallel world go and appreciate my fortunate now.  I'm back again to the place where my friend and I left our text message conversation:  

Me: Amazing, isn't it? I always get that parallel worlds feeling when I go back. Like -- what would I be like if I had stayed? I'm glad I didn't.

Friend: Yah me too. Glad I did not and glad you did not too.