Barefoot on a Bar Floor and More Joyous Things

In my practical brain, I know this division of old year and new year is fairly arbitrary, and I try not to base my life upon it.  If I want to end an old habit or pick up a new one, I start when the motivation starts.

But this time of year does invite introspection and reflection.  The short daylight hours and colder weather drives me indoors, into stiller and stiller pursuits.  The days off while great groups of people celebrate their winter holidays gives me time to daydream, plan, vision.

I am leaving soon for time away from all blinking, beeping, buzzing things.  I am taking this time to hunker down and really plan in a way I never have before.  Although it feels a little woo-woo, I am going to vision out what I want for the next year.  I hope to come back with a detailed, written description of everything I hope (believe?) will happen for me in the next year.

Before that, though, I thought it would be fun to look back at my list of Things I Did This Year That I Never Thought I Would Do In Life.  In no particular order, here they are:

--danced barefoot on a bar floor
--traveled alone to another country
--claimed my identity as a small business owner
--went zip-lining
--performed (twice!) at a street fair
--got a massive tattoo, with color in it
--*** *** *** *** (Whatever you are imagining -- if it involves nakedness, you're probably right.)
--broke someone's heart (See, it's not all celebratory.)

--fired a professional who had worked with me for years
--gave away or sold every last fancy table decor thing 

--took long walks alone in the woods, during deer hunting season

--called out my employer for illegal labor practices

--sent my writing out into the world without hours of agonizing over minutiae

Onward.  

Essentialism

This weekend I met up with a friend I hadn't seen in quite some time.  Our conversation turned to life plans, and how we are structuring our living arrangements to support what we want.  I talked about my plans to downsize, to greatly reduce my living expenses so I could afford to travel, and maybe take a day off every once in a while.  She was doing something similar, and she told me that there is even a name for it -- essentialism.

How perfect is that?  Essentialism.  Identifying and spending energy only on those things which are essential to your life.  I felt lighter just thinking of the concept.  

Then I promptly forgot about it.  I have spent the past few days not sleeping enough, running from client to home to other thing to who knows where, with no clear idea of anything beyond the next thing on my calendar.  This morning, in the clear light of exhaustion, I knew that I have been addressing all the things that are essential to those around me, but not to myself.  Without a partner to see me from outside myself, it is difficult to catch these bursts of frantic activity.  This is another continuing adjustment in living Mapless -- the external view from inside.

Today, after an evening doing something I love, and (finally) a good night of sleep, I am back to essentials.  Sleep, eat, move, breathe, and love.  All things with love.  

Stepping Forward, Looking Back

I wrote this a year and a half ago, when change was new and I was different.  Re-posting it now to encourage you all, dear ones, to glance back and really see how far you've come:

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It was less than twenty minutes into our meeting when my realtor had me married to one of the doctors I get referrals from, traveling the world, and probably living in a giant house in Winnetka.  Sold to us by her, of course. 

The first time I talk to anyone about the pending divorce, the reactions are priceless.  I still dread trying to answer "What happened?" and "How are you?" with the mythical, perfect combination of brief, thorough and positive.  But I am starting to look forward to the reactions,  in a purely anthropological way.  The range is instructive, and, more even than a catastrophic illness, it reveals who is a stand-in-the-fire next to you kind of friend.  I have those, to my delight. 

There is A., who shocked me a little with her reaction: "Now you can have a 3-way if you want!" but soon won me over with her unshakeable conviction that this is the blow that will crack my earthly shell and reveal the Goddess who was there all along.

There is my surrogate Jewish mother, who let me come to her home on the Sabbath, the day he moved out.  She took me and my brokenness and uncontrolled crying and did that thing loving moms and dear friends are so good at-- She brought me tissues until I was done crying and brought me food until I was strong enough to return to my newly empty home.

There is lovely C., in a far away city, so clearly wanting to be nearby.  She took moments away from her move and her family to Skype with me, gently advising me to take note of myself and how I really am in the midst of all my planned distractions.

S., on the far side of the country, who used her special brand of firm compassion to remind me to stand up for myself. 

J., my friend and mentor, also far away, who makes me feel smart even as I feel my mind is slipping. She lets me show weakness, but won't let me get away with less than I am capable of.

N., my co-worker, who helped me believe the guy who called me a "sexy goofball" was not mistaken about the first part.

And, most fortunately, my parents.  My mother who helps me to protect myself and lets me know that capital-H Home is always an option.  My father who texts me every day to tell me he loves me.  Both of them carefully following my lead about how they should think of my ex.  They loved him too, after all.

So, despite the random realtor who means well but misses the mark, or acquaintances who choose to think this, like a bad case of stomach flu, will pass by, I find that those closest to me are living up to that closeness.  They have built a wall for me to hide behind while I fall apart, and when I am ready, they will turn around and put me back together again.  We are a closed secret society, and our mission code name is: Operaton Sexy Goofball.

Competition

I have been thinking lately of why women compete with each other so much.  I see that we are set up to compare ourselves to one another -- by media and pop culture in general -- but I wonder why we choose to accept this setup.  As a woman in the midst of dating, of trying to find a partner, it seems like the whole world wants me to put down other women in order to raise myself up.  I'll admit that sometimes I fall into that trap, but I am trying hard not to do it.

It has been said to me: "You can't compete with all those 20-year-olds out there." Lately I am fully comfortable responding: "No.  I can't. And I really don't want to." This is a comfort born of a lot of struggle and continual nourishment.  Most experiences of my growing-up years contained implied competition.  If my friend looked good, that somehow meant I looked less good.  If that boy dated her, it meant he wasn't dating me.  If I lost weight, that meant someone else's body didn't look as good.  

Now I see how ridiculous this is.  I am trying to spread this message to other women around me, but it is shockingly difficult.  "Listen," I said to a friend of mine, "If you are at a party, dressed to kill and feeling confident and a beautiful woman walks into the room, that does not make you any less beautiful.  You can acknowledge that someone else is attractive, or smart, or talented -- and the magic is that it does not take away any of your attractiveness, intelligence or talent."  

My friend nodded, and looked skeptical.

Last week, I was around a woman I have known my whole life, and I expressed some frustration about not having any clothes that fit and she cut me to the core, saying, "Stop bragging about how skinny you are." 

I'm fed up with keeping quiet about how wonderful I am because I fear the consequences.  I am not in competition with 20-year-olds, or with anyone.  I am making a resolution now to tell everyone I know how wonderful, talented, and beautiful they are as often as I can.  Because since when do kind words become boomerangs that come back and cut me at the knees?  If they are boomerangs that return, then they return with strength to build me up.  I'm starting now.

You (yes YOU) are lovely and amazing.  Pass it on.

Dance Map

Last night I went to a Beats Antique concert.  I went because I am becoming a huge fan of Zoe Jakes -- primarily for her dancing.  The concert attendees were encouraged to wear masks, costumes, painted faces, basically to let their freak flags fly.  When my friend and I walked into the venue, we both had the same thought -- "We are old."  The dance floor in front of the stage was writhing with 18-22 years olds, dancing with the intensity and abandon only found in youth and marijuana haze.

During the show, we ran into a woman my friend knew.  She was taking burlesque classes, loving every minute of it.  Later, my friend told me that this woman was just starting her divorce journey.  It strikes me now both of us, in our Mapless state, turned to some kind of dancing.  I fell head over hips for bellydance, and from the sound of it, she was doing the same for burlesque.  I can't speak for her, but for me it became a way to fall in love with myself.  

Years ago, when I was still married and believed I always would be, I took a few dance classes.  One day, in a rare moment of feeling sexy and open, I tried doing a little dance for the Ex.  And he laughed.  And I froze.

I am sure that his laugh had nothing to do with shaming or belittling me.  I am certain that he was reacting to the strangeness, the newness of this thing.  His repressed wife trying to move in a way that was alluring and enticing -- that just never happened.  In my repressed state, though, I took his laugh as a judgement, and felt overwhelmed with shame.  I never danced in front of him again, and shortly after that I stopped taking classes.

In the first month after he moved out, when I was just starting my practice and slightly panicked about life, I saw a card for a dance and fitness studio nearby.  I decided to try bellydance.  Gradually, I emerged into someone who loves this dance, and even wants to perform it in front of people.  I found my lost creativity and my battered confidence.  Throughout all the (mis)adventures of the first year, bellydance was there.  

So, when I met my friend's friend at Beats Antique, and I heard her talk about burlesque, I saw something familiar.  Another healing heart and Mapless soul, realizing the map is written on her own body.  Strength arising from movement.  No wonder we ended up at the same concert, mesmerized by a woman whose dance is fierce, unique and unashamed.  

I am remembering the note I sent my dance teacher after the first time I performed with the student troupe:

Before I get back to life and forget, I want to say thank from the core of my heart for the studio and for your open spirit that makes all these things awesome.  High awesome.  

I've shared a little with you of the the difficulty of this past year, and of the discovery that was also part of it.  Honestly, I think seeing your card at work was one of the best things that came out of this year.  Without rediscovering bellydance, for me there would have been no Costa Rica, no Rachel Brice, and no dancing on stage.  Probably over time the performances will start to blur together for me, but this past weekend was truly significant.  I hadn't been that happy and confident in a long while, so it was a revelation that I still could be that happy and confident.  

We had that conversation once about bellydance as a hobby that is also a necessity.  I think the order has reversed for me -- it is a necessity, that most people would call a hobby.  I credit your gentle notes and observations, encouragement, and realistically high standards for making this possible.  Your world is truly a unique place where every woman can thrive on her own terms, and, more importantly, define those terms in the first place.  

Thank you for welcoming me into this world.  I'm going to stick around for a while.  

Radiation Recall

There is a phenomenon that sometimes happens to people who have had radiation treatment called "radiation recall."  What happens is this: after radiation is over with, a person may receive chemotherapy at a later date.  Sometimes this chemotherapy treatment causes radiation rashes to crop up again, sore, red and angry.  The stress of the chemo on the body causes the fragile spots to open up again.  It is one of the many potential side effects of cancer treatment.

This week feels like an emotional radiation recall for me.  The Ex is getting married on Saturday.  This was his delayed response to my last message to him.  I responded very simply that I wish him the best, which I do.  Yet as I sat still, willing myself not to be numb, I wondered what I felt.  Mostly, surprisingly, what I felt was okay.  It seemed soon, but right.  

As the message entered my entire circulation, though, the recall started.  All those places where I am healed but still weak started to open up again.  Sore, red, and angry.  The lingering doubt that anyone will ever want me.  The ego blow that someone who says he loved me so much could get over me so quickly.  The anxiety over living and managing my life alone.  My radiation recall was a clamp on my lungs and a whooshing headache.  One of the many potential side effects of heartbreak.

My recall rash came out, but it was manageable.  I went for a run, I reached out to my amazing friends, and I cleaned out a bunch of drawers.  As things calmed down, I saw again the clarity I found before my trip to Denver.  He is a good, decent and kind man.  He is not good for me.  I have true and loving friends, who when they circle around me, bring the strength of generations of women.  I have weak spots, blind spots, sore spots -- but I am fine, thriving, even.  As many of my friends reminded me, I am different now, better and more true.  

The recall came and went fairly quickly, which made me wonder if I was really being honest with myself.  But here is how I know that I am fine: The part about his message that bothered me the most was not that he's getting married, not even the (relative) soon-ness of it.  It was that he wouldn't tell me anything but the date because he was afraid it would show up on my blog.  This blog.  Which is not about him at all.  Proving once again the lack of true understanding we had for each other, and reinforcing the reasons why I don't want to be his friend.  It's not heartbreak that upsets me, it's misunderstanding -- the same misunderstanding we have always had. 

So, yeah, he was right.  It did end up here.  This is what happens when you fall in and then out of love with a writer.  She writes about it.  And truly, sincerely, with a loving heart wishes you well in your new life. 

Travel Clarifies

I am sitting in the airport, waiting on a delayed flight, reading, writing and contemplating. All this led to me sending this email to the Ex:

I am reading a book and I came across this sentence: "True liberation comes when you quit the shackles you put on yourself."  This made me think of you and realize, finally realize, that this is what you did. My first reaction to the whole divorce was to wonder why I couldn't convince you that you could relax into your shackles. You were right. And now, with time and distance and change, I realize I owe you gratitude for not believing me, for forcing this big, uncomfortable, frightening and painful change. I have relearned so much that I forgot. Thank you. And I'm sorry that you had to be in that position. 

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Now I am shaking a little, as so much pent-up anxiety releases. It was a realization with all the force of a vision. I owe him thanks for hurting me. I owe him gratitude for giving me this gift of my life and caring enough to throw me into the fire so I could find it. Before I sent that message, I had to struggle to overcome the idea that contacting him was some kind of self-defeat. I felt like the full excision of him from my life was a freedom and a comfort. But maybe it was just another way to stay stuck in that relationship. 

I am starting to get anxious about what he will think and all the negative ways he could interpret the message. Will he see it as a random, attention-seeking bomb? That was not my intention, and I can't control his reaction. It is good for me to start saying what I feel to the people I feel it about. This needed to happen before I could really be ready to start a new, serious relationship. 

The shaking seems to be over. I'm left feeling relaxed, open, and a little exhausted. Travel clarifies for me. This is why I need to do it more often.