It is there. All of it. What I think and feel. What I need to say. What I need to free.

Sometimes I imagine that I clutch at it with my hands, but it is as if they are covered by many layers of thick rubber which are covered by many layers of heavy woolen fabric. I am able to feel nothing except the broadest strokes of this thing. I can gauge its general breadth and weight, but I cannot sense all its tactile nuances. I know it to be large and heavy, but I cannot tell you of its texture or its temperature. It may be cool and smooth. Perhaps hot and slick. Maybe covered with tiny ridges, bumps or hollows. Whatever it’s texture, I can feel nothing but its dense, immovable presence. What lies between it and my hands is just too thick. So I grab at it and attempt to wrap my arms around it, all the while knowing that the only way to get at it is to remove that which is between.

Other times I hear it as my own voice, but again it is muffled –  deadened by that which is between. I know the voice to be my own but I hear it the same way I heard myself speak when I had a double ear infection – as if my voice came to me from the bottom of a deep, still lake. As if it had been removed from my body and dropped into the water where it sank slowly to the bottom, eventually lodging itself into the sandy floor. I hear myself speak and I know it to be my own voice – just not in my body. My voice shifting slowly across the bottom of the lake. Coaxingly  nudged by the gentle movement of the water. Sometimes it comes to me clearly and I hear every tinny word. Other times it is muffled and I hear nothing but its murmurs and undulations. Perhaps it has settled under an umbrella of rock against which its words bounce and return to it without ever being understood. And other times still, it is completely silent. Perhaps because it has been swallowed by a large fish. Temporarily existing  in the shadowy innards of some dweller of the lake, until it is expelled, having yielded no sustenance for its host.

This then is the work. The work of peeling off the layers. Of removing what is between.

This then is the goal. The goal of retrieving my voice. Plucking it from the wet and placing it back where it ought to be, so that I may speak that which needs to be spoken and free that which needs to be freed.

It is the work of letting what is to be felt be felt and what is to be said be said.

This way freedom lies.

A  few days ago our yoga teacher repeatedly reminded us to stay close to the simple things in our practice. These things – breath, awareness, focus –  he said, were the foundation which would enable us to push through when the work we were doing  became challenging.

Today was a day full of simple things.

It was my Mother’s Birthday.

I had to drive 2 and half hours to a meeting today and even then I was able to stay close to the simple things.  Waking up at 4am to the stillness of early morning, when all is so quite that I can hear the breath of  God.  Stopping for my coffee at Quikchek greeted by smiles from the people who work there, who are often the first faces I see each morning. Sharing a laugh with a sweet woman also named Sue.

Even when a man accidentally tried to get into my car instead of his own, I stayed close to that simple thing called laughter. He laughed too. “I promise I didn’t take the good silver,”  he joked.

Even the fact that there was messy slushy, snow and rain for most of my drive was OK. I stayed close to the simple joy of being in the car, warmed by the blast of the heater and comforted by my fragrant cup of coffee. I stayed close to the simple joy of listening to my music, singing out loud and dancing in my seat when I felt so moved.

My meeting seemed full of simple things. Doing work that matters. Helping. Contributing my gifts. Gratitude for the fact that people value my work.  Working with kind, generous, passionate people who BELIEVE in the power of creativity. We ended by breaking bread .  Eating lunch together before I made the return trip. There was the simple  joy of talking to my Mother on the phone on the way home, and then when the conversation was done, blasting more music and jamming all the way.

My day ended as it often does with yoga.  Today was one of those days when yoga was delicious. Yes delicious. It was one of those days when the perfect combination of ingredients comes together in some sort of  alchemy which transforms the 90 minutes of class into a truly sublime experience. The combination of this particular group of people on this particular night, with this particular teacher came together to create a syngergy that lifted me and carried me through the class. While I could feel the energy of those around me, could see the beautiful synchronized movement of our collective body  - I felt fully focused on myself. My breathe. My body

I felt hyperaware of  every sensation. Of the miracle of sinew and bone. Of  muscle and skin.  I felt with vivid awareness, the pulsing of my heart and the exquisite rush of blood as it flowed to every part of my body. It seemed I could feel it’s very movement through my blood vessels.

I experienced the pain of stretching muscles and twisting joints not as pain, but rather as a profound reminder of  the gift of the vessel which is mine for this journey. Each pain was an exquisite affirmation of my aliveness and of the very power of creation moving in me.

The sweat of my body today was a bendediction. A blessing of all that is. As it is.  It felt cleansing in some deeply elemental way. I could hear the tap tap of the drops of sweat falling to my mat, washing away all the sadness, frustration, fear and anxiety that had been layered on my skin. I imagined that I could see it sink through the layers of towel, mat, carpet, lining, wood, and cement – into the very earth –  washing away those awful feelings and taking them to be used as nourishment for some seed waiting dormant in the ground. Some seed which would grow into something verdant. Something lush with love.

Leaving the yoga studio to discover that there was freezing rain pelting down did not shift me either. I drove home thinking of the simple things which awaited me. The coziness of my apartment. The soft mewling welcome of my cat. A hot shower. Warm fleece pajamas.  Hot fragrant, spicy Vietnamese soup left over from my lunch. A glass of velvety pinot noir.

And this. Sitting at my computer, lulled by the shush of cars on the street below as they driving through the slush.  The sweetness of having allowed these words to flow out of  me, through my fingertips, to dance themselves into reality on the screen. The pure unadulterated joy of creating something. Saying something. Feeling something. Not because I have to. Not because I’m trying to accomplish anything in particular.  Just because it was there.

I understand what he meant when he said that the simple things are the foundation which carries us through when things are hard. The hard things are there my friend. Believe me.  I have been carrying around heartbreak, overwhelm, sadness, fear, anxiety and more that is hard. It’s all there gathered at my feet, looking up at me. Waiting for me to take it back up and focus on it rather than my peace. But for now, for today, the simple things are holding me steady. Rooting me firmly to the earth and enabling me to step my way unflinchingly around the hard things without losing my balance.

So for today. And perhaps tomorrow, and the next day, I will stay close to the simple things.

December 11 – 11 Things What are 11 things your life doesn’t need in 2011? How will you go about eliminating them? How will getting rid of these 11 things change your life? (Author: Sam Davidson)

There are many things to leave behind.

The things I’ve been carrying around for years.  Some of the things are of my own making and choosing. Others were thrust upon me, and I foolishly believed that because someone had given them to me, I couldn’t put them down.

I have been a collector of these things. Cleaning up around me as I went and never putting anything down.

I have walked onward, adorned in these things and becoming so accustomed to their weight that I believed it to be my own. I wrapped myself in these things, finding that to be the only way to carry them all. I wore them on my head like a turban. Wrapped them around my neck and let them trail behind me like a train. I wound them around my waist and knotted them securely so they wouldn’t fall off and be left behind. I carried what I could in my head and in my heart. Shoved things into my chest cavity, and held them in my throat. I swallowed what I could, and carried it leaden in my belly. I scooped up handfuls of these things. Carried them in my arms. When I ran out of ways to carry the things,  I just tied them to myself wherever I could. To my arms. To my legs. To my fingers.  To the hair on my head.

I dragged them forward until the weight was too much.

I could not move for the things. I was buried under their weight. I sank to my knees. Fell to the floor. Rolled helpless onto my back and lifted my eyes heavenwards believing this to be the end.  It was all I could do.

Exhaustion was a gift.  As I lay there unable to move something told me to examine exactly what I had been carrying with me. What were these things? Who did they belong to?

Whose anger was this knotted around my neck?  What about the resentment I held in my arms like a baby? The fear tied to my ankle?  The sadness held in my clenched fist? The unworthiness draped about my shoulders like a cape?

I was amazed by how much I didn’t recognize. Even more amazed that I neither wanted nor needed any of it.

So I began to remove these things from my being. My fingers clumsy at first, I began to untie the knots and unravel all of these heavy things. I began slowly, and cautiously. Waiting to see what would happen. Would they reattach themselves? Would someone appear and make me pick it all back up again?

It didn’t happen, so frantically, I began to remove more things. I freed my arms and flung the things far from me. I released my legs and kicked myself loose, until finally I could stand tall and straight and free with the heavy pile of things littered at my feet. I wept at the relief. At the exquisite lightness which remains.

Freedom.

It’s here that I find myself. Standing surrounded by the weight I have shed. Shaking my head in wonder that I carried it all for so long without realizing that it was not necessary. Not knowing that I could say no. Not knowing that I could just put down what I didn’t need and step around it.

I know better now. I will step over the threshold into this new year knowing better. I will leap and run and skip my way into its brand new, miracle-filled days. I will carry with me always only the most precious things, leaving by the wayside that which no longer serves me. If along the way I should meet anyone who wants to give me their stuff to carry, I will politely say “No, thank you”, and dance myself ever forward.

December 2 Writing.
What do you do each day that doesn’t contribute to your writing — and can you eliminate it?
(Author: Leo Babauta)

Not writing.

Avoiding  myself.   And yes, I do this each and every day.

Writing is scary. It is a conversation with myself, and perhaps I am afraid of what will come out if I write consistently.

I am afraid of the known and the unknown. Of the untapped depths of my own mind and soul.

I am afraid of all the emotions, traumas, hopes, dreams, failures, and desires which litter the house of my psyche. Of all that is stuffed under seat cushions, swept under rugs,  shoved into closets and piled in corners. I am afraid that the writing will unleash something that I will not be able to contain nor avoid. That once the lid is off it will all come gushing, pouring , roaring out and I will drown in it. Perhaps it will all be too much. Too hard, too sad, too frightening. Too much. Too impossible.

I suppose it might also be too beautiful. Too powerful and wise and strong and sublime.  That seems just as frightening.

Can I eliminate it?

I suppose.

I can sit down every day with myself and let it all come up and out. Better out than in – isn’t that what “they” say?

I can just write.

If you want to be a writer, you must do two things above all others: read a lot and write a lot. There’s no way around these two things that I’m aware off, no shortcut.
– Stephen King, On Writing

Stephen King is right. I can no longer deny the harsh reality that if I want to write then I have to…. well….write.

I’ve got the reading thing down. I think my commitment to reading is sufficiently compulsive and obsessive.

I had dinner with a good friend a few nights ago and we spent a lot of time talking about my consulting work.  At the end of a long discussion about some of my projects she asked me how I was going to make time for writing now that I was clearly so busy with the challenge of running my own business. She’s one of those friends who isn’t afraid to ask you questions that will make you uncomfortable because they force you to deal with something you’ve been avoiding. You know the type.  The ones who remember all the good intentions you set for yourself and are not afraid to remind you about them when said intentions become lost – buried by the other stuff of life. Sometimes you wish they didn’t have such good memories, but really you’re incredibly grateful that they do.

One of the reasons I stopped working full-time was so that I could finally make time to explore my writing.  To really sit with this newly discovered passion.  Finally I’d be able to give in to the irresistible pull I feel to put myself down on paper.

It hasn’t happened the way I imagined.  The past few months have been consumed by finding a place to live,settling into the new place and starting a new business.

My technology consulting work has taken on a life of its own, and projects are coming at me fast and furious. I’ve been  spending all my time trying to figure out how to efficiently run a business, and my days are already filled with meetings, preparing proposals and estimates, invoicing and more.  I feel as pressed for time as I did when I had a regular job!

I’m realizing that it may have been naive to think that just because I was self-employed, by default I would have lots of free time for writing .

If it wasn’t for my monthly writing group, my writing would be limited to the occasional day when I manage to write morning pages. Once in a while they end up on paper, but more often than not, they are written in my head. Sometimes in the early hours, I am awakened by passages being written in my head. Am I becoming a vessel for the writing? I often hear writers and painters describe their creative process this way. If so, great.  I’ve written some good stuff. Pity its not written any place where I can read it.  I can only comfort myself with the thought that if it came to me once perhaps it will come again at a moment when I can write it down.

I wonder if  Stephen King counts writing in your head as writing? My guess would be no…but then again, who knows.

I know what I need to do to be a writer.  Write.

So this is my challenge – to make the time and space to write.

Clearly it will require a concerted effort and probably a great deal of sacrifice.

I’ll have to become as compulsive and obsessive about the writing as I am about the reading.

I know it can be done.  Take this post for example. I’m writing at it at 2am. Earlier this evening, I fell asleep on the couch watching TV.  I woke up around 1:30am, and began to make the half-awakened stumble towards to my bed. As I did so however, I glanced at my computer. Something told me to sit down and write about what’s been on my mind for the past few days. So here I am.

I have an 8:30am meeting with a new client, and conventional wisdom tells me that being up writing at 2am is probably not wise. By the time I lay my head down, my mind will probably be too stimulated for me to fall asleep immediately. I’ll probably end up reading in an attempt to lull myself to sleep – which most likely won’t work, and I’ll read for another couple of hours.  My guess is that I’ll end up snatching only a few hours of sleep.

I did say something about sacrifice didn’t I?

What’s funny is that this  doesn’t feel like a sacrifice. Sitting at my desk in the spacious stillness of early, early morning when it feels like I am the only person in the world who is awake. It’s blissfully quiet except for the gentle tap of my fingers on the keyboard, the hiss and splutter of the heat forcing its way out of the radiator and the occasional hum of a car passing on the street.

This feels like a gift.

There are some things we hold on to even though we know full well that we shouldn’t.  We recognize that the time for letting go has long arrived, yet still we hold on.

I know for example that it’s immature to want to prove to all the men who -  in my mind – have rejected me just how wrong they were. Yet I continue to cling to the  “I’ll show him what a big mistake he made rejecting me / he’ll be sorry he let me go”  bone.

It’s a little childish, but it’s comforting. Empowering somehow to gnaw on this bone in anticipation of  it finally breaking open to release the sweet juices of  vindication I am convinced will be my reward.

I imagine how thrilling it will be when realization of regret hits those foolish rejecters. When their blindfolds are removed to reveal to them my true brilliance, beauty and uniqueness. They will be amazed by how skinny and successful and brand-spanking-shiny new I’ve become. I imagine how shamefully they’ll be forced to slink away upon seeing me with the handsomer, taller, better and obviously more intelligent man who snatched me up.

How dumb will they feel when recognition of what they COULD have had hits home? Opportunity missed. Gift horse looked dead in its gaping, slobbery mouth!

So I keep at my bone. Biting down a little harder as I imagine myself looking sadly upon the rejecters as they weep at the lack of foresight which led them to not choose me.  I imagine impassioned pleadings for second chances and magnanimous forgiveness.  The jerk of sobbing shoulders. The clutching of fistfuls of tear-soaked tissues. The mournful hanging of heads weighed down by regret and anchored by defeat.  The dragging, shuffling walk of men walking away from the treasure they know they have lost.  Me!

I sigh  blissfully as I picture myself shaking my head in pity while I turn back into the arms of  my new, anatomically correct, emotionally mature, spiritually enlightened , good-smelling, well-dressed, generally perfect new man.

See what I mean?  It’s really easy to shore up my battered self-esteem and tattered pride with these rampant and overly dramatic imaginings.

I know I shouldn’t do it. I know it’s spiritually immature and I’m better than that.  I really do know better.  I also know that I’m running out of excuses for me living from that place of ego. I’ve read the books, attended the classes. I received and read the memo.

Yes. I definitely know.

It’s time to loosen my grip, unhinge my jaw and let the bone drop.

I know all this.

However, in the interests of being kind to myself, I’m letting myself gnaw just a little bit longer.  Like a dog backed into a corner, I  see that there is no escape. The universe has been gently tugging this bone away from me for a while and its inevitable that I will soon have no choice but to drop it.

It will soon be time for the letting go.

I won’t get to bury it, or hide it away. There is no treasure in it after all.  I’ll just drop it onto the ground where it can be bleached by the sun and pounded on by the rain until it dissolves down into the dirt.

Yes. I’ll have to drop it soon, but until then…

Had my credentials been in order I would never have become a writer. Had I been blessed with even limited access to my own mind there would have been no reason to write. I write entirely to find out what I’m thinking, what I’m looking at, what I see and what it means.

(Joan Didion, “Why I Write,” The New York Times Magazine, December 5, 1976.

I absolutely LOVE this quote. Love it, love it, love it. Did I mention that I love it??

The Valentines day writing group was great. We started with a prompt inspired by the 25 Random Things About Me phenomenon that’s  occurring on Facebook, and were asked to write 25 random things about love. Holy writer’s block. I hated this prompt. I’m not sure why. Maybe its because I don’t do well with lists. All I know is that it was hard for me.  I found myself feeling stuck and unhappy doing it.

For the second prompt we were each handed a poem and this time the writing flowed without effort. I thought I’d share that piece here because it really seemed to connect with people. Ironically, its all about love.

I’ve met a lot of people lately. Strangers who don’t feel like strangers. And I want to love them.  The cab drivers, the policemen, the movers. The woman at the candle store. The woman at the storage space where the trappings of my life are piled into a ten by eight cube. The timeshare guy who I talked to for hours about writing and creativity and his 10-year old son. The woman at the little boutique in Newport. So many seeming strangers, so much love.

The cab driver who told me about her ex-husband’s death bed apology to her. The other cab driver who told me about his parents divorce over 30 years ago.

I have this urge to love  people now. To love them by really and truly seeing them.  Not who they are, but what they are. Love. My brothers and sisters. There is a quote I love which says that you can “listen your brothers and sisters into existence”.  Maybe that’s what I’m doing. Listening them into existence.  It’s urgent and intense, this compulsion I have to wrap my arms around the world and love people.

Sometimes I feel as if I’m a little unhinged.  Like when I meet someone who is so beautiful it makes my cry. Makes me feel filled up with something so buoyant and expansive that I cannot contain it. It prickles my skin as it seeps out of me. Am I leaking love?

It happened when my 8-year old nephew wept a little  because his 4-year old cousin was sad that everyone was leaving.  His heart is so pure and true it makes me ache with love.

Am I turning into some sort of free-love, I want to hug the world freak?  I keep talking about love. Talking about how much I love people. What does it mean?

What is that quote?  “Somtimes I feel like I am being carried by great winds across the sky”. That’s how I feel lately. Caught up in a tornado of love. Except it doesn’t destroy things. This tornado is soft and warm, enveloping me in something that makes me know that I am okay. It floats me from the top of the cone down to the bottom and back again.And like any tornado it pulls into its center anything that comes across its path. So as I dance around in my tornado, the cab drivers and the movers get swept up with me and we spin and bounce against the soft sides together. And as this group of women sits here open-hearted  we are all being buffeted  by this tornado that is love. This is how is should be.  How it is. This feeling of open expansion that’s making me cry as I write this. As we listen each other into existence, I’m thinking I don’t care if I sound like a new-age freak. All that really matters is this thing that I cannot contain. This feeling that’s breaking me free of my body and filling the room. This essence of something bigger than all of us, yet of us.  This love. This moment. This love.

For a long time, I’ve been feeling increasingly drawn to the idea of writing, and I’ve started to write more and more through journaling, attending a monthly writing group and of course this blog. Lately, I also experience a lot of spontaneous acts of writing, when paragraphs, phrases and sometimes entire pieces seem to write themselves in my mind. It can happen anytime. I could be in the shower or driving down the highway. It’s even happened when I’m sleeping.

Last year I began working on a non-fiction book, but I was quickly stymied by my feeling that I wasn’t “qualified” to write. Who would read it?. What made me think that what I had to say had any kind of value?

I’m still learning how to  live into my questions, so I’ve just been doing my best to hold this question of what I might write, without getting frustrated by the seeming lack of answers.

A few days ago I had dinner with a friend I hadn’t seen for a several months. As I caught him up on my life we got to discussing what I want to do with my life, given the fact that in just a few short months, I will leave my job of 11 years to pursue a consulting practice and who knows what else. I shared with him that what I REALLY wanted to do was be a writer but had no idea what on earth I could write about.

Last night it came up again in a conversation with my beloved friend Curly Moo.  (Incidentally, Curly Moo is the one who first introduced me to the fabulous Deb and her Living out Loud writing groups which have become an essential part of my very existence.) Once again I found myself saying that I really wanted to be a writer but didn’t feel I had anything to write about. I expressed my long-held fear that I didn’t have the kind of creativity necessary to write. Being the wise woman and supportive friend she is, CurlyMoo told me very firmly that this was not true. Again, I ended the conversation still holding on to this unanswered question.

Then, this morning as I caught up on my blog reading, I came across by Sean Platt at copyblogger.com which asked the question Are You Are A Writer? I found myself almost weeping with gratitude as I read it. The post begins:

I’m a writer. I spent over three decades unaware of this essential truth, but I’m ready to atone for my ignorance.

I could have written those words myself. In fact, if I changed just a few words in this astounding post, it wouldn’t be hard to convince anyone that I’d written the entire thing. Sean expressed so much of what I’ve been saying to myself for so long. I come back to an Anais Nin quote I shared not to long ago:

The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say.

It’s clear by the comments in response to his post, that Sean said what a lot of people are unable to say. I was forced to revisit my own words, “It occurs to me that my favorite writers and books are those which seem to say all the things I am unable to, for whatever reason. Those whose words unlock the hidden secrets of my own knowing and help me to to tap into my own wisdom. This is the power of other people’ words!”

Sean’s words speak for me and to me. He has said what haven’t been able to say up until this very moment, which is that:

I have language, so I can speak. I can speak, so I can tell a story. I can tell a story, so I can write.

Astonishing. To quote him one last time:

I’d always believed that I wasn’t very creative, or at least that what creativity I did have, didn’t run too deep. But I’m alive, and that means I know a good story when I hear one. A writer need not worry that his ideas will thin. Our minds only empty at the end of our final breath.

In reading this I have a sense of having uncovered something which in the deepest part of me I know to be true. Not only that, but a question has been answered for me. And while I cannot know for certain what I will write or when I will write it, I am certain of the fact that yes indeed I am a writer and I will be as long as I draw breath.

When I was a teenager, someone gave me this little spiral bound notebook as a gift. I started using it to write down my favorite quotes and passages from the books I read. Pretty easy to do considering that I always had a book attached to my face. (Not much has changed in that regard).  At the time I didn’t think too much about why I started doing that. I was just writing down the words that “spoke” to me on some level.

Sometimes it was something that made me laugh, or cry. Something that inspired me, or seemed profound to my teenage mind.  A lot of times it was an exquisite juxtaposition of words that was so beautiful I couldn’t stand it.

I don’t remember when I stopped using this notebook. I think it was in college when the majority of my reading became academic, and when I wasn’t reading I was too busy partying to read  Now that I have a “library”, I have been inspired to pick this habit up again. My relationship with my books has been renewed. I often find myself “visiting” with my books. Running my hands over them and picking one out at random, letting it fall open to a page and seeing where I land. This renewed relationhip has brought me back to collecting the quotes I love in my little notebook.  It’s also made me wonder what it is about  about reading someone else’s words that is so powerful. What makes someone want to write down those words, read them repeatedly and even share them with other people? What comfort do we get from this?

There is the obvious inspiration that we often get when we read certain things. An emotion is triggered. Happiness, inspiration, sadness, nostalgia, laughter, contemplation. Often the words serve as a reminder of some notion we want to hold in the forefront of our minds. Sometimes its a cue, a trigger for something. I have quotes that serve as anchors when I’m experiencing a certain state of mind. When I am feeling insecure, unworthy and generally unfabulous, for example, there is no quote that brings me greater comfort than this famous Marianne Williamson quote:

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It’s not just in some of us; it’s in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.

For me however, the most powerful way in which quotes seem to impact me is by expressing something that I am unable to say for myself. In fact in most cases, I’m not even aware that there is something unsaid floating around in my being until I read something. Many of the most profound realizations I’ve had in my life have come from reading someone else’s words and recognizing that they were saying exactly what I needed to say, but couldn’t.  I’ve read passages that confirmed something I may have known in the deepest part of me, but could never articulate.  It’s as if the reading of a passage unlocks the box in my subconscious where that knowing is stored. Once it is unlocked, there is a sense of recognition and I think to myself “I know this to be true”.Â

Anais Nin said it best when she said:

The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say

It occurs to me that my favorite writers and books are those those which seem to say all the things I am unable to, for whatever reason.  Those whose words unlock the hidden secrets of my own knowing and help me to to tap into my own wisdom. This is the power of other people’s words!

I will start sharing some of my favorite quotes. I’d love to hear what some of yours are too.