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It Is What It Is
Saturday, August 23, 2008
You Mean the Wordle to Me
Thanks Karen for this awesome site. Here's my blog on Wordle. Shit yeah.
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title="Wordle: It Is What It Is">
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I Quit
I would like to formally announce my retirement.
It was all just getting started but I feel my best is behind me.
And in case you don't know, writing is hard.
That's why writers drink. I have, tonight, seriously considered leaving the house and getting myself some Bushmills. (My favorite liquor.) I don't understand why I don't keep my (favorite) liquor in the house. Everytime I want some whiskey I don't have it. And there is just something a little desperate about buying liquor when you are really, really craving it. Like everyone can see.
Like when I buy ice cream, I think at the convenience store they are thinking, "Here comes that fat girl. Coming to buy ice cream AGAIN. What's she so sad about?"
See it's different if I'm at the grocery store and my cart is full of peaches and beans and ice cream and cucumbers and cereal and whiskey and peanuts and juice boxes. That makes sense.
But to just go buy a bottle of hooch or a pint of ice cream...it's like telegraphing my sorrow to the world.
Ok.
I just realized that is what I'm doing here. Right now. However! To write this, I did not have to put on a bra or go find my shoes or check if I have any cash. (Cause using a debit card to buy a 3.00 carton of ice cream is just a whole other thing.)
So there.
Back to why my cupboards are bare of the essential whiskey.
Today has been a rough day. I set aside the entire day to write about this something-something that is quite emotional for me (this isn't it). Just jotting down some notes on the subject really stirred my pot of insecurity and unloveableness and failure and suddenly I just couldn't deal with anything.
It's okay. It's process. I get that.
Anyway I'm feeling a little better now. And that will get written whenever that gets written.
Still I'd like to sip a little whiskey at my retirement. (Oh, yeah. I guess it won't get written.)
But I have no whiskey.
So instead I ate my weight in chocolate. Peanut butter cups to be exact. So maybe, I'm theorizing, that is why I don't keep whiskey in the house. Cause I'd drink my weight in it just as I have the chocolate.
And I ate my weight in chocolate holed up in bed while reading David Sedaris' new book. And that my friends is why I am quitting this writing business.
Writing makes you sad.
Which makes you want whiskey.
Which you never have.
Which drives you to chocolate.
Which you eat while in bed with the new David Sedaris book.
Which you realize is the funniest thing ever written.
Which means all hope is lost for you in the funny writing department.
So why bother.
I quit.
It was all just getting started but I feel my best is behind me.
And in case you don't know, writing is hard.
That's why writers drink. I have, tonight, seriously considered leaving the house and getting myself some Bushmills. (My favorite liquor.) I don't understand why I don't keep my (favorite) liquor in the house. Everytime I want some whiskey I don't have it. And there is just something a little desperate about buying liquor when you are really, really craving it. Like everyone can see.
Like when I buy ice cream, I think at the convenience store they are thinking, "Here comes that fat girl. Coming to buy ice cream AGAIN. What's she so sad about?"
See it's different if I'm at the grocery store and my cart is full of peaches and beans and ice cream and cucumbers and cereal and whiskey and peanuts and juice boxes. That makes sense.
But to just go buy a bottle of hooch or a pint of ice cream...it's like telegraphing my sorrow to the world.
Ok.
I just realized that is what I'm doing here. Right now. However! To write this, I did not have to put on a bra or go find my shoes or check if I have any cash. (Cause using a debit card to buy a 3.00 carton of ice cream is just a whole other thing.)
So there.
Back to why my cupboards are bare of the essential whiskey.
Today has been a rough day. I set aside the entire day to write about this something-something that is quite emotional for me (this isn't it). Just jotting down some notes on the subject really stirred my pot of insecurity and unloveableness and failure and suddenly I just couldn't deal with anything.
It's okay. It's process. I get that.
Anyway I'm feeling a little better now. And that will get written whenever that gets written.
Still I'd like to sip a little whiskey at my retirement. (Oh, yeah. I guess it won't get written.)
But I have no whiskey.
So instead I ate my weight in chocolate. Peanut butter cups to be exact. So maybe, I'm theorizing, that is why I don't keep whiskey in the house. Cause I'd drink my weight in it just as I have the chocolate.
And I ate my weight in chocolate holed up in bed while reading David Sedaris' new book. And that my friends is why I am quitting this writing business.
Writing makes you sad.
Which makes you want whiskey.
Which you never have.
Which drives you to chocolate.
Which you eat while in bed with the new David Sedaris book.
Which you realize is the funniest thing ever written.
Which means all hope is lost for you in the funny writing department.
So why bother.
I quit.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Part Two - Raining Maitri
This is the second half of my original post but I wanted it to be separate. More people than ever may be reading this blog (ha, ha, I hope...getting ahead of myself?) and I like that but it's scary and it threatens to edit me, change what I want to write. At a time when I am trying to expand my damndest I am exposing myself all the more!!!! Aack!
Oh. Duh.
Right. That's how that works.
So I'm asking you to be patient with me. You might not like it. I have some strong opinions. Could be different than yours. But hey, that's fine. Just know I am trying to break out. And be me.
And be free.
Picking up from last time and jumping off the subject of fear, let's move on:
You (I) try to get to the point where you (I) no longer resist. Ekhart taught us this in "Power of Now." To be present. To not give in to thinking and the urges of the ego.
Dissolve that damn pain body.
Burn off the synapses that go to it.
I got it. I should no longer push against the circumstances of my life. And so I have learned to accept them for what they are. I've given in.
Given up.
Surrendered.
And to some degree and for some time, I kind of tolerated that practice. I practiced. I TRIED. But I can't say I embraced it. I can't say I lived it.
Then over an inexplicable time/divorce, I found myself looking from one mountaintop to the next. I saw that the next goal was to go beyond non-resistance and to be able to welcome pain into my life.
To expect it.
To be curious about it.
To be compassionate.
To lean into the sharp points.
TO NOT BE SCARED.
I had learned this once before. Well, twice before.
I am very fortunate to have two children as well as having had the experience of having my kids at home au naturale.
This was the experience of labor for me.
In my opinion, birthing children is the most under-valued and/yet most-ecstatic experience in modern human history. Birth is to labor, to bleed, to lactate, to provide, to pass, to create, to replicate, to sacrifice your very body and being for the continuation of the species, for your kin, for your kind, for your spawn, for your baby...your BABY.
To love your baby is to know real love.
So you do it all for your baby. You love so much that you can welcome more pain. You can know the experience of going to your end. And then to go past it.
That's to die, isn't it? To pass from one realm to another.
In birth, the woman brings the source of life into this realm. She transports a life from the un-seen, un-knowable place before birth into this bright, fast-moving reality in contrast. Into a modern world through an ancient path. The transportation takes place with grunting, shape-shifting, ripping, expectation blowing, running and hiding, boldness and courage, screaming and crying, laughing and climaxing. A warrior. A goddess. A vessel. Through this: a mystical. material, physical, animal/Godly person arises. A new person. Two new people.
That said. My friends:
I have to ask you.
Why would a woman want to be drugged for that? To not totally be able to feel the most empowering moment possible in life? I think it is a shame that our medical system doubts a woman's ability to manage her pain. That they feel the need to control her. To silence her. To numb her. And sometimes dumb her.
Women can take it. They're smart and strong. She is nature. She is the creator.
She can stare down fear.
Sure, it makes your blood run cold, empties your brain cache and creates you new. But it is a woman's birthright. It is her path.
Birth is an experience that is common throughout the world and over the centuries. Yes. But the opportunity to experience birth for myself was rare.
That's why I made my choice. And it taught me that I can do anything.
I can ask for more pain. I can ride the waves of that pain. Ong Namo Guru Dev Namo. I can bow to the divinity inside of me. I can rely on it. I can let the animal in me take over.
I can present myself: naked and vulnerable, stripped down and eternal. I can beg/scream for deliverance and mercy and strength and all by myself, I can carry my baby and me through death and into life.
Oh. Duh.
Right. That's how that works.
So I'm asking you to be patient with me. You might not like it. I have some strong opinions. Could be different than yours. But hey, that's fine. Just know I am trying to break out. And be me.
And be free.
Picking up from last time and jumping off the subject of fear, let's move on:
You (I) try to get to the point where you (I) no longer resist. Ekhart taught us this in "Power of Now." To be present. To not give in to thinking and the urges of the ego.
Dissolve that damn pain body.
Burn off the synapses that go to it.
I got it. I should no longer push against the circumstances of my life. And so I have learned to accept them for what they are. I've given in.
Given up.
Surrendered.
And to some degree and for some time, I kind of tolerated that practice. I practiced. I TRIED. But I can't say I embraced it. I can't say I lived it.
Then over an inexplicable time/divorce, I found myself looking from one mountaintop to the next. I saw that the next goal was to go beyond non-resistance and to be able to welcome pain into my life.
To expect it.
To be curious about it.
To be compassionate.
To lean into the sharp points.
TO NOT BE SCARED.
I had learned this once before. Well, twice before.
I am very fortunate to have two children as well as having had the experience of having my kids at home au naturale.
This was the experience of labor for me.
In my opinion, birthing children is the most under-valued and/yet most-ecstatic experience in modern human history. Birth is to labor, to bleed, to lactate, to provide, to pass, to create, to replicate, to sacrifice your very body and being for the continuation of the species, for your kin, for your kind, for your spawn, for your baby...your BABY.
To love your baby is to know real love.
So you do it all for your baby. You love so much that you can welcome more pain. You can know the experience of going to your end. And then to go past it.
That's to die, isn't it? To pass from one realm to another.
In birth, the woman brings the source of life into this realm. She transports a life from the un-seen, un-knowable place before birth into this bright, fast-moving reality in contrast. Into a modern world through an ancient path. The transportation takes place with grunting, shape-shifting, ripping, expectation blowing, running and hiding, boldness and courage, screaming and crying, laughing and climaxing. A warrior. A goddess. A vessel. Through this: a mystical. material, physical, animal/Godly person arises. A new person. Two new people.
That said. My friends:
I have to ask you.
Why would a woman want to be drugged for that? To not totally be able to feel the most empowering moment possible in life? I think it is a shame that our medical system doubts a woman's ability to manage her pain. That they feel the need to control her. To silence her. To numb her. And sometimes dumb her.
Women can take it. They're smart and strong. She is nature. She is the creator.
She can stare down fear.
Sure, it makes your blood run cold, empties your brain cache and creates you new. But it is a woman's birthright. It is her path.
Birth is an experience that is common throughout the world and over the centuries. Yes. But the opportunity to experience birth for myself was rare.
That's why I made my choice. And it taught me that I can do anything.
I can ask for more pain. I can ride the waves of that pain. Ong Namo Guru Dev Namo. I can bow to the divinity inside of me. I can rely on it. I can let the animal in me take over.
I can present myself: naked and vulnerable, stripped down and eternal. I can beg/scream for deliverance and mercy and strength and all by myself, I can carry my baby and me through death and into life.
Raining Maitri Part 1
My friend TD and I "i-chatted" (or something) on FACEBOOK today.
What the hell is this? Or should I say what fresh hell is this?
In some ways, it's like that nightmare I used to have in college where every boy I had ever kissed suddenly converged at a party all at once and they met and shared stories and realized they'd all slept with me and as I turn around in slo-mo, I see them all staring at me.
That's FACEBOOK!
(I must say, and I don't want to break the mood, that OVERALL I'm friggin loving it. Ya'll got to do it. Seriously? Phillip S??? Crazy!)
Back to the cautious mood...
Tonight we're dealing with insecurity, fear, happiness, self-acceptance. All of it. For good. We're figuring it all out.
Cause you see...some of you know too well cause you actually have to deal with me, I'm a woman who hasn't written in like months and I lost my one day a week nanny/love Rosa (Saint Rosa) (Am I giving you any idea what this woman meant to me???) and it has been summer. Summer. Summer. Summer. HSM2!
Moms? High five. Summer sucks. Slap. Slap. Slap.
Oh yeah, back to TD, a mom friend on Facebook.
So TD and I were i-chatting and she was talking about how she feels/fears she'll have to get a "real job" (she's of course had the very real job of mothering her son) but she feels she'll have to get another job and then she won't be able to pursue her dreams of having a production company.
I totally get where she's coming from. It feels like there's so little time left you just want to get there.
I live it too. I teach yoga classes, looks like I might be selling Arbonne, doing whatever it takes to try to pull something together financially but damnit that's just not the whole of it. Not the whole of who I am. There's a much bigger picture. I want to write and direct films. Nothing in my life except the words that I type here resemble that possibility in any way. (Chew on that.)
I will be a director. I am a writer. Baby steps. Whatever. Being on a time table? What-ever.
We think we're chasing this dream and it's part of a different life and once that dream comes true we'll have this "other" life: the dream life.
it's really hard to see that there's just one life. All ya get. You better get busy living, or get busy dying. All the little things, the seemingly abstract things are all on "the path." It's all to pursue the dream. When your dream is living. Live it all up. It's messy. It's funky.
It even smells funky. (I'm in the throes of potty training.)
But it's human and divine.
Let me ask you this?
Do you see how we always seem to default to the position, to the observation, to the analysis (sweet analysis) that beats us up the most?
I'm unlovable.
Well that's mine.
Go get your own.
And how is beating ourselves up getting us any closer to our dream?
Earlier this year, I decided to try to get some more yoga classes going. I rented a small space for a couple hours a week (I pre-paid for three weeks) in a cool dance studio in North Hollywood. I was very excited. I emailed everyone (everyone!) I knew and invited the clients I already had and put up posters and made some calls.
Very excited.
First time: no one shows.
Ouch.
That's ok. It was good to have a practice run.
Second time I email, call, but no one shows.
My clients don't show.
My best friends don't show.
I'm fucking bombing at YOGA.
Oh yeah. This was gonna be grist for the mill, this was going to be good meat to chew. The ego does luh-huv to chew.
And mill sometimes. Mill the grist. Grist grain. Wheat. Whatever.
So I'm in the car, driving (milling) to the third class and I know, I KNOW, no one is coming to this class.
I am raining shit on myself.
I am worthless. Stupid. I'm humiliated and I have to go cancel this time with the studio and everyone there KNOWS no one came to my class.
What is wrong with me?
And I was rushing to get there in the car, in the damn traffic on the 101, in the shit rain, when...WHEN...
i was struck by the idea that "This is my life." It was like a whisper and a slap in the face. It was new information yet something I always knew. "This is my life."
Why in MY life would I do this to MYSELF?
My beautiful self.
I must take a commercial break and say that prior to this incident I accepted for certain, partly from watching "The Secret" (say what you will, it changed me, I highly recommend the DVD)--
I accepted that my life is entirely my creation. I already believed this. And that is a joyful thing. A burden at times and a challenge every other time? Yes. But joyful. It's Good News my friend. Good news.
"Ain't that news? Ain't that good news? Man, I know that's good news." (That man can sing. We are soul brothers.)
Okay, wrap this up. Mama's glass needs a re-fill.
Okay.
My friends, my sentient and holy beings:
Don't do this to your self!
Love yourself!
I love you!
Every single one of ya!
Make this YOUR life.
Speak YOUR life.
Live YOUR life.
Claim YOUR life.
Your life is this world all around you.
Very vast too. It's nice that way.
And you created it.
You continually re-create it.
Make it exactly as you want it to be.
Did I want to live in a world of humiliation, shame and judgement?
No.
Ok. Great...snap...now I don't.
Just like that.
Snap! Snap! Snap!
This is your life.
Joy. Joy. Joy.
End of story.
I walked into the dance studio with my head held high. So, the yoga classes didn't work out. Okay. That's the end of the story. Don't need to add to it.
And guess what?
What?
The people at the dance studio were lovely. And warm. They treated me as I would like to be treated (hhmmmm...).
There was no judgement on their side. It didn't work out, they said. They actually SAID that.
So.
End of story. They wished me luck and I went on my merry way and that was that. I was a changed woman for it.
And it hasn't left me. I can still, when I remember to, just click into that. Into that feeling I had in the car.
Peace.
When I feel some daily (ok, minutely) insecurity or embarrasment or God forbid, judgement, I can step back and say: "Your Life, Woman."
I project traffic on the fucking freeway and I'm stressed and running late: "Choose Your Life Riley." (I know.)
I eat like shit all day and I'm fat and I'm a lousy mother and aack! the house is a mess?
"Fucking Sue Me, This Is My Life."
So...I'm leaving it there people. Part Two of this strange saga manana!
Goodnight.
Check out a little thing I found tonight. She's eloquent and one of my heroes:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7s-rRMUl04I
Love you.
What the hell is this? Or should I say what fresh hell is this?
In some ways, it's like that nightmare I used to have in college where every boy I had ever kissed suddenly converged at a party all at once and they met and shared stories and realized they'd all slept with me and as I turn around in slo-mo, I see them all staring at me.
That's FACEBOOK!
(I must say, and I don't want to break the mood, that OVERALL I'm friggin loving it. Ya'll got to do it. Seriously? Phillip S??? Crazy!)
Back to the cautious mood...
Tonight we're dealing with insecurity, fear, happiness, self-acceptance. All of it. For good. We're figuring it all out.
Cause you see...some of you know too well cause you actually have to deal with me, I'm a woman who hasn't written in like months and I lost my one day a week nanny/love Rosa (Saint Rosa) (Am I giving you any idea what this woman meant to me???) and it has been summer. Summer. Summer. Summer. HSM2!
Moms? High five. Summer sucks. Slap. Slap. Slap.
Oh yeah, back to TD, a mom friend on Facebook.
So TD and I were i-chatting and she was talking about how she feels/fears she'll have to get a "real job" (she's of course had the very real job of mothering her son) but she feels she'll have to get another job and then she won't be able to pursue her dreams of having a production company.
I totally get where she's coming from. It feels like there's so little time left you just want to get there.
I live it too. I teach yoga classes, looks like I might be selling Arbonne, doing whatever it takes to try to pull something together financially but damnit that's just not the whole of it. Not the whole of who I am. There's a much bigger picture. I want to write and direct films. Nothing in my life except the words that I type here resemble that possibility in any way. (Chew on that.)
I will be a director. I am a writer. Baby steps. Whatever. Being on a time table? What-ever.
We think we're chasing this dream and it's part of a different life and once that dream comes true we'll have this "other" life: the dream life.
it's really hard to see that there's just one life. All ya get. You better get busy living, or get busy dying. All the little things, the seemingly abstract things are all on "the path." It's all to pursue the dream. When your dream is living. Live it all up. It's messy. It's funky.
It even smells funky. (I'm in the throes of potty training.)
But it's human and divine.
Let me ask you this?
Do you see how we always seem to default to the position, to the observation, to the analysis (sweet analysis) that beats us up the most?
I'm unlovable.
Well that's mine.
Go get your own.
And how is beating ourselves up getting us any closer to our dream?
Earlier this year, I decided to try to get some more yoga classes going. I rented a small space for a couple hours a week (I pre-paid for three weeks) in a cool dance studio in North Hollywood. I was very excited. I emailed everyone (everyone!) I knew and invited the clients I already had and put up posters and made some calls.
Very excited.
First time: no one shows.
Ouch.
That's ok. It was good to have a practice run.
Second time I email, call, but no one shows.
My clients don't show.
My best friends don't show.
I'm fucking bombing at YOGA.
Oh yeah. This was gonna be grist for the mill, this was going to be good meat to chew. The ego does luh-huv to chew.
And mill sometimes. Mill the grist. Grist grain. Wheat. Whatever.
So I'm in the car, driving (milling) to the third class and I know, I KNOW, no one is coming to this class.
I am raining shit on myself.
I am worthless. Stupid. I'm humiliated and I have to go cancel this time with the studio and everyone there KNOWS no one came to my class.
What is wrong with me?
And I was rushing to get there in the car, in the damn traffic on the 101, in the shit rain, when...WHEN...
i was struck by the idea that "This is my life." It was like a whisper and a slap in the face. It was new information yet something I always knew. "This is my life."
Why in MY life would I do this to MYSELF?
My beautiful self.
I must take a commercial break and say that prior to this incident I accepted for certain, partly from watching "The Secret" (say what you will, it changed me, I highly recommend the DVD)--
I accepted that my life is entirely my creation. I already believed this. And that is a joyful thing. A burden at times and a challenge every other time? Yes. But joyful. It's Good News my friend. Good news.
"Ain't that news? Ain't that good news? Man, I know that's good news." (That man can sing. We are soul brothers.)
Okay, wrap this up. Mama's glass needs a re-fill.
Okay.
My friends, my sentient and holy beings:
Don't do this to your self!
Love yourself!
I love you!
Every single one of ya!
Make this YOUR life.
Speak YOUR life.
Live YOUR life.
Claim YOUR life.
Your life is this world all around you.
Very vast too. It's nice that way.
And you created it.
You continually re-create it.
Make it exactly as you want it to be.
Did I want to live in a world of humiliation, shame and judgement?
No.
Ok. Great...snap...now I don't.
Just like that.
Snap! Snap! Snap!
This is your life.
Joy. Joy. Joy.
End of story.
I walked into the dance studio with my head held high. So, the yoga classes didn't work out. Okay. That's the end of the story. Don't need to add to it.
And guess what?
What?
The people at the dance studio were lovely. And warm. They treated me as I would like to be treated (hhmmmm...).
There was no judgement on their side. It didn't work out, they said. They actually SAID that.
So.
End of story. They wished me luck and I went on my merry way and that was that. I was a changed woman for it.
And it hasn't left me. I can still, when I remember to, just click into that. Into that feeling I had in the car.
Peace.
When I feel some daily (ok, minutely) insecurity or embarrasment or God forbid, judgement, I can step back and say: "Your Life, Woman."
I project traffic on the fucking freeway and I'm stressed and running late: "Choose Your Life Riley." (I know.)
I eat like shit all day and I'm fat and I'm a lousy mother and aack! the house is a mess?
"Fucking Sue Me, This Is My Life."
So...I'm leaving it there people. Part Two of this strange saga manana!
Goodnight.
Check out a little thing I found tonight. She's eloquent and one of my heroes:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7s-rRMUl04I
Love you.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Well, Hello Dolly!
I have to get this blog written in May or there will be NO May posts. Holy canoli. Where did the time go?
I really have no good reason for not blogging. Let's blame Dancing with the Stars and American Idol and leave it at that (damn you David Cook!).
Where to start?
A non-sequitor.
I had the most amazing experience on iTunes the other night. I looked up the 1978 compilation and every song, I mean EVERY song moved me to the core, hit me like a ton of bricks and transported me to a different time and place. It was like time traveling. I give you Jefferson Starship's "Count on Me" and Dan Hill's "Sometimes When We Touch" and Gerry Rafferty's "Right Down the Line" as some deeper cuts. This is but a tip of the iceberg my friends. 1978 was an unusually rich year for all kinds of music.
I've always known that at a young age I had a watershed of musical interest. Suddenly, I was aware of all the songs on the radio. I began to understand the emotional pull of music (thanks in large part to the "Saturday Night Fever" album I bought my mom for Mother's Day - for MOTHER'S DAY - hilarious!). I must have been 9 years old because the music of 1978 just SENDS ME. I suggest you check it out.
It's been fun.
I've also been cleaning a lot. A LOT. Along with that comes the admission that my house has been DIRTY. You see, first off, I can longer afford my twice a month housekeeper. So a few months of my doing the cleaning on my own has caught up with me. Then we got a dog. Then my kids had the stomach bug that kept them going at both ends. There was a week (those who are queasy of stomach might want to skip ahead) when I had my hands in the puke and poop of both my kids, my cat AND my dog. Enough already.
I feel almost obsessed with cleaning my house. Like the acceptance of a little dirt I had been working on suddenly plummeted and my baseboards, my baseboards, my baseboards! Who painted them black? Is that DOG HAIR? Is that DOG HAIR in my CEILING VENTS? Oh, and then I got cockroaches. You know how I had all that stuff in storage and then sitting in my garage for a year? Well, I finally got it put away and I was so happy and relieved for like a week, cause then it turns out all my stuff came back from the storage unit with cockroach eggs. Yes it did.
So I had to pack all that stuff back up and PUT IT BACK IN MY GARAGE so the nice man in the mask could come spray my house with poison.
While I was packing up my kitchen at 2am in a fog of bitterness and resistance all I could do was pray. I mean, Jesus! I don't want to do this, but I have to do this, but I don't want to do this. GRRRR. And then I had to slap myself. What am I COMPLAINING about? Moving all the wonderful stuff I own from my wonderful house to my wonderful garage and back again, okay...and back again?
Sometimes I just don't know about me. But, nevertheless, there I was. All ego. All disconnected. I was pissed. So I prayed. I prayed and packed. I gave it up. Gave it up to those without stuff and houses and garages.
And finally, I had the break-thru. I am cleaning up a lot of messes.
Sometimes if I take that one refrain that goes on and on in my head and just listen to it, really listen to it, without emotion (whining) and resistance, just listen to it objectively, the message can get through.
Yes.
I am cleaning up a lot of messes.
Yes.
I have a lot of messes to clean up.
Yes.
Things are a mess.
Yes. They are. They still are. And that's okay. This is a large mess to clean up.
Luckily I have a lot of experience cleaning messes and I can clean up this one. It just takes time.
Oh, that's my kicker. It takes time. It's a process. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. I'm listening now. It takes time. It's a process. I have a big mess to clean up. My life right now? It's about cleaning up messes. Got it.
But, I did finally get smart and put on a pair of rubber gloves so my hands can still look pretty. You don't need to have red, chapped, old-looking hands just cause your life is a mess now do you?
No you don't.
I really have no good reason for not blogging. Let's blame Dancing with the Stars and American Idol and leave it at that (damn you David Cook!).
Where to start?
A non-sequitor.
I had the most amazing experience on iTunes the other night. I looked up the 1978 compilation and every song, I mean EVERY song moved me to the core, hit me like a ton of bricks and transported me to a different time and place. It was like time traveling. I give you Jefferson Starship's "Count on Me" and Dan Hill's "Sometimes When We Touch" and Gerry Rafferty's "Right Down the Line" as some deeper cuts. This is but a tip of the iceberg my friends. 1978 was an unusually rich year for all kinds of music.
I've always known that at a young age I had a watershed of musical interest. Suddenly, I was aware of all the songs on the radio. I began to understand the emotional pull of music (thanks in large part to the "Saturday Night Fever" album I bought my mom for Mother's Day - for MOTHER'S DAY - hilarious!). I must have been 9 years old because the music of 1978 just SENDS ME. I suggest you check it out.
It's been fun.
I've also been cleaning a lot. A LOT. Along with that comes the admission that my house has been DIRTY. You see, first off, I can longer afford my twice a month housekeeper. So a few months of my doing the cleaning on my own has caught up with me. Then we got a dog. Then my kids had the stomach bug that kept them going at both ends. There was a week (those who are queasy of stomach might want to skip ahead) when I had my hands in the puke and poop of both my kids, my cat AND my dog. Enough already.
I feel almost obsessed with cleaning my house. Like the acceptance of a little dirt I had been working on suddenly plummeted and my baseboards, my baseboards, my baseboards! Who painted them black? Is that DOG HAIR? Is that DOG HAIR in my CEILING VENTS? Oh, and then I got cockroaches. You know how I had all that stuff in storage and then sitting in my garage for a year? Well, I finally got it put away and I was so happy and relieved for like a week, cause then it turns out all my stuff came back from the storage unit with cockroach eggs. Yes it did.
So I had to pack all that stuff back up and PUT IT BACK IN MY GARAGE so the nice man in the mask could come spray my house with poison.
While I was packing up my kitchen at 2am in a fog of bitterness and resistance all I could do was pray. I mean, Jesus! I don't want to do this, but I have to do this, but I don't want to do this. GRRRR. And then I had to slap myself. What am I COMPLAINING about? Moving all the wonderful stuff I own from my wonderful house to my wonderful garage and back again, okay...and back again?
Sometimes I just don't know about me. But, nevertheless, there I was. All ego. All disconnected. I was pissed. So I prayed. I prayed and packed. I gave it up. Gave it up to those without stuff and houses and garages.
And finally, I had the break-thru. I am cleaning up a lot of messes.
Sometimes if I take that one refrain that goes on and on in my head and just listen to it, really listen to it, without emotion (whining) and resistance, just listen to it objectively, the message can get through.
Yes.
I am cleaning up a lot of messes.
Yes.
I have a lot of messes to clean up.
Yes.
Things are a mess.
Yes. They are. They still are. And that's okay. This is a large mess to clean up.
Luckily I have a lot of experience cleaning messes and I can clean up this one. It just takes time.
Oh, that's my kicker. It takes time. It's a process. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. I'm listening now. It takes time. It's a process. I have a big mess to clean up. My life right now? It's about cleaning up messes. Got it.
But, I did finally get smart and put on a pair of rubber gloves so my hands can still look pretty. You don't need to have red, chapped, old-looking hands just cause your life is a mess now do you?
No you don't.
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