On labels and learning...

I took a potential student on a tour around the college yesterday and she confessed that although she already had an art practice and a studio space she was looking for something more culturally validating, more "real."  She admitted: "I just want that piece of paper that says I am an artist."

Oh honey.

I had to smile and nod and talk about networking and professional development and what a great entrepreneurship program we have (and we do!) because my job is to get butts in the door and tuition accounts paid.  But here is what I really wanted to tell her:

Pieces of paper don't mean anything.  They are symbols.  Metaphors.  It takes a lot of work to get them (trust me, I've got lots of first-hand experience), but there is no school or government or authority or single other person on the planet who can tell you who you are.  It is the effort, the practice, that is important.  Going to the doctor for your annual check-up and a clean bill of health doesn't make you healthy; how you feel in your body and what it can do for you is a better marker of dis-ease or barometer of fitness.  Having a shrink tell you that you're sane doesn't make one lick of difference if you feel (or act) crazy.  Practicing yoga makes you a yogi, not however many teacher trainings you've accomplished or gurus you've followed around the Indian countryside.  Do you run?  Even short distances?  And then complain about it?  You can still be "a runner."  No gazelle legs required.  If you heal people, you are a healer, whether you have an MD after your name or not.  And likewise, an artist is someone who makes art.  That is all.  You get to decide this.  You are in control of your life, not them.

A writer writes.  There are no prerequisites or years of suffering and starvation and rejection you must endure in order to wear that badge with pride.  Do you play guitar alone in your basement in front of your cats?  Then you are a musician.  Do you love something or someone?  Then you are a lover.  Do you have human DNA?  No matter your sins or your disabilities, you are human and capable of humanity.  That's the most frustrating thing about sociopaths, sometimes they can just be so damn nice.  People are messy things, aren't they?  Sometimes our labels, our metaphors, our masks, our costumes, our customs, they conflict.

Look, someone may have all the official credentials in the world, but without the energy to practice, without the life force of creativity and their soul's need to give, it will be meaningless.   And I don't believe someone else has the authority to look at your life and say, "Here, this is the dividing line: if you do this and this and this you are an artist but if you don't quite do that enough, you aren't."

Pardon me, but screw that judgmental bullshit.  To borrow an idea from Thomas Moore (the modern therapist and monk, not Sir Thomas More, the Renaissance humanist), museums are more like rooms for the dead than James Joyce's famous "museyrooms" (rooms for the Muses).  All that art sitting around made by dead people isn't like the living breathing awesome creativity sitting inside your very heart beating at this exact secon
d just waiting to burst out.  In the immortal words of Martha Graham: "There is a vitality, a life force, an energy, a quickening, that is translated through you into action, and because there is only one of you in all time, this expression is unique."

This life force doesn't need a label, and as its caretaker, you can call it whatever you want.  Don't let someone else tell you who you are.  And if you don't know who you are, look at what you love, look at where you put your time, look at what you practice.

You want to be someone who does something?  Do it.  And then do it again.  And again.  And what if no one notices?  Impossible.  You show up for life every day and do the thing you do and someone will notice.  Maybe not in the way you want.  Maybe not at the time you want.  Maybe not with the movie cameras and coffers of coin and parades in your honor.  But that won't matter anyway, because you are doing what you love.  And that, my new friend, is a life worth living.

More on doppelgangers

As I said in my post the other day, sometimes I come across heroines (or villains!) in the media that remind me of myself (or remind other people of me):

But today I found some real life inspiration:

 Enjoy!

The thinking woman's guide to conflict

I have often been accused of being contrary, argumentative, obstinate, and an "exactitude" (which according to the dictionary is "the quality or state of being accurate or correct").  I couldn't agree more!  Wait, is that out of character?  Maybe I'm just being contrary?

I love to play with ideas, rock them about in my palm like dice, throw them on the table, see where they land and try it again.  I live by the Voltairian (or at least, this was attributed to Voltaire and never proved) ideal of wanting to hear people express themselves, even if I disagree with them, and being willing to defend their right to those opinions, even while I squash them as foolish or erudite!  What fun!  What madness the human ego that tries to make itself the thing that it expresses!  Let us pull this apart and expose our ridiculous underbellies: our fears, our attachments, our magical thinking.

After thirty-two years of pissing people off or sending them running for the hills, I've accepted I'm a bit of a Jordan (thanks Brent Curtis, for finding my doppelganger):

"I'm 19 and I'm brilliant and I'm hyperkinetic so guys are a little afraid and if I'd stop to think about it I'd be upset."

Maybe this isn't such a bad thing.  I know I can appear aggressive and overwhelming to the conflict-adverse (friendship-sweater, anyone?), but aggression is by its definition the pursuing of aims at the expense of other people's rights and freedom.  I would like to think I am more assertive than aggressive (though I have, I'm embarrassed to admit, kept on talking to people through bathroom doors or followed them into washrooms - see this clip for a perfect example), not because I'm a boundary-bashing-rights-violating-monster (I hope!) but because I am completely unaware of the fact (when I'm caught up in a thought-experiment) that other people's bodily needs (and need for privacy) trump intelligent and meaningful idea-sharing!  My friend Julia, bless her, calls this being "aggressively helpful."  My mum just tells me to "give her five minutes of peace" and then promises to let me continue my diatribe.  Now that I have two boys who try to sit on my lap while I urinate and follow me everywhere while chattering incessantly, I totally and blissfully understand.  Good debates can, and sometimes should be, interrupted.  I've gotten better at being patient.  I can now wait almost ten minutes without talking.  It gives me time to refine my argument and make it better so when they emerge I can be triumphant!  Hurrah! 

All is not lost!  New research is leading me to believe that there may be a method to my madness.  Willful ignorance (pretending not to know that which you know because you don't want to do anything about it) has always driven me mad (especially when I engage in it myself).  Today I watched Dare to Disagree, this excellent TedTalk by Margaret Heffernan, in which she argues that "openness alone can't drive change"; that thinking aloud together (even purposefully looking for defects in one another's arguments which I have always been told is "too critical" of me) is actually creative, problem-solving, and necessary.  There is a distinct difference between "stirring the shit-pot" just because you are bored and/or attached to discord and being actively and acutely aware of the ramifications of your hypothesis and sharing it anyway. Whistle-blowers and change agents are often seen as "crazy" or anti-authoritarian but it doesn't do us any favors to surround ourselves with partners/friends/colleagues who are echo-chambers for our own beliefs, values, and opinions.  

This isn't saying we should marry an atheist if we are a born-again Christian and expect it to work out, it is saying that we may LEARN something through our failure to co-exist.  And that is the fascinating thing about life: learning, which seems to me to be intricately intertwined with conflict.  When we all "just get along" we may feel safe but we may also be perpetuating horrible deeds in our "groupthink" mentality (Holocaust, anyone?).

"The truth won't set us free until we develop the skills and the habit and the talent and the moral courage to use it."  ~ Margaret Heffernan.

Here's to trying!  May I have the humility to have my ideas and opinions tossed about like cannon fodder without being attached to them as piece of my soul.  May I learn how to engage people's intellects without making them feel as if I am attacking their person-hood or invading their space uninvited.  May I develop the skills, habit, talent and moral courage to be a better truth teller, and seeker, than I am at present.  And may I have immense gratitude for the lovely people in my life who are willing to engage in this quest with me!

New Blog: Teen Autodidact

Those of you who follow my blog: Autodidact Attack! may be interested in knowing I created a sister blog to review young adult books and discuss adolescent development, which is not only what I study at school and work amid all day, but also a passion of mine. Happy reading!

http://teenautodidact.blogspot.ca/

Autodidacts live in the library...in fact, sometimes we even work there!

I stumbled upon this sweet little blog post praising autodidacts from The Denver Public Library and thought I would share: http://denverlibrary.org/blog/autodidacts-walk-among-us

Here's a great snippet: "Life experience, observation, and study are primary tools for autodidacts. And the Library is the epicenter of many of their lives."

Hug your favorite autodidact today (or if they are touch-adverse, ask them about something they are passionate about!).

I am not that smart, this is just easy

I wish every child could be lucky enough to learn basic sewing like I did (thanks Nanny!).  Tonight I decided I wanted a new top to wear to work tomorrow,  Something breezy and cozy and sleeveless to go under a cardie.  Fact: Librarians wear a lot of cardies.

Sorry for the trashy gray bra underneath, but everything else was in the wash and it was what I had on, but you get the idea...

Just add a cardie and you are ready to go!

Let me say off the bat, this is not a couture garment.  There are no French seams.  I didn't even use a serger.  But for around 6 dollars, about 20 minutes of my time and a perfect fit, this is way better than any sweatshop shirt you are going to find at Walmart.  

If you didn’t learn to sew as a kid it is not too late!  All you need is a sewing machine, a ballpoint needle, some thread, about 1/2 - 3/4 metre of knit fabric (depending on how big or small you are) and some pins!

Take your fabric and fold it in half.  Put a sleeveless top you already have that fits perfectly on top.  Cut around the edges, leaving about 1/2" of extra on the sides and neck for seam allowance.  Now you have two shirt-like shapes, a back and a front.  Turn them so the right sides of the fabric are facing.  Pin the sides of the torso together.  Sew up both sides of the torso using a straight stretch stitch on your machine.  Fiddle around with the neck and cut it in any shape you like (I added a cowl) and sew to close up as much as you want.  Ta-da.  You are done.  Seriously.  Well, turn it right-side out and try it on.  Now you are done.  No need to make hems on the bottom, neck or armholes, unless you have lots of time (I don't) or are feeling ambitious (nope, pretty lazy here!).

See?  Easy!

How not to be humiliated in a bathing suit

“Enjoy your problems.” 

~S. Suzuki

I am a swimming autodidact.  I have been swimming for as long as I can remember.  My parents even told me I was conceived in a pool (ummm, eww).  I was never afraid of the water.  Respectful, observant of weather patterns, rocks, and jellyfish, but never afraid.  I first learned how to swim by hanging on to the neck of my Dad as he would "dolphin" dive with me underwater.  I instinctively knew to hold my breath.  Or I would float on my back as Granddad or Nan swished me through the water.  Or doggy paddle on my belly from one side of the pool to the other as Mum cheered me on.  I never took formal lessons.  I read swimming books at the library.  Watched how-to videos.  Went as far out into the waves as I was allowed.  Perfected my crawl, my breaststroke, my flutter kick.  Attempted to butterfly.  I once took a part-time job manning the desk at a community centre just so I could swim and water jog for free as often as I liked.  Mum had a no-dive policy at home, so at 20, not knowing the technique, I asked a lifeguard to show me.  I practiced over and over on the side of the pool, flopping in head-first, like a seal.  I have always been of the determined sort.

At 32, I still swim regularly.  I own more bathing suits than pants.  Today I jumped into the "medium" lane as usual and swam a few warm up laps, leisurely, enjoying the refreshing feeling of cool water on my hot skin.  At the end of the lane a lifeguard crouched down and got my attention.  He pointed to the two other men in my lane, the big muscular ones, swimming aggressively in (ahem!) flippers.  He told me they were training for a triathlon and that it would be better if I changed lanes to "something more my speed."  He motioned to the lane on my left, where two other men, one older than my father and one with a form I can only describe as "flailing" took turns meandering up and down the pool.  He then grabbed the attention of a third gentleman who was also in that lane and told him to switch places with me because he was fast enough to keep up with the triathlon guys (i.e.: the "real" athletes).  Yes, the ones in neon flippers.  He smiled big and said, "Wow! What a compliment!" and hopped into the other lane.  I felt the red flushes of humiliation creep up my cheeks as I reluctantly moved to the other "medium" lane and resisted the very strong urge to jump out of the pool and yell, "Fuck you guys!" all the way into the change room until I burst into tears.  Instead I took a deep breath and remembered why I was at the pool in the first place.

You see, I am an incredibly competent swimmer.  I am, when I want to be, quite fast.  I could, in fact, probably keep pace with the macho, spandexed idiots slapping each other on the back while pointing at their watches and guzzling sports drinks in the next lane.  I could have made a big stink and said that I had every right to swim wherever the hell I wanted to.

But that is not why I swim.  I don't like competitive sports.  I don't keep track of my time.  I don't wax off all my body hair.  I don't match my swim cap to my goggles.  I don't even (gasp!) own training fins.  I swim because it feels good.  Because it calms me.  Because it is a terrific low-impact exercise that aids the range of motion in my upper body while putting my cardiovascular system through its paces.  I chose not to be humiliated because what, really, would be the point?

The lifeguard was right.  This lane WAS better for me.  The two smiling beta males I shared it with politely let me go ahead of them, acknowledging my gentle presence instead of splashing water in my face as they overtook me like the dicks next door.  I swam my 25 minutes in the pool (no, I don't keep track of how many laps that is) and hopped out for a shower.  Everyone, I remembered, was at the pool today for a different reason.  One of those reasons wasn't better than another.  Everyone moved their bodies together through cool, chlorinated water.  Every heart pounded in every chest.  How fascinating.

"It is easy to believe we are each waves and forget we are also the ocean."

~Jon. J. Muth

Safe Spaces

Today I have been thinking a lot about safe spaces.  Places where I feel most like myself.  Or the person I most want to be, my highest self.  Places where that simmering, shaking quiver of anxiety that holds my chest tight and my breath shallow recedes.  Places that feel like home.

Even though I have the tendency to be quite extroverted, most of my safe spaces involve being alone, or with other people only on the periphery: bookstores, libraries, hiking trails, lonely beaches.  I love being in empty yoga or dance studios or curled up in a sunny porch, reading or knitting.  I love lying in a field of grasses staring up at the sky, or lying on my living room floor listening to records, or lying in a snowbank at night, staring at the stars.  I'm not religious, but I love being alone in giant, ancient, echoing cathedrals and cloisters, zendos, shrines.  It is the quiet I crave, not the doctrine.

I feel very calm around plants, digging in the dirt, riding a tractor, stacking hay in a loft.  I like animals but their unpredictability makes me nervous.  I'm more at home in an empty barn, when everyone's out to pasture and I'm shoveling shit.  I often feel the same about human animals.  I watch them with intense fascination, observing herd patterns and mothering odd ducks and spindly runts; but I'd rather deal with their messes (perhaps more abstractly!) than be in their constant company.

I relax in an art studio, in front of a typer and a blank page, or a sewing machine, as long as what I'm doing isn't perceived as work and there are no deadlines.

A wall of books and a comfy chair and nothing else to do but drink a cup of hot tea is heaven.

I love sitting up high in trees, looking out at the horizon, or in a greenhouse, smelling the moisture and growth.  Any type of water attracts me, lake or river or swimming pool.  And any type of fire.  I love running, hard, like I'm being chased, through woods and over hills and glens, jumping roots and rocks and water puddles, my heart screaming in my chest.  Preferably, predictably, alone.  I don't want to race.  I don't want to fall behind or feel like I have to slow my pace.  I just want to run.

If I am with someone I love, I want to snuggle in blankets, walk hand in hand through forests, read under the same light bulb and discuss what we've learned.  I talk out of nervousness, boredom, the need to share and grasp at connection, the need to help and heal others, wanting to resolve conflict, wanting to develop ideas that are only presently vague notions, and to attack and defend my private cathedral.  When I truly feel comfortable with someone, I'm able to say nothing and let them into my safe space.  This is a rarity.

I feel like there is some magic key in these revelations.  Examining my safe spaces feels like a road map, telling me future destinations, urging me to go back and dig up treasure I'd long ago buried and forgotten about.  I think there are answers here about where I should be heading, where I should live, what I should do for money and what I should do for fun, and with whom I should spend my time.

Where do you feel safe?  Where is your metaphysical home?

One.

As a bee gathering nectar does not harm or disturb the colour and fragrance of the flower;

so do the wise move through the world.

Dhammapada: Flowers, verse 49

Yesterday I was wearing a bright red t-shirt that mum gave me that says, aptly, “In a world where you can be anything, be yourself.”  

My parents have always encouraged me to share my opinions, to ask questions, to change my mind, to stand up for what I believe is true and honorable, and to admit my mistakes and vulnerabilities.  They taught me to use my empathy and intelligence to make ethical choices, even if they didn’t agree with those choices.  Raised by strong-minded, atheist parents while being baptized into the Pentecostal faith by a doting and morally rigid, maternal grandmother, my whole childhood and adolescence was a Voltarian exercise in allowing others the space to air their opinions and practice their beliefs, even if they weren't shared by all parties involved.  For such life lessons I will be eternally gratefully.  I may also be perpetually inquisitive, or hungry for truth, if there is such a thing.

What they weren't able to teach me, perhaps because they didn't know how, was how to cope with the rejection, ridicule, and overarching, aching loneliness that comes with having divergent ideas, rigorous morals and a singular vision that runs counterpoint to almost every single other human I have ever come in contact with or loved.  I have absolutely no idea how to present what I believe in, set boundaries, and be open to other people’s points of view without also feeling a profound and enduring aloneness.  I often wonder if my ideas are just elitist constructs subconsciously designed to separate myself from others as a measure of security, a painful padding against closeness that protects neither the victim nor the assailant (if you can even tell one from the other).  Or rather, as a dear friend likes to remind me, perhaps I just "think too much."

I also don’t know how to accept that other people will continually make choices which appear to be unethical (or at least, morally and/or intellectually lazy) and about which I can do nothing but stand my ground, bite my self-righteous tongue and watch from the sidelines.  I cannot be the world's moral gatekeeper.  It isn't my responsibility.   

In other words, having an identified “self” has led to much suffering, both my own, from dissatisfaction and loneliness, and others’, when I have judged them.  Is there a way to observe the world with discernment, step in when it is necessary to relieve another’s suffering, but to cease making constant comparisons between how things are and the way I think they ought to be?  

What do you think?  Do you ever feel like by "being yourself" you are condemned to loneliness, or even ostracism?  Do you prefer to do what everyone else is doing so you don't feel left out?  Do you think we even have a "self", or is this simply a personal construct we can observe but not buy into?

The insatiable need to learn

"I believe that education, therefore, is a process of living and not preparation for future living."
-John Dewey


I am often given bewildered looks (at best) or criticized (at worst) for my insatiable need to learn, digest and disseminate information.  On any given week I am reading 4 to 5 books, endless papers and online journals, and asking constant questions and, generally, driving the sedate, less nerdy people around me insane.  I don't have anything to prove.  It's fun.  To me it isn't "work", which is what most people who shake their heads at me don't understand.  But I don't understand the things they do for fun.  Watching sports on TV isn't fun (but playing sports is!).  Going to noisy bars isn't fun (but dancing in your living room with friends is!).  Flipping through People Magazine isn't fun (but reading A People's History of the United States is!)  Learning something new...now THAT is a good time!  I balance this with day-job working, grad school, making art, teaching yoga, and raising two children and teaching them everything I think I know (yesterday it was Dawkin's theory of the "first person on Earth" based on an inquiry Benji made).  I have been asked if I have ADD or ADHD.  I do not.  I am intensely focused.  I have a lot of energy.  I also rarely watch TV and don't have a cell phone (the two biggest time sucks I can see in modern life).  People assume I am miserable and exhausted.  I am not.  Rather, learning and making things makes me intensely happy.  Things that get in the way of doing that (like being given mundane tasks at work or washing dishes or traffic or having an non-supportive environment) are what make me cranky.  I guess I just don't want to miss anything.  There are so many beautiful and horrible and interesting things to learn about and experience while I am alive.  People warn me I'm going to "crash."  Yes, I do occasionally get sick like the rest of the population but I'm not manic.  I don't "crash."  This is just how I am.  I'm calm (ish).  I sleep regular hours.  I eat well.  I've been this way for 32 years and I haven't sunk into a numb funk yet.  The only times in my life I've stopped reading for more than 24 hours were post-concussion and post eye-surgery.  An insatiable need to learn, question, discover and make things isn't an illness, it is a way of life.  Try it, you may like it!

If you would like to read a review of the The Magic of Reality, the Dawkins' book I was referencing, visit The Guardian.

The Bridal Shower

“It is no measure of health to be well adjusted to a profoundly sick society.”

― Jiddu Krishnamurti

It starts with obvious whispers behind manicured nails.  The giggles and lips pressed together to muffle repressed hostility.  Furtive glances at thigh jiggles, spider veins, plunging necklines, contracted abdomens, shallow breaths, too much blush.  Female vanity, built on the shaky foundation of socialized insecurity is nowhere more rampant than at the bridal shower.  Who has been chosen, who hasn’t.  Comparisons of diamond cuts and weights.  Talk of upgrades and settings.  Who has gained weight, lost it, gone off the gluten, gotten a boob job, who is too old for those booty shorts, who has worn the wrong shoes with that outfit.  There are no discussions of politics, world events, art, literature.  I have one solitary conversation about planting asparagus with an aging lesbian.  I suggest someone start a craft-based home business.  There are a few polite inquiries about jobs, but no one cares.  Everyone eats too much cake.  Almost everyone expresses their guilt about it.

I know we are more than this.

We are thankfully past the era where the cruel fate of being born with ovaries sacrifices your mind and talents to a lifetime of manipulating your aging body and neglecting your soul in an attempt to catch or keep a man who can protect you, feed you, shelter you, clothe you, and on a rare occasion, even love you.  Theoretically we can care for ourselves.  Right?

So what is this ambition, this game of superiority where women, like hens in a pecking order, rank themselves (and each other) according to height, facial symmetry, hair length and texture, tooth whiteness and straightness, breast perkiness, dress size, skin smoothness, ability to walk in heels without looking like a teetering giraffe on methamphetamines?

What does this superficial brutality matter compared to our warmth, our friendship, our intelligence, our empathy, our creativity?  Why does my self-esteem soar when I realize I’m the thinnest woman in the group and they all make a fuss about it?  Why does it plummet when I stand naked in the mirror and stare incredulously at my chest, home of two sad, shriveled, deflated-looking balloons, once the source of rapture for men, babies, and myself, and now a source of shame and concealment.  Surely these are first world problems.  Surely if I was scrambling to find food for my family, my lack of skin elasticity would be a non-issue.  Instead of abundance making me peaceful, generous and content, it has left me greedy, insecure, and dissatisfied.  I can’t be the only one.  Perhaps we were rightfully rejected from the metaphorical Garden.  I suspect God knew hardship and lack make us kinder.  Less entitled to Eden.  Less unwilling to share or let anyone else in the gates. 

In an era where I can buy myself beautiful, what is the value of it?  Once having a post-pregnancy boob lift (or let’s face it, a sweet sixteen set of knockers from daddy), becomes “normal body maintenance”, along with the full-body hair removal, hair color, mani/pedis, teeth-whitening and straightening, laser skin imperfection treatment, daily workouts, and severe calorie restricting, where do we go from here?  As Mindy Kaling said, “It takes a lot of work to look like a normal/chubby woman.”  How much time and energy are we, as a gender (because I can’t speak for the others) willing to invest?  How far do you want to go in the “one-upmanship” game?  Men seem to need to constantly upgrade their stereos and TVs and cars, women need to upgrade their bodies.  Why is our source of life also such a huge source of our pain?  No TV has ever cost a man a dance with a surgeon’s knife and $10,000.  Is this because our bodies, while life giving, are also unending sources of conflicting emotion and sensations.  Giving birth is humbling, empowering, rewarding, and excruciating.  Menstruating, like our sexuality, is both a source of pride and shame (and sometimes relief!).  There have been many great books written on these subjects (I’m looking forward to reading Naomi Wolf’s Vagina next), but no one at a bridal shower (or lunch date or shopping trip) is talking about them.  Instead they are talking about Vanity Fair.  I’m not going to pretend these are easy questions to ask ourselves, but that’s why they are so important.

No amount of beauty will save you from heartbreak.  You only have to glance at the tabloids to confirm that riches and double DDs won’t stop a divorce in its tracks.  To borrow from Cheryl Strayed, love is not a competitive sport.  But I often suspect, that even if men were removed from the conversation, the competition for attention and status would remain.  When our very sense of self-worth, our right to exist as people, is based upon a variable (our outward appearance) that is subjective at best, and doomed towards complete annihilation at worst (the reality TV show we don’t want to watch – There are no Survivors), there can never be contentment.  There is no winning in the war against time and gravity.  So judging how other people are playing the game when no one wants to admit the outcome is irrelevant seems, frankly, delusional.  Then again, delusions are often a coping mechanism for distracting ourselves from a painful reality we don’t want to see.  A closet full of perfect outfits and a facelift won’t save you at the emergency room.

I’m not suggesting we stop throwing parties or celebrating life events.  I’m not going to be able to change thousands of years of female socialization.  I like buying shoes.  I want to fit in with my peers.  I’m not about to ruin someone’s wedding shower by standing on the couch and yelling, “What does it all matter anyway, we’re all gonna die and he’s probably going to cheat on you by Christmas!”

I just think it is important to stop and question what it is we are doing.  To be mindful of how profoundly fucked up we are.  That is the crack in the wall.  The tiny, almost imperceptible fissure that will let in just enough light for something new to grow.  And maybe, just maybe, that tiny bit of room is enough for me, or any of my beautiful, talented female comrades, to let ourselves be more than what we’ve become.  And to not be afraid to talk about it.  To brag about our professional achievements instead of openly criticizing our lack of willpower towards limiting bread consumption.  To celebrate one another’s emotional strengths instead of rolling our eyes at skirt length.  We are all, every single one of us, guilty of it.  We blame men and the patriarchy for treating us like objects (and they do, and that is a rant-filled discussion for another day), but I've never met any woman who doesn't fiercely objectify her own body, and those of everyone around her, right down to the littlest stretch mark.  I have never spent more than a few hours with a woman before the subject of her weight comes up.  Often it is in the first ten minutes.  I know more about most of my friends’ and family’s body hang-ups than I do about their career aspirations or political leanings.  I have no idea how my best friend votes but I know she waxes her toe hair and upper lip.

I can’t control what anyone else does.  But I want to stop talking about my body (including that horrid internal monologue) and all the things it can’t do, or isn’t going to be, and instead celebrate all the things it can do and its triumphs.  I birthed two healthy boys vaginally.  I breast-fed both of them, despite complications.  I’ve survived trauma and ill health.  I can run and swim and jump (even if I pee myself a little) and teach yoga and give a really really good head rub.  I want to live happily IN my body instead of criticizing it as an outside observer with an agenda.  My body isn’t a project.  I’m not a project manager.  It isn’t a building I live inside and I’m not its architect.  It’s a home.  I want it to feel safe.

Wellness.....is that what irony is called?

Now that I am on the road to recovery (and Tim, of course, is sick and cannot move off the couch) I have no choice but to jump back into my life with both feet.  Well, of course I have the choice, but I never give myself the "opt-out" option.  It's full-steam ahead!  Any temporary enlightenment gleaned from 24 hours of rest has flown out the window.  It's a brand-new day, let's cram it full of activities!


But the reality is:  it is raining, I am home with two small children and a sick man, we need groceries, and I have a storytelling project due this weekend.  I started the day standing on my neighbor's doorstep in my pajamas (thankfully we are the kind of friends that can be braless and unshowered in front of each other at 9am) begging to borrow some milk so I can make a cup of tea.  The day's main objective (besides keep everyone alive and my sanity intact)?  Tell a personal story to an audience, with props if possible, and record it live and post it to YouTube.


To recap: this was a difficult week.  I started a new job at the College of Craft and Design, Tim (who is in the military) was out in the field and everyone came down with the flu. 


It was raining all day here and the kids were wired from being stuck in the house, so my youngest was running around screaming while Benji and I were trying to set up the props and tell the story without interruptions.  I would give him stage directions and walk him through, but he would seem to forget half-way and get lost playing with the horse's saddle or just stare off into space and we'd have to start all over again.  We ended up cutting the story from the original 7 minutes down to about 4, just so he wouldn't get bored and distracted.  I figured if my prop man was bored, so was my audience!  As we tried recording, Oliver would run in front of the camera to see himself.  Then I would get way too frustrated to be an "engaging storyteller" (more like an exhausted control freak).  We had technical difficulties with our sound either not matching up, or not working at all!  By the time we did the last take, it was way past bedtime, which is why Ben was in his pjs and looks so tired.  I didn't even bother showering, putting on makeup, or doing anything with my hair.  My final words before the camera started rolling were something along the lines of:
"Tim! Take this insomniac hell spawn (my darling Oliver) into the hallway for five god damn minutes so I can get this bloody thing over with and everyone can go to bed!  PLEASE!  I know you are sick, but please do this for me so I don't go insane!  I have to get this done!"
That, my friends, is what a good mother who doesn't drink and makes all her meals from scratch and doesn't let her kids watch TV all day sounds like after 18 hours of being cooped up in a condo with deadlines approaching.  I use the term "good mother" loosely.  Feel free to fill it in with your own, more colorful, adjectives. 

The reason I told this personal story is because everyone can relate to a time when they wanted something to happen so bad that they would do anything to make it come true, even if it wasn't a very sensible decision.  Now that I think about it, that probably applies to 75% of my life so far!  Also, my son Benji has a difficult time with making mistakes and getting up and trying again, so I thought it would be a good story for him to absorb and be a part of.  The reason we chose to tell it with the props we did is because we just happen to have a lot of horse-related toys (some leftover from my childhood and some of them belonging to Benji and Oliver).  It was Ben's idea to wear the riding helmet (which actually belongs to Tim from his childhood horseback riding days) and Ben was insistent that he stand behind a table because he wanted it to be a bit like a puppet show.  And that yellow 4th place ribbon is an actual ribbon I won that day (all the rest of them were 6th place!).  Yes, I was THAT terrible at horseback riding.  I still am!  I've saved that ribbon all these years and it is now part of my children's dress-up basket, which you can see behind me in the corner of our play room. 


My mum, I'm sure, will tell a much different version of the story where I'm much less heroic/stoic but she's getting old and pretty soon I'll be able to beat her in an arm wrestle.  Who am I kidding?  That's never going to happen.  But I'm not sure if she can work "the YouTube" so I may have technologically arm wrestled myself to victory this time!  Plus, we gave her the flu!  Happy Mother's Day!  Love you!  xoxoxoxoxox

Spring cleaning

Our house this week has been ransacked by THE FLU.  First Oli got it on the weekend, then Benji, and now me and my poor mother who was visiting to help with the kids while Tim was in the field.   The worst part of being sick, besides the actual vomiting and fatigue and body pain and whatnot, is the total helplessness I feel.  I am used to being a highly competent person.  I get shit done.  Usually while thinking about how I'm going to get other shit done.  If I can cram 50 hours worth of stuff into a 24 hour period I feel like it has been a good day.  So spending 30+ hours completely flat on my back and not being able to doing anything other than breathe and whine and be sick is torture for me.  The irony that sitting still is what I teach in my yoga and meditation classes is not lost here, friends.
 


But I have had a lot of time to fret over think about all the things I'm not doing: I'm not going to work at my new job where surely they must think I have the world's worst work ethic to call in sick my first week.  I'm not outside enjoying the beautiful sunshine.  I'm not cooking or cleaning or organizing or even eating, which let's face it, takes up a lot of my day.  I'm not running or swimming or walking or lifting weights (don't laugh, I try, I'm terrible at it).  I'm not playing with my kids.  I tried but Oli jumped on my belly and that was the end of that.  I'm not making anything, not being productive, not using my creativity or hands to do anything other than rub my tummy while I moan.  I'm not reading.  I'm getting behind on my school work.  My plants are all wilty but I don't have the energy to water them.  I need a bath, my hair probably smells like puke.  I can't seem to stay awake for more than an hour at a time.  I never sleep, especially in the middle of the day.  Sleep is for lazy people, you see, and I pride myself on being anything but lazy.  I wear my workaholism like a badge of honor.




Ahhh.  Here lies the real issue.  Not that I'm sick.  But that I won't allow my body to be sick.  My damn ego wants to convince the rest of me (and anyone else who will listen) that I am just way too important to be out of commission.  The world, you seen, needs me.  Never mind that the kids pretty much put themselves to bed (with some needling on my part), that Tim (who is now home) is completely preoccupied playing his video game, that work probably barely registered I wasn't there, that absolutely nothing happened because I stopped DOING.  Nobody cares that I have the flu except me.  And I don't mean that in a self-pitying "nobody likes me, everybody hates me, think I'll eat some worms" kinda way.  But the reality is: death is coming.  Some people try to ward it off by staying young-looking and fit and getting plastic surgery or never having kids or never growing up.  I ward it off by running around and around and around and around until a day like today shows up and says, "Hi, it's me, your old friend Mortality.  How much you getting done now, Sunshine?"



It's a gift really, a day like this, when you have a pounding headache and water sloshes around in your acid-filled tummy and everything hurts.  It reminds you that you are enough, just you, not your accomplishments, not your accolades, not the you who everybody thinks you are or should be.  But you, in your soggy, sweaty pajamas, with your puke-hair and your migraine and your terrible breath.  The you underneath all that clutter of expectations that wants to get better, that wants to live, that wants to go back to running around and forgetting how important it is to wake up to being here.  Because this is mediation folks: the in breath and the out.  The waking up and falling asleep.  The coming home and the wandering far far away. 




On that note, it is time for a nap.

Knitting....all...the...time (what else is there to do, it's February?!)

I've just finished reading (literally, in the bathtub tonight) Knitting the Threads of Time by Nora Murphy.  I'm not usually one who reads much about knitting, as I'd much rather be knitting, or reading knitting patterns to lead to further knitting (you get the idea).  Plus all that talk of plies and wefts and weights makes my head spin (pun intended).  But this book is different.  Following Murphy's quest one dark, cold, Midwestern winter to make her son a sweater (having never knit a sweater before in her life) while simultaneously teaching me thousands of years of textile history centered around women's extraordinary genius, patience, and hard work is a piece of literary art.  I won't ruin the end by telling you whether or not she gets the sweater completed or about the fabulous knitting shaman she meets along the way, but I will tell you this: if you have (or had) ovaries, you like to knit or sew or crochet, and you have a few hours to spare (it is a pretty short book, 197 pages), you should read it.

But, back to the really important stuff (feel free to fake gag on my egoism if you will)...I just finished my OWN first sweater.  Well, technically I have knit Oliver a sweater (but it was so tiny!) so that doesn't count.  I roughly followed a pattern I found in this Vogue book from the bookmobile:

I say roughly because...well, let's face it, I'm not super good at following directions and I like to be creative.  In other words, I make a LOT of mistakes.  That's ok!  That's part of the fun, right?  Here's the finished product:

It has a Mobius loop in the front:

 

I added some buttons to each side.

 



Oh, and I've been also knitting my first pair of mittens, but that will have to wait until another day, because I only have one of them finished.  But here's a pouch I made awhile back:

 

 

 

It's lined with stars!

 

A big thanks to my eldest son for taking the photos for me!