Sunday, February 28, 2016

Magic H Ball

I'm diving in. Reading, researching, writing--study, practice, meditate, repeat. My body is getting stronger. My mind too. Imagine me, but smarter, kinder, more centered, grounded. Me focused.

I still feel like a hot & sweaty, snot-bubbling, no-pants spaz. I feel this way less and less. Just sayin' so you feel okay here too--it's not all the way to the top on day one--takes some time to transform into yourself.

I'm softening into the fleshy person that I am now. Parts of me died. Parts are being reborn. Other parts are steely and toughened. Some still are raw, new, delicate. I am building my fire. But the earth around my fire is sweeter than ever, more aromatic, forgiving, welcoming.

Not all of my writing will be metaphors. And alas, neither is this.

I will not fight my power any more. I will not fight my sweetness. Acceptance. That's what I'm learning. I am learning to love and accept myself, just as I am, right now--in this body both soft and strong, in my moments of frustration & anger, in my quiet uneventful day-to-day driving-around-town moments and in the crazy rage-y cage-y getmethefuckouttahere moments--I love, accept, and honor me.

It's resignation of and surrender to all of me: my power, faults, flaws, fuck ups, bad choices, shoulds, could-haves, shining glorious moments, perfection, weaknesses, all of the good, bad, and indifferent stuff that I am made up of--I just decided to love me the way I am. (The same way that I write about how LOVE is--the same way that I LOVE my kid.)

It's like when they say in the movies that admitting you have a problem is the first step. Almost all of my blog is about me admitting that I have a problem and taking brutal inventory of each thing that I missed/ended/destroyed. I was working through all this shit, trying to make peace with something that I couldn't quite put my finger on. What's wrong with me? How can I fix it? How can I change me? How can I change you and the world and my job and my body and Facebook and my past?

I made amends. I worked through so much of my anger and fear (but those emotions are still present and pop up whenever I'm not looking.) And I asked myself (and you) over and over again, so now what? Now what do I do? I thought through all this and dredged up the past and the present, sifted through it, made peace and made sense and made closure. And now what? That's what I kept asking.

The one thing I couldn't/didn't figure out was that anger and fear still exist. None of my growth/change made any difference.  Change, change, change, change. Why do I need to change?

I don't need to change, instead I will love, accept, and honor myself: my feelings, thoughts, movements, ideas, emotions, distractions, motivations--I will let me have all of the things. It's not happening overnight. It can't. It's like a minor shift inside that allows it all to flow. I am in transformation. Sounds like "change" doesn't it? Well, it's not. Not the way I mean it. Outlook good.

I still have all the things about my personality, my demeanor, my life, my loves and passions and crazies. It is certain. I will no longer spend time and energy fighting. It's treating myself like I treat S on my best parenting days. Listening to her. Respecting how she feels, what she wants. Helping her get there. Holding her hand when she's unsteady. Loving her limitations. Making room for her feelings and weaknesses and sadness. Loving myself in the way that I love the person that I love the most without a doubt.


Sunday, February 21, 2016

Stoking the Fire Within (Yes, I Know It Sounds Porny)

When I'm fiery, man I burn up some shit. I didn't mean to when I was a lass--I would accidentally move into a draft and be in a moony mood and leave the place singed behind me. Later in my 20s, I did mean to; wreck it--I would douse the rubble in some moonshine and toss the whole lighter in. Let it all burn, baby, burn. [The roof is on fire.] 

Alas maturity calmed my fire. I craved less heat, less carnage. Took to smaller arts, lamps and lights, cigarettes, moonlight, fear. Motherhood and marriage almost smothered the flame all together. The spark would hide, quietly under the cover of a sheath and then, after a long time, one big boom, usually late at night, usually alone. No one to feel the heat. 

Now, it's time to rebuild my flame. MY flame. Not yours. Not his or hers, MINE. I'm building the balance. A large clearing. Rocks around the outside, for your protection.  Kindling, twigs, and paper set up in a nice little triangle. I will flick the match. I will fan the flame. I will tend my fire. 

Monday, February 15, 2016

Strengthening Into the Back Body

I'm being called back to yoga. It started on a trip last week to Virginia. I lucked into a really good level 2 Hatha class at the local Charlottesville athletic club a few blocks from my hotel. The class was challenging and fun and, most importantly, made me forget about my troubles, stresses, work schedule, conferences, all of it. I was so focused on being in the poses, in my breath, in my body--so focused on movements and stillness, balance and release--on being back on the mat, that I missed a meeting. In my post-yoga glow, I took a long hot shower and went for beer and lunch. What meeting? 

Is it crazy that I forgot that really good yoga is sometimes better than really good sex? 

After the class I felt focused, bright, aerated. The next day I was still reaping benefits--better sleep, lighter body, better alignment, more attention span. Why did I quit doing yoga?

I don't remember feeling this good from yoga ever. I've been practicing off and on for 20 years. Sometimes for health or easing back into some fitness routine after periods of bodily trauma (birth) or long sabbaticals from movement (bartending & partying). 

It's the first time in all of those cycles of practice and backsliding and practice, that yoga has had this effect on my mind and body. This time is the first time that I've had an OM moment where I want to be on the mat every day. I want to read and learn and ready my body for the transformation. I want more twists and more knowledge about what the twists touch inside as well as out. Which of my organs are being wretched and released now? I want to know. 

Teacher training is calling me. 

I've talked and thought about it a number of times, but it was more of a fantasy and never felt like something that I really wanted to do.... 

Can an ex-bartending, ex-smoking, ex-badass, ex-hooker become a yogi without transforming into the complete dippy-hippy fae creature? Will I float away?  (Wouldn't you freaking shit if I did float away? I'm LOLing right now.) 

Let's find out. We shall. 


Tuesday, February 9, 2016

Say My Name: Wanting It More Part 2 (Not About Kids)

I read an online "article" that states one way to flirt is to say a person's name often in conversation. You know the type of "article"--one of those lists written by some wannabe writer/college dropout posted on HappyNumbWife or WholeGreenMindBodyButtHealth (a.k.a., another way to waste hours of my own precious life)-- that lists the ten best ways to flirt.* 


When people say my name a lot, I'm very uncomfortable. 
"How are you, Heather?" 
"Heather, have you read the report? Let me know what you think, Heather, after you finish reading it."
"Good morning. Let's meet after lunch, ok, Heather?"
or the worst (sorry DJF) "Hello, Heather"

When people call my name, my skin crawls a little. Maybe I prefer eye contact to identify who the speaker is speaking too. Look at me. Who else could you possibly be talking to? Or maybe it feels too fake, too pseudo-personal-- that's where the "article" is going--say my name to make me think that you feel connected, say my name over and over again to brainwash me into thinking you are my friend. Does that tomfoolery constitute flirting? Hogwash. [it's 1920 now? yikes]

My friends call me lots of things. Very rarely Heather. What do your friends call you? 
SisterHomegirlHookerBeeatchHHeddySebSebringH-bombHoneyDarbyBabeBossLady

Maybe those interactions where people say my name make me uncomfortable especially at work for this very reason-- it's false intimacy. What's grosser than intimacy faked? Barfbag. 

I know this is a sort of stupid blog today. I do beg your pardon. I'm just being a writer and procrastinating. I'm not writing down the bones sotospeak. I'm writing crap until I'm ready to write the stuff that's been banging around in my head and making that awful racket this week/month. 

To the words in my head--not today. Pipe the fuck down. I'll get there. Don't rush me. 

Writers are such ridiculous people--obsessed we are with magic, voodoo, sorcery, fruition, divination, manifestation, and augury. And lists too, just not stupid flirtatious lists. Obsessed with all lists, with using our vocabularies and thinking through each word that makes every sentence. It's crippling. Especially if you, like me, are already in a peak procrastination phase and want to avoid writing at all costs, making sure each word is perfect in your head BEFORE you start writing. That's the best way to never write anything ever again. It's an internal dialog alright and a complete scare tactic. It's crap--my critic strikes again. That's why, I'm so sorry for you readers, I'm writing this pure drivel. Wasting time, mine & yours. I owe you one. I won't forget. 

* I don't even know why I care to read these articles, other than boredom or procrastination, except that I find myself rather horrible at flirting. Best said, if flirting was a means of survival, I would die. 

Wanting It More

I did make S her lunch, BTW. I just decided to cave in and do it fortheloveofGod. She ate all of it and then wanted to buy her lunch the next day. Kids. 

This is not about kids. 

Maybe I should start over. 

Sunday, February 7, 2016

Hit the Road Jack

Jack Kerouac wrote, "Be in love with your life, every detail of it." It's often misquoted as "Be in love with your life, every minute of it." That detail makes it no less important as a sentiment. Live this life, right now, with love, passion, care in each detail or minute. Agreed. In theory.

Jack didn't have kids. At least none that he knew of. Jack wasn't mired in the banal existence of school lunches & unlaced shoes & broken backpacks & homework. Of last minute projects and book fairs and flash cards. Jack didn't have to share all of his time with another person--Jack wasn't the anchor for another person's ship.  Jack didn't have to choose between masturabation or shaving, or thinking or reading. Jack was only responsible for Jack. And good for him. It's good of him to remind us that life is a journey to be cherished and lived with the intensity and joy of a single man traveling the world alone for fun. Ah, youth. [insert cliches here]

My friend sent me a birthday card with his quote on it. It reminds my friend of me. And why shouldn't it? It's what we say to each other--shit, girl, don't forget to live your life--get yours! Get it in the middle of folding all the little bits of laundry. Get it while you're doing the second sink-full of dirty dishes. Get yours while you're reading Wocket In My Pocket (again, sigh.) Get yours while you're standing on line--so much time spent standing on lines.

I'm so tired of squeezing it all into the smallest cracks in time. This means that I need to rearrange. I'm the one responsible for how much time I spend standing on line. I too can control some of the other demands made on me. I can say no. I can also take some time to remeasure what is most important. I will not be able to avoid all my mother's duties and I don't want to miss all of those things--I want to be there to read to S and tie her shoes. But I will not start packing her lunches just because Ben wants her to pack her lunch. Ben is adorable, but come on buddy?! I can make the most of my own time. Reconfigure what's important to me. What does that balance look like? Let me find out, shall I?

Habits are life saving at times, but habits also kill humans dead. Time to save my own soul and love more details of this life of mine. Here I go again on this road. Making me better all the time, no?

Just wait until I get to my new year's resolutions. Next time. Don't rush me.