I know it seems like I’ve been writing about “my angst” an awful lot lately, but truthfully, I’m realizing more with each passing day how beautifully the Universe and God/My Divine Source has supported me in every moment of my being. I’ve been, and am, abundantly gifted with whatever I desire in every single moment—without any efforting on my part—unless, of course, I’m wanting to experience that.
I picture it as all sorts of wavy energies coming together to burst into beingness all these amazing, and sometimes perplexing, things in my life. The energies take the forms of everything touchable--from a tiny grain of sand sparkling on my shoe to our beloved Max and Molly cats to this house that I call home. It flows outward to become the community that I play with. And that expands even further out to become the planet on which I live.
A whole world is created magically just for me to experience—and I’m the source and center of this amazing bubble of reality that is mine. I’m feeling more at Home here than I ever have before. The Kingdom of Heaven truly feels right at hand—right here on Earth where I am.
One thing I’ve recognized more and more fully as I go along is how truly we love one another unconditionally. All of us—every single human that was and is, has loved, and loves, unconditionally. Even when we were acting out love dramas loaded with conditions—the real thing was there right in the middle of it all.
Here are some of the moments when I fall in love with my world and those in it, all over again and again and again:
I woke up this morning with Kelly’s arm around me snuggling me close. I headed to the bathroom to turn the faucet on for Molly to get a drink, and Kel went downstairs to put together our morning cappuccinos. As I joined him in the kitchen, Max and Molly were sitting right behind him on the floor, waiting patiently for the food he had assembled to put in dishes for them after he finished frothing the creamer and milk for our coffee.
I was putting dishes away that I’d left in the sink to dry overnight when I heard him cuss. He’d accidentally dumped his freshly frothed milk all over the counter. My instinct was to intervene and grab the dishcloth and start wiping it up before it got to the edge and spilled over onto the floor. But something had me hesitate and watch instead—and I’m SO glad I did!
Kel stepped across the kitchen to grab a pancake spatula and a big serving spoon out of the utensil drawer. He used these to scrape up and save his precious froth off the counter and return it to our coffee cups. It looked and sounded like he was back working at his old fast-food job at Max’s Drive-in, wielding his utensils at the grill.
I burst out laughing. If I’d allowed my old tendencies to interfere and started cleaning up after him, I’d have missed out on one of the most prized and entertaining moments of my life.
As it was, I watched a new day come to life as a sparkling frost-covered morning outside while I sipped my delicious, frothy cappuccino (counter scraped) in my warm home. I had a contented Molly stretched out on the table beside me, along with Max gazing out the patio door from his place on the rug next to my feet. And I listened to Kel sipping his coffee and singing along with some song he was working on in the room below us. All was truly well in my world.
About a month ago, Kel came to find me the moment he got home from work to show me what he’d been perfecting with his co-workers all day. He bent his knees in something of a lunge, and rocked back and forth on his feet as he pumped his arms in rhythm and sang, “Bow-chicka-wow-wow.” We’d just watched the movie, Dear Frankie (one of my all-time favorites), where a little nine-year-old boy was doing a similar dance in the hallway outside his friend’s apartment as he waited for the door to be answered. God--my husband was adorable!
A few days later I was passing through the rec room where Kel was practicing guitar when he said to me, in reference to himself, “I suck. I should just give up and quit.”
My usual, exasperatingly useless response was to chew him out for being so cruel to himself. But this time I decided to hold my tongue and leave the room. I returned to the room a minute or so later and asked him what he wanted from me when he said things like that about himself in my presence, specifically for my ears.
He replied, “Tell me I suck and that I should give it up.”
So I obliged him and said, “You suck. You should give it up.”
And I walked out of the room grinning to myself as one of the great loves of my life continued playing his guitar.
“The World is My Oyster,” said the Pearl…
We're all quite the characters--actors, that is--role-playing together. These are stories of my awakening, my remembering realization that Home/Heaven is wherever I am. That I am not the puppet on someone else's string. The search is over. I simply FREELY CHOSE to quit searching outside of myself, and realized all my answers have always been within.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Thursday, February 25, 2010
A Painful Lump, An Answering Dream, Love of Angry Me
The last week or so, I’ve had a lump in my lower left-side back near the waistline that’s been painful again. The pain comes and goes, and I have probably had the lump all my life—just lately in the last decade I’ve pinpointed it to a more specific area. Normal activities like snow shoveling or vacuuming, sometimes even walking, don’t feel so good when it hits—so I lay low for a bit and listen to what the pain has to tell me.
Pain, for me, is a way of my body supporting me in helping me to realize:
1. That I’m running away from myself.
2.That I need to stop and listen so I can become aware of my feelings and thoughts at that time.
3. I need to lovingly care for myself.
As I readied for sleep last night, I rubbed the painful spot and chose to ask my dreams to show me the underlying core energy struggle/wound that was resulting in the pain I felt.
The answering dream was a night terror:
In the dream, I was in a recently vacated room with two other guys who felt like friends of mine. I reached down to pick up a pile of blown-up photos left on a table. The photos were of murder victims and of people’s hands that had fingers severed off through torture. The murderer’s appearance in the room felt imminent, so I grabbed the pictures knowing he was coming for them, and I left with one of the guys. As I crawled across the driver’s seat of my friend’s vehicle to get into the passenger seat, I noticed that my side of the vehicle seemed frozen over with a thick layer of ice in the interior (like in a frosted deep freezer). Occasionally water from the ice would drip on me.
The dream shifted and I found myself in a café with mobster-like men. One of them grabbed me and slammed my head repeatedly on the table with a metal napkin dispenser. I seemed to be in and out of my body—one moment it was me being beat-up, the next I was watching him do it to my sister. I was trying so hard to scream but something kept interfering with my ability to make a sound. I was terrified for the two of us.
Somehow I slipped free of the two men at the table. One of them was grappling to hold onto my sister with the intent to kill her, and in a blaze of pure rage I plunged a spoon into his neck to stop him.
Thankfully, I woke up then--though, I awoke terrified, drenched in sweat and with a sore throat. And even after getting up to use the bathroom and taking some breaths to center myself, I was still shaken up enough from it to make it difficult to return to sleep right away.
In yesterday’s posting to my blog, I’d written about recently becoming aware of how I emotionally protected people from experiencing the consequence of my anger with them when they judged or tried to control me, or someone I love.
My temper scares the crap out of me—and I’m really quite harmless. But my feelings of anger frighten me so much so, that I look back often at what I write, whether on this site or in personal emails, to see how harsh I’ve been in response to my feeling of being attacked in some manner.
I have to say, my writing shows how I mentally try to handle the anger I actually feel because I’m terrified of losing control like in that nightmare and actually murdering someone. The anger I actually feel is more like a raging blast of energy that’s pretty much yelling, “Back off NOW!!!”
Back in 1998, a dog mauled our one-year-old Molly cat right outside the door in front of me. I watched him drop his mouth over her entire front end and pick her up and shake her. My mother instinct kicked in and I slammed open that door screaming and beating on that dog until he dropped Molly and ran off. He was a big dog, too, either a mastiff or a boxer. Rationally, I know not to interfere in dog and cat fights—but, my well-being wasn’t even a thought for me in that moment. All I knew was, “Make him stop!”
If I’d had anything handier than my two bare hands, I’m afraid I would have killed that dog. And I love dogs, too.
In a nutshell—as I’ve written many times over here—anger is one of those HUMAN emotions that has been a real challenge for me. I’ve tried to keep such tight control of my expression of it that it’s actually physically painful for me. My body has just been alerting me to what I’ve been doing with it—reminding me that I’m better off expressing it the moment anger hits, rather than stuffing it until it’s got nowhere to go except to explode in order to release the energy. I choose to HONOR MYSELF and whoever is playing my button-pusher by releasing it before it gets to that point.
There are certain things in this world that are taking place that do anger me. I don't like gossip and back-biting—and I’ve quietly suppressed myself while in the presence of someone engaging in that. I hurt from being in the presence of such malevolence. I get angry at people forcing their beliefs on someone else—whether it’s forcing them on me, on their own child, or on some distant person in a third world country. I dislike wars and finger-pointing. These are to name a few.
Guess I’m really just tired of all the unnecessary fighting, period. I see us—humanity--as capable of having so much more enjoyable lives together. I envision a world where we’re celebrating our diversity and uniqueness along with all those things we have in common with every living thing on this beloved Earth. I guess I’d rather we looked for ways to connect with each other rather than setting our sights on getting the others to conform to our expectations.
Maybe making that vision a reality first involves allowing myself to get upset and angry with the old ways…
And I don’t believe I have to kill anyone off either…just be aware of how I feel and honor that in my expression of all that I am…
Pain, for me, is a way of my body supporting me in helping me to realize:
1. That I’m running away from myself.
2.That I need to stop and listen so I can become aware of my feelings and thoughts at that time.
3. I need to lovingly care for myself.
As I readied for sleep last night, I rubbed the painful spot and chose to ask my dreams to show me the underlying core energy struggle/wound that was resulting in the pain I felt.
The answering dream was a night terror:
In the dream, I was in a recently vacated room with two other guys who felt like friends of mine. I reached down to pick up a pile of blown-up photos left on a table. The photos were of murder victims and of people’s hands that had fingers severed off through torture. The murderer’s appearance in the room felt imminent, so I grabbed the pictures knowing he was coming for them, and I left with one of the guys. As I crawled across the driver’s seat of my friend’s vehicle to get into the passenger seat, I noticed that my side of the vehicle seemed frozen over with a thick layer of ice in the interior (like in a frosted deep freezer). Occasionally water from the ice would drip on me.
The dream shifted and I found myself in a café with mobster-like men. One of them grabbed me and slammed my head repeatedly on the table with a metal napkin dispenser. I seemed to be in and out of my body—one moment it was me being beat-up, the next I was watching him do it to my sister. I was trying so hard to scream but something kept interfering with my ability to make a sound. I was terrified for the two of us.
Somehow I slipped free of the two men at the table. One of them was grappling to hold onto my sister with the intent to kill her, and in a blaze of pure rage I plunged a spoon into his neck to stop him.
Thankfully, I woke up then--though, I awoke terrified, drenched in sweat and with a sore throat. And even after getting up to use the bathroom and taking some breaths to center myself, I was still shaken up enough from it to make it difficult to return to sleep right away.
In yesterday’s posting to my blog, I’d written about recently becoming aware of how I emotionally protected people from experiencing the consequence of my anger with them when they judged or tried to control me, or someone I love.
My temper scares the crap out of me—and I’m really quite harmless. But my feelings of anger frighten me so much so, that I look back often at what I write, whether on this site or in personal emails, to see how harsh I’ve been in response to my feeling of being attacked in some manner.
I have to say, my writing shows how I mentally try to handle the anger I actually feel because I’m terrified of losing control like in that nightmare and actually murdering someone. The anger I actually feel is more like a raging blast of energy that’s pretty much yelling, “Back off NOW!!!”
Back in 1998, a dog mauled our one-year-old Molly cat right outside the door in front of me. I watched him drop his mouth over her entire front end and pick her up and shake her. My mother instinct kicked in and I slammed open that door screaming and beating on that dog until he dropped Molly and ran off. He was a big dog, too, either a mastiff or a boxer. Rationally, I know not to interfere in dog and cat fights—but, my well-being wasn’t even a thought for me in that moment. All I knew was, “Make him stop!”
If I’d had anything handier than my two bare hands, I’m afraid I would have killed that dog. And I love dogs, too.
In a nutshell—as I’ve written many times over here—anger is one of those HUMAN emotions that has been a real challenge for me. I’ve tried to keep such tight control of my expression of it that it’s actually physically painful for me. My body has just been alerting me to what I’ve been doing with it—reminding me that I’m better off expressing it the moment anger hits, rather than stuffing it until it’s got nowhere to go except to explode in order to release the energy. I choose to HONOR MYSELF and whoever is playing my button-pusher by releasing it before it gets to that point.
There are certain things in this world that are taking place that do anger me. I don't like gossip and back-biting—and I’ve quietly suppressed myself while in the presence of someone engaging in that. I hurt from being in the presence of such malevolence. I get angry at people forcing their beliefs on someone else—whether it’s forcing them on me, on their own child, or on some distant person in a third world country. I dislike wars and finger-pointing. These are to name a few.
Guess I’m really just tired of all the unnecessary fighting, period. I see us—humanity--as capable of having so much more enjoyable lives together. I envision a world where we’re celebrating our diversity and uniqueness along with all those things we have in common with every living thing on this beloved Earth. I guess I’d rather we looked for ways to connect with each other rather than setting our sights on getting the others to conform to our expectations.
Maybe making that vision a reality first involves allowing myself to get upset and angry with the old ways…
And I don’t believe I have to kill anyone off either…just be aware of how I feel and honor that in my expression of all that I am…
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
I Already Found All My Answers
Yesterday I got an email from a concerned Christian who told me, “I will pray for you, Penny. God loves you and He sent His only Son to die for you. I hope you will immerse yourself in His Word so you can find what you’re looking for. God Bless…”
I love the Harry Potter series, and she’d forwarded to me the day before, a message of someone’s interpretation on the “wickedness” of it--to which I requested her to not send me anymore such filth.
To yesterday’s message, I simply replied back, “I’ve already found ALL of my answers.”
I realized something in the last several days that I hadn’t been aware of before. Because I am so sensitive to the emotions all around me—an attribute of all humans that I have just a bit more of than most, called empathy—I have had a tendency all this time to emotionally protect everyone around me from pain of any kind.
And often, I’ve done it by unconsciously sacrificing my authentic self—I’ll literally take the hits emotionally for someone else’s choices. And often, I’ve been protecting them from my own expression of anger towards them simply because they’ve chosen to judge me or someone else. And that’s not honoring myself, nor does it allow the choice-maker to fully immerse in their created experience.
For instance, a phone solicitor calls me on my private line or a government employee solicits me for information and I think to myself, “Well they’re desperate. They need the money to live on. I’ll make it easy for them and not make waves.” And then they yammer and waste my time and suck my energy. And I’ve allowed it all because I felt sorry them.
Never mind that I consciously chose not to take on jobs such as theirs back when I was feeling desperately insecure in the financial area. I couldn’t personally stomach forcing someone to buy something or using intimidation tactics to coerce another just in order for me to get a paycheck. Yet, here I thought I had to take it easy on those who evidently didn’t contemplate those things.
Same with those pushy self-proclaimed Christians (not all Christians—just the ones who have tried to force their beliefs on me). I’ve been again taking the hits of my own anger for them because I recognized the misery and suffering that that individual was in, and I didn’t want to pile more pain on them.
People are driven to find comfort in God when they are feeling at their worst about themselves—I did that myself. But, if they are going to continue poking me, well, I’m done allowing it. They can reap what they’re choosing to sow with my blessing—even if it means they’re probably going to get poked back.
By admonishing me to “immerse myself in God’s Word,” my concerned Christian was telling me to study the Bible. But had she really cared to connect with me, she would have known that I read her precious scriptures years ago—pretty much the whole book.
And I followed what was stated in there for me—the gist of which simply said, “Don’t study the literal word. The Word—the Expression of God--lies within you, is you—study that, study you, Penny.”
As far as I’m concerned the Real Word of God is alive in each of us and in every single thing in the Universe.
The Song of Solomon, for me, very eloquently tells the story of every human that ever was and is. Like the bridegroom, each of our human halves goes searching for our other half, the bride/God/Our True Love thinking she’s “out there” separate from us. And after wandering all over the place, outside of us, for awhile, we realize in the end that the bride/God has been with us the entire time—an actual essential part of ourselves, within us, from the very beginning all through to the end. We just couldn’t seem to perceive her—like we forgot she was there until one day we flipped some switch in ourselves that revealed her to us in all her glory.
I love reading good, inspiring, up-lifting books—and the Bible is filled with many inspiring stories. But to analyze any book, for me, is to diminish my enjoyment of it. I sometimes read a favorite novel several times, and discover layers of insight that I missed previously—and I’ll celebrate those when I realize them.
I loved reading the books assigned us for English classes—but I hated being required to answer questions someone made up surrounding the story. I call it being led intellectually (a literal word study) instead of just exposing someone to a story and letting that individual decide if they find anything of value in it. I love when people share with me the parts they liked about a story—and I like to share those myself. But I find no joy in using it as a standard of judgment or measurement to use on myself or on another.
I have no answers for anyone else—and I’m not going to pretend I do, and force my ideas upon another. I know WE ARE ALL CONNECTED, and I’ll do no harm to anyone, myself included, because I know that to intentionally hurt another is to intentionally hurt myself.
I will also no longer take the painful hits for another’s choice to strike out at me or try to control me…if I’m angry with you for judging me, so be it…FEEL THAT! Ha!
I love the Harry Potter series, and she’d forwarded to me the day before, a message of someone’s interpretation on the “wickedness” of it--to which I requested her to not send me anymore such filth.
To yesterday’s message, I simply replied back, “I’ve already found ALL of my answers.”
I realized something in the last several days that I hadn’t been aware of before. Because I am so sensitive to the emotions all around me—an attribute of all humans that I have just a bit more of than most, called empathy—I have had a tendency all this time to emotionally protect everyone around me from pain of any kind.
And often, I’ve done it by unconsciously sacrificing my authentic self—I’ll literally take the hits emotionally for someone else’s choices. And often, I’ve been protecting them from my own expression of anger towards them simply because they’ve chosen to judge me or someone else. And that’s not honoring myself, nor does it allow the choice-maker to fully immerse in their created experience.
For instance, a phone solicitor calls me on my private line or a government employee solicits me for information and I think to myself, “Well they’re desperate. They need the money to live on. I’ll make it easy for them and not make waves.” And then they yammer and waste my time and suck my energy. And I’ve allowed it all because I felt sorry them.
Never mind that I consciously chose not to take on jobs such as theirs back when I was feeling desperately insecure in the financial area. I couldn’t personally stomach forcing someone to buy something or using intimidation tactics to coerce another just in order for me to get a paycheck. Yet, here I thought I had to take it easy on those who evidently didn’t contemplate those things.
Same with those pushy self-proclaimed Christians (not all Christians—just the ones who have tried to force their beliefs on me). I’ve been again taking the hits of my own anger for them because I recognized the misery and suffering that that individual was in, and I didn’t want to pile more pain on them.
People are driven to find comfort in God when they are feeling at their worst about themselves—I did that myself. But, if they are going to continue poking me, well, I’m done allowing it. They can reap what they’re choosing to sow with my blessing—even if it means they’re probably going to get poked back.
By admonishing me to “immerse myself in God’s Word,” my concerned Christian was telling me to study the Bible. But had she really cared to connect with me, she would have known that I read her precious scriptures years ago—pretty much the whole book.
And I followed what was stated in there for me—the gist of which simply said, “Don’t study the literal word. The Word—the Expression of God--lies within you, is you—study that, study you, Penny.”
As far as I’m concerned the Real Word of God is alive in each of us and in every single thing in the Universe.
The Song of Solomon, for me, very eloquently tells the story of every human that ever was and is. Like the bridegroom, each of our human halves goes searching for our other half, the bride/God/Our True Love thinking she’s “out there” separate from us. And after wandering all over the place, outside of us, for awhile, we realize in the end that the bride/God has been with us the entire time—an actual essential part of ourselves, within us, from the very beginning all through to the end. We just couldn’t seem to perceive her—like we forgot she was there until one day we flipped some switch in ourselves that revealed her to us in all her glory.
I love reading good, inspiring, up-lifting books—and the Bible is filled with many inspiring stories. But to analyze any book, for me, is to diminish my enjoyment of it. I sometimes read a favorite novel several times, and discover layers of insight that I missed previously—and I’ll celebrate those when I realize them.
I loved reading the books assigned us for English classes—but I hated being required to answer questions someone made up surrounding the story. I call it being led intellectually (a literal word study) instead of just exposing someone to a story and letting that individual decide if they find anything of value in it. I love when people share with me the parts they liked about a story—and I like to share those myself. But I find no joy in using it as a standard of judgment or measurement to use on myself or on another.
I have no answers for anyone else—and I’m not going to pretend I do, and force my ideas upon another. I know WE ARE ALL CONNECTED, and I’ll do no harm to anyone, myself included, because I know that to intentionally hurt another is to intentionally hurt myself.
I will also no longer take the painful hits for another’s choice to strike out at me or try to control me…if I’m angry with you for judging me, so be it…FEEL THAT! Ha!
Monday, February 22, 2010
My Idea of A Dark Night of the Soul
When I was confronted with questioning a belief system that I’d so firmly accepted as my truth for a good portion of my life it caused a highly traumatic commotion in me for a period of time--emotionally, mentally, physically and spiritually. I’ve deemed to call such an event A Dark Night of the Soul.
It felt as though the whole foundation beneath me had been terrifyingly removed and that any step in a new direction could be a wrong one. I was paralyzed for a time until I just reminded myself to breathe—just breathe. Deep breaths down into my belly, down into my toes. And I literally held myself, cried as I often needed to, yelled if I needed to—all in my safe and sacred space while I searched my own soul.
And somehow in that, I managed to move enough old stuff out in order to crack open a new door to explore. In looking back, something deep inside me intrinsically believed that life on earth—my life, all life—was a tremendously unconditionally loving gift from God/Source of All That Is. And I’m certain it was that belief that pulled me through my darkest nights.
Through the years I’ve had well-meaning Christians trying to warn me off reading certain materials, believing certain things or doing certain things a particular way. They were afraid that I was destined to an eternal hell unless I followed their rules.
How many of those particular people, I wonder, have asked themselves the question of WHY my supposed “hell destination” bothers them?
Could it be, on some level, that that particular person is disagreeing with the condemning, judgmental god they’ve believed in and worshipped all those years?
Could it be that it would be hell for that “faithful Christian” to watch me roasting, toasting and burning eternally? I guess I’d like to think that was so.
Talk about a Dark Night of the Soul…
It felt as though the whole foundation beneath me had been terrifyingly removed and that any step in a new direction could be a wrong one. I was paralyzed for a time until I just reminded myself to breathe—just breathe. Deep breaths down into my belly, down into my toes. And I literally held myself, cried as I often needed to, yelled if I needed to—all in my safe and sacred space while I searched my own soul.
And somehow in that, I managed to move enough old stuff out in order to crack open a new door to explore. In looking back, something deep inside me intrinsically believed that life on earth—my life, all life—was a tremendously unconditionally loving gift from God/Source of All That Is. And I’m certain it was that belief that pulled me through my darkest nights.
Through the years I’ve had well-meaning Christians trying to warn me off reading certain materials, believing certain things or doing certain things a particular way. They were afraid that I was destined to an eternal hell unless I followed their rules.
How many of those particular people, I wonder, have asked themselves the question of WHY my supposed “hell destination” bothers them?
Could it be, on some level, that that particular person is disagreeing with the condemning, judgmental god they’ve believed in and worshipped all those years?
Could it be that it would be hell for that “faithful Christian” to watch me roasting, toasting and burning eternally? I guess I’d like to think that was so.
Talk about a Dark Night of the Soul…
Thursday, February 18, 2010
“So—What do you do?”
“So—what do you do?” That’s probably been the single most difficult and challenging question for me to answer. When someone asks my husband about me he segues over to how great a cook I am—but I’m really not that great, and I’m not being modest.
I study belief systems—pretty much starting, and ending, with my own. And, as one can imagine, that area of passion has taken me on many different tangents.
How did I get into this?
I guess I woke up too many mornings feeling like that victim I detested so much, thinking to myself, “Damn! I woke up again—here goes one more day to get through.”
And then I’d literally feel myself physically and emotionally bracing to plow through whatever painful something or other that I felt certain was headed my way. Even moments of pure pleasure and happiness were overshadowed by the next thing bound to trip me up and take me somewhere painful I didn’t want to go.
Truthfully, I have lived a blessed life—I was born a member of a wonderful family and I had parents who were the savory salt of the earth. Yes, I lost some people and friends very dear to me fairly early on in life as well as in more recent years, the passing of my mom and dad. But, frankly, my stories are no more tragic or beautiful than another human’s—just uniquely my own.
I know, and appreciate, my story like no other person can—and I’ve discovered that that is a responsibility I take both seriously and humorously. God blessed me with this gift of being alive in a human body that gets to experience TOUCH in all its many forms. So I decided that I wasn’t enjoying life enough and I began to work on adjusting my own attitude about it.
I have Dad to thank for making me so aware of the power of a belief system. I observed him in those final weeks choosing physical discomfort over relief, simply because he believed that petroleum-based lotions were poisonous to him. The oxygen tubes in his nose were drying out his nasal passages and a lotion was recommended to address it, but he was unwilling to even try it. For him, I could see clearly, that that petroleum-based lotion was going to be toxic if we tried to force it on him—he was so adamant about not going there.
There were many instances that summer with Dad and others that mirrored this power of belief for me—most of the beliefs were based in fear. And the thing that made me so aware of it was because many of the beliefs were the same as my own, or had been at some point in my life. This got me looking more closely at my own stuff and questioning whether it was true, or if I’d somehow made it true simply by accepting that it was so.
It got me looking at the concepts of research and facts—and I began to question whether an actual scientific blind study could be completely unbiased—or if the researcher wasn’t somehow unconsciously skewing the study to match his belief systems.
Some part deep down inside of me keeps feeling like this reality I’m living is actually a very grand illusion/playground—and that God gave me the ability to be the front and center creator of my own life, with His/Her unconditional blessing. I’ve just been UNCONSCIOUSLY creating this whole time, based on the acceptance as truth, by me, of suggestions about the way life is by others around me.
I study belief systems—pretty much starting, and ending, with my own. And, as one can imagine, that area of passion has taken me on many different tangents.
How did I get into this?
I guess I woke up too many mornings feeling like that victim I detested so much, thinking to myself, “Damn! I woke up again—here goes one more day to get through.”
And then I’d literally feel myself physically and emotionally bracing to plow through whatever painful something or other that I felt certain was headed my way. Even moments of pure pleasure and happiness were overshadowed by the next thing bound to trip me up and take me somewhere painful I didn’t want to go.
Truthfully, I have lived a blessed life—I was born a member of a wonderful family and I had parents who were the savory salt of the earth. Yes, I lost some people and friends very dear to me fairly early on in life as well as in more recent years, the passing of my mom and dad. But, frankly, my stories are no more tragic or beautiful than another human’s—just uniquely my own.
I know, and appreciate, my story like no other person can—and I’ve discovered that that is a responsibility I take both seriously and humorously. God blessed me with this gift of being alive in a human body that gets to experience TOUCH in all its many forms. So I decided that I wasn’t enjoying life enough and I began to work on adjusting my own attitude about it.
I have Dad to thank for making me so aware of the power of a belief system. I observed him in those final weeks choosing physical discomfort over relief, simply because he believed that petroleum-based lotions were poisonous to him. The oxygen tubes in his nose were drying out his nasal passages and a lotion was recommended to address it, but he was unwilling to even try it. For him, I could see clearly, that that petroleum-based lotion was going to be toxic if we tried to force it on him—he was so adamant about not going there.
There were many instances that summer with Dad and others that mirrored this power of belief for me—most of the beliefs were based in fear. And the thing that made me so aware of it was because many of the beliefs were the same as my own, or had been at some point in my life. This got me looking more closely at my own stuff and questioning whether it was true, or if I’d somehow made it true simply by accepting that it was so.
It got me looking at the concepts of research and facts—and I began to question whether an actual scientific blind study could be completely unbiased—or if the researcher wasn’t somehow unconsciously skewing the study to match his belief systems.
Some part deep down inside of me keeps feeling like this reality I’m living is actually a very grand illusion/playground—and that God gave me the ability to be the front and center creator of my own life, with His/Her unconditional blessing. I’ve just been UNCONSCIOUSLY creating this whole time, based on the acceptance as truth, by me, of suggestions about the way life is by others around me.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
The Plus Side of Being Able to “Bawl My Eyes Out”
A couple days ago my brother, Steve--who is one of the most precious beings on earth that I get to be related to biologically--shared with me a bit of what he was reading that morning. A man was told that he was thinking too much and needed to just cry instead. He was told that he didn’t have to figure out if they were tears of joy or sorrow or anger or anything—just to let himself cry for the release of it all.
Then my brother and I got into a discussion about what it means to cry. And that there is a big difference between having tears in one’s eyes versus letting them overflow all over the place.
Now, as anyone who’s read any of my previous posts can attest to, I am the poster child for being able to get the whole crying jag done properly.
I’ve done it so well throughout my life that I’ve felt more embarrassed and ashamed of it than proud. I literally bawled through my entire graduation speech and at least one other public speaking stint in my recollection. All my mom and sister and I ever had to do was to see the other one crying and, well, we were ankle-deep in tears and snot, and laughing at ourselves in the process.
Steve shared with me how it was to be a man—and how foreign and absolutely terrifying it was to even contemplate letting the tears loose from the eyes. I could feel the vulnerability and frustration in his words, of what it was like to grow up with the idea that “boys and men don’t cry” or “feel emotions.” That was one gift left to the realm of the female, at least, for the most part.
Not that “not crying” hasn’t crossed over into the female side of things either because I tried it, too, at one point in my journey. I talked myself out of crying through the Titanic—the numbness didn’t feel too good, and the movie haunted me for years afterward until I watched it a second time and allowed myself to dribble and sob all over the place with the allowance of feeling.
Steve said that even when he was someplace all alone, it still felt to him as if all the eyes of the universe were witnessing him at his utmost weakest—that he still didn’t feel safe enough to just let it loose. He can actually turn the tears off at will—like a water faucet—and my chest tightens with that stopping of the natural flow of things.
Our conversation got me to thinking back over the moments I’ve had with the men and boys in my life—I’ve seen tears in the eyes, but I don’t ever think I’ve heard one of them actually cry and sob while I was present. I get all choked up and suffocated-feeling just imagining myself in their shoes.
No wonder guys get all emotional and worked up over what I often think of as “silly” professional ball games. It’s an emotional release for them—a form of crying in a way accepted among most men.
I’ve gradually come to realize these past several years what a gift it has been to be able to be sensitive to feelings—even to find myself salt-watering everyone and everything around me at the seemingly most inopportune times. It truly is a release and a movement of stagnated energies within me. Life soon afterwards feels clearer and much easier, in that I breathe more freely.
I’m not a pretty thing when I’m in the midst of it, sometimes bellering at myself in the mirror. My eyes and nose are red and swollen, the Kleenex box (toilet paper roll, if I’m out) soon gets depleted, and the grimaces on my face would translate beautifully onto the screen for a horror flick—but I get ‘er done. I usually opt to cry things out in that safe, sacred space of my bathroom or my bedroom or out in the pasture if it’s handy.
And if the universe is tuned in to watch, well, they must see some value in it for themselves or they wouldn’t bother watching. Maybe it’s simply for pure entertainment purposes—but, hey, I can live with that. I think that just may be what I’m here for…
Then my brother and I got into a discussion about what it means to cry. And that there is a big difference between having tears in one’s eyes versus letting them overflow all over the place.
Now, as anyone who’s read any of my previous posts can attest to, I am the poster child for being able to get the whole crying jag done properly.
I’ve done it so well throughout my life that I’ve felt more embarrassed and ashamed of it than proud. I literally bawled through my entire graduation speech and at least one other public speaking stint in my recollection. All my mom and sister and I ever had to do was to see the other one crying and, well, we were ankle-deep in tears and snot, and laughing at ourselves in the process.
Steve shared with me how it was to be a man—and how foreign and absolutely terrifying it was to even contemplate letting the tears loose from the eyes. I could feel the vulnerability and frustration in his words, of what it was like to grow up with the idea that “boys and men don’t cry” or “feel emotions.” That was one gift left to the realm of the female, at least, for the most part.
Not that “not crying” hasn’t crossed over into the female side of things either because I tried it, too, at one point in my journey. I talked myself out of crying through the Titanic—the numbness didn’t feel too good, and the movie haunted me for years afterward until I watched it a second time and allowed myself to dribble and sob all over the place with the allowance of feeling.
Steve said that even when he was someplace all alone, it still felt to him as if all the eyes of the universe were witnessing him at his utmost weakest—that he still didn’t feel safe enough to just let it loose. He can actually turn the tears off at will—like a water faucet—and my chest tightens with that stopping of the natural flow of things.
Our conversation got me to thinking back over the moments I’ve had with the men and boys in my life—I’ve seen tears in the eyes, but I don’t ever think I’ve heard one of them actually cry and sob while I was present. I get all choked up and suffocated-feeling just imagining myself in their shoes.
No wonder guys get all emotional and worked up over what I often think of as “silly” professional ball games. It’s an emotional release for them—a form of crying in a way accepted among most men.
I’ve gradually come to realize these past several years what a gift it has been to be able to be sensitive to feelings—even to find myself salt-watering everyone and everything around me at the seemingly most inopportune times. It truly is a release and a movement of stagnated energies within me. Life soon afterwards feels clearer and much easier, in that I breathe more freely.
I’m not a pretty thing when I’m in the midst of it, sometimes bellering at myself in the mirror. My eyes and nose are red and swollen, the Kleenex box (toilet paper roll, if I’m out) soon gets depleted, and the grimaces on my face would translate beautifully onto the screen for a horror flick—but I get ‘er done. I usually opt to cry things out in that safe, sacred space of my bathroom or my bedroom or out in the pasture if it’s handy.
And if the universe is tuned in to watch, well, they must see some value in it for themselves or they wouldn’t bother watching. Maybe it’s simply for pure entertainment purposes—but, hey, I can live with that. I think that just may be what I’m here for…
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Anger--that tricky-feeling emotion...
When I started this blog I made a deal with myself: I wasn’t going to let my ego try to paint myself pretty. Whatever I posted had to be as authentic in my thoughts and feelings as I could possibly be in that moment.
So, my last few posts seemed to me to be a bit more vehement on the angry side than I truly feel comfortable with expressing, yet when I re-read them they seem quite mild and actually resolved by the time I’m through writing. They are nowhere near as scary as some of the things going through my mind and heart prior to writing it down.
I actually found myself appreciative (shortly after the writing and posting) of the people in the Census Bureau playing my “bad guys” roles so I could finally come out of hiding and express to the world who I am and what I’m really all about—just being myself.
One of the most troubling emotions for me to feel has been ANGER--I don't like how I am, how I look, the feeling like a victim that invariably seems to accompany it, or the pain of it. And I spent so much of my life trying to "handle it." I eventually discovered that the key to moving it out of my being for good was to simply allow myself to FEEL it.
But the hardest ones to allow myself to feel it with were those I loved the deepest--and often they had already left the planet.
Case in point: When my dad left my mom at the hospital, she told him out loud that she loved him. He didn't say it back in that moment and he beat on himself for it afterward because he didn't get another chance--it was the first thing he told me when I walked in the door into his arms that afternoon.
My mom very much played the gentle, yet strong, supporting woman behind the man--I so wanted to be just like her. She saw the things within my dad that he struggled with--she and I talked a lot--and one of Dad's greatest challenges was to see himself as worthy. He couldn't give enough of himself, sacrifice enough of himself, to ever be good enough. And because of that, he often took the "angel that he married" for granted, and a few times he was verbally cruel to her when I was present.
You know, those arguments that take place between married people when people just lash out like cornered wild animals fighting for survival. I, being married myself, of course, have done that exact same thing. Words just explode out of you and there is no taking them back so you just add a bit more shame to the old back-pack.
That was the hardest thing for me to feel--an adored, beloved one hurting another adored, beloved one. That one always got placed on the back burner—just didn’t know what to do with it.
I didn't observe my mom--maybe I just didn't see it out a sense of shock--telling Dad in those moments how painful the things he said were to her. She just seemed to take it, and then move on.
Then, when she died, I felt and watched my Dad try to go forward without her. He really tried, even tried dating another woman--but she wasn't able to fill that void left by his beloved Leona. I tried to pick him up, support him, be strong for him--but I knew even then that I was never going to be able to fill that void either. I had a father who was in so much pain and heart-suffering--and it was impossible for me to fix, and I knew it. So I watched it, took on a good portion of his pain, guilt, suffering through empathy, and made it my own.
I made it my own so much to the point that one night I had such pain in the joints of my arms and hands that it finally made me admit to myself, with GREAT DISMAY, that I was ANGRY with MY BELOVED ANGELIC MOM. I was angry with her for leaving me in the impossible position of trying to pick up the pieces of Humpty-Dumpty--because she didn't stand up to him in all those moments to simply say, "Dean--you're hurting me. Stop it!" Yes, I was feeling really victimy and icky and horrendous.
And so, that night I let myself feel the anger towards my mom, think the thoughts that fueled that anger towards her--and bawled my eyes out until the pain in my arms disappeared.
And afterwards I noticed an ease of breathing in me, a release, and that knowingness that the feeling of anger was okay--it, too, was simply a part of the human experience, and not something to be judged as always being a "wrong" feeling.
Sometimes, I discovered, it is appropriate. And just because I felt it in a moment, it didn't mean I had to feel it the rest of my life. I did it, not planning to hang onto it, but to release myself from it. I felt it in order to move it out--and move it out of me, I did. I no longer felt angry with her—but instead realized that because of her in her perfection of being in that moment, I learned something about myself.
I also walked out of that experience knowing that honoring my parents and loved ones didn't mean making all of their choices my own. Honoring them, to me, means thanking them for all their choices and then taking what I learned from their lives of choice and deciding which I wanted to try out for my own life.
I took my parents' journey together and chose to communicate my feelings, thoughts and my intentions with Kelly out loud, clearly. I chose to let him know when something he said or did brought about pain for me--knowing all along (and telling him and myself out loud) that he was just the closest human mirror to how I was internally hurting myself.
I knew I was solely responsible for all the joyful and the painful moments of my life--but also that in accepting that responsibility, I had to do it with full self-compassion. Self-blame and self-condemnation weren't going to change a thing--I'd already given those many years of practice, and they never worked for me.
For those of you who have chosen to read my posts—thanks for allowing me the chance to express that awful anger emotion out loud. It’s more of a gift than you can possibly know…
Much love,
Pen
So, my last few posts seemed to me to be a bit more vehement on the angry side than I truly feel comfortable with expressing, yet when I re-read them they seem quite mild and actually resolved by the time I’m through writing. They are nowhere near as scary as some of the things going through my mind and heart prior to writing it down.
I actually found myself appreciative (shortly after the writing and posting) of the people in the Census Bureau playing my “bad guys” roles so I could finally come out of hiding and express to the world who I am and what I’m really all about—just being myself.
One of the most troubling emotions for me to feel has been ANGER--I don't like how I am, how I look, the feeling like a victim that invariably seems to accompany it, or the pain of it. And I spent so much of my life trying to "handle it." I eventually discovered that the key to moving it out of my being for good was to simply allow myself to FEEL it.
But the hardest ones to allow myself to feel it with were those I loved the deepest--and often they had already left the planet.
Case in point: When my dad left my mom at the hospital, she told him out loud that she loved him. He didn't say it back in that moment and he beat on himself for it afterward because he didn't get another chance--it was the first thing he told me when I walked in the door into his arms that afternoon.
My mom very much played the gentle, yet strong, supporting woman behind the man--I so wanted to be just like her. She saw the things within my dad that he struggled with--she and I talked a lot--and one of Dad's greatest challenges was to see himself as worthy. He couldn't give enough of himself, sacrifice enough of himself, to ever be good enough. And because of that, he often took the "angel that he married" for granted, and a few times he was verbally cruel to her when I was present.
You know, those arguments that take place between married people when people just lash out like cornered wild animals fighting for survival. I, being married myself, of course, have done that exact same thing. Words just explode out of you and there is no taking them back so you just add a bit more shame to the old back-pack.
That was the hardest thing for me to feel--an adored, beloved one hurting another adored, beloved one. That one always got placed on the back burner—just didn’t know what to do with it.
I didn't observe my mom--maybe I just didn't see it out a sense of shock--telling Dad in those moments how painful the things he said were to her. She just seemed to take it, and then move on.
Then, when she died, I felt and watched my Dad try to go forward without her. He really tried, even tried dating another woman--but she wasn't able to fill that void left by his beloved Leona. I tried to pick him up, support him, be strong for him--but I knew even then that I was never going to be able to fill that void either. I had a father who was in so much pain and heart-suffering--and it was impossible for me to fix, and I knew it. So I watched it, took on a good portion of his pain, guilt, suffering through empathy, and made it my own.
I made it my own so much to the point that one night I had such pain in the joints of my arms and hands that it finally made me admit to myself, with GREAT DISMAY, that I was ANGRY with MY BELOVED ANGELIC MOM. I was angry with her for leaving me in the impossible position of trying to pick up the pieces of Humpty-Dumpty--because she didn't stand up to him in all those moments to simply say, "Dean--you're hurting me. Stop it!" Yes, I was feeling really victimy and icky and horrendous.
And so, that night I let myself feel the anger towards my mom, think the thoughts that fueled that anger towards her--and bawled my eyes out until the pain in my arms disappeared.
And afterwards I noticed an ease of breathing in me, a release, and that knowingness that the feeling of anger was okay--it, too, was simply a part of the human experience, and not something to be judged as always being a "wrong" feeling.
Sometimes, I discovered, it is appropriate. And just because I felt it in a moment, it didn't mean I had to feel it the rest of my life. I did it, not planning to hang onto it, but to release myself from it. I felt it in order to move it out--and move it out of me, I did. I no longer felt angry with her—but instead realized that because of her in her perfection of being in that moment, I learned something about myself.
I also walked out of that experience knowing that honoring my parents and loved ones didn't mean making all of their choices my own. Honoring them, to me, means thanking them for all their choices and then taking what I learned from their lives of choice and deciding which I wanted to try out for my own life.
I took my parents' journey together and chose to communicate my feelings, thoughts and my intentions with Kelly out loud, clearly. I chose to let him know when something he said or did brought about pain for me--knowing all along (and telling him and myself out loud) that he was just the closest human mirror to how I was internally hurting myself.
I knew I was solely responsible for all the joyful and the painful moments of my life--but also that in accepting that responsibility, I had to do it with full self-compassion. Self-blame and self-condemnation weren't going to change a thing--I'd already given those many years of practice, and they never worked for me.
For those of you who have chosen to read my posts—thanks for allowing me the chance to express that awful anger emotion out loud. It’s more of a gift than you can possibly know…
Much love,
Pen
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