Making a List, Checking it Twice

It's time to move again.

Life is a series of transitions. Constant motion. One thing ends and another begins. It was a great week here - I finished some big work and took some deep rest, three days of it. Tomorrow evening I'll head home for a week before another week away. There's going to be a lot of movement for me over the next few months. 

And that's not necessarily a bad thing. 

There are times I wish for settled circumstances but, for the most part, I like to be on the move. I suppose near perfection for me would be movement with islands of calm and rest. And that, actually, is pretty much how I have been shaping my life over a period of years. 

There are times I miss having a house and people to share it with. I definitely miss having a garden and outdoor space. But there's something to be said for life as movable feast. I've seen some amazing places and have had some thrilling experiences. I've met interesting people and taken roads I'd not imagined. I tend to organize times away as if I'm home. Home for me, then, has become wherever I am and whatever I am doing. I step into adventure when I can and shape everything as if it is adventure. 

I've never been terribly organized but I find that with the way I'm living these days, organization is a skill I am wise to cultivate. Hence the list. I don't want to forget anything. So I write down everything I need to remember to load into my car and everything I need to do before I go. I do that on both ends of the trip. It sounds pretty basic, but I can't tell you how many times I've said to myself that I don't need a list and that I can wing it. Right now I've got liturgical garments in the front hall closet. I'd bet $20 that if I don't write that on the list, I will forget them. And they're not something I can run to the drugstore and pick up. 

There's a kind of ritual that happens when one is leaving a place. 

It's a way to invite the roots that you've sent down into the ground to pull back inward, to collect yourself and make sure that you have all of you for the journey home.  

I've been able to spread out quite a bit while I've been here. In addition to the list, I'll gather everything I brought and am taking back with me into a central location. I'll note the kinds of things I did not use or need while I was here so I can pack lighter the next time. I like to have choices so I tend to bring a lot with me when I go. I end up wearing the same three shirts most of the time. And as I'm lugging that bag of unread books back out to the car, I'll chide myself for bringing so much with me. 

Still, it's good to have choices.

The books I brought are new purchases - some from Paris, some from Oxford, Avebury, and Glastonbury, some from Washington. I read two of them while I was here, and parts of a few others. When I get home, they'll already be gathered in one place and I can find a small table to stack them on or a bit of shelf for them. I'll know where to look when I want one and seeing them all together like that will remind me that there are books to be read and work to be done. 

Another bag will hold all the things I need or like to have when I am doing my most important writing and planning work. They'll also be gathered together in a single location for when I need them next. It really is not a bad system.  

Lists are satisfying. You complete a task, check it off, and watch the evidence that you've actually done something grow and grow. I don't like to be a slave to my to-do list, but it certainly feels good to see that I've accomplished something, especially while I'm away goofing off. 

Ahem, doing a different kind of work.





The Summer of Self-Love is a daily writing practice created to harness three months for thriving. The goal at the end is to host a dinner party. Sounds like an odd Hero's Journey, doesn't it? Most of them usually are.


   

Deep Rest

I thought I knew the reason.

So often we move into something thinking we understand the why, the how, perhaps even all the other W's. The why and the how are always the ones that captivate me. More often than not, I am up in my head and my intellect is in charge.

I'm going to borrow from a friend who is blogging these days about spiritual correspondences deep within the superhero movies. I'm not really going to do that myself, but a conversation we had recently has me thinking about it. Years ago I wrote several sermon series and spiritual pieces around themes in the Lord of the Rings movies and for several years I designed my confirmation program at church around movies. They tend to bypass the ego and our defenses are down while watching, so the lessons come more easily than at other times. 

I've been catching up this week on a few that I've missed. 

Did I tell you that I love superhero movies?

I have a couple of shelves of them on my tv stand. And they're not all about comic book heroes. I have others, like The Last Samurai and King Arthur. It's been awhile since I watched so I'm not recalling all the titles I own and have loved over the years. Until the Marvel Universe started to emerge recently, my favorite superhero was Aragorn. He still is, actually. 

Today I watched Doctor Strange. It was like looking in the mirror. I'd like to watch it again before I make any other definitive statements, but I will say that it certainly has me thinking.  Especially about the ways that we can be so sure of our path and then suddenly are diverted by complete loss. It sets our feet on another path. 

Still ours, but unrecognizable.

His reactions when he first receives the teachings of the spiritual master were eerily familiar, especially the panic in his face as he struggles to understand something he can't quite grasp. His struggles to let go of what he thinks he knows so he can be open to learning something new. His disbelief that his life has become something he never planned. His shock over not being in control.

Deep rest enables us to create space to see. To receive. 

I thought I knew the reason I came here. To work. But I have surrendered to another day of rest between finishing one piece of big work and beginning the next. Today is a day we celebrate freedom. I am giving myself the freedom of "not doing" so that I can let my imagination run wild. I won't say where it's going, but it certainly is fun. 

And mind bending. 

In the fashion of Doctor Strange.  




The Summer of Self-Love is a daily writing practice created to harness three months for thriving. The goal at the end is to host a dinner party. Sounds like an odd Hero's Journey, doesn't it? Most of them usually are. 

   

The Roar of the Blank Page is Deafening

I came here to finish up some work and to do some new writing.

The old work is something new I'm doing. New in the sense that I've never done it before. A new skill I'm learning, new muscle I'm developing, and new experience that has become an interesting teacher for me on every level. 

So yesterday I took the day and did the work. It's finished. Ready. It's been a year-long process for a project I've been working on for seven years. 

An interesting thing about work is that often our projects are not completely in our control. We work with others to bring things out in to the world. We depend on others who have skills and resources we may not. We collaborate or we engage services for hire.  And sometimes we are surprised when something does not work as expected and we have to adjust our expectations. This happened yesterday in my world.  

It was time for a deep exhale. 

I could feel in my body the telltale signs of stress. I congratulated myself on work well done and surrendered to the reality that not everything is in my control. It was time to trust that everything will unfold as it needs to and to be at peace with that. To understand that I am able to meet whatever challenges come. I made dinner and settled in for the evening to watch a movie I've been wanting to see for a couple of months. It was funny and fantastical and pulled me out of the worries of the day.

Today is a new day. 

My desk is clear of old work. 

I said to myself, "Self, what a great day to do some new writing!" So I opened a new page and typed in the title of the new writing. 

It is not a great day to do new writing. 

My body is very clear about this as I hear the blank page roaring at me. And it is deafening. 

It's time, actually, to create some space.

Creating space is different than clearing space. There's an allowing that happens when we create space for ourselves. Today I don't need to get rid of anything in order to do this. I simply allow the space I have already cleared this week to work on behalf of whatever I need for myself. I allow the space to work. The space is doing the work. I am not.  

And what I need is spaciousness.

Spaciousness enables me to be expansive. Anxiety and worry contract me. The medicine for contraction is spaciousness because it enables expansion. Expansion is the space of creativity. There's probably a poetic way to say this, but I'd rather simply be clear. We can write this in a more visual way if we like so we can see it, and we need to see it --

anxiety -> contraction                                                                 worry -> contraction

                                             

                                     spaciousness -> expansion -> creativity 

Yes, it is just that simple. 

I'm going to take the day and see it as an energy ball that I hold in my hands and allow to expand. I'm going to do things that enable me to slow down and relax. That open me up so that I can see possibility. Live as if I understand myself as more than a slave to my to-do list. 

I allow whatever is congesting my soul space to gently release. 

I've already taken a break and talked with a friend for almost an hour. I'll meet friends for dinner tonight. And in between, who knows what I'll do? I'm more concerned about being than doing right now and absorbing the sweetness of the energies of this place. There's probably a breathing and vibrational meditation in my near future, and some yoga. I may simply sit and breathe and be. 

Space opens up before me.

The Summer of Self-Love is a daily writing practice created to harness three months for thriving. The goal at the end is to host a dinner party. Sounds like an unusual Hero's Journey, doesn't it? Most of them usually are.  



Art: Dancing the World into Creation, Aliaussie, North Wales, Great Britain

   

Cutting Flowers in My Mother's Garden

It's so interesting, the way I notice the flowers dying as I write about the memories of this place.

It brings me a curious peace as I go about my mother's rituals in her home. Especially the flowers.

She welcomed me with hydrangea, a profusion of flowers in crystal vases, and today I will cut hydrangea and roses. They caught my eye the day I arrived. The 'bump out" rose bushes look like they're having a bumper crop. I'd also like to see the morning glories on the fence. They are the wild vine with white blossoms. 

Why didn't I think to plant moon flowers along the fence when I was here in May?

My mother keeps the house filled with fresh flowers. It's one of her rituals. I've watched her watching them. She notices when they are starting to fade and rearranges the blossoms in vases, plucking out the spent blooms. At times, she gathers all the vases into the kitchen and begins again. I thought I would be doing that today, but so many of the vases just had a stem or two that was spent. So I rearranged the vases in the living room and took away two small vases to the kitchen before going into the garden.

The sun is hot. The house is cool. The garden carries the fragrance of roses on the breeze. I move through the space being with the abundant green and growing things. The hydrangea bushes swelter with blooms. The soil must be alkaline because the blooms are pink. All manner of pink, from very pale to a deep raspberry color. There are some curious deep purple blossoms as well. I take my time as I decide which stems to cut and bring into the house, pausing to notice and to be with the beauty.

The roses are a bit disappointing. I've waited too long to bring them inside. Still, I manage three stems covered in blossoms and buds and an armful of several shades of pink and purple hydrangea. I put those in the dining room where I am writing. The roses go into the living room. There aren't quite enough to fill the vase, so I think I may get up and make a change there. I'll give the roses to my father. I gave him roses also when I was here just before Memorial Day and we decorated the graves. Roses and laurel.

My mother has other rituals I follow when I step into her space. Cleaning the kitchen and the dishes after every use. I tend to wait and wash the few dishes I use at the end of the day or at the end of a cooking project. But I am finding here that I keep the kitchen always tidy, as my mother does. I'm not quite as tidy as she, not at all. It's interesting to see that I can do it if I want to. Maybe I'll take some of these rituals home with me.

I had my own rituals once. When I had a home and a family I was caring for. Divorce was jarring to my rituals. A new space, boxes of the dregs of a life and the precious things of a life that is no more, are difficult to go through and process. Six years after I moved out of my house I am still wrestling with them. 

Or perhaps I am wrestling with myself.

I think there is some truth to that because I've had to stop writing so that I can cry. And I've let the tears come. I'm in a safe space, infused with love that holds me while my grief breaks through like waters dammed for years. I'm sitting at the table where I was standing as a small girl on her birthday, surrounded by so much love. I can feel them all standing behind me now, as I release a grief I did not realize could feel so fresh again. 

I look up and see the chandelier that has become living art created by my grandmother and my mother and my daughter, and I wonder where I am in that art. Of course, I am the observer, the weaver of words and stories who becomes a living museum to hold and exhibit its beauty. And I come to understand something I never have before. I don't have the words for it yet but it is here, deep in my body, my cells, my DNA. 

And in the ancestors that stand behind me, dreaming me still. 




The Summer of Self-Love is a daily writing practice created to harness three months for thriving. The goal at the end is to host a dinner party. Sounds like an odd Hero's Journey, doesn't it? Most of them usually are.

A Change of Scenery

It's a new month.

The first month of the Summer of Self-Love has ended and I'm off to new adventures. I'm starting the new month with a change of scenery. For just a moment, I miss my view out into the wide open sky, framed by verdant green trees. My new view is my mother's dining room. An unexpected work opportunity brought me here for the day, and I've decided to stay the week and see what perspective a change of scenery can offer this three months' exploration. 

I'm surrounded by the artifacts of my childhood. Our dining room was my favorite room in the house. It, really, was the heart of the home. It was, literally, its center and my mother has such a gift for creating beautiful spaces. The dining room table was my great-grandmother's. Oak. A durable hardwood. There was a matching buffet, beautiful art, built-in book shelves with the family library, a stereo, some record albums, a Persian rug, and a lamp table. Once there was an aquarium. I think I remember my brother tipping his chair backwards and falling into it, but that may have been a dream. I'll check it out with my mom the next time I talk to her.

She, actually, is not here. Neither are either of my brothers and their families. Everyone is away on vacation. It's an interesting irony that I've come to stay and they've all taken off. It gives me a kind of space I otherwise would not have had. Space to spread out in my mother's house. To take over this old, beloved table with my writing and books, and papers.  

I have so many memories of my childhood dining room. A true gathering space, it held many family celebrations. Birthday celebrations, baptismal and confirmation celebrations, Christmas Day brunches and dinners. Our family dinner every evening. It even held a dinner party my mother hosted for my friends and our dates before a Christmas dance during my sophomore year in high-school. 

The room I'm sitting in now is not that room. This room is the dining room that was once in my grandparents' home. Any family celebrations that did not happen at our house, happened here. Sunday dinner, Christmas Eve, Easter, more birthday celebrations. One of my favorite photos of my birthday was a party here. I was six, or maybe I was five, and my birthday cake had a ballerina on it in addition to the candles. There are two photos of me with that cake. One is me solo, and the second is with the whole family gathered around and standing behind me. Most of those people are no longer living, so it is a precious thing. The other favorite birthday party photo was at the other house, in the other dining room. I was 13 and everyone was laughing as I blew out the candles on my cake. Mom made this one in an angel food cake pan and put a vase of flowers in the hole in the center. I was sitting on my grandmother's lap. I'd love to know the story around how that happened. It's one of my fondest photographic memories - a memory that exists only in a photograph, that is. Interestingly, I remember the cake. I just don't remember the actual day or the party. 

I am grateful for photographs.

It's an interesting blend of circumstances here - my grandparents' dining room filled with my parents' furniture. Both the furniture and the room hold some of my favorite memories while growing up, and since. As I look up, I see the crystal chandelier that hung above my grandparents' dining table. The bulbs have red and white shades that are my mother's addition. Woven around the arms of the chandelier is a sculpture made by my daughter. It was purchased by my mother at my daughter's final exhibition at the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts, where she earned her B.F.A. The piece is called Rubric and resembles veins with the deep red blood of family connection pulsing through it. It was part of her exhibit themed around matrilineal connection. 

Another piece in the collection was called Mother, named for me. It's an archetypal piece, expressing the flow of the generations. I helped her with the fabrication. We spent many hours on many days in her studio hand stitching that piece. When she graduated, the whole family squeezed into that small space to experience the wonders of her imagination. In the museum below, the ordered results of her creative process were exhibited, but I always loved best standing in the mystical, magical worlds she would create in her studio. 

Living art.

I look to my left, through the foyer into the living room, to the photograph of my father that my mother keeps on a shelf with a vase of fresh flowers. My father died fourteen years ago, but he is very much alive in the quiet spaces of this home he shared with my mother. As are my grandparents and great-grandmother, who shared this home before my parents did. I think my grandparents moved here when my mother was in high school. I even lived here for a few years after college with my grandfather, a few years after my grandmother died. I had dinner parties for my friends on fine china here. I smile when I think of the stories my grandfather would share with me as we sat at the kitchen table eating Czech fruit dumplings or sardines. I remember how often I asked him to write his memoirs. And I find myself wishing he had, or wishing I'd pulled out a tape recorder to capture the stories. It probably would have broken the magic of the sharing, though. 

There's no longer a kitchen table in the kitchen. But I sit at this beautiful and ancient family table in a room that holds so many wonderful memories of gathering and celebration and I will spend the week in this space, gathering words and stories for new writing.  

The sound of the old air conditioner in the dining room window makes almost as much noise as the sound of the jackhammer below my kitchen window last week did, but somehow the sound is so familiar it is not jarring unless I think too much about it. I look around and remember so many things. Episodes that float on the river of my memory and sometimes eddy in a current that moves lazily around a rock there, lingering before moving on.  

The Summer of Self-Love is a daily writing practice created as a container for harnessing three months for thriving. The goal at the end is to host a dinner party. Sounds like an odd Hero's Journey, doesn't it? Most of them usually are. 




Art: Mother, 2014, Alyson Knodel - photographed from beneath 

Sometimes You Just Have to Deal

I have arrived at my destination.

And there is no internet connection so I'm probably going to have to go to a cafe to write this week. I'm using my portable keyboard, a gift from my son, and my cell phone to write this evening. It's interesting. And I'm laughing as I'm writing, and trying to remember that the important thing is that I show up for myself and this writing every day.

The letters on the screen are about the size of a pin head.

And I'm still laughing.

Sometimes you just have to deal.

The Summer of Self Love is a daily writing practice, created as a container for harnessing three months for thriving. The goal at the end is to host a dinner party. Sounds like an odd Hero's Journey, doesn't it? Most of them usually are.

In Under the Wire

I'm getting ready for some time away.

I cleared the day to clear some space to clear some time to clear my mind. I knew the week was going to be all about the detox. Today I slowly cleared away all the things that are holding me to this place. Final bits of work commitments and setting an away message on the email. The things in my inbox - bills that need to be paid, requests for donations, and writing my rent check. The food in my fridge and the trash in the kitchen bin. Stuff on the floor and the shoes by the door. Some piles in my kitchen. All kinds of things on a check list I made a couple of days ago. And my schedule. I cleared that so I could have some spaciousness to gather my thoughts before I go. 

Yes, gathering was the next task. Gathering up everything that I need to comb through the print proof of my poetry book. That's my priority while I'm away. Gathering together everything that needs to go to the post office. Water for the plants. Gathering together clothes and other necessities for the trip. Gathering my thoughts and intentions. 

It feels like a day that I've been neither home nor away.

A bridge. 

A transition.

Something I hold gently so that I can move into the next thing well.

I work with others to help them move through transition well. I still am often stymied by my own transitions. I often feel like I simply do the best I can do to get from one place to the next. And, regardless of how well I plan, I don't always follow the plan to the letter. Or at all. More than anything else, I like to leave a bit of spaciousness so that I can feel into expansiveness rather than contraction. Anxiety contracts us and transitions bring anxiety. 

It's the unknown. Takes us out of our comfort zone.

I'm thinking about a meme that's become something of a visual mantra for me. On a page, someone drew a large circle and on the inside wrote, "Your Comfort Zone."  In a tiny circle on the other side of the page in the lower corner, a tiny circle. And within, "Where the Magic Happens."

I like to think of that every time I'm challenged to step out of my comfort zone.

I could use a little magic.

I began writing late at night tonight. It's the last thing I need to clear for today, also the last thing I need to gather - thoughts for creating today's writing. I'm getting it in just under the wire. The moon is shining brightly in the sky, just beginning to show the tiniest bit of her waning from fullness.

The sun will rise tomorrow and I'll carry some things out to the car and be on my way. 

The Summer of Self-Love is a daily writing practice birthed on June 1, 2018 as a container to harness three months for thriving. The goal at the end is to host a dinner party. Sounds like and odd Hero's Journey, doesn't it? Most of them usually are.