The loving thing
is the thing that weighs both sides.
Even a hungry owl
eating a baby bunny
is a loving gesture.

The human thing
is the thing that willingly fumbles toward oneness
And says yes, and no, in turn.
Falling down today
and getting up tomorrow,
laughing all the while.

When I’m With You, Valentine
When I’m with you, Valentine,
I feel like I might be going crazy.
When I’m with you, Valentine,
I am not self-assured.
When I’m with you, Valentine,
I hide my feelings behind the furniture.

Everything you say seems so true
and everything I say seems like a lie.
Only you,
Only you,
Only you, valentine.
You’re the special, special one
The special one who can make me feel this way.

You’re perfect and everything’s fine, Valentine,
why am I screaming inside?
You say all the right things, Valentine,
why does my stomach feel so queasy?
You’ve got the one true answer every time, Valentine, so
I’ll stop trying to convince you to let me:
just be
just live
just love what I love

I’m going to have to do it
without my lovely Valentine.
I miss,
miss,
miss,
miss,
MISS
the you that never really was.
I feel so naked and scared
without my necessary Valentine.
The hardest part of prison camp
is leaving it alone.

So now I’m sitting here
without my funny Valentine.
Weathering the accusations,
and the begging,
and the threats.
Yes, I’ll have to give myself, Valentine,
the gift you’ll never give me:
freedom to just be
freedom to just live
freedom to just love what I love.

At our last meeting, they asked me what I thought about the “rescuing” thing: like, would I want/expect a man to punch someone out for me if that person had groped me, for instance.

At the time I said something like “If they wouldn’t stand up for me, then what’s the point? Why am I in a relationship” but I realized that this was not entirely how I felt about it.

After I left the coffeehouse, This idea came to me, and I emailed it to my writer’s group:

This is more plainly how I feel, and I imagine it might be true for many people, men and women:

Do they have my back?

not: do they fill the empty spaces in my heart (because only I can do that)
not: do we have proscribed roles to play: rescuer and victim

just: do they treat me like I’m *on their team*? or like an enemy?

I do think men and women are often quite different. But I do not think there needs to be a war between the sexes. I do not think that, overall, a war makes sex more fun or the relationship more interesting, though I think those things can appear to be true in the short term.

I think the essential thing is the self-confidence and largeness of heart, in both parties, to experience difference without derision. And to have the courage to leave in peace if this is not the overall quality of the relationship–to avoid further harm to both parties.
****************

So the book talks about how that’s not really the case–it’s richer than that.

Tonight in yoga, my instructor, who knows me well, came up to me and talked about letting go of perfectionism, of all the little details because “when you become a teacher, all you’ll see are all the things that are wrong, and that won’t be very inspiring” (or something like that). It was interesting especially because I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately: how to soften my habit of zooming into the details, of assuming I’m so much worse/less than I am–it’s not like I think “I stink”–it’s not obvious and global, it’s just that in every little thing I set the bar too high. But I don’t even know it because, well, to me it seems “appropriate” or “realistic.” I don’t know what I don’t know.

So we had a talk after yoga class. I think I’m going to focus on my own practice at home more. So I came home, unrolled my mat, and wept with big, loud sobs like people have in the movies when they find out someone’s died.

I wept for my fear at being on the verge of actually having a job for the first time since I became a mom. I wept because my yoga teachers (husband & wife) remind me of me & my husband, but they’re together, with a lot of things that, to me, look like success, and I transferred funds today to pay for my divorce. What makes the difference? Is there a difference? This question made me understand, even more deeply, the Serenity Prayer.

And I thought about the journey I’ve been on nearly the last two years, and how much more there is. But I can let the waves of grief wash over me more willingly now, like labor pains. Knowing each wave brings more opening, brings me closer to the rebirth we all long for.

I spent most of today rearranging, cleaning, organizing my cluttered, disorderly, messy house. And it’s so hard for me to do it with compassion for myself and not expect myself to do it all now, perfectly, and forever. I keep seeing that Hindi (?) image of compassion as a woman whose child has fallen in the river, and she has no arms. The image of “not-superwoman.”

So, the thing I really am writing all this to say is: at the end of my session at home, I thought “I guess a lot of people must find that they awaken, and what they awaken to is a mess, a disaster, even. Because living in a disaster, in denial is such a common springboard situation for enlightenment–it softens us up enough to look around, and notice the little sliver of light in the dark cell of our life. We wake up and realize we’re in a leaky lifeboat and the Titanic has sunk and there are people dying all around us that we can’t save. We were in that situation before, but we weren’t awake to it. Maybe we saw part of it and were frozen with panic and overwhelmed, thinking we had to solve it, but feeling so identified with it we couldn’t muster the perspective and calm to offer any real help.

When we become willing to see the whole picture, just as it is, without a reactive need to spring into action, we also wake up to the beauty: maybe we can see people drowning, but we also see the loveliness of moonlight on the water. We see that life includes both intense beauty and profound pain. Only with this calm perspective, accepting reality, can we begin to really be of service. We can see and feel the feelings and yet remain solidly ourselves. We no longer jump in to save the drowning and drown ourselves in the process, we cultivate true courage and not simply reaction to fear.

I asked my friend “so when did you know
that things had gotten shitty?
Like, seriously shitty.
Like extreme-shitty.
A tall pile of shit snowboarding down a steep mountain.
Look at that shit go!
So crazy, so extreme
even I had to take notice.
And nudge the person next to me: “uh, is that…shit?”
and fifty people look at me like I’m crazy.
But I look back, and there it is again.
And over there, one person looked back at me, knowing.
maybe it started like that.

Or maybe it was more like the hangover-style:
I made it through the pyrotechnics.
I was involved. I was setting them off as fast as they were
Not one to be outdone.
Not until the morning after hangover.
Weak, bleary, I realized where it got me:
back to the starting line.
And somehow I found I just didn’t have heart for one more round.
That example had less cursing, I pointed out.
Did it start like that?

Not in the beginning, my friend said. It was more like something exploded in my face.
And my heart was in traction. I was in the hospital, all my limbs bandaged and suspended. Helpless.
And they come in with one arm in a sling and get angry. Wonder why I’m not helping them out more.
They’re storming around and I feel that old anxiety: why aren’t I helping more?
Fortunately for me, I’m barely alive, so that helps me remember.
I’m so thankful I couldn’t move. Because I would have. I would have gone right back.
But there were people there to tell me “no.”
The gentlest “no.”
It was enough, to make that one little break.
and later I could tell myself “no”
The gentlest “no.”
That’s how it started for me.

Oh, yes, I said. I’d forgotten about that part.
There are so many paths to the foot of this mountain.
And I think I must have taken them all,
at one point or another.
Actually I’m starting to suspect there are as many paths as I have days left to walk them.
Hm. That’s kind of scary.
But not as scary as not walking them, my friend reminded me.
No, especially not when I can wave to you, coming down your path, friend.
And we can laugh and cry when we see the shells of our former selves
burning or floating downstream, or just exposed to the elements and vultures
Knowing that someone else is laughing and crying the same way.
And that it’s wonderful.

************
What I’m not going to say to you

And you want, sincerely, with your whole heart,
to understand why I’m not with you.
And I want, but less and less, to try to explain.
Because I’ve found there’s no explanation.
If it were possible to tell you, you would already have understood.
And I’m sorry for all my previous attempts, swirling in your mind incessantly,
piercing your heart, goading you on.

“First do no harm” is deeper than it seems.
each layer of practiced restraint unveils new layers of harm to refrain from

Remember: this is beautiful, this unfolding.
Remember: pain is only the wrapping. Don’t be afraid to open this present.

So there’s no reason to tell you about that dream
where your face was full of maggots.
or that other dream
where your eyes and mouth were burning metal coils
because those dreams have nothing to do with you.
Those gifts are for me.
I pray to accept them with my whole heart
and stay the hell away.

When we did the Lion’s Breath and Uddianda bandha in class, afterward I really felt transparent–like I was just a human body shell–an interchangeable shell–with pure spirit shining through.

Most of the time I do not feel transparent. I feel opaque. So opaque I’m sticky. Like a tar baby. People say and do things and their words and actions get caught in me and pull me in different directions, and accumulate, dragging me, weighing me down.

Another image: Most of us are just stumbling through this life like people in the semi-darkness with burlap sacks over our heads. We can see a bit through the coarse weave, and most of us have never known anything different so we consider this 20/20 vision. We rush and stumble and bump into each other, but hey, that’s life, right? We don’t know there’s any alternative, so we try to carry on.
One day we start to catch glimpses of the sack; bumping against a wall and realizing: “hey, I think I have a sack on my head” is progress–it’s also scary as hell. Claustrophobic and panicky. “Oh My God! I can’t see! this is all insanity–this running around with sacks on.” But I imagine once the sack starts to dissapate more, you come to grips with it. After all, there’s only so much you can do about it through will alone.These are sacks we cannot remove ourselves. We can only work to create conditions under which they can begin to melt away. Maybe seeing other people running pell-mell, which used to frighten and horrify us, will begin to feel less threatening, and more melting. Maybe we begin to feel compassion for this impaired condition. We can no longer be angry at them for bumping us, ignoring us–what more can they do?

A tiny shift, a different morning.

don’t have  a job

don’t feel 100% confident of my parenting

haven’t kept moving on the divorce

still face each day unsure and reluctant to leave the bed

and a million other “to do” list items

What kind of loser am I? 

Probably just the normal kind. The kind I would embrace and love as a friend. 

So…loving myself as a friend. 

When I did finally really get up this morning, I looked at the pile of dirty dishes, and past that, the crumbling pile of compost waiting to go out. I looked in the empty fridge. No inspiration. Nothing pre-made. 

But I could make myself eggs.

And I realized…self-care and getting on (and staying on) the road to recovery is in these small things. I made eggs. I made good coffee. If I would have only thought about it, my inner cynic would have dismissed it as “not nearly special enough” to counteract the foggy morning I’d been having. But I did it, and I found it to be a small miracle. 

I guess this is what makes Grace Grace. It’s nothing the little gremlins of our ego could comprehend. It’s like bumblebees flying. They can’t. But they do. My mind keeps me fueled with big fantasies: becoming a famous writer, transcending all human vulnerabilities, becoming a person who needs little sleep and just likes to stay busy, busy, busy!!!

Pema Chodron points out that wanting meditation to transform you into something better is a subtle aggression against yourself. And I think the word “subtle” doesn’t really modify the aggression as much as it describes our difficulty seeing it as aggression. 

Small steps. Big appreciation. That’s what time it is