Contempt

Prior to investigation.

Sometimes I don’t even know I have contempt for a situation until it happens.

Then, when it does, I’m incredulous, like, wait, what, oh no, this is completely different from I thought and I am an asshole.

Yoga for example.

A lot of contempt.

But fuck.

It’s a good work out, my body feels better when I do it, and my mind clears out.

But for a very long time I looked at it as privileged white women spiritually bypassing to look hot in skimpy clothes and post pretty pictures of themselves on Instagram.

I sweat a lot when I do yoga, I also swear, and there is nothing pretty about it.

And.

Oh yes.

Sometimes I even cry.

Heart openers will get me, I don’t even know some of the poses are heart openers until after I’ve been doing them and then the instructor says something and I’m like, oh, that was it, that was a heart opener.

Sometimes I think my heart can’t get much more open, but God seems to have other plans and my heart gets stretched out some more and I’m left wallowing around in pain again.

Which it was pointed out to me this evening, is the touchstone of spiritual growth.

I actually told the person to fuck off.

I was super defensive and super tender and super vulnerable all at the same time and then I disclosed what has been happening, in general terms, and started crying.

Ugh.

I just didn’t want to be that person crying over something like this and the truth is.

I am that person crying over a heartbreak and a loss and I’m grieving and I’m so super fucking sad it breaks me sometimes and I just lose it.

And then.

I pull it back together, pony up, wipe my face, slap some lotion on myself, tears are drying out my skin like nobody’s business, and I get back on with the daily deal of living and doing the deal.

It’s not easy.

Sometimes I just want to crawl under the covers and weep until I pass out.

I haven’t really stopped crying for the last two and a half weeks.

Two weeks ago I had the conversation that would change it all.

Two.

I was thinking about that as I walked home alone and got cat called by some guy at the 7-ll on the corner who told me I was beautiful and had great hair.

Thanks.

I am having a good hair day, but I’m not really interested in telling you my name.

In fact, when he asked, I replied, “going home alone,” and kept walking.

I’m not into dudes that hang outside 7-11’s with open containers of booze.

I wasn’t when I was drinking, I’m certainly not the fuck now.

But yeah, my mind, preoccupied when I realized it was two weeks ago today that I had the beginnings of the conversation that would lead me to where I am now.

I hadn’t seen it coming, and it seems I should have.

Should, would, could, all the ways I can shit on myself.

I should have done this, I could have done, that, I would have, but.

Excuses and ways to blame myself and hurt myself and wallow in victimization.

I take responsibility for my actions and I feel their effects.

It has not been easy to do what I did and I feel like I’m dying half the time.

I am also doing something I have never done before so I have absolutely no idea how to do it.

I rely on the council of others, and pray a lot, and cry, and try to be nice to myself and try to not just smash my head on my table.

Like if I could have figured it out, made things work, I would have.

But.

I don’t know how to do that, I didn’t then, I don’t now.

I have a sense that I have to be honest, in a deeper way then I have ever been with myself.

I have an idea that the pain has not stopped, that it will in fact, continue for a little while yet.

It’s like settling in for a long winter, this season of grief.

When you let go of the thing you love most, the person you love most to choose to do something different, it’s going to hurt.

At least.

That’s been my experience.

It’s hurting.

It hurts.

It hurts so bad I can barely write this.

And yet.

I do.

I keep showing up to this damn stupid page as if it will make it better.

Kiss it and make it better.

Please.

I suspect that there is something here, though, a process, that helps mitigate the pain of the situation, a way through.

Just like she told me, “there is no way through but through.”

I just have to feel everything.

It’s a gift.

These feelings.

I may not always believe that when I am doubled over crying into my hands, but when the tears slow a little and I have a modicum of space, I know that I can appreciate the pain, that I can see the richness there, the beauty of it, the deep knowledge of how hard I love and was loved.

Am loved.

Do still love.

Still love.

I am still in love.

God.

That hurts.

That just screams at me.

I had to stop there for a moment, fresh tears to wipe from my face, a tightening in my chest, the feeling of not being able to breathe, the fear of losing the best thing that I have ever experienced and knowing that I made the decision to do so.

I did it.

I am responsible.

I needed something different than what was being offered.

And though I couldn’t come to it fast enough or in a tidy way, in a linear, logical, marked out intellectual way, I got there, I got to a place where it stopped working for me.

And when I did I saw what was not working I couldn’t deny it any longer.

Although, fuck I tried.

I had to change.

And.

I did.

I made the decision.

I will live with the repercussions for the rest of my life.

Good and bad.

They are mine.

I have no regrets.

I loved fucking hard and passionately and deeply.

I have nary a regret and I don’t think that I ever will.

I just have a lot of sorrow to keep working through.

And more tears to cry.

Always those.

Always those.

So.

Many

Tears.

First One Down

I did it.

I got my first paper of the semester written and turned in.

It was a small guy, five pages.

I was a bit resentful of it for a few days.

First, fucking christ, the first weekend of classes was last weekend, give me a god damn minute to have some time off.

Second, I got a notification yesterday that it was due at 4p.m. today.

What the fuck?

Four p.m.

Listen.

I have a god damn life, I have things to do, and this day, this was my first day off in two weeks, two, and you’re giving me a hard limit of 4p.m.?

Fuck.

Ugh.

Yeah.

So that I found annoying.

But.

I told myself to shut the fuck up and do the fucking work.

I also let myself sleep in.

I was on the phone late last night with my best friend and my God, do we know how to talk, like two highschool girls on a school night dishing all the things, I could talk forever with my friend, it is always so hard to say goodbye, goodnight, until we talk again, it never feels like it is soon enough before we can talk again.

I was going to go to an early morning yoga class, but decided to just let myself sleep and maybe I would catch an afternoon yoga class after I had written the paper, or maybe nothing, fuck it, fuck yoga, fuck it all.

Except.

Well.

Ha.

My body had other ideas.

Sometimes my feet are smarter than my brain.

I did miss the early yoga class, but I woke up in plenty of time to hit the 10:30 a.m. class.

I still got up and out of bed thinking, telling myself that I wasn’t going to go, I would use the extra time to write my paper, or maybe doing my Morning Pages, God knows I have had plenty of fodder for writing.

Oh my god the amount of morning writing I have done while I have been going through my recent experiences, so much.

But I am grateful for the outlet, grateful for the pen on the paper, the feel of the pen moving across the lines, the words tumbling out, prayers and affirmations, gratitude lists, longings and dreams and desires, all of it, bumbled down on my Claire Fontaine notebook and then a little sweet sticker next to my entry, a way to mark my heart on the page, a mandala, a rose, a butterfly, a baby bunny, something small and sweet to tell me where my heart lies in between the words the dance of magic and poetry that I sense is still there just waiting for the right moment to spring forth again.

Like Athena from the mind of Zeus.

All the poesie and love and magic, the passion, the words, so many words of love and adoration I have.

So many.

Ah.

I digress.

See, I think of love and poetry and get lost.

Adrift in worlds of magic and sorcery and the poetics of my life, the romance.

My God.

The romance of it.

Sometimes, yes, it is a little dark, a lot emotional, a kind of deep swooning romance that is historic and deep and has an uncanny beauty writ large in the stars, the blue moon waxing full.

But it is so beautiful and I am so grateful for it, the gift of it.

Seared into me.

Pierced into me.

Literally.

As such, I was compelled to let myself write, but instead I found myself putting on my yoga clothes and then signing up for the 10:30 a.m. class.

My feet had better ideas than my head.

And I am so glad I went.

It was a terrific class, I got to do a lot of heart openings, as though my heart has not been opened enough of late, but it was good, and hard and painful and when I felt stuck, I just breathed through it harder and thought of the love I had and sent it out into the world.

I thought of wrapping my love around my love, a warm cloak, a blanket, I pictured the sun surrounding me and then held my love in my arms, buried my face in the back of his head and then smelled the nape of his neck and I started to cry in yoga.

Sigh.

Truth be told.

I did not mind.

It felt good, a washing of love, a rendering of myself in the moment, a supplication, a surrender to the feeling, to let it go as I lay prostrate on the mat.

And the sensory feeling of putting my arms around the love of my life and covering him with love was so relieving too, as though I could buffet his heart with my love.

It felt right and good even though it felt sad too, just to have another moment to hold him close to me, even if imagined, even in revery, felt so good and real and right.

So.

Yes.

Grateful I got out to yoga.

And then did all the other things.

Shower, breakfast, reading, writing, working with a new lady who came over to the house and we met and read things and talked about life and recovery and doing the deal and that was fantastic.

And when she left.

I got to it.

I pulled out my books and notebooks and syllabus and I got into the paper.

It flowed so well and smoothly and just dropped out of my head and onto the page, well, I was a little amazed.

It just came and I edited it and read it and tidied it up and had it sent off to my professor by 3:50p.m.

Ten minutes before it was due.

Thank you.

Thank you very much.

Grateful as hell that I know how to write a paper.

I also collaborated with my partner in another class and mapped out the work that needs to be done for a project in that class.

I have my writing calendared for the next week, mostly next Sunday, but also some writing will have to be done Saturday too, I suspect.

And.

I have all my readings prepped for the next weekend of classes.

I will bring my books with me and again sneak in the pages and chapters when I can, where I can, in between going to and from supervision, work, internship, doing the deal, and all the other things I am juggling.

I will have my books with me and when I can, well, I’ll be reading.

It’s my last semester of my Masters program!

Holy fuck.

I have my first assignment in and done.

One tiny step forward.

One tiny march of faith into the future.

I know not where I am going.

But.

I am assured.

That it will be bright and beautiful and full of love.

Love.

Always that.

Always.

I Did It!

I yelped with glee as I floated up.

It was the first time I did it on my own without being spotted.

Without really even thinking about it.

I just did it.

I did a full wheel in yoga class today.

I was so excited I yelled out loud, “I did it!”

Then slightly muffled, “sorry.”

Then.

I laughed, “not sorry!  I did it!”

I was super happy.

I was also really grateful to have my favorite instructor for class.

He’s the best and he’s going to school out-of-state, but back and forth frequently enough that he’s still teaching a class here and there at the studio.

When I saw him on the schedule for today I immediately signed up.

It did not matter that it was not an optimum time for me, I did not give a fuck, I wanted to go to his class, see him, give him a hug and have a good session.

Man.

Was it a good session.

His partner was there too, beautiful people, gorgeous, the two of them, one, a yoga instructor the other a Pilates instructor.

Stunning.

But sweet, and so approachable and kind.

I have always felt that it didn’t matter that I was old or not quite as flexible as the lissome 22 years old flocking to the studio, my instructor always gave me great feedback and also humored my profanity.

Like earlier, when I mumbled under my breath, “aw fuck,” as we also did one of my hated posed, broken toe pose, hate it, hurts so bad, but my feet generally do feel better after doing it.

The first time I did the pose, about a year ago, I could hold it for brief seconds and I cried out in pain.

I can probably do the pose now for about a minute, it’s still painful but it doesn’t make me burst into tears when I do it.

The wheel pose though, alluded me for a good year and a half.

I remember doing it when I was a kid, no problem.

It’s mostly just having a flexible back, but it’s also strong core and breathing and maybe, I think now, also a mental thing.

So too is crow pose, which I fell out of trying today and yes, swore under my breath.

I swear a lot in general.

Not in front of my charges at work.

Not in front of my clients in session.

But in general.

Yeah.

I’m a bit profane.

I fell over trying to do Crow pose, lost my balance doing half-moon, on one side, but managed to do it on the right side, my left shoulder has been consistently tight and sore for months now, like an obscene amount of time, since last November, sometimes I think it’s getting better, then it will get stressed again, so my left side tends to be a little off-balance.

Anyway.

When my teacher asked at the beginning of class what the class wanted to work on I piped up, “heart opener” and someone else said, “twists” and for the first time ever, no one said “core.”

Which always annoys me, core work, but it’s needed to be strong in the poses and I get it, but it’s also in every fucking pose, you have to use your core, it seems idiotic to also request more core work on top of the core work, but that’s just my opinion.

I suppose if I was younger and into wearing midriff flashing clothes I’d be hollering for core too.

But what I like to work on is heart openers.

I can access emotions when I do yoga.

Not always.

But.

When I have a good instructor, and my teacher today is the best I have had, I can.

It can unlock emotions in my body, the practice and I felt it was a good idea to have my heart open wide today.

As though I could have closed it down.

My heart is wide open.

Nonetheless I was not expecting to do Wheel, I was expecting Camel pose or something of that ilk.

So when he said we were going to first do a bridge pose I knew we’d be doing Full Wheel.

And there was something in me today, a push to go further and I made up my mind that instead of staying in the half bridge I’d go for the full wheel.

I lay on my back, squared my shoulders, made sure my hands were turned around up by my shoulders, my knees where hips width apart and I breathed in and pushed up with my hands.

And suddenly.

Out of no where.

I was floating.

“I did it!”  I said with much excitement.

I was over the moon, I was floating.

And yes, my heart opened.

Even further than it had before and I could feel it.

My breath expanded in my chest, it felt as though I had breathed in and floated up like a balloon, effortless and easy.

It was amazing.

Then.

I came down, rolled out my wrists, rested for a moment.

And.

Yup.

I did it again.

The second time was harder, my arms didn’t want to quite hold me, but I breathed into it again and mustered it up.

A second time.

When I finished I was sweating and joyful and teary.

I lay with my hand on my belly and my other hand on my heart with in a supine butterfly pose with my legs.

I felt joyous and light.

Then we did corpse pose.

And all of it.

My heart, my body, my mind, floated up.

Images and ideas sprung from me and drifted by.

I had love images impressed upon the backs of my eyelids.

I drifted into those images and sent that love out to the world.

I composed poetry.

I felt tears slide down my face.

It was just amazing.

I can’t quite express it without sounding like a complete idiot.

But I was amazed by what came to me.

And I’ll get to do a little more yoga this week too.

The family I nanny for doesn’t come back from vacation until Thursday, I’ll have my first day back with them Friday, so I’ll get in a couple of extra yoga classes.

Not tomorrow.

I have supervision in the morning and a client at night.

But Tuesday for sure.

I want to see if I can replicate the full wheel again.

It’s nice to see progress in my practice and even though it’s always a challenge to get myself to go, my brain resists, not my body, I do tend to go and when I do.

Such surprise.

So much gratitude.

Yoga.

Who the fuck knew?

I CHOOSE HAPPY

I CHOOSE HAPPY AND LIGHT!

I hollered out loud scootering down Lincoln Avenue like a maniac.

I have no idea if any one heard me, but I am laughing out loud thinking about it.

I had previous to that moment been a little in my head.

I was feeling small and sad.

I texted a lot of people right as the day was ending.

I had an unexpected thing happen and it threw me for a loop and I found myself in a quandary trying to decide how to proceed.

Breathe.

There’s a start.

Um.

Do the next thing in front of you.

I have two small boys in a bath tub, attend to that, wash the hair, condition it–it was not suppose to be a bath night with hair washing but how the 3 year old got cheese dip in his hair, well, it’s a long story, suffice to say, hair washing happened.

Heh.

God I love these little boys.

Even when they drive me bats.

It took me a good fifteen minutes to get the little guy into the bath, he’s definitely going through a bit of a rebellious phase, and he did not want a bath.

AT ALL.

And of course once I managed to get him in the bath he did not want to get out.

So often that child could be me.

But, but, but, I’m all focused on this thing here and I want this thing here and it’s not good for me, but so what, let me get all engaged with what I think is right and you’re wrong and fuck me.

I’m an emotional three year old.

However.

I do have some tools and mama opened up the tool box and took them out.

I prayed.

I texted my people.

I got some fantastic suggestions.

I couldn’t really use the phone, mom and dad were down stairs and I was not inclined to have the conversation be overheard.

I never am.

I’m either on camera or the monitor and I would rather just keep it discrete.

I can text at work and that feels ok, as long as I am paying attention to what is going on with my little guys.

That being said.

I practiced some restraint and I am grateful for it.

So grateful.

I am also grateful to know that I have choices and though, yes, for a little while I did feel small, sad, and though my heart hurt, it didn’t hurt for long.

I had a bit of conversation in my head about how to respond.

No response is a response, Martines.

No.

No, is a complete answer.

And this nice little tidbit, I don’t owe anyone a reason or a response.

I can choose to not engage.

I can choose happy.

I can choose light.

I can choose joy.

I can choose to get up early on a Monday and go to yoga and work so hard that my arms are literally shaking, I mean, I am holding the pose, but I can see the muscles in my arm twitching and vibrating from the strain of holding the pose.

That was a first for me.

My arms had quite a bit more of a work out than I was expecting.

But it did lead to an enormous release of energy and I was able to turn my heart up to the ceiling in a certain pose and suddenly.

Light and happy.

I saw a crown.

I saw a bunch of daisies.

I felt a wash of joy.

I felt dipped in happy.

It was a pretty swell feeling leaving the studio this morning, climbing into a super hot shower after, putting on my favorite Big Mac vintage overalls and zooming out the door and off to work.

Just a little early so I could throw some gas in my scooter and also get to the post office before I went into work to send off my mom’s Mother’s Day package.

It felt good to do that.

Get my mom’s gift into the post.

I’ll be in school all weekend, though I am sure I will find a minute to reach out and call, I wanted to make sure that I had the package in the mail before the week got a head of me.

I showed up.

I got present for work.

The family wasn’t there.

The boys in school.

The parents out.

It was really sweet and nice to have the house to myself for the first hour of work.

I kicked through most of what I needed to do before the mom came back, cleared with me the day and what to do for dinner, talked about menu planning for the week, and also got my doctor’s appointment approved for next Friday.

I had a nice little Monday afternoon reunion with the boys when they got home from school and did a lot of reading with them before heading out the door to gather a few things from the market, the cleaners, and Lucca Ravioli.

I also found a bird’s nest.

It was so beautiful and small.

It was in the middle of the sidewalk, soft grasses and small twigs, tiny little white pin feathers all interwoven.

I took some photos, gave it to the oldest boy and enjoyed the small gift of beauty that I was given.

So many small gifts of beauty.

Perspective being one of them.

“Of course you feel sad,” he said via text.

“Have your feelings.”

Oh yeah.

That’s right.

I get to have feelings and they will be fleeting.

I can be sad.

I can feel small.

And.

Then I can let go of those feelings and reach for others.

Which is why I was hollering “I choose happy, I choose light!” at the top of my lungs on Lincoln Avenue as I was riding my scooter home.

I choose to not engage in a story or make a drama.

I choose to be happy.

I choose to be an artist and joyful and silly.

And.

“Are you really 43?” He asked me as we leaned up against The Addams Family pinball game at Free Gold Watch.

“You do not act 43.”

“I really am,” I said.

Forty fucking three.

And astounded with happy, joyous,

(lightness)

And.

Free.

All the fucking time.

 

 

And A Razor Of Love

You have been unfriended.

I let you go.

“Let him go,” my person said to me tonight, eyes warm, soft, gentle, holding me every step of the way.

I have.

I have let so much go.

So much it is unreal.

I have walked through an unwieldy mess of emotions and feelings, grief, sorrow, joy, reprise, replete, repeat, let go, surrender.

And breathe.

There were many tears tonight when I met my person.

That happens.

Especially when I feel safe, I can be vulnerable and express my feelings and though there were many tears, they were great big tears of relief.

“This is a huge forgiveness piece for you around your mother,” my person said.

Yes.

Oh yes.

I could have easily called this blog, “If it’s not you, it’s my mother.”

I laughed out loud when I heard that.

But it’s the truth.

There has been a seismic shift in my relationship with my mother, my memory, my life, my childhood, all the things and place and sorrows whereof.

An easing.

A, yes, a deep forgiveness.

“You still need to bring up all this with a therapist,” my person said, “that’s going to be a part of your program, isn’t it?”

A yup.

The therapist in training, moi, will be doing therapy as a part of my Masters in Psychology program.

It doesn’t happen for a little while yet, but I have already experienced some of it in the work that I have done with my cohort and to be honest, it has been the school work that has helped lead me to this opening in my heart and this re-organizing of my emotions around my mom.

I used to joke, I guess used to is not exactly on point, since i said it on Sunday to an acquaintance at the cafe, “I was raised by wolves, well meaning wolves, but wolves nonetheless.”

Then.

Yesterday I had this very insightful conversation with my mom about some family origin stuff, I found out some things about my mom, about my dad, about my beginnings, and it was like so many puzzle pieces connecting.

I saw blue skies.

I saw joy.

I saw so much sorrow and grief and I saw a way out and through.

I have been on this way out and through for a very long time.

I have done so much work.

SO MUCH.

I suppose the gift is that I will continue to get to do this work, there are new places to delve, new revelations to be had, new angles, there will be more of this path to walk down.

I had this strange moment while I was out at the park with my charges and it just ran through me, call your mom.

And I did.

And we talked.

Suffice to say it was pretty private and personal and because so much of what was revealed was not actually about me, although it affected me greatly and a times very gravely, it is not my place to reveal what was revealed to me.

At least not in this forum.

I have already decided that I will be writing a paper on it, the experience and the exchange of information, it was very relevant to a final paper project that I have to work on for school.

I’ll be hitting that bad boy out of the park come Sunday.

I’m not ready for Sunday yet, let me stay here in today for a little while yet.

However.

I can say, quite unequivocally that I am no longer going to carry around grief that is not mine.

I am not a repository for my mother’s grief any longer.

I did not say that to her, that shift in perspective did not happen until today, this morning, when, yes, ugh, I was at yoga and I was in a bind.

LITERALLY!

I did a binding pose that I have not hit once since starting yoga two months ago, but today, I reached for it and my heart lifted and I felt this burst of joy, a great wave of it, a tidal pool of it, a tsunami of emotions.

I almost laughed out loud with the happy.

Then, yes.

Of course.

I cried.

I bawled.

Well.

Maybe not bawled, that sounds like it was loud, it was not loud, although it felt deafening at one point to be so sluiced in feelings.

I’m not going to carry her sorrow any more, I told myself.

It was washed away, my mother’s grief and pain and sorrow, her losses and misfortunes these are not my burdens, I don’t have to carry them.

I don’t know that I was ever properly asked and the tragedy of that is that I am only realizing this now.

And.

The amazing, awesome, hot damn news.

Is that I am realizing it at all.

I love my mom.

She did the best she could and if you had said that to me at certain points in my life I would have told you to go hit the crack pipe again and get back to me.

I always felt like that was an excuse, sorry it was so rough kiddo, I was just doing the best I could.

But in between the spaces, the lines of telephone wires looping through the history of our shared and divergent paths, there was a shift and I got it.

I got it.

I got it!

And it’s not mine to carry, never was, I don’t own it, I can let it go, I can be washed away, the names and places, the stories and traumas and dramas, all just crenellated peaks in the dunes at Ocean Beach, the stars wink back to me over the storm dark seas and I was washed clean.

Gasping for breath, yet, so in my body, so present, tears leaking down my face, but also a joy and gratitude.

A happiness that was solace to my soul.

A lifting up.

A, yes, heart opening.

And I walk through.

Flew through.

Drifted into the happy, joyous, free of the deep blue sky.

The sky of my childhood, bright blue, like his eyes when I was a young girl, face pressed to the window of the long yellow school bus as it rolled in between the cornfields on the way to school in Wisconsin.

The woman burgeoning with promise, escaping still, for many year yet to go, but she is there in my heart, and she is free to move on.

Let him go.

Let her go.

Let myself go.

Fly so high into the promise of those bright blue skies.

Above this world, the cusp of the soul of God calling to me.

The smile of heaven above me.

And all the world below me.

Love.

Love.

It’s all love.

That’s all the feeling I need now from my mother.

Just the love and letting go of anything other than that.

Awareness.

Acceptance.

Action.

I act on my own.

As my own woman.

Here.

Now.

Always.

I am free.

Free to move about my world carrying only those things and feelings that serve me in joy.

And.

That.

Well.

Not only is that all.

It is.

Everything.