23 posts tagged “navel-gazing”
Since Dathun, I've been remembering a lot of when I was 10 years old, reliving it viscerally, returning to places in my experience filled with ...well, a lot of unpleasantness I'd rather not recount at the moment, no more than I'd like to find myself re-experiencing it in any given moment. But there it is, inescapable and therefore available to the mindful eye.
On this particular date, 22 years ago, a teacher wheeled a television into our classroom, plugged it in and turned it on, tuning into news coverage of the Challenger Disaster, marking what would be a worldview-changing event for myself and my cohort. At the moment, the most remarkable piece is that it feels so very long ago in memory, in my sense of time and the events that fill in a life day-to-day, and yet in my body the stunned feeling, a stinging numbness, still lives and is felt in the space between heartbeats, as if waiting to lurch suddenly beyond an unexpected pause into a fluttering that shakes my bones.
This time of the year, the last ten days before the Losar, the lunar new year, is known in Tibetan culture as the döns -- a time when the döns themselves are running rampant, bringing with them all manner of unpleasantness. My buddysatva Brenda related the perspective from the Sakyong that this time of year is when the entire past year's worth of accumulated karmic tendencies are experienced in a concentrated way. She said that it's a time when we can review our activities of the past year, our quality of engagement, our intention, and so forth, and decide what we wish to continue and carry forward into the new year, and what we would like to discontinue.
For the döns and any time of year, when negative experience comes pouring in, the basic instruction is to welcome it like a beloved guest. For myself, when looking at old shame, anger and frustration welling up from memory and from within my body like a suppurating wound, "welcoming the experience like a treasured friend" doesn't even rank last on the list of my preferred approaches. My usual response, residing alongside these flesh-bound memories, is to numb out, shut down, disconnect, dissociate. My preference is that whatever unpleasantry cease immediately and never reappear.
From the somewhat pop-psychological perspective, the inner child needs the outer adult to take care of her now in ways she wasn't able to when the pattern and energy became somatically ingrained. So, whether it's welcoming the unwelcome guest, or comforting the inner child, or making offerings to the döns, the nonviolent approach is the way through the negativity and confusion. Somehow, I have to welcome with gentleness what arises in my experience, whether that's somatic memory, storylines, people, conflict, illness, etc.
I believe, however, that one shouldn't be too loose with gentleness--there's always a need for precision. How can I be gentle with myself in those same moments when looking at where I have really erred during this past year? How can I both hold myself accountable and firmly plant the intention to do no such harm again, while also avoiding swaddling myself up in blame, immobilized in guilt? How can I come back out of the downward-spiraling numbness of dissociation and re-engage the tender edge of my experience.
With the bitumen taste of irony at the back of my throat, I recognize that faith remains a crux of my spiritual life, despite all attempts to move past and beyond what I learned in my Catholic upbringing. That faith sometimes still says "I believe in..." but it is also hope, trusting that whatever may occur is somehow part of the journey, fuel for the fire, and so on. I don't believe in a god or gods or g-d, but I still operate with some sense of that placeholder for a highest signifier. I try to remember that the only thing I might coherently conceptualize and hold in that highest place is love. Remembering that, just in the tiniest bit, even just conceptually, brings to heart the courage to step forward, again. And again. And again. Perhaps with a fluttering heart and shaky bones, but stepping forward into an unknown.
I remember also that in 1986 the movie Space Camp came out. When I went to Purdue University, I met so many peers who felt inspired by that movie that they chose to study engineering and other sciences at Purdue with intent to to become astronauts and/or engineers at NASA. What happened to the Challenger did not dissuade them, but perhaps instead gave them a sense that there's room for improvement and growth that they personally can participate in. In that memory of disaster and a finding of brilliant aspiration, there is some sense of faith. Faith can, I believe, be a trust in that which is as incontrovertable as basic principles of physics as much as a trust in the unknown.
For myself, I hope that the many disasters and misdeeds of my past year are activities I will not re-engage in. I want to learn well from my follies, mistakes, blunders, and outright failures. I also hope that the many kindnesses I expressed, the gentleness I embodied, the love that I gave, will be growing capacities for the same. I hope that others may forgive me. I hope that I may forgive myself. I hope that I may engage in all activities with more mindfulness than I have previously, whether the previous year or the previous moment. I hope that I might remember love in each breath.
I spent a huge chunk of my weekend in Denver at the Pride festivities. It was as hot as Satan's skidmarks from a dinner of pickled habaneros. While it was lovely to see such high numbers of GLBTQ & ally folk there, I got delirious in the heat. It wasn't as bad as mild heatstroke or anything of that sort--I just got fuzzy-headed, sleepy, and spaced-out way way more than is my usual range of loose-headed-ness. Today it was particularly bad, although in theory the temps were lower than on Saturday.
I find crowds to be overwhelming, whatever the demographic.
I spent most of the weekend in the company of my lover, of whom I realize I haven't a single photograph. This must needs be remedied, but whenever I find myself gazing at her, I am too enthralled to ask if I might take her picture. I don't want to shatter that moment of being met and seen. Instead I made her chocolate raspberry almond pancakes for breakfast.
On Friday, I picked up some classic queer literature, including The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde and The Immoralist by Andre Gide. I spent the better part of two hours in a coffee shop, reading Hesse's Siddhartha.
I'm supposed to be planning a house warming party for Saturday, but right now I'm feeling like I should postpone it until sometime later. I feel, after this long sunny weekend, too tired to create the poetry salon atmosphere.
Yesterday morning I attended a pancake breakfast at the abode of daisywarrior, at which I tried to briefly summarize (I was asked) just what it is that I'm doing with this queer dharma thing, both from the standpoint of my thesis and personal practice. As time passes, my vision of it is enriched with experience and reflection, and yet I've not yet had a moment to begin fleshing it out in writing again, what with the packing and moving and all that. As I stumbled over trying summarize what I was doing, and also trying to adequately meet the precise questions M asked me, I find there are some details I'm starting to chew through that never made it into my thesis, but are a necessary element to work on.
M often reminds me, either intentionally or just by the synchronistic nature of her being, of pedagogical and mentoring relationships. Yesterday she put on a tape (from the AGL) about the best practices of teaching as exemplified in 25 teachers, which brought mentoring to mind, and so I reminded myself to inquire into that again.
Why mentoring? In short, I think I'm looking for a mentor. At the start of my thesis is an acknowledgements page, in which I thank many people. I regard each of them as a teacher, insofar as each of them contributed some critical piece of insight that helped craft my final paper. However, I feel there's a difference between a mentor and a teacher, despite the overlap betwixt. Perhaps it would be simplest for me to define the kind of mentor/mentoring I'm thinking of.
First, we have to contextualize it: queer dharma and the practice of fearless intimacy. In that setting a mentor and protege might bear a resemblance to something like the classical dyadic older aristocratic man/younger aristocratic male relationships that Foucault was curious about the ethical problematization of, but I feel there's a resemblance only insofar as there is an age difference and a generally-regarded (from the exterior to the dyad, not necessarily so) overtone of sexualization. What I recollect of the way Foucault looked at it is informative (methodologically speaking) for how I might problematize my own intimate and mentoring relationships. For example, I keep dating women who are younger than me, usually 7 years. This sets me up in the elder portion of the hierarchical relationship. However, I don't think the difference in age dictates where, in the queer dharma I envision, the mentoring flows.
Which brings me to point two: mutual mentoring. Although I've been consistently involved with younger women this calendar year, I find that I'm learning/growing so much from my interactions with them, that the age hierarchy doesn't describe so solid a line about power. But of course, as the person in the position of privilege, I get to say that with ease--it may not be true. I should inquire with my younger lover(s) (present and former) to find what they think of this.
Regardless of the subtle power dynamic of age, when I've got a particularly thorny ethical/queer/dharma issue I'm trying to figure out and need either/both a sounding board and a solid critique, I turn to one particular lover and three particular friends, all of whom are younger than me. However, I note that among the older of those friends (who are both 27), I go to a deeper level of my inquiry because they're able to meet me there from their own experience. That's really what it comes down to: being met.
Which brings me to point three: I would like to invite an older lover/mentor/friend into my life. @Naropa, I'm likely to develop the friendships that involve some incidental mentoring, but no lovers. I've set a (tentative) rule about not dating other Naropa staff/faculty, and otherwise keeping my Naropa dating to 1 at a time. So she must necessarily be found outside of the "official" boundaries of the professional community. I don't know if she's out there, but perhaps I'll meet her. For now, I'm more keen on a mentor than another lover, although I'm intrigued. What would that be like? What might I learn? How could I further hone my queer dharma from within a different dyadic approach than I've experienced so far?
Which is not to to say that I'm losing any interest in younger lovers ;-)
I can feel my pulse in my belly when I'm digesting a meal. I'm also carrying a tension there, an anticipation of loss: a dear friend departing for the summer. Hopefully to return well and whole and transformed (as she sees fit).
My cat finally found reason enough to sleep on the bed most of the night, and did not wake me with random crying from other parts of my apartment. Or standing on the bed next to me and crying for reasons unknown. And yet, despite this opportunity for uninterrupted sleep, I woke in the dark of night and laid abed a while, awake and thoughtful with regard to what newness is walking into my life, some planned, some unanticipated.
I can feel my pulse in my neck and head when I'm having a migraine. I can also see it distort my visual field with its relentless (for now) rhythm. I've not had a migraine since Tuesday, and I hope to pass a weekend without one. We'll see. Recurrent migraine is my body demanding that I slow down. Now that I've finally moved, I have an opportunity, but I had to give up my SPAN volunteer training to get it. I'll have to wait until the next session.
My cat went outside at the apartment for the first time last night, while I unpacked and assembled my metro shelving unit for my library area. It took a long time to assemble because it's heavy and huge (it's 4ft wide by 6 ft tall by 1.5 ft deep) and it can hold up to 600lbs per shelf. Whoa. I could put over a ton (literally) of stuff on those shelves, if it would all fit. Instead, it'll hold mostly books and oddments from the kitchen which I rarely use (bakeware). In the meantime, Miyu discovered a way to get under the deck and explored there. I called to her for a while, and shook a treat bag to entice her back, as I started to get paranoid about her around sunset. She complained all evening afterwards, particularly as I played with my computer and largely ignored both her and my overnight guest. Fortunately, my guest is more forgiving than my cat.
I've been feeling my heartbeat more of late, all this past month, since graduation. There's the heavy heartbeat of sadness, the light thrumming of anticipation, the accellerando of passion, the hammering of passion, the quiver of uncertainty, the pang of hope, the icy bitterness of disappointment, the staccato of anger, the steadiness of resolution. I have not yet identified how my heart beats with curiosity, but I am curious, watchful.
Tonight I am anticipating a BBQ/croquet party, drinking wine, eating grilled things, keeping good company, and practicing curiosity. We'll see.
Although I shouldn't be surprised by this, I'm surprised by how discombobulating it is to have all of my stuff in boxes, all over the house. And yet, after a few days of just sitting with the chaos of it all, I'm almost accustomed to the path through the dense stacks of boxes, and having to dig around to find the most basic of kitchen things, like a can opener. I have yet to pack up the bulk of my clothing, my bedding, my computing stuff, and my bathroom things--those are waiting for Thursday and Saturday nights. I still need to pack up my shrine, meditation cushions, and so forth, so that I can setup my shrine first thing on Friday.
I've been really sleepy and low energy when at home, and sleeping in an extra hour on mornings. I'm not sure what that's about, but my sense is that my body is starting to wind down from the high energy output of the semester. It's finally settling in that I'm done with my thesis, done with school, graduated, etc. There's much to be done (moving, resettling, volunteer training/work, feminist literature survey, surrealist salon and other socialness), but not with the same single-mindedness of focus.
In other news, my baby brother, who just recently got married, sent me a link to a video podcast of the love story of him and his wife. Oy. It's so cute I'd almost want to gag, except that I'm really happy for both of them.
This weekend I spent most of my time packing, but I did make it to the Boulder Creek Festival for a while, long enough to remember that I hate crowds and to sit by the creek and watch the rubber duck race. I also went to a dinner party on Friday and to a play on Saturday, and attempted to go to Trilogy on Sunday to dance, but Trilogy is temporarily closed due to liquor law violation. Bummer.
Tuesday start of the week at work feels a little off. It sounds really busy here at the office, but I don't know what that means. My workload is consistent with Spring 2008 scheduling, which is rather refreshingly mind-numbing, compared to the challenge of learning to co-facilitate a committee and get back into chairing another one.
Space and the awareness of space; this is my job.
I have therapy later today, which is promising. I'm going to look at what productive change might be wrought via attempting a new processing style. On one hand, how I process is just how I process, but on the other, trying a different style is nothing more than a methodological shift. If the method gets me to right view/understanding, right intention, right speech/action, right effort/mindfulness/concentration more quickly, then all the better. I learn best from making mistakes, but I don't have a lot of time to make mistakes, nor do I want to sow chaos in my wake. So, let's try a new method of self-engagement.
I want to do this right, this queer ethical thing I'm trying to do. And as much as it's a project, I want to avoid too much of a goal/teleological orientation in my practice. Oy, it's tricky. But it's worth it.
In other news, I'm taking Friday off to begin my move, doing SPAN training on Saturday, and finishing my move on Sunday. I think I might have at least one night (Friday) on the couch at the mountain house, for the sake of my cat, who does not need to spend a whole day (Saturday) alone at the new place. No need to freak her out more than she'll be already.
Tues/Thurs nights, plus all day all Saturdays, for the next month, are absorbed by SPAN training. Oy.
Incidentally, during my SPAN volunteer interview, I was asked what my definition/understanding of critical thinking is. I came up with something relatively brilliant on the spot:
For me, critical thinking is a multi-layered thing. The first layer, both outermost and immediate, is a self-skepticism. In any given situation or circumstance, I'm going to react to what I perceive within the scope of the influences on my life and understanding. When those influences are things such as: family-of-origin, the religion in which I was raised, my white privilege, my socioeconomic privilege, my gender, my level of education, and so forth, I need to keep a sharp eye out for perceptions which are framed within those views, rather than what is actually happening. My first thought may not be my best thought, in other words.
The second layer of critical thinking is the process of honing my view and examining my perceptions/thoughts through the lenses of theory as I've learned it so far, particularly feminist theory, but also social theories which emphasize the intersectionality of oppression. Does my understanding of theory inform my view? Is the theory consistent with what I see, or is it something new/different? Am I looking at it too much through the lens of theory without seeing what is occurring? Am I too much in the details of what is occurring and ignoring the broader view?
The third layer of critical thinking is the deepest: what am I actually feeling in a given moment of perceiving/experiencing/thinking? How does my heart inform? Am I open or closed to this person/situation, and why? Am I breathing? Where is there tension in my body in that moment, and is it relevant? Can I relax more, open more gently to that moment, and make it welcome, regardless of its content?
This past week and following weekend, I had several occasions to be in the company of friends, whether helping them out with something or other, or just hanging out. When I would find myself in a moment of relaxation, basking in good company with a full belly and a nice glow from red wine, I kept noticing this background tension, undercurrent of anxiety, slight clenching in my chest, habitual knotting in my shoulders, and otherwise any symptoms of being tightly wound, prepared to spring.
When I inquired into it, the answer that leaped to the fore instantly was "What the hell am I doing sitting here relaxing!? I NEED TO BE WORKING ON MY THESIS!" Of course, I finished my thesis already, and turned it in over two weeks ago. I've graduated with a 4.0. I'm done. I'm done done done. But my body has been carrying this anxiety all semester long, and has not yet let go of the habit.
When I talked with Brenda (the benevolent queer dharma practitioner) about it yesterday, she said something keen about there always being a storyline there. She's right. If it's not my thesis, it's another thing. What could I possibly otherwise be carrying anxiety about, if it's not my thesis?
- sorting my things apart and packing up all of my stuff and moving out in less than 2 weeks
- my financial scenario with my college loans and my very limited income and my need for furnishings and a new computer (my TiBook is 5 years old)
- starting a 50-hour training with Safehouse in less than 2 weeks, which will eat up all of my Saturdays and Tues/Thurs nights for the whole of June
- the trickiness of dating and the ever-open-and-unending questions regarding queer dharma and how it may or may not intersect with ethical sluthood
- seeing just how open my heart is, how fragile, how at-risk-for-wounding, how fearless
- whether my cat is going to hate me for moving her out of the mountains
- whether any of the women I'm dating (or hoping to date) are going to end up hating me, whether I'll hurt them, whether they'll hurt me
- whether I can hold it together enough to negotiate that razor's edge of appropriate self-disclosure-in-relationship and appropriate containment-regarding-other-relationship
- whether I'm going to lose anything in the move, such as: my sanity
Whenever a story inserts itself in my inner dialogues, I should treat it as suspect, no matter how real.
The truth is that my heart is open; all else flows from and back to that.
This morning, I did some fenangling with my banking & college loan financier to pay the balance on my currently in-grace student loan. It's the smaller of my 2 loans (the larger is a consolidation loan), but it has the higher interest rate (6.7% compared to 4.75%). It won't be all cleared up 'till Thursday when I call my bank again to say "y'know that hella big transfer I made on Tuesday to my big-ass student loan of doom? Please transfer that to pay off the balance of my currently-in-grace-period unconsolidated unsubsidized Federal Stafford loan, m'kay?" The customer service representative was very helpful in figuring this stuff out for me -- it'll save me about $80 in interest (compared to waiting for a requested bill and paying it with a check, which incurs a payment cycle delay). Rawkin' step one in the elimination of college debt.
Since my other loan is such a relatively low interest rate, I'm going to just make payments on it for a while until I'm settled and have a sense of my financial needs. Like, new brakes on the car, and furniture for my apartment. At least I have a bed and a desk and everything I need for my kitchen. Okay, well, I could use a small table and chairs for the kitchen.
Yesterday, and the day before, I spent some time packing my things. I have eight boxes full now -- each is a heavy-duty 12-gallon plastic storage bin with attached hinge lid. In each is a layer of books on the bottom, and then other miscellany, from sweatshirts to desk supplies to cat toys to pillows and bicycling gear. It's a bit random, but 1) books are heavy, so I can't pack any one box with just books and 2) neither the books nor those things are stuff I need to get to immediately or within the first week of moving (or in the last 2.5 weeks before moving), and so they go together splendidly. I did have the forethought to pack cookbooks with kitchen gear, however.
I expect I'll fill up all remaining boxes (15?) with books and other things. I have so many books. And I have to part with some of them in the process. But really, when will I ever want to read Ken Wilber again? Bleh.
Today, I got my three ear piercings (right lobe) re-opened, and a new one on the top (helix) of the same ear. It took about 20 minutes, and was relatively painless compared to when I first got them (gun piercings). I decided that today was the day to get that done because early this morning my cat stepped way too close to my head as I laid in bed, and scraped the front of my ear, leaving a little pinprick of a claw puncture wound where a daith piercing could be located. Why didn't I get a daith? I'll wait 'till the cat scratch heals, methinks.
Recently, I started wearing my old spoon handle ring again. I haven't really worn it since high school, which is when it was a fixed part of my appearance. I received it from my mother, who'd worn it when she was in high school. For most of the semester, it's been part of an art project (the shoe picture frame) for my senior project class. I disassembled it the other day, so that I could wear my old Birkenstocks, which I've had since I was 18 (they've been resoled many times).
I've said many times this year that I'm going through a second adolescence...but today, it feels like I'm just welcoming the old & rejected parts of myself back to become integrated into the whole.
Today, my heart aches, and yet I feel a resiliency which comes of knowing myself more truly now than ever, and more than I think is conventionally possible. This will read as cocky, but it's true: I am an unprecedented and wholly unique person who is becoming who she is. And I want to invite you to become who you are..
Tomorrow, I shall walk across the stage to receive my fancy diploma holder for the diploma that will eventually arrive in the mail, probably in late June. Or it'll be handed to me personally by the Assistant Registrar, since we work together and she's the one who confers degrees.
Okay, seriously, graduating tomorrow is a much bigger deal than that. I started college in 1993, not having the least clue what I was to do with myself. I liked the idea of archeology and cultural anthropology, so that's what I studied, with the intent of getting sufficient education in that field to make it a life's work. I dropped out after completing 3 years of the program, for reasons I won't get into here, and didn't return to school until 2004. In the intervening years, I had many skeptical thoughts about the value of education, particularly as my first real full-time, salaried, with-benefits sort of job paid better than I would have gotten as a lowly, first year postdoc associate professor.
Over those intervening years, working at universities but not attending them, I continually wondered at the value of a college education. I don't think I can speak to that--it's always going to depend on the student and their field of study. I can, however, speak in favor of the value of a Naropa education. Which is also beyond the scope of this entry. However, suffice to say that Naropa does indeed educate the whole person. It exceeds all of my expectations in that regard--I am wholly different, and on whole better, brighter, more capable, more critical, more compassionate, more patient, more energetic, more more more. And less: less attached to the internalized discourses of this society and what it values and how those things are not only a limitation but a severe infringement on our potential as everyday human beings.
Walking across that stage tomorrow is only the smallest moment of what will be a very full day. It is only the smallest moment of three years participating in this community and absorbing its richness. It is only the smallest moment in my 32 years thus far. But it is a moment of being seen and recognized; not as or for my accomplishment, but for who I am, how I've showed up, what I've contributed, and how I continue to give.
This reminds me of a moment in high school during my senior year, when my retreat group returned from our "Christian Awakening Retreat", and had our "step up to the mic" moment to speak from our hearts or whatever. When I stepped up to the mic and looked at the audience of my classmates and my family, friends, and so forth, I realized that none of these people knew me, nor could they see me as I wanted to be recognized.
My moment of walking across the stage at the graduation tomorrow will be, I am certain, quite different.
At approximately the same time, my younger brother will be getting married. I'm sad to miss his wedding. I'm sad that I can't be there for him, and sad that he and our family can't be at my graduation. But it's okay--we see each other. We're there for each other in spirit.
As he exchanges vows with his beloved, I will be vowing to myself that this is only the beginning and that I am committed to living this life as fully as possible.
I am tempted to carry my bat, just 'cause :)
Yesterday, I spent something like six hours shopping for a shirt that goes with my suit, shoes, a belt and a bag that match well enough, and a bra (that fits, unlike all of my other bras that are sized for 15 pounds ago). I managed to get the shirt (which is damn near perfect) and the shoes, but as yet no belt nor bag. I'm hoping I can find a bag suitable enough that I'll want to use it again. I have a great leather shoulder bag in the absolutely wrong color. I suppose I could get away with it, since it's a kind of buttercream color that will compliment my shirt.
Special thanks to She-who-is-in-need-of-a-less-common-name-as-a-nickname for shopping with me. I got unsufferably cranky after the third or fourth hour, and she was a great help the whole time.
This whole girly thing totally freaks me out. I put on heels yesterday for the first time EVER and walked around and experienced the kind of existential dread that I associate with my essential discomfort with the feminine gender I've been assigned but do not feel is my home. Seriously, I felt like I was going to throw up. But, it's okay. It was a moment that gives me a kind of empathy for folks who are way more gender queer than me. And so I'm going to try to play with it, but the literal feeling of groundlessness in heels is, frankly, fucking scary.
On Thursday, I'm going to the salon, where, aside from having my hair cut and colored again, I'll get a make-up consultation so I can get the right eye and lip colors to go with my shirt and suit.
Fashion is pain. But damn, I'm going to look hot hot hot.
Speaking of hot hot hot, I have a crush, I have a crush, I have a crush. More on that later, when I feel like being more self-disclosing, and perhaps quoting my dathun journal. But in the meantime, huzzah! It's reciprocal! I'm totally doing a booty-shaking happy dance over this. When I'm not awkward and nervous.
And in other news, my therapist is totally going to laugh at me. Totally.
Last week, after finishing the work on my thesis on Wednesday, I went to see a nifty apartment in one of the L-towns. I then went to Kinkos to have my thesis printed and bound. I think the timing was right, because it's like the perfect place -- lots of space, a view, kind neighbors, quiet. And it's all inclusive for a reasonable price. I'll be moving June 1-whenever I'm done. Which is not far away at all. I can pack in three weeks, right? I'll have to wrangle up some friends to help with the heavy moving on June 2 or thereabouts.
I'm looking forward to the summer time of free time and creativity. And alone time, which I've not really had since...1999?
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