Retreat

For the past few days I have forgone my writing practice. I have supplemented with some older writings, older blog posts in order to focus on living in the moment. I arrived home tonight after four days gone; three nights away. I went to my first ever spiritual retreat. I got home today about 4:30 completely exhausted. I unpacked, fell onto my bed and woke a little while ago for a drink of water and to write, ready to pick up my practice where I left off.

A retreat is an interesting experience. I am not going to write in great detail about each moment, but I do want to describe the experience. It is one time that I am choosing to not be specific in each detail of my life. It is not all my story to tell; each person in my new tribe bared their souls and it created an incredible bond. It makes me think of the book The Red Tent by Anita Diamant. The Red Tent is the story of the wives of women from the Bible. About how they were required by faith, by custom, by law to obey - to serve the men in their lives. Because these first, second, third wives and their female offspring lived so closely together there were many months in their lives when their menstruation cycles flowed at the same time, and the women were all banished to the red tent to live in quiet, away from their men to avoid contamination and in order that the curse of womanhood did not taint their men's lives, virility, and masculinity. In these red tents, the women bonded. They became a tribe onto themselves. They could relax, let their hair down, they did not have to serve each need of the males in their lives, and could focus on themselves, share thoughts, ideas, laughter, tears for their plights, and so much more. They lived for those days of isolation, and they often were the highlight of women's lives during those years. It is something I cannot imagine. We strive for equality now in all we do; we command respect on the job, free from sexual misconduct, favors, lewd comments, or even just a pat on the backside. Women of Biblical times, and farther forward into more recent days had no rights, no voice, no recourse except to do the bidding of their men. For a woman born during the sexual revolution and who has known nothing but the life of women in today's world this is so hard to understand or comprehend; it is still not always perfect, but, my life and my freedoms are so much better than those who lived before me, and they belong to me.

Being a part of a tribe of women is a very powerful thing. We lived in harmony all weekend. From listening to tales of others who have gone to many retreats over their lifetimes this is not always the case. We did though. We shared three bathrooms - there were 13 women, and one male. We rotated jobs, doing dishes, vacuuming, cleaning up the house in general, taking out the trash. Each pitched in. One person, in particular created healthy, nutritious meals that were gluten free, vegetable heavy. Amazingly flavorful with simple ingredients - garlic, ginger, turmeric; Himalayan sea salt. Olive oil, raw, unfiltered vinegar. Amazing flavors and textures layered with quinoa, oats soaked in almond or coconut milk. an incredible array of healthy, fulfilling meals. Very little meat, but there was small portions; there were also plenty of other proteins for those who are vegan or vegetarian.

Feeding the soul involves feeding our bodies with healthy, wonderful food, but it also means exploring thoughts, actions, emotions, especially those hidden deep within us and those hardest to talk about and share. There was meditation. I am relatively new to meditation, although I have been working to practice it for several years. I have discovered my own techniques really do work, and there is no right or wrong way to go about it. There was circle time - each person given a voice to share and feeling the support of all of the others in the circle. We lived in the elements - we walked on the earth, breathing in the fresh, warm humid air, redolent with lovely breezes blowing in the tree tops. We had ritual fires of flame less candles indoors (the house we were in is an older Victorian built in the Alachua forest; candles inside were not a wise idea); a fire pit outside. We had an incredible experience in the pool discovering the buoyancy of the water and being supported by the element of water, but also the support of our partners, too. There was quiet time to journal, to explore, to bare ourselves to paper, privately. We bonded, shared, laughed, cried, ate, slept, walked. We survived together, depending on each other, and we created our own red tent of sorts, and it was a beautiful experience.

Saturday morning we went to the Temple of the Universe, and listened to chanting. This is done every morning and also at various times during the week. The temple is beautiful, owned by Michael Singer, a spiritualist and writer. It was quite an intriguing experience. Sunday we went a little later and listened to a talk by Mickey, as he is called by his own community members. He spoke of who it is we are, what it is that makes us ourselves. He said basically in order to live right lives we have to relax and release. That which has been done to us cannot be changed; we are who we are despite or in spite of all that has transpired. He says that we are not our experiences. We are our right-now's. That everything that happens does not happen to us. Kind of what Viktor Frankle says in Man's Search for Meaning. What is done to us cannot break us; all of our basic rights can be taken, we can be ridiculed, chained, beaten; oppressed. But we choose our own outlook, regardless of the continual browbeating or even physical beating. No one can ever take away our freedom to choose how to feel. Mickey says that nothing is external; everything that takes place takes place within. This is super existential and what a freeing thought. We are only alive inside our own minds; each thought and action; it is all inside of us. Without our minds we would not exist in this world. That is just huge.

This weekend was a wonderful, fascinating, incredible experience. I am not ready to go back to another tomorrow, or even next month, but when another rolls around I would love to experience a similar event again. Tonight I am very tired, yet fulfilled and non-emotional. I feel relaxed and refreshed, not truly drained, just in that place where I do not have to think or act; I just have to be.

Life is a Banquet

I've heard mention in several stories I have been reading over the past few weeks of Julia Cameron's The Artist's Way. It is interesting how many people have read this book, and who it has impacted, myself included. The purpose of Cameron's Morning Pages - 750 words, or three notebook pages each day, is to find out what it is your heart is telling you; sort of clearing away the clutter of lives being lived and our souls sort of gunking up with all that we do daily. My soul is pretty gunky right now, for sure. I keep facing my own mortality; 55 years old. It is almost a mantra. For as long as I can remember, I have said I want to live until I am 100, which means I still have 45 years to go, but now I am on the downward slope of that goal. Inside right now I feel like I must rush, I must hurry, my heart is beating fast and my fingers cannot type fast enough to keep up with what I need to do. It is my wish that 750 words, morning pages - pages of cathartic writing do help my find my way to accomplish my goals. I feel determined, and I feel hopeful, I just have to set my mind to it. Part of me cannot help but wonder about summer travel. Part of me so very much wants to go and experience and live - as Auntie Mame says, life is a banquet and most poor suckers are starving to death. That is me with travel. It is a banquet and I don't want to stop gorging. But I know when I get back it will be nearly time to go back to work and to begin it all again, and it makes me slightly less hungry; there is that small part of me that says stay home - the pace of life is slow and you can get so much accomplished. And then I say, no. Go. Don't be silly. Live, live, live!

I am extra tired this year. I don't know if it is the negative atmosphere that surrounds me on the job. I don't think I am physically ill; I am good with check ups and bloodwork, and plus, I don't feel unhealthy; just tired. Too tired sometimes. Today has been a harder, slower day than most. I pushed myself, although I did not want to. I made myself accomplish a lot of little things that needed doing, boxes being moved, rearranged, my desk packed, my personal things put away, although I don't think I really needed to do that. It will be nice to start the new year with my office freshly arranged. There is tomorrow, a half-day for the kids, a half comp day for me. Then there is Tuesday, 8 hours, and I am done for the summer. Today I have allowed myself to breathe that sigh of relief because today it hit me that I am very tired. I normally try to live each day as it is and not spend too much time wondering, worrying, or anticipating what tomorrow or next week will bring. Living in the Now.

Tomorrow afternoon is a new adventure for me. I am really looking forward to it. I have set my personal intentions. I want to release the negativity that is bogging me down. I want to release the tension of the year and begin my two months off with a breath of fresh air. I am going to a meditation retreat. It came my way via my friend Kathleen. She had paid for two guests, and she and Gayle decided it was not best for Gayle to go; they are at different places in their spiritual exploration. The money she paid was non-refundable. I feel a bit guilty - that is just me and my own personal guilt demon. She assures me not to feel that way, so I am working to tamp that down. The retreat will be group based, meditation, yoga class, personal work, personal writing/journaling. I believe it is a way for me to get that extra heavy weight off my shoulders and move forward to the next part of this year, summer. Summer vacation no less - two months with no work. Ah.

As much as I do want to focus on my writing and my self exploration journey, I really do want to travel, too. I am going to see my sisters, which pleases me, and especially pleases DeLaine. I have spent so little time or energy on either of my sisters lately. I hate living so far away and that we don't communicate more. Both of them mean so much to me, so I will be glad to spend time with them. After I visit Jennifer I am going to fly to Denver where John will meet me. We will wander through Colorado, Utah, Idaho and up into Washington. We will wander through Washington, then back down south on the Washington coast, through Oregon on the coast into California and it's coast. I have never been to Mendocino or that part of California, so that will be wonderful, I know. I want to see Yosemite if possible. Eventually I will fly back; from somewhere in California or even Las Vegas. Mostly what I want is to commune with nature and mountains. I will mostly have mornings to myself, and afternoons and evenings with John - he sleeps late and I don't. I hope to have the chance for self-discovery, writing, recording memories and thoughts. I want to continue this streak I am on with my writing habit and I really want to discover my own voice in writing. I think, too, I am going to start writing my 750 words daily and posting them to my blog. I don't have a huge audience, but I have to start somewhere.

The Story of a Life

When you write the story of a life where exactly do you begin? I often think of it in terms too large and realize I have to tone it down some. I think of my life, but then my thoughts drift to that of my mother's and her mother's before her, and so on.

So really, the story of our lives goes back through time to when man firs developed in whatever form we first took. And no. I am not a feminist who worries too much about the term "man". In this case I mean it as mankind; humankind - -people. So all of us date back to that prehistoric time when we crawled from the sea or swung from branches in the the jungle. Some people believe that humankind has only been around 6000-8000 years. It does not matter. I know where I am in history, and the particular branch of me stops with me. My sisters will both carry on the line, but for me, this is it. All the things I have learned in life, all the steps I took; I always wanted a daughter to pass it on to as my mom did me, and she hers and so on. I spoke the other day of regrets, and my not having children is a bit of a regret, but it is so pointless. God made the decision for me; the cards lined up as they did and it just wasn't meant to be in this lifetime. So. I think of my mother. I think of all the things she was and gave to us. I think of her as a young girl; she and my Aunt Lynn. There are photos of them, although I don't have any. They look like my sister and I when we were young. I think of my mom growing up in the 1950s when the world was so different. I've written about her house in previous entries and I think her room was the one that became my grandfathers as he aged, but I am not positive. I remember pressing my nose to the metal screen as a child and smelling dust, metallic screen, wood and outside. It is a smell that stays with me; I can't smell it any more, but now and then I am reminded of it, and it comes back as if it still lives in me where my smell-memories live. But my mother. She was a little girl who had loving parents. They lived in a big, beautiful house, that still is beautiful today. It was not a mansion, just an old, regal two story house set on a small hill. My grandmother gardened, and she planted violets and crocus and snowdrops on the hill, all intermingled with English ivy. The porch was simple; just a porch, no screens, but in the summer there were chairs to sit in of a summer evening, or even in the morning, though as a child it was not something I did. I can picture the adults sitting there sometimes; after-dinner coffee, maybe where my parents smoked as we were older. My grandfather smoked Camels, and his grandfather smell was fabric, his skin, and the smell of cigarette smoke; not unpleasant, just my grandfather smell.

My mother, though. I keep falling off track, but that is fine, because the words want out. My mother grew up. She dated a lot before my father, and I often wonder what she was really like. I have heard a variety of things, and what I piece together shows that she was a bit of a mean-girl to my aunt and her cousins, but everyone loved her just the same.

 I picture her young, beautiful, an Elizabeth Taylor look-alike (not with violet eyes, however), skipping down the stairs, holding the banister at the bottom with her right hand for that slide into the living room. The coat closet was at the foot of the stairs to the right too, and in later years my grandparents did not much use the front door, except when major company came for family holidays; my mom's side of the family was not nearly as large as my dad's side, so the crowds were much less. I can hear her in my mind saying, mom, dad. I'm going out. I'll be home later. I can visualize my grandparents, old when they were young to my minds eye, but also from the photos I see of them in that time frame. I can see my grandfather in his chair, newspaper in his lap, my grandmother, crocheting in her own lap. My aunt - in her room? Gathered in front of the television? I am not quite sure. When my grandparents met it was during World War 2. Interestingly enough, I do not know their history. I remember pictures of my grandmother - who was beautiful in those days; late 30's, early 40's. There is a photo of her stretched on a blanket, young and so beautiful. My grandfather, dashing in his uniform; looking a bit like Bing Crosby with his long face. My grandmother was born in 1920; my grandfather in 1917. I think of my great-grandmother - a 1st generation American Irish. Her parents immigrated from County Cork, the little town of Charlieville.

They were Mary Regan and Dennis Murphy. They had 7 or 8 children - the records are here at my house somewhere. My grandmother Elizabeth (Betty) was the oldest of my great grandmother's children; she had twin siblings, Jean and Joan. What must it have been like for her growing up in the small town she did in the 1920's and 30's? It fascinates me. A tidbit that makes me proud. My great grandmother; Nora (Murphy) Hooker, my grandmother, Elizabeth (Betty Hooker) Moon, my mother, Norene Ella (Moon) Fields Damico and I all attended the same school throughout our years. The school houses themselves moved around the village a bit, but we were all graduates of Phoenix Central Schools. That it something that fills me with pride. The story of me goes back a long way, before my great-great grandparents came from Ireland, before my father's grandmothers was born a full blooded Mohawk Indian. It goes back farther than the family Aunt Lynn discovered immigrated from Holland in the 1500's. All of that history moving forward produced me, produced my sisters. My life is tiny on the blip of the historical radar, yet it is huge inside of me; it is mine and it is who I am. I have not been through anything some one of my relatives have ever been through; marriage, divorce, unfulfilled pregnancy, loss of a child, health histories. We are our relatives, and it fills me with awe that we are.

How to walk away - Book Review

This was a unique book. Golden girl Margaret Jacobsen is sure her boyfriend Chip is about to propose to her on Valentine's Day. Margaret has always followed the rules and life has been easy for her, bestowing upon her the gifts of beauty, kindness, a fabulous new career, and her relationship with Chip. When Chip drives them to the airport and begs Margaret to fly with him, she does, but not without serious doubt and trepidation; fear of flying has been her biggest fear all of her life. All goes well until a storm comes up as they are landing, causing the small plane to crash, and Margaret's life shatters to a million pieces.

Chip escapes unscathed, but can't even look at Margaret with her severely burned neck and severed spine. Margaret discovers that her perfect life was only perfect on the surface, and most everything she thought was real was truly shallow. Through the love and support of her family and her stoic, irritable physical therapist Ian, Margaret slowly rebuilds her life one small accomplishment at a time.

In honor of Mother's Day

Earlier I had an idea for a children's book. When I was young my mother used to read fairy tales to us. She bought my sister's and I a set of illustrated Raggedy Ann books. There are around 20 in this particular series, and they were written a long, long time ago. The Bobs Merrill company published them, and my mother bought them in the grocery store. They had them on sale for like $1.25 each; kind of like kids today collect the prizes from McDonald's or Wendy's? She kept them for us through the years. Periodically I would go borrow two at a time, and then next time I visited I would return those two and get another two. There is so much comfort in those books for me. They are my childhood, they were my mother's gift to us, but more. I love the sweet fantasy, the beautiful stories of how good combats bad. It is what I wish for in this world of ours today. When my mother died we took very little from her house. My older sister did could not bear with us changing mom's house and disassembling it. My younger sister and I wanted she and her family to have it, to own it, to live in it. Instead my sister chose to continue renting her own tiny house just a few blocks away. Mom's house still is not in probate, still legally belongs to my mother, and all of her things are in there; our history, our memories, our childhoods. Her boyfriend continues to live there, and he paid off the mortgage a few years ago. He lives there rent free, paying the property tax, I hope. Not long after she died I was having a hard time. My own divorce was just a few years old and missing my mom was insult onto injury. I asked Mark to mail me a few of the books for comfort. He mailed me the entire set. It was one of the most touching and endearing things given to me in my whole life. The books live with me, although I never thought I would have them given to me. I am the one without children. I am the one who has no one to pass them down to. But they live here, and my heart and soul love having them here. They are special. Today I was thinking of those books and thinking what a treasure to children Johnny Gruelle wrote. The tale of two rag dolls who have such goodness in them and travel throughout the world of fairies and gnomes, elves, spreading kindness and cheer. Cookies grow on trees and soda water springs from fountains in the ground. I imagined myself writing tales to parallel those of the Raggedy's. Of goodness, kindness, light - hope. It is what our world needs more of. It is definitely a start to the writing life I want to create for myself. Why not children's books with such a sweet, simple message? I wonder if children today would read them, or appreciate them in our fast paced world? I am willing to bet there are children that still have innocence and joy and like simpler things. Not all children are like those I encounter - filled with the sorrow that life brings and the pain and suffering; anger, angst, lack of hope. There have to more children like others I know and have helped give a joy of reading to - with parents who do care about their child's education and welfare. Parents who still read to their children and gave birth to them to love and cherish. What message I can give to children? Continued innocence, a belief in things we cannot see; simple adventure - joy?



I always wanted children. I did not want them immediately when I was a young adult. I wanted them eventually. First, I wanted to move west, become a poet, live a Bohemian life, to travel, to live, to experience. I wanted to lay in a high mountain meadow among the tall grasses and waving wildflowers while I watched clouds float over snowy peaks. I wanted to feel the earth under me, watch the sky above me. I wanted to watch sunsets and sunrises, to live in a cabin, to write words that flowed from my soul. I did not want to get married. There is a Bob Seger song, Roll Me Away, that speaks to my soul. "Stood alone on a mountaintop looking out at the great divide. I could go east, I could go west, it was all up to me to decide." That is what I wanted. But eventually I planned to come off that mountain top and choose a husband - to meet my soul mate, my split apart, my eternal heart. I wanted to have children and raise them, passing down all of the wonderful things I learned about life and living to them; pass on those lessons that were passed to me through my mother, her mother, her mother's mother; from all of our ancestors throughout time. Once I did see my children in Steve's eyes; I saw them as plain as day. But God had other plans.

I think my soulmate is waiting for me somewhere else. I had a marriage sooner than I ever planned, and that lasted a long time, but not forever. I did not move out west, although I have traveled there many times. I cannot pass my life lessons on to my children, or even my nieces and nephews because my path took me far apart from their young lives. I can pass on a little of myself to strangers children; children who are in need of life lessons and skills and knowledge - in need of love. But I also feel that is not my destiny. It occurred to me today that the way I can pass on myself to my unborn children is to write stories for them; stories to be shared as my mother shared stories with me. Maybe that is the path I am supposed to follow now. Today, on mother's day, I do not have a living mother to honor. My mother and my step-mother, my grandmothers, my Godmother - all are in heaven shining down on me. My unborn children are with them, maybe waiting to be born in another life where I can love them and pass myself on through them. They wait with my soulmate, in another plane in another time, in another life. In this life I live now, my destiny feels like it is to share my heart and soul through my thoughts and my words. We make the best of what we have in the life we have been given.

Comfort and Joy

Each day dawns differently. I've heard people use the phrase "nothing ever changes" and that people are bored with the sameness of their lives day in and day out. I am not one to find this to be true. Each morning I wake in my house and it is never the same morning, although I am surrounded by the familiarity of my own house, my own things, the comfort of "here". Sometimes it is hard to fathom that I have lived here in this house for over twenty years. I could barely wait for it to be built. I remember mornings in my old house and just imagining living in my own place, built from the ground up, not surrounded by someone else's vision of a house, and not surrounded by the squalor that was my old house. Yes, I had it fixed up sweetly, and yes, we made a home, and we were happy together, but down inside it was not mine and I did not want it to be so. It scared me after we had begun living here and watching the old house as it was torn down. It scared me the obvious nature of the frailty of that old wood - second hand, torn down from old houses in town before it was repurposed into the house my father-in-law built with his own two hands.

But here, now, looking back to then, I know each day dawn's differently. I'm different each morning. My eyes see differently, my dreams in the night were different; I wake differently. The sunrise this morning dawns differently. This morning the air, while not hot, is not quite cool either. Winter mornings are fresh and sweet; this morning the air is heavy and damp, but not unbearable. It lacks the freshness of many winter and spring mornings. The heaviness indicates rain is coming, and it is in the forecast over the next three days. The clouds are low and full of moisture, yet the sunrise peeks hopefully through the bottom of the cloud cover, it's faint pinkness light in the rising of the sun and the morning glow filling the sky. It's not a magnificent sunrise, and yet it is majestic in it's own way, as each sunrise is in it's uniqueness. But the sun still rises each day whether we see it or acknowledge it or not. Off in the distance I can hear traffic sounds, but not harsh or loud as it can be in air that is clear, less dense, and more cool. The heaviness absorbs the distant sounds. Even the birdsong seems distant, not close by, although it is still as sweet as ever. It's all the same, but different. It is a new day full of new choices, chances, moods, actions. A new day to begin again, and that is the best part of the familiar, different sunrise each day. Today the waiting rain, the low clouds, the quiet birdsong - it all feels like anticipation to me; that the world is waiting and we wait with it for whatever the day will bring.

I woke early, as is normal for me, despite the fact it is Saturday and my plans are a minimum today. It is my father's birthday, and he is here for a visit, and I am so looking forward to spending the day with him. I was hoping to sleep a little later, yet I am still secretly pleased to be awake so early. Mornings are my best time, and mornings at home are even a better-best time for me. So, I woke at 6 am, tried to fight it, but ended up coming out into the kitchen and watching the morning as I made coffee and decided to write early today. I cleaned up a kitty mess of over turned flowers (brought home from Teacher Appreciation Week) and the vase of water. I stepped out on the porch to get a feel for the day. These are things I do routinely, although not always daily. They are familiar routines, and never quite the same; they are never done with the same purpose or pattern. My routines are similar and familiar, but not filled with any sense of sameness. Each day my mood differs, depending on my dreams in the night or my plans for the day. Sameness and routine are a comfort for me, though. My life is often filled with so much activity, these comfortable routines are a blessing. Our world is filled with others need to change. We are filled with a sense that change is progress and progress is good and necessary. We are charged to change or become obsolete, out-of-date, or we fall from value and relevancy. Lack of change is considered in modern society to be lack of motivation, lack of living a meaningful life, and God forbid, boring. Staying the same is not what is valued. To me the answer is to say no. So much of life outside our own comfort and daily world changes too frequently and quickly. I love routine and sameness. I can give myself what I love; quiet time for reflection, recharge, and the gift to do what my heart wants; time to read, write, and the time for my own thoughts to fill my soul back up. I love my quiet mornings and I don't want to change up the idea of them. Each is unique to me in it's own way on it's own day, and familiarity is a comfort to me. I am not opposed to progress, but, as the Lorax says in the short film for kids - sometimes I think progress progresses to fast. Today I will stick with my familiar-but-different routines, and I will appreciate the beauty in the sunrise, the comfort and sweetness of my own home, my back porch, my kitties and the ability to spend time in the comfort and familiarity of being with my father.