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Once Upon A Time
March 8, 2012
On an early March midnight, a full moon flooded my kitchen with light calling me to the window. From high above and beyond the lattice of black branches, that spring moon fell down to me and to the beer glass of daffodils on the ledge. A sharp shadow of curves and frills and stem lines sent me running for paper and pencil while in my head, an old story repeated that I am no artist and I sure wish I could draw. I heard it, smiled, and slid paper under the edge of the glass to catch the shadow.
The old ladder-back chair creaked under me as I twisted this way and that to sketch the dark shape, to capture the back side of moonlight in a daffodil outline. Urgency. How quickly the moon moves to avoid having its magic trapped by mortal effort. Faster and faster my pencil scratched away the white paper uncovering moon-shadow petals and the gray light of glass. The blossoms surrendered their scent to a scene too sweet to deny and two, three, five, seven sheets were flung aside holding their portion of the night.
Included in the Beauty too were all the old stories told by the old voices, tales with morals for building character and avoiding suffering. They whispered warnings to get to bed, be productive for tomorrow, and reminders of time better spent, hisses of weakness and strife. The fables and parables fueled wilder arcs, furious points, and tender carving around delicate slivers of light. Past and future met hand and pencil and page, and time relinquished its thin tyranny.
Tired and thrilled in my bed, I wished to wake and see in each drawing my heart, black fears, Dreams, the beautiful nightness; I wanted to see a scratchy shadow daffodil and smell a spring moonbeam. And I did.
I must be myself. I cannot break myself any longer for you, or you. If you can love me for what I am, we shall be the happier. If you cannot, I will still seek to deserve that you should. I will not hide my tastes or aversions. I will so trust that what is deep is holy, that I will do strongly before the sun and moon whatever inly rejoices me, and the heart appoints. If you are noble, I will love you; if you are not, I will not hurt you and myself by hypocritical attentions. If you are true, but not in the same truth with me, cleave to your companions; I will seek my own. I do this not selfishly, but humbly and truly. It is alike your interest, and mine, and all men’s, however long we have dwelt in lies, to live in truth. Does this sound harsh to-day? You will soon love what is dictated by your nature as well as mine, and, if we follow the truth, it will bring us out safe at last. — But so you may give these friends pain. Yes, but I cannot sell my liberty and my power, to save their sensibility. Besides, all persons have their moments of reason, when they look out into the region of absolute truth; then will they justify me, and do the same thing.
March 2, 2012
Near Death
February 19, 2012
Near the end of 2011, I had an experience that I called the “most significant thing that has ever happened to me,” in a life teeming with significant events. A magazine sent me to interview a couple about living with two life-threatening diagnoses, and the second I shook hands with the husband, I knew that wasn’t really why I was there. David, had been diagnosed with cancer a few years before and was nearing the end of his time here. After an hour in his living room, I went away feeling like my interaction with him was only beginning.
What if we can know more about what's next?
A couple of weeks later, the article was in to the editor, and I got the message that David had been hospitalized in horrific pain. I went. During a brief visit, he and I held hands, read the article I’d written about him, and verbalized the odd, intense bond we felt to each other. This bond led to me attending David’s death process beginning the week before Christmas. There at his bed, as his body struggled to give up the habit of living, he and I had an entire relationship on another plane. His family and friends came and went in this physical world mostly unaware.
The first day in hospice, he held me, gazing into my eyes from a distance that rapidly increased. I wailed and wept wildly as if I were about to lose a priceless presence in my life. Hiccupping like a distraught two-year-old, I demanded to know why he was leaving me before we knew why we’d been brought together. It seemed so unfair that I loved this man with instant, ferocious intensity and he was abandoning me in the mystery of it all. I paced his room around the family gathered there, steady tears falling, hands alternately clenched and flying about in frustration.
I recalled the few conversations we had ever had, replaying what I said, what he said, trying to see in the words why I was in his life now, why he was in mine. One rainy afternoon, pre-hospice, he told me a story about being stranded on the roadside. He was wearing an orange alpaca coat and carrying a heavy cane. His friend was in a serape and wore a beard. Cars passed and passed until a man with a forty-five in his lap felt safe enough to pick up the strange men. “Where are you going?” That was David’s question to me.
During the interview, he said don’t plan a life. Live it. He wrote, “Beauty is god’s reminder that we are more.” He squeezed my hand and expressed his gratitude that we held space for one another without knowing why. He had a woman friend, he said, who had travelled the world with only her backpack. He said that I was a woman who could let things be wild and not try to make them normal. I replayed it all looking for clues.
Later that evening, David was sleeping soundly under the influence of pain meds, and I left with no idea what do or where to go. I should have been hungry, so I went to a restaurant way across town, paced around it for half an hour before I could go in, and left my server all the cash I had for a tip, twice the amount of the check; I bought wine, ran into people I hadn’t seen since high school, and finally landed at home. Undone. I cried and cried swallowed up by loss and confusion, then fell asleep. At 3:34 a.m. I was awakened by two hands pressing into either side of my face, as if someone were leaning over the head of my bed to show their affection. Of course, the head of my bed is against the wall and I live alone.
The next day when I arrived at David’s side, he was able to turn his head, smile, and reach out to me for what would be the last time. Leaning down to kiss his cheek, I said, “You know you scared the shit out of me this morning.” He grinned like he’d pulled my hair from the desk behind me. Then shaking with serious concentrated effort, he raised his right hand and pressed it to the left side of my face.
For two more days, we played on a plane of pure light. We held hands and swung round and round, laughing into the omnipresent sun. I sang to him and we waltzed across space/time, a wild flight to the oddest of songs, “I see your true colors shining through and that’s why I love you, so don’t be afraid to let them show. . .” I could hear my voice loaded with tears, sweet and honest from the physical plane, and I was far from that body leaning over a dying man.
As David left his body farther and farther behind, I took to kneeling on the floor, my palms lightly connecting with the soles of his feet. The flow of energy between us was so strong at times that my whole body vibrated. I appeared to be plugged into an extreme invisible power source, which of course I was. Though his body continued to produce the barest vital signs for forty-eight hours more, on Christmas day, David was so far away that I could feel nothing at all of that powerful connection. That day, I wept in celebration that he had gone wholly into that realm where we flew and danced with no need for physical form. He was again pure light, Love.
David was gone and I was left here with the “most significant” event in my eventful life. What did it all mean? Why did it happen? What was I supposed to do with it? How did it apply to all that I’d been asking for? And what did it have to do with Love and who I am?
Dancing By Heart by Martin Eichinger
I just caught a glimpse of myself in a plate glass window and the body I saw made me clap my hands and do a little jig. A couple of months ago, I received the revelation that I could stop tracking food intake and exercise output and have a fit healthy body. Crazy talk! My body has the wisdom in each of its particles to do what it needs to do. So my only job is to let go of what I think I know. That’s definitely crazy, I thought, yet here is the body I want looking back at me and for the first time in my life, I have no idea how much I weigh.
Body Talk
February 13, 2012
Like Whitney
February 12, 2012 — 1 Comment
A man who used to love me told me that I reminded him of Whitney Houston. I had that same grace, he said, the same strength and fragility that made him want to call me when he was scared and hold me when I was sad. He said I had her smile, the kind that makes folks feel like they’re special, like the center of the universe while it lasts. I had, he said, her presence. I scoffed to his face.
Whitney was so beautiful. I so wasn’t. Whitney was a gifted singer. I was a sewing machine operator in a factory. She travelled the world. I lived in government subsidized housing with my baby. Whitney had millions of adoring fans. My own husband despised and battered me. Whitney and I were born a few months apart. That’s all I could see that we had in common; we were almost the same age.
Still, for years after, I’d listen to her songs intently as if her incredible voice could convince me that he was right. I sat mesmerized in front of MTV watching beautiful Whitney perform I Want to Dance With Somebody and I’ll Always Love You, and prayed to see it, anything that I might recognize as mine. Once in a while, on a good day, I’d think maybe I did catch a glimpse of myself in her light, and I’d cry out with gratitude, clapping my hands like a little girl. Then it was gone, and my very un-Whitney life went on.
Today, I am a writer with a Master’s Degree. I have been to Europe. My daughter is an amazingly beautiful, gifted woman who lights the world with her smile. I spend my days doing all that I love, free and perfect.
Today, I found out, Whitney is dead. I grieve her loss with the wildest sobs, clutching my aching chest as if to keep the part of her that’s always been there, my light, my heart.
What if I Stop Worrying About What Everyone Else Thinks?
January 24, 2012
I’ve been playing around with the idea/theme of split energy lately and have come to the realization that most of my anxiety, stress and discomfort in life come from splitting my energy. What does splitting energy mean? Let me give you a couple of examples.
I’m driving along in the car with Chris to go to the store and thinking about which route I’m going to take through the Atlanta traffic. Instead of just going with my instinct and choosing my route, I take a moment to split my energy and project myself behind his eyes and consider which route he would take, and what he will think of the route I take, and if he will be upset if I don’t choose the route he wants to take. This leads me to feel nervous, anxious and uncertain with the man I love and have been in a marriage with for over 5 years. I mean it’s not like he is going to yell at me or divorce me if I take the “wrong” turn, so why am I doing this?
I’m making cold calls at work. Before I pick up the phone, I split my energy, thinking of what the person on the other end of the line will think of my call. In the period of 1 minute I think: “I wonder if I’ll be bothering this person” or “I bet they’re eating lunch” or “I know this person is busy and doesn’t want to talk to me.” This leads me to feel apprehensive about calling. Sometimes I nervously call, and other times I just skip the call altogether. Why am I doing this?
I split my energy because it’s an old pattern, a Pavlovian instinct, I learned when I was a child. You know, “if momma ain’t happy ain’t nobody happy.” I learned that by matching the thoughts and feelings of my parents, teachers, friends etc I avoided conflict, gained approval and flew under the radar. On the inside I could be reeling, but on the outside I appeared cool, calm and collected, like I had it all together.
Our culture says it’s compassionate and considerate and good manners to consider what another person is thinking and feeling, to take a moment to “walk in their shoes,” and I’m learning that it’s often just the opposite. If I’m always projecting myself behind the eyes of another person then I am losing touch with myself and my full god-given energy in each moment. This leads to living someone else’ life and feeling inauthentic and worst of all, mediocre. I hate mediocre.
So what have I done about my split energy? Well, I’ve been practicing presence and full expression and limiting my “projection” behind the eyes of others. I’m making choices about which routes to take and dialing for dollars unconcerned about what the other person will think, and am feeling more aligned, loving and confident. I don’t want to live someone else’ life. I trust myself as a loving, connected being and know that it’s safe to be me in full expression.
What If: A Brief History
January 18, 2012
In eighth grade, a friend and I used to play the What-if game, a lot. Our hope that life would turn out to be magical after all was going down for the third time and we were desperate. No Santa Claus, no tooth fairy, no talking animals, no witches, castles, or princes on white horses. Birthday wishes didn’t really come true, and I wouldn’t grow up to be a supermodel/rock star/novelist. In an effort to revive our belief in centaurs and wardrobe portals, we spent hours in our pajamas hanging upside down off the bed wondering. . .
What if dogs wore clothes and humans were always naked? (We giggled and kicked the wall with our heels.) What if the sky was green and the grass was blue? Oh! Oh! Or what if we walked on the sky and the grass was over our heads? (More crazed giggling.) What if babies were old and old people were new? What if we had hair on our feet and our heads were bald? What if we slept all day and did stuff all night? What if we could say curse words and couldn’t say regular words? Whoa. Silence. Sometimes we just went too far.
Our imaginings were always a flip of two things we saw as opposites, never just some wild possibility all by itself. Our repertoire was already pretty limited, and we of course were ignorant of any limits. I had already forgotten my world when I was eight. I was French, a dancer, model, mathematician, singer, playwright, teacher, counselor, etc ad infinitum. At twelve, considering the implications of the grass and the sky being reversed felt outrageous, a way of experiencing our instinct about life: there had to be something more. More exciting, more amazing, more fulfilling. Gradually, we forgot the game and I slid uncomfortably into that grownup world in which I had to make a living doing one thing that did not include magic.
Many frustrating years later, I showed up to meet Adair bearing pastries from my favorite bakery because I wanted her to love me. She did and that was our first magical encounter. Decades after that last What-if game, I’d finally met another girl who remembered being great at everything, a girl who had not relinquished her desire for more, for magic and fun. Since that morning, April 23, 2010, we have shared an intense spiritual quest back to that place where play ruled our day.
Adair and I share many specific points on our individual paths: We are teachers, motivators, entertainers, and writers. We love learning and travelling, being challenged and excited, and sharing all of it with as many people as possible. We have intense passionate feelings about nearly everything. Most importantly, we retain our early knowing that there MUST be more to life than what we’ve been taught to expect, and we are willing to risk everything to experience more. But that’s not enough for us. Only inclusion of everyone will satisfy our desire to allow all possibilities and to experience more and more and more of everything.
So here we go! Running hand in hand toward the edge of the known world trusting our ability to take flight when solid ground falls away, we invite you all to take just one step in our direction. It’s easy, just a question: What if there is more? The implications are transformational, no additional steps necessary.
I said, Let her be and she is. I look upon the woman I have made and she is good. I am because she is. Her body, her impressions, emotions, sensations–most of all her stories, I need. Elsewhere I exist as potential, as energy amidst all energy. Here where time holds space as form, I am seen, heard, felt–known because she is. Here, Kathy laughs and dances, struggles and cries, often unaware that she is playing the lead, that she is in fact the whole show. I, Light, and she, Story inhabit this body duplex. The walls grow thin as rice paper.
