Off into the sunset

I had to go into the city yesterday evening for a practice coaching session; just missed the 8:10 ferry home: here it is, heading off into the sunset without me.

... which is what I'm about to do: head off into the sunset without you.  I've volunteered to be an artist-in-residence at a camp up on Orcas Island, and will be spending the next week or so teaching kids between the ages of 9 and 14 about fiber arts, drawing, painting, and mask making.

It should be great fun, and I'll get to spend some time with my younger daughter (and, yes, the older one is back from Mongolia and delighted to be home).  But it seems unlikely I'll have much in the way of internet access, so -- though I may well be blogging -- I suspect I won't be able to post anything til I get home.

So I wish you all a good week, and hope you'll still be here when I return; I appreciate you more than you could possibly know.

Peace and comfort,
Diane

An act of faith

In the middle of a weeklong visit from their daughter, her husband, and their delightful little girl, our beloved neighbors received word that their son had been rushed to the hospital with heart failure and might not live through his surgery.

So they are now gathered at the opposite corner of the country, holding a so-far-productive vigil at a hospital in Florida, and we are minding their garden, enjoying their peas and nasturtiums (which respond so well to these misty mornings we've been having lately), and holding their son and the whole family in our prayers.

Times like these are so challenging.  Life is full of the unexpected and the unpredictable -- some of it pleasant, and some of it not so pleasant -- and, because most of us find that terrifying,  each of us, over time, tends to develop a whole mess of sort of superstitious strategies for dealing with that. 

My strategy has always been a bit different from my husband's: he believes the correct approach is to "expect the best; prepare for the worst."  I'm good at the preparing part of that, but not so good at the expecting part.  I'm good at HOPING for the best, but mostly I'm too busy worrying to claim I actually EXPECT the best -- worrying is part of how I prepare for the worst; I keep sifting through all the possible negative outcomes to be sure I'm prepared for each of them.

Which is another reason, I suspect, that I found improv class so challenging: because you simply cannot prepare for what's about to come your way.  Your best preparation -- really -- is to be fully present to what is: the moment you take your eye off what IS to prepare for what you might do or say, something will arise that you had not -- and couldn't possibly have -- anticipated, and then, there you are, all ready to speak a prepared piece that has absolutely nothing to do with what is actually going on.

Patricia Ryan Madson, in her delicious gem of a book, Improv Wisdom, reassures us with these loving words of faith:  "When the human heart has something to say, saying it is always timely.  Improvisers always speak without a plan.  Discover the freedom that comes when you trust that you have what you need."  Reading this, I can begin to see why I love photography and blogging so much: it's really an act of faith.  Photography, for me, is simply a response to what is: it keeps me fully in the present.  And the blog -- though you could say I prepare for it by reading and meditating -- is really never prepared in advance: it is simply a response to whatever photo seems to present itself that morning.  Though I may go into the process with some base assumptions and biases, there's always a chance they'll get flipped completely on their ears by what emerges when I commune with the photo.

And I LOVE that -- because it feels like I am not in control.  Which -- in this case, at least -- I like, because I feel the universe is far wiser than I am about what might need to be said at any given moment.  So the blog is my daily act of trust; and I trust and hope that in allowing it to shape itself I am building habits of trust that will slowly begin to replicate themselves in other areas of my life; those places where I still have this overwhelming urge to control and prepare.

Madson has wonderful advice for folks like me:

•  Give up planning.  Drop the habit of thinking ahead.
•  Attend carefully to what is happening right now.
•  Allow yourself to be surprised.
•  Stockpiling ideas for future use is unnecessary.
•  Trust your imagination.
•  Welcome whatever floats into your mind.
• Fear is a matter of misplaced attention.  Focus on redirecting it.

Okay. Well then -- good luck with that!

Saying yes to intuition

I spotted this lovely statue of Mary through a rainy window while waiting at a stoplight on Saturday.  What is it about statues of Mary that we find so appealing?  Because those downcast eyes, that total acceptance --the implied "Let it be unto me according to thy will" -- feels like a relic (and not necessarily a holy one) from another time.

I spent much of my class time yesterday in discussions designed to help us get closer to knowing what it is we were "born to do."  Which could, of course, be another way of looking at "according to thy will" -- what is it we were created for, and who really knows the answer to that question?  And why does the answer seem to change from one day to the next?

I came home to find a job description in my mailbox, for a part-time job, a job working for the church, that I could do relatively easily and still probably have time for blogging and schoolwork.  So I sat down at my computer, worked up a resume and a cover letter... and then I couldn't hit the send button.  The files are still open on my computer, but thinking about sending the note made my stomach clench and my throat close up.

I love coincidences, and love it when opportunities fall into my lap; that usually feels like something I should follow up on.  And it's certainly true that someone in this house needs to get a job.  But I think we also have to listen to those gut feelings.  And though my reading this morning (and yesterday) encourages me to practice saying yes, I did make a vow -- in both of my classes -- to spend more time listening to my intuition.

And so, this morning,  I choose to look at Mary and see, instead of obedience, a willingness to listen; to see that downcast head as a sign of attentiveness to her own inner workings and instincts.  Because if I say that I believe God lives within each of us, then I have to believe God lives in me as well, and trust that that anxious churning I feel, deep inside, is some valued piece of me turning away from what looks like a perfect opportunity -- to do something I CAN do, could get PAID to do, but don't necessarily WANT to do.  It's an act of trust, really: I just have to trust that when the right job comes along, it will be something I know I will love -- and I'll know it when I see it.

So I AM saying yes today -- just not to the job.  I'm saying yes to my intuition -- and hoping that will be the right thing to do.

A Magical Shared Adventure

This is a totally unaltered photo, taken near the beach at LaPush, Washington.  Isn't the color bizarre?  It was a super low tide; my guess is these rocks and pilings are almost always underwater.  I don't know if the lichen or plankton or algae or whatever it is that makes it that color is always that green, or only turns green when its exposed to light and air -- if I were my husband, I'd have looked that up on the Wiki before blogging about it -- but then, if I were my husband, I'd get so intrigued by all the links off that wiki site I'd never get around to writing the blog at all!

And isn't it wonderful that our kids got both kinds of parents -- the parent who is really good at holding her feet to the fire, and the parent who is so curious about the world he sometimes forgets to eat?

It's all about balance, and in order to get that balance we need all kinds of people and all kinds of ingredients.  But it's not enough to have them; we need to USE them -- which means, as Patricia Ryan Madson says in Improv Wisdom, saying YES.  Maybe not yes to everything, she says, "It is undoubtedly an exaggeration to suggest that we can say yes to everything that comes up, but we can all say yes to more than we normally do."

So how does that work?  Madson tells a wonderful story about a child who runs to her mother and cries, "Mommy, Mommy, there's a monster in the closet!"  Normally the mother would of course reassure her child that there is no monster, but, inspired by improv's Rule of Yes, she said, "There is?  Wow, let's go see!" and together they went to the closet, "where we had a dynamic encounter with the monster, capturing it and squealing with delight as we tickled it into disappearing.  It was a magical shared adventure; I would never have thought of joining her fantasy before considering the rule of yes!"

As you might imagine -- being the parent who is good at holding her feet to the fire -- I found Improv class incredibly terrifying..  But at the same time it was exhilarating and very freeing.  And I kept thinking -- my husband should be in the class.  He's great on his feet in situations like that -- precisely because he is so curious about the world. He, who -- unlike me -- has no interest in performing in plays, would probably get a huge kick out of improv.

In truth, it takes all kinds; I think we're back to the rainforest image again.  We need panthers and leaf molds and spiders and brown bears and daisies and orchids and actors and audiences and algae and pilings... and the great thing is that it's just like Richard Rohr says: Everything Belongs!

But as a friend of mine points out, well -- sometimes that's a concept that can be VERY hard to say yes to: there are some things and people we just think shouldn't get to belong.  But I think I'll keep working on it.  And the best way to do that is to say yes to more than we normally do.  So that's your assignment today: say yes to something unexpected!

-- and be sure to let me know how it goes!

Coloring between the lines

This morning I began reading a book recommended to me by Kim of Prayers for the Oft Traveled Road.   It's called Improv Wisdom, and offers life lessons from Improvisational Theater.

In the prologue to the book, the author, Patricia Ryan Madson, tells a story of basically having spent a life "coloring between the lines," and how it didn't quite turn out as she expected -- which led her to Improv.

I was immediately reminded of an experience WAY back in kindergarten, when my teacher called my mother in to complain because, having colored in the outline of a bee, I flipped the paper over, traced the outline on the back, and colored it in again.  For some reason this was not acceptable... (and I remember my mother being furious with the teacher afterward).

But what I also remembered, thinking back on this, is that for years afterward I loved coloring books (I particularly remember one a friend had, of the Lennon Sisters in all their pretty dresses!) but, to cover any possible stray imperfections, I would go over all the lines with a wide black crayon.

What I remember is loving the effect of those wide black lines.  But what I suspect is that I was protecting myself from failure -- and don't we all do that!  Of course -- having taken improv classes -- I know that's the scary bit about improv: you have to be willing to fail.  I seem to remember that was my downfall in trying to learn to ski, as well: you have to be willing to fall.

Whether failing or falling, the challenge is the same: you're out of control, and somebody might yell at you, or laugh at you, or be shocked by you... and of course we who are now "women of a certain age" grew up knowing that any of those things would be a source of GREAT SHAME, and so we avoid opportunities to fail or fall at all costs.

So, thinking about that this morning as I came to my computer, I was amused to be greeted by this photo.  Actually I took a whole bunch of these shots at sunset a night or two ago, a bit bemused by my determination to photograph something so relatively unspectacular.  But now I see that the setting sun was doing her own variation on coloring between the lines -- and maybe our job, like hers, is simply to be light, and allow the lines to form themselves around us.  Like the designers of Project Runway, "One day we're in, and the next we're out," but what's important is to be true to our own vision.

Yup!

It's all good...

Niche construction

I spent some time yesterday walking through the forest with a new friend -- a woman from Texas who grew up here on the island, was back visiting her family, and had been encouraged to look me up by a friend of hers who reads my blog.

It always amazes me, the way like-minded souls seem to manage to gravitate to one another in this great universe of ours.  Psychologist Thomas Armstrong, in that Rain Forest article I spoke of yesterday, calls this "niche construction," and notes that it may be just as important to evolution as natural selection.   Just as where a spider builds her nest or where a beaver constructs his dam will prove critical to their survival, "Choices about lifestyle or career," he says, "may be among the most critical in determining whether a person suffers as a disordered individual or finds satisfaction in an environment that recognizes his strengths."

And if you find yourself forced to exist in a hostile or unsupportive environment, connections outside that environment can be key to helping you survive -- which, I suspect, is why cellphones and the internet become so important to some people.

All fun things to think about -- but I need to run off to class now; full day ahead!  Have a good weekend!

I'll take three dozen of those gorgeous panthers

My neighbor gave me a copy of the April/May issue of ODE magazine.  Its lead article is entitled Your Brain is a Rain Forest, and makes a case for neuro-diversity, for understanding that each of the different ways the brain has of processing has value, and that we shouldn't be pathologizing and medicating behaviors diagnosed as ADHD, autism, Asbergers, dyslexia etc.

The author, psychologist Thomas Armstrong, believes that differences among brains are as enriching and essential as differences among animals.  And ODE's Editor-in-Chief, Jurriaan Kamp, suggests that this rain forest image  -- seen from the perspective of chaos theory, the old flap-of-a-butterfly's-wing-alters-a-tornado idea -- applies across a broad spectrum of human activity: militarily, economically, agriculturally, and even within the body.

"There is no escape," says Kamp.  "Wherever we are, whatever we do, we are related and connected... It may take another generation to embrace the world of cooperation and community fully.  Meanwhile, we already live together in a rain forest -- and it's good."

(Just as an aside, I can't help but think, in this context, of China's birth control policies, and the frightening ramifications of a society that is systematically extinguishing its feminine.)

Anyway, having read this editorial and the article itself yesterday, I was amused this morning to find David Whyte talking about the rain forest as well.  The image of the rain forest, he says in his book, The Heart Aroused, is satisfying to humans, "because when we see the forest and all the disparate forms, odors and cries that make it up, we intuit a life where all our own strange and eccentrically exotic parts can fit, too... A balanced, intricate ecology, in effect , asks us to stop choosing between parts of ourselves according to what we think belongs and what does not.  A mature ecology does not say, "I'll take three dozen of those gorgeous panthers and cancel the tacky leaf molds."  If it did, the rain forest would soon, as the metaphor goes, be out of business.  No leaf molds, no compost; no compost, no life."

The two pages immediately following this quote are wonderful, but too long to continue quoting here; his basic point is that our education system is designed to create a monoculture, eradicating all the parts of us that don't belong in the classroom, that think for themselves, or are somehow connected to mortality; the parts that question and challenge and occasionally fail.  In effect, he says, we attempt to create a single crop, and then pour onto the fertile soil of self "a continual stream of hydrocarbons and massive amounts of poison to keep the system from blighting itself."  Some of that poison takes the form of coffee, pills, alcohol and other drugs.  But then there is "the poison we administer to ourselves, the constant daily drip of self-criticism that reinvents and justifies all the reasons we are not good enough, and all the ways we do not deserve the life we desire."

"A great deal of our education," he says, "is based on removing our faith in the fading half of the cycle of existence, and the chief tool for removing our faith is shame."

Bingo!  So now I see that this work I'm doing in school to unearth -- and learn to accept and appreciate -- the parts of me I've been stifling and rejecting for so many years is part and parcel of the spiritual journey and of our journey as a culture, society, and planet: we need to understand that all of it, and all of us, is connected; that the dark parts and the ugly parts, the parts we want to toss into the compost pile, all have value and are part of the great wheel of existence. 

Which is not to say we elevate those leaf molds, make them captains of the forest and expect them to catch and kill as panthers do.  But we DO have to let them do THEIR job -- whatever that may be.  I cannot expect the part of me that wants to snarl at a crying baby on an airplane to lead a meeting or preach a sermon.  But I CAN acknowledge its existence, and can allow it to help provide fuel when I need courage to address a boss or spouse's inappropriate behavior.  I cannot expect the part of me that is churning with worries about my daughter (who is feeling sick and lonely in Mongolia) to drive a car; it's way too distracted. But I can allow its depth to fuel poetry or compassion, or to lend me courage to call the airline and book her a flight home (if that becomes necessary).

So you see?  It's all good.  We just have to learn to pay attention...