the solstice

solstice - the standing still of the sun

Movements continue. Does moving end? Can it stop?

I enjoy this time of year, enjoy the ways of Christmas, appreciate the blending of freneticism with the enforced stillness that is a bi-product of winter weather . The collective energy around shopping, cooking, travelling, socializing is not so apparent for me here in northern New Hampshire. Last week we received nearly 18" of snow with single-digit temperatures (and I'm not speaking metrically here). Then a warm up with a deluge of rain. This week another 6-10" of snow (I better understand the name 'White Mountains') and the diving temp's.

I must admit I've had my eyes on the calendar hanging in the kitchen, seeing that this Tuesday is the winter solstice, the magical time of year when the relationship between planet Earth and the Sun dramatically shifts. The days while long in darkness hold the promise of more light. Being a woman who migrates towards metaphors and analogies, I notice a parallel between the tipping of the Earth out of the shadow and the path of my life beginning to show forms and shapes where, for the past year or so, it has been somewhat shrouded in mystery.

In the past week, yes, that's right, just one week, I intersected with two opportunities which came to fruition. I interviewed for a position as a clinician with a group private practice based out of New London, NH. I was offered a job with them last Monday and I'm thrilled, ecstatic, pleased, and grateful. The agency is called Counseling Associates of New London (http://www.nlcounselingassociates.com/) and I was impressed with the folks there with whom I met. Secondly, I yielded to my own inner nudgings and the encouragement of some close friends to look into bodywork training. Perhaps I can give this more form over the coming months. For now I can say that for more than a decade I've been drawn to working with my hands, migrated towards better understanding how the body can be accessed as an intrinsic element in working with emotional and mental issues in psychotherapy. I came across a unique training institute based out of southern Vermont and, after meeting with one of the founders/trainers, I decided to do their upcoming 3-month training program (http://www.internationalbodywork.com/ and then click on the Portugal program - yes, that's right, Portugal).

So, by the kindness of my new employer and their willingness to accommodate a 3-month delay in the start of my working, I am headed to southwestern Portugal mid-January for an intensive program in massage and bodywork. I'm not sure how or if I'll be able to bring this into my work as a psychotherapist for some time but I know that my direction as a clinician is towards working more fundamentally with the body-mind-heart dynamic.

The last couple of months have been full of wonderful experiences. Bradford and I travelled to Arizona for Thanksgiving with his relations. I was able to visit Fernie, BC where I once lived and reconnect with dear friends. My best pal, Kirsten, visited for a few days and we day-tripped to the Maine coastline. When Ben went for his scheduled neutering at the end of November, the veterinary technicians let me know, in no uncertain terms, that if I am to care properly for my beloved canine, I am to be getting him groomed regularly as well as ensuring that I am cleaning out his ears of wax and excess hair weekly - while I get an 'A' in exercise and attention, I flunked grooming and skin management. Alas, at the beginning of December Ben met with his new lovely and lively hairdresser who, despite her best intentions of saving some of his locks relieved him of his entire mop-like coat. Finally, Ben has discovered his penchant for socks and underwear. One Friday evening when I was otherwise distracted, he swiftly took hold of the situation to swallow one pair of white tennis socks as well as one pair of underwear. After consulting with fellow dog owners and a few veterinary types, I was told to relax, that the clothing would find its way out... somehow. Alas, after a week of regular bowl movements and normal eating behavior, Ben got up early one morning and regurgitated a big cotton log (one sock and the underwear). Later the same day at the end of a long hike, up came the second sock. Amazing how the dog's body could carry on as if all was usual with a pound of cotton in his stomach.

May the holidays find you well. May you gift yourself with the all-important opportunities for quiet space; the time of darkness being a potent ally for reflection and stillness. As I currently feel the seas of my life stirring and the figures of my path begin to take shape before me, I am thankful both for the forms that are arising as well as the period of not-knowing that gave it birth. Hibernation. Gestation. Darkness. Uncertainly. Confusion. The Mystery appears to be made up of equal parts dark and light, form and formless, knowing and not-knowing. While the forms are frequently intoxicating and the confusion generally unsettling, Life will have its way and demand that we sit in the stillness or risk spiralling off into madness.

equinox - equal night

the fall of 2010

No doubt it's been a time since my last blog entry. Might be a time before my next.

I've travelled to Boulder, CO for a few days - had wonderful visits with a few friends in the area and then replicated the cross-country drive with Bradford and Uhaul trailer in tow between Boulder and Franconia; this time Bradford's stuff in the trailer as he brought to a close a chapter of his life in Colorado and joined me for some living in New England.

I've also celebrated my 40th birthday with the brilliant and beautiful women of North Country Shelter and then journeyed to Ontario with Bradford and Ben to celebrate many October family birthdays with the folks across the border. Wowee.

What else? I'll write the NCMHCE for both NH and VT state licensing requirements next week down in Concord. There's a good chance I won't pass. Then again, anything can happen.

My life with Ben is breathtaking. I'm simply smitten. My unfolding adventure with Bradford is pretty cool. We're shacked up which is fun. And not so much fun when it's cold and dark and neither one of us knows exactly what life holds in store for us.

What do I really want to say? I'm a middle-aged woman (I can say this now) who is unemployed, somewhat unfocused in her life's direction (at least professionally), with $9 in her bank account. As I walked with the dogs through the woods and trails this late afternoon, I was talking myself into being frank about this whole situation with whatever eyes come across this screen.

This life thing, it's an unwin-able endeavour. There is no 'logos' to which humans currently ascribe with any success. God, the search for meaning, religion, materialism, service, comfort, security, control, peace, enlightenment, knowledge, salvation, environmentalism. You name it, none of these forms can bring a sense of completion, rightness, nor ultimately be attained. Nailing jello to a tree. Not that we stop trying, as a collective humanity, however. And that's the insanity. To look for meaning, to grope for a handhold where there is nothing. Emptiness, no-thingness, the great Void, the Mystery. So many of us try to assign benevolence to the Mystery and emptiness. Then it wouldn't be empty - it would have an angle.

I see it as the ultimate joke. We just want something to hold onto. If it could be held, put into words, captured by the mind through thought and ideology, it would be a shoddy sham. Everything we can hold or aspire towards has a built-in self-destruction unit and man, it's gonna hurt when it dissolves or blows up and there we are, holding on for dear life. The joke is that we take our 'logos' so seriously. We take this dream of being a human so seriously. We take our stories so seriously and get so lost in the groping for and reinforcement of a false self that depends on our opinions, circumstances, and personal drama. Speaking for myself, I have taken this dream of being alive so seriously, and that's the sick and brilliant sense of humour of the Cosmos unfolding.

In my life I have had a lot of fear around being destitute, a failure, a floundering fool, incapacitated, out of control. At middle age and with $9 to my name, I'm meeting what once was my worst fear and I'm laughing like never before. If you're not laughing, afterall, you've gone to sleep in the dream and gotten lost in character. You've gone and made the fatal error of trying to lean into that which doesn't exist.

We are a crazy, crazy species. We will go to extraordinary lengths to avoid our fears of emptiness, meaninglessness. We will hide through seeking. We will sooner die than relinquish our all-precious beliefs. We will destroy life to hold onto a false-self. We would rather acquire more information than experience more truth. We will always draw to us new opportunities to wake up. This is grace.

Good luck.

uncompromising cooperation with life

A full week coming to a close.

My replacement, Kelly, began her new posting at the shelter so I spent time helping her acclimate to the position; her responsibilities, the ways of NCS, the understandings I have garnered around the juvenile justice system, etc... She's a bright woman and undoubtedly the job will bring her new challenges and moments of great inspiration. Three more days for me, Monday through Wednesday, and I will, again, be officially unemployed. Hmmm...

Sadly, my friend, Red, was put down this week. The tough decision was taken by Becky and Harry for a number of reasons including Red's age, health, and mental wellness. Walking with Willy and Ben this week on the trails around their home was an adjustment. I will notice his absence. His presence touched my life. There's simply nothing like a dog.

Ben went in for more needles including his rabies shot so I can take him over the border into Canada in the future. His weight has doubled. During his first visit to the vet's a couple of weeks ago I was encouraged to up his food servings because he was too skinny. That is no longer true. He's getting taller and moves with an awkwardness not disimilar to the way many of the adolescents in the shelter inhabit their bodies - forgetting how big and heavy his feet are, not quite understanding how throwing his weight in one direction can topple him onto his head. Spending the week dogsitting and homesitting for Becky and Harry gave Willy the opportunity to begin in earnest Ben's education into doghood. Willy has been running Ben over when he gets too boisterous, snarling at him when Ben attempts to steal a toy, and ignoring his cuteness when he's simply had enough. With Red gone, Willy is demonstrating a new quality of maturity, taking on alpha status - if you knew Willy, you'd understand how bizarre this is to watch.

June, my VW, finally got legal - a new catalytic converter, a new air pump, and a brake light found me/us passing NH emissions inspection. One year after moving to New England and the check engine light is off!

The thing about a check engine light going off is that now it can always come back on. While I'm still riding a small feeling of satisfaction that my car has no recognizable problems, it's only a matter of time before I need new brakes or a new exhaust system, a timing belt, a clutch. I see that I've created a lot of tension in myself throughout my life trying to avoid things being broken, out of place (whatever that means), or going wrong. If you've ever visited my place of residence or seen the way I make my bed first thing in the morning, you know how fastidious I am about things not being awry in my world - I love order and loathe chaos - I am a control freak. Moreover, I have a highly developed/practiced ability to spot anything that is 'off.'

Did I mention that Willy got sprayed by a skunk this week?

A very fun experience for me. I woke up just before 5am to take Willy and Ben out for their first morning walk - a short one that lets them clear their systems after the night of rest. In that moment, just before becoming lucid while still suspended in the dream state but entering the world of waking I had a felt experience of there being nothing, absolutely nothing 'off' in my world. This wasn't a qualitative analysis and inventory of the circumstances of my life but a deep and unmoving sense in my system that there could be nothing other than right - life is, there's no arguing with the unfolding of life. Of course we have free will. As humans we are likely the only species on the planet that questions the way things are. We have a mechanism in our brains that has the capability to imagine other scenarios. Add this to our ability to conceptualize and compare ourselves to others and the various protective and fear-based strategies that our egos employ and it's a recipe for deep dissatisfaction.

Or not.

Why do we not walk through life with an unwavering acceptance for what is? Why do we find it comforting and compelling to look for and imagine what is wrong? Why do we, with the frighteningly powerful gift of self-awareness, not know enough to view the world as unconditionally supportive and therefore align ourselves with this reality? It might sound like the ramblings of a wacked out fruitcake but I think there's some value in looking at our habits of mind and how the course we set through life is a direct consequence of our power of perception.

So, as Willy came running back to me from his disappearance in the dark field the smell of skunk was so potent that my eyes were burning. My habitual reaction was to say, "No!" Fortunately, I was still floating on my little cloud of perceived perfection and I started to giggle and I thought, "This too is life. No point in judging it as good or bad. It's here. Why resent what has unfolded? Why take life personally?" And so, a little thing but I decided to alter my habit of mind and instead relish, okay maybe not relish, but I decided to fully accept the newly annointed Willy rather than think I had just been victimized by life. Low and behold, no upset only entertainment. It's not to say that action can't be taken - full cooperation and agreement with the way life unfolds does not preclude being able to respond. My sense is that my response to life is more clear, more intelligent, because my mind is in alignment rather than in resistance.

Today, Anemone and I hiked up to a top section of Bridal Veil Falls, just south of Franconia. While Willy was nimbly cartwheeling and careening himself off rock ledges and over and through the swollen creek, Ben was tenuous and slipping off the wet rocks and landing on his ass (or face). At one point we crossed the creek just above a long drop in the falls. Ben slid into the water and began heading towards the waterfall's drop. Without thought, I looked at his freaked out eyes, his little body unable to gain purchase as he was carried by the current closer to the falls, and I jumped in and grabbed him. I don't know that there was time enough to think "No." All I knew was that my little guy was not going down the falls if I had any power over the situation. And I did.

And then, already soaked, I took off my wet clothes and shoes and slid down the rocks into the deep pool of frigid water. Life is short, afterall, never miss an opportunity to jump in the water. Say yes. That's what heated car seats were made for.

The images - Red pictured at the top. Willy and Ben from a week or so ago. The rest are from my walk this morning with the dogs. The lighting and fog formations were breathtaking, nestling the mountains like islands in the sea. I can imagine that there were people in their homes underneath the fog patches thinking that it was another rainy day while, for me, I got to lose myself in the rapture of a sky that I will never see again. That's the thing about being human, we get to choose, for better or worse - free will.

Labour Day takes on new meaning

This was a very, very full weekend. My friend, Sue, brought me and her sister, Jane (from Quebec) to experience "Wicked" (http://www.wickedthemusical.com/) in Boston on Saturday. I could hardly take in the whole production, mindblowing. The stage was constantly full of creative spirit; the music, the script, the talent, the layered implications questioning what so many of us accept as the water in which we swim (good vs. evil, the nature of happiness, the fickle nature of truth, the power of collective energy run amok). The musical is based on Gregory Maguire's 1995 book which takes one perspective on the preceding events and human development issues of the character 'Elphaba' - otherwise known as the Wicked Witch of the West from 'The Wizard of Oz.' My next step is to borrow the book from the library. Needless to say, the musical not only captured my imagination and stoked my creative spirit but also reinforced my tendency to ruminate on the questions I hold on the nature of evil in humanity - does darkness actually reside outside of any of us?

From Boston, Ben and I drove down to Little Compton, RI to visit with my friends Ryan and Calyn who were spending a week with Calyn's family in the east from their home in Boulder. I am amazed by the gracious and warm hospitality I have received regularly over the last year as I have explored life in New England. The family's land is breathtaking, extending down to the sea and across beautiful farming areas. Hurricane Earl left some solid surf and warm, sunny days in his wake so the two half-days were spent near or in the water. Ben is continuing his introduction to the world of loving water - whether he likes it or not. (see photo of his attempt at body surfing)

In other news, since the new Green Card has taken up residency in my wallet (it's actually green, unlike the initial conditional card which looks more like a driver's license), I've begun to meet the requirements for professional licensure in NH. If Vermont licensure is not too cost-prohibitive, I'll start their application process also. It looks like life is leading me back into private practice - other attempts at securing agency work have not panned out. Besides, I notice I'm a bit squeamish at the idea of working Monday to Friday, 9-5 again.

Apparently over the last year, I have grown rather accustomed to the unstructured work week - I certainly don't mind working, I quite like it, in fact. It's just that I like my working to be more project-based, incorporating a variety of activities. At times, I like the intensive scheduling that is involved in contract deadlines. At other times, I enjoy taking a roadtrip or slipping into a week of writing for my own enjoyment. If you were to ask me, from the perspective of this moment in time, what my fantasy professional life would look like in the future, I would tell you that I would love to combine work as a family therapist, facilitating groups (working with traditional group therapy as well as bringing aspects of psychotherapy to organizational management), teaching/training other professionals in the field, creative writing, and farming and homesteading (bees and sheep).

Speaking of writing, I'm moving into a new experience of writing that is a departure from my earlier endeavours. I'm not inclined to say more at this time other than relating that it's highly enjoyable, highly uncomfortable, and the outcome is uncertain - to say the least.

In other areas of my life terrain, I can hardly contain my love for Ben. He's different from any dog I've enfolded into my life before. I feel a bit off-center for admitting how significant his presence is in my life. I can imagine other women, mothers actually, rolling their eyes and maybe misunderstanding how one can compare the connection one feels to a pet to the fullness of motherhood. I admit, I really can't imagine what the feeling of being in love with one's own child is like. I've felt deep love for many humans. Professionally I've fallen in love with countless adolescents as they have invited me into their personal struggles and heartbreak. But I've had no children of my own.

As I look at the near horizon, turning 40 next month, it's unlikely I'll ever give birth. I've asked myself over the last year how I am doing with this potential - no children. I feel some loss and grief around the situation - I've heard it said that one of the hardest aspects of divorce is the death of the dreams someone formed when they decided to marry. Being childless is a bit like this for me. How can I really greive something that never happened except to acknowledge the death of the dreams and hopes I imagined around being a mom one day.

Fortunately, there is no remorse or regret in me. I can't look back at my life and see a juncture when, if I had only made a different choice, things would have been different and I might have become a mother. My life is and has been breathtaking. There is a fullness I cherish and this fullness includes the sadness I feel that something I wanted did not come to bear. Even now, as my eyes fill up with tears and my breathing becomes unsteady, I am utterly grateful for the bounty of my life - pain and all.

Ben is beautiful. Gentle Ben. I don't subscribe to the opinion that he acts as a surrogate child for me. He does not live in my life as a replacement. He is Ben. A dog with so much love coming out of him, so much to teach me about showing up and being engaged. He sleeps when he sleeps. He eats when he eats. He runs around in circles and does rodeo-bull jumping when the feeling overtakes him. No self-consciousness. Just the manifestation of this love-energy I've decided to call 'Ben.' I'm lucky he likes me too.

Ultimately life is about loving; a courageous act of opening and receiving, allowing without grasping, offering without attachment to outcome. Perhaps this process culminates in the act of Creativity - one expression of creation is giving birth, only one expression amongst an infinite number of creative expressions. A future blog entry will no doubt encircle and explore the dance of creativity and the ultimate vulnerability which it demands. For now, the day is coming to a close. Labour Day is coming to a close. My little Labradoodle is circled up in a ball, asleep at the foot of my rocking chair. I sit on a deck under the stars above northern New Hampshire. I don't know what mysterious acts of God/Creativity are awaiting my presence in the fertile void. But I'm awake.

better than perfect

Ok, I know it's only a matter of time before Ben shows his other, darker side but for now I'm just going to enjoy the utter light that he beams out into the world.

My friend, Jen from Fernie, BC, travelled here over the last couple of weeks - a kick-off celebration for our upcoming 40th's. We spent some time in New Hampshire and Maine and also drove up to the Gaspe Penninsula in QC for a few days (photo of sunrise). Ben has been getting acquainted with water, both in the form of rivers as well as tides. I wouldn't report that he's overly-zealous about the whole experience but he seems to trust enough to follow me in,.... to a point.


He's adapted to long roadtrips, fairly essential quality for someone who shares a life with me. He's beyond cute and attracts much attention in public (I've felt inclined at times to put a sign on my neck saying: "He's a Labradoodle. He's 11 weeks old. His name is Ben."). He has taken to sleeping through the night as long as I cut off his water intake at 7pm and one doesn't mind getting up at 5:30am. He's taken some good long walks in the mountains and valleys without complaint. On our last full day together, Jen and I wound up in the rain, a 2 hour soaker of a hike, and he took on a rather new look: half his size when he's soaking wet and inspiring great feelings of pathos. The photo taken in the bathtub was an attempt to warm up his chilled bones following the romp in the rain.


I can tell we're starting to nudge into rebellion. As I sat down to type this entry, he heard the voices of my neighbours through the trees and he let out his first attempt at barking with ferocity. When he failed to abide with my gutteral "Nhaaagh!" (the recommendation of one of my puppy training books), I dropped him to the ground and held him down until he relaxed under my dominance. Might as well take advantage of his learning curve (and my relative size advantage) to help him absorb healthy boundaries.

The summer is winding down here in northern New Hampshire. I'm ready for autumn. The leaves have given up their verdant quality and, while still appearing green to the naked eye, one can feel that death is looming in the life cycle. The nights are cool in the cottage now - okay, that never changed at any point over the short summer

I'm in my last month of work at the shelter. My replacement is to begin at the Clinical Coordinator post on the 13th of September and I'll show her the ropes until the 22nd. I'm pleased - for me, for her, and the shelter. Not sure what is coming around the next corner, other than my birthday -- but I digress. I'd like to spend the month of September getting paperwork in order for my professional license in NH. I'd like to spend September connected to Ben, investing the time in our long-term relationship. I'd like to spend September watching the autumn colours bleed in and then fall away.


My life is lacking nothing. When I think something is awry, it's me - an indication that I've allowed my own limited agenda to warp my perspective and dislocate my sense of utter connectedness. Life includes loss, pain, relief, learning, falling, standing up, falling again, laughing, and confusion. As much as I try to apply the rules of systems, analysis, and logic, life is not a problem to be solved but a mystery to be relished. Loving life is less about exchanging than creating, less about knowing than bursting open, and less about security than humour. Sign me up.

gimme a "B"!

B is for birthday - which I began celebrating this week. Just 7 weeks ahead of time I kicked off the next 40 years with .... "Ben" - Ben is short for Benevolence (thanks to Anemone for the inspiration for a name) which is pretty much all this little soul puts out into the world (along with the standard waste materials).

Indeed, I'm in love. I can't imagine a sweeter soul. Or smarter. He's already sat calmly for his first bath, learned how to come and sit (see photos), do his business in the out-of-doors, make the residents and staff at the shelter smile, prepare my morning coffee, greet me with a beer when I come in the door, run my bath, and balance my chequebook. In only two days. This dog is amazing! And he's cute as sin. AND, he simply sleeps when you can't play. And he freakin' cute. And he doesn't shed.

He was born June 12th so he's another wonderful Gemini to add to the mix in my life. This week he weighed in at 17 lbs, the largest in his litter of 10, and though not a guaranteed indicator, his paws and legs are huge.

And he's a sign of things to come. The day after I brought Ben home I picked up a letter from US Citizenship and Immigration which began with "Congratulations!" I'm relieved. Though I love Canada and miss my family and friends north of the border, New England simply feels like home for now. And so, it's onto acquiring my professional licensure here and looking for a happy fit as far as earning an income goes - that's one skill Ben has yet to adapt.

...waiting

It's been far too long. It's coming to the end of July. Nearly one year ago I posted my first blog entry. The cliche, "The more things change, the more they stay the same." comes to mind. Maybe it's because we/I don't really change; the details are different but I'm not sure they are relevant. Nonetheless, here's some updating info on the details...

Home - I continue to live in my wonderful cottage in the mountains of northern New Hampshire. The temperatures are never too warm here, my home is surrounded by large oak and maple trees which provide much shade during these long days of summer. The spiders and I have found some grace for each other. Every now and again I become 'Hurricane Martha' with a vacuum cleaner and suck up their intricately spun webs around the inside of the house; and like the persevering residents of the Gulf coast, they rebuild and continue their lives in the dark corners and high places. The bears (I've now distinguished at least 2) visit mostly in the very early morning but now that the birdfeeder is down, no more close encounters.

Work - I continue to work part-time at the Jefferson shelter with the crazy young'uns. They are nothing if not entertaining, creative, lively, and beautiful. Their histories and life circumstances sometimes cause me to break wide open and sob. Other times, I give in to the need to distance myself and guard my heart so that I can do my job, complete their paperwork, and facilitate some groups in a professional way. I'm enjoying the work more as a half-timer but I know that this arrangement will soon come to an end; NCS needs a full-time clinician and I would like to do more therapy, particularly with adults, parents, and families.

Country - I'm waiting for the US Citizenship and Immigration Service (USCIS) to levy their final decision on my status as a Permanent Resident. This is a wild one. A month or so ago I received word that the department was challenging the legitimacy of my status and I was asked to respond with further documentation substantiating my original application for a Green Card two years ago (it's a long story). Essentially, their decision could go either way. They may grant my application and thus I can continue to live in the US or they may deny my application and ask me to return to 'my home and native land.' I had a tough first 24 hours after getting their letter, lots of emotions and fears rolled through me. And then I let go and did what needed to be done.

Options - Well,... it doesn't take a rocket scientist to appreciate that there is a period of waiting taking place right now. I'm waiting to find out if I will stay in New England or return to Ontario. I've got some options in mind but I wonder if this isn't just a distraction from the pounding silence that encircles me as I wait to see what Life will bring. When I frame it for myself in this way, I become more aware of the potential richness in the relative stillness.

But instead, to break the agitation that I often feel at times of waiting... wondering... anticipating... hoping... fearing... imagining - before the exhale that comes from finally receiving 'word,' I create plans and cultivate a plethora of ideas. I have looked at puppies for adoption. I have applied and been accepted into a school program for the fall. I have checked out job listings. I have gotten (some) car repairs done and re-licensed my VW for New Hampshire. I have looked at possible home rentals for the winter. I have printed off the requirements for licensure as a therapist in NH and VT. I have travelled to different parts of Vermont and New Hampshire to get a feel for where I might want to build a life. I have re-visited Ontario and family in hopes of discovering if there is a possible home and community for me there.

The one thing I notice that has really changed since receiving the letter from USCIS is that much of my writing activity has become suspended as I have suspended myself in waiting. I don't know why I have been more resistant to writing but I notice I am often too agitated to sink into writing and I feel compelled to take the actions which will be required for various possible outcomes.

I read back over my words above and I feel sad. I'm sad that with this seemingly real experience of waiting that I am in I have, in some ways, stopped living. Every now and again the sound of the wind in the high branches and leaves catches me off guard and captures my full attention. Every now and again, the early morning light discovers its way through the web-covered windows and lands on Bradford while he loses himself in reading, and my heart swells. Every now and again I remember to exhale.

But then I recall that I'm still waiting and I again lose my senses to planning. Maybe in all this waiting I am simply grasping for something to hold onto, whether it's a puppy or a new possibility.

A year ago I imagined myself taking a period of time to journey. I figured I'd be travelling for awhile and looking for a place to build a life. Low and behold, life unfolded, and yet the destination I thought I sought was nowhere to be found, is nowhere to be found. Just here. Just now. There is no waiting because there is nothing coming. And the more prepared I want to be for the nothing that is coming, the more prepared I better be to wake up now.

breathtaking

Not sure whether I want to make this a story of depth or laughter. It's always a good idea to poke fun of myself so perhaps in offering some depth, I can lighten up.

Some of you might have heard my stories about the bear who has been moving around my cottage over the last couple of months. He's big, he's black, he seems to be getting acclimated to human space. One evening he came up on the deck to check out an empty cooler I had placed out there. Another morning I looked out at 5:30 and he was munching some plants around the house before heading down the driveway. When I came out to my car later his paw prints were on the driver's side window.Mostly I keep my eyes and ears peeled for him when I'm outside and we're all good.

Thursday evening I was speaking with momma on the phone and she asked if I had seen the bear lately. I responded that I hadn't seen him for a week or so but that I didn't think he'd gone far. Early the next morning I headed out for a run (really a jog but 'running' sounds more athletic). Here's a good place to divert on an aside....

No-self. By my interpretation, the process of waking up to life rolls alongside my willingness to relinquish my sense of self: my stories about who I think I am; the great meaningfulness of my personal history; an attachment to walking through life as though I am entitled to happiness or fulfullment; my wish to fight to protect my ego; my desire to build myself up with illusory accroutrements such as possessions, accomplishments, or aptitudes. This strikes me as a dance of form and space. Ultimately, the universe is empty space. I believe the human body is actually made up mostly of space, 80-90% space in fact. As a human being, an ego, a self, however, I am rather compelled to notice form rather than space. My eyes seek out shapes, my ears listen mostly for sound. When I read a page in a book, I look to the words for meaning and completely ignore the emptiness which holds these words - even though the words are a tiny percentage of the page, we give them all our attention.

Running, to date, has generally been an act of will for me. I push through a self-constructed surface tension in order to tie up my shoes and begin pounding down the road or trail. As I run, particularly up the hills, much of the energy in my system rises to my should-ers (hyphen is intentional as the tops of my arms and back are the places where most of us hold the ideas of who I 'should' be and what I 'should' be doing). I have recently begun to ask myself how helpful is it to run with my shoulders driving most of the energy forward in such a willful manner. How many birds fly through the sky using their tail fearthers for propulsion? How many swans glide across the still water using their beak as a driving force? Humans, we're funny like that.

So, back to running on Friday this week. I was actually finding a flow on my run. My energy was centered mostly in my stomach core and into the hip flexors which guide my legs. I began playing with relinquishing my sense of "self as runner" and rather built my awareness on simply running; not "me/I" driving the energy but loosening up my "self" so that life energy, including space, could move me. The word 'surrender' is a tough term to draw out here because it connotes for me a quality of lying back rather than moving forward. For me, it's more like loosening or lightening my habitual belief that I am an isolated energy form and choosing instead to open to life as an infinite source of movement and creativity. This does, however, ask that I surrender my usual unyielding fixation on separateness and specialness. But it simultaneously makes space for a level of belongingness that is breathtaking.

Time for another tangent.

My friend, Bradford, and I travelled to the sea a couple of weeks ago. I love the sea, of course. I can't stop myself from hurling myself into it. When we arrived at the beach it was very cool, very foggy, and rather empty of human forms. After swimming for a while in the waves, surrendering my weight to the ocean I decided to go for a run in my bare feet down the empty beach. I was told that the beach was 5 or 6 miles long. It was shrouded in fog. After awhile I stopped and looked around me. Nothing. No sign of form. No humans. No buildings. Nothing but the sea extending out infinitely before me. Nothing but flat, empty beach in front of me and behind me. Unnerving. A force pushed in on me. I'm not sure whether it came from inside or outside of me or whether 'me' existed at all. Without my ears and eyes I had the sense of this force conveying that there was nothing I was, nothing I had done, nothing I could do, that did not belong. This energy had no human quality, no interest in standing in judgment, no ability to qualify or compare. It had an uncompromising ability to hold and only offered me the opportunity to yield, let go. This force could just as easily swallow me into the sea or suspend my body's gravity with water. No dualism. No good. No bad.

And I sobbed. It took my breath away that life is a force that wants nothing of me and offers unconditional belonging and unrelenting energy, even in death. The weight of that kind of belonging was simultaneously crushing and releasing. Humbling doesn't begin to capture my experience. 'Breathtaking' is the best I've come up with so far.

.... Back on the road this past Friday. I'm feeling some flow but I notice it's somewhat corrupted with a quality of smugness, a dead giveaway that my ego is close by. I'm thinking about my intrinsic belonging, about the energy that moves through me, around me. And around the next corner Bear comes lumbering out of the woods. Bent over on all fours, his back is as tall as my belly button. The depth of black on each individual piece of his fur coat reminds me of looking into the night sky. He is beautiful. But he is too close. I freeze. My breath went from somewhat laboured to non-existent. I went from my momentary delusional sense of no-self to: "oh Lord, I don't want to die!" and various other pleadings for safety and personal preservation.

Bear never did look my way. Maybe it was because I had reached such an enlightened level of no-self that I was invisible.... but I don't think so. Bear became my instant Master/guru showing me how quickly I could fall back into that old dream-state of thinking myself a separate entity in this thing we call life.

I went for a run again this morning not because I'm bold or ignorant, though I can be. Not even because I'm so deluded to think I won't run into Bear again. Life is. There is the collective dream of control but it's an illusion. There's precious little I can control in this life other than how I respond to it as it unfolds and whether I want to play or not.

Tomorrow, June 28th, is a notable day in this story of self that I call "Martha." On June 28, 1998, my brother, Alex, fell from a mountain's shoulder in a sloughing of snow. In a moment, the force of life I thought of as my brother went from form to space and left a new energy in my life that left me permanently altered. On June 28, 2007, my canine companion, Maelek, relinquished his beautiful and noble body rather unexpectedly while I was away, visiting my family in Canada. That night, as my dear friends sat with his failing body at an emergency vet clinic in Boulder, 2000 miles northeast I met him in a field beside the forest in my mind. My desire was to hold onto his life rather than release it. However, with a courage and clarity that came from somewhere more spacious, I slipped his collar off his neck and thanked him for teaching me about love and life. And then I watched him run off into the woods.

I have no electronic images of Alex but I'll attach a couple of Maelek.

the unbearable lightness of being

Today I am shifting some energy in my writing. In particular, I lay in bed this morning feeling torn between writing for myself and writing an entry for this blog. It's really not a big deal to put together some words here. What's getting to me, what I'm waking up to is the fact that I put a bit of weight or pressure on myself to produce. In fact, I see how this is a weight I put on myself in different areas of my life: being a therapist and 'fixing' the problems of my clients; being a friend and making sure I'm supportive; being a family member and ensuring that I'm present. I've alluded to this habit of mine in other entries, being more attuned to what I perceive others would like from me rather than feeling my own impulses. In my journalling this morning I wrote something like: "I want to march to the beat of my own drum but I struggle to quiet the symphony orchestra in the background."

No wish to make this a pity party. I feel more matter-of-fact around it than dramatic. I've noticed in my life I've been both drawn to and repelled by people who unself-consciously do their own thing, even when the world around them recoils or frets. I had a boyfriend when I was a teenager, my first love. He had a generosity and a creativity about his spirit that flabberghasted me. At the same time, he looked to be following his own rhythm without being tied up in knots about offending others. He drew me in while he scared me. Now 20-some years later, I know more about 'projections' and other sophisticated psychological constructs to recognize that I preferred to see my own maverick nature embodied by him than experienced through me -- too threatening.

Writing is scary. Living authentically without self-consciousness ironically requires me to look more intensely at my sense of ego and self; what or whom am I protecting when I angle so many of my thoughts, actions, words, and behaviours at being accepted? Or being special?

In the shower yesterday morning, (what is it about showers?) I sunk to my knees with a realization that I have been working my ass off trying to succeed at a game which cannot be won and trying to figure out a puzzle that cannot be solved. This is a crazy, crazy world. The extent that I (and others) go to in hopes of creating meaning or success in an ultimately illusory world is beyond absurd; it's mad. And that I create a professional life around attempting to help people feel 'normal' in a reality based on illusion is the ultimate cosmic comic strip. While I sense freedom in letting go of the insanity, I also experience terror. If the 'I-me-Martha' project is not working towards building meaning, not struggling to succeed, not rearranging myself for belonging, what am I doing?

I didn't mean to write all this. I just meant to write that I'm fine and all is well. I intended to inform anyone who reads this blog that I'm shifting some of my creative writing to a more personal exploration rather than this public expose. Alas, the words are on the screen now. Who would I being trying to protect by deleting them? I will keep this blog happening, likely with more photos and facts than personal diatribes. If only to let you know that I'm still here and they haven't come to take me away,... yet.

A few notes on the photos in the way of an update: there is a picture of my papa from last weekend. I got his permission to take a photo of him sucking on his hookah (aka - "volumetric incentive spirometer") in the hospital after open-heart surgery (new valve plus bypass). Sucking on the hookah strikes me as a metaphor for how I stay asleep in this dreamy reality - but there I go again. There's a picture of me going for a swim a couple weeks ago in the run off of Champney Falls. Also, Becky and I got out for our first paddle of the year this past Memorial Day. We came across a moose in the shallows. The other images I liked are those of waves, stillness, and life, all mixed up in with the sharpness of the paddle's blade.

alone

The truth of aloneness struck me deeply this past week. I was in the shower one evening, I'm not sure from where this recognition came. Don't misunderstand me, it's not the first time I've come to realize that each of us ultimately lives and dies alone. But under the steady flow of water this past week, I felt my aloneness. Not nearly as morose as it might sound, I felt as though a light went on, as though I finally experienced the life-altering effects of this existential truth. A surprising aspect of my getting it on a cellular level is that I initially felt no sadness, no happiness, no fear - just "oh." Understanding.

A little embarrassing to admit how much energy I've put into either altering this reality by surrounding myself with people (including searching for mates) or numbing myself to this recognition through suppressing any need for connection. Both these choices do a tipsy-turvy trip on a see-saw, missing the poignant balancing point somewhere in the movement of the middle. Alone just is. Not nihilistic. Not to be fixed. Not even to be rectified by a search for meaning or God. Alone just is. And there's a complex experience in alone that cannot be captured readily with words, more the playground of poetry. Alone fosters freedom and devastation. Alone hosts cruelty and humour. Ultimately alone simply wants to be acknowledged and invited for a cup of tea or a glass of wine.

Realizing I can anthropomorphize anything, including the shadow cast on my duvet in the afternoon light, it is not my intention to personify alone as the stinky and socially awkward kid who used to stare at you in school. Nor is it my wish to proselytize about the importance of summoning courage and facing one's essential aloneness. For me, the rapture as well as the profound pain I've experienced in finally relinquishing my fear of alone has ultimately brought me to a new place. For some reason, Dante's Divine Comedy springs to mind. In particular the famous line of the poem: "All hope abandon ye who enter here." What is there to lose?

typing towards insanity

Yesterday I set my first tangible foot onto the path of formalizing my writing. I needed to break the surface tension between me and the change of profession/lifestyle that awaits me. Plus, it was May 1st and I woke up feeling pregnant -- take a breath, not literally pregnant but metaphorically so. I felt full and the world around me felt bursting with possibility.

It was strange to shift from my paper journal, pen in hand, to my computer screen. All of a sudden, someone invited my inner critic to the party! What a voice! And with no bounds - it was open season on my syntax, limited vocabulary, sentence structure, questionable spelling, paragraph styling, content, format. Even my posture and typing accuracy took some blows. How fun! So, I told my critic to get comfortable because there's plenty of places to sit and no end in sight as far as my writing process and her opportunities to offer constructive feedback. I figure it's better to consciously make room for her, pushing her back down just gives her more credit than she deserves.

Today I was sitting in a rocking chair on my deck and talking on the phone with my friend, Joan, from Colorado. As we discussed our respective short-term futures I felt a shiver inside my system. Writing full-time will be a lonely experience and I think I'm blissfully naive as to where this trip will take me. Which is good. I'm not sure I'd have it any other way. As we spoke, a Coopers Hawk flew 12 feet in front of me, slowly, just a couple feet off the ground. I doubted the authenticity of my vision. To satisfy my curiosity and attend to the weight I felt in the moment, I looked up 'hawk symbolism' on the internet:

"The hawk comes to you indicating that you are now awakening to your soul purpose, your reason for being here. It can teach you how to fly high while keeping yourself connected to the ground.

As you rise to a higher level, your psychic energies are awakening and the hawk can help you to keep those senses in balance. Its message for you is to be open to hope and new ideas, to extend the vision of your life." (from 'Divine Sparks' blog)

Likely you host your own perspective on there being messengers for humans in the form of animal totems. Personally, I've had some powerful experiences, particularly with birds, when I've been about to go through radical experiences in my life (enough to tattoo an eagle on my shoulder). So, I'll just humbly say 'thank you' to the hawk and hold the awe-evoking belief that there is more happening in this chapter of my life than simply falling off the "conventional wagon" on a whimsical ride of irresponsibility and screwing up.

I thought I would include a few photos of my new home space -- the place which will host my journey from paper and pen to fingertips on keyboard over the next five months or so.

In close, I offer an invitation which I heard quoted in an NPR interview earlier this week: "Do something every day that scares you." This is radical living.

fuck diamonds. duct tape is a girl's best friend.

June is more bad-ass than ever and Becky tells me that I am finally starting to look like a local northern New Hampshirite. Live free or die, baby. Live free or die.

It would appear that after 75ooo miles or so the motor on a VW power window has done its time. And so I looked at the options... cardboard? saran wrap? a beach towel with the Red Sox insignia? or maybe just roll down the highway au naturel-like, with the wind in my hair. The weather forecast knocked some common sense into my head; a winter storm warning has been issued for the next few days. I started to fiddle and pry away at the inside panel thinking that maybe I could "fix" the window rather than seal the hole. Harry, having earned his stripes on the planet came out of his garage with heavy-duty plastic and, you got it, a roll of duct tape, cautioning me to not make it worse than it is.

So, Anemone (in photos) and I combined our creativity and fresh thinking to determine how best to seal the window. Being a McClure with an inbred fear of maverick electrical wires/cords in my living space and sticky residues in general, I had to breathe deeply into a paperbag a few times before completing the project. Becky has assured me that there are solvents which can remove unsightly gooey trails without harming June's pristine paint job. I'll report back.

And so with a notable blind spot out the right side of my vehicle (adding a not-insignificant level of adventure for taking all the left turns between home and work), Anemone and I loaded up for our drive down Interstate-93. Harry took one look at the completed revamp and told me to take the roll of duct tape with us. An hour later, just as we were pulling off the highway, we blew a hole from the bottom end of the repair job. Apparently, the life expectancy of duct tape attaching metal and plastic at 65 mph is 35 miles. Learning something new everyday.

For now the skies have yet to release the anticipated rain and snow. As such, I cannot report on the resiliency of the fix-it under precipitatious conditions. I'm still sorting out how I will scrape the passenger window if I wake up to ice. I have an appointment to get the problem diagnosed tomorrow afternoon. The guy I spoke to on the phone assured me that they'd at least be able to get the window back up for me. Yah... Right.... They don't know June like I know June. She's probably gotten pretty infatuated with the duct tape too.

The adventure continues.

the Monday that follows Sunday

Exhale. Where do I want to go this morning? I've been delaying my blogging and as such many stories and thoughts are pushing up against my fingers for their voice. Start with now.

It's Monday of my last week working full-time at the Shelter. It's just after 6am so I'll have to put a limit on my typing so that I can get out the door on time. I am very relieved to be heading into the homestretch with work. It's difficult not to be disparaging about the Shelter when I hold my experience of what it has been like working there. I can say that it has been an enormous lesson in looking at my various motivations for the choices I make, particularly with respect to work. I suppose like much of our society, I have attached the notion of being of service to my work and that, often in service, there is sacrifice. It's a choice, of course, like anything, but I have had a compulsion over the years to direct my skills and training into trying to help out people and causes who very obviously are in need. The folks who live and work at the Shelter are wonderful souls and I wanted to be helpful.

I was drowning.

This broaches on another motivation.... my ego. My desire to feel my full wingspan professionally in an environment that is in dire need of help brought out my impulse to swoop in with a cape and make things better. Hubris.

And then there's the motivation that is tough to dance around. Money. And here is where I feel energy begin to move in my body in the form of fear. Last night I was visited by the demons who harass me about my lack of adult-like responsibility when it comes to supporting myself and becoming a grown-up. I have no idea how I will support myself financially through this decision to resign from my job.

This is terrifying to admit. I am sitting on this wall which divides two territories. One territory is known and travelled and yet for my heart, body, and spirit I could not find a good fit in working at a job that was making me sick even though it kept me linked to my profession and paid my bills. Because the shoe was so obviously the wrong size, I looked deeper into my soul and made the decision to spend the next few months writing. This is a territory that thrills me, scares me, excites me, and holds me and yet my travels in this land have been private, a sheltering place, separate from making a living.

And so this all brings me up against a very core issue -- if I'm not travelling a well-trod path, making a living, offering sacrifices of myself, will I be okay? Who or what will support this journey?

I wonder if this is all just a childish way to avoid growing up and assuming the responsibilities of real life. I can hear the supportive voices of the people who love me attempting to soothe my worries but this is ultimately a solo path. Each of us makes a life and chooses a route that is our own private journey. Regardless of whether we have a mate or a family or a brilliant circle of friends, each of us walks alone with our demons speaking into one ear and our spirit whispering from the quiet. As I sit on this stone wall between two territories, the tension is mounting.