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.

68 in a 65

A fine memory from my recent roadtrip, relocating my furniture and personal belongings from a storage unit in Boulder, CO to a somewhat quirky and rundown yet charming cottage in Franconia, NH: as my friend, Bradford, and I closed in on Chicago, IL on Wednesday morning (day 2 of 3) an Illinois state trooper seemingly more interested in the westbound traffic pulled a u-turn from his median position and began tailing me down the interestate (it should be noted that I, myself, was tailing a transport truck. But nonetheless, what's a roadtrip without a story?). A minute passes, enough for him to run the Arizona-based plates on our intrepid 17' Uhaul truck, and his lights come on -- gobsmacked, I signal right and pull onto the shoulder.

An aside, as we were headed out on our first full driving day, wrestling with the lack of power in her Uhaul engine through Nebraska, I commented to Bradford that I would be somewhat proud to get a speeding ticket in our underpowered and cumbersome vehicle, as sportier machines and SUV's blew by us.

.... back to Officer BJ Lewis and his spirited and zealous pursuit for keeping the peace and ensuring the state of Illinois is free of dangerous scum on the roadways. He surprises us as I pull out my Colorado driver's license and the Uhaul rental contract; awaiting his presence at my driver's side window he pops up out of nowhere on the passenger side -- does the man know no conventions?!

"Do you know how fast you were going?" says he.

Surpressing a laugh and attempting to neutralize the confusion demonstrated by my transparent face and knitted brows, "No" says me.

"I clocked you going 68 in a 65."

A weighted silence, pushing down the impulse to respond with, "And....?" Further quieting my desire to add, "Did you happen to note the speed of the cars buzzing past us in the passing lane? Or the transport truck in front of me?"

Instead, "Oh," attempting to look adequately repentent and ashamed of myself while making sure I avoid eye contact with Bradford for fear of dissolving into laughter. I adjust my body position in the truck, plopping my chin on top of my hand and leaning towards Office Lewis as though his words are as compelling as a first hand account of witnessing the parting of the seas.

He continues talking, sharing his philosophy that Facebook and MySpace should be made illegal for all the danger they present to peoples' safety and privacy (this after I ask him if I can take his picture for my blog). Bradford, sensing Officer Lewis' desire to be a helper/protector, smartly asks for directions in navigating the worst of Chicago traffic. After 15 minutes or so, we're on our way with a written warning and advice that Indiana highway patrol are out in full force today - apparently I'm on their radar and should no longer push the edges of conformity when it comes to making a landspeed record in a Uhaul from Colorado to New Hampshire.

Wednesday afternoon, April 1st, Bradford and I safely pulled the gas-eating Uhaul into the driveway of my white clapboard cottage. All is well here at my new NH post -- after 3 days of unpacking and placing, my home has taken shape. I'm thrilled.

The weather since our arrival has been unseasonably warm and sunny, crossing over the 80 degree threshold and imploring the budding of new life from the earth and trees. On this Easter Sunday morning, Bradford and I went out walking and exploring through the woods beside my home. I have now taken to walking everywhere in my black rubber boots but the knee-high footwear could only run so much interference for my skin as Bradford and I bushwacked our way (somewhat disoriented and lost) through brambles and fallen trees. I consider these angry red scratches a small token of appreciation to the holiday of resurrection and the spirit of atonement -- it's a full life for me and there are often small prices to pay in the spirit of adventure and expansion.

Stay tuned.... I've resigned from my employment at the shelter. I will work full-time until May 5th and then, in honour of celebrating my 40th year in October, I am dedicating the next few months to pursuing my pleasure and passion for writing, as a gift to myself. If possible, I would like to work part-time/contractually to help make ends meet (and simply because I enjoy therapy as a professional practice) for the next half year or so but, more than anything, I am choosing to follow my heart and soul a bit more for now. After all, if not NOW, then when?

Happy spring to you -- may your search for chocolate eggs be fruitful. And keep it just under 'dangerous' on your adventure speedometer.

let's hear it for Evel

...who was cool enough to nearly make a cat-person out of me. Almost.

This past week, I sadly yet peacefully re-gifted my stray cat to a woman with whom I work and her 19 year old son who has autism. I was gobsmacked by the smoothness of life events; Evel (yes, that's right -- I changed his/her name from "3" to Evel after watching it fly around my home like the original Evel Knievel, occasionally crashing and burning) came into my world one very cold night at the start of 2010 and helped me to stay planted on the planet through some tough nights and mornings. Of course, when the woman was considering the adoption and asked me its name, I responded "Precious."

The morning after the adoption I phoned to see how the first night was: she responded that cat and son were bonding nicely and she snapped some shots of him with his head on the cat's belly as he/she slept on the stairs. All is well.

In honour of the beast who made my life sweet for a few short months, I'm putting some shots from our last couple of days together. Sometimes life seems to distill down to memories and photographs.

For two weeks I have swapped 8lbs of cat for 150lbs of drool and muddy paws. These last two pic's are of Wiley (sheep dog) and Red (chesapeake) whom I am dogsitting while Becky and Harry are out of town. Maybe it's not about being a dog-person or a cat-person but enjoying what is. Perhaps I could apply this lesson to my work.... and to people.