...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.