Mid-Wived into the Adventure

I am sitting on a bed in my friends' home in Mazatlán, Mexico, using a borrowed computer to write this entry. The gated window is open for a breeze, and the sounds of neighborhood partying mix with the periodic barking of a neighbor's dog. My friends' twins, not quite one month old, have stopped crying. 

At the corner of the bed sits one friend's 15-year-old son, who is playing the "Sleeping Dogs" video game he loves, about under-cover police sleuthing. This really lovely young man has eagerly invited me to try this video game and "Minecraft" as well, both of which I have indeed tried to his great delight. Of the two, I found the former, though violent, more interesting to play. Hmmm.

My almost complete lack of coordination with the controls was quite funny for both of us. My figures moved about as if drunk: they walked into walls, wandered in circles, bumped into vegetable stands, and generally jerked about. On one occasion, without intending to do so, I made a figure slam someone else's head against a wall, leaving a blood spatter. I was horrified. Such is life in the early days of my adventure.

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The final days before my departure were a wild ride. The company managing my apartment got a new property manager shortly before I left. She reversed the prior manager's decision that I would not have to clean my carpet because it was due for replacement, and I got this word the Friday before my Monday walk-through. Ten minutes before closing time that same day, I also got a list of cleaning requirements that I was seeing for the first time, and that appeared to demand a level of cleaning fully inconsistent with the condition of the apartment when I had first taken it. I have to admit, to my own disappointment, that this whole experience was the breaking point for my prior calm and positivity; I was not pleasant with or grateful to the new manager, who received a full dose of my frustration and intensity. The experience was a great lesson in the importance of approaching the rental scene with camera in hand and detailed written record co-signed by both parties.

In the final week prior to leaving, I probably got about 20 hours of sleep total as I alternated between cleaning and packing, with some travel organizing thrown in for good measure. There were a couple of nights that I didn't sleep at all. I was perversely fascinated by the gradual deterioration of my own cognitive capacity: slowed thinking, inability to sustain attention -- even for the completion of a single sentence, let alone a single thought -- and word-finding problems (beyond my norm, I must add with a -- what's that word? -- wry, yes, a wry smile). Fortunately, I did not slide into psychosis, but I thought a lot about the sleep deprivation approach that is sometimes used in interrogations and/or torture.

I also thought a lot about the use of stress positions in interrogation, a practice that has been questioned as regards whether it "really" is torture. My knees ached from constant kneeling on the floor and/or sitting on the single low stool that I had kept for working on papers and packing. I can tell you from my years as an artist's model that it hurts to return to any single position repeatedly, even with breaks. The body knows quite exactly, "I was here," when it hurts. I cannot imagine what it is to maintain any body position for hours on end without a break, though I am certain that it is torture.  

The cleaning and packing did get finished, thanks again to the extremely generous help of many others, and of one friend in particular. I simply would not have been able to complete this process alone and I believe this is true of anything significant in our lives: development after development, we are mid-wived by others into what matters. 

Meanwhile, as the cleaning and packing proceeded, I was trying to work out the acquisition of a four-month "travel supply" of my daily medication. Whereas I'd previously gotten this medication through a mail-order pharmacy, with a minimal co-pay, this was now impossible because my COBRA had not yet been finalized. I checked with a local pharmacy and discovered that I could get the extremely expensive medication fairly cheaply by joining their pharmacy program, and the pharmacist said she would order the medication I needed because it was not common enough for them to have it on hand. I was good to go with my Plan B -- or so I thought. 

To make a long story short, I did not prioritize picking up the medication because I saw it as a sure thing. However, when I went to the pharmacy the day before leaving in order to pick up the prescription, I was told that it had been sent back because I hadn't come to get it earlier. When the clerk investigated further, she discovered this was not the case at all. It turned out that the pharmacist had somehow forgotten to place the order in the first place. Interestingly for me, I was not angry about this; it was an unfortunate error, but an error nonetheless. The pharmacy called around, and I was told that the store in Sunnyvale was the only one with the necessary quantity in stock. That night, my friend drove me to Sunnyvale -- 50 minutes away -- to get the medication. For me, it was a much appreciated opportunity to visit with him the night before leaving the US.

One important detail that did get addressed before I left the US was the discussion of my Advanced Medical Directives with the friend who is first in line to oversee their implementation if that becomes necessary. Ever since the Terri Schiavo case, I've worn a "Do Not Resuscitate" bracelet. The guiding principles for my end-of-life wishes turned out to be: (1) though there is a great deal I would like to experience, work on, learn, etc., I've lived a good enough life already; and (2) I wouldn't want to burden or obligate others with my long-term care if I were significantly brain-damaged. It was personally valuable to have this discussion because it required a level of clarity I might not otherwise have achieved in my thinking about the matter of my eventual death. I recommend the process!

There were many more final details to which I had to attend that night, and others to which I did not get. It made me think of the Buddhist retreats about which I've read, where, when the bell rings (say, for lunch), one simply stops what one is doing. The broom, for example, is laid down mid-sweep -- and so it is with life. I worked through the final night to complete as much as possible, and was so very glad that my friend had insisted I get some sleep the prior night! At 3:20 AM on the morning of March 27th, my friend was driving me to the San Jose Airport while teaching me how to use the iPod Touch he had lent me for my trip.  

All this story and so little about the travel itself. My next entry will be about the beginning of my actual out-of-country travel, I promise.  

meg  3-30-2013 

Swaying Trees & Finding Lift

On my way back home from a trip to the storage space (with a dear friend), I sat in a very slow-moving line of cars on the off-ramp. Happily, this afforded me an uninterrupted view of a cluster of tall, slender eucalyptus trees that were swaying in the wind that kicked up this evening. They did not all sway in the same direction, but rather in a graceful harmony with the wind that I would not otherwise "see." This sight of swaying trees relaxed me deeply, as it always does. I have a very strong memory of being calmed while watching an entire grove of swaying treetops from the solarium window of a hospital where my mom was having brain surgery. There is a palpable yielding and dancing, even in a more violent wind than today's.

At the same time, I watched a handful of crows that seemed to be flying against the wind. Although their work looked hard, with lots of flapping just to stay in place, it seemed that their intent was to find lift and to then turn sharply and be blown across the sky. It looked like a game. The crows made me think of kites, which have to be pulled against the wind in order to rise. There are so many ways to travel.

I wonder sometimes about the ways in which the invisible is made visible: the curlicues of air currents that are seen through the movement of smoke rising from an extinguished candle flame, the water currents as seen through the movement of seaweed. At a church in San Francisco a while back, I watched as delicate rods of glass hanging from the ceiling suddenly popped into view as they were hit by light, in this case something invisible acting upon the presumably -- but not previously -- visible. How is love like this? Do we pull each other into relief through our love? How is it that the energy between people is so discernible? Is it rendered visible by all of the micro- and macro- observable changes, or do we feel it directly somehow? Two quotes:

"Service is love made visible." - Stephen Colbert

"It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye." - Antoine de Saint-Exupéry (in "The Little Prince")

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On an unrelated theme (is there such a thing?), it occurred to me that people might wonder how much stuff I actually have, and why it's taking me so long to pack it. I do have a lot of stuff, having been amply endowed with pack-ratism by both sides of my family. I am also, I suppose, a sentimental person. Much of my stuff are things that others might part with in a heartbeat: art and craft supplies, sketchpads full of drawings, nature treasures (branches, rocks, seed pods, small dessicated animals and road-killed skimmer reptiles, interesting cans and buttons, evocative pieces of rusted metal, old letters and journals. (Yikes! I just had the same experience I'd had years ago when I told my family history to a psychiatrist and suddenly saw myself through that person's professional eyes. I am now seeing myself through the imagined eyes of my readers. Scary.) Some of my stuff is what people more typically keep: art, books, CDs, useful and/or special clothing. Some of the stuff was from friends and family members, and some of it was directly acquired or made by me. Are you getting a visual here?

The collection itself, however, does not explain the time it is taking me to pack it. What is taking time are three challenges of my own creation. These are the sorting through in order to toss or donate, the experiencing/appreciating of items as I go through them, and the identifying of recipients in the event that I don't return to the US. The first is often easy but time consuming. The second and third typically invite a whole host of emotions, memories and associations. The third also has the central goal of making things easier for the person or people who will have to deal with my belongings if I don't return, so I take it seriously. Elements two and three are where it gets really rich. Who would like this? Would anyone else ever want a dessicated little mouse and a rattler's tail in a Mexican reliquary box? What group could use these supplies? Oh, another item from my cats -- and there's a whisker! Damn, the parallels between their old-age healthcare needs and those of my mom are so striking. I miss them all. Oh gosh, the family items -- no one wanted these other than me, but people wanted them to stay in the family. At what point does one -- do I -- simply let go? Simply? For me, unfortunately not -- yet. But I do continue to push against this resistance, and perhaps I'll find some lift.

I Can Do This

I'm sitting at my desk in my mostly emptied bedroom in my mostly emptied apartment. It's almost 4 AM on Tuesday, and I've been going since 8 AM yesterday. This is the time of night when I wonder if I should simply keep going, or if there really might be a good reason to get some sleep.

I've been putting in 16 to 18 hours a day most days for the past few weeks, and I've had a recurring thought about that: much of the world probably does this as a matter of course, and puts in these long hours in order to survive. How could I complain that it's taking me too much time to sort and pack my stuff, too much time to organize my legal, medical and financial affairs, too much time to prepare for my adventure?

I continue to wrestle with my stuff on all levels. At a wonderful improvisation workshop this weekend, our teacher spoke of an improvisation friend who'd said something along the lines of, "When I let go of my stuff, it has claw marks all over it." This was a reference to the emotional and other stuff the friend held onto while improvising, but it's all metaphor anyway. Among the things I've read while sorting through old journals and scraps of paper was a statement about liking the moving process, ~ "because I get to enjoy the things I have, I get to let go of the things I have, and I get to move into at least relatively unfamiliar territory." In that particular entry, written some time after my parents' deaths, I likened the experience of grieving to that of moving.

Improvisation, in addition to being just plain fun (even when it's also fantastically challenging), seems to me the best possible preparation for my journey -- perhaps for any journey, including life. I timed my departure, in part, so I could take this weekend workshop. David's focus on attuned honesty with self and others, full attention, and staying with what is, is exactly what I need. That he approaches the learning with experiences -- rich, emotional, relational, physical, elemental, spatial and, dare I say, spiritual experiences -- rather than exercises is a marvelous bonus.

My preparations have led me into deep territory, e.g., Advanced Care Directives, Durable Power of Attorney (yep: all the information), registering with the Stanford Willed Body Program. identifying recipients for my things -- and, most deep of deep, asking people to take these significant roles in my life. My friends and family have stepped up with immense generosity, and they offer themselves to me so fully that it quite takes my breath away. The help (the love!!!) comes in all forms, big and bigger, ranging from the concrete-physical to the spiritual-emotional. Perhaps those are the same thing. My gratitude is equaled only by astonishment at my good fortune to have these people in my life. Thank you.

Which leads me to think of something I'd heard once, about a situation in which someone stands on a crowded corner and yells out, "Guilty!" -- to which everyone within earshot responds by cringing, assuming they have been found out. Wouldn't it be great if one could stand on that street corner and yell out, "Thank you!," and know that everyone within earshot would feel recognized and smile? Again: thank you.

I've been given many nourishing images and words (as well as yoga positions and the reminder to drink water) to guide and sustain me. I've been practicing one such gift: "This. Here. Now." Me being who I am, I wonder what the "this" and "here" are in all their -- for me typical -- complexity. What is this particular "this," and where exactly is this "here"? The "now" is completely refreshing, handily simplifying and grounding "this" and "here" in the moment. "The moment" qualifies for me as "relatively unfamiliar territory." (big grin here)

In spite of my exhaustion, in spite of my ongoing questioning of my capacity to keep going, in spite of my terror that I won't get enough done before leaving (so very existential), in spite of my sadness to be saying good-bye to people I love, in spite of my turmoil and existential ponderings -- I feel a pervasive lightness and joy. I'm excited and I smile a lot. I don't get frustrated when things are not going well. One can only hope that my posts will be more palpably joyous once I actually leave the country, as well as have some images people might want to see.

Speaking of which: one friend, knowing that I felt overwhelmed on a particular day, put together the encouraging image that accompanies this post. Oh, the lightness and joy! The liberation of submersion. The buoyancy of jumping into the deep end.

Okay, I can hear the garbage trucks outside, so it's time to catch some Zs before turning back to the stuff. 

meg  3-19-2013

The Cow, the Bird & the Bud

I had an intense flare of anger and distress yesterday.

There is a tradition on the team I just left, of writing songs (new lyrics to existing songs) for people who are leaving the agency, and also for those who are expecting a child. I went in to join my now ex-colleagues in writing a song for a colleague who will retire in April. As we were doing this, a former colleague turned to me with a smile and asked how it felt to be retired. I yelled at her, cursed and teared up.

Wow, huh?

The thing is, I didn't retire; I quit. Over many weeks before I left, I stressed to supervisors and those above them that I was resigning, not retiring. Even so, people from my own and other agencies would run into me and say, "Hey, I hear you're retiring" or "Congratulations on your retirement!" Each time I'd correct them, "No, actually, I'm not retiring. I can't afford to retire. I'm leaving -- quitting."

It matters to me deeply that people understand the significance in my life of this particular act, and of the words that are used to describe it. In my younger years, I lived fairly hand-to-mouth and was unconcerned about financial stability and medical care. As I've aged, and with the development of some chronic medical issues, I've come to appreciate paid health insurance along with the ease that comes from a steady paycheck. Giving these up is a leap over a huge mountain of fear and inertia; calling it "retirement" is, for me, like making a mole hill of that mountain (play on words intended).

The greater significance has to do with my finally acting on something I'd realized long ago: I am a bad fit for bureaucracies. They play to my worst tendency toward a rule-driven work style, and they do not nurture my spirit. At a team retreat some four or five years ago, I realized that I was a cow in a field of the lushest, juiciest, most varied and tender greens -- I had the pleasure of working with an amazing group of folks. In this verdant field, however, surrounded by such richness, I was tethered to a trough filled with crappy cow feed. I enjoyed my colleagues several times a year at our retreats, and then returned to the trough. My perception was that, having spent a day laughing, sharing our open hearts, eating, singing and crying together, we would return to work all shut down and ready to meet our deadlines. The light was gone from people's faces. My impression was that we barely made eye contact so as to avoid the possibility of a conversation; conversations will really put you behind on your progress notes, you know? 

This knowledge of my bad fit was like a bird flying around looking for a place to land. In early 2011, the bird did finally land -- in my heart -- and I knew I would have to leave.

I started looking for work elsewhere, including overseas. However, I had two old cats, sisters, whom I'd raised and cared for since they were kittens, and it made no sense to leave the neighborhood they knew and the veterinary practice I trusted. I committed myself to waiting until my cats had died. I put Squeak down in August of 2011, and Tigger in July of last year; they were 17-1/2 and 18-1/2 years old, respectively -- old and very dear friends. I continue to miss them at a level beyond words.

My great love for my clients and my colleagues, along with inertia, yes, kept me at my job longer than I'd planned. Now, however, I am out. I did not retire; I left. The lightness and expansion I feel far exceed the heaviness and constriction of the fear I continue to experience at times, and I am glad to be alive.

I end with some quotes that guide me, in particular at this time:

"And the day came when the risk it took to remain closed in a bud became more painful than the risk it took to blossom."  Anais Nin

"You cannot lead where you will not go."  (African proverb)

"If you don't risk anything, you risk even more."   Erica Jong

"Don't ask yourself what the world needs - ask yourself what makes you come alive, and then go do it. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive."    Howard Thurman

meg  2-27-2013

Life, Death and Packing

The journey continues as I sort through my life and my stuff. As I was putting someone's name on a box of items, I wondered if I might be willing to simply give the things away now, before my death, rather than designating the things to be given to that person in the event of my death. I thought about all the loving words we say to each other about someone who has died, perhaps never having said them to that person while s/he was still alive -- or, at least, not recently or often enough or with enough attention. Why wait? What would it be like if we all had a memorial before we died? I suggested at work once that we pull a team member's name out of a hat each week or each month, in order to share with that person the love, respect and admiration we felt about her or him. People didn't like the idea. Back to the boxes of things: I'm not ready to give up all of my stuff.

I'm in an interesting dance with the fact of my impermanence and the impermanence of others. I will write a will before I leave the US, as well as identify my beneficiaries and answer the Five Questions about the kind of care I would and would not want in the event of serious illness or injury. I know that I could die tomorrow, today, in the next moment. I could die right here where I live now; travel outside the US is not a prerequisite for death.

What motivates me to tend to these things now is my wish to spare from unnecessary hardship the friend who has generously agreed to take on legal, financial and medical power of attorney while I'm traveling. I acknowledge the reality of my impermanence, but I plan to return. And I want certain stuff waiting for me when I do. As if I were in control of all that. I remember that, when my mom was in a Trauma Care Unit after the auto accident that killed my dad, I went from trying to control everything to "letting go of control" to "letting go of the illusion of control." Yet here it is again, that illusion of control. "Oh! when did you get back into town?" Clearly, this is a work in progress.

I have some goals for this journey. After years of sleepwalking my way through life (i.e., making "safe" choices, living small), I want to jump into the unknown. I would like to be in enough of an unknown that I naturally come face-to-face with who I am and what I bring to my life and the lives of others. How do I show up? What doors do I open? What stones do I thrown in my own and others' paths? When do I say yes, when do I say no, and why? Having spent the past two decades working in bureaucratic public sector settings, I want to volunteer in local projects in order to experience how people are taking care of themselves and each other in other parts of the world. Along the way, I'd like to become more familiar with Latin American cultures, and to bump up my Spanish and Portuguese.

In spite of the stress of my preparations -- this is not a relaxing time! -- I am aware of feeling very alive. Though I have certain goals and intentions, I don't know where this journey will take me or where I will take the journey. The unknown is both terrifying and thrilling. Many years ago, a coworker described his experience of taking a one-day sky-diving course. He said that, when it was his turn to jump, he was terrified. "But it was then, Meg, that I realized that there are two kinds of people in this world: those who are afraid, and those who are afraid and jump anyway." I want to be in the latter group.

meg   2-22-13

The blog begins.

The blog begins.

The journey began quite some time ago, and is already a great adventure. At this moment, I'm thinking about the thread I threw out to my community some months back: an email informing people that I'd be traveling, explaining my goals, and asking for guidance in any form. An entire web has come back to me from that thread: broad brush guidance and highly detailed tips, names of people to contact and places to go, enthusiasm and faith that buoy me when I am afraid, books to read, and stories stories stories about people's travels and dreams. I have realized what a limited imagination I have, so unable was I to predict the richness of my extended community. I am deeply grateful for this experience of connection, love and wisdom, all so freely shared.

One of the travel tips I received was to "stay safe and have fun." When I first read this, I mistook "stay safe" for "don't take risks," and I thought "have fun" meant "go tourist about." My goals are rather opposite of these, in that I want to risk a leap into the unknown, and I want to connect with people and communities much more than I want to be a tourist. It took a while before I realized that "stay safe" means "take care of yourself," and "have fun" is about everything else. It's a reminder to be awake to life.

Last Friday was my last day at work, following two weeks of intensive good-byes with my clients and colleagues, as well as some days of intensive cubicle cleaning. How can any one person have so much stuff? The process of going through and weeding out, tossing and gifting, re-appreciating and head scratching ("I must have had a reason for keeping this, but I have no clue what it was") has been instructive, to say the least. I notice how easy it is to part with some things, and how difficult to part with others. I notice how my heart stands between the object and the toss in some instances ("This came from -- and connects me with -- a beloved"), and my ego in others ("Surely I will eventually read this book. I just know it.")


Now it is time to take the plunge and hit the "publish" button. To be continued...  meg  2-19-2013