My dears,
I imagine that some of you may be worried about me, so I'm jumping "ahead" to the present to let you know I'm doing great! I am in Nova Olinda, in the northern Brazilian state of Ceará. Nova Olinda lies at the mid-way point on the "Chapada do Araripi," which is a low mountain range running north-south through three states. It is an important and well-known area for geological and archeological research, as well as the location of the important but lesser-known Fundação Casa Grande (Foundation Big House), where I started volunteering today. I'm sitting on the couch in I and C's front room/dining area, using a borrowed laptop and the wi-fi connection from I and C's daughter (who lives upstairs with her family). As has been the case every step of the way so far, I am surrounded by people who love with mind-boggling, heart-opening ease and generosity.
I have so much to reflect and write about, and hope to do some catching up while I'm here.
The tidbit I'll share now is an appetizer about the only problem I've had since my travels began. I have broken a number of the travel safety rules: on quite a few occasions I've eaten delicious and/or unusual foods sold by street vendors (when out with friends); in an area with malaria risk, I took a long mosquito-ridden walk with friends through a wet forest (all of us were in perpetual motion, swatting ourselves and each other, and trying never to stop walking); I took a long (7-8 hours each way) night-time bus ride for a day-trip from Porto Velho, Brazil to Guayaramerín, Bolivia (lots of bumps, very slow going most of the time, and the only "hold-up" was for the excitement of a middle-of-the-night roadside contraband search by the Federal Police). Through all of this, and perhaps just beginner's luck, the only difficulty I've had was from a baked item I'd bought in the Brasilia airport. That story involves significant diarrhea at inopportune times, and will likely be told in more detail in a future post. It was an uncomfortable adventure at the time, and by now (a few days later) is just plain funny -- to me, at least.
I guess I'll share one other tidbit. My Portuguese has improved enough that I've had one long conversation with the stranger sitting next to me in an airplane, and one long conversation with a stranger while waiting in an airport. Both conversations were completely delightful. If I'm not mistaken, the young man with whom I spoke at the São Paulo airport was the same as that of the mysterious and magical king in Paulo Coelho's novel, "The Alchemist." As we talked about our life philosophies, he said, "Meg, there are three things that lead to sadness: (1) not knowing and not asking; (2), knowing but not teaching; and (3) knowing but not practicing."
May we all ask, practice and teach.
with love, meg April 24, 2013
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
Saturday, April 13, 2013
Rio: Light & Darkness, Life & Death
I'm still here in Palmas (leaving tomorrow for Porto Velho), and ready to write about my time in Rio de Janeiro. I left Mazatlán on April 1st, and had to travel by way of Houston, TX to get to Rio. That meant exiting the airport in Houston, going through immigration and customs, and then re-entering the airport to catch my plane to Rio. All I can say is that the lines through immigration were long and slow; with an hour for the connection, I wondered if I'd actually make it -- but did! I didn't sleep well on the plane, so watched three movies and walked the aisles.
I arrived in Rio on April 2nd, and spent the next two and a half days visiting with friends. Though my 2010 visit with M in Australia planted a critical seed regarding my wish to travel and live differently, E and P are the ones who planted the seed for this visit to Brazil. We'd had a number of false starts about this, so it was a magical moment when I saw their smiling faces at the more northern airport in Rio, to which they'd taken the long drive to pick me up. I was here! With them!!
I met E and P through mutual friends in Felton, CA and we found a quick resonance with each other. They told me about the Fundaçäo Casa Grande (Big House Foundation) at which I will volunteer later this month, and encouraged me to experience it, saying that I would "get" them and they would "get" me. This was the impulse for my wanting to learn Portuguese, which has been a journey all its own -- and which is what eventually led me to Palmas. More on that when I write the actual Palmas post.
The Rio aiport is the most beautiful airport into which I've ever flown: endless green mountains, beautiful clouds and water everywhere. The airport itself is on an island, and there are many smaller islands throughout the bay. Leaving this particular airport, one drives past a long wall of what appears to be opaque glass with occasional images that look like they were stenciled on. My friends informed me that the wall was put up so as not to offend entering and departing tourists with a view of the poverty-ridden favela that lies behind it. (Somehow I'm reminded of the curtain that gets pulled between first class and coach on an airplane; is there something inherently unviewable about people with less money? Or are those in first class doing something shameful from which others must be shielded?) In relatively recent history, favelas have been unsafe places to visit, as well as to live. However, increased police presence and decreased crime have led to a trend toward favela tours. My friends reported that tourists take photos of the residents and their housing as if the people were not actually people. Listening to them, I was reminded of a friend's dissertation about the inherently political nature of photography. I will have to pay closer attention to my own use of my camera.
From the airport, E and P first took me to their lovely home in a cul-de-sac off a long cobble-stoned street. Their apartment is an amazement: deceptively spacious due to their design choices, richly intimate, clear and simple yet filled with life, color and art. It is a space in which one feels immediately at home, and it is a perfect reflection of their abundant, warm spirits. The doorway of the apartment opens into a welcoming multi-purpose room, where one is greeted by a breath-taking view through a continuous set of cantilevering windows. From a beautiful hammock hung from the walls, one can gaze out the windows at the massive, lushly forested Corcovado mountainside. At the top of this mountain, the statue of Christ the Redeemer (Cristo Redentor) looks over the city with his arms spread wide. E and P informed me that, although they live on the third/top floor of their building, they must take care with any fruit they leave out because the macaques living in the forest will readily scale the building, leap into their apartment, steal the edible goods and be gone in a flash.
My short stay in Rio was relaxing yet full of delights, as well as evocative and provocative experiences. Among these were a peaceful walk through parts of the Jardim Botánico (Botanical Gardens), an elevated view of the city from yet another lovely green area, monkey head trees out on the sidewalk, traffic traffic traffic, beautiful and varied architecture (sometimes reminiscent of Parisian art nouveau), green green green everywhere, the most delicous mangos I've ever tasted, the sight of a manguba tree in a parking lot (complete with two hanging pods -- I thought it was a cacao tree, but my friend in Palmas enlightened me), a walk around the historic former port area that is currently undergoing renovation, and a visit to an institute (IPN: Instituto de Pesquisa e Memória Pretos Novos - Institute of New Blacks Research and Remembrance) in a house that turned out to have been built over the Cemitério dos Pretos Novos (Cemetary of New Blacks).
It appears that the history of the slave trade is deeply embedded in and intertwined with the history of Rio. The Botanical Gardens is located within the huge Tijuca National Park, and includes a large mansion that now houses an art school, a smaller building about which there apparently is some controversy (stables? quarters for enslaved workers?), and a well worn stone washing area (known to have been used by enslaved workers). The Gardens have a tropical feel, and I went ga-ga over colors, as well as some of the spiraling root and choke-vine shapes that abound. I got to see how jackfruit grows: on short stems, directly from the trunk of the tree. (See link below for more information about the Botanical Gardens.)
The former port area is no longer under water, having been filled in over centuries and then built upon. If I remember correctly, the city was excavating and renovating in an area known during the 1800s as "Little Africa," for the large concentration of Africans living in it. In the process of excavation, the city discovered two levels of former plazas, one built over the other. I believe that the older plaza had been one at which arriving Africans disembarked from slave ships, and the one above it had been part of a more richly appointed area.
This takes me to the IPN, which was both remarkable and disturbing. A couple had bought a house in the former "Little Africa" area of the city, with the intention of renovating and living in it. When workers were taking up the foundation, their tools broke stone and, along with this, repeatedly brought up human bones. The couple contacted officials, and discovered that the house had been built above an old cemetary whose location and history had been lost and forgotten over time. The name, Cemetary of the New Blacks, was a reference to recently arrived Africans within the slave trade, many of whom died soon after their arrival in Rio (others having already died and been thrown overboard on the journey itself). Further, the term "Black" in Brazil is considered quite offensive when applied to a person, and I imagine may be more akin to our use of "nigger" in the US; I don't know the actual equivalent. Regardless, "cemetary" is an over-stated term for this place, which was described as a mass grave for 20,000 to 30,000 Africans whose bodies were thrown in, allowed to rot, hacked up to make room for more bodies, and then also burned. The couple was so moved by the discovery that they stopped renovation and have turned the house into an institute for research, memorial, community involvement and education. (See the link below for more information.)
I was grateful to my friends for taking me to these places as well as the more upbeat locations. As in the US, racism and racial segregation continue in Brazil. For example, I noticed that all of the park workers I saw in the Botanical Gardens were dark-skinned people. When I asked E about this, she said it was a lower-paying, lower-status job. This reminded me of the many outdoor work crews I had seen in planted street areas when I lived in Norfolk, VA, who were almost always African Americans. On the other hand, almost all of the probably thousands of travelers I've seen in the Brazilian airports so far (Rio, Brasilia and Palmas) have been lighter-skinned people. The legacy of enslavement appears to be predictably potent and complex.
To end on a lighter note, my friends twice took me to lunch in a large warehouse-type building full of small fruit and vegetable stands, eateries and other shops. The roof of the building looked like sheet metal, and I imagined what it would sound like in the rain. I got a quick lesson in the Portuguese names for various fruits and vegetables, and noticed how huge the avocados were. (In that moment, Pavlov's dogs had nothing on me!) The vegetarian restaurant at which we ate was small, open, friendly and exceptionally good. From my seat in the corridor, I looked toward the entrance of the building at yellow melons hanging overhead in fine plastic mesh bags; they looked like melon balloons floating in the air. On another day, I drank fresh, cold young coconut juice (as in México, directly from the coconut). On that same day, E made a point of walking me through an upscale market in the building so we could get an air-conditioned respite from the heat.
That same evening, we joined three friends of E's and P's for dinner outside the building, where I had my first experience with "chopp." This is a very tasty Brazilian beer. When it was first offered to me as a possibility on the menu, I started to ask what it was and then decided to simply say "yes" to the encouraging looks on their faces; I was glad I did! The topics of conversation over dinner included language (the linguist in the group specializes in the study of indigenous languages), travel and family. Everyone was extremely generous and supportive regarding my Portuguese, including the three at the table who could easily have engaged with me in English. Bolivia was recommended for its remarkable music. Hmmm. At the airport on the way out of Rio, I arrived at my gate at the end of a long hallway of gates. What was there but a small bar advertising chopp. Hmmm.
My entry into South America was rich with love, encouragement and support, which have so far been the constant pavement of the road I'm traveling.
meg 4-13-13
Jardim Botánico (Botanical Gardens) in the Tijuca National Park:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rio_de_Janeiro_Botanical_Garden
Cemitério dos Pretos Novos (Cemetary of the New Blacks):
http://www.foxnews.com/us/2012/09/14/brazil-cemetery-african-slaves-honored/
Here is an image of a monkey head orchid (I've never seen this, but discovered the photo while searching for the monkey head trees and couldn't resist posting it):
http://www.facebook.com/
I thought I might have some other photos ready by now, but that is not the case. I'll attach links in another post.
I arrived in Rio on April 2nd, and spent the next two and a half days visiting with friends. Though my 2010 visit with M in Australia planted a critical seed regarding my wish to travel and live differently, E and P are the ones who planted the seed for this visit to Brazil. We'd had a number of false starts about this, so it was a magical moment when I saw their smiling faces at the more northern airport in Rio, to which they'd taken the long drive to pick me up. I was here! With them!!
I met E and P through mutual friends in Felton, CA and we found a quick resonance with each other. They told me about the Fundaçäo Casa Grande (Big House Foundation) at which I will volunteer later this month, and encouraged me to experience it, saying that I would "get" them and they would "get" me. This was the impulse for my wanting to learn Portuguese, which has been a journey all its own -- and which is what eventually led me to Palmas. More on that when I write the actual Palmas post.
The Rio aiport is the most beautiful airport into which I've ever flown: endless green mountains, beautiful clouds and water everywhere. The airport itself is on an island, and there are many smaller islands throughout the bay. Leaving this particular airport, one drives past a long wall of what appears to be opaque glass with occasional images that look like they were stenciled on. My friends informed me that the wall was put up so as not to offend entering and departing tourists with a view of the poverty-ridden favela that lies behind it. (Somehow I'm reminded of the curtain that gets pulled between first class and coach on an airplane; is there something inherently unviewable about people with less money? Or are those in first class doing something shameful from which others must be shielded?) In relatively recent history, favelas have been unsafe places to visit, as well as to live. However, increased police presence and decreased crime have led to a trend toward favela tours. My friends reported that tourists take photos of the residents and their housing as if the people were not actually people. Listening to them, I was reminded of a friend's dissertation about the inherently political nature of photography. I will have to pay closer attention to my own use of my camera.
From the airport, E and P first took me to their lovely home in a cul-de-sac off a long cobble-stoned street. Their apartment is an amazement: deceptively spacious due to their design choices, richly intimate, clear and simple yet filled with life, color and art. It is a space in which one feels immediately at home, and it is a perfect reflection of their abundant, warm spirits. The doorway of the apartment opens into a welcoming multi-purpose room, where one is greeted by a breath-taking view through a continuous set of cantilevering windows. From a beautiful hammock hung from the walls, one can gaze out the windows at the massive, lushly forested Corcovado mountainside. At the top of this mountain, the statue of Christ the Redeemer (Cristo Redentor) looks over the city with his arms spread wide. E and P informed me that, although they live on the third/top floor of their building, they must take care with any fruit they leave out because the macaques living in the forest will readily scale the building, leap into their apartment, steal the edible goods and be gone in a flash.
My short stay in Rio was relaxing yet full of delights, as well as evocative and provocative experiences. Among these were a peaceful walk through parts of the Jardim Botánico (Botanical Gardens), an elevated view of the city from yet another lovely green area, monkey head trees out on the sidewalk, traffic traffic traffic, beautiful and varied architecture (sometimes reminiscent of Parisian art nouveau), green green green everywhere, the most delicous mangos I've ever tasted, the sight of a manguba tree in a parking lot (complete with two hanging pods -- I thought it was a cacao tree, but my friend in Palmas enlightened me), a walk around the historic former port area that is currently undergoing renovation, and a visit to an institute (IPN: Instituto de Pesquisa e Memória Pretos Novos - Institute of New Blacks Research and Remembrance) in a house that turned out to have been built over the Cemitério dos Pretos Novos (Cemetary of New Blacks).
It appears that the history of the slave trade is deeply embedded in and intertwined with the history of Rio. The Botanical Gardens is located within the huge Tijuca National Park, and includes a large mansion that now houses an art school, a smaller building about which there apparently is some controversy (stables? quarters for enslaved workers?), and a well worn stone washing area (known to have been used by enslaved workers). The Gardens have a tropical feel, and I went ga-ga over colors, as well as some of the spiraling root and choke-vine shapes that abound. I got to see how jackfruit grows: on short stems, directly from the trunk of the tree. (See link below for more information about the Botanical Gardens.)
The former port area is no longer under water, having been filled in over centuries and then built upon. If I remember correctly, the city was excavating and renovating in an area known during the 1800s as "Little Africa," for the large concentration of Africans living in it. In the process of excavation, the city discovered two levels of former plazas, one built over the other. I believe that the older plaza had been one at which arriving Africans disembarked from slave ships, and the one above it had been part of a more richly appointed area.
This takes me to the IPN, which was both remarkable and disturbing. A couple had bought a house in the former "Little Africa" area of the city, with the intention of renovating and living in it. When workers were taking up the foundation, their tools broke stone and, along with this, repeatedly brought up human bones. The couple contacted officials, and discovered that the house had been built above an old cemetary whose location and history had been lost and forgotten over time. The name, Cemetary of the New Blacks, was a reference to recently arrived Africans within the slave trade, many of whom died soon after their arrival in Rio (others having already died and been thrown overboard on the journey itself). Further, the term "Black" in Brazil is considered quite offensive when applied to a person, and I imagine may be more akin to our use of "nigger" in the US; I don't know the actual equivalent. Regardless, "cemetary" is an over-stated term for this place, which was described as a mass grave for 20,000 to 30,000 Africans whose bodies were thrown in, allowed to rot, hacked up to make room for more bodies, and then also burned. The couple was so moved by the discovery that they stopped renovation and have turned the house into an institute for research, memorial, community involvement and education. (See the link below for more information.)
I was grateful to my friends for taking me to these places as well as the more upbeat locations. As in the US, racism and racial segregation continue in Brazil. For example, I noticed that all of the park workers I saw in the Botanical Gardens were dark-skinned people. When I asked E about this, she said it was a lower-paying, lower-status job. This reminded me of the many outdoor work crews I had seen in planted street areas when I lived in Norfolk, VA, who were almost always African Americans. On the other hand, almost all of the probably thousands of travelers I've seen in the Brazilian airports so far (Rio, Brasilia and Palmas) have been lighter-skinned people. The legacy of enslavement appears to be predictably potent and complex.
To end on a lighter note, my friends twice took me to lunch in a large warehouse-type building full of small fruit and vegetable stands, eateries and other shops. The roof of the building looked like sheet metal, and I imagined what it would sound like in the rain. I got a quick lesson in the Portuguese names for various fruits and vegetables, and noticed how huge the avocados were. (In that moment, Pavlov's dogs had nothing on me!) The vegetarian restaurant at which we ate was small, open, friendly and exceptionally good. From my seat in the corridor, I looked toward the entrance of the building at yellow melons hanging overhead in fine plastic mesh bags; they looked like melon balloons floating in the air. On another day, I drank fresh, cold young coconut juice (as in México, directly from the coconut). On that same day, E made a point of walking me through an upscale market in the building so we could get an air-conditioned respite from the heat.
That same evening, we joined three friends of E's and P's for dinner outside the building, where I had my first experience with "chopp." This is a very tasty Brazilian beer. When it was first offered to me as a possibility on the menu, I started to ask what it was and then decided to simply say "yes" to the encouraging looks on their faces; I was glad I did! The topics of conversation over dinner included language (the linguist in the group specializes in the study of indigenous languages), travel and family. Everyone was extremely generous and supportive regarding my Portuguese, including the three at the table who could easily have engaged with me in English. Bolivia was recommended for its remarkable music. Hmmm. At the airport on the way out of Rio, I arrived at my gate at the end of a long hallway of gates. What was there but a small bar advertising chopp. Hmmm.
My entry into South America was rich with love, encouragement and support, which have so far been the constant pavement of the road I'm traveling.
meg 4-13-13
Jardim Botánico (Botanical Gardens) in the Tijuca National Park:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rio_de_Janeiro_Botanical_Garden
Cemitério dos Pretos Novos (Cemetary of the New Blacks):
http://www.foxnews.com/us/2012/09/14/brazil-cemetery-african-slaves-honored/
Here is an image of a monkey head orchid (I've never seen this, but discovered the photo while searching for the monkey head trees and couldn't resist posting it):
http://www.facebook.com/
Check out the close-up of the monkey head flowers! They were like wild animals with furry tongues. I haven't yet found a good photo of the fruit growing on the tree, so will have to take my own on my next visit to Rio:
http://www.portalsaofrancisco.I thought I might have some other photos ready by now, but that is not the case. I'll attach links in another post.
Monday, April 8, 2013
Pre-Real in Mazatlán
Where to start? I've just discovered that, on this keyboard, the key for full and semi-colons is what I had to use for the question mark in that first sentence. Though the question mark appears on the neighboring key, that key produces nothing that I can see. This strikes me as a lovely metaphor for the blend (co-occurrence, marriage, interplay, play) of familiarity and surprise I've experienced in my travels so far. Sometimes I feel like the main character in Shaun Tan's exquisite graphic novel, "The Arrival."
For those who want the cliff-note version, I am quite well and extremely happy!
I am now in Palmas, which is the capital of the inland state of Tocantins, Brazil. This is the third stop of my trip, following Mazatlán (on the western coast of México) and Rio de Janeiro. I am filled with (and sometimes flooded by) emotion. The love, nurturance, support and guidance I receive are so profound, freely given, ongoing and pervasive that I feel like a fish in the ocean of this experience. My mouth is open -- love-water inside, love-water outside, buoyed, suspended, flowing. My gratitude continues to grow and deepen, as does my experience of connection. Each moment is complete and full (without being filled).
In Mazatlán, I visited a friend and her family. I had met E the day of her illegal arrival in Santa Cruz, when her parents (my neighbors) introduced her to me. Her dad explained that she wanted and needed to work on her English, as well as to find a job. In the process of teaching English to E and helping out with the job situation, I came to know and appreciate her intelligence, warmth, strong spirit, humor, readiness for hard work, and loyalty to family and friends. In spite of our age difference (I am 26 years her elder), we became friends.
After several years in the US, E returned to México because her opportunities there (oh! no longer "here" for me as I travel) were so limited, and she wanted to complete her Master's degree in Education. After returning to México, E eventually married O, and they live together with O's 15-year-old son, O-R (O-cito). E teaches part-time at a local University and O owns and operates a successful motorcycle repair shop at which he works long hours.
In early March, E gave birth to beautiful, healthy fraternal twins. E's dad is already back in Mexico, but lives far from E and O. E's mom can't visit because of her illegal status in the US. I find this just incredibly sad, and only one of the hard realities of being an illegal immigrant most anywhere. O's parents live in Mazatlán, as do O's siblings, niece, nephew and other relatives. I stayed with E and O, who graciously picked me up at the airport, and I was given O-cito's room (one of four in the small house -- living room with dining area, tiny kitchen, and two bedrooms). When I said I'd be fine sleeping on the couch, O-cito insisted with a smile that he liked sleeping on the couch and then sneaked out of his bedroom with a laptop to continue nosing around on Facebook and Youtube. He is, among other things, a musician, and he has been working on his group's web site.
I want to clarify here that this is, by US standards, a simple -- even perhaps a poor -- house. The computers are old, and all items in the house continue to be used and cared for until they are completely worthless. "Worthless" has a meaning quite different from that in the US, where things often lose their value when they lose their shine. In this home, things have value as long as they are useful, and they are useful as long as hard work and ingenuity can compensate for diminishing or lost function. E and O have a beautiful home (as well as, I thought, a very lovely house).
My time in Mexico was spent almost entirely in Spanish, which was wonderful for me and less tiring than I'd expected. During my six days in Mazatlán, I had a chance to learn a great deal about babies, and I moved from feeling like I never held them well to feeling at ease with their ongoing care. It was pure mystery and joy (is that redundant?) to watch them change and develop each day. Baby E (named after her grandmom) is a diminutive girl who appears to have an old soul. Her level of presence and engaged observation is deep. Baby J is a strapping boy who is constantly exploring with his body. E and O are getting very little sleep right now. When I told O I couldn't imagine how he and E stayed upright and continued to function, O pointed to his babies and replied, "They are my batteries."
I had met O when I attended his and E's wedding, but this visit was an opportunity to get to know him. He is wonderful man, and a great partner for E -- intelligent, political and philosophical as well as tender, funny, hard-working and "solid." He is also deeply involved with his babies, which E noted was unusual in México. O's family was extremely welcoming, and it was heartening to experience our increasing comfort and warmth with each other. O-cito was absolutely delightful. He was sweet, funny, inviting and attentive, with none of the posturing I have encountered in some middle-adolescents in the US.
One day, when we were hanging out together, I asked O-cito when he felt most alive. He gave what is, in my experience, a typical teen answer -- "When I'm with my friends, playing music or using the computer." We continued our conversation and he spontaneously shared that he had been going through a difficult time about a month prior, when he discovered a web site that had changed his life. The video was "Say Yes," which as it happens is a central principle of improvisation. O-cito like the video, and he quickly discovered that, by saying "yes" to everything, he was happier and more engaged with the world. He commented on the positive experiences he'd gained by saying "yes." These included experiences prior to his discovery regarding the power of the yes-stance. One of these prior experiences was going to an animé, cartoon and video character Expo at which he'd met his current girlfriend and developed a new group of good friends. Dressed as a character from "Back to the Future," he'd gone to the Expo as the result of losing a bet, only to discover that it was a gift in his life. Needless to say, I knew I was sitting in conversation with one my life teachers.
O-cito invited me to join him and his cousin at this year's Expo (Copa Cosplay Pacífico), which I did. I found it quite enjoyable and fascinating, in spite of my not having much knowledge of the characters depicted by so many participants. The energy was upbeat, the participants varied (e.g., children to elders, most likely every sexual orientation and gender identity, all body types), and the community warm and accepting. Everyone, costumed or not, appeared to be ready to pose for a photo. Many had carefully studied poses that appeared, to my uneducated eye, to derive from specific well-known images. There were professional and home-made shows on the stage, during which participants sang and/or acted out character scenes. When, on occasion, I felt I'd had enough, all I had to do was walk around and I quickly discovered more to engage with and enjoy.
In Mazatlán, much of my time was happily spent sharing the daily activities of the family -- shopping, cooking, cleaning and baby care. However, E and O also treated me to a number of special outings so I could get to know some of this well-known tourist city. Without realizing it, I'd booked my flight to arrive a day before "Semana Santa" (the wild and holy week before Easter), so the downtown area was completely packed with cars and revelers. E and O drove me through so I could get a taste of this experience, but also took me to the wharf (El Muelle), an old plaza (Plaza La Mochada), and an old neighborhood up in the higher part of the city, from which I had a view of the port. In this area (El Mirador), there was also a huge old canon that had been used by the local people in the late 1800s to defend themselves against the invading French. E and I got together one afternoon with a friend of hers, R, whom I'd met at E and O's wedding, and we went out for what may have been the best cup of coffee I've ever had. The deliciousness of this coffee was surpassed only by the depth and breadth of the conversation we three women had, which ranged from babies to culture and politics to women's rights and issues to dreams and hopes.
The architecture of Mazatlán is quite varied, ranging from straight streets lined with small houses in beautiful colors (delicate pastels to rich day-glo), to grand old colonial-style buildings. I was struck by the gated windows, doors and front areas on most houses, which generally looked decorative rather than forbidding or cold. Many houses had gated-in front areas in which there might be only a car, but in which there might also or instead be a cozy sitting area, plants, and art or craft objects. Many houses had sweet balconies, and I was often reminded of the architecture of New Orleans.
The day before leaving California, I commented to a friend that things felt "surreal," and then I riffed, "sub-real, pre-real." During my time in México, my trip still felt pre-real, in that it was like a simple visit to a friend whose wedding I'd attended, and who had now given birth to her babies. This part of my adventure felt comfortable and familiar, in spite of newness and in spite of knowing that this was a beginning to the larger adventure travel. I laughed a lot and, not always knowing why, cried more than once.
meg 4-8-13
My first improvisation with links to photos was unsuccessful as regards allowing people to see the photos, though highly successful as regards allowing me to learn something about the process of linking to Dropbox. I think it will work this time! (and I know that, if it doesn't, many helpful people will let me know and give me useful suggestions)
https://www.dropbox.com/sh/
For those who want the cliff-note version, I am quite well and extremely happy!
I am now in Palmas, which is the capital of the inland state of Tocantins, Brazil. This is the third stop of my trip, following Mazatlán (on the western coast of México) and Rio de Janeiro. I am filled with (and sometimes flooded by) emotion. The love, nurturance, support and guidance I receive are so profound, freely given, ongoing and pervasive that I feel like a fish in the ocean of this experience. My mouth is open -- love-water inside, love-water outside, buoyed, suspended, flowing. My gratitude continues to grow and deepen, as does my experience of connection. Each moment is complete and full (without being filled).
In Mazatlán, I visited a friend and her family. I had met E the day of her illegal arrival in Santa Cruz, when her parents (my neighbors) introduced her to me. Her dad explained that she wanted and needed to work on her English, as well as to find a job. In the process of teaching English to E and helping out with the job situation, I came to know and appreciate her intelligence, warmth, strong spirit, humor, readiness for hard work, and loyalty to family and friends. In spite of our age difference (I am 26 years her elder), we became friends.
After several years in the US, E returned to México because her opportunities there (oh! no longer "here" for me as I travel) were so limited, and she wanted to complete her Master's degree in Education. After returning to México, E eventually married O, and they live together with O's 15-year-old son, O-R (O-cito). E teaches part-time at a local University and O owns and operates a successful motorcycle repair shop at which he works long hours.
In early March, E gave birth to beautiful, healthy fraternal twins. E's dad is already back in Mexico, but lives far from E and O. E's mom can't visit because of her illegal status in the US. I find this just incredibly sad, and only one of the hard realities of being an illegal immigrant most anywhere. O's parents live in Mazatlán, as do O's siblings, niece, nephew and other relatives. I stayed with E and O, who graciously picked me up at the airport, and I was given O-cito's room (one of four in the small house -- living room with dining area, tiny kitchen, and two bedrooms). When I said I'd be fine sleeping on the couch, O-cito insisted with a smile that he liked sleeping on the couch and then sneaked out of his bedroom with a laptop to continue nosing around on Facebook and Youtube. He is, among other things, a musician, and he has been working on his group's web site.
I want to clarify here that this is, by US standards, a simple -- even perhaps a poor -- house. The computers are old, and all items in the house continue to be used and cared for until they are completely worthless. "Worthless" has a meaning quite different from that in the US, where things often lose their value when they lose their shine. In this home, things have value as long as they are useful, and they are useful as long as hard work and ingenuity can compensate for diminishing or lost function. E and O have a beautiful home (as well as, I thought, a very lovely house).
My time in Mexico was spent almost entirely in Spanish, which was wonderful for me and less tiring than I'd expected. During my six days in Mazatlán, I had a chance to learn a great deal about babies, and I moved from feeling like I never held them well to feeling at ease with their ongoing care. It was pure mystery and joy (is that redundant?) to watch them change and develop each day. Baby E (named after her grandmom) is a diminutive girl who appears to have an old soul. Her level of presence and engaged observation is deep. Baby J is a strapping boy who is constantly exploring with his body. E and O are getting very little sleep right now. When I told O I couldn't imagine how he and E stayed upright and continued to function, O pointed to his babies and replied, "They are my batteries."
I had met O when I attended his and E's wedding, but this visit was an opportunity to get to know him. He is wonderful man, and a great partner for E -- intelligent, political and philosophical as well as tender, funny, hard-working and "solid." He is also deeply involved with his babies, which E noted was unusual in México. O's family was extremely welcoming, and it was heartening to experience our increasing comfort and warmth with each other. O-cito was absolutely delightful. He was sweet, funny, inviting and attentive, with none of the posturing I have encountered in some middle-adolescents in the US.
One day, when we were hanging out together, I asked O-cito when he felt most alive. He gave what is, in my experience, a typical teen answer -- "When I'm with my friends, playing music or using the computer." We continued our conversation and he spontaneously shared that he had been going through a difficult time about a month prior, when he discovered a web site that had changed his life. The video was "Say Yes," which as it happens is a central principle of improvisation. O-cito like the video, and he quickly discovered that, by saying "yes" to everything, he was happier and more engaged with the world. He commented on the positive experiences he'd gained by saying "yes." These included experiences prior to his discovery regarding the power of the yes-stance. One of these prior experiences was going to an animé, cartoon and video character Expo at which he'd met his current girlfriend and developed a new group of good friends. Dressed as a character from "Back to the Future," he'd gone to the Expo as the result of losing a bet, only to discover that it was a gift in his life. Needless to say, I knew I was sitting in conversation with one my life teachers.
O-cito invited me to join him and his cousin at this year's Expo (Copa Cosplay Pacífico), which I did. I found it quite enjoyable and fascinating, in spite of my not having much knowledge of the characters depicted by so many participants. The energy was upbeat, the participants varied (e.g., children to elders, most likely every sexual orientation and gender identity, all body types), and the community warm and accepting. Everyone, costumed or not, appeared to be ready to pose for a photo. Many had carefully studied poses that appeared, to my uneducated eye, to derive from specific well-known images. There were professional and home-made shows on the stage, during which participants sang and/or acted out character scenes. When, on occasion, I felt I'd had enough, all I had to do was walk around and I quickly discovered more to engage with and enjoy.
In Mazatlán, much of my time was happily spent sharing the daily activities of the family -- shopping, cooking, cleaning and baby care. However, E and O also treated me to a number of special outings so I could get to know some of this well-known tourist city. Without realizing it, I'd booked my flight to arrive a day before "Semana Santa" (the wild and holy week before Easter), so the downtown area was completely packed with cars and revelers. E and O drove me through so I could get a taste of this experience, but also took me to the wharf (El Muelle), an old plaza (Plaza La Mochada), and an old neighborhood up in the higher part of the city, from which I had a view of the port. In this area (El Mirador), there was also a huge old canon that had been used by the local people in the late 1800s to defend themselves against the invading French. E and I got together one afternoon with a friend of hers, R, whom I'd met at E and O's wedding, and we went out for what may have been the best cup of coffee I've ever had. The deliciousness of this coffee was surpassed only by the depth and breadth of the conversation we three women had, which ranged from babies to culture and politics to women's rights and issues to dreams and hopes.
The architecture of Mazatlán is quite varied, ranging from straight streets lined with small houses in beautiful colors (delicate pastels to rich day-glo), to grand old colonial-style buildings. I was struck by the gated windows, doors and front areas on most houses, which generally looked decorative rather than forbidding or cold. Many houses had gated-in front areas in which there might be only a car, but in which there might also or instead be a cozy sitting area, plants, and art or craft objects. Many houses had sweet balconies, and I was often reminded of the architecture of New Orleans.
The day before leaving California, I commented to a friend that things felt "surreal," and then I riffed, "sub-real, pre-real." During my time in México, my trip still felt pre-real, in that it was like a simple visit to a friend whose wedding I'd attended, and who had now given birth to her babies. This part of my adventure felt comfortable and familiar, in spite of newness and in spite of knowing that this was a beginning to the larger adventure travel. I laughed a lot and, not always knowing why, cried more than once.
meg 4-8-13
My first improvisation with links to photos was unsuccessful as regards allowing people to see the photos, though highly successful as regards allowing me to learn something about the process of linking to Dropbox. I think it will work this time! (and I know that, if it doesn't, many helpful people will let me know and give me useful suggestions)
El Muelle
El Mirador
Saturday, March 30, 2013
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.
-------------------------------------------------
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
Tuesday, March 19, 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")
*****************************************
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.
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")
*****************************************
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
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
Wednesday, February 27, 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
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
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