Spiritual Practices

I had an unexpected conversation the other day. Ever have that happen? You go into a situation prepared for one kind of information exchange and then something completely different takes place?

I love when that happens.

I’m really private about few things; my spiritual practices being one of them.  I’m not sure why, I just am. Of all the things I share so freely, so openly, my spirituality isn’t on that list. Maybe it’s something I have a hard time articulating. Maybe it’s something I think we’re just supposed to feel in each other. Are you connected to something bigger than yourself? Can you see that light of honesty, acceptance and purpose in my eyes? Yes? Then we’re good. That way there’s no need for religion to muddy the water. Maybe I avoid the topic because so many conversations are tinged with the flavor of conversion, or shame, or subordination. All that leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

But this woman shared with me, in such earnest and honest words, her practice for staying connected; her faith and trust expressed daily through actions. Now, again, my life is so bad ass. If you’ve never had a spiritual conversation behind the register of a sex shop- well, my hope for you is that someday you will. (It’s kinda like that moment with Shi all over again.) She got me thinking: if I wanted to share with someone what she shared with me, what would I say?

It’s taken me a day and I’ve come up with something. And it feels cheesey to admit, but it’s my truth. My spiritual practice is all about words. Words are how I connect and receive, say thanks and ask for help. Words are powerful to me. In fact, one of the very first lessons I taught the boys was that their words matter. I told them that over and over until now I’m sure it’s engrained in their brains right along with looking both ways before they cross street and putting on a seat belt. Words matter.

And I begin to see that as silly. Words are communication. Words are building blocks and tools. Words are easy to conjure and easier to toss away. How can something like letters strung together be spiritually significant? Then I think about breath. The mechanics of breath, the different kinds of breaths we take. The importance of our first breath and the preciousness of our last. My boxing coach is forever reminding my to breathe when I’m on the bag. How could I forget to breathe in that moment? Why would I hold my breath when my body is fully engaged? Mostly because my mind won’t let go. To breathe in that moment is to let the mental struggle go. Let something else take over. The drive. The desire. The unfiltered sense of purpose that lies beneath our socially constructed insecurities.

I have two words tattooed on my body. Goddess on the top of my back. 18th birthday. Old English lettering like the list of ingredients on a package. Contents of this body: 1 Goddess. The second, Truth, on my lower back with a double ax. I had had both of my sons by then and the truth of my decisions, the truth of being a mother and needing the best weapon I could summon to cut through the bullshit- yeah that required some permanent ink.

And it’s not the words I’m typing now that feel like a spiritual practice. No, it’s the words you will never read, the words I write just for me and the spirit I’m talking to that day. It’s a private conversation that means everything to me. All my fears, hopes, gratitudes and challenges flow from pen to paper. It’s almost like letting the mental struggle go. The body takes over. And it takes as long as it needs.

I’m going to make sure I keep my private writing time a priority as the thesis project continues. I guess I needed a reminder. Funny how unexpected conversations are exactly the information we really need to exchange.

 

the (cont)ex(t)

It’s a funny thing to share a root system with someone and turn out to be completely different trees.

Life is all about context, right? It’s how we know here from there. I know I’m here because I’m not there…or… I’m going there because I don’t want to be here. I’ve got a person to do that with. There is an actual living breathing person in my life who is the there to my here.

This weekend is a great example of how that works. 10 years ago to the date we were as intertwined as two people could be, we had spent 9 years growing up together, had children together, completely gave ourselves to each other, then said, “No thanks.”  In that moment, a context for all future decisions was created. He’s not my ex, he’s my context.

I spent this weekend with as many of my folks as possible. I had a rare long weekend all to myself. I didn’t pick up a book or answer an email. I went from friend to friend to friend soaking in all the loving goodness that my generous circles have to give. People who can acknowledge how thinly stretched I am right now. How I’m in a position to mostly receive and not really able to give, and they know how uncomfortable that is for me, and yet they all love me anyway.

On Saturday night, I sat in the audience of a discussion panel on redefining relationships and polyamory in Oakland. As the event went long changing my options for the rest of the night, altering my plans for the evening, I remembered that my context was most likely celebrating his 7th wedding anniversary. He and I broke up on this exact weekend 10 years ago, he got married on this same date 3 years later. Our here vs there ping pong battle has kinda gone like this: He found a new partner, I went to community college, he got married, I transferred to UC Berkeley, he had another baby, and then another, I graduated with my BA, his occupational field imploded, I went to graduate school, he’s celebrating the same relationship he’s been in since the day he and I split up, I’m surrounding myself with people sustaining the authentic intimate relationships I’ve always wanted but have no idea to create. All the while raising our children, sometimes together, most of the time not. I guess they would be the netting in this metaphor. Hopefully not the ball.

I know I’m here because he’s there. Ping. Pong.

And what I’m really amazed at is how unintentional the differences are. It’s not like we set out to live polar opposite lives. It’s just happened naturally. He’s the country to my city. He’s the forever married person and I’m the constant bachelor. He’s the sloppy drunk to my slightly sober. He’s the corner house in a rural neighborhood and I’m the 5 story apartment building with a door buzzer. He’s Bible study and backyard BBQ’s and I’m sexuality discussion panels and sidewalk cafes.  He’s 35 going on 43 and I still get carded. Ping. Pong. Here. There.

I think of everything I’ve accomplished on my own, for myself, in 10 years; all of the amazing people who’ve come into my life, the family that has supported me, the unanticipated experiences and unexpected care afforded to my children, and I know that none of it would have happened if I hadn’t made a very specific decision to chose my here over his there 10 years ago. Now I’ve got a decade of difference to compare between us. Context.

And between you and me, I like my here way more than his there.

 

Valentine’s Day

The first Valentine’s that I ever really cared about happened when I was 13. I was out until kind of late for a school night, I can’t remember how late, but it had to be about 9pm when I walked in the door. My mom had this funny look on her face, “Your dad came by, he left something for you.” I forgot that my dad knew where I lived. So him just stopping by… not normal. She handed me a beautifully wrapped square block and a card. She rolled her eyes, “Ugh, that man.” I ripped off the pink tissue and kept the ribbon wound around my fingers. It was an intricately designed mermaid stamp, about the size of my palm and two ink pads, one pink, one blue.

The mermaid had curly hair and clouds and waves and her tail was thick and her shoulders were broad. I thought “Is this me?” This mermaid looked so much different than the damned Disney version. I would never be Ariel, but this mermaid… maybe. I opened a card and first saw my dad’s loopy scrawl then noticed the gift certificate to Tower Records. He knew I was growing up, that’s what these gifts told me; he knew me. We didn’t see each other much, but he understood me and I felt like I had this ally out there.

Two years later, at 15, a really really hard year for me, as I was bouncing between places, my dad tracked me down at my best friend’s mom’s house. He called and said he was down the street, been driving all over looking for me and asked if he could come over because he had a Valentine’s Day gift for me. I rolled my eyes when my best friend cooed at how cute that was. I was not really all that excited. I said, “Watch, he’ll have some ridiculously girly, useless gift.” I had gone through a lot since the mermaid stamp days. Why does time go by so strangely when we’re teens?

My dad came over and he had this wide slender silver box the kind a dress or suit would be in. Did he buy me an evening gown? What the hell? I know I wrinkled my nose, and he let me know he noticed. The honest truth was that I hadn’t been given a gift in a very very long time. I slid the top off and it was a snow suit made for snowboarding. It even said ‘Hardcore’ on it. It wasn’t girly or manly. It was this really cool color blue and had pockets everywhere. “See?” he said, referring to my previously upturned face. Because now I was jumping and squealing. It was the perfect gift. I had that snow jacket for about 10 years. There’s pictures of me wearing it in Seattle while pregnant with E. I still wasn’t seeing my dad regularly, but he was still my ally, out there, waiting for the right time.

Valentine’s Day is still really special for us. Now, my dad and I compete to see who can make the other one cry more. Handmade cards are my secret weapon. But he’s gotten pretty good at sending those ridiculously heartfelt “I’m so proud of you,” texts.

Sometimes I think love is all about timing. Other times I think it’s about bravery. It’s probably both. Love the folks that love you.

 

People of Color Porn Review (In Honor of Black History Month)

Reblogged from Indigo's Theory:

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It’s black history month and though we have had a series of celebrity loses (I’m actually pretty broken up about Whitney Houston – blog post to come), I’m excited to celebrate the people of color who are paving the way in the queer, sex positive community in a POC Porn Review!

Episode 108: Sara Vibes and Q Crashpad Series Review …

Read more… 803 more words

I'm so honored to know so many of the amazing folks reviewed in this post!

 

#186: The lie of "strength."

Reblogged from CaptainAwkward.com:

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Stoicism is overrated and may lead to cosplay.

Dear Captain Awkward

I am currently going through the tail end of a massive crisis involving my Dad having an affair, leaving our state and moving across country, effectively running off and abandoning us for his now girlfriend. This has left my family and I stuck up financial poop creek without a paddle.

Read more… 1,102 more words

"I don’t think it’s a virtue or an accomplishment to hide or deny your pain so that you can take care of others." Yes. This.

 

Blood

My brother came for a visit last month. He came to the boys’ midweek soccer game. We’re getting to the age where you can’t really tell how far apart we are in age (it’s 6 years). He has had a hard life and it shows and I still look a little younger than I am. While we were watching the game, I chatted with other parents. One was bemoaning having all teenagers now that her youngest son had turned 12.

As I was commiserating, my brother piped up, “You put up with a lot more from them than you did me at that age!” The other parent raised her eyebrows and my brother said, “My sister brought me up, and let me tell you, she did not take any shit from me.” I felt bad. So I said, “Well, I’m not a 12 year old raising a 6 year old, or a 19 year old raising a 13 year old this time around.” And I also wanted to say, but didn’t, “and I don’t have our mom driving me crazy.”

I often wonder what image comes to mind when I say, “my mother is mentally ill.” What do they see? Do they think of a white middle aged suburban woman losing her mind while the kids are at school and her husband at work? Do they think she stayed sane long enough to have children, raise them and then she lost her mind? Do they assume it was hidden from us and I’m dealing with it for the first time as an adult? I wonder wether their view is limited by ignorance or widened by experience.

I don’t see my story being told very often. My mother has had the same mental illness since she was an adolescent. She was insane when my father met her, insane when he married her and insane when he left her. She was maybe a little more insane after she remarried and had my brother. She hit her rock bottom the summer I turned 12 and she divorced my alcoholic step father. It took her years to recover from that. In the meantime, I raised me and my brother, all while having the specter of a mother haunting the living room couch. She was more poltergeist than parent.

Now that we’re getting older, which feels like an enormous accomplishment by the way, I value my brother so much for being the person who knows what the foundation of my life was built on: insanity. He has the same intimate knowledge of our mother’s particular strain of crazy. In the last few months it hit me how important it is to have someone who understands where I’ve come from and what I’m always responding to. Yes, I raised my brother. But who raised me? Mostly myself, but before that, I was raised by an insane person. I have to deal with that shit every fucking day.

Every day I process the world in two frames:  the first frame is the insanity which feels normal but is in fact bad for me, and then a half second later the second frame of sane which feels abnormal but is in fact good for me. The older I get the easier it is to blink past the first frame. I’m to the age where I’ve lived on my own longer than I lived with her, but it wasn’t until I had my own kids that I really really had to do the work to choose sanity. Because, for me, since I don’t have a mental illness, it’s a choice.

However, when I get tired and feel unloved and unsupported, the timing between the two frames start to slip. The film goes off the reel. And I have to focus extra hard on knowing the difference between the two. I have to ask for help. In order to be close to me, for me to feel loved, people have to understand that daily struggle, respect it, and forgive me for it. That struggle is a big part of who I am. And my brother knows; he witnessed my personality develop under her storm cloud and I know how much he appreciates my trying to be his umbrella. Even if I was strict with him.

My point is that I’m amazed at how relationships change over time. How the ways we show up for each other shifts unpredictably. I used to not want to see to my brother because the memories were too painful. I couldn’t separate him from the past. Today I’m really really grateful that I can.