The Authentic Self

I ate an entire chocolate bar a few hours prior to bed.  Within the grander scheme of things this is not a particularly bad event unless you have lived a caffeine free existence for the last twenty years, which I have.  So this is way I happen to be up writing another blog at twelve minutes past Three A.M. much to the dismay of my boys, who I might add are wandering about the apartment howling their displeasure.
While I was staring at the darkened ceiling over the past, oh, four hours, I was reflecting on what it means to have an authentic self.  Until I entered recovery fifteen years ago I never really understood the concept.  I had, for most of my life, been driven by the dark demons of my childhood experiences, not that I had remembered them.  That was my unique situation from about age twelve until well after I entered recovery.  I had an unmanageable life which I didn't know was unmanageable for reasons that were so deeply buried or jettisoned so far into the stratosphere that I was completely unaware of their existence.  Sounds maddening doesn't it.  I guess it was, not that I knew it.  In hindsight it was really the only option available at the time.  I get that now.  How does that old saying go?  Hindsight is twenty twenty.  It's also easy to say…. if I had known then what I know now….. but I didn't.
I started to lose my authentic self when I was eight.  That was when all the trauma started; however, I does serve any purpose to rehash old events, that is not the reason I'm writing.  I am writing in the middle of the night because I ate that damn chocolate bar….. no, wait, there is a point here, I know there is, if I could just focus…..   Oh, right, recovering my authentic self.    Sorry for the momentary rambling, sleeplessness does that to me.  I do have empathy for my friends, they put up with so much of my rambling.  My former therapist use to say that I spoke in paragraphs, not an entirely good thing to do when you're a budding writer.  But I digress.  Do I even know what that word digress means?  Sorry, rambling again.  My authentic self.  God I hope this is not an example of my authentic self.   Oops, rambling again…..
Excuse me while I take a moment…..  Ok, I think I'm firing on almost all my cylinders.
My recovery!  My recovery has been a lifetime exercise of relocating my authentic self.  No easy task I might add particularly because I had no idea where it had gone or how I could find it.  There were hints of its existence, in my eyes when I looked in the mirror, in my spontaneous sense of humor on those rare occasions when it revealed itself, in a deep sense of empathy at witnessing other people's powerlessness.  I remember back during my college days, in the mid Nineties, before I had ever entered the rooms, I was required to take two art classes outside my art history major.  It was part of my undergraduate requirements before transferring over to State.  I enjoyed working with my hands and I enjoyed photography so I decided to take both Photography and Ceramics.  As I said I enjoyed working with my hands and ceramics gave me the opportunity to play with clay.  The tactile experience of handing and forming things was very satisfying; however, I can say now that my future DIY abilities where subtly being forecasted and they were not pretty.  (Just ask my friend Paul who recently helped me with my latest DIY disaster.)  While others in class where turning out beautifully formed tea pots and vases with gorgeously fired coloring I was turning out lopsided things that looked like a kindergarden copy of the leaning tower of Pisa.  Only not so good.  When I turned to photography during the next semester I was much more hopeful.  I already owned a camera, one that my friend Mr. Mark had given to me, and I had created some really beautiful photographs.  I actually loved going out with Mr. Mark.  He has a really good eye for things and the talent to make them happen.  When we went out I enjoyed taking photos of iconic things like the Golden Gate Bridge and the more subtle  things like a father and his son sharing a beautifully intimate moment together in Union Square.  When the photography class started we had the usual assignments.  Take photos of this tree or that landscape, take a photo at night, or using this exposure and that F stop.  As the semester went on my teacher started to notice things in my work not that she told me about it.  It was just after the midterm that she pulled me aside with one of my photos.  It was an intimate setting I had created in my kitchen, one where I had an open book on the table, a crumpled cloth napkin, a plate of cookies, and a cup of tea.  I had taken a long time to create that scene.  I had placed everything just so, crumpled the napkin to mimic someone who had just tossed it aside.  I waited for the afternoon sun to hit the edges of the book cover in just the right place I wanted before I snapped the shutter a few times.  I was convinced that it had all the hallmarks of a dutch light painter's still life only in a photograph.  My teacher was sweet.  She pulled me aside with my photo in hand and said very gently that there was no humanity present in my scene.  I was crushed to say the least.  She explained that everything was set up perfectly but that there was no evidence that anyone had, say taken a sip of the tea, or taken a bite of a cookie.  There were no crumbs on the table, no drips of tea on the side of the cup.  It was perfectly perfect in every way except for being a part of a living experience.  And so the class went on.  Photo after photo was essentially a repeat of the last.  I did try but to no avail.  I just couldn't create humanity in my work.  Near the end of the semester we were told to plan a finally project.   I already knew what mine was going to be.  I had thought about it for months, had already done some of the planning, and had asked my friend Ralph to assist me with being the person I would photograph. When the time came we both went out, me with my camera and tripod, Ralph with all the costuming.   My final project was set in Lafayette Park near where I lived.  The premise of the project was a guy (Ralph) was walking in the park on a warm afternoon enjoying the beautiful day.   Then, while he walked down one of the paths he happened to experience a random meeting of his former self, essentially, he and his former self would pass through each other as they walked in opposite directions.  The series of photos would show how the random experience happened, how they both knew on some level that it had happened, how they then purposely forced another encounter, and finally, in the last photo, how they rejoined each others body's crossing the spans of time and place.  We did the photo shoot over the course of an afternoon.  All the joint photos were done using double exposure.  The others were just regular photographs.  That next day I took the finished film to the school lab, developed it, chose the seven photos I was going to use, printed them , and mounted them.  The second to last day of the semester I handed in the project.  I received high praise from the teacher and my classmates and I got a A for my project and for the semester.  I didn't realize it at the time but this project was a telling sign for me.  This project was my first deep subconscious understanding that my authentic self still existed and that it was out there waiting for me to reconnect with it.  It wasn't until ten years later, during my third year of recovery, that on a much deeper plane, my authentic self would reemerge along within the first signs my childhood trauma.  Twelve years on I have a very different view.
If I were to describe how I see my authentic self today, through sleep deprived eyes I might add, I would say this: my authentic self is empathic, compassionate, and loving.  It is less anxious than  it use to be but can sometimes still be angst ridden.  My authentic self has a spontaneous sense of humor when not controlled by me and a deadly one when it is, kind of like a comedian dying a slow and painful death on stage as he tries to tell joke after joke to an increasingly comatose audience.  My authentic self can be frustratingly fixed on controlling situations and others especially when that little kid inside is bouncing off the walls.  My authentic self can also be vulnerable, willing, and trusting.  In fact that is more often the norm now in opposed to being the aberration.  The difference between that guy in the park who happened upon his former self and me now is that I have found out how to nurture my moving from an "I" existence to "We" existence, from existing in a perpetual state of survival where I had to be in control of everything and everyone to a place where I actively attempt to continually right size myself in relation to my Higher Power.  Where the "We" is the continual movement of my life towards a place of subtly prayerful actions in an attempt to seek the guidance I need to live more fully in the body and spirit of my authentic self; and I have to say I'm not doing too badly in this present moment, which is all I have right now, at least until the next present moment reveals itself.

Inner Worlds

I was listening to NPR while I was running errands in Subie this week.  The program was about war veterans and the effects of PTSD.  I didn't hear much but what I did hear was quite profound.  The presenter was explaining how people who suffer from PTSD differ from those who do not.  He first talked about how people without PTSD generally function saying that their emotional experiences are for the most part linear, that they move from one moment to next being present, committing each to memory as they go.   They then move on to repeat the process over and over again.  Next he explained how people with PTSD function, saying that instead of being linear, their emotional journey is actually circular.  He want on to say that they do attempt to experience things in the present, much like the other group, but that instead of staying present they often get triggered sending them back in time to their trauma only to loop back again to the present.  My way of understanding it is it's very much like being a passenger on a toy train set, one that continually goes round and round the track stopping only when the electricity is cut.
I'm a survivor of acute trauma, much of which I have blogged about in the past; but I have never been able to understand my emotional experiences in such a simplistic and yet very profound way.  Leave it to me to use the analogy of a child's train set to explain my inner life.  In a very real way though it's true.  In recovery I've been able to understand that it's the traumatized child in me who is in control of the train when I ride the circular track.  It's the traumatized child in me who controls the lever, deciding when to turn on and turn off the electricity of my PTSD.  It's also the traumatized child who both controls the train and rides it simultaneously.
 I have more than 11 years of recovery around my trauma and a few more years around my stuff generally; yet hearing this presenter has effected me in ways I am still coming to terms with.  I know intimately that my trauma loves to tell me that I am stuck on the train forever, that I'll never be able to get off, and that I am powerless to effect any change.  Then just as intimately my recovery self speaks, telling me that I can step off the train, that I can do it anytime I want, and that I have, in fact, gotten of the train many many times.  I have come to realize that I actually have spent more time off the train than on in the last couple of years or so.
I was called for jury duty recently, always a trigger for me.  It was off duty police and sheriff deputy's as well as family members who were responsible for the most brutal of my experiences.  So for me to be near a cop is problematic, being in a court room, in the Hall of Justice, an ironic name to be sure, is very difficult indeed.  Thankfully, the last few times I have been called it has been for the Superior Court and not the Criminal one.  I received the letter well in advance of when I was to serve and I was unsettled leading up the sunday in which I had to check in.  That child in me so wanted me to board that train and at times I had one foot on and one foot off; but I didn't get on.  I made a conscious choice not to.  Instead I chose to make phone calls to some very dear friends, talk about my emotions, and connected to my spiritual practice, all because I knew what that child in me wanted; however, I also I knew what I needed to do instead.  I had two choices,  indulge the insanity of my trauma or back away from the train.  I chose the later.  It's not to say it was easy, it wasn't.  In fact I can say with all honesty that it rarely is.   This process of knowing how to step back has come at a great price.  I've had to work very hard just to see the train, the tracks, and the station.   I've had to purposely get on that train in order to do the grunt work of my recovery, the work of getting to know every inch of that journey, very rail, very tie, and every turn in the path.  I've needed to feel every contour of the hard wooden benches, worn and pitted from decades of use, look through every grimy window of my youthful experiences, smell all of the sooty smoky residue of my trauma, all in order to knew when to step back, when to live more in the present.  I'm profoundly grateful and humbled at this knowledge and awareness but I also know that my journey in recovery is not over, nor will it be in my lifetime.  This is an ongoing process, a process of self discovery, healing, and ultimately self care.  However, it is also about having boat loads of compassion and empathy for that child in me who has an ongoing love/hate need to play with trains.

Nostalgia and the nature of grieving

I recently returned to my birthplace to attend the memorial service in honor of my mom.  It was a short 4 day trip that I shared with family and friends, some of which I had not seen since before high school.  The memorial was held at the baptist church of my childhood.  The service was a simple one filled with my mom's favorite old hymns, ones like How Great Thou Are and The Old Rugged Cross.  My father and I picked out these and others knowing that mom had held them very close to her heart.  After the conference call with the pastor was over I had visions of what the service would be like.  We would all be standing together, singing the old lyrics as the piano plays slowly just as it had when I was a child;  "On a hill far away, stood an old rugged cross, the emblem of suffering and shame..... I will cling to the old rugged cross, and exchange it someday for a crown."  Even though I no longer identify as a christian, these lyrics still effect me deeply.  I am nostalgic, not only for the sweet sounds of the old hymns of my youth but for the city of my birth, and the four seasons that fed it's soul.  

Nostalgia is defined by Merriam-Webster as "the wistful sentimental yearning to return to some past period or place...."  And so it is in my memory; I remember sitting in church on a late august sunday morning, the sanctuary hot as blazes, my mom in the choir, and the congregation singing those old hymns.  I remember those autumn days in early october when the trees were brilliantly displaying their rusty oranges, bright reds, and golden yellows.  I remember the first snow flurries that announced that winter was coming, and the look of heavy wet snow as it silently fell on a windless February night.  I remember the cold spring rains in early April that washed away the last of the snow and the warm southern winds of early June that heralded the end of another school year.   I remember them all as clear as if they had happened yesterday.

The morning I was to leave I drove around my birth town.  I had to.  I needed to feed that part of my soul that still lives in those memories.  A week ago on that cold overcast friday morning I headed downtown to the lakefront to see the old Episcopal church, the one built of the quintessential creamy yellow brick so often found in the old parts of the city.  I turned right along the waterfront so I could drive down the brick paved College Avenue.  I wanted to see those old Italianate 2 and 3 story homes made of the same yellow brick, one of which I have dreamt of owning for years.  In my nostalgia place I can see myself waking up in the east facing bedroom as the sun rises over Lake Michigan.  I can see myself having a cup of afternoon tea while the warm breezes off the lake gently rustle the lace curtains behind me.   I can see myself puttering in the garden under those old maple trees or reading a book while I'm curled up on the porch swing.  And I can see myself on sunday mornings, strolling down the few blocks to the episcopal church for mass, stopping to chat with my neighbors as I go.  

My nostalgia place can be quite heady sometimes; but isn't that what it's suppose to be about?  These heady memories of mine are like a shaft of pure golden light that is sent through the crystal prism of nostalgia.  It breaks that light into an array of breathtaking colors so brilliant that it defies belief.  That is what nostalgia does to me, it takes the banal memories of my childhood and breaks them all into brilliant shades of color that resemble little of the original.  And I'm a sucker for it every time.  So much so that I sometimes find living in San Francisco to be a bit tedious and empty.   What I realized that cold overcast morning  a week ago is that nostalgia is all about the nature of loss.   These memories that I hold dear are a part of my life that I haven't yet grieved for.  I also realized something else when I was driving around that day.   Nostalgia, however warm and cozy, actually prevents me from living in the present.  

I have to say that grieving has never been my strong point.  You would think that after living in San Francisco for almost four decades and losing so many friends during the AIDS pandemic, that I should be able to teach a master class on grieving.   I wish it was but unfortunately it is not.   In the past grieving has usually been quite a messy and teary affair, one that generally sneaks up on me, taking me by surprise, at the most inopportune times.  When I'm watching a movie, or riding a bus, or when I'm out shopping.  Or as it did the day after I returned home; at La Boheme.  Granted this may not have been the best choice for a few days after my mom's memorial service but I did enjoy it, up until the very end that is.  That is when the water works took over.  I didn't fail onto the floor in a flood of tears but I could have if I had let myself.  That probably would have been fitting for the end of the opera too, on stage, but not in the audience.  What's weird though is ever since that day everything seems to remind me of my mom.   From the little things of my everyday life to the big things, they all seem to have some connection to her energy.  I guess it's a good thing in some way or maybe it is my natural way of grieving, however messy.  It may be me trying to hold on as my way of keeping mom alive for just a little bit longer.  Or it  may just be that she is sitting squarely in the front part of my brain because of recent evens.  Either way mom is still a part of my life and will remain that way for many years to come.   I love you mom.

Silent Heros

I had a long conversation recently with a dear friend of mine from across the pond.  We were chatting away about everyday things when she stopped for a moment.  I could tell she was about to tell me something important.  She started by saying she had just returned from a 10 day trip to Assisi.  Her excitement was electrifying.   I never remembered her saying she was drawn to Assisi for any reason but I was excited for her because I knew it had been something special.  She began by explaining how the trip was one of those HP kind of moments, where the idea just simply and beautifully arrived like a whispering breeze on a hot and muggy afternoon.  She had just woken up when a voice inside said "go to Assisi".  Now mind you, my friend, who is no stranger to travel, has a debilitating case of Chronic Fatigue, one that means if she is having a good day she has enough strength to get out of bed and bath herself, eat, and maybe just maybe go for a drive.  However, within three days of receiving the guidance she was in Assisi.  It all just came together.  She found accommodations with a group of nuns in convent, one that could take care of her physical needs and also provide a place for quiet solitude and relaxation.  But this post is not about my friend, a hero in her own right, it is about a man she had met while in Assisi; a elderly gay man from Kentucky who I, after hearing his story, choose to define as a silent hero.

We, in the gay community, especially in the hots spots like San Francisco and New City, have become accustomed to certain rights and privileges over the years.  Those being, for the most part, that we can live openly in relative safety expressing our love while creating and maintaining relationships of all sorts.  We also have the extraordinary opportunity to protest at will, expressing our support or distain for all sorts of issues.  I fear though that in this air of particular freedom we have lost sight of what it means to "Be Gay" in the vast open spaces that are these United States.  I have said this before to many people.  I do not feel comfortable about sticking all of our civil rights eggs in the marriage basket at the expense of all other things.  That feeling was reinforced when I heard the story of this elderly gay man. His story is one of struggle and pain.  I'll call him Jim.  

Jim, now in his late 70's and facing certain death within months, arrived in Assisi about the same time as my friend.  Their first chance encounter was at a cafe near to the convent where they saw each other but didn't talk.  My friend, exhausted from her flight wanted an early dinner so she could sleep.  Jim and her exchanged glances and my friend knew that there was something about this man that she felt drawn to but was too exhausted to attempt conversation.  Late the next morning my friend was in the common area of the convent when she saw Jim sitting a table in the corner, alone.  Using her cane she slowly made her way over knowing that this man was the reason she was in Assisi.  Jim looked up as she approached, recognizing her instantly.  After my friend sat down they introduced themselves, talking excitedly about how their meeting was meant to be.  Over the course of the next 5 days Jim opened up in a way he had never before.  My friend sat, transfixed, while he did.

Jim was born in rural Kentucky outside of Louisville.  His family was religious as most are in the interiors of the United States.  He knew early on that he was gay and decided to come out to his family as a teenager.  Immediately his family institutionalized him and over the course of many years Jim suffered at the hands of cruel and sadistic people.  It was during that time that he was regularly beaten, subjected to electroshock therapy, and sadistically and sexually abused by many "professionals".  Once of age he was released out onto the streets without any support, his family rejecting him and disowning him.  As he struggled to find his way forward he found out he was also bi-polar.  The diagnosis was devastating for him but also liberating.  He had believed everything that they had said.  This diagnosis helped him make sense of his experience.  He tried to find medical help to no avail.  The many meds that were described made his life more hellish.  He finally decided to make it on his own.  He found ways to cope with his illness and the effects of his horrific childhood only to lose them slipping into depression and suicide.  Jim attempted to take his life many times over the next few decades only finding some relief when he connected to his spiritual path.  He showed my friend the scars on his wrists saying these are the marks of my journey, each signifying yet another battle to survive.  Jim finally realized that turning to a power greater than himself was the only way to survive.  His journey into the light has given him wisdom beyond his years.  Our ghosts, he said, are to be honored, not hidden.  Take them out into the light, hold them close to our hearts, holding them with the respect and honor of who they are, all the while telling them that they are wanted.  We can not find true liberation from demons until we take them in.  My friend, struggling with her own demons, sat listening to his story while sharing some of hers,  both bearing witness to their respective lives.  While I listened to my friend I realized that Jim is one of the multitude of silent heros in our vast community, the ones who silently move around unnoticed until they choose to speak.  But when they do it is the wisdom of the ages that is uttered.  These are ones who we are fighting for.  The true heros of our time.  The true sufferers of discrimination.  They are the ones who can not, for whatever reason, live and breath free.  For them marriage is just a distance star shining somewhere beyond the solar system.  Their daily struggles are much closer to home.  They just to be truly loved, supported, and accepted.

Subsidiarity

I was watching the Bill Moyers and Company episode this morning entitled Nun's, Faith, and Politics.  The thrust of the show was about the theory of Subsidiarity and it's role as espoused by Rep. Paul Ryan.  Bill had two guests on, one was Sister Simone Campbell, leader of NETWORK, a Catholic policy and lobbying group, and the other was Robert Royal, founder of the Faith and Reason Institute and author of The Catholic Thing.  The discussion centered on Rep Ryan's budget that was passed by the House and it's effects on the poor and disadvantaged.  Sister Simone felt that the House's budget was and is a betrayal of all that Jesus had taught about taking care of the poor and most vulnerable of our society.  Robert Royal fell on the side of Subsidiarity.  Merriam-Webster defines Subsidiarity as a principle in social organization: functions which subordinate or local organizations perform effectively belong more properly to local organizations than to a dominant central organization.  Wiki states it like this:  an organizing principle stating that a matter ought to be handled by the smallest, lowest, or least centralized authority capable of addressing that matter effectively.   It was a very interesting discussion that touched on many issues including poverty, disparity of wealth, and what is the proper role of government.  What seemed to me to be lacking in the discussion during this hour long episode, and in the national debate that seems to be raging, is the very real issue of what I term the "facade of family".  We place a great deal of emphasis on "family".   Religious traditions have coined the phrase "family values" using it to herald their doctrine just as politicians use it to muster votes.  Lobbyists, especially the religious right, find it an effective tool, using it as a litmus test for anyone running for office, political or judicial.  But it is not this surface definition(s) that I am concerned with, it is the underlying facts that lay beneath the facade of "family".  What are the true facts, the very reality of what "family" is in this country.  We all hear what the politicians, religious leaders, lobbyists, and pundits want us to believe, but so very often it does not bear witness to what we experienced.  They want us to acknowledge the so carefully crafted definition that they hold so dear and they want us to bear witness to it every day but that is not our reality.  In our heart of hearts we know this whether we want to admit it or not, we know the realities of what our familys were and are.  Know that I acknowledge that my childhood issues play a part in how I view these things.  I have voiced my opinion about it many times in conversations, on FB posts, and in my blogs; however, I also acknowledge that recently I have been able to move past many of my experiences in such a way that I am no longer held prisoner by them.  This I find to be essential in giving me the ability to see reality more clearly.  And I find that clarity to be an amazing thing.  Knowledge is power as I always say.  To understand how the chains of our formidable years imprisons us is to know how to unlock them.  Transformation is a very powerful vehicle for change, both individually and collectively.  This brings me to the very crux of my writing today.  Family, in this country, is at the very base of how we see ourselves and how we relate to others.  Our families of origin form and shape us effecting how we than form our associations with people around us and more importantly how we create and define our adult lives.  Family is at the very core of who we are.  However, as nurturing or not as our family's of origins can be, we are effected by the less than ideal conditions of our upbringings.  The theory of Subsidiarity is a great example of this.  Rep. Ryan's definition is rooted solidly, as he continues to say, in his religious teachings of his upbringing.  He has justified his budget proposals to slash social programs by referring to this theory and is more than happy to say it is all about his religious beliefs and little else.  Many others including Robert Royal state the same thing, only not so blatantly.  Sister Simone and her Nuns on a Bus espouse the opposite.  That we, as a society, have an individual and collective responsibility to use the power of the government purse, among other vehicles, in an effort to support and help the most vulnerable and needy.  I propose that Robert Royal Ryan, Rep Ryan, and Sister Simone are basing their responses, however laudable, in part or in full on their formidable experiences as children.  I'll admit that this is just a theory on my part, based only on my experiences and that of others that I have witnessed on my journey in recovery, but I will say this; that the transformational part of my recovery has been the ability for me to move past my experiences and undo the ties that have bound me.  I see the suffering all around me and it literally pains my heart not to help when someone asks for money, something that happens almost daily.  My neighborhood, at the moment, seems to be where the vulnerable and needy are moving to.  I see the painful expressions as our eyes meet when we pass,  I see the vacant look of the elderly as the sit in the window of the transient hotel up the street,  I see the young walking next to their parents looking up for any validation or attention, and I see their parents, restless, angry, and lost, looking for help, adult versions of the very children that stand next to them.  And I wonder, what is their story, what have their experiences been, what are their chances are in a society that is increasingly turning its back on the poor and needy.  As I see it, the missing link here is how society is or is not responding to the needs of our most vulnerable within the very definition of family as it relates to their childhoods.  I feel the basic question should be asked: what was their formidable family experiences?   How did those experiences form who they are today?  Are they still imprisoned, bound by the invisible chains of their early years?  What is even more important here is how does society, individually and collectively, respond to this when the questions are answered.   Many ask is it right to, as some love to say, throw money at them thereby creating a perpetual dependency?  Is it right to do everything within our power to effect a better life by exercising the powers of the government purse?  I feel that neither of these are entirely right or just.  I firmly believe in social justice.  I firmly believe we are duty bound, whether it be by government purse, charity, or noblesse oblige or any combination thereof, to help not only the needy and most vulnerable, but of all that are bound by the individual chains of their respective childhoods.  I'll step way out on a limb here and you can get out your collectives saws and start cutting if you wish, but I feel strongly that unless we address the reality of "family" and its influences in our adults lives, we are destined to be forever bound by the chains that imprison us.  First and foremost, we need to start by challenging and then dismantling the facade of "family values" wherever it rears it's ugly head, calling it to account in print, in voice, and in our hearts.  Next it is essential that we admit to ourselves in the deepest recesses of our souls, the truth of our own lives and of our own behaviors, calling ourselves to account for our deeds.  For some this could be defined as a religious experience, for others a spiritual one.  For me, it doesn't really matter as long as we do it in full honesty and truthfulness.  In the Wizard of Oz, the Great Oz, pulling levels from behind the curtain, creates such fearsome displays of fire and smoke, until a little dog reveals him.  Then he protests, "Don't pay any attention to the man behind the curtain" he says.  But the facade falls of its own accord when the truth is revealed.  The fire and smoke stops and what is revealed is the truth.  We need such a transformational experience in society.  We need to pull back the curtain on our own fears, our own smoke, are own secrets, so that we can just stand there and be revealed for who we are.  I admit it can be very scary to be that vulnerable.  Believe me when I say I know.  That is one of my greatest challenges.  To be truly vulnerable and visible.  But I do it, very day of my life.  And I believe that when we do emerge, that when we reveal ourselves, the chains do fall, slowly at first, but they will fall, and when they do, that is when we will see a change in society.  The essential piece for all of us is to be free. And I firmly believe that our new found freedom will change the very basis on how we respond to not only the most needy and poor around us, but to everyone.  We will begin to see that giving money is not enough, that government programs are not enough, that charities are not enough without addressing the essential issue of how our formidable experiences shape us as adults.   The definition of Family is key here.  Not family values, but family.

Summer Days

The windows are all open.  A warm sweet breeze is flowing in.  The birds are singing.  And my neighbors are playing salsa.  Quietly for a change.  LOL  As I sit here enjoying what is for the most part a rarity here in the City I have been looking back over some of my blogs since I started writing them in late 2009.  This is not something I do on a regular basis.  Usually I write them, publish them, post them on Facebook, and move on.  My wallowing was motivated in part by a conversation I had at lunch today with my friend James.  We were chatting about his impending move to Barcelona in a month and he was telling me that he had started a blog to chronicle his new adventure.  I told him I had been writing one since 2009 and he asked me to send him the link.  Anyways, that is the brief explanation of why I am wasting my time perusing my past postings.  That sounded a little too cliche.  Too many p's I think.  Sorry.
As I read back, especially the ones from 2009, all I can say is WOW.  That is in no way a narcissistic statement on my part.  Far from it.  I am reacting to the level of emotion, pain, and sometimes clarity that is laced through almost all of my posts.  Ones like from Phoenix Rising where my life is crumbling around me, not knowing that in just a few short days my precious baby girl would be taken from me.  And the posts following her death.  The ones I hope some day to craft into a short story; but not yet.  They are all a chronicling of my journey.  That amazing, challenging, and organic path towards true health and happiness I seem to be on.  I have to say I do miss my girl.  She was the embodiment of unconditional love.  And her zest for life was unmatched.  She was my touchstone and my how to guide for being present.  I even experienced what my therapist called a "State of Grace" with her; where I was hyper present in my body, where the only thing that existed was the eternal present.  Even 2 1/2 years after her death I still grieve deeply for her.  And I still blame myself for her death.  Most nights, after I have turned the lights out, pulled the covers up around my neck, and nestled into the warmth, I still lay my hand lovingly on the pillow next to me where she slept, saying "Good night baby girl".   I can feel my eyes tearing up as I write.  It is these summer days that remind me of what is at stake here, what my recovery is  really all about.  The symbolism of walking the path.   The feeling of my emotions.  And the maintaining of my heart centered connections with my community.   There are days when I feel like all the work I have done is worth it.
Then there are the nights.  Those darkened moments were the insanity abounds, taking over my senses and my body.  I had one of those 4 days ago.  Where everything becomes so convoluted that logic and reason become incomprehensible.  I tried to explain it to my therapist during my last session.  I said it was like taking the simple concept of how a faucet works, turning it inside out and flipping it on it's head.  Logic and reason don't come into it; but that is where I exist in those moments.   Unsettling you ask?  Hell yes.  In those moments I actually think I am going insane.  It's like a dementia patient who knows something is wrong with their in the moment reality but at the same time can't escape it.  The duality of it all is nerve racking for me.  Just as I imagine it is for them.  Actually I can imagine it.  My Mom, who is in mid dementia, has said as much to me in her more lucid moments.    Anyways, I seem to be straying a bit here.  And stop laughing.  This is not yet another sign of my, shall we say, less lucid moments.  I was talking about my blog posts.  And summer.  And breezes.  And emotions.  Ahhhh, that is why I have strayed.  Feeling my emotions.  Ok, I'm back!   Emotions, the one thing that is the most challenging for me yet the most fruitful.  Let me explain the challenge this way; I was in a room full of people yesterday when two of them, who were facing me, got up to leave.  Whatever it was, whether it was the way they moved, the color of their clothes, or something else unknown, it triggered a panic attack in me.  Some of the others in the room who were leaving were very supportive and I was able to eventually ground myself after a while in part because a good friend sat with me outside rubbing my back.  Did I say I have the most amazing friends?  Emotions, yep, they can be a challenge; but what a way to live!!!  Feeling the emotions of a beautiful summer day, of being present in my body, feeling the breeze brush against my skin, smelling the sweet aroma of the earth as I water the garden.  To taste the complexities of a great lunch shared with a friend.  Did I say my taste buds are becoming more sensitive.  Another fantastic side effect of my recovery.  Yes, summer days can be the best days ever.  Until I hear the crunch of newly fallen snow under my feet as I stroll, on a still winter's night, watching the flakes falling gently from the sky.  Yes, life is good!!

The Narrative of Life

I was watching Art21 this morning as I was having my coffee.  It is a program that interviews artists of note who are making a lasting contribution to their respective crafts in the 21st Ce.  The  program generally takes the viewer into the artist's studio, focusing on 2 or 3 pieces and how they came into existence.  This last episode of Art21 Series 6, focused in part on Sarah Sze's Still Life with Landscape, a temporary installation on The High Line in NYC.  As a gardener, I am intrigued by the nature and habitat of The High Line.  On how an abandoned place such as this, in the middle of an urban setting, has in it's neglect, reverted back to a place where habitat exists.  The High Line is near the top of my list of places I wish to experience, along side the Dupont Estates in the Brandywine Valley and Arley Hall in Chesire.
Sarah's Still Life in Landscape was conceived as sculpture but also one that would serve as a habitat for the wildlife on The HIgh Line.  As I watched her constructing the 1 to 1 scale model in her studio I was struck by how this piece was so much more than just sculpture and habitat.  Still Life, at it's core, became for me a representation of our existence on this earth.  A representation that in it's detail expresses a very potent narrative on the beauty and complicated nature of that very real yet ethereal force that exists within all of us, that force called Life.  Sarah freely admitted that Still Life is at its core a sculpture and that she approached the design of it from that point.  That she focused on using found materials such as metal and wire, materials she could find in local stores.  However, Sarah also said that her sculpture was designed to be a habitat, a place of sustenance and refuge for the wildlife of The High Line.  As she worked she talked of her purposefully constructing Still Life to exist amongst the plantings, to be one with them, yet stand separate mimicking their life force as it is nestled along the edge of the walkway.   In addition she said she wanted the sculpture to be close to where the visitors could experience it, where they would become in essence a part of the installation, just as the wildlife would be.
Before I get to philosophical let me describe the piece.  Still Life in Landscape originates from a single source of bundled wire at ground level that then rise upward separating into individual paths of polished thin steel bars that slope gently upward fanning out into space ending about 7 feet off the ground.  Balanced within those bands are aesthetically placed nesting boxes and feeding stations for the wildlife as well as horizontal pieces of steel bands for support.  In a effect the square nature of the nesting box is repeated in the horizontal and vertical elements overall.  Another section of the sculpture exists on the opposite side of the walkway, mirroring the theme so that the walkway effectively splits the piece in two.
However meaningful all of this is for her as art, Sarah's Still Life represents for me our experiences from birth unto death and beyond.  That like Still Life, our lives begin, originating from a single point of universal force, thereafter sweeping upwards, as we age,  separating into many distinct paths from which our life experiences are formed, paths that are created in relationship to the world around us.  That the nesting boxes and feeding platforms are spaces within and without us designed as places of sustenance and refuge.  Places that are shaped and defined in juxtaposition to what is the negative space.
Once the scale model was finished the program then switched to Sarah and her workers building Still Life on site.   Sarah talked as they worked about the idea of creating a sculpture where people could stop and observe the wildlife as it exists in space and time.  The idea she explained was the intention of getting people to stop and observe the work for 10 minutes.  That 10 minutes is actually an incredibly long time for someone to just observe.  She went on to say too that she was also concerned about whether the habitat would even be used by the wildlife of The High Line, that if they were not drawn to it, Still Life would still have to stand on its own as sculpture.  That placement for her was as equally important as design, where viewing the sculpture from a distance would then create the negative space in which the piece could exist, one that would be transformed the closer you get until you, the viewer, enters the work becoming one with it.
By the end of the segment I was just sitting in awe.  Watching Sarah create Still Life in Landscape on site for me was an experience of how complicated and fragile the nature of human existence can be.  That we are, at birth, unformed as individuals; yet we possess all the wisdom of the ages, wisdom that at it's source is rooted within the universal energy of Mother Earth.  That we begin to take form as a result of our experiences of our formable years separating into many different paths within and without that support and sustain us, making us as complicated and varied as we are unique.  That as we move into adulthood our structures, created in response to those earlier experiences, are solid but not set in stone.  That in reality they are in their basic nature just as fragile as life itself.  That as Still Life was conceived as a temporary installation, we too can dismantle, recycle, and rebuild, transforming ourselves  into something that is more closely aligned with that source of  energy we inherited at birth.  That in a very personal way there was the acknowledgement that at the end of my life I will be looking back in awe and reverence at my very complicated and varied experiences on this earth while at the same time I am looking forward with anticipation of what is to come next.