April in the City

Today is one of those quintessentially beautiful spring days in the City where jackets are not required, nor for that matter are shoes. This East Coast like weather; warm, sunny, a bit humid, with an ever so slight breeze, seems to put most everyone in a good mood. Equally, it is a great day for being in the park, or eating at a sidewalk cafe, or taking a luxurious nap with the windows wide open. Not that we can't have the windows open normally,, we can. It just means we'll have 4 blankets or a heavy comforter over us or we'll freeze.

It seems too that on these warm days everyone likes to drive with their windows open. Driving then becomes not only a point to point run, but a way to ease drop on everyones conversation in the cars around you. NOT that I do that. I do have to say though it is almost impossible not to when you are at a stop light and the car beside you has 4 Forty something rather gay looking bears in it, all carrying on a loud conversation over the din of dance music. But I digress. This post is not about stolen conversations over heard at stop lights. It is about me finally realizing that I am where I want to be, both figuratively and realistically. The aforementioned conversation only served as a catapult of sorts for my emotional journey on the way home this afternoon.

My immediate reaction to the car full of bears was one of loss, loss of not having a life where I am in a car full of friends going somewhere to do one thing or another. Sitting with that is not fun on any day let alone one where it is as beautiful as today. However, as fast as that reaction happened, a bunch of new ones came along for the ride. Ones of flashbacks where I am in a car full of friends going somewhere to do something. Of years worth of social events such as the one that I suspect the bears were on their way to have.

As much as wish not to admit it to myself, I am fast approaching 56 years old. This is not significant in an age way. Quite the contrary. This is about acknowledging all the years that have come before. Granted, I have struggled for a number of years regarding my childhood issues and these struggles have over shadowed the rest of my life a times. However, lately I have been finding my feet sort of speak. I have though this nagging voice in the back of my head, one that sounds very much like my therapist's voice, saying, you need to get out more, do more things, make new friends, get into a relationship, get a life! No, he didn't actually tell me to get a life. That was my own invention. He does though push me to do all of the other things. All of which are laudable endeavors in their own right, but are they what I need, right now. Sure, I tend to isolate at times, but I am always conscious of the fact that the flip side of isolation is solitude. And let me tell you, I NEED solitude. It is one of the most healthy activities that I can engage in, that and gardening, writing, and napping. Did I tell you I will be 56 in a few months? Anyways, that was the revelation I had in the car this afternoon. That I do not need all of those things. Why? Because I did them all before. I have done the insanely busy social schedule routine. I have been in a long term relationship. I have made new friends. so many at one time that I could not find the time to hang out with them. The overriding fact that I became aware in the car today was that I have always dreamed of having a casual life, one where I sleep in if I can, have a putter in the garden, have long and wonderful brunches with friends, or go to the symphony, a movie, or a play with them. All at a pace of ease and grace.

I was talking to my friend Guido a few days ago about just this very thing. I called it the Art of Doing Very Little Slowly. Ok, I did swipe that phrase from one of my Brit Coms. I do that and I'm not ashamed of it!! And, you can wipe that horrified look off your faces too. It's not a bad thing, doing very little slowly. In fact, it can be wonderful. As a matter of fact I have dreamed about this all my working life. Where I can get to a time when I can relax, take it easy, enjoy life with my established friends and my new friends. Where I can rebel against the dictates of time and schedule. Admittedly, I still have to work; but that doesn't mean that I can't still enjoy taking my time doing the things that spiritually feed me. Sometimes I think I have lived a previous life in Italy. Where life is lived as an art form. Where coffee with friends lasts an entire afternoon and where dinners are events, not an excuse to check our e mail while we eat a pre prepared microwaved dinner we bought at Safeway. I am learning the art of doing very little slowing. And not that it doesn't mean I will not be social, it just means that I will be, but with meaning. That I will cherish time spent socializing as much as I do time spent lazing around my apartment in my jammies on a warm afternoon after working in the garden. Life, I am realizing, is a gift. One that is to be cherished, sought after, and savored. It isn't about quantity, but quality! Quality in thought, word, and deed. This is why being present is so important for me in my recovery. For me, quality comes from connecting, and connecting comes from my ability to be present. I do still struggle with that and at times I get a bit overwhelmed with the lack of it; but, in the end those struggles just makes the times when I am more present all the more meaningful. Quality over quantity and learning the art of doing very little slowly. I think I'll take a nap now.

Getting Back

There are times in my life where I find myself asking, whose life is this anyways? Where I look around and I find that everything seems so unfamiliar. In these moments of profound clarity I have to ask, how did I get here?

Being lost is very unsettling. It evokes a myriad of emotions in me that are to say the least uncomfortable and at most times rather frightening. Living with these emotions though is not that uncommon for me. The fact of the matter is we are actually very old friends. I have to say too that I have learned a lot coexisting with my old friends. It has given me the opportunity to feel into them in an integral way giving them the ability to tell their stories. And as a result I have come to know them and own them. More importantly though they have shown me why I have become a lost soul and how. Becoming lost wasn't a conscious decision on my part. It just happened. It's not uncommon to lost oneself as a result of horrific abuse. In fact it is quite common. I became lost out of necessity. As a way to protect myself. As a way to stay sane. in the face of insanity. I still have days though where I am stunned to my core at the shear magnitude of my experiences. Where I ask myself, did that actually happen to me? Is it actually possible that people are that cruel that they would perpetrate such acts on innocent children? On unwilling adults? But then I pull back because I realize that to logically dwell on such patently illogical experiences is a futile act, that I would be better served if I put my focus on recovering from my experiences and not on the experiences themselves.

Finding myself in this place also begs the question, can I make a life for myself in this unfamiliar territory and can I find happiness? Is it possible to attain happiness? Happiness is such a subjective experience for most. If I were to ask 7 different people what is their definition of happiness is I could guarantee that I would get 7 different answers. And none of them would be wrong.

Looking back I have been happy. There was a time in 2008 when my precious baby girl was still alive that I was happy. When her and her brother where still together playfully doing what cats do. Where I was able to bear witness to their unconditional love for each other and for me. I loved that brief time of my life. It seemed like I had it all. I had finally found my grounding even though I was dealing with the ongoing issues of memory recovery and all that it entails. Still, I had begun to heal, to be vulnerable, and to be open again. But that short time was what it was. I still wish I could get back again though. To somehow recapture that time, those feelings, those moments of real joy. But I can't. And the knowledge of that is something I have to live with.

Getting back is not always an exercise in futility though. I hope to get back my true self as I continue my work in recovery. I also hope to finally break open that cocoon that my true self was put into for safekeeping during my insane childhood. And with it I hope to get back my sense of place so that the territory I inhabit will actually become my own.

Fragility

"Life for all it's agonies..... is exciting and beautiful, amusing and artless and endearing.... and whatever is to come after it--we shall not have this life again." This is among one of my favorite quotes from Rose Macaulay. In it she talks about a life that is lived and loved, about savoring every moment for what it is. About the fragility of life itself.

Early this morning I got word that Tak, one of my closest work companions, died suddenly in the night. He was not much older than me. Not even 60 yet.

Tak was one of a kind. If I were asked to describe my sweet friend I would do it this way. And it would come quite easily too. Tak was thoughtful, loving, intelligent, loyal, and giving to say the least. He was, to be completely honest, an amazing man.

Tak and I had been around for a long time in the company and had crossed paths in those years. It wasn't until 2004 that we came together in the same office and on the same shift. He had come to fill a vacancy on evenings, one that a former coworker had recently given up. We became fast friends and close confidants. Over the next 6 years we developed a relationship that was extraordinary. In every way we complimented each other. We worked closely and in many ways we knew what the other was thinking. We were a team. During the slow times we sat and talked about everything; practically nothing was taboo with us. Sure there were some boundaries but we never hesitated or questioned why they existed. We just respected them and went on.

Tak was there when I woke up to my abuse history and for the intense period afterwards, never flinching, never stepping back.. He listened intently, caring for me in the dark days of 2005 and 2006. He watched my back when I needed protection and I watched his. Ours was a deep and abiding connection. When we got word in late 2009 that we would both have to move to different offices we were resigned to the fact of it. We didn't like it but we accepted it. When our last day together came and we were leaving for home he grabbed me and hugged me. And I didn't want to let go; but I knew I had to. Since then we have crossed paths many times and had been lucky enough to work together a day here and a day there. And we both enjoyed it too. When I got word that I was going back onto evenings in a few weeks I was thrilled because it meant Tak and I would be able to work together again. That we could rekindle our relationship again albeit in a different setting. But now that is not going to happen and I am heartbroken.

A few weeks ago I spoke about my recovery. About how difficult it is for me to stay present in the best of times. I spoke about how someone had once told me that each moment we live is like a brilliant flash of energy from within and without coming together in a unique way and that these fascinating moments will never be repeated. That the whole of our lives are just a succession of these once in a lifetime flashes. An amazing spectacle of light. I spoke too about how life is fragile because we never know what will happen next. Life is like that. It could go on to its natural end whatever that means or stop abruptly in the middle of the night much like Tak's did.

For me that is the fragility of life as I see it.

In a world of instant gratification and mind numbing speed; am I willing to experience these brilliant moments in their entirety not knowing what will come next? That in a sense it doesn't matter really what is coming next. That the fragility of life too is not just about living. It's about dying as well. It's about how fragile the world around us really is; including our environment, and our families. It's about the fragility of all things.

I feel that despite what the tenets of any tradition tells us, we can never be sure of anything that comes in the next moment. And that is what I feel Rose Macaulay wrote about. And that is what Tak has given me among all the wonderful things over the years; the understanding that life is indeed a very fragile thing and that it is all about loving and living and cherishing all of the those unique moments; those brilliant flashes of energy as they happen. And knowing that; "...whatever is to come after it--we shall not have this life again."

Rest in peace my loving friend.

The Unexcusable Act

It has been nearly a year since my precious baby girl Sylvia passed and I am still consumed with grief and guilt. Every time I look into her brother's distant eyes, every time I look at her ashes, every time I think of her running through the house or laying, curled up, asleep on the perch, I become lost in the abyss that is my grief and guilt. She died at such a tender age. Just 6 1/2 years old, too young to even enjoy the long life that she was destined to have.

To take a human life, whether they are two or four legged, is an unexcusable act; and I blame myself for her death. And rightly so. She was in my care, my child of sorts, totally dependent on me to feed, nourish, and love her. And I missed all the signs. It wasn't because they were subtle. They weren't. Many were quite obvious even to the casual viewer. I missed the signs because it became all about me and not her. I missed the signs because I needed to detach my inner child from her's and her brother's for that matter. I missed the signs because I needed to respond differently to them when they became ill so I didn't get triggered around my own shit. And that is what I can not come to terms with. That, in effect, I caused her death because I took the focus off of her and put it on me.

It's a incredibly difficult thing to accept. That I caused the death of another human being.

I had lunch recently with a dear friend of mine. We were having a serious discussion about life, family, and baggage. I sat there listening to my friend telling her story, bearing witness to it and all of it's challenges. Then, when she had finished, I heard myself saying words of wisdom, ones that were being channelled from her Higher Power through me. They were introspective, questioning, challenging. But the words I heard were not only meant for her. They were meant for me too. It was my Higher Power speaking to me as well. On the long drove home from the Peninsula I heard those words over and over again, radiating out, bouncing back, echoing throughout my grief and guilt. Words that were meant to finally create a path through my deep and abiding emotions. Words that I had, up to this point, denied existed. I am still trying to deny their existence but it is much more difficult now. They're out there, roaming around my inner existence; reeking havoc; causing trouble. Challenging the very foundations that I have come to accept about myself and my role in Sylvia's demise.

So where do I go from here?

That is a very good question, one that at this point I have no answer for.

The Human Condition

I was watching an episode of Sex and the City a few days ago, the one where Aiden and Carrie break up for the final time. Near the end I started to feel that familiar tug of wanting to be a couple. Afterwards I started thinking about life and why the yearning to be in an intimate relationship is so strong for us human beings. I started to ask myself, is it an innate genetic need or are we just so programmed by society that we can not resist the tug to be a couple.

No one can deny that being "together" with someone special is out there, everywhere we look. It's in the movies, in books, and magazines. It's in our friends lives, in most of our parents, and in the all of the animal kingdom. We see people with wedding rings on their left fingers, all a constant reminder that the ultimate human condition for us is to be in a couple. And more importantly that if we are not in a couple we are somehow missing out on life's greatest adventure, the supposed endpoint to all coupling; the institution of marriage.

So really, why do we want to be a couple?

In light of the recent ruling that overturned Prop 8 I find that this question is quite important. I am one who understands the basic need for socializing, having friends, and engaging in intimate relationships; but is the logical end to that intimacy marriage? I can see all of the legal benefits but what if we, the LGBTQ community, could get all the beneis that already exist for straight couples who have married, would we actually choose to get hitched? And if the logical answer to that question is no, then why are we putting all of our civil rights eggs in the proverbial marriage basket?

I can say that I view this latest civil rights battle with somewhat dubious eyes. I can see that we are putting ourselves in a very precarious position. I can see we are winning and could quite possibly win the top prize by default, but at what cost? Recently one of the online new sites showed a map of all of the states that have passed laws defining marriage as being between one man and one woman. I looked at all of that mass of color, the color of hate, and I thought, what if? What if we win by default? What if we win by some quirk of legal fate? What then?

Well, here is what I feel "what then" will encompass.

I decided to look up how someone goes about amending the Constitution of the United States. Yeah, the one that all these right wingers hold in such assumed high esteem, the one they seem to think is set in stone.

There are only two ways to amend the Constitution. The process is set out in Article V.

To propose amendments:

Two thirds of both houses of Congress vote to propose an amendment or two-thirds of the states legislatures ask congress to call a national convention to propose amendments.

To ratify amendments:

Three-fourths of the states legislatures approve it or ratifying conventions in three-fourths of the states approve it.

I call your attention to my reference regarding the color of hate.

That map I saw was overwhelmingly the color of hate. So, what if we win by default, what if gay marriage becomes the law of the land. Just how much hate is out there? Enough for say 34 state legislatures to ask congress to call a national convention? And what if it is called? Just think of all that political agenda stuff the right wingers just love to pull out every two years? All that fear mongering? All that hate. All that rhetoric about having to preserve the sanctity of family. That institution whose facade covers up all that alcoholism and all that domestic, physical, and sexual abuse. Ever heard the saying, never divulge family secrets? I understand now why it is so important for them to preserve the sanctity of family, it's because they can't handle the truth of what the institution actually is. If the truth every got out they wouldn't be able to handle it. So what better than to just be in total denial. That is why I feel they become so indignant when the institution is questioned; we are in essence questioning the very tenets of their denial and by extension their sanity.

While I'm making the list how about these; the right to an abortion, immigration, and equal rights for women. What about their chance to amendment the Constitution so that the courts can no longer be activist as they like to call it. Ahat about racial equality? Civil rights? Voting rights? States rights?

I can see these right wingers salivating at the very chance to enshrine their political agenda in the Constitution. The same document that they supposedly hold in such high esteem. In one fell swoop they would rewrite society in effect destroying the country and the very document they claim they want to protect.

A scary scenario you say, one that is not likely happen you say. I again call your attention to the color of hate. All it would take is 34 state legislatures to ask and 38 states to approve.

A scary scenario indeed; but as I see it, one that is more likely than not to happen.

The Power of Abject Fear

I was remembering a story I wrote some years ago about a dog I saw on the street. A very poignant story that has meaning for me today. The story began like this:

I walked by the coffeehouse today on the way to an appointment. There, sitting at one of the outside tables was a young man with an adult pit bull at his side, tightly leashed. As I passed by I made eye contact with his dog. What I saw looking back at me was the manifestation of my inner child. The dog's body was shaking in a barely controlled state of abject fear. I wanted to bend down and gather him up in my arms. To Soothe him. Protect him. Love him. But I knew I couldn't.

He was a living breathing human being existing in a state of abject fear.

As I sit here rereading that story I can still see the dog's eyes. That look of fear, all consuming, all knowing, with not one single hint of it every abating. The power of abject fear.

I see that look every time I face a mirror. That power lingering on from my childhood experiences.

In the last 6 months I have hit yet a new bottom in my recovery. A place that I thought I could never go; but I have. And there are no signs of it abating anytime soon either. I do have times when it is not in the forefront like now, but when it's quiet, in the still of the morning or just as I am falling to sleep, that is when I feel it most. When there is nothing else to distract me from my pain.

The story about the dog continued;

That was my inner child's world while he was being abused. In some ways it still is. A place where anything can happen without warning, Horrific things, Painful things. Confusing things. I have a tremendous amount of compassion for my inner child. I often wonder why or better yet how he survived the things he did. As an adult I do not know how I survived it either. I have expended a phenomenal amount of energy running from the realization that I had been sexually abused. Now I expend that energy coping with the legacy of my abuse.

Not a lot has changed in the three years since I wrote that story. I still expend a great deal of energy coping with the aftereffects of my abuse.

I went to dinner with a friend of mine last week. We go together often. One of our joys is to stroll down Polk Street while we decide where we would like to eat. This night we decided to eat at Pesce. We sat at the bar as there were no tables available. We were having a great time eating wonderful food and chatting with the bartender when I got triggered. It was a certain movement of the bartenders arm as he shook a cocktail that did it; and that was all it took. It must have been a direct memory connection because within a a few seconds I retreated deep within myself. It took some twenty minutes before I was able to ground myself.

This is my life. A series of triggers that continue to happen even after 9 years of therapy, 6 of which have been directly focused on my abuse. My work does not stop. In all of that time I think I have only recovered maybe about 30 minutes of actual experiences, all in bits of 20-45 seconds, sometimes longer. The horrific nature of what happened to me limits my ability to recover anything more.

My latest bottom happened as most do, as a result of a convergence of many unrelated things that then merge into one. Through it I have realized that my inner child, like that dog, still exists in a state of abject fear. And that is not changing. When the worst of the abuse started I sequestered a huge part of myself in a sort of safe house; a place where nothing or no one had access. My inner child is still there. Worse, is that safe house is still has strong as it was when I created it much to the detriment of my life as it exists now. In many ways the creation of this place was the only thing that keep me sane and alive. But now it has become my prison, a prison that I can not get into nor can my inner child get out of even if he wants to. In many ways he still thinks that I am a child and that the abuse is ongoing.

He is still living in a state of abject fear and nothing I can say to him will convince him otherwise.

I have lost all hope that my recovery will change my life even though I continue to do hopeful things. And maybe that is all I can do right now nor expect myself to do. Maybe it is just about taking it one day at a time, one step at a time, one hopeful act at a time. Maybe that is what I am suppose to do. Maybe that is what this new bottom of mine is all about. Making me focus on now, this moment, the sound of the wind as it rustles the ferns in the grotto, the feel of my breath as it fills my lungs, the softness of my boys fur as I touch his body. Maybe that is the key here. To experience the inherent beauty of each and every moment within the spiritual nature of all that the Goddess has created. Maybe that is what this new bottom is all about.

Changing of the Seasons

I worked in the garden today and I saw evidence of Spring everywhere. The agapanthus are in full bloom their flowers as blue as a cloudless sky, the Serbian bellflower is ripe with buds waiting to share it's nectar with the bees, the sun was shining, its rays warming the soil that I tilled beneath my feet. For me their is nothing like being in the garden. There is something about the nature of that soil, its loamy sweet aroma filling my senses, that takes me to another place and time, one that is devoid of that pervasive sadness that is in my soul.

I have been seeped in sadness for most of my adult life. There is the obvious reason, the one rooted in watching my friends die for so many years, one after another, from a horrible disease. But there has also always been another deeper soul ache too, one that got tapped into with each passing death I bore witness to. I remember saying to friends as we stood in yet another hospital room that there was nothing more sacred than to be present at someone's birth or death. I also remember saying that no one should be so intimately acquainted with death at such an early age. And we were. By the time I was in my mid 30's I had lost count of the friends and friends of friends that I had lost. Each one a part of my life. Each one taken so young. I remember sitting on the ground with my then partner at the memorial service for a friend of his that I had only met once. I could not stop crying. He asked me why I was sobbing. All I could say was I was crying for yet another life of someone who was taken so young, their cycle of life ending before their Spring had ever been lived. What I didn't know at the time, I was also crying at the loss of so much of my own life too.

I think these are the hardest things for me to come to terms with in my ongoing recovery. The loss of my innocence to the horrific sexual abuse I endured for 4 years. The loss of all the time afterwards when I was literally running from the memories lying just below the surface of my consciousness. And now, the awareness of the loss of potential that my life held had I not been abused.

I visited some private gardens yesterday here in the City. They were part of the Garden Conservancy's Open Garden Days Tour. There were 6 that we went to see in different parts of the City, some up in the highlands, one spectacularly perched on a cliff with a clear view of the Golden Gate Bridge. Each wonderful in their own way. Each a representation of the unique vision of the owner and their gardeners. But there was only one that profoundly affected me. It was the last one we saw in an older part of City called the Western Addition. It was a small garden located in the back of an old Victorian. It was clear when were arrived that the home was well cared for. The front had lovely old vintage roses and the original wrought iron fencing, but what was missing was any hint of what was in store for us in the back. That was revealed slowly as we ventured down the side path. The first thing we saw was a beautifully laid table with moss place mats, four settings of delicate china, each topped with teacups that were overflowing with miniature plants. It was setting the stage for the unfolding of a whimsical place full of fairy lairs, a bed made of layered mosses and succulents, a humpty dumpty perched high on a fence, a babbling brook, among many other things. It was a magical garden that pulled me down onto my knees, creating for me a sense of childlike wonder at each little tiny piece that made this place so incredible. And once I was down, I became aware that I was being connected to the very energy of life. I told this to the owner as we were leaving thanking him for such an amazing journey. He thanked us for coming and told us that my experience described his wife's soul perfectly. I left feeling like I was walking on air.

It is important for me to be reminded that this still exists, that someone could be so loving, so childlike, and so integrally connected to life's energy as an adult. I lose sight of that much of the time even though the cycle of the seasons in my own garden very much mirrors my experience yesterday. I have tried to create in each cycle a constant feeling of rootedness in the energy of the earth, each one representing a part of life's journey. I have also tried to supplement my garden with statuary, pieces of sentimental art, and found objects in an attempt to create a sense of mystery, spiritual connectiveness, and childlike awe. One that is rooted in the energy of the earth, the history of this property, and my specific journey through recovery. And when I am out there, like I was today, I do feel that connectiveness and awe. It is just hard sometimes so keep a hold of it as I make my way through each day. I feel that is why I am so grateful for the opportunity to garden the terraces behind my apartment building and to experience the journey of others as represented in their gardens; because for me these are the important things of life, the true bits of life that make all the others bits livable. It's the integral beauty of birds splashing as they bath, of bees moving from plant to plant feeding off the nectar, of flowers reaching for the sun, and the sounds of the wind as it rustles the leaves of the trees. This for me is Mother Earth's constant voice whispering to me that she is there, at my side, always loving, always supporting, as I walk the difficult and often painful path towards wholeness.