The gold is spoiling my grass

I was once told the story of an old man. I have no idea where this story comes from, so if you know let me know so I can attribute it here.

This old man is negative, grumpy, set in his ways. He wants more money; everything is expensive, prices are rising and he longs for the days when he was a boy and prices were reasonable. One morning he wakes to a pile of gold bullion stacked in his front yard. His response ‘Oh gosh darn it! That gold is ruining my grass!’

I realised a moment ago that I am that man! I was reading the honest and inspired blog of Ronna Detrick Renegade Conversations. Ronna wrote the following:

I don’t want to stay dry in my relationships. I want them wild and messy and juicy. By that admission, this means they will be hard, confusing, potentially disappointing, and require much vulnerability and risk. At this point in my life I don’t want safety or surety. I want passion, abandon, fiery integrity, brutal truth, and raw beauty. I want to get wet.

First let me say Wow! Fearless honesty should always be applauded! My relationship is wild, definitely messy and juicy (in the personal growth sense) right now. It is hard, really hard, deep, slow work. And to do the work we have had to face paralysing fears, speak searingly painful truths and embrace a vulnerability I have never known before.

What a powerful re-frame. ‘Wet’ is a magic new paradigm. I am not ‘going through stuff’, ‘in a rough patch’, ‘falling apart’. I am jumping into the depths of my marriage, our love, with both feet. I am getting wet.

Desire is desirable

There is a secret to human nature that we all work with, but few can clearly articulate. Desire never stops. You will never be so satisfied with everything that the thoughts and desires end. We are designed to expand. We expand by desire.

Our taste buds will always crave  sweet, salty and sour. Our skin desires touch, warmth, delicate textures. Our eyes will always desire to look upon beauty. We will never stop desiring the smell of delicious food cooking, flowers blooming, the earthy salty smells of the forest and ocean. We will forever desire the tunes of music, the divine orchestra that is nature sounds, the sound of the words ‘I love you’ or more powerfully still moans of a lover.

Desire is desirable. Desire is desirable in a lover, in a spiritual seeker, in a child. Desire drives us forth in everything we do.

Desire has a bad name these days though. Chocolate biscuits alone will make some break out in a cold sweat, they are so used to denying their desire. Others who indulge their desires give desire an equally bad reputation. To make it worse society deems some desires inappropriate. Or appropriate for some and not others. Religion confuses the matter to make things worse, some (well most) seem to have an anti-desire stance. Other tout the transformational power of our desires. (I like to listen and learn from these folk.)

Desire alone is not an issue. Unchecked, misunderstood desire and attachment to what we desire, is what drives us mental. The logistics of handling your desires so as they don’t become destructive forces in your life is the tricky part. Blind desire will rarely produce more than a disappointing burst of pleasure. Blind desire produces disappointment and more blind desire.

‘We cannot hope to attain our goal of universal and complete happiness by systematically making ourselves more and more miserable.’ – Lama Yeshe

Delving into the depths of my desire, eyes wide open, heart soft and compassionate, with honed awareness seems to be the only sane thing to do. So bring on the chocolate cake, ocean breezes and amazing nights of passion!

What I know for sure:

• Desire is endless
• Desire is powerful
• Denied desire can feel like a cage
• Suppressed desire can be dangerous
• Desire mindfully lived can be so beautiful it breaks you apart
• You will never control what it is you desire. You can witness it, indulge it, deny it but not choose it.
• All desire is equal. Whether you desire a partner or chocolate – desire is desire.

Desire is desirable.

I would love to hear what you desire. What are you longing for, yearning for deeply? World peace? The best ever lemon tart? The partner of your dreams?

Willingness

A question I am faced with a lot more in adulthood than I anticipated is am I willing to do what I must?

Am I willing to forgive? Am I willing to take a risk? Am I willing to trust? Am I willing to get hurt? Am I willing to make sacrifices? Am I willing to get past the pettiness? Am I willing let go? Am I willing to Love? Am I willing to really be open? Am I willing to be soft when the world conspires to make me tough? Am I willing to do the work? Am I willing to take responsibility? Am I willing to tune in? Am I willing to show up? Am I willing to just be? Am I willing to find stillness? Am I willing to face the truth? Am I willing to grow? Am I willing to push through my resistance?

Sometimes willingness is half the battle.  Sometimes being willing is enough. I hope it is enough, because I don’t know how to be open and soft right now.

The Mat

My long time mentor and friend once explained the role of discipline to me in growth. For the longest time I believed discipline was something that I sorely lacked. I was never a sporty person so sports practice was never a part of my schedule. I didn’t play an instrument, so I missed out on scales and drills. I was a singer (once upon a time) but I never considered my rehearsals a discipline because I loved to sing. I was a study geek in high school, I was genuinely disappointed if I didn’t get an A. But I felt compelled (for the most part) to study, because giving less than 100% felt like letting everybody down.

I was a strict vegetarian for many years and I avoided all caffeine, alcohol and drugs (prescription and elicit) for 3 years. This was what I considered my only discipline. I felt that my moods and fluxes made me flighty and inconsistent and that I was too rebellious to toe the line. I believed that military discipline in all its unyielding precision was the only real discipline and hoped against hope that by hanging out with military men (3 of my best friends at this stage were serving in the army) I would learn to respect discipline though osmosis.

As wonderful as military men are (and they are, I married one of them, though he is no longer in the Army) they did teach me one thing; military discipline is something that cannot be sustained constantly. The stricter the discipline in their day the harder they ‘let loose’ in their down time. I am still in awe of the air of discipline and order that permeates their world, but I now know that discipline need not be nailed down and policed. Discipline is essentially commitment in action.

My mentor, a wonderfully wise woman who has been a yoga teacher (amongst other things) for more years than I have lived, described discipline to me as ‘returning to the [yoga] mat’. Her definition of discipline (which I have happily appropriated) is continuing to return to your practice, whatever that may be, time and time again. Endlessly and reliably returning to the mat rain, hail or shine, with your exhaustion, grief or joy. It doesn’t matter how you show up, so long as you do.

My practice is varied. My commitment is to my highest self. I return daily to compassion, to honouring my desires and giving of myself in loving service [Bakti] every single day without fail. Sometimes I show up whining, others joyfully, sometimes I show up in pain. Every day without fail I say ‘yes’ to my son when I want to say ‘no’, every day without fail I honour my desires with a relaxed cup of tea, chocolate or a candle-lit shower. Every day without fail I seek to learn more of who I am and to show love to the world. It took me more than a decade of practice to realise that this, this is my discipline and it requires I toe no line but that of my own heart.

I would love to hear about your discipline.

*Image credit

Average, everyday gorgeousness

Having started my 21.5.800 challenge this week you might be hearing from me a little more often. 800 words is quite  a lot. The execution is lovely, don’t get me wrong, but if I ‘save’ up all the blog posts I am writing they will be old, crusty and irrelevant by the time I post them.

Today was a perfectly ordinary day. I really mean that - perfectly ordinary.

There is such pressure today to be extraordinary, exceptional, a rock star, untemplated. We are obsessed with breaking molds, smashing records, shattering limitations, exceeding expectations. We honour the rare moments of triumph to the exclusion of all else. We gloss over the journey, dust over the ugly and the small that built our pinnacle. Despite our obsession with individual pursuits of raging success, we maintain that relationships, people and love are the sweetest, most important parts of life.

This seems like a disconnect to me. If our relationships are the part of life we treasure most then why aren’t we obsessedwith cultivating compassion and forgiveness? Why are we encouraging and feeding our egotism as opposed to our humility, mercy and kindness?

Has our obsession with ‘being exceptional’ impaired our ability to appreciate the ordinary? Have we forgotten that the journey is what is important? Have we lost the ability to really bear witness to the baby steps of others? Have we lost the ability to be happy in the moment?

Today was a perfectly ordinary day. I was present all day. I was present folding the laundry and cooking minestrone, in the moment giving cuddles and having heart to heart talks. Simple ordinary occurrences. The beauty in the everyday ins and outs of my life is heartbreaking. That beauty is only available in the moment, and my ego striving for something better takes me away from the moment.

I think I would like to be exceptionally ordinary. I want to appreciate the average, everyday gorgeousness of my life. I want the eyes to see that beauty; I need the heart willing to truly inhabit the moment.

After a While Wednesday

After a while…

…I will realise that everybody is struggling within themselves to be the best they can be

…I will forgive myself my mistakes

…I will get used to early mornings

…I will come to grips with the transformative power of honest emotions

…I will learn that licking the bowl invariably makes me feel sick

…I will return to my better self

…I will quieten the inner critic long enough to think clearly about the future

Ugly

Ugly is awful. When things ‘get ugly’, people get hurt. Fat ugly tears get spilled. Ugly words are spoken. The ugly faces of jealousy, insecurity, spite, fear, pain and judgement shine. Ugly can’t be taken back.

Ugly is progress. Ugly is releasing the pressure valve. Ugly is [more] honest. Ugly is make or break time. Ugly is purging the toxic. Ugly is exorcising the Demons. Ugly can’t be taken back.

Sometimes ugly is necessary. If I have never seen your ugly side, I have never really seen you. If you can’t handle my ugly side, you can’t handle me. If you don’t embrace my ugliness, you don’t deserve me.

Sometimes it has to get worse before it gets better. Sometimes ugly is the only way forward. Sometimes ugly is the birth of something … beautiful.

The most beautiful lotus flowers grow through the mud and emerge beautiful and clean.

Farewell to the worst week ever.

*Photo credit

After a while…

The following poem was a life-saver to me when I was in a really black hole. There is a tremendous amount of power, wisdom and hope in its words. Power, wisdom and hope that became the light at the end of the tunnel when there seemed to be no other.

At the moment I, and some of my dearest girlfriends, are having a pretty crap time. Yes, we are doing what we choose. Yes we are walking in the general direction of our dreams. Yes there is forward motion. But it feels like we are walking slowly into the wind up a damned big hill. (The fact that is feels like we are walking hand in hand helps though.)

I have heard myself, and my besties, say ‘why did no-one tell us it would be like this?‘ too often in recent months. I guess nobody told us because we would have chickened out, run or laughed in their face. I am clinging to the sentiment that these dark periods are normal, natural and necessary. Thrashing around in a cocoon is necessary for a butterfly to be strong enough to fly when the time comes.

With that in mind, and permission from the author (she gave me permission years ago and I had not had the right occasion, till now) I give you After a while

After a while you learn the subtle difference

between holding a hand and chaining a soul

And you learn that love doesn’t mean leaning

and company doesn’t always mean security

And you begin to learn that kisses aren’t contracts

and presents aren’t promises

And you begin to accept your defeats

with your head up and your eyes ahead

with the grace of a woman, not the grief of a child

And you learn to build all your roads on today

because tomorrow’s ground is too uncertain for plans

and futures have a way of falling down in mid-flight.

After a while you learn that even sunshine burns

if you get too much.

So you plant your own garden and decorate your own soul

instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.

And you learn that you really can endure

that you really are strong

and you really do have worth

And you learn and you learn

with every goodbye you learn …

Copyright 1971 Veronica A. Shoffstall.

Image credit

When did we disown our tears?

“The energy that moves life is the force of the Feminine.

She is unstoppable . . .” David Deida

There is something very feminine about tears. We rarely admit it, but there is something very feminine about tantrums. It is equally feminine to stand chin out, defiant, protecting ourself or someone we love. It is feminine to want to sparkle and feminine to fold into ourselves and shy away from the world for a time.

The feminine wants to connect and she pines and yearns for that connection. When the connection is lacking she naturally goes within. She withdraws, ponders, searches. Or she lashes out; resentment, anger, fury, rage, payback. We disown all these reactions, constructive and destructive alike. We play nice, we eat, shop, drink, run… we do whatever we have to. (Another blog for another day the need to ‘do’ when ‘being’ would suffice.)

How much of ourselves do we lose, do you think, every time we resist our nature? How much energy do we waste trying to make the ebb and flow of our selves fit into a PC box?

At what point did we disown our tears? What is it that we have prioritised higher than honouring ourselves? What do we fear our tears, our vulnerability, our wildness will threaten? This is such a revealing question for me. I don’t risk losing love by surrendering to my nature – my friends borderline expect it from me and my husband rises to meet it, as opposed to shying away from it. Rationally I know this. Breathing it in and letting it permeate my cells… such a transformation is, well, fucking scary.

I think for me, my tears and wildness risk losing me the labels ‘nice’ and ‘together’. That my inner chicken shit prefers me to play at half throttle and remain in the box that says ‘strong women don’t cry’, ‘you are responsible for how others feel about you’ and ‘emotions are to be controlled or leveraged in the form of EI‘. I think I am afraid of constantly justifying my desires and explaining my moods. Terrified that my intuition is fearless. Anxious because I am sure my feminine nature is a hard task master that will lead me down unconventional paths. She has in the past.

At some point the fear of vilification mutes the bright colours that streak our world. I want to be living in full colour. Hell fire-engine red is my colour! My inner feminine is ready to be juicy, open, sassy, fearless, exuberant, vivacious, unapologetic, radiant, magnetic, wild and free.

I am claiming my tears, my funk, my tantrums, my seething rage, my desire, my lust, my vulnerability. Lets see what happens when I abandon myself to the flux of the feminine force – I’ll keep you posted

What I need to remember

You are not your roles.

I am not my roles.

I am not what I ‘do’.

I am not who I think I am.

I am not who I wish I was.

I am not the sum total of my deeds.

I am not the sum total of my mistakes.

I am not the net of my good minus my bad.

I am not a success. I am not a failure.

There is no label for me.

There is no combination or array of labels that will ever illustrate even a fraction of what I am.

Nothing in my life defines me.

Nothing in my life limits me.

There is nothing on earth with the capacity to behold me.

I may never truly understand what I am.

Mellow

Have you never been mellow?
Have you never tried to find a comfort from inside you?
Have you never been happy just to hear your song?
Have you never let someone else be strong?

-Olivia Newton John: Have you never been mellow

Yes I know I just lost every ounce of credibility when I posted ONJ lyrics from 1975, but I have already confessed to enjoying old daggy music, so bear with me.

Have you ever noticed that the people with the most (personal) power, respect and confidence are the most ‘mellow’? They speak in a level tone, they have no need to yell. Even if they were whispering people would strain to listen.

These people seem to bypass the socially awkward moments associated with meeting new people; they welcome all effortlessly with seemingly no concern of what the other may think of them. They know what others think of them is none of their business.

Those with personal power tend to have a close posse. Not because they require them as a crutch, but because they understand the value of letting people in. They respect the poignancy of silence too, so mindless chatter is kept to a minimum.

I found it easy to be mellow while I was pregnant. But I feel I was cheating somewhat – it is easy to be mellow when you don’t have the energy to be gregarious and where people walk on eggshells around you vying for the opportunity to fulfill your next craving.

My challenge. Now that I am ‘back’; able to show some skin (and wear an underwire bra), imbibe a cocktail (or 4) and hit the dance floor with the girls, to still flavor my life with mellow, understated grace.

How do you balance the mellow and ostentatious sides of your life?

What is dying to be born?

At first look this question is lightweight. It isn’t the transformative powerhouse that, has effectively had me floundering, meditating, pondering and writing for over a week. Danielle LaPorte is sheer dynamite. At a time where I am floundering to figure out who I am, again, she was the perfect find online; a default, distant, online mentor of sorts. Bless her. (Her answer to this question was so much clearer than mine, for now)

A few weeks ago she addressed the following question on her blog: What is dying to be born? Wow! Fuck! Ummm…. There are so many questions and assumptions inherent in those 6 words.

It suggests that there is something dormant that simply must become manifest. It suggests urgency – that unless it is born this potential will wither and die. It assumes every act of creation is also an act of destruction. It assumes chaos and balance. It suggests we are all vessels carrying something, all midwives to something unique.

In my experience birthing is natural and blissful with support and a just right environment. What needs to die to create that environment are my fears, my feelings of inadequacy, my playing small. What in me is dying to be  born? ‘My potential’, ‘my inner goddess’ and my ‘higher self’ are all true but too cliché to be meaningful. What is dying to be born of me is my true voice; in my actions, lifestyle, my writing. A voice I wont apologise for.

In the broader sense, what is dying to be born? Reverence for femininity to rival our worship of masculinity. Understanding of the power of sexuality. Respect for the art and science of conception, birthing and nurturing our children, our selves and our dreams. These are dying to born of us collectively and I hope to play midwife in my own small way.

What is dying to be born?