linda stephens

flowering

new year, new me

life is cyclical and this is a good thing. hunkered knee deep in winter, I look forward to the dawning of the new year. January and February, the latter my birthday month, find me quiet and introverted, hopeful and giddy, unsure and vulnerable. what comes for me? what will I bring to offer? this is a time of introspect and renewal. a grateful and shadowed time.

Today, I visited the site of author Margaret Roach at the suggestion of a friend and discovered this TED lecture given by Dr. Brene Brown. Her discussion of vulnerability as a core value to happiness, to love, strikes me deeply, a spade digging into the soil planting yet another seed. best wishes for the new year.

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I just spent a lolling weekend at the beach. The beach in October is all about lolling - sleeping in late, drinking lots of hot beverages, reading on the couch in the morning, then in a short, folding chair stuffed in the sand in the afternoon. This is followed by a drive through the country with no destination and no stop for ice cream (the ice cream shops are closed for the season), finally back to the humble cottage with no TV and no WiFi, exhausted, but still able to pour a rich glass of wine and nibble on French olives. ah, yes, autumnal beach time is good. very good. 

Of course, I overpacked. I didn't need three pairs of socks because two pair were enough. Two long sleeve shirts was also one too many, and the only time I wore my sandals was in the car on our drive north into Michigan. I brought a handful of magazines, only one of which was perused, and two books. One book I'd been reading for a couple of weeks in snippets, a great little tomb on the simplicity of good marketing strategy. I never took this one out of my bag. The other was a treat to myself on a recent Amazon shopping foray. I'd bought two other books as gifts and needed an inexpensive third book to qualify for free shipping. I secretly love when this happens, creating a highly practical opportunity for me to buy something for myself under the guise of "saving money." 

The latter book is one I'd been eyeing for years now. Published in 1999,Traveling Mercies: Some Thoughts on Faith by Anne Lamott beckoned to me - she is my writing idol - and also frightened me on some level. I don't know that I could have identified the resistance to the book as fear before diving into it and actually beginning to read it, but now, knee deep, I see that this is exactly what I felt. 

For those of you who haven't read any of Lamott's essay work, you need to get busy. Drop the romance novel or the important historical biography your plodding through and grab hold of one of Lamott's amazing works. As a window to the her quirky perspective, I'll share what one reviewer wrote regarding Traveling Mercies, "Anne Lamott is walking proof that a person can be both reverent and irreverent in the same lifetime. Sometimes in the same breath." Amen.  

Each essay has chartered a path through my emotional spectrum - from laugh-out-loud giggles to tender tears, from gut-wrenching sadness to poignant awe. I'd read more than a handful of essays, filling over a hundred pages, before I read one without weeping (and even then, I came very close). Every Lamott piece hits a button, triggers a memory, brushes a wound, or pierces an assumption I've been holding on to for too long. So why, you may be wondering, fear this work?

For me, Lamott's writing has transformative power. I am not only moved, I am changed, opened, laid bare and raw by the shere authenticity of her voice. Lamott speaks her truth, plainly with such clear resonance that it can not be ignored. As the reader, I am challenged to also be true, listening to my reactions, facing my demons, and having no choice but to accept what I feel, what I know, who I am. Lamott's work is not so much a mirror of my experience, but rather a reflection of divinity, thriving within eccentric, inconsistent, bumbling, and authentic humanity. 

About half way through the book now, I read an essay entitled, "Foregivenss" while I ate lunch today. My heart beamed on page 131 when, sharing a story of cupcakes disappearing, Lamott named the culprit - her dog. Imagine my delight in learning that my writing idol's dog, like mine, is named Sadie. Like the boy who discovers his baseball hero uses his same mitt, or the girl who learns that she and her favorite movie star have the same shoe size, I am giddy, feeling a kinship with my unlikely icon.  

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autumn

Autumn has arrived in Chicago and it is glorious. The sun's warmth bathes my shoulder, filtered through a south facing window. Like the herbs lining the east window, I am tilting slightly, drawn to the heat like a life-force, soaking it in, imprinting fall's sensibility to create a lasting memory.

The weather in this part of the country is rough, framing many days with a specific tenor that is difficult to deny. While conditions can be erratic and severe, they are also ironically dependable. Temperatures can vary widely in a given day, and turbulent thunderstorms often give way to serene sunsets. Surrounding all this tumult, however, is a reliable rhythm marked by the seasons - the dense thickness of summer humidity, the crisp brevity of autumn, and the unfailing breadth of winter, stripping the land and those of us who inhabit it down to the barest thread. Hope lives in spring, as the first crocuses push through and, layer by layer, we rediscover ourselves, reconnect with our neighbors, and begin again.

As the brisk breeze of this autumn morning invigorates the beginning of my day, I sense a reverence as well. A solemn knowing dwells in the depths, untouched through months of distraction, of amiability and frivolity. It stirs quietly as the cadence of the seasons marches forward into the inevitable canyons of winter.

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the otherworld

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My dog Sadie is dreaming. Lying on her side on the floor next to my desk, her paws scoop and jerk in a motion that mimics a loose, liquid sort of running. Maybe there is a phantom squirrel she is chasing in an open field, no trees to offer them their typical, facile escape. Only Sadie knows for sure. 

Sadie is in the otherworld of dreams, a place nearly all of us go and yet a space that, rather miraculously, is utterly private and uniquely our own. For years, I worked with a Jungian analyst and we often discussed my dreams. I thoroughly enjoyed this work, viewing my slumbering escapades like a spectator at a theatre, my alter-ego the talented director. I marveled at the fantastical constructs my own mind conjured, though I sometimes struggled to imagine, understand or accept them from the distant perspective of wakefulness. Our discussions and interpretations of the dreams could range from disturbing to empowering, fanciful to frightening, but they were often powerfully specific, with a sense of pushing or pulling, beckoning me to open wider the funnel of my comprehension. 

I've dreamt vividly of late, so detailed as to foil a restful sleep. In the habit of therapy, now ended, I scribble notes in the dark or in early morning light before rising. Characters animating these recent constructs have ranged from Dr. Suess to my ex-husband, my mother to a dear friend lost years ago. It comforts me to understand these personas are representative rather than literal, manifestations of dispositions I am exploring, entangled by, or fearful of as the Jungian work taught me. Searching for an authentic expression of a scene or emotion to speak to the wakeful me, my dream director morphs and transfigures contexts effortlessly through the night, from day to day, sometimes over many years. We wrestle with a theme, the director and me, in search of resolution, in search of a deeper knowing. 

Sadie sleeps again and twitches now, whispered shreeks coming fast from her muzzle. Is she barking, protecting her newly captured prey or defending our home from an intruder? Suddenly, her body quiets. Maybe she has conquered the challenger, her whiskers shuddering only slightly now, until the tip of her tongue appears and a weak smile forms. Her domain safe, could the back door be opening, and someone crossing the threshold bearing treats as her reward? Only Sadie knows for sure.

Dreaming in Hindi

Last night's dreams were action packed and, seemingly, rife with mysterious information.

alas, I recall only snippets of the dreams themselves, but I took these tiny bits as messages for today and got on the internet to see where the journey might take me.

In a dream that vaguely involved an old boyfriend, Vishnu was discussed, and then Ganesh, both well known Hindu deities. I can't recall why these two were a topic or in what way they impacted the dream, but the voice of these dieties was strong as the sun rose this morning, beckoning me to know them better.  

My informal research revealed Vishnu as the preserver of the Universe, often in company with Brahama, the creator of the Universe, and Shiva, its destroyer. Vishnu is often associated with the Ocean Nara, or primeval waters that existed before the creation of the Universe. He is regarded as an eternal, all pervading spirit, representing mercy and goodness. (source: http://www.pantheon.org/articles/v/vishnu.html)

Ganesh (or Ganesha) is one of the most widely known and worshiped Hindu dieties, easily recognizable with his elephant head. Known as the patron of the arts, sciences and letters, Ganesh stills the rational mind and its doubts, thus removing all obstacles to success. Ganesh's physical appearance is rich in symbolism and includes a broken tusk which, It is said, he used to write the Mahabharata.

Intrigued by Ganesh's association with writing, I searched the Mahabharata and found this:

"Quite simply, the Mahabharata is a powerful and amazing text that inspires awe and wonder.  It presents sweeping visions of the cosmos and humanity and intriguing and frightening glimpses of divinity in an ancient narrative that is accessible, interesting, and compelling for anyone willing to learn the basic themes of India's culture.  The Mahabharata definitely is one of those creations of human language and spirit that has traveled far beyond the place of its original creation and will eventually take its rightful place on the highest shelf of  world literature beside Homer's epics, the Greek tragedies, the Bible, Shakespeare, and similarly transcendent works."  (source: James L. Fitzgerald, Das Professor of Sanskrit, Brown University - http://www.brown.edu/Departments/Sanskrit_in_Classics_at_Brown/Mahabharata/)
 
...and the reading list grows. 

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words to live by

truth.

writing is a path to my truth, helping me navigate the noise of daily life to tap into an authenticity I yearn for, a fidelity to self that comforts and frees me.
my quest for truth usually involves my relationships, often my most intimate ties, and, ironically, I find that I'm rather protective of these. 

so how do I write about my wanderings, about my explorations, without betraying my intimates?

This is the conundrum... 
to speak without hurting. 
to learn, but not on the backs of others.
to be true without betraying. 

the truth sets you free. 
if you trust the breeze will support you. 

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truth

 

on being busy

I'm not busy today. In fact, I'm still in my pajamas, sipping coffee and wondering what the day will hold. It's Sunday, so that explains a little bit of the energy. Sundays have a more syrupy pace than the percolating quality of a Tuesday or Wednesday. The void of today, however, has much to do with taking a breath. I find breathing to be very important in making my definition of "busy" a sane one.

Like so many people, my schedule is packed - in the past two years I've started a marketing consultancy and a freelance writing career, remarried, moved house three times, mothered two middle schoolers, managed a couple of health challenges, accepted a board position at a local food pantry, and brought a rescue dog into our home, one that, unfortunately, became quite ill within a month of her arrival requiring many hours of care and attention (she is nearly fully recovered now and back to being a pain-in-the-arse puppy, thank heavens!). My busy schedule may look a lot like others, or not, but regardless of how the particulars are defined, it's a hectic existence. 

For me, its important to step back once in a while, move away from my desk, from the long list of to-do's and from the goals I'm working toward, and simply breath. This is both a literal application and a figurative one. I have studied yoga for more than 13 years and cultivate a meditation practice as an outgrowth of that. Conscious breathing is integral to both yoga and meditation and I seek refuge in them, on my mat or otherwise, nearly daily. These practices slow my mind, calm my nerves, and create an open space for a simpler form of being. Similarly, this Sunday is unscheduled and I am conscious of leaving space open, of letting the day unfold without the rigor of checklists and productivity. Repeatedly throughout the day, I will have to remind myself to let go of the tether, to drop the criteria for success that structures a typical week and drives me from one day into the next. 

It may surprise you, but this is a difficult exercise, this disengaging. Relaxing into the natural rhythms of the day, allowing chance to occur, listening to a deeper voice that may have something different to say is really quiet challenging for those of us who skip nimbly up the ladder of busy most of the time. Letting go of the ladder is powerful, and can be unsettling and even a little frightening. However, it also creates space for something new and, often, for the flow of creativity.

This Sunday is actually the first I've written in days. My task list has been long recently, my cup flowing over with work, and the joys and labors of family. Life is good on a schedule and I am a big planner. But taking a breath serves to frame the busy work, capturing it as a photographic still and allowing me to see the beauty in being productive from a vantage of stillness, from the expanse of a quiet mind. 

Thanks to Christina Katz and her blog The Prosperous Writer for the weekly writing prompt on "busy" - http://christinakatz.com/

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Photo by Bari Zaki  - http://barizaki.com/