Love Thyself

Loving myself is one of the most important things I've learned how to do.  Not a narcissistic wow I'm awesome and perfect kind of love, but the kind of love that allows me to take care of myself when things get rough. The kind of love that says, I know you're down, I know you're hurting, maybe you messed up or are feeling sorry for yourself, but that’s okay, I love and accept you anyway.

There are times when life just beats you down. Sometimes there is a friend or family member who will call, or visit. Or someone who cares will do something nice like bring you food or get you out of the house, but no one will sit by your side and make you get out of bed, make you go on with your life. There is no one who can repair your hurts or take away your anguish.

I have developed a tactic to get me through these times. For me there is no other answer than the old adage “one day at a time.” When I am in a slump for any extended period of time there comes a day when I know it’s time to move on. So I decide I am going to do one thing, just one thing today just for me. I am going to do it consciously, and I am going to do it right.  There is nothing overwhelming about one little thing, I can approach this with confidence even on my worst days.

Sometimes it’s making a meal. Going into the kitchen to bake bread, and make homemade soup. I will think about what I am doing, I will be thankful for having good food to make and the time to prepare it. I will take in smells, and notice the rhythm of slicing and dicing. I will force out every other thought other than the enjoyment I get from preparing a good meal for myself and my family.

Or maybe I need to get out side, I’ll put on my favorite tennis shoes put my hair up and walk out the door. If it’s cold I’ll take note of how the brisk air braces my skin, how it makes me feel alive. If it’s warm I’ll notice how the sun on my face relaxes my whole body. And then I’ll run. I’ll run if the pain is the angry and aggressive kind, and as I run I will listen to the rhythm of my feet hitting the ground, feel my heart beating in my chest, pumping my blood through my body.  I will be thankful. Thankful that although there are so many things I have no power over, I do have a healthy strong body and the power to move myself forward.

Or I’ll walk. I'll walk if the pain is the meandering and contemplative kind.  I’ll wander down the road and notice the sounds of the birds and the river. I'll stop and breathe in the fresh air and be thankful that I can just wander in peace.

I have come through many tough times this way. Doing just one thing a day, not thinking about insurmountable obstacles or worries of the future or pain of the past, just to be present with myself, and conscious of task I have chosen for that moment.

Whatever it is that you do, to love and care for yourself will work. Paint, yoga, meditate, run, walk, bike, cook, spend time with your cat or dog, it doesn't matter as long as it is done only for you. And that it’s done with intent. The intention being self care. There is something inside each of us that no one else other than ourselves knows how to care for. You are the expert, and you hold the key to healing your heart.

As an afterthought, I realise that I am only capable of caring for others as much as I am able to care for myself. So in order to give true love and grace to the people I care for in my life, I must give it to myself first. 

The Power Of Emotion

I have heard of a condition referred to as being a  “sensitive” I don’t know if this is a real condition, or learned behavior or what, but I do know I know people who seem to more strongly affected by the emotions of those around them than others. I also believe we are all affected to some extent by the moods and emotions of the people around us.

I know for myself I am strongly repelled by anger, aggression, and drama. I’m usually a friendly open person but when I encounter situations where there are high levels of anger or aggression I clam up and exit the situation or avoid people who emote those things regularly.

On the other hand, I am strongly compelled by the emotions of genuine pain or hurt; I feel it deeply and am drawn to try to sooth those people. Weather I have known them for years or hardly at all it doesn't matter, something pulls me to want to comfort them. That being said these aren't’ the people who emote depression, chronic insecurity or hopelessness, those people seem to suck the air out of a room, and drain the energy of those close to them. I don’t have the fortitude to spend very long with this type of person.

Then there all the people who emote joy, and happiness, they have a light that seems to attract others. These people are easy to recognize, you are drawn to them, being around them just feels good. I think there are fewer of this type of person, the ones who are just naturally full of optimism an joy.

It gets me reflecting about how we emote, and the effect it has on those around us. Because it will have an effect, regardless of whether we want it to.  Our emotions aren't just a private internal experience; we emanate them. They can be seen and felt by others, some people will be more keenly aware of them than others.  

For some it easy to be light and joy, that’s just who they are, but for the rest of us I believe it is a daily struggle to be aware of what we are attracting or repelling with our emotions. I think the full range of emotions are healthy and should be felt to their full extent, but to linger too long on the negative spectrum will draw unwanted experiences and people into our lives. 

Crazy Beautiful

I have had my share of pain and hurt in life, and even when I was as down as I have ever been I thought how grateful I am for my life. I remember very clearly one day realizing this. The fact my heart was so broken and I was so hurt, meant I was alive, and if I could experience that level of grief, then I could experience the same level of joy. I turned a corner right then and there and started to heal. I have never ever forgotten that moment. When my heart hurts, or I am angry, somewhere in my consciousness I know I am capable of that equal and opposite emotion and it carries me through.

Life is a crazy beautiful ALIVE thing.

Babies are born, people die, there are huge triumphs over struggles and terrible tragedies. Hearts break, or are filled to bursting. We cry and mourn, and laugh till our sides ache. We feel pain and bleed, and also enjoy pleasure. We hunger and thirst, and seek love and comfort. We rage, and love and hope and hurt. We work and sweat and sing and dance. All of us.  If you take away race, gender, age, and religion we are all the same. We are human.

Life can be cruel and difficult but it is always a crazy beautiful ALIVE thing. 

A Letter to My Sons

This is a letter to my sons. They are both my greatest gift, and an infinite challenge. I know I have guided them thus far to best of my ability, taught them what I can, sometimes failed them, and always loved them.

First Born

My first born-

Tender hearted, analytical, and quickly developing a quick wit. You are emotional, cry, anger, and laugh easily. You are ceaselessly loyal. You are a devoted friend and you have a strong sense of right and wrong. You love quickly and easily, just like your father. You love the constructs of rules and guidelines just like me. You watch from the sidelines, carefully taking in your surroundings. You consider cautiously your next move. You are careful, and kind and compassionate. You are curious and silly when you feel safe. You are the type of person people will count on; people will turn to you when they need someone with common sense. You are not rash or bold, but contemplative and thoughtful.  And I love you so much it makes my heart hurt.

Second Born

My second born-

You are silly! And full of laughter and mischievousness. You will do whatever it takes to elicit laughter, including dancing around the house in my red high heels. You have unarguable logic, that you mostly use to your advantage, but have an innate ability to know when someone needs your comfort. You argue, analyze, and refuse to accept “just because” like your mother. You love to push boundaries, seek thrills and excitement just like your dad. You sing, you dance, you are joyful and irreverent. You are kind and generous, always willing to help and share. People will always be entertained in your presence.  And I love you so much it makes my heart hurt.  

Lovers Reverie

My lovers’ weighty head rest upon the fullness of my breast

My heart beats warmly within the depths of my chest

I breathe it in the smell of him and him the smell of me

The two of us adrift together in a lovers' sea

The memory of our entanglements and of our hot embrace  

Fades away unhurriedly as united the morn we face.

True Romance

Happy obligatory romance month everyone!

I know, that sounds pessimistic, I am a romantic at heart, really I am. But Valentine’s Day has always seemed to bring out my sarcastic snarky side. To me it is a prime example of our nations consumerism. I do not want my romance bought and sold on the open market to the highest bidder. It feels cheap, and well…obligatory.  There is nothing romantic about obligation. Romance comes in small moments, thoughtfulness, and gestures that say “I love you” or “I thought of you.” That is not saying flowers, wine and chocolate by a crackling fire aren't romantic, they very much are. It’s about delivery.  It means so much more when it comes from “because I love you” than, “because on this day I’m supposed to.”  The best gift is to love truly. To love truly is to take risk, risking your heart; to let someone in. To fully invest your heart in another person, in and of itself is a gift.

My husband loves this, takes the pressure off him for finding the “perfect gift for your loved one.” He knows what the perfect gift is. Those gifts come in special moments shared together, a heart shaped rock found on the beach, a cup of coffee in bed on a Saturday morning, a pretty potted flower brought home for no other reason than he saw it and thought of me. He’s always been quite charming that way.  I try to follow suit, but I am inept compared to him. I bring him a beer while he soaks in the tub, surprise him with one of his favorite meals, or color a silly handmade card.

Ironically, it’s Valentine’s Day we mark the passing of our years together. This year it will be twenty! Crap I’m getting old. Twenty years ago on Valentine’s Day he brought me a single red rose and bashfully asked if I would be his valentine. How could I possibly resist? (I told you, I really am a romantic). So for me it does mark an event of importance after all.

Valentine’s Day does however get me reflecting on love, and what it is. It comes is so many forms and encompasses so many things it's hard to believe one little word is enough to describe it.  Compassion, caring, adoration, tenderness, admiration, longing, joy, the list goes on. When you tell someone you love them you are saying so many things. “I care for you, your happiness is important to me; I want to be near you.”   Try thinking about that next time you say I love you, it’s pretty amazing.

All you lovers out there, don’t confine your love to one day, or give too much importance to how society proclaims it should be expressed; or to whom, you know in your heart what should be done. Love whoever you love without reservations, risk your heart, and embrace love.  Love your loves every day, in all the small ways that are so important. Do silly things for just the two of you, the little things that make your love unique.  Let your heart guide you in matters of love.

I like to remember all my loves on Valentine’s Day, for me it's not just about romance but about love in all of its forms. I am sending love to my friends my family, and all the people who touch my heart. I trust you know I love you through my actions.

Happy heart day everyday!

Growing Up Flower Child

This little blurb is from the archives, (recycled material) over the years I have stopped and started writing my memoir more times than I care to recount. It's difficult to know what viewpoint to write from, how much detail to include or leave out etc...Lots of touchy subjects. But the more I write the better I feel, and when I share, I find people with shared experiences which is good as none of us wants to be alone in our tragedies or triumphs.

Growing Up Flower Child

For as long as I can remember, I had a sense of being different, for one reason or another. It seems I always had awareness that my life was not the same as others. In the beginning, I think this feeling was generated by an ugly custody battle between my parents that turned out badly. My mother ended up with me, while my father took my older brother and sister, none of us at the time realizing it would be twenty some odd years before we would see each other again. In addition to this, my mother’s choice to raise me in a commune, that would obviously make one feel different, I even felt different within the context of the commune. I felt like an outsider, it was a pervasive theme in my childhood.

     This sense of being different I think in the beginning was not one of comfort, but caused me to want to hide away or blend in. Of course being a young girl, I had no way to make any sense of my life up to that point.

     My mother was the stereo typical “cult” member, submissive, and unsure, looking for guidance and a sense of belonging. In addition to this, she had the benefit of receiving assistance with getting custody of me, and an escape from an abusive marriage. At that time I'm sure it felt like a good option, and without it, both our lives would be very different. She first lived between the "Love Families" Seattle homes and the 300 acre Arlington ranch. At the Ranch location we lived extremely rustically in an army tent with community facilities such as showers and kitchens.  The tents were furnished with pot bellied stoves and woven tapestries for the small amount of privacy they provided. Beds were on the floor and we had “travel bags” for our clothing and personal items which were minimal to say the least. I was fed and warm and loved at this point, and I had nothing to compare our vagabond lifestyle to so I suppose you could say I was relatively carefree. These were my youngest years and I believe short lived as my mother still lived with the fear of my father and expressed her desire to relocate to the properties in Eastern Washington.

     After joining The Love Family, my mother soon settled in a secluded area in Eastern Washington on property occupied by several other families. Being a shy quiet child, of a shy and quiet mother this was heaven for me.

     The families who located there were hardy, hardworking and peaceful people. We gardened, raised chickens, and had the rare bit of game for our food. Being “hippies” and not having much money we also received items such as cheese and milk on the Dole. We (the children at least) never knew we were poor. We were well fed and well cared for.

I can remember my mother and God mother in the cabin kitchen on bread baking day. The heels of last week’s bread had all been devoured and it was time to start again. Thin films of flour covered the counter top, the soft conversational voices of the women filled the kitchen. The children played just outside the window in the yard in summer, or in a warm corner of the cabin in winter. I remember watching their skilled hands fold and punch the balls of dough kneading it until it was just right. There it sat for hours it seemed, in a wooden bowl covered with a kitchen towel. When the time was right it went into pans, six at least, and was put in our wood fired oven. That smell will never leave me and will always mean comfort. One loaf, maybe two were served that very day, warm thick slices with butter and homemade jam. Our mothers may have felt it was just another daily task, but it was always done with care, and is remembered still as an act of love. It was a treat that was always eagerly awaited by our entire family. Homemade Bread to me represents a mother’s love, a happy family, a full heart and full belly.

 Summers were also particularly memorable here, long hot days spent on banks of the Columbia or helping in the garden. Everything grew here to huge proportions; I remember eating tomatoes plucked right from vine, that seemed bigger than my head, still warm from the sun. We raised chickens and for a time had Belgian horses that were used to work the land or get us to town when we were snowed-in, in winter.

Winter, was also an adventure, we were so remote, that even getting to the tiny town of Northport was a challenge. We had to literally be stocked up for the winter. Much of our goods were gathered and grown on the land an canned or dried for winter. We would pick and clean the wild hazel nuts and store them in 5 gallon buckets. The wild service berries were also harvested by shaking the bushes over sheets we spread on the ground. These were often the chores for us children; everyone did their share to survive. We were living like pioneers even though it was the mid 70’s early 80’s.