Monthly Archives: July 2014

Just Breathe

“…you can’t jump the track, we’re like cars on a cable
And life’s like an hourglass, glued to the table….”

~Anna Nalick, Breathe (2 am)

Life’s like an hour glass, glued to the table. There’s a truth bomb for you. The sand only goes one way. There’s no turning it over and starting again.

I spent the last few months dreading my 50th birthday. Now that it’s come and gone, I’m totally fine with it (as I knew I would be if I just let myself feel what I felt). In fact, I’m finding it kind of liberating. I feel a clarity I’ve never felt before. Instead of feeling morose about ‘the time I have left,’ I feel galvanized to spend the time doing the things that give me joy. Fewer shoulds and more musts.

This perspective came into even sharper focus today when I read about the death of a woman I knew in my early 20s. I was a graduate student at the University of Alberta and I got a Research Assistantship, which involved me serving as a librarian of sorts at the Women’s Resource Centre (WRC) on campus. At the time, it was a small feminist enclave housed in a small University-owned house not far from the Humanities building where I spent most of my time. I was very young (23 or so) and had only been out of the closet for about two years. In those days, being out was far more courageous an act than it is now (and I’m glad it’s no big thing now). Being out required judgment and caution. These were the days when coming out to someone was a significant decision. You sat them down and, after much stuttering and hesitation, ‘broke the news’ to them. It was like sharing you had a terminal disease. So silly when I think back on it. I was lucky; I never had a bad reaction from anyone, but many did.

At the time, being a lesbian in the English department was like a badge of honour. It was actually fashionable, particularly as feminist literary criticism emerged as the ‘thing to do.’ The Women’s Resource Centre was an epicentre for students and others studying or interested in feminism. It was like a satellite Common Womon Books, for those who remember that Edmonton establishment.

The WRC housed a respectable collection of important feminist/lesbian books, journals and magazines…donated, purchased or otherwise acquired. On the shelves, you’d find books by Andrea Dworkin, Betty Friedan, Lillian Faderman, Simone de Beauvoir and many others. Of course, you’d also find issues of MS, off our backs, and other significant periodicals (including some local writing anthologies like Fireweed). The Resource Centre provided other services, but I honestly can’t remember what they were.

The WRC was staffed by a handful of women…ranging from a very feminine, young straight woman to an older (or so she seemed to me then. She may have only been in her 40s) butch woman whose pendulous breasts had not had any support whatsoever since she set her bra on fire years before. It struck me that some women had come to the erroneous conclusion that the less effort they made to make themselves look in any way attractive (hell…even groomed!), the better feminists they were. What a load of crap. I thought so then; I think so now.

I digress.

The woman who ran the place was about 32 at the time and held a doctorate in, I think, Phys Ed. It’s hard for me to fathom now that she was only nine years older than I. She commanded a room and had a PhD. To me she was just…well…old! She was a fairly stereotypical lesbo-jock…except an academic version. She could be benevolent and funny one moment and utterly menacing the next. I didn’t like her. I wanted to, but she proved to be a very subtle bully and, in fact, said some things to me that would certainly (ironically) qualify as sexual harassment by any standard today.

Live Your Time Well

photo taken by Laurel Halkier

I spent one summer working there. It was painful and I often felt marginalized and out of place there. How ironic is that? I was teased by this woman as well as the pendulous woman about the fact I chose to shave my legs and underarms and because I chose to wear make-up. I thought feminism was about women taking back their power??? I can say without hesitation that the only time in my adult life I felt uncomfortable and belittled for being a woman in the workplace was at the WRC.

Still, I was shocked today to read of the WRC leader’s death at only 59. She had gone on to lead what, by all accounts, was a successful academic career. She was felled by something called front0-temporal dementia, which is akin to, but still quite different from, Alzheimer Disease. It strikes me cruel when someone who has made their livelihood using their mind has their mind stolen from them. It sounds like a malevolent disease with terrible symptoms that must be incredibly hard on families. And it is invariably fatal.

I’m not going to laud this woman. I didn’t like her and she was unkind to me. Her short life doesn’t change my memory and experience of her. Still, my memory also reminds me she was a vital, bright, successful woman who was, in fact, on the vanguard for lesbian academics at the time. She lived out, proud and without apology. I respect her for that. When I conjure her face in my mind’s eye, I can’t help but think that none of us could have guessed this would be her fate. That, at 32, she had already lived more than half her life. She would only have 27 more years (fewer, when you take into account the ravages of the disease before one actually succumbs). But, let’s face it, none of us knows how long, how or when.

All this reminded me of something that’s become much clearer to me since I turned 50: Live your time well. I’m not talking about bucket lists and all that crud. I’m talking about living joyfully. Spend as much time as you can with the people who make you think, make you laugh and make you better. Do the things that make you purr. Most of us have to work, do laundry and clean house. Yeah, there’s that. But what about the rest of the time? Live your time well.

Reading about the death of this woman I knew so many years ago didn’t make me sad. I don’t know her anymore. But it did make me think. And that thinking led me to put on my shoes and go for a walk in the sunshine…and that was sublime.

“There’s a light at each end of this tunnel, you shout
’cause you’re just as far in as you’ll ever be out….”

Just breathe.

 

 

Grace

If I asked you to tell me what Grace is, would you know? If you knew in your heart what it is, would you be able to articulate it? I actually looked it up online and was met with a ream of Christian websites, all with definitions just weren’t quite right (to me, that is). Because, of course, Christians don’t own the concept of Grace. No religion does. The Universe (swap out that term for one that works for you) transcends human made frameworks. Religions are like lunch kits. They’re artificial (but often brightly decorated!) containers that can only hold a small sample of what’s possible (Color_flowand some of the stuff that gets put in there, you just can’t swallow!).

If you follow my thinking so far, you’ll agree that Grace precedes religion because – duh – the Universe precedes everything! Grace is available to anyone/thing – even atheists and agnostics. It doesn’t matter if you attribute Grace to God, static electricity, or the ley lines along the Camino de Santiago; it is available to you in any case. To borrow from an old joke: you may not believe in Grace, but it believes in you. In summary, this ain’t about religion, so chill out and quit rolling your eyes. I saw that!

So…what is it? As you read that question, your body might feel the memory of a knowing that lives in your cells, if not your mind. It’s like trying to recall something that’s lurking *just* on the edge of your conscious memory. Spiritual déja vu. You know what it is, even though you don’t think you do. You’ve experienced it, even though you might not recognize you have.

I believe moments of Grace have one telltale sign…the stand outside the normal passage of time. If you’ve heard of the concept of Flow, you know it’s a concept of extreme, yet effortless concentration. When I write, for example, I often experience it. No awareness of the passing of time, no awareness of exertion…just a physically delicious focus that is both immersive and energizing. It’s better than sex (though Flow can certainly happen during sex!). The originator of the theory of Flow, Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi (I only want to type that name once), describes it as an alternative reality, a moment of ecstasy where we feel we don’t exist. Indeed, he says “our existence is temporarily suspended.” Far out.

The feeling of Flow is the important thing to remember for the purpose of this discussion about Grace. Flow tends to be creation-induced (writing, playing music, painting, etc.), while Grace is often, I think, connection-induced. You will know Grace by how you feel: outside time, like you could shoot beams of light from you if you tried hard enough; your skin tingles, you may be moved to tears, you’ll joy from the inside out. And, perhaps the most telltale sign of all: you forget the concept of ‘self.’ In that brief moment, you’re aware of your connectedness to everything. Grace is the feeling when we’re plugged in to the Source. And it is an unbearably excellent feeling. I think we can only experience it in moments because we’d explode otherwise. Our bodies just can’t contain that much mojo all at once. Moments of connection, I think, move us into states of Grace. Consider these scenarios:

  • Seeing or hearing something so beautiful that your whole being seems to know the answer to an unknown question
  • Witnessing kindness, compassion, empathy
  • The moment you realize you really love someone. Not pretend love or infatuation or lust: but really love them. That moment.
  • The feeling in the room just before and just after someone dies or is born
  • When a child says something so true and wise, you know you’ve just heard the voice of the transcendent part of their being.
  • Being truly forgiven or truly forgiving someone else (It doesn’t just mean saying, “Oh that’s okay”).
  • The near miss moment, when you realize the ONLY THING that kept you safe from harm was the fact it wasn’t your time. The realization the Universe intervened on your behalf.

You’ll be able to describe other situations in which Grace desceflownds upon and around us like a sunrise. So what? What’s the point to this very esoteric post?

I guess to say this: Grace visits you whether you’re aware of it or not. In my view, the gift is in the awareness that it’s happening. There’s nothing like it. Nothing. Like. It. Ultimately, I believe the gift of Grace reminds us of two essential things: we are connected to everything and we are worthy simply because we’re here.

So…let me ask you this: When have you experienced Grace (you’ll get extra points if you say it happened while reading this post)? What gifts have those moments given you? Feel free to use the comments to tell me about it if you’d like.

PS. I also get points for not making an “Amazing Grace” joke once.

 

Emotional tsunami

I want to start this off by saying I’m sorry. My last post, entitled Blessed are the fringe dwellers (which I’ve now removed), was judgmental and written while I was in the midst of an emotional tsunami. The thing about tsunamis is that they’re not very discerning. They just flatten everything in their paths. My last post resulted in some collateral damage…and I’m sorry.

I’m very good at my job, but tend to be somewhat clumsy in life. It’s a fact. I feel like I make an inordinate amount of errors in my relationships with others. Goes to show you that trying and achieving do not necessarily follow. I’m like one of the Three Stooges carrying a plank. Every time I innocently (stupidly) turn around, I mistakenly whack someone in the head.

One of the issues, at least in this case, is that I’m an impulsive writer. It all comes out in a stream, and I let it. I don’t often revisit what comes out: just proof and post. I forget you’re out there. That someone is listening and interpreting with their own lens. I forget that a metaphor can be more like a shotgun than a sniper’s rifle. In other words, I can be thinking about someone specific and end up hitting a lot of innocent bystanders. And I’m so sorry.

I expect everything of myself. I expect not to err. I’m convinced I’m the only one who does. And I also believe there is no recovery from error. Not for me. All is lost. I’ve proven myself unworthy. Intellectually,I'm so sorry I know that’s hogwash. But the feeling in my chest is unmistakable: grief, remorse, self-loathing.

Most frustrating is the fact that I find apologies wholly inadequate. “Sorry” never feels like enough. It feels wretchedly impotent. And to look into the eyes of someone I care about only to see their hurt and, in fact, their shock that it’s me — someone who cares about them — who has caused their pain is among the worst feelings in the world to me. I want them to see me in the way they saw me before I fucked up. I want them to believe I’m still shiny. That they can trust their judgment and instincts. And, yet, they may never again see me in the same way. It’s humbling and incredibly sad.

All I really have to offer, though, is “I’m sorry” and corrective forward action. ‘Living amends’ as they call it in 12 Step programs. But even as I look at the words on the page, I think, “How can those feeble words fix anything?”

Here’s what I wish I could do: I wish I could open a window to my “broken and contrite” heart so you could see what was in there. You could see my intentions for yourself. You could see how much you matter to me and how much I cherish you exactly as you are.

But I can’t do that. So, I’m left with “I’m sorry,” a promise to think before I press “publish,” and a promise to do better at aligning good intention with good action.

I’d also be willing to throw in a jar of pickles for good measure.