Arriving with Awe

“There is nothing that cuts you down to size like coming to some strange and marvelous place where no one even stops to notice that you stare about you.” Richard Adams, Watership Down

Have I mentioned yet that I rather fancy this book?  It was recommended to me a few years ago by a passing acquaintance.   Having no rapport with this person, I can only surmise that I was desperate for some good book titles.  I wrote it down and bought it shortly thereafter.  It then sat on my bookshelf until a week ago when I decided it was time to open it.  I find myself in a strange and marvelous place in the midst of this most unique story.

Among the red-edged pages of the original 1972 copy I hold in my hands, are the strangest of heroes.  This book reminds me of the thrill of adventure and the innocence in arriving someplace new.  I wonder at the smallness of being me and the grandness of what I have not yet experienced.  I often arrive with awe at beautiful, new physical locations, but I am increasingly arriving at new internal frontiers where the only one that notices me staring about is myself.

Eyeball to Eyeball

Handsome the Teacher

Across the wide forehead in the chiseled face of my beloved Arabian horse are a few white hairs hiding under his thick, black forelock.  Autumn has bestowed Handsome with the beginnings of a multipurpose, fuzzy winter coat.  With his nose buried in his feed bucket, he mischievously and cautiously looks about, eyes just above the rim of his worn, purple pail.  He is cautious of the other herd members milling about, a constant source of competition for food.  The mischievous glances are for me.

A while ago I shared my amazement, jealously really, at a spiritual sister’s ability to receive loud, clear responses to her prayers.  She said simply, “I ask that Spirit speaks loud as I am largely deaf.”  She is not deaf in the physical world, but apparently she is in the spiritual world.  My only proof that this worked was her bewildering results.  I thought I’d give it a whirl.

A few days ago I shared with Handsome my desire to hear him.  I requested that he speak loudly as it is my wish to have a more intimate relationship with him.  He fills his bucket with sighs that signal his understanding, echoing off the walls of his pail and floating up to my ears.  The next day I am sitting on the ground with his bucket between my legs.  Over the last month, he’s taken to flinging his food out of the pail, sending me into brief attacks of panic and defeat.  There is medicine and other expensive supplements in there.  “Please don’t waste it,” I find myself pleading with him.

Today he flings his food most determinedly and then puts his oily, intense eyeball inches from mine.

Stops chewing.

And waits.

In the first breath I think, “you defiant shit!”  And in the next breath I feel something shift.  I soften as I return his gaze.  We are frozen in time.  Immemorial.  Our souls embrace like long lost friends and I feel like we are transported to another space in time.  I am in his world now, the spirit world.  The place I’m meant to live while here on earth, a more connected universal plane where words are more of a distraction than a mode of communication.  Sounds dreamy.  And it is.

“Be here with me.”  Is his message.

He is so right.  My mind had wandered to what I was going to do when I got home, what I was going to right about in my next blog, what was for lunch.  I was with him physically as he ate, but my mind was elsewhere.  He had spoken loudly to me and I got it.  Now I look forward to our eyeball-to-eyeball time, our soul-to-soul time.  Handsome is an amazing teacher, intense and perfect.

Invent National Day of Noble Silence

Journal entry, June 9, 2011:  I have an idea!  I want to:

Go on a trail ride

Skydive solo

Communicate with animals

Have conversations that invite the soul

Travel Europe, Africa, South America

Abolish resistance, embrace creativity and put it in a pill

Toss the TV

Stop protecting abusers

Invent National Day of Noble Silence

Tell people not to water their lawn in the middle of the day – or ever

Befriend a child

Teach Zero Point Agreement in schools – and the Five Agreements too.  Why not?

 

 I shared this list with a group of friends last week and the National Day of Noble Silence drew lots of gasps and cheers.  I’m not even sure how it ended up on the list since I don’t know that much about it.  It must have been inspired by a daylong meditation retreat I participated in around that time.  During this retreat I practiced mindful eating at lunch, mindful walking from point A to point B and no conversation with each other between meditations.  In addition to those things, a Day of Noble Silence would include no eye contact, no TV or radio and awareness of every movement you make and thought you have.  Basically it’s a day arranged for just you and the voices in your head.  Sound like fun?

I thought so when I did it.  I stopped eating when I was full because I paid attention to every bite.  I scratched my nose because it itched, not because I felt awkward in a group and needed to make an unconscious gesture to unconsciously reveal my discomfort.  There was no pressure to make small talk at lunch.  I brought my unconscious thoughts to my attention and realized why I’d been feeling so pent up lately.  I left with a whole new appreciation for myself.

Naturally, I began to daydream about what a National Day of Noble Silence would look like.  Would you answer the phone at work if it fell on a workday?  Would you even go to work?  Maybe it would become a paid holiday.  Brilliant!  What better way to nourish and refresh employees?  How awkward would it be though, not to talk to your partner or roommate, not even making eye contact as you pass in the kitchen?  Would the grocery stores have to close for this day or could we manage the checkout lane without eye contact or speaking?  What about my animals?  Can I still pet them and smile at them?  No cell phones seem obvious but what about Facebook and email?

I’m sure someone would figure out how many billions of dollars in commerce would be lost this day and it would never be given a second thought.  But I think the tradeoff in emotional and spiritual commerce would be worth it.  What do you think?  Can we do it?

Make your own idea list and go for at least one of them.  I ended up going on the trail ride.

There’s a Tennis Match in My Skull

I took my twelve-year-old Golden Retriever, Dallas, to the veterinarian last week.  He has been experiencing mysterious little twitching attacks over the last few months that recently became more frequent and worrisome.  He wears the cutest, curious-puppy-dog face when it happens, as if to say, “what’s going on?” but there is nothing cute about these fits.  His body is getting older, arthritic, grey and has begun to confuse his youthful soul.

A thorough exam and lengthy conversation with Dr. Arnett at Waunakee Veterinary Clinic narrowed us down to hypothyroidism or a tick borne disease.  With his knack for explaining things in layperson terms, Dr. Arnett gifted me with a life lesson to ponder.  He said, “Perhaps these puzzling symptoms are the new normal for Dallas.  All things considered, he is a very healthy twelve-year-old dog.”  As much as I wanted to reject that theory, I knew there might be some truth to it.

My Beloved Dallas

We opted for the thyroid test first as the symptoms seemed to point most earnestly in that direction.  Dallas is at the lowest range of normal, but given his past super-athlete lifestyle, I suspected that this ‘low range of normal’ is actually his version of below normal.  More tests were recommended to help narrow down what is actually causing the low thyroid results.  As my husband and I continue to explore options for Dallas, I cannot get the conversation about “new normal” out of my head.

I am in my mid-thirties now and my body definitely doesn’t behave like it used to.  Nothing alarming, but enough change to perk my own ears and tilt my head in curiosity at.  What if these subtle nuances are my new normal?  Of course, I emphatically dismiss that inkling, wanting things to be the way they always were.  But when the wave of denial passes, I consider this notion again:  when do I stop searching for a ‘cure’ and accept the changes as the ‘new normal?’

By no means am I giving up on Dallas or myself; I intend to pursue my due diligence, all the while entertaining the questions: “Is this body or symptom my new normal?  Are these unusual tremors Dallas’ new normal?” As you read this, dear friend, those questions continue to bounce off the rigid walls of my skull like the tennis ball in a Wimbledon match.  With appreciation for a questioning mind, I will watch this match develop; returning the wicked serves as best I can while seeking a return to normal or accepting the new normal.

The Moon’s Canvas

I have an affinity for the moon.  Perhaps it is because I am a Pisces, a water sign, and the moon controls the water like a marionette directs the puppet.  Perhaps it is because I am a fair skinned strawberry blonde and the sun makes me cringe and retreat to the shelter of a shade tree as though I may spontaneously combust with too much fire exposure.  Perhaps it is because the moon casts the subtlest shadows in the deep of night, encouraging child-like exploration.  Whatever the reason, I found myself seeking the moonlight more than usual this past full moon cycle.

 

Every night for the week leading up to and following the climax of the full moon, I drove to the farm where I board my horses.  My faithful, gray-muzzled Golden Retriever, Dallas, accompanied me in the back seat with his head hanging out the window.  Faintly illuminated by the moon, I see his loose lips and eyelids flapping in the cool breeze.

 

With feed bucket slung over my arm we embark on our nightly quest for moon cast shadows.  Tree branches rub together in the wind making creaking sounds reminiscent of ancient hinges on a door someone forgot to latch.  The hum of night creatures accompanies us with their own curiosity in tow.  We follow the trail up the hill as I call quietly for my equine friends.  Emerging first from the shadows each night is my twenty year old companion, Handsome, in search of his nightly meal.

 

As he munches and sighs under the magnificent oak trees, four more horses materialize to become the perfect blank canvas for the moonlight.  My other horse, Joey, comes the closest and stands with Handsome, Dallas and I in the serene embrace of night.  I begin tracing with my fingertips the shadows of the trees on Joey’s body.  He tolerates this for a time and then maneuvers his powerful hindquarters in a way that says quite clearly: “Scratch here.  Right now!”

 

“Joey, I’m trying to have a moment here,” I laugh at him, losing my place on his canvas and then obligingly begin to relieve his itches.  Walking mindfully among the herd I note the different patterns cast on their bodies by the shimmer of the full moon.  The muted light does not balk at the obstacles of trees, animals and weeds as it makes its way to its final destination.  It simply stops and illuminates whatever objects come between it and earth.

 

How do I balk at the light life gives me?  Do I allow the light to fall where it may or do I find myself wanting a different experience?  Can I too be the moon’s blank canvas?  And what would that look like?  I open my journal to a blank page and respond.

 

What Do a Poet and a Dietary Cleanse Have in Common?

My Yummy Cleanse

I started reading Crossing the Unknown Sea – Work as a Pilgrimage of Identity by poet David Whyte last week in order to shed more light on my fears about claiming a vocation.  The thought of stepping back out into the working world sends my heart into a free fall and when I reach for the ripcord I find nothing but whistling wind and vanishing faith.

I also decided to start a cleanse on Monday to rid my body of the holidays and any questions I have about using food to depress myself.  Coincidentally, David Whyte had a story in his book that resonated so clearly with me:

Whenever we are faced at last with a change for which we have looked for years, we must slip off the habituation of those same years and learn ourselves anew.  I remember taking a friend, known for her grand and well-loved addictions, for a Japanese meal.  She was amazed by the lightness and cleanliness of the food.  “I feel so good,” she said as we left the restaurant, “just as good as I [felt] when I came in.  This is so unusual for me with eating,” she said.   “I always overdo it.”  She went off to bed marveling at how light she felt.  The next morning at breakfast, I asked how she had slept, and with a kind of sheepish horror she confessed that she had felt so good getting into bed that she had actually been unable to sleep, as if something still had to be done and she hadn’t quite got to it.  She finally went to the pantry and pulled out the biggest, fattest bag of rustling Doritos she could find.  Once she had taken them under the covers and consumed the whole lot, she felt normal enough to go to sleep.

Okay, so that story was not coincidentally in front of my eyes at the very time I was struggling with just such an idea.  He goes on to explain my struggle:

There is a certain kind of heaviness and insulation we can grow used to.  The body can feel strange when it inhabits the world in a lighter way, when it encounters a form of happiness or fulfillment for which it has had no apprenticeship.  A lightness and litheness that gives us a sense of ease, movement and potential may bring things that have always been a struggle to us more easily, and scare us to death in the process.  It may be that we felt that lightness years ago but failed in what we wanted and now the return of that possibility can be just too overwhelming.

David Whyte has shed much awareness on the subject of failure and enduring healthy life changes for me. My desire for a more healthy body and mind is germane to the task of bringing my unique gifts to the world.  Now it is time to act with gentleness and patience as I acclimate to a new way of being in the world.

 

A Theater Turns into a Lion’s Den

Lion

Originally uploaded by Masaai

A serene matinee with family
Brings out the predatory lions and lionesses
An innocent boy sent to inform the voyeurs
The film is broken and will take some time to fix

A pride of lions exits, teeth bared, blood thirsty, angry indignation
Several lions at once lunge at the boy with verbal fangs, deluded claws
I watch from my perch in the middle of the theater
As all traces of blood retreat from his childlike face

His mangled intentions seize his wounded spirit
And drag it from the theater, fearful, forsaken
Safe once again outside the lion’s den
He exhales and gives thanks – his life was spared

Next a woman sent – she’s been in the den before
Free movie passes for everyone
Thanks for your patience
We are doing all we can

The prides are satisfied, licking their paws clean of a soulful meal
And as the film rolls once again
We settle in to resume our ogling
Inhaling deeply the breath of our first victim

Another Arrow in a Quiver Against Resistance

Parking lot danger.

Originally uploaded by paulswansen

I have used The Four Agreements by Don Miguel Ruiz as my spiritual code for the better part of the last year. Over the last few months I have gotten lazy and forgetful of them so I decided to pull out the book again for a review. I wrote this poem earlier this year when these Agreements were literally oozing out of my pours like garlic. (The eighth stanza is the Four Agreements.) It’s a relatable piece even for those who are unfamiliar with this Toltec wisdom and for those who are friendly with it, there’s a Fifth Agreement too. I use these Agreements to vanquish resistance to my spiritual practices and break old, damaging patterns.

Parking Lot

By Diane Ludeking

I am slowly backing out of my parking spot

In my tiny blue Toyota Yaris

I am blinded by the enormous SUVs on either side

And sent into a panic when I hear a blaring horn

Who is dying? Who is crashing?

What’s with all the cacophony?

Hmm. Someone in a hurry

Speeding through the lot. That is all

I thought I learned in Driver’s Ed

That the person backing out had the right-of-way

Apparently that idea is the wrong-of-way

As proven by the glare I receive from my antagonist

When I am carefully retreating from my space

I am the blind one.

I cannot see who is coming

It makes sense that you should watch out for me

I do not have a fancy back-up camera

Extra mirrors hanging off my rear bumper

Or a loud, rhythmic beeping sound

To announce my backwards venture

I have no tools to help me see the impending doom.

The angry, rusted Isuzu truck

With a wire clothes hanger holding up it’s muffler

Is the shape of my next important lesson

But alas! I have tools of the best kind

They are not made of reflective, breakable glass

They do not show me only the physical objects in my way

They don’t even make offensive “Get out of my way!” declarations

I will be impeccable with my word

I will not take it personally, Mr. Isuzu

I will not assume you are having a bad day because you are foreign-made

And I will always do my best in order to avoid regrets

With these tools as my spiritual code

My lessons are much more black and white

They are not any easier to swallow

Nor are they any less frequent

But I can safely back out of my parking spot now

And as I pull onto the highway of life with confidence

And a newly discovered eagerness for adventure

I learn that there are no speed limits here

Fighting Resistance with Updike, Stafford and Pressfield

Fisherman's Wharf Hostel, San Francisco January 2010

John Updike is in good company this week.  I am currently reading his Pulitzer Prize winner Rabbit is Rich.  And when excuses and resistance snuck up on me like the seeker in a game of hide-and-seek a few days ago, two remarkable non-fiction books joined Updike.  I pulled William Stafford’s Writing the Australian Crawl and Steven Pressfield’s The War of Art from their six-week-old perch on my bookshelf to commiserate with Updike.

Steven Pressfield is my go-to-guy for defending myself against the creativity killer, resistance.  He tells me “The more important a call or action is to our soul’s evolution, the more Resistance we will feel toward pursuing it.”  So the more I resist something, the more I should pursue it?  Or this pithy phrase, “what you resist, persists.” In my experience, that’s exactly right.  It is demanding my attention by the pure emotion of fear that manifests as resistance.  Have you ever started a workout routine or diet only to have it beat you before the first week is over?  Resistance is your silent, deadly partner too.

Leading up to this blog I wanted to quit writing.  I didn’t have anything new to write about.  Resistance had its death grip on me – it has such a success rate that it will never quit –and I am not the only one in its crosshairs.  Truth be told – the little voice in my head said it couldn’t be done and I believed it.  It doesn’t matter what the “it” was – the point is I listened to it and let it beat me.  I picked up my pen for a total of two pages all week – my aim is a page a day.  I stared at my laptop for hours, telling myself “I’ll write something as soon as I’m caught up on Facebook (whatever that means) and all my emails have been addressed.”

My copy of Stafford’s book had never been opened before this week.  He writes directly to the writer’s vocation, more specifically to poets.  A poet friend of mine shared a quote from this book that resonated with me so I had to purchase it in order to draw upon it.  He speaks to having dreams:

Sometimes I feel a writer should be like this – that you need your bad poems.  You shouldn’t inhibit yourself.  You need to have your dreams; you need to have your poems.  If you begin to keep from dreaming or from trying to write your poems, you could be in trouble.  You have to learn to say “Welcome…welcome.”  Welcome, dreams.  Welcome, poems.  And then if somebody says “I don’t like that dream,” you can say “Well, it’s my life.  I had to dream it.”  And if somebody else says “I don’t like that poem,” you can say “Well, it’s my life.  That poem was in the way, so I wrote it.

For me, resistance is exactly like that last part.  I think every piece needs to be a masterpiece.  This thought paralyzes me and silences the ink.  As soon as I embrace the idea that most of my writing is a process to get to the rare gems, the ink flows with a happy noise.  What’s “in the way,” gets on paper so I can move on.

All three of these authors worked together this week to get me off the pity potty.  Updike’s magical voice in my fiction choice inspires me to write.  Stafford encourages me to simply show up and let the ink sound off.  And Pressfield is a much-needed kick in the pants to keep going and win my creative battles – well, all my battles.  I am learning to embrace the things that are the most difficult, because I know from experience that the pay off will be immeasurable joy; one more point for me and zero for resistance.

Don’t Fence Me In!

Fences are meant to either contain or keep out.  They contain cattle, horses, dogs, vegetables and immaculately maintained yards and homes.  They keep out rabbits, deer and toddlers, preventing them from pulling up carrots and they keep out would-be trespassers from treading where they are not welcome.  Sunday’s snow and high winds has brought to my attention another use for fences.

Snow fences are meant to force the snow to drift at the fence instead of in the roads.  However, the wind was so ridiculous this past Sunday that snow fences were virtually useless.  The snow in all its feral wonder refused to be tamed and told where to drift.  Not aware of snow fence rules, it recklessly blew wherever it wanted to, closing roads and making most others quite impassable.  I stood in amazement at its bravado.

The way the snow and wind simply fulfilled their purposes that day left me wondering about how I fence myself in by my own rules and beliefs.  “I am not good enough.”  Fence post.  “I have failed at my career.”  Fence post.  “I can’t say that.”  Stretch of fence.

Before long I was completely fenced in – thinking I was keeping myself safe – efficiently keeping out anything good for me.  Thank you blizzard for showing me that my fences can be overcome and for allowing me to take a long, frigid look at how I’m living my life.  I look forward to blowing right over all the beliefs and rules that no longer serve me and replacing them with the freedom of wide-open spaces.