I didn’t attend the Women’s March this weekend though I went last year and it was a highlight of my life. My first March. Same weather. Snow overnight. Cold. Blustery. Invigorating. January. Days after the inauguration.
I went alone though quickly enveloped in a crowd walking from my neighborhood to the gathering. A tribe. Of kinship. Signs and chanting and pink pussy hats. Planned Parenthood. Rainbow. Of community for a common cause. All those things I stand apart from on a daily basis. I was interviewed. Local news. A microphone shoved to my lips. Words come forth. Without time to ponder. They come from the heart. From momentum.
INSTEAD I sit before my computer trying to find my way. To articulation. I listen to Interfaith Voices on Sunday morning radio. My vintage Sony. This week an interview with a single devout Catholic lesbian who has taken (not a vow) but an intention of celibacy to explore other paths of loving. My ears perk up. A vow is more serious. Of the religious order. I find this on Wikipedia: Celibacy (from Latin, cælibatus”) is the state of voluntarily being unmarried, sexually abstinent, or both, usually for religious reasons.
In modern speak celibacy is often an interchangeable term for abstinence. In the interview her (not vow) of celibacy is part of her spiritual journey. A path to find kinship outside the norm of traditional coupledom. Her devotion to Catholicism. A way to love without intercourse. A deepening of connection. Of friendship love. Of finding a tribe. Of the love of God. Of comfort in solitude. Not necessarily an absence of touch.
(I intended to share the interview but when I listen again I realize her words were simply a catalyst. I am selective. Taking them out of context to nurture my own ideas and questions).
I have experienced long bouts of “celibacy” over the past 20 years. I too exploring other kinds of love. Soul, self, style, creative, travel, friendship. Then came a knock at the door. A walk in the mountains turned into a one year relationship. It was temporary. Acknowledged from the beginning. Lots of discussion. Push and pull. Still when the ending came I was heartbroken. More attached to the idea of love and coupledom than the actual relationship. He emotionally unavailable. Me too, I suppose, though I didn’t know that at the time. The fear in being vulnerable. The shame.
The occasional sex that followed six months or three or seven years later not so much connection or release but happenstance. A moment of affection turns into something else. The occasional girlfriend. Just sex. Long distance. Short-lived. Not what I’m looking for. Not that I didn’t honor these moments or the men that showed up. I went willingly but not without doubt. Not without fear.
Then I lost my voice. Again.
(I often tell friends “being single is under-rated” –especially if female and not actively pursuing a relationship. Often it feels defensive. And that’s always a red flag. As if I’m incapable of affection simply by not wanting to sign up for match.com. Like I’m a mutant.)
The absence of sex has not been an intention so much as a way to honor my own path. The slow route to finding my tribe. A kinship. Coupledom not the goal though an expectation so I work to open myself to that possibility yet it feels forced. Or fearful. Okay let’s be honest. I’m terrified!! One moment I’m excited –even fantasizing-and the next I’m committed to living an inward life. Sometimes I feel my richest gifts lie within that solitude.
My greatest desire (is) to be known. To be seen. To be understood. And my greatest fear (is) revealing this hidden/isolated self to another. The way I think. The strong opinions. The gravity age takes on a body.
I’m not sure I’m capable of being “me” in the intimate presence of another. How to go from the comfort of cooking, drinking wine, dipping my bread at the kitchen counter, dancing alone around the room, imaginary conversations with others to actually BEING with another in unbridled honesty in a sexual context. Naked. Sharing a bath. Candlelight. The interludes between sex and intimacy. Speaking up. Going slow or fast but not without communication. The ability to articulate. It is a skill not easy for everyone despite the “metoo movement. Despite the solidarity. Being heard. Understood. Not afraid of no or yes or not yet.
To be vulnerable without fear of violation or ridicule.
I default to friendship love, while enriching, sometimes there is longing for touch. That beautiful touch written so eloquently by David Whyte. A myriad of transcendence from physical to metaphor. Or the words I love you sometimes difficult to say. . . even to friends and family. There is a weight in our hearts. A fear of rejection or misunderstanding. A longing.
These are things I notice over the weekend I did not attend the Women’s March:
the book on my nightstand Prodigal Summer by Barbara Kingsolver. I pick it up and put it down. About coyotes and solitude and tumbling in the hay with a younger man and relationship and seeking ourselves in wilderness (so far –I’m only on Page 74).
Touch – a poem by David Whyte I find on Facebook and share though no one reads it. Facebook is like that. You can read it here. I want to write like this from tangible to metaphor and back so eloquently. Beautiful. Sad. True. Thank you David Whyte.
the movie: Call Me By Your Name My heart transported. So much love and understanding and brilliance. Exploration. Vulnerability. Heartache. Life and the gift of acting upon the moments given us.
the sliver of new moon in the January sky. Before the clouds of snowfall.
another poem in my inbox on Sunday morning. By Robert Hayden 1978 (American Journal) –I read it aloud to the empty room. To my own ears. Carefully every line break. The alien voice. The ugly American. All of it. Then. Now. So true. and still. Political. Beam me up Scotty.
The beauty of coincidence. The dream symbols. Overwhelming emotions. The gift of time. The art of surrender. Patience. The light returning. I am honored on a daily basis. Blessed. I am grateful. Still there is absence. It is (of) this I speak. The loneliness not filled by the simple presence of someone in the room, across the table or even sharing a bed –it is a deepening. A greater knowing. This I seek. Not God but god-like. Spiritual. A presence in not only being enough but believing it true.
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Brenda is a Personal Assistant and artist currently in Santa Fe, NM. Her work investigates the texture of social/personal relationships through poetry, painting, photography and travel. Installations have focused on family secrets, feminism and the concept of democracy.
and so many thoughts it’s hard to keep up. Mostly anger and grief and memory. That “V” below the top of the spine and in between the shoulder blades building up like garbage in. Again. Stress so soon after the massage. The massage using the gifted Christmas bonus that left me improved and relaxed for exactly one day before the cycle started all over again. Maggy says I should negotiate a massage a month with my favorite employer. She also mentions how she is the only one to see my body and note any changes. I’m surprised by this despite the truth. I don’t see her often. I live alone. No lover. But instead of asking directly what she means I offer, yes I have a million moles. . . but maybe it is something else. The scoliosis I wonder? Obviously something is changing and she’s concerned.
Mom in her lovely pastoral assisted living. Dementia in a moderate to severe stage. She still remembers her girls. By name and by sight. She recognizes our voices but gets confused about what happened to Todd and Dad. Why don’t they come visit. Aunt Gloria. So much death. In our phone conversations she always comes back to the window. Sitting in the big chair. A sign in the window. Reynolds. Welcome. She remembers it as something from her house. The home she shared with dad. She struggles to describe the scene. The desk. Her robe with circles hanging on a hook. I guess as best I can. I rang three times before the aid picked up saying Betty gets confused on how to answer. Thank you I say. Grateful for her help.
Life is now on a loop. The window. The chair. How Cheryl comes to visit.
Momma
I’ve always forgotten. Not appointments but memories. People. Childhood. High School. College. Maybe that’s why I journal. To remember. I put it off on trauma. Doesn’t childhood trauma cause us to forget? Or it is a greater force? When was the last time I took a shower or washed my hair? It’s winter. Dry climate. I’ve started marking the calendar with an X and a circle around it to remind me.
Then there are things I remember like yesterday. That time in Ovid after a blizzard when I feared my two younger sisters and I were dead when a snowplow passed so close to where we were walking on M-21. He didn’t see us and hard roadside snow like an avalanche came flying down upon us. Why were we out there? Going to the neighbors? I was only 8 and they 5 and under. OMG! I still feel that guilt.
And the time we took a family road trip to Arizona. Through the Colorado mountains in February to pick grapefruit off a tree in Phoenix. We stayed with friends. I was 14. My period started and I willed it away with cold water in the bath. For fear. Fear of the inconvenience. Of the attention it might draw. Of the backlash. Maybe I wasn’t prepared and too afraid to ask. It stopped. Grateful to remain invisible. At a time where having a voice was problematic.
I knew then I was powerful. Still. Here I am. Loveless. Alone. Poor.
Or the time I gave a guy a blow-job at a party in Estes. I knew him. He was interested. Interesting. A lovely human actually. Or maybe he wasn’t. I was 19. A virgin. And he told me after: you only do that if you love someone. I was mortified. Crushed. He liked me. Sent me the lyrics of Pink Floyd that I copied into my journal: Breathe. . .long you’ll live and high you’ll fly . . . and all you touch and all you see is all your life will ever be. . . but the rejection was palpable. The act felt like obligation. A rite of passage. Something a woman does because she thinks it’s expected. That pretty much sums up my love life. Still.
There are better memories at 20 something: The 28 days hiking the Escalante region of Utah with a bunch of Mormons and a wool blanket. I was strong. Then. Biking up Trail Ridge road and hitch hiking all the way to Red Rocks and back. Backpacking through the Rockies. Rafting the Grand Canyon and so forth. So many adventures in Alaska. . .yet there I was making poor choices. Making good choices. Holding on and letting go. Always standing somewhere outside myself. Or hovering in my own shadow.
And now I fear everything. I fear everything and nothing at the same time. It is a logistical nightmare. There is so much angst in everyday. In driving. In driving in traffic. In driving in the snow. In feeling responsible for the happiness of others. Of their stuff. In shipping the Chagall lithographs for a client. Of making plans. All the simple tasks. Taking care of the ailing and aging dogs. Will their decline be my fault too? The gate to my yard fell off its hinges last week and before it was repaired I slipped a chair beneath my front door before I went to sleep. All my childhood fears come back to haunt me. The mantra of not being good enough. The fear of getting in trouble. Of being Stupid. My childhood nickname. What’s your name? my dad asked before he handed me the phone. I’d hesitate but always reply Stupid.
I know better. Knew better then but it still directs my life.
This morning I wake after 10 hours of sleep to a blue sky winter day. Refreshing after a lot of snow and cold and weariness. Since the death of Ellen. My new barometer. I toast to Ellen. I put off or contemplate choices because of the death of Ellen. So sudden. Though I make no decisions. I daydream. I plot vacations. Walks around the world. A new life. I am weary. But it started much earlier. Actually. Maybe my turning 60 last July. The annual trip to Cliff River Springs. To a summer day of “diving into the pond” that felt forced. Too much expectation. And then my brother died. That felt sudden too despite knowing he would go sooner than later. We are never prepared. Could I have been a better sister? Of course.
I’m sorry Todd if I failed you. So completely. I watched the story unfold. Of your life. Even in my absence. Eight years difference in our ages. Still I saw the beginning. That time you worked so hard on a paper. We sat on opposite ends of the dining room table where I applauded your efforts. So proud of you. You only a child. Eight or nine years old. A heart murmur. Mischievous. When you brought the paper home with a grade of D or C- I was aghast. Livid even. How could they not give you credit or support. In my mind this is the beginning of the end. I offered to fight for you. I encouraged mom and dad to go to the school on your behalf. To defend you. But none of us did and then I left.
You would call in the wee hours of the morning from New Jersey or Michigan to Montana. To Alaska. Steve would admonish me for answering. For taking time. I still have the letter you sent about taking the test to get into the Coast Guard. One of the highest scores. You were so excited. Finally something to take home to dad. To be worthy. A proud direction. Until they said no. You didn’t qualify. Said it was the heart murmur even though you passed the physical. Broke my heart.
And the people we choose. You –Rachele. Love of your life. Always wanting something you couldn’t give her. Holding a hammer over your head and her widow’s pension from GM. In fairness she does have redeeming qualities. Don’t we all. Still.
We choose what we think we deserve.
And there is pause in the story. As the day unfolds. A Thursday. Nothing spectacular. A day in the late part of the week. Still winter. Still January. A few days past the lunar eclipse. A workday by normal standards. Champagne for breakfast. I will walk my errands. My tasks. My obligations. Today. But at the table at the side of this story are opportunities for life insurance from the local credit union and AAA. I’ve hung onto them despite the doubt. So much lobbying. A sales pitch. To what end? I hate this part of life. Value added that is only a cover for take. So much taking. And little giving. Everything has an agenda. In the end I decide to throw them in the recycle on principal but I think of Todd. How he scrambled, at the end of his young life, to have enough for his cremation. Enough to repay mom and something left over for his son. How he wanted to buy more but did not qualify. How in spite of everything he wanted to take care of others. The people he loved.
Am I enough like him to want that too?
The Women’s March
II.
Only in our truth can we be the best example for others. I believe this yet I find it difficult to speak “my truth” – for fear of retribution or ridicule. Silly. Still.
I thought it a good idea to go to the Women’s March last Saturday in Santa Fe. I worked on a sign the night before. A collage of ideas against domestic violence. Against violence in general. I struggled with what I wanted my sign to say because I was trying to find an appropriate message –something positive or dear to my heart without following the status quo. Without following the masses. I didn’t want it to be anti Trump. Or cliché. I didn’t want him anywhere in my sign. Do we really need to give him more attention? All this thinking and creating and trying to be perfect and profound and sincere took away my energy. I’m not an activist. I’m not an extrovert. When Saturday morning dawned I didn’t care if I went anymore. But I went anyway. I suppose I should listen to the intuitive parallel life I lead. How much validation do I need?
My limited participation was a huge let down. Sorry all women on the wave. I won’t go into detail as I don’t want to offend. Isn’t that difficult these days? Not to offend someone –even those you support the most. But what was the point? Yes, it’s awesome women are being elected to positions of power. More women of diversity. More voices represented. Yes! Still on Saturday what I heard was too much separation. Too much personal agenda. I suppose that is just the way of politics. Is this the only way?
I find it exhausting.
Do you not remember that we are humans? All of us. Humans in bodies. Women in bodies. Lesbians, gays and transgenders in bodies. Granted in bodies we may not belong or feel we wish to inhabit, or desire to change for many reasons. For emotional or cosmetic or biological or genetic or environmental or all the reasons we can’t understand or think we do and wish to blame or shame or fight or change quietly or celebrate. Yes to celebrate!! — but we are all simply spirits within these bodies. All of us. American, women, Native American, immigrants, black, Hispanic, lesbian, gay, transgender, bisexual, asexual or otherwise, happy or sad, fat/thin, whole or broken, weak/shameful or filled with pride. Men in the bodies of women and women in the bodies of men. Women in their own bodies. Introverted. Extroverted. Incarcerated. Free. Rich or poor and most of us somewhere in between.
Ultimately grateful to be alive.
I remind myself there is no judgment yet the signs are filled with judgment. Judgment is everywhere. Privilege is everywhere. In the privileged and in the oppressed. Privilege in those emerging. In emergence. It is a relative thing. Even in the heart there is industry. About enlightenment. About love and light and tarot and yoga and meditation. In blogs and books and workshops. In poetry. In the heart we are still fucked up despite these callings. Despite these trappings offering renewal.
In the heart there is no room for agenda. For separation. For “me first” or #metoo. In the heart there is only room for love. For understanding. For coming to a table and laying ourselves wide open. For vulnerability and truth. For tears and strength. For a willingness to honor others despite our differences. But that said we must come without fear of retribution or vengeance or maybe in spite of it. Yes, that is the most brave of all.
I offer no solution only thoughts. . .freeing the brainstorm of imagination.
I realize I am not the only one feeling alone at women’s marches across the country. I also need to come to terms and be open to those women who believe in more guns and the border wall and march against abortion and believe so tightly in their god. I fear them short-sighted. Rigid. It’s difficult to fathom. They appear anti everything I believe in. How do we find common ground? How to reach across this space of enormous divide to begin a conversation that helps us better understand and forgive/accept each other?
There were signs reminding us we are in/on Tewa land. That all women don’t have pussies (pink or any other color). Reminding us of awareness to difference despite fighting for what felt like a common cause. In the spirit of speaking one’s truth I am confused. Are we not missing a bigger picture? It feels like a disappointing reality. I. Me. My way. My world. My agenda. I cannot judge. Maybe it’s just me missing all the points of all the people.
Why are we still fighting each other to lay claim when there is so much more at stake?
We live on the EARTH. We are bodies of a mixed bag of all kinds of things. Of human flesh and cells, of bones and energy and perception. We are the voices of our ancestors, true and the land and the roots of those who came before and the spirit of earth and sky and drought and flood and famine. We are born of hate and happenstance and determination and greed. We come into the world with love and disdain. Some with silver spoons and some with the voice of song or silence. There are secrets. Accidents. War. Many tears. We come bearing stories long forgotten that turn to careers or cancer or joyful encounters with strangers.
We are wit and witness.
Maybe it is the death of Ellen. Of Todd. Or the accumulation of death that has me off-kilter at the enormity of such disparities. Of my own perceptions. Confused.
At our attempts to be human and inclusive perhaps we risk becoming the least human of all.
“Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”
This fluffy creature greeted me this morning at the charming Hotel Ramuntcho, as I walked down the stair to the breakfast room. Well she indulged me with a pet but she is very French so I felt somewhat privileged and didn’t push. Today is my last rest day before I embark on the Camino Frances tomorrow with a 15.5 mile trek across the Pyrenees to Roncesvalles. The steepest part of the Camino de Santiago. You can laugh –yes I’m already “resting” and I haven’t even started. But it is a schlepp from Santa Fe, NM to St. Jean Pied de Port just north of the Spanish border. Basque country. I landed in Pamplona 3 days ago, took a bus to SJPdP and will walk (approx) 365 miles to Villafranca del Bierzo, repeating Day 1 of 2017 (Ponferrada to Villafranca) to come full circle on the Camino Frances.
As many of you know last October I walked the last 200km from Ponferrada to Santiago. Life changing and filled with lightness and joy. This year has brought much loss and my heart has grown heavy. This Pilgrimage takes on a true spiritual significance:
in setting intention
in being present
in surrender
I told my sister I am learning to trust and relax. It takes a lot of effort. So much inner dialogue. Wondering if I am overly indulgent? Why didn’t I begin today? Will it rain tomorrow? Do I have the stamina to walk through the Pyrenees? I never doubted my ability until I arrived, after that winding bus ride. I’ve been walking of course but not “up hill” –though perhaps on some level I’ve been training for this moment all my life. If anything, these past few months have taught me to trust my intuition. I resist of course but am learning to surrender to the art of faith and patience.
God bless the angels.
Last night I lit my first candle in a church, ever, in the beautiful Eglise Notre Dame at the end of the cobblestone street. It was glorious. I no longer feel a struggle to define or defend my religiosity. I do not cross myself with the holy water. I do not know the rules. I am not Catholic. I don’t consider myself “Christian” –for the same reasons I do not call myself “Patriotic” –it comes too heavily defined and steeped in perceptions that do not apply. To me. It just is. I am shedding some of my long held fears and self-limiting beliefs. Slowly.
Today my goal was to organize for tomorrow and to enjoy a proper French lunch at the best Cafe in town. And so I did. Cafe Ttipia. I know no French beyond your basic bonjour, merci, au revoir and oui. And on my tongue it feels completely unnatural. Still when in France one must eat. I made my way. It was lovely. Outside by the river. People watching. Families gather after church. A few pilgrims wander. Tourists on a Sunday drive. A kir aperitif and the special sole with gambas served with a side of mushrooms and other vegetables in cream. A glass of rose. Bread. An espresso to finish. I was too full to try the Basque cake.
No I do not know the language. Nor the ritual.
Truly that is one of the most difficult things for me to do –even in Santa Fe — eat alone in a restaurant. This introvert’s dilemma. The downside of solo travel. Well that and the single supplement. Still I am here. Happily. Placing myself into unknown and solitary situations.
I point and smile a lot. The wine is cheap.
I look forward to the community the Camino offers/provides.
