The field of family therapy talks about the theory of complimentarity. The more one person moves towards one end of the emotional see-saw, the more the other will go in the opposite direction to balance things out. Recently, this manifested as the author's abiding need to make any number of "What If"contingency plans. The author's wife, one Jennifer M. Humming Dolphin, remained resolutely calm.
I informed Jenn with no small amount of urgency: "We need to contact a midwife. And we need to find a vet for the kitties. We need to arrange to have our final utility bills forwarded, and to have the utilities turned on at our new home. And you see that pile of cannonballs there? We need to figure out a way to move them from that spot over there and re-stack them on this spot over here. And we need to ..."
Neither Jenn nor I have ever applied for state or federal assistance of any kind. However, part of giving up our jobs and moving to New Mexico meant we were also discontinuing our health insurance. Jenn is young and healthy and positive by nature. Jane Austen, were she alive today, would no doubt have describe her as a handsome woman, both amiable and agreeable, and well accomplished in the arts.
Since we made our decision to relocate to the Southwest, Jenn has not been overly concerned about our insurance-less state. I, on the other hand, have been--if not wracked with concern--then at least preoccupied with the idea of making sure both my pregnant wife and future child be covered medically. I have not been unemployed or uninsured for years, and now we were moving to a place where neither of us would be either. (Is this a quadruple negative? It made sense in my head.) We made some calls from Oregon and discovered that, as a pregnant woman, Jenn would qualify for Medicaid. In fact, we were told it would be a slam dunk. However, the night before we went in to apply, I had nightmare that a sneering social servant, ensconced behind a scratched, plexiglass divider, ruthlessly turned us down for medical services through the oval slit in the window. I woke-up, tossed, turned, tossed some more, and turned one or two more times until Jenn woke-up.
"What'samatter?" she said, half-asleep.
I told her about the dream.
Jenn stroked my face. "It'll be okay," she said. "Everything will work out fine."
"Yeah, but what about A. What about B. And God forbid C should happen, let alone D."
Early the next morning, we went to our local Medicaid office. After years of watching welfare scenes on TV and in the movies, I had formed a rather solid and skewed notion of what it would look like--intimidating security guards, surly social servants, sticky floors, scores of desperate people and crying infants.
Yet another projection sunk by the torpedo of reality. The employees at the branch office couldn't have been kinder. A short female security guard with a stylish 'doo greeted us at the front door with a smile and good-humored gleam to her eye ... and she then scanned us for weapons; another woman-- this one actually behind a plexiglass window--looked at us with kind eyes, inquired as to why we were there, and then directed us to an adjoining room. We waited all of 7 minutes before a caseworker called Jenn's name and asked her several personable questions. The worker seemed genuinely interested in helping us. Within five minutes Jenn was approved for medical coverage without the penetrating questions, the rude attitude, or the arched eyebrows so prevalent in mass media. The elapsed time from the moment we walked in until our departure with letter of confirmation in hand--20 minutes. I walked out feeling blessed and relieved.
Day-by-day, moment-by-moment, I have been floating in-and-out of faith. Jenn likes to remind me that our entire move has been based on faith, and that we have been blessed every step of the way.
Indeed, We drove two 1995 vehicles 1400 miles without a breakdown (God loves us!), and then had to shell out $350 in repairs for Jenn's car out of our savings once we arrived (God's testing us). The HR rep from my old agency informed me that they were looking for contract therapists (God loves us!) but then wouldn't return my calls (God's testing us). We find a great house to rent site unseen, but it's so nice that we both feel uncomfortable with its elegance (God loves us AND is testing us).
Faith--It would all be a lot easier if it wasn't based on aid and guidance from the invisible realms of Spirit. I've had to remind myself daily that I have done nothing but by choice, and if I feel tested, it is because I am pushing myself to discover the limits of my own heart. Of course, three seconds later I can forget, and trip over my own palpable fear. Sometimes Jenn teases me when I'm in this place, and once in a while I even laugh with her. At other times, I lose my sense of humor completely and stay firmly married to my fear. Occasionally Jenn gets sucked in as well, and then there we are, swimming through quicksand.
In the east mountains of Albuquerque, we have some friends who have held an annual retreat called The Long Dance for the last 25 years. It involves two days of workshops and community building, and culminates in a dusk-to-dawn dance in a Kiva while a mother drum is kept going all night in a steady thump-thump-thump beat.
Six years ago, shortly before the Long Dance, I developed a bad case of plantar fasciitis--inflammation of the fascial tissue on the bottom of both feet. It was so painful that it was all I could do to walk to the lobby of my agency to gather up my next client (about 40 feet). I had started work on my Long Dance banner--a kind of personal symbol for the year--but really, I had little hope of going. It was excruciating just to make it out to my car, let alone up-and-down the ceremony grounds.
The opening circle for the Long Dance was to commence on Friday, an hour after I got off work. The weekend arrived, and as I limped toward the parking lot I had (or was gifted with) a moment of clarity. A forgotten excerpt from a Buddhist book I perused years earlier came back to me unbidden. It suggested that instead of pushing away or judging ourselves for our pain, we can realize that, even while lost in our shit, we are still the Buddha manifesting in suffering form.
"Wait a second," I said and stopped in my tracks. "This is just Suffering Buddha."
I took a deep breath into my aching feet--the feet I had cursed for so long--and felt, really felt the texture and sensation of my pain without judgment. Within seconds the pain went down, went down, went down until it had almost completely disappeared. I walked to my car filled with awe and gratitude, sped home, finished my banner, and packed a bag for the weekend. On my way out the door, I paused to say a little prayer of thanks and leaped into the air to click my heels together. I didn't dance the entire Long Dance night, but made it until three in the morning and went to sleep feeling peaceful and content.
Since my return to the Land of Enchantment, I have been judging myself for (sometimes) feeling scared, for lacking faith, for not having the courage to walk the walk. Then, of course, I get down on myself for not being Superman. But maybe all of this is a chance to experience the Buddha in his myriad of forms--Fearful Buddha, Adventurous Buddha, Papa Buddha, Poverty Consciousness Buddha, Quivering Mass of Jello Buddha, Laughing Buddha, Faithful Buddha, Stumbling Buddha.
Rumi said it best: Like children, we spill the salt, and then spill it again.
Monday, April 25, 2011
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Death By Parenthood
A handful of years ago, I was in Peru, about to partake in some shamanic ceremonies involving a powerful vision plant. I was there with a friend who expressed interest in experiencing one of the ceremonies. During the course of our stay leading up to the ceremony, I spent 2-3 hours answering her questions, explaining what to expect, and what a ceremony "might" be like.
My friend had a very powerful, very mind-blowing experience, and afterwards, she said to me with a look of hurt, confusion, and a little bit if anger on her face, "Why didn't you tell me?"
Some things are so powerful it is impossible to describe to another being. One has to simply go through the fire of the experience to understand what it is about. This is how I imagine parenthood to be. One friend described it as "obliterating." Though I haven't yet been a parent myself, when she said that word, I could so feel the truth in it that I laughed.
I watch Jenn's belly growing daily as she walks around in our new world. (And yes, she is still walking, as opposed to locomoting via the pregnant woman's waddle.) I find myself performing a series of intellectual exercises in an attempt to understand what I am about to experience and try to prepare for our little one's arrival. Honestly, I don't have a fucking clue what it will be like to be a father. I have held a baby in my arms cumulatively for all of 20 minutes. I know that my life is about to change, and the person I am is about to be transformed ... if not out-and-out buried. It feels like some sort of pre-birth funeral is in order.
All change seems to include a symbolic death, followed by transformation and, lastly, a Phoenix-like resurrection -- the requisite, metaphorical Victory over Death. In order to transform, one has to die. This transformation often involves some sort of trial--a boy is abandoned out in the wilderness and comes back a man; a Russian shaman submerges himself under icy waters for an impossible period of time; Native Americans go out on vision quests without water or food. I met a man who went through a rite of passage while living with an Africa tribe. He was staked down to an ant hill, covered in honey, and left there for hours. To know this man is to know he was telling the truth. He was told by the tribesmen that if he didn't move, it wouldn't hurt. "It hurt," he said.
In the case of the author, my first rite of passage took place at the age of thirteen during an extremely Reformed Judaic Bar Mitzvah. Thankfully, I had the world's shortest Torah portion to memorize. I went through with it mainly at my parent's insistance, but also to rake in enough dough for a trip to Europe. It couldn't have felt less like entering manhood unless I had been wearing a tutu.
Earlier in my life, I witnessed a number of friends partnering up, having kids, transforming. With each one, I had a profound sense of loss and grief. I wanted my friend back, but after childbirth their priorities--in fact, their very personalities--seem to change so dramatically that I barely recognize them. I took it all very personally, and felt abandoned, like a child dumped on the side of the highway. (Authors note: Fortunately, my childhood was so emotionally fulfilling--full of support and encouragement and love, that I am 100% sure that my reaction had nothing to do with my own tender years growing up. None. Zippo. Nadda ... Okay, maybe a little.)
So now I am about to become that, whatever that is. Here's what I imagine: Jenn and I will bring into the world a being who is going to take the man I thought I was and twist it into a pretzel. I will witness my best, most tender qualities, as well as the parts of myself that make me cringe broadcast across Time's Squarea for the entire planet to scoff at. I will learn what it's like to want to strangle the being I love most on the planet, and to have my heart broken again and again.
When Jenn and I first discussed whether or not we should have a baby, I struggled. At the time, I was faced with the decision to either give up the woman I loved--to somehow un-ring the bell and try to go back to the life I once lead--or to say "yes" to the idea of fatherhood, a concept which I had given up five years earlier.
I prayed for clarity.
What came to me was this: To say yes because being a father will teach me whole new levels of loving. In that way, becoming a parent is a profoundly selfish act. I want to create even more room in my heart for love to overflow. It scares the shit out of me.
My friend had a very powerful, very mind-blowing experience, and afterwards, she said to me with a look of hurt, confusion, and a little bit if anger on her face, "Why didn't you tell me?"
Some things are so powerful it is impossible to describe to another being. One has to simply go through the fire of the experience to understand what it is about. This is how I imagine parenthood to be. One friend described it as "obliterating." Though I haven't yet been a parent myself, when she said that word, I could so feel the truth in it that I laughed.
I watch Jenn's belly growing daily as she walks around in our new world. (And yes, she is still walking, as opposed to locomoting via the pregnant woman's waddle.) I find myself performing a series of intellectual exercises in an attempt to understand what I am about to experience and try to prepare for our little one's arrival. Honestly, I don't have a fucking clue what it will be like to be a father. I have held a baby in my arms cumulatively for all of 20 minutes. I know that my life is about to change, and the person I am is about to be transformed ... if not out-and-out buried. It feels like some sort of pre-birth funeral is in order.
All change seems to include a symbolic death, followed by transformation and, lastly, a Phoenix-like resurrection -- the requisite, metaphorical Victory over Death. In order to transform, one has to die. This transformation often involves some sort of trial--a boy is abandoned out in the wilderness and comes back a man; a Russian shaman submerges himself under icy waters for an impossible period of time; Native Americans go out on vision quests without water or food. I met a man who went through a rite of passage while living with an Africa tribe. He was staked down to an ant hill, covered in honey, and left there for hours. To know this man is to know he was telling the truth. He was told by the tribesmen that if he didn't move, it wouldn't hurt. "It hurt," he said.
In the case of the author, my first rite of passage took place at the age of thirteen during an extremely Reformed Judaic Bar Mitzvah. Thankfully, I had the world's shortest Torah portion to memorize. I went through with it mainly at my parent's insistance, but also to rake in enough dough for a trip to Europe. It couldn't have felt less like entering manhood unless I had been wearing a tutu.
Earlier in my life, I witnessed a number of friends partnering up, having kids, transforming. With each one, I had a profound sense of loss and grief. I wanted my friend back, but after childbirth their priorities--in fact, their very personalities--seem to change so dramatically that I barely recognize them. I took it all very personally, and felt abandoned, like a child dumped on the side of the highway. (Authors note: Fortunately, my childhood was so emotionally fulfilling--full of support and encouragement and love, that I am 100% sure that my reaction had nothing to do with my own tender years growing up. None. Zippo. Nadda ... Okay, maybe a little.)
So now I am about to become that, whatever that is. Here's what I imagine: Jenn and I will bring into the world a being who is going to take the man I thought I was and twist it into a pretzel. I will witness my best, most tender qualities, as well as the parts of myself that make me cringe broadcast across Time's Squarea for the entire planet to scoff at. I will learn what it's like to want to strangle the being I love most on the planet, and to have my heart broken again and again.
When Jenn and I first discussed whether or not we should have a baby, I struggled. At the time, I was faced with the decision to either give up the woman I loved--to somehow un-ring the bell and try to go back to the life I once lead--or to say "yes" to the idea of fatherhood, a concept which I had given up five years earlier.
I prayed for clarity.
What came to me was this: To say yes because being a father will teach me whole new levels of loving. In that way, becoming a parent is a profoundly selfish act. I want to create even more room in my heart for love to overflow. It scares the shit out of me.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Untitled
When Jenn and I started packing our things three months ago, we did so with the goal of keeping a relaxed pace until March 30th, the day the moving truck was scheduled to arrive. Our intention was to maintain a slow-but-steady packing rhythm until a week or so prior to the truck's arrival. At that point, we would be subsisting on a skeleton crew of belongings--two plates, two glasses, two sets of silverware, two towels, two toothbrushes, two sets of undies, two pair of pants and socks, two books, two cat toys, two etc, etc. A Noah's Arc of material goods.
As the 64 foot truck came steaming around the corner (our theory went), Jenn and I would affix the last strip of packing tape onto the final box, rub our hands together to indicate a job well done, and take ourselves out for a congratulatory slice of pizza.
The reality was quite a bit different. The last week before the move, Jenn and I pounded the packing pavement up until--and including--the final quarter-hour before our mover appeared like a cruise ship on the narrow two lane street.
It was an odd process, supervising the loading of all of our earthly belongings into the gaping maw of a moving truck. My intellect told me that the truck driver did this for a living; that we had researched a number of moving companies and chosen a reputable one invested in making sure they do a quality job; and that there was no actual reason to believe we were kissing our things goodbye. And yet, as Jenn and I watched the truck swallow up all of our material goods in Oregon, it was still hard for me to fathom that they would somehow magically appear 1400 miles away in New Mexico. Hiring a moving company seemed so ... so adult of us. It was a bit disorienting.
It worked, of course. I met the moving truck in New Mexico, and two days later I flew back to Oregon to make the drive for a second time, this time with Jenn the Pregnant and our two cats in her dark blue, 1995 Honda Civic.
To run with my earlier analogy, I figured we would donate half the mates we kept from our "arc" to the Goodwill petting zoo, pack the other half of our meager belongings into a lone suitcase or a small backpack, toss it into the trunk in a devil-may-care sort of way, add a cooler with some food, a couple of books, and half-bag of cat food. We would buckle the cat crates into the backseat and hit the road. The plan was to let one cat out at a time to stretch their paws and explore the space. Honey or Duma--whose ever turn it was--would no doubt perch atop the rear dash, purring away and twitching their tails at other road weary travelers who would admire how well behaved and adventurous our kitties were. Jenn would laugh at my numerous "Waiter, waiter" jokes and multi-layered puns, and together we would explore a few short hikes in Utah.
The reality, of course, was that Jenn's car was so abso-fucking-lutely packed to the gills that we would have been hard pressed to squeeze a medium-sized flashlight into the trunk without having to bungee it down. The cat crates, rather then resting flush on the backseat, were perched atop each of our suitcases, held in place with blankets, pillows, backpacks, coolers, water jugs, jackets, and sundry other items crammed into ever crevice between and around them.
Things went well enough until just west of Boise. Jenn had found a way to strategically cushion her pregnant self on the front seat with various cushions to support her belly and butt. The cats took on the glazed, surrendered look of sleep-deprived POW's around hour six, which was about the same time we noticed we had raised our voices to hear one another. As we pulled off the highway to tank up, there was a definite, penetrating rumble that hadn't been there when we had set out. With each mile, the car was sounding more and more like a sputtering Harley. Additionally, I had started to obsess about the well being of our cats, and had visions of the older one dying of shock and dehydration.
When I voiced my concerns, Jenn said that she was "having a reaction" to what I said (i.e. was pissed) because I seemed more concerned about the cats then her--my pregnant wife. While I will deny this base accusation until the day I die and shout to the heavens "Not true! Not true!"--the point was, er, well taken. It tapped into a vein close enough to the surface for me to voice a question aloud I had long felt perplexed by: "Do you think there is something wrong with a man whose chosen profession is working in the field of mental health, but who obviously likes the company of animals more than humans?"
Jenn didn't answer, but arched her eyebrow in that way she does when she is half-amused (but only half), because she knows I know the answer to my own question. It reminded me of an astrological reading I had years ago from a particularly perceptive friend. She studied the chart, looked up at me, and smiled. "From your chart," she said, "it says here that you love humanity with a passion, but it's the individuals you're not so crazy about."
Bada-bing.
Jenn being the positive person she is, enjoyed the drive to Next Mexico. She took in the gradual geographic transition from the dark greens of Oregon to dramatic brown-green hills of Idaho, past the jagged snow caps of the Mormon mountains and glowing red rock of southern Utah to finally, the blunted, brown rock and cactus-dotted hills of New Mexico. After living to Oregon her entire life, Jenn no doubt needed every minute of our drive to transition and prepare.
For my part, I hadn't seen my wife in 10 days and was glad to be with her, but simply put, the drive was a grind--a means to an end to get to our new home so we could dig in and prepare to have our baby. I was packed into a loud, reverberating car with my pregnant wife and two semi-lucid cats, and couldn't get to New Mexico soon enough.
However, aside from the muffler, there are no horror stories to relay, no car break downs (for either of our vintage vehicles), no fatherhood related-epiphanies. Jenn's pregnancy is going remarkably well. She communicates with our baby daily, is enjoying her pregnancy, and creates more and more of our little Celia/Zinnia every day. The fact that Jenn would agree to move to a foreign land and leave the people and place she loves demonstrates, to me, a remarkable amount of resilience and courage.
So here we are. I started this blog with the intention of documenting a middle age man's journey into fatherhood, but it seems to have morphed of late into a bit of a running diary. This will be my last Oregon-related entry.
As the 64 foot truck came steaming around the corner (our theory went), Jenn and I would affix the last strip of packing tape onto the final box, rub our hands together to indicate a job well done, and take ourselves out for a congratulatory slice of pizza.
The reality was quite a bit different. The last week before the move, Jenn and I pounded the packing pavement up until--and including--the final quarter-hour before our mover appeared like a cruise ship on the narrow two lane street.
It was an odd process, supervising the loading of all of our earthly belongings into the gaping maw of a moving truck. My intellect told me that the truck driver did this for a living; that we had researched a number of moving companies and chosen a reputable one invested in making sure they do a quality job; and that there was no actual reason to believe we were kissing our things goodbye. And yet, as Jenn and I watched the truck swallow up all of our material goods in Oregon, it was still hard for me to fathom that they would somehow magically appear 1400 miles away in New Mexico. Hiring a moving company seemed so ... so adult of us. It was a bit disorienting.
It worked, of course. I met the moving truck in New Mexico, and two days later I flew back to Oregon to make the drive for a second time, this time with Jenn the Pregnant and our two cats in her dark blue, 1995 Honda Civic.
To run with my earlier analogy, I figured we would donate half the mates we kept from our "arc" to the Goodwill petting zoo, pack the other half of our meager belongings into a lone suitcase or a small backpack, toss it into the trunk in a devil-may-care sort of way, add a cooler with some food, a couple of books, and half-bag of cat food. We would buckle the cat crates into the backseat and hit the road. The plan was to let one cat out at a time to stretch their paws and explore the space. Honey or Duma--whose ever turn it was--would no doubt perch atop the rear dash, purring away and twitching their tails at other road weary travelers who would admire how well behaved and adventurous our kitties were. Jenn would laugh at my numerous "Waiter, waiter" jokes and multi-layered puns, and together we would explore a few short hikes in Utah.
The reality, of course, was that Jenn's car was so abso-fucking-lutely packed to the gills that we would have been hard pressed to squeeze a medium-sized flashlight into the trunk without having to bungee it down. The cat crates, rather then resting flush on the backseat, were perched atop each of our suitcases, held in place with blankets, pillows, backpacks, coolers, water jugs, jackets, and sundry other items crammed into ever crevice between and around them.
Things went well enough until just west of Boise. Jenn had found a way to strategically cushion her pregnant self on the front seat with various cushions to support her belly and butt. The cats took on the glazed, surrendered look of sleep-deprived POW's around hour six, which was about the same time we noticed we had raised our voices to hear one another. As we pulled off the highway to tank up, there was a definite, penetrating rumble that hadn't been there when we had set out. With each mile, the car was sounding more and more like a sputtering Harley. Additionally, I had started to obsess about the well being of our cats, and had visions of the older one dying of shock and dehydration.
When I voiced my concerns, Jenn said that she was "having a reaction" to what I said (i.e. was pissed) because I seemed more concerned about the cats then her--my pregnant wife. While I will deny this base accusation until the day I die and shout to the heavens "Not true! Not true!"--the point was, er, well taken. It tapped into a vein close enough to the surface for me to voice a question aloud I had long felt perplexed by: "Do you think there is something wrong with a man whose chosen profession is working in the field of mental health, but who obviously likes the company of animals more than humans?"
Jenn didn't answer, but arched her eyebrow in that way she does when she is half-amused (but only half), because she knows I know the answer to my own question. It reminded me of an astrological reading I had years ago from a particularly perceptive friend. She studied the chart, looked up at me, and smiled. "From your chart," she said, "it says here that you love humanity with a passion, but it's the individuals you're not so crazy about."
Bada-bing.
Jenn being the positive person she is, enjoyed the drive to Next Mexico. She took in the gradual geographic transition from the dark greens of Oregon to dramatic brown-green hills of Idaho, past the jagged snow caps of the Mormon mountains and glowing red rock of southern Utah to finally, the blunted, brown rock and cactus-dotted hills of New Mexico. After living to Oregon her entire life, Jenn no doubt needed every minute of our drive to transition and prepare.
For my part, I hadn't seen my wife in 10 days and was glad to be with her, but simply put, the drive was a grind--a means to an end to get to our new home so we could dig in and prepare to have our baby. I was packed into a loud, reverberating car with my pregnant wife and two semi-lucid cats, and couldn't get to New Mexico soon enough.
However, aside from the muffler, there are no horror stories to relay, no car break downs (for either of our vintage vehicles), no fatherhood related-epiphanies. Jenn's pregnancy is going remarkably well. She communicates with our baby daily, is enjoying her pregnancy, and creates more and more of our little Celia/Zinnia every day. The fact that Jenn would agree to move to a foreign land and leave the people and place she loves demonstrates, to me, a remarkable amount of resilience and courage.
So here we are. I started this blog with the intention of documenting a middle age man's journey into fatherhood, but it seems to have morphed of late into a bit of a running diary. This will be my last Oregon-related entry.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Welcome to Albuquerque
The night before we were to leave our house in Oregon for New Mexico, Jenn and I decided to do a letting go ritual, which involved offering-up anything we wished to free ourselves from into the flames of a small fire. We were going to perform the ceremony on wet, rain-saturated plot of soil in our garden, but decided instead to contain the flames in a stainless steel water dish that we kept on our back porch for the cats.It was dusk, and a gentle sprinkle had started to fall as we said our prayers of release, and asked spirit to bless our new life and provide safe travel for our entire family--human and feline. After we finished the ceremony, the fire -- built of dry kindling, cardboard and cloth --continued to burn. We watched in silence as pearls of rain gathered on Jenn's auburn hair. That's when we caught the smell of something foul. We forgot bowl had a ring of rubber on its bottom to prevent it from sliding.
"We should put it out," Jenn said.
I nodded in agreement and took a step toward the fire. Jenn beat me to it, and used the toe of her shoe to turn the water dish over. Instead of flipping all the way over, however, the bowl landed on its side, and just then, a gentle wind kicked-up and started to strew the flaming ash and embers around the garden toward the wooden wall of a nearby garage. Instinct kicked in (or what seemed like instinct at the time), and I grabbed the first thing I saw to cover the swirling embers--the water dish itself.
"Fuck! Motherfucker!"
I dropped the bowl and began jumping about, shaking my hand in a manly, graceful sort of way while a voice inside my head was already condemning me for being that stupid to pick up a completely heated piece of stainless steel. (On my own behalf, there should be a rule that things that are that hot should actually glow.) Jenn went into healer-mode and soothed both my battered ego and burnt knuckles with salves and bandages, which was followed by a brief metaphysical discussion on "What It Meant" that our ceremony ended the way it did. At last, I declared that I had no earthly idea and didn't fucking care.
Years ago, I used to try to assign meaning to events in my life. "Maybe Scenario A means that the universe is saying ...," or "Scenario B is trying to teach me ..."
If only finding meaning were that easy. Too often, my interpretations would feel hollow, as if I were trying to explain the ineffable. To attempt to gift wrap occurrences in my life with a tidy interpretive bow is the ego's way of creating the illusion that it is indeed in control. In reality, control is pretty much the last thing I've been feeling of late. I am amazed -- repeat Ah-mazed -- at how little Albuquerque feels like home right now. Since my return to the Southwest, I have fluctuated between bouts of intense anxiety and fear, and a pleasant, floaty, dream-like state where everything feels sort of familiar ... but not quite. I am walking and driving around the city I lived in (and loved) for nine years, and I feel raw and vulnerable. Occasionally, I give my head a metaphoric scratch, and--like the David Byrne song--I ask myself, "My God, what have I done?"
In these moments of doubt, I take shelter in my intellect and go over all the reasons that Jenn and I decided to move to New Mexico. I remind myself that I have done this moving-to-a-new-city thing enough times to know that dream time and waking life will reverse itself soon enough, and though I feel rattled now, Oregon will begin to recede, and I will once again continue my love affair with the desert.
And speaking of rattles, two days ago I pulled into the parking lot of an established counseling agency in town for a job interview. The building itself was half-built into the gentle slope of a scrubby hill. As I turned off my ignition, I looked up to see a sign posted about five five feet up the incline. It had been planted there for the maximum viewing pleasure of all the poor souls coming to the agency to seek emotional support and succor. It read in caps: "WATCH FOR RATTLESNAKES."
Welcome to Albuquerque.
"We should put it out," Jenn said.
I nodded in agreement and took a step toward the fire. Jenn beat me to it, and used the toe of her shoe to turn the water dish over. Instead of flipping all the way over, however, the bowl landed on its side, and just then, a gentle wind kicked-up and started to strew the flaming ash and embers around the garden toward the wooden wall of a nearby garage. Instinct kicked in (or what seemed like instinct at the time), and I grabbed the first thing I saw to cover the swirling embers--the water dish itself.
"Fuck! Motherfucker!"
I dropped the bowl and began jumping about, shaking my hand in a manly, graceful sort of way while a voice inside my head was already condemning me for being that stupid to pick up a completely heated piece of stainless steel. (On my own behalf, there should be a rule that things that are that hot should actually glow.) Jenn went into healer-mode and soothed both my battered ego and burnt knuckles with salves and bandages, which was followed by a brief metaphysical discussion on "What It Meant" that our ceremony ended the way it did. At last, I declared that I had no earthly idea and didn't fucking care.
Years ago, I used to try to assign meaning to events in my life. "Maybe Scenario A means that the universe is saying ...," or "Scenario B is trying to teach me ..."
If only finding meaning were that easy. Too often, my interpretations would feel hollow, as if I were trying to explain the ineffable. To attempt to gift wrap occurrences in my life with a tidy interpretive bow is the ego's way of creating the illusion that it is indeed in control. In reality, control is pretty much the last thing I've been feeling of late. I am amazed -- repeat Ah-mazed -- at how little Albuquerque feels like home right now. Since my return to the Southwest, I have fluctuated between bouts of intense anxiety and fear, and a pleasant, floaty, dream-like state where everything feels sort of familiar ... but not quite. I am walking and driving around the city I lived in (and loved) for nine years, and I feel raw and vulnerable. Occasionally, I give my head a metaphoric scratch, and--like the David Byrne song--I ask myself, "My God, what have I done?"
In these moments of doubt, I take shelter in my intellect and go over all the reasons that Jenn and I decided to move to New Mexico. I remind myself that I have done this moving-to-a-new-city thing enough times to know that dream time and waking life will reverse itself soon enough, and though I feel rattled now, Oregon will begin to recede, and I will once again continue my love affair with the desert.
And speaking of rattles, two days ago I pulled into the parking lot of an established counseling agency in town for a job interview. The building itself was half-built into the gentle slope of a scrubby hill. As I turned off my ignition, I looked up to see a sign posted about five five feet up the incline. It had been planted there for the maximum viewing pleasure of all the poor souls coming to the agency to seek emotional support and succor. It read in caps: "WATCH FOR RATTLESNAKES."
Welcome to Albuquerque.
Saturday, April 2, 2011
The Pirate Zinnia
Jenn and I both left our respective jobs last week--she after five years, and moi just short of four. When I first started, it took two solid months for tribal members to start trickling in to see the new guy. Thus, during my first eight weeks of "work," I literally saw zero-to-one client per day. This led to me happily barging into my boss's office at the six week mark and declaring, "Hey, I just figured out I'm getting paid $5.75 per game of computer solitaire!"
In actuality, I did everything I could to drum up business short of traipsing up and down the main drag wearing a sandwich board, and I still contest this would have worked. What client wouldn't want to receive counseling from a therapist crazy enough to don a "Will Counsel for Food" sign on his back? At the very least, I would have been amused by my own joke. (As an illustrative detour on the topic of self-amusement, hypothetically, if one wanted to get a really good laugh--I mean one of those laughs where tears are streaming down one's face--one might consider asking one's partner to pull one's toe using the clever ruse of, "Oh, ow! My toe is cramping up," and then when one's partner does tug on one's toe, one may, if one so wishes, use that opportunity to let go with a ungodly blast of flatulence. A word to the wise ... or at least the emotionally immature.)
Back to point: Aside from a periodic need to uproot and move to a different clime, why leave such a plum position? The pay was good, I had a great boss, wonderful benefits, regular three day weekends, and plenty of down time for surfing sports sites and squeezing in the occasional in-office nap. The job appealed both to my inherent, sloth-like desire to earn a livable wage for minimal effort while simultaneously fulfilling my need to feel--and when I was willing to let spirit work through me, actually be--of use in the world.
For a while, however, it had felt as if I was only batting one-for-two. I had the sloth part down well enough, but couldn't tell how much I was actually helping the community. The Course of Miracles discusses the true use of therapy, stating that a therapeutic alliance is a partnership where the counselor is perhaps a little further down the road than the client, but both are working together for the betterment of the other. The Course also suggested that many clients come to therapy not to become happier per se, but to find a way to be more comfortable in their suffering. Thus. despite my better efforts, I had started to wonder if I had become part of the problem. Maybe it was time to give up some keys.
One of the unique symbols of freedom for me is watching the polar icecap of my key chain melt away prior to a big move. After years of relocating to various cities--and sundry apartments within those cities--a dwindling key chain has come to represent a leap into the unknown. The more lockable rooms to which I am privy, the more tied-down I feel. Perhaps tamed is a better word. The more doors I can open, the more domesticated I feel, and I start to get a little antsy and bored, as if I had hit the cruise control button on my life. The jangle of a growing set of keys often creates for me a gnawing fear that I have stagnated in my life and become too rigid. I also see it as a cue that it may be time to take a leap.
All of this at least partially explains why I left a well-paying job to move with my six-months-along pregnant wife and two cats to a landlocked city 1400 miles a way. For the first two-and-a-half years of our relationship--growing set of keys or no--there was nothing in Jenn that was remotely drawn to the pale greens, burnt browns, and reddish hues of the Southwest. In fact, she recently relayed the results of her climatic research to her mother, noting that Albuquerque has only five days a year when Mister Sun does not actually make a visible appearance. Five days, this native of Portland emphasized, as if that wasn't the craziest thing she ever heard.
Jenn thinks she will have an easier time under the Southwest skies and heat than I did in the gray gloom of the Northwest. She bases this theory on the fact that I rarely stopped bitching about the weather in Oregon for my entire four years there. She may be right, but Jenn spending an entire Summer in the New Mexico will separate the sun-drenched wheat from the dripping, drab, Northwest chaff. We will see if she is able -- in the parlance of a young actress in a teen flick we saw recently -- to grow some girl balls under the daunting heat of the August sun.
Is the bar set a tad high? Possibly, since Jenn will be experiencing her first ever Summer in New Mexico while carrying anywhere from forty to who-knows-how-many additional pounds during her pregnancy. This, of course, is what makes her decision to move all the more puzzling: after three straight years of my cajoling, pleading, tempting, and mocking my wife into relocating, she finally gave the move the green light after she had gotten pregnant. Yes, dear reader, Miss Lukesh made the conscious decision to waddle about in Albuquerque's sweltering heat until the day arrives when the telltale sizzle of moisture on scalding sidewalk announces that her water had indeed broken.
So why now? It bears repeating: Why, why, why?
We can chalk it up to a few things. The easy answer is, something inside of my wife switched. Call it intuition. Additionally, Jenn ... wait! How do I spell this in a way that truly reflects the proper amount of emphasis? "Jenn really ..."? "Jenn reeeally ..."? "Jenn REALLY ..."? (Lets go with option "C".) Jenn REALLY wanted to leave a job that she was struggling more and more to feel challenged by. Perhaps, too, the knowledge that she had already met and been accepted by virtually all of my friends in New Mexico--they love her without exception--may have made the move more palatable. And presumably my ever-present longing to return to the Southwest had the slightest, lets call it, the merest scintilla of influence as well.
But there is a deeper answer, one that borders on the mystical/spiritual. Last October, the psychic whom Jenn consulted with on her birthday proposed to her that our baby-to-be wanted to be born in the Southwest. We are having a child of the desert, and I can't argue with this. At this point, Jenn and the baby's spirit are completely entwined. If the soul of our little daughter wishes to be born amidst a sea of sand, heat, and prickly pear, it makes sense that little Zinnia would let her desire be felt--like a food craving--in the depths of Jenn's soul. My wife said yes to the move, in part, then, because our baby made her preference be known. What a powerful little desert bloom she already is. It gives me a sense of wonder that such a tiny being is already captaining our familial ship.
Maybe hijacking is a better word.
In actuality, I did everything I could to drum up business short of traipsing up and down the main drag wearing a sandwich board, and I still contest this would have worked. What client wouldn't want to receive counseling from a therapist crazy enough to don a "Will Counsel for Food" sign on his back? At the very least, I would have been amused by my own joke. (As an illustrative detour on the topic of self-amusement, hypothetically, if one wanted to get a really good laugh--I mean one of those laughs where tears are streaming down one's face--one might consider asking one's partner to pull one's toe using the clever ruse of, "Oh, ow! My toe is cramping up," and then when one's partner does tug on one's toe, one may, if one so wishes, use that opportunity to let go with a ungodly blast of flatulence. A word to the wise ... or at least the emotionally immature.)
Back to point: Aside from a periodic need to uproot and move to a different clime, why leave such a plum position? The pay was good, I had a great boss, wonderful benefits, regular three day weekends, and plenty of down time for surfing sports sites and squeezing in the occasional in-office nap. The job appealed both to my inherent, sloth-like desire to earn a livable wage for minimal effort while simultaneously fulfilling my need to feel--and when I was willing to let spirit work through me, actually be--of use in the world.
For a while, however, it had felt as if I was only batting one-for-two. I had the sloth part down well enough, but couldn't tell how much I was actually helping the community. The Course of Miracles discusses the true use of therapy, stating that a therapeutic alliance is a partnership where the counselor is perhaps a little further down the road than the client, but both are working together for the betterment of the other. The Course also suggested that many clients come to therapy not to become happier per se, but to find a way to be more comfortable in their suffering. Thus. despite my better efforts, I had started to wonder if I had become part of the problem. Maybe it was time to give up some keys.
One of the unique symbols of freedom for me is watching the polar icecap of my key chain melt away prior to a big move. After years of relocating to various cities--and sundry apartments within those cities--a dwindling key chain has come to represent a leap into the unknown. The more lockable rooms to which I am privy, the more tied-down I feel. Perhaps tamed is a better word. The more doors I can open, the more domesticated I feel, and I start to get a little antsy and bored, as if I had hit the cruise control button on my life. The jangle of a growing set of keys often creates for me a gnawing fear that I have stagnated in my life and become too rigid. I also see it as a cue that it may be time to take a leap.
All of this at least partially explains why I left a well-paying job to move with my six-months-along pregnant wife and two cats to a landlocked city 1400 miles a way. For the first two-and-a-half years of our relationship--growing set of keys or no--there was nothing in Jenn that was remotely drawn to the pale greens, burnt browns, and reddish hues of the Southwest. In fact, she recently relayed the results of her climatic research to her mother, noting that Albuquerque has only five days a year when Mister Sun does not actually make a visible appearance. Five days, this native of Portland emphasized, as if that wasn't the craziest thing she ever heard.
Jenn thinks she will have an easier time under the Southwest skies and heat than I did in the gray gloom of the Northwest. She bases this theory on the fact that I rarely stopped bitching about the weather in Oregon for my entire four years there. She may be right, but Jenn spending an entire Summer in the New Mexico will separate the sun-drenched wheat from the dripping, drab, Northwest chaff. We will see if she is able -- in the parlance of a young actress in a teen flick we saw recently -- to grow some girl balls under the daunting heat of the August sun.
Is the bar set a tad high? Possibly, since Jenn will be experiencing her first ever Summer in New Mexico while carrying anywhere from forty to who-knows-how-many additional pounds during her pregnancy. This, of course, is what makes her decision to move all the more puzzling: after three straight years of my cajoling, pleading, tempting, and mocking my wife into relocating, she finally gave the move the green light after she had gotten pregnant. Yes, dear reader, Miss Lukesh made the conscious decision to waddle about in Albuquerque's sweltering heat until the day arrives when the telltale sizzle of moisture on scalding sidewalk announces that her water had indeed broken.
So why now? It bears repeating: Why, why, why?
We can chalk it up to a few things. The easy answer is, something inside of my wife switched. Call it intuition. Additionally, Jenn ... wait! How do I spell this in a way that truly reflects the proper amount of emphasis? "Jenn really ..."? "Jenn reeeally ..."? "Jenn REALLY ..."? (Lets go with option "C".) Jenn REALLY wanted to leave a job that she was struggling more and more to feel challenged by. Perhaps, too, the knowledge that she had already met and been accepted by virtually all of my friends in New Mexico--they love her without exception--may have made the move more palatable. And presumably my ever-present longing to return to the Southwest had the slightest, lets call it, the merest scintilla of influence as well.
But there is a deeper answer, one that borders on the mystical/spiritual. Last October, the psychic whom Jenn consulted with on her birthday proposed to her that our baby-to-be wanted to be born in the Southwest. We are having a child of the desert, and I can't argue with this. At this point, Jenn and the baby's spirit are completely entwined. If the soul of our little daughter wishes to be born amidst a sea of sand, heat, and prickly pear, it makes sense that little Zinnia would let her desire be felt--like a food craving--in the depths of Jenn's soul. My wife said yes to the move, in part, then, because our baby made her preference be known. What a powerful little desert bloom she already is. It gives me a sense of wonder that such a tiny being is already captaining our familial ship.
Maybe hijacking is a better word.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)