On this All Hallow’s Eve as the veil between the worlds thins and I honour the Ancestors, I am reminded of how short and precious life is. I am reminded to take chances, to go all in with my heart when it matters and to let go of the rest that doesn’t. To move through the fear that blocks me and stops me and leaves me with regrets. And to always strive to live with courage, with love and in connection.
I was in Los Angeles last week at a conference and I had the worst attack of the uglies I’ve had in years.
It started with the small skirmish of an anxiety attack the morning I left and by the time I got to my hotel and then headed to the conference, it was a full blown battle.
It started on the surface, hating my outfits (all of them), my hair that wouldn’t curl and somehow managed to look frizzy and limp at the same time.
And then the big guns came out. Feeling fat, ugly, out of place, not worthy of notice, nobody’s first choice to be with.
In my head, I know these things are untrue. But, somehow my heart loses touch with that knowledge. And, it just wants to fill that space where self-love used to live with the comfort of isolation and food. King size bed in my little hotel room, warm bread and melted cheese, like a lovers arms surrounding me with safety.
Luckily, being a veteran of these battles, my head knows that won’t work.
And so I slogged through the four longest days I’ve had in many years. I got up, went to the conference, socialized and smiled and met people, tried to keep the food healthy and get some exercise each day.
None of that helped with the uglies. But, I made it. It felt like climbing an emotional Everest followed by a marathon every day. But, I made it.
And, the weird thing is that the minute I saw Vancouver out of the plane window, it all went away. I felt it leave my body and head out the window into the sky (apparently, the uglies can survive at 30,000 feet). And, in came this incredible wave of relief and somehow my self-worth was back. I felt like me again.
People say LA has a weird energy. Too many broken dreams, maybe. I don’t know why the uglies attacked. I suppose that trying to unravel the reason it happened would be worth some time and energy. Maybe something triggered it. Maybe understanding those triggers will leave me better prepared if/when it happens again.
But right now, as the wounds close again and my heart heals, I’m not sure I want to pick at the scabs. Yet.
I do know two things. First, that I am so grateful that I don’t have to do that battle every day. I remember when I used to feel “never good enough” all the time. When I thought that if I could just be perfect enough then I would be worth loving. The days before I knew that there is no such thing as perfect, that I am enough and that love comes from the self.
And second – I never want to go back to LA again.
I’ve been enjoying a blog called One Thousand Single Days by Vanessa Katsoolis who has decided to stay single and celibate for 1000 days. Vanessa’s journey is to explore being just herself without the distraction and focus (and heartbreak?) of love. I applaud her decision to focus on herself for a while.
I was watching her in an interview today (great job, Vanessa!) and noticed that the word “single” and “celibate” seemed to be linked together and somewhat interchangeable.
Which got me thinking … if heels-over-your-head sex with the person you are in love with is not an option – what’s are the choices for a single girl?
For me, celibate ain’t it! I like sex. I like the intimacy, the sensuality, the touch, the give and take of pleasure, the sheer giggly fun and even the cuddling. Yup, I admit it – I’m a snuggler.
But, I have also never been one to hook up with a different person every weekend. Um, or every month even. So, single and sowing my oats seems unrealistic and a lot of pressure for me. Plus, now that I’m in my 40s I just can’t stay up really late every night and still function at work the next day (geez, could I sound any more boring?!).
Don’t get me wrong; one night stands can certainly be fun. But, they do kind of lack heart or soul after a while. I mean, I like to at least LIKE the person in order to have sex with them. It’s not like I’m there solely for the conversation but the mind is probably the most important sex organ for me so it needs a bit of stimulation, too.
I once was hooking up with a guy who was sweet and sexy and interesting and then I stumbled upon the fact that he didn’t believe in evolution. When he revealed that he believed that the earth was only 6,000 years old my brain shut down every erogenous zone in my body.
Friends with benefits is a great option, if you can find it. Two friends, who like each other and find each other sexy and interesting but who don’t have the expectation of commitment. As they say, nice job if you can get. But, there’s the rub and not in a nice massage rub kind of way. It’s a hard balance to strike. And, when one person’s expectations change, in can be a train wreck of hurt feelings.
And then there’s open relationships. I have great admiration for couples who trust and communication is strong enough for an open relationship. I’m not sure I could do that. But as a single woman, it has provided some pretty fun nights. So, my hats off to you (and sometimes some of my other clothes).
I’m not sure where that leaves us singles. But, I know for sure that while celibate is one option, I am pretty thankful we’ve moved passed the days when it’s the only option. At least here in my part of the world. And while sometimes my celibate stretches go on longer than I might choose, I’ll take no sex over bad sex any day – and that includes no-self-respect sex.
A good friend recently said to me that if you passed around a bowl of all different kinds of candy, we would all choose something different and that we should celebrate that variety.
Here’s to your sweet tooth.
This weekend I visited the Chihuly Exhibition and Gardens in Seattle. I don’t think mere words can express how my heart and body and spirit responded to such beauty.
The glass seemed to be lit from within. It sang in joyful colour rather than sound.
Amazingly strong and incredible fragile. Seemingly frozen in place, actually a liquid flowing so slowly that you can’t see it move.
The glass soared, curving with grace and rounded with sensuality.
In the presence of such beauty, my spirit took flight in colour and light and vibrated in tune with the glass.
These words and pictures are the best I can do to try to share the experience.
I have been described as many things but patient is not one of them.
I am a big ideas person. I have a vision of how things can be and I work hard to realize those visions. And a lot of times that is a really great quality.
But when things go sideways or off track, it throws me. Everyone is turning left and off in the new direction and I am left standing there, saying “but … we were going this way …”
I read this great post this week called Why lying broken in a pile on your bedroom floor is a good idea. It talked about how when you are going through a transition like a breakup or a losing your job there is a period of mourning the death of the future, of the way you saw things unfolding.
I can so relate to that. I envy people who can easily change direction accepting that “oh well, things have changed!”
For me it takes some time. Time to get my feet back under me. To regroup and adjust to the new state. To pull back from the future that I thought was coming and back into the reality of what is. Time to stand still for awhile and then figure out the new direction.
This week has been like that. Work projects are in transition and I’m having to adjust and be patient. So far, my plans on four of the five nights this past week have changed unexpectedly. The photography class I’m taking is not what I thought it would be and I’m trying to set aside my disappointment and go with the flow of the class.
Thing is, last week I celebrated the autumn equinox. That time of equal balance between light and dark, night and day, life and death. As part of the celebration, I wrote this about the spirit of the equinox –
I am the perfect balance of the present. What is past has already been and what is the future is yet to be determined. What has gone before cannot be changed and what lies ahead is yet to be known. My gift is the peace of the present.
My lesson is to live in this moment. For the present has been shaped by the past and it is the present that will shape the future.
Live in the blessings of the still point of balance between light and dark, night and day, creation and destruction. For ever do these revolve in endless cycle.
Dark triumphs over light bringing death and rest. Light banishes the dark bringing rebirth and growth. But always they dance around the single point of equilibrium.
So live in the moment. Dance and sing and love and learn and be fully alive in the here and now. Live today as you would live your whole life.
For this moment is all that we have.
This weekend I am headed to Seattle and going to visit the Chihuly Exhibition and Gardens. I am going to try and set aside what I think the weekend will be. I am going to take lots of pictures of the glass art and not worry about the photography.
I am going to try and allow myself the time to adjust to some of the painful changes in direction that life has thrown at me. To allow myself to stand still and breathe and not expect that I have to be off and running again.
Because while it’s great to see the path ahead of me, I don’t want miss what’s right in front of me. To miss the chance to stop and be open to the other possibilities.
So for right now, I am going to try and be patient and still and let the future unfold in all its mystery.
This past weekend, I made cornucopias with some friends as part of a fall equinox celebration. We wrote all the things we are thankful for on the objects that went into our horn of plenty.
I wrote the usual stuff – family, friends, a good job, roof over my head, good health – and then I wrote “me”.
I’m not sure if that’s egotistical or narcissistic but I realized that I am thankful for me.
For the me that keeps trying. The me that is open to change. The me that is learning to listen to my heart and trust the whispers there. The me that has the courage to face the fear.
The me that can show up in my life and hopefully for the loved ones in my life. The me that is learning to butt out. The me that has learned to ask for and accept help. The me that knows that I don’t know. The me that doesn’t expect me to be perfect.
I’ve never put me on my gratitude list before.
Maybe I’ve never really been thankful to be me before now.
I was at the glass studio tonight and one of the women there (aka new friend) said to me, “You’re a writer, right?” Without thinking – because that’s how I usually respond to questions – I said “Yes”.
And then this other part of my brain, the part where the thinking happens, went “Whhaaatt?!” And then I backtracked and explained what my “real” job is and that I only write as a blogger.
But saying I was a writer just felt so … right. Maybe the unedited part of my brain was onto something. Because there is a part of me that has to write. I don’t always have to share but sometimes I feel the need to write like there is a presence in my chest demanding to be given shape and form and to be released. Kind of like those creatures in Alien that burst out of people’s chest.
Except that the writing process, while equally messy, hasn’t yet resulted in my death. Yet.
OMG, did you see what that guy wrote?
I’ve been having trouble writing for the past week or so and it’s because this post has been growing in my chest, or maybe in my heart, and my fear has been making me not want to let it out. So, inspired by the courage of Sigourney Weaver, I am taking a big breath and am going to let it out.
Decided not to shave my head, though, in case it was a bit more Britney Spears than Sigourney Weaver.
I started this blog as an exploration of what it meant to be single and happy in a world that tells me that these two things don’t go together. That being single means being lonely and that the state of single-hood is a sad but hopefully temporary place when you’re young and a sad and pitied place once you are too old to be in the game.
And here’s the green and scaly fear. If I put out a blog about being single and happy am I closing the door on ever being part of a couple? Or, maybe more accurately, will I be perceived as closing the door? Am I saying to the universe and the twitter verse, I have given up on love, see how much I don’t care!
Not that I’d want to write a blog about being lonely and single and looking for my perfect soul mate. I’d rather be dead on that table.
Although, to be fair, Sex and the City did make A LOT of money!
I also don’t want to always have to be happy. I mean, the worst thing a single woman can be is single and NEEDY!
But, the truth is, I AM lonely sometimes. I have days when I feel like the cold meaninglessness of this world leaves me disconnected and invisible. And when I finally crawl into bed at night I just need to feel warm loving arms around me to reattach my heart and my spirit.
I’m not sure where this leaves me or my blogging. It’s clear it’s not just about being single and happy.
But after some serious pondering – and a late night viewing of Alien – I think my writing might be about being visible.
Being visible in this exploration of how to be singularly happy with who I am right now. Being visible with stories of single-hood that aren’t just about waiting for couple-hood.
Because I think the most important relationship I will ever have in my life is the one that I have with myself. And, turns out, myself is actually a writer.
Feel free to quarantine me now before any more of us become infected.
Last week, Statistics Canada released data on the family from the 2011 Census. There was some interesting stuff in there, at least for those of us who accept that interesting and statistics can ever be lumped together in the same sentence.
Turns out, for the first time, there were more one-person households than households of couples with children. In fact, there is now a whopping 27% of households that are singles in Canada. Either we singles are on the rise or some couples are seriously slacking off by not having children.
But this got me to thinking – am I my own family?
Statistics Canada would say no. Their definition of a family is any married or common-law couple, whether they have children or not or any lone-parent households with children. So, I’m not a family.
My sister kindly pointed out that in the “olden days” an unmarried woman would move in with her sister’s family and help raise the kids. But, personally I think she is just looking for cheap help with the cleaning and the cooking.
But aside from the raising of kids (unless the large amount of pet-sitting I do counts) and having someone who occupies space on the other side of the bed, I do lots of family type things.
I bring money into the house to pay the mortgage, I decorate and celebrate all the major holidays, I do the chores like taking out the recycling, doing laundry and putting together IKEA furniture (okay, I didn’t do that last one ALL by myself).
So, surely that makes me my own family, even if there is only one butt-dent in the couch cushions. And, I can be proud of my little family and the contribution I make to Canadian society.
And just in case you think Statistics Canada is completely useless for singles, they have thoughtfully compiled a map where you can look up the percentage of singles in your neighbourhood. Single men of both sexual preferences in my age range in my neighbourhood? 6% of the population. Good thing I’m a happy household just as I am.
Now, if I could just get someone in this damn family to do the grocery shopping!!
According to Wikipedia, liminality is the ambiguity or disorientation that occurs when you are in the middle of transforming. In ritual, participants “stand at the threshold between their previous way of structuring their identity, time, or community, and a new way, which the ritual establishes.”
The last few days I have felt that disorientation. Everything is outwardly fine and yet I can feel the sadness and slow colour bleed that marks my depression. I know we all feel depression is similar/different ways. For me, it’s like the world loses all its colour, leaving a grey landscape devoid of hope.
Usually I have tools, like paintbrushes, that I can pick up to recolour my life. Tools like meeting with friends, journalling, texting my sister, going for a walk or just a good night’s sleep.
But the last few days I haven’t quite been able to get the paint on the canvas.
This afternoon I decided to head to a labyrinth ritual down on the beach. The theme was the autumnal equinox; that liminal space between summer and winter.
It is a lovely day here in Vancouver. Blue sky and sunshine with a light breeze. The labyrinth was constructed way out on the tidal flats. A temporary space, a gift of the earth soon to be washed clean again by the sea.
We each received a walnut and a copy of Rumi’s poem – A Dumb Experiment.
Break open your personal self
to taste the story of the nutmeat soul.
These voices come from that rattling
against the outer shell.
The nut and the oil inside
have voices that can only be heard
with another kind of listening.
If it weren’t for the sweetness of the nut,
the inner talking, who would ever shake a walnut?
We listen to words
so we can silently
reach into the other.
Let the ear and the mouth get quiet,
so this taste can come to the lip.
Too long we have been saying poetry,
talking discourses, explaining the mystery out loud.
Let’s try a dumb experiment.
As I walked the labyrinth and silently listened to what was rattling my shell, I realized that this pent up pressure, this heaviness that prevents my spirit from flying, this weight that keeps me from picking up the paintbrushes, is fear. That’s all. Just fear.
Fear that I will fall into the grey abyss of depression and that I will be unrecoverable. That depression will drag me down and drown me in sadness. I fear I will be lost.
But there by the ocean, in the twists and turns of the labyrinth, I let go of being afraid of the fear. Yes, there may be sadness and anxiety and heartache in my life. But it won’t drag me down. If I can’t always soar above it, that’s okay; I can surf along it, be carried within it and be silent within it. I can learn its mystery and just be in this liminal space. I will surface again.
It’s okay to have a periods of ambiguity and disorientation when I am on the threshold between what is past and what is to come. Between who I was and what I am yet to be. In walking the labyrinth, surrounded by earth, air, fire and water, my spirit was re-balanced into peace.
My deepest gratitude to Les at Walking the Labyrinth for the gift of the equinox labyrinth today in this liminal space.
My last post was the first one that I’ve linked to on my Facebook status. And, I find that I’ve had an interesting reaction to this.
LIke I’ve outed myself on the interweb. Outed myself as … well … me.
I thought I might have that “ohmygoshwhathaveidone” reaction. What Brene Brown so wonderfully calls a vulnerability hangover. But that wasn’t it.
I just felt really free. Like I had opened a door and stepped out into a wider world of myself. And left behind a sometimes comforting but stifling restriction.
Thing is, nobody else really seemed to notice. I had lots more readers and two lovely comments from friends but that was it.
The incredible momentumness of the step seemed to pass pretty unnoticed.
Maybe that’s because to my friends, regular and Facebook, it was no big deal. They just know me and accept me. I was all “look at me, I’m free!” and they are all “yeah, dude, we know”.
And, for someone who has a wee tendency to overthink things until EVERYTHING BECOMES A BIG FRIGGIN DEAL, I kind of like that.
A Fish and a Bicycle 