Sunday, March 30, 2008
MomQuotes: On Drug Policy & American Spirit
Me: [trying to figure out summer travel plans] okay, so, we can all fly out to Amsterdam, and then from there you'll go to Sweden, and I'll either go to Sweden, or Greece.
Sotiri (my 13 year old brother): Will you have magic brownies?
Me: What? Maybe, since it's legal there.
Mom: Yes, Sotiri, we will leave you and Krock [6 year old autistic brother] in the hotel, and your sister and I are going to go smoke out. Yeaaah! [making crazy faces]
Sotiri: What? I want to come!
Mom: [imitating Sotiri] Yeah, uhm, Amsterdam police, I'm taking care of my 6 year old brother... My mom and big sister are high. They're just coming off a bad buzz. [pause] I wonder what Amsterdam prisons are like? [making phone gesture] Um, yes, hi honey... Yes, I don't know where the boys are. Your daughter and I are in a women's holding facility.. Yes, they sent us to rehab.
.....
Mom: You know the Native Americans used to put the drug on a fire, and put a blanket over themselves to inhale the smoke second hand.
Me: Yes, hotboxing.
Mom: Is that what you kids are doing now adays?
Me: I don't do that!
Mom: Yes, peace pipes and hotboxing, connecting with the American roots.
Sotiri: Smell that? That's the smell of freedom.
Me: No, I just farted, sorry.
As an aside, my father brought my little brother a tee shirt from Holland with a large pot leaf on it. He thought it was the national tree of Holland, and was not aware of the drug association, because my father is generally clueless about these things. I would like to mention that my parents are not drug users, and never have been, which is what makes these series of conversations hilarious.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Love and stoplights can be cruel - Sesame Street
Or maybe I really am overreacting. Maybe the unreturned phone calls and gentle let downs are all in my head. Maybe I've just inflated a situation, maybe I'm just going crazy, maybe this longing is just attaching itself to a convenient scapegoat, when what I really hunger for is a sense of self or just.. human touch. Or maybe I'm just making more of a drama mess for myself. Maybe this is all a reflection of finals stress or something. Maybe it's actually all fine, and in a week I will delete this.
All I can remember is reading you a rumi poem and realizing that, for once, I understood it. I'm an idiot.
And I'm not sure why I'm posting these ramblings to the web. Perhaps because I'm tired of burdening my friends with my madness, and if I put them here I can pretend somebody reads them, get them off my chest, and carry on with life.
I always get over this stuff. It just stings.
And now, I drop the drama like the lava rock it is, and refocus: this week's project is.... Planning a trip to the grand canyon for my mom before she leaves the country forever! Alright! Go team distraction!
Pooh Bear
I'm just a little black rain cloud,
Hovering over the honey tree.
I'm just a little black rain cloud,
Pay no attention to little me.
Everyone knows that a rain cloud
never eats honey, no, not a nip.
I'm just floating around over the ground,
wondering where I will drip.
My mom decided this was her theme song of the day today. Now it's stuck in my head, too.
MomQuotes: On Discussing Religion
"Why do people bother talking about what they believe? It's much more interesting to compare religions and demonstrate knowledge about them. Talking about what you believe is like talking about what kind of deodorant you like the best, nobody cares about your B.O. 'Oh, yes, I prefer Charmin ultra-soft toilet paper over Scott tissue!', who cares? It's exquisitely dull! We should discuss how brands of toilet tissue are different! Or have a political debate about social security benefits."
And this is why I love my mother.
Friday, March 28, 2008
MomQuotes: On Desert Survival
Mom: [looking up from her book on existentialism] Something everybody can enjoy.
Me: Such as?
Mom: A whoopee cushion. Or a guitar. And sing a song together.
Me: Oh...?
Mom: Or a beast of burden, of any species. Perhaps a small child, or a woman with a basket on her head. Or a small mule, the woman with the basket on her head is a statue.
Me: Oh yes, mom, that's a good idea...?
Mom: Or a nose hair trimmer. And whiskey, to sterilize it. Yes. Or that guy, the one from your class. I have to go rescue your brother from your brother.
Me: .......?
A friend's advice
This is a good point.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
The past few days
Monday: 7am wakeup. Drifted through the day. Got information about international grad programs. Intended to go to club, opted to stay home and sleep.
Tuesday: Picketed from 10am-6pm. http://www.umge
Today: Slept in by accident. Now, I devote the day to reading this damn CDL manual.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Life direction: rambling
I've spent the past several years feeling like play-dough: mushy, easily shaped and formed, not really with a definite form. The analogy in The Golden Compass of a child having a flexible and ever changing Daemon, and then as they grow older, it choosing to take shapes for longer, and longer, until it finally fixes on something is very appropriate. I've been shifting, never very sure where my feet are, but satisfied with the sensation of cruising along as I figure myself out.
I'm realizing now that there are definite formative traits to myself, things that I don't feel will easily change, and that I identify with every day, no matter what my mood or situation may be:
: I am a witch
: I am a survivor
: I am sensual
: Sex is lifeforce
: I am a preistess
: I connect to God by dancing
I am right now tangling with 14 scholarly articles about masculinity, gender roles, and the effect of a cultural environment on disclosure rates of male childhood sexual assault survivors. I enjoy these articles, despite the rather depressing topic, because I enjoy the growing sense of empathy, and here I am, writing a paper for a class about a topic I am passionate about in all aspects of my life: nurturing healthy sexuality. My world as a priestess and my world as a student are directly overlapping, and I couldn't be happier.
I feel that two very clear, very potent directions for my life energy are forming:
- As a priestess, a witch
- As a therapist, a guide
It is thrilling to feel a sense of direction, but terrifying to figure out if I have to choose between them, or if I can somehow incorporate both of my passions and do everything I want to do with my life.
... I think a lot of this is coming from the musings about what I'm going to do in a year, when I graduate. This seems a very healthy, growth-oriented train of thought. Back to paper writing!
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Ostara Reflections
Walking around, I can still see one or two trees that keep their old leaves from last year. I want to say to them, "let go! let go of your old leaves! Die a little, so you can grow!" I wonder what old leaves I still carry, what is left to shed before I can grow.
We had a false start to spring last week. I had a false start to spring last week. The air was fresher, the sun was out, finally I could sit outside comfortably. I was happy, finally, happy to a point that I felt at times my heart would come screaming out of my chest, leaping and dancing. I read rumi and understood exactly what he was talking about, everything was balanced and good- and then, everything shifted, and the snow started again.
Now, I'm waiting for spring again. I'm anticipating spring again. But this time, when the spring of my spiritual existence bursts forth in it's radiant, blossoming beauty, it will be sustainable, self-initiated, liberated spring. I can see it, and taste it, and feel it on the tips of my fingers... And that's what makes these last, dying days of winter so bearable, as I let go of those last few leaves, welcome that last little death, and surrender to change.
Appreciation Circle
: Know myself and all my parts.
: Walk in honesty
: Appreciate often
: Look people in the eye, speak clearly and firmly.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Class today
It was tobacco policy day in my outreach class, and ironically, all I wanted to do all day was smoke cigarettes. I always think my level of sober nicotine intake is highly linked to how moody I am, and days like today, I just want to sit, drink coffee, and chain smoke while wallowing. Anyways. That's where I am.
In class I was desperately trying to follow my planned outline, but kept losing track of things. I was visibly flustered, and I knew my students knew. So I apologized, saying I felt "scatterbrained" and that I was a little stressed. They all understood, and compliments of our rappor built steadily over the semester, the period went smooth enough.
After class, a student stayed behind to talk to me about some issues for next semester. We finished talking, and he asked "How are you?" in that serious caring voice, the kind that carries the undertone of "are you okay?" I gaped for a second- I honestly was so struck by this pointed question that I was about ready to fall over and start crying. I confessed a stressful semester, but said I was overall fine. He offered to be a sounding board, a very gracious offer that I politely declined for obvious reasons.
But that was a very touching moment, that expression of caring. I appreciated it.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Poems
Vultures
The vultures circle
eyes cast downward,
pacing steps metered
with the frantic pulse
of the dying
The vultures circle
Flesh talons gripping
red ice boxes, fiercely,
and gleaming knives
with ferocious delicacy
The vultures circle
in sweaty scrubs
and dirty booties
smiles hidden
by sterile masks
and blue headdresses
The vultures circle
pacing, still, until
with a swipe of the pen
and a swipe of the knife
they take one fading death
to prevent another.
Betrayal
My breath stops
and my knees weaken, again,
as my heart, quivering, lifts
away from my body
my vision blurs
and muscles shake
as I hasten to write these words
before
my eyes, unbidden,
rise to yours,
again.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
My dinners for the past almost week
Friday: Take out noodles
Saturday: Chili (a friend cooked me dinner, yay!)
Sunday: An orange and some grapes
Monday: Cucumber rolls
Today: Guiness and popcorn
Ah, this is the high life.
Monday, March 10, 2008
things that I love today
- my mom
- tea
- staying up too late and not getting any work done in favor of forging new friendships
- the "imaginary boyfriend"
- singing
- a fresh alter
- really looking at my shadows
- bunny ears on the nativity set
- realizing that yes, I really can graduate next year
- turkey and cheese sandwiches on whole grain bread
- receiving the text "I'll meet you in the stacks at 2am..."
- waking up next to an unconscious, happy kitty
- slightly warmer temperatures
things that I hate today
- oversensitive smoke alarms
- 9 am classes
- vertigo
- daylight savings time
- insomnia
- the smell of old beets
- dirty laundry
- rotten grapes
- colds
- allergies
- huge manuals that I have to read
- midterms
- realizing at 8 am on Monday that every hour of every day is booked solid for the next week
- missing my weekly dancing for a month straight
Thursday, March 6, 2008
A book report blog
5March2008
Grace and Grit
This book initially spoke to me for it’s passionate description of deep, soul touching love. I was intrigued by the whirlwind romance and the seeming happy marriage that came out of it, especially the concept of “love at first touch.” I was also happy to see Ken supporting his new wife as she discovered her terminal illness.
However, as I read, my opinions on the health and quality of their relationship slowly deteriorated. The line on page 8 that raised red flags for me (being a survivor of an emotionally and physically abusive relationship myself) was in Treya’s poem “I trust him more than/ I trust the universe.” I was also concerned about the sentiment expressed on page 10, in which Treya talks about how she is so obsessed with Ken that she gets in a car accident and runs out of gas. This kind of love may seem nice in movies and books, however it is heavy with boundary issues, and I worry when people are so quick to trust without looking further at the person they are involved with.
Around page 60 Treya began to assert herself more thoroughly in her treatment. While many of the points Ken brings up about balancing assertiveness with letting go are very valid and necessary for well balanced individuals, Ken seems to focus very thoroughly on what she did wrong, and what she needed to fix, than applauding her strength as one might expect the spouse of a cancer patient to do. There was also a very shocking and disturbing moment when Treya is relating her friend that keeps her very happy and laughing telling jokes about beating his wife… It was in very poor taste, and surprising to me that as a woman, she was willing to listen to those jokes- and laugh at them!
I began to really question the quality of their relationship and sense in such a quick descision to get married around page 150, as they started contracting. Treya seems to take a great deal of personal responsibility for Ken’s happiness, “Maybe I need someone simpler, less sensitive, less intelligent, so they won’t be hurt by the way I am.” “Everything I do seems to give him pain… Is it just me continuing to draw attention to myself when he’s the one who really needs attention? Just me feeling sorry for myself, unable to really feel his needs?” I almost exploded at these sentences. I can’t blame her for writing them, as she is quite obvious trapped in a victim mentality, however I cannot believe the audacity of Ken to allow her to feel that way, and to publish it so widely in this book!
It’s shameful, that a woman fighting CANCER should feel that she is personally responsible for the happiness and well being of her supposed loving husband, and the way she continues to flatter him, demeaning and devaluing herself in the process, is heart wrenchingly difficult to read. This is the mentality of a victim, someone who has been stomped on most of her life, and is now in a relationship where her partner feels he knows what she should be doing better than she does. “The greater the love, the greater the pain.” – This should be the motto of domestic violence. How sickening to read it in a book supposedly about love and graceful dying.
The book at that point spirals into a set of explanations about how he felt, where he attempts to gently degrade himself, “When fear overcomes me, my ordinary lightness of outlook… degenerates into sarcasm,” while mercilessly ripping into Treya, “I felt I had no control over my life… because Treya always had the trump card: ‘But I have cancer.’” He exercises power and control by threatening to end the relationship, withdraw as her sole source of strength and security while undergoing therapy, going so far as to make plans in a dramatic fashion until she is in tears, pleading for him to come back. He has conversations with her friends about how controlling she is, effectively putting them on his side as the victim of Treya’s selfishness. He speaks of walking into a gun shop and how he wanted to kill someone specific.
This violence hits it’s peak on page 154. At this point, I had to set the book down and take several deep breaths, to keep from throwing it across the room or setting it on fire, or some other sort of irrational resolution of my anger.
“I hit her. Again. And again. I kept hollering ‘Get out, goddamnit, get out!’ I kept striking her, she kept screaming, ‘Stop hitting me! Stop hitting me!’”
Right now, I’m having trouble forming my thoughts into coherent words. Maybe Ken Wilber missed a memo, but you DO NOT ABUSE YOUR SPOUSES! I don’t care if the spouse is a controlling monopolizing whatever, you file for divorce if that is the case! I don’t care if you’re at your wits end from chemo and life and death situations and god knows what else, you do not hit your spouse! No! Bad Buddhist!
Perhaps even more inconceivable than the fact that he decided to take his rage out on his wife like that is his method of explaining it away:
“Looking back on it, Treya and I both felt that incident was a crucial turning point… For Treya’s part, she began letting up on her monopolizing tendencies… For my part, I was learning the delicate task of establishing boundaries and announcing needs.”
Not once does he apologize for hitting her, or say it was wrong. He vaguely mentions that it is not something to be proud of, but he does not apologize for his actions, or lament them- in fact, he praises the incident as a turning point in their relationship, something that spawned good. And notice, too, that the flaws in the relationship as it was were not his fault, according to him- she needed to back off, he needed to set boundaries against her, protect himself from her, state what he needed and he desired, and she needed to fulfill his needs.
The rest of the book was hard for me to read with the red fiery anger that the writer had beaten his spouse and not even had the decency to apologize for it. Most of it went by in a haze, and I was quick to point out criticisms in the amount Ken seems to freely talk about his life, his publications, his interests and research, things that have nothing to do with the memory of the woman this book is supposedly about, the woman he controlled and abused with his words and actions.
I tried with this book, I tried very hard to stay open to a love story, open to the impossible, and open to the hidden message. I read the story of a woman who was strong and brilliant, and tragically shone like a red giant star before dissolving into one last dying burst of light, and yes, when I could pick past Ken’s self enhancing stories and interpretations, it was a beautiful story. However, it was too roughly shadowed by the writer, and yes, one incident on one night, on one page of their lives and this book, one incident without apology or afterthought- I will loathe a person for that. And I won’t apologize for it, because it simply isn’t right.