Category: deep thoughts

  • hole-y

    hole-y

    Last weekend a friend invited me to try an acupuncture session with her practitioner.  I’d never been before so I figured I would go, just for the experience of seeing how I liked it (in the spirit of my summer of YES).

    It wasn’t until after I got there that I realized…hmmm…I’ve had some rather negative experiences with metal and puncture wounds in the past (if you’ve ever heard the story of the long needles that I used to get in my shoulder for my chemo, you know how much trauma I have associated with such things).  But I knew acupuncture would be nothing like what happened with a rusty metal pole a few years ago or like an IV needle pumping toxins into my body.  So I laid down on the mat and let myself be punctured.  I’d suggested that she put the needles in the spots that would help to relieve the pressure that I’ve been experiencing in my lower back as a result of my prosthetic-fitting issues.  She said the points for that would be in my hands, feet, and ears.

    She started by inserting needles into the outsides of my hands.  Then she did my ankle (she skipped the bionic one, which was probably wise–neither of us would’ve wanted to short-circuit any of my robotics).  By that point I was a wee bit tense.  The needles, though narrow, did hurt going in.  It was sort of like that feeling when you’re getting novacaine at the dentist and they say “this’ll just pinch for a second” and then it really pinches.  For more than a second.  Since she could see I was a bit uptight, she then added needles to my forehead “to help me relax.”  It was nice to have her rub my forehead gently (I tend to carry all my stress right between my eyes).  Then she started pinning my ears.

    It was when she approached my left ear and asked what had happened there, that I remembered what a mess my body is, with scars everywhere.  I’d forgotten about the reconstructive surgery I’d had on that ear so many years ago–but it does look kind of strange close-up because of a series of skin grafts to the lobe.  Since I’ve had surgery on both of my ears I’m not even sure that they would ‘work’ for acupuncture–they’re both covered in scar tissue and I don’t have much feeling left in them.  But she pinned them anyways, and then left me in a supine position with all of those needles in for about an hour, while some new-agey music played.

    As the time wore on, I did feel more and more blissed-out.  But I’m not really sure that it was due to the needles–I think it was more because I was like Gulliver–pinned in so many places that I really couldn’t move without disrupting something.  Lately I haven’t been taking enough opportunities for silence, so I enjoyed having to just lay there for awhile, with nothing on my mind.  That part was just what I needed.  But the needles…I think I could have done without.  A massage would’ve felt much better to me, and I think when I need a bit of an ‘adjustment’ I’d opt for that before I’d do acupuncture again.

    I was just a block from my favorite beach for the session, and when I walked outside afterwards the sun was just setting over Catalina island.  I skedaddled over to the sand as fast as I could and was able to walk the length of Big Corona before it was completely dark, the salt water stinging the holes in my ankle.  When I passed my very favorite thinking spot (where I did my catharsis ritual), a long-stemmed yellow rose washed up at my feet (no really, it did–things like that just always seem to happen to me…).  It brought back some sad and happy memories of the flowers my ex left for me near there when he proposed marriage, of bonfires on this beach with my children, of paddling and swimming in the water so many times in recent years.

    It was such a mixed-up confluence of past and present–the contours of my body and my landscape harboring the weight of so many stories, and also holding so much promise for the future.

  • normal day…

    normal day…

    Normal day, let me be aware of the treasure you are. Let me learn from you, love you, savor you, bless you before you depart. Let me not pass you by in quest of some rare and perfect tomorrow. Let me hold you while I may for it will not always be so. One day I shall dig my nails into the earth, or bury my face in the pillow, or stretch myself taut, or raise my hands to the sky, and want, more than all the world, your return.
    -Mary Jean Irion

  • looking back (not a 9-11 post)

    One of my most unglorious public moments was when I gave a talk at the Sunstone Symposium a few years ago, about 10 days after having surgery on my left leg (surgery necessitated by the mysterious bacterial infection that I’d been fighting for 6+ months).  I looked like shit when I gave my talk, and was so weak that I couldn’t stand for more than a few seconds.  I was taking painkillers all day long to even make it through the event, and was quite emotionally fragile.  I’d also gained quite a bit of weight during the months I spent immobile on the couch, too–ugh.

    But what I like about this video is that I can look back and see how much has changed since that hard time in my life. I’m now healthy and strong–emotionally and physically. My body’s immune system is so robust now that I’m rarely ever ill.

    As a historian, I’m rather obsessed with marking change over time, with creating a narrative of how the past has impacted the future.  So when I watch this video and think about how awful that time was, or how it hurts to see myself declaring love for a spouse who’s since left me, it can be a bit…hard.  But it’s also validating to see just how much change has happened in my life since the Fall of 2008.

    I want to put my arms around my then-self and tell her that life is going to be more amazing than she could have ever imagined.  That she will recover from the surgery and walk confidently again.  And before long she will paddle to off-shore islands and fly in small planes and travel to the places she could only dream of.  I want her to know that she will finish her dissertation and be a professor and nail a job that will make her happy everyday. I want her to know that she will experience tenderness and unconditional love from new friends and partners. And although she knew then that her children were divine, I want to tell her that this will be even more evident as they grow and make wise choices with their lives.

    But most of all, I want her to know what she learned about “what has to be done” will be the most important lesson of her life, and will get her through all of the challenging days that lie ahead…

  • keep breathing…

    Last night there was a shift in the weather at about 11pm.  I threw open all the windows and stepped out to the deck to watch the wind start pulling the trees back and forth.  Listening to this song, on repeat, louder and louder, feeling as though I was standing on the brink of something terribly exciting and wild and new:

    This morning it’s raining and lightning and wholly unlike any other SoCal August weather in recent memory. My plans for being out on the ocean this morning are waylaid (for awhile), but I feel sure that something else interesting will happen in the meantime…

    The storm is coming but i don’t mind.
    People are dying, i close my blinds.

    All that i know is i’m breathing now.

    I want to change the world…instead i sleep.
    I want to believe in more than you and me.

    But all that i know is i’m breathing.
    All i can do is keep breathing.
    All we can do is keep breathing now.

    All that i know is i’m breathing…

  • “there is no try…”

    “there is no try…”

    Remember that classic scene from Star Wars, the one where Yoda explains to Luke how he should stop “trying,” because to “try” is to fail.  A refresher if it’s been awhile since you’ve seen that one:

    Well I say: poppycock.

    If there’s one thing I’m learning in my life right now is that there is plenty of trying. And there are failures and false starts and wasted efforts, too. And there is a lot more trying than there is success-ing.

    Perhaps I’m just tired of the mindset that I’ve held for too long that if I do something, there is no room for failure. That just doesn’t hold true for me anymore and it’s not a lesson that I want to teach my kids, either.

    I’m trying now–at so many things, knowing full well that I will fail…often.  I will fail more than I succeed.  And that’s okay (that’s more than okay, actually).

     

  • I am too long away from water…

    I am too long away from water…

    I didn’t see an ocean until I was 14 years old.  I didn’t take a dip in the ocean until I was 35.  And I didn’t begin to learn its currents until three years ago.  But now….I can hardly go more than a few days without connecting with the ocean again–I am literally hungry for it.  Like this weekend, when I felt such a restlessness until I was out bobbing in the surf (again).

    I’m beginning to wonder what will happen when I eventually move from this place. I know I won’t live in SoCal forever–so will I find some other love to replace that of the sea?

    Exiled (an excerpt)

    Searching my heart for its true sorrow,
    This is the thing I find to be:
    That I am weary of words and people,
    Sick on the city, wanting the sea;

    Wanting the sticky, salty sweetness
    Of the strong wind and shattered spray;
    Wanting the loud sound and the soft sound
    Of the big surf that breaks all day…

    If I could see the weedy museels
    Crusting the wrecked and rotting hulls,
    Hear once again the hungry crying
    Overhead, of the wheeling gulls…

    I should be happy, that am happy
    Never at all since I came here
    I am too long away from water.
    I have a need of water near.

    ~Edna St. Vincent Millay

  • night sky…

    night sky…

    Having worked so hard for the past few weeks, I needed a bit of a breather this weekend.  So it just seemed natural to throw the tent and camping gear into the car and set out for the coast, hoping to find a spot to sleep somewhere within walking distance of a beach…

    A few hours later as I sat in wet sand at the edge of crashing waves underneath the night sky, I simply couldn’t have been happier.  It was just what I needed (that, and the hours spent swimming along in the shoreline in the sunshine the next morning, were simply sublime)

    I tried to take a bit of film to share here, but I suspect that it looks more foreboding than peaceful.  But perhaps you might enjoy joining me nonetheless…(and don’t you love the sound of those crashing waves?)

     

  • alone…

    alone…

    There was a time in my life when the “Footprints” poem resonated with me fairly deeply.  It was back in the day when I was going through cancer treatments and faced some pretty lonely moments–those times when there was no one who could step in and take my pain away, or make things any better.  The thought that God/Jesus was with me then was quite comforting.  I wasn’t ready to think that I was on my own in this big (and scary and painful) world:

    “You promised me Lord,
    that if I followed you, you would walk with me always. But I have noticed that during the most trying periods of my life there has only been one set of footprints in the sand.
    Why, when I needed you most, have you not been there for me?”

    Certainly that’s why I found the following tweet so amusing (as did many of my twitter and Facebook followers who re-tweeted and “liked” my post)…

    [blackbirdpie url=”http://twitter.com/#!/janaremy/status/106442427010789376″]

     

    Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about what it means to be alone, and about how much I’ve been craving autonomy for the past several years.  In my marriage I was kept rather close by my spouse, which I struggled with.  In reaction, I developed a habit of ‘accidentally’ turning off my cellphone or letting the battery run down so I could be free from monitoring (I wanted to be out of contact).  Not that I was doing anything wrong, but I chafed at the feeling of surveillance and wanted to be where no one knew me and no one knew where I was.  It was certainly a reaction to mothering for so many years–always being accompanied by children (and/or spouse).  And it’s just one more reason that I began to enjoy traveling so much.  When I was in a different time zone and far away from the familiar, I had even more autonomy.

    This past year I’ve had so many delicious hours of being alone.  Certainly there’ve been moments where being with someone meant everything to me and was perfect for the moment (and, oh, I’ve had me some fantastic adventures with new friends and romantic partners–what a time of life to be single & exploring every new possibility!)…But, for the first time, I’m feeling the power that comes from making my own choices and standing alone in life’s circumstances.  I’m making some mistakes along the way, learning lots, and making progress–one step at a time.  What a great feeling.

  • On meat and rats and fear…

    On meat and rats and fear…

    I’ve talked about my rodent-phobia a few times before on this blog, but for those new here, I’ll just summarize:  it’s ugly.  Rodents give me panic-attacks.  The first time my ex heard me encounter a possum on a dark night, he thought I was being raped because of my screams for help.

    I know, I know.  It’s a stupid, cliche fear.  I’m way bigger than them and they don’t want to see me any more than I want to see them (except for that one possum–the one who decided that even a bruising with a broom wouldn’t budge him)…

    But really the rodent-phobia is not about rodents.  It’s about the unknown.  It’s about something that can live close by and be there even when I don’t know it.  It’s about the ability for something to cross my path when I’m not expecting it.

    It’s about my vulnerability.

    I wasn’t always afraid of rats, and near as I can tell, the fear emerged about mid-way through high school.  Right at the same time that I had some fear-producing encounters with men of not-so-good intentions.  I knew I couldn’t run away from them.  I knew I wasn’t strong enough to fight them.  I knew there was no one who could be there all the time to ensure my safety.  In short, my fear of small beasties became symbolic of my own inability to protect myself from danger–usually danger in dark or unknown places.  About that same time I stopped watching suspense and horror movies, too.  I couldn’t tolerate that feeling that something was about to jump out at me from around the corner, from under my bed, from the darkness not lit be streetlamps.

    Why I became afraid of rats specifically, I’m not sure.  But perhaps it was a kind of mental shorthand for my inability to say that I was afraid of knowing that I couldn’t run or scream or defend myself.  Somehow rodent-phobia became mapped to that part of my brain…
    tasty tasty meat
    On a somewhat related note: on my iPad right now is a book called The Butcher and the Vegetarian (delightful book–I highly recommend it!).  The author draws a strong connection between her desire to eat meat and her desire to acquire a kind of masculine power:

    Eating meat might be the most normal thing in the world to other people, but to me it feels indulgent, forbidden, deviant…Not only that, meat is total guy food.  I’d be lying if I told you that isn’t part of the appeal.  Meat comes with a boys’ club atmosphere of testosterone and machismo.

    Undoubtedly my turn to eating meat (after more than a decade of vegetarianism) this past year is tied to my desire to become more ‘manly’–the original motivation came from a bodybuilding regimen.  I was ready to build some not-so-ladylike muscle.  But also comes from a desire to be more strong and courageous through the divorce proceedings.  During that time I craved meat, especially beef, constantly–not only did it make me feel satisfied and full far longer than a salad, it made me feel assertive and powerful.

    Once, while I was in the midst of living in Pasadena (where I’d moved temporarily while my ex was cleaning his stuff out of our shared apartment) I encountered a mouse one late evening.  It’s a long story, and wasn’t pretty.  The kids were with me and had to nurse me through a long night of tears and my heart racing so hard I couldn’t breathe well.  Although I was terrified of the mouse, it was also probably also the only time that I truly let myself physically express the terror of what was happening to my life.  I was so afraid (of rodents and men and love and the future).  I felt vulnerable in ways that I never had before.  I was panicking about more than a mouse.  I was panicking about my life.

    So, now, I’m having to face that down again.  The day before I was slated to move into my new home, an inspection turned up some rat feces.  Perhaps old ones, but it was inconclusive.  My insecurities welled up all over the place.  Mostly, because I’ve never moved to a new place on my own and I’m carrying a boxload of concerns related to this change.  So in some ways, I’m not at all surprised by the rats–it seems like a kind of cosmic justice meted out to force me to face my own vulnerability.  Because it’s quite possible that I will encounter one of these creatures when I’m home alone on a night very soon.  And it will be just me and just that rodent–there will be no spouse or child or friend to put their arms around me and tell me that I’m going to be okay.  And I’m steeling myself for that possibility, for what it’s like to hear those scratches and bumps and creaks in the night and I wonder if they mean a rodent is nearby.

    That, and I’m having steak for dinner again tonight, methinks….

     

  • Legacy: “About” and “Return”

    Legacy: “About” and “Return”


    Almost a decade ago, I started keeping a blog at enivri.com. My first “About” is below. So much has changed, and so much is the same…It’s a bit painful to see how strongly I defined myself by who I was married to–if you’d have known me then, you would have realized that more of my conversation was about my spouse than about me.  My entire world revolved around him…That’s one thing (among many) that I’m working to change in my current and future relationships–letting them add ‘spice’ to my life without letting them dominate every facet of it.  But there is still some little-girl part of me that could easily let herself be swept away by a Prince Charming again, and invest every bit of herself in him.  That thought scares me more than just a little bit…

    I wear a facade for most of my day-to-day interactions. This façade self is fairly aloof and businesslike. However I am lucky enough to have several people in my life who know the ‘real me.’ One of them is my husband of 10 years. We married very young, when we were both 21, because we knew we’d found a good thing. We’ve weathered some pretty rough storms, yet always managed to surface together. Perhaps it is not ironic that one of our favorite recreational activities is tandem kayaking where we synch our paddling rhythms together to reach a destination. I have several women friends, most of whom I correspond with via email. I don’t like talking on the phone, but love the Internet–I’d rather carry on a conversation in text than by voice.

    If you were one of my best friends you might know that I enjoy gardening, waterfalls, and I only go to the beach in the winter. I’m peso-vegetarian, I love black & white movies and the smell of vanilla. Some of my favorite pastimes are listening to the music of Sting, eating red grapes, and taking naps lying on the living room floor. I don’t own a TV. I am very sensitive to violence. I hate to cry in public, but often feel like I want to–especially when parents are cruel to their children. I am a pacifist, anti-capitalist, and an environmentalist. I have ‘synesthesia’, which means that I have overlapping sensory experiences. For example, when I look at paintings in art gallery, I hear music. When I feel intense emotions, I see the colors and shapes of my feelings in my mind. My strongest sense is that of smell. I am very picky about fragrances, detergents, and so forth because the wrong one can be quite troubling to me.

    Just about anyone who knows me knows that I am passionate about literature. I own thousands of books and read 4 or 5 new ones each week. I have a perfect job–I am the ‘Review Editor’ for a literary journal. This means I have dozens of books shipped to me each week that I have to read and write about, or to assign to my pool of reviewers. Through my job I get to hobnob with many excellent wrDSC_3626iters and attend literary conferences.

    And here’s what I wrote, way back then, about our move to UCI–when I started back to school and ceased being a full-time, stay-at-home Mom.  I knew then that the move to campus and to graduate school would alter my life in dramatic ways.  I didn’t know that I would leave the Mormon church and divorce.  Had I known then what I know now, I’m not sure how or what I would have done differently.  My now-self thinks that my then-self was awfully brave to start on an academic path.  It has not been an easy one…

    8.20.2002

    Return

    Our family is moving this week. Not to a bigger house (like my friend Brenda who showed me her palatial new 5 bedroom home today). No, we’re moving to an apartment just one building away from where John and I lived as young (and impoverished) newlyweds.

    Why are we doing this? Good question. The move is borne of years of planning, prayer and hope. About 3 years ago John and I realized that our lives weren’t satisfying. John was on the corporate ladder, making a fine salary with the promise of vesting in a profitable company. I was a SAHM with 2 perfectly wonderful kids. What could be wrong? We realized that we’d lost the idealism of our youth–when the corporate world and middle-class America paled in comparison to the world-traveling, educated college professors that we intended to be. Two kids later, with college loans to be repaid, the lure of IT jobs, etc., the dream had evaporated.

    Then a family vacation to the UK, a re-examination of our marriage commitments, and another family member diagnosed with terminal cancer. We realized that life was just too short to be pursuing goals without passion. John downscaled his job and started working for the university. I re-entered school part-time to take the classes I would need to prepare for grad school.

    And now here we are, just three days away from the final leap–a move to campus housing at the university where I will be enrolled full-time this fall. Yahoooo!!!

  • by myself…

    by myself…

    I’m a firm believer in the power of community.  I believe that none of us should be afraid to lean on each other or gather support from a network of friends.  But, I’m also learning that there are moments that I need to stand alone…

    My move this week is a big step for me.  I’ve never signed a lease on my own or moved myself without aid.  As a matter of fact, I’m sure that for most of my life I felt that I couldn’t have done either of these things successfully, which is why I’ve eschewed nearly all offers for help on this move.  Although I’ve had many friends stop by and keep me company as I pack, and have had many friends drop by empty boxes for me to use, I’m going at this on my own (and thank you, all, for your kind offers–I appreciate them so very much).*

    Perhaps it’s because there’s still a lot of my ex’s stuff to sort through or perhaps it’s the need for a very clean break with this move, but whatever the reason, I needed to not have help with this.  I needed to know that I could do it with my own two hands and my own strong back.  I’ve planned ahead for weeks and packed small, liftable boxes.  I’ve taken load after load to the Goodwill and the dumpster.  I’ve given away many of the larger pieces of furniture.  A friend with a truck will come and help me schlep some of the furnishings that require more than two hands to carry, two neighbors helped me move the beast of a file cabinet out of my storage closet, and the kids have carried some loads to/from the car–but the bulk of this I’ve done by myself.  At this point I’m on the tail end of things and I wouldn’t be honest if I didn’t admit to some level of exhaustion.  But the end is in sight and I can’t believe how smoothly it’s gone so far.

    window laceI realized, in chatting with a friend last night, that what I’m the most afraid of with this move, is of failure.  I’m afraid that I might’ve made a mistake in arranging for this home to live in.  I’m afraid that I might’ve bitten off too much to care for (this home is at least twice the size of my current place, though still small-ish by California standards).  I’m afraid that maybe I can’t actually afford the extravagance of a home (even though it’s still well within my means).  I’m afraid that I might not be ready to move away from the block where I’ve lived for 15 of the past 20 years (oh, that is huge change!  Huge!).

    But as I sat on the edge of my new-to-me bed last night and looked out the window (the one that looks out over the deck and garden) and felt the cool night breeze on my face…I lost much of that fear.  It’s time for this change, I know it.  And I’m ready for whatever consequences will come of it.

    *the one exception to this is my kids’ stuff–they are packing and moving their own things.

    And, for your listening pleasure….here’s the song that’s become my mantra for this move.  I love humming along to it while packing.  :)

  • hot lava?

    hot lava?

    Question:

    Is the game of Hot Lava a universal among kids?  I was recently surprised to learn from someone raised in Europe that he knew this game, and everyone I’ve asked about it since seems to have grown up playing some variation of it.

    In my family it meant jumping from bed to bed rather than letting your feet touch the carpet, because that was Hot Lava and would melt your feet off.

    Did you play Hot Lava?  If so, how, where & when?