A Good Day!

You asked me, do I have any. Do I have any good days? What is a good day for me?

I've spent much of my life allowing, accepting, transforming 'badness,' railing against gratitude, for example, and relishing complaints and icky feelings. But all along I was secretly happy. I still am. a lot.

I used to rush from one thing to another. Now everything is in slow motion. I used to accomplish a great deal but it never felt like enough. Now, when my bed covers feel like sand bags and taking a shower requires a half hour to rest and recover, when making a matcha latté is an absurd pinnacle; now I sure do appreciate my accomplishments.

This week in my complaint group we talked about how we are seen. What if people we care about treat us with contempt? Do we hit back? Do we rise above? How do we digest and transform the humiliation? For us, as zen practitioners, the questions inevitably draw us closer to dropping our attachment to the illusion of a separate and dignified self. My dignity is gone gone gone. What's left is the one who sees, who feels, who experiences the weird and beautiful sounds of birds on a snowy day, who tastes that latté along with the flour-less chocolate cake my daughter brought me, who enjoys the buzz, the foam.

Experience itself is good. In that way, every day is a good day, as people (Yun Men for example) like to say*. If I don't compare to what was or what could have been or what you can do, then I'm good. But if you tell me I should feel good, I won't. It's a complementarity, a push and pull that is a feature of all systems.

So for me, my days are easier when I can be safe from that tug. I've always needed a lot of time alone to extract myself from interactions. Now I need so much help that some of that needs to be done in the company of others. What helps the most is being able to sit together quietly, to meditate, to be alone together. That is good. It doesn't have to be easy or even pleasant, but when we sit together and the whole vast universe is available, then...well, just try it.

Have a day!

*the link is to a wonderful essay on Ground Hog Day by my friend, Taylor, in Tricycle Magazine.

February 2, 2022

Am I a Freak?

I mean in the traditional sense, not the fashionable one. I mean, why is it so hard to understand me? Why do I keep bumping up against expectations, defying them, even when I long to belong? 

I smile at a neighbor. They ask if I'm feeling better. NO, I say, irritated now. Why can't I be polite?

A friend suggests that I have as much good as possible, specifically to forgive a very recent deep wound. Oh? Well, even if I was on my way, now I burn with bitterness. Why can't I be like

Thich Nhat Hanh, who was kind even to enemies, or

Martin Luther King Jr., who was forcefully non violent, even when provoked, or

oh, choose any saint or hero. I am not That. Nor am I normative. 

Some people are afraid of me, of my emotions, and that causes me to hate myself. I was drawn to theatre, that fictional space where you get permission to live with full intensity. I was drawn to psychology, where I learned that even people who look normal have a remarkable inner life full of stuff I recognize as my own. 

I like foam. beer foam. oatmilk barista foam.

I like the drama of a changing stormy sky. 

Someone I see nearly every day bids me stay well when she leaves. But I'm not. You too, I seethe.

Am I really so much more bothered by ordinary misunderstandings than most people? or am I just too insistent on voicing my complaints? Last year I started a zen zoom group called Complaint Company, where the instruction is to lean into what bothers you. It's fun and tragic and moving, and pretty popular. But not everyone loves it and at least once someone says I'm gonna break the rules and be grateful, or some such thing. 

From Thich Nhat Hanh's famous poem: Please Call Me By My True Names

I am the child in Uganda, all skin and bones,
my legs as thin as bamboo sticks.
And I am the arms merchant,
selling deadly weapons to Uganda.

He advocates compassion and a loving heart, and he is the arms merchant.

This morning, after our daily meditation at the Zendo, our host commmented on anger, sorrow, something good I can't remember (see, see?), and frustration, and bid us meet All That with strength and wisdom. That I can strive to do.

Am I a freak? No, except in the fashionable sense.

January 26, 2022

How To Say Goodbye

With a bow to How To With John Wilson and his quirky meanderings and a bow and a wow to Lucy Ellman for the fact of her facile fiery fragments, I offer you mine.

What dies? My energy and my love continue. Whomever I have helped are still helped. yelped. touched. wounded. wondered. wandered. 

From my diary in 2019: 

sound of machines in the hallway, cat on my right thigh, man in the woods, I did love him, my belly says. heart in my throat, cancer in my breast [not really, not really], at some point this body will break down and then my legacy already spilled into the world. the brutality of spring, buds pushing their way out of the naked branches who had their glorious unveiling in the winter. 

Reminder, don’t get massage after breakup because being touched makes me want to be touched. 

I am a performer. I feel the flow when my whole body is activated and I feel the touch of the gaze. even two people is better than one, except at a party because of what happens to my ears. the buzz of the crowd sets my neurons on edge. 

What dies is my point of view. How do I let go of what I see, how I understand things? I can barely express myself now. People who see me don't see me. I am not an influencer. So I quietly sit, outside when I can, and let the world settle into me.

my burial shroudA friend from the Zendo made me a burial shroud. I gave her scraps from my fabrics and my friends contributed from their collections, and she patched them into this gorgeous wrap. We sat in meditation for a few minutes and then I tried it on. I performed dying.

I tell myself it's like when I finally tear myself away from the beach by reminding myself it will still be there even when I'm not. I don't have to have the experience of waves. I don't have to do the dancing. 

Dance. I see you. Sing. I hear you. 

Live. 

I am still alive. This is not goodbye. I'm just rehearsing.

January 19, 2022

portrait

1 minute 15 seconds

For my Moving Arts Women group, who encouraged me to play with what I've got, including my thumb!

January 12, 2022

Fragments

my sky my body. belated winter solstice, a birthday"It's a funny sort of thing," they like to say in Feldenkrais classes when noticing how one thing subtly relates to another.

When I can't have a proper conversation my mind fragments. Here are some shards that have lingered here and in the draft folder in my mind:

No I don't want to see Nicole Kidman's frozen face attempt to perform Lucille Ball. I don't want to read about her process, no matter how popular The NYTimes tells me it is. I don't want to see her picture and I don't really want anyone else to enjoy it either.

ok, no, I realize she is a victim, not just a perpetrator of our vacant plastic aesthetic.

Click to read more ...

We've Come So Far

"woah, he is indeed a mighty god!"Back in the sixties Paul McCartney was blown away when Elvis Presley pulled out a remote control to change the tv channels. 

It seems like our tolerance for fresh, simple, even technological miracles has sky-rocketed so that we require ever more sensation to be amazed.

Soon I will go outside and experience the miracle of coming winter in a time of environmental crisis.

My right hand tires quickly. I am releasing myself from the promise of writing weekly but I'm alive for a while longer and will post ditties when I can. 

Maybe I should try instagram?

December 14, 2021

Blurry Integrative Eyes

enjoying my little visitor even though I'm "wheelchair bound"Saturday. I had SUCH a great day! For whatever reason I got more than eight hrs of restful sleep and I felt strong. My vocal cords succeeded in touching each other and producing intelligable speech. Though cold it was sunny and everyone was out. On the other hand, everyone was out. It was exhausting to talk to the well-wishers and the don't-know-what-to-sayers. Strolling among able-bodied people makes it very clear how ill I am.

Maybe it's better to be less clear.

Click to read more ...

Jackhammers and Supermodels

Updated on Wednesday, January 5, 2022 at 3:21PM by Elena Taurke

I listen to podcasts to drown out the relentless jackhammers that infuse NYC with painful reminders of impermanence, disrepair, and probably incompetence. When they pause for lunch it's likely that the leaf blowers will rise up, as if conducted by a villainous maestro determined to bore holes through my brain. 

Not that I concentrated enough to really take it in but Kara Swisher very supportively interrogated Emily Ratajkowski, a super model and instagram 'influencer' on the matter of profiting from the male gaze. She's written a book. She wants to be taken seriously. And she defends the right of women who use their beauty to make money. 

Click to read more ...

Here I Am

Do you recognize me? Sometimes I forget who I am. It's a lifelong problem, soon to be solved by death.

Since my typing hand no longer cooperates with my thinking brain, I've decided I can cut and paste some excerpts from diaries.

I fell in love with a poet who lived in the woods, March 24, 2018

Click to read more ...

Adaptation

A dear friend innovated to help me participate with power in social engagements. It's hard to get attention when I can't speak. It's hard to be understood when I can't speak. It's hard to get the help I need, hard not to feel alone, hard to shine. But when people really tune in, I am touched. I don't mean that I feel moved, or maybe I do, but what I mean, physically, is that there is contact. 

The world I live in now is unique, and I don't have company in it. I am adapting in crazy ways, unusual ways. You could say that my adaptations are me. 

As I write this the sun is suddenly brandishing its light and the clouds are making room, their edges glowing responsively. Sky makes an appearance after a morning of gray. Each is adapting to the other. My body responds to the change.

I had fun flashing my cards and it made me feel a bit bossy, something that I rarely feel nowadays. My friends were adapting to my limitations, keeping me company in this unique world. This is love.

November 15, 2021