Living Alone, Chapter 2

The trouble with living alone is that there's no one to stand between you and your loneliness - it must be confronted. Time and again I ask myself, What am I making this mean, that I sleep alone every night, that I watch romantic movies with no one's arms around me, that I feel this deep longing for a man's touch, a strong hand to simply brush the hair out of my eyes?

I'll tell you what it does not mean. It does not mean that I am unworthy or unlovable. It does not mean that there is something wrong with me or that I will be alone for the rest of my life. It doesn't even mean that I must change in order to be desirable, yet my fear makes me believe all those things and more. I stumble on the lies of a child too often made the scapegoat for a parent's misery.

I have spent the better part of 54 years polishing myself up that I might be acceptable, that I might be judged as worthy of love. Both of my parents have long been dead so there is no one to tell me if I'm shiny enough. No one but me. But, it isn't a matter of assessing whether or not I've proven myself, whether or not I've used enough elbow grease in my polishing. What is needed is simply the truth: I have only ever been human.

So, I will put down the jeweler's rouge and take a good look in the mirror. I will tell the truth about the woman I see there; I will say that she is an honest and caring soul. I will see and say that she is someone I appreciate, someone I want to listen to and walk beside. And when I do, I will know that it is enough just to be with myself.

Living Alone, Chapter 1

As of Sept. 27 I've been living alone for the very first time in my life. There's certainly a lot to like about it: no one sitting in my favorite chair or turning off my music or eating the chicken I was saving for lunch. But, these are just the petty annoyances of living with another (a teenage child to be specific). The real joys of living alone for me are found in moments of deep thought and self-reflection, in blissful endorphin baths that I seem to experience only when perfectly and utterly in communion with myself, my whole self and nothing but myself.

I've made discoveries within and embraced new ways of being in the world at large. I've learned that in seeing and knowing myself I have also experienced loving myself, something that has eluded me for years. You can't just say, "I love myself," and have it be true. And it isn't enough to take good care of myself, to have strong boundaries, or to put myself first even; none of those things have ever made a difference for me. But, rather it was opening my eyes to see the woman I am, allowing my heart to acknowledge the truth, understanding that it is neither ego to know one's goodness nor humility to deny it - these are the changes I've made in myself.

These are my new choices and they have delivered the sweetest love I could ever hope to know.

Trust

Trust is such a challenge for me. I go along believing that I'm trusting someone or something only to find out that I never really did, that I had been silently waiting for the inevitable let down.

I want to trust, really I do. And I try to be open and friendly and even vulnerable. It doesn't require any courage at all for me to bare my soul to others; I can do it without blinking an eye. It's believing that it will make any difference in how open and vulnerable they are in return that is the problem here. And ultimately it's about trusting that they won't betray me in their effort to protect themselves from harm, real or imagined.

It doesn't feel good to admit that I don't have faith in very many people, but there it is. Maybe people are afraid to risk being themselves, afraid of being judged, rejected, belittled. I am, too, but every once in a while I try - I reach out my hand, my heart, my hope. Knowing how satisfying it is to connect with another human being on a truly intimate level, I cannot give up completely.

I know that to be accepted one must be accepting, to be loved one must be loving. Could it be that in my not trusting, I am not trusted? Is it true that my waiting for the let down actually precipitates it?

Have I not inspired faith that I can and will love you when you bare your own soul to me? Can I tell you now that I will, I really will? Is that enough for us to try?

The Gift of Kimbo

I spent the better part of this morning with a good friend, someone with whom I can be myself, for better or worse. Kim is a delightful and nurturing woman, dedicated to her own growth and a light-bearer for others who are fortunate enough to find themselves within her sphere of influence.

She came to me from Oregon two years ago, an art educator who made the courageous decision to return to school in order to pursue a doctorate degree at Montana State University. We connected immediately, being of like mind and temperament, and have become oases for one another. This weekend it was I who made the call, in the hopes of fending off an incapacitating vegetative state and, as luck and friendship would have it, she was eager and willing to meet for morning tea.

Conversations between Kim and I are always meaningful and restorative; we openly share ourselves and gratefully receive the other. It is with this dear friend that I can safely shine a light on the darkened corners of myself and with whom I feel more beautiful and ageless than a starry Montana sky. Today was no different: I started out confessing over chai in a coffee shop and ended up rejoicing on top of Peet’s Hill, basking in the warmth of sunlight and unconditional friendship.

I wish I had more friends like Kim; she is a kind and loving soul who affords me occasions to be kind and loving in return. These are the marks of a true friend, I think, to bring out the best in us and then to hold the mirror that we may see our own beauty and light.

Living the Dream

For the past few days I’ve been working on creating an invitation postcard, an invitation to my first photographic art show. It feels somewhat weird to be making such a statement, as though it should be about someone else. But it isn’t and I’m wondering why I’m finding it to be a bit of a challenge to don the mantle of artist when it has been a lifelong dream of mine.

I suppose it’s about stepping up to meet the goal, to make the final push to the summit. What will change afterwards in the way others see me, in the way I see myself? It seems best not to even think about it, not to step outside of the experience and look at it like a movie, but rather to simply go on experiencing my life from within the dream. Aside from having a desire to create, to live in those moments of spontaneous artistry, I haven’t really had a clear objective, much less a plan for how to get there. I am merely responding to my long ignored prime directive to be an artist. It is no more than a matter of being who I am.

So, yes, I am having my first show in October and I’m no longer qualifying it by adding that it is only in a coffee shop; it is still my first show. And at the urging of my good friend and sister in spirit, a very well known Cherokee fine artist, I will be issuing a press release and having an artist’s reception. It’s good to have friends who will hold the mirror for me, who encourage me to see myself in their looking glass eyes.

Can I Get a Witness?

Often, when I am lost in my thoughts, I wonder what it is that I most long for in a relationship -- a one-on-one, forever and a day partnership. It wouldn't be enough for us to have similar interests and enjoy the same lifestyle. It wouldn't be enough to share thoughts and beliefs, values and principles. It wouldn't even be enough for our love-making to be passionately intense and uplifting. No, what I want and need can be had in an instant, in the flicker of a candle or the creak of a worn oak stair. It is a moment shared, a holographic breath of time which is at once both a sojourn and an eternity.

In the movie Shall We Dance Susan Sarandon's character speaks of love and marriage, speaks of needing a witness to one's life. "Your life will not go unwitnessed because I will be your witness," she says. That line caught my breath. Witnessing is so much more than mere observation, more than seeing and acknowledging what most everyone else sees. It is perceiving the Truth a woman is afraid to believe, the Truth a man has been taught to hide. And in such moments we know that we have been seen, free of judgments and projections, free of adulterations, free of ego.

We all know, I believe, what is at our core; we all know about our strengths, our talents, our kindnesses and gifts, even when we pretend not to, but sometimes it isn’t until these parts of ourselves are witnessed by another that we are able to lift the shroud of fear and step into our fullness. Simply put, witnessing is seeing the truth of the observed rather than the observer. It is beholding the beloved through the eyes of the beloved.

It is this I long for ... even for just a breath of time.

My Spider/My Self

I have a tattoo on my left hand, a tattoo of a black widow spider - you can see it in my profile photo. I occasionally get odd looks from people because of it. I was even reproached by my family doctor the first time he saw it. I told him that it held significant meaning for me but he persisted in believing that he had a right to criticize my choice.

I had a dream about a year ago ... I was bitten on my left hand by the Black Widow and while a nameless, faceless man panicked and ran off to get help, I lay quietly allowing her venom, her power, to flow into my body. I smiled and was at peace. So, why did I feel the need to get a tattoo because of this dream? I haven't really answered that question for myself yet, so let's see what I can come up with here.

Looking at this hand with the spider perched between thumb and forefinger, I think that it must belong to a woman who is strong and fearless. I think that she must be someone who knows who she is, someone who has the power to allow criticism and scorn to wash over her, who has compassion for those who fear and judge. It must not be easy to walk through life comfortably wearing such an audacious sign of her disregard for feminine gentility and social mores. This is a woman with her own ideas about what is important and what is not, a woman with her backbone in place and her heart leading the way. This is a woman whom I can admire.

I don't know that I would have the same reaction to this tattoo were it on another woman's hand but that is irrelevant to the question. Why do I have it? Because it reminds me of whom I am ... every day.

Insecurity

"Is it possible to live surrendering to the reality of insecurity, embracing it, allowing it to open us and transform us and be our teacher?" ~ Eve Ensler, Insecure at Last: Losing It in Our Security Obsessed World

This quote/question points out the fallacy of security, despite all our efforts in building a career, a marriage, a life that is "secure." Companies are bought out or downsized; jobs are lost; heads roll, even at the top; wives cheat; husbands die of sudden heart attacks; our children get leukemia or become drug addicts; adolescent girls get pregnant; our country is attacked; the economy spirals downward. The frequently crippling need to create security is born of the very basic fact, which we are taught to deny, that there is, in truth, no such way of being. The acceptance of this truth and the fact that we don't know and can't control what happens next can transform our lives and not just because we are facing our fears and demons, but because we are living in the Now with awareness rather than raging against it with all of our might. We can let go of our security blanket and venture away from mommy, not knowing if we're going to fall down but accepting that falling would be every bit as meaningful, and every bit as necessary, as sitting comfortably in her lap. It could be argued that surrendering to the reality of insecurity can make one feel, paradoxically, less insecure.

Streaming Photography

I’ve been working with a coach because I want channel my passion for photography into a profession that will nurture and sustain me financially as well as emotionally and creatively. Toward that end, one of the first tasks she assigned me was to write, in streaming thought mode, about what photography means to me. I didn’t reread any of what I had written until just prior to my next appointment two weeks later and I have to say that I was floored by what I read. The following triptych is the as-written, unedited assignment.

Photography

Photography is me touching the world, holding the bits and pieces in my heart and finding myself in every capture. I shoot, I collect, I create; alchemy of light and spirit revealing what may be hidden to the naked eye, what fades from view in a world teeming with must-do’s and gotta-go’s.

I see myself camera to cheek, voyeur to pain and suffering, love and fear, reckless laughter and convulsive sobs. The eye tells all. The subject is freed from normal constraints, from the strictures of propriety and, in a slicing glance, tells me what words can never convey.

I shoot, I move, I speak gently, connecting not just with my lens but with my own pain and vulnerability, with my memories, with my experience, with that part of my being that can only be seen in moments like these when the camera becomes a portal allowing you to come to me.

At The Opening

The gallery is made alive with the life force held not nearly frozen in the interaction of chemical and paper, ghosts but seconds away from stepping out from within the frame to mingle with the wine-sipping guests. The viewers look and discuss, interpreting, deciding, blaspheming, spilling opinion all over my offerings. But I am there amongst my offspring, rubbing shoulders and hearts with the residual energy of one explosive moment in time when spirit and pixels collide, forever fused one to the other. I vacantly smile and give thanks, feeling the power of the images working on me, on the others, on the walls and lights and ruby red carpet. Only I can see who is real and who is not and grin widely at my peopled creations.

End of the day

Alone in my room I undress, taking off my clothes as well as my defenses, placing them at the foot of my bed. They look odd, strangely like slithered-out-of snake skin. There is my pride, my ego, my holier-than-thou, draped over my tripod; there is the part of me that says ‘I am a photographer. I am and you are not.” The boorish editor who normally occupies my left brain finds herself snagged on the quick release. These are not the essence of my self, the true artist, the one whose heart connects across the Nikon bridge. They intrude, they taint, they sabotage. Only when I have managed to bind and gag them does the beauty of the model, of the moment, of the creation reveal itself. And with each new digital gift my power swells from within the secret place inside of me. Photography reveals me to myself.

Just Me

Last week I watched yet another movie about love, romance and the challenges inherent in being vulnerable with another human being. Toward the end of the movie, a band played "Let's Get it On" by Marvin Gaye and I, much to my own surprise, burst into tears. The song speaks to me of surrendering oneself to love and I cried for what is missing in my life, aside from sex I mean, something that has been missing for years. And then I wondered if it is so much missing in my life as it is missing in myself (this distinction being meaningful to me if not to you), missing not just from my heart but from my everyday be-ing. A long time ago, the promise of love was replaced by the threat of wounding and I have to say that I'm really tired of living like this, beneath the sword of Damocles.
I am reminded of that contemporary call to arms "Be the change you want to see in the world," …. or more aptly "be the change you want to see in your life." I want to see hope and trust and love in my life. I want to see those things in me, but more so I want others to see them in me. I want to take the time to allow myself to think and feel and act with integrity and passion, to act with presence and awareness; and I want to allow others to see me this way. No rush, no urgency, no fear. Just me.

The Gift of the Eye of the Beholder

It happens that, after you've searched every inch of the interior corners and crevices of yourself and are yet left wondering "Who am I?" you suddenly become aware of the people in your life and their ideas of who you are. You bump into the acquaintance who had once marveled at your genius in improv class and you see the spark of admiration still in her eyes. You reread an email from the friend who encouraged you to pursue your dream, the dream you thought would certainly die unrealized because you, in fact, had no real talent. With new eyes you see the glimmer of a reality made manifest in the words written and offered up not only in friendship but in doubtless honor of the truth. And then you begin to see yourself through the eyes of your friends and lovers and with respect and even awe you behold, at last, the answer to your question.