The "Examined Life" has just been reinvented.
In the interests of more dailiness of writing, and a stronger focus on writing practice - and spirituality - I have created "Penofthemagpie" ... The "magpie" (me) has taken up her metaphorical (or should I say virtual) pen and is committing herself to writing regularly - hopefully three or more times a week in shorter, more zen-like spurts! This not only supports my writing practice, but hopefully can stimulate a larger readership.
I am also making a concerted effort to cultivate a "following" and invite dialogue with my fellow writer/readers... So, please, if you like what you see, and believe in offering some moral support to my new effort, become a "follower." I'll be most grateful!
Hope to hear from you all soon. It appears that the directions in the blog are clear (address of blog: http://www.penofthemagpie.wordpress.com), so come on over and join in the conversation...
with love and appreciation,
Mag
My Elephant Friends
Amboseli elephants
Monday, July 11, 2016
Friday, July 8, 2016
Offering your words in the darkness...
Every time I thought about beginning again, it occurred to me to apologize for disappearing, but since I'm not quite sure just WHO I should apologize to, that all seems rather silly. So, now almost 3 months since my last iteration, I continue on ... To consider the delights of: feeling like myself again thanks to kicking the Zoloft habit, the exhilaration of reacquainting myself with my manuscript and feeling proud, the comfort of family, and the heart wrenching challenges of accepting our darkly violent society. Somewhere there is connection here, somewhere ... I want to find it.
When I looked at a video this morning that showed a black man shot dead in his car while his girlfriend watched with her camera on the policeman's gun, I cried tears and felt that it was close to impossible to feel happy in this time, despite all my advantages and comforts. The idea of feeling happy when police are gunning down our black population and then cops are executed in revenge seems incongruous. How do those things fit together? When my heart seems to be crumbling, can I find a way into the light? Yes, I can.
I can tell my daughter how much I adore her, hug my grandchild tight, and give that adorable grandson a big fat kiss on the cheek. I can scoop up my small dog Peaches and squeeze her and remind her I adore her as she licks my face with her gentle pink tongue. I can choose the language of love; it won't make the horrors of cruelly murdered young men less grave, less urgent, but it WILL help me hold it in my heart.
Another thing I can do is re-enter the story of my life, read and feel the words I've painfully inscribed there, and sculpt and build and keep telling the story. Why is telling my story so important? Because it reminds me that I'm a living, breathing, feeling human who even at the age of 71 is envisioning a lot more life to live ... A lot more love to be had... It also puts my words, my own sensibility, OUT THERE in the universe. And the more I can do that, the less alienated and sorrowful I will feel. You cannot make peace in the world until you make peace in yourself, the Dalai Lama said, and as I put my precious story out there, I help change the world in my own small, but entirely unique, way. So, I may be invisible to the publishing world and barely worthy of publishing, but I'm not to myself, and I am driven by a wish to spread my words around, and so I will. I will hold the faith that someday they may show up in a book.
And interestingly, and here is where I feel able to tie this all together, my pulling myself out of a drug induced existence and returning to my authentic "self" was the catalyst for all of the above! When you are not yourself, you don't feel, don't think clearly, don't respond with passion -- you can't. The juice is not there. So, you think you're o.k., sort of, and you go on. But you're not. Because you can't cry, don't feel like laughing at a friend's story, and even the beauty of your 16 year old Maine Coon cat doesn't melt your heart. So, you decide you're not really depressed, and you discard the pills. And your sleep is good and gradually you return to who you are. And you see that who you are is really quite engaging, sweet, and good.
We're living in a very dark and chaotic and scary time. Sociopath running for president, hatred manifest almost everywhere, especially in urban communities where the economic/social divide is way too strong, and still we must get up, make our tea, walk our dog, and smile at those we meet on the street. We must smile, because it is in our nature to be kindly. We must pay attention, as harrowing as that is, to what is really going on in the culture, which means watching the news and reflecting as best we can. Ignorance is not an option. As I feel repelled by watching tonight's NPR's account of this week of killing, I will do it anyway, holdng my dog close to me, and trying to breathe into my heart and feel my own loving nature. And I'll be grateful that I'm alive to speak my peace ... Now and until I die.
When I looked at a video this morning that showed a black man shot dead in his car while his girlfriend watched with her camera on the policeman's gun, I cried tears and felt that it was close to impossible to feel happy in this time, despite all my advantages and comforts. The idea of feeling happy when police are gunning down our black population and then cops are executed in revenge seems incongruous. How do those things fit together? When my heart seems to be crumbling, can I find a way into the light? Yes, I can.
I can tell my daughter how much I adore her, hug my grandchild tight, and give that adorable grandson a big fat kiss on the cheek. I can scoop up my small dog Peaches and squeeze her and remind her I adore her as she licks my face with her gentle pink tongue. I can choose the language of love; it won't make the horrors of cruelly murdered young men less grave, less urgent, but it WILL help me hold it in my heart.
Another thing I can do is re-enter the story of my life, read and feel the words I've painfully inscribed there, and sculpt and build and keep telling the story. Why is telling my story so important? Because it reminds me that I'm a living, breathing, feeling human who even at the age of 71 is envisioning a lot more life to live ... A lot more love to be had... It also puts my words, my own sensibility, OUT THERE in the universe. And the more I can do that, the less alienated and sorrowful I will feel. You cannot make peace in the world until you make peace in yourself, the Dalai Lama said, and as I put my precious story out there, I help change the world in my own small, but entirely unique, way. So, I may be invisible to the publishing world and barely worthy of publishing, but I'm not to myself, and I am driven by a wish to spread my words around, and so I will. I will hold the faith that someday they may show up in a book.
And interestingly, and here is where I feel able to tie this all together, my pulling myself out of a drug induced existence and returning to my authentic "self" was the catalyst for all of the above! When you are not yourself, you don't feel, don't think clearly, don't respond with passion -- you can't. The juice is not there. So, you think you're o.k., sort of, and you go on. But you're not. Because you can't cry, don't feel like laughing at a friend's story, and even the beauty of your 16 year old Maine Coon cat doesn't melt your heart. So, you decide you're not really depressed, and you discard the pills. And your sleep is good and gradually you return to who you are. And you see that who you are is really quite engaging, sweet, and good.
We're living in a very dark and chaotic and scary time. Sociopath running for president, hatred manifest almost everywhere, especially in urban communities where the economic/social divide is way too strong, and still we must get up, make our tea, walk our dog, and smile at those we meet on the street. We must smile, because it is in our nature to be kindly. We must pay attention, as harrowing as that is, to what is really going on in the culture, which means watching the news and reflecting as best we can. Ignorance is not an option. As I feel repelled by watching tonight's NPR's account of this week of killing, I will do it anyway, holdng my dog close to me, and trying to breathe into my heart and feel my own loving nature. And I'll be grateful that I'm alive to speak my peace ... Now and until I die.
Thursday, April 14, 2016
Expect the Unexpected
Who would have guessed that I would finally find rest in the city "that never sleeps"? Who would have imagined that I would get primo seating to see Placido Domingo at the Met on my last day in rainy New York? Or that I wouldn't cry at the 9/11 memorial, but felt like crying with joy at the splashy joyful "American in Paris" on Broadway? Who could possibly entertain a glass of wine for $25 or a simple steak for $45? Yes - all true -- New York appears to be the city where the unexpected is alive and well, and you need your "don't know mind" with you.
One of the great gifts of this adventure was my arriving at a place of rest in my bed at night, dog tired from all our trekking during the day. Since my insomnia started last fall I have felt plagued by this affliction of no rest, and my brain became ragged and wonky and silly under the influence of sleeping pills. And the second night I was in the vibrating city, in midtown Manhattan, I turned the light off without taking my dose, and I slept. Granddaughter Riley was communing with her Kindle close by, the bed was comfortable, the curtains drawn, and the room quiet. And I slept. It has been a little less than two weeks since I took medication, and I feel like boasting and shouting in delight...
I walked and walked and walked in New York, and my cranky tendonitis softened. How was this? It was cold as hell, and I had no coat, and yet I escorted this young woman through the city and felt a subtle elation -- I was back in a place that I knew, I was with this girl whom I loved and wanted to love me, and I was looking at art, theater, food, and opera - the best of the best - how could I not feel happiness?
I think it was all about love, yes I do. Love of an old home, of art, of all the memories from when I was Riley's age growing up in New York, and of this young person on the brink of becoming a woman. And perhaps her love of me... When love is present, there is safety and comfort. And when there's safety and comfort, we can rest, we can let it all go. In this hysterical and magical city, I could let it all go. And not work so hard anymore to manage my life.
The memories are still crystal clear, and the warm feelings rest in my heart. I am glad I live in a less complicated city like San Francisco, but I'm also very happy to have been a citizen of Manhattan back in the 60's when everyone's life was less complicated, and quite innocent. It makes sense to return in our minds to those times of goodwill and hope when we are faced with as many horrors as surround us today. Yes, humans are complicated, ignorant and greedy, but the presence of love between us is the great winning force.
I am grateful, I am hopeful, I can sleep and laugh and play and write again.
One of the great gifts of this adventure was my arriving at a place of rest in my bed at night, dog tired from all our trekking during the day. Since my insomnia started last fall I have felt plagued by this affliction of no rest, and my brain became ragged and wonky and silly under the influence of sleeping pills. And the second night I was in the vibrating city, in midtown Manhattan, I turned the light off without taking my dose, and I slept. Granddaughter Riley was communing with her Kindle close by, the bed was comfortable, the curtains drawn, and the room quiet. And I slept. It has been a little less than two weeks since I took medication, and I feel like boasting and shouting in delight...
I walked and walked and walked in New York, and my cranky tendonitis softened. How was this? It was cold as hell, and I had no coat, and yet I escorted this young woman through the city and felt a subtle elation -- I was back in a place that I knew, I was with this girl whom I loved and wanted to love me, and I was looking at art, theater, food, and opera - the best of the best - how could I not feel happiness?
I think it was all about love, yes I do. Love of an old home, of art, of all the memories from when I was Riley's age growing up in New York, and of this young person on the brink of becoming a woman. And perhaps her love of me... When love is present, there is safety and comfort. And when there's safety and comfort, we can rest, we can let it all go. In this hysterical and magical city, I could let it all go. And not work so hard anymore to manage my life.
The memories are still crystal clear, and the warm feelings rest in my heart. I am glad I live in a less complicated city like San Francisco, but I'm also very happy to have been a citizen of Manhattan back in the 60's when everyone's life was less complicated, and quite innocent. It makes sense to return in our minds to those times of goodwill and hope when we are faced with as many horrors as surround us today. Yes, humans are complicated, ignorant and greedy, but the presence of love between us is the great winning force.
I am grateful, I am hopeful, I can sleep and laugh and play and write again.
Tuesday, April 5, 2016
In the Big Apple with Riley ....
I have been on the road with Riley ... I like how that sounds! We have been marching about New York for the last several days, pursuing such interesting things as "rainbow bagels," the huge MOMA on 53rd St, a number of high end restaurants of course, the 9/11 Memorial Museum, and vintage boutiques in Brooklyn. It has been busy, and it has been COLD. The 30 degree temps have been slicing through the concrete canyons of Manhattan, and I've been quietly cursing myself for not bringing a proper coat. Somehow I thought it would be springlike and balmy in April in New York. But, no, winter is still hanging on...
What's interesting in unforeseen circumstances is that you discover you can improvise. And so I did. I pinned my quilted kimono jacket across four layers of clothes and went out this morning to face the cruel chill that swept down the streets. In the museum shop at the 9/11 Museum I bought a foul weather jacket in black that looked like it could withstand the cold, and then, low and behold, the temperatures started to rise a bit -- to a toasty level of 43 degrees! Riley with her long golden mane of hair and her mother's delightful gray sweater walks like a dancer, with big strides. Sometimes it seems she's all legs! I love to look at that. She is seeing New York for the first time, and I think she rather enjoys it. This afternoon we strolled through Greenwich Village and I showed her where I lived back in the early 60's, long ago enough for her that it's barely comprehensible. She loved the brick, the stately brownstones that line the small streets in the Village, and we both appreciated the quieter rhythm of the streets here. It felt sort of like Brooklyn. I wanted to tell her about Henry James' great little novel Washington Square, the sad story of a selfish father's dominance over his only daughter at the end of the 19th century, but I figured it couldn't have the relevance to her that it does for me. I lived near Washington Square once, And I read Henry James. And I can't help but wonder if anyone reads Mr. James these days!
We had lunch at the Spotted Pig in the Village which I hear has a Michelin star, but most importantly, this place has tons of charm and real honest creative food. It is quaint and feels old, and is authentic. There's old wood, tons of ceramic pigs and other creatures, lots of flowers and and a very lived in vibe. I had an Irish Coffee after lunch and thought of Pete Martin, my mother's third and last husband, the Irish-Italian fellow who loved that drink, and all the others... It was perfect, with just the right balance of coffee, whisky, and beautiful cream on top. I felt nostalgic when I sipped it. There was a similar nostalgia as Riley and I laughed fondly the other night over a beautiful basket of miniature Madeleines, and I told her about Proust and his remembrances of things past... We took pictures of those beautiful little cake-like cookies and tasted their lemony sweetness and we were definitely happy. Everything was as it should be.
Soon Riley will go see her sister in college for a few days and I will be on my own. I will see a play called "Blackbird," which sounds suitably grim, and I may meet up with a very old friend, a man I haven't laid eyes on for over 50 years... I am letting things evolve slowly, and seeing how I feel about them. I am trusting the feelings that arise. There is nothing wrong in that, and I haven't chosen that route frequently, preferring instead to lean toward the choices and preferences of others.
Speaking of feelings, I love being with this granddaughter of mine as she feasts her eyes on this city for the first time, and I love the spaces of silence between us as she takes it all in. I try to still my teacher, guide personality, and just be there. With her.
From the city that never sleeps, I send love. And assure you that she and I will definitely sleep tonight after our adventures.
What's interesting in unforeseen circumstances is that you discover you can improvise. And so I did. I pinned my quilted kimono jacket across four layers of clothes and went out this morning to face the cruel chill that swept down the streets. In the museum shop at the 9/11 Museum I bought a foul weather jacket in black that looked like it could withstand the cold, and then, low and behold, the temperatures started to rise a bit -- to a toasty level of 43 degrees! Riley with her long golden mane of hair and her mother's delightful gray sweater walks like a dancer, with big strides. Sometimes it seems she's all legs! I love to look at that. She is seeing New York for the first time, and I think she rather enjoys it. This afternoon we strolled through Greenwich Village and I showed her where I lived back in the early 60's, long ago enough for her that it's barely comprehensible. She loved the brick, the stately brownstones that line the small streets in the Village, and we both appreciated the quieter rhythm of the streets here. It felt sort of like Brooklyn. I wanted to tell her about Henry James' great little novel Washington Square, the sad story of a selfish father's dominance over his only daughter at the end of the 19th century, but I figured it couldn't have the relevance to her that it does for me. I lived near Washington Square once, And I read Henry James. And I can't help but wonder if anyone reads Mr. James these days!
We had lunch at the Spotted Pig in the Village which I hear has a Michelin star, but most importantly, this place has tons of charm and real honest creative food. It is quaint and feels old, and is authentic. There's old wood, tons of ceramic pigs and other creatures, lots of flowers and and a very lived in vibe. I had an Irish Coffee after lunch and thought of Pete Martin, my mother's third and last husband, the Irish-Italian fellow who loved that drink, and all the others... It was perfect, with just the right balance of coffee, whisky, and beautiful cream on top. I felt nostalgic when I sipped it. There was a similar nostalgia as Riley and I laughed fondly the other night over a beautiful basket of miniature Madeleines, and I told her about Proust and his remembrances of things past... We took pictures of those beautiful little cake-like cookies and tasted their lemony sweetness and we were definitely happy. Everything was as it should be.
Soon Riley will go see her sister in college for a few days and I will be on my own. I will see a play called "Blackbird," which sounds suitably grim, and I may meet up with a very old friend, a man I haven't laid eyes on for over 50 years... I am letting things evolve slowly, and seeing how I feel about them. I am trusting the feelings that arise. There is nothing wrong in that, and I haven't chosen that route frequently, preferring instead to lean toward the choices and preferences of others.
Speaking of feelings, I love being with this granddaughter of mine as she feasts her eyes on this city for the first time, and I love the spaces of silence between us as she takes it all in. I try to still my teacher, guide personality, and just be there. With her.
From the city that never sleeps, I send love. And assure you that she and I will definitely sleep tonight after our adventures.
Tuesday, March 1, 2016
Love
Well, it has been a long time, friends, that I've been away, and it has been a difficult and dark journey. In February I had my seventy-first birthday, less dramatic and disturbing than the 70th, and I am feeling rather hopeful, not so helpless and frail. It is just a number after all! And we are all moving toward death, no matter how old or who we are. I am sleeping, after a fashion, and feeling ambition to work on something that really matters, which happens to be my book. So, this year will see a new burst of energy as I revise its backstory and peel away more layers of my lonely past...
Since I last wrote, two miraculous and lovely things have happened in my life: I have become a great grandmother, and I have adopted a small gentle terrier who is called Peaches, who comforts me with her gentle spirit and her endless affection. Being a great grandmother is a feat, to be sure, or should I call it a landmark? The arrival of little Eadweard in Oregon has brought warmth and love and community into my family; we smile proudly at the miracle of a new human being in our midst. I am grateful. I am so grateful for the new life, for the love that lurks under the layers in my family, in all families. I am in Oregon now amidst great blustering rain and gray skies, and have been gazing in wonder at this little boy, and feeling bathed in the unspoken love felt by my daughter, granddaughter, and others. I am here with my sweet dog Peaches who looks like a dappled little white greyhound with giant black eyes. She is my best friend these days, for she has shown me how to sleep, to be in the moment, and feel gratitude. She embodies love, as does my little great grandson. As I consider these two, I am reassured again that what really matters in life, the only thing really, is love.
I am going to take this love as I go forward and feel it and create from it. I will persevere. I will complete my creative vision. My gratefulness is limitless, and even in gray and damp Oregon I see the sun shining brightly.
Since I last wrote, two miraculous and lovely things have happened in my life: I have become a great grandmother, and I have adopted a small gentle terrier who is called Peaches, who comforts me with her gentle spirit and her endless affection. Being a great grandmother is a feat, to be sure, or should I call it a landmark? The arrival of little Eadweard in Oregon has brought warmth and love and community into my family; we smile proudly at the miracle of a new human being in our midst. I am grateful. I am so grateful for the new life, for the love that lurks under the layers in my family, in all families. I am in Oregon now amidst great blustering rain and gray skies, and have been gazing in wonder at this little boy, and feeling bathed in the unspoken love felt by my daughter, granddaughter, and others. I am here with my sweet dog Peaches who looks like a dappled little white greyhound with giant black eyes. She is my best friend these days, for she has shown me how to sleep, to be in the moment, and feel gratitude. She embodies love, as does my little great grandson. As I consider these two, I am reassured again that what really matters in life, the only thing really, is love.
I am going to take this love as I go forward and feel it and create from it. I will persevere. I will complete my creative vision. My gratefulness is limitless, and even in gray and damp Oregon I see the sun shining brightly.
Thursday, December 31, 2015
The Past, Present, and ... Welcome to 2016!
I am inclined to look back, always have been.... An astrologer once warned me that I had perhaps a troublesome tendency to dwell in the nostalgia of the past, and when I heard this, I agreed immediately. That was many years ago, and I'm still doing it. In fact, I recently spent two years writing a memoir, trying to dig through layers of memory in order to make sense out of my life's trajectory -- to answer the question: just what has this life been about really? What kind of story does my life look like?
But what has been interesting about this year 2015 that is now passing is that certain life events have forced me to plant myself squarely in present time and pay attention. It has been a difficult year as years go, but I believe insight has occurred and with that some sense of ease. On February 22, I passed the 70 year mark, sometime in the late spring my right leg and ankle showed signs of inflammation, and fatigue, in the fall I quit a job I had dearly loved after a ten year stint, and at some point a little later I fell into an insidious pattern of sleeplessness.
Instead of celebrating seventy years of life, I had chosen a darker view, one where I looked behind me at the very long succession of happenings, many of which I couldn't remember clearly, and at the same time saw the path ahead becoming shorter and shorter. I went about my normal daily life with this somber weather inside my head. And then, the body spoke to me, its injury forcing me to pay attention. It would appear that it was time finally for me to attend to this body that has been carrying me around all these years with some respect and compassion. And so I embarked on a journey of doctors and tests and physical therapy, struggling to summon lovingkindness for myself. Leaving my ten year job of tending the dying was a big and painful step, and a necessary one. The gifts of those ten years of witnessing were huge -- the equanimity, patience, love, and spaciousness of mind -- but I knewI had to move away from death and put my attentions elsewhere. It was in the end like leaving home... And then came all those nights in the dark when I couldn't sleep, as time slowed down to a painful crawl while I tossed and turned, wavering between meditative acceptance and outright anger. My Buddhist practice couldn't stop me from feeling really angry at both body and brain that were denying me the rest I needed. And rather than be irritated that I was a bad Buddhist, I returned again to lovingkindness, and patience, as I tried to find medicinal help.
The circuits in my brain seemed to be permanently set to fire, with the "on" switch refusing to be turned off. And so, problem solver that I have always been, I pondered and reflected about just why my brain was locked into perpetual vigilance. What was it trying to protect me against? I am not sure I've found an answer, but I am pretty sure a clue lies in the past - yes, the past, my old stomping grounds. As a neglected solitary child I was always watching the comings and goings in the world around me in order to feel safe. They now call this hyper vigilance. And all the recent excavating of my young story just might have opened the door to some very old fear. Fear of what? Running out of time? A failure to create one last meaningful thing? Inability to attain real love? The unspeakable mystery (challenge) of dying alone? Whatever face this vigilance takes, it is all about fear. And fear is about what's ahead of us. The future. Which of course doesn't really exist ... it is forever just ahead of us.
As I look ahead to 2016, I'm happy to report that my body has found rest, my mind is clearer, while the melancholy still walks with me. And as I look more closely at melancholy, I realize it is rooted in a deep love of my life ... a love so big and beautiful I can't bear that it all will end. My authentic self is fairly young, really; she didn't show up until I could carve out work and practice for myself that would allow me to express my deepest (truest) feelings and thoughts. I was probably in my fifties when the real Mag emerged, having endured growing up with a difficult mother, trying out motherhood and marriage herself, finally landing in academia, a place which gave her great comfort and knowledge. How many more years she has to express herself in the world is of course unknown. But the good news is that right NOW she is here, paying attention to messages from her body and brain, breathing in and out, and looking for beauty wherever she can find it: in friendships and family, cats, music, traveling, or watching the stunning little hummingbirds that whiz by for a little nectar in the late afternoons...
I wish all who read this ease and peace and love in the "new year," as we navigate a complicated, painful, and beautiful world.
But what has been interesting about this year 2015 that is now passing is that certain life events have forced me to plant myself squarely in present time and pay attention. It has been a difficult year as years go, but I believe insight has occurred and with that some sense of ease. On February 22, I passed the 70 year mark, sometime in the late spring my right leg and ankle showed signs of inflammation, and fatigue, in the fall I quit a job I had dearly loved after a ten year stint, and at some point a little later I fell into an insidious pattern of sleeplessness.
Instead of celebrating seventy years of life, I had chosen a darker view, one where I looked behind me at the very long succession of happenings, many of which I couldn't remember clearly, and at the same time saw the path ahead becoming shorter and shorter. I went about my normal daily life with this somber weather inside my head. And then, the body spoke to me, its injury forcing me to pay attention. It would appear that it was time finally for me to attend to this body that has been carrying me around all these years with some respect and compassion. And so I embarked on a journey of doctors and tests and physical therapy, struggling to summon lovingkindness for myself. Leaving my ten year job of tending the dying was a big and painful step, and a necessary one. The gifts of those ten years of witnessing were huge -- the equanimity, patience, love, and spaciousness of mind -- but I knewI had to move away from death and put my attentions elsewhere. It was in the end like leaving home... And then came all those nights in the dark when I couldn't sleep, as time slowed down to a painful crawl while I tossed and turned, wavering between meditative acceptance and outright anger. My Buddhist practice couldn't stop me from feeling really angry at both body and brain that were denying me the rest I needed. And rather than be irritated that I was a bad Buddhist, I returned again to lovingkindness, and patience, as I tried to find medicinal help.
The circuits in my brain seemed to be permanently set to fire, with the "on" switch refusing to be turned off. And so, problem solver that I have always been, I pondered and reflected about just why my brain was locked into perpetual vigilance. What was it trying to protect me against? I am not sure I've found an answer, but I am pretty sure a clue lies in the past - yes, the past, my old stomping grounds. As a neglected solitary child I was always watching the comings and goings in the world around me in order to feel safe. They now call this hyper vigilance. And all the recent excavating of my young story just might have opened the door to some very old fear. Fear of what? Running out of time? A failure to create one last meaningful thing? Inability to attain real love? The unspeakable mystery (challenge) of dying alone? Whatever face this vigilance takes, it is all about fear. And fear is about what's ahead of us. The future. Which of course doesn't really exist ... it is forever just ahead of us.
As I look ahead to 2016, I'm happy to report that my body has found rest, my mind is clearer, while the melancholy still walks with me. And as I look more closely at melancholy, I realize it is rooted in a deep love of my life ... a love so big and beautiful I can't bear that it all will end. My authentic self is fairly young, really; she didn't show up until I could carve out work and practice for myself that would allow me to express my deepest (truest) feelings and thoughts. I was probably in my fifties when the real Mag emerged, having endured growing up with a difficult mother, trying out motherhood and marriage herself, finally landing in academia, a place which gave her great comfort and knowledge. How many more years she has to express herself in the world is of course unknown. But the good news is that right NOW she is here, paying attention to messages from her body and brain, breathing in and out, and looking for beauty wherever she can find it: in friendships and family, cats, music, traveling, or watching the stunning little hummingbirds that whiz by for a little nectar in the late afternoons...
I wish all who read this ease and peace and love in the "new year," as we navigate a complicated, painful, and beautiful world.
Sunday, December 20, 2015
Generations
I have a box of crinkly black and white photographs in my closet that tell bits and pieces of my mother's and my far distant past, going back to a time before I was born. I've had grandiose plans to turn them into a chronicle of a long lost past, introducing all the characters, and making insightful and clever quips about their characters.
The photo that comes to mind now is of a very portly couple: my great grandparents, the McCarters of New Jersey. They are both dressed in black, and he holds a cane resolutely even though he is sitting, and both their mouths are set in a grimace-like expression. They were certainly not the relatives whose laps you would leap up into and smile disarmingly. There was a time I went to their house, I must have been about 4 or 5, and I remember lots of dark wood, a musty smell and heavy paintings on the walls. They were formidable each sitting in their respective arm chairs, and I was daunted. I don't recall why we were there, my mother, grandmother and me, but I do remember feeling as though we had no connection and I playacted at being a good little girl as we sipped our afternoon tea. That was the only time I saw them in person. Later as I grew up I remember bragging to my classmates that I actually had great grandparents -- this wasn't all that common then. Also later in my life I realized that my grandmother, who liked to call herself Gigi, was a grand wealthy woman who grew up in a household cold as ice, and who very likely was not cuddled, caressed, or read to. It helped me to forgive her for how she raised my mother, who along with her younger sister grew up under the watchful eye of a series of stern governesses, and had very little maternal tenderness in her life.
So this is what my lineage looked like on my mother's side of the family... the dazzlingly rich yet barren emotional landscape these women in particular traveled through. Though my mother made an attempt to rearrange her identity from rich heiress to bohemian artist, she failed to hone a warm, motherly heart. So lineage matters, you see. It is the baggage we carry as we move through our lives. Somewhere inside my lonely young heart I knew I wanted a different experience when I had children, and I stumbled though the 60's and 70's trying on alternative this and that, baking cookies and bread, and involving myself with my two girls. It often seemed to be an experiment, at times quite imperfect and helter skelter ... And we all survived it, and became close in the end.
A remarkable event occurred in my life this last Friday. A baby was born to my eldest granddaughter in Oregon which magically turns me into ... yes, a great grandmother! I think it's something I will have to practice saying, sort of the way I had to admit to becoming 70 years old earlier this year. In a Portland hospital, there is a cherubic little boy with wisps of reddish brown hair who has a most peaceful demeanor from the images I have seen, and he is now part of my lineage. He gets to take his place in this quirky family drama that is filled with everything from joy to chaos and sadness. His emergence into the world fills me with a sense of possibilities, despite what I feel about the cruelty and violence we are surrounded by these days. Yes, return to the positive ... how can you not, when you look at the innocent countenance of a newborn? Each of us was once a tiny helpless infant with no clue of what the world was or how to survive in it, and because we were shown to use our own best instincts and emotions we found our path. As serious and contemplative as I've become, I know for certain that for a few precious years in my life I had that sense of the possibilities and the wonder.
I have been learning to listen to the 70 year old voice inside me which tells me what I really want to do, as opposed to what other people wish. It certainly seems like it's time to do that in my life! If not now, when? I have been practicing, or certainly trying to, lovingkindness in the face of my own nagging physical limitations (the sleeplessness, the angry tendon), and the failings of others whom I care for. I am going to return to my work as a writer because that is truly something I want for myself. There is a book that is so close to being finished... I am blessed to have given myself the chances for self-expression and creativity that my great grandmother McCarter would never have had available to her. It's no wonder she looked like such a sour puss in many of the old photo! And speaking of those photos, I think I'm going to get cracking on that book of ancient family images, so I can finally honor my complex family lineage. And if I do this, then my new great grandson when he is much older will be able to gaze curiously at all those characters who preceded him, including Great Grandma Mag!
This little guy whom I have not yet touched, has brought a warm ray of light into what has felt like a very unsettling year, and I'm grateful...
The photo that comes to mind now is of a very portly couple: my great grandparents, the McCarters of New Jersey. They are both dressed in black, and he holds a cane resolutely even though he is sitting, and both their mouths are set in a grimace-like expression. They were certainly not the relatives whose laps you would leap up into and smile disarmingly. There was a time I went to their house, I must have been about 4 or 5, and I remember lots of dark wood, a musty smell and heavy paintings on the walls. They were formidable each sitting in their respective arm chairs, and I was daunted. I don't recall why we were there, my mother, grandmother and me, but I do remember feeling as though we had no connection and I playacted at being a good little girl as we sipped our afternoon tea. That was the only time I saw them in person. Later as I grew up I remember bragging to my classmates that I actually had great grandparents -- this wasn't all that common then. Also later in my life I realized that my grandmother, who liked to call herself Gigi, was a grand wealthy woman who grew up in a household cold as ice, and who very likely was not cuddled, caressed, or read to. It helped me to forgive her for how she raised my mother, who along with her younger sister grew up under the watchful eye of a series of stern governesses, and had very little maternal tenderness in her life.
So this is what my lineage looked like on my mother's side of the family... the dazzlingly rich yet barren emotional landscape these women in particular traveled through. Though my mother made an attempt to rearrange her identity from rich heiress to bohemian artist, she failed to hone a warm, motherly heart. So lineage matters, you see. It is the baggage we carry as we move through our lives. Somewhere inside my lonely young heart I knew I wanted a different experience when I had children, and I stumbled though the 60's and 70's trying on alternative this and that, baking cookies and bread, and involving myself with my two girls. It often seemed to be an experiment, at times quite imperfect and helter skelter ... And we all survived it, and became close in the end.
A remarkable event occurred in my life this last Friday. A baby was born to my eldest granddaughter in Oregon which magically turns me into ... yes, a great grandmother! I think it's something I will have to practice saying, sort of the way I had to admit to becoming 70 years old earlier this year. In a Portland hospital, there is a cherubic little boy with wisps of reddish brown hair who has a most peaceful demeanor from the images I have seen, and he is now part of my lineage. He gets to take his place in this quirky family drama that is filled with everything from joy to chaos and sadness. His emergence into the world fills me with a sense of possibilities, despite what I feel about the cruelty and violence we are surrounded by these days. Yes, return to the positive ... how can you not, when you look at the innocent countenance of a newborn? Each of us was once a tiny helpless infant with no clue of what the world was or how to survive in it, and because we were shown to use our own best instincts and emotions we found our path. As serious and contemplative as I've become, I know for certain that for a few precious years in my life I had that sense of the possibilities and the wonder.
I have been learning to listen to the 70 year old voice inside me which tells me what I really want to do, as opposed to what other people wish. It certainly seems like it's time to do that in my life! If not now, when? I have been practicing, or certainly trying to, lovingkindness in the face of my own nagging physical limitations (the sleeplessness, the angry tendon), and the failings of others whom I care for. I am going to return to my work as a writer because that is truly something I want for myself. There is a book that is so close to being finished... I am blessed to have given myself the chances for self-expression and creativity that my great grandmother McCarter would never have had available to her. It's no wonder she looked like such a sour puss in many of the old photo! And speaking of those photos, I think I'm going to get cracking on that book of ancient family images, so I can finally honor my complex family lineage. And if I do this, then my new great grandson when he is much older will be able to gaze curiously at all those characters who preceded him, including Great Grandma Mag!
This little guy whom I have not yet touched, has brought a warm ray of light into what has felt like a very unsettling year, and I'm grateful...
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