And now for something completely different...

Feb 12 2012

Earth Songs

I am in love with my  Mountain.

Soak me in bliss.

The late winter Sun seduces me outside. Although the thermometer reads 40F and the breeze is brisk, the Sun’s promise is more compelling than numbers.

Besides, my Mountain is calling me.

I purloin muddy boots from the tray by the door. They are my Daughter’s. She won’t mind. She is in love with the Mountain too. Our footsteps into its embrace are separated only by the illusion of time and space.

I tuck a pack of Nats in my pocket, add my favorite Mermaid lighter, and head across the scant Lawn littered with dog bombs and slick ice patches.  There is a small staircase in the Stone Wall which divides Lawn from Woods. Only three steps up and ending directly in front of a sizeable White Pine.  The Mountain runs down its slope and encircles my house. The Wall is the “in between”, only slightly suggestive of a demarcation separating abundant fecundity and what passes for civilization at my house.  I step lightly across its Bluestone cap and head up the scree.  I am pleased to see Mountain Laurel finally claiming a toe hold on this barren slope that was carved so indiscriminately from the Mountain in order for a house to unfold.

I think only to hike up the first Knoll, to the place where a White Oak and Hemlock grow so closely their bark joins them together. I love to stick my nose in their union and breathe deeply; Cold and Dirt, Bark and Life. They have none of our human embarrassment and don’t mind. At the foot of these two trees we bury our small Animals under chunks of Bluestone: Brown Sugar and Pixie, the Gerbil Sisters;  Sparkles, a lovelorn Parakeet; Forest, my daughter’s Zen Guinea Pig, and Squeaker, a beloved Gecko whom we could not save despite painstaking hand feedings of pulverized Insect meal.  I sit atop their markers and light up a Nat. Immediately I am joined by Leila, one of the Three Hounds of Hecate who lives with us.  She sits between my knees while I offer my first puff of smoke to the Forest;  another breath to Tobias, my Mountain; another to the Stones. I stub out the embers, rubbing them well. I crush the last of the Nat between my fingers, pick out the bits of paper, and leave an offering to the White Oak and Hemlock locked tenderly together behind me.

I stand and look out across the clearing below that contains my house. The large brown salt box obscures the view of distant Mountains, Other Mountains. What a shame to put a house there! [What a brilliant idea to put a house there and how lucky I am to live in it.]

I want a better view of the Other Mountains. I step through a Fairy Gate and scramble up a Boulder. I see another Hound, Teddy,  in the clearing.  He hears my whistle and tries to place me with Canine GPS. Finally he spots me and, ever up for an adventure despite just having returned from one, he scrambles up the Hill too. He is game.  Not to be left out, the third Hound, Shelby, senses a ramble is afoot  and joins us as well. We are complete. I turn my back on the house, the clearing, the Other Mountains, and head up Tobias.

It’s been a month since I last sat with Tobias in sacred places. Then I was wrapped in wool, heavily booted and mittened. The Wind fiercely blew out my matches and pried tears from my eyes.  I sat on my favorite ledge during a cross road moment, my ass frozen solid as the Stone. I had recently started a course of study that I hoped would bring me in greater alignment with my Calling.  As with every relationship, I started out hopeful and willing. As time went on , and as I practiced a variety of the exercises and disciplines, I found myself feeling smaller and smaller. I was trying hard to make it work and boxed up pieces of myself (neatly labeled and sealed away) in order to reshape my energy into a form that would make sense of  what I was learning. I am my own worse stepmother, sacrificing heel and toe if only the damn shoe would fit.  No matter what I tried,  the shoe wasn’t fitting and had taken on a life of its own,  kicking me fiercely in the behind. 

Somehow I thought, maybe my Mountain can help me with this. Maybe this effort is failing because I never discussed it with Tobias and I’m asking the Land to support me without giving them the 411.  So up I went and told them everything, all of it. Soon questions about my program that I had never thought to ask came flooding into my mind, as well as some topics I should Google for further information. I left the  Mountain calm, connected and supported. Within a few days I sent regrets to my new teacher and began living from a wilder place.

Now, today,  this journey into the Mountain is different.  I am grounded, happy, and grateful for the Sun, the Trees, and the Land. I make my way deeper into the Forest.  I step through every Fairy Gate, press my face to Bark and breath. I linger in doorways and feel the communion of Trees, Rock, Earth, Mountain and Sky.

I keep climbing.

I pull another Nat from my pocket and break it open. I leave my next offering at the Kissing Rock, a beautiful Moss furred mass of white wash and gray.  Kissing Rock is my more than half way point. Her name an homage to another Kissing Rock of equal import marking passages on another Mountain in another place, far away. I place a kiss on her top and a small pile of Tobacco. The terrain is steeper now and I step carefully up the Mountain to my sitting place. I leave another pile of gold on my meditation Rock and speak a brief greeting. I stand on top and look out through the Woods to the Other Mountains. I am so grateful. I feel the hum of the Woods pulse through me. Behind me and to the right an immense White Oak towers above the surrounding Canopy, before me a Hemlock; both friends and allies. I am filled with peace and fully grounded. 

I keep moving.

I am headed towards a small Clearing nestled into a narrow plateau running below a small escarpment.  The Rock faces sparkle with crystalline ice sheets alternating with newly awakened Moss. They are so vibrant their appearance seems unreal. The Clearing is a few steps beyond and, though hardly level, I know it is a place where I will make camp this Summer. I felt the call to sleep on the Mountain last Fall but I did not follow through. This Summer I’ll haul my one Woman tent to the Clearing and spend the Night. If I am very brave I’ll use the tent only to keep the damp off my gear.

My final offering I drop in the center of the Clearing. It’s amazing to me all that Tobias offers. The Woods are abundant with Medicine and solace of every sort. I breathe deeply, held between the trunks of another Fairy Gate. I feel into each Tree, one vibrant and strong, the other less so. I wonder briefly if it is dying and how they each feel about that.

I whistle up the Hounds and head down. I am moving cautiously in my snow boots but somehow every step I make on my Mountain is true, even if I sometimes give the appearance of falling.

Bitcher Heal Thyself

I have been sick. For months. On and off, off and on. Maybe even for  year, or more, I have been sick. And maybe it's time I really look at this pattern within myself. WTF. Actually, thinking back, it's been two years.

Two years ago this past fall, my son began displaying symptoms of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. My male ex likes to split hairs, it was more compulsive or more obsessive but not both. In either case when the shit hit the fan and my son started attacking me and my daughter and was begging me to bring him to his Dad's, my ex was too busy with his girlfriend and his new life to bother to respond. When my daughter also begged her Dad to come pick her up so she could get some sleep he told her she would just have to "work it out".   See, he didn't really believe it was that bad. He is the sort of guy that if it's not happening to him, then it doesn't exist. So, after a few weeks of watching my beautiful son spiral into a kind of insanity where I could neither reach him nor withstand the cosmic gale that tore him from my side; by the time I had to call the ambulance to bring my out of control son into the hospital I was pretty fried.  I was eviscerated, flayed and bleeding  from my soul.

Prior to that, for a few brief months, I was on top of the world. I had broken up with a woman I had been living with who was so inconceivably selfish she hired a lawyer to sue me for money she had spent on herself out of her savings while I fully supported her. Bitch, but I was  free of her.  I had charted a life course for myself and had plans to enter a Shamanism studies program that, in two years, would be a great capstone to my years of esoteric studies and allow me to step out into private practice. I was in a casual relationship with someone I enjoyed going out with, yet I also reveled  being single and living alone. I was on top of the world, strong and steady.

My son's battle with OCD was an earthquake that shook me from my center and buried me in the debris of my life.  Blessedly, he stabilized on a small dosage of Zoloft. By March he was able to return to school and slowly began rebuilding his life. Looking back, perhaps I should have asked for a prescription for myself or seen a counselor. I did neither. I carried on jumpy, over care taking him, searching his every breath for signs that he would slip back into that hell of OCD, that uber sterile place where you could have eaten a full meal out of my toilets and found them cleaner than a plate freshly emerged from a sanitizer.

I kept going. My casual girlfriend lost her apartment, and I reluctantly offered to have her move in with me. She was my rock when my son  and I were being sucked away. Our casual relationship took a hit of high octane and was propelled into another level before its time. I signed up again for my Shamanism program, then another. I wanted to get my life back, but at the time, didn't realize I was too wounded.

This is when I began to get sick. The week after my first Shamanis retreat, a lingering bout of sinus congestion and a debilitating cough. This pattern repeated itself over and over. I'd be well for a few weeks then sick. I sunk further into depression. I cut away all friendships, even one of over a dozen years. I just stopped calling. Drop by drop love and connection bled from my veins until I was dried and cocooned. I was receiving some spiritual healing from a practitioner who really couldn't help me or handle me. I was suicidal. I slipped further away, spending my time on the couch lifeless and numb whenever my kids were with their dad. When I had them,  I roused myself, cooked, cleaned and listened. Nothing, no one is more important to me than my kids. I am not more important to me than my kids.

The summer rolled away. My practitioner cut me loose accusing me of not wanting to help myself. I knew that wasn't the case. I knew enough about healing processes to recognize one can only go as deep as the person who is holding space for you. And, through no fault of her own, she could not go there for me.  My son moved onto fifth grade, I went to healing camp with a traditional Huichol Shaman. That may have helped. It did verify for me that my path was a bit more complicated than what I had first envisioned.

One warm afternoon, I went to the post office in my small rural town. I was riffling through the free book basket, where patrons drop off and pick up books in a friendly exchange, and snagged up  a set of books about Maine. A day or two later in a Google search I found a woman Shaman who lives in Maine. I took that as a sign and contacted her. And so my true healing began. Through a series of powerful drum journeys, this amazing woman helped me reconnect with myself, she cleaned and bandaged the soul wounds I had endured over the last year and set me on my path of recuperation. As importantly she talked to me. And she let me talk on and on while she read my energy signatures. Thank Goddess is all that I can say.

I entered a six month process of healing on a very deep  level. And now I feel the gaping wounds have been closed but still I am sore all over. My son, after a horrible experience in fifth grade with a militant teacher, is thriving in sixth grade. I am finally starting to relax, to truly believe he will be ok. I so enjoy his sense of humor, his warmth, his intelligence. My daughter has also weathered the storm and is self reliant, self responsible but not selfish. I am so lucky to have a close relationship with my teen.  Yet, yet; I continue to battle these repeating upper respiratory challenges with deep rattling coughs.

My girlfriend and I broke up this past fall and she moved into a bedroom down the hall. She is generous, kind and helpful. I need her to move out. The first two weeks of June are the target date for that to happen. She needs the time to put some debt to bed and figure out where to go. I feel guilty, but I know I need to be on my own. Had I not been stripped to such a level of vulnerability and need I am not sure our relationship would have progressed to the 'move in' point.  And I want my health back. I have always been very healthy but now I must look clearly in the mirror and see that I am not. I don't have a chronic disease or larger health issues, but something is knocking at my door over and over again- like a Jehovah Witness, bringing you the Good News you don't really want to hear. Time to answer the door.

Christmas Luncheon

My emotional homestead is preparing to wine and dine a few folks of import. I've invited Heidi Fleiss, Martha Stewart and Anne Truitt (well known minimalist though I had to Google her) to not only sup with me but take up residence as we slide into the Holiday Season. I say Holiday cause I am for sure a pagan at heart though December is tricked out Christian style.

Anyhow, I am busting my butt on all levels of me being trying to  figure out where to put the Christmas tree. And here is the thing. I am overwhelmed by my ex girlfriend's stuff. She is still in residence living more or less chastely down the hall as we figure out if "Friends with Benefits" actually is a viable option.  ANYHOW again. I can't stand all the stuff.  We have way too many couches, she came with two and a love seat, plus there is the stuff I bought with the house. And I, in my secret Pagan heart, am a minimalist. (I've capitalized and not capitalized pagan because it drives people crazy to respect or not respect the word Pagan as an official religion- but I digress again.)  And there are too many boxes. Boxes and boxes of stuff in my basement, in my back closet. Plus the clothes. How can one woman have so many clothes? If I take up more than two feet of hanging space I start to panic. More shoes than can fit on my three tiered rack? Palpitations and time for a Valium. Seriously. I want all my stuff to be only things I love and use, seasonal things need to be in clear plastic tubs neatly labeled by my Dymo LetraTag.

I have lived with two women and a man, all serially of course. Not quite that masochistic. I am amazed at how much stuff people have. I am constantly paring down, and though I have a lot in my estimation I don't think it's excessive for a mother of two.  Yet Christmas is a time of excess, decking the halls and all that. Hence my Martha Stewart is fighting fiercely for her decorating rights, while Anne Truitt is yelling, "Off with her head!" and Heidi keeps telling me it's OK to just get me some down the hall, which further entrenches all the stuff in my house. Every kiss, every touch is another box cementing itself to my basement floor, another couch stacked with throw blankets.

Running through all this is more Christmas nostalgia. I want to be with someone. My whole life was geared to home making, partnering and being with people, especially family. What I am now is so far from where I started I am unrecognizable to myself.  I can't handle it. I've always wanted to write or say that, but in fact I can handle it. Just as soon as I find my big girl panties. Think I left them on the couch, under a cushion, you know, from when I was last calculating my cost benefit ratios.

What Motivates You?

A simple self help question. One I've directed at myself many times. The answer runs the gamut from nothing to helping people. As of late, 'nothing' has been the number one answer, until today. Today a dear friend asked me this question on the heels of a conversation about relationships, the 80/20 rule, and what I was connecting with in my life. Today the true answer revealed itself and with it begged a million more questions. What motivates me is creating a stable home environment for my kids. End stop. There is nothing more. That is the only thing that motivates me, it is my prime directive.  What I realized for the first time is this:  anything my subconscious deems as undermining to my prime directive is not allowed. End stop again.  This is more than over care taking, compensating for my kids' emotionally distant father, compensating for my gayness or putting my family through a divorce. More than all that. Providing a stable home environment for my kids is the only reason I am living. It is why I hold fast to denying myself a life, a satisfying relationship, a successful career. I cannot even allow myself to think about a career because it might upset the apple cart. I need to be constantly available 24/7 to my kids in case they need me. And to prove that, despite divorce, gayness, and questionable partner choices,  I am a really good mother. I don't want my kids to be screwed up because of me. My kids are not screwed up, they are really good kids; however, if I take my eye off the ball for one second we are all going to hell in a ballistic missile. Aint't no hand basket buff enough or fast enough to transport us to hell at the rate of certain chaos my cellular imprint informs me would be precipitated if for one second I looked away.

I am not sure what to do with this information. I am guessing I will encourage this aspect of myself to split off from my core being so I may observe her, question her, paint her and write her. I need to find out what makes her tick in a masturbatory kind of way.  Because right now I can find no fault in her logic, no reason to change this way of living.  Other than this vague sense that I have somehow given up, that I am compromising; sacrificing on the altar of a false goddess. Yet it is not that I want to forsake hearth and home. Part of my struggle is to connect with both in an authentic way.

When I lived on a farm in Virginia with a hard working man who spent many long hours, days and weeks building a business, I was very isolated. His frequent business trips turned me into a survivor: independent and capable of taking care of assorted farm animals and pets while raising two toddlers. Family was far away and often I was lonely and overwhelmed. I  felt betrayed that my helpmate was nowhere to be found when life got tough or I was unhappy. "You are not trying hard enough" became his mantra. When he was home, work took precedence and my one weekly outing was comprised of going to the grocery store, 25 minutes away, on a Tuesday evening. To say I grew small is an understatement. To say that I cut away all  need for family and connection is a reality. Having unmet needs that could never be satisfied within the context of my reality was more painful than burying those needs deep within my psyche. I disciplined myself to be needless.

Now, sans farm, sans man I have an opportunity to allow myself a balanced expression of meeting my needs for family and connection while practicing self cultivation, yet I find myself unable to bridge those gaps between pain and pleasure. (Finally she is speaking of bondage my non-existent readers sigh). The footers forming the foundation for my defenses of self denial are deeply dug. The double alliteration. A subject so painful that I distract my self with linguistic chicanery. The fact is, I don't want to change. To change this pattern means that I will put at risk the well being of my kids. That is the underlying root. Or am I just using my kids to avoid taking a chance?  A little of both I think. Self loathing finds many ways of cloaking itself in the latest of fashions. Like some of those DIY programs on HGTV that substitute superficial fixes for corrective measures and do so in a manner that convinces themselves, and viewer alike, that such bait and switch tactics are just fine and dandy. Yes, lets compromise the integrity of an insulated exterior wall by installing a ridiculous six inches of between the stud shelving. So worth it!

The good news is awareness. My guides once told me that once awareness dawns, fifty percent of the work is done. Just getting to the point where you can actually see yourself clearly is a major step. I will take that fifty percent and watch. And when I've had my fill of watching I may even get up off my duff and change the channel or even turn the whole set off. Move to a new house with new challenges and leave this room with the yellow wall paper for a final time.

Lousie Hay and the Stubborn Mule

I think it is time for me to say 'Golden Retriever!' loudly and emphatically. I have taken a hiatus from all things Spiritual. Don't bog me down with details, Spirit is in everything, yada yada.  I don't care. I am tired of being hammered on the anvil of God. A friend of mine relates a story about this wise guru who came to the West to inspire the masses with his enlightenment. What we want to receive from these great masters are offerings of roses, not galvanized buckets of hurl.  But that day, from that guru, only hurl was on the menu. This is what he told his audience: When you begin a spiritual path God will hammer you on His anvil until you are pure gold. Yes, the alchemy of it all. The Dark Night of the Soul, the personal transformation process.  Ram Das, who at least strews his hurl with rose petals, calls the spiritual path a "long slippery pole." And if I remember right, he advises in Be Here Now, if you haven't started, don't.

It's too late for me not to start, but I am swimming upstream against all common wisdom that says you can't turn back. Hell I can't. I am putting the genie back in the bottle.  Which brings me to Louise Hay. Ever cheerful and inspirational, usually I love Louise Hay but not when I am being a Stubborn Mule.  Ah, the title of today's missive is clear.   Since I have been putting the genie back in the bottle I have developed persistent leg pain, from the hips down. Now I am a fairly in shape kinda gal. I have always had good health with the occasional bouts of dis-ease but nothing major. And this is not major, it is just in my face (and my ankles, calves, things, knees and hips).

Louise Hay in her grand book You Can Heal Your Life has this to say:

Our LEGS carry us forward in life. Leg problems often indicate a fear of moving forward or a reluctance to move forward in a certain direction. We run with our legs, we drag our legs, we pussyfoot, we are knock-kneed, pigeon-toed; and we have big fat, angry thighs filled with childhood resentments. Not wanting to do things will often produce minor leg problems. ...Are you going in the direction you want to? (166)

The same friend with the cheery guru story also told me that the Gods reward generosity and, given my generosity, she hope that I will be equally rewarded. The thing is, the Gods' idea of generosity doesn't always match up with what I really would like or want in my life. They give me what they think I need. Therefore, I am not particularly interested in being over generous in life. Here comes the whine. Since Dancing With the Gods began playing on my channel I have lost my mind in a some sort of reality snap, alienated a ton of friends, worried my family beyond reason, moved three times, and oh yeah, came out GAY resulting in a divorce and more condemnation from friends and family. Now, I'm a big girl. I've dealt with this stuff. I am personally responsible for my own shit, a.k.a. life, but I have to say I am not in the mood for being generous. Enough. I am done "growing." I want to be just thankful and grateful enough that I can continue to draw breath, appreciate the friends I have left and enjoy an occasional Sunday dinner with my family. That's it.

All the other things, I am returning to the big Customer Service Desk in the sky. Thanks but these didn't quite fit....No, I don't want to exchange anything.  and uh, keep the cash, maybe just donate it to a charity. But please, amortized it over thirty years.

Google God

I've decided to become a Priestess in the Temple of the Google God.  I can think of nothing more omniscient than Google. Who do we turn to when we have a query? Need a phrase of affirmation or encouragement?  Google of course. And Google knows how to spell and all the antonyms and synonyms for every word in just about every language. Sounds like God to me. 

I look forward to sitting somewhere beautiful, eating bon-bons procured on line from some Googled inspired fair trade organic web site and wafting blessings on the multitude of seekers: "May the Google God bless you with wisdom, my child"  "May you find answers to your questions, dear one." I would be totally hooked up with the latest in wireless technology and float  through Trekkie holodecks of information. It would be like shopping at Sam's Club, only they would have what you want in a size you actually need. Perfect. And of course, there would be all the great accoutrements. I  could sell. "What would GG do?" bracelets and T-Shirts. So hip, so retro, so GG.

There are a few problems. What of the Google Goddess? Surely, if there is a God there must be a Goddess to bring sanity to the paradigm. After not much thought at all, I believe the sole energy capable of balancing the Google God is a Golden Retriever. Only a female Golden Retriever, with her sweet lovable personality fur wrapped around a solid core of bitch, is up to the task. She is trickster to GG's linear equation, a wet kiss in the midst of gdocking, and a soggy tennis ball in Wikepedia.  She is, in effect, a safe word in a world of informational role playing.  Done. Now I'm feeling lucky, how about you?

A Matter of Definition

Just a few disclaimers, here at the start. Something about names and naming and truth in advertising. This is not a blog about domestic bondage lesbian style,  per se. Though having someone cook and clean for me is a hugely appealing, I want to be clear that any Domimatrix Domesticata  scenarios, safe word or no, will not be unfolding here.  I will explore how identifying  as lesbian,  raising kids, running a home, and attempting, for the love of all that is holy and profane,  to shift my center from an external to an internal frame of reference does have a bondage /freedom dichotomy that pretty much runs my life.  I also want to disclaim a little about my blog tag:  Versa Girl.  First off, I am hardly a girl. Let me repeat that. Hardly.   Like long ago, distant memory. BUT  I liked the super heroine ring of Versa Girl, I like the word play with "verse",  I liked how phonetically familiar Versa Girl is with the "versatile." And if nothing else, that is what I am. Versatile.

I also have half a notion to combine this with The Artist Way work. I'm thinking about it. 

So I am looking at how have I written myself out of the equation of my life? How, in my fierce fierce independence, self sufficiency, and taking care of business head on approach to living, have I supplanted myself? Or rather,  how have I never realized the extent to which I have centered my life around ideals and belief systems rather than  my essential self?  We shall see, my dahlings. We shall see.