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.