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.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Saturday, December 11, 2010
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.
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.
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