TangledWings

Still and Quiet

I haven't had much to say lately.  All the excitement of early April tapered off into quiet stillness.  Maybe it's because I've felt too restless to settle myself into words.  Nothing seems to hold my attention long enough to manifest into any kind of substance.  Or maybe it's because I turn 35 in two short weeks and I've found myself very introspective, not handling aging as well as I tell myself I am.  Finding myself in my late thirties has a very different feel than being in my early thirties.  Or maybe it's that I'm questioning what's next, what is that next thing I need to give my energy too, that thing that will fill me with excitement like blogging did in the beginning and then later photography.  I'm in that place where I'm ready for something new, hungry for it even.  Or maybe it's because after returning from Seattle I've felt a little trapped in my life, wanting something more but feeling so uncertain, balancing on what it while spinning on what can be.

That's where I am right now: a place of still quietness with underpinnings of restlessness.

So how are you...or should I say where?

.me.

There is an interesting phenomenon that happens when I look at pictures of myself...maybe it happens to you as well.  Sometimes I see myself and I look similar to what I think I look like.  I look like the image that stares back at me from the mirror everyday.  But most of the time I don't look like that person at all and it feels a little weird.  It feels uneasy, and a little insecure, when I don't look like the image of myself I've been carrying around in my mind's eye.  It also feels a little disappointing.  I practice looking at myself, finding the things I like in my own reflection, so that I can learn to accept myself.  When I see something very different from that image it throws me off balance a little.  I find myself staring at the photo looking for traces of the person I know, looking for what I find beautiful and acceptable in the image I see in front of me.  I guess it's that need to feel okay with myself. 

Most of the time I shy away from the camera.  That's probably true for most women.  It usually works for me because I'm normally the person behind the camera.  I don't have to come face-to-face with myself very often.  The pictures above were taken on my camera by Liz.  We were having brunch at a little french bistro before leaving Port Townsend after ArtFest.  When I got home and loaded all my Seattle pictures onto my computer I found them.  I've looked at them several times.  I'm not really certain what I'm looking for.  I guess I want to look at them and feel okay with myself, feel okay with what I look like.  While some of what I see in these three images feels unfamiliar there is something appealing about them.  It's the joy, the joy I see all over my face.  I remember laughing at how cute Liz was when she was taking my picture.  I remember that feeling of having gone through a transformational few days and feeling right with myself and my life.  I remember feeling a little uncertain about how the day would unfold (because I'm quiet I often feel a little pressured/stressed about conversing with someone else, even a good friend) but willing to sit with a little uncertainty in favor of a unique bonding opportunity.  I remember feeling at peace.

When I look at these pictures of myself there are still a few parts I want to push away, a few things I don't like about what I see.  But the joy I see outweighs everything else.  It's the joy that keeps me coming back to the images, viewing them over and over, looking into my own face to learn more about who I am.   

Scared & Fearless

For his birthday T and I bought the B-Dog his first bike...with training wheels of course.  Once we lowered the seat a bit more for his little legs he was off faster than either T or I could keep up with.  It's a good source of exercise: put the kid on a bike and jog to keep up with him.  All was well until last weekend when the B-Dog took his first spill.  He was flying down the street only to round a corner a little too quickly and wind up on his face.  He limped around for a few days, a big bruise on his knee.  He recovered from the limping in a few days time...except for when the suggestion of a bike ride came up, then the limping recommenced.  He complained that he couldn't ride his bike because his knee just hurt too bad.

Tonight was his first time back on the bike.  I needed to pick up a few things from the grocery store and in order to get a little exercise and help out the environment I thought it would be a good idea to walk.  And it would have been a great idea if it hadn't taken us almost and hour to make it 5 blocks.  Although the fear of falling again didn't immobilize him it did certainly slow him down to a snails pace.  I could have crawled on my hands and knees the entire way and still have been faster than he was on his bike.  And anytime we approached an uneven place in the sidewalk or a gravely area he came to a complete stop.  Sometimes that's what falling can do to us.  We quickly go from zooming around corners to barely moving.

It didn't help that he kept repeating the same mantra over and over again: I'm so very, very scared.  We finally had to stop and talk about the message he was giving himself.  I explained that sometimes when we say something about ourselves again and again that's the way we start to feel.  By saying over and over that he was scared he was making himself feel scared.  Instead we were going to change the message.  He was going to say, I am very, very brave...because he was.  Getting back on the bike after being hurt is brave.  And while our speed didn't increase much at least the message he was giving himself changed.

About a block from the store the B-Dog said, "Mom, what does the word fearless mean?"  I told him it was similar to being brave.  It meant without fear.  He liked that word better and so his new mantra became I am very, very fearless.  We finally made it to the store, purchased the eggs and Teddy Grahams we needed, and begin our slow trek home, the whispers of I am very, very fearless heard just above the crunch of gravel and the squeak of training wheels.  About halfway home B said, "Mom, guess what I am now, very, very scared or very, very fearless?"  Wanting to encourage the positive self-talk I answered, "I think you're very, very fearless."  "Nope," he replied, "I'm both very, very scared and very, very fearless."  And isn't that just about the truth of life--the fear and the fearlessness co-existing. 

I think sometimes I give fear a bad rap.  I think I'm supposed to always live bravely, that I'm supposed to eradicate fear from my life.  But fear has its positive aspects.  It alerts us to when something is wrong.  Its the fear that keeps us careful and cautious so that we can live wisely while living bravely.  It can be fear that pushes us to rely on others when we need them the most...like when we're getting our courage up to ride our bike again and we want someone by our side...just in case.  Its fear that teaches us to look both ways before crossing the street and to watch for cars pulling out from the driveway.  In other words, what I'm trying to say is fear isn't always our enemy.  Fear is that something inside us that just wants to keep us safe, keep us from getting hurt. 

We've been home for over an hour.  The B-Dog is fast asleep...at least I hope so and I've watched Samantha Who?  I'm still thinking about our trip to the store and how it is good to be both very, very scared and very, very fearless.  Maybe instead of shaming myself for the fear I sometimes feel I need to look at my own fear from a different perspective, to see it not as something to push from my life but as something to honor, something to view as I would an overprotective friend, at times too limiting and constraining but at other times very right in its observations, something to couple with my own fearlessness.    

The Gift of Thursday Nights

Thursday nights have become my favorite night of the week.  I have exchanged Ugly Betty and Grey's Anatomy for a dinner date with myself and a two hour chunk of time to do nothing but write and talk about writing.  I think I've mentioned that I've been attending a Thursday night writing group.  Although it certainly isn't the group I always dreamed of having it still feeds me.  I imagined connections and friendships and deep talks about the relationship between the self and the words.  Instead there are just two of us, me and the facilitator, and we don't have contact outside of Thursday nights.  But I'll take what I can get and continue to wish for, pray for, conjure, a group that meets more of my need for creative and truthful expression. 

Even though it hasn't been all I dreamed it would be, the opportunity to meet once a week, write, and share my words with a fellow writer has gifted me in many ways.  It is giving me confidence in my voice and my ability.  I'm writing with a young woman who has her masters in creative writing (or something like that) and I'm finding that I can write right along side her.  I can hang.  She has more education, and in some ways more experience, but I haven't sensed a huge separation between us as far as the level of our writing goes.  And that was something I feared when I first begin attending.  There was this fear, this insecurity within me, that I would feel, well, like my writing sucked compared to hers.  I'm discovering it doesn't and I need that.  That is probably very ego based but I think as artists, hell, as humans, we long to feel that what we have to offer is valuable, beautiful, and meaningful.  It's not praise that's needed so much as affirmation.  It is that need to know that what is so important to me isn't complete shit.  It's those bits and pieces of affirmation that keeps one doing what one loves to do.  And that affirmation is important because when your soul is deeply connected to your art, whatever that medium might be, you want to sense that it is being seen and honored, not overlooked and crushed to pieces.  I don't know that affirmation is essential as much as it is important...hmmmm...this is something I want to toss around some more because it's an intriguing thought--the importance and place of affirmation.

Another very unexpected gift my Thursday night group has given me is the growing ability to see the value in aging.  As we write and then read our pieces aloud I have become more aware of how aging can not only add an edge of maturity to ones writing and acceptance of ones writing, but it also yields so many more rich experiences to draw from.  More than once I have left the group with a new perspective on my life.  Its helping me see that I actually have had a pretty fascinating life with some really incredible experiences.  Of course you don't have to be older to have a wealth of fascinating and incredible life experiences.  But being older certainly does give more time to have more fascinating and incredible life experiences.    That has been important to me because often I look at my life and think it hasn't been interesting, that its boring and ordinary and, well, not enough.  But when I see myself drawing from my own personal experiences in our various writing exercises I begin to feel okay about where my life is and what my life thus far has been.   

I'm also learning that it's okay to have nights of really shitty writing.  That's going to happen.  Sometimes I feel empty or tired.  Sometimes it just isn't flowing.  Sometimes I know what I want to say but can't quite get it right.  I seem to be working around it but can't quite get to it.  And that's okay.  Let it go and move on.  There is more that needs to be written and it will come in many forms...sometimes that form being really terrible writing.

I guess it can all be summed up by saying every time I show up and write, no matter what comes out, and then share my words with someone else, I am being gifted not only with the growth that comes from practice but the self-acceptance that comes from seeing your truth, owning your voice, honoring and holding on to what worked and acknowledging and letting go of what didn't.

Your Stories {feelin' the love}

If you have been following all my stories about ArtFest then you read about the mini meltdown I had during the first workshop.  It was a truly intense moment for me.  But at the end of the workshop I sat in a room full of budding poets and words dripping with soulful truth and felt an incredible sense of love, the kind of feeling that leaves one believing in god, or at least in some kind of power greater than the self.

Through most of my ordinary days I don't hold on to that sense of love the way I wish I could.  I forget what it feels like to know without a doubt that love indwells me and surrounds me.  I manage to forget that I am deeply loved just as I am, right where I am.  That is why these moments when I do recognize it are so powerful and significant.  They are what pulls me through those moments when feeling that deep unconditional love is nothing more than a memory.  When those moments of experiencing what I choose to call divine love occur I try to breathe them in as deeply as possible, pulling them into my body, memorizing the sensations, being fully present in the moment so that it can transform me in little bits and pieces.  And then life goes on and the moment slips away.  Like the rest of life it is a cycle...the remembering, forgetting, and remembering again. 

Most of the time those moments aren't planned or expected.  They just happen, slipping up on me and catching me unaware.  They always leave me a little teary, a little breathless, and very humble.  They are why I believe in god, in myself, in hope, in life's ability to unfold in ways that support me as a worthwhile human being.  They are why I believe my journey into knowing myself, embracing myself, and accepting myself is the most important journey I will ever take.

When was the last time you felt that kind of love, the kind of love that is beyond human capabilities?  Maybe it started inside of you and then tumbled out.  Maybe you sensed it surrounding you and you pulled it within.  What were you doing when that moment occurred?  How did you honor it?  How do you hold it inside and recall the knowledge of that love when life gets really messy?  When was the last time you knew without a doubt you are loved in a way that is beyond comprehension and explanation?  And when the knowledge of that love sneaks up on you, who are you after it wraps itself tightly around you then silently slips away?  I always find that in that moment and the moments afterward I am my truest and best self. 

for you on your 5th birthday...

Dear you,

All weekend I have been tossing around some thoughts in my head, composing letters to you of things I'd like you to know about me, about you, about us, about the tangled relationship of parent and child.  I've lied awake at night writing big chunks of this letter; I just haven't actually pulled out paper and pen to get it down in physical form.  It's all been a mess of thoughts that I'm not certain I can adequately articulate.

When I was in Seattle, the longest I've ever been away from you, my friend Liz and I were sitting in her living room talking about life, about children and their parents, and the messiness of it all.  She said something that struck me with its truth, something that describes the parent/child relationship so well:  There is going to be shit.  But there is going to be so much love.  And that's just about the long and short of it.  I've thought about her words so many times since that evening.  There is going to be shit.  There's no way around that.  As much as I long to never hurt you, never make you feel anything less than the fabulous soul that you are, I'm going to screw up.  I'm going to make you doubt yourself.  I'm going to do things that hurt your feelings.  I'm going to make decisions and choices that I regret.  I'm going to make you feel things that break my heart to think about.  I'm going to make you cry.  I'm going to make you angry.  I'm going to yell, I'm going to totally miss it, I'm going to be self-absorbed, I'm going to have moments of complete selfishness.  It's going to happen.  And there may even be times that you doubt that you are loved and wanted and worthwhile because of something I've said or done.  I hate knowing that.

If I could line up all my parenting mistakes and failures they would circle the globe multiple times.  I always swear I'll learn from each one and maybe I do.  The only problem is rarely does the same situation arise again.  It's always new situations...with new opportunities to totally screw it up.  I'm not saying I'm a bad parent.  I'm saying I'm a human and I'm learning as I go along.  We do the best we can and unfortunately sometimes our best doesn't cut it.  There are moments when I make a parenting choice and immediately I know I totally fucked that one up.  The problem is I can't undo those things.  We can talk about it. I can say I'm sorry.  But I can't undo the mistake or the way my choice makes you feel or see yourself.  It's hard for adults to separate themselves from the actions of others much less children, but I hope I can help you learn, I hope I can help you truly know, that what I do, the way I react, has nothing to do with you.  I yell at you not because you're worthless but because I'm tired, or hungry, or angry at someone else...or I have a  really bad case of PMS.  It has absolutely nothing to do with you.  It's my shit and unfortunately some of it gets dumped on you.  That's what happens when people choose to relate to one another, especially if they live under the same roof.  And I try to explain that to you.  Every time I feel like I really screwed up I try to talk to you and explain what was happening with me that caused my reaction.  It may not take away the sting but I hope it helps you hold on a little better to the truth of your worth and value.

I've been reading this book about writing and the author must have had a pretty rough childhood because he occasionally brings up the fact that parents can really screw up their kids--parents can be so contradictory, making their children feel special one moment and then like a huge inconvenience the next.  It can be confusing and cause a lot of self-doubt.  Every time I read the author's parenting philosophies I cringe because although it sounds like he experienced childhood at it's worse there is a level of truth to what he says and I know that.  Children are impacted by their parents.  I don't know many, if any, people who don't have some kind of issues with their parents.  Usually all children have something...some issue with their parents that has followed them into adulthood.  And with you it will probably be no different.  One day you'll be writing about/talking about the things I did or said that you have issues with.  There's just no way around that and I guess I need to reconcile myself to that fact.  The ironic thing is the very things I'm trying so hard to prevent, the wounds I experienced that I am trying to keep you from feeling, won't be the things that effect you.  It will be totally different issues, issues I don't even realize exist because I'm so busy focusing on trying to save you from my issues.  Yes there will be shit.  Knowing this doesn't give me an excuse to be shitty but in a way it lifts a huge weight off my shoulders.  It allows me to relax into the humanness of parenting and release some of the guilt and regret I carry around with me every time I do make mistakes.

Years ago a friend of mine was giving a talk to a group of people about his parent's divorce and the impact it had on him--the pain, the wounds, the self-doubt.  Sitting beside me in the audience was his mother.  When the evening was over someone came up to me and told me how sorry they felt for this friend's mother, having to sit there and hear her son say such terrible things about her.  I knew his mother well enough to know that she was proud of her son for telling his truth, that the pain her divorce caused him was never something she wanted him to push away or lie about.  Yes some of her choices and actions played into his wounds.  She knew that.  And she would always have some regrets about the things she couldn't undo.  But refusing to hear his truth, refusing to allow him to voice his truth, wouldn't make him hurt any less.  Telling his truth, even if parts of it were hard for her to hear, was the thing she wanted most for him because she was wise enough to know that when you can own your truth you can begin to find healing.  That's what she wanted for him. 

I tell you that story because it's an image I try to hold on to as I navigate my own way through parenting.  The shit will happen.  When it happens I will hate it.  I will have regrets.  I will ache knowing I've wounded you.  But one of the things I want to do as a parent is allow you to own and voice your truth.  That's one of the hard lessons we try to learn as humans, how to separate ourselves, our feelings, from the truth of others.  We try to learn to allow others to tell their truth without wanting to silence them for our own sake or without cutting off the relationship because we are uncomfortable with their truth.  That's the gift I hope to be able to give you--the gift of allowing you to have your truth and voice your truth...even when it involves our tangled relationship.

I guess what I try to do everyday is make certain the love outweighs the shit.  Maybe the love will never cover the shit or make the shit okay but it helps us survive the shit.  It is the love that bandages some of the wounds caused by the shit.

One last thing.  I need you to know that you have changed my life more than any other human being.  You push me and challenge me more than anyone else.  You help me see both my limits and my capabilities more than any other relationship does.  With you I feel more powerless and inadequate than with anyone else.  But I also feel a bond with you that I don't have with any other human.  That's why you are the great love of my life...the one thing I will never recover from...one of the reasons I get up and do this all over again day after day, even on days when I really don't want to.  I hope when the shit happens...and it will...you will always remember that I love you more than anything.  Let knowing how much I love you help you survive the shit you will go through with me.

Mom       

F.I.V.E.

Guess who turned 5 today...

A Day with a Wayward Tulip

My last 24 hours in the Seattle area were spent with the amazing Liz.  If you don't read her blog please check it out.  She is full of truth, honesty, creativity, and beauty.  I mean she founded Poetry Thursday...how much cooler can one get.

We enjoyed Port Townsend a little more that morning, including brunch at an adorable French pastry shop, before heading to her home.  Our drive to Tacoma was filled with spurts of non-stop talking coupled with moments of deep quiet.  I think we both wanted to use our time to really bond but we were also both really exhausted.  So we alternated between talking and silence so that we could both bond and rest.

I met Liz in Seattle about a year and a half ago.  Since then we have stayed in touch through e-mails and phone calls, and of course reading each other's blogs.  But when I originally met her it was with a group of other bloggers.  This time I got her all to myself.  I didn't have to share her with anyone.  I got to see the famous Little Room from which some truly amazing ideas are birthed...and just about the cutest bags and aprons ever.  I got to meet Millie.  And I got to meet her husband John who we surprised with our arrival.  We caught him off-guard in the kitchen in the middle of filling vases with tulips for her return...isn't that sweet.

Our afternoon was spent just chillin' which was exactly what I needed.  I relaxed on her couch while flipping through some of her art books.  And I read through all of Theo's zines which Liz purchased on vendor night.  While I was lost in my own state of relaxation Liz was catching up on e-mails and finishing a really cool necklace she started in one of her workshops at ArtFest.  That evening she and John treated me to dinner at a favorite Thai food restaurant and then the three of us took a little trip to Borders.  Did you expect anything less from two book/poetry lovers?  She picked up several magazines and a copy of the newest volume of poetry by Li-Young Lee.  I purchased a volume of poetry by Jane Hirschfield whose glory I fully discovered for the first time in Susan's workshops.

As I was helping Susan pack up after Friday's workshop we talked some about my trouble owning my words.  She suggested I read the pieces I wrote in her workshops aloud to Liz as a step towards ownership.  So that night, after John retired, both of us in our jammies, I read my poems aloud as she sat cuddled under a blanket in the chair across from me. 

I don't remember everything that was said in the moments after I read.  I don't remember the details of our conversations at Borders.  I can't recall everything that was tossed between the two of us in that 24 hour period of time.  I just remember feeling at ease knowing I was with a like-minded soul.  I remember how good it felt to be with someone who also valued authenticity and realness.  And I remember feeling deeply connected to another soul who is also on a journey to discover the fullness of herself.

The next morning, after a hard sleep in one of the most comfortable beds ever, there was one last stop to make before heading to the airport and eventually home.  I needed to see the ocean one last time.  I felt the best was to say goodbye, until I'm able to return again, was to stand at the oceans edge, look out across the vastness of the silver water, and breath in the pacific air one last time...to maybe hear the squawk of seagulls, find a rock or two for my son, and whisper a little prayer of thanks for everything that transpired over the past few days.  I don't know exactly what it is about Seattle that has stolen my heart.  It's probably a lot of things combined including the handful of wonderful friends who call that area home.  And it is most definitely the close proximity to the ocean, the ocean I'm so far away from in the lower panhandle of Texas.  That's why I couldn't come home without kissing the ocean goodbye, hoping the wind would carry the scent of my skin into its depths so that when I do return it will remember me.

*all the images above are of Liz and her Little Room.  you can see some of her images of that morning at this post.   

The Final Day of Workshops at ArtFest

When I woke up Saturday morning I seriously considered skipping the day's workshop.  After two days of writing all I really wanted to do was write some more.  I thought I might just walk to the beach (only a few yards away from the dorms), find myself a seat on a comfortable fallen tree trunk, and write until I couldn't write any longer, until my fingers cramped and my brain was mush.  But then I remembered the adorable rings Kim made the previous day in a workshop taught by the same teacher and I felt excited about the possibilities.

Well peeps let me just say it doesn't look like jewelry making is my thing.  The workshop was call Pray Box Jewelry and the teacher was Susan Lenart-Kazmer.  Susan makes incredible, eclectic jewelry.  Stuff I might not ever wear but super cool all the same.  You can check out some of her work at this link.  I was really frustrated with the class, not because Susan wasn't a good teacher and not because the workshop sucked.  It was just me.  I was totally out of my element.  That's not necessarily a bad thing because it pushes you to learn new skills and stretch yourself.  But on the last day of ArtFest, when I was exhausted both physically and emotionally, it was just a lot to tackle.  I was a little frustrated with the way the class was taught.  Susan demonstrated the techniques from start to finish and then let us start creating.  Well by the time we got around to creating I couldn't remember how to do anything.  And I was disappointed that what we created looked nothing like the picture on the web-site that drew me to the class to begin with.  I thought the picture was an illustration of what we would be making and I loved it.  But that's not what we made.  Several women in the class made some really remarkable pieces...and multiple pieces at that.  I was lucky to walk out of that workshop 6 hours later with one completed piece.

Basically we were given a kit that contained a square of cooper, some wire, and some itty-bitty washers.  From that square of cooper we cut the shape of our "container", heated it with a blow torch to make it more workable, and molded it into a shape using various tools that I don't know the names of.  We used the wire to create handles and a trapeze so that it would have a little bit of a swinging action.  This required the use of a drimmel and using the blow torch once again to "make a bead" at the end of the wire to prevent it from coming out to the drimmel hole.  Are you following me?  Yeah...it was way over my head too.  For me the coolest part of the class was this resin paper Susan created that we could use as accessories.  I guess she coated sheets of paper with this special resin formula and, when dry, the paper became brittle and almost transparent.  Really cool.  Sadly we didn't get to learn how to make that. 

About 3 hours into the workshop I started wishing I had followed through with my morning musings and just gone to the beach with a pen and journal.  I was frustrated because I couldn't remember the order of the steps.  I was frustrated with having to stand in line to use certain tools.  I was frustrated with the materials we were using.  I was frustrated with having to stand in line to get help from the teacher.  I was frustrated that everyone else seemed to "get it" and I didn't.  I was just frustrated all the way around.  I think I used the word shit in that one workshop more than I have my entire life put together.  One of the big reasons I almost didn't finish making anything was because multiple times throughout the day I just sat in my chair, staring into space, trying to decide if I should just get up and walk out.  But then I would think about the $20 I spent on supplies (I know $20 isn't a lot of money but it is when you're broke) and I would force myself to continue, determined to walk out of that class with something.  And I did...eventually.  I'm not really sure how I feel about what I made but at least I made something.

That evening was show & tell.  It's a display of some of the work created over the past three days in the various workshops.  It was neat to see what the other classes created and it gave me an idea of who I'd like to work with in the future should I come to ArtFest again.  I think my absolute favorite display was the funky wallpaper people created in Anahata Katkin's class.  It may sound weird but believe me it was super cool.

If you had asked me on the 2nd day of the workshops how I was feeling about being away from home I would have told you I dreaded the thought of returning.  I didn't dread returning to anything specific, like my family, my home, my job, etc.  I dreaded returning to who I had been the weeks preceding ArtFest, that girl I've been mentioning in the past several posts that was totally out of sorts with herself, beating herself up over body issues, and letting it all overflow into her life through total bitchiness.  I wanted to stay longer...as long as it took to get in a better frame of mind before returning home.  I didn't necessarily want to stay at ArtFest.  I didn't necessarily want to stay in a world of creating while the "real" world went on without me.  I wanted to stay in a place where I felt I could be myself, a place that is not as suffocating to me as West Texas can sometimes be.  I wanted to stay with people who understood that and were on a similar journey.  I wanted to stay in a place that gave me the room I needed to change and grow and explore, with the added bonus of encouragement from some really cool peeps.  I got knots in my stomach just thinking about having to come back to my life.  But by this last day, just one day later, I was ready.  I was missing my guys.  I was missing my bed.  I was missing my friends.  I was ready to go back as a person who had been transformed in small ways over the course of three days of workshops with some pretty incredible teachers and some even more incredible friends.  I felt ready, hopeful that things didn't have to be the way they had been.  I felt equipped with a much better attitude and a greater sense of self-love so that I could go back and be who I had been the past few days...the person I know I truly am..a capable, tender, confident, centered, creative, beautiful, deeply spiritual woman who just so happens to be a pretty damn good writer.

*shot above was taken of Kim's tool box

Shall We Try This Again?:Day 2 with Susan Wooldridge at ArtFest

When I originally registered for ArtFest I didn't sign up for Susan Wooldridge's second workshop.  I thought I needed variety.  But a few weeks later I had an "aha" moment.  If the woman I've admired for so long was teaching two workshops why would I not take both?  After a few e-mail exchanges with Teesha Moore I was moved to Susan's Crazy Love Poems workshop on Friday.  The only problem was when I arrived at ArtFest I wasn't in Susan's Friday class.  I was in the class I originally registered for.  I hadn't been moved.  In error, Teesha failed to move me.  But I had to go to Susan's second workshop because 1) I didn't bring supplies for the other class and 2) well, I just HAD to.  So Friday morning, in spite of having one of the most intense days of my life the day before (including making myself sick) and actually not being officially registered for the class, I showed up anyway.  I worried about being there even though Teesha said it would be fine since it was her oversight.  But still, I'm too much of a good girl.  I like to play by the rules and not cause any trouble.  As soon as I arrived at the class I told Susan I didn't think Teesha had moved me as requested and I was worried about being there but Susan said she didn't care because she believed I needed to be there.  Things were happening that needed to happen and she thought her class was exactly where I needed to be.  And that's exactly how I felt too.

I woke up Friday morning in a totally different head space than the day before.  I felt so much more "in" myself.  I felt more connected, more at peace, more joyful, more alive and energetic.  And I was itching to write.  I could barely pay attention to Susan's introduction because words were bubbling in my head.  I was so ready to write and see what spilled out.  The class began just as the previous day's class did--with the body prayers, the new version of the Lord's prayer, and the Yahweh exercise.  This time I was actually in my body.  I was less self-conscious and better able to flow through the movements.  I was so much more connected to myself, especially my body, than I had been the day before.  So we were off to a good start.  I didn't even cry during the Lord's prayer.

The class still began with "stealing" words, the word pool, prompts, word tickets, and postcards just as it had the previous workshop but this time the exercise and the prompts focused on love and how love can sometimes get twisted into something it was never supposed to be, something we no longer recognize as love, and about how what love really is can often get lost along the way.  I don't clearly remember the first exercise.  I just remember needing to write and not being able to clearly get what I wanted on to the page because I wanted to write so badly.  There was too much energy rushing through me and I couldn't grab on to the things that were flowing through me.  I couldn't hold on to them long enough to actually write them.  But I clearly remember the second exercise.

Prior to the second exercise we were given tiny matchboxes.  We were to walk around outside and gather objects in our matchboxes that said something to us about love.  Again my words were flowing faster than I could keep up with.  Every time I picked up on object words rushed forth.  The tricky part was trying to remember them when it came time to write.  I held them in my head as best I could.  In both workshops Susan had touched some on our shadow selves and our need to accept our shadow as opposed to cutting it off or pushing it away.  While others chose to write their second poem to specific people I chose to write mine to my shadow self.  One of the suggested prompts was to write to our disowned self.  I didn't quite like the term "disowned."  I didn't feel like there was a part of me that was "disowned", it was more buried than disowned.  So I wrote to my buried self. 

As with every writing exercise, when it was complete Susan went around the room and read each person's.  Something happened when mine was read and I'm still not certain what to do with it.  As cool as it is to hear your own work read aloud I was still having a problem connecting to my words.  And my inner critic was really at work.  I recognized every place I didn't think flowed smoothly and those places where I tried too hard to use a word ticket and it just didn't work and when I couldn't find the right word and just had to pick one and when I couldn't express what I was really trying to express so just had to settle.  Sure there were some sections that I thought were good and some metaphors I liked but I didn't think it was anything fabulous.  That is why when people react strongly to my words I don't get it.  I can't see what other people see.  I'm not saying I'm a bad writer.  I know that isn't true.  It's just that I don't connect to my words like others do.  I don't think, "man that was good" or "that part really moved me" or "wow that was beautiful".  I see everything that I couldn't get right.  So when many of you compliment my writing I'm flattered but at the same time I don't get it.  I don't see what you see.  So you can imagine how weird it was for me when, after Susan finished reading my piece, it got a strong reaction from several people.  Kelly Rae was sitting to my right and I think her exact words were "Oh, my god Michelle," and another girl in the class started clapping.  Now clapping was something we were specifically asked not to do.  The class was not about praising each other's work through applause but just writing and sitting with/taking in each other's words.  I felt both terribly self-conscious and a bit confused.  I didn't think it was all that great.  It was okay but I wouldn't say it was fabulous or that I loved it.  I've been thinking about this moment off and on since it happened, trying to figure out why it felt so weird for me.  I think part of it is not knowing how to accept that kind of praise.  Another part of it is not having any deep connection to my words.  And I think another part of it is my self-doubt about my writing abilities.  Again I'm not saying I'm a bad writer but I'm not really confident in my writing skills either. 

I don't feel about anything else the way I feel about writing.  There are a lot of things I like to do, a lot of things that make me happy.  There are hobbies I enjoy that if I go awhile without them I do miss them and feel their absence.  But writing is different.  I ache to write.  I have to write.  If I don't write I'm not right with myself.  When my words aren't flowing and when I feel empty I get really, well, almost depressed because writing is so important to me and I have to have it.  Just writing something isn't enough--I want to WRITE.  All that being said and I still question myself because I have ideas of what a "real" writer is.  I "real" writer has published a book...I just have a blog.  I "real" writer writes for a living...I work in an office from 8-5.  A "real" writer has an extensive education in writing/English...mine ended almost 20 years ago with high school.  I see other people writing books, getting book proposals, etc and I guess I start thinking it means I must not be a good writer because those things aren't happening for me.

Anyway, when the day's workshop was over I couldn't seem to leave.  I stuck around for as long as I could.  I helped Susan pack her things up and get them loaded in her car and we chit-chatted about my life and writing while we did those things.  My experience with her was so amazing and so deeply moving that I just wasn't quite ready to let her go.  I wanted more...more time with here...more time to write...more of her in general.  Basically I wanted to go home and live with her.  And, more specifically, I wanted to talk about myself as a writer with her a little more extensively.  After getting everything loaded she offered to give me a ride to the dorms but I wanted to walk.  I just needed a little time to myself to soak it all in...as the infamous Seattle drizzle soaked me.

That night, after dinner, was vendor night.  Sheer craziness.  That is the best description I have.  It wasn't as large as I had envisioned which only means there were fewer booths for the same amount of people (500+) to access.  Several booths I never could get to so I gave up.  And the prices!  Ouch!  Too rich for my blood.  I was there for maybe a whole 20-30 minutes and I'd had enough. 

When I got back to my dorm room later that evening one of my roommates told me she had run into Susan on the way back from vendor night and they struck up a conversation in which my name was brought up.  My roommate said Susan suggested she ask me if she could read what I had written the past couple days...as long as I was comfortable with that.  I let her read it and she had really positive things to say about it.  There were a lot of "wow"s and "that was beautiful" and "amazing" was used a few times but again I just couldn't get it.  That next morning on my way to the bathroom I ran into this same roommate and she literally followed me into the bathroom, almost into my stall, to tell me she had thought about what I wrote all night because it had touched her so deeply and she woke up that morning still thinking about my words.  Again she gave me exactly the kind of encouragement, support, and praise one desires...if one can wrap themselves around it.  I'm just always taken off-guard by that kind of reaction.  I don't understand it.  I really struggle not to push it away or discount it and I have gotten better about just saying, "thank you."

I had forgotten about some of these events until I was talking on the phone with a friend tonight telling her about my ArtFest experience.  After our phone call I went for a walk and tossed a lot of this around again.  I want to believe I'm a fabulous writer because I want so badly to be a fabulous writer.  There are a few things I want more than that but not many.  And still when people tell me I am, when people compliment me, tell me my words touched them, and give me exactly what I want in the way of encouragement I can't seem to accept it.  I just don't quite feel my writing is good enough.  Another thing I just need to sit with and own is the fact that in two days of workshops, a total of 24+ students, and 4 writing exercises (that's 48+ pieces read by Susan) I was the only one whose work received an applause.  I didn't mention the applause because I wanted to brag.  I'm writing about it because I want to look at my reaction to it and why I can't own it and why I don't think it is amazing.  I mean shouldn't I think it's amazing?  Shouldn't I be proud of it?  Shouldn't it tell me something about my writing?  And yet it really doesn't.  Not really.  There is a little part of me that realizes how big that is (and gets excited when I think about it) but there is another REALLY BIG piece of me that doesn't feel connected to it...that doesn't recognize the recognition was for MY words.  MINE.

ps--I'm so sad the only picture I have of the two of us came out so blurry...but you can still pick up on the important stuff...the emotions...even the blurriness can't cover that up...