I remember fixing some sort of machinery in a relative’s workplace once. The relative’s supervisor was (I thought) unduly impressed at my ability (not that I didn’t enjoy the attention) and commented to my relative that this younger generation seemed so much more technically inclined. My relative commented that they had grown up in an era which taught them to refrain from experimenting, lest they “break something,” and most of the younger generation hadn’t experienced the same constraints. I’m guessing that the author’s mother was one of those who encouraged her children to express themselves more freely.

I do think it’s funny that the author’s mother is equating her fear with being responsible. That sounds like a big fat tub of denial to me. If I get lost every time I go to a city, the responsible thing for me to do is to buy a map and find my way around, not call my best friend who is a native and ask for directions every time I visit that city.

She hated seeing that. For the dogs to be hungry was one thing, but to not even ask for help, oh, the dog-eat-dog-ness of it all. She got in the habit of carrying around extra $20 dollar bills which she’d give to the dogs when she saw them. Sometimes they’d have collars she could tuck the money in; sometimes she’d have to sort of feed it to them.

She preferred when they had collars because sometimes the dogs wouldn’t hold onto the money when she “fed” it to them. She’d proffer the bill and they’d sniff it, maybe occasionally bite on it at her insistence, but usually wound up letting it drop to the ground, looking at it, and then wandering off. She couldn’t understand that. How could they refuse a 20 dollar bill? Didn’t they know what they could buy with that?

I meet a guy. Tall, attractive, charismatic, accomplished and hard-working. So much so, that I’m looking for flaws. There has to be at least one. I have a track record for picking … Well, let’s just say that I’ve chosen unwisely in the past.

And then he said something. I don’t even remember what he said, I just remember that it was at that point that I realized he would never be boring. Ever. Do you know how often I meet people who are never boring? Before now, NEVER. EVER. Not even ONCE. I never entertained the thought that such a person existed. It’s not even that I gave up hope that such a person existed; it’s that I never even imagined it in the first place.

He has a girlfriend.

So, let me get this straight. I met the perfect guy. He’s unavailable. And because I met him, I know he exists. And because he exists, the bar is now raised so that any other guy I would even consider would have to, at the very least, never be boring. And it took me several decades to find this guy.

Life #@$!%ing sucks.

I had a conversation recently with someone. We were discussing how we consciously chose “other blackness.” I don’t know what to call it. Other blackness seems stupid, but maybe you’ve got a better term for it.

Black is undefined

I remember being unconscious of color growing up. This was despite having parents who had been Black Panthers (I didn’t learn of this until much later), despite reading biographical comic books of famous black people in history (such as Benjamin Banneker, George Washington Carver, Sojourner Truth, Harriet Tubman and Frederick Douglas, among others). I knew we were black, but I didn’t have a frame of reference for what that was. I knew black people had been slaves once, but they weren’t slaves when I was growing up. Being black was as significant for me as having brown eyes and two feet. I had no context for being “black.” Until I got to Detroit.

Black is what?

I visited some of the extended family in Detroit at a young age. For those people (and yes, I mean those people), being black was a specific way of life. Being black meant putting important things first. Like dancing and singing. (No, I’m not making this up.) Not dancing or singing, mind you, with the idea that you were practicing for a career or a goal of some sort. No, the philosophy seemed to be, that if you couldn’t dance or sing, you weren’t black. Don’t even suggest that dancing and singing as a way of life was something that might not be a priority for you. (No, I’m not making this up.)

I couldn’t believe these were relatives. I remember experiencing a lot of confusion, growing up, watching the behavior of adults, who seemed to be fairly senseless far too often. And my interactions with these relatives definitely contributed to about 80% of my confusion.

Wait. It gets dumber.

Being black also seemed to mean that education was not only not a priority, it was something almost useless. That was something I found simply incredulous. And the more questions I asked, trying to make sense of this new information, the less sense the answers made, and the more angry and resentful the person answering became. And it wasn’t just that school was now a waste of time, in this new world according to Detroit, and that singing and dancing were vital, but there was an entire code of conduct which was now the law of the land. Like dressing stylishly on a welfare budget and mispronouncing words. (No, I’m not making this up.)

I vaguely recall some talk of a “revolution.” Except they couldn’t explain how the revolution was going to happen. And they seemed to really resent me asking about their plans. But I couldn’t help myself. How were they going to revolt if they couldn’t spell? How were they going to run the country after if they couldn’t add, subtract, multiply and divide? And no one could explain that. And I didn’t quite know what a revolution was, but I had watched enough TV and read about Nat Turner to know that a revolution at least required a plan and guns. What were the plans and where were the guns? And no one could explain that. And worse, I think I was the first one to even ask these questions. And I was 9. And, for me, these were “grown people.” (Actually, they were teenagers and young adults.)

No. Thank you, but hell No.

I think it took about two days to decide I wasn’t going to be “black.” Now, I knew I was black. And I also knew enough black people to know that these clowns (the relatives) were simply ridiculous. But there was a whole neighborhood of young and old (Kool-Aid guzzling, Now-and-Later-eating) people living this philosophy. I knew enough about black history to comprehend how they could be angry at “the man.” What I couldn’t wrap my head around was how their way of life was going to help them. And they couldn’t explain how their way of life was going to help them. And they hadn’t seem to have given their philosophy much thought before dedicating their lives to it.

I’ve been an unapologetic, unrepetant Oreo ever since.

ShoveBox, WriteRoom, Twitterific, TinyGrab, Hordes of Orcs, and Mariner Write are all available for the next 3 days absolutely free at MacHeist.

So, I’m not even going to try and explain Autopilot; I’m just going to point you to the Autopilot demo screencast.

And I’m going to say wow….

Wow.

being a writer, i am a pen-aholic. i am very selective about my writing implements and like to keep my favorites with me.

for awhile, i was buying those pilot pens and feeding them paper regularly, despite my predilection for bending the nib to some weird angle. then they started disappearing. one right after another. normally, i’m quite good about keeping track of my pens. i rarely leave one behind, even when i let others use them. but they started walking away with increasing regularity. until i was down to my last pen. and then, despite my best efforts to stay aware and focused, that one disappeared too.

i had, in my bottom of my bag, a rainbow fisher space pen i was saving for “someday.” up ’til then, i had decided that i didn’t want to chance losing it, so i decided not to use it, but just to hold onto it until … someday. and then i had no pens except the fisher left. oh yes, and no money in the budget for new pens.

i decided to break out the fisher. i was ever so loath too. with my track record of keeping pens around, i just knew that this pen was going to disappear and then i’d really have nothing left.

who’s been touching my tools?

and then, something strange happened. shortly after, i saw one of my classmates looking at the fisher with a look on her face. my pens hadn’t been disappearing; they’d been stolen, courtesy of my classmates.

i was surprised by this. that she was that kind of person, yes. and that she’d have any call for anything like this. but mostly, that for whatever reasons she’d been taking the other pens, she couldn’t steal the fisher. (it was ironic, in a way, because i’d had the fisher pen for months; i was spending money buying the pilot pens so to “save” it. meanwhile, finally using it saved me.)

i still puzzle over that: why she couldn’t just steal the fisher like she’d taken the pilot pens. i think maybe i had introduced infinity to a game of limitation:

• she didn’t have my attention, so she could “gain” it (if even in her own head) by making something i cared about disappear.
• she couldn’t control me (prior to this, i wouldn’t have thought this was a concern for her — who knew?), but maybe she could control my actions. how many pens would have to disappear before i gave up and joined the rest of the bic world?

check … mate

one day you’re walking and for some reason you bend down to look and notice that you’re standing on a chessboard. it’s strange to me that i was playing some game and didn’t know it. and had i not seen her face that day while she was looking at my pen, i might never have known.

odder still to find that you’re on the chessboard, you’re the queen and you’ve captured several pieces already.

See the original post (if it’s still there), or read below:

I will kick you in the nuts. For free. (53rd & 3rd)

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At my anger management class, I was told that:
- Volunteering makes you feel needed.
- Volunteering can lead to learning new skills.
- Volunteering can help you deal with some of your personal problems.
- Volunteering helps you meet new people and breaks down barriers of misunderstanding, mistrust and fear.
- Volunteering can create new contacts which may help your business or career.

So here is what I am going to do:

1. I will stand on this corner with a sign MWF 11:00am-12:30pm.
2. You give me a detailed explanation why you need this (because after all, I am performing this service this for free).
3. I kick you right in the nuts.

• Location: 53rd & 3rd
• it’s NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
• it’s OK to distribute this charitable volunteerism opportunity for inclusion in 3rd party web sites that have been approved by craigslist

Specifically, there is a woman at the shelter that I know from prior to either of us being in the shelter. I see where she could be playing a stronger game of life and I want to help her. Before, I would jump right in and start helping her. Now, though, I sit back and watch.

How to Help

First, I was watching to get a better idea of how to help her. Then I started seeing them. Red flags. They were everywhere. (You know, I hadn’t thought of them as “red flags” until just now, as I was writing.) She told me that a family member didn’t want to give her money to “support her habits” of cigarettes and lottery tickets, and she was upset about it. How dare they judge her, she said, they should just give her the money and mind their business. (By the way, I don’t know about you, but I’m about ready to cut off association with anyone who uses the term “mind your business” in any level of conversation, ever.) She needed carfare, and a family member had given it to her and she’d bought those scratch-off lottery cards. That she’d bought them wasn’t as troubling to me as that she was not only defending her actions, but vilifying their response to her actions.

And then I noticed how she spent her energy. And she seems to be fairly wasteful. I keep remembering her telling me how this or that ride was taking forever, and I found out she was taking the long way, out of the way. And I feel confused because there are maps all over the place and because I showed her how to get to her destination quicker.

And then I noticed that her associations and her interactions were mostly draining. From the people she choose to hang out with, to how she spent her time when socializing.

How to Hinder

The more I kept watching, the less I was interested in helping her and the more I was interested in protecting myself when I did associate with her.

Yesterday, she had an opportunity to make money and an opportunity to go to class and she did neither. She told me she blew the whole day off, due to something which had happened the night before.

When I close my eyes, I get the sensation of me right in front of a flag waver. He’s got a big red flag and I’m right in front of him as he’s waving it back and forth. I can feel the sun on my back and the air moving with the movement of the flag. That’s how I feel as I recall these events.

I remember being on the other side of that red flag. I think that same guy was the one warning others about me. There were countless times someone I thought of as a friend or as friendly would suddenly seem to be distancing themselves from me and I’d be watching their weird retreat, wondering “What’d I do?”

How to Run

I sort of want to tell her. And then I wonder if it’s even a big deal for her. Maybe she’s perfectly fine with how her life is at the moment. And maybe she’s not really interested in what I think or feel about it. I tell myself if my distancing myself is that much of a concern for her, she’ll ask. Closer to the truth is that I think it’s a weird conversation even when someone really wants to know why you seem to be moving away from them. I imagine it being an even more weird conversation when the other person doesn’t care. I look at the energy involved in having that kind of conversation and find that I feel uninterested in the investment. So I’m going to leave it alone. Be friendly, but not friends.

I feel weird though. Like I’m leaving her behind. Like I’m betraying her. Like I’m on the 7:15 out of Hiroshima on August 6th. I know I’m not doing anything special that she couldn’t figure out for herself. I know me pursuing my goals isn’t exclusive, she could start doing the same thing for herself tomorrow. It’s not like I’ve discovered gold and I’m not sharing. But it feels that way.

inner scream

there is the pain of cutting yourself, for example, and then the pain when you remember. there is no blade when you remember, yet you can feel it as if there were. the screaming was similar to that. but it wasn’t just, say, a pain in my shoulder, for example. i would feel as if every cell in my body was in incredible agony and screaming. it was a fleeting feeling, yet quite intense and strong. it would come without warning and quickly leave. and each time, the thought “she tried to kill me” would be left of the feeling.

i had some really crazy parents and i every time this thought would remain, i would think that maybe “she” was referring to a parent.

have you ever seen a lassie run this way and that?

my first instinct was to deny the screaming, then to fight it or to flee it. none of these worked. i then started trying to explore it. inviting it didn’t seem to work. maybe as a burglar senses a trap at an open window, making a place for it to enter didn’t seem to bring it on. when it did come, i would search it, question it, feel around for the truth in it. i’d comb through my memories, trying to find what forgotten wound still needed healing. i was looking for the source of the screaming, and, more importantly, the resolution.

i’ve found, that in these things, at least two things are required. one is the exploration, the being open to seeing the truth of things, listening with both ears and an open heart. the second thing required is action. and sometimes it’s hard to discern what action is required. in this case, i didn’t need to make a space for the feeling; i needed to make space for self-care, regular and consistent self-care. that, on a regular basis, cleared the way for the breakthrough.

and in the mirror…

the breakthrough came with a few surprises. surprises like “she” was me. that was a humdinger. but i thought of all the times i could have walked away from so many abusive environments, how many times i let myself be railroaded, bamboozled, conned, tricked, and just plain used and i realized the abuse i received wasn’t the problem, it was the abuse i accepted that was causing the screaming.

and once i realized that, the screaming stopped.

Running Scared

There was a woman at the shelter I was staying in who was telling me about some really crazy shit some of the shelter staff had done to her. She had found a level of advocacy that I had not. Even with someone strong fighting on her side, however, she was hesitant to seek full justice now that she was aware of the level of repercussions the staff would seek for even minor slights.

I recognized the look of fear on her face. I had not even received the strong support she had and I had felt that same fear and uncertainty.

I think it was at that point I decided to get the hell out of there.

Which Way Do I Go?

I felt like leaving was a bit like jumping from a plane with no parachute except faith. I was heartened a little when I ran into a woman who told me all about her experiences sleeping on the subway. I had always thought of sleeping outside in the great wide open as very chancy, very risky and moderately to extremely dangerous. What she said put my mind at ease and I began to plan in earnest.

One feverish weekend, I put my stuff in storage, packed my bags and left the shelter.

Amazed And Confused

It’s been fucking excellent. On every level. I am in shock, really. I had no idea that living on the street was not only incredibly safe, but amazingly peaceful. I must admit, I don’t understand it myself: why on earth would sleeping outside with rapists, murderers and robbers lurking about be safer and more peaceful than sleeping inside a shelter manned by staff and security guards? And yet, … it is.

I knew I was on the right track that first week. The previous week in the shelter, I had to work to keep my temper from flaring. That week on the trains, I found frustration and anger sliding off me like fried eggs off Teflon.

And the energy came back. I don’t know if you’ve ever experienced a draining relationship, but if you have, i know you remember that rush of energy which came flowing back into your psyche when you left. Quicker than a trickle but not quite a flood, that first week and the weeks following, I could feel energy return and increase with rapidity and surety.

I’ve since moved from trains to streets. Dealing with the bathroom situation in the subway was becoming too challenging. Bathrooms can be few and far between, and there were times when I just had to go.

Even Better

The blessings keep increasing. The shelter food was absolutely horrendous; moving out meant finding soup kitchens and other places to eat. And the free food and meals I’ve found have been incredible. The other day I had oxtails. And I’m receiving public assistance. In the shelter, the allotment is $22 and outside, it’s over $100.

I feel simply amazed when I look back. And incredibly grateful that I took the leap.

Freedom is security.

but something weird is happening. i am running into people at the places i go to get online. and with a stack of uncomplete (yes, uncomplete. incomplete is when you’re not overly concerned about getting things done; uncomplete is when you’re so anxiety-ridden that you’re drawing blood when you bite your nails) tasks and projects way overdue, i am not telling people to go fuck off.

there is this zen thing (is every gtd‘er have an dilettante buddhist?) that i’m reminded of. it goes something like, the pickpocket who stole your wallet is actually an enlightened master teaching you awareness. the fat person taking up their seat and half of your seat is teaching you adaptability.

and then i think that these people i allow to come in and suck up my time are enlightened masters trying to tell me something.

i went to one place to work, and i felt almost tag-teamed. as soon as i finished a two-hour conversation about nothing with one person, another person walked in and started another long conversation about nothing. and someone else came after that person left. hours later, the sun was setting and i had gotten very little work done. i felt like i’d been in multiple hit-and-runs.

and i’m beginning to realize (after several days of this, mind you), that i am bringing this on, i am inviting this. i’m a great conversationalist, a wonderful listener, and a sheer joy and delight to talk to. and to heave great mountains of emotional rants upon. and i don’t say no. i don’t even say “yes, later.”

what’s most infuriating for me is that even after i sat down and had a long session with myself, determined to end this behavior once and for all, i then sallied forth armed with frustration and a long todo list, and i still engaged in the same behavior a few days later.

i might be inclined to chalk this up to procrastination, except for the fact that i’ve done this before [see the assburger files], ad nauseam.

digging into this a little deeper, i take the express train straight to childhood. a combination

• of being the class stepchild with no friends,
• of suffering through a family who never made sense to me (nor i to them) and who valued my silence over any expression of my thoughts or opinions,
• and of severe repercussions for creating or enforcing any type of boundary

all feed into my willingness to simply suffer through a (hopefully) short conversation than to say anything like “no” or “yes, we can talk later.”

i read once that people go fishing and when they come back to work, they have very little tolerance for interoffice politics, bullshit or whatever. i remember wally on dilbert who never wants to work and i think to myself, when i get my company, i’m going to have mandatory periodic fishing trips to weed out the wally’s.

i had a situation in the shelter at which i sleep. it’s been building slowly and came to a head recently. i was looking for some assistance with the matter and sought some help from an organization known to be advocates for people in shelters. they took several months to do nothing. they took several months to make calls, suggest lightly, talk sweetly and achieve absolutely nothing. they were most professional about it, and nothing got done.

not nothing got done. the situation worsened, so they did achieve some movement. when the point person at this advocacy organization, after getting the run-around from the director of the shelter, looked at me and said it seemed like she was getting the run-around and that it didn’t seem like we were going to be able resolve this anytime soon, i realized that this organization was going to be absolutely useless.

i’d been waiting for this advocate to wake up and realize that another approach to this situation was needed. it was at that point that i woke up and realized i needed another approach to this situation.

i wrote a letter and sent it to the shelter, and to one of the governmental agencies which oversee them, and to the office of the umbrella nonprofit which runs the shelter.

i didn’t tell the advocate. i think she’s still under the illusion that she made headway. i’m looking back, reviewing the affair, and i’m wondering why it takes an advocacy organization (which supposedly advocates a lot on behalf of people in shelters) two months what it took me two hours to achieve.

she just lost a customer.

i read, recently, “as a man thinketh“. (on a side note, it was a pleasure to find out that it’s been re-written: for women, there is “as a woman thinketh,” and if you prefer first person, there is “as i think.”) if you’re unfamiliar with the book, it’s basic premise is that whatever you get in life is a direct result of your thoughts, that your thoughts are the seeds today which grow into the reality you harvest tomorrow.

i’d always contended that people chose to be homeless. not like going to starbucks and asking for a tall cup of homelessness with a shot of sleeping under a bridge, extra rain please. but more like pan-handling change and blowing it all on drugs everyday, or even a cup of coffee everyday at starbucks (sometimes better known as “five bucks”). it’s the cumulative effect of small, every-day decisions which builds the inevitable bout with or return to homelessness.

it’s funny, then, that i should read this book — essentially maintaining the same thing, but on a more sublime level, starting not with the action of buying that coffee from starbucks every day, but with the thoughts that brought one there — and experience an initial resistance to it.

surely i couldn’t have done that to myself: think myself here?

peeking beneath the surface

yes. i can.

and yes. i did.

i have a number of survival techniques, perfected and honed since childhood, which i’ve found useful when dealing with drug addicts. that these tactics are for a child trying to find her way through a maze of insanity created by adult addicts charged with the responsibility of “taking care of her” hasn’t meant that i’ve abandoned these means now that i’ve reached adulthood.

in fact, as i’ve slowly been realizing after reading this book, i create imaginary scenarios repeatedly throughout the day, in which i am encountering addicts or insane behavior, from the perspective of a powerless child. throughout the day, i am recreating my childhood repeatedly, in order to practice my survival skills.

and then i wonder why i am repeatedly confronting these types of people in my life.

diagnosis is the easy part

i am looking at this predilection of thought and i’m wondering, great, i see the problem, but how do i treat this? my first instinct is to rush in with a bag full of sun-shiny thoughts, eagerly pulling out one whenever i find myself re-creating childhood trauma for present consumption, and slapping it on like a band-aid.

and then i take a deep breath and i decide to continue building awareness of my thoughts. i like this choice better. it’s smarter work and more peaceful work. changing habits doesn’t have to be a war.

and then i did something. i pinched someone. and they complained.

i may be given the opportunity to repeat the program; i may not.

what’s amazing to me is that i’m not upset. other students and staff are upset. i’m not only okay with the decision, i support it.

i remember a time when i would have been upset, when i would have considered this akin to upsetting the apple cart, when i would have belabored the entire “poor me” routine, pulled out my history book of wrongs being visited upon me and remonstrated over my completely horrible and horrific life.

i don’t know what’s changed in me so much. i’m not just not upset, i feel happy and relieved. i don’t know what’s wrong with me that this is my reaction. (and the other part of me doesn’t know what’s wrong with me that this hasn’t been my reaction all along.)

part of it may stem from the fact that i was building something not quite right. i think stephen covey says that part of you decides where you want to go, and part of you decides how you’re going to get there. i had mapped out a plan that seemed right on target. then someone asked me a question that had me investigating a whole new map which feels like an even better fit. no, it seems like an incredible fit. this “derailment” becomes an opportunity to explore this new career option.

part of it may stem from my frustration with other students. i did not perceive them to be working as hard… they were driving me up the wall. they were loud, rude occasionally… they did not seem to take the work or the opportunities as seriously. i had been wanting to be very far away from them. and so i got my wish.

part of it also may stem from my practice of writing eleven “thank you’s” every morning after morning pages. after marinating every day in the ways i feel graced, maybe things that normally i’d see as negative feel much less so.

part of it may stem from the burn-out i felt. i had been assisting some of them, rarely saying “no,” to the point i had very little energy to give to myself. and so, if given the chance to repeat, i get to practice saying “yes” to myself more.

i think that a lot of what we get in our lives we have asked for. maybe the package our gift comes in seems foreign, or not quite right, but i think often enough, when we take the dress out and put it on, it’s absolutely perfect. i think i asked for this, and i got it. and where before, i’d be damning myself and my luck, i feel … not only at ease, but relieved and happy.

i seek the word.

i’ve written quite a bit today, feeling as if i’ve traveled all over the place, and i still haven’t found that word yet. it feels as if things are so scattered that i find myself wandering through my mind as if it were a room, touching on a thought here, playing with a concept there, much like one might go round one’s living room, straightening a picture, fluffing a pillow, looking for something demanding one’s focus and attention.

i think i know what the problem is.

there are a number of things going on in this shelter for which i feel beholden to observe and say nothing. actually, i don’t feel beholden to observe; i do feel compelled to say nothing. i have seen that there are — like most shelters — repercussions for speaking up about anything. every time i think of saying or doing anything about anything, i think of all the things i want to accomplish, the challenges i face in getting those done, and the consequences i’ve seen others get dealt for their actions.

i don’t want more shit on my pile.

but this “compliance” affects me in other ways. this don’t-tell policy i’ve been practicing at the shelter, this disengagement from my surroundings affects my writing, among other things.

it’s funny how life intrudes on art.

i have trouble speaking up, so i have trouble “speaking.”

but before then was now

the situation reminded me of this guy i know. we’d both been job searching and had our own little support group. (okay, i had my own little support group; like mo

I give myself congratulations on escaping that hellish roommate situation, but something was lost in the struggle.

Fighting Right

Someone told me once that they had given up drinking. They found that they had to give up family holiday get-togethers though. It wasn’t because the family drank during the get-togethers. It was because the family used the get-togethers to verbally and emotionally beat the shit out of each other. Drinking was probably a time-honored tradition and a way of self-medicating, a way of steeling oneself against the damage they were about to inflict and the damage they were about to receive.

I found myself fortifying myself with cooked food. I kept going back to the raw (or I kept going back to the cooked, depending on how you look at it).

I had a hard time staying raw when I was with an alcoholic boyfriend as well. It is — or it is for me — almost impossible to stay raw when surrounded by extreme negativity and destructiveness. It’s hard to stay raw when everything around you is focused on dead things.

Re-establishing and Rebuilding

And now I not only have to find a way back to good habits, I have to find a way to do that while homeless. It’s going to be interesting.
I think I’ve figured out a few ways to do this. Coming up with solutions is easy; it’s the implementation which demands more of me. One is to find a store which sells raw food, or a restaurant and work there part-time (or full-time if they pay well). The second is to volunteer anywhere where they have a kitchen. That gives me access to at least soak things and store them in the fridge, as well as keep other goodies in the cabinets. Even a job with a kitchen and a desk means access to processing and storage.

New Steps

What keeps coming to mind as I start gathering lists of non-profits, health food stores and restaurants is that I’m approaching this problem the wrong way. I keep trying to disregard the warning, but it keeps coming back, bright and early.

When I ask for the way then, it says that the idea is to get closer to the live things in life, and I will find myself naturally gravitating back to the raw without all this researching and planning and scheming. It seems more indirect to do it this way. And it is incredibly unfamiliar.

What feels more familiar is the way I stopped drinking. Just stop. Or try. Two and three times a day, ninety or more times a month until finally you break free. Apply nth amount of willpower to the nth degree until the chains snap.

This way of … attending to the spiritual side so that the physical side follows is … something I haven’t done as much in my life. Looking at the process from this side of things, I don’t really trust it. I can’t see how it works or how it could work.

But.

But I feel the difference even when I think about the two ways of doing this. Making lists of non-profits feels less alive than taking a walk in the park. “Interviewing” charities to see if they’re going to fit my needs feels more deadening than writing a blog entry.

So I’m going to do it this way and see how this unfolds.

i’ve been thinking about it, puzzling over it for years…

waiting and waiting

someone told me a story once. a woman she knew was talking about the importance of training men. this woman had a date with a guy and the guy was late. it might have been 5 minutes or 10 or 15. it was no more than 15, and i think it was 5. after 5 or 15 minutes of waiting for the guy, the woman went home. the guy called later and asked what happened, and the woman said “you weren’t there.” it took, from what i remember of the story, no more than 3 times of this and the guy was either on time after that.

i’ve been thinking of that as a good example. there are the women who wait longer than 5 or 15 and get mad because they are waiting. there are the women who wait no more than 5 or 15 and maybe even have alternate plans and they aren’t mad because they aren’t waiting.

it reminds me of the complaints people of color have about white people. the whole sordid history of this country becomes null and void not if the racism stops, but if the racism simply isn’t accepted. what i mean is, when you run into a goober, if you aren’t investing more than 5 minutes, then you don’t care. you don’t have to run to the mental bookshelf, find that volume of intended and unintended slights, misdemeanors and felonies and add another chapter. because you simply aren’t accepting the behavior.

i was reading a biography about condeleezza rice. her parents lived in the south and set up their lives so that the goobers didn’t get more than 5 minutes. to be sure, there were barriers and obstacle courses, but they found ways around them. above them. under them. and eventually, right on through them.

getting out

but i digress. i was ruminating about my own history of a childhood resembling life in a pow camp, realizing how often i run to that story. it’s so easy to return to those depressing years, finding parallels between what happened then and what’s going on now. which is stupid. i don’t live with those people anymore and i don’t have contact with them. so why the hell do i keep returning to the past mentally, dredging up old issues and complaints?

why the hell am i giving these people more than 15 minutes?

and i figured it out. i think. i keep treating myself the way they used to treat me. i’ve left their shithole physically, but i still live there mentally.

condi’s parents lived with goobers physically, but not mentally. which speaks volumes about the why of her success.

and the lack of mine.

the key

it’s simple, really. i have to treat myself differently. in every single way. that stops the mental “wah”s and reduces the amount of time i spend in the past, dredging up the old complaints and returning to a state of despondency. in fact, it makes all that shit disappear entirely. as if it had never existed in the first place. the less you live in trauma-ville, the less you live in trauma. (okay, that sounded pithier in my head.)

but it’s interesting. i have been meditating every day, like it was a religion, like heaven was guaranteed as long as i did 30 minutes a day. and i still feel angry about my situation, but i notice a certain detachment. i notice that unlike other times, i feel angry and then it fades. or … mutates. or dissipates. or like today, i am on my usual emotional roller-coaster and this image pops in my head. it’s me, in one of those whirling-tea-cups amusement park rides, and i’m chilling, saying “wow, this is some ride!” and then i’m laughing at the picture instead of feeling furious.

i knew i had to start meditating to when my roommate physically assaulted me and then escalated that behavior. what i didn’t know was exactly how beneficial it would be. the craziness is around me but it never really permeates the center of me.

it’s really cool.