Part 1 - from January - the questions

January 1st I made a promise to myself that I would write more.  I would journal, and I would write more on my blog about where I am in my life.

Have YOU seen me posting?  No?

Me either.

Not for lack of things running around in my brain you see. Just lack of...what?  Focus? Ambition? Discipline?

I'm not sure.  Perhaps it is what Steven Pressfield calls "resistance".  We resist the things that are most important for our soul's growth.

I've spent too much time wallowing in my life, worried that I'm doing it "wrong".  The experts (and there are MANY of them) would be giving me all sorts of advice and I'm trying to follow it, but it just isn't working for me.

I'm trying to be logical in an emotional body.  I'm trying to grasp at my power by looking in the wrong places.  I'm trying to be linear where I'm more of a circle or spiral.

I used to think that the ideal life would be to have a job teaching at a university, and have a quaint little house on the south side that was kind of hip and modern, filled with art and books, and that I would spent my free time reading intellectual books and magazines and newspapers and would be very informed about the state of the world, and the middle east, and American politics, and all the rest of it.  We would eat organic food and be kind of square in that upwardly-mobile yuppy kind of way.  We'd drive a volvo or some other practical kind of car.  I'd be liberal in my outlook and yet embody white middle class privelege.  I'd be able to carry on in-depth conversations about politics from local to global, and would be responsible, "adult" and, well, kind of beige.  A perfect grown up.  Comfortable. 

Who am I instead?

I'm a maybe-wannabe-was-I-ever-really-a-classical singer, I suck at time-management and have little to no business skills although I am self-employed.  Part of me yearns to be accepted and respected as an intelligent, articulate and educated intellectual-type, but really I am more of a slightly neurotic, lives in my head but-wants-to-be-more-of-a-fully-integrated human being with body, mind and spirit all living harmoniously.  I strive for and yet also hate too much routine.  I am someone who is always seeking balance and then hates living in a static state.  I have been raised with a strong Protestant work ethic, and I have intellectually rejected it although not practically or fundamentally.  I think somewhere in my secret soul I believe that life has to be hard, I tell myself that I enjoy challenges and that anything that's too easy is a trap.  I wish to be a free spirit, but I have too much guilt.  (Shoulda been a Catholic...?) I am passionate about social justice, but don't have the stomach for it - too much dissension causes me so much upheaval and throws me way off-kilter.  In spite of living in my head, I think I am actually very much a do-er and a make-r, not a thinker.  Too much reading bores me.  I cringe at myself for even writing that, but as much as I would love to be that person that could curl up on a couch with some tea and read for hours and hours and hours, I'm not.  I get too antsy and have to get up and do something.  I need to be busy.  I have more ideas than I could ever complete in several lifetimes.  I have a lot of energy but it's totally scattered, so I rarely finish the things I start, but I also never feel like anything's good enough to be called "finished".  I used to find such comfort in singing, and in the exploration of self, and the necessity for self-care it required.  Gotta take care of my instrument, right?  But it's been feeling a bit hollow for a while now and I don't know if it's because I've lost touch with a fundamental part of myself or if it's time to let go and move on.  Am I just too lazy to get back into shape?  And if I weren't, what would be the point, since I'm too old now to have a career?  I feel like a fraud as a music teacher since all of the things I am advising my students to do are things that I'm not doing. I know in my heart of hearts that my place is elsewhere - since day one I had a strong intuition of "I don't belong here", but I don't know where I DO belong.  I'm afraid to give up my identity as a singer because I have invested so much into it and I fear letting people down, as well as fearing that maybe I failed at the thing I was supposed to be doing here.  Perhaps if I tried a little harder, gave a little more, tried again - but smarter this time.  Do I get a "real" job? Is that giving up or just moving on?  Maybe taking some time away from my life would give me perspective and I could re-energize and strategize how to approach things.  Or am I just giving up?  Will I start a job and get sucked into a life of blandness just to pay the bills? Or will I find the juice my life has been missing?  Will the structure of time and the regular paycheck free me from fighting with the least successful elements of myself, and allow me to explore more than I thought I could?  Allow me to travel and to enjoy life instead of struggling? What kind of example am I setting for my child?  Am I just being a quitter?  And how do I know? Do I need to sit still and quietly in the receptive, feminine, yin mode and wait for guidance? Or do I need to take action and then see where it leads me?  What is the "right" way to proceed?

 

Part 2 - from May - the answers

There is no place to "start" this story as it is really a series of spirals curling into each other and overlapping in unexpected ways, so I will simply begin.

I watched a commencement speech given by Jane Lynch.  It has been floating around Facebook for a bit. She talks about the advice generally given to people (especially artists) and totally turns it on its head.  One thing in particular that stuck with me is the part about giving back.  She says don't do it.  I think it was some of the BEST advice I've ever heard.

Now before you have the opportunity to think poorly of me, hear me out.  Basically what I took from that is the following.  If you are giving because you think you must give, the potential to be a martyr is pretty high.   If, on the other hand, you are happy and fulfilled in your own life, you will naturally give of yourself to people without even realizing it and it will be glorious because it will not diminish you, and it will enrich them because they will not feel as if they are taking from you. It was another way of saying this:

And then I learned the spiritual journey had nothing to do with being nice.  It was about being real, authentic.  Having boundaries.  Honouring my space first, others second.

 And in this space of self-care being nice just happened, it flowed not motivated by fear but by love.

BOOM.  

(I would love to credit this quote, but can't read the name on it! If anyone knows who coined this, please let me know, it's fantastic!!)

Then, there was a book I just happened to grab from the library.  I was there the other day picking up something I had on hold, and thought I should grab something light for entertainment.  I grabbed a couple of books from the "staff picks".  One of them, a teen fiction, I gave to my daughter, and she devoured it in a few days.  The other book, I sat down to read this morning and it has touched me and cracked me open already in several ways.  The first and probably most important way is that the woman who wrote it is a visual artist. VISUAL artist, not writer - and yet she has written this wonderful book that I am enjoying immensely.  Huh.  So one could be, say, a singer (just as a completely random example) and also write. Hmmm....

In this book that is reminiscent of Elizabeth Gilbert's "Eat, Pray, Love", the protagonist makes an exit strategy from her life and embarks on a quest to find a new and better life for herself.  She writes about letting go. Letting go of her old preconceived ideas about who she is so she can discover who she really is.  In a moment of self-reflection, she lets the last bit go and forgives herself for "...prior judgements of not being good enough to be just who I was."  She let go of the identity she had crafted around her work, and just became herself.  I love this moment.

I think about my own identity and the confusion this creates. I sing - people enjoy it, I enjoy it, I stop. I write - I enjoy it, others enjoy it, I stop.  What the actual F%$k am I doing??

At first I thought my lack of discipline and follow through perhaps meant that I need to "let go" of my identity as an artist and creative person.  But no.  I don't think so.  What I do need to let go of is my identity as a struggling artist, as a struggling anything, really.  Maybe, just maybe, it doesn't need to be this hard.

I think that maybe the hard part is letting go of the idea that it has to be hard.  The hard part is trusting and allowing.  When people say "That was awesome!", be grateful, taste those compliments and then keep working. And if the compliments don't come, be grateful that you can enjoy what you do without them.  Compliments should not be the only thing that inspire you to continue, nor should they scare you into standing still because you fear success.  Just enjoy the work.

The last piece of the puzzle clicked in to place in conjunction with a conversation with my husband yesterday. He kicked my ass and told me that if I was going to serve my gifts, I would have to commit to them, and discipline myself to work at them daily.  The notion of discipline seems so confining and "grown-up" and boring and beige and BLECH.  I chafe at the notion of discipline and perhaps if I'm honest, I chafe at the notion of being a grown-up too.  Because to me, real grownups are about responsibility, and duty, and logic, and stability, and steadfastness - none of which are particularly bad things, but what they are not is spontaneous and vibrant and sexy and alive and juicy and fulfilled and joyous and creative and all the things I aspire to be. Then today I read in this book about this introverted woman parenting her inner child to do what was best for herself, even though she didn't want to.  And I realized that discipline doesn't have to be authoritarian and rigid and strict and utilitarian.  Discipline is love.  Discipline is loving your child (inner or otherwise) enough to get them to eat their vegetables and go to bed at a reasonable time. Sometimes this happens through coercion, and sometimes you have to be firm.  But what you don't have to be is mean.  It all comes from a place of love and comes by setting rules and boundaries. 

Today Facebook reminded me that several years ago I published a blog posting and people really enjoyed it and I got some amazing feedback from it, and actually inspired people. So here I am.  Round-about and spiralling, in a completely non-linear but totally authentic way, I am here.  I write, I hope you read, I hope you enjoy, and either way I love the process and myself enough to keep moving.

On being white

Last week, Ashley Callingbull was crowned Mrs. Universe in an international beauty pageant.  Beauty pageants are generally something that hold little interest for me (and that's putting it diplomatically).  This particular win was newsworthy in a couple of ways.  First of all, a First Nations Canadian woman won for the first time.  Secondly, she is not like most pageant winners seem to be - beautiful, but that's all we see. 

Shortly after being crowned, she was using her newfound fame to bring attention to issues affecting First Nations people, and urging them to vote in the upcoming Federal Election.  This has brought out supporters and haters, and has opened up some discussion about First Nations people in our country.

I spent a good part of yesterday engaged in some of these conversations.  They weren't exclusively about Aboriginal issues, but rather about cultural differences and issues of race and racism.  Some of the conversations were face to face, some online.  Some of them were enlightening, some of them were frustrating.  For some of them, I was a silent observer, not a participant.  For some, I felt I couldn't stay silent, and for others I expended tremendous effort to bite my tongue.  I finished my day feeling....exhausted.

But you know what?  I get to go back to being white today, and could ignore it all if I so choose.

That's white privilege.

The energy it took to decide whether or not a particular conversation was worth having, whether the other party would even be able to hear what I had to say, was monumental.  Yet I can choose to engage in these conversations, or leave them.  Many people have no such luxury.  To deal with the blind stupidity of some people, the bald untruths and falsehoods perpetuated by others, and even the grasping at understanding of the best intentioned people can be difficult.

This isn't to say that just because these conversations are difficult, that we shouldn't try to have them.  It also isn't to say that I have ANY answers, or that I'm not guilty of my own misunderstandings, in spite of my best intentions.  It is to say that I have had a peek into an insider's perspective on race and racism in this country.  I'd like to think that part of that has been because I've been open-minded and eager to learn, but a good part of it has also been because I have had patient teachers.  Being part of a First Nations/Metis family for the better part of almost twenty-five years, I have learned so much. There is still so much work to do, both in the world, and in myself.

I chose to spend the day - ONE DAY - discussing this, witnessing it, engaging with it, and I'm filled with a combination of despair, frustration and anger. I get to walk away from it at any time if I want to.  To deal with it day, after day, after day, over the course of a lifetime with grace, calm and patience, without getting to decide that you want a day off?  Wow.  Respect.

Roots, wings and Grandma's buffet

The night before the night before Christmas, my brother and my dad brought over my Grandmother's buffet.  This beautiful antique spent many years living in a granary on my uncle's farm, until my dad rescued and lovingly restored it.  When it finally arrived in my living room, I was absolutely over the moon.  It is one of the first, and few pieces of real furniture we own. ("Real" meaning it's not from Ikea.)  It's something I will cherish all of my days and then pass along to my descendants.   

Having this piece of furniture in my home gave rise to some interesting happenings.  

The night it arrived I couldn't stop looking at it.  I decorated it.  Then I sat in my living room and admired it.  Throughout this process it was working on me.

It gave me a strong sense of being anchored.  In a good way.  In the best possible way.

I felt connected to my grandmother and to my roots, to my dad, to place, to history.  It made me feel like I must be a real, responsible grown-up to have it in my care.  I felt grateful that my family felt I was worthy of having such a lovely and meaningful heirloom.
  
So strange that a simple piece of furniture could be imbued with so much meaning.
  
For the last week or so I've been looking online for pictures of living room paint colours, planning how to decorate my living room around this lovely object.  I was looking for something soft and neutral that would do justice to it.  Something sophisticated and elegant.   

I found some lovely colours with names like old soul and old prairie and gentle cream.  I showed them to my husband and he said "They're boring."  I was a little offended and resisted this characterization.  "No..."  I said  "they're very soothing and relaxing."  He sort of shrugged and didn't say any more.  (My husband is a very smart man.)

Then last night I came across a picture of a living room that made my soul sing.  It was a BRIGHT YELLOW.  

And here I was face to face with myself again.  

As much as I might like them to, the words "sophisticated", "elegant", "soft" and "neutral" are really not words that describe me.

I am not a moderate person.  I am really REALLY not a moderate person. 

This isn't the first time I've had this "revelation".  Nor is it the first time that some of my dear friends have laughed at me for having the realization that I'm not a moderate person.  

As we leave 2014, I am ready to leave some of these out-dated ideas of myself in the past and to step forward into myself, as bold and eye-popping as that might be.  

And I'm delighted to feel that somehow my grandma was a part of that.   

What's that saying about roots and wings?  I can't quite remember, but I think I'm living it.  

At the top of the rollercoaster

"The moment that you feel that, just possibly, you're walking down the street naked, exposing too much of your heart and your mind and what exists on the inside, showing too much of yourself.  That's the moment you may be starting to get it right."  

- Neil Gaiman

Wow.  He sure said a mouthful.

He has just touched on what is probably at the core of so many things for me - my absolute paralyzing fear of being seen. 

When I was growing up, I was the little girl who got the lead in the Christmas pageant in grade one, I was Snow White in grade two, I was chosen to lead the girls in some thing we were doing in grade three, not because I asked for it, not because I wanted it...I don't know why really.  I was the kind of student teachers loved.  I was quiet, I did my work, I behaved in the way they wanted me to.  I didn't try to be noticed but I was.  And because of that, I was hated.

I used to come home from school crying because the other girls treated me so poorly.  I didn't know what I'd done.  Truth is, I hadn't done anything.  I was just being me.

So I tried to stop being me, because the hate didn't stop when I got out of elementary school.  I was bullied in Junior High by a girl who decided that I was the perfect target for her anger, grief and frustration over her parents' break up.  She bullied me terribly, following me home, stepping on my heels and daring me to fight her.  I told her if she wanted to fight she'd have to punch first, which she did, and I can't even remember if I hit back, but the fight was over quickly.  The bruises to my body healed fast, but the bruises to my spirit haven't.

I tried hiding.  I have spent most of my life hiding - well, trying to hide.  It may seem a completely crazy thing for me to admit to, given that I pursued a career as a performing artist.  But that was the beauty of it all.  It wasn't me onstage.  It was never me.  It was a character, and so I had all the freedom in the world.  What a beautiful thing.

Being on the stage was a joy, but pursuing a career as an artist was not.  There were many years of doing the whole "starving artist" thing because there's no money in the arts... or so I was told.  I internalized so many things that others said to me, or about me, or ways they treated me.

I'm ready to be done with that now.  At the top of the rollercoaster, waiting for it to take the plunge, I sit here and write these words and wrestle with whether to publish them and go over the peak, or stay in fear glued to my seat.

Here I go...

Another trip around the sun...

In the wealth of birthday wishes I received on Facebook today, there was the one that prompted me to sit down and write this blog today. (Thank you Catherine!)

I started by writing about my hopes for the upcoming year.  Things like learning patience, trusting my instincts more, being kinder to myself...

They are all great things to aspire to, but as I reflected on what an awesome day I've had I realized something.  What made my day so good was that in honour of my 44th birthday and the beginning of another trip around the sun, I decided to allow myself to goof off today WITHOUT GUILT.

This last bit is the kicker - you see, it's not that I never goof off.  I goof off more than I think I should.  I'm ashamed to admit that, but usually I procrastinate because I'm afraid to start on the enormous pile of tasks I have set for myself.  (Facebook, you are such an enabler.)  Today, I unabashedly took the day off and it was glorious.

What a revelation.  Make a choice, and see it through without guilt.

I think this could be my mantra for the upcoming year.


p.s.  I hope that I will make the effort to sit down here a little more often, because I'd forgotten how much I like this.  :-)  

Equinox/balance

I love fall.  Cool nights, crisp, brilliant days where the sun in the coloured leaves creates a vibrant contrast against the blue skies.  The days are growing shorter, and we are approaching the autumnal equinox where the days and nights are of equal length.

The equinox is the fulcrum on which the seasons balance.  It is the balance point between dark and light, between summer and winter.  Yet it's only a moment on a continuum...so elusive, so fleeting.

Balance has become such a buzzword in our society.  Finding the work/life balance, balance this, balance that.  Blah blah blah.  What does it really mean?  Is there a magic formula where activity (a) gets x%, and activity (b) gets y%, and all will be well?  Uh...no.  

Now this sucks if you're anything at all like me.  I admit it - I'm one of those people who fantastizes about one day "getting it all together." I'll find the perfect balance and live happily ever after.  The older I get, the more I realize that this is just as elusive as the equinox.  "Perfect" balance doesn't exist except for the briefest moments in time.  Unless you are in stasis, balance requires constant adjustment.  Constant refinement.  Constant discernment.  It requires mindfulness.  I would hazard a guess that going on auto-pilot rarely results in balance.  It might result in achievement, but not balance.

Something in a state of perfect balance is completely still.  A rock balanced perfectly on another rock cannot move lest it break out of that perfect state.

Life is far from still.  So perhaps we need to redefine what "balance" really means.