Saturday morning, with some trepidation, I awoke for my first day of ski instructing with real kids.
Throughout the set-up and training, the understanding had been that I would be working with 8-12 year olds, an age group I felt I could really teach well. Disappointment, therefore, was hard to hide when my assignment actually was for kids aged 4-5, visions of glorified daycare.
In my new stance of empowered individual, I expressed my preference for older kids and accepted my assignment with the willingness to be a team player. In the pre-dawn mist of fresh snow, I prepared myself mentally for the task ahead.
To the DVD of Louise Hay affirmations (adding my own assertion that music and writing will sustain me financially), I bent, twisted and stretched to my own flow of Yoga postures. Three weeks without coffee, I meditated with a cup of tea, steeling myself to face the sub-zero temperatures outside and the kids ahead.
My truck started grudgingly in the cold, and I knew enough to let it warm a little as I loaded skis and extra sweaters. By the time I was on the road, the motor was producing heat enough in the cab, I could loosen my hat.
Apparently the oil stayed sluggish and frozen, however, for as I drove a mile on the highway, a strange ticking sound overtook the radio and I considered pulling over to let it all warm a little more. Too late! A soft bang and the truck rolled to rest, broken and unable to start again.
All week in reaction to an outrageous cell phone bill, I had been ranting about how few emergencies actually occur to require a call, but I was grateful for the tool on this morning. I was very stuck with few resources at that early hour to deal with towing to an unknown mechanic and getting back to my own house. The bitter cold crept quickly back inside to numb my brain already shutting down by the dizzying estimates of the impending costs to repair this damage done.
What message is the Universe sending me now, I wondered in exasperation. An exhausted Job-like disciple, I tried to hold faithful to my belief, but it felt like I am working so hard to change bad habits and choices, this cruel blow was not needed to drive me further back.
So tired of living a life of scarcity, I applied for a job this week and made other choices to surrender the habits that keep me unbalanced on the edge of disaster. I need no more trials, troubles or torture; I am searching for solutions.
The tow truck driver dropped me at the only diner, a warm haven, in the commercial district where I left my truck. Amazingly, at the counter, devouring a stack of French toast, was the very friend who had gotten me to my warrior workshop and offered a large embrace in other moments of desperation. Deep conversation, open-hearted advice and compassionate listening warmed the sluggish oil in my soul and gave me hope to continue the day.
Another dear friend gave me rides, companionship to distract me from disparaging thoughts, and bountiful food to nourish my fearful and despairing voice into song. The second hit on her computer turned up a job prospect that could be the perfect transition to a more sustainable future. Another great friend can loan me a truck for the week.
The Universe does, in fact, reward hard lessons with gifts of love and abundance.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
A Gift in the Face
Friday, December 12, 2008
Polishing the Apple
Although it took 20 years, declaring myself a Writer proves actually to be the easy part. How terribly daunting it is to sit quietly before this empty yellow pad, considering what string of words might surface worthy of your, dear readers, attention. There is nothing for it, but to plunge in and follow the ink where it may lead.
Last week, in my men’s group, I asked hard questions about the fear that keeps me distracted from commitment to pursuing a creative life more in tune with the energy and passion so revitalized in my belly. Disguised as the noble need to support my family, I keep running from here to job sites, returnin
g at night too tired to scribble with any coherence, much less profundity.
I have finally grasped the message in the Universe that doing something just because one should, but without the heart singing, is not necessarily lucrative or even productive. It can be an impediment, in fact. Without embracing our true passions, we are liable to waste away in miss-directions and inefficiencies, bleeding slowly and oh so painfully, to death.
A fear beyond finances, then, has kept me from spending my days with pen in hand, computer in lap, and guitar strung and strapped. This fear cannot be around production because whenever I have taken the time, words have flowed like so many blessings. It is a delight to rediscover so many songs and stories of the past then allow myself the luxury of an afternoon and fill more pages quickly.
In a fit of organizational determination this week (I still have unpacked clutter jammed in every corner), I uncovered files of stories complete with every rejection slip from countless submissions years ago. So many were devoid of personality of any kind, but a few were actually scrawled notes of encouragement, golden nuggets reminding me that though I had only a few articles actually in print, my stories had opened e
yes, separated themselves somehow from the endless slush that wearies an editor’s intern.
One from Sy Safransky of The Sun was written as if we were friends and the next submission (that never came) would have all the right ingredients to finally make it to print. As two stories came back today with impersonal forms, I tacked this wonderful rejection to the wall just over my laptop where my eyes roam first, pausing for the right word, and considering if all this effort could ever possibly add up to anything positive, reassured that it might.
Also last week, I was gifted a LifeLine treatment, kinesthetic energy balancing at the cellular level, a form of natural healing. I asked about this fear and we worked on the idea that it would be OK if my creative endeavors could sustain me financially, an attempt to dispel the ever present sarcastic voice that judges “Yeah, right” when thinking about a career in the creative arts.
In so many lives, it would seem, the more we want to do something passionate, resonating from deep within our souls, the louder our voices claim that such an apple of temptation could never be grasped firmly. It describes the fall of Adam and Eve, after all, and takes such an inner strength and determination to overcome, to break these bonds that hold us back from re-entering the gardens of our dreams.
At the end of the session, the sarcasm had completely disappeared and I was filled with a sense of profound understanding. The same words presented with a completely different attitude, an embrace of love, confidence, understanding and gratitude, an emblem of the natural order of the Universe, full of breath:
“Yeah! Right!”
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Swingin The Blues
Swingin Blues
Thanks alot for teaching me this lesson
Though I learned things I didn't want to know.
I know you didn't mean to ask the question,
Still the bruises on my heart have to answer, "No".
I know you didn't want the pain to add up to anything,
But when the rope goes around our neck
The Hanged Man invites us to swing.
Twice I've been invited to linger,'
And twice I've decided to stay.
Twice I've had a ring on my finger
And twice I've had to throw it all away.
We can't fix it all with just another ring.
It's like a rope around our neck
And the Hanged Man invites us to swing.
Time will tell if there was any wrong or right.
I know I just had to step out of the fight.
I still believe in Love, I'll probably take another chance
But most of all I've had to learn when to sit out of the last dance.
So thanks for your help in this lesson
But the scars are too deep no matter the sweet things you do.
If I didn't ask this tough question,
I might never heal the black and the blue.
Now we can both move on to better songs we sing.
Without a rope around our neck
the Hanged Man still makes us swing.
In tarot readings, the Hanged Man is actually a good card, providing a new perspective on a very stuck situation. "After the crisis of seeing what you have made of your life comes the peace of acceptance...Where other people believe themselves to be free, but are actually pushed from one thing to another by forces they do not understand, you will achieve true freedom by understanding and embracing those forces." I think instead of somber, this is actually a very positive song about choice and moving on into the unknown.
Click here to hear this new song
Embracing the Authentic
Bleak news around the global economy, an empty bank account, and weeks of working in cold, cold weather takes its toll on my creativity.
Day after weary day, I have been outside and on the move. On the roof in Northfield, or on the slopes at Sugarbush, my body works so hard against the winter bone-chilling air, heavy eyelids and huge yawns in the evening make it hard to do anything else, much less compose an essay. Once invigorating, the long days outside are now exhausting. Where I usually roam the computer until after midnight, in these last weeks, I have been snoring by 10.
The tension between writing and carpentry is a surface more slippery and fatiguing than the ice formed in the bitter temperatures. At least, the 20 years of creative silence and buzz of skilsaws and cell phone offered a respite from the dilemma. This year of transition, however, makes it apparent—especially with the example of a few friends and neighbors--that no matter the uncertainty of a career as a freelance writer and musician, in actuality, it can be no worse than this I have made for myself as a carpenter.
It is impossible not to pay attention to the struggle I feel every dawn pushing myself to load the truck and head for another long day of hard physical work. Many times I could justify the effort in sight of a happy client, or dropping a big check in the bank, but once again, clients are fearful and reluctant to appreciate the value gained parting with their hard-earned money. For me, their checks usually just cover ones I have already written, or at least promised—gone again in a flash.
Construction is a noble avocation, putting a roof over someone’s head a clear contribution to society. My spirit, however, has always resonated to a different beat. All these years, I have largely viewed my work as what has been necessary to get bills paid, while my true interest has been yearning to articulate rather than construct.
Saturday morning before last, I set old skis on the mountain, determined to prove yet again I could rip through moguls explosively, one of the best on the slopes, bouncing one to the next in dramatic flair of skis tossed to one side and jammed back into line. I quickly discovered I had joined a club who expected and appreciated a different, more classical, style. The next two weekends, I received intensive coaching, gently turning me into a smooth skier, conforming the wild energy into pretty turns.
Living this last year in my cave, I have had plenty of time to study my determination to twist the world to my own shape, conquering projects, clients, employees and deficits like so many moguls, bumps in the way of a pretty line. Forcing my way over and around each challenge, absorbing shocks in the knees transferred to my chest, and pounding turns out of nearly disastrous falls, I have forced my way through the construction business, trying to turn out dollars from sheer will to work hard and do a good job, all the while with my eye less on the trenches and more in the misty clouds above.
Yesterday, I learned turns are easier with shaped skis and the willingness to listen to others before leaping.
No longer does it make sense, in my life, to bundle up and slog with hammer to the task. Better to cut my expenses, hunker down, shape some part-time work that suits me, and focus on the creative work that makes it easier to awake each morning with my heart singing.
