Nakedness

Preamble

Issues of personal privacy, openness, and freedom were what were on my mind when I woke up this morning. These on the microscale, mind you, not the grand scale of constitutional rights and such. Just little old me wondering at how much to say or to not say, trying to figure out if I’ve said too much or if there is some value to others in it.

That seems to be the key. I’ve written about some very personal things lately and it feels a bit strange, but it is also very freeing. However, that is not enough. What may be liberating for me to say may or may not be helpful to someone else.

That said, I may or may not know what may be helpful to someone else. So I have to take my intuitions on what to post or what not to post with a dose of faith and a grain of salt. The major dividing line seems to be whether or not the theme of the personal story or the reflections that I am relating touches on the deeper issues of meaning that we all share. There are a lot of things I fly right by with just a word, or a sentence or two, because it doesn’t seem that relevant. If someone responds to that in a comment, I’ll go into more detail at a later time.

This morning, I reached a couple of decisions. This is a personal blog. If I get too personal, or if it is of no use to them, people can pass on by with a click of their mouse. If it is of some value to you, welcome. The surprise to me is that I don’t worry so much about what others think, or about being hurt by being open, as I used to. Age and experience do have their benefits. Some personal reflections by way of example:

It’s Just Bodies

One thing you learn working as a firefighter and an EMT – it’s just bodies. Cultural mores and conditioning fly out the window when someone is in pain, trapped, or injured. They have to. There is no time or energy to waste. Yes, you are taught to respect a patient’s privacy and modesty, and you do to the extent that you are able, but above all else it is life that matters. After you’ve cut the clothes off of people a few times, whether exposing injuries for treatment or searching for them, you acquire a certain equanimity about skin and body parts. You get inured to blood, vomit, urine, and feces. It just isn’t that big a deal.

Likewise, a hospital stay can get you over a lot of physical inhibitions. When the nurse hands you that wispy little thing called a “gown,” we are not talking Cinderella here. It’s too short, too thin, and has that damnable slit up the back. I tried to walk around with one hand behind me in an effort to keep the thing discretely closed, but soon gave up. If my butt shows a bit, it shows. We’ve all got one and most people aren’t in the hospital for the view.

They’re Only Emotions

So much for physical nakedness. The very same thing goes for emotions. They are important and they deserve respect, but they are, once again, something we all share and which are pretty similar across the board.

As a firefighter/EMT, I saw people at their best and at their worst. You deal with the permanently psychotic and deranged, you deal with those who are only temporarily that way out of pain, or fear, or grief. You deal with the dead and the dying, the conscious and the unconscious of every age and background. You deal with those closest to them. You deal with the distraught stranger who is trying to help and the stranger who may have caused the problem. Sometimes those strangers are one and the same person.

Anger, fear, guilt, loneliness are there on the scene to be “managed” and “treated,” too. Sometimes they are far and away what needs to be handled most. On some calls there isn’t even anything “wrong” that regular, basic human contact wouldn’t fix. Failure to thrive can arise from the simple lack of connection and touch.

What Really Matters

Over time, you learn how to handle the situations and your own reactions. Like a series of class iv rapids, you run the risk of becoming hardened and cynical and you run the risk of burning out, of succumbing to compassion fatigue. If you successfully negotiate those powerful currents, you discover the middle way. You toughen up a bit, but you also become more accepting of the human condition and less concerned about the ephemera that most of us obsess about most of the time. Stuff matters less, people matter more. Ego matters less, principle matters more. Time matters. Relationships matter, soul and spirit matter.

We come into this world naked and crying, with at least one other person present. For a long time I thought I’d seen too many people go out of this world with no one else there, or with only some strangers in blue in attendance. Somewhere along the way, I realized none of us are strangers.

Separation is only an illusion, and one I can only maintain if I myself close off. There is no other; there is no individual me that stands in opposition to the rest of the world. The only reason even for the perception of individuality is the opportunity for relationship.

I have to cut off my own garments of fear and become emotionally naked to be free. I have to open up my own arms to embrace the world.

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My Mission in Life

One thing about writing about personal things in a public forum – sooner or later you will have to retract something you’ve said, apologize, or otherwise eat crow…

I need to correct something I said in my last post. I did believe it was true at the time, and the realization was quite freeing, but it is inaccurate. When I said, “I was finally able to admit what it is that I miss the most about firefighting. The danger,” I was wrong.

That sentence nagged at me all day and wouldn’t let me go. True enough that I enjoyed the danger. I do miss it, and facing it did develop qualities in me that I value, but it isn’t what I miss most. It took a few hours of acute writerly discomfort before I ran smack into what it really was that I missed most. Perhaps I should have known at the ease with which the first post rolled across the keyboard that I was missing the obvious. When something means as much to me as firefighting and EMTing did, it is never that emotionally glib.

I’ve been a frequent reader over at Steve Pavlina’s blog the last few days. I was merely preparing to do the exercise he recommends in his post, “How to Discover Your Life Purpose in About 20 Minutes,” when the truth hit me. Structural collapse. A rain of metaphorical burning embers and charred trusses fell around my ears. I guess I needed the old cosmic 2″ x 6″ up along side of my head after all.

I didn’t need to do the exercise; I’ve been doing it for a year and a half. Longer, even. My personal mission went through my mind as clear as a the crack of thunder a half-mile away during the summer monsoons. “To embrace the world, sing it a lullaby, and rock it to sleep.”

As simple as that. Pavlina says that the mission that is yours will make you cry. It did. I’m still almost woozy from the impact. I know that’s it. I can look back over my life and see so many ways I’ve tried to live that out unconsciously and unknowingly. I “mother henned” my crews and trainees unmercifully at times, try as I might to moderate what I identified as “misplaced maternal instincts.”

“To embrace the world, sing it a lullaby, and rock it to sleep.”

The first part of that phrase is right out of something I told M back when I first started firefighting, that it was a way to “embrace the world,” to help whoever needed it whenever, however, without question. When the tones sound, you roll. It is called the Fire Service for a reason. The thing that gives me the shivers at the moment is that it was also during that conversation that we discussed how I was dealing with the miscarriage I had had a couple of years previous. Sometimes it is like looking into the face of Persephone to gaze into the eyes one’s own unconscious. One half the year in the world of light, the other half shrouded in darkness…

I can think of many ways that this could play out. And I know that thinking is not how it will play out. It will be in the day to day living and dying, the quiet listening to my heart at those moments when I will be tempted to take the easier road, to go back into unconsciousness and denial. On the surface it makes no sense that a childless woman of nearly 50, who wanted children and could not have them, and whose husband (now-ex) once told her she wouldn’t have been a good mother anyway, would have such a mission. M’s reply… “Who better?”

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A Warrior Path

Something clicked in my brain this morning. I was finally able to admit what it is that I miss the most about firefighting. The danger. Or, perhaps, more specifically, the opportunity that danger affords to test myself, my wits, and my preparation. In other words, danger has allowed me to build a warrior’s spirit.

This may or may not sound like that big a deal, but keep in mind that I’m a GIRL, born in the late 1950s, and not encouraged to stretch myself in those ways. Security is what I was programmed to seek and it nearly killed me, and in far worse ways than any physical danger I was ever in, even when my leg went through the floor of a burning mobile home. In too many areas of my life, for too long, I played it safe and tried to meet others’ expectations of me, while my spirit nearly suffocated.

Damn. This is freeing. I’ve danced all around it and made all sorts of other excuses for how I’ve felt, but the truth is I like a good scare. My friend Margie gets hers by watching horror flicks, I got mine going into burning buildings and playing out along the interstate. We even called it “playing,” despite the acknowledged dangers and how hard we worked. Big kids in huge, screaming, red trucks. I watch my new nephews with their fire truck and laugh. I watch my niece with her dolls and wonder how I can plant the seeds of revolution…

I’ve known for a long time that my calling was a sort of “warrior path” that demanded attention, training, focus, and determination. I knew that firefighting and EMTing, for me, was a way of being a warrior without hurting anyone. I loved it and I’d go back to it in a heartbeat if I reasonably could. I have spent a considerable amount of time wishing that I could; I tried to overcome the nerve damage in my legs to that point and failed. For a long time, all I could see was the loss. What I didn’t see was how it was training me for the life I have now.

The challenges have become more subtle. Life is demanding that I move inward and grow in new ways. It’s still all about facing fear and overcoming it. My old post, “It’s Not the Flames That Kill You,” rings even more true to me now. It’s still about pitting myself and my knowledge, skills, and abilities against formidable foes, but my real enemies are fears of insignificance and finitude, doubts of my ability and worthiness, worry about the future and regrets about the past.

I will undoubtedly take a few wounds, just as I will undoubtedly have some victories. We all carry both scars and medals with us through life. In a way, the scars are medals. Funny thing, though, I’m not looking at that so much anymore. Just as in the movie “Michael,” in a silly scene where the archangel come to earth takes on a bull in a pasture shouting “Battle!” at the top of his lungs, I’m rushing headlong into my own personal fray with new enthusiasm. More precisely, I am renewing the struggle and shifting the field to my advantage…this old firefighter learned a thing or two about strategy and tactics along the way.

And you know what? I think we’ve gotten it wrong a lot of the time. It isn’t about the winning or the losing; it isn’t about staving off death until the last moment. Not a one of us gets off this planet alive. It is about the depth and the quality of one’s life. It truly is about how you play the game, or fight the good fight, or any of those other old cliches. Despite their weariness, they hold important truth. It is about your heart. It’s about doing what you were born to do with your whole heart and nothing less.

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Jump. Fall. Fly. Again.

The metaphor of skydiving that I used in my original “Jump. Fall. Fly.” post of a few months ago has taken on new meaning. I’ve been hanging onto the edge of the jump door resisting this one for a while now, but the time has come to let go and take the dive. This bird is flying south for the winter, maybe longer.

When I left the “Valley of the Sun” sixteen years ago, I swore that I’d never go back there to live again, but as the old saying goes,”Time changes everything.” There’s a lot that has changed in my life and a lot that has not turned out anything like I’d hoped or planned. I never thought I’d ever look at metro Phoenix and see a place to make a fresh start…

Understandably, when your life falls apart, one’s first reaction is to try and stabilize what’s left. I did that. Then you start to look everything over and figure out what you can do with what you’ve got. I’ve identified what I want to accomplish in what remains of my sojourn here and I’ve started to make some progress towards those goals. However, a lot of what I want to do simply isn’t going to happen in the Flagstaff area.

In the last couple of months, as I’ve held onto the old dream of staying in the high country, a kind of stagnation has started to creep in, despite all of my new learning projects and ventures. I’ve also come to realize that I will set myself up for failure if I get stubborn with my original plan and persist with what I want vs. what the times demand.

It happens sometimes in the fire service that an incident commander will stick with the original plan even when it becomes apparent that things have changed. The results are seldom good when you let yourself get into a situation where the incident is getting ahead of you, not you ahead of it. That’s the reason you do continuing assessments throughout an incident, not just an initial one. Tactics at least, if not strategy as well, must be revised as conditions change.

So, it’s time. Time to shake up everything that’s left and see what happens. It’s scary and this isn’t my preference, but I’ve packed my parachute and my emergency backup. The stomach butterflies have started to dance their little slip jig. Now, the only way to know if I’ll fall or fly, is to jump.

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A Little Bit of Inspiration

I’m pretty tired today after getting back to the novel edit, exercising more, practicing guitar, and being up to my eyeballs in working with my new content management system, so I’m going to take the easy way out and do a link post. Here are a couple of inspirational posts and pages I’ve benefited from lately:

The Good News About Mother Teresa’s Crisis of Faith, by Barry Brownstein on Giving Up Control

Eight Principles of Fun, by Michael Bungay Stanier at Box of Crayons

Wisdom From the Ninja Village, by Alvin Soon at Life Coaches Blog

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Blogage and Discipline

:-) As an act of self-discipline, I made myself NOT write a blog post yesterday and got back to work on editing the novel. I’ve got a lot to do in two weeks.

With all of the various projects I’ve got going, it’s a struggle to keep some balance and order in my life. The optimum ratio of discipline to devotion is not always easy to find. It can be even more difficult to CHOOSE to do what I know will further my goals. Emotional baggage, habit, and distractions can all get in the way.

And, sometimes, it’s not easy to know if what you are doing is helpful or a hindrance. I took a break (a good thing) from my Drupal research and did a little blog reading. (Could be good, bad, or neutral.) I found one that I really liked – Random Acts of Reality – by an EMT with the London Ambulance Service. When I read “These Boots…” by Tom Reynolds, I went on a real ambo ride down memory lane. Yep, Ditto. I remember it well. I may have worked rural areas of northern Arizona, and my boots often walked through sand and sheep manure or kneeled on the side of the interstate rather than went up steep stairs in a “tower,” but the kinds of situations we faced when we got to the patient were pretty similar.

I took a few moments and remembered. I took a few more moments and let myself miss the work, the skills, the people. (Bad.) I don’t have much time for nostalgia; I have absolutely none for self-pity. Choice time. I thought, “OK, what from that time would help me now?” A little dose of the warrior attitude that is so necessary in that line of work wouldn’t hurt.

Get the job done despite the sinus headache. Stop whining about time constraints if you’re going to play LabPixies Trio on iGoogle. (No, no link – I’m not a pusher!) Get down on the floor and do the girlie pushups, because that’s where you’re at right now. It doesn’t matter what you once could do or what you plan to do in the future, what are you doing this minute? Is it getting you where you want to go?

Off to workout mat, then the guitar corner…and when I’m done with that, back to the novel.

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From a Flabby Forty-Nine to a Fit Fifty

The Goal
I’m in the midst of reviewing the last year and determining what I want to accomplish this coming year. I tend to use my birthday the way a lot of people use the New Year, as a time to reflect and set “resolutions.” At this point, I know there is one overarching goal that I have as I turn the corner towards fifty. I intend to get in the best physical shape of my life.

Definition
I don’t know that I’ll ever again be able to tote a wildland pack weighing 45 pounds for 3 miles in 45 minutes, be capable of lifting patients, or carry someone down a ladder like I used to. I don’t expect to go back into emergency services work. My definition of being in the “best shape of my life” has changed considerably.

I’m not looking just for strength and endurance anymore, though those are still high on my list. I also want balance, coordination, flexibility, and versatility. I want to be able to hike the Grand Canyon again, kayak without undue strain, get back up to speed on my martial arts, and be able to flamenco dance the night away. I want to be very healthy and extremely fit.

The Obstacles
This is a tall order, as I won’t have simply lethargy, poor time management, and internal resistance to overcome, I will also have to work around the nerve damage in my legs, which though it’s largely healed, does still flare up occasionally. I will have to curb my enthusiasm and be very careful to start slow and increase gradually.

My goal will demand a lot from me in time and effort, patience and persistence, but it’s a worthy goal and a challenging one that will help in every other aspect of my life, where I will soon set other worthy and challenging goals.

Today’s Steps Towards My Goal
Ready, Set, Go – My blood pressure, heart rate, and other vitals check out. In fact my blood pressure has improved from a year ago; I suspect because of the weight loss. I’ve already got the basic physical clearance to start an exercise program, though I’m still waiting for some blood work results. I expect those to be fine, as well, though I do want to have that cholesterol count to use to track my progress.

Initial Assessment, Part One – I weighed in this morning and took my measurements, plus set up a new chart to track my results. I also started a project file and set out the references I’ll need to design this program. I had a pile of old notes, workout logs, and such that I’ve stuck in a file box for now, and will go through these over the next week or so to I glean what is usable from past exercise programs. This first week, I am just focusing on getting a stretching routine and a good, solid dance warm-up together and establishing exercise as a daily part of my schedule. Anything beyond that will be gravy.

Workout Area Setup – I also set up a workout space today right next to my bed, so that first thing in the morning I can do my stretches and “bone-builder” exercises, and I did them for about twenty minutes. It’s a decent start.

The Focus Has Changed From Weight Loss to Fitness
I’m not concerned so much about weight loss as I have been in the past year. Gradual is good. With thirty five pounds gone, the remaining twenty or so I expect to lose over the next year or so should come off fairly naturally with more physical activity and increased lean muscle mass.

I learned my lesson in the past four weeks, too, as I watched my internal resistance kick in when I set a defined goal of losing six pounds in one month. It didn’t work; I lost one pound which is the least I’ve lost in any previous month in the last year. So, I’m back to my “non-method” of just trying to eat smarter and healthier and let my body find it’s own equilibrium.

Want to Join Me on an Adventure?
So that’s what I’ve set out for myself for the coming year – to go from a flabby forty-nine year old and to a fit fifty.

All of the above detail is there for two reasons. One, for my own declaration of intent and the threat of public embarrassment if I fail. And, two, to invite you to join me. It would be fun to compare notes and encourage one another in reaching our respective fitness goals. So, comment and/or check back, as I will be putting up some links to logs and worksheets and other things that may be of help and interest.

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Fresh Perspective

It’s funny but on reviewing my last post in light of a comment, I realized that it could easily be misunderstood. I decided to go ahead and post something by way of clarification that I’ve had on the back burner for awhile. It continues the sky and mountain imagery that seems to be such a theme here lately. Though not as polished as I’d like, I figure that it is a work in progress, much as I am, and I can always rewrite it later, somewhere down the trail…

End of the Trail

May I careen down that last few feet of trail
Pack discarded, boot soles worn thin,
Slipping sideways, a little dust and scree along for the slide
Carried forward by the momentum remaining from pure exuberance
Totally used up
Nothing held back in reserve for some other day,
Some other mountain.

May I not die with the best still left inside me,
Saved for some tomorrow that never comes.
No regrets, no recriminations, no dreams left unexplored,
Expired on some mountainside, spent
Ready for the next great adventure
Eyes upturned
And arms spread to embrace the sky,
The song of a raven in my ears.

[Gross Humor Warning: Read at your own risk.] Of course, my bonnie brown e’en (eyeballs) wouldn’t last long if that were the case…but, oh well. I can think of a lot worse things than being raven food. (Sorry, just had to say it. The memory of performing the old Scottish folk song “Twa’ Corbies” is still with me.)

And, more tools of the trade…

With all the affection that wildland firefighters reserve for the boots that carry them through hell and back.

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In Uniform and Out

A couple of things happened this last week that prompted me to look back into the past with renewed interest. Friend 1 sent me a book of devotionals in an apparent “coincidence” (she had no knowledge of the role those specific devotionals once played in my life) and in my blog reading, one of my regular stops had a post about the seeming incongruity of the writer’s journey from paganism to Roman Catholicism.

The book was the same one we used to read at every lunch in the religious order I was once a part of. It brought back fond memories and resurrected lingering questions about the long, strange journey I have been on. The blog post, likewise caused me to reflect on that same time period, my choices, and where I am today, having traveled from heathen to Episcopalian to “Jubuan.”

Many years ago, in my early twenties, I was a postulant in an Anglican religious order. I loved it – the life, the work, the prayers, the people. I can still remember it like it was only yesterday. As I write this I can smell the incense, hear the singing, feel the joy I felt in taking my temporary vows, all excited to wear my habit, which as part of an active order was reserved for special occasions. I believed in the work we did and that the most important thing in life was to know and serve God.

The long line of tradition meant a lot to me, and I, in my innocence, believed that it was more than sturdy enough to hold up to scrutiny. In my thirst to know and understand, I delighted in learning more and asking questions. But I asked “too many questions,” and it would have been much easier on all concerned if those pesky little visions and psychic occurrences that have been with me all my life had simply ceased.

I still miss it sometimes, just like I miss firefighting and EMTing. It’s funny, though, the things that I miss are 1) the people, and 2) the tools. The people part is pretty self-explanatory, I think, but the other seems a little odd to me. I’ve always taken a lot of pleasure in the outer tools of my trade, whatever that happened to be at the time. I still miss my prayer book and rosary, just as I miss my fire trucks, the ambulance, my badge and blues. These days, I thoroughly enjoy my guitar and my laptop. But as much as I like the outer trappings, most of all it is the inner life that the trappings feed, support, and point towards and beyond, that I love. That has remained, despite the outward changes.

That said, I guess I’m still most comfortable in a “uniform,” even though I know that is only symbolic of how I gravitate towards collective efforts. Yet I always seem to run into trouble because of my need to speak my mind in a personal war against groupthink and narrowness. I wasted a lot of time figuring that it was my problem, that somehow there was something wrong with me because of that. I still distance myself off from groups because I do not want any more fights or disappointments. Whether or not that will always be the case, I don’t know. It’s undoubtedly one of the reasons I read about others’ winding journeys with such fascination. (I can still hope, can’t I?)

Once again I find myself on the lonesome trail, wandering and wondering. I sometimes question whether the extreme outer-directedness and the concreteness of fire service culture was not an attempt on my part to leave all the inner questions behind in a flurry of action. If it was, it certainly didn’t work. But when I really think about it, I know that it was not about leaving the questions behind as much as an effort to express my inward experiences in some outward form. And, just as in the religious order, it was a defined opportunity to serve as part of a group.

For now, the way is long hours of solitary struggle, doing art, music, writing, webwork (of both kinds!) in an attempt to put what I have seen and done and experienced, in both the outer and inner realms, into forms that can be shared with others. Agonizing. Ecstatic. Daunting, exhilarating, scary, and fun, all at the same time. Once again, my favorite Ed Abbey quote from Desert Solitaire comes to mind. “May all your trails be winding, crooked, lonesome, dangerous, leading to the most amazing view.” Ah yes, they have been and they have…

I find myself standing on a rocky outcrop, footsore and weary, gazing with awe and amazement, back at the trail behind, ahead to a wreath of clouds that crowns jagged, snowy peaks beyond. The trail climbs ahead higher, further, and is just as rugged, if not more so, than that which came before. Sigh. Smile. I may seem to be hoofing it alone, but I am accompanied by all of those, past, present, future, on similar journeys on similar paths, whether in a recognizable “uniform,” or just in raggedy, old, patched together traveling clothes like me. See you out there.

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Shut Up and Sing

Since my previous post, I’ve been reflecting on the words of “Not Ready to Make Nice,” by the Dixie Chicks. I’m more of a Juan Martín, Paco Peña, and Mosaico kinda girl these days, but the Chicks have written an anthem for anyone who has ever been told, through violent words or actions, to just “shut up and sing.” I’ve got it playing on the sound system as I write this post.

And how in the world
Can the words that I said
Send somebody so over the edge
That they’d write me a letter
Saying that I better shut up and sing
Or my life will be over

I’m not ready to make nice,
I’m not ready to back down,
I’m still mad as hell
And I don’t have time
To go round and round and round
It’s too late to make it right
I probably wouldn’t if I could
Cause I’m mad as hell
Can’t bring myself to do what it is
You think I should

What has been going through my mind this afternoon is how to keep justifiable anger from turning the raw energy needed for healing into retaliation. As I said in the last post, anger can be a potent source of energy and power when you are down. It has its uses. But to act out towards others from within that anger makes one no better than the coward who threatened or used violence in the first place.

There is an inner transmutation that is necessary before anger can be a force for positive change. For me, that is a very intuitive process and one that is difficult to put into words. The best I can do is to use a visual image.

Imagine a cauldron over a fire in your belly, into which you put all your pain and doubt and fear. Let it simmer over the flames of your rage. Tend it, watch it, keep your concoction just below the point of boiling over as you also add your highest hopes, ideals and dreams. Let the alchemical processes of time, intensity, and intention do their work. When your brew has cooked down to its essence, then you are ready for the next stage.

The inner transformation is just the first step. The true challenge is to bring the results of your process out into the world. It is not enough to keep the results of your inner alchemy to yourself. We are called upon to restore and balance the world. Yet, what form your expression will take is something that only you can know – through trial and error, extension and experiment. The subtle interplay, the delicate balance, between inner transformation and outer action is a tricky dance, like a spider on her web who can only step on certain threads on her way to the center, lest she end up caught in her own net.

For those of us who have been subjected to violence because of our beliefs, it can be exceedingly difficult to step back out into the world and make ourselves visible, and therefore vulnerable, again. Yet, in our healing and courage to act, in our anger transmuted and trauma transcended, lies hope for the world.

And if we’re really smart, we can “shut up and sing” and still get our message across. ;-) Go Chicks…

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Let us go forth with fear and courage and rage to save the world. ~ Grace Paley

In all things preserve integrity; and the consciousness of thine own uprightness will alleviate the toil of business, soften the hardness of ill-success and disappointments, and give thee an humble confidence before God, when the ingratitude of man, or the iniquity of the times may rob thee of other rewards.
~ Barbara Paley

The darkest places in hell are reserved for those who maintain their neutrality in times of moral crisis.
~ Dante Alighieri

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Time to Get Serious

Stepping on the scale this morning told the tale. I’ve lost 34 pounds the last year, four of those since my first weight loss post. This means my rate of loss has slowed from about four pounds per month down to two pounds per month.

That’s alright, since I am well over half way to where I want to be and I’ve purposely lost the weight slowly, having learned from experience on past efforts that I cannot maintain fast losses or extreme diets over the long haul. This time I am in it for the rest of my life. But, a couple of thoughts hit me as I stood there, realizing that I can see my feet a whole lot easier than I could a year ago.

One, along with the thirty-four pounds of useless, ugly fat, I’d also lost 160 pounds of ex in the past year. That meant, if I lost just six more pounds I could say that I “lost 200 pounds” during my forty-eighth year. I liked the sound of that. Only catch is, I’ve avoided setting specific loss goals in favor of the gradual modification of habits approach. That’s worked pretty well so far. Don’t fix it if it ain’t broke might be wise counsel at this juncture. But, damn, I want to be able to have my birthday lunch with Margie in another four weeks and say, “Wow! Who’d have thought I’d lose 200 pounds in the last year?” Giggle.

Two, my health habits are not yet where I want them to be long-term. They’ve improved considerably, but there are still some changes to my diet that I want to make, and I’ve already set next year to be the year that I get in the best shape of my life. To remedy points one and two will take some doing.

I decided to make it a challenge. Can I lose six pounds over the next four weeks? And how can I motivate myself to do that? Easy. For one thing, make the threat of public embarrassment loom in the background. I can use my blog to announce my intentions and post my progress.

Also, I can begin to implement the exercise program I’ve been devising for this coming year today, instead of waiting until I have it just so. And I can use some of my other old diet hacks – imagery and self-hypnosis for two things. I’m cringing at going even further and posting photos or my actual weight, measurements and estimated body fat percent, and tracking that. That’s just too embarrassing for right now. We’ll see just how brave I get on this quest…and how quickly the easier actions start to show results.

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My Time Management Stinks, and So Does My Compás

It’s three in the morning, again. I’m up, just like last night, trying to make progress on my music and writing. In the interim, I made a trip to Phoenix and back (300 miles round-trip, a looong drive) to squeeze in a guitar lesson. I did it on only about three hours sleep, so my concentration was less than stellar during my lesson. Lucky to have videotape… I probably should have just cancelled, but my teacher is going to be on vacation soon and I want to get a bit ahead for that. Besides, it’s part of a promise I made to myself recently to put the music first.

Compás, compás, compás. That’s my downfall lately, not just with my guitar, but life in general. Fuera compás. I seem to have stepped out of sync again, and am working to get back in rhythm. The good thing about the drive to Phoenix and back is that it has a way of clearing my head and bringing what’s really bothering me to the fore. That was certainly the case yesterday.

One thing that emerged very clearly was that my musical goals have been fuzzy at best. Yes, I’ve wanted to learn flamenco since I was a little kid, but that is still quite vague. What do you want to do, Ariel? Solo guitar? Accompany baile? Cante? How does any of this fit with the music I’ve done in the past? With the program I did at the Campus Coffee Bean two weeks ago? With what I want to do in the future? I’m putting considerable time, effort, and money into this venture… What, exactly, am I trying to accomplish? Do I even know?

These were all big questions that occupied my mind driving back up the hill to Flagstaff. It’s probably not a bad thing that I’m way behind where I wanted to be on my promo materials. This realization of my lack of clarity may well negate some of what I had planned. I was still trying to be too many different musicians…the old “Flagstaff shuffle” of play anything and everything to get whatever gig you can, which swiftly leads to mediocrity and encourages my dependency on sight-reading, among other things.

It stung a bit to realize just how much of a beginner I really am these days, how rusty, how out of step. The most important thing of all – to keep the heartbeat of the music going – and I was all over the place. Realizing that was probably the next biggest benefit of the lesson, beyond seeing my lack of focus. Reminded me of the old ambulance days, it did. It was like my teacher hooked up the twelve-lead and showed me the strip: cardiac arrhythmias. My timing stinks.

The safe thing, the easy thing, the usual thing for a has-been classical guitarist attempting to migrate to flamenco to do would be to fall back on the classical background, noodle around with lots of fancy falsetas and fake it. What I want to do is to take the harder path, to get really good at flamenco, accompany baile and cante well, to play in a band/ensemble. Then, the soloing will take care of itself. Time will tell if I’m really up for that journey.

All this thinking has made my head ache, so now it’s off to bed and then back to the practice corner in the morning, after a little sit on the zafu reflecting on all of this. Better yet, maybe I should get out the flamenco dance videos and move my sorry butt to the music. I seem to be able to find the beat with that just fine…

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Analog vs. Digital: A Renaissance Woman in a Post-Modern World

The other night, M gave me an assignment. A simple one, really, but I had no idea what a shift would come out of it. I was getting very frustrated with my job hunt and my promotional activities and was back feeling like I was spinning my wheels. I couldn’t focus; I had lost all sense of perspective and priorities. Railing about being a Renaissance woman in a post-modern world was certainly getting me nowhere…

M: “You’re trying to do this with logic and words, which is not how your mind works best. Why don’t you “map” it, see it on the web?”

Duh. Why does he always make such perfect sense, and why do I continually miss the obvious?

So I did as he suggested. I closed my eyes and let the images form. Within a few minutes I had my map and I knew where all the things I do fit into that picture. Not that I can articulate it to someone else yet, but I knew. That’s enough for now.

That night, I went to sleep calm and relaxed. The next morning I got up and knew exactly what I needed to finish up my business cards, and within about an hour they were done. Things just “fell into place” all day long. Yesterday, I went into my office/writing room/art studio and pulled out my old art portfolio. This was a purposeful action, though not terribly conscious. Blind intuition. I really didn’t know what I was looking for or about to do, but I knew that it was a direct result of my web-map.

It had been ages since I even had looked through any of that old art work. I went through the portfolio and pulled out whatever struck my fancy and then arrayed the pieces around my living room. And I saw…

I saw the dates of the work. I saw the progression from analog to digital, from nature illustration to fibers to computer art. I saw how I had sold or given away almost all of the early hand-drawn and hand-painted work. I felt how much I missed the feel and sound of pen on paper, the smell of my Prismacolor (TM) pencils. Bet you didn’t know that they have a very distinctive smell…I nearly cried when I pulled out my old tackle box of supplies and opened the lid to the smell of wood and graphite and long ago.

Most of the afternoon was spent shooting photos, and then sorting out and selecting the best ones for my promo materials. Most of the evening, and well into the wee hours of the morning, I did pencil sketches and studies from the pictures in preparation for the self-portrait that I hope will be good enough to use in place of a photograph. I’m rusty, but you know what? It’s one more step towards integrating my art, music, and writing, and all from a simple little exercise in using my mind in its most natural way. I’m still way behind on my practicing, and I’m still a long ways from having my demos where I want them, but I’m on my way. Progress. That’s my motto right now. Just keep moving forward a little each day.

Guess I’m really just an analog girl, who knows and respects the power of the digital age in which we live. And while I am adept in the digital realm, I don’t want to lose the directness, the purity, and the sensual qualities that only come from a pencil in my hand or strings beneath my fingers. As I write this, I lift my fingers from the keyboard and look at my hands, really look. Digits, digital. [Grin.] A Renaissance woman in the post-modern world…indeed.

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Jump. Fall. Fly.

The stomach butterflies are step-dancing to a sprightly slip jig as I slide forward. The jump door of the plane yawns ahead and my grip on the overhead rail is tighter than I’d like. Three. Two. One. The man immediately ahead of me disappears into blueness. “Clear.” The slap on my arm. “Go.” And then I’m the one with both arms outstretched, hurtling into the unknown.

Gravity does all the work. It really isn’t a jump as much as it is a release, a letting go of the firm and the familiar in favor of a dizzying 8,000 foot free-fall followed by a spectacular mile-long float to the ground. It is the closest thing to being a bird that I’ll ever experience.

Palo verde and catclaw acacia trees are tiny polka dots scattered across the rumpled tan of desert hills and washes. At a mile above the surface of the Earth, with the wind roaring in my ears, I pull the cord. The chute slaps out behind me, then flares like a sail made of rainbowed silk. I am a feather from the wing of an eagle, spiraling back down to the ground; I am a different woman coming down than the one who went aloft.

It’s been almost fifteen years, but when I remember that jump, I still smile. Correction: I still grin my fool head off. Every once in a while I think about skydiving again, but then sanity returns. I guess I really am getting old. Memories seem to be sufficient these days. I remember the things that I’ve done since, other ways I fueled a need for adrenaline – feet on terra firma, oars in water. It’s still a great metaphor, though. These days I’m hanging onto a different frame, looking into what lies ahead, grinning and ready to jump. Three. Two. One…

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Little Tough Girl

More feedback from the Universe: I was talking with my mom the other day about all the hits on the Fibroid From Hell post. She is still incensed that it took so long for the doctors to figure it out, and when I joked around about having been walking around giving birth for six months, she replied in all seriousness, “You’re tough.” She figured if she’d been in pain like that she’d have walked into the doctor’s office and started yelling at somebody by at least the second month. And my mom is definitely not a wimp.

“You’re like your dad, you don’t complain. No one would know how bad you’re really feeling.” She reminded me how his appendix nearly burst and his doctor marveled, “He didn’t seem to be in that much pain.” How he drove an eighteen wheeler back from California with a fractured knee. How… She made it clear that she didn’t mean just physical pain, either. I brushed the comparisons to my dad aside and ignored the “tough” comment. I side-stepped and replied that I had been quite detailed in reporting my symptoms. However, the Universe was not letting me off the hook that easily. On further reflection, I realized that, sure I told the doctors my symptoms, but in a very matter-of-fact tone, more like a science reporter than a patient.

Alright. I have been making an extra effort to pay attention to the feedback I get from others about my tendencies and habits, strengths and shortcomings. It’s part of the mapping process, right? I thought back to Tuesday, after my tumble on the slope and the hours of circling the instrument, stepping carefully around the rocks and constantly adjusting to the tilt. By the end of the day I could barely move my left leg for the flare up of the old nerve pain in my groin.

Did I ask R for help toting the gear back up the hill or for him to drive the truck back to Flag? No, I soldiered on. I went home and still got in a practice session. I looked back at my blog entries, especially the seventh paragraph of the Stunned post and realized just how much I can leave unsaid. And, how much I cover up pain with sass and smart remarks. Good Lord. I was working on the novel last night and, far from my heroine being a Mitty-esque fantasy, I realized that we are way, way, way too much alike. [Squirm.]

Whatever did C. mean when he said I needed to get tough? I truly don’t understand. If anything, I’ve been too much the warrior woman, unable to ask for help or accept comfort. I can be incredibly focussed, driven even. Self-contained. Self-directed. I’ve expected people to pick up on extremely subtle clues, and when they didn’t (small wonder!), I just moved ahead on my own. Take the “tough” out of “little tough girl,” and there’s still a little girl in there that feels all the pain, but doesn’t know how to show it. Except maybe in the songs she sings.

This sort of boggled my mind. How can one be both tough and sweet? Somewhere along the way I got the idea that the two were antithetical. Not so. Some of the tough has been about being easy to be around, not needing or expecting anything from anyone. No demands – no disappointments. I can do very well on my own, thank you. Yes, but there’s a whole lot more to life than being the Lone Ranger, Ariel.

Of course, Mom will love it when she finds out she got to be the messenger for the Universe on something I needed to hear. More than a touch of “malakh” there…

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